There’s a stir in the display tank. They know a Climber
has struck. They don’t know we’re harmless now. Their
reaction seems to be a controlled panic.
Carmon goes to his broadest scale. Red and green blips swirl
everywhere.
The Old Man is grumbling at Throdahl. Must be arguing with
Command. There’s no way we can make a rendezvous at Fuel
Point. TerVeen is our only hope.
“Stand by to take hyper,” the Old Man says.
We have to jump. Have to get as close as we can. Maybe
there’s a shred of Planetary Defense umbrella left. Long
shot.
We could do a few zigzags and power down completely, go on
emergency power, and drift in, but the men aren’t up to a
norm crossing. The best we could hope for, Canzoneri says, is a
nine-day passage. Through the heat and heart of battle.
No thank you. That’s a suicide run.
Do we have enough hydrogen to jump and make adjustments in
inherent velocity when we get close? . . . Why
worry? Command may not send tugs into the crucible for a lone,
beat-up Climber they don’t want there anyway.
The Commander appears only mildly concerned. He’s started
another up cycle. Telling weak jokes. Asking Throdahl and Rose for
the addresses of those girls they’re always bragging about.
“Jump, Mr. Westhause. Maximum translation ratio.”
Oh-oh. We have company. Nuclear greetings are headed our
way.
Our chances look longer all the time. I don’t think
we’ll make it.
It’s been one hell of an interesting mission . . .
The Commander is beside me. “Go get your notes.”
“Sir?”
“Get your stuff together. Stow it in a ration case under
your seat.”
I move down to Ship’s Services, strip my hammock in
seconds. “What’s going on out there?” Bradley
asks. He doesn’t know we’ve just shot it out with a
corvette, and that a missile flight is closing in.
Kriegshauser is right behind him. “Give it to us
straight,” he pleads.
I sketch it. “It doesn’t look good. But you can
count on the Old Man.”
That seems assurance enough. The Ship’s Services people
are unshakable. Maybe they were selected for that.
I pause as I pass through Weapons. Piniaz looks grim. He forces
a smile. One hand drifts to my shoulder. “Been all right,
Lieutenant. Good luck. Just write it the way it was.”
A hell of a gesture for the little man. “I will, Ito. I
promise.”
I settle my things under the First Watch Officer’s seat.
Pity I can’t make peace with Varese, too.
“What’s happened?” I ask Fisherman. The
mausoleum silence of Ops demands a soft voice.
“Getting worse.” His screen is a-crawl with hyper
wakes. The pencil strokes characteristic of high-translation ratio
missiles spaghetti through the mess. We’re cruising the
middle of a barn-burner. Both sides have gone kill-crazy. Chung! Chung!
“What the hell is that?” Chung!
Sounds like some mischievious child-deity is hammering the hull
with a god-sized gong-beater.
“We’re hyper skipping,” Fisherman says.
“Randomed.”
I figured as much. It’s one way to rattle a
missile’s moron brain. But that doesn’t have anything
to do with the noise. Chung!
“What’s the noise?” It’s pounding the
can about ninety degrees round the circle.
“Mr. Westhause said he was having trouble with inertial
rectification.”
“That wouldn’t . . . ”
“Commander, Engineering. There’s a chunk of
water-ice bouncing around in the Six Reserve Tank. Can we have a
constant vector and acceleration while we melt and
drain?”
“Negative. We can live with the racket. But go ahead and
melt.”
“Engineering, aye.”
That was Diekereide. I haven’t seen him for a while. Have
to buy him a beer if we get out of this.
“Weapons. Gunnery status?”
“Energy all go, Commander. Got them cooled and tuned
enough for a couple shots.” We nearly lost them while dueling
with the corvette. “They won’t last, though.”
“We won’t shoot unless a Christmas present falls in
our lap.”
The Old Man has reached back and found one more reservoir of
whatever it is that makes him go. He jitters from station to
station, restless as a whore in church, almost eager for the
squeeze to get tighter. Poisonous clouds belch from his pipe. We
take turns coughing and scowling and rubbing our eyes. And grinning
at the Commander’s back when he moves on.
He’s alive. He’ll bring us through again.
That faith, the thing that the Commander so fears, resents, and
loves, helps me understand both him and Fisherman a bit better.
Fisherman has surrendered his life and soul to a universal
Ship’s Commander. He just keeps plugging while he waits for
that heavenbound ride.
The others yield only to faith in snatches, in hard times, to a
man, when they fear their own competence is insufficient.
It’s a pity the Commander can find no fit object for faith
himself.
He’s too cynical to accept any religion, and the
Admiral’s circus antics have alienated him from any demigod
role. What’s left? The Service? That’s what we were
taught all those years in Academy.
Tannian is Command’s strength and weakness. For all his
strategic genius, he can’t inspire his captains.
The gong-beating fades, but not before the plug-ups rush to a
tiny crack in our bulkhead.
The Climber is dying slowly, like a man with a nasty cancer.
A chunk of water ice. Not a completely unpleasant surprise. It
means a little extra energy, a little extra mobility. Or a long,
cool drink for the crew. Lord, I’m thirsty. I’ve got
nothing left to sweat.
“Stand by, Weapons. We have a possible Target One.
Designation vectors coming down now.”
What the hell?
One especially intense streak stands out on Fisherman’s
screen. That the one? Only an advanced tactical computer could make
sense of that mess. The mix has grown too dense, the changes too
rapid.
We’ve drawn a lot of attention. The tank shows a lot of
green blips. Maybe Command is lending a hand.
The whole mess is probably an ad lib.
“Commander, Engineering.” That’s Diekereide
again. Where’s Varese? “I’m getting an erratic
flow through Hydrolysis. I don’t think we can process enough
hydrogen to meet your present translation demand.”
“Auxiliary?”
“On the line.”
“Reserve hydrogen?”
“Down to fifteen minutes available. We lost the main
pressure gauge sometime . . . Don’t know
how long we’ve been drawing. Had to read it
by . . . ”
“Notify me when you’re down to five minutes. Mr.
Piniaz? We’ve got a missile coming. Got to skrag
it.”
“Targeted and tracking, Commander.”
“On my mark, then.” The Commander exchanges whispers
with Westhause.
Rose says, “Commander, we’ve got another unavoidable
coming up.” He’s insanely calm. They all are.
Weird.
The walls are closing in. The tank makes some sense now, on a
local scale. Missile coming in. We’ll have to dance with it,
confuse it, take it in norm, with our energy weapons. And the delay
will let the other team lock us into a lethal groove.
Alarm. We go norm. “Now, Mr. Piniaz.”
