Passage at Arms

by Glen Cook

  Small space tugs drift out from pockets in the walls and grapple magnetically to pushing spars extending beyond the mother’s clinging children.

  Behind them, way behind them, a massive set of doors grinds closed. From the observer’s viewpoint they’re coming together like teeth in Brobdingnagian jaws. They meet with a subaudible thud that shakes the asteroid.

  Now another set of doors closes over the first. They snuggle right up tight against the others, but they’re coming in from left and right. Very little tunnel atmosphere will leak past them. Redundancy in all things is an axiom of military technology.

  There are several vessels caught in the bay with the departing mother. They have to cease outside work and button up. Their crews are cursing the departing ship for interrupting their routine. In a few days others will be cursing them.

  Now the great chamber fills with groans and whines. Huge vacuum pumps are sucking the atmosphere from the tunnel. A lot will be lost anyway, but every tonne saved is a tonne that won’t have to be lifted from Canaan.

  The noise of the compressors changes and dwindles as the gas pressure falls. Out in the middle of the tunnel, the tugs slow the evacuation process by using little puffs of compressed gas to move the mother up to final departure position.

  Now a pair of big doors in front of the mother begins sliding away into the rock of the asteroid. These are the inner doors, the redundant doors, and they are much thicker that those that have closed behind her. Great titanium slabs, they’re fifty meters thick. The doors they back up are even thicker. They’re supposed to withstand the worst that can be thrown against them during a surprise attack. If they were breached, the air pressure in the 280 klicks of tunnel would blow ships and people out like pellets out of a scattergun.

  The inner doors are open. The outer jaws follow. The observer can peer down a kilometer of tunnel at a round black disk in which diamonds sparkle. Some seem to be winking and moving around, like fireflies. The tugs puff in earnest. The mother’s motion becomes perceptible.

  A great long beast with donuts stuck to her flanks, moving slowly, slowly, while “Outward Bound” rings in the observer’s ears. Great stuff. Dramatic stuff. The opening shots for a holo-show about the deathless heroes of Climber Fleet One. The mother’s norm-thrusters begin to glow. Just warming up. She won’t light off till there’s no chance her nasty wake will blast back at her tunnelmates.

  The tugs are puffing furiously now. If the observer were to step aboard one, he would hear a constant roar, feel the rumble coming right up through the deckplates into his body. Mother ship’s velocity is up to thirty centimeters per second.

  Thirty cps? Why, that’s hardly a kilometer per hour. This ship can race from star to star in a few hundred thousand blinks of an eye.

  The tugs stop thrusting except when the mother’s main astrogational computers signal that she’s drifting off the centerline of the tunnel. A little puff here, a little one there, and she keeps sliding along, very, very slowly. They’ll play “Outward Bound” a dozen times before her nose breaks the final ragged circle and peeps cautiously into her native element. Groundhog coming up for a look around.

  The tugs let go. They have thrusters on both ends. They simply throw it into reverse and scamper back up the tunnel like a pack of fugitive mice. The big doors begin to close.

  The mother slides on into the night, like an infant entering the world. She hasn’t actually put weigh on but has taken it off. She’s coming out the rear end of TerVeen, relative to the asteroid’s orbit around Canaan. The difference in orbital velocities is small, but soon she’ll drift off the line of TerVeen’s orbit.

  Before she does, word will come from Control telling her the great doors are sealed. Her thrusters will come to life, burning against the night, blazing off the dull, knobby surface of TerVeen. She’ll gain velocity. And up along her flanks will gather the lean black shapes of her friends, the attack destroyers. The French horns may toot a final hurrah for those who’ll never return. Outward bound.

  What am I doing here? The arc of darkness has devoured the last of the light. And there’re creatures hidden in it, somewhere, eager to end my tale.

  “No sweat, sir,” my neighbor informs me. “Getting to the patrol zone is a milk run. They haven’t hit a mother yet.”

  That record doesn’t impress me. There’s a first time for everything, and my luck hasn’t been hot for several years. The butterflies stampeding in my stomach are trying to tell me something.

