Solar flare, p.25
Solar Flare, page 25
“Resch, Foster,” called Vendi on her comset, “We need you on the bridge. Zef? Any luck on the weapons or racers?”
“No weapons yet. We have two more racers ready,” said Zef.
“Make sure you get some sleep. They won’t attack until we’ve finished braking—too much risk of our debris hitting Farside.”
Resch and Foster entered the bridge. Resch checked the displays at her workstation.
“Any news?” asked Vendi.
“We’re the news,” said Resch, finger-brushing her hair while she scanned the newsfeeds. “They’re running the vids of the teleos and patrol ships, but still no recognition.”
“Why not? Don’t they care?”
“People do, a least a little. Your video going viral says that, but it’s complicated. People don’t control things and SSG’s calling in favors from friends—and it’s bought lots of friends. Spinning it as a labor dispute lets networks say ‘aw, that’s too bad,’ and still pocket SSG advertising money. Even direct competitors in the power market are siding with SSG—they don’t want to set a precedent of nations taking sides in a war on a corporation.”
Vendi pondered Resch’s explanation, then nodded. “Scan the camera feeds for any recording of Polo or Staffal getting shot, or Raglin and me, or…is there a bridge recording? Of Raglin, Muntle and Byunu?”
Resch looked up at the surveillance camera bubbles on the ceiling. “Only Nanley can access those,” said Resch.
“Try from his workstation up there,” said Vendi, pointing to the captain’s loft. “He left his ID card to stay logged in. Feed whatever you find to Earth.”
“He left his ID?” said Resch. “You think he—?”
“Yep,” said Vendi. “Lemme know if you find something. Ozlo!” Vendi faced Foster. “Are you interested in doing some more pilot work?”
***
“Engines at idle, neutral thrust,” reported Prinder.
The Metzer, large on the display, eclipsed the view of Farside.
“Less than two klicks to the Metzer,” added Prinder. “Five hundred from the Metzer to Farside.”
“If we can get past the Metzer without everyone on both ships ending up dead,” said Vendi, “that’s half the battle.”
“Resch, can we get a comm channel to the Metzer?”
“They opened a comm port,” said Resch. “Go ahead.”
“Metzer captain and crew,” started Vendi, “This is Vendi of the Loxie Nation.” Vendi sent a questioning glance at Prinder and Resch. They nodded; she continued, “We declared our independence.”
“Captain Hughley here,” crackled the radio reply. “You’re debtors and pirates on SSG property. Surrender now or we will fire.”
“You and your crew didn’t sign up for warfare, Captain,” replied Vendi. “Remember what happened at Tarball. SSG won in the end, but neither crew saw Earth again.”
“They’re firing!” shouted Prinder. “Tainers inbound! Three of ‘em! One’s a miss, two tracking for hits.”
Vendi looked over Prinder’s shoulder at his display. “They’re aiming for the hab decks,” said Vendi. “Figures.”
“We’re gonna fire back aren’t we?” asked Prinder.
“No,” said Vendi. “Foster, you ready?”
Foster’s voice came through the speaker. “On station, Captain!”
“Take ‘em out,” said Vendi. “Resch, tell Farside to abandon ship.”
Resch sent the message to Farside. “No reply,” said Resch.
“Metzer launched three more!” reported Prinder. “Their aim’s way off. No hits in this group—just the two from the first bunch.”
The comm link transmitted sounds: A ripgun firing. Shouts. Silence.
“Something else off the Metzer!” said Prinder, watching the radar.
Vendi looked at the radar display. A signal moved away from the Metzer.
“Low-V,” said Prinder. “And not coming our way.”
“Vendi,” said a different voice on the radio. “Chief Benzil here. Captain Hughley took the barge—abandoned ship with the other three Earthers.”
“Is your crew all right?” asked Vendi.
“A couple hurt, but we’re okay. Shoulda seen the look on Hughley’s face—”
“Rakches! Get your people off the loxie deck!”
“Why? Just a sec…”
The radio went silent.
“They vented it,” said Vendi. “They vented it! I should’ve put that in the message.”
“Put what in?” asked Resch.
