by David Drake
Scott could not. He was not part of the undersea culture, and he could never be. But he could lose himself in the hedonistic backwash of the Keeps, the froth that always overlies any social unit. With Ilene, he could, at least, seek happiness, without the bitter self-mockery he had known for so long. Mockery at his own emotional weaknesses in which he did not believe.
Ilene was honest. She knew she was damned, because unluckily she had intelligence.
So—Scott thought—they would make a good pair.
Scott looked up as Commander Bienne came into the room. Bienne's sour, mahogany face was flushed deep red under the bronze. His lids were heavy over angry eyes. He swung the door-curtain shut after him and stood rocking on his heels, glowering at Scott.
He called Scott something unprintable.
The captain rose, an icy knot of fury in his stomach. Very softly he said, “You're drunk, Bienne. Get out. Get back to your quarters.”
“Sure—you little tinhorn soldier. You like to give orders, don't you? You like to chisel, too. The way you chiseled me out of that left-wing command today. I'm pretty sick of it, Captain Brian Scott.”
“Don't be a damned fool! I don't like you personally any more than you like me, but that's got nothing to do with the Company. I recommended you for that command.”
“You lie,” Bienne said, swaying. “And I hate your guts.”
Scott went pale, the scar on his cheek flaming red. Bienne came forward. He wasn't too drunk to coordinate. His fist lashed out suddenly and connected agonizingly with Scott's molar.
The captain's reach was less than Bienne's. He ducked inside of the next swing and carefully smashed a blow home on the point of the other's jaw. Bienne was driven back, crashing against the wall and sliding down in a limp heap, his head lolling forward.
Scott, rubbing his knuckles, looked down, considering. Presently he knelt and made a quick examination. A knockout, that was all.
Oh, well.
Briggs appeared, showing no surprise at sight of Bienne's motionless body. The perfect orderly walked across to the table and began to refill the humidor with the tobacco he had brought.
Scott almost chuckled.
“Briggs.”
“Yes, sir?”
“Commander Bienne's had a slight accident. He—slipped. Hit his chin on something. He's a bit tight, too. Fix him up, will you?”
“With pleasure, sir.” Briggs hoisted Bienne's body across his brawny shoulders.
“Zero hour's at twelve. The commander must be aboard the Flintlock by then. And sober. Can do?”
“Certainly, sir,” Briggs said, and went out.
Scott returned to his chair, filling his pipe. He should have confined Bienne to his quarters, of course. But—well, this was a personal matter. One could afford to stretch a point, especially since Bienne was a valuable man to have aboard during action. Scott vaguely hoped the commander would get his thick head blown off.
After a time he tapped the dottle from his pipe and went off for a final inspection.
At midnight the fleet hoisted anchor.
By dawn the Doones were nearing the Venus Deep.
The ships of the Mob had already joined them, seven battleships, and assorted cruisers, destroyers, and one carrier. No monitor. The Mob didn't own one—it had capsized two months before, and was still undergoing repairs.
The combined fleets sailed in crescent formation, the left wing, commanded by Scott, composed of his own ship, the Flintlock, and the Arquebus, the Arrow, and the Misericordia, all Doone battlewagons. There were two Mob ships with him, the Navaho and the Zuni, the latter commanded by Cinc Mendez. Scott had one carrier with him, the other being at right wing. Besides these, there were the lighter craft.
In the center were the battleships Arbalest, Lance, Gatling, and Mace, as well as three of Mendez's. Cinc Rhys was aboard the Lance, controlling operations. The camouflaged monitor Armageddon was puffing away valiantly far behind, well out of sight in the mists.
Scott was in his control room, surrounded by telaudio screens and switchboards. Six operators were perched on stools before the controls, ready to jump to action when orders came through their earphones. In the din of battle spoken commands often went unheard, which was why Scott wore a hush-mike strapped to his chest.
His eyes roved over the semicircle of screens before him.
“Any report from the gliders yet?”
“No, sir.”
“Get me air-spotting command.”
One of the screens flamed to life; a face snapped into view on it.
“Report.”
