Authors: Glen Cook
I have my magnification set at max. “How far to the damned asteroid?”
Yanevich snaps, “Berberian. Range?”
“Nine hundred thirty kilometers, sir.”
The First Watch Officer moves round behind me. “What’s the matter?”
“Something wrong.” I tap a big lump as it rolls into view. Yanevich frowns thoughtfully. The Commander joins us. I ask, “Can we bounce a low-power beam off that?”
The Old Man says, “Berberian. Shift to pulse. Chief Can-zoneri. Link with radar. I want an albedo. Mr. Westhause, dead stop if you please.” He leaves us, monkeys into the inner circle.
We’re three hundred kilometers closer before Westhause gets all weigh off. The men exchange tense glances. Fisherman asks, “What is it, sir?”
“Can’t tell for sure. Look like there’s a ship on the rock.”
The Commander joins me. He says, “Radar albedo isn’t distinct. A dead ship doesn’t show much different from a nickle-iron asteroid.” He stares into the screen. It shouts no answers. “Wish we had flares.”
Yanevich says, “If they were going to shoot, we’d have heard from them by now.”
“Maybe. Open the door.” Standing in the hatchway to Weapons, he tells me, “Roll tapes.”
A minute later Piniaz lays twenty seconds of low-wattage laser on the asteroid. “It’s a ship,” I tell Yanevich. “Not one of ours, either.”
He leans over as I reverse the tape. “Not much of one.”
It looks like an inverted china teacup, thirty to forty meters in diameter. The Commander rejoins us. He looks puzzled. “Never saw anything like it. Route it to Canzoneri. Chief! ID this bastard.”
A minute passes. Canzoneri says. “That’s an assault landing pod, Commander.”
We exchange baffled looks. An assault pod? For landing troops during a planetary invasion?
“What’s it doing here?” Yanevich murmurs. He turns to the Commander. “What’ll we do?”
The Old Man checks Fisherman’s screen and the display tank. “Throdahl. Anything from Command?”
“There’s a lot of traffic, Commander, but nothing for us.”
The Commander contacts Weapons. “Mr. Piniaz, put a hard beam into that lump. Mr. Westhause, be ready to haul ass.”
Piniaz fires a few seconds later. Glowing fragments fly. Part of the pod turns cherry, then fades. The lander doesn’t respond.
Again we exchange glances. The Old Man says, ‘Take her in easy, Mr. Westhause.”
Two hours of increasing tension. Nothing from the pod or Rescue station. We’re now twenty-five kilometers out. The pod is obviously damaged. Its underside is smashed. It came into the station hard. Canzoneri says the impact put the spin on the asteroid. But we still can’t fathom what the pod was doing out here. It’s a long way from Canaan.
Apparently the pod crew came for the same reason we did. Both sides use the other’s Rescue facilities.
Westhause says he can match the rock’s tumble. It’ll be tricky work, though, till we can anchor the Climber somehow. I ask the Commander, “Why bother? Just suit across, at least till we know if it’s worth our trouble.”
He grunts, ambles off.
I look at Yanevich, at the Commander’s back, at the First
Watch Officer again. Yanevich shows me crossed fingers. He too sees the disintegration the Old Man is holding at bay.
I’m worried about the Commander. He’s damned near the edge. He may go over if we fail here. He’s taking our failures on his own shoulders, despite the fact that the mission’s course has, largely, been beyond his control.
“Fifteen kilometers,” Berberian says.
Rose and Throdahl are exchanging speculations on the treasures the Rescue station may contain. I hear something about nurses. Throdahl frequently interrupts himself to repeat something he has overheard on his radio.
The situation is obvious. The other firm is trying to kick hell out of Canaan and our bases. News from the larger moon is depressing. Enemy troops have reached its surface.
“Looks bad, sir,” Chief Nicastro says. His face is pale, his voice a murmur. I can read his mind. What point surviving the mission if he goes home to die in an invasion?
How are they doing, getting at Canaan itself? Seems there’d be vast areas where they could put down virtually unopposed. Where I came in, say. All they’d have to do is crack a gap in the orbital defenses.
“Ten kilometers,” Berberian says.
The Commander asks the First Watch Officer, “Who do we have EVA qualified?”
“Have to check the personnel records, Commander.” Yanevich slides up to the inner circle, talks to Canzoneri. “Commander? Mr. Bradley, Mr. Piniaz, Mr. Varese, Chief Nicastro, DellaVecchia.”
“Who’s DellaVecchia?”
“That new Damage Control Third of Mr. Varese’s.”