The result is unspectacular. The missile vaporizes, but I
can’t catch its death on screen.
“Commander, Weapons. We’ve lost the graser for
good.”
This junk pile is falling apart.
The dream dance on the borders of death continues another half
hour. We knock out four pursuing missiles, lose another laser.
Westhause squanders fuel tinkering with our inherent velocity. As
always, the Commander keeps his own counsel. I haven’t the
foggiest what he’s planning. I try to lose myself in my
troubles.
A change. More excitement. I look around. Three missiles have us
zeroed. How do we duck this time? We don’t have a time margin
to fool with anymore. If we stop to take one, the others will get
us.
“Commander, Engineering.” Varese is back.
“Five minutes available hydrogen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Varese. Max power. Shunt as much into
storage as you can.”
I pan to Canaan. Getting close now. Walking distance.
“Sir?” Varese asks.
“Wait one. Mr. Westhause, proceed. Lieutenant, just give
me all the stored power you can.”
The Commander loses himself in thought. I look at the tank, at
Westhause. He’s stopped dancing. Canaan is expanding like a
child’s balloon blowing up. We’re running straight
in.
The Commander switches on shipwide comm. “Men,
this’s the last hurdle, and the last trick in our sack.
This’s been a good ship. She’s had good crews, and this
one was the best. But now she’s done. She can’t run and
she can’t fight.”
What’s this defeatist talk? The Old Man never gives
up.
“We’re going to assume a cis-lunar orbit and
separate compartments. That should satisfy the other firm. Rescue
will round us up. During our leave I’ll have you all out to
Kent for a party in the ship’s memory.”
I can smell the pines, hear the breeze in their boughs. Is Marie
really gone? Sharon . . . did you bring your
Climber through, honey? At least a dozen were lost against that
convoy . . .
The crew answer the Old Man with silence. It’s the most
compelling stillness I’ve ever experienced.
What’s to say? Name another option.
“Men, we made history. I’m proud to have served with
you.” For the first time ever, the Old Man sits down while he
has the conn.
He’s done. He’s shot his last round. But restless
banks of smoke still brew around him. In a weary voice, he asks,
“How long, Mr. Westhause?”
We’re making a final, brief hyper fly. Skipping in
millisecond jumps. Keeping the missiles confused.
“Two minutes thirty . . . five
seconds. Commander.”
Strange, that Westhause. Unshakable. Still as professional as
the day we boarded. Someday he’ll command a Climber with the
cool of the Old Man.
“Chief Nicastro, give us a separation countdown. Throdahl,
give Command another squirt on our intentions. Mr. Westhause will
give you the orbital data. Use Emergency Two.”
What will the missiles do when their target splits five ways?
Three missiles. Somebody is going to make it.
Give me a break, ye gods of war.
There’s a chance. Not a good one, but a chance. One small
point going our way. Those three doom-stalkers can’t be
controlled by their masters. They’re dependent on their own
dull-witted brains. Which is why we’ve stayed ahead this
long.
My stomach constricts ever more tightly. Fear. The moment of
truth is roaring toward us.
We’ve passed some barrier the enemy won’t yet
hazard. Maybe Planetary Defense has maintained a tight death pocket
round TerVeen. Only those three killer imbeciles continue dogging
our trail.
On camera. There’s TerVeen. Battered all to hell, but
still in business, a spider spinning webs of fire.
The Climber zigzags. Westhause and Varese exchange curses. Final
seconds before orbit.
I’ll say this. When you’re scared shitless
it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.
Write. Keep your hands busy. Anything for a distraction.
Nicastro’s soft voice drones,
“ . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . ”
Six-five-four-three-two-one-ZERO!
Bang!
You’re dead.
No. I’m not. Not yet.
Barrages of sound rip through the hull as the explosive bolts
go. Perfectly. God bless. Something is working right. The force
slams me from the side. Our rocket pack blasts us away from the
rest of the ship.
“We have separation and ignition on Ops and Engineering,
Commander.” How very perceptive.
Head twist. Glare at the tank. Where are those missiles?
Can’t tell. The antennae were mounted on the torus.
We’re flying blind . . .
Thrust ends. The plug-ups break it up around the Weapons
bulkhead. I feel lightheaded . . . Free-fall. No artificial
gravity.
The Commander drifts out of his seat.
The serials are continuing in the rest of the ship. Ship’s
Services will be last to separate. The din there must be murderous.
Charlie, I hope you make it. Kriegshauser, you never did get back
with that name.
“We have separation on Weapons, Commander.”
I still have one outside camera. I watch the rockets flame. Jump
the magnification. There’s the torus, wobbling, spinning,
dwindling rapidly, illuminated by the rockets. It shows silvery
patches where beams licked it.
The Climber slides out of view. A crescent of Canaan appears.
We’re tumbling toward the dawn. I hope Rescue can handle the
end-over-end.
The sun rises. It’s brilliant, majestic, as it crawls over
the curve of the world we’ve lusted after so long.
Where are those missiles?
There’s something special about a mother star
materializing from behind a daughter planet. It fills me with the
awe of creation. I feel it now, even though death bays at my heels.
This, and perhaps clouds, are the supreme arguments for the
existence of a Creator.
Time to check the torus again.
My God! A new sun! . . .
Berberian says, “The torus. First missile took the
torus.” His voice is a toad’s croak.
Well, naturally. The torus is the biggest target. It’ll be
over in seconds . . . Sighs all through the
compartment. A diminution in tension. We have a fifty-fifty chance
now.
“Hey! Torus again!” Berberian shouts.
“Goddamned second fucking missile took the torus,
too!”
“Let’s have proper reports,” the Commander
admonishes.
I could howl for joy.
And yet . . . there’s that third bird,
lagging the other two. Big black monster with my name engraved on
its teeth.
Got to get Canaan on screen. I want a world in my eyes when I
go.
What a sweet world it is. What a beautiful world. I’ve
never wanted any woman, not even Sharon, as badly as I want that
world.
“Three won’t target on the torus,” Laramie
says.
“Shut your cocksucker, will you?” Rose snarls.
Piniaz will try with his one laser, but it won’t be
enough. He’s failed twice already, hasn’t he?
Nevertheless, the Old Man has won. There will be survivors.
If Fisherman’s Devil exists, his favorite torture must be
guilt. Three more compartments out there, and me here hoping the
hammer falls on one of them. Part of me is utterly without
shame.
A flash brightens my screen. “Gone.” I stammer
getting the word out.
“Who?” a voice demands.
“Berberian? Throdahl?” the Commander asks.
Seconds pass. I scribble frantically, then wait, pencil poised.
