“Stet, three. Continuing cross-optical scans in sector orange this time. Interrogative remaining peacekeeper status.”
“Status is green, at point five.”
“…mothers…” mumbled Jimjoy, his mouth dry again. L-5 control would come up with another enhanced optical scan in roughly five standard minutes, cross-check it within another five, and have another spread blown out, probably with all five remaining tacheads.
He called up the course line projections, marking his own position in ten minutes, and asked the plot computer to provide options for evasion, still toward Old Earth.
“Turtle four, interrogative status of essjay target.”
“Ellie five, four here. Negative on EDI at any point. Dust dispersion indicates standard comet profile.”
“Stet, four. Continue scanning this time.
“Turtle three, interrogative sector orange.”
“Negative on EDI or optical.”
“Stand by for peacekeeper release. EDI traces prior to detonation indicate Charlie Alpha courier.”
Jimjoy wiped his forehead, wishing the duty officer on the L-5 control station were not quite so persistent, and checked the course line and the preprogrammed evasion pattern—with a healthy decel built in after the initial turn.
Approximately two minutes before detection. He swallowed, letting his fingers reach for the evasion kick-in.
Knowing he was probably too early, he jabbed the stud.
“Three. Coordinates…release. MARK!!!”
Jimjoy released his breath just as it was knocked out of him by the courier’s quick acceleration.
Before he had recovered he was thrown against the straps by an even more brutal decel kick.
EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee…
EEEEEEEEEeeeeee…
EEEEEEEEEE…
The screams of the three tacheads battered his ears, while another attack of weightlessness assaulted his guts.
Blinking, he scanned the screen, noting that the corvette’s torps had been almost as wide of the mark as on the first salvo.
“Turtle three, interrogative status. Interrogative status.”
“Negative EDI. Negative optical.”
“Interrogative peacekeeper status.”
“Status is green at point two.”
“Stet. Standby.
“Turtle four, interrogative time to omega three.”
“Ellie five, four here. Estimate point two five to omega three. Point two five.”
“Four, stand by.”
After scanning his own screen, Jimjoy could see the L-5 operations coordinator’s problem. Turtle three was nearly out of torp range, and would have to leave station to chase a small courier-sized ship that could be a decoy. Turtle four could cover, but only by leaving an even larger uncovered area, and it would be another ten minutes before the enhanced optics would sort out to discover whether the target still existed.
Jimjoy smiled. One set of problems passed. The smile faded as he contemplated the courier’s power levels—less than seventy percent, with the bulk of the power requirements yet to come.
He shook his head before he began fiddling with the comm freq hunter. L-5 was surely trying to talk to either Lunar Control or inner orbit control.
“…sccctttcchhhh…”
After a time, he managed to lock in with the correct scrambler keys, the ones Accord was not supposed to have, courtesy of the D’Armetier.
“…recommended patrollers along upper green, inbound two eight zero, dispersion…”
“…this is absolute interdict. Say again, absolute interdict…”
Not that the decision to vaporize him was any surprise. He had one surprise of his own left—his decel pattern. Or lack of pattern.
He took a swallow of warm water from the squeeze bottle and replaced it in the holder, watching the time run down and the distance decrease.
“Hawkstrike one, Lunie Prime, Charlie inbound on roger three. Roger three.”
“Understand roger three. Negative EDI, negative optical, negative lock. Negative on laser focus.”
“Stet, one. Coordinate feed follows.”
Jimjoy watched the screen and listened, knowing he could do nothing else, suspecting they wanted him to move, to provide a burst of energy for them to lock in on.
Not yet.
“Prime, one here. Coordinates accepted. Negative on EDI lock. Negative optical.”
Jimjoy could hope. The Greenpeace was aimed nearly straight at the patroller. With no radiation and no optical parallax…
He wiped his forehead. Just another minute or two and the Greenpeace would be silently whipping by the patroller, perhaps as close as thirty kays, and as effectively as distant as half a system away.
“…bastard’s here somewhere…”
“Silence on the net.”
Jimjoy almost grinned. Too close in without energy sources for locks, and they were blind…and once he hit Earth’s magfield…if he hit it.
“Hawkstrike one, charlie should be three zero zero, immediate local. Immediate local.”
“Prime. One here. Negative on indicators.”
Jimjoy waited, fingers ready to trigger the final inbound evasion.
“Prime, Hawkstrike three. Parallax indicates charlie is absolute orange, coordinates follow.”
“All units fire on mark…”
Jimjoy slapped the control activation, watched his vision tunnel into darkness with the sudden acceleration, then expand, then drop away again.
“…MARK!!!!”
EEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee…
Clunk.
Jimjoy didn’t like the last sound, but the board indicators showed nothing as the Greenpeace plunged toward Old Earth’s upper atmosphere.
“…absolute orange at two five…”
“…beams on Charlie…”
Three lights flashed red as the lasers of the nearest patroller locked on the courier.
Jimjoy flicked up the screens to avoid being fried.
“EDI on two five.”
“What in hades is it?”
“…almost in the mag-field. Interrogative laser punch.”
