Mitchie had to agree. With the battle still raging a second trip to the dataship would be bottom priority. They’d established these ships weren’t an immediate threat which was what Command wanted. But losing the data was breaking Pete’s heart.
She said, “That end with the interface contacts will fit in the airlock. Put it in a survival bubble. We’ll take it back to Aurora. You can use it to test your set-up so you’re ready when we do get you a block.”
“Thank you,” said Pete. “Damn it. Why would an AI make something so fragile?”
Chetty had been thinking about that. “It’s probably a single use device. Take the data to Swakop to be copied onto something sturdy. This let it get the maximum data per ship.”
“Makes me wonder what the hurry is,” said Mitchie.
Near Demeter, acceleration 10 m/s2
The AI kept subverting the systems on warships, using high-powered transmitters to beam code into sensors and even exposed cables. Locating the transmitters was the fleet’s top priority. Command tasked Joshua Chamberlain to deploy reconnaissance satellites in low orbit.
The first four reconsats were ejected from the hold on schedule. Mitchie did have to employ evasive maneuvers and deploy both of the decoy drones they’d been given to avoid missile and laser fire from the planet. She altered course to the next drop point.
In the converter room Guo studied his assistants. Both of them were tense at being in the ship closest to the enemy. They were doing a good job of hiding it. To keep their minds off it Guo kept them working on routine inspections and monitoring the heat flows below the firedeck. The real training was how to handle maneuvers. Routine ones were announced on the PA so everyone could grab hold of something. Flipping the ship to point her torch plume at an incoming missile was a surprise. He’d run them through exercises to practice falling on the deck. Mastery would take doing it for real.
Mthembu’s voice came over the PA. “Multiple incoming.” All three mechanics grabbed something.
The ship yawed sharply. One mechanic lost his balance, dangling from his handhold. The other laughed at him. “Nice job, Ye.”
Guo said, “Can it, Finnegan. Your turn will come.” The laugher quieted.
Ye got back on his feet. The ship pitched hard but they all stayed in place.
“Think we’re clear?” asked Finnegan.
“Just stay patient,” said Guo.
Some more thrashing shook them. Then the sound of an impact almost deafened them. The flow warning board, normally pastoral green lights, sprouted a streak of red. The ship began to spin. Ye and Guo were pressed to the floor but Finnegan, across the room, was flung to the ceiling. “Shit! My arm!”
“Just hang on,” said Guo. “We’ll get to you.” When the ship’s under control.
Ye said, “Quadrant three has multiple broken pipes. I’ll shut it down.”
“No, get quadrant one shut,” snapped Guo. “You’re closer.”
“But—”
“Quadrant one! Do it!”
Ye crawled toward the valves. The spin forced him onto the bulkhead. He maneuvered around readouts and consoles, trying to not knee any controls. Guo worked toward the quadrant three controls. Finnegan moaned.
By the time Ye reached the valve the spin pressed him hard against the bulkhead. He had to support himself with one arm and twist the valve with the other. “Cutting flow to quadrant one.”
The torch nozzles on the fore-port quarter of Joshua Chamberlain’s base stopped firing as their superheated steam stopped coming. The warning board flashed more red, complaining that the boiler lines had overheated and shut down.
On the other side half the nozzles were dry, the pipes feeding them torn open by a missiles fragment. Steam boiled out through the hole in the hull, some becoming ice around the torn edges. The remaining quadrant three nozzles unbalanced the thrust on the ship, torqueing it back the other way now that the full quadrant one thrust wasn’t adding more spin to the ship.
Guo waited with his hands on the valve handle, feeling the spin force pushing him against the bulkhead weaken. When it was almost gone he shut the valve. When the board confirmed quadrant three wasn’t firing any more he pulled out his handcomm. “Captain, we are clear to continue on quadrants two and four.”
“Thanks, Chief,” was Mitchie’s reply. They heard the thrusters fire to take the rest of the spin off.
Ye helped Finnegan into his acceleration couch. “What are we going to do now?” he asked.
“We can splint his arm,” answered Guo.”
