by Glen Cook
We look like prisoners lately released from a medieval dungeon. Sallow, gaunt, filthy, wild of hair and eye, a little tentative and timid.
Damn! There really are other people...
Right now, the first few minutes, while we’re staring at the beacon crew, I feel a fresh wind blowing on our morale. It’s a cool gale driving away a poisonous smog. Some of the men grin, shake hands, clap backs.
There’s a shower! Rumor says there’s a shower! These boys must live like maharajahs. Crafty old me, I disguise myself as a great spacedog and con one of the lads into showing me the way. I’m first man there. Hot needles nibble and sting my crusty skin. I bellow tuneless refrains, luxuriate in the warmth, the massagelike effect.
“Hurry up in there, goddamnit! Sir.”
Shouldn’t be a pig, should I? There’s a line out there now. “One minute.” Grinning, I thunder out the “Outward Bound.” Several men threaten to make it a shower I’ll remember the rest of a very short life.
They have sinks, too. Several of them. Men line up there too, shaving. Don’t think I will, though. I’m used to mine now. Completes the spacedog disguise.
Tarjan Zntoins, a Missileman, begins hopping about in a parody of an old-time sailor’s hornpipe while his compartment mates honk and hoot, using their hands as instrumental accompaniment.
Not bad. Not bad at all.
The beacon is a one-time Star Line freighter. Big mother.
Only the quarters are in use these days. The crew of nine have been out here four months. They’re eager for fresh faces, too. Their long vigil is lonely, though never as harrowing as ours. Their tachyon man tells me he’s been in beacons since the beginning. He’s had only two contacts in all that time.
They’re overdue for relief. Three months is their usual stint. A converted luxury liner makes regular rounds, changing crews each three months. Something is happening, though. Command has withdrawn the liner.
They’re hungry for news. What’s going on? How come they’ve been extended? Poor bastards. In continuous contact with Command and kept constantly ignorant. I tell them I don’t know a thing.
Great guys, these people. They put on a spread. A meal fit for a king. Command didn’t skip the luxuries here.
The mess decks are small. We wolf our feast in shifts, dallying and stalling while our successors curse us for farting around.
One last trip to the can. Isn’t this great? No waiting. I take another look at my beard. I look like a real space pirate. Like Eric the Red, or somebody. I give it a big trim, to a nice point beneath my chin. There. Gives me the look of a pale devil. The girls will love it.
“Attention. Climber personnel. Return to your ship. Please return to your ship.”
The holiday is over. “Up yours, Nicastro,” I mutter.
On my way I stop by the beacon’s vegetable crate of an office, liberate a half ream of clean paper. I’m tired of keeping notes on scraps.
Command’s intelligence is astonishingly detailed. Tannian has had this raid in his trick bag a long time. The man is a little brighter than his detractors admit.
The orbital data for Rathgeber have been redefined to the microsecond and millimeter, finer than we need or can handle. We could make a setdown in null, using the data.
The defense intelligence looks just as good. Surface and holo charts, which can be fed to the display tank, detail scores of active and passive systems, revealing their fields of fire and kill ranges. The companion fire control grids look as though they were lifted from Rathgeber’s CombatInformationCenter. Alterations to the original Navy installation are carefully and prominently noted.
“We must have a guy on the inside,” Piniaz chortles. He’s delighted with the information.
“Bastards probably gundecked the whole thing,” Yanevich counters. “Made it look solid so idiots like us would go in with smiles on our clocks.”
“I doubt it,” I say. “I mean, Tannian only looks like a prick of the first water. He’ll throw lives around like poker chips, but I don’t see him wasting many.”
“For once we agree,” Piniaz says. “This was put together right. And saved for the right time.”
Yanevich won’t flee the field. “Yeah? Wonder what the big brain had to say about our chances of getting out. Bet you won’t find that in there anywhere.”
I say, “Only thing I question is the need for the raid. And why they’re sending a Climber.”
Sourly, Yanevich says, “Fishing for propaganda points inside Navy. It’s a job for the heavies.”
