We All Died at Breakaway Station (28 page)

“Commander Kreski, LPS
Pizarro
out of Rombeck,” said the image. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

“Rombeck!” Hybeck burst into a fit of uncontrolled laughter that bordered on hysteria.

“Mr. Hybeck, are you well?” Kreski asked.

“I don’t know, sir,” Hybeck managed to say between gusts of laughter. “And, sir, I don’t know how in hell I ever got anywhere near Rombeck. I was headed toward Adrianopolis.”

The image of Commander Kreski looked out of the tank and beyond Hybeck, toward Naha who stood less than a meter behind the laughter-shaken Hybeck.

“Mr. Hybeck,” Kreski said, fighting the smile that was coming onto his own face. “I suggest that you pull yourself together and get the young lady dressed. I will expect both of you to have dinner with me aboard the
Pizarro
in about an hour. I want to hear the whole story.”

“Y-yes, sir,” Hybeck said, barely controlling himself. “Yes, sir, we’ll do that.” And he turned back to Naha. “I guess we made it home, baby.”

Naha bent to gather her clothing and said, “About that contract, Hy, I hope you haven’t forgotten.”

Admiral Absolom Bracer watched the chronometer as it ticked down the final seconds. Then there were no more seconds and the time had come. Nuclear engines fired; the great ship, a wounded, weakened animal, held together by temporary repairs made at Valforth Garrison, shuddered for a moment, fought against the gravitational field of Breakaway, and then began to pick up speed, to move out of orbit, to climb starward toward the six approaching alien warships. The
Pharsalus
and the
Rudoph Cragstone
followed.

There was no doubt now. The six invaders were Jillies. Telescopes and laser-radar and scanners had determined the shapes and lines of those
ships too well for there to be any doubt in anyone’s mind. They
were
the enemy, and they had come to destroy Breakaway Station: two ships that were the Jillie equivalent of heavy battle cruisers of Terran design, four medium battle cruisers; nearly three times the fire power of the tiny human battle squadron. Yet the
Iwo Jima
and the
Pharsalus
and even the
Rudoph Cragstone
would have to delay that destruction of Breakaway Station as long as possible. Two crippled heavy battle cruisers, without even the cover of gnat-like scout ships, and a hospital ship filled with the unresurrected.

The three human starships gathered speed. Stripped atoms spewed into space behind them, a trail of superheated, superionized gas, fountains of star-stuff propelling them forward. Protecting force screens had grown up around them, effectively blocking all electromagnetic energy except for a few very narrow, constantly shifting bands used for communications and observation purposes. Energy cannons were readied. Nuclear missiles armed. Vortexes of plasma formed in magnetic shells, ready to be ejected from the starship like flaming bullets. Men and women‌—‌cripples, the walking wounded, the crews of the starships‌—‌prayed to their gods, made what peace they could with themselves and their fellow crewmen, and prepared to die in the best way they knew how.

Most of the officers and crewmen on the bridge of the
Iwo Jima
were now dressed in spacesuits‌—‌most, but not all, for, as in the case of Admiral Bracer, no one had ever thought to design a spacesuit to fit over the awkward metal cylinder that housed his artificial organs. But Bracer did not really care. Had there been a spacesuit available that he could wear, he probably would not have worn it. He saw little point in it now. If the ship’s hull were ruptured, if a Jillie energy cannon or missile or plasma torpedo came in, they would all die anyway, spacesuited or not. And if he died again, Absolom Bracer intended it to be for the last time. One memory of death was enough for any man.

…how does it look, roger?… the admiral asked.

…better than i had hoped, sir… the ship’s Organic Computer replied. …the crew’s doing its very best…

…i know, keep me posted, roger. oh, you’re in contact with the OC’s of the other ships, aren’t you?…

…of course, sir…

…how do they feel about their ships?…

…satisfied, sir, under the circumstances…

…good…

One of the astrogation crewmen was reading off a series of figures as they appeared on the mech computer’s board, figures that spoke of the distances between the three human ships and the Jillie squadron, that spoke of mass and velocity and time.

That spoke of time, time, time. Oh, how little of that we have left.

“At present acceleration, estimated time of contact, 21:41,” said the crewman.

Only four hours.

