We All Died at Breakaway Station

by Richard C. Meredith

  …perhaps…

  …you’re asking a lot of them, sir…

  …i know that, roger, but we’ve got to do all we can to keep breakaway operational… Bracer paused for a long while. …roger, am i asking any more of them than was asked of you, or even as much?…

  …what do you mean, sir?…

  …well, you were‌—‌i mean…

  …perhaps i do understand, sir, but i’m not sure that i know how to answer you. you see, sir, i was killed a lot deader than you were, that is, my whole body was destroyed. when they got my ship the only part of me that the ’bots were able to get into cold-sleep was my head, shoulders and a part of my spine…

  For a moment Bracer felt sickness. He had lost a lot too, both legs, an arm, his eyes, a piece of his skull; he had died, but they had brought him back to life and said that they could rebuild him on Earth. But Roger, or whoever “Roger” had been, hadn’t had that option.

  …when they brought me back, sir… Roger went on, …i wasn’t much more than a brain floating in a saline solution, i couldn’t see or feel, or even think very well, for that matter, it’s not as hard to talk about it now as it once was. well, sir, they told me what had happened, and they told me that they couldn’t put me back together again‌—‌like humpty dumpty…

  “All the king’s horses and all the king’s men…” Bracer quoted to himself, not even allowing the thought to enter the CEMEARS. Crushed like an egg, splattered across the deck of a starship. Was there even any morality in bringing a man back to life who had had something like that done to him? Yet‌—‌yet Roger was alive now, and in his own very special way well and happy, and maybe that was right.

  …there just wasn’t enough left of me… Roger’s mental voice was saying. …they could‌—‌well, let me go, if i wanted, i mean, they’d let me die for good, or they could put me in a starship, they just asked if i wanted to live, admiral, they didn’t ask me to die again, that’s what you’re asking of your men…

  …i know…

  …and that’s what you’re asking of yourself, sir. that’s not easy… The ship’s Organic Computer paused for a moment. …i’m happy the way i am, sir. it may seem strange, but i am. i think happier than i ever was before, you can’t imagine it. but, sir, you’re not happy…

  …right now that’s not important, roger…

  …what is important, sir?…

  …breakaway station… Bracer was silent for a few moments. …roger, what i really wanted to ask you is this: do you think i did the right thing? do you think we should stay?…

  …i told you before, sir, i can’t decide for you…

  …for god’s sake, roger, i’m not asking you to take over my responsibilities, i’m just asking for moral support…

  …i can’t even give you that, sir…

  …why?…

  …i just can’t sir…

  …you mean you think i did the wrong thing…

  …i don’t know, sir. i’m not sure, but‌—‌well, i don’t like the odds…

  …and what are the odds?…

  Roger’s mind made a sound that would have been a bitter laugh had it been produced by human vocal cords. …i don’t really know, sir. i wish i did. but, look, sir. one, the odds are great, i don’t know how great, but great that the jillies will come back and with a force much greater than ours, two, the odds are also great, and again i don’t know how great, that they’ll come back very soon…

  …okay, go on…

  …well, if they do come back, sir, and if their force is greater than ours, they’ll wipe us out, totally destroy us‌—‌and breakaway station, sir, i don’t want to die for nothing…

  …i don’t either, roger, but how can you say that it’s for nothing?…

  …for what, sir? we can perhaps give breakaway a few more hours of life in case of attack, but that’s all. a few hours…

  …yes, but‌—‌…

  …but what, sir?…

  …maybe breakaway will need those few hours very badly…

  …admiral, the chances of our doing anything significant for breakaway are very, very small…

  …you’re probably right, roger. but we don’t know for sure unless it happens, will we?…

  …no, sir, i suppose not…

  …stay with me, roger… Bracer thought suddenly, urgently. …i need you…

  …i’m not going anywhere, sir. not without you…

  Bracer smiled to himself. …thank you, roger. good night…

  …i hope you rest well, sir…

  Bracer then wished that he dared to take another sleeping pill, decided against it, activated the “seeing” circuits of his prosthetic skull and scanned the cabin in the darkness.

