The Seafort Saga, page 83
“They’ve knocked out all our guns that bear at this angle, sir. I need a bow-on shot.”
“I’ll come round!” I squirted propellant. Our nose drifted ever so slowly toward the fish.
Kerren’s camera picked up the launch. Philip maneuvered the stern of his tiny vessel toward the fish at our shaft. He kicked a jet of propellant at it, causing the launch to shoot away from the fish. The fish quivered, random dots of color swirling in its skin, but it remained still.
“Go, you bastard!” Philip’s voice was savage. He swung his craft close for another try.
A cry of dismay from Mr. Tzee. “Captain, they’ve got our bow laser.”
“Can you bring anything to bear?”
“We’ve nothing big enough to hurt them, sir.”
If the Admiral had left us more of our lasers ... “Very well.”
Philip squirted a blast of propellant at the aft fish, without effect.
It wasn’t working. I rested my head in my hands.
“Engine room decompression! Captain, they’re through the hull!”
“Keep away from the acid! Burn the outriders as they poke through!”
“I’m going to ram,” said Midshipman Philip Tyre.
“No, Philip!”
“It’s our only chance. The impact may drive him away. I’ll try to eject before contact.” I knew that was impossible, as did he.
“Mr. Tyre—”
He swung his little ship about, spending propellant with reckless abandon. About a hundred meters distant he matched velocities and aimed his prow at the bow of the fish.
“Mr. Tyre!”
“I’m glad I served with you, sir. If you see Alexi, tell him I’m sorry.” He jammed his throttle to full. The launch spurted forward.
If his aim was true he would lance the fish head on. “Sir, Godspeed—”
I snatched up the caller. “Kerren, record! Mr. Tyre! I, Captain Nicholas Seafort, do commission and appoint Midshipman Philip Tyre a Lieutenant in the Naval Service of the Government of the United Nations, by the Grace—”
The radio crackled and went dead—
“Of God!”
Challenger’s launch tore into the bow of the fish, accelerating still as it clawed through the alien tissue. The fish bucked. It appeared to ripple. Viscous material spewed from the gaping hole. The momentum of the launch tore the fish from our hull. Inert, it drifted out of sight behind Challenger, our launch imbedded within.
“Penetration in the hold!”
Lord God, I repent my sins.
“DECOMPRESSION LEVEL 2, SECTION SIX!”
“Captain, east hydros are decompressed!”
Pray forgive my trespasses.
“Engine room!” I expected no answer.
“Here, sir! Only two of the outriders got through, and we fried ‘em both. Clinger, get that patch in place!”
“Full power to the thrusters, Chief. Give me all remaining propellant.”
“You’ve got it! We’ve less than a minute’s burn, sir.”
Lord, I beg Thee, take me unto Yourself.
“I know.”
Challenger had swung almost nose-on to the midships beast that still threw its projectiles. I glanced at the screens; other fish maneuvered alongside. There was no way to avoid them all.
“Kerren, ramming course!”
“Course true! Relative oh oh oh!”
I’m coming, Amanda.
My hand jabbed at the red ball of the thruster control. Challenger drifted forward almost imperceptibly.
I cried, “Christ, is that all we’ve got?”
“Acceleration is cumulative,” said Kerren, as if that explained everything. Perhaps it did.
Our motion was more evident now. As we neared, the huge fish squirted propellant and began to float aside. I slammed the port thruster to full to correct course, and five seconds later ran out of burn.
“All passengers and crew suit up, flank!” My eyes were locked to the simulscreen. Foolishly I braced myself as we approached. The bridge was in the disk, halfway down the length of the pencil that was our ship. The view on my simulscreen was from Kerren’s camera forward. It, not I, would make first contact.
“Wait for us, you bastard!” My teeth clenched, I slurred the words.
In seconds we would skewer the fish with our pointed prow.
The fish began to pulse rhythmically.
“Wait for us ...”
The fish pulsed. If it disappeared now ...
