by Glen Cook
“Aye, Commander.” The Chief keys the tape from my screen to his. In a minute, “A missile. Radar transparent. I still have some numbers to run.”
He figures it in minutes. The other firm outcalculated us, pure and simple. They knew where we were coming out. Where we had to come out to make the down-the-throat shot. They put missiles out there. Johnson probably never knew what hit her. They didn’t take a poke at us because we were running in a trailing position.
“They aren’t worried about conserving armaments,” Yanevich growls.
“A Leviathan doesn’t have to,” I snap back.
Leviathan is Navy’s label for the enemy’s biggest and meanest warship. We don’t know what they call them. We have nothing comparable. They carry crews of twenty thousand, bristle with weapons, and are fleets unto themselves. They can remain in deep space indefinitely.
Our Empire Class Main Battle carries seven thousand people, is eighteen hundred meters long, and masses a fifth as much.
Now it’s pretend time. We all make believe our loss doesn’t hurt, doesn’t make us hungry for blood. We shut one another out and concentrate on our work.
I didn’t meet any of Johnson’s women. Still, my revenge lust runs deep, startling me. I can’t banish the face of Throdahl’s sepia beauty. All thought of practical difficulties yields to the gale of unreason.
It doesn’t matter that we came here looking for trouble. It doesn’t matter that the Leviathan outguns us a thousand to one. It doesn’t matter that her velocity is so ridiculous. I don’t even worry about her being able to call for help while we can’t. I want to attack.
“Commander, there’s a drop in her neutrino emissions.”
“Chief Canzoneri. What’s she doing?”
Thirty seconds pass. “Looks like she’s putting out a full missile screen. So she can drift along inside.”
The Commander leans till his forehead almost touches the astrogator’s. “Very well.” He doesn’t seem surprised. He whispers with Westhause.
What are they planning? We can’t get near them now. We can’t put a missile in, except from hyper.
Fisherman calls, “Commander, I’m getting a continuous diffuse tachyon response.”
Everyone understands. The Leviathan is having a little chat with hunter-killer headquarters at Rathgeber. Help is coming. She’ll stay in contact. Fisherman is catching leakage from an instel link.
Only Nicastro has anything to say. “That tears it. All we can do is haul ass. The bastards are going to get away with it. Command will have to send the heavies.”
I seem to be the only one who hears him. The others keep watching the Old Man.
Nicastro has the shakes. He’s perspiring heavily. He wants out of this deathtrap.
The Commander thumbs a comm key. “Engineering, this is the Commander. Indefinite Climb alert. Emergency Climb at any time. Mr. Varese, prepare an analysis of your drive synch. Send me the graphs when you’re ready. Understood?”
“Understood, Commander.”
Nicastro wilts. The others sit a little straighter. Carmon grins. The Old Man hasn’t quit. He’s got an angle. He’s going to have a try.
Fisherman mumbles something incantatory, probably to benefit the souls of the gentlemen of the other firm. He has a faith in the Old Man almost equaling his faith in Christ.
Westhause makes a merry chase of it, stuttering in and out of hyper in little flicks almost too quick to sense. His chase baffles me. Hours pass. Still he dances round the Leviathan and her deadly brood. Not once does he hold norm long enough for a missile to target.
The quarry’s tactics compel her simply to coast, watch, and wait for help.
“How far is Rathgeber?” I ask Fisherman. He shrugs. I look for someone who can tell me. The Commander, First Watch Officer, and astrogator are all busy. So are the computer and radar people.
I become more baffled. It’s obvious that we can do nothing. Nothing is what we’re doing. Loathsome as it seems, Nicastro’s suggestion is the only viable course.
So why is everyone busy? Will the Commander get even by ambushing the first destroyer?
That wouldn’t please Command. Engaging escorts is considered a waste of kill capability. That’s supposed to be employed against the logistic hulls moving men and materiel toward the Inner Worlds, or against the big warships making it difficult for Navy to stand its ground.