  “The Lord is with us, sir. Recall the psalm, if you will. ‘Though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’”

  At the moment I could use a comforting rod and staff. Anything. A little superstition doesn’t hurt once in a while does it? “Huh?”

  “Meow?”

  Something is rubbing against my shins. I push back from the console...” Oh, shit. What the fuck? A goddamned cat?”

  I’m surprised at myself. I must be more on edge than I’m willing to admit. I don’t usually have a garbage mouth.

  “That’s Fleet Admiral Minh-Tannian,” my neighbor says. “Pure-blood, registered alley cat. A pedigree a millimeter long.” He smiles so I’ll know that he’s joking. The smile is useful. He has a flat delivery.

  An enlisted man with Chief’s stripes leans on the back of my seat, considering the cat. I’ve never seen a more scabrous beast. The Chief offers his hand. “Felipe Nicastro, sir. Chief Quartermaster. Welcome aboard. Your four-legged friend usually answers to Fred, or Fearless Fred. Named after our glorious leader, of course. Those yardbirds take good care of you, Fred?” Nicastro glances round the compartment. “Old Fearless himself should be up on squadron net by now. Throdahl? Anything from the Great Balloon?”

  Throdahl is the Climber’s radio operator. At the moment he’s pressing a tiny headphone to his left ear. “His carrier is open, Chief. Any second.”

  The Commander calls out, “Log it, Throdahl. Give the Lieutenant a couple minutes for flavor, then shit-can it. Except for the Recorder.”

  I glance up at the Chief. He’s hanging on my reaction. “Not much formality here, Chief. Does it affect discipline?”

  “Our competitors pack guns. That’s discipline enough.”

  I make a mental note: Query the Commander re his order. Ignoring the Admiral won’t set well in some quarters. The Mission Recorder remembers everything, be it a command decision or simple whisper of discontent.

  My exterior view gives way to the craggy, photogenic visage of Fleet Admiral Frederick Minh-Tannian, Navy’s proconsul on Canaan.

  “You probably see more of this nitwit on the Inner Worlds than we do out here.” Glancing up, I see Nicastro has given way to Lieutenant Yanevich. The Chief has stepped to one side. “He’s a glory hound.”

  “A gasbag too,” Nicastro declares. He’s needling me subtly. Maybe he thinks I report direct to the Admiral.

  Hardly. At the moment, faced by my first mission, after weeks of having heard how bad it is out there, the last thing I’ll have is a rousing attack of patriotism. I’m too busy being scared.

  Tannian is speaking. I don’t bother listening to more than a few snatches. “... implacable resistance... Remorselessly onward... Until the death, jaws locked in the throat of the enemy... Bold and courageous warriors yielding your final gram of courage...”

  Such is the stuff of the Admiral’s speech. Such is the stuff of his world view. Some pep talk. He could bore the last erg of fight out of the home team before the biggest game of the year. Didn’t he ever serve in a fighting ship? Nobody wants to hear that shit.

  I can’t help growling, “Sounds like he thinks we’re a destroyer squadron off to shoot up a Sangaree raidstation.”

  “Cruisers.” Yanevich grins. “He came up in cruisers.”

  Before Throdahl abbreviates that football rally of a speech, I become as derisive as any of my companions. It’s catching. The Admiral asks for it. It’s painfully clear that he doesn’t understand fighting men at al
l. There’s something very definitely wrong when even the career officers hold their supreme commander in total contempt.

  Yanevich is worse than the enlisted men. He seems to think Tannian is making a direct assault on his intelligence. He has several crude suggestions for the Admiral, all involving donut-shaped titanium suppositories.

  Nobody seems to care that the Mission Recorder will remember what they say.

  Only one man listens to Tannian. I pick him out instantly. He’s the one nodding in all the right places, and looking mildly dismayed by his shipmates.

  “Chief?” I point.

  “Gonsalvo Carmon. Operations Electronic Technician. Fourth Mission. Bronwen. They skragged it at the beginning of the war. He’s a crusader.”

  “Oh.” They’re worse than the Tannians. The Tannians are just blowing hot air. The crusaders mean it. They can get you killed, trying to do the things the Tannians just talk about.