Throdahl says, “Commander, I can’t get a response from
Ship’s Services.”
“Ah, Charlie. Shit.”
“That’s it, men,” the Commander says.
“Secure. Mr. Yanevich, take charge.” He pauses to knock
ashes from his pipe. “Emergency watch bill.”
Kriegshauser. Vossbrink. Charlie Bradley. Light. Shingledecker.
Tahtaburun. All gone? No. Some were in Engineering.
Poor Charlie. He had a future. Crapped out first patrol. Welcome
to the Climbers, kid.
I’ll mourn him. I liked him.
Wonder if Kriegshauser made it. He hated being away from his
little galley.
Well, if he didn’t, he doesn’t have a problem
anymore. Too bad I couldn’t help him.
Look on the positive side. They didn’t hurt. They never
knew what hit them.
Nothing to do now but wait for Rescue. Wait and wonder if
we’ll ever hear their approach signal.
Going to find an empty hammock. Probably won’t sleep, but
I need a change. Need to get away.
Chatter down below. “Think they’ll throw anything
else?” That’s Carmon. “We’re sitting
ducks.”
“Don’t worry your pointy head, Patriot,”
Nicastro says. “We won’t know it when it hits
us.” The Chief refuses to believe there’s a
tomorrow.
“How long we got to wait?” Berberian asks.
“Throdahl? Anything?”
“Sorry, Chief.”
“As long as we have to, Berberian.”
Berberian says, “Thro, get on the horn and tell them to
get their asses out here.”
“I did, Berberian. What the fuck more you want?”
“Pussy. Pussy and more pussy. Whole platooons of pussy.
Just line them up and I’ll lay them down.”
I was right. Can’t sleep. I roll down through the
tangle.
The Commander is seated near Westhause, writing something. He
rises, struggles up to his cabin. Even in free-fall he finds the
climb hard work. He’s burned out. Nothing left.
You got us home, old friend. Hang on to that.
“Let’s get on it here,” the First Watch
Officer snaps. “We’re supposed to conserve
power.” His tone is relaxed, confident. The tone of a
Commander. He’s come along. “Carmon, secure the tank.
Mr. Westhause, Chief Canzoneri, lock your memory banks and close up
shop. You too, Junghaus. Berberian, Throdahl, stay warm. Might need
to help Rescue. Laramie, secure the cooler and atmosphere scrubber.
Going to get cold anyway. Give us a spritz of oxygen while
you’re at it. Chief Nicastro, secure some lights. If you
don’t have something to do, crap out.”
Men lying still use fewer calories and perspire less. The First
Watch Officer is gentling us into the starvation leg of our
journey.
“Hope to fuck they hurry,” Throdahl grumbles. He
keeps tinkering, trying to find something on the Rescue band.
“I’m hungry, thirsty, horny, and filthy. Not
necessarily in that order.”
“I’ll buy that,” Rose says.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“That you’re filthy, Thro. Right down to the
stinking core.”
The pace picks up. Laramie joins in. Berberian contributes the
occasional quip. They’re feeling better.
For me the waiting is intolerable. We’re too near
home.
Laramie moans something about he’s going to perish if he
don’t get some pussy in the next twenty-four hours.
“You’ll last,” Fisherman snarls. The men look
at him, mouths open. No. He’s not joining the game. The
cut-low session recesses. Junghaus’s shipmates aren’t
insensitive.
“At least you had water,” the usually silent
Scarlatella grumbles. I roll slightly, peer through the tangled
piping. Lubomir Scarlatella is a strange one. He’s Electronic
Technician for Chief Canzoneri. I don’t think he’s said
a hundred words all patrol. Silent, proficient, imperturbable. You
hardly notice him. Now hysteria edges his voice.
“Until it was a choice between using power to recycle it
or to heat the ship.” A sublime calm visibly overtakes
Junghaus. In a gentle voice he begins quoting scripture. Nobody
shuts him up.
I slept. I don’t believe it. Twelve hours. Might have gone
longer if Zia hadn’t wanted the hammock. Clambered down to my
old seat. Listened to the halfhearted murmur of the men. Mostly it
was speculation about what’s happened to our friends in the
other compartments.
Hour fourteen. Thro lets out a whoop. “Here they
are!”
“Here who are?” Mr. Westhause asks. He has the
watch, such as it is.
“Rescue . . . goddamned. They’re
going after Weapons. The bastards.” He slugs his console
angrily.
“Take it easy. We’ll get our turn.”
The sons of bitches!
You don’t know how selfish you can be till you’re in
a survival situation seeing someone else being saved first.
Forty-two minutes, every one spent hating and cursing
Piniaz’s cutthroats.
Now our turn. With Rescue cursing us as heartily as we cursed
Weapons. It takes them three hours to get the spin off the
compartment.
“Not going to tow us,” Throdahl announces.
“They’re going to take us out right here. Going to scab
a tube to the top hatch.”
A chung echoes through the compartment. More delicate
sounds follow it. Someone is walking around on the roof.
Yanevich waves me over, beckons Mr. Westhause.
“Let’s get up by that hatch. We’ll have to keep
order.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
I do. We have to threaten violence when the fresh water comes
through. Some people seem willing to kill for a drink. We’re
lucky they’re really too weak to riot.
“Take it easy!” I snap at Zia. “Drink too much
and you’ll make yourself sick.”
Yanevich says, “Throdahl, get back to the radio.
They’ll tell us when to open the hatch.”
The stench of bile assails my nostrils. Zia has puked his
stomach empty. “I told you . . . ” Never mind. He had to
learn.
“Undog the hatch,” Throdahl yells.
“They’ve got the tube on.”
Yanevich checks the telltales on our side, unlocks the hatch.
Several men surge up behind him.
A pair of Marines squat outside the hatch. “Get
back,” one says. They’re wearing combat suits.
“You don’t get out yet.” They slither in, station
themselves beside the opening.
A med team follows them. A doctor and two medical corpsmen in
white plague suits. What is this? Are we carriers of the Black
Death?
The men crowd round our visitors, touching, murmuring with the
awe of primitives. They can’t really believe they’re
saved.
Have these rescuers ever seen anything this bad? We’re
worse than a bunch of galley slaves. Unbathed for ages. Unshaved.
Clothed in moldy rags. Skin masked by scab and scale. Some men
losing hair.
Lucky the med team aren’t female. Good way to get torn
apart. These men aren’t human anymore.
In a few months the process of degeneration will begin anew,
aboard a new Climber. But I won’t be going out. Thank god.
Not again. Neither will Chief
Nicastro . . .
