Good thing the Hammers did not know about pinchspace jump-capable Block 6 landers; if they did …
For Michael, postcombat exhaustion had set in with a vengeance, the shipsuit under his space suit-as always after combat-an icy, sweat-soaked wreck. All he wanted was a shower, clean gear, and a long sleep.
“Kat. Update.”
“Roger, sir. We’re … hold on, sir … the demolition charges will blow in ten.”
Michael sat up. Shit, he chided himself, how had he forgotten? “Get SuppFac27 up on holovid and let the troops know.”
Utterly focused, Michael stared at the asteroid when it popped onto the command holovid, the ugly ball of rock a black shape cut out of star-strewn space. He struggled to breathe, all too aware that Kallewi’s demolition charges had to work. If they did not, he was as good as dead. Perkins would destroy him, and maybe he would be right to.
“Stand by … now!”
Nothing happened.
Even as Michael began to think that the whole operation was a bust, the appalling loss of ships and lives, the risks he had taken, all a complete waste, the asteroid’s surface, crystal clear in the holovid feeds coming from the reconsats, he shivered. Michael was not even sure he had seen anything, it all happened so fast. There was another tremor, much bigger this time, shock lifting dust off the asteroid, and the black surface of the asteroid cracked open, flaming jets of white-hot plasma lancing out when SuppFac27’s fusion plants blew, the enormous overpressure following every access tunnel back up to the surface, the blast blowing huge chunks of rock to tumble away into space, pursued by jets of incandescent gas.
“Oh, yeah,” Sedova said, her face a snarl of pure hatred. “Suck that, you Hammer bastards. I don’t think there’ll be much more antimatter coming out of that place.”
Michael choked up, but Reckless’s crew did not, their cheers and shouts swamping the Ghost’s com circuits.
“Right, Kat,” Michael said, spirits soaring as the weight came off his shoulders before reality brought them crashing back to ground. He was acutely aware how far from home they all were; he hoped the cheers were not premature. For him, this mission was not over until every last spacer and marine made it home safely. “Update.”
“Roger. We’re at jump speed, though the navigation AI says there is way too much gravitational instability for us to get into pinchspace safely. There’s still no sign of any interest from the Hammers. Cleft Stick has recovered lifepods from Seljuk, Secular, Iron Bridge, and Darter. She is chasing down the last of them, two from Skeandhu. When she’s recovered those, she’ll rendezvous with us.”
“How long?”
“Four hours, give or take. We’ll have a precise time once she’s recovered Skeandhu’s survivors.”
“Roger. Any sign of Hammers responding?”
“No, sir. Still none, and something tells me there won’t be. Hammers being Hammers, they’ll be more interested in lining up the poor bastards in charge and shooting them.”
“My heart bleeds for the pricks. Is there a list of survivors?”
“No, not yet. The Stick’s AI is doing the best it can, but routine administration is not one of its strong points.”
Michael chuckled softly. Assault landers were never designed to fly without a human crew; of course they could, but some of the finer points of command tended to fall by the wayside. “Fine. Ask it nicely to let us know if it can find the time. Even better, see if it can patch us through to one of the survivors. Next question: We can’t go back, so where the hell do we go?”
“I was afraid you’d ask me that, sir. The bad news is that we have just one option, I’m afraid. I’ve checked and rechecked. Serhati is the only non-Hammer world we can reach with the driver mass and consumables we have onboard. I’ve done a navigation plan to get us there.”
“Shit,” Michael said softly with a shake of his head; Serhati did not appear on any list of friendly systems he had ever seen. “What’s the transit time?”
“Not good, sir. It’s … let me see … yes, a thirteen-day transit.”
Michael winced; the cramped confines of a heavy lander would make for an uncomfortable trip. “Can we do that?” he said, trying not to look concerned.
“Assuming Cleft Stick recovers no more than 200 survivors, yes, we can … just,” Sedova said. “Assuming 250 souls all up, consumables are the problem: We’ll be out of food, our carbon dioxide scrubbers will be on their last legs, and we’ll be critically low on oxygen and water. And that’s even after we’ve stripped Cleft Stick bare.”
“Umm,” Michael said after he took a long look at Serhati’s profile. “Yes, you’re right. It has to be Serhati, so that’s where we’ll go. And yes, it’ll be damn tight. But I think we can do it if we keep the troops in their bunks twenty-two hours a day to reduce oxygen consumption. The big problem is that Serhati is a Hammer client. Not officially, of course; it pretends to be a Kalici Protocol world, but scratch the surface and it’s not. According to the intelligence summaries, Serhati is a covert remassing stop for Hammer ships. So I think we’re in for an interesting time. Set vector for Serhati and let the troops know that’s where we’re headed.”
“Sir.”
Michael ignored a momentary flash of panic: Going to Serhati meant giving the Hammers the best chance they would ever have to get their hands on him. But what choice did he have?
“Anything else of note?” he said.
“No, sir.”
“Roger. I’m going below. Keep a close eye on the Hammers. Let me know when the Stick has finished rescuing pods and gives us a definite rendezvous time.”
“Sir.”
His body saturated with fatigue, Michael dropped down the ladder into the cargo bay. He walked across to where Ferreira sat, head back, her injured arm-liberally decorated with orange leak patches and smeared black and green with dried blood and woundfoam-resting on a convenient power box. “Jayla. How’s the arm?”
“Bloody sore,” she said. “That fucking woundfoam is ten times worse than getting shot in the first place. Don’t care how good it is. Shit, it hurts. My neuronics say the wound’s nothing serious, and anyway, I now have the combat wound stripe I’ve always wanted.”
Michael laughed. “We have about four hours before we pick up Cleft Stick. You ready for a load of uninvited guests?”
“We are, sir,” Ferreira said, a broad grin clearly visible through the plasglass of her helmet’s faceplate. “It will be one hell of a squeeze, but we’ll manage. A five-star establishment this is, and Bienefelt’s agreed to be concierge while I sit around feeling sorry for myself.”
“Can’t see you sitting around, Jayla. Marine Mehraz, how is she? Good work, by the way, getting her out.”
Ferreira’s head bobbed in embarrassment. She waved her good arm in protest. “Shit, sir. Somebody had to do it. Marine Mehraz is safely in one of the regen tanks. She’s in pretty bad shape; her legs took a lot of rounds, and she’s suffering lung damage from explosive decompression of her suit, but the medical AI says she’ll be okay until we get to Serhati.”
“I hope so. As soon as we’re sure the Hammers won’t bother us, I’ll tell Kat to get the lander repressurized.”
“That would be outstanding. I am sick of this crappy space suit, and the medibots want to clean up my arm, though what I really need is a long, hot shower. How good would that be?”
Michael laughed. “Better than good, Jayla. Right, I’ll leave you alone. When I’m done here, I’ll be back on the flight deck if you need me.”
“Sir,” Ferreira said, closing her eyes and slumping back, face pale with shock.
Concerned, Michael patched into the medical AI to make sure Ferreira was better than she looked; it assured him she was, so he turned to study the Ghost’s cargo bay. He nodded his approval. Chief Bienefelt had wasted no time getting the place organized-loose gear stowed, bunks rigged up, fresh clothing broken out, and hot drinks laid out on a side table. He picked a beaker up and plugged it into the drinks port of his suit, grateful for the coffee’s sudden lift, the grinding fatigue easing a touch. He made his way across to where Kallewi and his marines were sprawled out across the deck.