Tripoint, p.35
Tripoint, page 35
part #6 of Company Wars Series
There's fire coming the other way. Move the damn ship.
Burst from the trim jets. He snatched after another nutri-pack.
Get the ship into mate with their supply dump, yeah. They'd always dropped close. Capella was good.
Always made it well inside an hour. Put the card in, that was one thing. Always put the card in. It credited them, when they used it again, at Viking—along with the cargo always waiting for them here.
Capella had never mentioned that the old hulk had a kill-function.
Not your friend, hell.
But enter a code called HAVOC in that hulk, on their Fleet navigator's say-so, a code of that nature, into what she now admitted was armed, and she didn't tell you specifically what it did or where its hostile action stopped?
Not unless they had no… bloody… choice.
—v—
THE EMERGENCY SIREN WAS WAILING through the ship, Duran was on com, ordering Sprite's kids' loft to take immediate emergency procedures, Paxton had been on a second ago saying they'd jumped short, nobody knew what the hell had happened, or why they'd dropped short of their intention, except a rough drop and then something going past them, so high-mass, meaning fast, that they couldn't figure what it was. "Satisfied?" Mischa spared breath to ask her. "Satisfied?"
"Change coordinates. " Marie pounded the counter above
Mischa's console softly with a clenched fist, tried to slow her breaths. A post-jump headache and an adrenaline overload didn't help. "Get us down, dammit. Get us up, get us out of the plane of fire."
"Somebody's back there," Paxton was saying, and Sully, helm, was yelling at Mischa, off-com,
"It was missiles, it's a heave-to order! It could be Military, one of them is bound to be the Military, chasing Corinthian—we can't go shooting at shadows, dammit!"
"Track point of origin," Marie said.
"We can't go firing—"
"Sully, just shut up!" Mischa, off-corn himself. "I heard you! Get a point of origin!" Mischa was sweating. "Shut that damn siren off! God!"
"Hindmost is Corinthian, " Marie said.
"Corinthian, Corinthian, I'm sick to death of Corinthian, I'm sick to death of Bowe, I'm sick to death of you and that damn kid! I don't want to hear about him, I don't want to hear any more of your damn ideas, Marie, just sit down and keep your mouth shut! You don't know anything about missiles, you don't know what you've stirred up, you got us into this mess, now, just get the hell back to your finagling damn deals and leave ops to people who know what they're doing."
"Mischa,—get us out of—"
Proximity klaxon went off. Marie looked up, stared at the screens, some of which flared red, winced, but it was less than the blink of an eye.
Whatever it was, second volley, had passed them into the dark.
"Where is he? Damn him, where is he?"
"They're not targeting us," Marie said. "We're still alive."
"They're firing at the Military," Sully said.
"Sully, for God's sake,—Marie,—shut up!"
"Mischa. " Marie rapped the console, got a calm word in. "Take us out of plane. Now. Settle who and where later."
"Sit down! We're going on to Viking, we'll meet Bowe there, if that's what it takes. We'll do it where there's police."
"Viking's in the direction it's firing at, you damn fool!"
"I said sit down! We don't know where the hell we are. We've come down way out on the fringes, we have a navigational problem we have to solve before we complicate it with any—"
She brought her fist down on the console. "Shut up, Mischa, dammit! Saja,—Sully, plus 2 out of plane at 5 g's, count of five, now!"
"Set," helm said.
"Abort that, Sully, kill it!"
"Somebody better do something," Sully said.
Marie flung herself onto a safety bench and grabbed the belts. Shoved the catches closed.
"I'm calling a captaincy vote. Now. Saja. Sully. Do it!"
Ship moved. Hard.
—vi—
"SCARED THEM," MIKE REMARKED. Austin murmured a preoccupied yeah, and registered Sprite's in-progress coordinate change as one problem down. Or up. At least not in line of fire. Sprite moved, sending its noisy ID out into the dark. Corinthian moved in EM silence, except the minor engines, passive scan only.
Figure Silver Dream was in motion, too, not in hard-scan range, but gathering realspace speed, off which her own missiles and inerts could be effective.
