Is that it? Ross wondered. Is that the coordinates?
Niall shook the man’s hand, the man went back to the doors, and Niall handed the envelope to Fallan.
“Hmm,” Fallan said, breaking the seal, and opened it on the spot, while Niall waited. Fallan looked at it, and everything except the fans fell quiet, the lift fell silent, and everybody was fixed on the envelope. It was a piece of paper, of all things. Not a chip, but a piece of paper.
Fallan nodded, and passed the paper to Ashlan. Who looked at it and passed it to Ross.
Ross looked at it in his turn, took in the coordinates and vector calculations, the mathematical snapshot of the gravity wells and their relation to Sol and Alpha. In his mental map, he tried to make three new territories stick fast and make sense all at once, with Fallan’s accuracy. He was Nav, at least trainee Nav. The data halfway clicked, given he’d never seen those numbers before. The vector out of here was something he’d never seen. The destination . . . God, he knew Sol, just because it was tradition; he’d read the pusher charts, because that was where instruction started. But in the route—they were going somewhere slightly off from the pusher route, playing tag with a never-visited point of mass that had to haul them down for them to exit hyperspace, a point of mass estimated, but never clearly seen.
“Going to be interesting,” Fallan said. “But yes. Doable.”
How did you handle the relative motion? Enter at distance was his guess. If the mass was enough. For two skips he stopped being scared of the general situation and started being marginally scared about something far more concrete, like four percent of a solar mass with a relative motion he’d really prefer be much closer to Alpha’s.
“Interesting,” Ashlan called it.
“Yeah,” was Fallan’s word for it.
“So we’re a yes,” Niall said.
“We can do it,” Fallan said.
“Then let’s go,” Niall said. “First shift to the lifts.”
“See you,” somebody said, and people hugged each other, who were second shift. Second shift’s Nav 1 hugged Ashlan, and patted Fallan on the shoulder, and Helm 1’s half brother hugged him. Someone grabbed Ross’s hand and squeezed it, but he wasn’t sure who, because a number of cousins were patting him on the back and wishing him good luck.
He went. Niall was going, and it was just his job to stay with Fallan, that was the only mission Niall had handed him when he’d joined the shift. Stay with Fallan, who was old, and fragile, and who might not make a really rough trip, in which case, God help them. But if you were first into a jump-point, Fallan’s hand was the one you wanted pushing the buttons.
Into the lift. It was a pared-down first shift that went with Niall, and support staff crowded in, all of them in one lift car. Niall punched buttons, machinery slammed and hummed into operation, and they moved, going up, so far as the human brain interpreted it.
So far as any observer up in ops might know, it was routine, first shift going up to do what first shift always did: open the hatch, start the warmup, flip switches, check the systems, and generally get processes in motion that could be controlled from the bridge. They did keep a human-habitable level of heat going, an automatic shunting of solar heat here and there to do useful work. One of the steps for an immediate departure was to fold that array down and tuck it in to protect it. Engineering’s job, that, along with the checks and tests.
And once they made that point in the checklist, ordinarily, they’d open the lock, exhale warmed air into the boarding tube, and start the boarding of the rest of them who had jobs to do, the two idle shifts pitching in to assist the kids and the minders and the senior-seniors. Ordinarily when they did move out of lock, people would be huddling together in the comfortable warm lounges for a cup of something hot, and they’d move out gently on nothing more than steam, a little waste water from the lines, and then, having moved free of the station—they’d get everybody settled and put a little push on for an hour or so. Ordinarily they’d run a day or two, maybe more, laze along doing housekeeping, getting things in order, attending personal matters and generally getting their mindset back into ops, having had their blowout stationside—and not being in a hurry, comparatively, against the distance they were about to travel. Do it right, was the general mantra.
Only this time they were backing out and turning their bow to a vector only pusher-ships used, and a station admin with its own troubles was about to admit what it had done and why most of the Monahans were still on station.
