Despite his warrior instincts, Albion Mothershed would have attempted to escape, but there had been no time for escape, and he had been forced to fight. And he had fought well, he and his men, if his report was accurate, and it probably was. But the odds against the human interlopers were great, and he barely escaped the battle with his flagship and two heavy battle cruisers, all three scarred and battered, but still operative, to an extent at least.
Fleeing—fleeing cowardly, Albion Mothershed might have said—pushing his ships to the limits of their endurance, the remnants of the expedition crossed the long light-years toward the Paladine, carrying with them the knowledge that, if used quickly and fiercely enough, could perhaps give mankind the victory he so desperately needed if there were to be a mankind a century hence.
His luck had held for a while. The sun of Adrianopolis began to grow in the tanks, brighter and brighter. His pursuers, knowing that three of their human prey had escaped, began closing the gap. But now, this close to safety, Mothershed had been almost sure that he could make it, that the Jillies would be destroyed as they entered the Adrianopolitan planetary system.
But his ships had been driven too hard, battered and weakened as they were, leaking irreplaceable air into the vacuum of space, energy cells running down, nuclear power sources failing, and at last the pseudospeed generators of his flagship, the ship that carried the supremely important report, smoldering and screaming, had died. Albion Mothershed had come out of star drive for the last time still seven light-hours from home.
Hastily he had sent his first FTL probe, telling Adrianopolis only that he was near, but not telling his superiors the full extent of his troubles.
Now he had. His pseudospeed generators were now beyond repair. Five Jillie warships attacked his three.
Again Albion Mothershed fought for his life, and perhaps for the lives of billions of others. His screens were up; his energy cannon blasted; his last nuclear missiles screamed from their berths. Yet he realized the futility of it. He and his three battered warships could not defeat them alone, or even hold them off for long. He swallowed his pride.
Send help, Albion Mothershed asked of Adrianopolis and Port Abell. Send help at once!
42
So they waited again.
Absolom Bracer sent for coffee and drank it down. He puffed a cigarette to life and then sent for more coffee. And he waited. And he tried not to think, not to hope, not to fear.
The main forward viewing tank showed the rocky landscape of airless Port Abell, cold and alone, millions upon millions of kilometers from Adrianopolis and the warmth of her sun. Great blazes of light flashed across the plain, splattering against the rocks, heating them to incandescence, and then rose toward the darkness above. One, two, then three and four. The warships of Port Abell lifted.
A voice was speaking in the background, not that of Captain Farber now, but of another man, a communications technician first class with a pleasing, well-modulated voice which somehow, despite it all, inspired hope.
“…and the LSS Benburb. From what is known of the Jillie force now in contact with Admiral Mothershed, victory seems…”
“Admiral!” The voice of astrogator Bene O’Gwynn was shrill.
“What is it?” Bracer asked, turning away from the main tank and toward the astrogation position as quickly as his mechanical lower body would allow. Something in the astrogation officer’s voice filled him with a strange dissociation, a nightmarish feeling that this was something he had lived through before.
The plastiskin lids that covered the astrogator’s eyes were pulled back, revealing a depth of shock, perhaps fear in those human eyes embedded in an artificial mask. There was no other expression on her face, if it could be called a face, nor was expression possible or necessary. Those eyes were enough.
The two duty astrogation technicians were peering at scopes and screens and the mech computer read-out board.
“What is it?” Bracer asked. “Report!”
“Space craft, sir.”
“The ships from Earth?” someone asked.
“Quiet!” Bracer snapped. “How many?”
“Six, sir.”
“Position?”
The astrogation officer read the stellar coordinates from the computer screen.
…roger!… Bracer mentally yelled.
…i know, sir. i’m watching them, wrong coordinates, they can’t be from earth…
…where the hell are they from?…
“Do you have range on them?” he asked aloud.
…22.18 million kilometers… Roger answered silently.
“Yes, sir,” Bene O’Gwynn said. “About 22.18 million kilos, sir. They’re sub-light now, but still moving fast.”
“How fast?”
…201,630 kilometers per second… Roger answered.
Two-thirds of light, Bracer thought.
…estimated time of arrival at breakaway station… Roger was saying, …including probable rate of deceleration, approximately 23:17, this date…
Bracer whistled despite himself.
“201,630 kilos per second, sir,” the astrogation officer was saying. “They should…”
“I know. Identification?”
…unknown. too far out yet…
“Unknown, sir.”
…probable enemy…
…probable! dammit, roger, can’t you be sure?…
…assumed enemy, sir…
“Keep track of them,” he told the astrogator. “God, we’ve got just eleven hours.”
He looked at the main forward tank. The rocky plains of Port Abell stretched toward a close horizon, then fell around the curve of the cold, airless world. High above those plains the glowing drives of the four climbing starships dwindled, then winked out as they went into star drive, moved toward the speed of light and beyond, as they rushed out to where Albion Mothershed fought.
The tank flickered for a moment, returned to the interior of the domed station, and showed the face of the puzzled comm tech who apparently had not been told what to do next. He stood still for a few seconds, then said, “We now return you to Admiral Ommart on Adrianopolis.”