The Chief. “Steve. Waldo. Where’s the
Chief?”
“Nicastro?” Yanevich says. “He was
right . . . come on.”
We spread out. Not much to search. Westhause finds him
immediately. “Here. DC station. Medic!”
I find him with fingers against Nicastro’s jugular. He
shakes his head. “Medic!” I shout. “What
happened, Waldo?”
“I don’t know. Heart maybe.”
Yanevich mutters, “He was determined he wasn’t going
to make it.”
The doctor goes the whole CPR route. No good. “Nothing I
can do here,” he says. “Under normal
conditions . . . ”
“Nothing’s normal in the Climbers.”
I’m so numb I couldn’t mourn my best friend. Nothing
but low, banked coals of rage remain.
The men are leaving. The Marines are making sure they stay
civilized.
“Where’s the Old Man?” Westhause asks.
“Upstairs.” I point.
“I’ll get him,” Yanevich says. “Go
ahead.”
“Where’s Fearless? Hey! Fred!” Suddenly, that
cat is the most important thing in my universe.
The men are all out. Westhause clambers through the hatchway.
“Now you,” the doctor says.
“Can’t. Got to
find . . . ”
The Marines make short work of me.
The long tight tube leads to a receiving bay aboard the Rescue
ship. I scramble through fast. Another med team is waiting.
They’re expecting animals. A barrage of water smashes me
flat. I tumble across a cold, hard deck. Three times I get to my
feet and go after the hose man.
He has no trouble protecting himself. The bay is under full
gravity. My weary, weak muscles can’t handle it. Disgusted, I
surrender to the inevitable, let myself be driven into an immersion
bath. They don’t give me time to shed my clothing.
Takes the piss and vinegar out of you fast. I suppose
that’s why they do it.
Splashing and wailing, I struggle to the tank’s far side.
There’s no fight in me anymore. A hand comes down. I grab it.
In a moment I’m lying on the deck, panting. My shipmates gag
and gasp around me. Throdahl, in the bath, is promising murder. The
med crew don’t let him out till he changes his mind.
“Can you stand up?” My helper’s voice is
spooky. Planetary atmosphere here, and he’s wearing a mask. I
grunt an affirmative. “Get your clothes off. Sir.”
It’s a struggle, but I manage. “What about my
stuff?”
The medic scoops my rags into a basket with a little plastic
pitchfork. “You’ll get it back. If you want
it.”
“I mean my stuff from the ship. It’s
important.” This is the critical passage. My notes and
pictures could disappear without my being able to raise a
finger.
A horrible caterwauling erupts from the escape tube. An orange
Fury whirls out. Fearless is reluctant to leave home. He’s
giving a Marine all he can handle. Man, is he going to be mad
when . . . the hose man goes to work.
I’m wrong. Old Fearless is so stunned by the indignity of
it all he just goes along. He barely reacts when I drag him out of
the pool. He hasn’t the strength to don his usual mask of
aloofness.
A hand is in my face. “Drink this.” I drain a small
squeeze bottle. “Now use one of the showers.” The medic
points. “Be thorough, but don’t waste time. Your
buddies are waiting. So is breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“It’s morning to us, sir.”
“Come on, Fearless.” I waste little time showering.
That squeeze bottle contained an all-time purgative. There’s
little for my stomach to be rid of, but it’s making a valiant
effort.
Breakfast turns out to be lunch. They put us through four hours
of intensive decontamination before they dump us into the
ship’s hospital quarters and feed us. By then I’m so
dopey I don’t know where I am. I fall asleep with an IV in my
arm, feeling like a voodoo doll after the ceremony.
I waken much later. Pain. Gravity gnawing at my every cell. Yet
I feel healthier than I have in months. My body has been flushed of
accumulated poisons.
My stomach knots in hunger.
Clean! I feel clean. There’s nothing more sensual than
clean sheets against freshly scrubbed skin.
A male nurse helps me sit up. I survey the ward. Seems
we’re still aboard the Rescue ship. Westhause is in the bed
to my left, Yanevich to my right. Both are awake, staring into
nothing. “Where’s the Old Man?” Varese,
Diekereide, and Piniaz lie beyond the astrogator. We’re laid
out in Service pecking order.
Westhause won’t meet my gaze. He hears me, I know. But he
won’t answer.
“Steve?”
“Psych detention,” he whispers. “They brought
him out in a straitjacket. Didn’t realize it was over. Wanted
to light off the drive. Said he had to help Johnson.”
“Shit. Goddamned, shit. Wonder if I can find Marie? Maybe
she can put him back together. Shit. This fucking war.”
“Won’t find Marie. Won’t any of us see Canaan
again.”
I survey the ward. Everyone is here. Including Bradley and his
gang. How can that be? That missile got them . . . Or did it? Did Ito
get in one straight shot, when it counted?
Yanevich plunges ahead. “They have troops down on the
surface.”
What? If Canaan is lost, everything is done for. Holy shit. I
twist toward Westhause. He has family down there. There’s a
tear track on his cheek.
Something stirs beside me. Fearless rises, stretches, moves to a
new napping place atop my chest. What are the medics doing?
“At least you’ll get out, you one-eyed pirate. Whether
you want it or not. How long till we make TerVeen,
Steve?”
Yanevich gets the same hollow look Westhause has.
“We’re headed outsystem. They’ve broken through
TerVeen’s defenses, too. Hand-to-hand fighting, last we
heard. Rescue people say they’ve lost contact.”
Westhause curses softly.
“He had a girl there. Under your seat, all your stuff; I
made them bring it out.”
Down the way Rose and Throdahl revise plans for their leaves,
wherever we’re going. Second Fleet’s baseworld,
I’d guess. Laramie and Berberian trade halfhearted insults.
Fisherman is seated in the lotus position on his bed, looking more
oriental than Christian as he communes with his god. Diekereide is
telling Bradley a story we’ve heard before. Varese and Piniaz
have retreated into their sullen, solitary worlds. Kriegshauser is
curled in a fetal ball, facing the wall. They’re all here.
All but the paterfamilias.
“Shit. This fucking war.”
You cheated me, my friend, you never did come in out of the
bushes. You didn’t shed your warpaint and reveal the man
behind. Maybe now you’re so well hidden no one will see you
again. If so, goodbye. We loved you well. I wish you’d given
us the chance to understand.
This goddamned war.
That evil-mouthed Laramie is humming the “Outward
Bound.” One by one, with malign grins, the others take it
up.
What the hell? Here’s up yours, Fred Tannian.
“Hmm-hmm-de-dum . . . ”
There’s a stir in the display tank. They know a Climber
has struck. They don’t know we’re harmless now. Their
reaction seems to be a controlled panic.