The computer keeps humming. Rose and Canzoneri push hard, though they seem unsure what the Commander wants. Every sensor strains to accumulate more data on the Leviathan.
The Commander breaks his conference long enough to tell Carmon, “Erase the tank display.”
Wide-eyed, Carmon does as he’s told. This is a big departure from procedure. It leaves us flying blind. There’s no other way to bring all the information in a single accessible picture.
“What the hell are they doing?”
Fisherman shrugs.
The Old Man tells Cannon, “Ready for a computer feed.”
“Aye, sir.”
Rose and Canzoneri pound out silent rhythms on their keyboards. The tank begins to build us a composite of the Leviathan, first using the data from the identification files, then modifying from the current harvest. If reinforcements give us time, the portrayal will reveal every wound, every hull scratch, every potential blind spot.
It looks something like a moth with folded wings and grasshopper eyes. Those wings are two hundred meters thick. Their backs provide a landing platform where smaller warships can be tended by the Leviathan’s regiments of technicians. A few hulks are piggybacking now. Presumably, more casualties from the same action.
Twelve long, quiet, maddening hours pass. I wonder what they’re thinking over there, watching us stick like we’re hooked on a short rod, maybe looking confident, maybe like we’re just waiting for the rest of the gang to show. They have to be running their computers ragged trying to figure our angle, trying to find the soft spot we noticed, trying to dream up a way to pry us out of our safe spot.
The men lean into it for the first few hours, figuring the Old Man does have an angle. They slacken with time. Soon they’re squabbling and grumbling. They’re tired and beginning to think the Commander’s effort is just for show.
Eventually the display tank contains an exact replica of our target, hitchhikers and all.
I have no inkling of the insane scheme hatching from the half-rotten egg in the mare’s nest of the Commander’s mind. Only a pale Westhause and shaky Yanevich are privy to The Plan.
The Old Man breaks away from the astrogator and climbs to his cabin.
His departure is a signal for discontent to be voiced. Only Fisherman, Yanevich, Westhause, and I have nothing to say. And Nicastro, who’s too unpopular to hazard an opinion. Tempers have frayed to a point where neither the eido, Recorder, nor Commander himself constitutes a force sufficient to keep the lid on.
Too much momentum developed all that time screwing around? Just pent-up frustration building since we lost Johnson? I get a fat ration of fighting stares simply because I’m a friend of the Old Man,
In a less disciplined service this moment would be the first step toward mutiny.
The Commander returns, resumes his post beside Westhause. With studied casualness he produces the infamous pipe and loads it. Little dragon’s tongues of blue smoke soon curl between his teeth, drift through his beard.
The old hands fall silent. They apply themselves to then-work. He’s given a signal.
“All hands listen up. This’s the Ship’s Commander. We’re about to engage. Weapons, discharge your power accumulators. Ship’s Services, vent heat and stand by on converters. I want internal temperature down to ten degrees. Engineering, I remind you that you’re on standby for Emergency Climb.”
He puffs his pipe and surveys the Operations crew. They avoid his gaze.
He’s going up. Why? The hunter-killers haven’t shown. They shouldn’t for a while yet. Rathgeber is a long fly.
“Initiate you
r program, Mr. Westhause.”
The ship ceases its endless hop, skip, and jump. A flurry of orders and their echoes fly. Weapons discharges accumulators. Ship’s Services lowers internal temperature till I wish I’d brought a sweater. We make a brief hyper fly.
“Right down our throat!” Berberian shrieks. “Missiles...”
“Radar! Compose yourself.”
“Aye, sir. Commander, missiles bearing...”
The collision alarm shrieks. Those missiles are close! That alarm is never heard except during drills.
“Emergency Climb,” the Old Man orders, immune to the near-panic around him. “Take her to twenty-five Bev. All hands, be prepared for sudden maneuvers.”
I haven’t the slightest idea what’s happening. I don the safety harness I’m supposed to wear whenever I’m on station. It seems a wise course.
