Star Peregrine Page 18

  Why? The voice in the back of his mind was insidious and all too convincing. Why bother? You're in a completely hopeless situation. What good will thinking do?

  The bridge doors slid open and a medical corpsman hurried in. The corpsman knelt beside Onda, checked Farnham's work, then murmured into his bracer. A marine with a stretcher appeared a moment later, and they got Onda loaded up as gently as they could. Onda's moans faded as the marine and the corpsman carried him out.

  Farnham rose to his feet. He might have been in his fifties, but he looked like an old man, lost and overwhelmed, staring at the blood that coated his arms and chest. There was an appalling amount of it, and more covered the deck plates and the remains of the Comms station. Farnham looked around the bridge, then went back to staring at his hands, his face slack and lost.

  "Farnham." Tom had to repeat himself, louder, before the man looked up. "Go clean yourself up. Then come back here and clean up that mess." He gestured at the blood on the deck plates.

  The spacer stared at him, then nodded jerkily and stumbled from the bridge.

  The interruption had jarred Tom from the dark spiral of his thoughts. We're not dead yet. I said I'd get us back to Garnet. So how the hell am I going to do that? He zoomed out the tactical display. "Mr. O'Reilly."

  O'Reilly, fingers moving in delicate patterns on the helm console as he kept the ship dodging and jinking, responded without looking up. "Yes, Captain?"

  "Point us at the horizon of Black Betty, please. We'll come in at a low altitude and hug the surface, just like we did on Little B." It hadn't worked on Little B, but a plan – any plan – and orders that sounded decisive, were better than helpless, blind flight.

  "Aye aye."

  "Harris," said Tom.

  Harris squared his shoulders. "Captain."

  "Any thoughts on our tactical situation?" You bloody well better have something, because I'm getting desperate.

  "The fighters could overtake us," Harris said. "They're hanging back, though. If they get close enough to hurt us, they'll be close enough we could crisp them. It looks like they'll let the cruisers do the hard work."

  Tom nodded thoughtfully, pretending he hadn't completely forgotten about the two fighters. "One less thing the worry about, for the moment at least."

  "If we can avoid them for long enough they'll have to turn back," Harris went on. "They'll be low on fuel. That is, unless the carrier comes closer."

  "Which it won't do," Tom said, working it out as he spoke. "Because they don't know what we're up to." He chuckled, a cold mirthless sound. "After all, our ambush doesn't make any sense, not from their point of view. One frigate and some mines?"

  Harris gave him a death's-head grin. "It's … unconventional."

  "They must assume we've got more ships," Tom went on. "I bet they're going crazy, trying to figure out what we're up to. Wondering when the rest of the fleet is going to drop out of hyperspace and crush them." The concept seemed utterly hilarious to his tight-stretched nerves, and he fought the urge to laugh. If he started, he wasn't sure he'd be able to stop.

  A line of red starbursts appeared in the void ahead of them, tiny bright explosions that vanished quickly, the flames extinguished by vacuum. "Terrific," muttered Harris. "Now they're using explosive shells. So long as they keep missing, though-"

  The ship shuddered, a distant explosion echoing through the bridge from somewhere aft, and Tom lost all inclination to laugh. They're keeping half their fleet back to protect against an imagined threat.

  And it doesn't matter. Because the two ships that are chasing us are more than enough.

  "That one hit our engines," Trenholm announced. "We're losing power." He looked up. "And they were already gaining on us before."

  Better and better. Tom switched to a navigational display. The Kestrel was more than halfway to Black Betty. Not that it matters. It's not like the planet represents safety.

  They kept flying, because there was nothing else to do. O'Reilly continued to jink and dodge. A dozen loud clangs rang out, and Harris said, "Ricochets. No damage."

  "Lieutenant Sawyer reports we've lost one engine. She says there's casualties in engineering, too." Tom didn't recognize the voice, and he looked around the bridge. It was Naomi Silver. She seemed to be handling internal communications now that Onda was gone.

  The bridge speakers crackled, and a voice said, "Damage control to Engineering." It wasn't Sawyer. It was a man, his voice shrill. "The engine room is on fire. We need some help down here."