‘’Nothing yet, Captain. Wait.” There was a distant thunder. “Detectors clamped on a telaudio tight-beam directly overhead.”
“Enemy glider in the clouds?”
“Apparently. It's out of the focus now.”
“Try to relocate it.”
A lot of good that would do. Motored planes could easily be detected overhead, but a glider was another matter. The only way to spot one was by clamping a detector focus directly on the glider's telaudio beam—worse than a needle in a haystack. Luckily the crates didn't carry bombs.
“Report coming in, sir. One of our gliders.”
Another screen showed a face. “Pilot reporting, sir. Located enemy.”
“Good. Switch in the telaudio, infra. What sector?”
“V. D. eight hundred seven northwest twenty-one.”
Scott said into his hush-mike, “Get Cinc Rhys and Commander Geer on tight-beam. And Cinc Mendez.”
Three more screens lit up, showing the faces of the three officers.
“Cut in the pilot.”
Somewhere over Venus Deep the glider pilot was arcing his plane through the cloud-layer, the automatic telaudio-camera, lensed to infrared, penetrating the murk and revealing the ocean below. On the screen ships showed, driving forward in battle formation.
Scott recognized and enumerated them mentally. The Orion, the Sirius, the Vega, the Polaris—uh-huh. Lighter ships. Plenty of them. The scanner swept on.
Cinc Rhys said, “We're outnumbered badly. Cinc Mendez, are your sub-detectors in operation?”
“They are. Nothing yet.”
“We'll join battle in half an hour, I judge. We've located them, and they've no doubt located us.”
“Check.”
The screens blanked out. Scott settled back, alertly at ease. Nothing to do now but wait, keeping ready for the unexpected. The Orion and the Vega were the Helldivers’ biggest battleships, larger than anything in the line of the Doones—or the Mob. Cinc Flynn was no doubt aboard the Orion. The Helldivers owned a monitor, but it had not showed on the infrared aerial scanner. Probably the behemoth wouldn't even show up in time for the battle.
But even without the monitor, the Helldivers had an overwhelming surface display. Moreover, their undersea fleet was an important factor. The sub-detectors of Cinc Mendez might—probably would—cut down the odds. But possibly not enough.
The Armageddon, Scott thought, might be the point of decision, the ultimate argument. And, as yet, the camouflaged monitor was lumbering through the waves far in the wake of the Doones.
Commander Bienne appeared on a screen. He had frozen into a disciplined, trained robot, personal animosities forgotten for the time. Active duty did that to a man.
Scott expected nothing different, however, and his voice was completely impersonal as he acknowledged Bienne's call.
“The flitterboats are ready to go, Captain.”
“Send them out in fifteen minutes. Relay to left wing, all ships carrying flitters.”
“Check.”
For a while there was silence. A booming explosion brought Scott to instant alertness. He glanced up at the screens.
A new face appeared. “Helldivers opening up. Testing for range. They must have gliders overhead. We can't spot em.
“Get the men under cover. Send up a test barrage. Prepare for return fire. Contact our pilots over the Helldivers.”
I
t was beginning now—the incessant, racking thunder that would continue till the last shot was fired. Scott cut in to Cinc Rhys as the latter signaled.
“Reporting, sir.”
“Harry the enemy. We can't do much yet. Change to R-8 formation.”
Cinc Mendez said, “We've got three enemy subs. Our detectors are tuned up to high pitch.”
“Limit the range so our subs will be outside the sphere of influence.”
“Already did that. The enemy's using magnetic depth charges, laying an undersea barrage as they advance.”
“I'll talk to the sub command.” Rhys cut off. Scott listened to the increasing fury of explosions. He could not yet hear the distinctive clap-clap of heat rays, but the quarters were not yet close enough for those undependable, though powerful, weapons. It took time for a heat ray to warm up, and during that period a well-aimed bullet could smash the projector lens.
“Casualty, sir. Direct hit aboard destroyer Bayonet.”
“Extent of damage?”
“Not disabled. Complete report later.”
After a while a glider pilot came in on the beam.
