We All Died at Breakaway Station (31 page)

The Jillie warships maintained their own acceleration for a while and the gap between them and the humans closed.

Perhaps the autocrat said to itself,
“Shibeeesh
are dying.” Then again perhaps it really didn’t care.

“Weapons, prepare to fire on sync,” Captain Maxel ordered as a single Jillie medium battle cruiser came into weapons range.

I was right, Bracer told himself. The Jillies split their forces just as I predicted. Funny. Roger was right, of course. The Jillies are rational beings, of a sort at least.

They have to be. But still it was odd. We can imagine what they’re going to do in a situation like this, when decisions are made on a more or less logical basis, but, well, in the really big things, like whether to make war or not, we can’t even
understand
their decisions. Just how rational are they? Well, how rational are
we
when it really counts? How often are the big decisions based on anything that makes sense?

“Prepare to cut star drive,” Bracer ordered. “Engineering here, sir. Standing by to cut star drive.”

“Dan?”

“We’re ready.”

“Okay. Give them hell,” Bracer said. “Cut pseudospeed.”

An instant of dissociation‌—‌and the starship was hanging virtually motionless in space.

Ghostlike, the Jillie warship flashed by. “Nuclear drive, stand by,” Captain Maxel said. “Standing by.”

They’re efficient, Bracer told himself, these damned cripples and half-men. Goddam, they’re efficient!

“Fire nuclear drive in one minute.”

“Nuclear drive, one minute,” came the acknowledgment.

“All weapons stations, stand by.”

“Standing by,” Akin Darbi answered.

The Jillie warship turned, came back toward the
Iwo Jima,
came out of star drive less than five hundred kilometers away.

“Weapons fire on sync at my command,” Maxel ordered.

“Standing by,” Darbi repeated.

“Okay, Dan,” Bracer said calmly, much more calmly than he expected he could.

“Open up!” Maxel snapped. “Fire at will.”

The
Iwo Jima’s
missiles, plasma torpedoes and energy cannon began blasting space through momentary, synchronized gaps in her force screens, all her planet-wrecking weaponry aimed toward the enemy medium battle cruiser that crept toward her.

“How long do you think the
Cragstone
can hold out?” Maxel asked as the first nuclear missiles from the
Iwo
began to explode against the Jillie’s screens, as the Jillie began to return their fire.

“Let’s don’t fool ourselves, Dan,” Bracer said slowly as waves of nearly forgotten pain began to wash over his body, his mind. “She can’t last long‌—‌not nearly long enough for us to help her, if we could ever help her at all.”

The space between the Jillie and the
Iwo
closed slowly, a space laced with the firing of weapons.

She’s just a medium, Bracer told himself. We can take her. Can we? a part of his mind asked. In our shape, can we handle even that by ourselves?

Artificial eyes scanning the tanks, Bracer picked out the sphere of the
Cragstone,
now a brightly glowing ball, rich and metallic as her fields deflected wave after wave of energy. Jillie plasma torpedoes danced in her shifting electromagnetic fields, bounced toward the ship, then away, in a fantastic, unholy dance.

The chronometer ticked. Time passed. Energy blazed in space. The
Iwo Jima
fired at her opponent and her opponent fired back.

Bracer scanned the tanks again. …roger…

…yes, admiral…

…
cragstone
is in trouble. How much more can she take?…

…little more, sir. We’ve lost all contact with her‌—‌with the
pharsalus
too…

Bracer looked back at the tanks, found the LSS
Pharsalus
. Like the
Cragstone
she was surrounded by flaming energy, enfolded in hell.

…my god, roger, she can’t even fire back…

…no, sir, she can’t, not anymore, even a momentary weapons’ gap in her screens would‌—‌…

Space was lighted by an artificial nova, this one brighter even than that of the exploding Jillie ship of‌—‌was it hours or ages before? Tanks darkened to avoid overload, but even with the stars blotted out, Absolom Bracer knew what
that
explosion was. The
Rudoph Cragstone’s
screens had failed. The hospital ship was gone. Zoe Medawar, Gautier Lindquist, twenty thousand cold-sleepers, gone.

The chronometer ticked. Somewhere, millions upon millions of kilometers away, dying Breakaway Station fought for its life, for a few more moments of life, and while it did it still functioned. Somehow Bracer knew that. The FTL link, the subspectrum chain was still whole. For a while.

