Thunder and Roses

by Theodore Sturgeon

  “Very little, the way it’s set up. The node moves outward away from our three ships—again a resultant, strictly according to the parallelogram of force. How long it lasts, how intense it gets, how far it will go—we never know. It changes with what it encounters. Mass intensifies it and slows it down. Energy of almost any kind accelerates and gradually seems to dissipate it. And it varies for other reasons we don’t understand yet. Setting it up is a very complicated business, as you have seen. We don’t dare kick it off in such a way that it might encounter any of the planets, if it should happen to last long enough. We have to clear space between us and Outside of all shipping.”

  Hereford shook his head slowly. “The final separation between death and destruction,” he mused. “In ancient times, armies met on battlefields and used death alone to determine the winner. Then, gradually, destruction became the most important factor—how much of the enemy’s material could you destroy? And then, with the Atomic Wars, and the Dust, death alone became the end of combat again. Now it has come full circle, and we have found a way to kill, to punish and torture, to dissolve, slowly and insistently, colloidal cells, and still leave machines unharmed. This surpasses the barbarism of jellied gasoline. It takes longer, and—”

  “It’s complete,” Belter finished.

  “Stations!”

  Osgood’s voice sliced raggedly through the quiet bridge. The screen-studded bulkhead beside him winked and flickered with acknowledgments, as tacticians, technicians, astrogators, ballistics men, and crewmen reported in. All three ships were represented, and a master screen collected and summarized the information, automatically framing the laggards’ screen with luminous red. There was little of the red showing, and in seconds it disappeared. Osgood stepped back, glanced at the master screen and then at the chart. On it, the ship symbols were centered in their tactical circles.

  The commander turned away and for the first time in these weary months he spoke directly to Hereford: “Would you like the honor of triggering?”

  Hereford’s nostrils dilated, but his voice was controlled. He put his hands behind his back. “Thank you, no.”

  “I thought not,” said the Butcher, and there was a world of insult in his scraping voice.

  Before him was a triangular housing from which projected three small levers with round grips. One was red, one blue. The third was set between and in front of the others, and was green. He pulled the two nearest him. Immediately a red line appeared on the chart, running from Epsilon’s symbol to the golden patch, and a blue line raced out from Sigma to meet it. Just above the gold hovered the white spot representing the Invader. Osgood watched it narrowly as it dipped toward the gold and the junction of the red and blue lines. He rested his hand on the green lever, made one last check of the screens, and snatched it back. Obediently, a thin, bright green line appeared on the chart. A purple haze clouded the gold.

  “That’s it!” breathed Belter. “The purple, there—The Death!”

  Hereford, shaking, leaned back against the bulkhead. He folded his arms, holding tightly to his elbows, obviously trying to get a grip on much more.

  “Scan him!” spat Osgood. “This I’ve got to see!”

  Belter leapt forward. “Commander! You don’t … you can’t beam him! Remember what happened at Outpost?”

  Osgood swore. “We’ve got so much stuff between here and there already that a scanning beam isn’t going to make that much difference. He’s done, anyway!” he added exultantly.

  The large scanning screen flicked into colors which swirled and fused into the sharp image of the Invader. Since the beam tracked him exactly, there was no sign of motion. “Get me a diagrammatic!” bellowed Osgood. His small eyes were wide, his cheeks puffed out, his lips wet.

  The lower quarter of the screen faded, went black, then suddenly bore a reduced image of the Invader. Apparently creeping toward him was a faint, ever-brightening purple mist.

  “Right on the nose!” gritted Belter. “He’s sailing right into it!”

  Startlingly, the large actual image showed signs of life. A stream of blue-white fire poured out of the ship side.

  “What do you know!” whistled Osgood. “He’s got jets after all! He knows there’s something ahead of him, doesn’t know what it is, and is going to duck it if he has to smear his crew all up and down the bulkheads!”

  “Look!” cried Belter, pointing at the chart. “Why, he’s pulling into a curve that … that—Man, oh man, he’s killing off all hands! He can’t turn like that!”

