The hours-long slingshot around New Angeles’ outer orbit had been covered by angry demands of surrender coming from the garrison and the inner-orbit stations, all while peppering the ship with long-distance turret and railgun fire. So far, they’d avoided damage, as the unpredictable nature of the slingshot course protected them from the patrol ships as they struggled to accelerate enough to match Beowulf’s .05c velocity. Even with the military ships powerful engines, it’d take them several hours to do so, and Beowulf only needed to survive a couple more to reach the Alcubierre point.
Beowulf had come under fire, true, but thanks to the extra distance to the planet and their mad acceleration toward freedom, those shots had missed their mark. Clarke had dared to think they could make it unscathed.
Those hopes were now dashed by the blaring alarm and the intermittent red lights enveloping the bridge.
“Return fire!” demanded Pascari.
“Do it,” said Clarke. There was little else they could do at this point. If the pilot broke course to go into evasive maneuvers, they’d run out of fuel before reaching the Alcubierre point.
Navathe activated a holo and entered the firing command. Seconds later, the ship rattled as the kickback from its turrets traveled down its structure. It was a constant buzz that seeped deep into Clarke’s bones.
They wouldn’t know if they scored a hit for about two minutes. Compared to the vast distances of military engagements, two minutes were nothing. They still felt like hours to Clarke.
“No hit,” said Navathe. “Navigation confirms the gunboat has opened fire. Hang on tight.”
Forty seconds, Clarke estimated. Due to the distance between ships, the gunboat had fired a couple seconds before Navigation picked up the heat signature.
Next to him, Julia closed her eyes and began to pray. Clarke had no idea what her religion was. He’d never asked her. He hoped her God was looking the right way and feeling charitable.
“Be brave, everyone,” said Antonov, “we’re fighting for the future of the Edge. Keep a level head and do your best—”
A bit late for that speech, Clarke thought, at the same time his personal countdown reached forty two seconds.
Several things happened at once. Holes the size of coins appeared across the bridge’s walls, ceiling, and floor. The Beowulf trembled, hard enough that the g-seat straps pushed hard against Clarke’s skin. The foam polymer of the seat kept his neck from snapping around like a whip.
The bridge’s computers snapped in a shower of sparks and died: they’d taken a hit. All the holo screens disappeared from view.
Power went off. Someone was screaming. Clarke felt the familiar sensation of zero g pulling softly at his body. In the dark, he felt as if floating deep inside the ocean, without knowing up or down.
Sparks from the destroyed computers illuminated Navathe’s immobile form, still strapped in her seat. A trail of blood floated next to her, already spiraling toward the closest hole through which the bridge’s atmosphere was siphoned.
The screaming ceased. In fact, a perfect silence engulfed the ship.
Clarke cursed as the loss of pressure triggered his suit’s internal air supply. His fingers clumsily battled against the straps, undid them, and he pushed softly away.
If power came back, and the ship accelerated again, he’d probably die.
He turned his wristband’s flashlight on and took a look around. Antonov was dead. A bullet had hit him squarely in the chest. His remains floated in opposite directions, spreading like a red cloud through the bridge.
A part of Clarke’s mind screamed. He forced that part down.
Later, he thought. Survival came first.
Pascari fought against the straps of his seat. Clarke saw the man’s lips moving furiously, probably still cursing. Pascari squinted at Clarke’s flashlight, a dumbfounded expression already settling on his face.
Julia was alive, but hurt. Something had hit her leg. Not a bullet since the leg was still attached and shaped like a leg. But shrapnel was enough to kill.
She was suffocating. Clarke kicked at the ceiling, forced his mind to see Julia’s position as down, and dove toward her as fast as he dared. He caught hold of her seat, broke his momentum, and looked under the g-seat with frantic, but practiced, movements. He took out the first aid kit, magnetized it to his suit’s arm, and took out a small aerosol bottle.
Clarke’s eyes darted up as he sprayed the sealing foam all over Julia’s leg. Her eyes were unfocused with panic and pain, but she still breathed. Her blood obscured her wound, hiding its severity, but vacuum would kill her faster. Clarke sprayed the entire bottle, until no more blood came out, and the suit’s leg was halfway covered in the brownish foam, which solidified in seconds.
Julia’s gasped for air in perfect silence. Her hands brushed against her helmet, still in panic’s throes. Clarke pushed them away.
“Easy, it’s alright,” he mouthed at her, hoping she’d read his lips.
Julia tried to undo her straps. Clarke pushed her hands away once more and set to work on treating her wound. The sealing foam also worked on the human body, but if the wound was severe, the life expectancy of the wounded was still measured in minutes.
I need to stop the bleeding, Clarke thought.
All pressure suits had a mechanism to reduce blood flow to a body part in an emergency, meant to keep a sailor from bleeding out until atmosphere was reestablished and medics could get to him.
Clarke pressed a button and a switch on Julia’s waist, and another one just above her right knee. As he worked, he had to swathe away spheres of blood that threatened to smack against his visor.
Julia tensed and howled in silent pain as her suit’s fabric compressed around her thigh. Clarke glanced with worry at the foam, hoping the suit wouldn’t tear a new leak. Otherwise, he’d need to find another med-kit, fast.
The foam held.
“It hurts, but it’ll keep you alive,” Clarke told Julia.
Unless the shock killed her.
Her body relaxed, though she was in visible agony. She asked him a question that he couldn’t hear.
“Stay here, alright?” he asked, praying she’d understand him. She was scared and hurt. He couldn’t stay by her side. The ship had lost acceleration and power, and Beowulf needed both before the SA had time to finish the job. “You’ll be fine.”
Clarke hoped he wasn’t lying to her. She shook her head, frantically, while he kicked his way to Pascari.
Clarke reached him just as the man finished unstrapping. Clarke pressed his visor against Pascari’s, and both men found face to face.
“I need your help,” Clarke said.
THEY CHECKED ON NAVATHE. Her suit had no visible leaks, and no visible wounds. All damage, if any, was internal. She could still die from a hemorrhage, and Clarke wouldn’t know it until it was too late, but it was all he could do under the circumstances.
Navathe’s eyes half-parted, and she shook weakly in her straps. Clarke shook his head at Pascari. The safest place for the Captain, at the moment, was her g-seat.
They pressed their visors together once again. Pascari’s voice came distant and distorted, like trying to hear someone through a phone line with terrible signal.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we?”
“Probably,” Clarke said. There was no point in lying to the EIF man. “But I’m still playing it out.”
Pascari nodded. “What’s the plan?” he said.
Outside, Clarke knew the gunboat was still firing at the Beowulf. Without power for damage readouts, there was no way to know if the ship was Alcubierre-capable. The only proof they had that the Drive still worked was the fact they hadn’t blown up in a huge nuclear blast.