Starfishers Volume 3: Stars End (15 page)

“That ship two ahead of this one. What built it? A giant slug?”

“We don’t know. It’s funny. There’s something almost repulsive about it. You have to work yourself up to it if it’s your turn to study it. It’s like the alienness oozes out of the metal. It’s more of a mystery than the other ships. It’s almost contemporary, if our dating technique is valid. It shows battle damage. It’s the only one of its kind we’ve ever located. It was as clean as these others. One of my colleagues believes the crew were forced to abandon ship after an accidental encounter during some crisis period, like the Ulantonid War, when everyone was shooting at anybody who didn’t yell friend fast enough. Curiously, though, it was surrounded by a whole squadron of our little friends here.”

“Enemies?”

Consuela shrugged. “Or purely chance. The ships aren’t contemporary with one another. What were they doing together? There aren’t enough books to write down all the questions, Mister benRabi. It gets frustrating sometimes.”

“I can imagine. Could the crew have been studying the old ships when they were attacked by a third party?”

“That’s a possibility we hadn’t considered. I’ll bring it up . . . ”

“Consuela?” someone shouted into the vessel. “Is that you in there?”

“Yes, Robert. What is it?”

“Somebody’s looking for those people who came to see you. A man named Kindervoort. He sounded pretty excited.”

“Oh-oh,” Amy said. “I’m in trouble now. I thought he wouldn’t notice. Consuela, I’d better call him.”

She placed the call from Consuela’s office. Jarl foamed at the mouth and ordered them to return to
Danion.
Now. He snarled at benRabi, “Moyshe, I don’t care if you cut those nitwit citizenship classes. They’re a waste of time anyway. But you’re not ducking out on the training schedule. Now come back here and get your men ready. You’ve got the rest of your life to look at old ships. The auction is now.”

Amy was quiet throughout the return passage. Once she whispered, “He’s really going to give it to me,” and clutched Moyshe’s hand. She was shaking.

“He’s an amateur,” benRabi told her. “You haven’t been chewed out till you’ve taken it from Admiral Beckhart.” A moment later he grinned and added, “But if it’s private, he lets you yell back.”

Soon after they returned they heard that another of the great harvestfleets was entering the nebula. The news generated a fresh air of excitement aboard
Danion.

One by one, the harvestfleets came in. Scores of fresh, eager young faces appeared aboard
Danion
as graduates of Seiner technical schools filled the billets of people lost at Stars’ End. The howl and hammer of repairs went on around the clock. The excitement and tension continued to mount.

They were going back. This time in full strength, and to stay. A prideful, nationalistic, bellicose mood gripped the fleets.

Moyshe benRabi and Masato Storm pursued their instruction of the teams they would direct on The Broken Wings. Their days were long and exhausting. Moyshe often tumbled into bed without enough energy left for a good-night kiss.

He began to feel the pressure. It started to intrude into his sleeping hours. He began to dream of the girl he had left behind, so long ago. He suffered more momentary lapses of attention while he was awake.

He began to grow frightened of what might be going on back in the nether reaches of his mind.

Eleven: Christmas 3049 AD
The Contemporary Scene

Tension gripped the bridge of the attack cruiser
Lepanto.
“One minute to drop,” the astrogation officer announced.

Jupp von Drachau scanned his people. They were poised like runners in the blocks, awaiting the crack of the starter’s pistol. They would have to grab an enormous fund of data in a few brief minutes.

Lepanto
was coming up to an enemy star. There was no way of guessing what might be waiting. Detection gear would not work from hyper unless initial detection had been made in norm. The cruiser was going in blind.

No one knew the capabilities of the Sangaree detection systems. Operating from norm, they would not have the same handicap. A force might be moving toward the drop zone now.

“Thirty seconds.”

“Stand by, Weapons,” von Drachau ordered. “Button up, people.” He sealed the faceplate of his own helmet.

One quick drop to get his bearings, then a short arc in to the fringes of the Sangaree sun . . . 

“Five seconds. Four. Three.”

The figures on the bridge hunched forward a centimeter more.