  “Maybe he wants to get it over with quickly. Maybe he’s run into The Death somewhere before,” crowed Osgood. “Afraid to face it. Hey, Belter, the inside of that ship’s going to be a pretty sight. The Death’ll make jelly of ’em, and that high-G turn’ll lay the jelly like paint out of an airbrush!”

  “Ex … ex—” was as much as Hereford could say as he turned and tottered out. Belter took a step after him, hesitated, and then went back to stand before the chart.

  Purple and gold and white, red and green and blue coruscated together. Slowly, then, the white spot moved toward the edge of the puddle of color.

  “Commander! He’s still side-jetting!”

  “Why not?” said the Butcher gleefully. “That’s the way his controls were set when his command got emulsified. He’ll blow off his fuel in a while, and we can board him.”

  There was a soft click from the master communications screen and a face appeared on it. “Epsilon,” the man said.

  “Good work, Hoster,” said Osgood, rubbing his hands.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the captain of the Martian vessel. “Commander, my astrogators report an extrapolation of the derelict’s change of course. If he keeps jetting, he’s going to come mighty close.”

  “Watch him then,” said Osgood. “If he comes too close, get out of his way. I’ll stake my shoulder boards on your safety.” He laughed. “He’s a dead duck. You’ll be able to clear him. I don’t care if it’s only by fifty meters.”

  The Martian saluted. Osgood checked him before he could fade. “Hoster!”

  “Yes sir.”

  “I know you Martians. Trigger happy. Whatever happens, Hoster, you are not to bomb or ray that derelict. Understand?”

  “Roger, sir,” said the Martian stiffly, and faded.

  “Those Martians,” said Osgood. “Bloodthirsty bunch.”

  Belter said: “Commander, sometimes I understand how Hereford feels about you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said the Butcher.

  They spent the next two hours watching the tactical chart. The Death generators had long ago been cut out, and The Death itself showed on the chart as a dwindling purple stain, headed straight Outside and already fading. But the derelict was still blasting from its side jets, and coming about in an impossible curve. The Martian astrogators had been uncomfortably right, and Captain Hoster had been instructed to take evasive action.

  Closer and closer came the white spot to the red one that was Epsilon. Viewers were clamped on both ships: the Martian had begun to decelerate powerfully to get out of that ratiocinated curve.

  “Doesn’t look so good,” said Belter, after a careful study of the derelict’s trajectory.

  “Nonsense,” said Osgood worriedly. “But it’d be more than a little silly to lose a ship after we’ve whipped the enemy.” He turned to the control bulkhead. “Get me Epsilon.”

  He had started his famous monotone of profanity before the screen finally lit up. Hoster’s face was flushed—blotched, really. “What’s the matter?” snapped Osgood. “You take your own sweet time answering. Why haven’t you taken any momentomine?”

  Captain Hoster clutched the rim of his communicator. “Lissen,” he said thickly. “ ’Nvader out t’ get us, see. Nobody push Martian around. ’S dirty Jovian trick.”

  “Acceleration disease,” said Belter quietly. “He must’ve had some crazy idea of keeping away from the drug so he’d be able to keep on the alert.”
>
  “Hoster! You’re hopped up. You can’t take momentomine for as many years as you have and stay sober under deceleration without it. You’re relieved. Take a dose and turn in. Put your second on.”

  “Lissen, Butch, ol’ horse,” mouthed the Martian. “I know what I’m doin’, see? I don’t want trouble with you. Busy, see? Now, you jus’ handle your boat an’ I’ll handle mine. I’m gonna give that Jovian a case of Titanitis ’f ’e gets wise with me.” And the screen went blank.

  “Hoster!” the commander roared. “Sparks! Put that maniac on again!”

  A speaker answered promptly: “Sorry, sir. Can’t raise him.”

  In helpless fury Osgood turned to Belter. “If he so much as throws a dirty look at that derelict, I’ll break him to an ammo passer and put him on the sun side of Mercury. We need that derelict!”

  “What for?” asked Belter, and then wondered why he had asked, for he knew the answer. Hereford’s influence, probably. It would be Hereford’s question, if he were still here.