“Regular units couldn’t get past the orbital defenses,” Piniaz snaps. “And maybe we don’t know everything. Could be some other reason, too.”
The Commander says, “Maybe it’s occurred to them that this’s a classic way to get rid of an embarrassment.” He drives one hand into a shirt grown ragged with continuous wear, pauses momentarily. One eye narrows as he looks at me. A what-the-hell crosses his face. “Friend of mine slipped this into the intelligence dispatch.” He throws out a piece of flimsy.
Yanevich snatches it. “Shete-it!” He flips it to Piniaz. Ito reads it, gives me an unreadable look, passes it on. It finally meanders around to me.
It’s a typical Command press release, describing the Main Battle encounter. That the vessel we destroyed was crippled isn’t mentioned. Neither is the loss of Johnson’s Climber. The only outright untruths are improbable patriotic quotes attributed to my companions-----
And to me. In fact, the whole damned thing is supposed to be my report from the front! “I’ll kick that asshole right in the cocksucker!” My juice squeezie ricochets off a bulkhead. “He can’t do that to me!”
“Nice throw,” Yanevich observes. “Smooth. No break in your wrist.”
According to the release, I filed a report running, thematically, “Shoulder to shoulder... Heedless of the death screaming round them... United in their implacable will to exact retribution from the destroyers of Bronwen and plunderers of Sierra...”
“Shit. ‘Shoulder to shoulder’ is the only true thing here. Should’ve said asshole to elbow. Screaming? In vacuum? Where the hell is Bronwen? I never heard of it. And Sierra is such a nothing we didn’t bother defending it.”
Grinning, Yanevich intones, “‘Driven by the justice of their cause...’”
Piniaz titters. “‘Inspired by the memories of the slavery these vermin impose... Every man a hero...’ Hey. You’re one hell of a writer.”
“Sure. When butterflies give milk.”
“You saying I ain’t a hero? I’ll sue, you slanderer. I can prove it. Says so right here. If the Admiral says it, it’s got to be true.”
I can’t take any more. I fling the flimsy at Bradley. “Here, Charlie. More toilet paper.”
That goddamned Tannian. Just when I was starting to defend him. Issuing press releases over my name.
It’s a kick in the head, that’s what. I don’t mind having my name spread all over Confederation. That’ll help the book when it comes out. But I want the words by which I’m known to be my own.
I can cut my own wrists just fine, Admiral. Don’t give me any help.
Maybe Johnson’s fate and Command’s failure to acknowledge it are making me a little touchy. I don’t know. But these cockamamie reports have got to stop.
I suppose it’s time to follow through on a project that’s hung around the back of my mind for a month. From here on in I’ll keep duplicate notes and have somebody smuggle them out. Let’s see. Somebody to get them off the ship. Somebody to carry them down to Canaan. Maybe my friend the courier to carry them back to Luna Command...
First I have to survive this Rathgeber raid.
Right now, judging by this release, my assurances that I’ll be allowed to write what I want are worth the paper they’re written on.
The bastards. I’m going to pound it to them.
“Don’t get your balls in an uproar,” Varese sneers. “If you complain, they’ll just look surprised and say it’s what you’d’ve
written if you’d really filed a report.”
He’s probably right.
The Commander agrees. “It would’ve come out the same. They’ve probably been publishing under your by-line since we left. You being out here is too good not to turn into a circus.”
Yanevich says, “Wouldn’t be surprised if they had an actor who does live holo reports.”
“I’ll give them reports. I’ll write a bomb that’ll blow the asses off those charlatans.” I’m mad, yes, but I have only myself to blame. I should’ve seen this coming. I had enough clues. It was these dreadfully false-sounding releases that brought me snooping in the first place.
“Now, now,” the Commander says. He grins a real old-time grin. “Just think what you’ll have to say about the Rathgeber raid.”
“I can’t wait.”
“They might not mention it,” Yanevich says. “They haven’t admitted losing the base.”
