by Jake Elwood
"Maybe nothing." He realized he was speaking softly, almost whispering, and told himself to smarten up. It wasn't as if the crew of those carriers could hear him. "Maybe the Dawn Alliance is doing some kind of exercise. Testing our defenses. Seeing how close they can get to Garnet." He tapped his console, switching it to a navigational display. As near as he could tell, those bombers had been coming straight from Garnet, heading back toward DA space.
Swanson, sounding like someone grasping for straws, said, "An exercise?"
"Maybe," said Tom. "But I doubt it." He sighed, wishing he could think of another explanation. He turned to look at Swanson, and her eyes reflected the horror he felt. "I think Garnet just got attacked. I think a war just started."
Swanson stayed at the helm, staring out the window at the endless expanse of blue with haunted eyes. Tom left her there and went to the kitchen, where he told the others what had happened. Then he sat at the table, silent, and listened while they argued over what it meant and what to do. Carver was all for heading to Garnet at top speed, an idea Tom dismissed out of hand. The attack was over. The Free Bird could do nothing to help.
O'Reilly, Carver, and Haskell debated every option imaginable, from fleeing into the Green Zone and finding sanctuary at a neutral port to bypassing Garnet and running all the way back to Korus. They picked apart one idea after another while Tom listened and thought.
After twenty minutes of hearing them argue in circles he had a fairly clear idea of his options. There was no way to communicate with the Kestrel at range. They would have to find the frigate first. It should be waiting for them at Garnet – unless it had attracted the attention of the carrier fleet.
The Kestrel didn't restrict itself to the empty space between storms. It just bulled its way through. If the ship had been inside a storm when the fleet passed, it would have escaped detection. Even if the carriers had seen it, they might have chosen not to engage. After all, one frigate was small potatoes compared to the fleet at Garnet.
As for the ships at Garnet, Tom shied away from trying to guess their fate. He knew they weren't expecting a long-range bomber attack. He knew they'd be unprepared. It was a pitched battle, or it was a one-sided massacre. Either way, it was over, so he pushed it out of his mind. He had enough to deal with.
A fast rendezvous with the Kestrel looked like the best option. Tom wanted the guidance of proper officers. He knew when he was in over his head. The problem, though, was finding the frigate.
He stood, and the three spacers fell silent, looking at him. "We're heading for Garnet," he said. "We'll follow the path of the Kestrel where we can, and keep a lookout for her. It will lengthen the trip, but if she's out there, she'll be in need of aid."
Haskell said, "But we need to-"
Tom held up a hand, and hid the relief he felt when Haskell went silent. "It's not a damn democracy." He glared at each of them in turn, and no one spoke.
"Now. O'Reilly. I need you to go to the bridge and help Swanson with navigation. We're not just going toward Garnet anymore. We're trying to reproduce the Kestrel's path."
O'Reilly nodded and stood.
Tom looked at Carver and Haskell. "I want you two to get the laser cannon working. It wasn't a priority before. There wasn't a war on. Now, it's a priority."
Haskell murmured, "Aye aye, Sir." He and Carver followed O'Reilly forward.
Tom stayed at the table, staring blindly straight ahead, wondering if he was making the right decisions. Then he shrugged and stood. He wanted to go back to the bridge, but there simply wasn't room.
He stood fidgeting for a long moment, filled with a need to take action. Then he shook his head, found a suit cleaning kit, went to the smelliest cabin on the ship, pulled out a vac suit, and went to work.
They found the Kestrel half a day later. The frigate drifted above a tendril of sparkling brown stormcloud.
There was no response to their hails.
"She looks intact," O'Reilly said, staring worriedly through the bridge windows. "Why doesn't she answer?"
Tom, sitting in the second bridge seat, didn't answer. The Free Bird was closing with the frigate rapidly, and he watched as the ship expanded. It tumbled slowly end over end, and he felt a sick hollow lump expand in his stomach.
"Bring us in close," he said to O'Reilly. "Slow and easy."
O'Reilly nodded, his gaze flicking back and forth from the window to his console.
Footsteps thumped in the corridor and a human silhouette appeared in the reflected rectangle of the hatchway. Swanson said, "Is it the Kestrel?"