  “Four drives we don’t know anything about. A warp-camouflaged disrupter bomb. A chain-instigating ray, that blew up the asteroid last year. And probably lots more. Man, that’s a warship!”

  “It sure is,” said Belter. “It certainly is.” Peace Amalgamated, he thought. A great step forward.

  “Get ’em both on a screen,” Osgood rapped. “They’re close enough—Hey, Belter, look at the way that ship is designed. See how it can check and turn that way?”

  “No, I—Oh! I see what you mean. Uses lateral jets—but what laterals!”

  “Functional stuff,” said Osgood. “We could’ve had that a hundred years ago, but for naval tradition. We put all our drive back aft. We get a good in-line thrust, sure. But look what he’s got! The equivalent of ten or twelve of our stern-tube assemblies. What kind of people were they, that could stand that kind of thing?”

  Belter shook his head. “If they built it that way, they could stand it.” He looked thoughtfully up at the derelict’s trajectory. “Commander, you don’t suppose—”

  Apparently struck by the same awful thought, Osgood said uneasily, “Certainly not. The Death. They went through The Death.”

  “Yes,” said Belter. He sounded relieved, but he did not feel relieved. He watched the screen, and then clutched Osgood’s arm.

  Osgood swore and sprang to the control bulkhead. “Get Epsilon! Tell him to cease fire and then report to me! Blast the hub-forted fun of a plistener! I’ll pry him loose from his—”

  Belter grunted and threw his arm over his eyes as the screen blazed. The automatic shields went up, and when he could see again, the screen showed him the Invader. Epsilon wasn’t there at all.

  After the excitement had died down a little, Osgood slumped into a chair. “I wish we’d had a Jovian ship out there instead,” he rasped. “I don’t care what they did to us during the war, or anything else. They could obey orders. When they say they’ll do a thing, you can bet on it. What’s the score on that business of the Jovians’ electing themselves out, anyhow?”

  Belter told him how the Jovian delegate had been insulted at the Council.

  “Those hot-headed, irresponsible Martians!” said the Butcher. “Why in time did that drunken cretin have to fire on the derelict?”

  “What derelict?” Belter asked dryly.

  Osgood stared at him. Belter pointed at the chart. The white spot was slowly swinging toward the green—toward Delta. On the screen, the Invader still gleamed. It was not blasting any more.

  One of the technician’s screens flashed. “Detection reporting, sir.”

  “Report.”

  “Invader’s Type Two drive radiation showing strong, sir.”

  “R-Roger.”

  The screen winked out. Commander Osgood opened his mouth, held it open silently for an unbearably long moment, and then carefully closed it again. Belter bit the insides of his cheeks to keep from roaring with hysterical laughter. He knew that the Butcher was trying to swear, and that he had met a situation for which no swearing would he adequate. He had shot his vituperative bolt. Finally, weakly, he said the worst thing he could think of—a thing that until then had been unthinkable.

  He said: “They’re not dead.”

  Belter did not feel like laughing any more. He said: “They went through The Death, and they’re not dead.”

  “There is no defense against The Death,” said the commander authoritatively. Belter nodded.

  One of the screens flashed, and a voice said impersonally: “Mathematics.”

  “Go on,” said the Butcher.

  “The derelict’s course will intersect ours, sir, unless—”

  “Don’t say ‘derelict,’ ” whispered Osgood. “Say ‘Invader.’ ” He lay back and, closing his eyes, swabbed his face with a tissue. Then the muscles in his jaw clenched and he rose and stood erect before the control bulkhead, pulling the wrinkles out of his tunic. “Batteries. Train around to the Invader. Tech! Put the batteries on auto. Everything—torpedoes, rays, artillery. Now give me all hands. All hands! Prepare to abandon ship. Delta will engage the enemy on automatics. Life craft to scatter. Take your direction from your launching port and maintain it until you observe some decisive action between Delta and the Invader. Fill up with momentomine and give your craft everything they can take. Over.” He swung to Belter.

