"Very well," Brim said, shaking his head and grinning. The red-haired A'zurnian's ability to recall was absolutely prodigious. "Mr. Chairman," he said, "check us in with Planetary Center for arrival at eighty-one-B, Orange-Eight."
"Aye, Lieutenant," the Chairman answered. "Check in Planetary Center for Orange Region, District-Eight yards, Complex eighty-one-B."
planetary Center responded presently from the surface. "Fleet CL.921 cleared direct to North-eleven-E synchronous buoy, Region Orange. On arrival, continue descent to two five zero c'lenyts and decelerate to velocity two three zero zero."
"Fleet CL.921 acknowledges direct North-eleven-E arrival," Brim replied. "We are at two nine zero zero c'lenyts and two five zero zero velocity. Decelerating to velocity of two three zero zero." Then he turned to Ursis. "How do the Verticals look, Nik?" he asked.
"My readouts appear normal," the Bear replied from the corner console directly to Aram's right. "Both have been running in auto-modulation for nearly a metacycle now, but I am also prepared for switching to manual control-at any time."
"Thanks," Brim responded, bringing up the gravity pressure on both generators as he slowed the ship. "I'll hope you don't have to do anything like that."
"So will I," Ursis growled. After Defiant's disastrous encounter with lightning on her first trip off the stocks, it was clear he meant it.
Less than half a metacycle after they surged past the North-eleven-E synchronous buoy, Defiant was well within the atmosphere and measuring altitude in irals rather than c'lenyts.
Collingswood had taken her place at the commander's console directly behind Brim when Planetary Center came back on the COMM. "Fleet CL.921: descend and maintain flight level two four zero."
"Fleet CL.921 will continue descent to two four zero," Brim acknowledged. He carefully checked through the Hyperscreens for local traffic. The Center's controllers were good-but they were also brutally overworked, as was their equipment, and approaches to the great shipbuilding center were extremely busy during all watches. Disastrous collisions had occurred despite everything, and-as the saying went-it took only one of those to ruin your whole day.
"Probably it's time to call the hands to stations, Number One," he said over his shoulder to Calhoun, who sat beside Collingswood's position in the second row of consoles. "We'll be down in half a metacycle."
The older Carescrian nodded. "Mr. Chairman," he said, "I wad ca' t' all stations, if ye please."
"You are connected to the blower, Commander," the Chairman acknowledged presently.
Calhoun pulled a tiny whistle from a breast pocket and sounded a silvery note throughout the ship. "All hands t' stations for landing," he boomed. "All hands t' stations for landing, ahoy."
With a smile of satisfaction, Brim listened to alarms sounding from the decks below. In the intraship monitors, he could see people gathering at their flight stations from every quarter of the big ship. Landfall in a starship was always a busy time-often too much so.
To starboard, he followed the lights of a departing ship that crossed their path as she climbed out toward space A look assured him that Aram had seen it, too. With a grin, he let Defiant plunge Through the ship's churning gravity wake like a tram on a bad sector of roadbed. "Morning, Dora," he said to a surprised Wellington while she took her seat at the corner console next to his. Behind him, he could hear the firing crews stumbling to their positions at weapons consoles along the port bulkhead.
He concentrated for a moment on the muted thunder of the four big lateral generators and the slightly higher-pitched rumble of the Verticals. A glance past Aram showed Ursis at his systems panel with an impassive look on his face. But the Bear's eyes never strayed from his readouts-especially the overhead sections where two suspect Verticals were displayed.
Something was not altogether right there; Brim knew it in his gut. But like his Sodeskayan friend, there was no way he could put his finger on anything specific. And Fleet repair policies ran on specifics. Otherwise, everybody would be so busy looking for things that might go wrong that they wouldn't have time to fight a war....
During the next few moments, Defiant descended into broken clouds and Brim felt the first jarring of the turbulence below.
"Ooo!" Wellington exclaimed gleefully beside him. The weapons officer seemed to love rough air.
Chuckling to himself grimly, Brim guessed she might soon get enough to last her a lifetime-maybe even a bit more, judging from all the lightning flashes in the distance ahead.
"Wonder if they'd let us deviate around to the south of that weather we're making for," he mused aloud.
"Somebody up there just asked for the same thing and they wouldn't let her do it," Aram replied. "The Orange-Eight zero one zero radial inbound."
Fleet CL.921: descend and maintain one zero thousand irals, altimeter is two nine one, and suggest now a heading of two five zero-two five zero-to join the Orange-Eight zero one zero radial inbound."
Brim frowned as he estimated the intensity of the storm ahead. It was a big one, with a lot of lightning. "Fleet CL.921," he replied, "I'm looking at a big storm cell just starboard of two five zero, My energy detector says it's pretty active, and I'd rather go around it one way or another."
"Fleet CL.921: sorry, sir. I can't take you there-District Eight has a line of takeoffs to the south. But I've had about sixty starships go through that area, and they're reporting good rides-no problems."
"Well, lady, fleet CL.921 is looking at another cell right now," Brim complained, "on the port side of that same heading, and its active, too. You've got us bracketed."
"Fleet CL.921," the Center replied in a resigned voice, "take a heading of 270-when I can, I'll turn you into the Orange-Eight beacon. It'll be about the one one zero radial."
"Fleet CL.921," Brim sent, "many thanks."
"She must be going to turn us before we get to those storm Cells," Aram observed.
"We'll want everybody down, then," Brim said over his shoulder to Calhoun.
"Aye, lad," Calhoun said. Instantly, chimes began to ring through the ship as the last duty hands raced for their seats.
"Lift augmenters at four," Brim directed.
"Lift augmenters at four," Aram replied. Noise level on the bridge increased as the Verticals spooled up to take the load.
"Atmospheric radiators out...."
Defiant shuddered as finned cooling radiators pushed out from either side of her stern like stubby wings roaring in the slipstream.
"Atmospheric radiators out and...two green lights-they're locked," Aram. reported presently.
"Fleet CL.921: proceed direct to intercept Orange-Eight beacon zero radial," the Center controller interrupted. "Cross the threshold at nine thousand altitude."
"All right," Brim replied, "Fleet CL.921 direct to Orange-Eight arrival; threshold at nine thousand and maintain altitude. Thank you, ma'am."
"Checklist: altimeters," Ursis warned from his seat beside Aram.
"Altimeters read nine one and nine two-within tolerances."
"Landing lights?"
"Check."
"The autopilot just disconnected," Aram reported as the big ship bounced and twisted through increasing turbulence.
"Check," Brim answered, glancing off to port. "Xaxtdamned glad we didn't have to go through either of those cells-look at the lightning, would you."
"Some of that ahead, too," Aram said calmly.
"Yeah," Brim said. "I thought I saw some." Outside, the clouds were closing in and the air was becoming increasingly rough. At he left, however, Wellington was still clearly having the time of her life.
"Fleet CL.921," the Center broke in, "turn ten degrees port, reduce speed to one eight zero."
"Fleet CL.921 acknowledges," Brim sent. "Crank in ten more on the lift augmenters, Aram-and start the landing checklist,"