Carmon goes to his broadest scale. Red and green blips swirl
everywhere.
The Old Man is grumbling at Throdahl. Must be arguing with
Command. There’s no way we can make a rendezvous at Fuel
Point. TerVeen is our only hope.
“Stand by to take hyper,” the Old Man says.
We have to jump. Have to get as close as we can. Maybe
there’s a shred of Planetary Defense umbrella left. Long
shot.
We could do a few zigzags and power down completely, go on
emergency power, and drift in, but the men aren’t up to a
norm crossing. The best we could hope for, Canzoneri says, is a
nine-day passage. Through the heat and heart of battle.
No thank you. That’s a suicide run.
Do we have enough hydrogen to jump and make adjustments in
inherent velocity when we get close? . . . Why
worry? Command may not send tugs into the crucible for a lone,
beat-up Climber they don’t want there anyway.
The Commander appears only mildly concerned. He’s started
another up cycle. Telling weak jokes. Asking Throdahl and Rose for
the addresses of those girls they’re always bragging about.
“Jump, Mr. Westhause. Maximum translation ratio.”
Oh-oh. We have company. Nuclear greetings are headed our
way.
Our chances look longer all the time. I don’t think
we’ll make it.
It’s been one hell of an interesting mission . . .
The Commander is beside me. “Go get your notes.”
“Sir?”
“Get your stuff together. Stow it in a ration case under
your seat.”
I move down to Ship’s Services, strip my hammock in
seconds. “What’s going on out there?” Bradley
asks. He doesn’t know we’ve just shot it out with a
corvette, and that a missile flight is closing in.
Kriegshauser is right behind him. “Give it to us
straight,” he pleads.
I sketch it. “It doesn’t look good. But you can
count on the Old Man.”
That seems assurance enough. The Ship’s Services people
are unshakable. Maybe they were selected for that.
I pause as I pass through Weapons. Piniaz looks grim. He forces
a smile. One hand drifts to my shoulder. “Been all right,
Lieutenant. Good luck. Just write it the way it was.”
A hell of a gesture for the little man. “I will, Ito. I
promise.”
I settle my things under the First Watch Officer’s seat.
Pity I can’t make peace with Varese, too.
“What’s happened?” I ask Fisherman. The
mausoleum silence of Ops demands a soft voice.
“Getting worse.” His screen is a-crawl with hyper
wakes. The pencil strokes characteristic of high-translation ratio
missiles spaghetti through the mess. We’re cruising the
middle of a barn-burner. Both sides have gone kill-crazy. Chung! Chung!
“What the hell is that?” Chung!
Sounds like some mischievious child-deity is hammering the hull
with a god-sized gong-beater.
“We’re hyper skipping,” Fisherman says.
“Randomed.”
I figured as much. It’s one way to rattle a
missile’s moron brain. But that doesn’t have anything
to do with the noise. Chung!
“What’s the noise?” It’s pounding the
can about ninety degrees round the circle.
“Mr. Westhause said he was having trouble with inertial
rectification.”
“That wouldn’t . . . ”
“Commander, Engineering. There’s a chunk of
water-ice bouncing around in the Six Reserve Tank. Can we have a
constant vector and acceleration while we melt and
drain?”
“Negative. We can live with the racket. But go ahead and
melt.”
“Engineering, aye.”
That was Diekereide. I haven’t seen him for a while. Have
to buy him a beer if we get out of this.
“Weapons. Gunnery status?”
“Energy all go, Commander. Got them cooled and tuned
enough for a couple shots.” We nearly lost them while dueling
with the corvette. “They won’t last, though.”
“We won’t shoot unless a Christmas present falls in
our lap.”
The Old Man has reached back and found one more reservoir of
whatever it is that makes him go. He jitters from station to
station, restless as a whore in church, almost eager for the
squeeze to get tighter. Poisonous clouds belch from his pipe. We
take turns coughing and scowling and rubbing our eyes. And grinning
at the Commander’s back when he moves on.
He’s alive. He’ll bring us through again.
That faith, the thing that the Commander so fears, resents, and
loves, helps me understand both him and Fisherman a bit better.
Fisherman has surrendered his life and soul to a universal
Ship’s Commander. He just keeps plugging while he waits for
that heavenbound ride.
The others yield only to faith in snatches, in hard times, to a
man, when they fear their own competence is insufficient.
It’s a pity the Commander can find no fit object for faith
himself.
He’s too cynical to accept any religion, and the
Admiral’s circus antics have alienated him from any demigod
role. What’s left? The Service? That’s what we were
taught all those years in Academy.
Tannian is Command’s strength and weakness. For all his
strategic genius, he can’t inspire his captains.
The gong-beating fades, but not before the plug-ups rush to a
tiny crack in our bulkhead.
The Climber is dying slowly, like a man with a nasty cancer.
A chunk of water ice. Not a completely unpleasant surprise. It
means a little extra energy, a little extra mobility. Or a long,
cool drink for the crew. Lord, I’m thirsty. I’ve got
nothing left to sweat.
“Stand by, Weapons. We have a possible Target One.
Designation vectors coming down now.”
What the hell?
One especially intense streak stands out on Fisherman’s
screen. That the one? Only an advanced tactical computer could make
sense of that mess. The mix has grown too dense, the changes too
rapid.
We’ve drawn a lot of attention. The tank shows a lot of
green blips. Maybe Command is lending a hand.
The whole mess is probably an ad lib.
“Commander, Engineering.” That’s Diekereide
again. Where’s Varese? “I’m getting an erratic
flow through Hydrolysis. I don’t think we can process enough
hydrogen to meet your present translation demand.”
“Auxiliary?”
“On the line.”
“Reserve hydrogen?”
“Down to fifteen minutes available. We lost the main
pressure gauge sometime . . . Don’t know
how long we’ve been drawing. Had to read it
by . . . ”
“Notify me when you’re down to five minutes. Mr.
Piniaz? We’ve got a missile coming. Got to skrag
it.”
“Targeted and tracking, Commander.”
“On my mark, then.” The Commander exchanges whispers
with Westhause.
Rose says, “Commander, we’ve got another unavoidable
coming up.” He’s insanely calm. They all are.
Weird.
The walls are closing in. The tank makes some sense now, on a
local scale. Missile coming in. We’ll have to dance with it,
confuse it, take it in norm, with our energy weapons. And the delay
will let the other team lock us into a lethal groove.
Alarm. We go norm. “Now, Mr. Piniaz.”
The result is unspectacular. The missile vaporizes, but I
can’t catch its death on screen.
