The Best of Bova

by Ben Bova

  “I don’t want that gas spurting out and acting like a rocket thruster,” Hazard explained to her back. “Besides, it’s an old submariner’s trick to let the attacker think he’s caused real damage by jettisoning junk.”

  If any of them had reservations about getting rid of their emergency oxygen, they kept them quiet.

  There was plenty of junk to jettison, over the next quarter of an hour. Laser beams struck the station repeatedly, although Stromsen was able to block most of the beams with the heat-shielded lifeboats. Still, despite the mobile shields, the station was being slashed apart, bit by bit. Chunks of the outer hull ripped away, clouds of air blowing out of the upper level to form a brief fog around the station before dissipating into the vacuum of space. Cartons of supplies, pieces of equipment, even spare space suits, went spiraling out, pushed by air pressure as the compartments in which they had been housed were ripped apart by the probing incessant beams of energy.

  Feeney struck back at the ABM satellites, but for every one he hit, another maneuvered into range to replace it.

  “I’m running low on fuel for the lasers,” he reported.

  “So must they,” said Hazard, trying to sound calm.

  “Aye, but they’ve got a few more than fifteen to play with.”

  “Stay with it, Mr. Feeney. You’re doing fine.” Hazard patted the shoulder of the Irishman’s bulky suit. Glancing at Stromsen’s status displays, he saw rows of red lights glowering like accusing eyes. They’re taking the station apart, piece by piece. It’s only a matter of time before we’re finished.

  Aloud, he announced, “I’m going to check with the damage-control party. Call me if anything unusual happens.”

  Yang quipped, “How do you define ‘unusual,’ sir?”

  Stromsen and Feeney laughed. Hazard wished he could, too. He made a grin for the Chinese American, thinking, At least their morale hasn’t cracked. Not yet.

  The damage-control party was working on level three, reconnecting a secondary power line that ran along the overhead through the main passageway. A laser beam had burned through the deck of the second level and severed the line, cutting power to the station’s main computer. A shaft of brilliant sunlight lanced down from the outer hull through two levels of the station and onto the deck of level three.

  One space-suited figure was dangling upside down halfway through the hole in the overhead, splicing cable carefully with gloved hands, while a second hovered nearby with a small welding torch. Two more were working farther down the passageway, where a larger hole had been burned halfway down the bulkhead.

  Through that jagged rip Hazard could see clear out to space and the rim of the Earth, glaring bright with swirls of white clouds.

  He recognized Varshni by his small size even before he could see the Indian flag on his shoulder or read the name stenciled on the front of his suit.

  “Mr. Varshni, I want you and your crew to leave level three. It’s getting too dangerous here.”

  “But, sir,” Varshni protested, “our duty is to repair damage.”

  “There’ll be damage on level four soon enough.”

  “But the computer requires power.”

  “It can run on its internal batteries.”

  “But for how long?”

  “Long enough,” said Hazard grimly.

  Varshni refused to be placated. “I am not risking lives unnecessarily, sir.”

  “I didn’t say you were.”

  “I am operating on sound principles,” the Indian insisted, “exactly as required in the book of regulations.”

  “I’m not faulting you, man. You and your crew have done a fine job.”

  The others had stopped their work. They were watching the exchange between their superior and the station commander.

  “I have operated on the principle that lightning does not strike twice in the same place. In oldfashioned naval parlance this is referred to, I believe, as ‘chasing salvos.’”

  Hazard stared at the diminutive Indian. Even inside the visored space suit, Varshni appeared stiff with anger. Chasing salvos—that’s what a little ship does when it’s under attack by a bigger ship: run to where the last shells splashed, because it’s pretty certain that the next salvo won’t hit there. I’ve insulted his abilities, Hazard realized. And in front of his team. Damned fool!

  “Mr. Varshni,” Hazard explained slowly, “this battle will be decided, one way or the other, in the next twenty minutes or so. You and your team have done an excellent job of keeping damage to a minimum. Without you, we would have been forced to surrender.”

