The enemy ship, if that’s what it was, had almost reached the corner of the room and come onto the same forward wall with our rash of smaller, metallic bumps. To the far left of the forward wall was the slate-gray raised disk that represented the Earth.
“I was about to ask you the same thing, Jack.”
“Well, maybe the ships know what to do. They are all clustering up and heading at it in a swarm. Maybe they’ll fire in automatic defense or something.”
“I’ll let you know if I figure anything else out,” I said.
Before I could tell the Alamo to break the connection, Crow added a few quick sentences. “My offer still stands, Kyle. And I’m upping the rank. I want you as a Lieutenant.”
“Very generous, Jack. But can we just get through the next hour alive, first?”
“Absolutely. Keep in touch.”
He broke the connection. I pondered the screen.
“Alamo? Can we fire weapons at the incoming enemy ship?”
“The enemy is out of range.”
“How long until it is in range?”
“Unknown.”
Bullshit, I thought.
“Alamo, if we maintain our current course, velocity and acceleration and the enemy does the same, how long do we have before we are in range?”
“Eight minutes.”
“Alamo, when I ask for predictive estimates in the future, use the current sensor data to make the calculation. Exactitude is not required.”
“Program options set.”
I smiled tightly. It was like working with an old computer, one that used a command line interface. You had to be precise in your instructions or you got errors. You had to do things in the proper order, but you could customize your interface with shortcuts. I quickly stopped congratulating myself. I had to remember I was talking to this machine, not typing on a keyboard, and it was far more advanced than anything I’d ever worked with.
“Alamo, as each minute passes until we are in range, give me a report, a countdown of minutes.”
“Enemy in range in seven minutes,” said the Alamo.
I thought of Jake, at that instant, with what was quite possibly seven minutes left to live. I thought of the day I took him out to play ball for the first time. He’d only been about four years old, and I’d bought him one of those plastic training sets with a spring-loaded red stand that popped the ball up into air. After a few swings, he had managed to hit one. He’d been very serious, very focused. When he finally hit one, his broad, toothy grin had made me smile in return. I don’t know why I thought of that particular memory at that moment, I just did.
The memory made the hope-monkey rise up in me again. I told myself I’d play a baseball game with Jake again, back home, after we won this battle somehow. I lied to myself, and I liked the lie. I didn’t really believe it, but it was a nice lie. Right then, I knew the hope-monkey had me. I was helpless in its grasp. I was hooked.
I shook my head and tried to get back to that cold, focused place in my mind. I needed to forget about the kids and any other distractions. For the next seven minutes, at least.
“Kyle?” asked Sandra, pointing to the corner and leaning as far forward as the restraining little arms would let her. “What’s that?”
A small red glint had left the big, red ship-thing. It was traveling toward us. It was no bigger than a penny, but it made my heart pound.
“Enemy in range in six minutes,” said the ship.
“Identify that new enemy contact, Alamo.”
“The contact is incoming enemy fire.”
Before it got half-way to us, another something left the big, rust-red ship.
“They are firing missiles at us, Kyle,” said Sandra. “Will you do something, please?”
“Alamo, change the color of our ship. Make it green or orange or something.”
One of the ships—one that was not on the front line, thankfully—turned a coppery orange.
Sandra sucked in her breath as the first tiny red dot made it to a ship out on the edge of our formation, at the top of the forward wall. The missile, if that’s what it was, vanished. The golden ship it had struck vanished with it. There was no doubt in my mind what had happened. Our side had taken a hit.
“Alamo, draw a predictive line to show me where the next incoming fire will hit.”
A rippling, vein-like line, crudely drawn, appeared on the wall. It was rust-red. It straightened out as we watched into a direct line that ran to the opposite side of the formation. The second missile was headed downward. It was going to hit the last ship in our line at the bottom of the wall, while the first missile had targeted a ship at the top of the wall.
“They are shooting for our farthest outlying ships,” I said. “Why?”
“So we don’t shoot the missile down?” suggested Sandra.
“That’s it,” I said nodding. “Alamo, open the ship-to-ship channel, please.”
A wave of chatter came in. I realized I would never get a word in over it. People were trying to figure out who had died. Others were talking about how to get their ships to turn tail and run, which I realized by now wasn’t going to happen. If it was possible, someone in the group would have managed to give the order by now. The ships had picked us up and brought us along for this little jaunt into space. They wanted us to command them through it. Maybe the AI was smart enough to know it wasn’t a tactical genius.
Much of this entire situation made more sense to me right then, as if I’d been hit by a bolt of clarity. Why had they chosen us for our survival skills? Because if you wanted advice on surviving, you asked an expert. These ships had weeded us out ruthlessly, looking for the tough-minded people. They had kidnapped us to help them beat this enemy.
What, thought a distant part of my brain, are they going to do with us once they no longer need us? Unbidden, the image of the centaurs I’d slaughtered to gain command of this vessel came to mind.
“Enemy in range in five minutes,” said the ship.
The forward motion of the enemy ship had stopped. Why get closer, they must have been thinking, if they were already in range? They could just shoot us all out of the sky, one by one.
“Alamo, get me a private channel with the Snapper.”
Hesitation. “Established.”
“What is it, Riggs? I don’t have much time.”
“Have you figured out what to do then?”
“No dammit. Talk to me.”
“The big bastard is shooting for our outlying ships. I think it is trying to kill ships that are off on their own, separated from the rest.”
“I can see that, talk faster.”
As we spoke, the second weapon reached its target. Another tin-colored beetle representing one of our ships vanished. Two more missiles were incoming. I figured at this rate half our number would be gone before we got into range.
“Have your ship draw a line between the incoming missile and the target ship. What I suggest is we group around the guy who is targeted. Then all our auto-defense fire might stop the incoming weapon. Just maybe, we can shoot it down.”
“That’s the best you have?” demanded Crow.
“Yes.”
“The ships won’t fly where we want them to, we’ve all tried that.”
“They won’t let you run off and hide. Maneuvering to defend one ship is a different matter.”
“How do we figure out who is targeted?”
I told him about telling the ship to color your own vessel. “The one being targeted should tell everyone else. That way, we will have the target ship’s name. The rest of us can tell our ships to move toward the targeted ship and cover them.”