“Commander, Weapons. We’ve lost the graser for
good.”
This junk pile is falling apart.
The dream dance on the borders of death continues another half
hour. We knock out four pursuing missiles, lose another laser.
Westhause squanders fuel tinkering with our inherent velocity. As
always, the Commander keeps his own counsel. I haven’t the
foggiest what he’s planning. I try to lose myself in my
troubles.
A change. More excitement. I look around. Three missiles have us
zeroed. How do we duck this time? We don’t have a time margin
to fool with anymore. If we stop to take one, the others will get
us.
“Commander, Engineering.” Varese is back.
“Five minutes available hydrogen.”
“Thank you, Mr. Varese. Max power. Shunt as much into
storage as you can.”
I pan to Canaan. Getting close now. Walking distance.
“Sir?” Varese asks.
“Wait one. Mr. Westhause, proceed. Lieutenant, just give
me all the stored power you can.”
The Commander loses himself in thought. I look at the tank, at
Westhause. He’s stopped dancing. Canaan is expanding like a
child’s balloon blowing up. We’re running straight
in.
The Commander switches on shipwide comm. “Men,
this’s the last hurdle, and the last trick in our sack.
This’s been a good ship. She’s had good crews, and this
one was the best. But now she’s done. She can’t run and
she can’t fight.”
What’s this defeatist talk? The Old Man never gives
up.
“We’re going to assume a cis-lunar orbit and
separate compartments. That should satisfy the other firm. Rescue
will round us up. During our leave I’ll have you all out to
Kent for a party in the ship’s memory.”
I can smell the pines, hear the breeze in their boughs. Is Marie
really gone? Sharon . . . did you bring your
Climber through, honey? At least a dozen were lost against that
convoy . . .
The crew answer the Old Man with silence. It’s the most
compelling stillness I’ve ever experienced.
What’s to say? Name another option.
“Men, we made history. I’m proud to have served with
you.” For the first time ever, the Old Man sits down while he
has the conn.
He’s done. He’s shot his last round. But restless
banks of smoke still brew around him. In a weary voice, he asks,
“How long, Mr. Westhause?”
We’re making a final, brief hyper fly. Skipping in
millisecond jumps. Keeping the missiles confused.
“Two minutes thirty . . . five
seconds. Commander.”
Strange, that Westhause. Unshakable. Still as professional as
the day we boarded. Someday he’ll command a Climber with the
cool of the Old Man.
“Chief Nicastro, give us a separation countdown. Throdahl,
give Command another squirt on our intentions. Mr. Westhause will
give you the orbital data. Use Emergency Two.”
What will the missiles do when their target splits five ways?
Three missiles. Somebody is going to make it.
Give me a break, ye gods of war.
There’s a chance. Not a good one, but a chance. One small
point going our way. Those three doom-stalkers can’t be
controlled by their masters. They’re dependent on their own
dull-witted brains. Which is why we’ve stayed ahead this
long.
My stomach constricts ever more tightly. Fear. The moment of
truth is roaring toward us.
We’ve passed some barrier the enemy won’t yet
hazard. Maybe Planetary Defense has maintained a tight death pocket
round TerVeen. Only those three killer imbeciles continue dogging
our trail.
On camera. There’s TerVeen. Battered all to hell, but
still in business, a spider spinning webs of fire.
The Climber zigzags. Westhause and Varese exchange curses. Final
seconds before orbit.
I’ll say this. When you’re scared shitless
it’s hard to concentrate on anything else.
Write. Keep your hands busy. Anything for a distraction.
Nicastro’s soft voice drones,
“ . . . nine . . . eight . . . seven . . . ”
Six-five-four-three-two-one-ZERO!
Bang!
You’re dead.
No. I’m not. Not yet.
Barrages of sound rip through the hull as the explosive bolts
go. Perfectly. God bless. Something is working right. The force
slams me from the side. Our rocket pack blasts us away from the
rest of the ship.
“We have separation and ignition on Ops and Engineering,
Commander.” How very perceptive.
Head twist. Glare at the tank. Where are those missiles?
Can’t tell. The antennae were mounted on the torus.
We’re flying blind . . .
Thrust ends. The plug-ups break it up around the Weapons
bulkhead. I feel lightheaded . . . Free-fall. No artificial
gravity.
The Commander drifts out of his seat.
The serials are continuing in the rest of the ship. Ship’s
Services will be last to separate. The din there must be murderous.
Charlie, I hope you make it. Kriegshauser, you never did get back
with that name.
“We have separation on Weapons, Commander.”
I still have one outside camera. I watch the rockets flame. Jump
the magnification. There’s the torus, wobbling, spinning,
dwindling rapidly, illuminated by the rockets. It shows silvery
patches where beams licked it.
The Climber slides out of view. A crescent of Canaan appears.
We’re tumbling toward the dawn. I hope Rescue can handle the
end-over-end.
The sun rises. It’s brilliant, majestic, as it crawls over
the curve of the world we’ve lusted after so long.
Where are those missiles?
There’s something special about a mother star
materializing from behind a daughter planet. It fills me with the
awe of creation. I feel it now, even though death bays at my heels.
This, and perhaps clouds, are the supreme arguments for the
existence of a Creator.
Time to check the torus again.
My God! A new sun! . . .
Berberian says, “The torus. First missile took the
torus.” His voice is a toad’s croak.
Well, naturally. The torus is the biggest target. It’ll be
over in seconds . . . Sighs all through the
compartment. A diminution in tension. We have a fifty-fifty chance
now.
“Hey! Torus again!” Berberian shouts.
“Goddamned second fucking missile took the torus,
too!”
“Let’s have proper reports,” the Commander
admonishes.
I could howl for joy.
And yet . . . there’s that third bird,
lagging the other two. Big black monster with my name engraved on
its teeth.
Got to get Canaan on screen. I want a world in my eyes when I
go.
What a sweet world it is. What a beautiful world. I’ve
never wanted any woman, not even Sharon, as badly as I want that
world.
“Three won’t target on the torus,” Laramie
says.
“Shut your cocksucker, will you?” Rose snarls.
Piniaz will try with his one laser, but it won’t be
enough. He’s failed twice already, hasn’t he?
Nevertheless, the Old Man has won. There will be survivors.
If Fisherman’s Devil exists, his favorite torture must be
guilt. Three more compartments out there, and me here hoping the
hammer falls on one of them. Part of me is utterly without
shame.
A flash brightens my screen. “Gone.” I stammer
getting the word out.
“Who?” a voice demands.
“Berberian? Throdahl?” the Commander asks.
Seconds pass. I scribble frantically, then wait, pencil poised.
