The Jupiter War

by Gregory Benford

  “They’re already radar non-reflective. That sounds good.”

  “Too right. The insulation is biological, the manual don’t say what kind, and it don’t bear thinking about. Anyway, infrared isn’t supposed to be able to pick ’em up, but some of the blokes think they’re too hot.”

  “Bloody hell, another experiment,” said Cheevers in exasperation, then, realizing they were being watched, went on more calmly, “I’ve read about developments in bio-equipment amalgams, and I’m sure we wouldn’t have been sent EVA equipment unless it had been well tested, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!” said the noncom with a booming certainty Cheevers felt was for the troopers’ benefit. It certainly didn’t do his ears any good. However, the drill went well.

  It did not escape Cheevers’s attention that Aurora had managed to find a suit small enough to join in too.

  The captain was expected to attend the once-weekly dance in the cramped space created when mess tables were folded away and a movable wall opened up to include the training area. Cheevers usually looked forward to it, aware that trips beyond the twenty-eight day barrier created stresses that had to be eased, even among the most experienced of crews. Besides, any physical activity in the close confines of the ship was welcome.

  Tonight, “Wires,” the electrician’s mate, was playing an electronic flute, piping tunes that were disquieting for Cheevers, evoking as they did club evenings at home in Medam Valley. The officers had pooled the daily tot of rum allotted to every service member and made a punch out of it that climbed the walls of the bowl in the center of the table.

  Cheevers only became aware of Aurora when she leaned enticingly over the table and murmured, “Ladies choice.”

  “How could I refuse?” Only after he took her in his arms did he realize, “This is new. I’ve never danced to this one before.”

  “No worries. Hold on tight and do what I do.” And it wasn’t difficult, a matter of releasing himself to the spell cast by the beat. When he pulled her tighter she did not protest. She’s too young, he thought again, then realized he had been the same age when he first met Meredy. Not unreasonable, he conceded.

  The combination of music and Aurora was intoxicating, and he couldn’t remember enjoying an evening more. Certainly not for a very long time. He could feel her heat entering his body, displacing bleak loneliness, grief, and hatred of the Diablo that had festered there so long. Her eyes were the color of a hazy summer sky, and her skin that of ripening wheat. He became aware of his maleness and felt emotions he’d thought he’d a left million klicks behind.

  Almost against his will, he heard himself saying it was too noisy for them to talk here, and would she like to come to his cabin for a “euphemistic” drink.

  Her blue eyes opened wide, she smiled impishly and declared, “My favorite drink. I’ve been wondering if you’d ever ask.”

  * * *

  She was everything he’d hoped, her breasts full buds, yielding and fresh, and she filled his senses with an intensity of pleasure he’d all but forgotten. Afterward, as they lay contented in each other’s arms, he asked about her life before she came to the Gallipoli.

  “Not a lot to tell, really,” she answered, cuddling close in the single bunk. “We led rather a sheltered life. We were a test-tube pregnancy, you probably guessed that. Not unusual among Space Service families, with radiation and such. Mom and Dad decided they didn’t want to go through all that nonsense again, so when they learned it would be a multiple birth, they were happy. Mom decided to forget about numbers and let whatever would be, be.”

  “She was a brave lady,” he said, stroking the smooth, silky skin of her back.

  “I guess. I wish I’d known her. She didn’t live long. After Mom died, Dad stayed home. He had us to raise. His old mates in Space Command talked him into training us as pilots. He knew they would be desperately needed and he would have given a lot to be one himself, but his health wasn’t the best, mental or otherwise. He never was the same after coming out of those caves on Mars, you know.

  “Anyway, Space Command set up special classes for us, starting when we were eight. It wasn’t bad—better than regular school—and we went home weekends, except when Dad was in hospital.

  “Space Command has the idea that we’re perfectly compatible, the ideal piloting team. If they only knew.” She chuckled ruefully.