"Man the laser cannon," Tom said. He heard her retreat several steps. Then the hatch to the gun turret creaked as she swung it open.
Somewhere aft Carver said, "What's going on?"
"I don't know," Swanson said, her voice changing as she lowered herself onto the ladder. "I don't know anything."
"We found the Kestrel," Tom said, pitching his voice so both of them could hear. "We don't know her status yet. But there's no sign of enemy ships. I just want Swanson on the cannon as a precaution."
Swanson said softly, "Thank you, Sir." Then the hatch in the floor clanged shut.
The Free Bird decelerated, the nose thrusters grumbling, Tom leaning forward in his seat as if the deck were tilted forward. Closer and closer they came, until the Kestrel filled the view from the cockpit window. He could see damage now, a line of pock marks across the aft section where she'd been sprayed with gunfire. It shouldn’t have been enough to cripple the ship.
The finger of ocher stormcloud was closer than he liked, and he frowned, trying to judge the distance. We'll have to go across in vac suits. We'll never be able to dock with her, not while she's spinning.
"I'll send Carver up to help you," Tom said. "I'm going over to the Kestrel." He started to rise.
O'Reilly murmured, "No, Sir."
Tom froze half out of his seat, shocked. "What?"
O'Reilly gave him an apologetic look. Keeping his voice low, he said, "You're the captain now. We need you on the ship. This ship," he clarified, tapping the arm of his chair. "You can't risk yourself boarding the Kestrel."
"It's not much of a risk."
O'Reilly shook his head decisively. "It's a derelict that's been taken by the enemy. There could be anything from a grenade in the airlock to high explosives piled in the cargo bays. There could be commandos on board, or just about anything. Send Carver or Haskell. We can't spare you."
Tom stared at him, wanting to argue, wanting to pull rank. But O'Reilly was right.
He sent Haskell and Carver out in vac suits. The Free Bird's tiny airlock would only accommodate one person at a time, so Tom spent what felt like an endless time just sitting in the bridge, trying not to fidget, while the lock cycled.
"Okay, I'm clear." Haskell's voice, echoing from the confines of his helmet, came over the bridge speakers. "Go ahead, Carver."
The plan was for Carver to take point, approaching the frigate while Haskell maintained a healthy distance. Haskell was hidden by the bulk of the Free Bird, but Carver rose into view, puffs of vapor appearing from the belt around his waist as he released jets of compressed air to manoeuver. He dove toward the middle of the frigate, where the rotation was minimal, and glided in feet-first. His boots touched the side of a cargo pod and he started walking, one plodding step at a time, toward the nose of the ship.
O'Reilly drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair, then touched a button on his console, muting the bridge microphones. "I know he needs to be careful, but God, I wish he'd hurry up." Tom nodded a wry agreement and O'Reilly released the mute button.
"That storm's getting closer," Swanson said.
Tom tore his gaze from Carver's foreshortened figure. Either the Kestrel was drifting toward the storm's stretching finger, or the storm was moving toward the Kestrel. The bulk of the storm beyond the finger seemed closer too, and darker.
"Don't stop being careful, Carver," he said. "But don't dawdle, either."
There wa
s a tricky moment when Carver reached the end of the cargo pod. He had to contort himself to transfer one boot to the end of the tank, at ninety degrees to the surface he stood on. Then he marched along the end of the tank, two quick steps taking him out of sight.
Haskell rose into view, following the forward end of the Kestrel as it turned, trying to stay close enough to Carver to lend assistance if it was needed. When he rose high enough he was silhouetted against the storm, a tiny fragile figure alone before the majesty of primal seventh-dimensional energy.
A few minutes later he vanished from sight, occluded by the Kestrel.
O'Reilly muted the bridge microphones and said, "Should I bring the ship around?"
Tom shook his head. "Staring at them doesn't really help."
"I'm at Airlock Two," Carver said. "It's not opening. I'm using the crank."
Haskell said, "Captain, I'm getting some glow around my suit."
Tendrils of energy played around the nose and tail of the Kestrel as it turned, harbingers of the approaching storm. The ship was not yet engulfed, but energy levels were rising. It wouldn't be long before it became dangerous for a man in a vac suit.