  “Gentlemen, please,” the Commander shouts into the catcalls and obscene suggestions. “Please remember your dignity. Please remember that this is Navy, and Navy demands respect for senior officers.” The compartment descends into nervous silence. There could be some black marks coming up. “Besides, the old fartbag means well.”

  Redoubled howling.

  “Don’t you worry about the Recorder?” I asked the First Watch Officer.

  “Why? There’s a war on. Unless we take a ride on Hecate’s Horse and they recover the Recorder, the scanners only check our operational statistics. Missiles expended versus shipping destroyed. Tactics, successful and unsuccessful. You can’t tell one voice from another on that cheap tape anyway. Unless you want to take voiceprints. The scanners are old Climber people anyway. They know what’s going on out here.”

  “Oh.” Nevertheless, I reprimand myself for having participated in the mockery. My position is precarious. I dare not antagonize anyone for fear I’ll dry up my sources.

  My screen blanks. Nicastro murmurs, “Look at that! He screwed up his channel changes.”

  Instead of space, my screen is showing us the most beautiful black woman I’ve ever seen. The Chief says, “I’ll straighten him out.”

  “Don’t bother. I don’t mind looking at this. I don’t mind at all.”

  It’s obvious that she and the radioman are very close friends. Embarrassingly close. Even while I’m considering swearing off Nordic blondes, I’m beginning to fidget. Voyeurism’s never been my cup of tea.

  “Hey, Monte,” one of the computermen shouts. “Tell her to save some of that for me.”

  Only then does Throdahl realize that he has fed his interchip personal to every screen.

  “Shove it, Rose.” The beautiful lady vanishes. I suppose it’s the situation, being on the edge of peril, that makes me overreact. I know I’m going to mourn and remember this vision forever. I’m going to fall asleep thinking about her. Hell, maybe I’ll try to meet her when we get back. Assuming we get back.

  We have to. This Climber is invulnerable. I’m aboard. They can’t dust a Climber carrying a correspondent. Yes. I’ll be seeing you, lady.

  Some of the others are adopting the same plan. It’s the nature of the moment, surely. I’ve seen it before, on other ships. Soon there’ll be no further talk of tomorrow, and very little thought of it. Life will become moment to moment. The Climber will contain the whole universe. Big plans for the future will extend no farther than work to be accomplished during the next off-watch period.

  The cat lands in my lap. Startling as his presence was, I forgot him. “Uh. Hello, Fred.” I’m not on good terms with cats. Generally we contrive to ignore one another. I scratch the top of his head, then around his ears. He seems satisfied. “What do you think?” I ask him.

  These clowns have broken a whole volume of regs by installing an animal aboard. How did they manage it? In one of the duffel bags?

  What’s cat hear doing to the atmosphere system?

  A cat is a small thing. But getting him from Canaan into TerVeen, then into the ship, would require a substantial conspiracy.

  “All is forgiven, I see.” That’s the Commander’s uniquely calm and toneless voice. Turning, I see him balanced among the cross-members, clinging like a spider monkey. He has his cap pushed way back on the crown of his head. His hair sticks out like pieces of broken straw. He looks younger and happier now that he’s here, now that the unknowns have been removed from his life. His smile seems gentle, almost feminine. There’s a playful humor in his eyes.

  “What do you mean?”

  “That was Fred’s mass share you took for your extra gear. There won’t be any goodies for him this patrol.” He waves one hand. I wonder why I’ve never noticed how long and delicate his fingers are. Piano-player fingers. Artist’s fingers. Definitely not the thick sausages of a professional warrior. “No matter. Fred is a master of the innovative scrounge. He’ll get fat while the rest of us turn into pus-colored scarecrows.”

  I’ve seen tapes of “victorious heroes” returning from successful patrols. The Caucasians were, indeed, pus-colored and ragged. Even the darker spacers had a washed-out look.

  The Old Man must be in on the plot. He drifts away before I can ask any questions. So I’ll ask Yanevich. But the First Watch Officer has vanished, too. Along the way and partly up the curve of the hull, Westhause is engrossed in the subtleties of his Dead Reckoning system, murmuring to it as if it needs endearments now so it will perform well later. Is he seducing the equipment?

