So I planned to reenter normal space on a course perpendicular to the logical one that the Khalians would take for Bethesda when they exited FTL space. Their ships would have sensors sensitive enough to pick up my light cone and I'd come in well in advance of any traces that the convoy had left. If I handled it right, they'd come after me. It's rare that the admiral's gig gets such an opportunity as this, to anticipate the enemy, to trigger a naval action that could have a tremendous effect on this everlasting war. It was too good to work out. It had to work out.
I did have several advantages in this mad scheme. The fleet was out of FTL, the enemy not yet. I needed only a moment to send my squirp of a message off to the admiral. The rest of it was up to him. The disadvantage was that I might not have the joy of seeing the fleet running up Khalian asses.
Once in FTL, I continued to check my calculations. Even if I came out right in the midst of the approaching Khalians, I could manage. I only needed two nanoseconds to transmit the message, and even Khalians need more than that to react. They hadn't yet broken the new codes.
They had to come out subspace near my reentry window. They were great ones for using gravity wells to reduce speed, and there were two suns lined up almost perfectly with Bethesda for that sort of maneuver, just far enough away to slow them down for the Bethesda landing. My risk was worth the gamble, and my confidence was bolstered by the courage of a camouflaged Hrruban.
I had the message set and ready to transmit to the Gormenghast as I entered normal space. I toggled it just as the Khalian pirate ships emerged, a couple thousand klicks off my port bow, an emergence that made my brain reel. What luck!
I was spatially above them and should be quite visible on their sensors. I flipped the Ocelot, ostensibly heading back the way I had come. I sent an open Mayday in the old code, adding some jibber I had once whipped up by recording old Earth Thai backward, and sent a panic shot from the stern plasma cannon, just in case their detectors had not spotted me. I made as much "light" as I could, wallowing my tail to broaden it, trying to pretend there were three of me. Well, trying is it.
The Ocelot is a speedy beast, speedier than I let them believe, hoping they'd mistake us for one of the larger, fully manned scouts, to make it worth their while to track and destroy me. The closer they got the faster they would be able to make a proper identification. I sent MAYDAY in several Alliance languages and again my Thai-gibber. Until they sent three of their real fast ones after me. It took them two days before their plasma bursts got close. I let them come in near enough for me to do some damage. I think I got one direct hit and a good cripple before I knew I was in their range. I hit the jettison moments before their cannon blew the Ocelot apart.
"Well, now, Mr. Hansing, how does that feel?" The solicitous voice was preternaturally loud through my audio circuits as consciousness returned. "Loud and clear," I replied with considerable relief and adjusted the volume.
I'd made it after all. Sometimes we do. After all, the fleet would have engaged the pirates, and someone was sure to search the wreckage for the vital titanium capsule that contained Mayday tapes and what was left of Lieutenant Senior Grade Bil Hansing. Brains have been known to drift a considerable time before being retrieved with no harm done.
"What've I got this time?" I asked, flicking on visual monitors.
As I half suspected, I was in the capacious maintenance bay of the fleet's mother, surrounded by other vehicles being repaired and reserviced. And camouflaged with paint. I made a startled sound.
"The very latest thing. Lieutenant."
I focused my visuals on the angular figure of Commander Davi Orbrinn, an officer well known to me. He still sported a trim black beard. His crews had put me back into commission half a dozen times. "An Ocelot Mark 19, new improved and…" Commander Orbrinn sighed deeply. "… camouflaged. But really, Mr. Hansing, can you not manage to get a shade more wear out of this one? Five years is not practical."
"Did the convoy get in all right? Did the admiral destroy the Khalians? Did anyone rescue Ghra? How long have I been out of service?"
The commander might turn up stiff but he's an affable soul.
"Yes, yes, no, and six months. The admiral insisted that you have the best. You're due back on the Gormenghast at six hundred hours."
"That's cutting it fine, Davi, but thanks for all you've done for me."
He gave a pleased grunt and waggled an admonishing finger at me. "Commander Het says they've saved something special for you for your recommission flight. Consider yourself checked out and ready to go. Duty calls!"
"What else?" I replied in a buoyant tone, happy to be able to answer, and rather hopeful that duty would send me to retrieve a certain camouflaged Hrruban.
And that was exactly what duty called for.
A Sleeping Humpty Dumpty Beauty
I don't know if we can do anything with what's left of Sleeping Beauty here," Jessup said pityingly.
"What?" Bardie Makem looked up from the Jefferson militiaman who had bled to death. She wondered why the corpsmech couldn't read its own monitors. Except that it was supposed to return any remains. Families preferred to know their relatives had been duly buried - somewhere. Even space was more acceptable than MIA. With a sigh for him, she consigned the militiaman into the organ-removal slot of the triage area.
Then she craned her head over to Jessup's gurney and caught her breath. The face inside the helmet was of a very handsome man: tri-d handsome, though the strength of mouth and chin suggested character as well as looks. She rubbed muck and char off the helmet plate. Pilot, Bonnie Parker? Headhunter troop carrier?
"You know, Bard," Nellie Jessup went on as she continued her evaluation, "I think those new pressure suits actually work. This one's managed to control his bleeding, even if the limbs are mangled. The medikit is drained dry but I'll bet that's why he's still alive. Whaddaya know! Science triumphs over slaughter!"
Moving swiftly as she noted his vital signs, Bardie Makem fed his ID into the hospital ship's main banks. They must have fixed the glitch that last Khalian missile had caused in the internal system because the terminal printed up large and clear. "O'Hara, Roger Elliott Christopher." An O'Hara? She ignored the service garbage and scrolled down to the medical data she'd need, blood type and factors, latest jabs, previous injuries - and he had a fair number - good recovery from all repair jobs.
"Another thing, the genital cap worked, too, dented but the Al's all there." "Al" being Nellie's abbreviation for "all important" when dealing with male patients. "Jeez! It's his own face," Jessup remarked, amazed, as she noticed the medical log on Roger O'Hara. "Only the one scar: gives his face a roguish look. But, Stitches, I don't think you can reassemble all the parts of him."
"What're the cerebral functions like?" Bardie reviewed the medical data.
"Not bad," Jessup said, scanning the gurney monitor. "Must be a tough mother. Left arm is hanging on by a skin flap just below the elbow, but whatever it was missed the joint. Most of the left bicep is gone and the shoulder joint, left knee crushed, thigh broken in nine places, yeah, and his left foot's off. Left side of the rib cage is smashed, sternum cracked, lung puncture. Right fingers gone, right arm…"
"Damn." Bardie, aka Stitches for her exquisite skill with the microsuturer and flesh glue-gel, grimaced with disgust at O'Hara's records. "Clearly stated that he's not a brain donor, though he did sign a permit for organ use."