We All Died at Breakaway Station

by Richard C. Meredith

  The Iwo closed with her opponent, slammed her with a barrage of nuclear missiles, fell back.

  The Jillie retreated, her screens flickering and flaming, a huge, ugly, smoldering, molten gash in her side. A plasma torpedo, under cover of the nuclear missiles, had apparently slipped through a weapons’ gap in the alien’s screens. The Jillie was hurt. She would fall back now. She would fight no more.

  “Dan,” Bracer said, “let’s go help Pharsalus.”

  Maxel hit the control panel before him, snapping switches as fast as his prosthetic hands would move, yelling orders. “Course correction: pick the medium battle cruiser at one o’clock. Astrogation: give coordinates. Engineering; give me power. Weapons: stand by for full firepower on my signal.”

  You’re doing a good job, Dan, Bracer thought, but he did not say it aloud. The nuclear drive threw the ship forward at maximum sub-light acceleration, an acceleration so great that it was felt despite the repelling forces of Contra-grav.

  “Admiral,” Maxel said above the roar that now filled the starship’s bridge, “we’ll never get to Pharsalus.”

  In the tanks Bracer saw why‌—‌the warships that had attacked and destroyed the Cragstone were now swinging around, searching for a second target.

  “They’re coming after us,” Bracer said, “Okay, Dan. Let’s go meet them.”

  Seconds dragged by like hours.

  Why are we in such a hurry to die? Bracer asked himself. Why don’t we turn now and run? Nobody’d blame us. We’ve done everything we can to help Breakaway‌—‌we can’t do anything more. Now, while we’ve still got some kind of a chance to get away, why in God’s name, don’t we go?

  And he looked at the tanks that showed the gas and still glowing debris that had been the Rudoph Cragstone and her crew and her twenty thousand “patients.” And he knew why he couldn’t run. Not now. Not ever.

  And after a while the seconds quit dragging by and the Jillie heavy battle cruiser was within firing range.

  55

  Absolom Bracer did not know, had no way of knowing, that the patrol ship sent from Adrianopolis by Admiral Ommart, the LPS Mesala Corvinus, had reached the unholy place where Admiral Mothershed and his rescuers fought against the Jillies.

  The LSS Chicago was gone, no more than dispersing gas; the LSS Hastings was nearly tom in half, her air and her crew spilled out into the vacuum. The LSS San Juan at least still functioned, her screens a pale flickering that could endure little more. Of the four rescuers from Port Abell‌—‌only the Benburb was badly hurt. And the Jillies; one of their ships was gone, another at half its fighting strength. The battle was even and only the gods could decide the victor.

  This is what Commander Glenn, Guardian Culhaven saw in the tanks of his patrol ship as he came out of star drive, this the scene of flickering, flaming, bursting hell that swept through the darkness between the stars. And if he had thought he knew fear before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now. He had been ordered to go into that inferno and dock with the dying San Juan‌—‌dock, with his screens down, while Jillies poured gigatons of nuclear flame through the vacuum. It was madness.

  Despite this, despite the fear, he found his voice speaking to his communications officer: “Try to raise the San Juan.”

  Oh, Anjenet, he cried within himself, your husband is a coward. Father, father, why couldn’t I have inherited more than your name? But he caught the whimpering in his throat and held it back.

  “This is the LPS Messala Corvinus calling LSS San Juan. Please, San Juan, do you read me?” the comm officer pleaded.

  “Corvinus…” Crackle… “is the…” Crackle. “… Juan. We read you.”

  “Crackle,” said the communications receiver.

  “We’re getting audio only, sir,” the Corvinus’ comm officer said.

  “That’s good enough,” Glenn, Guardian Culhaven’s voice said more loudly than he had hoped it would. “Let me talk to them.”

  The communications officer switched the circuits to Glenn’s command console.

  “This is Commander Culhaven of the Corvinus,” he said. “We have orders to come in and pick up Admiral Mothershed and his reports. I repeat, we must dock and pick up the admiral and his reports.”

  “Crackle,” said the receiver in reply. “… crazy?” a voice asked through the noise. “You’ll never get…” Crackle!

  “Put the admiral on,” Glenn said, suddenly angry that anyone would argue with him. He was too scared for argument now.

  A few moments dragged by before another voice came from the command console’s speaker “This…” “… Mothershed,” said the new voice. “What is it, co…” Crackle.