  “But you are the perfect team. Pilots we’ve had before were always in each other’s way. Bushy had a hell of a job trying to keep the team in line. You always seem to know what the other is going to do.”

  “Well . . . it may seem that way. But how can that be true when half the time even I don’t know what I’m going to do next?” She smiled and began to stroke his chest in small circles, till she found the patch of newly healed skin, now mostly covered by growing hair.

  “Ooh, I don’t like scars. You’re dead good-looking but for that.”

  “I didn’t like being wounded much myself, and I’d rather be lucky than good-looking.”

  “Too right. Sorry, about the scar. It’s just that I have a thing about sickness. I guess it’s because Dad was sick so much.”

  “Well, I’m fine, and even I can predict what you’re going to be doing for the next little while,” he told her, and pressed his mouth against hers again.

  At 0800 hours, an enemy scout ship was detected by the Gallipoli. The auto-cannon homed in and boomed in response, without measurable success. Cheevers ordered the Gallipoli to pursue, but the smaller, faster ship ducked back into the asteroid belt where it was easy to hide and impossible to catch. Cheevers cursed in frustration. The tension level increased now that the ship’s company knew they were a target on an unfriendly screen somewhere.

  Aurora came to his cabin that night. Never having been in battle, she was innocent of the possible consequences of being sighted and he did not talk about it, or anything much, just accepted the joy she brought.

  After she left to go on duty, he ran holos of Meredy for the first time since he’d left Earth. With her shiny, long black hair and slim figure, she was still a good-looking woman. He wondered if she’d found a new bloke yet and felt a stab of jealousy he recognized as irrational.

  He knew he’d let her down, leaving suddenly as he had. He just couldn’t take the ignorant questions of civilians who didn’t even know what quadrant the most important battle in space had taken place in. Or what the casualties had been. And didn’t care to know. All anyone wanted to say was that Australia shouldn’t be fighting way out here, despite the shortage of raw materials.

  The crisis had come at the ranch, a few days after he’d been released from hospital. While he was trying to read between the lines of the latest propaganda about the war, Meredy was rattling on about the low price of wool. Didn’t she realize their neighbors and friends were out here fighting for their lives? The quarrel that followed had come so close to violence that he’d requested immediate reassignment. It had been granted.

  With a rush of guilt he wondered what she was doing now at the ranch, but try as he would he couldn’t make her seem real. The Jupiter War—and Aurora—were the reality here.

  As days went by, he tried not to be too obvious in watching Aurora on the bridge. Her distant manner toward him did not seem to have changed. Towards Sky, her usual copilot, she was as straightforward and natural as usual.

  Some of the speculation by the crew was vicious. He was informed that graffiti with jokes about “sex-tuplets” had been scrawled on their cabin door more than once. It couldn’t be true—not of Aurora. The other twins seemed to want to associate only with each other, not liking or trusting anyone outside their special bond—perhaps—but wondering about it was fruitless. He would have it out with Aurora the next time they were alone.

  They were nearing the far boundary of the asteroid belt and attack would soon be an ever-present danger. Perversely, he welcomed the i
dea, hoping for the chance to engage the Diablo, now that they were in her favorite hunting grounds. He ordered training intensified, pushing hard, but the men no more than himself. If they did meet the so-called corsair, he was determined the outcome this time would be different.

  The DI was pleased when he joined in EVA drill after several days’ absence. His presence motivated the troopers, who were frankly bored by hundreds of repetitions. Feeling the competition, Cheevers buckled into the seventeen parts of his EVA suit in jig time, and was tested for seal by his dresser. A rap on his helmet told him the first seal had been good, and a single digit held up that he was first to do so. He swiveled the helmet around and saw a few more taps, indicating some of the troopers were not far behind. He was about to switch on his mike and blast the hindmost when the warning claxon sounded. Immediately after, an explosion ripped the hull open as if it had been made of foil.

