Three midshipmen and a dozen Marines hung from crash webbing in the main cabin of Lenin’s cutter. The civilians and regular crew were gone, and the boat moved away from Lenin’s black bulk.
“All right, Lafferty,” Staley said. “Take us to MacArthur’s starboard side. If nothing attacks us, you will ram, aiming for the tankage complex aft of bulkhead 185.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Lafferty did not react noticeably. He was a big-boned man, a plainsman from Tabletop. His hair was ash-blond and very short, and his face was all planes and angles.
The crash webbing was designed for high impacts. The midshipmen hung like flies in some monstrous spider web. Staley glanced at Whitbread. Whitbread looked at Potter.
Both looked away from the Marines behind them. “OK. Go,” Staley ordered. The drive roared.
The real defensive hull of any warship is the Langston Field. No material object could withstand the searing heat of fusion bombs and high energy lasers. Since anything that can get past the Field and the ship’s defensive fire will evaporate anything below, the hull of a warship is a relatively thin skin. It is, however, only relatively thin. A ship must be rigid enough to withstand high acceleration and jolt.
Some compartments and tanks, however, are big, and in theory can be crushed by enough impact momentum. In practice nobody had ever taken a combat party aboard a ship that way as far as Staley’s frantically searching memory could tell him. It was in the Book, though. You could get aboard a crippled ship with her Field intact by ramming. Staley wondered what damn fool had first tried it.
The long black blob that enclosed MacArthur became a solid black wall without visible motion. Then the shovel blade reentry shield went up. Horst watched blackness grow on the forward view screen as he peered over Lafferty’s shoulder.
The cutter surged backward. An instant of cold as they passed through the Field, then the screaming of grinding metal. They stopped.
Staley unclasped his crash webbing. “Get moving,” he ordered. “Kelley, cut our way through those tanks.”
“Yes, sir.” The Marines swept past. Two aimed a large cutting laser at the buckled metal that had once been the interior wall of a hydrogen tank. Cables stretched from the weapon back into the mangled cutter.
The tank wall collapsed, a section blown outward and narrowly missing the Marines. More air whistled out, and dead miniature Moties blew about like autumn leaves.
The corridor walls were gone. Where there had been a number of compartments there was a heap of ruins, cutoff bulkheads, surrealistic machinery, and everywhere dead miniatures. None seemed to have had pressure suits.
“Christ Almighty,” Staley muttered. “OK, Kelley, get moving with those suits. Let’s go.” He charged forward across the ruins to the next airtight compartment door. “Shows pressure on the other side,” he said. He reached into the communications box on the bulkhead and plugged in his suit mike. “Anybody there?”
“Corporal Hasner here, sir,” a voice answered promptly. “Be careful back there, that area’s full of miniatures.”
“Not now,” Staley answered. “What’s your status in there?”
“Nine civilians without no suits in here, sir. Three Marines left alive. We don’t know how to get them scientist people out without suits.”
“We’ve got suits,” Staley said grimly. “Can you protect the civilians until we can get through this door? We’re in vacuum.”
“Lord, yes, sir. Wait a minute.” Something whirred. Instruments showed the pressure falling beyond the bulkhead companionway. Then the dogs turned. The door opened to reveal an armored figure inside the petty officers’ mess room. Behind Hasner two other Marines trained weapons on Staley as he entered. Behind them—Staley gasped.
The civilians were at the other end of the compartment. They wore the usual white coveralls of the scientific staff. Staley recognized Dr. Blevins, the veterinarian. The civilians were chattering among themselves— “But there’s no air in here!” Staley yelled.
“Not here, sir,” Hasner said. He pointed. “Some kind of box thing there, makes like a curtain, Mr. Staley. Air can’t get through it but we can.”
Kelley growled and moved his squad into the mess room. The suits were flung to the civilians.
Staley shook his head in wonder. “Kelley. Take charge here. Get everybody forward—and take that box with you if it’ll move!”
“It moves,” Blevins said. He was speaking into the microphone of the helmet Kelley had passed him, but he wasn’t wearing the helmet. “It can be turned on and off, too. Corporal Hasner killed some miniatures who were doing things to it.”
“Fine. We’ll take it,” Staley snapped. “Get ‘em moving, Kelley.”
“Sir!” The Marine Gunner stepped gingerly through the invisible barrier. He had to push. “Like—maybe kind of like the Field, Mr. Staley. Only not so thick.”
Staley growled deep in his throat and motioned to the other midshipmen. “Coffeepot,” he said. He sounded as if he didn’t believe it. “Lafferty. Kruppman. Janowitz. You’ll come with us.” He went back through the companionway to the ruins beyond.
There was a double-door airtight companionway at the other end, and Staley motioned Whitbread to open it. The dogs turned easily, and they crowded into the small air lock to peer through the thick glass into the main starboard connecting corridor.
“Looks normal enough,” Whitbread whispered.
It seemed to be. They went through the air lock in two cycles and pulled themselves along the corridor walls by hand holds to the entryway into the main crew mess room.
Staley looked through the thick glass into the mess compartment. “God’s teeth!”
“What is it, Horst?” Whitbread asked. He crowded his helmet against Staley’s.
There were dozens of miniatures in the compartment. Most were armed with laser weapons—and they were firing at each other. There was no order to the battle. It seemed that every miniature was fighting every other, although that might have been only a first impression. The compartment drifted with a pinkish fog: Motie blood. Dead and wounded Moties flopped in an insane dance as the room winked with green-blue pencils of light.
“Not in there,” Staley whispered. He remembered he was speaking through his suit radio and raised his voice. “We’d never get through that alive. Forget the coffeepot.” They moved on through the corridor and searched for other human survivors.
There were none, Staley led them back toward the crew messroom. “Kruppman,” he barked. “Take Janowitz and get this corridor into vacuum. Burn out bulkheads, use grenades—anything, but get it into vacuum. Then get the hell off this ship.”
“Aye aye, sir.” When the Marines rounded a turn in the steel corridor the midshipmen lost contact with them. The suit radios were line-of-sight only. They could still hear, though. MacArthur was alive with sound. High-pitched screams, the sounds of tearing metal, hums and buzzes—none of it was familiar.
“She’s not ours any more,” Potter murmured.
There was a whoosh. The corridor was in vacuum. Staley tossed a thermite grenade against the mess-room bulkhead and stepped back around a turn. Light flared briefly, and Staley charged back to fire his hand laser at the still-glowing spot on the bulkhead. The others fired with him.
The wall began to bulge, then broke through. Air whistled into the corridor, with a cloud of dead Moties. Staley turned the dogs on the companionway but nothing happened. Grimly they burned at the bulkhead until the hole was large enough to crawl into.
There was no sign of live miniatures. “Why can’t we do that all over the ship?” Whitbread demanded. “We could get back in control of her…”