And Breakaway needs more time than that, much more time than that. How do we get it? The way we had planned, or should we try something else? Can we lure them away as easily as I had hoped? They’ll know what we’re trying to do, won’t they? They won’t do what we want them to do just because we want it. But maybe if we can make them mad…

They’ll probably stay sub-light, Bracer thought. Not much point in their going back into star drive now. They know that they can whip us without using any fancy tactics. But would it help us to go FTL? Might throw them off guard. Run in, hit them with everything we’ve got, and then run like hell away from Breakaway. They just might follow us. They just might.

…roger, how do you feel about dying…

…much as you do, sir. i don’t want to die either…

…again…

…no, sir. i like being a starship…

…i don’t want to die either, roger… Then a long pause.

…prepare for star drive, roger. alert engineering…

…star drive, sir?…

…yes…

…may i ask why, sir?…

…it’s my decision, roger. i’m the old man. you’ve pointed that out to me often, enough these past few weeks… Again a pause. …but we’re not going to run, roger. not now, not as much as i’d like to run. we’re going to fight them…

…sir, i think i’m glad of that, i mean, i didn’t want to stay and I don’t want to die, but, sir, there’s still a lot of human in me. i don’t want to run away from the jillies…

Bracer smiled to himself. …we won’t run, roger, at least not very far…

“Captain Maxel,” he said aloud.

“Yes, sir?” Maxel responded, glancing away from the command console where he was stationed.

“Prepare for star drive.”

“Sir?” Maxel sat upright, turned, a puzzled expression on his face.

“You heard me, mister,” Bracer said firmly. “Fifteen minutes from‌—‌now!”

“Engineering, rig for star drive,” the captain said quickly into the microphone of his console.

“Already rigging, sir,” engineering answered. “Orders from the OC in the admiral’s name.”

“Very good.”

Maxel was not yet confident enough of this new command to resent Bracer and roger having given orders over his head to the crew that was now his. Perhaps he was glad of it. But given time, Bracer thought, Dan would have made a damned good captain. I wish he had that time.

“Miss Cyanta,” Bracer snapped, “open a clear channel for the OC to
Pharsalus
and
Cragstone
, and leave it open for his use only.” …roger, get this… he said through the CEMEARS net. “Then relay verbally for confirmation that we‌—‌all three ships‌—‌will enter star drive at exactly 15:38:00. We will proceed toward the enemy squadron. When we are sufficiently close, we will cut pseudospeed, drop screens, and open fire with all weapons on the enemy for exactly thirty seconds. At the end of that time screens will be restored, and we will attempt to escape.
Pharsalus
and
Cragstone
are to follow the lead of the
Iwo Jima
until told otherwise. Is all that clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Bracer could not bear to look into Eday Cyanta’s eyes as she answered and as he told her, “Get to it.”

Four hours‌—‌well, that was out now. They’d meet the Jillies a hell of a lot sooner than that. A lot sooner than even the Jillies expected.

“Engineering to bridge,” said a voice from the command console.

“Maxel here. Go on.”

“Rigged for star drive, sir. Planned entry at 15:38:00.”

“Very good,” Maxel answered. “Stand by.” Then he turned to look at Bracer. “Now what, sir?”

“Prepare all weapons systems. Have weapons crews ready to commence firing on my signal. We will drop screens for thirty seconds and throw everything we’ve got at them.”

“But dropping screens, sir, isn’t that…”

“For maximum firepower,” Bracer said slowly, remembering what had happened the last time he had ordered screens dropped in a combat situation, how the Jillie missiles had risen from the barren ground of a world called UR-339-72-IY, how he had fought to escape them and the warship that had planted them, and how he had failed, and how he had died. “It’s standard tactics, Captain Maxel. It’s taught in the Academy.”

“Yes, sir,” Maxel said, with an expression on his face that Bracer could not identify. If might have been fear, or hope, or desperation, or determination. But it did not matter what it was, how Maxel felt inside. He was a good officer. He’d do what he had to do.

Ten minutes to star drive.

“Admiral,” said the communications officer,
“Pharsalus
and
Cragstone
confirm and report rigged for star drive‌—‌at 15:38:00, sir. They await further orders.”