“Who’s got the most time?”
“Mr. Bradley and Chief Nicastro.”
“The Chief hasn’t been outside since I’ve known him.”
“I’ll go, Commander,” Nicastro says. He draws a few surprised stares. The Chief volunteering? Impossible.
“I don’t want to send any more married men, Chief.”
“It doesn’t much matter, does it? It’s over for Canaan. Might as well be me. I’m used up. Mr. Bradley is just getting started.
The Chief and the Old Man trade stares. “All right. Keep your helmet camera going. Open the hatch, there.”
“Five kilometers,” Berberian says.
I smile at the Chief as he passes. “Luck.”
“Thank you, sir.”
I turn back to the screen. We’re close now. The Commander has our maneuvering lights directed at the asteroid. Details stand out.
Big lump of nickel-iron, hollowed, with a carbuncle on its hip... The assault pod looks like it has gone through three wars. I still wonder what it’s doing here.
The Commander leans over my shoulder, says, “Uhm. Strange things happen,” and moseys toward Mr. Westhause, who is maneuvering to match the asteroid’s spin.
The rock keeps sliding off camera.
Chief Nicastro floats across a fifty-meter gap, lands lightly. His magnetic soles fix his feet to the asteroid. I’ve been evicted from my seat. The Commander himself has it. Yanevich and I watch over his shoulders.
Nicastro’s voice crackles thinly. “Lander or station first, Commander?”
“Lander. See if anybody survived. Don’t want you walking into a trap.” The Old Man pushes a button. He’s taping.
Throdahl says, “Incoming for us, Commander. Command.”
“I’ll take it.” Yanevich scrambles to the radioman’s side, watches while Throdahl scribbles. He returns, hands the message to me.
Command wants us to make a mother rendezvous at Fuel Point. In his wisdom the Admiral has declared that homecoming Climbers gather there and stay out of sight. If necessary, the mothers will carry us to Second Fleet’s base.
I pass the message to the Old Man. He glances, nods.
“Any reply?” Yanevich asks.
“Later. Depends on what happens here.”
He faces a split screen. On top we see the Chief from here. Underneath, we have what the Chief himself is seeing.
Nicastro circles the pod. It’s in bad shape. He peeks inside. The troop bay is jammed with torn bodies. She came in hard.
“Can’t tell if anybody got through it,” the Commander mutters. “Coxswains would’ve had better luck.... Guess he has to go inside. Maybe they’ve been picked up already. Find an entry lock, Chief.”
Nicastro locates one a few meters from the pod. “What now, Commander?” His voice is taut and shaky..
“Go on in.”
“He should have backup,” I say. “We won’t be able to see what’s happening after he’s inside.”
“How are you at breathing vacuum?” Yanevich asks. His tone is hard, irritated. “We’ll give you the Commander’s pistol.” He wears a sneer. Maybe 1 should keep my stupid mouth shut.
The Chief cycles the lock and disappears. Half the screen gets snowy, vague. The Old Man mutters imprecations upon the ship’s designers. They could’ve given us a broader range of frequencies.
Tension builds. Five minutes. Ten. Where is the Chief? Fifteen. Why doesn’t he get on the station’s comm gear? Twenty minutes. They must’ve gotten him. Can we bluff them with our energy weapons? We can’t leave him here...
“Here he is, Commander,” Throdahl shouts.
“Put it over here.”
Nicastro’s voice croaks from a small speaker below the viewscreen. “... you read?”
“Got you, Chief. This’s the Commander. Go ahead.”
“Nobody home, Commander. Somebody cleaned the place out. Fuel stores zilch. Medical supplies, zip. Ten cases of emergency rations. That’s it.”
I’m still recalling the inside of the pod. Almost as bad as the dropship at Turbeyville.
“Damn!” the Old Man says. “Bring what you can to the lock, Chief.” He turns. “First Watch Officer. Tell Command we can’t rendezvous. Insufficient fuel.” Back to Nicastro. “Any spare suits down there, Chief?”
“Negative, Commander. I can manage. Cases don’t weigh much. Gravity system is off.”
“Take care, Chief. Out.”
Yanevich returns with a note he passes to the Commander. Command says to stand by here. The Old Man looks disgusted.
Yanevich leans forward, whispers, “We’re not alone, Commander. There’s a weak neutrino source two hundred thousand klicks out at two seven seven, twelve nadir. I had Berberian bounce a pulse. Corvette. No IFF.”
“Relative motion?”
“Almost zero.”
“And powered down?”
“Yes sir.”