  Sudden decompression propelled him into space, and he narrowly missed tearing his suit on twisted shards of glowing metal. He must have lost consciousness for a time, but when he again became aware he was tumbling, head over heels. He felt nauseated and his head ached unmercifully. For a moment he panicked and, desperate to stop the vertigo, reached for maneuvering unit controls. Then his training clicked in. Instead, he picked a reference point and concentrated on it each time round to orient himself.

  An advantage of this runaway somersaulting was a sphere of vision, and he was able to see his ship as it disappeared behind an asteroid. Good, the first strike had not been successful.

  Next time round he saw the enemy ship, coming closer. He was almost in line with Jupiter-its size here was as almost as large as Sol, and the globe made a good reference point. Once he was able to concentrate on the glowing globe, and relegate all else to the peripheral, he felt less dizzy.

  He became aware of other EVA suits not far away. Some were moving under power. Others obviously had never achieved seal, or their suits had been holed. Explosive decompression wasn’t pretty; he noticed splashes on his suit and anger gave him renewed purpose.

  As he tumbled closer, he caught a flash of red on the hull. It had been a red devil, he would bet his life on it. A fierce hunger for revenge seized him: for Bushy, for the little DI with the big voice who wouldn’t have had a chance, and for all the others.

  The headache was still there, but he pushed it to the back of his consciousness. He saw one of his troopers run his M18 through most of its clip before being blasted by the Diablo. Cheevers had to stifle his impulse to fire wildly too.

  Another trooper turned on his jets in a desperate attempt to escape. The Diablo finished off the helpless man without mercy. Cheevers noted that suits obviously holed or not moving were not touched. The notion came to him unbidden that if he stayed still, maybe he would get out of this. He stifled it as inappropriate, but used the idea it brought him.

  Moving imperceptibly, feigning death, he applied a small blast of nitrogen on the left side to swing him fractionally right, on course for the Diablo. He knew his suit was non-reflective for radar, and it was claimed that infrared sensors wouldn’t pick it up. This wouldn’t take long; he keyed the spreader.

  Another suit moved, feebly and without threat, and was blasted. Any compunction Cheevers had about trying to spare the Diablo’s crew died with him.

  He was now closing fast with the corsair. He knew it would be battle-hardened, but there were weak spots in any ship that could be exploited. The trick was to find one before he became a target himself. Cheevers’s tumble was bringing him close to the mirrors that were the eyes of the battle system of the attacker. If the optics could be put out of action long enough . . . His hand moved in slow motion toward the controls of the built-in M18. To aim it would be the thing—even with laser aid it wouldn’t be easy, with this damned tumble.

  He suddenly felt he was going to throw up. This had to be close enough. He aimed, locked on the laser beam, and fired off the whole clip. The next tumble revealed the port mirror had been crazed. He could not restrain his exultation, and yelled in triumph. The Diablo, effectively blinded on one side and with radar and infrared ineffective, now maneuvered to “look” from the other side. As it swung, shooting wildly, he reloaded with one hand in less than five seconds, grateful for the first time that the DI had made him practice it a hundred times.

  There was time to bring his attitude to level while the ship swung to find him. He aimed a stream of projectiles at the starboard mirror while the angle was still sharp, and whooped crazily when it disintegrated.

  The only place they couldn’t hit him was against their own hull and he jetted directly for the corsair. The airlock would be secured, but not for nothing was the M18 called “the can opener”. Now he could see the red devil clearly above the name DIABLO. He fired a full clip at the seam.

  The airlock door blasted outward in lethal shards. The debris included pieces of suits, spouting red crystals. Cheevers realized the Diablo had been about to release troopers; he’d been just in time. Choosing the angle carefully to avoid ricochet, he loosed another stream of fire. Within seconds, the inner hatch was breached.

  There was a violent explosion of air followed by debris, fittings, and, men. He reloaded while waiting for the pressure to reach equilibrium, then dove in the opening and loosed another stream of fire. Damage was not enough. He would settle for no less than total destruction.