  The acute artificial eyes discerned the outlines of a table, the chairs and desk he couldn’t really use, the lockers, the paintings hanging on the bulkheads. Nothing. Nothing of any importance, of any value. It was just a cabin. A place. A hole to crawl into. Nothing more. There was no personality to the room. Nothing to indicate the nature of the man who lived there, to say, “This is mine.”

  But what personality do I have now? he asked himself. Any? Am I just as much a semiorganic machine as Roger? A thing that’s just part man?

  Hell! That’s enough of that, Absolom.

  Again he cut off the visual circuits, let the total blackness settle over his brain, started counting from zero and hoped that eventually he would fall off to sleep.

  20

  One. Two. Three.

  If Absolom Bracer had had a left foot it would have been hurting him, at least his neural system told him that there was a sharp pain in the nonexistent left foot, just below the ankle. The pain throbbed, grew, began moving up the nonexistent leg to an equally nonexistent kneecap.

  Dammit, he thought, it seems like those doctors could have done something about that.

  One hundred and nine. One hundred and ten. One hundred and eleven. He continued to count, continued to lean back and rest as best he could, continued to try to sleep.

  Random, abstract, meaningless patterns began to dance before his “eyes.” A red amoeboid shape rose from below, came swimming up out of the blackness, thin, translucent, throbbing, growing like the pain in his vanished leg of which this was a visual symbol, swelling finally to fill the whole range of his infinite vision.

  Four hundred and seventeen. Four hundred and eighteen. Four hundred and nineteen.

  Now the red amoeba was gone, swallowed up by a darkness that was impossibly black. The pain still throbbed in his imaginary leg, but not as greatly. It was passing.

  Five hundred and twenty-two. Five hundred and twenty-three. Five hundred and twenty-four.

  Now the darkness was speckled with stars, and it was not so black. There was a bright Sol-size star a few light-weeks away. He remembered that star, UR-339-72, Breston Catalogue, and he should remember it.

  It had six planets. A norm-type planetary system. A cousin of Sol’s. None of those planets were comfortably habitable to humans, but there was a small observation station on one of them.

  Six hundred and fifty-three. Six hundred and fifty-four. Six hundred and fifty-five.

  The fourth planet of UR-339-72 was a primitive, unborn Earth, a planet that would have been perfect for men had its atmosphere contained a decent percentage of oxygen; perhaps it would some day, a billion years hence when the exceedingly primitive pseudobacteria that were its only lifeform had evolved enough to begin expelling oxygen into UR-339-72-IV’s atmosphere. There was, however, an automated League observation post on the planet, an electromechanical station that scanned and probed the spaces surrounding UR-339-72, hidden as well as hampered by the planet’s blanket of atmosphere, a covering that did not greatly interfere with its probing of near space‌—‌scanners and sensors that swept a heavily traveled Jillie commerce route.

  It was a computerized, automatic, unmanned station light-years from any human settlement, and every standard week it sent back to its home base on Carstair
s an FTL message probe containing a record of the previous week’s observations. Every six standard months a League starship would creep into that sector of space, land on UR-339-72-XV, refurnish the post with FTL message probes, and then quickly, quietly depart.

  But something went wrong at that station. Long before its probe supply should have run short it ceased sending messages. A standard month went by without data reaching Carstairs. Intelligence headquarters informed Valforth Garrison on Adrianopolis‌—‌and Valforth Garrison dispatched the LSS Crecy to investigate.

  Absolom Bracer had been the commanding officer of the LSS Crecy. Seven hundred and three. Seven hundred and four. Seven hundred and five. Two weeks later the LSS Crecy came out of star drive six light-weeks from UR-339-72-IV and carefully probed space before her. If the observation post had been attacked, it should have broadcast a warning. The leading edge of that signal should be about six light-weeks from the planet now. Yet no warning was received.

