Selena tapped the stunned, motionless pilot lightly on the back. “Kill the lights,” she said.
2408 BCE: Sol System, Asteroid Belt near Ceres
Dieter Armbrust knew he had lost the last smallship in his command group a moment before his SensorOp reported it. “Jiang just bought it, sir. Orders?”
Well, thought Dieter, now, commanding the 128th Squadron just means I have to fight my ship. For as long as I can. Which might not be very much longer, he conceded, with a glance at the plot.
The three remaining kzin Raker IIs were closing in on him from three points of the battlesphere: high to port, low on the bow, dead astern. The starboard side was occluded by a planetoid whose identifying number he’d forgotten. It wasn’t one of the major ones: it showed some evidence of old robotic prospecting, but no active mining. Not surprising: judging from the densitometer scans, it was just dead rock.
But that dead rock had kept him alive, shielding him from counter fire while the last two ships of his command-Jiang’s and his own Catscratch Fever-concentrated their fire on one half of the kzin squadron that they had baited into this part of the Belt. But now the other half of the ratcat formation was coming in on him, pinning him against the planetoid. Or so they intended.
Still, the kzinti had recovered quickly from Dieter’s ambush, a skill at which they had been steadily improving since their invasion force had arrived insystem twelve days ago. Scream-and-pounce was no longer the full measure of their tactical repertoire. They had become canny hunters, too, and this group had been the canniest yet.
And Dieter Armbrust would know. He had been in the thick of the fighting since this fourth kzin fleet had made its real objectives clear: to smash the defenses of the Belt as a preliminary to attacking Earth. The ratcats had become smarter, considering the unfolding game two or three moves in advance, instead of being constrained to their prior engagement doctrine of “damn the torpedoes; full speed ahead.” Almost two weeks’ worth of human ruses and decoy ships, double-reverses, and delayed envelopments had taught them not to ignore the torpedoes (or any of the other human toys in the battlespace) and to proceed with a judicious mix of decisiveness and caution.
But I’ve still got one trick left up my sleeve, thought Dieter. “Ms. Hitsu, ready at the helm: we are bringing the auxiliary thrust package on line within the minute. Until then, slow to one-quarter, feathering the gravitic planer to simulate battle damage.”
“Should I engage the damage simulation subroutine, Captain Armbr-?”
“Not entirely. Use occasional overrides. I’m worried that our automated damage mimicry is becoming predictable enough that their computers can detect it. It was a great trick a week ago, but it’s getting old. Time to revivify it by throwing in some random human overrides.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mr. Paraway?”
“Engineering here, sir.”
“If we dump the current charge stored in our capacitors, how fast can we initiate the auxiliary thrust package?”
“About two seconds, sir.”
“Then prepare to do so on my mark.”
“Awaiting your mark, sir.”
On the plot, Armbrust watched as the three motes designating the kzin ships closed in, the one astern closing the gap most rapidly, the one on his bow coming fully out of the shadow of the planetoid alongside which the Catscratch Fever was making its now unsteady way. The bogey to port was keeping distance: she’d taken some beam damage at the start of the engagement, and might not be so ready to mix it up at closer ranges anymore. All the better.
“Helm: range to bogey astern?”
“Fifty klicks, sir. Full launch of missiles detected.”
“Full power to aft shields, as well as all active defenses that can bear.”
“Missile launch from the bogey dead ahead, sir. Should I take evasive-?”
“Steady at the helm, Ms. Hitsu. Remainder of active defenses are to concentrate upon those missiles. Range to bogey astern?”
“Uh-thirty klicks, sir. They’re coming up our pipes, closing to the point where shield effectiveness will begin eroding.”
“Which is what I’m counting on. Tell me when they are at ten klicks.”
“Uh-now, sir!”
“Mr. Paraway, engage the auxiliary thrust package.”
The Catscratch Fever bucked as kzin missiles and beams hammered at her stern, almost pushing through the defenses there. Shocks from the other direction announced the close intercept of the bow-bogey’s missiles. Meanwhile, a thready tremor rose up through the deck of the heavily modified smallship. Possibly, on the bridge of the stern-chasing Raker II, kzin eyes opened wide as they beheld the blue glow of an initiating fusion thruster-right before the star-hot exhaust came out and vaporized them like a moth caught in the flame of an acetylene torch. It had not occurred to this invasion’s kzinti that, apparently, the humans would not rely solely upon the gravitic planer drives: fusion still had a place as a thrust agency. And as a surprise weapon at close range.
The thruster’s extra propulsive force shot the Catscratch Fever almost straight at the bow-bearing kzin bogey. Armbrust turned to his weapons officer. “All tubes and beams on that ratcat. Cascading fire: don’t stop ’til she’s gone.”
Which took less than four seconds, during which exchange the Catscratch Fever took a few heavy hits herself, tumbling both crew and electronics. When the jolts and jerks ceased, the viewscreen was flickering, the sensors were offline, inertial damping sketchy. Armbrust swung himself up from the deck and back into the commander’s chair. “Damage report?”
“Coming in, sir.”
“Helm; do you have control?”
“Yes, sir, but I’m flying without sensors.”
“Do you have visual?”
“Scope-relays only, sir.”
“They’ll do. Take us back around this rock; we need to have its mass screening us as we sort ourselves out-before the third kzin ship arrives.”
“Aye, sir; flying by eye,” announced Hitsu.
Who was unable to see that the kzin had indeed learned all sorts of devious tricks from fighting the humans. Invisible in the great, dark reaches of space, Lieutenant Hitsu had no way of detecting the minefield that the now-destroyed kzin bow-bogey had sown just in the lee of the planetoid. Into which the Catscratch Fever now blindly flew.
At best speed.
2408 BCE: Subject age-twelve years
“If it’s any consolation, he never knew what hit him.”
Hap did not look over at Selena. “It doesn’t sound like that fact has been much consolation for you.”
“No, it hasn’t been. Not in the least.” Selena damned herself as she felt a cool, wet line trace itself from her left eye down the long, smooth slope of her cheek. She had promised herself she wouldn’t tell Hap about Dieter’s death until she could talk about it calmly, with perfect composure. She had thought she was ready; she had practiced in front of the mirror for three weeks, and finally, two days ago, had been able to get through her whole semi-rehearsed speech without so much as a quaver in her voice.
But that had been without an audience, without feeling the eyes of another person who knew how she felt about Dieter, who had been around to sense the love that had existed between them, despite the separations and impediments imposed by their respective careers and duties. Most importantly, in sharing the news with Hap, she was sharing it with another person who had loved Dieter, who would feel his own loss, and in expressing it-even if only by the careful suppression of public grief-would resummon Selena’s.
Of course, she temporized, maybe I never was going to be that ready: maybe one never is, when the loss is as painful as this one.