“No, I meant the ship.”
Above them the sound of the catapult putting another reconsat into its target orbit sounded.
“We’re going to get the job done. It’s what we’re here for.”
Patton Station, Demeter System, centrifugal accel. 10 m/s2
“Eleven days is too damn long,” said Mitchie. Guo had worked the Chief network on the shipyard and come back with the same answer she’d gotten from its CO.
Guo shrugged. “We took some nasty damage. They need to cut out some of the hull to put replacements in. I think they’re doing the best they can.”
Walking the station’s long corridors let Mitchie burn off some nervous energy. Limping to the shipyard and waiting for a repair slip to open up had taken them out of action for over a week already. She wanted to get back to work.
“Are there any parts they’re short on?” she asked. “I could put Setta on finding them.”
Before Guo could answer another couple turned in from a cross-corridor. They stopped short to avoid bumping noses.
“Urk!” Mechanic Finnegan blushed. It showed plainly—he was normally almost as pale as Mitchie. “Uh, ma’am, Senior Chief, I’d like you to meet my friend Amy.”
The woman tucked under Finnegan’s unbandaged arm reached out to shake hands with Guo.
Mitchie studied her. The outfit had started as a Fusion Navy uniform before half the cloth was removed. The face was surgically perfect, as were other parts. Voice and expression completely controlled. Mitchie pegged her as having at least a decade’s experience in the trade and made a rough estimate of her hourly rate on a Fusion world.
Finnegan must have paid much more than that.
When her turn for shaking hands came Mitchie took “Amy’s” hand in both of hers. “Are you a good friend of his?”
“Very, ma’am. You don’t have anything to worry about.”
Mitchie let go. “Well, I’m delighted to meet you, but we have a ship repair meeting.”
Finnegan and his companion vanished down the cross-corridor.
“I’m glad he’s having a good leave,” said Guo as they started walking again.
“Uh-huh. Is crew pay up to date?”
“Yes, I paid them before releasing everyone for leave.”
“Good,” said Mitchie. “If Finnegan asks for a pay advance don’t give him more than two weeks’ worth.”
Guo stopped. “Wait. You think?”
“Yes. And I think she’s professional enough to not get him into trouble.”
He thought for a moment. Mitchie braced for questions about how she’d learned to assess such professionalism.
Instead Guo said, “I can’t blame him for wanting some comfort. It was scary in the converter room for a few minutes.” He wrapped an arm around her. “I’m glad I have you.”
Mitchie leaned into the embrace. “Are you comforted?”
“Yes. But I wouldn’t say no to more.”
“All right.” Nagging the repair crew could wait.
Near Planet Demeter, acceleration 0 m/s2
Directing the casualties to their places in the cargo hold was technically Setta’s job, but she let the corpsmen bring in their patients without bothering them. They all found the proper tie-downs without help. The patients were neatly sorted, Fuzies to port, Disconnect starboard.
Inspecting tie-downs was an excuse to look over the casualties. They had the usual mix of space battle injuries—burns
, vac bite, amputations.
A Fuegan with anesthetic caps on his ankle-stumps tried to strike up a conversation. “Hi, Sugar. What ship is this?”
Setta answered, “You’re on the Joshua Chamberlain.”
“No way! What’s a ship like that hauling meat for?”
“We go where the work is. What’s your story?”
“I’m going to be an inspirational poster at the Academy. ‘Kids, don’t be too slow through the pressure door.’ Fame at last,” he said with mock boastfulness.
Setta gave him a polite chuckle. “How did so many of you get banged up? I thought the fleet was staying out of missile range.”
“That’s not so inspirational,” said the Fuegan. “Occasionally a ship goes down for recon. A Fuzie cruiser made a low pass and had its fire control circuits subverted by the Betrayer. Nothing happened until it rejoined its squadron. Then it tossed a bunch of missiles at the nearest Disconnect squadron. We saw incoming and shot back, naturally. But with the jamming we couldn’t tell which one fired. So we spread our shots all over the Fuzie squadron. Then all the other Fuzies started launching on us. And then it got ugly.”