  The Crecy moved forward three light-weeks and probed again. Still no distress call from the post.

  Into star drive again, the Crecy moved forward to within a few light-minutes of the desolate world, opened its electromagnetic ears and listened for the wailing warning cries of the observation station. But there were none.

  With all hands at battle stations, screens up, weapons at ready, the League starship moved toward the planet at sublight speeds, and still listened, still watched. Except for the radio noise of the yellow sun and the background roar of stars and galaxies, the receivers detected nothing, neither the “Mayday” of the observation station nor the shrill chattering of Jillie communications.

  UR-339-72-IV swelled from a pinpoint of reflected light to a pale crescent to a world in space.

  Cold sweat trickled down the back of Absolom Bracer’s neck. Something was wrong. The observation post might have broken down, it and all its back-up systems. Its power cells might have shorted out. Its solar receptors might have failed. Its… But he didn’t think so. Call it a feeling, a hunch, a premonition, ESP, but something was, by God, wrong!

  Eight hundred and thirty. Eight hundred and thirty-one. Eight hundred and thirty-two. Absolom Bracer continued to count, but sleep would not come. Not yet.

  But in his mind: now the distance to the planet was counted in kilometers, not in units of light, and Captain Bracer placed his warship in a sweeping, spiraling orbit around the yellow-gray planet, and listened and probed and wondered.

  Still nothing. The starship passed directly above the post and beamed it an identification signal. The station did not reply.

  Six hours crept slowly by. Then seven. Eight. Finally a standard day had elapsed in orbit and there were no signs of enemy activity detected, nor had the observation post shown any signs that it still possessed its own mechanical “life.”

  Finally Captain Bracer overcame his fears, his reservations, and ordered the ship down, ordered the LSS Crecy to go in and take a look.

  Flipping 180°, the nuclear drive flared briefly; the starship braked in its spin around the world known only as UR-339-72-IV. Down. The ship entered the fringes of the poisonous atmosphere, down through the yellow fogs that passed for air, down toward the flat and desolate plain where sat the observation station.

  Now one hundred kilometers. Now fifty. Twenty. Ten. Five. One.

  The starship hung on gravitic beams a kilometer above the station and once more searched, probed, listened. The response was the same. Nothing.

  “Bring her in over there,” the captain said to his first officer, indicating the landing field a few hundred meters west of the quiet station.

  “Yes, sir,” the first officer answered. He touched controls. He spoke commands. And the starship lowered.

  At five hundred meters from the surface the LSS Crecy’s defensive force screens went down.

  At four hundred meters the Jillie missiles rose.

  From a dozen hidden places around the silent station nuclear missiles burst from the barren ground, climbed skyward on torches of broken atoms, sighted in on the LSS Crecy, and carried death.

  “Screens up!” Captain Bracer yelled. “Boost out of here! Energy cannon‌—‌destroy those missiles!”

  The missiles were moving at sub-light speeds this close to a planetary mass, but still they came fast, far faster than human eyes could follow them once they had begun their true acceleration. Captain Bracer and his crewmen could not see the missiles now, but laser-radar could and did and aimed the energy cannon that fired in reply.

  The starship’s drive came to life. She jerked, surged forward, upward, away from the planet and the missiles, while the humans aboard her felt the pressures of acceleration despite the ship’s gravitic shielding.

  But the missiles had a head start. They were moving faster than the starship. And though radar found them and energy cannon blasted them, there was not enough time to stop them all.

  The Crecy was out of the atmosphere when the missile reached her, striking amidships, exploding with megatons of hell. Force screens had gone up by then, but not to full power, and though they deflected the bulk of the fury unleashed by the missile, they could not fully protect the starship. Her hull ruptured, air and men spilled out into the radiation-filled vacuum.

  Even before he picked himself up off the deck where the concussion had thrown him, Captain Bracer realized what was waiting for them outside the atmosphere, above, under the naked light of UR-399-72: a Jillie warship, somehow hidden and undetected, but now moving in for the kill.