  The speakers went silent.

  Black Betty was invisible in the darkness, but she had to be close, because Tom could see no stars dead ahead. He glanced at the nav display, switched to tactical, and said, "Alter course."

  O'Reilly's head jerked up. "To what?"

  "Anything. A different spot on the horizon. Just make a course change."

  O'Reilly stared at him, then returned his gaze to the helm controls. A line of stars appeared at the top edge of the bridge windows, then raced to starboard as the ship turned.

  "They're dropping back." Harris looked at Tom, his face puzzled. "Not by much, but they're giving us room." He peered at his console, frowned, and said, "What the hell?"

  "They think it's a trap," said Tom. "They think we're leading them into something." He rubbed his forehead, thinking. "As soon as we're over the horizon, I want you to put us down."

  "What?" O'Reilly gaped at him, then gathered himself. "I mean, can you clarify that order, Captain?"

  "I want you to land the ship the moment we're over the horizon," Tom said. "Get us on the ground fast. Kill the engines, kill any lights. While they hunt for us we'll get that fire put out and see how bad the damage is."

  O'Reilly stared at him for a long moment, then nodded. "Aye aye."

  Tom switched to an aft camera view. The cruisers were barely visible, a pair of glowing shapes almost lost against the stars behind them. He couldn't see the fighters at all.

  The horizon of Black Betty rose like a spreading pool of ink, engulfing stars, and then the cruisers.

  "We're hidden," said O'Reilly. "Here goes nothing." And the Kestrel plummeted.

  Chapter 22

  Alice couldn't breathe.

  She couldn't see or hear or move, but it was breathing that held her attention. She panted, fighting to inflate her lungs and failing. Panic washed over her, but since she couldn't move her arms and legs, couldn't even scream, it hardly seemed to matter if she panicked or not. So she lay in darkness, muscles frantically contracting as she tried to run, to struggle, to do something.

  Her disorientation was complete, fueled by darkness and terror and oxygen deprivation. She couldn't have said which way was up. She couldn’t remember where she was or how she'd gotten there. All she knew was fear and the absolute imperative to breathe.

  Why am I still alive? Why am I conscious? Unless I'm dead, and this is what death is. An eternity of lying in darkness, paralyzed …. Her train of thought was taking her nowhere useful, and she fought against it. I've been in tough spots before. At least I'm alive, which means there's hope.

  If I'm alive.

  I will assume I'm alive, she decided firmly. If I'm dead, well, there's no harm in making the wrong assumption. And if I'm alive ….

  I'm breathing. Not proper breaths, not deep breaths, but some air is getting in. She concentrated on her lungs, her diaphragm, and panic eased its grip on her mind. She discovered that she was, in fact, taking tiny, rapid breaths. Why can't I properly inhale?

  Why can't I move?

  Some memory returned. The surface of Little B, the missile launches, the return fire from the battleship above. I jumped in a crater. And now I'm paralyzed.

  That thought scared her, scared her badly, and for a time her panic returned. Pain shook her out of it, pain from her fingertips which were scraping against the insides of her gloves as she tried to dig her fingers into solid rock. My finger are moving. Not much, but they can move. She wiggled her feet, felt them pres
s against the insides of her boots. Okay. I'm in trouble, but I'm not paralyzed.

  Somewhat calmer, she set about testing her limbs one at a time. She found she could bend her left knee. Her lower leg could swing behind her, then straighten. She bent it and straightened it several times, savoring a sweet rush of relief. I'm not crippled.

  Then her leg stopped moving, arrested by some outside force. She endured a momentary return of her panic, then relaxed as she recognized the grip of fingers. Someone squeezed her foot, then released her.

  I'm not alone. The thought filled her mind, even chasing her terror away for a moment. It must be Collins and Bridger. They'll know what to do.

  Something changed, a weight that was pressing down on her making itself apparent by suddenly easing. A band of pain encircled her ribs, making her gasp. But she was able to gasp, her lungs filling almost half full. It hurt, the pain almost washing away her sense of all-consuming relief.

  Her helmet vibrated around her, and she heard metallic clangs transmitted by the air inside the helmet. Something pinched her left arm, and she moaned.