The Commander gets a firm grip on a frame and thwartships brace. His pipe is clenched in his teeth, belching a noxious fog.
The Climber trembles as a missile detonates near her Hawking point. Internal temperature rises a degree.
“That was close,” Fisherman murmurs. “Very close.” He’s pale. His hands are shaking. Moisture covers his face.
“Stand by,” the Commander says.
The ship lurches as if punted by some footballer god. Metal squeals against metal. Plug-ups skitter like maddened butterflies. A barrage of loose articles slams around the compartment. A plastic telltale crystal pops off my board, smacks me over the eye, then whistles off to dance with the rest of the debris.
Internal temperature screams up forty degrees in a matter of seconds. The change is so sudden and severe that several men collapse. The converters groan under the load and begin bringing it down.
Coolly, Westhause keeps moving ship.
“Take us down!” the Commander bellows. “Take us the hell down.”
Five men are unconscious in Ops. Another dozen have collapsed elsewhere. The ship is in danger.
The Commander shuffles men to the critical stations.
A thermometer near me shows mercury well into the red zone. The converters alone won’t get it down in time to prevent shock to the supercold systems. Venting heat externally is our only option.
The Climber goes down with sickening swiftness.
“Vent heat!” the Commander thunders. “Goddamnit, Bradley! Anybody down there. Move!”
Red lights on every board are howling because the super-conducters are warming.
Fuck the superconductors. Cool me off.... I never thought of heat as physically painful. But this... My head throbs. My body feels greasy. I’ve sweat so much I have a calf cramp. It takes all my concentration to keep my eyes on my screen.
Stars appear. “Oh!” A comet of fire spills across them, splashing the track of the Main Battle with blinding death. Glowing fragments pinwheel around the main glory, obscuring and overshadowing the background lights. She’s millions of kilometers away and still the brightest object in the heavens.
The fire begins to fade.
I check my cameras. Hurrah! I turned them on.
A thought wanders through the aches and pains. That has to be the aftermath of a fusion chamber eruption. How did the Commander manage it?
The compartment cools quickly. As it does I come out of my universe of agony. My horizons expand. I discover the Commander snapping an endless series of questions into the inboard comm. The first I register is, “How long till you get it stabilized?”
I prod Fisherman. “What’s happening?” The kid seems not to have noticed the heat.
“Sounds like we’ve got an oscillation in our CT magnetics,” he croaks. His body took it well, but his soul is in bad shape. He’s got the morning-after shudders. His face is the color of a snake’s belly. He and I and the Commander seem to be the only Ops people able to do any useful work. I drag out of my seat and try to lend a hand at something more important than visual scan.
It occurs to me that Fisherman is scared not because of the Climb, nor because of the danger of a CT leak. He’s locked into his own mad dread of another entombment aboard a crippled ship. This1 one the other firm would find first.
He’s of little use on the tachyon board, so I point him toward Rose’s station and tell him to get a gradient on the supercoolers for the superconductor system. That’ll keep him too busy to think.
The temperature is dropping faster. The scrubbers and blowers are throbbing, pulling the moisture out and moving the air around. Most of my discomfort is gone.
Worry about Fisherman diverts my own impulse to panic. Having put him on the compute board, and having started Westhause’s board on automatic recall, I make the rounds of the men. That’s the most important job left. The Commander is handling everything else.
They say my behavior is common to Climber people. They worry about their shipmates before themselves. I’ve heard it called the unit/family response.
Yanevich is first to revive. I divert him with questions. He answers one, “We’re the legion of the damned. All we’ve got is each other. And a universal contempt for Command types who sentence us to death by putting us in Climbers. I’m all right now. Let me go. Got work to do.”
I still don’t know what happened. They don’t want to bother explaining... It hits me. The Commander spent all that time refining his calculations so he could run our Hawking point through the Leviathan’s fusor. Sure. No wonder we got rattled around. Our full mass hit their magnetic bottle at. 4 c.
Amazing. And we hit it first try.
And came near killing ourselves, too.