  The LSS Crecy was badly wounded, but she could still put up a good fight. She would make the Jillies pay for her destruction, pay dearly.

  Bracer yelled orders, saw the swarm of plasma torpedoes burst from his ship, light the darkness, speed toward the enemy. He also saw the energy cannon and torpedoes that fired back.

  He even saw the plasma torpedo that broke through the Crecy’s screens as nuclear missiles began to buffet the enemy ship, began to tear her apart as the Crecy was being tom apart. But mostly he saw the torpedo that came on toward him, through the flickering, dying screens, to the very hull, to burn its way through metal and ceramics and paraglas into the ship. He felt its heat, terrible, agonizing, starhot heat. Then he saw the bridge’s bulkheads glow red, then white‌—‌he saw flames searing through, splashing across his body, burning parts of it away‌—‌and then he never saw anything again with his own eyes.

  He did not remember the ’bots that scurried out of their waiting places to grab his burning and mutilated corpse and stuff it into an open cold-sleep coffin. He was dead then.

  One thousand eighteen. One thousand nineteen. One thousand twenty.

  The battered, very nearly beaten Jillie warship limped off, away to whatever place it is that damaged Jillie warships go for repairs, wherever it is that wounded, mutilated Jillie starmen go to be rebuilt again. And the wreck of the LSS Crecy, crewed by half-operating machines and dead men in cold-sleep coffins, fell into a fairly stable orbit around UR-399-72-IV, and there she remained until she was found some weeks later by a second warship from Adrianopolis. What was left of the Crecy’s crew was taken aboard the newcomer and carried back to Adrianopolis, cold and dead, where some of them, like Absolom Bracer, were returned to a semblance of life.

  One thousand ninety-eight. One thousand ninety-nine. Two thousand.

  He had lived it again.

  Then Absolom Bracer slept.

  21

  Bracer stood alone in the officers’ galley, stood because it was impossible for him to sit, and sipped at a cup of coffee.

  The doctors back on Adrianopolis had told him that it would still be possible for him to eat and drink most of the foods he had always enjoyed, for his stomach was still his own, even if his intestines were tubes of plastissue. However, alcohol had been forbidden since the linings of his artificial intestines found it somewhat difficult to cope, and it did tend to have a corrosive effect. Despite that, or perhaps because of that, he wanted a drink of whiskey ver
y badly, and the sight of the row of bottles along the shelf across from the bar upon which he rested his elbows did very little to lessen that desire.

  After a while he pulled a cigarette pack from his jacket pocket, knocked a white cylinder out into his hand, and studied it for a few moments, thankful that his lungs were still his own and could handle the smoke of a certified-cancer-free Adrianopolitan cigarette.

  He had taken but one full drag from it when the galley’s hatch opened and Communications Officer Eday Cyanta came into the room. When she caught sight of the admiral there, she paused, began a retreat, then asked. “Will I bother you, sir?”

  “Certainly not, Miss Cyanta,” he replied. “Come on in.”

  Like a number of others aboard the Iwo Jima, Eday Cyanta’s injuries were not immediately apparent at a casual glance. She had been relatively lucky. When she had been crushed by an exploding building during the first Jillie attack on Midwood, and her legs carried away by the debris, she had retained her hips and a good portion of the bones of her thighs. Of course, she had bled to death before the rescue workers had gotten to her, but they did get to her in time to prevent serious brain deterioration and had her placed in cold-sleep immediately. Once her body had been filled with borrowed blood and she had been revived, she was fitted with artificial legs that looked very much like real ones, though she still walked awkwardly on them, and awaited the day when real, living legs could be grafted back onto the stumps that remained of hers.

  “What may I offer you?” asked the mechanical bartender as it rolled along the edge of the bar and stopped near the place where the communications officer stood.

  Bracer glanced down at his own cup of coffee, then back to her. “Don’t mind me,” he said. “You’re off duty. Have a drink if you like.” He said this because he sensed the discomfort she felt in considering drinking alcohol before the admiral who could not.