The situation is obvious. The other firm is trying to kick hell out of Canaan and our bases. News from the larger moon is depressing. Enemy troops have reached its surface.
"Looks bad, sir," Chief Nicastro says. His face is pale, his voice a murmur. I can read his mind.
What point surviving the mission if he goes home to die in an invasion?
How are they doing, getting at Canaan itself? Seems there'd be vast areas where they could put down virtually unopposed. Where I came in, say. All they'd have to do is crack a gap in the orbital defenses.
"Ten kilometers," Berberian says.
The Commander asks the First Watch Officer, "Who do we have EVA qualified?"
"Have to check the personnel records, Commander." Yanevich slides up to the inner circle, talks to Canzoneri. "Commander? Mr. Bradley, Mr. Piniaz, Mr. Varese, Chief Nicastro, DeliaVecchia."
"Who's DellaVecchia?"
"That new Damage Control Third of Mr. Varese's."
"Who's got the most time?"
"Mr. Bradley and Chief Nicastro."
"The Chief hasn't been outside since I've known him."
"I'll go, Commander," Nicastro says. He draws a few surprised stares. The Chief volunteering?
Impossible.
"I don't want to send any more married men, Chief."
"It doesn't much matter, does it? It's over for Canaan. Might as well be me. I'm used up. Mr.
Bradley is just getting started.
The Chief and the Old Man trade stares. "All right. Keep your helmet camera going. Open the hatch, there."
"Five kilometers," Berberian says.
I smile at the Chief as he passes. "Luck."
"Thank you, sir."
I turn back to the screen. We're close now. The Commander has our maneuvering lights directed at the asteroid. Details stand out.
Big lump of nickel-iron, hollowed, with a carbuncle on its hip... The assault pod looks like it has gone through three wars. I still wonder what it's doing here.
The Commander leans over my shoulder, says, "Uhm. Strange things happen," and moseys toward Mr.
Westhause, who is maneuvering to match the asteroid's spin.
The rock keeps sliding off camera.
Chief Nicastro floats across a fifty-meter gap, lands lightly. His magnetic soles fix his feet to the asteroid. I've been evicted from my seat. The Commander himself has it. Yanevich and I watch over his shoulders.
Nicastro's voice crackles thinly. "Lander or station first, Commander?"
"Lander. See if anybody survived. Don't want you walking into a trap." The Old Man pushes a button. He's taping.
Throdahl says, "Incoming for us, Commander. Command."
"I'll take it." Yanevich scrambles to the radioman's side, watches while Throdahl scribbles. He returns, hands the message to me.
Command wants us to make a mother rendezvous at Fuel Point. In his wisdom the Admiral has declared that homecoming Climbers gather there and stay out of sight. If necessary, the mothers will carry us to Second Fleet's base.
I pass the message to the Old Man. He glances, nods.
"Any reply?" Yanevich asks.
"Later. Depends on what happens here."
He faces a split screen. On top we see the Chief from here. Underneath, we have what the Chief himself is seeing.
Nicastro circles the pod. It's in bad shape. He peeks inside. The troop bay is jammed with torn bodies. She came in hard.
"Can't tell if anybody got through it," the Commander mutters. "Coxswains would've had better luck.... Guess he has to go inside. Maybe they've been picked up already. Find an entry lock, Chief."
Nicastro locates one a few meters from the pod. "What now, Commander?" His voice is taut and shaky. .
"Go on in."
"He should have backup," I say. "We won't be able to see what's happening after he's inside."
"How are you at breathing vacuum?" Yanevich asks. His tone is hard, irritated. "We'll give you the Commander's pistol." He wears a sneer. Maybe 1 should keep my stupid mouth shut.
The Chief cycles the lock and disappears. Half the screen gets snowy, vague. The Old Man mutters imprecations upon the ship's designers. They could've given us a broader range of frequencies.
Tension builds. Five minutes. Ten. Where is the Chief? Fifteen. Why doesn't he get on the station's comm gear? Twenty minutes. They must've gotten him. Can we bluff them with our energy weapons? We can't leave him here...
"Here he is, Commander," Throdahl shouts.
"Put it over here."
Nicastro's voice croaks from a small speaker below the viewscreen. "... you read?"
"Got you, Chief. This's the Commander. Go ahead."
"Nobody home, Commander. Somebody cleaned the place out. Fuel stores zilch. Medical supplies, zip.
Ten cases of emergency rations. That's it."
I'm still recalling the inside of the pod. Almost as bad as the dropship at Turbeyville.
"Damn!" the Old Man says. "Bring what you can to the lock, Chief." He turns. "First Waich Officer.
Tell Command we can't rendezvous. Insufficient fuel." Back to Nicastro. "Any spare suits down there, Chief?"
"Negative, Commander. I can manage. Cases don't weigh much. Gravity system is off."
"Take care, Chief. Out."
Yanevich returns with a note he passes to the Commander. Command says to stand by here. The Old Man looks disgusted.
Yanevich leans forward, whispers, "We're not alone, Commander. There's a weak neutrino source two hundred thousand klicks out at two seven seven, twelve nadir. I had Berberian bounce a pulse.
Corvette. No IFF."
"Relative motion?"
"Almost zero."
"And powered down?"
"Yes sir."
Of the air, softly, the Commander demands, "Why is she hiding?" He stares at the display tank.
Nothing unusual happening there. "Chief? Can you hear me?"
No response. "Must be moving the rations," I say.
"Brilliant. Here. Sit. Tell him what's happening." He slides out, moves toward Westhause. "Put us behind this turd relative to this new bogey. No need attracting too much attention."
My gut feeling is we've been seen already.
Berberian calls down, "Commander, she's powering up."
I tell Yanevich, "Here's a guess about where the pod came from. Our boys hit a transport on its way in, then shot up the pods when the troops bailed out."
Yanevich isn't interested. His gaze is fixed on the display tank. "Fits the known facts. A Climber attack, probably."
I glance at the tank, can't tell if anything is happening.
"She's accelerating, Commander," Berberian says. "Slowly."
"Where's she headed?"
"Angling across the belt, sir. Inward. She might've been headed here, then noticed us."
"Getting any closer?"
After a pause, Berberian says, "Yes sir. CPA about eighty thousand klicks. Be a long time, though.
Looks like she's sneaking away."
By getting closer? Well, maybe. If that's what she's got to do to reach her friends.
The Commander snaps, "Mr. Yanevich, go twist Mr. Varese's neck till he gives you some accurate figures. Absolutely accurate figures, not what he wants us to believe."
Nicastro reaches the lock with the first case of rations. I explain the situation. "It'll be a long time before anything has to be decided, Chief. Up to you."
"Be less efficient, sir, but I'll bring the cases over one at a time. You'll be sure to get something if you have to haul ass."
"Right." I relay his plan to the Commander, who merely nods. He's preoccupied with the corvette.
He's worried. She isn't behaving right.
After a time, he comes to peer over my shoulder. "What's she doing?" I ask.
"Sneaking. Probably figures we're a Climber. Must guess we've seen her. She should be crawling all over us."
"Berberian thought she was headed here when she spotted us. Maybe she's hurt."
"Why didn't she yell for help and stay put?"
She hasn't yelled. Neither Fisherman nor Throdahl have detected a signal. "Maybe she's hurt bad."
"Maybe. I don't trust them." He stalks toward Westhause.