  Varshni seemed to relax a little. Hazard could sense his chin rising a notch inside his helmet.

  “But the battle is entering a new phase,” Hazard went on. “Level three is now vulnerable to direct laser damage. I can’t afford to lose you and your team at this critical stage. Moreover, the computer and the rest of the most sensitive equipment are on level four and in the Combat Information Center. Those are the areas that need our protection and those are the areas where I want you to operate. Is that understood?”

  A heartbeat’s hesitation. Then Varshni said, “Yes, of course, sir. I understand. Thank you for explaining it to me.”

  “Okay. Now finish your work here and then get down to level four.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Shaking his head inside his helmet, Hazard turned and pushed himself toward the ladderway that led down to level four and the CIC.

  A blinding glare lit the passageway and he heard screams of agony. Blinking against the burning afterimage, Hazard turned to see Varshni’s figure almost sliced in half. A dark burn line slashed diagonally across the torso of his space suit. Tiny globules of blood floated out from it. The metal overhead was blackened and curled now. A woman was screaming. She was up by the overhead, thrashing wildly with pain, her backpack ablaze. The other technician was nowhere to be seen.

  Hazard rushed to the Indian while the other two members of the damage-control team raced to their partner and sprayed extinguisher foam on her backpack.

  Over the woman’s screams he heard Varshni’s gargling whisper. “It’s no use, sir . . . no use . . .”

  “You did fine, son.” Hazard held the little man in his arms. “You did fine.”

  He felt the life slip away. Lightning does strike in the same place, Hazard thought. You’ve chased your last salvo, son.

  Both the man and the woman who had been working on the power cable had been wounded by the laser beam. The man’s right arm had been sliced off at the elbow, the woman badly burned in the back when her life-support pack exploded. Hazard and the two remaining damage-control men carried them to the sick bay, where the station’s one doctor was already working over three other casualties.

  The sick bay was on the third level. Hazard realized how vulnerable that was. He made his way down to the CIC, at the heart of the station, knowing that it was protected not only by layers of metal but by human flesh as well. The station rocked again and Hazard heard the ominous groaning of tortured metal as he pushed weightlessly along the ladderway.

  He felt bone-weary as he opened the hatch and floated into the CIC. One look at the haggard faces of his three young officers told him that they were on the edge of defeat as well. Stromsen’s status display board was studded with glowering red lights.

  “This station is starting to resemble a piece of Swiss cheese,” Hazard quipped lamely as he lifted the visor of his helmet.

  No one laughed. Or even smiled.

  “Varshni bought it,” he said, taking up his post between Stromsen and Feeney.

  “We heard it,” said Yang.

  Hazard looked around the CIC. It felt stifling hot, dank with the smell of fear.

  “Mr. Feeney,” he said, “discontinue all offensive operations.”

  “Sir?” The Irishman’s voice squeaked with surprise.

  “Don’t fire back at the sonsofbitches,” Hazard snapped. “Is that clear enough?”

  Feeney raised his ha
nds up above his shoulders, like a croupier showing that he was not influencing the roulette wheel.

  “Miss Stromsen, when the next laser beam is fired at us, shut down the main power generator. Miss Yang, issue instructions over the intercom that all personnel are to place themselves on level four —except for the sick bay. No one is to use the intercom. That is an order.”

  Stromsen asked, “The power generator . . . ?”

  “We’ll run on the backup fuel cells and batteries. They don’t make so much heat.”

  There were more questions in Stromsen’s eyes, but she turned back to her consoles silently.

  Hazard explained, “We are going to run silent. Buckbee, Cardillo, and company have been pounding the hell out of us for about half an hour. They have inflicted considerable damage. However, they don’t know that we’ve been able to shield ourselves with the lifeboats. They think they’ve hurt us much more than they actually have.”

  “You want them to think that they’ve finished us off, then?” asked Feeney.

  “That’s right. But, Mr. Feeney, let me ask you a hypothetical question . . .”

  The chamber shook again and the screens dimmed, then came back to their normal brightness.