  He unclipped his only stick of grenades, pressed it to the inner bulkhead, magnetized and activated it, and set it for minimum time till detonation. He expected the ship would contain much of the high-energy blast, but there were only seconds to try to get out of range. At this point, that was less important than destroying the wrecker Diablo.

  Cheevers hot-streamed it out of there, holding his jets wide open till the tank emptied, but flying debris caught him anyway.

  When he again became aware blood was trickling from his ears, and his head felt as though he’d been fighting a title bout. Pieces of the corsair were still spreading out from the point of explosion, and would for hundreds of klicks. Never again would the Diablo prey on unsuspecting U.N. vessels. An old weight lifted from his shoulders never to return, whatever happened now.

  Jupiter hung before him; swirling as it had for aeons, standing out against a lacework of stars. It seemed to pulse, one moment small and bright, the next swelling to an all-encompassing globe with an angry red oozing wound. Once Jupiter had been considered the supreme God; it had certainly influenced his life. Aurora’s smooth face, the shade of rich cream, swam before him. Then the crude graffiti scrawled on her door became superimposed over her even features.

  Bland female tones startled him. Coming from his speaker, the suit’s voice announced. “Ninety minutes of breathable air remaining.”

  So little time? The voice replacing the warning beep was new. Was it an improvement, or did it add to the ultimate loneliness of space?

  He tried to read the time, but his eyes wouldn’t focus and he wished the voice would give more information.

  He couldn’t wait for it, no time to waste. The Gallipoli had to be signaled, and quickly—if it still existed. He forced stiff arms and legs to move and tried to recall procedure, his bruised brain resisting, R & R would come later, he promised himself.

  The suit’s communicator—he reached for the “on” button and pushed it, but instead of the buzz of voices and sputter of activity from Jupiter there was only silence. He pushed “off” then “on” several times without result. It was dead, and without outside help there was no way to repair it. He felt a moment of panic, but this only sharpened his wits and, with it, his determination to get through this.

  Without emotion, the suit announced. “Eighty-five minutes left.” He wished the voice could be more helpful. The beacon. There was still the beacon to signal his position. Over and over he tried to activate it but there was no green light, not even a red. Nothing. Flying debris must have
finished it. What else had been damaged?

  “Eighty minutes left.” Was the damn machine enjoying this countdown? He felt unusually hot and it made his splitting head feel worse. It was difficult to concentrate but he had to think of something else to try. The fact that he was alive proved the inner suit had not been holed, but even the EVA suit’s being non-reflective to radar was a liability now.

  “Seventy-five minutes to critical. Take action to return to ship.” He cursed the calm, unfeeling voice. Sweat began to drip into his eyes, and stung painfully. He withdrew a hand from its gauntlet to wipe the sweat away. Again he tried communicator and beacon, without success. In spite of the danger, thirst became all important. He reached for and found the spout and sucked water greedily. Even it was warm. Between his aching head and the heat, it was all but impossible to think clearly.

  “Seventy minutes. Activate beacon for pickup.”

  “What do you think I’ve been trying to do? Useless bloody machine!”

  Hot, much too hot. He wiped his eyes again and checked the interior temperature gauge. Both it and his helmet visor had fogged over, though it was not supposed to be possible. He wiped them off and was alarmed to see that, in the absolute zero of space, his internal suit temperature had reached red. While he tried, unsuccessfully, to read the dial, the needle moved further into the red.

  “Sixty-five minutes. It is critical to take action to return to ship.” He located the speaker and pounded the useless, nagging voice to silence. Then he remembered.

  He turned off the infrared baffle. He watched a stream of moist, hot particles puff into space and was immediately cooler. His spirits rose and for the first time he knew hope.

  When the Gallipoli picked him up, the breathable air gauge stood at zero. Rough hands tore open the EVA suit. In spite of the thirty-minute safety margin, his suit air smelled like the end of an exhaust pipe.