  “Admiral,” Glenn said in as forceful a voice as he could muster, “Breakaway Station is under attack. Unless your report is taken to Port Abell at once, it will be impossible to transmit it to Earth. I repeat, sir, the FTL link is in danger of destruction. Do you read me, sir?”

  “I read you, commander,” Admiral Mothershed’s voice said through the sudden lack of radio noise. “What do you propose to do?”

  “We must dock with you, sir,” Glenn said.

  Crackle. “Please repeat, I…” Crackle.

  “We must dock immediately, sir,” Glenn repeated.

  “Acknowledge,” Mothershed’s voice said. “Proceed, commander. We will drop our screens when you come in. You’re…” The last words of the admiral’s sentence were lost in the radio noise.

  “Proceed with docking,” Glenn told his bridge officers and fought to hold down the sickness rising in his stomach. God, why me? But he held down the sickness and he brought the ship toward the dying San Juan.

  So, under the blazing of Jillie and human weapons, behind the shield of the remaining ships from Port Abell, the Corvinus matched with the San Juan, and Glenn, Guardian Culhaven gave the orders quietly, calmly, though his hands shook before him. And as he gave those orders he saw that the men who received them were as frightened as he was.

  “Screens down,” he yelled at the last minute, and the protection of the screens was gone, but he didn’t think about that any longer than he could help. There were other orders to give and Mr. Englewood seemed unable to give them. “Steady there,” Glenn yelled. “Steady. Close in slowly. Docking crew, prepare transport tubes. Mr. Maron, prepare to pipe the admiral aboard.”

  And the ships docked and locked transport tubes and the admiral and his reports were transferred. And then, while Absolom Bracer still fled from Breakaway, and then slowed and turned to fight the last fight, the LPS Messala Corvinus headed back toward Port Abell at maximum pseudospeed. Commander Glenn, Guardian Culhaven still shook with fear, but then he saw the fear that had been on the face of Albion Mothershed, and he began to have some idea what bravery was, some vague idea that would take a long time in gestating, but he was beginning to understand it. It wasn’t the fear that made you a coward, it was what you did about it.

  56

  …how much time do you figure we have now, roger?… This thought was projected with an astonishing lack of emotion, Bracer thought. Perhaps it had all been used up.

  …hard to say, sir. they have far more firepower than we. several minutes, i’d say, and then we’ll have to close our screens…

  “Ready, Dan?” he asked aloud. Maxel nodded.

  “Okay, let them have all we’ve got, but don’t hesitate to close the screens if it gets too hot.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Closing the screens will also stop our own fire, Bracer thought, but it will give us a few more minutes‌—‌if that really matters anymore.

  As Maxel relayed his orders to weapons and engineering, Bracer sought for the image of the Pharsalus in the tanks. For a moment he could not find her, and when he did he stopped cold, realizing that his command had now dwindled to only one ship. The LSS Pharsalus was dead. A twisted hunk of still glowing metal. She had ruptured, spewing her insides into the vacuum, and Lena Bugioli and all who were with her had died.

  N
ow the Pharsalus’ attacker was turning toward the Iwo Jima, joining the dog pack that hunted down the last fox.

  Back to the main tank; he saw the trails of the missiles, the glowing spheres of plasma torpedoes escaping through gaps in the screens, blasting toward the two Jillie warships that could now be seen without amplification.

  “Screens taking ninth level force,” the voice of the engineering officer said from the console. “Absorption units holding.”

  And a Jillie missile exploded a handful of kilometers away, radiating even more energy into the screens.

  A plasma torpedo danced in the grip of magnetic fields on the edge of the Iwo’s force screens.

  A dozen energy cannon beams played across the ship, attempting to break through her dangerously loaded defenses.

  “Shall I close screens, sir?” engineering asked. Maxel looked at Bracer.

  The admiral looked at the tanks, saw the second medium battle cruiser bearing down on them, but still well out of firing range.

  “Not yet. Keep firing.”

  Seconds grew into minutes and still the screens held, still the Iwo was able to return the fire of her attackers, but soon, oh, very soon, a third Jillie would begin firing‌—‌and Bracer knew that they could not hold off all of them.

  The heavy came in closer, jumping forward in a sudden burst of acceleration, heedless of its own safety, or perhaps realizing the Iwo’s growing weakness, anxious to make the kill.