Throdahl says, “Commander, I can’t get a response from
Ship’s Services.”
“Ah, Charlie. Shit.”
“That’s it, men,” the Commander says.
“Secure. Mr. Yanevich, take charge.” He pauses to knock
ashes from his pipe. “Emergency watch bill.”
Kriegshauser. Vossbrink. Charlie Bradley. Light. Shingledecker.
Tahtaburun. All gone? No. Some were in Engineering.
Poor Charlie. He had a future. Crapped out first patrol. Welcome
to the Climbers, kid.
I’ll mourn him. I liked him.
Wonder if Kriegshauser made it. He hated being away from his
little galley.
Well, if he didn’t, he doesn’t have a problem
anymore. Too bad I couldn’t help him.
Look on the positive side. They didn’t hurt. They never
knew what hit them.
Nothing to do now but wait for Rescue. Wait and wonder if
we’ll ever hear their approach signal.
Going to find an empty hammock. Probably won’t sleep, but
I need a change. Need to get away.
Chatter down below. “Think they’ll throw anything
else?” That’s Carmon. “We’re sitting
ducks.”
“Don’t worry your pointy head, Patriot,”
Nicastro says. “We won’t know it when it hits
us.” The Chief refuses to believe there’s a
tomorrow.
“How long we got to wait?” Berberian asks.
“Throdahl? Anything?”
“Sorry, Chief.”
“As long as we have to, Berberian.”
Berberian says, “Thro, get on the horn and tell them to
get their asses out here.”
“I did, Berberian. What the fuck more you want?”
“Pussy. Pussy and more pussy. Whole platooons of pussy.
Just line them up and I’ll lay them down.”
I was right. Can’t sleep. I roll down through the
tangle.
The Commander is seated near Westhause, writing something. He
rises, struggles up to his cabin. Even in free-fall he finds the
climb hard work. He’s burned out. Nothing left.
You got us home, old friend. Hang on to that.
“Let’s get on it here,” the First Watch
Officer snaps. “We’re supposed to conserve
power.” His tone is relaxed, confident. The tone of a
Commander. He’s come along. “Carmon, secure the tank.
Mr. Westhause, Chief Canzoneri, lock your memory banks and close up
shop. You too, Junghaus. Berberian, Throdahl, stay warm. Might need
to help Rescue. Laramie, secure the cooler and atmosphere scrubber.
Going to get cold anyway. Give us a spritz of oxygen while
you’re at it. Chief Nicastro, secure some lights. If you
don’t have something to do, crap out.”
Men lying still use fewer calories and perspire less. The First
Watch Officer is gentling us into the starvation leg of our
journey.
“Hope to fuck they hurry,” Throdahl grumbles. He
keeps tinkering, trying to find something on the Rescue band.
“I’m hungry, thirsty, horny, and filthy. Not
necessarily in that order.”
“I’ll buy that,” Rose says.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“That you’re filthy, Thro. Right down to the
stinking core.”
The pace picks up. Laramie joins in. Berberian contributes the
occasional quip. They’re feeling better.
For me the waiting is intolerable. We’re too near
home.
Laramie moans something about he’s going to perish if he
don’t get some pussy in the next twenty-four hours.
“You’ll last,” Fisherman snarls. The men look
at him, mouths open. No. He’s not joining the game. The
cut-low session recesses. Junghaus’s shipmates aren’t
insensitive.
“At least you had water,” the usually silent
Scarlatella grumbles. I roll slightly, peer through the tangled
piping. Lubomir Scarlatella is a strange one. He’s Electronic
Technician for Chief Canzoneri. I don’t think he’s said
a hundred words all patrol. Silent, proficient, imperturbable. You
hardly notice him. Now hysteria edges his voice.
“Until it was a choice between using power to recycle it
or to heat the ship.” A sublime calm visibly overtakes
Junghaus. In a gentle voice he begins quoting scripture. Nobody
shuts him up.
I slept. I don’t believe it. Twelve hours. Might have gone
longer if Zia hadn’t wanted the hammock. Clambered down to my
old seat. Listened to the halfhearted murmur of the men. Mostly it
was speculation about what’s happened to our friends in the
other compartments.
Hour fourteen. Thro lets out a whoop. “Here they
are!”
“Here who are?” Mr. Westhause asks. He has the
watch, such as it is.
“Rescue . . . goddamned. They’re
going after Weapons. The bastards.” He slugs his console
angrily.
“Take it easy. We’ll get our turn.”
The sons of bitches!
You don’t know how selfish you can be till you’re in
a survival situation seeing someone else being saved first.
Forty-two minutes, every one spent hating and cursing
Piniaz’s cutthroats.
Now our turn. With Rescue cursing us as heartily as we cursed
Weapons. It takes them three hours to get the spin off the
compartment.
“Not going to tow us,” Throdahl announces.
“They’re going to take us out right here. Going to scab
a tube to the top hatch.”
A chung echoes through the compartment. More delicate
sounds follow it. Someone is walking around on the roof.
Yanevich waves me over, beckons Mr. Westhause.
“Let’s get up by that hatch. We’ll have to keep
order.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’ll see.”
I do. We have to threaten violence when the fresh water comes
through. Some people seem willing to kill for a drink. We’re
lucky they’re really too weak to riot.
“Take it easy!” I snap at Zia. “Drink too much
and you’ll make yourself sick.”
Yanevich says, “Throdahl, get back to the radio.
They’ll tell us when to open the hatch.”
The stench of bile assails my nostrils. Zia has puked his
stomach empty. “I told you . . . ” Never mind. He had to
learn.
“Undog the hatch,” Throdahl yells.
“They’ve got the tube on.”
Yanevich checks the telltales on our side, unlocks the hatch.
Several men surge up behind him.
A pair of Marines squat outside the hatch. “Get
back,” one says. They’re wearing combat suits.
“You don’t get out yet.” They slither in, station
themselves beside the opening.
A med team follows them. A doctor and two medical corpsmen in
white plague suits. What is this? Are we carriers of the Black
Death?
The men crowd round our visitors, touching, murmuring with the
awe of primitives. They can’t really believe they’re
saved.
Have these rescuers ever seen anything this bad? We’re
worse than a bunch of galley slaves. Unbathed for ages. Unshaved.
Clothed in moldy rags. Skin masked by scab and scale. Some men
losing hair.
Lucky the med team aren’t female. Good way to get torn
apart. These men aren’t human anymore.
In a few months the process of degeneration will begin anew,
aboard a new Climber. But I won’t be going out. Thank god.
Not again. Neither will Chief
Nicastro . . .