  Stromsen punched a key on her console. “Main generator off, sir.”

  Hazard knew it was his imagination, but the screens seemed to become slightly dimmer.

  “Miss Yang?” he asked.

  “All personnel have been instructed to move down to level four and stay off the intercom.”

  Hazard nodded, satisfied. Turning back to Feeney, he resumed, “Suppose, Mr. Feeney, that you are in command of Graham. How would you know that you’ve knocked out Hunter?”

  Feeney absently started to stroke his chin and bumped his fingertips against the rim of his helmet instead. “I suppose . . . if Hunter stopped shooting back, and I couldn’t detect any radio emissions from her . . .”

  “And infrared!” Yang added. “With the power generator out, our infrared signature goes way down.”

  “We appear to be dead in the water,” said Stromsen.

  “Right.”

  “But what does it gain us?” Yang asked.

  “Time,” answered Stromsen. “In another ten minutes or so we’ll be within contact range of Geneva.”

  Hazard patted the top of her helmet. “Exactly. But more than that. We get them to stop shooting at us. We save the wounded up in the sick bay.”

  “And ourselves,” said Feeney.

  “Yes,” Hazard admitted. “And ourselves.”

  For long moments they hung weightlessly, silent, waiting, hoping.

  “Sir,” said Yang, “a query from Graham, asking if we surrender.”

  “No reply,” Hazard ordered. “Maintain complete silence.”

  The minutes stretched. Hazard glided to Yang’s comm console and taped a message for Geneva, swiftly outlining what had happened.

  “I want that tape compressed into a couple of milliseconds and burped by the tightest laser beam we have down to Geneva.”

  Yang nodded. “I suppose the energy surge for a low-power communications laser won’t be enough for them to detect.”

  “Probably not, but it’s a chance we’ll have to take. Beam it at irregular intervals as long as Geneva is in view.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Sir!” Feeney called out. “Looks like Graham’s detached a lifeboat.”

  “Trajectory analysis?”

  Feeney tapped at his navigation console. “Heading for us,” he reported.

  Hazard felt his lips pull back in a feral grin. “They’re coming over to make sure. Cardillo’s an old submariner; he knows all about running silent. They’re sending over an armed party to make sure we’re finished.”

  “And to take control of our satellites,” Yang suggested.

  Hazard brightened. “Right! There’re only two ways to control the ABM satellites—either from the station on patrol or from Geneva.” He spread his arms happily. “That means they’re not in control of Geneva! We’ve got a good chance to pull their cork!”

  But there was no response from Geneva when they beamed their data-compressed message to IPF headquarters. Hunter glided past in its unusually low orbit, a tattered wreck desperately calling for help. No answer reached them.

  And the lifeboat from Graham moved inexorably closer.

  The gloom in the CIC was thick enough to stuff a mattress as Geneva disappeared over the horizon and the boat from Graham came toward them. Hazard watched the boat on one of Stromsen’s screens: it was bright and shining in the sunlight, not blackened by scorching laser beams, unsullied by splashes of human blood.

  We could zap it into dust, he thought. One word from me and Feeney could focus half a dozen lasers on it. The men aboard her must be volunteers, willing to risk their necks to make certain that we’re finished. He felt a grim admiration for them. Then he wondered, Is Jon Jr. aboard with them?

  “Mr. Feeney, what kind of weapons do you think they’re carrying?”

  Feeney’s brows rose toward his scalp. “Weapons, sir? You mean, like sidearms?”

  Hazard nodded.

  “Personal weapons are not allowed aboard station, sir. Regulations forbid it.”

  “I know. But what do you bet they’ve got pistols, at least. Maybe some submachine guns.”

  “Damned dangerous stuff for a space station,” said Feeney.

  Hazard smiled tightly at the Irishman. “Are you afraid they’ll put a few more holes in our hull?”

  Yang saw what he was driving at. “Sir, there are no weapons aboard Hunter—unless you want to count kitchen knives.”

