“Navathe?” asked Antonov. “What’s your assessment?”
“Any other alternative is too far-fetched, sir,” she said. “I say we do it. At the very least, Mister Pascari will get his wish.”
“Go ahead, then, before they get too emboldened.”
“Captain Navathe, one more thing, sir,” said Clarke. His fingers flew over his holographic keyboard as he typed a series of numbers and quick commands. “This is a firing pattern algorithm I designed a long time ago. Just have Navigation feed it to the computer. The pattern is even less accurate than normal, but it’ll sure as hell look impressive for the first couple seconds, until they figure it out. I recommend you fire first and accelerate afterward, so the first thing they see is the bullets coming at them.”
Once again, the weight of the decision loomed over his shoulders, a force that dwarfed the acceleration that dragged him into his g-seat. If he was wrong, at any point, people could die. Innocent contractors like Gutierrez, Mann, or Lambert, who fought hard every day to make a living. The risk of death by accident during a trip was high enough. To have pirates killing everyone aboard was the cherry on a shit-cake.
Clarke could hear the faint blare of the alarms down in the lower decks. He could imagine the fear and frustration the crew must be feeling, strapped to their seats, unable to move, reduced to waiting until the Captain deigned to tell them what was going on.
Nothing I can do about it. In a way, Clarke both envied and pitied Navathe for her position. He could almost read her lips as she ordered her bridge crew around and waited for Navigation to give her a firing solution.
If something went wrong, many would turn to Captain Navathe when it was time to assign the blame.
But at least she gets to do something, Clarke thought. To wait to live or die on others’ decisions, while tied to a g-seat he couldn’t leave without breaking every bone in his body…it was like having his mortality shoved straight to his face, every second, over and over again. Death didn’t care about heroism, cunning, or cowardice. It was a random dice throw in the uncaring cold of the universe, and when your number came, it accepted no re-rolls. Only one game per person.
Clarke himself wasn’t far removed from the crew down below. He got to have his suggestions heard, yes, but the actual fighting was in the hands of Navathe and her people. His blood boiled with the desire to be next to them, to have his destiny in his own hands, to at least have a say in the way he lived or died.
It had been that desire, in the first place, which had driven him to rise through the ranks of the Defense Fleet. And now, here it was again, burning like a beacon inside his chest. Broken Sky and the follow-up trial hadn’t been enough to extinguish it, even after all this time.
“The turrets are about to open fire,” Navathe told Clarke and Antonov, and then made a similar announcement, but more official, at the public channel that everyone aboard the ship could hear.
The floor under Clarke’s boots rattled with a soft buzz, the only proof he’d get of Navathe’s words.
He knew what that soft buzz could do to a ship—or to a man—because he’d lived it.
The buzz went on for a minute and then died. Outside the ship, Clarke imagined the turrets as they fired, circling their barrels in tight, angular movements. The algorithm he made would make the bullets fire like a spiral barreling toward the pirate ship. There was no way anyone could ever hit a thing with that pattern, but if the pirates didn’t look closely at the incoming fire, it’d look like the Beowulf had sprouted a dozen extra turrets out of nowhere.
The vibrations stopped. “We’re entering emergency acceleration. Prepare for incoming 7g.”
Clarke resisted the impulse to ask her what could they actually do to prepare. Then the engine roared to life, and the ship strained all around him while his body was shoved into his g-seat by an invisible hand whose fingers rested on Clarke’s chest, testicles, and eyeballs. He kept his jaw clenched tight. The g-seat display showed the acceleration’s numbers rise and rise as the Beowulf put everything it got into a fast retreat.
Reality diminished, engulfed by a black tunnel at the corner of Clarke’s vision.
Either I’m getting old, or I’m too out of shape, he thought. In the Defense Fleet, all the bridge officers had to remain conscious and functional at up to 10g, and received vigorous training for it.
If he lived through the cycle, Clarke swore he’d regain his old stamina.
Navathe’s voice strained through the public channel, though that may be because of the acceleration. “Navigation says the pirates veered off course for thirty seconds. Enough to make them miss our mark by twelve minutes. They’re still chasing, though, so remain on high alert,” she said.
“Excellent work, Clarke,” came Antonov’s tired voice over a private com-link between the two of them. “You just saved our mission from disaster.”
Clarke allowed himself a strained smile. The men and women around the bridge had the same half-pained, half-jubilant expressions. Many, perhaps, were thinking of their families, and the fact they’d live to see them again.
“On the other hand,” Captain Navathe went on, “we won’t have enough fuel to stop in time for a safe approach to New Angeles. We’re changing course to avoid getting shot down by planetary defenses.”
Crap. Without New Angeles, the Beowulf would lack the oryza to reach the Independent fleet hiding in deep space. Worse, they’d be stranded for God-knew how long, maybe even weeks, until a New Angelician towing ship reached them, burning fuel to match their speed, and dragged them to planetary orbit.
And during all that time, Defense Fleet Sentinel approached planet Dione and Isabella Reiner.
13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
DELAGARZA
“You’ve got the wrong guy,” said Delagarza. He looked away, like a trapped animal, for any route of escape. But he was naked and vulnerable, in a Taiga Town’s safe house, at the mercy of the old lady in front of him. He realized he was clutching at the bedsheets, like a kid protecting himself against the monsters under the bed. He hated himself for it and forced his body to relax. Naked or not, he still had his dignity. Or so he told himself. And since he still had his dignity, he also forced himself to approach the situation rationally.
Kayoko must be mistaken. All her anti-aging procedures must’ve taken a toll in her mind. He’d have to be very kind and careful in helping her realize this.
“Yes, Samuel, that’s exactly the problem,” Kayoko said. “You’re the wrong guy, and Isabella is running out of time.”
“Reiner’s kid,” Delagarza said. “If she’s alive today, she’s an adult woman. Shouldn’t she take care of herself?”
“We don’t know who she is, or where,” said Kayoko. “If we knew, we wouldn’t need Daneel Hirsen—you—to tell us.”
“You know me, Nanny,” said Sam, “we met while waiting in line. We had tea. We did business together.”
“Oh, Sam,” said Kayoko, “I have no need for lines, I’ve people to stand in them for me, and I own private transports. Our meeting wasn’t at random. Hirsen asked me to keep an eye on you, after a certain amount of time passed, in case the Quail meditation went wrong.”
“You keep mentioning that meditation deal like it’s supposed to explain things.”