The Final Battle hw-5 Page 14

  “So if you wanted to fill this cargo bay with oxygen, you could do that?”

  “So many questions. I hope you’ll tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Mister Helfort.”

  “Sorry, chief, I will. Just bear with me.”

  Marty sighed and shook his head. “Let me think … not completely, but near enough. The only problem is that you’d have a huge-” The chief engineer stopped as realization dawned. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “Leave it to me. I think I need to do a few calculations.”

  Shinoda came over to where Michael stood. “We’ve missed something, sir. Kalkuz. He’s no fool. Asking him about the backup protocols would have told him that Horda helped us.”

  “Damn,” Michael said. “I didn’t think … and if DocSec get their hands on Kalkuz-and they will-Horda’s as good as dead.”

  “Along with the rest of the crew.”

  Michael nodded. He felt sick. “No need to ask what I have to do.”

  “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “My fault. I should have thought things through before I got you to talk to Kalkuz. Leave it to me. I need to talk to Horda.”

  Friday, June 25, 2404, UD

  Deepspace

  Horda sat and stared at the holovid screen. He looked worried; a finger tapped out his concern on the tabletop. “The Starlight is not one of your fancy warships,” he said after a while. “You do know that?”

  “Of course I do,” Michael replied; he looked equally troubled. “All I ask is that you get the best you can out of your ship.”

  “I’ll do my best, but will it be enough? I don’t believe in committing suicide.”

  “I don’t either, but we have to try. There’s too much at stake.”

  “So you keep telling me,” Horda muttered, scowling, “even though you won’t tell me exactly why you have to get back to Commitment in such a hurry.”

  Michael bit his lip in frustration. “Can you drop the Starlight where I want it or not?” he asked.

  “What if I can’t?”

  Michael stared at Horda for a long time. “If you can’t,” he said at last, “then we’re screwed and you know it, so do me a favor and answer the fucking question.”

  “Okay, okay,” Horda said, putting his hands out to pacify Michael. “Keep your hair on. Now, let me see. You want me to drop this ship not just into Commitment nearspace but here-” He stabbed a finger out at the screen. “-only 300 or so kilometers above the planet’s surface. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And you want me to do that after a 33-light-year pinchspace jump.” Horda shook his head. “The last time you pulled this stunt, you said you dropped your ships 8,000 kilometers out, not 300. And you had the benefit of military-grade AIs. The Starlight’s were built before you were even born, and even then they weren’t state of the art. Oh, yes, and the Hammers weren’t expecting visitors. They are this time.”

  “Listen,” Michael said taking a deep breath to keep a lid on his temper. “I appreciate the positive spin you’re putting on things, but can you answer the damn question? Can you put us on the drop datum, yes or no?”

  “You’re lucky because I’ve been captain of this ship for twenty-two years, and here-” Horda brought a new screen up on the holovid. “-are the results of every drop I’ve done in the last five years.”

  “Holy shit!” Michael hissed after a moment’s study. “That’s very, very impressive.”

  Horda nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said looking very pleased with himself. “Better than any of your fancy mil-spec AIs can do, and you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “You space fleet guys don’t spend more than a couple of years in a ship. Me? I’ve spent years talking to the AIs that run this ship. Oh, I know they’re not people, but they might as well be. When I first took command of the Starlight, the navigation AI had trouble dropping us into the right system. But we worked on it together, and there are the results.”

  “I’ll be damned.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I think you already are.”

  “Thanks. So you’re saying you can do it?”

  “As long as you accept that there’s no margin for error, none at all, and that we’ll all be dead if we miss the drop datum, then yes.”

  “Thank you.”

  “You remember I said that I’d miss the Starlight, that she was our home?”

  “I do.”

  “It’s not the ship I’ll miss,” Horda said, his voice soft and his eyes glittering with tears. “It’s just a whole lot of metal and plasfiber. No, it’s those damned AIs …” His voice choked up, and he stopped. “They’re like people to me, you know?” he whispered. “No, not people … my friends.”

  “What can I say?”

  “Nothing.” Horda took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I have to. You said you wanted to talk about Kalkuz?”

