Peters turned to look aft. There was a new star there. All the sailors were used to the stars outside, not terribly different from what they saw from the deck at night at home, for reasons probably having to do with how the zifthkakik worked. This one was different. It was much brighter, for one thing.
For another, it was distinctly green, the pure color of a “ready” LED.
“Make ready for unfriendly visitors,” boomed from the overhead, filling the ops bay, and everybody stopped and looked around in confusion.
“What the fuck?” Peters echoed, and turned to look at Tollison.
The big sailor grinned. “Yeah. Gerard and Schott and a bunch of the guys fixed the 1MC. It was supposed to be a surprise.”
“Surprised me—”
“Action stations, action stations,” came over Peters’s earbug in Chief Joshua’s voice. “All hands to action stations.” There was a pause, then the Chief went on, sounding more than a little grim. “We don’t have a drill for this, people. I want everybody in deck gear. Retarder crews report to your duty stations, launch and maintenance personnel in the aft midships hangar.” Another short pause. “Aft lookout estimates we’ve got five minutes. You can’t make it back down in deck gear by then, stay in your quarters. This is gonna be a Chinese fire drill, but let’s not make it a circle jerk, you got that? Now move move move.”
By the time he was done speaking every human in the ops bay was either at the EM quarters hatch or headed there at a dead run. Kennard had apparently slapped a key before leaving, because the speakers were blaring Highway Star. Mannix and another First Class were standing by the hatch, intercepting people as they rushed up and turning the crush into an orderly but fast series of dives through the opening. Peters and Tollison caught up to the back of the group, waiting their turn, dividing their attention between the press ahead and the star aft. Already it was notably brighter, and Peters thought to see a shape within it.
Down the corridor, shove the latch; he left the door open. Helmet and flak jacket; he was already wearing boondockers and earbug, the items taking the longest time to don. Down the stairs in a semicontrolled fall, dead run again, across the deck to the retarders. The star was now visibly a ship, not moving all that fast by the look of it. The green light came from some kind of emitter, off center to the left and down from his viewpoint.
I’m a high way staar… blared from the speakers as Peters got to his retarder; others were arriving, out of breath. Sailors were pounding across the bay, and the approaching ship was bigger, a rectangular block like Llapaaloapalla and the others they’d seen. It rolled so that the green light came from the bottom front, and the Master Chief said over the earbugs, “All right, everybody not within a couple steps of your stations, clear the deck. If you’re not on station, get to a bulkhead or back in your quarters. Move it, people.”
Rupert had made it; Jacks was probably all the way forward sporting with Se’en. Two had two people, and Four had Cunningham, but there was nobody on One; Bannerman gestured to his second, take over, and scrambled over to the lead console. The ship was close enough, now, to make out details. It was wider than it was high, and big, much bigger than the fighter-ships they’d seen, bigger even than the freight haulers. A row of black rectangles went across the front face, left to right, the bottom edge bisecting the short dimension. If those were reasonable-sized viewports, that made it just about small enough to fit in the bay.
“If you can hear this, everyone in aft compartments move forward, move forward,” the overhead boomed.
A gang of Grallt in blue-and-whites came pounding up. “Get these thukre out of the way,” one of them snarled. He—no, she; it was Keezer—made as if to manhandle Cunningham away from the console.
Bannerman took that in. “God damn it, we don’t need this shit. Handle it, Peters.”
“Aye, aye.” He stepped over and grabbed Keezer by the upper arm. She made to swat him with her other hand, but only caught the helmet; her face was twisted in an angry snarl.
“Stop that,” Peters told her sharply. “We are qualified operators. Don’t be crude.” The last word was an insult, more or less parallel to Russian nye kulturny.
“You don’t know what the fuck you are doing,” Keezer snarled. “If the ferassi get aboard we could all get dead.”
“Ferassi? Ferassi are people?”
“As if you didn’t fucking know,” Keezer sneered. “Now get your face-fucking selves away from the fucking consoles and let people take over.”
First things first. “Emergency all hands, emergency all hands,” the formula that put him on the all-call, “visitors are hostile. Repeat, visitors must be assumed hostile. Take cover, repeat, take cover.” Heads went up all around, and Peters told the Grallt, “Keezer, we don’t have time for this. We’re on your side. Take the lead on Number One, and tell us what settings to use.”
She held his eyes for a beat, then scurried off aft. Peters took that in with a glance, then told Rupert, “I’m gonna have to translate. Handle it.” He caught a glimpse of wild eyes and gaping mouth under the helmet, then pounded off after Keezer.
“Translator,” he gasped to Bannerman, and caught the nod before saying to Keezer, “You’re in charge. What are the settings?”
“Mass to maximum, speed to zero.”
Peters relayed that, and sailors started spinning knobs. The controls were verniers, with geared pointers for indicators; it took sixteen turns to go from max to min. “Anything else?”
“When you have both settings, push the mass knob until it clicks, hold it, and go right as far as it will go.”
Peters spoke urgently; the others started to comply. Console Four now had a pair of Grallt, and Cunningham had moved to back up Rupert. “Got it,” Peters told Keezer. “What now?”
“Now we wait to see if it works,” Keezer clipped out.
“What does that function do?”
“With a little luck it keeps them from coming into the bay.”
“Complete block?”
Snarclass="underline" “It’s supposed to be.”
“Green three-seven, can you tell us anything?” came over the earbug. “Commander Bolton wants to know if there’s anything he and the other officers should be doing.”
Green lights flashed at lower left and lower right of the stranger’s front; a thud was transmitted through the fabric of the ship. “It ain’t clear, chief, but they just shot at us.”
“I noticed that. Is anybody shooting back?”
Their attacker wasn’t getting any closer. More flashes, more thuds. “I’ll ask.”
“Do that.”
“Keezer, can we respond to their weapons?”
“No. All of Llapaaloapalla‘s weapons are directed forward.”
“Stupid design,” Peters commented. “We have a few weapons. Can we usefully contribute?”
“If you have personal weapons, get them ready in case the ferassi get aboard.”
Peters nodded. “Chief, Keezer says to start passin’ out weapons. If these guys get aboard it’s likely to be real bad news.” Flash. Thud.
Pause. “Right. All hands, all hands. If you’re near the armory, get a weapon and get to the ops bay.” Grimly: “You’re supposed to shoot the bad guys, not yourselves.” The sailors along the starboard side started rushing for the quarters hatch. “Green three-seven, can we use the planes?”
“Would the fighting-ships be useful in this situation?”
“Not likely. The ferassi can disable their breakbeams.” Keezer shook her head. “They made them in the first place.”