The Chief. “Steve. Waldo. Where’s the
Chief?”
“Nicastro?” Yanevich says. “He was
right . . . come on.”
We spread out. Not much to search. Westhause finds him
immediately. “Here. DC station. Medic!”
I find him with fingers against Nicastro’s jugular. He
shakes his head. “Medic!” I shout. “What
happened, Waldo?”
“I don’t know. Heart maybe.”
Yanevich mutters, “He was determined he wasn’t going
to make it.”
The doctor goes the whole CPR route. No good. “Nothing I
can do here,” he says. “Under normal
conditions . . . ”
“Nothing’s normal in the Climbers.”
I’m so numb I couldn’t mourn my best friend. Nothing
but low, banked coals of rage remain.
The men are leaving. The Marines are making sure they stay
civilized.
“Where’s the Old Man?” Westhause asks.
“Upstairs.” I point.
“I’ll get him,” Yanevich says. “Go
ahead.”
“Where’s Fearless? Hey! Fred!” Suddenly, that
cat is the most important thing in my universe.
The men are all out. Westhause clambers through the hatchway.
“Now you,” the doctor says.
“Can’t. Got to
find . . . ”
The Marines make short work of me.
The long tight tube leads to a receiving bay aboard the Rescue
ship. I scramble through fast. Another med team is waiting.
They’re expecting animals. A barrage of water smashes me
flat. I tumble across a cold, hard deck. Three times I get to my
feet and go after the hose man.
He has no trouble protecting himself. The bay is under full
gravity. My weary, weak muscles can’t handle it. Disgusted, I
surrender to the inevitable, let myself be driven into an immersion
bath. They don’t give me time to shed my clothing.
Takes the piss and vinegar out of you fast. I suppose
that’s why they do it.
Splashing and wailing, I struggle to the tank’s far side.
There’s no fight in me anymore. A hand comes down. I grab it.
In a moment I’m lying on the deck, panting. My shipmates gag
and gasp around me. Throdahl, in the bath, is promising murder. The
med crew don’t let him out till he changes his mind.
“Can you stand up?” My helper’s voice is
spooky. Planetary atmosphere here, and he’s wearing a mask. I
grunt an affirmative. “Get your clothes off. Sir.”
It’s a struggle, but I manage. “What about my
stuff?”
The medic scoops my rags into a basket with a little plastic
pitchfork. “You’ll get it back. If you want
it.”
“I mean my stuff from the ship. It’s
important.” This is the critical passage. My notes and
pictures could disappear without my being able to raise a
finger.
A horrible caterwauling erupts from the escape tube. An orange
Fury whirls out. Fearless is reluctant to leave home. He’s
giving a Marine all he can handle. Man, is he going to be mad
when . . . the hose man goes to work.
I’m wrong. Old Fearless is so stunned by the indignity of
it all he just goes along. He barely reacts when I drag him out of
the pool. He hasn’t the strength to don his usual mask of
aloofness.
A hand is in my face. “Drink this.” I drain a small
squeeze bottle. “Now use one of the showers.” The medic
points. “Be thorough, but don’t waste time. Your
buddies are waiting. So is breakfast.”
“Breakfast?”
“It’s morning to us, sir.”
“Come on, Fearless.” I waste little time showering.
That squeeze bottle contained an all-time purgative. There’s
little for my stomach to be rid of, but it’s making a valiant
effort.
Breakfast turns out to be lunch. They put us through four hours
of intensive decontamination before they dump us into the
ship’s hospital quarters and feed us. By then I’m so
dopey I don’t know where I am. I fall asleep with an IV in my
arm, feeling like a voodoo doll after the ceremony.
I waken much later. Pain. Gravity gnawing at my every cell. Yet
I feel healthier than I have in months. My body has been flushed of
accumulated poisons.
My stomach knots in hunger.
Clean! I feel clean. There’s nothing more sensual than
clean sheets against freshly scrubbed skin.
A male nurse helps me sit up. I survey the ward. Seems
we’re still aboard the Rescue ship. Westhause is in the bed
to my left, Yanevich to my right. Both are awake, staring into
nothing. “Where’s the Old Man?” Varese,
Diekereide, and Piniaz lie beyond the astrogator. We’re laid
out in Service pecking order.
Westhause won’t meet my gaze. He hears me, I know. But he
won’t answer.
“Steve?”
“Psych detention,” he whispers. “They brought
him out in a straitjacket. Didn’t realize it was over. Wanted
to light off the drive. Said he had to help Johnson.”
“Shit. Goddamned, shit. Wonder if I can find Marie? Maybe
she can put him back together. Shit. This fucking war.”
“Won’t find Marie. Won’t any of us see Canaan
again.”
I survey the ward. Everyone is here. Including Bradley and his
gang. How can that be? That missile got them . . . Or did it? Did Ito
get in one straight shot, when it counted?
Yanevich plunges ahead. “They have troops down on the
surface.”
What? If Canaan is lost, everything is done for. Holy shit. I
twist toward Westhause. He has family down there. There’s a
tear track on his cheek.
Something stirs beside me. Fearless rises, stretches, moves to a
new napping place atop my chest. What are the medics doing?
“At least you’ll get out, you one-eyed pirate. Whether
you want it or not. How long till we make TerVeen,
Steve?”
Yanevich gets the same hollow look Westhause has.
“We’re headed outsystem. They’ve broken through
TerVeen’s defenses, too. Hand-to-hand fighting, last we
heard. Rescue people say they’ve lost contact.”
Westhause curses softly.
“He had a girl there. Under your seat, all your stuff; I
made them bring it out.”
Down the way Rose and Throdahl revise plans for their leaves,
wherever we’re going. Second Fleet’s baseworld,
I’d guess. Laramie and Berberian trade halfhearted insults.
Fisherman is seated in the lotus position on his bed, looking more
oriental than Christian as he communes with his god. Diekereide is
telling Bradley a story we’ve heard before. Varese and Piniaz
have retreated into their sullen, solitary worlds. Kriegshauser is
curled in a fetal ball, facing the wall. They’re all here.
All but the paterfamilias.
“Shit. This fucking war.”
You cheated me, my friend, you never did come in out of the
bushes. You didn’t shed your warpaint and reveal the man
behind. Maybe now you’re so well hidden no one will see you
again. If so, goodbye. We loved you well. I wish you’d given
us the chance to understand.
This goddamned war.
That evil-mouthed Laramie is humming the “Outward
Bound.” One by one, with malign grins, the others take it
up.
What the hell? Here’s up yours, Fred Tannian.
“Hmm-hmm-de-dum . . . ”