“SSG’s remote control on our decks. To vent them, to blow them off the ship. Staffal fixed things—or broke them—so it didn’t work.”
“No way they’d do that,” said Resch. “Blow the whole deck? That’s crazy!”
“Raglin tried. If it hadn’t been staffalized, you and Prinder would be freeze-dried.”
Benzil’s voice came from the speaker. “They vented the goddamned deck. Lost Anjis, Tep and Tresh…Shit! This deck’s life support shut down! Navigation, engine control is gone—”
Benzil’s voice submerged in silence.
***
Foster spotted the incoming tainers and their trajectories on the racer’s 4D radar projection. “Galen, Yant—hang on, here we go!” Foster gunned the speedster craft toward the closest tainer. On the outside of the racer, Galen and Yant used their tethers to brace themselves against the powerful tug of the racer’s acceleration, leaving their whip hands free.
Foster slowed as he approached the tainer. Yant and Galen slung their whips on it, checked for a firm grip, then anchored the whips on tethers.
“Yant’s a go,” said Yant.
“Galen’s a go,” said Galen.
Foster pushed the throttle open. The racer pulled the whips tight on a right angle to the tainer’s path toward the Tyree.
The little racer seemed powerless against the much larger mass of the tainer; its engine flared brightly, but Foster felt no acceleration.
Prinder’s voice buzzed on his comset. “That’s got it! It’ll miss us!”
Foster cut the throttle. “Galen, Yant, release the whips! Let’s get the other one!”
***
“Comm request,” said Resch.
“Go ahead,” said Vendi. The video channel’s large pixels resolved into a head-and-shoulders image of an Earther ef in a purple shirt.
“This is Commander Tarnel of Farside. State your intention.”
“It is my intention,” said Vendi, “to take Farside.”
“Then you should know it is my intention to keep it,” said Tarnel. “There are over a hundred loxies aboard. If you attack, they die.”
“They’re already dead,” said Vendi. “Just as we’re already dead—dead the second we were born into SSG. I’m used to throwing loxies out as garbage. If I still worked at Skylight, I’d throw out a hundred more and sooner or later, I’d be the one thrown out. Either they die now or they die after sweating out years of work for SSG. No difference, except SSG loses more if they die now. You fight, you could lose a lot—your home on Earth, your family, your retirement. You get safe passage if you just leave. We lose nothing if you don’t. Nothing! A hundred garbage loxie lives for a dead station commander and hundreds of work-years of lost labor for SSG is a compelling bargain.”
“Our loxie chief sees it differently,” said Tarnel. “Listen to Chief Plett.”
The Farside loxie chief moved into the view of Tarnel’s camera. Wringing her hands, she said “Please don’t attack. Over a hundred of us here. They’ll kill us, no doubt.”
Vendi cut the comm link. “That answers that.”
“What do you mean?” asked Prinder.
“Replay the message, cut the audio and watch her hand clenches,” said Vendi.
Prinder replayed the message.
“Long-short-short, long-long-long,” said Vendi. “And short-short, then long. Then she repeats—tapcode for ‘do it.’”
“Tapcode?” asked Resch. “That’s Morse code! It’s older than the flare warning system.”
“Whatever you call it,” said Vendi. “They’re with us.”
“Wait,” said Prinder “What about them firing back? Farside can fire just like the Metzer. It’s tank versus tank—we both wind up dead.”
“They can’t—or won’t,” said Vendi. “If they get a shot or two off, Foster, Yant and Galen can handle those. Remember who loads your mass driver?”
“Loxies!” said Prinder. “Their loxies won’t fire on us!”
“The Earthers will try,” added Vendi, “but the loxies will slow the load or banjax the aim.” She activated her comset. “Nevon, fire the pattern. Aim for the windows and check all the velos as you go. Prinder, turn the forge deck to forty-five and swing the other decks flat to the cargo deck.”
“Roger,” said Prinder, keeping his eyes on the main display.
Under Nevon’s control, the driver shot tainers of Tarball’s finest ores at Farside in tireless repetition, each shot a bit faster than the last.
“They fired one!” reported Foster on the comset.
Prinder traced the trajectory on his display. “It’s a miss,” said Prinder.
