There he would land his borrowed aircar and step out into a world that was much as it had been when the first white men from the east had come across the mountains to hunt and trap and do battle with the dark-skinned natives of the land. He would walk away from the aircar into the green forest and find some shaded clearing where he could lie down on the thick-piled leaves and look up into the sky of Earth and forget that there were enemies beyond the sky, enemies that Man did not understand, with whom he could not communicate, and was forced to fight, and to kill, enemies who killed men and would kill mankind if they were allowed to do it. And then he would forget it all, the enemies, that he had died out there in the cold, alien, unwelcoming darkness beyond the sky.
Yet, Absolom Bracer told himself slowly, that would never be. It was a dream. And now that dream was ended. He could not go back. That world was forever lost to him, except for the old, old memories of a boy in those mountains, a boy who had never dreamed that he would die in the stars and rise again like Lazarus, and then die again before he ever came home. The memories would have to do. Perhaps others did not have as much.
Then he called for status reports of the Iwo Jima and of the Pharsalus and the Rudoph Cragstone, and he looked at the scopes and screens and tanks, and the images of the approaching enemy warships, and he knew that the time for waiting had nearly passed.
45
Hybeck looked down at the energy pistol in his hand, noted the charge which read at full power, and then checked the two spare charges he had. Then he picked up the other pistol, held it in his hand for a few moments, then gave it to Naha.
“Hy,” she said, “oh, God, Hy, isn’t there anything we can do?”
“I’ve run out of ideas, baby,” he said, looking back at the scout ship’s display screens that showed the rapidly approaching spacecraft, still too far away for really adequate identification, though Hybeck did not need identification. There was no question in his mind about whose ship that was—the Jillies had found them at last. Maybe that had been inevitable all along.
“We’d better get into our spacesuits,” he said after a while. “When we don’t fire back at them, they’ll probably send a boarding party. I figure we can get a few of them when they try to come in through the air lock.”
Naha nodded, one hand holding the wig that covered her shaven head. “Now look, baby,” he said slowly, “you know what to do, don’t you?”
“Hy, I don’t think I can do it,” Naha replied, tears in her eyes.
“Well, then, just think about what they’ll do to us if you don’t.”
“No—God, Hy, I can’t believe it.”
“I’ve seen it, baby. I know what they do to living prisoners.” Naha stepped back, turned to hide her face from him.
“Look, all you’ve got to do is push this button.” He showed her the tiny detonating device. “It’s not much of a bomb, but in this small an area—well, it’ll raise a lot of hell. They won’t take us alive.”
“I know, Hy. I know.”
He looked back at the screens and tanks and scopes and wished to every deity he could think of that he had the power for at least one final energy blast, but he didn’t. That had been used up a long, long time ago, long before this craft was sighted by the ship’s half-operating detectors and scanners, long before he realized that he was totally lost and unable to find his way back into the Paladine.
“We don’t have much more time, baby,” he said.
“Hy, I love you,” Naha said, finally turning back to face him, her injuries healed or hidden by brown plastiskin.
“I—Naha, if we had made it back, I mean, I would have asked you to take out a contract.”
“Do you mean that, Hy?”
“I mean it.”
Naha tried to smile through her tears.
“Do one thing for me before you put your spacesuit on, baby. Will you?”
“What is it. Hy?”
“Take your clothes off.”
Naha looked at him with a puzzled expression on her face.
“I want to see you just one last time. I know we don’t have time for anything else, but I just want to look at the sexiest thing I ever saw in my life. I want to look at you.”
Naha tried to smile again. “Okay, Hy, I will.”
She loosened the clasps of her blouse, pulled it off in one easy motion, and then dropped her slacks to the scout ship’s deck, and stood there naked before him for a moment. As he stepped forward to take her into his arms he knew that he could not resist her and his own desires, he knew that he would have to have her for one last time, even if that meant allowing the Jillies to enter the ship; he knew that… A sudden buzz burst from the scout ship’s control panel.
“What’s that?” Naha gasped.
“Communications,” he answered. “They’re trying to contact us.”
“The Jillies?”
“I—I guess so.”
“Isn’t that unusual?”
“Yeah,” Hybeck answered, stepped away from her and hurried to the control panel, dropped into the pilot’s acceleration seat and cut in the communications systems. Almost immediately a voice came from the loudspeaker.
“… request that you identify yourselves at once. Repeat, we request that you identify yourselves at once or we shall be forced to fire on you.”
“Th-that’s a human voice,” Naha gasped.
Hybeck was unable to say a word, but somehow his hands manipulated the tri-D controls and the communications tank came to life. A human face looked out of it. “Who are you?” Hybeck said into the microphone.
“This is the League Patrol Ship Pizarro,” said the voice of the man whose image showed in the tank. “You must identify yourself.”
“Ah,” Hybeck stammered, “ah, this is scout ship J-7 of the LSS San Juan.”
“What?” asked the incredulous patrol ship commander.
“Lieutenant Commander Hybeck of the LSS San Juan,” Hybeck said, collecting himself as best he could, “on detached duty. Who’d you say you were, sir?”