“Trying lock-on…”
Jimjoy flicked another evasion macro.
“…lost…lock-on…reacquiring this time…”
His neck ached. His stomach muscles were knotted; his forehead was clammy; his mouth was dry.
Another check of the decel parameters. He kicked in another acceleration jolt, then cut the power…. waiting.
Amber on the nose…. amber on the lower hull…amber on leading edges…
“Charlie’s inside the mag-field, touching oscar…”
The stress lines climbed.
He jammed the drives to full decel, letting the courier drop further toward lower orbit, out of the patrollers’ reaches, assuming the atmosphere didn’t ablate what was left of the hull.
Jimjoy could feel the heat leaching through the hull, could feel the strain placed on the supercon lines, on each and every system, without checking the rows of red-and-amber status lights flashing on across the board.
His fingers flicked three studs.
“…torp sequence one…complete…”
He forced himself to wait, mentally counting for a minimal separation, before triggering the second sequence.
…eeeeee…eeeeeee…eeeeeee…
The wave receivers were deaf and blind once the courier was so far within a planetary mag-field. Jimjoy grinned grimly. The Impies certainly couldn’t shoot now, not when the traces of the upper atmosphere and the mag-field made torps impossible. He was too high for missiles, and particle beams weren’t allowed inside lunar orbit.
So all he had to do was survive the drop orbit and pick an exit course—blind where the Impies weren’t lined up to pot him.
The course was set. No real choice there.
He triggered the second torp drop, then added the first hazard shell drop.
“…torp sequence two…complete…”
&nb
sp; Most of the warning lights had dropped off the red and into the amber—except for the hull thickness/integrity warning. Would he have a hull left?
He noted the deviation from the lead to the exit course and attempted an adjustment. The courier slewed, then straightened.
“…torp sequence three…complete…”
The next round of hazard shells followed.
By now, as close to the upper atmosphere as the courier was, the only workable instruments were the laser plotter and the internal systems.
“…torp sequence four…complete…”
He checked the energy reserves. What reserves? If his exit course weren’t perfect…He pushed away the thought and concentrated on the next drop.
“…torp sequence five…”
The process seemed to telescope. Scan, calculate, release torps, release shells. Scan, calculate, release torps, release shells…and start all over again.
“…torp sequence ten…complete…hazard shell drop away…”
He shook his head, aware that he and his shipsuit were dripping and that every metal surface was pouring heat at him. Another head-shake and he called up the exit profile, then punched the red stud.
…eeeeeeEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee…
The interference began to drop almost immediately as the courier plunged skyward through the magnetic south pole.
Twenty percent, nineteen percent, eighteen percent—Jimjoy cut the acceleration, feeling his exhausted stomach flip-flop again.
“…interrogative…intercept…”
“Ellie five, Hawkstrike two, that is negative. Bogey’s outbound beyond Hawkstrike return envelope.”
Jimjoy glanced at the representational screen, watching his own track sprinting away from Old Earth at nearly a right angle to the ecliptic.
Next time, next time, the Impies would be ready for the above/below the ecliptic approach. Which was fine with Jimjoy, because there wouldn’t be a next time.
If either Narlian or Stilsen were correct, Old Earth was going to be far too busy trying to survive to worry about Accord. Still, he continued to watch the screen, wondering if any heroes were going to chase him into the uncertain dust densities below the ecliptic.
“Ellie five. Hawkstrike three, releasing this time.”
Jimjoy held his breath as the nearest I.S.S. corvette released a full spread of tachead torps, watching as the blue dashed lines appeared nearer and nearer on the representational screen.
EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeee…
EEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeee…
EEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeee…
EEEEEEEEEeeeee…
EEEEEEeeee…
When the earsplitting comm interference ceased, Jimjoy was still squinting. Then he laughed.
The disruptions from the tacheads had destroyed his residual EDI track, and the Greenpeace was outbound, shuttered and without EDI emission. By the time L-5 control could get clear enhanced opticals, he would have jumped.
No matter that he’d probably require either a tow or a power transfer before getting far in-system at Accord. That he could handle.
He began setting up the jump coordinates. His mouth was still dry, and he reeked of sweat and fear. But he could set a homeward jump.
LXXI
“COMMANDER BLACK, PERCH two. We have lock-on. Estimate rendezvous in point two.”
“Stet, two. Glad to see you.” Jimjoy eased back in the cushions of the control couch, waiting for the space tug. He had his all-too-clammy vac suit on, except for the helmet, which he had on his shoulder straps.
“Not so glad as we are to see you. Someone promised to make life very hard on us all if…” Analitta didn’t finish her sentence.
“I understand.”
“By the way, interrogative success probability.”
“Packages were all delivered. How the garden grows depends on the package designers.” Jimjoy’s voice was ragged, he realized. “Their scarecrows were a bit shocked at the delivery service. More later.”
He checked the representational screen again, confirming the closure of Analitta’s tug, then switched to visual. He could see only a dull silvery blot representing the Percheron.
Cling. The alarm signaled the end of the power reserves. With the reserves went the screens—and the air pressure. He pulled on his helmet and plugged in the belt jack to the ship’s comm system.