Not long after that, it would become dangerous for the Free Bird as well.
"Hold your position, Haskell," Tom said. "But start planning your approach. I want you heading for the airlock as soon as Carver gets through."
"Aye aye, Sir."
"I'm in the airlock." Static blurred Carver's voice. "It's cycling."
"I'm going in," said Haskell. There was a bit of static in his voice too.
O'Reilly looked at Tom. "We won't have radio contact for much longer, Captain."
A brown line shot out from the storm front, linking the Kestrel to the storm and bathing the frigate in writhing worms of energy. It lasted no more than a second, then vanished. A burst of static came over the bridge speakers, then a garbled mumble from Haskell.
"Repeat," Tom said. "Haskell. Repeat."
"… Okay," Haskell said. "I repeat, I'm at…" His voice disintegrated into static once again.
Tom and O'Reilly exchanged glances. O'Reilly said, "I think he's okay?"
"He'd better be," Tom said. "I can't think of a single thing we can do for him." He looked at the storm, now minutes away from engulfing the Kestrel. "In fact, we need to back away."
O'Reilly gave him a searching look, then nodded. The nose thrusters hummed and the Free Bird began a slow retreat.
"Carver, what's your status?" Tom double-checked that he was broadcasting, then said, "Carver. Can you hear me?"
There was silence from the bridge speakers.
"Haskell, do you copy?"
There was no reply as, ever so slowly, brown billows of energy engulfed the Kestrel and she began to fade from sight.
And then Swanson said, "Captain! I think she's moving!"
Tom leaned forward in his seat, convinced Swanson was indulging in wishful thinking but unable to suppress a rush of hope. The frigate, now nothing more than an outline in the brown mist, wasn't getting any easier to see – but she wasn't getting any more obscure, either.
Of course, storms were fickle things. If this storm would recede, they might still have a chance to retrieve Haskell and Carver.
O'Reilly said, "She's stopped tumbling."
Tom stared. O'Reilly wasn't quite correct. The silhouette of the ship was still turning – but more slowly than before. Then, by painful degrees, the ship began to emerge from the storm. The bridge speakers crackled and popped, and then Carver, his voice thick with static but perfectly comprehensible, said, "Free Bird, this is Kestrel. Do you copy?"
"This is Free Bird," Tom said. "Are you okay?"
"I'm all right, Sir. I'm in Operations. The suit radios weren't getting through."
"What about Haskell? Is he with you?"
"Haskell's on the thrusters. He's trying to push us out of the storm."
"It's working," Tom said. If the thrusters had to be controlled manually, the frigate was in a desperate state. He hesitated, then made himself ask the question. "What's the status of the Kestrel?"
"It’s bad, Sir." Carver sounded subdued, even mournful. "It's real bad."
Chapter 20
The two ships made a rendezvous a thousand kilometers from the churning ball of storm energy. By the time they drifted together, nose to nose, the Kestrel was behaving almost like a warship instead of a derelict. She hung perfectly motionless as O'Reilly turned the little pirate ship sideways and nudged her up against the docking ring at the front of the frigate. The ships sealed themselves together, and Tom led O'Reilly and Swanson aft. He opened the Free Bird's docking hatch and the three of them ducked through and onto the Kestrel.
Carver was there to meet them, still in his vac suit but without his helmet. He stood there, looking weary and forlorn, his hands clasped behind his back. Boudreau was with him, sitting in a plastic chair. The First Officer looked dreadful, dark circles under his eyes, his skin slack and blotched with red. He looked as if keeping his head up was taking all the strength he had left. A pair of marines stood behind the chair, their eyes on Boudreau, and Tom had a horrible suspicion they'd carried him to this spot.
Boudreau said, "Mr. Thrush. Welcome back."
Tom said, "What … How …"
"Shut up and listen." Boudreau's voice was surprisingly strong, and Tom fell silent. "Your training just got accelerated. You're not ready, but you're going to have to step up."
Tom nodded, unable to speak.
