Buccari looked at Rhodes. The engineer threw back a thumbs-up with one hand and an «okay» signal with the other.
"Have faith, Gunner," Quinn said. "Control sequence is manual and power's being transferred on the aux bus. Stand by."
Buccari, floating above her station, stole a look at tactical. The alien ship irrepressibly passed the apogee of its turn. Screeching adversary warnings steadied out.
"Back to your seat, Sharl. Fire control stations," Quinn ordered.
She grimly complied, calling up weapons status as she strapped in.
"Engineering's talking," Rhodes said, punching intercom buttons. "Goldberg patched the circuit. I'm going back to main control." The engineer clambered across the flight deck, hitting both pilots with sundry parts of his body.
"Mr. Hudson, you've got the EPL," Quinn ordered. "Take charge of the evacuation. Get the Marines and non-required crew away from the corvette."
"Sir?" Hudson blurted. "I'm not apple qual'ed. I—"
"You heard the skipper," Buccari said. "You've just been qualified."
"But—" Hudson protested.
"Now, Ensign!" Quinn snapped. "Move!"
Hudson stuttered a response, released his tethers, and sailed from the flight deck. Buccari shifted her attention to the chatter on the fire control circuit; Rhodes and Wilson were discussing preparations for manually firing the energy weapon.
"Okay, gentlemen," she interjected, overriding their transmissions. "Full manual. Pick up the checklist at pre-sync."
"Rog', Lieutenant," Wilson responded. "Ready for checks."
"Power's too low for capacitance alignment, Lieutenant," Rhodes reported. "Need twenty seconds. We're only going to get one shot out of this mess. After we discharge it'll take a half hour to regenerate. Maybe a lot longer."
"Standing by, Virgil. Let's go over pre-arm, Gunner," Buccari commanded. She struggled to suppress her rising anxiety. Was there enough time?
As she orchestrated checklists, Buccari stole glances at Quinn, concerned he would slip back into his stupor of self-pity. Perhaps it no longer mattered: their crippled ship was hurtling helplessly through space, all aces played. During the hectic engagement the pilot had used the ship's decreasing power and diminished weapons to full advantage. His last blast of acceleration had been a desperate, spasmodic action, sapping the last gasp from the main engines, but it had propelled the corvette through a pattern of explosions and slicing energy beams, past the approaching enemy. Up to that point he had fought hard and well, with no hint of surrender, but then came the panicked messages—distress calls— from T.L.S. Greenland, the corvette's mothership. The horrible implication of Greenland's desperate pleas for help had melted the metal in Quinn's spine: his wife was senior science officer on the battered mothership.
"Skipper," Buccari barked, "roll ninety for weapons release."
Without replying, Quinn disengaged the autostabilizing computer, hit the maneuvering alarm, and fired portside maneuvering rockets. The ponderous corvette rolled crazily. Quinn stopped the rotational wobble with deft squirts of opposite power.
"Nash! Evacuation status," Buccari yelled into her throat mike.
Hudson's reply was instantaneous. "Apple needs another minute. Request hold maneuvers until I get the bay doors open. Lee and the injured are in lifeboat one, ready to go. Number two lifeboat is not being used. Still some confusion about who's staying and who's leaving, but that won't stop us from jettisoning on your command."
An anxious voice—Dawson, the ship's communications technician—broke in: "Skipper!" she transmitted. "Flash override incoming."
"Dawson, everyone to lifeboats," Buccari shouted over the circuit.
"Commander!" Dawson persisted, her voice uncharacteristically agitated. "We've got a clear language burst transmission from a panic buoy. The task force has jumped, sir. The fleet's gone!"
The ship was silent, the crew rendered speechless—no, breathless! The motherships had departed, gone into the massive distances, back over the measureless hurdle of time. Rescue was light-years away now. It would take months for rescue ships to complete a hyperlight transit cycle. Interminable seconds of silence dragged by.
Buccari slammed a fist on the comm switch and shouted over the general circuit, "Dawson, get your butt in a boat. Rhodes, sync count. We got a bogey inbound!"
Quinn stirred. His hands moved automatically, a robot obeying his program. The enemy ship steadily accelerated, gnawing at the corvette's unwavering vector.
"Hudson! You reading me?" Quinn barked.
"Yes, sir. EPL and lifeboat one ready to go. What's the plan, sir?" came back the disembodied voice. Hudson had moved quickly.
"I was hoping you had a good idea," Quinn replied. "Right now I want you clear. Establish an outbound vector and hold it. Normal transponder codes. Keep in contact. If you don't hear from me in two hours, head back to Earth by yourself. Shouldn't take you more than three or four thousand years. If the bugs pick you up first, remember your manners."
Buccari exhaled through a tight smile and checked tactical. The symbol for a planetary body had been showing up for several hours: Rex-Kaliph Three, the third planet from the system's star.
"R-K Three's coming up in sector two," she said. "Might be reachable."
Quinn nodded. "Hudson, get a downlink from the computer. Check tactical. Sector two. Planet in range. Head for it. Good luck, Ensign. Cleared to launch."
Buccari switched the comm master back to the weapons circuit, clipping Hudson's response. "Status, Gunner!" she demanded.
"Main control's predicting three-sigma," Wilson answered. "Mains are spooling. Power forty-five percent and climbing. Should have enough power to fire in four minutes, and we'll finish syncing optics any second. Rhodes'ss going batshit with shortcuts."
"Okay, Sharl," Quinn said, bringing all of them onto primary circuit. "Let's take care of business. How many decoys left?"
Buccari checked the weapons console. "Three."
"Start laying decoys at sixteen hundred. How many kinetics?"
"Twenty-three heavies and a couple hundred dinks," she responded. She brought her eyes up and scanned the infinite blackness, not seeing—nothing to see. Her attention was drawn back to the evacuation. System panels indicated launch bays had depressurized. A distant, sharp thunk followed by a high-frequency rumble vibrated the ship's metal fabric. Status lights changed, indicating bay doors had resealed. A lifeboat and the EPL—the Endoatmospheric Planetary Lander—had launched. The greater part of the corvette crew was away, thrown into the black void.
Chief Wilson broke in. "Fire control has active track. We're warbling the signal and he's jamming, but we have sporadic lock. Power weak but steady. My board is green. Beta three point two and dropping. Passing manual control to the flight deck."
"This is Buccari," she replied in sterile tones. "I have fire control. Arming sequence now."
Quinn flipped back a red switch cover on his overhead. Buccari gave a thumbs-up. Quinn armed the energy weapon. Amber lights appeared on her weapons panel; a soft bell-tone sounded in the background. She flipped switches; amber lights turned green, and the tone took a higher pitch. Quinn disabled the alarm while Buccari stared at the firing presentation on her ordnance console. Range reticules moved inexorably closer; the enemy ship was established on track, only seconds from long-distance weapons range. A tail chase: she had too much time—time to think about what to do, and time to worry.