Passage at Arms

by Glen Cook

  “Not just a training exercise?”

  Yanevich shrugs. With enough falseness to say he knows an answer he can’t tell. “We’ll slide in. Mini-jumps when we can get away with them. Into the inner belt first. Some emergency stations there they haven’t found yet.”

  “It’s going to take a while, then.”

  “Yeah.” He looks bleak. He’s begun to realize what it means to be Commander. “A while. Look. Tell that cat-loving cook to turn loose if he doesn’t want to be on the menu himself.”

  It’s getting to him. He’s changing. “You hear that, Fearless?” The cat followed me here. “Fang him on the ankle.” To Yanevich, “I really think he has. Scraped bottom, I mean. He’s talking about water soup.”

  “He’s always talking about water soup. Tell him I’m talking cat soup.”

  “Change the subject.” I’m hungry. Generally, food is fuel to me. But there’re limits. Water soup!

  Throdahl and Rose, O Wonder of Wonders, have found a new subject. The feast they’re going to have before cutting their swath through the split-tail.

  “Looks like our probability coming up, Commander,” Westhause says. “Good for a program three.”

  I glance at the tank. Just one red blip, moving away fast. There’re no dots on the sphere’s boundary, indicating known enemies beyond its scope.

  Program three, I assume, will bite a big chunk off the road home.

  The Old Man says, “Give me one-gee acceleration. Stand by for hyper.” He turns, growls, “Anything shows, I want to know yesterday. Capiche, Junghaus? Berberian?”

  Evidently we’re slipping through a picket zone.

  “Steve, you going to use your seat?” Yanevich shakes his head. I seat myself. Fearless occupies my lap. The Commander arrests my attention. Amid the disrepair, stench, and slovenliness he nevertheless stands out. His apparel is dirtier, more tattered, and hangs worse than anyone else’s. He’s a haggard, emaciated, aged young man. His wild shapeless beard conceals his hollow cheeks, but not the hollow eyes that make him look like a corpse of twenty-six haunted by a century-old soul.

  Maybe twenty-seven. I’ve lost track of the date. His birthday is sometime around now.

  His eighth patrol. He has to survive two more, each with Squadron Leader’s added cares. Pray for him-----

  He won’t be able to handle it. Not unless this next leave is a long one. He has to put Humpty together again. Maybe I’ll stay awhile. Maybe he can talk off the ship.

  I don’t think he’s been eating. He’s more gaunt than the rest of us, more dry and sallow of skin. We all sport psoriasis-like patches. He has a splash creeping up his throat. Scurvy may turn up soon, too.

  The veins in his temples stand out. His forehead is compressed in pain. His hands are shaky. He keeps them in his pockets now.

  He’s on the brink, going on guts alone. Because he has to. He has a family to lead safely home.

  I understand him just a little better. This patrol has been the thing too much, the burden too great to bear. And still he drives himself. He’s a slave to his duty.

  And Yanevich? The shoulders being measured for the mantle? He knows. He sees, understands, and knows. In Weapons much of the time, I’ve missed many of the turning points in his growth, in his descent into a terror of his own future.

  But he’s young. He’s fresh. He possesses a soul as yet unconsumed. He’s good for a few missions. If the Commander breaks, he’ll step in. He has enough left.

  “Time, Commander.”

  “Jump, Mr. Westhause.” The Old Man’s voice hasn’t the resonance or strength it once had, but is cool enough.

  Westhause. Our infant-genius. Silent, competent, imperturbable. A few more patrols and he’ll be First Watch Officer aboard some moldering, homecoming Climber, staring at a burned-out Commander, into the burning eyes of his own tomorrow. But not now. Now he sees nothing but his special task.

  Throdahl has enlisted in the conspiracy of silence. At long last he has exhausted his stock of jocular denials of loneliness and fear.

  Chief Nicastro clings to a structural member, his eyes closed tight. He remains convinced of his fate.

  Laramie’s insult bag has come up empty.

  The computermen mutter on, making magic passes over their fetish, communing with the gods of technology.

  Berberian, Carmon, the others, they wait.

  In his gentle way, Fisherman is trying to intercede with his god, on behalf of his friends. He prays quietly but often.

  Only Fearless is living up to his name and the reputation of the Climbers.