"We were attacked by a squadron of bombers fourteen hours ago. If they're experimenting with bombers this far out, if they're willing to fire on a United Worlds ship, it must be a precursor to an attack on Garnet. Your first duty will be to get back to the base and warn them."
It's too late. The attack is long over by now. He didn't voice the thought. It didn't seem right to argue with a man who was clearly dying. He settled for nodding again.
"They used a nuke on us," Boudreau continued. "Not a direct strike, obviously, since the ship is still here. But the warhead detonated at close range. There was no heat damage. We took EMP damage to electronic systems. And radiation." He coughed, sagging forward in his chair, his whole body shaking. When the spasm ended a marine reached forward, put a hand on his shoulder, and helped him sit up. "Lots of radiation," he gasped. "A fatal dose."
Tom stared at him, horrified.
"Casualties are …" Boudreau shook his head, then locked eyes with Tom. "Casualties are goddamned horrible." A tremble shook him, then subsided. "More than half the crew is down. And the entire command staff."
He gestured weakly at the marines behind him. "The marines are all right. Most of them were in the spine." Boudreau grimaced, pressing a hand to his stomach, then gathered himself. "The missile went off ahead of the ship and a few degrees up. Toasted the whole forward section. But the cargo pods shielded the spine and most of the aft section. Sawyer and the Engineering staff are all right. All the crew who were in their bunks are fine. But everyone who was in the forward section got hit.
"I was running for Operations when it happened." Boudreau peeled his lips back from his teeth in a grimace of disgust. "Another five seconds and I'd have made it into the spine." He shut his eyes for a moment. When he opened them he stared past Tom. "They shot us up a bit, before they realized we weren't fighting back. Then they just flew away."
Tom said, "What happened to the captain?"
Boudreau started to answer, then coughed. One cough led to another, and he sagged in the chair, his body shaking, until a marine put a hand on his shoulder, keeping him from sliding to the deck. When it was clear he wasn't about to recover the marines lifted the chair by the arms. "The captain's in the surgery," one marine said. Then they turned and carried Boudreau away.
For a long time Tom stood in the corridor, staring after them. Carver, O'Reilly, and Swanson stood in a silent cluster beside him. Tom turned to them, seeing his own numb shock reflected on their faces. They met his gaze, waiting for
orders, and he fought down a frustrated scream. What makes you think I have the faintest idea what to do?
"Report to Engineering," he said at last. "See if Lieutenant Sawyer can use you." They nodded and moved aft, and Tom headed for the surgery.
Every bed was full. Gurneys lined the bulkheads, and an exhausted medical corpsman moved from one patient to another, doing what he could. Tom found Captain Nishida and stood beside her bed, staring down at her helplessly. She was asleep or unconscious, a shrunken figure with none of the presence and authority he'd always associated with her. He thought about waking her up, couldn't bring himself to do it, and finally slipped out of the room.
He found the rest of the casualties in the mess hall. They filled every table, lying shoulder to shoulder. Dr. Vinduly walked among them, with half a dozen crew who'd been pressed into service as orderlies. The room stank of diarrhea and vomit, and Tom stopped in the doorway, unable to make himself enter.
"Thrush." The voice, weak and trembling, arrested him as he started to turn away. He made himself face the mess hall. His sense of smell was going dead, which made it easier. He took all the overwhelming emotions that were clawing at the inside of his brain, wrapped them up in a tight ball, and jammed them into a dark recess of his mind. Then he took a deep breath, careful not to inhale through his nose, and walked into the room.
"Thrush." A hand rose near the end of the nearest table, then sank back down. He advanced, and his heart lurched when he recognized Brady. She stared up at him, and he looked down at her, searching helplessly for something to say.
"You're okay," she said, her voice a weak rasp. "I'm glad."
"I'm sorry." He couldn't reach her hand, so he squeezed her foot through the sheet that covered her. "Oh, God, Brady, I'm sorry."
The sheet stirred as her shoulders moved in a shrug. "Nobody told me the Navy would be safe." She smiled grimly. "This won't be easy for you."
"For me?" he said. "I'm fine."
"You're getting dropped in the deep end," she said. "I wish I had some parting advice for you." She shrugged again. "You'll do all right, though. You've got the right stuff."