“Commander Kreski, LPS Pizarro out of Rombeck,” said the image. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”
“Rombeck!” Hybeck burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter that bordered on hysteria.
“Mr. Hybeck, are you well?” Kreski asked.
“I don’t know, sir,” Hybeck managed to say between gusts of laughter. “And, sir, I don’t know how in hell I ever got anywhere near Rombeck. I was headed toward Adrianopolis.”
The image of Commander Kreski looked out of the tank and beyond Hybeck, toward Naha who stood less than a meter behind the laughter-shaken Hybeck.
“Mr. Hybeck,” Kreski said, fighting the smile that was coming onto his own face. “I suggest that you pull yourself together and get the young lady dressed. I will expect both of you to have dinner with me aboard the Pizarro in about an hour. I want to hear the whole story.”
“Y-yes, sir,” Hybeck said, barely controlling himself. “Yes, sir, we’ll do that.” And he turned back to Naha. “I guess we made it home, baby.”
Naha bent to gather her clothing and said, “About that contract, Hy, I hope you haven’t forgotten.”
46
Admiral Absolom Bracer watched the chronometer as it ticked down the final seconds. Then there were no more seconds and the time had come. Nuclear engines fired; the great ship, a wounded, weakened animal, held together by temporary repairs made at Valforth Garrison, shuddered for a moment, fought against the gravitational field of Breakaway, and then began to pick up speed, to move out of orbit, to climb starward toward the six approaching alien warships. The Pharsalus and the Rudoph Cragstone followed.
There was no doubt now. The six invaders were Jillies. Telescopes and laser-radar and scanners had determined the shapes and lines of those ships too well for there to be any doubt in anyone’s mind. They were the enemy, and they had come to destroy Breakaway Station: two ships that were the Jillie equivalent of heavy battle
cruisers of Terran design, four medium battle cruisers; nearly three times the fire power of the tiny human battle squadron. Yet the Iwo Jima and the Pharsalus and even the Rudoph Cragstone would have to delay that destruction of Breakaway Station as long as possible. Two crippled heavy battle cruisers, without even the cover of gnat-like scout ships, and a hospital ship filled with the unresurrected.
The three human starships gathered speed. Stripped atoms spewed into space behind them, a trail of superheated, superionized gas, fountains of star-stuff propelling them forward. Protecting force screens had grown up around them, effectively blocking all electromagnetic energy except for a few very narrow, constantly shifting bands used for communications and observation purposes. Energy cannons were readied. Nuclear missiles armed. Vortexes of plasma formed in magnetic shells, ready to be ejected from the starship like flaming bullets. Men and women—cripples, the walking wounded, the crews of the starships—prayed to their gods, made what peace they could with themselves and their fellow crewmen, and prepared to die in the best way they knew how.
Most of the officers and crewmen on the bridge of the Iwo Jima were now dressed in spacesuits—most, but not all, for, as in the case of Admiral Bracer, no one had ever thought to design a spacesuit to fit over the awkward metal cylinder that housed his artificial organs. But Bracer did not really care. Had there been a spacesuit available that he could wear, he probably would not have worn it. He saw little point in it now. If the ship’s hull were ruptured, if a Jillie energy cannon or missile or plasma torpedo came in, they would all die anyway, spacesuited or not. And if he died again, Absolom Bracer intended it to be for the last time. One memory of death was enough for any man.
…how does it look, roger?… the admiral asked.
…better than i had hoped, sir… the ship’s Organic Computer replied. …the crew’s doing its very best…
…i know, keep me posted, roger. oh, you’re in contact with the OC’s of the other ships, aren’t you?…
…of course, sir…
…how do they feel about their ships?…
…satisfied, sir, under the circumstances…
…good…
One of the astrogation crewmen was reading off a series of figures as they appeared on the mech computer’s board, figures that spoke of the distances between the three human ships and the Jillie squadron, that spoke of mass and velocity and time.
That spoke of time, time, time. Oh, how little of that we have left.
“At present acceleration, estimated time of contact, 21:41,” said the crewman.
Only four hours.
And Breakaway needs more time than that, much more time than that. How do we get it? The way we had planned, or should we try something else? Can we lure them away as easily as I had hoped? They’ll know what we’re trying to do, won’t they? They won’t do what we want them to do just because we want it. But maybe if we can make them mad…
They’ll probably stay sub-light, Bracer thought. Not much point in their going back into star drive now. They know that they can whip us without using any fancy tactics. But would it help us to go FTL? Might throw them off guard. Run in, hit them with everything we’ve got, and then run like hell away from Breakaway. They just might follow us. They just might.
…roger, how do you feel about dying…
…much as you do, sir. i don’t want to die either…
…again…
…no, sir. i like being a starship…
…i don’t want to die either, roger… Then a long pause.