  That cat is the all-time grand champion. He’s done more Climber time than any other creature living. It bores him now. He wriggles onto his back, athwart my lap, thrusting his legs into the air, letting his head dangle off my leg. From his half-open mouth he trails a soft, gurgling feline snore.

  A complete fatalist, Fearless Fred. Que serd, serd. Till it does, he’ll take a nap.

  What’s happening below? Yanevich has sealed the hatches.

  “Contact,” Fisherman says. “Bearing...”

  “Drop hyper. Secure drives, Mr. Varese.”

  I’m becoming a fatalist myself. I can do nothing to control my future. It’s just a ride I have to take, hoping the luck will go my way.

  What point to the Old Man’s tactics? The ship has gone her limit. Soon we won’t be able to take hyper for fear of not having enough fuel to make it home.

  “Commander, we’ve gone below one percent available hydrogen,” Varese reports. “It’ll take a lot to fire her up again.”

  “Understood. Proceed as instructed, Mr. Varese.”

  The Engineering Officer no longer argues. He’s given up. The Commander won’t be swayed.

  Even he has to admit that we’re past the point where protecting a reserve makes sense.

  What’s the meaning of one percent? Fuel for two days at maximum economy? After that, what? How long till emergency and accumulator power fail? Fisherman’s history suggests weeks. But his was a healthy vessel before being stricken.

  The whole business has become disgusting. There has to be a limit!

  The only real limit is human endurance, my friend.

  Berberian and Fisherman warble contacts like songbirds in mating season. Galactic clusters of red and green blips fill the display tank.

  “Goddamned!” Throdahl swears. “So goddamned close-----

  We could walk it from here.” If they’d let us.

  I glance at the tank again. There are gold pips in there now. We’ve reached the asteroid belt. One of the asteroid belts, I should say. Canaan’s system has two. The inner belt is slightly more than one A. U. outside Canaan’s orbit. The other lies in roughly the same range as that of Sol System.

  Rose has to respond to his friend. “We’re going to get mugged first.”

  “Can the chatter!” the Commander snaps. “Throdahl, signal Command. Homecoming. Idents. Status Red.” He turns to Westhause. “Astrogator, into the belt. Find an emergency base.”

  The signal will tell Command we’re here and hurting, that we need help in a hurry.

  I toyjvith the viewscreen, locate Canaan. The camera is erratic. Hard to keep in train. The planet shows as a fingernail clipping of silver. TerVeen is invisible. Maybe it’s behind its primary. The larger moon is a needle scratch near the planet’s invisible limb.

  A lousy 170 million klicks.

  I don’t think we’re going to make it.

  Throdahl, who has been talking with Westhause, says, “Commander, got a response on station Alpha Niner Zero. Automatic signal. Looks like they’ve pulled the live crew.”

  “Mr. Westhause?”

  “It’s two million klicks off our base course, Commander.”

  “Rose, see what it can do besides life support.”

  Rose has the data up already. “Emergency water and food stores, Commander. Enough till this blows over if it’s fully provisioned.”

  “This” is my earlier and correct gues
s. Rathgeber or the mauling of the convoy was the last straw. The gentlemen of the other firm have halted their assault on the Inner Worlds till they carve this Canaan-cancer out of their backtrail.

  The camera shows the negotiations at a fiery pitch. Canaan’s moon is taking a pounding. Maybe staying out here would be smart.

  In the grand view the situation represents a glorious milestone. We’ve stopped their inward charge at last. They’ll have to commit an inordinate proportion of their power to follow through here. Tannian’s Festung Canaan will be a hard-shelled nut. Maybe hard enough to alter the momentum of the game.

  Tannian has gotten his way at last.

  Knowing I’m on the fringe of a desperate and historic battle isn’t comforting. I can’t get excited about sacrificing myself for the Inner Worlds.

  A wise man once said it’s hard to concentrate on draining the swamp when you’re up to your ass in alligators.

  Tannian will be a hero’s hero. It won’t matter if he wins or dies a martyr. He’ll be immune to the darts of truth. What I write won’t touch him. No one will care.

  “Anything from Command?’ the Old Man demands. There’s been ample time for a response.

  Throdahl raises a hand placatingly. He’s listening to something. His expression sours. “Commander... all they did was acknowledge receipt. No reply.”

