Static surged to a roar through the flight deck’s speakers, and El flinched, covering her ears. The static stopped, followed by silence. El looked at the empty acceleration couch next to her, then switched to an internal channel. “Hope.”
“Engineering here,” said Hope, “high on drugs and rock and roll.”
“You wouldn’t know what rock and roll was,” said El. “No one does, not really. Just words.”
“But what a movement,” said Hope. “What’s up?”
“You tested the Tyche’s systems yet?” El was looking at the air where the holo still displayed SIGNAL LOST. “Anything to do with comms?”
“Nope,” said Hope, “and also, a big thanks-for-the-confidence high five. You know I’d tell you about something like that.”
“Okay,” said El, reaching to turn the comm off.
“Hold up,” said Hope. “Why are you asking?”
“It’s probably nothing,” said El.
“It’s probably something,” said Hope. “What specific form of ’nothing’ are you thinking about?”
“Well,” said El, “the Cap’s bios came through elevated, then snapped out. I can’t get a signal with the planet.”
“Be right there,” said Hope.
“Wait,” said El, and realized the comm was off. She’d wanted to say it’s nothing again or we should wait a little longer, because the alternative was dropping the Tyche into the atmosphere of a planet where there was a bunch of weird shit going on, and that wasn’t in El’s position description. She flew the ship, and she flew it away from random acts of violence. Her whole deal was flying the Tyche away from danger, a ship without which they would all die in a vacuum.
The clank of boots on metal announced Hope’s arrival. Pink hair grungy with grease, Hope’s face wore tired like most people wore underwear. Something that was ordinary and expected. She looked at the SIGNAL LOST for about two seconds, then she said, “We need to go. Down there.”
“Hold up,” said El. “Have you even tested my ship yet?”
“It’ll be fine,” said Hope. “Good Republic fitment. What could go wrong?”
“Everything,” said El. “You’ve still got the Ravana’s reactor coupled to the Tyche. It’s more power than she’s used to. And you’ve replaced the substructure of the Tyche. We don’t even know if the welds will hold.”
“Welds,” said Hope. “You’re so old school.”
“Whatever you’ve done—”
“Because you don’t weld ceramic,” said Hope.
“Glue,” said El. “Unicorn blood, I don’t care. You’ve replaced the thing that makes the Tyche hold a straight line. I’m not flying until we’ve done some tests.”
The holo shimmered, flicked, then displayed COLLISION WARNING. The flight deck’s speakers brayed a klaxon. Hope and El both looked at the ceiling as if there was a higher power they could ask for guidance, then looked at each other.
“We’ve got to go,” said El. The holo winked, displayed the Tyche, then pulled out to a view of the Gladiator. It pulled out again to a planet view, Absalom Delta and the asteroid marked bright and red. There were several solid objects moving at high velocity between the asteroid and the Gladiator. High velocity. “We’ve got to fucking go,” said El. “Buckle up.”
“We’re not … there’s still stuff to do,” said Hope. But she was clambering into the acceleration couch across from El, pulling the straps tight against her small frame. She smelled of oil and ozone and fear.
“Is it stuff that will stop us flying?” said El, clicking switches on the console. The sound of the fusion engines rumbled through the hull, throaty, powerful, ready. Angry, as if they’d been starved of purpose for too long.
“Maybe,” said Hope. “Probably not.”
“I need a yes or no,” said El.
“No,” said Hope, eyes wide. She was watching the markers on the holo, those objects getting closer to the Gladiator. “What are those?”
“Those,” said El, “are rocks.” She told the Gladiator to let them go, then told the destroyer to open the hangar to the hard black. She couldn’t hear the air as atmosphere gusted out, but small objects — a wrench, a work table — whirled past the cockpit and into the void. Another alarm blinked into view on the holo, one of the docking clamps holding the Tyche was stuck fast. The black of space opened before El like a promise of hope, the blue green of Absalom Delta below them. A flash of fire streaked past the hangar doors, torpedoes launched by the Gladiator’s defenses spearing into the void.
The damn clamps. They were moored, stuck fast, so close to freedom. “I’ll get it,” said Hope, starting to leave her chair.
“There’s no time,” said El. She pulled on the sticks, the Tyche thrumming with urgency as she tried for space. Yearned for it, the taste of open water so close. There was a screaming of metal as something — the Gladiator or something on the Tyche, impossible to tell — tore, and then they were moving.
The comm channel chattered, hissed, and then the Gladiator’s automated voice spoke. “Collision imminent. Brace, brace, brace.” El clicked weapons control, warmed up the PDCs, the thrum sounding through the hull as the cannons came out on their mounts, spun through their initial checks. She brought the lasers online — a red warning light blinked on her console, telling her there was an error in the laser firing array. It wouldn’t stop them firing, but they had nothing that would reach across the void. Close range defense. Close range combat.
Well, fuck. That was what untested meant. No lasers? No problem.
“Sorry,” said Hope, “not everything’s ready—”
“It’s fine,” said El, voice clipped. “Let me fly.” She put a hand on the throttle, thought sorry to the Gladiator, and pushed it forward. The Tyche roared, the roar turned to a scream as the ship kicked against the Gladiator for freedom, and they burst from the hangar pulling hard Gs. El spared a glance out towards where the rocks were coming from, that monkey urge to see taking over for a second. She was rewarded with bright bursts of nuclear fire as the torpedoes hit the rocks coming at them, and then they were accelerating towards the planet’s surface. Running and burning hard.
Weapons control spat telemetry on the holo, mapping smaller shards of rock that split away from the big ones, a thousand tiny asteroids of death in space. The PDCs swung towards the incoming rocks, ready to fire at anything larger than a pea. LIDAR and RADAR readied to speak across the void—
Another warning light. No LIDAR.
El slapped a hand against the console. “C’mon!”
No LIDAR.
“Sorry!” said Hope, again. “Not everything’s been tested!”
They were falling into a gravity well with a thousand rocks coming at them with no detailed ranging or targeting. Think. The rocks would expand in a conical cloud from point of impact. Going away would keep them in the line of rocks. Going down would prolong the inevitable, but it would also give them an atmosphere as armor. Going towards would — briefly — increase the chance of impact, and was certain suicide.
Down it was.
Sparks of light off the Tyche’s bow glinted in the void. The Gladiator’s own PDCs were firing, kinetic weapons and lasers alike stabbing across space. The lights converged at a point as a rock missed by torpedoes hit the Gladiator’s hull like a hammer. There was another bright flash of fire. No time to worry about that. If the Gladiator’s reactor blew, the reactor blew. If it didn’t, it was all just more space chaff.