The Commander’s was a superb move. As a surprise tactic. On any other grounds it was sheer idiocy. Would he have tried it again had he missed first shot?
Probably not. Even the old hands don’t have the nerve to go into that with their eyes open.
Later, over an emergency cup of coffee, I ask the Commander, “Would you have taken a second crack?”
He slides off the subject. “You took it pretty good. Didn’t think you were that tough.”
“Maybe I’m used to more heat.”
He slugs his coffee back and leaves without saying another word.
New tension grips the ship. She can’t Climb till Varese gets his magnetic containment systems stabilized. The hunter-killers are closing in.
Fisherman is the center of attention. His board remains pleasingly silent.
Dead in space. Seven hours. Varese hasn’t re-established the balance among several hundred minuscule current loads in the CT containment fields. The field control superconductor circuitry suffered localized overheating.
Time drags, except when I calculate how long it’s been since the Leviathan yelled for help. Then it seems time is screaming past.
We’re still at general quarters. The friends of our retired friends could turn up any minute. They’ve had long enough to get a fast attack destroyer from Rathgeber here and back again.
The honeybuckets are getting the best of the atmosphere systems.
I’m scared. Goddamned scared. It’s bloody murder, sitting here unable to do a thing.
The Commander keeps growling at Varese. How long? I can’t hear the reply, but it’s noncommittal. The Old Man tells Piniaz to charge accumulators. He’s getting ready for a shoot-out in norm.
Damn! If I weren’t keeping notes, keeping somewhat occupied, I’d scream. Or do like Nicastro. The Chief runs around like an antsy old lady, driving everyone crazy with his fussing.
I’m continually amazed by how these men take their cue from the Commander’s slightest action or remark. Already they’re steeling themselves for hard times to come. You can see it in the way they stand or sit. I’m getting a little better feel for the Old Man.
While the screws are tightening he doesn’t dare scratch at the wrong instant.
A lot of pressure would come down on a man who became too conscious of that.
It’s easier for a Ship’s Commander aboard a normal ship. He has his quarters. He isn’t on dis
play all the time.
As toed as we are, we won’t make much of a showing if the other firm catches up.
Varese still reports unsatisfactory stabilization after twelve hours. That’s a lot of getaway time lost. Suddenly, Fisherman shouts, “Commander, I have a tachyon pattern.”
I lean and check his screen before the crowd thickens. The pattern is alien. Definitely alien. I’ve seen nothing like it before. The Commander orders, “Power down to minimum, Mr. Varese.”
The Climber drifts in the track of the destroyed warship. Her neutrino emissions are a candle in the conflagration of the wake.
Running is pointless. The other firm can detect us if we can detect them. The hyper translation ratios of their hunter-killers exceed those of our Climbers. Swiftness is the critical element in destroyer design.
We can’t run. The Commander won’t go up till the magnetics are stable. So we’ll pretend we’re not here.
The odor in Ops grows thicker. Tempers grow shorter. Only Fisherman, preoccupied with his board and prayers, maintains his equanimity.
He is, I suspect, secretly delighted at the prospect of a quick out. Here’s a chance for an early encounter with his God. Hey! Big guy in the sky! How about disappointing the silly sack of shit?
The hunters skip here and there, watching and listening. Sometimes they charge right past us, keeping Fisherman’s detector chirping like a cricket’s convention.
“At least eight of them,” he says, after they’ve been rooting around for three hours. “They look hungry.”
“That’s a lot of firepower just to keep a second-rate writer from getting a story.”
The joke falls flat. He says, “Not much else for them to do, sir. No convoys to watch.”
The hunters are stubborn and crafty. One destroyer, doing mini-jumps along the course of the Main Battle, skips right over us. Pure luck saves us being detected. Another, creeping round in norm, gives herself away only because she hasn’t powered down enough to conceal her neutrino emissions adequately. Like us, she’s running with sensors passive. Active radar would nail us in an instant.
The hours roll on. Men fall asleep at their posts. Neither the Commander nor the First Watch Officer protests.
