“But—”
“Captain.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Her smoldering voice promised a reckoning.
“Hoi, why are you letting him transmit? Does he have the Station?”
The Admiral’s pistol wavered. Stolidly, I watched the screen.
“Not yet.”
“These goddamn lunatics ...” Simovich’s voice broke. “He sent cadets! He’s making my joeys shoot children! I can’t hold, unless you blast out their warrens.” Abruptly, his voice took on a chilling resolution. “I’m taking out Galactic.”
Hoi lunged for the caller. “Wait, we’ll negotiate a—”
“Mr. Sarnaur, banks five through seven. Full fire!”
“NO!” I tried to lunge from my seat, fell back gasping.
Light travels from the surface of the moon to Earthport Station in three seconds, no more.
It was a lifetime.
“Hoi, stop him!”
The invisible beam caught Galactic to starboard, well aft of the disks in which crew and passengers dwelt. The hull glowed and melted. If that were all ... if the relentless laser beam flickered out ...
“Simovich, hold your fire!”
From Galactic’s innards, a flare. Fire spewed, was instantly extinguished by vacuum.
“What did he—” Hoi.
“Oh, God, no.” I swallowed. “Propellant. He hit tank storage.”
Galactic, like any vessel, was driven by thrusters. In smaller ships, the propellant was warmed in a central tank, then pumped to thrusters as needed. Galactic, because she was so much larger, had several such tanks. A major one was in the aft cargo hold.
Powered by tens of thousands of pounds of igniting propellant, Galactic’s stern began to swing to port.
To compensate, Arlene fired port thrusters. The maneuver swung Galactic full on to Earthport. Propellant spewed from her forward thrusters as well; she was trying to stem her hurtling approach to the Station.
Her port thrusters began making headway against the relentless blast of fire from her starboard breach. Her course steadied.
The beam from Simovich’s Lunapolis lasers flicked anew. A small section of the intricately curved alloy of Galactic’s Fusion tube melted. The starship was too close to Earth to Fuse safely, but in desperation, Captains had been known to take the gamble. Some got away with it. Now, Arlene wouldn’t have the chance.
“Shut down your lasers, Simovich! Cease fire or I’ll bomb you myself!” Hoi’s voice was wild. “Turn them off!” He stared at his simulscreen. Galactic grew larger. And larger.
Hoi stood frozen, like a rabbit in onrushing headlights. The starship grew inexorably. He shook himself, leaped for the caller. “Christ, she’ll hit! Lasers, fire at will! Break her up!” Instantly, as if they’d been waiting for his order, tracking beams locked on the approaching behemoth.
I lunged my chair to Hoi’s desk, tore the caller from his hand. “BELAY THAT! HOLD FIRE!”
Agonizing seconds passed, under the pitiless play of the laser beams. Galactic’s bow portside thruster burst into flame, sputtered out. The vessel could no longer brake.
The tracking beams faded.
Coolly, Arlene shut down her port thrusters, fired starboard thrusters at full power to slew the unstoppable ship away from the Station.
Alarm bells shrieked. “Decompression alert. All Station personnel abandon Levels 4 through 6!”
Galactic’s bow swung ponderously away from the Station’s vast disks. The great starship loomed huge in Admiral Hoi’s simulscreen. Paralyzed, I could only watch, desperate for a reprieve from the laws of physics.
“Captain Seafort, Edgar Tolliver reporting. They—I mean, we have the Lunapolis laser cannons. Simovich is—”
“Station’s corridor hatches to shut in thirty seconds!”
“Come on, Arlene!”
Galactic filled the screen.
“Please please please please.” Hoi’s voice was a dull monotone. “Please.”
Full emergency power to the thrusters, Arlene. Burn them out if there’s need. Turn. The bow is clear. The blast of fire from the wounded stern will swing her, sooner or—
Galactic struck.
In desperate, terrible slow motion, she scraped along the unyielding mass of the Station, opening jagged rents in her starboard side beginning a hundred meters from her bow. As her inertia dragged her past the Station the gash spread aft, into the ship’s Level 1 disk. Into Level 2. I groaned. Level 3.
“Earthport Level 5, sections three through six decompressed! Relief personnel report to emergency stations!”
