"But another starship might jump in..."
"Any ships coming insystem are going to be Combine vessels, Captain...or do you want to go ahead and surrender now?"
"I'm stating options. Major." Martinez dropped her voice so low that Grayson could scarcely hear. "At this point, surrender might not be such a bad idea."
Grayson shook his head. "Plot your course. Captain. Grounding in the Azure Sea, at the coordinates Citizen Erudin gave you. I prefer to take my chances with your piloting than the Combine's mercy."
"Yes, sir."
Martinez had not called him that before. The word sounded strange on her lips.
"Captain!" The com officer looked up from his console. "Captain Martinez! I've got a distress beacon from one of the Chippewas!"
She turned from Grayson. "Damn! Where?"
"Planetward. Close in. I've got voice."
"Put it on speaker."
"Phobos! Phobos!This is Chip One!" Klein's voice was faint, distorted by the hash of static and distance. "Come in, Phobos!"
Martinez picked up a mike from her console. "Phoboshere."
"Phobos!Jeffs been hit! Home on the beacon transmission and pick us up! If you can manage rendezvous, we can save him!"
Martinez looked at Grayson, eyebrows raised, the skin taunt under the blue wing tatoos.
Grayson looked from her to the navscreen. The fighters were outbound, but slowing. In hours, Verthandi's gravity would drag them to a halt, would drag them into the long fall back. Pick-up would be possible, of course. It would take long hours more for the crippled Chippewato fall into Verthandi's atmosphere.
- But what would be happening in the meantime? The LeopardDropShip was already emerging from behind Verthandi's horizon, closer to the Chippewasman the Chippewaswere to Phobos.The Phobosmight make it past the enemy DropShip if she could maintain her present speed and course toward the planet, not decelerating until the final plunge into Vermandi's atmosphere. But the Chippewaswere on another vector, outbound. To match course and speed with them...
Grayson balanced the life of one wounded fighter pilot against the lives of all aboard the Phobos.No longer was it a question of mission. This was sheer survival. He gestured toward the microphone, and Martinez handed it to him. He took a deep breath, held the device to his lips, and spoke. "Chip One, this is Carlyle. Phoboscannot rendezvous, do you understand? We cannot make pick-up on Chip Two."
"He's dying!You can't leave us!"
"Chip One, this is an order." Grayson had not believed the words would hurt so much. He scarcely knew Klein and Sherman, but the pain was knife-sharp. "Abandon Chip Two and return to Phobos.The enemy DropShip is shaping an intercept orbit and we must meet her. Do you copy?"
"Carlyle, damn you, you can't do this to us!"
"Lieutenant Klein! There's nothing you can do for him! Return to Phobos,and take your station!"
"I'll tell youwhat you can do with your damn station! I'll see you in hell, Grayson Carlyle! In hell!"
As if to underscore her words, the Phobos'shull rang anew with the impact and thundering bellow of autocannon rounds. Somewhere, far down the curve of the DropShip's hull, a storage compartment had been breached, its atmosphere erupting explosively into vacuum.
The deltaform SL- 15s passed again. The Phobos'slasers sought and found. The drive of one stuttered and winked out at the touch of three beams sweeping across its after hull. The craft began a slow tumble into Darkness.
Now it was the Leopardbearing down, driving toward the Phobosat three Gs. LRMs struck her lower hull, rupturing a ‘Mech storage bay, smashing a starboard laser turret. The bay door blew out into space, winking off and on as it dwindled into the black. The Phobos'smissiles swarmed back along the same path. Laser beams, visible only on the bridge combat screens as lances of green and red, stabbed, probed, and struck. From somewhere, an alarm shrilled, but the sound was dull behind the babble of voices of the bridge crew. A computer voice announced pressure loss in Compartment Three.
Martinez looked up from her console. "Better take your seat, Major," she said. "We're committed, and here's where things get rough!"
Grayson strapped himself into his observer's chair. Events were beyond his control now, which gave him a moment to spare a thought for the two Chippewapilots. Could he have done anything differently? If the Phoboshad rendezvoused with Jeffrie Sherman's fighter, all of them would have died... or they would have been forced to surrender. Computer imaging showed the Leopardhuge on the main screen. A pair of now familiar delta shapes streaked past the larger form, those Slayersclosing for another run. Somewhere a voice recited range figures for a fire control station. "Nine-zero-zero, eight zero-zero, seven-zero-zero..." Was the voice a computer, or was it the unnaturally calm voice of a trained professional rising above the surge of emotions, of pain, of fear?
Surrender was unthinkable. Possibly, possibly,in a declared war with established sides, the Gray Death Legion might have considered it in hopes of being exchanged or pledged. Mercenaries aiding a rebellion on a world already conquered by the Draconis Combine was a different matter altogether. The Dracos' simplest solution would be to arrange for the entire unit to quietly vanish. Besides, these Combine forces fought under the banner of Duke Hassid Ricol, the Red Duke, mastermind of the plot that had resulted in the death of Grayson's father. How could he ever quietly surrender, knowing there was a chance to strike at Ricol, to attack him, to hurt him...Grayson's will to vengeance was not yet dead, but he'd abandoned Jeffrie Sherman to die. Where was right in all of this?
The Phobosbucked wildly. The noise of atmosphere rose outside, a distant susurration that built and surged, then built again into an overwhelming roar.
'Targets, incoming!" Someone's voice rose above the roar, sharp with new fear. "Bearing oh-five-oh, mark ten, high! He's coming in!"
As the DropShip plunged deeper into thickening atmosphere, it met this new attack with concentrated laser fire. The Slayer'smassive nose and belly armor absorbed most of the onslaught, as its own lasers sliced into the pocked and cratered target growing large in its pilot's sights.
One laser struck the Slayerfull in the cockpit, at a range too short to allow polarization of the canopy to rob the beam of more than a fraction of its strength. The fighter's cockpit turned brilliant under the beam's megajoule caress. The canopy fragmented, giving the pilot no time to scream or even comprehend before his body transformed into superheated vapor. Though the Slayerpilot was dead, his fighter bore on at three kilometers per second, a gaping scar now glowing red across its upper hull.
The impact caught the Phobos aglancing blow, but it was enough to stagger the larger ship and to lay open its fuel tanks in a ragged gash across the ship's flank. The wreckage of the dead Slayersprayed outward in a final blossoming of destructive brilliance that kicked the Phobosforward and down. The jolt sent the bridge crew reeling against consoles or lurching against the restraining straps of their harnesses as lights failed and damage alarms shrilled. The ionization shell of re-entry flickered wildly about the stricken, helpless Drop-Ship as it plunged and rolled uncontrollably toward the planet below.