The Imperials agreed. So did Brim. That was what Orgoth was practicing for....
During the late afternoon that day, Nergol Triannic and Rogan LaKarn tied up all KA'PPA channels for half a metacycle to announce their "joint" victory in Fluvanna. But more importantly, at the same time as the broadcasts—by design or by chance, Brim wondered—initial waves of some 150 Leaguer ships arrived over Avalon City, catching many of the defending squadrons unprepared. Soon afterward, another 150 starships arrived on their heels, circling slowly—almost majestically— 'round and 'round the great metropolis in perfect formation. Then, in a series of devastating waves, they attacked.
On the surface, tremendous explosions erupted everywhere while more League formations approached. They came arrogantly in parallel lines, about two or three c'lenyts apart, with Trodler and Kreissel battleships escorted by GH 270As flying close behind them. Thundering above the city center, they banked, then flew back over the space harbor on Lake Mersin. Moments later, murderous disruptor fire landed on the vast gravity pool areas and among crowded houses in the streets beyond. And unlike their rather deceitful performance in many of the more recent raids, the Leaguers were now pressing for their targets with their old determination. Moreover, the prodigious marksmanship the crystals afforded them was having a devastating effect below. As he chased one Trodler TR 215 nearly all the way to the surface, Brim could see that whole suburbs appeared to be burning. By early evening, a vast white cloud of smoke—easily visible from orbit—covered the sprawling space-dock area, tinged black at the edge with flames licking at its base. While the planet's light/dark terminator slowly worked its way to spin ward, the smoke turned into a heavy overcast, lighted from below by the raging fires.
Just after darkness at half a million irals altitude, Brim was climbing back from a low-level dogfight (during which both he and Goreman had lost a GH 262 against the ground clutter) when he found a squadron of Defiants flying in sections of stepped-up threes, but with no rear guard. He joined in—and moments later learned the truth of the old warning "beware of a fight 'gainst the light." He was making sweeps from side to side and peering earnestly into the rearview display when from out of the blinding Triad—and dead astern—disrupter flashes began sparkling along his port pontoon.
While shouts of pain and surprise filled the voice circuits, he ground his teeth and curved sharply onto a spin, simultaneously ordering Norgate, the COMM operator, to KA'PPA warning to the Defiants.
Having apparently lost his assailant, he called for a damage estimate and started to climb again. But even before Chief Kondrashen could call back with an evaluation, flames began to pour from the pontoon, and soon the control-bridge environmental system began to disgorge whiffets of rank-smelling smoke, as if entire logic systems had melted.
Ordering the lifeglobes activated, he warned the crew they might need to abandon ship, then started for FleetPort 48 where there was an extensive repair facility. Soon, however, he realized he wasn't going to make that either—he had the gravs running at full boost and was still losing altitude steadily. By the same token, whenever he attempted even a slight turn, something in the hull set up a frightening vibration that made a mockery of his navigation systems. The only choices remaining to him were to order the crew out in lifeglobes—a risky thing at low altitudes—or put the ship down on Lake Mersin, which he could just make out ahead, reflecting the light of the burning city. The radio was no longer any help. Like his KA'PPA, it was now useless, having degraded to a cacophony of cracking and whistlings. He bit his lip while he gathered himself for the miracle he would have to accomplish were he to set the ship down without losing more lives man he already had.
When he reduced power to the gravs, the vibration gradually diminished. He'd clearly caught additional bursts near the steering engine, although the damage-control teams had yet to report it.
Outside, one of Avalon's four satellites had risen and seemed to be rolling over a suburban landscape submerged in clouds of smoke. Somehow, his mind turned to Eve Cartier—if she were even alive after the day's battles. How wonderful it would be to be comforted by that beautiful, gentle woman with whom he shared so much. He had a crazy, desperate urge to put his cheek to her nurturing breasts...
Dragging himself back to reality, he set course for the conflagrations along the Mersin waterfront, following the banks of the Grand Achtite Canal. For long moments, he concentrated on his readouts; they seemed to have gone haywire. His faithful allies—radio altimeter, attitude indicator, pressure, and temperature all mocked him with zero readings.
"Attention all hands! Attention all hands," he warned over the blower—almost as if someone else were saying the words. "All hands prepare for crash landfall. Secure airtight doors and set battlesuits for minimum freedom. Repeat. Secure airtight doors and set battlesuits for minimum freedom."
The Grand Achtite Canal blazed with lurid reflections of the fires ahead as Larkin, the COMM officer, tried six different radio frequencies. He called the Mersin Fleet Base and even FleetPort 30—with no answer. Everything appeared to be burned out; no radio, no identification, no recognition lights. In moments, the city's anti-starship disrupters would open up on him—they'd be tracking him now, waiting for the last possible moment before firing. Anything as low as he was might as well be a friendly in trouble. If they only knew!
Then, with a great thumping, the gravs seemed to lose most of their remaining power—clearly a second massive control center failure. Now he wasn't going to make it to Lake Mersin by any stretch of the imagination. He would have to ditch in the canal!
Abruptly, the sky around him came alive with light as what must have been every disrupter in the area opened up at him. Universe! Couldn't the deaf bastards below recognize the sound of Admiralty gravs? He turned on his landing lights—miraculously, those worked—then wobbled over what appeared to be a military installation of some kind, waggling the Starfury's pontoons to show he was in difficulties and...
At last! The firing stopped and moments later a thousand canal-side street lamps blazed into glorious brilliance. No more than a c'lenyt ahead was one of the canal's turning basins—almost as good as a vector on Lake Mersin.
Mechanically he started his approach—a quick one with forty-five degrees of lift modification.
The Starfury responded sluggishly. He concentrated his whole being on bringing the mangled ship—and what remained of her plucky crew—to a safe landfall. Ordering all nonessential systems shut down immediately, he leveled off between the two rows of street lamps whizzing past the side Hyperscreens.
At all costs, he had to remain calm—no matter how much adrenaline his tired body had pumped into his bloodstream. A lump in his throat threatened to stifle him... careful... mustn't let her slip off the gravity foot now! Ahead, the street lamps suddenly widened into the turning basin. Gingerly, he tried to set her down in the first few irals past the mouth. A tiny tow barge flashed under the starship's belly, and for one wild moment, Brim could see through the eyes of its crew as his huge starship thundered out of nowhere only irals above their mastheads.
"All hands," he warned over the blower—as if they didn't know what was coming. "All hands set battlesuits for minimum freedom and prepare for immediate crash landfall..."
Now or never! He rammed down the nose to lift the tail and with the steering engine deliberately stuck the ruined starboard pontoon in to take up some of the shock. Perhaps that would prevent him from turning over.