“What if it’s got a nuvarig on it?” asked Vendi.
“If they correct now…” Prinder watched the tainer’s trajectory change to one intersecting the Tyree’s path.
“Foster, get on it,” said Vendi. “Kill the nuvarig or take it off so it can’t steer back.”
“We’re on it,” reported Foster.
Prinder tapped his display. “Here comes another! Damn! Right on us!”
“Foster! You hear that?” asked Vendi.
“Roger,” replied Foster’s metallic voice on the speaker. “Galen, Yant, make it quick, we gotta rodeo!”
“Another inbound!” said Prinder. Four on the way, all on target. Make that five!”
“They stopped firing,” observed Vendi. “Looks like Chief Plett got a wrench in the works.” Vendi turned to Resch. “Try hacking the nuvarig codes.”
Resch shook her head. “They’re five-character codes!”
“Try the simple ones,” said Vendi. “All zeroes, all ones, all Ss—”
“Foster just pulled the first one off us,” said Prinder, “It started turning back, then stopped. It’s tracking off-target.”
“Maybe out of fuel,” said Vendi, “but watch for a fake.”
“Foster here,” crackled the speaker. “Number two’s past us. We’re heading for number three.”
Resch replied to Vendi’s look. “Nothing yet.”
“Two hundred klicks,” said Prinder. “Twenty seconds to impact.”
“Got a comm link with one of ‘em!” said Resch. “All fours! Can’t tell which one, but I’ve got control of it.”
“Fours. Should’ve known,” said Vendi. “Steer it off and try all Ds.”
“Workin’ on it!” said Resch.
Prinder pointed at the main display. “You got number five—number five is peeling off! Ten seconds ’til number two hits mid-ships!”
“Resch, burn up the fuel before you let go of it,” said Vendi, watching tainer number two grow relentlessly closer.
“Five…four…three…two…one!” counted Prinder.
All eyes locked on the display and all hands clenched tight fists around workstation supports as the second tainer hit the port side of Tyree’s topside cargo deck. The tainer plowed into the tainer stacks, wrenching a stack of tainers free from their moorings. A wrenching metallic grind squealed through the ship.
The loosened tainers skidded, flipped and tumbled along the cargo deck, rolling and crashing against other tainers as their energy carried them toward the stern in a smashing display of complex kinetics.
A series of shuddering thuds rumbled through the bridge as the loose tainers smashed into the angled forge deck, creasing gouges into its gravel and concrete shield and continuing their tumble along the shield and away into space.
“Yant put the nuvarig on number three outta commission,” radioed Foster. “We’ll give it a yank and get a bead on number four.”
“It’s at four hundred klicks,” said Prinder. “Not enough time.” Prinder took a deep breath, then whispered to Vendi. “It’s gonna hit square on the forge deck. It won’t hold.”
Vendi’s mind raced through the defensive options. The massive inertia of the Tyree would take minutes, not seconds, to tip or roll. The cargo nets would be too flimsy to slow a tainer coming in so fast.
“Patch me to the barge picker,” ordered Vendi. “Get its camera up and put the forge deck at thirty degrees.”
Prinder tapped out the connection. “You’re on—but there’s no way to catch it at that speed—it’ll rip the picker off.”
Vendi tested the picker’s movement, rotating it left, right, then extending and retracting its arm. “I’m not gonna catch it.”
“You see it?” asked Prinder. “Ten seconds.”
“Got it,” said Vendi. She retracted the picker to its folded position.
“Five,” said Prinder. “Four…three…two…”
Vendi kept her control arm still as she watched the incoming tainer barreling straight for the barge’s picker camera. She pushed the picker claw into a full-speed upswing as she extended the picker’s arm. The picker claw hit the tainer’s lower surface, delivering a silent uppercut punch packing all the force the picker could muster.
The incoming tainer zoomed large on the displays. Vendi held her breath. The tainer passed out of the camera’s view and scraped against the forge deck, creating a spray of gravel and concrete bits that pelted the shutters on the bridge windows. The forge deck’s angle tipped the tainer’s path up and away from the hab decks. Vendi closed her eyes a moment, then let go the breath she held, matching the crew’s collective exhale.