The casualty behind her spoke up. “Fortunately nobody else was stupid enough to get sucked into it.”
Setta turned to look at him. The sleeves of his jumpsuit had been cut away. Bandages covered from hands to elbows. “What stopped it?” she asked.
He tried to shrug but his arms were taped in place. “Commodore ordered everyone to defensive fire only. Then the crew of the subverted ship cut enough wires to shut their tubes down. That just left the clean-up.”
Setta said, “It scares me that Fuzies and Diskers are so ready to shoot at each other.”
Bandaged Hands said, “I’m more scared that the Betrayer figured out how to get us to do it.”
Docked to Depot Ship Tahiti, Demeter System, centrifugal acceleration 10 m/s2
Once the orbital defenses were cleared away from Demeter the attack squadrons orbited fifteen thousand klicks up. Lower than that they sometimes had their systems subverted by enemy signals, forcing them to fire on friends or catastrophically deorbit. Analog ships drew duty as target spotters, carrying sensor pallets to search for the infoweapon transmitters.
Mitchie expected to join them when Joshua Chamberlain was called back to the logistics convoy. Instead the cargo hold was filled with a floor to ceiling rack of drop capsules.
“Those look flimsy for re-entry,” Mitchie said to the quartermaster overseeing the installation.
“Oh, these aren’t for orbital drops,” she answered. “These are the second wave, released in atmosphere. Didn’t you get briefed?”
“No, that’s our next stop.” When it’s too late to back out.
The briefing room held the crews of a dozen analog ships. The Fusion Marine officer spent more time explaining why orbital drop capsules were too expensive to mass produce than laying out the plan for the operation. For the ships it was simple: enter atmosphere, slow to near-stop, release the racks, then get back to orbit before the AI found their range.
When the brief moved on to explaining how the shock gel filling the capsules would protect the Marines from injury on landing Mitchie tuned it out. She wondered why the infantry were being sent in so soon. Are they hoping to find survivors? Do they need to capture a hold on the surface to clear the way for the fleet? Or is High Command just trying to drive up the Fusion casualty count?
Joshua Chamberlain met with the troopship a hundred thousand klicks over Demeter. Mitchie hovered halfway up the cargo hold wall, watching them file in. The NCOs took advantage of free-fall to throw wayward privates to the next empty capsule.
Pushing Marines into the shock gel produced complaints of it feeling like mud or worse. Mitchie kept checking the time. Despite the whinging and cursing the Marines kept ahead of schedule.
“Hi, Mitchie!”
She pivoted to face the Marine who’d just come through the airlock.
He blushed when he saw her rank. “Ah, ma’am. Sorry, ma’am.” He saluted.
She returned it and pushed off to land next to him. “Welcome back aboard, Abdul.” She was about to ask him how he’d wound up in the Marines when a gunnery sergeant gave a cough. Right, no time for chit-chat. “You have a safe trip.” She slapped him on the shoulder and went back to her perch.
Mitchie did have to make chit-chat with the battalion’s colonel before he climbed into the last capsule, right against the cargo hold doors. “Anything I need to do if the attack is delayed?”
“No worries. Sergeant major has them listening to a proper list of songs. The time will fly by.”
“Right. Good luck, Colonel.”
“Thank you, Commander. Could you check my seals after I button up?”
She made sure his capsule was air-tight then did the same for the rest of the front row. She knew staff officers could be sloppy with the hands-on stuff.
Mitchie had Joshua Chamberlain parked on her go-point with twelve minutes to spare. The operation was precisely timed. A global bombardment had already started. The drop zone and several decoy areas received extra attention. The orbital drop capsules were falling toward the planet, mixed with jammers, decoys, and chaff pods. The airdrop was scheduled for right as the first wave hit dirt.
“Hustle, go go go! Hustle, go go go!” came the signal.
Hiroshi lit the torch. The nav box said they were on course. Mitchie took a couple of sights to verify it hadn’t been subverted yet.
Halfway down they flipped, burning down their velocity so they’d hit air at a survivable speed. The ship rocked slightly as it entered the upper atmosphere.