“WAIT, YOU THING OF SATAN!”
Contact.
Kerren shrilled warnings. “Prow disintegrating! Forward sensors inoperative! Hull collapsing forward of the disk! The hold is—”
The screen went black.
I was on my feet, braced for an impact I couldn’t feel. “Kerren?”
No answer.
“Kerren?” I waited for the power to dim. If Kerren was destroyed—
The lights remained steady.
“Kerren!”
“Fusion is successful, sir,” the puter said calmly. “Please provide course for my data calculations.”
“What?”
“Fusion drive is on, sir.” The puter’s tone was patient. “As you Fused manually, I do not have the calculations to—”
“DRAY!”
“Engine room, sir.”
“Is the drive on?”
He snorted. “Of course not.”
“Oh, Lord God!” I stared at the screen, willing the stars to reappear.
“What is it?” Dray asked.
“The fish. It tried to Fuse just as we hit.”
“Yes, sir?” He waited.
“It ...” I stumbled for words. “It took us with it.”
20
WE CAME TOGETHER IN the Level 2 corridor, Dray, Walter Dakko, Gregor and myself. Seconds had dripped into hours, while the screens remained blank.
Kerren insisted we were in Fusion, and I didn’t dare examine the rents in our hull to find out. When we were Fused, any object thrust Outside would cease to exist. A body too near a hull opening would be caught up in the stresses of the field, and would suffer molecular collapse and oblivion.
“Now what?” I’d dropped all pretense of military formality. It was all I could do to keep from trembling.
“We’re alive,” Dray said gruffly.
“For the moment.”
“Where are we?” Walter Dakko’s voice was a husk.
I shrugged. “In purgatory, perhaps.” Dakko raised an eyebrow, said nothing.
“What’s going to happen?” Gregor.
I stated the obvious. “We’ll die.”
Gregor winced, gathered himself. “When, sir?”
“Soon. When the fish Defuses or digests the ship. Or when the food runs—”
“Digests?” blurted Dakko.
I said, “Just before the alien, uh, Fused, Kerren reported the prow was disintegrating and the hull collapsing where it pierced the fish. Now he says all his hold sensors are inoperative. We don’t dare open the hatch from the launch berth to the hold because of radiation and the danger of viral contamination. When whatever’s dissolving the hull eats as far as the hatchway, we’re through.”
“How long will that take?” Gregor, again.
“How the hell should I know!” My rage drove him back a step. “Don’t ask stupid questions!”
“Sorry, sir! Aye aye, sir.” He held himself at near attention.
The mood changed subtly. Walter Dakko asked, “What do we do now, sir?” They waited for my response.
I had an urge to say, “Whatever you damn well please,” and stalk to my cabin, leaving them standing in the corridor. What more did they want of me? I had no miracles to bestow.
I sighed. “Engine room status, Chief?”
“We got the hull patched before Fusion, sir, so the engine room’s inhabitable. One of the power output lines was hit but the other one’s all right.”
“You mean after all this we still have power?” I couldn’t believe it.
“Enough for lights and heat, yes, sir. I might be able to patch the second power line too. Anyway, we don’t need power to the thruster pumps; we’re out of propellant. And the lasers were wiped out, so ...”
My mind spun slowly. We were imbedded in the body of a fish in Fusion. The engine room, aft, was in good shape, the disks where we all lived were airtight, while our hold forward of the disks was being eaten away.
“What else do we know?” I labored through a fog. The Chief’s report seemed an annoying distraction.
Dakko said, “The recycler chamber is undamaged, but some of the feeder lines are out of commission and the fluids in them are lost. East hydros—”
“They’re gone,” said the Chief. “Decompressed. I don’t think we should try to open the hatch. We’d have to pump out section eight to get in there, and anyway the plants are dead.”
“West?”
“West hydros weren’t damaged, but we never got them fully operational again.”
“Between east hydros and section eight, we’ve lost about half our food supply.” Dakko grimaced.