Again the tank flickered.
So close, so damned close. Couldn’t they wait just a few more hours, a few more days, and then it would all be over. No, the Jillies never do things the way you want them to. That’s why we’re out here in the first place. Oh, damn them, and damn the admirals, and damn me too. We could have been home by now.
“Miss Cyanta, inform Breakaway and our companions of the sighting. Give them the coordinates and see if they have any additional data.”
Then, “Attention all hands,” he said into the microphone before him. “This is the admiral. Six unidentified ships have been sighted approaching the Breakaway system. All hands rig for combat. Stand by for further instructions.”
…roger, anything more?…
…not yet, sir. they’re still too far out to tell anything about them, miss o’gwynn knows as much about them as i do. i’ve got work to do, admiral…
…then get it done…
“Get me Captains Medawar and Bugioli,” Bracer yelled to his communications officer.
The words had hardly been spoken when the two images appeared in the tank of his command console, a hair-thin line separating them, giving the appearance of a neatly cracked mirror.
“This may be it,” he told them without preamble.
“We can’t tell much about them, sir,” said Bugioli of the Pharsalus. “Could they possibly be the ships from Earth?”
“Too many. Wrong direction,” Bracer snapped.
“Some other League ships, admiral?” questioned Captain Medawar, a forlorn hopefulness in her voice.
“None that we know of. For the time being we must assume them to be the enemy.”
For a few long moments Bracer looked at the two images in the tank before him. Lena Bugioli, her face hard, rocklike, her body supported by a metal cylinder. Medawar with no face
at all, nothing, not even real eyes. Hell, I’m no better. Three cripples, commanding ships full of crippled crewmen. What can we do against six Jillie warships? How much help can we possibly be to Breakaway Station? To anyone?
I don’t know, dammit! But we can try. We—I—asked for this, and by God we’d better do the best we can. If we’re all going to have to die again, we sure as hell better make some Jillies die along with us.
“We will follow our outlined plans,” he finally said aloud. “Our purpose will be to keep the Jillies away from Breakaway Station as long as possible. I’ll see if we can do something about getting that report from Adrianopolis hurried up some.”
That’s what we’re fighting for now, he told himself, Mothershed’s report. If we can keep the Jillies off until it’s sent on to Earth—well, then maybe it will have been worth the trouble. Maybe…
“For the present, prepare for combat. We’ll move out to meet the enemy as soon as we’re ready. That’s all. Bracer out.”
The captains of the Pharsalus and the Rudoph Cragstone nodded, saluted, and then faded away as he broke the connection. “Get me General Crowinsky,” Bracer told the communications officer.
“He’s already calling, sir.”
“Okay, put him on.”
Crowinsky’s thin face was white, his eyes wide, the skin of his cheeks pulled tight against the bone. Years of age had fallen on him with the terrible swiftness of an avalanche. “Admiral, are those Jillies?” he asked.
“Apparently. We can’t be sure yet.”
The commanding officer of Breakaway Station nodded slowly, reluctantly, painfully. “I see. How long do we have?”
“They’re no more than eleven hours from the planet at their present speed, figuring deceleration.”
“How much time can you add to that?”
“I wish I knew, general. A few hours, maybe. Any word about Mothershed yet?”
“No. Not yet. It’s too early.”
“Yes, I know. Do you know, general, is Mothershed’s report on tapes, or is he planning on giving it live?”
“No, I don’t know. Tapes, I would assume. He should have had time to prepare his full report on the way back.”
“Maybe. If so… Look, general, contact Admiral Ommart. Tell him what the situation is here, if you haven’t already. Tell him that if the report is on tapes, and if they can get those tapes off Mothershed’s ship, he’d better get them back to Adrianopolis as fast as he can.”
“But the ships from Port Abell, they’ve already lifted. They’re out of ordinary communications range now.”
“Then tell him to get another ship on the way. We may not have very much time left.”
“I know, admiral.”
“Then get started on it, man. We can’t waste any more time.”
“I will. Good luck, admiral.”
“Thank you, general. And good luck to you.”
The index finger of Bracer’s right hand tripped the switch that broke the connection. Then he turned to face the new captain of the LSS Iwo Jima.
“How do we stand, Dan?”
43
The League patrol ship Messala Corvinus broke out of the atmosphere of Adrianopolis and into the blackness of space. Nuclear fire drove it upward, farther and faster, crushing the officers and crew back into their acceleration cots despite the ship’s gravity control devices. Cold agonizing sweat stood out on the forehead of the ship’s commander, and he wished that he had never received his promotion.
Glenn, Guardian Culhaven was a very frightened man, more frightened than he had ever been in his life. Why, Lord, why did Admiral Ommart think he could do this? He hadn’t done badly while on temporary duty on Cynthia, but he had done nothing outstanding either, and then he was reassigned to Adrianopolis, and what had he done there? Oh, admiral, you should have picked someone else, he told himself. Someone with more experience. A better man than I am should be going out there after Admiral Mothershed.