A great gout of flame spewed from Galactic’s forward hold. I clasped shut my helmet, automatically ran my hands down my suit seals.
“What have we done?” Hoi’s voice was tormented. “Seafort, what have we done?”
The great starship scraped clear, momentum still rushing her onward. In a slow-motion spin, she drifted slowly past the Station’s holocam, into the dark night.
“First Officer Reyins aboard UNS New Orleans. We’re heavily damaged and decompressed at Earthport bay six. I’m trapped on the bridge, can anyone help?”
I was on my feet, bearing my own weight and that of the heavy thrustersuit. How I’d gotten there I had no idea. Sweat poured off my frame.
“Now hear this.” Hoi’s voice was hoarse. “I return Earthport Station and all its facilities to Admiralty and to Secretary-General Seafort’s government. Cease all resistance.”
Grasping my canes I lurched to the hatch.
“Seafort.” The Admiral’s eyes were anguished. “You were right. I surrender.” His right hand offered a ragged salute. His left raised the pistol to his temple.
Steaming blood splattered my suit, the side of my helmet. I staggered through the hatch.
Walking with canes wasn’t so bad, if one ignored the white hot lightning, the vicious stab, the blunt fork all slowly sawing me in half.
“Mr. Seafort, are you all—”
“Out of my way!” I swung past the startled Midshipman Speke. If I locked my knees just so, I could swing past the upright position, launch into the new step without pause. And each one took me closer to the shuttle bays.
Twenty meters. Fifteen.
“UNS Galactic to all vessels and Earthport Station, Mayday.” Arlene’s voice was calm. “Request immediate assistance from all boats to evacuate passengers and crew.” Galactic had four launches. Each could hold thirty-six. And two gigs. Eight each.
“Sir, let me get the chair—”
“Damn the chair to hell.” I’d never use it again. First I’d die. Ten meters.
Beyond the shuttle bay lock, the bay’s giant outer hatches were open to the night. I caught a glimpse of Earth, huge and splendid against a black velvet cloth. I stabbed the panel, lurched into the lock.
Midshipman Speke, unsuited, could only watch “Where are you going?”
“To my ship!” The launch bay hatch slid shut. In moments that lasted eons, the lock cycled.
Safe in their pressure suits, half a dozen service personnel stared from the open bay hatch as the blazing liner sailed past.
Two hours of air in my tanks. Legs stiffened, I leaned against a bulkhead, stowed my canes. We were in vacuum, at near Terran gees. That meant I’d need nearly full power, until I was free of the Station’s gravitrons.
I keyed my thrusters, launched myself.
“Galactic, we are mining vessel Anaconda III moored at Earthport. We’re sending our launch. Stand by.”
I’d miscalculated; I was too low. I keyed more lift, but I was late. As I sailed out the hatch my foot caught a sailor’s helmet. I wondered if I shattered it.
The problem wasn’t in my overtaking Galactic; she’d made a mighty effort to brake her momentum. The problem was matching velocities, as she slowly rotated.
“Galactic advising we’ve lost most of our thrusters. Will attempt to stabilize spin—”
Her Level 2 launch bay was open. Suited figures milled about the bay. Braki
ng, I drifted into the bay, waiting for the kick of the gravitrons to pull me down.
Nothing. Cursing, I reversed my lifters, touched the propulsion. Not too hard; my legs couldn’t stand much of a jar.
“All passengers, don your suits. This is no drill. Chief, can you stabilize the gravitrons?”
Passengers would be nearly helpless in zero gee. An officer—I couldn’t recognize the face behind the fogged helmet—had one arm wrapped around the shuttle’s hatch stanchion. With his free hand he swung one flailing passenger after another into the hatch.
I keyed my thrusters, floated toward the airlock that separated the shuttle bay from the Level 2 corridor. As I ducked inside, the lock hatch slid closed. Leaning against the bulkhead to support myself, I waited impatiently for the lock to cycle. Finally the inner hatch opened. A horde of suited figures swarmed in from the corridor. They knocked me to the deck. Men and women clawed for handholds. Someone trod on my arm, pinning me: I prayed my helmet wouldn’t crack.