“Little thing like consistency won’t slow them down.” The Old Man turns my way. “The spooky thing is, Tannian believes the shit he puts out. He keeps it up in private. He lives in a whole different universe. I’m going to get us through this. Whatever it takes. I want you to tell the real story.”
“That would be nice.” The anger is going. ‘Trouble is, people have been served bullshit so long they might not believe toe truth.”
Piniaz, Varese, and Bradley fidget. Westhause looks bored. They don’t give a damn what the public believes. All that interests them is staying alive long enough to get out.
Do Yanevich or the Commander care? This may be a game of spit and roast with me playing the suckling pig.
“I divided the data into packets,” the Commander says. On cue, Chief Nicastro appears with several folders. “Take yours. After we finish our hyper approach, I plan to order holiday routine. Be a meeting then. Bring your questions.”
Holiday routine? Sounds like a mistake. Too many men getting too much time to think.
One man got too much time. Me. I ease into the wardroom in a near-panic.
I have this feeling that I’ve just moved to the one slot on death row. I’ve quit duplicating notes almost before starting. Why bother?
“Mr. Yanevich?”
“All go in Ops, Commander.”
“Mr. Westhause?”
“Concur, Commander. Penetration program ready to run.”
It better be. He calculated it often enough, trying to reduce the chance of error. He’s good, this Westhause. Does that make me confident? Hell no. Something will go wrong. Murphy’s law.
Chief Nicastro agrees. And the Chief doesn’t suffer in silence till the Commander has him aside.
“Mr. Piniaz?”
“Go, Commander, though I’m getting minor stress indicators from the graser. They’ll get four missiles, the accumulator banks, and whatever your friend can throw with his popgun.”
I’ve been directed to operate the magnetic cannon. The Commander wants to hit them as hard as he can. The missiles will be targeted on Rathgeber’s ship-handling facilities. The energy weapons are supposed to take out detection and communications facilities. The rest of the base is mine.
I’ve chosen the tower at the hydrolysis station as my first target. On follow-up passes I’ll snipe at the solar power panel banks.
The Commander is contemplating three missile passes. None should last long enough for us to be targeted.
Why bother with the cannon? Even perfect shooting on my part will contribute little. The other firm can jury-rig some means of extracting hydrogen from water. The solar panels are there only as an emergency backup for the base fusion plant.
“Mr. Bradley?”
“Ship’s Services go, Commander.” He’s cool. He doesn’t understand what we’re jumping into.
“Mr. Varese?”
“Commander, I’m damned short on fuel. If we have to...” He wilts before a basilisk glare. “Go in Engineering, Commander.”
Does the Old Man have some special interest in this assignment? He looks willing to sacrifice ship and crew to prove Tannian incompetent.
Yet the only real fault of the plan is that this isn’t a traditional Climber mission. Precedent is, perhaps, too important in Navy.
“You ready to go?” the Commander asks me.
“Of course not.” My grin hurts. “Let me off at the next corner.”
He frowns. This is no time for whimsy. “I’ll go over it again. Down to fifty meters in null, over Base Central. Four seconds in norm. Missiles launch at one-second intervals. Cameras rolling. Energy weapons on continuous discharge. Same for the cannon. Then twelve minutes of Climb. That’ll require fast target evaluation.
“Positional maneuvers in null will conform to lunar motion. We’ll go norm again at the same point. Two seconds. Four missiles at half-second intervals. Energy weapons and cannon.
“Then thirty minutes in null for comprehensive evaluation and selection of final targets. We’ll take an attack position suited to neutralizing the most important facilities remaining. Two seconds for the final salvo. Half-second intervals again. We’ll then climb and evaluate.
“If the computer recommends it, we’ll continue attacking with energy weapons. If not, we move out. I estimate our maximum attack window at two hours... If we’re to escape the hunter-killers.
“Gentlemen, the actual attack looks like an exercise. I don’t see how they can stop us. Getting away will be the problem. Questions?”
Again, scores are left unasked. Sometimes you’d rather not know.