  “Damn them.” There’s little heat in the Old Man’s curse. He doesn’t sound surprised. “Make for Rescue Alpha Niner Zero.”

  Thrust follows almost instantaneously, lasts only a few seconds. Westhause is taking the slow road. We don’t dare leave too plain a neutrino trail.

  Word filters through the ship. We’ll have something to eat soon.

  Eight hours gone. After one brief hyper translation, there’ve been but a few slight nudges with thrusters, sliding round asteroids. Now Westhause cuts loose a long burn. He has to reduce our inherent velocity.

  The Commander tells me, “Keep a sharp watch for a flashing red-and-white light. We may not recognize the rock on radar.”

  “Range one hundred thousand, Commander,” Throdahl says.

  “Very well. How long, Mr. Westhause?”

  “Two hours till my next burn, Commander. Maybe three altogether.”

  “Uhm. Proceed.”

  I’m salivating already. Damn, this sneaking is slow work.

  Burn complete. Closing with the Rescue station. I catch occasional glimpses of its lights, activated by our signals. “Commander, that rock is tumbling.”

  “Damn.” He leans over my shoulder. “So it is. Not too fast, though. Time it.”

  We ease closer. The asteroid isn’t tumbling as fast as I thought. It has several lights. A rotation takes about a minute. According to Berberian it’s slightly over two hundred meters in distance. It’s wobbling slightly as it rolls.

  Closer still, I discover the reason for its odd behavior. “Range?” I demand.

  “What?” Yanevich asks.

  I have my magnification set at max. “How far to the damned asteroid?”

  Yanevich snaps, “Berberian. Range?”

  “Nine hundred thirty kilometers, sir.”

  The First Watch Officer moves round behind me. “What’s the matter?”

  “Something wrong.” I tap a big lump as it rolls into view. Yanevich frowns thoughtfully. The Commander joins us. I ask, “Can we bounce a low-power beam off that?”

  The Old Man says, “Berberian. Shift to pulse. Chief Can-zoneri. Link with radar. I want an albedo. Mr. Westhause, dead stop if you please.” He leaves us, monkeys into the inner circle.

  We’re three hundred kilometers closer before Westhause gets all weigh off. The men exchange tense glances. Fisherman asks, “What is it, sir?”

  “Can’t tell for sure. Look like there’s a ship on the rock.”

  The Commander joins me. He says, “Radar albedo isn’t distinct. A dead ship doesn’t show much different from a nickle-iron asteroid.” He stares into the screen. It shouts no answers. “Wish we had flares.”

  Yanevich says, “If they were going to shoot, we’d have heard from them by now.”

  “Maybe. Open the door.” Standing in the hatchway to Weapons, he tells me, “Roll tapes.”

  A minute later Piniaz lays twenty seconds of low-wattage laser on the asteroid. “It’s a ship,” I tell Yanevich. “Not one of ours, either.”

  He leans over as I reverse the tape. “Not much of one.”

  It looks like an inverted china teacup, thirty to forty meters in diameter. The Commander rejoins us. He looks puzzled. “Never saw anything like it. Route it to Canzoneri. Chief! ID this bastard.”

  A minute passes. Canzoneri says. “That’s an assault landing pod, Commander.”

  We exchange baffled looks. An assault pod? For landing troops during a planetary invasion?

  “What’s it doing here?” Yanevich murmurs. He turns to the Commander. “What’ll we do?”

  The Old Man checks Fisherman’s screen and the display tank. “Throdahl. Anything from Command?”

  “There’s a lot of traffic, Commander, but nothing for us.”

  The Commander contacts Weapons. “Mr. Piniaz, put a hard beam into that lump. Mr. Westhause, be ready to haul ass.”

  Piniaz fires a few seconds later. Glowing fragments fly. Part of the pod turns cherry, then fades. The lander doesn’t respond.

  Again we exchange glances. The Old Man says, ‘Take her in easy, Mr. Westhause.”

  Two hours of increasing tension. Nothing from the pod or Rescue station. We’re now twenty-five kilometers out. The pod is obviously damaged. Its underside is smashed. It came into the station hard. Canzoneri says the impact put the spin on the asteroid. But we still can’t fathom what the pod was doing out here. It’s a long way from Canaan.