  “Missiles!” the voice of Akin Darbi yelled. “Sectors IV, IX and…”

  “Screens up full!” Maxel yelled. “Close all…”

  The starship shook, shivered, shuddered, screamed.

  …roger!…

  …screens faltering, blast got through, hull breached…

  …damage control?…

  …still active…

  “Admiral,” Daniel Maxel yelled, “our underport guns are out.”

  The Iwo Jima was virtually weaponless.

  “Let’s get out of here!”

  “Missiles at…”

  Metal screamed, lights flickered‌—‌darkness fell across the bridge. Somewhere, far off, Absolom Bracer thought he heard the whistle of escaping air.

  “Seal all compartments,” he yelled even as the automatic controls began that operation.

  The bridge lights came on, flickered back out again. Darkness for two, three seconds.

  …absolom?…

  …yes, roger…

  …plasma torpedo broke through, aft sections HI and IV destroyed, drive out. screens going…

  The Iwo Jima was dying. In seconds, or minutes at the very most, the screens would fail and the enfolding energy would cascade in, crushing, vaporizing, and it would all be over. And Absolom Bracer would die again.

  He knew that his time had come, and this time for good, yet now he felt no fear, no pain. He had done what he had set out to do, and that was enough. Call it a hunch, or call it clairvoyance, call it whatever you like, yet Absolom Bracer somehow knew that they had lasted long enough, somehow knew that the single Jillie warship off Breakaway had not been enough to destroy the station, somehow knew that Admiral Mothershed’s report had reached Port Abell and was even then being beamed Earthward. It might have been wishful thinking, a dying man’s fantasy, but he didn’t think so. It was something more than that; it was a sort of knowledge; and it was a triumph. The report was getting through.

  Suddenly the ship shook, and through the metal of the deck Bracer could hear a tremendous explosion.

  “Roger!” … roger!…

  …absolom, my circuits are damaged…

  …roger, hang on…

  …i am well, but my communications are going out. my eyes are‌—‌absolom, i can’t see, i can’t hear, i can’t‌—‌…

  …roger!…

  For the first time since boarding the LSS Iwo Jima Absolom Bracer was alone, really alone.

  “Cold-sleep coffins, everybody!” he yelled over the growing roar, yelled as the artificial gravity of the bridge vanished and weightlessness took control of his clumsy body.

  “You too,” Dan Maxel cried.

  “No.”

  “For God’s sake, Absolom, save…”

  The universe exploded in light, heat, flame. Bracer saw the near bulkhead begin to melt, glowing white and then flowing. He saw Maxel grab up Eday Cyanta in his strong prosthetic arms and stagger with her in the brief return of artificial gravity toward an open cold-sleep coffin that had rolled into view on his command. He saw Akin Darbi stand up slowly like a man in a trance, something on his lips that might have been a prayer, or a curse, and turn to face the hell pouring through the bulkhead, to die again. He saw Bene O’Gwynn, beautiful in her facelessness, turn back to her faltering scopes for one final view of the stars she had helped carry them through. All this in an instant, and pride in it.

  And then his prosthetic eyes were burned away as the energy beam raked the bridge.

  But he did not scream as he died, nor did he regret his dying.

  57

  The relief ships from Earth arrived three standard days later.

  Wreckage orbited Breakaway; wreckage stretched in a line to the very limits of the Breakaway planetary system, and in that wreckage were found the bodies of only seventeen crewmen in cold-sleep coffins, only seventeen who had not died for the last time, only seventeen who could be taken to the hospitals of Earth and given life again.

  And one of those seventeen was not actually a body, but a brain in a saline solution, a brain and the machines that kept it alive, now all but insane, in the ruin that had been the Iwo Jima. Roger had said that he was a starship, and the starship that had been his body had died, as had the bodies of all the others. Roger had died again. But he too, that naked brain that still “lived,” could be taken back, given sanity again, and another body, another mechanical, starship body. And he again would go out to fight.

  And he would remember when his sanity came back to him how it had been out there, for there was a story to tell, many stories to tell, of men and women and of how he, along with all of the others, had died at Breakaway Station.

  Breakaway Station consisted of little more than a series of still glowing craters in the surface of that dun-colored world, craters that would burn with radiation for years to come.

  But Admiral Mothershed’s report had gotten through‌—‌Earth had been informed‌—‌and even now her fleets prepared to move into Jillieland, toward the home of the enemy, toward his vulnerable places‌—‌to kill and to avenge.

  The End