“Pastille?”
Pastille snapped his fingers as if he resented the interruption. “Maneuvering thrust, that’s it. I can take us back to dock like this, but we can’t burn.”
“Good enough,” Liete asserted. “The point is, it’s more than they think we can do. Keep at it. The longer they wait, the more we’ll be able to surprise them.”
Abruptly Malda swung her g-seat to face Liete.
“Liete, we can hit Soar right now. She’s our target, isn’t she? If we fire at this range, we can blow her guts out. Why don’t we do it now and get it over with?”
Liete started to say, Because I’m hoping we can find a way to do this and stay alive.
She started to think, Because Nick went into the Amnion installation in an EVA suit, and he hasn’t come back yet.
But Carmel interrupted her.
“Liete!” Rigid in her g-seat, the scan first stared at her readouts while her fingers ran commands which focused instruments and sifted their data. “We’ve got people coming out of the Amnion sector. One, two—I see four of them. They look like the same four who went in.
“I can’t be sure,” she muttered apologetically. “Our scan isn’t that precise. But their suits reflect the same way.”
“Where are they headed?” Liete fought down her urgency, struggled to keep her voice calm. “What about the three who went to the dish?”
At the same time Pastille demanded, “What in hell did he go there for? I thought he wanted Morn back. He’s been sick ever since his gonads got a taste of her.”
Liete was instantly furious at him for asking the question she most wanted answered herself. But Carmel didn’t let the helm third deflect her.
“Back toward Trumpet,” she reported. “One of them’s ahead of the others, moving faster. The other three are staying together, but they’re going in the same direction.
“The three from the dish are back at their ship. Just standing there. I assume they’re waiting to cover the others.”
Four people entered the domain of the Amnion: four came out. Had they failed to get what they went in for? Or had someone been lost?
Had Nick been lost?
Deserts and doom filled Liete. She refused to believe that Nick had been lost.
As if she were prescient, she asked Malda, “Have you got targ on Tranquil Hegemony?”
Malda nodded just as Carmel announced sharply, “The Amnion are opening their shuttle port!”
At once Liete sat forward, began pulling data from scan, helm, and targ to her board; getting herself ready.
“Now what’s going on?” Pastille growled. “Are they abandoning the installation? Did Nick do them that much damage?”
Fortunately he didn’t appear to expect an answer.
“You want targ on that?” Malda asked. “If we hit it now, we can cripple the port. Or we can get the shuttle when she blows dock.”
“No,” Liete ordered. “Leave her alone. She’s not our target.
“Power up faster. Pastille, do the same. Now, while Calm Horizons and Soar have something else to think about.”
“Port open,” Carmel reported. “Here she comes.” An instant later the scan first barked, “Jesus, she’s in a hurry! That’s a full-burn launch.” Almost immediately, however, she reverted to stolidity. “She’s coming right at us. If she doesn’t correct, we’re going to collide.”
A heartbeat later, Carmel added, “She’s correcting now.” Liete saw the figures on her own readouts. “She doesn’t want us—she’s heading for Soar. Or Calm Horizons. But she won’t miss by much. They must really believe we’re paralyzed.
“They can’t abandon the installation that way,” she continued steadily. “She isn’t big enough. I estimate she only carries ten of them.”
Liete called for status again.
Matter cannon charge had reached forty percent. Thrust was up to thirty-five.
“Message from Calm Horizons!” Lind gulped. “New orders. Complete shutdown—everything, even maintenance. They want us to stop putting out all this noise.”
Too much, it was too much, Liete couldn’t think about so many conflicting priorities. The wind in her head had become a swirling buffet, full of confusion—
“Oh, shit,” Carmel breathed. “Tranquil Hegemony just put on her running lights. She’s powering up.”
Liete could hardly breathe; pressure seemed to pull all the air out of her lungs.
Where was Nick? Where was Nick?
One thing at a time, she told herself. Just one. You can do it if you take one thing at a time.