Galway was going to push back, swing round, and run like a bat out of hell, that was Niall’s word, passed to first shift moments before they left the Fortune. They’d do a hard accel, get the hell away from the solar mass, and go far and fast, uncatchable, irrevocable, and beyond all argument or threat of retaliation from anybody . . . so the Monahans left behind couldn’t be any use as hostages in an argument in Alpha admin. Finity was there, Finity was a potent argument not to start anything with spacer-folk—but they could at least make it clear they were unstoppable.
Easier on themselves as well. Less time to sweat and worry. Ross was for it. He told himself he was. He was determined not to shiver. But he was damned scared, trying not to think too far ahead, trying not to have any doubts, but his mind kept skittering this way and that into things they had to do immediately, the things he had to do, and the thought of Jen, and Sol, and Peg, and the sendoff in Rosie’s . . .
Focus, he said to himself, and jammed his hands into his pockets as they went—“up” being defined only by the direction the lift moved: the lift decks were gimballed, an amenity. At Glory, they weren’t, and the masts were only stubs. Here, they extended considerably.
And Galway was docked a far distance out. Somebody in control could still push a button, stall them out. The lift trip seemed to take forever. Was the G-force less than normal?
He gave a twitch, hadn’t intended to. It was almost a shiver.
“You all right?” Fallan asked.
“Yeah. Fine. I’m fine.”
“Not too late. We can make it with two.”
“I’m fine. Intent on learning something this trip.”
“Last chance,” Fallan said, squeezing his shoulder.
“Hell, no,” he said.
“Going to be an interesting jump. You see the relative motion?”
“Yeah. Did.”
“Tell you something I’ve told you before, and I’ll tell you again before you go, because this mass is going to talk to us.”
“You think?”
“My Lisa Marie—she agrees with me. Can’t just ride the numbers, friends, and this time I’ll prove it to you, ’cause for this one—there ain’t no chart.”
“I’ll be feeling for it,” Ashlan said. “You keep telling me, I believe you, and I keep trying.”
“No chart to distract you this time, Ash-me-lad. This is the time you’ll be searching with every fiber of your being, and with that squee-angled motion that mass has got, you and nav and all will be feeling that mass answering to the ship coming in. We’ll be writing a blank page. But we’ll do it. Anybody scared?”
They laughed. Of course they were. And then Fallan asked, “You scared, Ross?”
Ross said. “I’m not ducking out. But damned right I’m scared.”
“Scared is smart, coupled with aware,” Ashlan said.
“He’ll do,” Fallan said. The lift was starting to slow, close to their berth, and they were starting to float, weighing a little less. “He’ll do right well. Might let you shadow me on entry. Hell, I might switch off and leave your board the active one.”
“God, no!”
They laughed. They all laughed, except Ross, who’d had that trick played on him once, when he’d thought his board had gone live. You never knew, shadowing, when the number one might play that trick on you. But there was a reason there were three sets of hands on ev
ery station during jump: the active board, the one that counted; one whose input advised the active board; and one, like Ross’s, that simply shadowed. Ross’s didn’t count. It was pretty good. He was getting it. He was close, but, God, the joke shocked him to silence.
“You’re all right,” Ashlan said, hand on his arm.
“Sure he is,” Fallan said, while Ross’s heart thumped hard. And right now his hands on the controls would bring up that red pulse in the corner of the screens that advised everybody third nav had a very elevated pulse. There was no hiding. It would do that when they moved out. It would do that for sure when they went for jump—it would undoubtedly do it when they came in. He remembered his first time to sit third-seat, and Fallan’s pulse, first of the four dots, had been a nice steady green, easy as a walk down the Strip.
They made a chain of linked arms, Ashlan anchoring them all by his grip on a takehold, as the lift car came to a stop.
The door opened to Niall’s button-push, and let them out in a metal-and-ceramics chamber a little bigger than the lift car, the far side of which was Galway’s hatch. Niall, duffle strap over his shoulder, the safe way to bundle yourself and baggage over, made the crossing without a tumble, just sailed neatly to the hatch, uncapped the switch and opened it up.