  Everyone is preoccupied. Except the Chief Quartermaster.

  Nicastro is a small, lean, dark man, mid-twenties going on fifty. This will be his last patrol. Daring fate and superstition, he married during his leave. He now looks like he regrets his temerity. His jitters are showing. The short-timer shakes, they call them. They say it takes a rock of a man to get through the tenth mission without cracking a little.

  “Chief, tell me about Fred.” How does the animal survive? This plainly isn’t his first mission. The old hands act like he’s part of the crew.

  Has some genius cobbled together a feline combat suit and taught him to go to it when the alarm sounds?

  Nicastro turns his small, dark eyes my way. They’re slightly crazy eyes, eyes that look back on too many patrols. “He comes with the ship. He’s got seniority. Nobody knows how he got here anymore. This’s his fourteenth patrol. Won’t take a groundside billet. Hides out whenever we pull in. Hangs in there smiting them hip and thigh, just like his namesake says. Please keep an eye on the screen, sir. We’re not redundant in the Climbers. You’re the only visual watch right now.”

  Nicastro’s answer doesn’t satisfy me, but I suspect it’s the best I’ll get. For a while. I still have to prove myself. I have to show these men that I can pull my weight, that I can take the heat. I’m supernumerary. That means there’ll be just a little less for everyone else. I take up space, generate heat, consume food. Worse, I’m an outsider. One of those damned fools who fill the holonets with utter shit.

  There won’t be much joy in this for me. Let’s hope that it’ll be a short, showy mission.

  I’ll handle my shipboard duties. You don’t forget the training. What worries me is that I may have lost my edge. I may have gotten fat. I may no longer have the self-discipline needed to endure the hardships.

  “After-drag scoops clear,” one of the non-rated men reports. He’s repeating information coming from the mother ship. Nobody really cares. But we need to know where we are should we have to jump off the mother. A few minutes later, the same man reports, “Released from tug control. Stand by for point-one gee acceleration.”

  Nicastro gestures. I glance up. He points. Inertia will drag us in that direction. I nod. I’d forgotten our attitude on the mother. There’ll be a little sideways drag.

  “Quartermaster, sound general quarters when acceleration commences.” The First Watch Officer has returned. Nicastro changes position slightly, and speaks to one of the men.

  I punch commands to my camera mount,
scanning surrounding space. The mother is clear of TerVeen. A bright half-moon is slowly dwindling behind her. She’s no longer safe. We’ve entered the battle zone. We have to be ready. The gentlemen of the other firm could show at any time.

  The relay talker begins chattering continuously. “Planetary Defense standing by. Red Flotilla on station. Screen Romeo Tango Sierra, axis two niner seven relative, fifteen degrees zenith.”

  Somewhere, someone is typing madly, entering the information into a computer terminal. I’m startled because the keys make noise. They must be mechanical. On the big ships, terminals don’t have keys, just a lettered, pressure-sensitive surface that records the lightest touch of a finger.

  Keeping one eye on TerVeen, I beckon Yanevich. He ambles over wearing a slight smirk, as if he’s sure I’ll ask an especially stupid question. “Where’re the suit lockers?” I’ve realized that I haven’t been fitted. What’ve they done, taken something off the rack for me?

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “But I’ll need one for GQ.”

  He grins. “Just stay put.”

  In a slight panic, “What about the suit?”

  He lays a finger alongside his chin in mock thoughtfulness. It’s a strong, square chin. A recruiting-poster chin. It doesn’t go with his narrow face and string-bean body. It makes him look bottom-heavy. His face has a sort of dull look in repose. “Suits. Let’s see. I think Mr. Varese might have a few EVA jobs down in Engineering.”

  “No suits? My God...” They snuck one through on me. Never have I heard of going into action without the extra protection of suits. I glare at the hull. Six millimeters of stressed titanium alloy between me and the big dark. Two more millimeters of spray-on polyflex foam there to fill any micro-meteorite punctures, plus a little insulation. All that inside the metal. And no suits.

  “Surprise!” Yanevich crows. “You know how much a suit masses?”

  That’s incredible. What can they possibly be thinking at Command? No suits. It indicates an appalling lack of concern for the men.