A Fleet renegade. Hope this Patrick didn't have an approach code that could let him dive inside the hulk's self-defined perimeter. Every klick he had to maneuver, every precaution he had to take to avoid it was an accuracy problem. And if he didn't know the hulk was armed—he knew Corinthian was; and had to assume that Sprite was.
And, mistake—but they weren't going to explain it—Patrick had to assume that Sprite was on Corinthian's side, and had just maneuvered to fire up Silver Dream's approach path.
Number two monitor had just gone live. A blinking blue circle framed a patch of what could look exactly like every other patch of starry space.
The Object was out there. That was what Bianco meant by switching him that black image, with the dot flashing in the center. Couldn't see it yet. Graininess of the image was equal to the dusting of stars equally dim.
Meanwhile… meanwhile… ask what Sprite thought it was going to do, with its little rail-gun, at one light-second.
Fire at them or fire at Silver Dream, who wouldn't believe protestations of non-combatancy.
Question who was in control on that ship, or what it was bidding for. And if Capella was right…
"Nav."
"Sir."
"Does the Object take being fired toward?"
"No, sir, it's real pissed if that happens. Recommend not. "
Could guess that, all right. Hope the fool on Sprite didn't try it.
And maybe Patrick knew that, too, or suspected it, and planned not to fire but once. One heavy hit. Blow the hulk and them, together, the Mazianni's problem solved—if second chief was wrong and Patrick didn't have her head or that card on that high a priority.
A shadow appeared on the screen that targeted the hulk, now, frighteningly fast growth of a darkness against the dust.
Freighter. Years dead. Gutted. As good a warehouse as you could ask for, a cargo-handling rig as fast as a completely zero-g rack could afford, just hit the release when they came off the line and hope a rebound didn't come back at you… hellish enough, trying to rush the cans out.
Damn lunatic Sprite trying to shoot two-credit missiles at you the while…
But the hands were good, and that cargo offload could be blinding fast, if you weren't worrying about fragiles—and most of what they were hauling wasn't, give or take the Scotch.
A few real high-mass cans. Steel rods. They were to worry about, when they were in motion. Inertial within the capacity of that rack, their mass exceeded can limits. Bitchy load even on a station dock, at their slow speeds. And a zero-g line tended to develop oscillations—hell dealing with that mass.
Hope Patrick made acquaintance of the inerts, head on, before he gathered v enough for shielding effect. It took far longer to dock and offload than it did to run those cans out into space… but inside the hulk's perimeter, with that card in, they had, according to the second chief, something she vitally needed… provided Patrick didn't also have codes to let him approach.
Damn lot of variables.
And Patrick's estimated position was shifting constantly now in the numbers on his screen. Patrick had begun his run—in longscan's primary estimation. That estimated v was coming up fast.
Couldn't fire dead ahead while you were putting on v like that—you'd run into your own ordnance. Patrick had to get off a passing or retreating shot. The EM bath that Sprite's ID was sending out was no help at all. It echoed off solids, just like radar. Thank you, thank you, Marie Hawkins.
"This HAVOC code, nav, just what's it do?"
"Sir, I think it'll respect the user. Nothing else. Damn sure nothing shooting at it. "
"Hulk won't do that anyway, will it?"
"Sir, I'm not need-to-know on that level. "
Shit.
And the Hawkinses out there, ship full of fools.
Shit on them.
Beatrice wasn't talking. Not since drop. Probably was aware, but when Beatrice was working this particular bitch of an approach, she was in her own universe. The Object had no motion to speak of, but their two masses made one bitch of an impact possible, if they didn't soft-touch, and the Object didn't talk to you. Silent as any spook, always. Cold. Very.
Beatrice professed not to like it.
Like she didn't like sex.
Sudden slam from the engines. The screen suddenly showed an on-rushing dark spot. The blot on the stars rushed at the camera. Filled the screen, total dark.
Jolt. Stop.
The body had—gut-level, intellectual, rational functions to the contrary, and no matter how many times they'd done it—braced for impact.
