And the western fleet was down to half its normal strength! They had no choice; they fell back on the orbital platform.
In the screens, columns of light jabbed out from the platform, spearing the Hothri cruisers.
“Hothri cruisers dead one . . . two . . . three “ the lieutenant sang. “Hothri dreadnought accelerating . . . Potemkin accelerating above its plane . . .”
A maze of red lines filled the big screen between the orbital platform and the Potemkin on the one side, and the center Hothri dreadnought on the other—but the dreadnought kept coming, kept coming . . .
“Dreadnought’s screens down!” the lieutenant shouted. “Dreadnought’s screens overloaded! Potemkin accelerating . . .”
Papa’s fists clenched the arms of his chair, sweat broke out on his brow. Potemkin was going to ram the dreadnought, and die with its enemy.
But there was no alternative. It was the only way to save the platform and, with it, the moon.
“Eastern Hothri closing moon-side of platform,” chanted a yeoman. “Porlock and Birmingham accelerating toward upper Hothri cruisers . . . Adelaide accelerating toward southern Hothri . . .”
The orbital platform spat ruby streams toward the Hothri. It was dangerous; if they missed the cricket ships, their beams could scar the moon with new craters—where domes had stood.
“Western Hothri dreadnought dead,” the lieutenant called out. “Hothri dreadnought’s a new star—and Potemkin is dead within it.”
That lieutenant would get a reaming tomorrow, Papa knew, for losing his composure enough to use such colorful language. But he couldn’t blame the man; he, too, mourned and celebrated Potemkin ‘s glorious death.
“Eastern Hothri cruisers dead from platform beams . . . one . . . two . . .” the yeoman recited. “Porlock and Birmingham closing on third cruiser . . . Porlock sustaining damage from enemy destroyers . . . Third cruiser dead . . . Enemy destroyers dead . . .”
“Center Hothri dreadnought withdrawing!” another yeoman cried in triumph.
And so it was; on the big screen, the center pulled back, sucking its cruiser-dots and destroyer-sparks with it.
“Adelaide engaging Hothri cruiser,” another yeoman announced. “Adelaide sustaining damage . . . Hothri sustaining damage . . . Hothri’s screens down . . . Adelaide’s screens down . . . Hothri cruiser dead . . . Route clear to eastern dreadnought . . .”
The right-hand screen filled with ruby light. The big screen showed the eastern platform bonded to the dreadnought by a scarlet column.
“Dreadnought’s screens loaded full,” the yeoman sang. “Dreadnought withdrawing.”
Finally, the rear admiral spoke. “Recommend do not chase,” he said. “Fleet commanders, base recommends, do not chase.”
As they might have, in the flush of victory—and been cut to pieces by the retreating Hothri cruisers.
“Admiral,” a commander said, with full formality, “the battle is ours.”
And the moon was still theirs, too, Papa knew—but the price had been heavy. Cruisers dead, one battleship annihiliated, and he’d lost count of the destroyers. Thousands of men and women gone to glory in a moment of light . . .
How many his fault? How many of his weapons had failed in battle, how many screens?
He’d know tomorrow. Maybe some, maybe none. So he put the thought aside, and let the elation of victory fill him, as he slowly stood, feeling the aches of a body overstressed with tension, and turned to leave the room.
The weights of iron started almost matching the weights ordered, and Alice relaxed, her faith in Gerta, the Head, validated.
“It’d be asking too much for the weights to match completely, wouldn’t it?” she asked Gerta on the way out of work one day.
“Too much,” Gerta agreed. “But keep track of the shortages, okay? We’ll hit them with a bill at the end of the month, and they can make it up.”
Alice decided that she liked Gerta very much. Liked her enough to bring her news of the shortages she spotted in silicon shipments, and ceramic clay, and a dozen other materials. Then, one lunchtime, Alice overheard some workers talking about a fire in the plastics-casting section, and told Gerta about that, too. Gerta tested the plastics and found some that burned very quickly and brightly. And all the shortages eased, and the incoming plastics started being tested. They developed a great resistance to heat.
So it wasn’t really a surprise when Alice stepped into Gerta’s office one morning and found her packing her personal items.
“So.” Alice’s mouth went dry. “They finally fired you, huh?”
“You could call it that.” But it was a grin Gerta turned on her. “They let me go.”
“ ‘Let you go!’ Those sanctimonious, hypocritical . . .”
“Whoa, whoa!” Gerta held up a hand. “Letting me go to Amalgamated Defense! They heard about me, and asked Industrial Munitions to send me over to clean up their procurement division.”
“Oh.” The anger abated, making Alice aware of a hollowness in her stomach. “I’ll miss you, Gerta.”
“Oh, we’ll still get together now and then.” Gerta grinned. “Because, you see—they’re giving you my job.”
Alice could only stare.
“They asked me who I could recommend,” Gerta explained. “I figured it was the least I could do.”
“But I don’t want to be a department head!” Alice wailed to Papa. “I don’t like to give orders!”
“You’ll get used to it,” Papa assured her.
“But I hate administration!”
“What do you think you’ve been doing these last two months?”
“Well . . . yes,” Alice admitted, “but that’s different. That’s a detective game, trying to catch all the shortages and profiteers.”
“Then keep playing. It’s your duty to Arista.”
Alice tossed her head impatiently. “Arista’s just a giant ball of dirt. It doesn’t care.”
“All right—it’s your duty to your brothers and sisters on the line.”
Alice was quiet. Papa paced alongside, hearing her footsteps crunch in the snow, waiting.
“You would have to bring that up, wouldn’t you?” She made it an accusation.
Papa nodded, with a cheery grin.
“All right,” she grumped. “I’ll keep playing.”
“Good woman!” He squeezed her shoulder. “Just one thing . . .”
“What’s that?”
He stopped, turning her to face him. “Don’t get caught, huh?”
She let herself drift into his eyes and said, “I’ll play by the rules, Peppy.”
“I have to what?”
“Attend a board meeting,” her secretary told her patiently. “That’s one of the disadvantages of being a department head—if the directors need information for a meeting, you have to be there to give it.”
“But they could punch it up on a screen.”
“Maybe they figure you’ll see some point they’ve missed.” The secretary shrugged. “Or maybe they just like to have their juniors waiting on them. Either way, you’ve got to go.”
Alice went with her heart in her throat, overwhelmed and feeling very much out of place. What was she, an ordinary line worker, doing in a meeting with the high and mighty? But she sat down, squared her keypad in front of her, and reminded herself that she was wearing a new suit and new hairdo.
It helped.
Of course, the presidents, the dozen vice presidents, and the chairman all outshone her in their quiet, elegant way—outshone her to the point of making her feel insignificant. Their suits must have cost six months of her pay, their styli and jewelry were gold and platinum, and their grooming must have been done by a professional just that morning—and every morning. Nonetheless, she plucked up her courage and waited.