The ship rattled again, silently. Clarke wondered which part of it had received the barrage, this time.
“We need to restore power,” Clarke said, “make sure we’re still on course for the Alcubierre point, and input Antonov’s coordinates into the nav-computer.”
That meant going to engineering and navigation, located in opposite directions from each other, and in different decks.
“I’ll check on the engines,” said Pascari. “You know how to fly a ship?”
“Yes,” lied Clarke. He knew enough to activate the Drive and input the coordinates. It’d have to be enough.
Just as Pascari would have to be enough to restore ship’s power. If the engines had been hit, there was nothing a single man could do to fix them.
“You have the coordinates?” asked Clarke.
Pascari shook his head, rattling his visor against Clarke’s. “Antonov shared them with Julia. You’ll need to bring her.”
“She’s badly hurt,” said Clarke. “Moving her could kill her.”
“All EIF members know the risk when we sign up, Clarke,” Pascari told him. “Ask Julia. Let her decide for herself.”
Clarke hated that Pascari had a point. Without adding anything else, he kicked his way to Julia. He already knew the answer she’d give, but he asked her anyway, after warning her about the risks.
“Let’s go,” she said, her voice hanging by a thread. “We’re not dead yet. We can still fight.”
You want to be a martyr? Clarke thought with desperation. But he undid her straps and carried her broken body out of the bridge, kicking and pushing himself through the walkways of Beowulf, using his flashlight to part the darkness.
Behind him, Pascari followed, his gaze glued on Julia, but his expression hard, as if he was a statue. The man headed for an airlock that would take him to engineering.
“Good luck,” Clark said, though only he heard his own words.
The same barrage that had caught the bridge had reached navigation and killed the pilot. Clarke looked away from the carnage and focused on the computer systems. It seemed intact, but there was no way to know for sure until power came back.
If it came back.
“How are you holding up?” Clarke asked Julia, pressing his visor against hers. The distance between them reminded him of happier times, times when her half-closed eyes had meant pleasure and tiredness, instead of pain and fear.
“It fucking hurts,” Julia said. She tried to move, winced, and gave up. “Antonov’s dead, isn’t he?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“He knew the risks.”
Did he? Clarke thought. Did any of you?
The EIF branch in Jagal had never faced space combat before. They knew nothing of the threat of silent death. Nothing about how it felt to see your friends die in front of you when their suits sprang a leak. They hadn’t heard their Captain announce their point defenses had failed and that cannon-fire impact was imminent.
Now they know.
Julia’s hand grabbed his and pressed. Too weak. Clarke told himself it was their gauntlets.
“I’m scared, Joseph,” she said, a tiny confession that made his heart skip a beat. Julia wasn’t the scared type. She’d never admit to weakness.
“Don’t be,” he said. “Hold on a little longer. You’ll be fine.”
He combed his brain, looking for a solution, a magic plan that would save her. The EIF fleet was too far away, even if they made it. He’d need to find a part of the ship still pressurized and treat her there. Maybe the med-bay had tools that would let him operate without being a doctor.
Power came back on without warning. The sudden flash of light made Clarke wince and curse loudly. Communications came back on.
“We got lucky,” Pascari said, “the engines aren’t hit, I only had to reboot the generator. I’m coming to you, Clarke, it’s your turn now. How’s Julia?”
“Holding on,” Clarke said.
“Julia’s fine, Stefan,” Julia said. She strained to give her voice a strong edge, like she wasn’t hurt at all. “Focus on your duty.”
Clarke realized that, with Antonov dead and Navathe out of commission, Julia was the de facto commander of the Beowulf. And even though she was wounded, she was making an effort to regain control.
“What are you looking at?” Julia told Clarke. “Go figure out what’s going on.”
“Yes, sir,” Clarke said, automatically. He connected his wristband to the nav-computer and loaded a stream of status updates.
He was about to list Beowulf’s damaged systems, but he realized it’d be faster to say which ones still worked. “Alcubierre Drive is online, as is navigation.”
They’d have to make the trip to the Independence fleet without life-support, and with no fuel to decelerate.
“The gunboat?”
Clarke checked the computer log.
“We’re away from its kill-zone,” said Clarke, “for the time being. They had to slingshot with New Angeles’ gravity themselves to shoot us in the first place, so we have a lead now. At our current speeds…they’ll catch up with us in six hours. The Vortex is not chasing after us. It seems they’re headed straight for Dione.”
“Fuckers,” Pascari said. “They plan on beating us to the punch even if we survive.”
“How long until we can jump?” asked Julia.
“Nine hours,” said Clarke. “We lost much of our velocity during the maneuver.”
“We’ve enough fuel to accelerate past the gunboat’s six hour window?” asked Julia.
Clarke could see the direction she was about to take, and he didn’t like it one bit. “You’re hurt,” he said, “burning gs could kill you, Julia.”
“It could,” said Julia, “but the SA will. It’s just a leg, Joseph, I can take it.”
She flashed him a confident smile that both of them knew was a lie.
There was no use arguing with her. She was right. If Beowulf didn’t accelerate, hard, its pursuer would get it in range again, and the ship wouldn’t survive another round of railgun fire.
Clarke still didn’t like it.
He doubled over the holo and keyed the necessary commands. Julia floated next to him when he was done and added the coordinates where Beowulf should dissolve its energy-density ring.
“Strap in,” Clarke said, after they were done. Navigation had four g-seats, enough for the three of them.
Pascari arrived after Clarke had finished helping Julia with her straps. The two men took position at each side of her without saying another word.
“Alright,” said Julia, “let’s do it, before my courage fails. Punch it, Joseph.”
“Your courage has never been in question,” Pascari told her.
A part of Clarke hated the man for putting into words what he could only think. Clarke shook his head. Focus. His finger hovered over the controls.
An incoming transmission lit up a warning next the holo button. It was coming from the gunboat.
“Ignore them,” advised Pascari. “Don’t give them the pleasure.”
“Patch them through,” said Julia, “I want to hear the voice of the asshole that shot us. I want them to know they failed, and we’re still alive.”
Her voice cracked at the end. Clarke shot her a worried glance, but did as she asked. He, himself, wanted to see the face of the man or woman who had shot them without even a warning.
“Beowulf, you’re still there?” asked a man’s voice. There was no image, just audio. Whoever he was, he wouldn’t give Clarke the satisfaction of remembering his face. “Amazing. You EIF are like roaches, you know. At least, you made for good target practice.”