“Pattern’s away,” declared Nevon on the comset. “I’ll join you on the bridge. I sent the nuvarig codes to Prinder.”
Vendi watched Nevon’s pattern of outbound tainers on radar. The later-launched tainers, moving faster, edged closer to the lead tainer, presenting an inescapable array of high-velocity mass targeting Farside.
Vendi spoke into her comset. “Foster, status on number four?”
“Coming on it now,” reported Foster. “We’ll take care of it.”
Vendi scanned the screen and took an intentional deep breath. “Now we—“
“Holy crap!” interrupted Prinder. “Farside’s doing a long burn! They’re going to crash it into the Moon!”
“How much time?” asked Vendi.
Prinder checked the computer’s trajectory projection. “About eighteen hours until it hits,” he replied. “It’s only got station-keeping thrusters—five hours from now, their push won’t be enough to keep it from cratering. There go the lifeboats! One…two…three…four away! They’re hitting trajectories to Earth.”
Nevon entered the bridge. Vendi gave her the status update. “Farside just launched lifeboats. It could all be a fake,” said Vendi, “like on the Metzer.”
“We don’t know what happened on the Metzer,” said Nevon. “Comm would be the last thing they get fixed. It’s the least of their worries. Staffal managed some tech magic, but she’s not the only wizard. Benzil’s gotta know some stuff too, or know how to get it done.”
Vendi kept her eyes on the radar display. “Maybe. Maybe Anjis, Tep, and Tresh weren’t their techs. Teleos will be waiting for us on Farside, and they’ll repeat the Metzer plan—scoot away, let us board, cut the ox, then come back like nothing happened.”
“Do the same thing you did to the Zecujet,” suggested Prinder. “Cut the antenna feeds.”
“A good start,” said Vendi. “But then the teleos go auto.”
“They go auto?” said Resch. “That’s scary.”
“I haven’t seen it,” replied Vendi, “but the ops talked about it, and it makes all the reflective markings on our stuff make sense. They’re not for safety—SSG never gave a shit about safety. They’re for teleo targeting. SSG may feed the ops crap info like everyone else, but I think we’d prefer the tele-op to the auto version.
Vendi studied the displays and said to Nevon, “We’ll keep Foster, Yant and Galen on patrol as long as we can. I’ll task Doxel and Zef with iron dust, bromage, bromage bags, the carbonado sprayvacs, oxytorches and paint. We also need Staffal, Polo, and Retner, a drone, and a lot of resin six. Can you, Hesh and Kavi get twenty tainers lashed end-to-end in the driver?”
“Twenty tainers? Sure,” replied Nevon. “That much mass will be a slow launch off the driver. Anything in them?”
“Are there any massy ones left from what you shot at Farside?”
“Oh, yeah. Plenty.”
“Use those first, then whatever you can grab fast. More than twenty is better if there’s time. Ozlo!”
“Aye-aye, Captain!”
“Prinder,” said Vendi, “any sign of the lifeboats backtracking?”
“None,” said Prinder. “Standard free-return paths to Earth.”
“What do you call the place that, once you’re past it, you can’t turn back?”
“The point of no return?”
“Yeah, yeah,” said Vendi. “Wait until the tainers are almost at the point of no return for hitting Farside, then cut into the nuvarigs and divert the tainers away—into an L2 orbit if you can. We will want that ore someday.”
***
Grasha looked up from her controls and display. Scratchy stood still instead of continuing the usual patrol along the line of consoles.
“Scratchy?” prompted Grasha.
The teleo didn’t respond.
Grasha stood and walked by Scratchy, giving the teleo an accidental shoulder bump. Scratchy tilted and fell to the floor of the cut-cave.
“She’s doing it!” shouted Grasha to the other controllers, “She got Farside!”
Grasha ran in big leaps to the garbage truck and climbed into the cab.
“SkyCon, truck eighteen for a garbage run.”
No response.
“SkyCon, truck eighteen for a garbage run,” repeated Grasha.
The radio remained silent.
Grasha grinned and traced the exposed wiring on the truck to the control block. After a few minutes of work with a screwdriver, the truck’s lights came on and its motor whirred up to speed. Grasha climbed into the cab.