“Have Mr. Branstead take a look. Can we repair the lines to the recyclers?”
“Probably most of them, sir. If we can scrounge up enough materials without going into the hold.” Dray waited expectantly.
I kept my irritation in check. “Get on it, then.”
“Aye aye, sir. The chemicals that were in the lines—I have no way to replace them now that we’ve lost the hold. The recyclers will just barely keep up.”
“Do what you can.” They waited for more orders; I forced myself to think anew. “Where else are we decompressed?”
“Level 2, sections four and five, sir,” said Dakko. The rebel prisoners were gone, then. Except for Mr. Clinger, saved by the providence of Mr. Drucker’s ill temper.
“Oxygen reserves?”
Dray answered that one. “Just sufficient to re-air the ship, sir, but after that it’s going to be tight on recycling.”
“It won’t matter after a while,” I said. I turned to Gregor. “Mr. Attani, see who’s survived among the passengers and crew. Bring me a list. I’ll be in my cabin.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Chief, do what you can to clean up. Mr. Dakko, look to the needs of the crew as best you can.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
I headed for my cabin, concerned no longer about manning the bridge; my work there was done. We would live until the hatch gave out, or the food, or the air.
Then it would be over.
At the top of the ladder I met Mrs. Reeves, hobbling heavily on her cane. She eyed me with a curious smile. I waited.
“So you were right after all, young man.”
“Right?” I tried to recall our conversation.
“About your military discipline.”
“It didn’t save the ship.”
“We live.”
“Not for long,” I replied.
“That’s not for you to say,” she rejoined tartly, and continued on her way.
I lay on my bunk in a daze. Lord, how I’d wanted Challenger, before she was snatched from me. But I’d entered her in disgrace, assuming that I was to die on her. It seemed fitting. But never in my strangest dreams had I imagined such a prelude to death.
After a time, not knowing what else to do, I got up and sat at my immaculate, polished, useless table. How does one wait for death, certain of its inevitability but not knowing when it will arrive?
“One lives,” said Father, almost aloud, so near I almost jumped. “Our deaths are all in the hands of Lord God. Nothing changes that.”
“Easy for you to say,” I muttered. “You’re not aboard.” I sensed his disapproval and ignored it, but knew he was right. One lives, as long and as well as one can. One does his duty.
A soft knock at the hatch; I went to open it. Gregor Attani saluted, offered me a paper. “You said to bring this, sir.”
“What?”
“The list. Casualties.”
“How many?”
“Only two passengers, sir. They were caught without suits when the Level 3 corridor decompressed.”
They were the lucky ones. “Have Mr. Tyre arrange stowage of the bodies.” My tone was weary.
His look was strange. “Mr. Tyre is dead, sir. The launch. He—”
I sagged against the bulkhead, unable to speak.
“Sir, are you all—”
“Get out!”
When he was gone I thought of going to my bunk but it seemed easier to remain where I was, propped against the bulkhead.
I’m sorry, Philip. But how can you blame me for losing track? I’ve killed so many of you. Amanda. Nate. Crewmen. Passengers. Uppies and trannies. So many.
After a time I wiped my face and went out to the corridor, where all was quiet and still. I could sense, if not hear, the steady imperturbable throbbing of the engines below.
Level 1 seemed abandoned. I passed the hatch to the launch berth. On the far side of the berth was the hatch to our hold. I poked my head into the bridge. The instruments hummed silently, recording pointless data.
I had a craving for coffee. On the way to the officers’ mess I passed the Level 1 passengers’ lounge. On impulse I stopped and looked inside.
Walter Dakko sat across from his son. He held Chris’s hands in his own. The two glanced up wordlessly. I mumbled something and backed out of the hatchway.
The boy was crying.
I wasn’t sure about the father.
I made the coffee hot and strong, the way I liked it. I sipped greedily, hunched over the long wooden table, waiting for the caffeine to jog my system.
“Sir, is there anything you’d like me to do?”