“One. Drop.”

“Screens up.”

“Commander, heavy vessels bearing . . . ”

“Display active.”

“Three ships bearing . . . ”

“Range to star one point three two a.u . . . ”

“We have a local inherent velocity of . . . ”

“Attack missiles bearing . . . ”

“Bridge. Weapons. Launching two salvos.”

The vessel shuddered and rocked. Von Drachau stared at the display tank. Six red blips had come to life there. They sped along projected curves which would bring them within spitting distance of
Lepanto.
Tiny ruby pinpoints raced ahead, toward the cruiser.

“ . . . time to intercept forty-seven seconds . . . ”

The hyper alarm commenced its hooted warning to the crew. “Time to hyper one minute,” a voice boomed.

Someone said, “Commander, we’ve located the planet.”

“Bring me up a visual.”

“Aye, sir.”

Von Drachau’s command screen came to life. For an instant it displayed a computer graphic of the local solar system. The schematic yielded to a visual from an external camera. It showed a white third-crescent. The amplification rose quickly, revealing a world heavy with clouds and seas. “Looks a lot like Old Earth,” von Drachau murmured.

“Yes sir.”

“Are you taping?”

“We’re getting everything we can, sir.”

“Twenty seconds to hyper.”

Von Drachau glanced at the display tank. The missile salvos were driving closer. Weapons Department was not bothering with anything but defensive fire. Considering the nature of the mission, engaging a handful of raidships was pointless. “Anything near that sun?” he asked.

“No sir. We have a lot of activity near and on the planet.”

That made sense. The Sangaree would be scrambling everything in fear that
Lepanto
might be the spearhead of a thrust against their Homeworld. That was the doom they had dreaded for centuries.

“Hyper in five seconds. Four.”

Von Drachau did not think these picket ships would jump with him. They should await the rest of a suspected battle fleet.

“One. Taking.”

The universe shifted. Screens went blank. The display tank, cued in norm, remained active. Von Drachau stared, willing the Sangaree raidships to remain where they were.

“One minute to drop.” Astrogation had programed a very short, slow arc.

Von Drachau reached back into his soul, searching for any wisp of feeling that might bear on the orders he had to give. He did not want to do this thing. Every cell of him protested. And yet . . . And yet he knew too much. He knew the critical importance of obtaining results. And he had his own orders.

“Special Weapons Party, stand by.”

His orders would be a formality. The pre-launch program had begun an hour ago. The only significant command he could give now would be the abort.

He checked the tank again.

“Damn!” They were coming. Their detection gear was good. They knew no one else was coming in right away. “Looks like we knocked over a beehive,” he said. The six raidships from the drop zone were being joined by a horde quartering in from the planet.

“Twenty seconds till drop.”

It would be a narrow squeak, making the launch and getting clear in time. And some of them would chase him all the way home . . . “Astrogation, program your next jump for Carson’s.” He did not want to lead the pursuit too close to the action on The Broken Wings.

“Sir?”

“Pull the cassette and reprogram.” An attack squadron would be on station near Carson’s. He could scoot in and cling to its protective skirts.

“Yes sir.”

“Drop.”

“Special Weapons Party, launch when ready.”

There. It was too late to take it back. Too late to keep from having to live with it the rest of his life.

“Special Weapons launch in three minutes, twelve seconds,” launch party captain replied.

“What’s the holdup? We’ve got Sangaree crawling up our backs.”

“Sorry, sir. A coupling jammed.”

“Long range hunter missiles bearing . . . ”

“Visuals, please,” von Drachau said. His screen came to life. “Show me the star.”

In a second he was staring at an endless plain of fire. Broad continental reaches of darkness lay upon it. The star appeared to be passing through a period of heavy sunspotting. But, as he remembered it, the Sangaree home star was supposed to be highly active, with exceptionally intense solar winds.

“Two minutes to special launch.”

Von Drachau checked the display tank. The Sangaree were coming on in a mob. They were not organized, but there were too many of them.
Lepanto
wouldn’t have a prayer in a heads-up fight.

