Dropping a ship straight into docking approach—couldn’t do that, damn crazy woman… at Tripoint, no less, triple, unstable mass…
Computer lockdown.
Bloody hell…
Fingers were numb, on the seal of the packet Saby gave him.
Boom. Again.
Hands shook. “What is that?” he asked.
“That’s us firing. “ Saby’s voice was faint. Scared-sounding. “We fired once as we came out. Inertial-mass ordnance goes a major fraction of light, then. Whoever we’re shooting at… for him to fire upslope, ‘s too far for his missiles, even internal propulsions. He’s got to hope we run into it. Seen this before, thanks. Don’t like it.”
Patrick, Capella had said—when had she said?—This Patrick, navigator. Like her. Another one that saw in the dark. Saw them—the way he’d seen—
Once you, you know, become aware…
Colors running. Sound coming at them… weaving back and forth, through bone and brain…
Another volley.
Couldn’t get the damn ‘pack tube free. Hands trembled. Saby was beside him, trying to get herself collected. They were lying in a nest of spent nutri-packs.
Gets cold. Gets lonely. Tommy-love.
—iv—
NOTE ON THE PRESSURE-SLATE: propped up and braced against Austin’s number one monitor, in an all-too-familiar hand: I got us here. Spook rode us all the way, entrained a third ship of some kind, likely a light-armed freighter. Check screen. Sorry—Viking try was screwed, mass far exceeding brake with spook and freighter in packet.
FYI: hulk is heavy armed and will fire if we don’t provide keycard in airlock slot as usual within one hour from our crossing her perimeter, with firing in system. Always true. Now you need to know. If, arriving in her perimeter, we move any direction but toward her—she is not our friend. Maneuver or delay of approach not advisable. Patrick wants the key-card. May try to cripple, not kill. Respectfully, sir, suggest you not bet the ship on it. PS. You want Patrick’s ass, you put card in the wreck’s cargo console slot, input code HAVOC. Absolute necessity you do this or we don’t leave. Meanwhile will lay course for next point. Must offload all cargo mass to reach. Safe port—distance 7 lights. Capella.
“Bloody hell!”
He shot a look toward Capella’s station. Capella’s back was turned. The second chief navigator was busy. Austin took a swallow, forced it down, stared at the nav screen that came up on his second monitor, first-formed data.
There wasn’t any port out of Tripoint that lay at seven lights. Not Pell. Not Viking. Loaded, they couldn’t do it. Unloaded, even, it was a stretch for Corinthian.
And where, for God’s sake? What dark spot in the universe was the woman calc’ing jump for?
Meanwhile the ship was trimming up, under Beatrice’s hands, with increasing jolts of the attitude jets.
Hard jolt. Stomach heaved. He grabbed another nutri-pack from the clip, ripped the tube out, sucked down a mouthful of copper-tasting fluid as navigation data arrived suddenly on his screen, first re-make since the drop.
Never got used to notes turning up out of the dark.
Didn’t like unscheduled problems arriving out of it, either.
Three ships. Corinthian, near the Object, all right, and inbound. At distance, about 2 seconds light beyond them on their vector, Silver Dream, and at 1 second’s remove—
Sprite.
Shit. —Shit!
“Michaels!”
“Sir.”
“That’s Sprite. “
“Just saw that. Dropped in front of us. Fifteen hour climb for their missiles. We’re still all right. “
A safe port, seven lights fucking distant? Off into the dark, to some Fleet refuge their navigator kept secret until now? A place no Union or Alliance optics had ever just happened to find, when optics had made a thorough scan of the edges of space?
“Nav. Why not Viking next?”
“Wouldn’t risk it, sir, if that freighter survives. “
“Nerves, nav. Plot Viking, as an in-case.”
“Yes, sir. But if that freighter gets out of here, they’ll report. They got a good position to see where we’re working. Our cargo-site… is blown, less they and Patrick both go to hell. And, sir, the Fleet said when they sent me… there’s a place you could go. I need that little card validated, captain-sir, and I can take you there, safe and sure. But I got to have the card. So does Patrick. “
Give the bastard the card, was the thought in his mind. Second chief’s refuge at seven lights could just as well be a trap. Crew taken. Ship confiscated for military refit. Rumor held it still happened.
And Capella wanted to take them off into the dark, getting them clear of this faction of the Fleet, while the other faction, Capella’s faction, was going to reward them with some damn secret port for protecting a key-card to a hulk that, if they got out of this, a freighter now knew for what it was?
Dammittobloodyhell…
Not a chance, not a damn chance he’d heard all the truth from the second chief yet.
And the Hawkins ship?
Firing was still going on, periodic boom as ordnance left Corinthian.
Corinthian had fired at Silver Dream initially from a high-energy point. Inertial-mass cannon-balls or self-propelled nukes were equally deadly at that v. And they’d sent—were still sending, at intervals—swarms of inerts after that ship. Hindmost had the advantage in that regard.
Their inerts might equally well hit Sprite. The freighter had shed all relative v, and they were close enough to be in danger—he hadn’t seen the fire-path calc’ed, but both Sprite and Silver Dream had dropped late, beyond them.
Silver Dream had likewise dumped hard, then spent time on an instant evasive maneuver, expecting those inerts to be traveling up their backside, no question: the ship was a survivor, to be this old in the game. Two seconds off from their informational wavefront. Patrick knew where they were, no question.
But even powered missiles weren’t an option for Patrick to use, not from a retreating vector at two light-seconds remove—a single light-second or so past its target was worse luck for a starship than a light-hour: Silver Dream’s stardrive couldn’t jump short enough to close the gap, Patrick’s launch platform was negative v relative to his target, and Patrick’s only choice now was a hard realspace run up to meaningful speed, with Corinthian ordnance coming right down his path.
He had to reposition for his run in.
Meanwhile a noisy damn Hawkins freighter was flooding its stupid Sprite-Sprite-Sprite ID out into the EM ambient because Sprite didn’t have a damn cut-off.
And Sprite, carrying a Pell-origin drift?
God, it was surreal. What wasn’t Sprite hauling, that it could have reached Pell and all but over-jumped them coming back toward Viking again, until their collective mass snagged it into system-drop with them? Low-mass cargo for sure.
Marie Hawkins’ hate? Marie Hawkins’ obsession?