“Is she undocking?” she demanded. “Are they using her to abandon the installation?”
“No,” Carmel responded quickly. “That’s not thrust emission, that’s matter cannon.” In shock she pulled away from her board, faced Liete across the bridge. “She’s charging her guns. And she’s using searchlights. She’s going to blast those people down there. She’s going to blast Trumpet.”
Just for a second, Liete’s courage failed.
Blast.
Those people.
And Trumpet.
Nick was a dead man—
Her whole body flinched as if a stun-prod had been fired into her chest.
—unless she found a way to save him.
In that instant the long black wind swept all her fears and conflicts out of her.
Steadily she asked the scan first, “How long before she’s ready to fire?”
“How should I know?” Carmel gritted. “I’m no expert on Amnion warships.” Then the passion in Liete’s eyes stopped her. Abashed, she murmured, “A minute? Two at most?”
Liete nodded. “How long before that shuttle passes us?”
“At that acceleration?” Carmel consulted her board. “A minute and a half. But she won’t keep burning—she’ll cut thrust any second now. Otherwise she won’t be able to brake in time for Soar. Maybe not even in time for Calm Horizons.”
Liete couldn’t wait that long. Calm Horizons was trying to shut Captain’s Fancy down: Liete’s subterfuge was about to be discovered. And her target was Soar. Nick had ordered her to kill that ship. At any cost. No matter what else happened. Somehow he’d maneuvered Sorus Chatelaine into this position so that she and her ship would be vulnerable. If Liete didn’t attack now, Soar or Calm Horizons would realize they’d been duped; they would understand their danger and open fire.
But Tranquil Hegemony was charging her guns to smash seven people and their ship off the face of Thanatos Minor.
And one of them was Nick. He was out there, exposed like a dummy in a practice range. He couldn’t survive against those guns—couldn’t survive without Trumpet—
Liete Corregio considered his life more important than his orders.
“Pastille.” Her voice was only a whisper, but it carried like a cry. “I want braking thrust. Stop us—head us back the way we came.”
“What the hell for?” he objected. “I thought you said we’re after Soar.”
To silence him, she explained, “I want us closer to that shuttle. We’ll use her for cover.”
Pastille glared back at Liete, then turned to his console. Swallowing protests, he went to work.
At once braking g slammed Liete against her belt as Captain’s Fancy’s thrusters roared.
She shrugged off the stress. “Malda, targ on Tranquil Hegemony. Aim for her guns—hit her with everything you’ve got. On my order.”
Malda’s hands shook. Fighting to control them, she pounded her keys vehemently, as if she were furious.
“Carmel, how far away is that shuttle?”
The scan first understood combat: when it came, she had no hesitation in her. “She’s cut thrust—she’s coasting. Alongside in thirty seconds or so. Depending on Pastille.”
Thirty seconds. Liete snapped a look at her chronometer. Calm Horizons didn’t have a clear field—Soar was in the way—but Soar could fire at any time. If Sorus Chatelaine feared hitting the shuttle, she might hold off.
On the other hand, if she thought Captain’s Fancy was about to ram the shuttle, she would certainly attack.
At this range and speed, evasive maneuvers would be useless.
And Carmel wouldn’t be able to give any warning. Liete would know that Soar had fired when Captain’s Fancy took the hit, not before.
Carmel and Lind had been with Nick for a long time: in their separate ways, they had come to terms with death and desperation. And Malda loved Nick with her own private urgency. Liete could rely on them all. Only Pastille would fail her.
When he realized what she meant to do, he would try to stop her.
The black wind blew like a song through her heart. Everything that held her back was gone: she was alive with scorched fidelity and doom. As if she were inspired by music, she began dummying helm function to her board; secretly routing control of Captain’s Fancy away from Pastille.
So that she could save Nick.