  “I did. Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but the man knows too much. I’m going to have to-”

  “Stop!” Horda barked. “I don’t want to know. He’s your problem. You fix it. Now go.”

  Michael left, too wracked with guilt to say another word.

  “On your feet, Mister Kalkuz,” Michael said.

  The man looked up. He must have sensed something was wrong. His hands shook. His face was a pasty gray. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Why? I’ve told you everything, I swear.”

  “Just do it.”

  “What do you want?” Kalkuz’s voice trembled. He got to his feet with obvious reluctance.

  “You’ll find out.”

  Mitchell stepped forward and pulled out his stunner. He pointed it at Kalkuz and stunshot him in the chest. Kalkuz dropped to the deck in a twitching, moaning heap. Michael stunshot him again. He stopped moving.

  “Let’s go,” Michael said. He waved Mitchell and Akuna to pick the man up.

  Dragging Kalkuz between them, the marines followed Michael. He threaded his way along corridors and down ladders until the group reached one of the midships airlocks. Shinoda was waiting for them; she opened the inner door. “Dump him in there,” she said. She looked at Michael. “Let me do this, sir.”

  Michael turned away and opened an emergency locker to pull out a skinsuit. “We’ve had that discussion,” he replied. “It’s my screwup, so I’ll fix it.”

  Shinoda put her mouth to Michael’s ear. “Fuck that,” she whispered. “I won’t let you do this on your own.” She leaned past him to pull out a second skinsuit. “And don’t argue with me … sir.”

  Michael was too demoralized to try. “Okay, okay,” he muttered. A minute later, he was suited up. “All set?”

  Shinoda nodded. “All set,” she said.

  Michael commed Horda as the two of them stepped into the airlock. The door shut behind them with a soft hiss. “We’re ready.”

  “Roger … External door interlocks released.”

  Sick to his soul, Michael started the scavenge pump. In seconds the air in the lock had turned to white mist as the pressure dropped. To Michael’s horror, Kalkuz’s eyes opened; they were wild with fear and stared up at him until anoxia closed them forever. He knew those eyes would come back to haunt him. A lifetime later, the red light over the external door turned to green. Michael froze. He could not finish what his stupidity had started.

  “Let me, sir,” Shinoda muttered. She pushed Michael aside and punched the controls to open the outer airlock.

  Shamed into action, Michael reached down to take hold of Kalkuz. Together he and Shinoda dragged the man’s awkward mass to the door.

  “On three,” Shinoda said. “Stand by … one, two, three!”

  Kalkuz’s body vanished into the gray mist of pinchspace. Michael threw up.

  Saturday, June 26, 2404, UD

  New Varanasi nearspace

  “All set?” Michael asked.

  “All set,” Captain Horda replied.

  “Let’s do it.”

  Horda nodded. Fingers flew, and he initiated the drop.
Michael’s world turned itself inside out. A moment later, the navigation plot stabilized.

  “Aha,” Captain Horda said. He pointed at the string of digits displaying the ship’s position. “Read that, spacer boy, and weep. We’ve jumped a quadrillion kilometers, give or take a few, and we’re less than a hundred klicks from the datum.”

  “Now that is very impressive,” Michael said. And he meant it. For a beat-up old mership, it was extraordinary.

  Horda shrugged. “Thank a great AI. And it helps that we’ve done the Scobie’s-to-Varanasi route more times than I can remember. I swear we know every last ripple and bump in pinchspace. Anyway, that’s enough self-congratulation. Let’s get the sob story on its way, and then we can piss off.”

  “Do it,” Michael said.

  “Varanasi Nearspace Control,” Horda said. “This is Scobie’s World mership Matrix Starlight.”

  “Matrix Starlight, Varanasi,” the voice of the duty controller said. “Go channel 42. Out.”

  “And good morning to you too,” Horda muttered as he changed channels. “Varanasi, Matrix Starlight on four-two.”

  “Matrix Starlight, we do not hold a valid flight plan for your arrival, and you have dropped outside the designated drop zone.”

