As time passed, Hark discovered what a ponderous and protracted affair it was when two huge, shielded space complexes engaged each other. The tactic was rudimentary. Each ship or complex stood off, close to the limit of its fire envelope, and pounded the other. Unimaginable amounts of energy were expended on this process, both in firing on the enemy and in maintaining the shields. The loser was the first one to run out of power and drop its shields. Without shields, even something as big as the cluster could be vaporized in a matter of minutes. The moment of truth came when a complex had just enough power left to jump out of trouble. It was always possible that the enemyjiad lower power reserves, and if the side with greater reserves held firm, it would come out the winner. Wars, after all, were not won by running away. On the other hand, the decision not to jump would be fatal if the enemy proved to have more power.
The pounding went on and on. On the messdeck, the lights dimmed, the floor trembled, and among the troopers, an exhaustion set in. The battle outside was too crucial to ignore, but they were no longer the riveted spectators they had been at the start. Hark noticed that Overman Elmo was among the few who still seemed transfixed by the conflict on the screen. Hark was starting to wonder about Elmo. For the raw recruit, there had been something comforting about the overman's authority, but now that he knew more, it was starting to look as if that authority might be failing. Hark had been surprised that Elmo had needed to resort to threats of punishment in the matter of the booze issue and that it had been Dyrkin who had been the one to defuse the situation. The radiation scars on Elmo's head and neck bore testimony if not to his courage, at least to his capacity for survival. On the other hand, it was clear to a mere recruit that all was not well. Could it be as Renchett had suggested? Were Elmo's nerves really shot?
About 190 minutes into the engagement, the effects of the pounding on the messdeck became increasingly more noticeable. The lights dimmed reducing the downden to almost total darkness each time the cluster powered up to fire. The hits from the Yal ship caused more of a stagger than a tremble. The air began to smell stale and brackish.
"They're diverting power from life support to the guns and the shields." "We're running down."
On the screen, the Yal battleship fired again. This time the impact was more than just noticeable. The shock was enough to throw a couple of men off their feet. The lights went out altogether, leaving only the red emergency spots. The screen went dead. There was no mistaking the barely restrained terror in the gloom. Hark glanced toward Elmo. It was his place to take control of the situation. No control was forthcoming.
"Why don't we jump?" someone asked.
"A jump would probably kill us, the shape we're in."
Rance would have stomped this kind of talk with both feet. Elmo said nothing. Another Yal energy field slammed into the cluster. To a man, the troopers were down on the deck plates riding the shocks.
"The Yal must outpower us after everything we poured on those domes."
Still Elmo said nothing. There were three muffled explosions from somewhere deep inside the Anah 5.
"Something's burned out."
"We're dead."
To everyone's surprise, the screen came on again. The Yal ship was very close. "Why isn't it powering up?" There was no green glow in the ship's prow. "Maybe the bastards are playing with us." "Look at their shields!"
The Yal shields were a ghostly shadow of their former brilliance. The battleship began slowly to turn away. Thirteen troopers got cautiously to their feet. There was something about the way the room was lit by the screen that made it less than real. The ship was eerily quiet.
"They're breaking off the action."
"Why don't we fire?"
"We've run down. We can't power up the guns." The Yal ship was shrinking in the screen and turning faster. The turquoise glow of its impulse exhaust was clearly visible.
"That was an expensive waste of time."
"At least we didn't have to jump."
"We will eventually."
"Yeah, but first we have to lay up for a couple of standards and recharge."
Renchett dropped into a chair. "Yo, Elmo. Think you can break out the booze now? There's got to be a stand-down any minute."
"Yo, Elmo?" That was what Renchett had said. The idea of talking to an overman that way was no longer unthinkable, and in terms of general unit morale, that was bad. Worse was that Elmo merely nodded.
"Yeah, I need a drink myself." He pointed to Morish and Voda. "You can carry it."
Nobody came to bother them, and the messdeck spent the next three hundred minutes or so getting blind and forgetfully drunk. Elmo had taken the full liquor issue for twenty men-ten one-liter containers of clear spirit among thirteen of them. It was traditional to drink up the rations of the dead. Also to eat their food. Elmo had loaded down the two rookies with twenty issues of concentrates. The ship was still uncannily quiet. The lights didn't come back on again, but that didn't seem to bother anyone very much. The booze burned raw, but that didn't seem to bother anybody, either. The first thing to cause trouble was the screen. In a very short time, the troopers proved that they were not the most amiable of drunks. The first argument was over the image at which the majority of them were staring. When thecal ship had dwindled to nothing, the exterior view remained, facing away from the cluster, an empty and threateningly bleak star scape.
"Can't we get rid of that thing?"
"I don't need to look at naked infinity."
Dyrkin got to his feet. It was the privilege of the maingun to mess with the screen. "Get some women up there."
"Hell, no. What's the point of looking at women when there ain't none around? There's no use in beating it into the ground."
"We could bring out the suits."
"Give me a break."
"There don't seem to be any women anyway, and not much of anything else either."
Dyrkin was stroking the control surface, but the exterior view stubbornly remained. Finally he hit something. It was a slowly changing and wholly abstract pattern of color.
"What the hell is that supposed to be?" "Maybe it's supposed to be soothing." "Maybe it makes perfect sense to some other species."
"It's all we got." "Shee-it."
Dacker heaved an empty liquor container into the corner. It bounced hollowly and lay on its side. A tiny fault-trace robot scuttled between the twin lines of coffins. It entered the downden, hesitated by the discarded container, and then ran up the wall and across the ceiling. When it was almost over his head, Renchett pinned it with his knife, a fast underhand throw. The robot squealed, a high metallic sound, and shorted out. Renchett reached up, pulled the knife out of the composition ceiling, and the robot along with it.
"Not bad, considering the light."
"What did you do that for?"
"I hate these forsaken things and the way they scuttle about."
He put the fault tracer down and stamped on it, then he dumped its crushed body into the waste hopper. Mor- ish, in what for a rookie was a spectacular display of drunken bravado, wouldn't let it go. "How can you hate a robot? They don't do any harm."