MORN
orn watched helplessly as Tranquil Hegemony’s guns came into line as if they’d already found her; as if she were as distinct as a beacon against Thanatos Minor’s dark stone. Matter cannon at this range—She told herself that if she’d had the strength she would have climbed to her feet and fled; she wouldn’t have given up; while she could still draw breath and move her legs she would have done her best to survive. Nevertheless she knew it wasn’t weakness which held her down.
It was futility.
From her dedicated berth, Tranquil Hegemony could destroy everything between her and the planetoid’s horizons. One barrage would reduce the docks to rubble: it would be more than enough to wipe out four people in EVA suits and a single gap scout.
“Run!” Mikka shouted as if she were raging.
Sib didn’t move. Like Morn, he seemed to have come to the end of his strength; his will. “We can’t outrun that,” he said softly.
“They’re starting cold!” Mikka yelled. “They need a minute to bring up power, maybe two!” She grabbed at his arm, at Morn’s, tried to heave them into motion. “Come on!”
“Mikka.” Sib sounded calm, almost resigned. He’d worn out his fear. “Two minutes or twenty, it doesn’t make any difference. We can’t outrun those guns. Even if we reach the ship—even if we get aboard. One hit will crumple her like an empty canister.”
He looked back toward the lift bunker, then returned his gaze to the warship. “I wish Angus was here. I would like to hear him tell us why he thought this was ever going to work.”
“I don’t care!” Mikka cried. “You can’t just stand here and watch yourself die! You’ve got to at least run!
“I promised Pup I was coming back!”
Wheeling away, she sprinted over the stones in the direction of the docks and Trumpet.
Nick went on peering upward as if he thought he should be able to see his ship somewhere.
“Morn, are you there?”
The voice in her helmet sounded like Angus’. But it couldn’t be; he was gone; and anyway it was too young for Angus, too scared.
“I heard Nick. I heard Mikka and Sib. Are you with them? Where are you?
“Morn, where are you?”
Davies.
He was nearby—within reach of her suit’s receiver. Angus had told her the truth.
She’d believed that she would never see her son again. Now he was about to be killed. Like Sib and Mikka and Nick, like Morn herself, he would be hammered to pulp among the rocks. Then the rocks would melt in the after-heat of the blast, and the pulp would burn down to ash and cinders until it fused with the stone.
“Jets,” she panted. “The jets.” Her hands and legs came under her as if they were in someone else’s control; she tottered upright. “They’re faster. It’s worth a try.”
Slapping at her chest plate, she activated the jet harness.
The first burst of compressed gas lifted her in a long bound past Sib. One careful cock of her hips; another burst: restrained only by g, she vaulted to Mikka’s side just as Mikka activated her own jets and sprang ahead.
But Sib wasn’t coming.
“Wait,” he muttered distantly. “I don’t know how to use these things. I can’t handle them.”
Morn turned to help him—
Davies, I’m sorry!
—turned in time to see a piece of the void catch fire.
It was too sudden to be understood: the synapses of her brain couldn’t keep up with it. Nevertheless training and experience identified what was happening as she witnessed it.
Two separate cannon blazed almost simultaneously—guns from different ships. The first burned toward the source of the second: it hit, spewing coruscation like a solar flare, emissions on every conceivable wavelength. If Thanatos Minor had possessed an atmosphere, the concussion might have deafened her.
At nearly the same instant the second cannon drove a lance of light-constant destruction down on Tranquil Hegemony.
That blast reached Morn: it rolled through the rock, staggering her. A noiseless visceral shriek poured off Tranquil Hegemony’s sides as if the ship were dying; as if she were being scorched alive.
The heavens went immediately black; the void engulfed the embattled ships. But Tranquil Hegemony remained visible in the glare of the arc lamps and the glow of her own running lights.
The first shot must have affected the targ of the second by some small fraction of a degree. Tranquil Hegemony hadn’t suffered a direct hit. One bulging section of her side had been torn open: the shriek was the tangible tremor of escaping atmosphere commingled with warning sirens, battle klaxons, and the automatic yowl of interior seals. She was hurt; badly hurt.