The corridor hatch slid closed; the lock cycled. The frantic mob tumbled out into the launch bay, leaving me dazed, but breathing. My suit was unpunctured. I slapped closed the hatch, pulled my stunner from its pouch. Once again I cycled.
A dozen figures launched themselves at the lock, flailing at anything in sight.
“All passengers should now be suited. We’re in imminent danger of decompression. If you need help—”
A stunner would work through a suit, if pressed hard to the torso. Apparently the milling joeys knew that, even in their panic, and managed to avoid me. One frantic woman, however, clawed past me with desperate haste.
“You can’t go through—”
“Out of the way!” Her elbow caught my helmet, snapped back my head. For a moment I thought my neck was broken. I jabbed her with the stunner. She went limp. I pushed her from the lock.
She’d been unsuited.
“You there, break open the next suit rack!” Derek Carr, stunner in hand, held back a frenzied throng. A sailor fumbled at the panel.
“I’ve got it. Stand away.” Tad Anselm’s hair and uniform were awry, as if he’d been in a fight.
I gripped his arm. “Get suited.”
“Aye aye, sir. As soon as—”
“You, before the rest.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He opened the rack, grabbed a full-size suit.
This section of the corridor was aired. Regs absolutely prohibited use of thrustersuits in an aired environment. I thought of fumbling with my canes. Bloody hell. I glanced behind to make sure no one would be caught in my exhaust, lifted toward the next section, and the ladder.
The corridor hatch was sealed shut. Midshipman Anthony Pyle stood guard. “You can’t—oh, it’s you, Captain.” A clumsy salute, to his helmet. “Vacuum on the other side, sir. I can’t open for you, else this section will decompress.”
“Get me to the bridge.”
“A few minutes ago the west ladder was still open. I don’t know.” His eyes were troubled. “We’re losing sections, sir. The heat melts—”
I was already gone. I fired my thrusters at full power, skimming over the heads of milling passengers and crew.
The west ladder was four sections away. None of the intervening hatches were shut. I sailed through, tilted myself to soar up the stairs.
“Slow down!” Panting, Derek pulled himself from one handhold to the next. His blue uniform was plastered to his wiry frame.
I snarled, “I told you to get suited.”
“You told Anselm. Where are you off to?”
“Is Arlene all right?”
“Issuing orders from the bridge, a few moments ago.”
I grabbed his wrist, let my thrusters push us along. “Mikhael?”
“On the first lifeboat, with the children. Crying but unhurt. I checked his suit tanks myself.”
“Thank you.”
“He’s one scared joey. I’m going to kill whoever fired on us.”
“That ass Simovich, down in Lunapolis.”
“Chief Engineer, water’s gone on Level 5 and I need it NOW!” Arlene’s tone was grim. “The fire’s out of control. I can’t put it out by decompressing sections where passengers—”
Derek said simply, “I’ll call challenge.” Dueling was legal, though frowned upon. Though, while Admiral Simovich held an active commission, he couldn’t be ... I thrust down the thought. It wasn’t time for reprisals.
“Fath!” P.T. launched himself from a handhold. “Mom’s on the bridge. She won’t leave. Galactic’s breaking up.”
I snagged him, drew him close. “Get yourself suited!”
“The problem is our oxygen stores and hydrazine propellant. The hold’s on fire, and so is launch bay one. The internal bulkheads aren’t as strong as the hull, so—”
“PUT ON A PRESSURE SUIT!” I shook him like a puppy.
“—they collapse, and the fire spreads. We can’t de-air until—”
“Where’s a suit rack?” I peered.
Derek said, “Just past the corridor hatch. Back in a moment.” He swung along the handholds with an agility that belied his years.
P.T.’s fingers picked at his tunic. “Fath, only vacuum will quench the fire, and vacuum will kill passengers. Mom’s got the engine room joeys working with hoses but—”
Derek swam back, a suit over his arm.
Again, I shook him. “Son, put on your suit!”
“When Mom does, but she won’t listen. Fath, we’re losing the ship. She won’t let me on the bridge to—”
Derek raised an eyebrow. I nodded. He touched Philip’s ribs with the tip of his stunner. Philip’s back arched. His eyes rolled up and he went slack.
Together, Derek and I manhandled him into the suit. I checked and rechecked the seals, made sure the tanks were full. I gestured to the rack. “Now you, old friend.”