“They’ve got all the orders I can give them now. Tell them to just follow our lead. Do what we do. Then they’ll be on their own. I don’t dare tell them anything more. Somebody might be listening.”

“Yes, sir.” Five minutes.

“Torpedo bays ready,” reported Weapons Control Officer Akin Darbi.

“Hold plasma torpedo control units for my signal.”

“Yes, sir.” Three minutes.

The computerman continued to read off speeds and distances. The Jillies grew closer.

“Miss Cyanta,” Bracer said, “get me Breakaway. Quickly.”

Moments later he was facing Commander Lasin, Breakaway’s communications officer, in the tank.

“Yes, admiral?”

“We’ve lost the transmission from Adrianopolis,” Bracer told him.

“Sorry, sir, temporary circuit failure. We’re channeling all power into…”

“Forget it,” Bracer interrupted. “Just tell me what’s happening.”

“Well, sir, as you requested, General Crowinsky contacted Admiral Ommart and informed him of the situation here,” Lasin said. “He‌—‌that is, Admiral Ommart‌—‌immediately dispatched a patrol ship toward the scene of the battle with instructions to pick up Admiral Mothershed and his report and return them to Port Abell at once.”

“Has the patrol ship lifted from Adrianopolis?”

“Yes, sir. It made brief contact with Port Abell just a few moments ago. It’s accelerating at max pseudospeed out of the system.”

“Who’s commanding that ship? Do you know?”

“The Guardian Culhaven.”

“Old John’s son?”

“Yes, sir. I think so.”

“I hope he’s got the guts his father had. When do they estimate he’ll reach Mothershed?”

“Three or four hours, sir.”

“Can’t they pin it down any closer?”

“No, sir. I’m afraid not. There’s some doubt about Mothershed’s exact position.”

Bracer sighed. “Six to eight hours then for the round trip, if Culhaven doesn’t have to wait too long to get in to Mothershed’s ship and pick him up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Dammit, I wish I knew how that battle was going. It could last for hours.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Keep me posted if you possibly can, commander.”

“We will sir. We’ll do our best.”

“You’d better, commander, by all that’s holy, you’d better.”

“I know, sir.”

“Good luck, Lasin. Bracer out.”

One minute to star drive.

“Attention. This is the captain,” said the voice of Daniel Maxel over the ship’s intercom. “All hands prepare for star drive in one minute. I repeat. Star drive in one minute.”

“Nuclear missiles ready,” said Akin Darbi.

Now Absolom Bracer had almost forgotten the pain of his wounds, his missing limbs, the organs he no longer had. But it was still there, all of it. He supposed that it would still be there when‌—‌when it ended. So be it. The pain wasn’t really that bad. You can get used to anything if you have to.

Thirty seconds.

“Energy cannon crews at stations.”

Fifteen seconds.

“Star drive potential achieved. Holding.”

Then.

Now.

NOW!

There is no way to describe the distortion, the displacement, the unbeing that a man feels when it happens, when the first jump is made. If you’ve never experienced it, no one can tell you about it. If you have, no one needs to.

It took the tanks a second or two for their scans to synchronize with the microjumping. At first they flickered, tried to hold on to the half of the “cycle” that represented what we call the real universe, got out of phase, shifted through a mad, meaningless unblack grayness, then settled down, holding onto the sync pulses fired from the star drive generators, scanning only when in normal space, cutting out when in nonspace.

The
Iwo Jima
was in one spot. It “twisted.” It was in another spot, one hundred and seven kilometers away. It hadn’t
moved
. It had just changed location.

Five hundred microjumps per second. Then a thousand. Then two thousand. The starship was jumping faster than it was moving under true speed. Nuclear drive was cut.

The universe had run out of time.

Madness. How many kinds of madness are there? Albion Mothershed asked himself as he stood on the shuddering deck of the bridge of the starship
San Juan,
felt the ship fighting for its life around him. There’s the kind of madness that’s inside a man, that turns his mind inside out. But there’s another kind of madness. A madness that’s outside of him, and that is what he saw on the main forward tanks as plasma torpedoes and nuclear missiles and energy cannon beams cut through the nothingness of space, lighted the screens of battling starships. That is true madness, he said to himself.

“Admiral,” Captain Stalinko said, turning away from his command console for only a moment. “Admiral!”