  “Sorry about that, Varanasi. We have major problems with one of our pinchspace nodes.”

  “Tell that to the inspectors, Starlight. You are in breach of Varanasi nearspace navigation regulations. Reverse vector to-”

  “Negative, Varanasi.”

  “What do you mean ‘negative’, Starlight?” The controller sounded angry.

  Michael smiled. The woman should sound angry. Ships did not make a habit of refusing to do as they were told. Her instructions had the force of law, and captains who ignored them always paid heavily.

  “Regret we are unable to comply with your instructions, Varanasi,” Horda said. “Have malfunction on main engines, so cannot maneuver. Am transmitting revised flight plan to you for our transit to Commitment.”

  “Be advised, Starlight. Commitment nearspace is closed.”

  “I can’t help that. It’s the only place we can get to. If we try for anywhere else, we’re screwed.”

  “We’ll pass on the flight plan, Starlight, but I repeat: Commitment nearspace is closed, and any unauthorized incursion risks the use of deadly force.”

  “Not much choice, Varanasi. Adjusting vector for Commitment now. Wish us luck.”

  “You’ll need it, Starlight. And I’m still citing you for breaches of Varanasi navigation regulations. Varanasi Nearspace Control, out.”

  “Arrogant pricks,” Horda muttered. “Right, then,” he went on. “We’ll jump as soon as we’re on vector for Commitment. We’ll be there in nineteen hours. Make the most of them. We need to get this right.”

  “I know,” Michael replied, grim-faced. He did not need any reminders. “I’ll be down in the cargo bay if you want me.”

  • • •

  “Good luck, Michael,” Horda said. “Even after what you’ve done to me, it’s been good knowing you. I hope we can meet again someday.”

  “You and me both,” Michael replied with some feeling. “You’ve got the holovid recordings? Believe me, if those Hammer sons of bitches even think something’s not right, they’ll make you pay.”

  “Don’t worry,” Horda said. He patted a pocket in his shipsuit. “They’re safe and sound.”

  “I’m sorry about Kalkuz.”

  “Hah!” Horda snorted. “Don’t be. That bastard would have screwed us; no doubt about it.”

  “I think he would have, but I’m still sorry the way it turned out.”

  “He had other choices. Anyway, you should go. If I’m to drop you where I’m supposed to, then I need to pay attention.”

  “See you.”

  Michael made his way to his lifepod. He put his head through the hatch. “Room for one more?” he asked.

  “Not really,” Akuna said.

  “I’m coming in anyway,” Michael said. He found his seat and strapped in alongside Spassky, Akuna, and Mitchell. This is absolute fucking madness, he thought, looking at the bulky drop shells to which they were about to entrust their lives.

  He put his head back to sit out the last few minutes before they dropped. He wanted to go now. He’d had enough of the waiting, of the uncertainty, of not knowing whether Anna was still alive. He glanced at the three marines, who were anonymous behind the closed faceplates of their skinsuits, and prayed that they would all make it through.

  Then it was time.

  “Stand by,” Horda said. “In three … dropping, now!”

  In a blaze of ultraviolet radiation, the universe turned itself inside out, and Starlight emerged into normalspace. The Hammer response was immediate, a barrage of invective with a simple message: Jump back into pinchspace now or your ship will be blown to plasma. Michael ignored it. He was far more interested to know whether Horda had been able to do what he had promised.

  Relief flooded Michael’s body. Horda had done it. They were close to the drop datum.

  “Downloading updated position and vector data,” Horda said. “Stand by to launch pods … launching.”

  At that point a great deal happened in a very short span of time.

  With a series of whumps, explosive charges blasted four of Starlight’s lifepods clear of the ship, pushing them out at right angles to the ship’s track and away from the planet below, radiating preprogrammed bleats for help across all the international distress frequencies, their presence advertised by blazing double-pulsed orange strobes. There was a heart-stopping pause while Starlight’s ponderous bulk rolled into position, then more whumps to punch the two lifepods holding Michael and his marines into the ship’s wake, back the way she had come.