  "I've got you." The voice belonged to Bridger, and it filled her with a blissful sense of hope. "Hang on," Bridger said. She heard him grunt with exertion and felt fresh bands of pain around her chest. Then he muttered, "Oh, fuck, please be alive."

  I'm alive. She tried to say the words, couldn't quite do it, and moaned instead.

  "Oh, thank God. Hang on, Alice. You're almost free." Fingers scrabbled against her back, blunted by the fabric of her suit. "Okay, you're pretty much clear. Can you move?"

  She bent her arms. She couldn’t have said what position they were in, not until she managed to move them. Now she found that her left arm was tucked against her side and her right arm was curled around the top of her head. She moved her elbows first, then her shoulders. Some hard surface was just ahead of her, and she braced her palms against it. Her elbows jutted out behind her, and she revelled in the freedom of motion.

  Then she pushed.

  Hands curled around her shoulders, lifting as she pushed, and she discovered she was lying face-down in the bottom of the missile crater. Rubble spilled from her back and shoulders as she rose, someone helping her up onto her knees. Then Bridger moved around in front of her and squatted, peering into her face. His faceplate was dusty. Hers was utterly filthy, but she could make out his worried brown eyes. She made herself smile. "Much better now. Thanks."

  Relief broke across his face and he smiled. He stood, reached down a hand, and said, "Can you stand up?"

  Even in Little B's inconsequential gravity, standing was a real chore. She managed it, then held onto Bridger's arm for a moment while her legs steadied themselves. The crater was almost waist-deep, and she stared around, taking stock. There was no sign of the missile launcher. The plain she remembered was transformed, pocked now by missile craters and littered with blast debris. She was lucky she'd survived, and she shivered.

  "Sean didn't make it."

  She looked at Bridger, wanting to deny it, wanting to argue. Sean Collins had been a fixture in her life for more than a year, and she couldn't quite imagine the galaxy without him in it. Bridger gazed back at her, his face full of grief and sympathy, and she squeezed her eyes shut.

  A sudden thought brought her eyes open again, and she tilted her head back, scanning the sky. The battleship burned above them, a dark shape with flames glowing in a dozen places across the underside of the hull. That much damage would have sent the Kestrel tumbling from the sky, but the battleship, so massive she couldn't quite grasp how big it was, didn't really look that bad.

  "Half the fleet went over the horizon a good five minutes ago," Bridger said. "Beyond that, I don't know what's going on." He gestured at the ruin of craters and rubble around them. "The radio beacon's smashed."

  Alice gulped. That wasn't good. The suit radios didn't have much range. Without the beacon there'd be no way to call for a pickup. No way even to let the Kestrel and the Morning Breeze know they were still alive.

  If those ships are even up there anymore. They weren't expecting a battleship. It was a depressing thought, but she'd just been dug from an improvised grave. She could breathe, something she'd wondered if she'd ever do again, and it buoyed her with an optimism her desperate circumstances couldn’t quite erode. She clambered out of the crater, feeling her abused muscles gradually unclench. She would be sore later – if she was alive later, of course – but she wasn't seriously hurt.

  "What do we do now?" Bridger sounded weary and defeated.

  "How far do you think it is to Wasp Nest One?"

  He shrugged. "At least a few K. Maybe five? Ten?" He shook his head mournfully. "I don't know if we have enough air to make it on foot."

  "Then we better not stand around here gabbing." She turned in a slow circle, orienting herself. "They've got the only other radio beacon on this godforsaken rock, so let's go."

  Bridger stared at her for a moment, looking like he wanted to argue. Then he shrugged and nodded and the two of them went bounding across the dark plain.

  Metallic clicks came from the ceiling above Tom as he walked down the spine of the ship. There were repair crews outside on the hull, their footsteps reminding him of raindrops on a tin roof. The ship was a mess, the newly repaired hull plates shot full of ragged holes, her compartments shredded by explosive shells. The engines were shut down completely, even the internal force fields turned off, which meant he was at the mercy of Black Betty's gravity. It was a good twenty percent higher than a standard G, and it pulled at him, making him feel weary and old.