“That was the last one.” He shrugged. “There’s more below. Let’s get him to a lifeboat.”
“How many are launched?”
“Two I know of. Probably three by now.” Out of four. Thank Lord God Galactic foundered near Earthport, and not in the vast emptiness of interstellar space. Groundsiders sometimes asked why starships carried so few launches to serve as lifeboats. The answer was obvious: the ship itself was our lifeboat. If she failed, what mercy was in off-loading passengers and crew to ill-equipped launches, light-years from rescue?
Between us, we guided Philip’s limp form down the ladder, in the direction of the launch bay.
“Purser Doorn, call the bridge! All purser’s staff to Level 5, section eight. We’ve almost two hundred passengers trapped without suits in section nine.” Arlene’s voice was hoarse. “Empty the section seven and eight racks and stand by. I’m sending the master-at-arms to blow the hatch to nine.”
Two suited sailors stopped us. “Fire in section seven, sir, just beyond the bay!”
“The corridor hatch?”
“Holding.”
“The lifeboat?”
“Launched, sir, but I hear there’s another docking.” Earthport would send any boat it had, regardless of hostilities.
Clasping a handhold, Derek grunted as he pulled on the leg of P.T.’s suit. “I’m not sorry.”
“What?”
“That I came. I want you to know that.”
“I am.” It sounded too gruff. “If any harm comes to you, what of the Hope Nation Government?”
He snorted. “They’ll manage. My grandson’s been praying I’ll step aside. He needs a bit of seasoning, but ... here, I’ve got him.” He steered Philip toward the bay airlock. “When we were boys, you wouldn’t let me follow you to Challenger. All these years I’ve wondered what would have become of us. You’ve given me a chance to retrieve my youth, and ...”
“Yes?”
“I’m grateful. Haul him through the lock. I’ll suit up.”
Fewer passengers obstructed our path than when I’d arrived. Letting my thrusters do the work, I wrapped an arm around Philip’s limp f
orm, maneuvered toward the launch bay lock.
“Master-at-arms, have you reached Level 5?” Arlene would be beside herself, pacing the bridge, piecing together scattered reports of disaster.
The airlock hatch was closed. I hammered on the panel. The hatch slid open. I hauled P.T. inside. A wide-eyed passenger grappled her way in, hauling another figure behind. A middle-aged man, heaving for breath within his helmet. His face was purple.
The lock cycled. I snapped, “He’s hyperventilating. Turn down his mix.”
“Radwin, you hear him? Turn it down!”
The outer hatch opened.
The launch bay was empty, its hatch gaping. Scores of suited passengers milled about.
“Oh, God! Oh, Christ!” The woman’s voice was shrill.
I growled, “Don’t blaspheme.” It was automatic.
From the Level 2 corridor we’d left, a hollow boom. The vibration coursed through my boots, jarred my spine.
I said, “There are lifepods—” They, too, were gone from their rack. “You don’t need a boat.”
“Are you glitched? We can’t stay here, the ship is—”
“Launch yourselves. Key your emergency beacon. Let the Station find you.”
“Easy for you to say, in a thrustersuit. If they don’t ...” She shuddered. They would drift helpless. It was every sailor’s nightmare.
“They’ll find you. Every vessel in orbit will be looking.”
“I can’t!” She dragged her companion to the hatch. “Try another lock. There’s got to be a boat—”
“This is my son, and I’m sending him.” I keyed Philip’s emergency transmitter, pressed my helmet to his, in what would have to pass for an embrace. “Go with God.” I looked to the others. “If you stay together ...”
“No!” She fled into the hatch.
“How?” An older man, whose limbs trembled.
“Use your utility ropes. Grasp each other. Here!” I hauled another figure close. “Tie yourselves together, like this. With all your beacons sounding as one, there’s no way they’ll miss you!” First a few, then more and more frightened passengers joined our subdued conga line. I keyed my suit mike. “A ship’s officer to bay two, flank!” If they had someone to lead them ...
The last of my passengers clutched at me as I tied him to the others. His eyes were wild. “Pray for us sinners in the hour of our—”
Patriarch's Hope (The Seafort Saga Book 6) Page 44