Glenn wished that he had some magical powers that could instantaneously transport him back to the great library in Culhaven where Anjenet sat watching the tri-D that showed his ship moving out of Adrianopolis. How proud she must be of me now, Glenn thought. How little I deserve that pride.
He looked at the officers of the starship’s small bridge, saw the confidence in their faces, the pride they felt at having been given this assignment. And he wished that he could be like them. God, how he wished it.
Then he forced himself to put his fears a little way from him, far enough away at least to try to act like a patrol ship’s commander. His hands went to the command console before him.
“Engineering, this is the commander,” he said into the console, hoping that his voice did not show his fear.
“Engineering here, sir,” came the reply. “Star drive status?”
“Nearly at potential, sir.”
“Stand by,” Glenn said, then turned to his astrogator. “Mass proximity?”
“Dwindling, sir,” replied the astrogator. “Should reach safe level for star drive in three minutes, thirty seconds.”
“Very good,” he said, just a little pleased that his voice was behaving as it should. “Engineering?”
“Still here, sir.”
“Turn star drive controls over to the computer,” Glenn said. “I’ll program.”
“Very good, sir,” the engineering officer replied.
Glenn cut in the audio circuits of the ship’s computer, and wished that a patrol ship had one of those Organic Computers like a big warship did. Those things were really human. You didn’t have to tell them everything to do.
“Computer receiving, sir,” answered a very convincing mechanical voice.
“Prepare for entry into star drive as soon as pseudospeed potential and mass proximity are in agreement.”
“Yes, sir,” answered the electromechanical computer.
“Achieve maximum pseudospeed as quickly as possible,” He hoped that was the right way to phrase it. “Astrogation will give coordinates.”
“Understood, sir,” the computer replied.
Then he told his astrogator to feed the computer the proper data and leaned back in the cot, relaxing as well as he could under the combined force of acceleration and nerves.
My first time out-system, he thought, and on an assignment like this. And again he wondered why Admiral Ommart had chosen him. Not that his record was bad. It was pretty good, in fact, but it had been mostly due to luck, and maybe his luck wouldn’t hold out this time. Anybody’s luck will run out sooner or later. But, no, he told himself, it wasn’t his record. Ommart had picked him because he was a Culhaven, the Guardian Culhaven, in fact. His father could have taken on an assignment like this without batting an eye, rescued Admiral Mothershed and fought off a dozen Jillies without receiving a scratch. But Glenn was not his father, though maybe Fleet Admiral Paolo Ommart didn’t know that.
Damn my father! Glenn thought angrily. Damn the Culhavens! Why did I have to be born into this family?
Then he felt the shuddering flicker of entry into star drive as the Messala Corvinus made its first microjump into and then out of a universe that didn’t really exist, and crossed one hundred and seven kilometers in doing it. Then the next flicker, and the next, and the next, until the flickers came so fast that he hardly noticed them.
“Cut nuclear drive,” he heard his voice saying and was pleased that some part of him still functioned like a warship commander.
Then he looked at the tanks which had now synchronized with the flickering of the starship and showed a view of space, compensating for the ship’s increasing pseudospeed.
Those stars, all those stars, he thought. God, give me courage.
44
Absolom Bracer stood on the bridge of the Iwo Jima and waited while the ship prepared itself for battle, and looked at the tanks that showed the depths of space, and thought about one particular star.
Somewhere, twenty-seven light-years “that way,” lay
a blue and cloud-whitened world. The third planet of a rather average star, a star a little brighter than the run of the mill G-type perhaps. But still it was a very special star, and it was a very special world that orbited it at some one hundred and fifty million kilometers. It was the homeworld. Earth.
In the northern portion of the western hemisphere lay the continent of North America, and about midway up that continent, along the eastern side of that mass of land, were the ranges of mountains called the Appalachians, running from the Carolinas into what had once been known as Pennsylvania, and north. Absolom Bracer remembered those ancient, weather-worn mountains well. A century before he had been born there.
Fifteen or twenty standard years had gone by since he had last visited them, and his plans had been to return there at least once more. He would go back, he had dreamed, when he returned to Earth when he had been made into a whole man again.
One day he would leave the great hospitals, walking away on two legs of flesh, swinging real arms at his sides, looking through eyes of organic fluid and transparent tissue that turned with the pull of tiny muscles, and no one would tell by looking at him that he had once been killed by the Jillies. He would take an aircar and leave behind the clean, antiseptic hospital wards and all the memories of why he had been there, and skim across the greenness of Earth, across the mountain tops, along the ancient Indian trails where a few patches of carefully preserved forest still grew, down into the valley cut by the Kanawha River as it made its way westward toward the Ohio, a laughing river echoing the ancient days it had not yet forgotten. He would go down into the valley where the city of Charleston had once stood, centuries before, where the wild rhododendron now grew in the cold crater that wind and rain had nearly obliterated, where men came to hunt and fish and just be alone with only themselves and the ancient Earth in the preserves of the Kanawha.
We All Died at Breakaway Station Page 21