Yet Morn knew at a glance that the warship hadn’t been crippled. She may still have been space-worthy: she was certainly capable of firing her guns.
After faltering for a few seconds, her searchlights stopped quartering the surface and swept away to focus like targeting lasers on Trumpet.
Without warning, Nick began to howl:
“You bitch!”
“Morn!” Davies’ voice rang in her ears. “Are you there?”
“Yes.” She could hardly force herself to speak; her voice scraped her throat like a wounded thing. “We’re coming.”
“That must have been Liete,” Mikka gasped. “Goddamn it, how could she miss? Even Simper can run targ better than that. Malda could do it in her sleep!”
“Captain’s Fancy was hit,” Sib breathed thinly. “I saw it. That must be what went wrong.”
“Take cover.” Morn did her best to make Davies hear her. “I don’t know where. Not on Trumpet. They’re going to pulverize her as soon as damage control seals that hole and reroutes their systems. Try one of the empty berths. Maybe you can find an access hatch and get inside.”
“Morn, there’s no point.” She recognized Vector easily. “It’ll be like trying to take cover on a battlefield. Operations was ready to kill us before all this started. Now they’ve lost communications. They’re desperate in there. They’ll ash anything that moves first, and wonder what it was later.”
In spite of what he’d just said, she could tell that he was smiling as he added, “Still, it’s nice to hear your voice.”
Nick had stopped howling, but he didn’t move. Rigid with fury or despair, he faced the dark heavens and remained motionless, gripping his fists at his sides.
“Come on,” Mikka breathed into her pickup. “Even if I’m as good as dead, I want to keep my promises.”
In a gust of compressed gas, she headed toward the docks and Trumpet.
Morn made no effort to get Nick’s attention. Let him stand there until his ship turned cold and came apart. There was nothing she could do for him—and she wouldn’t have done it if there had been. He still had her zone implant control.
Instead she went to help Sib manage his jets.
She didn’t need to hurry now: she knew that. She would die when Tranquil Hegemony was ready to kill her. Nothing could change that. Nevertheless she wanted to get as
far as possible from the warship and everything Amnion; she wanted to stand beside her son, and the few people who had taken pity on her, when she died.
Mikka had already reached the concrete by the time Morn got Sib moving. Riding their jets, she and the data first left Nick behind. As if they were alone on the rock—as if they were ghosts with nothing left to trouble them—they let the hiss of compressed gas carry them toward Trumpet. Sib had dropped his handgun; after a moment Morn realized that she’d lost her rifle somewhere. But they didn’t need weapons anymore. Like Mikka ahead of them, they took no notice of the possibility that the Bill or even the Amnion might send guards out after them. That danger had ceased to have any meaning.
Once she paused to look back at Nick. Small and slumped against the looming bulk of Tranquil Hegemony, he’d broken out of his rictus and was moving slowly away from the warship. Maybe he, too, had decided he didn’t want to be alone when he died.
After she and Sib gained the concrete, they were able to travel more quickly. As his handling of his jets improved he began to skim forward as if he were skipping. With a shrug and a ghost’s smile, she scudded beside him. When she died, she would be free, at last and forever.
No doubt Tranquil Hegemony was holding fire until the Amnion could be sure they would hit all their targets with one blast. Skimming and prancing like lunatic children, Morn and Sib crossed the arc-lit docks until they were close enough to see Mikka and three other people illuminated by searchlights in front of a Needle-class gap scout which must have been Trumpet.
She deactivated her jets and slowed to a walk. A step or two later, Sib did the same.
“Morn?” Davies asked. He sounded plaintive; scarcely able to believe that she was there. “Morn?”
She didn’t know which of the four he was: she was still too far away to recognize individuals through the polarization of their faceplates. She raised a hand to identify herself. When he also raised his hand, she smiled quietly, even though he couldn’t see it.
“Why don’t they get it over with?” Pup muttered tightly. “What are they waiting for?”
A Dark and Hungry God Arises Page 49