…prepare for star drive, roger. alert engineering…
…star drive, sir?…
…yes…
…may i ask why, sir?…
…it’s my decision, roger. i’m the old man. you’ve pointed that out to me often, enough these past few weeks… Again a pause. …but we’re not going to run, roger. not now, not as much as i’d like to run. we’re going to fight them…
…sir, i think i’m glad of that, i mean, i didn’t want to stay and I don’t want to die, but, sir, there’s still a lot of human in me. i don’t want to run away from the jillies…
Bracer smiled to himself. …we won’t run, roger, at least not very far…
“Captain Maxel,” he said aloud.
“Yes, sir?” Maxel responded, glancing away from the command console where he was stationed.
“Prepare for star drive.”
“Sir?” Maxel sat upright, turned, a puzzled expression on his face.
“You heard me, mister,” Bracer said firmly. “Fifteen minutes from—now!”
“Engineering, rig for star drive,” the captain said quickly into the microphone of his console.
“Already rigging, sir,” engineering answered. “Orders from the OC in the admiral’s name.”
“Very good.”
Maxel was not yet confident enough of this new command to resent Bracer and roger having given orders over his head to the crew that was now his. Perhaps he was glad of it. But given time, Bracer thought, Dan would have made a damned good captain. I wish he had that time.
“Miss Cyanta,” Bracer snapped, “open a clear channel for the OC to Pharsalus and Cragstone, and leave it open for his use only.” …roger, get this… he said through the CEMEARS net. “Then relay verbally for confirmation that we—all three ships—will enter star drive at exactly 15:38:00. We will proceed toward the enemy squadron. When we are sufficiently close, we will cut pseudospeed, drop screens, and open fire with all weapons on the enemy for exactly thirty seconds. At the end of that time screens will be restored, and we will attempt to escape. Pharsalus and Cragstone are to follow the lead of the Iwo Jima until told otherwise. Is all that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
Bracer could not bear to look into Eday Cyanta’s eyes as she answered and as he told her, “Get to it.”
Four hours—well, that was out now. They’d meet the Jillies a hell of a lot sooner than that. A lot sooner than even the Jillies expected.
“Engineering to bridge,” said a voice from the command console.
“Maxel here. Go on.”
“Rigged for star drive, sir. Planned entry at 15:38:00.”
“Very good,” Maxel answered. “Stand by.” Then he turned to look at Bracer. “Now what, sir?”
“Prepare all weapons systems. Have weapons crews ready to commence firing on my signal. We will drop screens for thirty seconds and throw everything we’ve got at them.”
“But dropping screens, sir, isn’t that…”
“For maximum firepower,” Bracer said slowly, remembering what had happened the last time he had ordered screens dropped in a combat situation, how the Jillie missiles had risen from the barren ground of a world called UR-339-72-IY, how he had fought to escape them and the warship that had planted them, and how he had failed, and how he had died. “It’s standard tactics, Captain Maxel. It’s taught in the Academy.”
“Yes, sir,” Maxel said, with an expression on his face that Bracer could not identify. If might have been fear, or hope, or desperation, or determination. But it did not matter what it was, how Maxel felt inside. He was a good officer. He’d do what he had to do.
Ten minutes to star drive.
“Admiral,” said the communications officer, “Pharsalus and Cragstone confirm and report rigged for star drive—at 15:38:00, sir. They await further orders.”
“They’ve got all the orders I can give them now. Tell them to just follow our lead. Do what we do. Then they’ll be on their own. I don’t dare tell them anything more. Somebody might be listening.”
“Yes, sir.” Five minutes.
“Torpedo bays ready,” reported Weapons Control Officer Akin Darbi.
“Hold plasma torpedo control units for my signal.”
“Yes, sir.” Three minutes.
The computerman continued to read off speeds and distances. The Jillies grew closer.
“Miss Cyanta,” Bracer said, “get me B
reakaway. Quickly.”
Moments later he was facing Commander Lasin, Breakaway’s communications officer, in the tank.
“Yes, admiral?”
“We’ve lost the transmission from Adrianopolis,” Bracer told him.
“Sorry, sir, temporary circuit failure. We’re channeling all power into…”
“Forget it,” Bracer interrupted. “Just tell me what’s happening.”
“Well, sir, as you requested, General Crowinsky contacted Admiral Ommart and informed him of the situation here,” Lasin said. “He—that is, Admiral Ommart—immediately dispatched a patrol ship toward the scene of the battle with instructions to pick up Admiral Mothershed and his report and return them to Port Abell at once.”
“Has the patrol ship lifted from Adrianopolis?”
“Yes, sir. It made brief contact with Port Abell just a few moments ago. It’s accelerating at max pseudospeed out of the system.”
“Who’s commanding that ship? Do you know?”
“The Guardian Culhaven.”
“Old John’s son?”
“Yes, sir. I think so.”
“I hope he’s got the guts his father had. When do they estimate he’ll reach Mothershed?”
“Three or four hours, sir.”
“Can’t they pin it down any closer?”
“No, sir. I’m afraid not. There’s some doubt about Mothershed’s exact position.”
Bracer sighed. “Six to eight hours then for the round trip, if Culhaven doesn’t have to wait too long to get in to Mothershed’s ship and pick him up.”
“Yes, sir.”
We All Died at Breakaway Station Page 22