The
Iwo
closed with her opponent, slammed her with a barrage of nuclear missiles, fell back.

The Jillie retreated, her screens flickering and flaming, a huge, ugly, smoldering, molten gash in her side. A plasma torpedo, under cover of the nuclear missiles, had apparently slipped through a weapons’ gap in the alien’s screens. The Jillie was hurt. She would fall back now. She would fight no more.

“Dan,” Bracer said, “let’s go help
Pharsalus.”

Maxel hit the control panel before him, snapping switches as fast as his prosthetic hands would move, yelling orders. “Course correction: pick the medium battle cruiser at one o’clock. Astrogation: give coordinates. Engineering; give me power. Weapons: stand by for full firepower on my signal.”

You’re doing a good job, Dan, Bracer thought, but he did not say it aloud. The nuclear drive threw the ship forward at maximum sub-light acceleration, an acceleration so great that it was felt despite the repelling forces of Contra-grav.

“Admiral,” Maxel said above the roar that now filled the starship’s bridge, “we’ll never get to
Pharsalus.”

In the tanks Bracer saw why‌—‌the warships that had attacked and destroyed the
Cragstone
were now swinging around, searching for a second target.

“They’re coming after us,” Bracer said, “Okay, Dan. Let’s go meet them.”

Seconds dragged by like hours.

Why are we in such a hurry to die? Bracer asked himself. Why don’t we turn now and run? Nobody’d blame us. We’ve done everything we can to help Breakaway‌—‌we can’t do anything more. Now, while we’ve still got some kind of a chance to get away, why in God’s name, don’t we go?

And he looked at the tanks that showed the gas and still glowing debris that had been the
Rudoph Cragstone
and her crew and her twenty thousand “patients.” And he knew why he couldn’t run. Not now. Not ever.

And after a while the seconds quit dragging by and the Jillie heavy battle cruiser was within firing range.

Absolom Bracer did not know, had no way of knowing, that the patrol ship sent from Adrianopolis by Admiral Ommart, the LPS
Mesala Corvinus,
had reached the unholy place where Admiral Mothershed and his rescuers fought against the Jillies.

The LSS
Chicago
was gone, no more than dispersing gas; the LSS
Hastings
was nearly tom in half, her air and her crew spilled out into the vacuum. The LSS
San Juan
at least still functioned, her screens a pale flickering that could endure little more. Of the four rescuers from Port Abell‌—‌only the
Benburb
was badly hurt. And the Jillies; one of their ships was gone, another at half its fighting strength. The battle was even and only the gods could decide the victor.

This is what Commander Glenn, Guardian Culhaven saw in the tanks of his patrol ship as he came out of star drive, this the scene of flickering, flaming, bursting hell that swept through the darkness between the stars. And if he had thought he knew fear before, it was nothing compared to what he felt now. He had been ordered to go into that inferno and dock with the dying
San Juan
‌—‌dock, with his screens down, while Jillies poured gigatons of nuclear flame through the vacuum. It was madness.

Despite this, despite the fear, he found his voice speaking to his communications officer: “Try to raise the
San Juan
.”

Oh, Anjenet, he cried within himself, your husband is a coward. Father, father, why couldn’t I have inherited more than your name? But he caught the whimpering in his throat and held it back.

“This is the LPS
Messala Corvinus
calling LSS
San Juan
. Please,
San Juan
, do you read me?” the comm officer pleaded.

“
Corvinus
…” Crackle… “is the…” Crackle. “…
Juan
. We read you.”

“Crackle,” said the communications receiver.

“We’re getting audio only, sir,” the
Corvinus’
comm officer said.

“That’s good enough,” Glenn, Guardian Culhaven’s voice said more loudly than he had hoped it would. “Let me talk to them.”

The communications officer switched the circuits to Glenn’s command console.

“This is Commander Culhaven of the
Corvinus,”
he said. “We have orders to come in and pick up Admiral Mothershed and his reports. I repeat, we must dock and pick up the admiral and his reports.”

“Crackle,” said the receiver in reply. “… crazy?” a voice asked through the noise. “You’ll never get…” Crackle!

“Put the admiral on,” Glenn said, suddenly angry that anyone would argue with him. He was too scared for argument now.