Niall first, then Nav’s three; and then Scan, Longscan, and Com, Engineering and the rest to follow. It was a point of pride to go over quietly, take a grip and, with the foot-plate, make a nice long glide to the far wall. It was cold as hell’s hinges—exposed skin couldn’t take much of it, and people hurried, piling up until the lift was empty and the last in, Second Cook Tess, called out, “Last man!” in a clear soprano. “Shutting the hatch!”
The unmistakable sound followed, ending in a solid thump.
“Hatch is green!” Tess shouted, meaning the inner hatch would respond now, and Niall lost no time. Inner hatch opened and lights went on, bringing life to Galway’s passages, and warm air followed, at least warm enough to feel the difference, not warm enough for the ice that had formed on hair and clothes and baggage to melt.
They were in. They were home, a mass of floating, frosted bodies working with fair efficiency to hand each other along, clear the airlock, and get that cold shut out entirely. Last Man passed the inner doors, called out a safe, and shut the inner hatch.
Then, still adrift, they had the vents overhead blowing air on them that would melt the rime-frost and help breathing get back under control. Everything passed into routine, the echoing voices, everybody anxious to get to stations and start flipping switches and bringing Galway alive again—getting the ring moving was among first things, decoupling from the mast, and getting spin started. Ordinarily that waited for the last boardings, the last of Last Men from a sequence of groups.
Not this time. The inward-bound lift wouldn’t be bringing up the others and there would be no wait for the off-shifts and kids and seniors to get to quarters. They used the takeholds to drift, a bundled-up procession, rightwise into the bridge. Everything was cold, much as the quick-heat system was doing to give them warm breezes. The surfaces would frost if you breathed heavily on them. Ross reached his own seat next to Scan 1’s, and floated his way into it, pulling the belts across to keep him there—everyone was doing the same, until Niall, centermost of the bridge, used a handhold to right himself to what was approximately a standing position. Doc Jack was there with his aide; Mike the cook with Tess, all with takeholds along the bulkhead.
“Thirty-second warning,” Niall said. “Anybody got a problem?”
Nobody said anything. Thirty seconds slipped by and Niall pushed the button.
There wasn’t a sound for a moment. Then a couple of thumps, multiple lighter sounds, and they were uncoupled. Gradually, gradually down began to assert itself, light as a feather’s fall at first, currents of air, and the ears’ awareness which way was up. It took a bit. Anything anybody had left unsecured would settle. There were mysterious small sounds as that happened here and there, and bodies began to sink into their seats and cushions began to give.
They had systems checks to go. Boards came live. The shift had a cargomaster—they were loaded, a great deal of it foodstuffs, for Bryant’s and Glory, and they were not, Niall’s decision, going to jettison anything. It made sense, with the unknown ahead.
Nav boards came live, mostly black, with green print crawling upward, informing them of systems waking up. Ross’s said, correctly, that his screen was shadow to 1 and 2. He keyed in.
Keying in jump coordinates was a process. It awaited them getting underway, getting the system up and aware of their true bearings.
It began to feel more like normality, these people, these boards, the process. Things were ticking down to moving the ship. Ross drew a long slow breath and let it go, waiting for data to turn up, waiting for the system to deliver them a precise position. His weight was in his seat, his feet were on the floor, and he was, finally, getting a bit warm.
No few people had gotten up to shed coats and take them back to lockers. Jackets were enough, and there were things to arrange. Ross stood up, took his jump packet out of his inside pocket, put it into the little console slot designed to hold it, and said, “Take your coats?” to Fallan and Ashlan, himself being juniormost.
Ashlan had shed his, and started to hand it over, when an alarmed look came into his eyes, a fixed stare past his shoulder, spinward. “Blue-coats!” he said under his breath. Ross turned to look, and Scan 1 shouted the same as a thunder of footfalls came down the ring toward them, a black and blue cascade of uniforms and armor and guns, God help them, arriving on the fragile bridge. There was shouting, there were blue-coats coming in among the banks of consoles, threatening with tasers and batons. Niall put himself in the way of several, and Sam H lit into them from the flank, and they were still coming, maybe thirty of them, with, behind the ranks, God help them, Andrew Cruz.