“Shell landed on the Polaris, sir.”
“Use the scanner.”
It showed the Helldivers’ battlewagon, part of the superstructure carried away, but obviously still in fighting trim. Scott nodded. Both sides were getting the range now. The hazy clouds still hid each fleet from the other, but they were nearing.
The sound of artillery increased. Problems of trajectory were increased by the violent winds of Venus, but accurate aiming was possible. Scott nodded grimly as a crash shook the Flintlock.
They were getting it now. Here, in the brain of the ship, he was as close to the battle as any member of a firing crew. The screens were his eyes.
They had the advantage of being able to use infrared, so that Scott, buried here, could see more than he could have on deck, with his naked eye. Something loomed out of the murk and Scott's breath stopped before he recognized the lines of the Doone battlewagon Misericordia. She was off course. The captain used his hush-mike to snap a quick reprimand.
Flitterboats were going out now, speedy hornets that would harry the enemy fleet. In one of them, Scott remembered, was Norman Kane. He thought of Ilene and thrust the thought back, out of his mind. No time for that now.
Battle stations allowed no time for wool gathering.
The distant vanguard of the Helldivers came into sight on the screens. Cinc Mendez called.
“Eleven more subs. One got through. Seems to be near the Flintlock. Drop depth bombs.”
Scott nodded and obeyed. Shuddering concussions shook the ship. Presently a report came in: fuel slick to starboard.
Good. A few well-placed torpedoes could do a lot of damage.
The Flintlock heeled incessantly under the action of the heavy guns. Heat rays were lancing out. The big ships could not easily avoid the searing blasts that could melt solid metal, but the flitterboats, dancing around like angry insects, sent a rain of bullets at the projectors. But even that took integration. The rays themselves were invisible, and could only be traced from their targets. The camera crews were working overtime, snapping shots of the enemy ships, tracing the rays’ points of origin, and telaudioing the information to the flitterboats.
“Helldivers’ Rigel out of action.”
On the screen the big destroyer swung around, bow pointing forward. She was going to ram. Scott snapped orders. The Flintlock went hard over, guns pouring death into the doomed Rigel.
The ships passed, so close that men on the Flintlock's decks could see the destroyer lurching through the haze. Scott judged her course and tried desperately to get Mendez. There was a delay.
“QM—QM—emergency! Get the Zuni!”
“Here she answers, sir.”
Scott snapped, “Change course. QM. Destroyer Rigel bearing down on you.”
“Check.” The screen blanked. Scott used a scanner. He groaned at the sight. The Zuni was swinging fast, but the Rigel was too close—too damned close.
She rammed.
Scott said, “Hell.” That put the Zuni out of action. He reported to Cinc Rhys.
“All right, Captain. Continue R-8 formation.”
Mendez appeared on a screen. “Captain Scott. We're disabled. I'm coming aboard. Have to direct sub-strafing operations. Can you give me a control board?”
“Yes, sir. Land at Port Sector 7.”
Hidden in the mist, the fleets swept on in parallel courses, the big battlewagons keeping steady formation, pouring heat rays and shells across the gap. The lighter ships strayed out of line at times, but the flitterboats swarmed like midges, dog-fighting when they were not harrying the larger craft. Gliders were useless now, at such close quarters.
The thunder crashed and boomed. Shudders rocked the Flintlock.
“Hit on Helldivers’ Orion. Hit on Sirius.”
“Hit on Mob ship Apache.”
“Four more enemy subs destroyed.”
“Doone sub X-16 fails to report.”
“Helldivers’ Polaris seems disabled.”
“Send out auxiliary flitterboats, units nine and twenty.”
Cinc Mendez came in, breathing hard. Scott waved him to an auxiliary control unit seat.
“Hit on Lance. Wait a minute. Cinc Rhys a casualty, sir.
Scott froze. “Details.”
“One moment— Dead, sir.”
“Very well” Scott said after a moment. “I'm assuming command. Pass it along.”