“Captain has the con,” said Mitchie.
“Captain has the con,” acknowledged Hiroshi, releasing the controls.
She tweaked the torch to smooth out the aerobraking and steer the ship toward their drop point. As the air pressure pushed their exhaust back against the hull she commed Guo to shift the mix to more steam flow and less heat. The ship slowed hard, pressing the crew against their couches with thirty gravs. By the nav box they were still on track.
As the ship slowed to merely supersonic speed Mitchie spun up the turbines. When they reached full thrust she cut the torch. Don’t want to fry the poor boys on their way out.
Now that their wake wasn’t distorting visibility the bridge crew could see beams flashing past them. The assault squadrons were intercepting the AI’s antiship missiles.
Mitchie checked the nav box. The display showed only grey snow. She cursed and started looking for landmarks. “Hiroshi, start the radar. Get our altitude.”
Memorizing the map of Daphne City paid off. The drop point was over the intersection of two cargo roads. She tilted the ship toward it, trying for a smooth ride.
She thumbed the PA switch. “Prepare to release troops.”
Below decks Guo and Setta rose from their acceleration couches and took the ladder up to the hold.
A minute later Guo reported, “Ready to drop.”
“Stand by.” She still had the ship moving too fast—the doors would rip right off if they opened.
Mthembu kept looking out the dome. “Incoming is getting closer.”
Hiroshi shushed him.
Mitchie placed the ship hovering over the drop point. “Drop drop drop!”
The cargo hold doors began to open. The ship rocked as a missile exploded nearby. Then the rattle of capsules sliding out of the racks began.
Mitchie set Joshua Chamberlain drifting east for the prescribed separation between parachutes. She could see the capsules plummeting to the ground four klicks below. The chutes didn’t deploy until they were more than halfway down.
“All out!” announced Guo. The hold doors began closing.
“Hiroshi, take the con,” ordered Mitchie. “As soon as they’re secure get us out of here.”
“Aye-aye, I have the con,” he answered. He pointed the ship straight up to get a little altitude with the turbines on low thrust.
>
Guo reported, “Crew secure,” from his couch.
Hiroshi lit the torch. The sky disappeared as the air before them compressed hard enough to glow.
When the stars appeared Mitchie took a deep breath and let it out slowly.
Hiroshi directed his co-pilot to take sights. “I’ve just been boosting away. Let’s get on a course.”
A message came in on the analog ship channel. “Drop ships, this is Landing Command. Well done. All troops were landed on schedule. Compliments to Joshua Chamberlain for being the only ship to place all your troops in their drop box.”
“Hear that, Skipper?” said Mthembu. “Think they’ll have something for us?”
“Yep,” said Mitchie. “Another job.”
Patton Station, Demeter System, centrifugal accel. 10 m/s2
Dropping supplies at Patton Station had perks. Unlimited hot water was one of the best. Mitchie lay in a soft bed, luxuriating in the feeling of being completely clean. Guo finished toweling off and climbed in next to her. She wondered if he’d fall asleep. Showers hadn’t been their first priority.
Guo’s arms pulled her tight against him in a non-sleepy way. “Hey. Can we talk about something?”
“Sure.” Mitchie turned on her side to face him.
“We’ve been doing lots of high hazard missions.”
“Best ship, best pilots,” she stroked his chest, “best-tuned torch. We have a better chance of coming out in one piece than any other analog ship. So we get the job.”
“Chance.” Guo stressed the word. “That’s the thing that worries me. No matter how good our odds are, every time we roll the dice we could be unlucky.”
She thought a moment before speaking. “Do you want to stop rolling them?”
Guo pulled the sheet up to his ribs. “I’m not suggesting mutiny or desertion. But maybe let some of the other ships take a turn at volunteering when they ask who wants to go?”
“You’re that worried?”
“I’ve looked at the casualty counts. They’re stacking up. I don’t want to lose you. I . . . have some plans for us, after the war.”
Mitchie kissed him. “Okay. I’ll let the others volunteer.”
Torchship Pilot Page 32