  He reached a spot where the deck plates were torn up by shrapnel, and pressed his back to the side of the corridor as he edged his way past the worst of the damage. Across the corridor a big chunk of bulkhead was missing, and he could see into a bunkroom. A spacer lay on the floor, unrecognizable, ripped apart by the same explosion that had demolished the corridor.

  You said you'd get them back to Garnet. You said you'd keep them safe.

  He suppressed the voice as best he could. Solutions. I need to focus on solutions. I need to see what's left of my ship, and if she can be repaired. I lost some people, but people remain.

  I have to get them out of here.

  O'Reilly had landed the ship on a slope, and the deck plates tilted several degrees to starboard. Tom kept wanting to stumble, and he trailed his gloved fingers along the bulkhead beside him to help maintain balance. A cold fist squeezed his guts, and he felt an overwhelming urge to duck into one of the cabins that opened off this corridor. He wanted to find a dark, private place, curl into a ball, and wait for this nightmare to end.

  Instead, he kept walking.

  If the spine was in rough shape, the aft section of the ship was a shambles. He found every bulkhead closed, every compartment filled with smoke. He overrode the hatch controls one at a time, stepping through quickly and letting the hatches slam shut behind him. He found another body, a young woman with a hole in her stomach that went all the way through her body. He stepped over her legs and continued on his way.

  A dozen people crowded the intersection where two corridors crossed just outside Engineering. A couple of spacers recognized him and tried to give him room. The rest didn't notice. He stopped at the back of the crowd, peering through a haze of smoke, trying to figure out what was happening. A readout inside his helmet told him every suit radio in the room was on the same frequency, and he changed channels to match.

  "Okay, the lock is clear. Next batch. Come on, people, move." The voice belonged to Sawyer, and she didn't sound good. Her voice was tight with pain and stress, and he scanned the crowd, trying to spot her.

  People moved toward the port side of the ship. Toward the aft port airlock, he realized. This wasn't a random collection of stunned spacers wondering what to do in the aftermath of disaster. They were waiting their turn to head outside and work on repairs.

  Movement from above caught his eye. A rent in the ceiling gave him a view of the
stars, blurred by smoke that swirled up and escaped through the opening. Black Betty had an atmosphere mostly composed of inert gases. The atmospheric pressure was about five percent lower than the pressure inside the ship, which meant air would flow outward and not much of the local atmosphere would get in. The loss of oxygen would eventually become a problem, but an influx of nitrogen would have been much more serious.

  As he watched, two figures in vac suits stretched a polymer sheet over the hole in the ceiling. It was a good deal weaker than the hull plates, but it would hold even in vacuum. In hyperspace, well, he supposed they would just have to be careful about avoiding storms.

  It's enough. The trip back to Garnet will be slow, but we'll make it. He clung to the thought as he watched a handful of people move down the corridor carrying toolboxes, polymer rods, or polymer sheets. We'll lift off and make a straight run for deep space. All we have to do is slip into hyperspace without them seeing the portal and we'll be home free.

  The hatch to the engine room slid open and a wall of heat rolled out. Tom felt it through his vac suit, a furnace blast that made him want to stagger back. Sweat sprung up on his face and chest, and a fan whirred to life in his helmet. Three figures came out, two marines in bulky firefighting gear dragging a limp figure in a regular Navy vac suit between them. They laid the body on the deck plates as the hatch slid shut, blocking away that terrible heat. The marines carried the limp figure to the port bulkhead and laid it out, face-down, on the deck plates. They slid the body over until it was against the bulkhead where it would be out of the way.

  Another death. Dear God, how many more? Tom brought his hand up, trying to wipe the sweat from his forehead, and found his helmet in the way. He lowered his hand and sighed. "Sawyer. This is the captain. What's your status?"

  "We're venting all the air in here," she said. "It's taking time. The pressure differential is too low. But the fire is dying down. I can give you an update in a few minutes."

  In here? Good God, is she inside the engine room? No wonder she sounds like hell. He feared it was something even worse, though. She sounded injured, and that scared him. He liked Sawyer, but even more, he needed her. Every survivor on the ship did.