A handful of civilians prowled the wastes, hunting dreams of yesterday. The Old Man says the same ones come out after every raid, hoping something from the past will have worked to the surface.
Poor Flying Dutchmen, trying to recapture annihilated dreams.
A billion dreams have already perished. This conflict, this furnace of doom, will consume a billion more. Maybe it feeds on them.
The carrier lurches. A track has missed its footing and we chum in a quarter-circle. Someone remarks listlessly, "We're almost there." I can't tell who. No one else cares enough to comment.
What I see over the carrier's armored flanks makes me wonder if the Old Man and I ever got out of Turbeyville. We might be Fliegende Hollandren ourselves, pursuing that infinite path through the ruins.
The Pits are another popular target. The boys upstairs can't resist. They're the taproot of Climber Command's logistics tree, the point where the strength of Canaan coalesces for transfer to the Fleet. The Pits spew men, stores, and materiel like a full-time geyser.
All they ever reclaim is leave-bound Climber people wearing the faces of concentration camp escapees.
I was planning to do an eyewitness account of the bold defenders of mankind. The plan needs revision. I haven't encountered any of those. Climber people are scared all the time. They shy at shadows. The heroes are merely holonet fabrications. All these people want is to survive their next patrol; Their lives exist only within the mission's parameters. My companions have left their pasts in storage. They look no farther ahead than coming home. And they won't talk about that, for fear of jinxing it.
We've crossed some unmarked line. There's a difference! in the air. The smells are changing. Hard to recognize them amid this jouncing...
Ah. That's the sea I smell. The sea and all the indignities; unleashed upon it since the Pits were opened. The bay out there is the touchdown cushion for returning lifter pods. Maybe; I'll be able to watch one splash in.
Now I can feel the earth tremors generated by departing lifters. They leave at ten-second intervals, 'round Canaan's! twenty-two-hour and fifty-seven-minute clock. They come in| varying sizes. Even the little ones are bigger than barns. They! are simply gift boxes packed with goodies for the Fleet.
The Commander wants me. He's leaning toward me, wearing his mocking grin. "Three klicks to go.
Think we'll make it?"
I ask if he's giving odds.
His blue eyes roll skyward. His colorless lips form a thin smile. The gentlemen of the other firm are playing with bigger firecrackers now. The flashes splatter his face, tattooing it withj light and shadow.
He looks twice his chronological age. He's losing hair inj front. His features are cragged and lined. It's hard to believef this came of the pink, plump cherub face I knew in Academy.!
The gyrations of the brown girl's tracked rack bother himj not at all. He seems to take some perverse pleasure in being! slung around.
Something is going on upstairs. It makes me nervous. The aerial show is picking up. This isn't any drill. The interceptions are taking place in the troposphere now. Choirs of ground-based weapons are testing their voices. They sing in dull crackles and booms. The carrier's roar and rumble only partially drown them.
Halos of fire brand the night.
A violin-string tautness edges Yanevich's words as he observes, "Drop coming down."
Magic words. Ensign Bradley, the other new fish, sheds his harness and stands, knuckles whitening as he grips the side of the carrier. Our Torquemada wheel-woman decides this is the moment to show us what her chariot will do. Bradley plunges toward the gap left by the removal of a defective rear loading ramp. He's so startled he doesn't yelp. Westhause and I snag fists full of jumper as he lunges past.
"Are you crazy?" Westhause demands. He sounds bewildered. I know what he's feeling. I feel that way when I watch a parachute jump. Any damn fool ought to know better than that.
"I wanted to see..."
The Commander says, "Sit down, Mr. Bradley. You don't want to see so bad you get your ass retired before you start your first mission."
"Not to mention the inconvenience," Yanevich adds. "It's too late to come up with another Ship's Services Officer."
I commiserate with Bradley. I want to see, too. "How long before the dropships arrive?"
I've seen the tapes. My seat harness feels like a straitjacket. Caught on the ground, in the open.
The enemy coming. A Navy man's nightmare.
They don't bother with my question. Only the enemy knows what he's doing. That adds to my unease.
Marines, Planetary Defense soldiers, Guardsmen, they can handle the exposure. They're trained for it. They know what to do when a raider bottoms her drop run. I don't. We don't. Navy people need windowless walls, control.panels, display tanks, in order to face their perils calmly.
Even Westhause has run out of things to say. We watch the sky and wait for that first hint of ablation glow.
Turbeyville boasted a downed dropship. It was a hundred meters of Stygian lifting body half-buried in rubble. There is a stop frame I'll carry a long time. A tableau. Steam escaping the cracked hull, colored by a vermilion dawn. Very picturesque.
That boat was pushing mach 2 when her crew lost her, yet she went in virtually intact. The real damage happened inside.
I decided to shoot some interiors. One look changed my mind. The shields and inertial fields that preserved the hull juiced its occupants. Couldn't tell they had been guys pretty much like us, only a little taller and blue, with mothlike antennae instead of ears and noses. Ulantonids, from Ulant, their name for their homeworld. "Those chaps got an early out," the Commander told me. He sounded as if he envied them.
The sight left him in a thoughtful mood. After one or two false starts, he said, "Strange things happen. Patrol before last we raised a troop transport drifting in norm. One of ours. Not a thing wrong with her. Not a soul on board, either. You never! know. Anything can happen."
"Looks like we'll get in ahead of them," Yanevich says.
I check the sky. I can't fathom the omens he's reading.
The surface batteries stop clearing their throats and begin singing in earnest. The Commander gives Yanevich a derisive glance. "Seems to be shit flying everywhere, First Officer."
"Make a liar out of me," the Lieutenant growls. He flings a ferocious scowl at the sky.
Eye-searing graser flashes illuminate the rusting bones of once-mighty buildings. In one surreal, black-and-white, line-on-line instant I see an image which captures the sterile escsnce of this war. I swing my camera up and snap the picture, but too late to nail it.
Way up there, at least three stories, balanced on an I-beam, a couple were making it. Standing up.
Holding on to nothing but each other.
The Commander saw them, too. "We're on our way."
I try to glimpse his facial response. He wears the same blank mask. "Is that a non sequitur, Commander?"
"That was Chief Holtsnider," Westhause says. How the hell does he know? He's sitting facing me.
The coupling was going on over his left shoulder. "Leading Energy Gunner. Certifiable maniac. Says a good-bye up there before every mission. A quick, slick patrol if he gets his nuts off. The same for her ship if she gets hers. She's a Second Class Fire Control Tech off Johnson's Climber." He gives me a sick grin. "You almost snapped a living legend of the Fleet."
Crew segregation by sex is an unpleasantry unique to the Climbers. I haven't been womanizing that much in integrated society, but I'm not looking forward to a period of enforced abstinence.
There's something about having somebody else cut you off that does things to your mind.
The folks back home don't hear the disadvantages. The holonets concentrate on swaggering leavetakers and glory stuff that brings in the volunteers.