“Astrogation, how’s your program coming?”

“Five minutes, sir.”

“We don’t have five minutes. Make it a basal arc that’ll drop us in the neighborhood. Do your fine calculation during the fly.”

“Yes sir.”

“ . . . to intercept fifty-two seconds.”

Von Drachau glared at the tank. They would have missiles in their pockets by launch time. Power weapons would be pounding
Lepanto’s
energy screens. “Damn!”

It looked bad.

“Time to launch one minute.”

The bridge watch took on that hunchbacked look of people anticipating the kiss of the whip. Sixty lousy seconds. That could make a damned short life. Mayflies lasted longer.

“ . . . to intercept fourteen seconds.”

That was close. And the next salvo would be closer.

“Astrogation. One millisecond free hyper straight linear,” von Drachau snapped.

“Sir?”

“Do it!”

The alarm hooted as the ship lurched.

The Ship’s Commander’s screen returned to life. The Sangaree sun had moved. He could see a horizon line. It had no curvature.

Weapons Department howled. They had to reprogram.

“So do those boys over there. Special Weapons. Time to launch.”

“Thirty-two seconds, sir.”

“Missiles bearing two five-niner relative, one two degrees nadir. Time to intercept two six seconds.”

Von Drachau sighed. That was right on the line. “Gentlemen, we’re going to make it.”

The bridge watch did not relax. They knew his remark was half prayer. The tank proclaimed that in its totally unambiguous display. A saturation barrage was hurtling toward them.

And it was a long, long run back to friendly space.

“Ten seconds to launch.”

And there was the problem of the weapon safely reaching target. If the Sangaree sniped it,
Lepanto
would have to try again. A second pass could get hairy.

Lepanto
shuddered and lurched. Someone yelled, “That was too goddamned close!”

“Two. One. Launch. Weapon away.”

The warship lurched again. “One tenth second free hyper straight linear!” von Drachau ordered. “Detection, lock on that weapon. I want to know if it makes it.”

The cruiser dodged. Von Drachau shifted attention between display tank and screen, following the weapon into the sun.

Sangaree missiles had no chance to catch it. Scores of laser and graser weapons probed for it, caressed it with their deadly tongues.

“Telemetry. How are its screens holding?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

Lepanto
rocked. Time was running out.

“She’s in, sir. They can’t stop her now. Her sun screens are stable.”

“Astrogation, get us out of here.”

“You still want an observation pass, sir?” R & D had asked them to hang around and study the results.

“The hell with that noise! Get out of here before they barbecue us.”

The hyper alarm hooted. The ship twisted away into an alternate dimension. Von Drachau turned to the display tank.

“Some of them are good,” he murmured. “Very good.”

Four vessels had caught the trail already, and were coming hard.

“Drive. Run your influence factor to the red line.”

“Sir!”

“You heard me. You’ll take it over if you have to. Stand by for it.”

“Yes sir.”

Von Drachau glanced at the sun shape dwindling in the display tank. The weapon would be sinking toward its heart. The killing process would begin in a few hours. He turned into himself again, looking for his feelings. All he found was a big vacancy, an arid desert of the soul.

He did not think much of Jupp von Drachau just then.

Book Two
THE BROKEN WINGS

Twelve: 3050 AD
The Contemporary Scene

Lemuel Beckhart felt totally vulnerable while walking the streets of Angel City. The berg was domed, of course, but the glassteel arced too far overhead. He had been born in Luna Command and had spent most of his life there and in warships. He needed overheads, decks, and bulkheads close at hand before he felt comfortable.

Worlds with open skies were pure hell for him.

He shoved his hands into the pockets of the civilian trousers he wore. It was coming together. The timing looked good. The leaks had the commentators howling for blood.

Funny how they became raving patriots when it looked like their asses were going to go in the can too . . . Those people in Public Information knew their trade. They were keeping a fine balance. They were generating alarm without causing panic. They were stampeding legislative sessions hither and yon, herding them like unsuspecting cattle, getting everything Luna Command wanted. Confederation Senate was passing appropriations measures like the gold seam had no end.