  Seconds later, Shinoda’s array of jury-rigged chisels sliced effortlessly through hydraulic lines, venting fluid under enormous pressure. The cargo bay’s oxygen-enriched atmosphere filled with a volatile mist that hesitated for a moment, eddying and swirling. Then it detonated. The explosion blasted the cargo door away and drove the carefully assembled piles of scrap out into space. The roiling, tumbling cloud of radar-reflective confusion engulfed the fleeing lifepods. The chaos worsened as Hammer battlesat-mounted lasers seared the Starlight’s fabric into rolling clouds of ionized plasfiber and metal. Compartment after compartment was punctured, releasing yet more ice-loaded air and debris into space.

  Deep inside the mayhem, the two lifepods trailed the Starlight as she drove on to her destruction. As one, engines burst into life and thin pillars of plasma erupted from their sterns to decelerate the pods to a safe speed for reentry.

  Michael could do nothing except ride the lifepod out of orbit and down into Commitment’s gravity well. He focused his attention on the only number that mattered: the lifepod’s speed. If they hit Commitment’s upper atmosphere too fast, the stress of reentry would tear their drop shells apart. “Come on, come on,” he urged the pod even though the small part of his brain that stayed calm told him that he had nothing to worry about.

  So intense was his focus that he missed the Hammer’s first attempts to communicate with the lifepods.

  “Matrix Starlight lifepods, Commitment, over.”

  When Horda finally deigned to answer, his response was a carefully crafted melange of bullshit, misinformation, and pathos, all underscored by a torrent of invective against the fucking bastards who had taken his beloved Starlight away from him because now the ship he loved was doomed to die. On and on he raved, the Hammer controller’s attempts to get a word in edgewise overwhelmed by the endless stream of words.

  Horda was so good, Michael did not know whether to laugh or cry. He shut off the audio feed. Enjoyable though it was, what the Hammers had to say was not important. “Okay, guys,” he said. “We’re close, and provided the Hammers don’t shoot at us”-even the Hammers wouldn’t shoot down a lifepod, would they? — “stand by to abandon ship. Final checks. Skinsuits, drop shells, inertial nav, s
urvival packs.”

  “All green, sir,” came the replies. The voices were thick with apprehension.

  The clock ran off the seconds, and the time arrived. Michael armed the emergency jettison mechanism and blew the airlock doors off. Explosive decompression turned the air inside the pod to a thick white mist. His skinsuit stiffened around his body against the hard vacuum. He hoped that Shinoda and her team were okay.

  Michael took a deep breath and threw off his safety harness; he forced himself into the airlock, his efforts to squeeze his skinsuited body through made more difficult by the drop shell strapped to his back. “See you on the other side, guys,” he said.

  He pushed himself out into space and was greeted by the awful sight of the dying Starlight. She was finished, her hull slashed and lacerated by antiship lasers. As he watched, the first of the antiballistic missiles punched deep into her carcass; its warhead exploded, blasting a massive cloud of flame and debris outward. A second missile followed, then another, and another.

  The end came fast. A missile lanced down to the Starlight’s core. An instant later, the ship shivered, then vanished, enveloped by a searing blue-white flash that consumed the entire hull and sent a sphere of incandescent gas into the void.

  And when the gas had gone, so too had the Starlight.

  Clear of the lifepod, Michael tumbled through the vacuum of space. Now all that mattered was survival. Shinoda and her marines either made it or they didn’t, and there was not a damn thing he could do to change things.

  Thanks to the hours spent in the sims, it was all very straightforward as long as he did not think too long or too often about Commitment’s unforgiving surface, which was invisible in the darkness below him. A final check confirmed that the drop shell was good to go. Michael gave the go-ahead. High-pressure gas drove reagents into containers of polymer smartfoam. Foam boiled in the vacuum. Foam expanded to fill the preformed plasfiber shell. Foam wrapped itself around Michael’s skinsuited body.

  The foam hardened, and Michael was sitting in a crash-resistant cocoon inside a heat-resistant shield. The master AI orchestrating the process fired the solid-fuel boosters to align the shell for reentry. The deceleration kicked Michael hard in the back.