"We have the Object between us and Sprite, " Beatrice announced calmly, then, smoothly as on station approach. "Touch in ten minutes. Do we believe nav, or what?"
"Thank you, helm. Yes, we believe nav, because we have no fucking choice."
He punched general com. "This is the captain. We have a very short window to offload. Enemy is in system, proceeding toward us from dead v at two seconds light. We will, however, offload to shed mass, and we are going to offload at all possible speed. We cannot afford mistakes. We have a narrow margin. Touch and dock in less than ten minutes. When the siren sounds, all hands, repeat, all hands, on-shift and off-, not at this moment at ops-critical stations, suit for vacuum and start cargo offload. We're going to tie down the brake levers, on both sides. We don't care if we dent the walls. I want volunteers for the release-station in the receiving hold. Hazard pay and hazard privilege both apply, and we hope the receiving equipment takes it."
—vii—
"I'M GOING," TOM SAID, still flat in bed, while trim-up went on. "Got to be at least an e-suit or something I can borrow. Saby, I swear to you. I grew up in the cargo office, I know the boards, I know the equipment. I've worked the line. I swear, I swear I won't screw it, I don't want to sit up here waiting to be blown."
He expected argument. But Saby didn't argue.
"Michaels has to be on the bridge. He's our gunner, he won't suit. Use his rig. I'm running Hold Technical. Just keep the cans off my neck."
Michaels. He remembered a man beaten.
Remembered why, then. Knew the rules, Tink said. Follow the rules. Ship was at stake. All their lives. Ship had its own logic. Forget everything else.
Remembered Michaels… saying, Kid's shaky… light duty…
Contact. Easy bump. Grapples activated, banged into lock.
Saby's belts clicked on that sound. So did his, and he cleared her path as she scrambled across—tried to help her up and threw a supporting hand against the wall, his own equilibrium not so reliable as he'd thought.
Saby didn't wait for amenities, opened the door and headed out, zipping what she'd loosed for comfort.
Crew and dockers in dress and undress thumped into the corridors at a wobbly, staggering run, generally in their direction, down lower main, knocking into walls, some of them, but going as fast as they could.
It was an eerie feeling, everybody running the same direction, like suit drill, but not drill, nothing now was drill. It was the emergency a spacer lived all his life trying never, ever to have.
The gang-up at the end of the corridor split in two directions, down the transverses, the mirror-image D blocks, where the suit lockers were—locker doors already powered open, from the bridge, suits open, helmets and harnesses suspended on their racks, a surreal gathering of human shells, crew already backing into them, sealing them in that drill a spacer could do drunk or asleep.
"Michaels!" Saby said, and shoved him at Michael's locker.
He turned, stepped into the suit backward, got his arms into the sleeves, sealed the front, kicked the release plate to bring the LS backpack and helmet down over his head and shoulders.
Seals clicked. Indicators and faceplate display flared on, confirming lifesupport and seals positive.
Came, instantly, that claustrophobic shortness of breath the suit gave him. It always got to him this way: he'd helped Marie in cargo, yeah, mostly from the ops boards safely upside—he never suited except in drills.
The borrowed rig smelled of disinfectant, of Michaels' use. The air he depended on came to him rationed by a regulator. The mass of the harness as it came free of the rack was an instant revision of body-space and center of gravity.
Another suited figure leaned into vision, adjusted something on his chest-link. SABRINA PERRAULT, the paint on the helmet said. With a decal rose. She bumped helmets.
"You all right? Com not working?"
"Yeah. It's working."
Stupid. He'd not turned his communications on. He'd sworn to her he knew what he was doing, and she knew…
"Channel D for private. " She punched something on his shoulder. The channel indicator moved, near his chin. "Come on, expert."
She moved and he followed, at the shuffling, big-footed walk which ring rotation imposed on them, a lock-step sweating haste, back along the D-curve, toward the cargo lift as it opened.
They got in at the rear, jammed in as closely and as tightly as they could, fourteen, maybe fifteen suited bulks, before the doors shut and the lift jolted out of synch with the passenger ring.
Immediately after, one fractional pass of the ring about the core, the car banged into lock with the zero-g frame.