“All right. Have the men take care-of their business. We begin in a half hour.” He catches my arm as I start to go. “Don’t miss a thing on this one. If we luck through... I want it all on the record.”
“If? It’s an exercise, remember?”
“The easy ones never are. Murphy’s law operates on the inverse-square principle.” He grins.
“I can’t follow anything from the cannon board.”
“I had Carmon bug Engineering and Ops for you. A plug for each pointy little ear. You’ll hear everything. Have the men fill in any blanks later.”
“Whatever you say.” Resigned, I collect notebook and recorder and get in line outside the Admiral’s stateroom. The place is drawing a crowd. There’re all the usual cracks about taking a number, selling tickets, and using someone’s pocket.
I finish with time to spare, so I visit Kriegshauser, who looks in need of encouragement, and Fearless. All the activity has the cat edgy. He knows its meaning. He’s not fond of Climb. I even grab a few seconds with Fisherman. “I’m no good at praying. Say one for me, will you?”
“Ability has nothing to do with it, sir. He hears every prayer. Just accept Christ as your Savior and...” The alarm cuts him short.
The cannon board control chair seems harder than usual. I set out my notekeeping materials, start writing. My hand shakes too much. I concentrate on getting Carmon’s talking earplugs into place. The hyper alarm sounds before I finish. I see Holt-snider looking my way, smiling nervously. I wave in pure bravado.
Climb alarm.
It’s begun. We’re on our way. I feel cold. Very cold. My pores are twisted into tight little knots. I’m shivering. Air temperature is down, but not that much.
It begins, as always, with waiting. The seconds grind slowly away. At hour two Westhause takes us down just long enough to make sure he won’t have to fine-tune his approach. Rathgeber’s sun is the brightest star.
There’s nothing to do but think.
Are they keeping a close watch out there? Did they see us drop?
Just sitting here waiting for the walls to cave in. We’re in the final leg of our approach. I have the cannon pre-aimed. I’ve gone through the numbers four times, just to have something to do.
Nothing is happening anywhere. The bugs are a waste. Except for occasional muffled remarks from the First Watch Officer or Commander, Ops could pass as a tomb. From Engineering there’s nothing but Varese’s occasional remark to Diekereide bemoaning the fuel
situation. And, of course, the endless, repetitive, ritualistic status reports. Those I tune out automatically.
It’s no different in Weapons, though it was livelier while they were arming, testing, and programming the first missile flight. The tests have been re-run and the programming double-checked. Done to death for something to do.
Just like an exercise. As the Commander promised.
So why are we all scared shitless?
“Five minutes.” Nicastro is doing the time-scoring. His voice betrays as much humanity as that of a talking computer.
We must be close. Within a few kilometers of our point of appearance. We’re playing mouse in the walls of the universe, looking for the perfect hole to the inside. A mouse armed to his cute little teeth.
It seems incredible that the other firm won’t know anything till we start shooting. All my instincts say they’ll be waiting with a megaton of death in each hand.
God, this waiting is shitty. The fear thoughts, the what ifs, keep chasing one another round my head like a litter of kittens playing tag. My palms are cold and wet. I keep moving slowly and carefully so as not to do anything clumsy. I don’t want the others to see how shaky I am.
They don’t look scared. Just professional, businesslike. Inside, though, they probably feel the way I do. I don’t see how it can be helped. We’re great pretenders, we warriors.
Shit. Almost time. God, get me through this one and I’ll...
I’ll what?
8 Rathgeber
“Five. Four. Three. Two. One...”
My targeting screen comes to life. The cracking tower lies dead center amid the aiming rings. Sunlight washes a typical lunar landscape, all black and white and sharp-edged shadows on the bones of a world that died young.
“Away One,” Piniaz sings. “Away Two.”
A missile’s exhaust scars the view on my screen. I hit my triggering key.
A lance of emerald hell, startling against the monochromatic background, slices a corner from the screen. It sweeps on continuous discharge, vaporizing rock and exposed plant. There’s chatter in Engineering as they compensate for the surge of power being drained from the accumulator banks.