Of the air, softly, the Commander demands, “Why is she hiding?” He stares at the display tank. Nothing unusual happening there. “Chief? Can you hear me?”
No response. “Must be moving the rations,” I say.
“Brilliant. Here. Sit. Tell him what’s happening.” He slides out, moves toward Westhause. “Put us behind this turd relative to this new bogey. No need attracting too much attention.”
My gut feeling is we’ve been seen already.
Berberian calls down, “Commander, she’s powering up.”
I tell Yanevich, “Here’s a guess about where the pod came from. Our boys hit a transport on its way in, then shot up the pods when the troops bailed out.”
Yanevich isn’t interested. His gaze is fixed on the display tank. “Fits the known facts. A Climber attack, probably.”
I glance at the tank, can’t tell if anything is happening.
“She’s accelerating, Commander,” Berberian says. “Slowly.”
“Where’s she headed?”
“Angling across the belt, sir. Inward. She might’ve been headed here, then noticed us.”
“Getting any closer?”
After a pause, Berberian says, “Yes sir. CPA about eighty thousand klicks. Be a long time, though. Looks like she’s sneaking away.”
By getting closer? Well, maybe. If that’s what she’s got to do to reach her friends.
The Commander snaps, “Mr. Yanevich, go twist Mr. Varese’s neck till he gives you some accurate figures. Absolutely accurate figures, not what he wants us to believe.”
Nicastro reaches the lock with the first case of rations. I explain the situation. “It’ll be a long time before anything has to be decided, Chief. Up to you.”
“Be less efficient, sir, but I’ll bring the cases over one at a time. You’ll be sure to get something if you have to haul ass.”
“Right.” I relay his plan to the Commander, who merely nods. He’s preoccupied with the corvette. He’s worried. She isn’t behaving right.
After a time, he comes to peer over my shoulder. “What’s she doing?” I ask.
“Sneaking. Probably figures we’re a Climber. Must guess we’ve seen her. She should be crawling all over us.”
“Berberian thought she was headed here when she spotted us. Maybe she’s hurt.”
“Why didn’t she yell for help and stay put?”
She hasn’t yelled. Neither Fisherman nor Throdahl have detected a signal. “Maybe she’s hurt bad.”
“Maybe. I don’t trust them.” He stalks toward Westhause.
He has his second wind. His shoulders no longer slump. His face is less sallow, more determined. He has the antsyness of a man eager to act. Were we in better shape he’d jump the corvette just to see what happened.
Next time past he says, “Eighty thousand klicks is close enough for energy weapons.” He rolls away again, reminds Mr. Westhause to keep the asteroid between us and the sneak.
Chief Nicastro appears with a second case of rations. Glancing at the compartment clock, I’m surprised to see how long he’s taken. Time is zipping.
The First Watch Officer comes through the Weapons hatch. He has a metal case in his arms, a sheet of paper in one hand. The Commander peers into the case. “Pass them around.” He snatches the tattered sheet.
Yanevich hands me a ration packet. I laugh softly.
“Something wrong with it?” the Old Man asks.
“Emergency rations! This’s better stuff than we’ve been eating for three months.” I pull the heat tab. A minute later, I peel the foil and, lo!, a steaming meal.
It’s no gourmet delight. Something like potato hash including gristly gray chopped meat, a couple of unidentifiable vegetables, and a dessert that might be chocolate cake in disguise. The frosting on the cake has melted into the hash. I polish the tray, belch. “Damn, that was good!”
Yanevich gives each man a meal, then hands me another pack. They come forty-two to a case. He sets the last aside for the Chief. To my questioning frown, he says, “That’s for your buddy.”__
Out of nowhere, out of the secret jungles of metal, comes Fearless Fred, rubbing my shins and purring. I heat his pack, thieve the cake, place the tray on the deckplates. Fred polishes his tray in less time than I did mine.
The Commander hasn’t quit staring at the sheet Yanevich brought. Now he passes it to me, heats his own ration pack.
Just a list of figures. Water, so much. Cracked hydrogen, so much. CT, fourteen minutes available Climb time...
I’ll be damned. That Varese is a classic. He swore we had no CT. And there’s twice the hydrogen he admitted was available. I look up. Through a mouthful, Yanevich says, “I twisted Diekereide, not Varese. Varese wouldn’t have admitted it.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Gets a little carried away, doesn’t he?”
“I feel better now,” the Old Man says. He tosses his tray into the empty ration case. Yanevich makes the rounds, cleaning up. We’re all doing our share of odd jobs. We have to take up the slack left by the departures of Picraux and Brown.