  “They’ll be coming aboard with guns, just to make sure,” Hazard said. “I want to capture them alive and use them as hostages. That’s our last remaining card. If we can’t do that, we’ve got to surrender.”

  “They’ll be in full suits,” said Stromsen. “Each on his own individual life-support system.”

  “How can we capture them? Or even fight them?” Yang wondered aloud.

  Hazard detected no hint of defeat in their voices. The despair of a half hour earlier was gone now. A new excitement had hold of them. He was holding a glimmer of hope for them, and they were reaching for it.

  “There can’t be more than six of them aboard that boat,” Feeney mused.

  I wonder if Cardillo has the guts to lead the boarding party in person, Hazard asked himself.

  “We don’t have any useful weapons,” said Yang.

  “But we have some tools,” Stromsen pointed out. “Maybe . . .”

  “What do the lifeboat engines use for propellant?” Hazard asked rhetorically.

  “Methane and Oh-eff-two,” Feeney replied, looking puzzled.

  Hazard nodded. “Miss Stromsen, which of our supply magazines are still intact—if any?”

  It took them several minutes to understand what he was driving at, but when they finally saw the light, the three young officers went speedily to work. Together with the four unwounded members of the crew, they prepared a welcome for the boarders from Graham.

  Finally, Hazard watched on Stromsen’s display screens as the boat sniffed around the battered station. Strict silence was in force aboard Hunter. Even in the CIC, deep at the heart of the battle station, they spoke in tense whispers.

  “I hope the bastards like what they see,” Hazard muttered.

  “They know that we used the lifeboats for shields,” said Yang.

  “Active armor,” Hazard said. “Did you know the idea was invented by the man this station’s named after?”

  “They’re looking for a docking port,” Stromsen pointed out.

  “Only one left,” said Feeney.

  They could hang their boat almost anywhere and walk in through the holes they’ve put in us, Hazard said to himself. But they won’t. They’ll go by the book and find an intact docking port. They’ve got to! Everything depends on that.

  He felt his palms getting slippery with nervous perspiration
as the lifeboat slowly, slowly moved around Hunter toward the Earth-facing side, where the only usable port was located. Hazard had seen to it that all the other ports had been disabled.

  “They’re buying it!” Stromsen’s whisper held a note of triumph.

  “Sir!” Yang hissed urgently. “A message just came in—laser beam, ultracompressed.”

  “From where?”

  “Computer’s decrypting,” she replied, her snubnosed face wrinkled with concentration. “Coming up on my center screen, sir.”

  Hazard slid over toward her. The words on the screen read:

  From: IPF Regional HQ, Lagos.

  To: Commander, battle station Hunter.

  Message begins. Coup attempt in Geneva a failure, thanks in large part to your refusal to surrender your command. Situation still unclear, however. Imperative you retain control of Hunter, at all costs. Message ends.

  He read it aloud, in a guttural whisper, so that Feeney and Stromsen understood what was at stake.

  “We’re not alone,” Hazard told them. “They know what’s happening, and help is on the way.”

  That was stretching the facts, he knew. And he knew they knew. But it was reassuring to think that someone, somewhere, was preparing to help them.

  Hazard watched them grinning to one another. In his mind, though, he kept repeating the phrase “Imperative you retain control of Hunter, at all costs.”

  At all costs, Hazard said to himself, closing his eyes wearily, seeing Varshni dying in his arms and the others maimed. At all costs.

  The bastards, Hazard seethed inwardly. The dirty, power-grabbing, murdering bastards. Once they set foot inside my station, I’ll kill them like the poisonous snakes they are. I’ll squash them flat. I’ll cut them open just like they’ve slashed my kids . . .

  He stopped abruptly and forced himself to take a deep breath. Yeah, sure. Go for personal revenge. That’ll make the world a better place to live in, won’t it?

  “Sir, are you all right?”

  Hazard opened his eyes and saw Stromsen staring at him. “Yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  “They’ve docked, sir,” said the Norwegian. “They’re debarking and coming up passageway C, just as you planned.”