  Apparently the pod crew came for the same reason we did. Both sides use the other’s Rescue facilities.

  Westhause says he can match the rock’s tumble. It’ll be tricky work, though, till we can anchor the Climber somehow. I ask the Commander, “Why bother? Just suit across, at least till we know if it’s worth our trouble.”

  He grunts, ambles off.

  I look at Yanevich, at the Commander’s back, at the First

  Watch Officer again. Yanevich shows me crossed fingers. He too sees the disintegration the Old Man is holding at bay.

  I’m worried about the Commander. He’s damned near the edge. He may go over if we fail here. He’s taking our failures on his own shoulders, despite the fact that the mission’s course has, largely, been beyond his control.

  “Fifteen kilometers,” Berberian says.

  Rose and Throdahl are exchanging speculations on the treasures the Rescue station may contain. I hear something about nurses. Throdahl frequently interrupts himself to repeat something he has overheard on his radio.

  The situation is obvious. The other firm is trying to kick hell out of Canaan and our bases. News from the larger moon is depressing. Enemy troops have reached its surface.

  “Looks bad, sir,” Chief Nicastro says. His face is pale, his voice a murmur. I can read his mind. What point surviving the mission if he goes home to die in an invasion?

  How are they doing, getting at Canaan itself? Seems there’d be vast areas where they could put down virtually unopposed. Where I came in, say. All they’d have to do is crack a gap in the orbital defenses.

  “Ten kilometers,” Berberian says.

  The Commander asks the First Watch Officer, “Who do we have EVA qualified?”

  “Have to check the personnel records, Commander.” Yanevich slides up to the inner circle, talks to Canzoneri. “Commander? Mr. Bradley, Mr. Piniaz, Mr. Varese, Chief Nicastro, DellaVecchia.”

  “Who’s DellaVecchia?”

  “That new Damage Control Third of Mr. Varese’s.”

  “Who’s got the most time?”

  “Mr. Bradley and Chief Nicastro.”

  “The Chief hasn’t been outside since I’ve known him.”

  “I’ll go, Co
mmander,” Nicastro says. He draws a few surprised stares. The Chief volunteering? Impossible.

  “I don’t want to send any more married men, Chief.”

  “It doesn’t much matter, does it? It’s over for Canaan. Might as well be me. I’m used up. Mr. Bradley is just getting started.

  The Chief and the Old Man trade stares. “All right. Keep your helmet camera going. Open the hatch, there.”

  “Five kilometers,” Berberian says.

  I smile at the Chief as he passes. “Luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  I turn back to the screen. We’re close now. The Commander has our maneuvering lights directed at the asteroid. Details stand out.

  Big lump of nickel-iron, hollowed, with a carbuncle on its hip... The assault pod looks like it has gone through three wars. I still wonder what it’s doing here.

  The Commander leans over my shoulder, says, “Uhm. Strange things happen,” and moseys toward Mr. Westhause, who is maneuvering to match the asteroid’s spin.

  The rock keeps sliding off camera.

  Chief Nicastro floats across a fifty-meter gap, lands lightly. His magnetic soles fix his feet to the asteroid. I’ve been evicted from my seat. The Commander himself has it. Yanevich and I watch over his shoulders.

  Nicastro’s voice crackles thinly. “Lander or station first, Commander?”

  “Lander. See if anybody survived. Don’t want you walking into a trap.” The Old Man pushes a button. He’s taping.

  Throdahl says, “Incoming for us, Commander. Command.”

  “I’ll take it.” Yanevich scrambles to the radioman’s side, watches while Throdahl scribbles. He returns, hands the message to me.

  Command wants us to make a mother rendezvous at Fuel Point. In his wisdom the Admiral has declared that homecoming Climbers gather there and stay out of sight. If necessary, the mothers will carry us to Second Fleet’s base.

  I pass the message to the Old Man. He glances, nods.

  “Any reply?” Yanevich asks.

  “Later. Depends on what happens here.”

  He faces a split screen. On top we see the Chief from here. Underneath, we have what the Chief himself is seeing.

  Nicastro circles the pod. It’s in bad shape. He peeks inside. The troop bay is jammed with torn bodies. She came in hard.