Marphissa understood that. She herself could feel fear, anger, despair, but these were distant things, somehow separated from her by a barrier formed of resolve and a desire to not let down her comrades in these last moments. “Harrier is a hero ship,” Marphissa said. “You will be remembered.”
“Does Manticore have any chance?”
“We’re trying to get main propulsion going. I don’t know if we can.”
“If you can,” Steinhilber said with sudden intensity, “then go. Do not stay with us. Go. Honor Harrier’s sacrifice by continuing the fight when you have a chance to survive and to win.”
Marphissa nodded, blinking back tears. “We will, Kapitan-Leytenant Steinhilber. But if that does not happen, if Manticore and Harrier fight our last fight together, then we will die in good company. The best company.” She saluted with slow solemnity. “For the people.”
“For the people,” Steinhilber echoed, returning the salute.
That transmission over, Marphissa sat, feeling impotent in her command seat, wondering how Diaz and the specialists were doing on repairing the main propulsion controls, watching the incredibly fast movements of the nearest warships as they seemed to crawl through the immensity of space, thinking about those on Harrier who did not have even the slim hope of those aboard Manticore, and contemplating other issues that she usually tried to avoid thinking about. “Honore?”
“Yes.” Bradamont’s reply was a hushed as Marphissa’s question.
“Do you think there is something on the other side? After death, I mean. The Syndicate always said no, that all we had was here and now, and so we’d better do as we were told because if we spent this life being punished, or had it cut short for committing crimes against the state, that was all there was.”
“I don’t know for certain,” Bradamont said. “I believe there is something more. No one really knows, of course. No one has ever come back after having gone all the way.”
“What about Black Jack? He came back, didn’t he? After a hundred years?”
“Admiral Geary insists that he didn’t die,” Bradamont said, “and that he remembers nothing from his time frozen in survival sleep.”
“Would he tell us the truth? If he knew?”
Bradamont paused, frowning slightly. “I think he would. He’s said the same thing to Tanya Desjani, his wife.”
“She was a battle cruiser commander, too, right?”
“Still is,” Bradamont said. “Commanding officer of Dauntless. I don’t think even the living stars themselves could convince Admiral Geary to lie to her.” She sighed. “Popular belief in the Alliance is that Admiral Geary did die, that he was in the lights in jump space, among his ancestors, until the time was right. But if he doesn’t remember that, and there’s no way to prove or disprove, it comes down to whether or not you believe.”
Marphissa nodded. The Syndicate flotilla was almost near the crest of its turn, the remaining ships of the Midway flotilla moving fast to meet it. It felt very odd to sit here watching that happen, unable to take part, knowing that the turns being made by the other ships were so huge that the light from the images she was seeing was over two minutes old. The latest exchange of fire had already taken place, but the light seeing images from the battle was still on its way here. “Is it a good place? Among the ancestors and with those stars?”
“It’s supposed to be,” Bradamont said. “It’s supposed to be better than we can imagine. Peaceful, happy, no pain or loss.”
“Hmm. I guess if Black Jack had been there, they might have made him forget, right? When he came back? Because otherwise, what would it be like, remembering this really great place you got kicked out of to come back here and fight and struggle and hurt again?”
“There’s that,” Bradamont conceded. “How long do we have left before we find out for sure the hard way?”
Marphissa pointed to her display. “This is the time until we’re in range of the Syndicate weapons. This other one is really the number that matters. If we can’t get moving by then, twelve minutes from now, we won’t be able to accelerate fast enough to avoid being caught by the Syndicate flotilla. We’ll manage to string out the time a little until they hit us, but that’s all. A moment like this is when we’re supposed to pray, right? When we really need help?”
“Yes, and to give thanks if the help comes,” Bradamont said.
“If you know anyone to pray to, feel free. Kapitan Diaz knows how to pray, his parents taught him in secret, but I’ve never learned.” She wondered if Diaz was praying right now as he and the specialists struggled to get Manticore in motion before it was too late.
The light from the most recent engagement had finally gotten here. On her display, she watched the Midway flotilla and the Syndicate flotilla rip past each other so fast the event itself could not be seen.
Kapitan Seney had done a good job. Another Syndicate light cruiser had spun away helplessly from the enemy formation, maneuvering control lost, and two more Syndicate Hunter-Killers had been knocked out. In return, Midway’s light cruiser Osprey and Hunter-Killer Patrol had taken enough additional hits themselves that they broke away from what was now Seney’s formation, both ships staggering out of the fight, unfit for further combat until their damage could be repaired, but still able to maneuver.
She could see that Seney had begun swinging about again, looping toward the star and down to set up another intercept of the Syndicate flotilla, and realized that she had to make clear to him that the remaining ships in Kraken’s formation were his to command until further notice.
“Kapitan Seney,” Marphissa sent, “retain control of the formation and continue to hit the Syndicate flotilla. Wear them down. I will notify you when—” She had been about to say when I am able to resume command, but realized how insanely optimistic that would sound. “When the situation calls for it. Marphissa, out.”
Several more minutes crept by, Marphissa repeatedly fighting off urges to call engineering and demand updates that would only distract and delay whatever Diaz and the others were doing.
Diaz came back onto the bridge and sat down heavily. “I don’t know,” he said before Marphissa could ask. “I needed to get back up here, and I was really just watching, not contributing to the repair effort.”
“Do you think there’s a chance they’ll succeed?” Marphissa asked, surprised at how calm the question sounded.
“I have no idea, Kommodor. Neither do they. But they are trying.” He squinted at his display. “The Syndicate is still coming for us, I see. How long—? Is this figure right?” Diaz asked. “Senior watch specialist, do we have only three minutes left in which to start accelerating?”
“Kapitan,” Czilla began with obvious reluctance, “that is probably a slightly optimistic projection. I would say it is closer to only two minutes—”
Manticore lurched into motion with a sudden shock of acceleration so strong that some of it leaked past the inertial dampers, shoving everyone against their seat harnesses and making Bradamont hastily grab on to Marphissa’s seat for support.
Marphissa held a hand up toward Bradamont. “Did you pray?”
“Yes.”
“All right. I believe.”
“Kapitan?” A call came in for Diaz on the internal comms. “This is Senior Specialist Kalil. We got the main propulsion units going.”