Automatic doors let them out on a dark hold. The cold of space froze their attending puff of humidified air into ice crystals in the spotty glare of the helmet lights. Hold lights flared on around them, illuminating loading machinery, racks, and tiers of cans that jammed their hold right up to the red line. A group of white-suited figures was going forward, down the still-empty cargo chute—he saw officers' sleeve patches on that lot. All around him, bodies moved, white, bulky, anonymous except for sleeve patches, non-com crew fanning out in silence along hand-railings, taking station out among the tiers of cans, ready to sort those racks out onto the main delivery track and secure the spent carriages when they came down the return track.
Saby grabbed his arm briefly, hit his chest with her hand and got his suit light on, illumination for the shadowed areas.
He wasn't tracking a hundred percent. The suit read-out wasn't in the familiar order in the chin-level display—he hadn't realized his light wasn't defaulted on; and crew knocked into them in their delay, making a gap in the line, hindering an already dangerous effort. A jump-queasy stomach and the beginnings of a headache argued he could easily become a worse problem, and he was determined not to be.
An enemy in the system?
Colors flashed, in memory. Sound wailed at them.
Got to have that card in the slot and that message input, Tommy. If Patrick comes at us, and he will, got to have that message input. Then that old hulk's our friend.
Sweat ran, a trickle down his face he couldn't wipe. He moved where Saby and the rest moved. Words echoed out of the dark in his skull, red and blue flashes smeared and ran while he hauled himself along on the hand-rail.
God, release the line brakes… The 4-meter cannisters, with the mass they carried… could probably survive the offload without bursting, if they were good, double-walled cans, no temperature-constant stuff—but Austin had called for hazard pay volunteers on the release end, and he'd seen first-hand what happened when a can broke under stress. He'd seen it happen to a ship on a station dock, brake lever accidentally jammed open. Can flew off, hit the deck, hit a support girder, killed one dockworker, sent fourteen to hospital—
"Look out!" came over his helmet-com. Somebody bumped him, passing down the line in a hell of a hurry. Didn't know who it was. He moved, out of breath, hand over hand down the rail that led along the can-track, trying to hit the rhythm Saby did, ahead of him—he was trying not to hold up the line behind them, because there was nobody in front, and he couldn't get his breath… colors washed across his vision. Remembrance of smell-taste-hearing, bone-deep sound, all but pain…
They were well past the hold lights, now. The can-track was a continuous-loop railing in the dim overhead, the exit-chute wall was narrowing around them, and light came as a scatter of patches where their suit lights picked out solid objects, a back-pack, a hand, a section of safety rail as they hand-over-handed into the absolute night of the chute.
Then the cargo check console materialized in Saby's chest-light, nobody manning it. Saby left the line, moved in with authority, threw the console switch that started the red motion warning strobing in the overhead… he hesitated, sailed off the hand-rail to clear others' way, and grabbed the console edge.
"Run 'em out. " That was Austin's voice over the com, on the general channel. "Get them moving, we're waiting up here."
Up here. Austin was forward, then, in the mate-up zone… that wasn't where the captain belonged, damn him…
"We got precious little time, " Austin was saying. "Skit's coming our way, but the sumbitch can't fire til he passes. "
"Cans are going to be all over that hold, " somebody said. "Damn free-fall billiards. "
"Yeah, yeah, best we can do, Deke, sorry, neat isn't in our capacity right now, we'll be real satisfied with out of here. "
"We got high-mass stuff in this load!"
"Deke, just watch the damn line—she's rolling!"
Cans had started to move. Tom caught a look at Saby, lights from the console a multicolored constellation on Saby's mask
… busy and on a hair-trigger. Saby flipped other switches, engaging can-pickup robotics that moved the cans on their tracks way back in the tiers… he understood the board—he knew what process had just started; the carriages were picking up cans back there, sliding into the motorized track. The inspection brake at this console only slowed a can enough for the laser-reader to find the can customs-tags, and a deft hand to snatch off any remaining monitor plug… but then the tractor-chain caught the carriage and ran the can up to whatever rate of delivery the end-line brake was supposed to control.