A few moments dragged by before another voice came from the command console’s speaker “This…” “… Mothershed,” said the new voice. “What is it, co…” Crackle.

“Admiral,” Glenn said in as forceful a voice as he could muster, “Breakaway Station is under attack. Unless your report is taken to Port Abell at once, it will be impossible to transmit it to Earth. I repeat, sir, the FTL link is in danger of destruction. Do you read me, sir?”

“I read you, commander,” Admiral Mothershed’s voice said through the sudden lack of radio noise. “What do you propose to do?”

“We must dock with you, sir,” Glenn said.

Crackle. “Please repeat, I…” Crackle.

“We must dock immediately, sir,” Glenn repeated.

“Acknowledge,” Mothershed’s voice said. “Proceed, commander. We will drop our screens when you come in. You’re…” The last words of the admiral’s sentence were lost in the radio noise.

“Proceed with docking,” Glenn told his bridge officers and fought to hold down the sickness rising in his stomach. God, why me? But he held down the sickness and he brought the ship toward the dying
San Juan
.

So, under the blazing of Jillie and human weapons, behind the shield of the remaining ships from Port Abell, the
Corvinus
matched with the
San Juan
, and Glenn, Guardian Culhaven gave the orders quietly, calmly, though his hands shook before him. And as he gave those orders he saw that the men who received them were as frightened as he was.

“Screens down,” he yelled at the last minute, and the protection of the screens was gone, but he didn’t think about that any longer than he could help. There were other orders to give and Mr. Englewood seemed unable to give them. “Steady there,” Glenn yelled. “Steady. Close in slowly. Docking crew, prepare transport tubes. Mr. Maron, prepare to pipe the admiral aboard.”

And the ships docked and locked transport tubes and the admiral and his reports were transferred. And then, while Absolom Bracer still fled from Breakaway, and then slowed and turned to fight the last fight, the LPS
Messala Corvinus
headed back toward Port Abell at maximum pseudospeed. Commander Glenn, Guardian Culhaven still shook with fear, but then he saw the fear that had been on the face of Albion Mothershed, and he began to have some idea what bravery was, some vague idea that would take a long time in gestating, but he was beginning to understand it. It wasn’t the fear that made you a coward, it was what you did about it.

…how much time do you figure we have now, roger?… This thought was projected with an astonishing lack of emotion, Bracer thought. Perhaps it had all been used up.

…hard to say, sir. they have far more firepower than we. several minutes, i’d say, and then we’ll have to close our screens…

“Ready, Dan?” he asked aloud. Maxel nodded.

“Okay, let them have all we’ve got, but don’t hesitate to close the screens if it gets too hot.”

“Yes, sir.”

Closing the screens will also stop our own fire, Bracer thought, but it will give us a few more minutes‌—‌if that really matters anymore.

As Maxel relayed his orders to weapons and engineering, Bracer sought for the image of the
Pharsalus
in the tanks. For a moment he could not find her, and when he did he stopped cold, realizing that his command had now dwindled to only one ship. The LSS
Pharsalus
was dead. A twisted hunk of still glowing metal. She had ruptured, spewing her insides into the vacuum, and Lena Bugioli and all who were with her had died.

Now the
Pharsalus
’ attacker was turning toward the
Iwo Jima
, joining the dog pack that hunted down the last fox.

Back to the main tank; he saw the trails of the missiles, the glowing spheres of plasma torpedoes escaping through gaps in the screens, blasting toward the two Jillie warships that could now be seen without amplification.

“Screens taking ninth level force,” the voice of the engineering officer said from the console. “Absorption units holding.”

And a Jillie missile exploded a handful of kilometers away, radiating even more energy into the screens.

A plasma torpedo danced in the grip of magnetic fields on the edge of the
Iwo’
s force screens.

A dozen energy cannon beams played across the ship, attempting to break through her dangerously loaded defenses.

“Shall I close screens, sir?” engineering asked. Maxel looked at Bracer.

The admiral looked at the tanks, saw the second medium battle cruiser bearing down on them, but still well out of firing range.

“Not yet. Keep firing.”

Seconds grew into minutes and still the screens held, still the
Iwo
was able to return the fire of her attackers, but soon, oh, very soon, a third Jillie would begin firing‌—‌and Bracer knew that they could not hold off all of them.