  “Councilman! Don’t argue with me. What I want to do is stay here and fight. What I will do is abandon ship with the rest of you. My only reason is so I can have another chance to take a poke at a Martian. Of all the blundering, stupid, childish things for Hoster to do, taking a pot shot at that killer out there was the most—”

  Belter very nearly reminded the commander that Hoster had been instructed to let the “derelict” pass within meters if necessary. He swallowed the comment. It didn’t matter, anyway. Hoster and his crew had been good men, and Epsilon a good ship. All dead now, all smashed, all gone to lengthen the list that had started on Outpost.

  “You know your abandon-ship station, don’t you, Belter? Go to your quarters and haul out that white-livered old pantywaist and take him with you. I’ll join you as soon as everyone else is off the ship. Jump!”

  Belter jumped. Things were happening too fast for him, and he found it almost pleasant to use someone else’s intelligence rather than hunt for his own.

  Hereford was sitting on the edge of his bunk. “What’s the matter, Belter?”

  “Abandon ship!”

  “I know that,” said the older man patiently. When they have an ‘all hands’ call on one of these ships there’s no mistaking it. I want to know what’s the matter.”

  “We’re under attack. Invader.”

  “Ah.” Hereford was very calm. “It didn’t work.”

  “No,” said Belter. “It didn’t.”

  “I’ll stay here, I think.”

  “You’ll what?”

  Hereford shrugged. “What’s the use? What do you think will happen to the peaceful philosophy when news gets out that there is a defense against The Death? Even if a thousand or a million Invader ships come, nothing will keep us from fighting each other. I’m—tired.”

  “Hereford.” He waited until the old man lifted his head, met his eyes. “Remember that day in the anteroom? Do we have to go through that again?”

  Hereford smiled slowly. “Don’t bother, friend. You are going to have trouble enough after you leave. As for me—well, the most useful thing I can be now is a martyr.”

  Belter went to the bulkhead and pressed into his personal storage. He got his papers and a bottle of viski. “All right,” he said, “let’s have a quick one before I go.” Hereford smiled and accepted. Belter put all the momentomine in Hereford’s drink, so that when they left the ship he, Belter, passed out cold. From what he heard later he missed quite a show. Delta slugged it out with the Invader. She fought until there was nothing but a top turret left, and it kept spitting away at the enemy until a disrupter big enough for half a planet wiped it ou
t. She was a good ship too. The Invader went screaming up into the celestial north again, leaving the terrified Sigma alone. Belter regained consciousness in the life craft along with the commander and Hereford. Hereford looked like an illustration in the Old Testament which Belter had seen when he was a child. It was captioned, “And Moses Threw Down and Broke the Two Tablets of Stone.”

  Sigma picked them up. She was a huge old Logistics vessel, twice reconverted—once from the Colonial Trade, once as the negative plant of The Death. She had a main hold in her like a convention hall, and a third of it was still empty in spite of the vast pile plant she carried. Her cargo port was open, and Delta’s life craft were being warped in and stacked inside, along with what wreckage could be salvaged for study.

  The place was a hive. Spacesuited crews floated the boats in, handling them with telescoping rods equipped with a magnetic grapple at each end. One end would be placed on the hull of a boat, the other on the deck or bulkhead or on a stanchion; and then by contracting or expanding the rod by means of its self-contained power unit, the boat would be pushed or pulled to its stack.

  The boats had completed their rendezvous after two days of signaling and careful jetting. All were accounted for but two, which had probably tangled with debris. The escape of so many was largely due to the fact that there was very little wreckage large enough to do any damage after the last explosion.

  Osgood’s boat hovered outside until the last, and by the time it was warped in all the others had unloaded and their crews were inboard, getting refreshment and treatment. By the time the little “Blister” had been racked, the cargo port was sealed and the compartment refilled with air. Sigma’s captain opened the boat’s hatch with his own hands, and Osgood crawled out, followed by a dazed Belter and a sullen Hereford.

  “Your ship, sir,” said the captain of Sigma, formally, in the traditional presentation of a ship and its facilities to a superior.

  “Yeah. I need one at the moment,” said the Butcher wryly. He stretched, looked around. “Get any parts of the Martian?”