All that hit in seconds, and the dark tide was past Com and Longscan and coming down on them, pushing and hitting as they went. Chains were out, spacers’ quick answer to fools, and Ross hadn’t one—hadn’t been carrying it into security-sensitive places. All he had was his bare hands, and he grabbed the collar of a blue-coat who shoved him aside, spun him around and gave him an elbow in parting. That—before a baton cracked across his forehead and he hit the deck sideways, full length.
“Dammit,” he heard. And was stepped on, tripping a man, a cousin or a blue-coat, he couldn’t for the moment see. “They were hiding in the lounge, damn ’em.” That was Ashlan’s voice above him. Ross tried to get up, got to a knee and found a counter with his elbow, but somebody’s hand grabbed his jacket and pulled him back down next to a seat base.
“No,” Fallan hissed. “No. Get out of here. Come on!”
Out wasn’t possible. They’d cast loose from the station link to start the spin. But, “Move!” Fallan urged him, the both of them, crawling and scrambling at the last as Cruz’s voice rang out across the bridge, giving orders, telling them he was taking control of the mission, to stop fighting, and what rest he was too busy to hear—he and Fallan had made it out to the entry corridor, where main lights had gone off, leaving dim glow-light and cold.
“Come on,” Fallan said, trying to get to his feet. Ross lifted Fallan up with him, had to catch his own balance more than once.
“Where are we—”
Fallan grabbed his jacket sleeve. “E-chute. Come on.”
He threw an arm about Fallan and ran with him to the spotlighted blue arrow on the bulkhead. Fallan pulled up the latched cover, Fallan’s fingers flew on the enabling buttons, and Ross looked back to the lighted bridge, beyond the stub wall, where blue uniforms cut off the view.
The trap opened under their feet. He hugged Fallan as they dropped. Airbags cushioned their entry, all about them, crushing them together—it was gauged for one, not two; and he’d not done this since he was a junior-junior, on drills.
He heard the hiss of the interface and braced himself. The inexorable sweep of the ring was going to pick up the pod, jerk them along with it—deliver them outside the ring.
Bang. Bump. And a jolt as it shot them out. He held Fallan close throughout, in bitter, bitter cold, air that burned the lungs, froze what was running on his face.
Bang! went the interface, and they lurched forward and stopped, zero-g again at the outer rim of the personnel ring next to the #3 e-lock and its suit-locker, with wan light, with warm air, triggered by their arrival, blasting at them, hot on one side, beyond cold on the other.
“Here.” Fallan snatched something from inside his coat and shoved that into his hand. A paper—the paper. “Into the jacket. Get suited up and get out of here. Get to Finity. She’s right below us, end of the mast. Hell, you can’t miss her.”
“You can’t stay!”
“There’s one person knows those coordinates,” Fallan said, and tapped his own forehead. “I know. And we got us Cruz, don’t we? So Abrezio’s problem’s down by one, and Cruz has to treat me right. I’ll be the one keepin’ Niall’s promise, because Cruz’s fools can’t stop me. Trust me,” Fallan said darkly. “Some’ll be slow comin’ out of jump fog. Some’ll be sick. We’ll take ’em, first jump or second. I’m the one that knows the numbers, and if they go hurtin’ any of us, or we can’t get control back . . . well, I’m the one that has to put in the coordinates, aren’t I? Decimal points are killers. Quick and done with. And even when Sol gets Abrezio’s message, Sol won’t know if that point is real, then, will they?”
Decimal points. “God, Fallan!”
“We’ll take care of ’em. We own all the buttons, don’t we? The old girl doesn’t respond to strangers. We’ll be back—on our terms. And one way or another, Finity will get her two years. Minimum. You go, Ross. Tell ’em! They got to know. They need to know. Get suited. Now! The blue-boys got to hunt for which chute, but they won’t be long. Go!”
Alliance Rising Page 38