I whirled, spilling hot coffee down my shirt. Gregor waited.
“Don’t sneak up on me, Cadet!”
“I—no, sir! I mean, aye aye, sir.”
I regarded him balefully. “What should I have you do, Mr. Attani?”
“I don’t—I didn’t mean—I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just leave me be,” I growled.
He hurried to the hatch.
“Mr. Attani!” He stopped. “I’m ... sorry.” I swallowed my ire. “For my manners.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Do as you wish. See if you can help Mr. Dakko or the Chief. I’ll page if I need you.”
“Aye aye, sir.” He seemed grateful for the directions.
I was left alone.
As I washed the cup to put it away I glanced at the small mirror hanging alongside the galley sink. My jagged scar flamed vividly, as if in reproach. Get hold of yourself, I ordered. You were prepared to die. So now you’re doing it. Even now, there is duty.
As penance I walked the habitable areas of the ship. Everywhere I was greeted with pathetic welcome. The crew hung on my words and scurried to do my bidding, as if my orders could extricate us from our calamity. Those passengers I met contrived to have a word with me, some even going so far as to shake my hand.
Detouring around the sealed-off sections of Level 2 that would never be reopened, I finally completed my tour. Eager for isolation, I approached the bridge with unaccustomed eagerness and sank thankfully into my chair.
“What can you tell me about the hold, Kerren?”
It was the wrong question. “The hold is two hundred thirty meters in length, averaging twenty-four meters across, tapered at a ratio—”
“Cancel. Tell me about the current condition of the hold.”
“I have very little information about the state of the ship forward of the launch berth,” Kerren said, his voice stiff. “If you would Defuse long enough to—”
“Tell me what you DO know, you burned out pile of chips!”
A shocked silence. “Last sensor reports,” he said primly, “indicated prow disintegration and collapse of the hull in the forwardmost twenty meters of the hold. That was at 0911 hours. At 0942 the midships hold sensors became inoperative. I can only conclude that the progressive damage reached that point.”
“What sensors still work?”
“You are referring to the hold, Captain?”
“Yes.” I heard my teeth gnash, willed my jaw open.
“Adequate references would facilitate our conversation,” he said sweetly. “To answer you, only one. The internal port sensor is still operative. We had a starboard sensor too, but the line was cut when the hold was first punctured. The operative sensor is mounted on the hull above the catwalk, twenty meters forward of the launch berth hatch.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re quite welcome, Captain.” He spoke with his typical courtesy, so I couldn’t be certain of his sarcasm. “The fact that the sensor is operative suggests the hull retains structural integrity to that point.”
“Thank you,” I said again.
“You’re welcome,” he repeated.
I brooded a moment. “Kerren, can your sensors indicate anything about the exterior of the ship or our location?”
“Not while the fusion drive is operating,” he said. “Certainly you must know that.”
“Kerren, we’re not Fused.”
“But we are, Captain.”
“Kerren, monitor status of fusion drive.”
His pause was infinitesimal. “The drive registers as off, Captain.”
“So you—”
“But external registers confirm we are Fused. Therefore the drive monitors are inoperative and their data is ignored.”
I sighed. Kerren’s programming didn’t allow him to accept the possibility of Fusion other than by our drive. I wasn’t sure my own did, either. Perhaps the puter could be reprogrammed, but I saw no point in trying.
We’d lost well over half our food plants, and the remaining food stored in the hold was inaccessible. Though three crewmen, our four prisoners, and two passengers were dead, that still left us facing certain starvation. Our recyclers labored to keep breathable air circulating through the ship. Until the feeder lines could be repaired, they barely functioned.
In the meantime we were in Fusion or some analogous state, hurtling toward an unknown destination, entangled with a deadly and hostile alien.
And I was hungry. Should we ration the remaining food? Would we live long enough for it to matter? How long could we make it last, even with rationing?
I thumbed the caller. “Mr. Attani, Mr. Branstead, Mr. Dakko Junior to the bridge.”