He caught a sidelong glance from Mendez. When a Company's cinc was killed, one of two things happened—promotion of a new cinc, or a merger with another Company. In this case Scott was required, by his rank, to assume temporarily the fleet's command. Later, at the Doone fort, there would be a meeting and a final decision.
He scarcely thought of that now. Rhys dead! Tough, unemotional old Rhys, killed in action. Rhys had a free-wife in some Keep, Scott remembered. The Company would pension her. Scott had never seen the woman. Oddly, he wondered what she was like. The question had never occurred to him before.
The screens were flashing. Double duty now—or triple. Scott forgot everything else in directing the battle.
It was like first-stage anesthesia—it was difficult to judge time. It might have been an hour or six since the battle had started. Or less than an hour, for that matter.
“Destroyer disabled. Cruiser disabled. Three enemy subs out of action—”
It went on, endlessly. At the auxiliaries Mendez was directing sub-strafing operations. Where in hell's the Armageddon, Scott thought? The fight would be over before that overgrown tortoise arrived.
Abruptly a screen flashed QM. The lean, beak-nosed face of Cinc Flynn of the Helldivers showed.
“Calling Doone command.”
“Acknowledging,” Scott said. “Captain Scott, emergency command.”
Why was Flynn calling? Enemy fleets in action never communicated, except to surrender.
Flynn said curtly, “You're using atomic power, Captain. Explanation, please.”
Mendez jerked around. Scott felt a tight band around his stomach.
“Done without my knowledge or approval, of course, Cinc Flynn. My apologies. Details?”
“One of your flitterboats fired an atomic-powered pistol at the Orion”
“Damage?”
“One seven-unit gun disabled.”
“One of ours, of the same caliber, will be taken out of action immediately. Further details, sir?”
“Use your scanner, Captain, on Sector Mobile 18 south Orion. Your apology is accepted. The incident will be erased from our records.”
Flynn clicked off. Scott used the scanner, catching a Doone flitterboat in its focus. He used the enlarger.
The little boat was fleeing from enemy fire, racing back toward the Doone fleet, heading directly toward the Flintlock, Scott saw. Through the transparent shell he saw the bombardier slumped motionless, his head blown half off. The pilot, s
till gripping an atomic-fire pistol in one hand, was Norman Kane. Blood streaked his boyish, strained face.
So Starling's outfit did have atomic power, then. Kane must have smuggled the weapon out with him when he left. And, in the excitement of battle, he had used it against the enemy.
Scott said coldly, “Gun crews starboard. Flitterboat Z-19-4. Blast it.”
Almost immediately a shell burst near the little craft. On the screen Kane looked up, startled by his own side firing upon him. Comprehension showed on his face. He swung the flitterboat off course, zigzagging, trying desperately to dodge the barrage.
Scott watched, his lips grimly tight. The flitterboat exploded in a rain of spray and debris.
Automatic court-martial.
After the battle, the Companies would band together and smash Starling's outfit.
Meantime, this was action. Scott returned to his screens, erasing the incident from his mind.
Very gradually, the balance of power was increasing with the Helldivers. Both sides were losing ships, put out of action rather than sunk, and Scott thought more and more often of the monitor Armageddon. She could turn the battle now. But she was still far astern.
Scott never felt the explosion that wrecked the control room. His senses blacked out without warning.
He could not have been unconscious for long. When he opened his eyes, he stared up at a shambles. He seemed to be the only man left alive. But it could not have been a direct hit, or he would not have survived either.
He was lying on his back, pinned down by a heavy crossbeam. But no bones were broken. Blind, incredible luck had helped him there. The brunt of the damage had been borne by the operators. They were dead, Scott saw at a glance.
He tried to crawl out from under the beam, but that was impossible. In the thunder of battle his voice could not be heard.
There was a movement across the room, halfway to the door. Cinc Mendez stumbled up and stared around, blinking. Red smeared his plump cheeks.
He saw Scott and stood, rocking back and forth, staring.
Then he put his hand on the butt of his pistol.
Scott could very easily read the other's mind. If the Doone captain died now, the chances were that Mendez could merge with the Doones and assume control. The politico-military balance lay that way.