“Holy drek…. Commander…any atmosphere there at all? Hull looks like a cheese grater. I’ve seen Swiss cheese with fewer holes.”
“I’m suited.”
“…least he can’t breathe vacuum….” Jimjoy smiled at the voice from the Percheron.
“Don’t be too sure,” commented Analitta to the unknown speaker. “Hold tight, Commander. Commencing lock-on this time.”
“Understand lock-on. Be careful of my cheese grater.”
“Stet.”
The Greenpeace shuddered as the magnetic locks brought the ships together.
“Perch one, leave your crew aboard.”
“Interrogative your last, Commander.”
“I’m slow, Perch one. We don’t have a confirmation that some of my packages aren’t still hanging tight. I’m walking across. Have a decontamination crew for my suit. Same for me. Send an inquiry to Narlian requesting advice.”
“Oh…”
“Yeah…”
Jimjoy shook his head as he eased himself from the lock. While it wasn’t likely that anything could have survived his departure from Old Earth, Narlian and Stilsen had engineered their cargo to take extremes of temperature and pressure, or lack thereof. And the Greenpeace might be better off in a terminal solar orbit, with a sure sterilization.
His feet touched the tug’s hull, and he took step after careful step toward the main lock.
“Commander…Professor…?”
“The same.”
“Just step into the little lock. We’ll flood it with a decon gas. Once the lock’s clear, leave the suit and your clothes there. Dr. Narlian says there’s nothing that you personally could carry.”
“Narlian…she was waiting?”
“Waiting? She’s been pacing around Thalos Station for the last twelve hours, biting off any head that came in range.”
Jimjoy closed the lock, wondering how soon he could see Thelina, glad at least that this time he was a live coward, a sneak poisoner, a thief, what have you, rather than a hero.
He didn’t look, smell, or feel like a hero, not surrounded with purplish decon gas in the lock of an ungainly space tug after abandoning a courier he’d turned into shredded metal.
He waited for the lock to clear, to begin the trip back to Thalos Station and, more important, back to Accord.
LXXII
12 Novem 3647
On-station
Dear Blaine:
Now it’s my turn to be late in responding, but, as you noted in your last, all hades has broken loose.
Right after we got the media reports on the attack or whatever it was on Old Earth, activities here went crazy. Is it true that something got loose inside the L-5 picket line, pulled a double orbit, and made a right-angle ecliptic exit off the south pole? But no one is saying what happened…if anything.
The attack has been all over the media, but not the results. We’ve seen more close calls in the last week than in the previous year. They seem to be probing everywhere.
We’ve had two converter replacements since my last. Neither the ship nor I nor the crew is up to this for much longer, but all rotations have stopped, and we’ve even had some transfers. The squadron lost two ships for “redeployment.” They won’t say where, but everyone knows.
The problem is we’re going to pay for it, now and not next year or the year after.
Haven’t heard from Helen, but that’s not surprising, since not even much official stuff is reaching us right now.
Have to close if I want to get this off, but see if you can do anything—I’ll even take old needleboats!
Mort
LXXIII
THE
ADMIRAL WITH the silvered-gold hair swallowed the two capsules and rubbed his temples.
“You’re taking them too often,” he reminded himself in a low voice.
His fingers reached for the screen controls, then paused. After a moment, he shook his head and called back the draft report, searching for the section that had troubled him, flicking down the lines.
“…as demonstrated by the rapid success of the mutated core borers, the anchovy virus, the high-speed wheat rust…Ecolitan Institute has established capability to disrupt if not destroy…food chains…on any Imperial planet…
“…independent confirmation by…Herbridge University Biotech Center…indicates genetic engineering capability to wage antipersonnel campaign…Directorate’s excesses would be mild by comparison…
“…Intelligence unable to pinpoint Ecolitan production facilities…”
The Admiral winced and rubbed his temples again before continuing. The words before him were almost a jumble, though he knew them nearly by heart.
“…Fuards massing in Sector Nine…. stepped up production of new S.D. class vessels…restriction in public travel in the area of the three-system bulge…
“…Halstani announcement of closing the University of Teresa’s High Science Center to Imperial scientists…”
He focused in on the key paragraphs.
“Based on these factors, the Intelligence Service concurs with the recommendations of the Planning Staff and Fleet Development Branch. Military action against Accord—even if successful—will result in even greater casualties to Imperial Forces, staging bases, and personnel. More important, given the rapid mobilization of Accord and the desperation of its leaders, no military action against Accord is likely to prove successful without at least a three-fleet action.
“In addition, the single large fleet-action limitation established by the Defense Committee makes it extraordinarily difficult to guarantee success and could further weaken Imperial Forces. Finally, to date, the Accord Coordinate has used only a single ship to deliver biological weapons targeted against food chains. In any prolonged conflict, this restraint would not be continued.
“Under such conditions, the Fuardian Conglomerate could consider acquiring disputed boundary territories of greater value, both economically and strategically, than the Accord system.
Empire & Ecolitan Page 63
