Starship Tomahawk (The Hive Invasion Book 2) (21 page)

And then land, and refuse to launch again until the ship could be completely overhauled.

O'Hare looked up from where he sat in the captain's chair, silent and unhappy. She ignored him, moving to the back of the bridge. She kept her face still, but in her mind she ran through a catalog of system failures, planning a response to each one.

The helmsman said, "We're lined up, Ma'am."

Samson lifted his phone handset, tapped the bank of phone switches on the console, and flipped a few switches back and forth. He listened to the handset, then looked at Kaur. "My phone's dead, Ma'am."

Hopkins reached for his own phone, mumbled, "Test," then said, "My phone's still working."

Carver said, "Mine's good too."

Kaur strolled over to the starboard window, then turned her back to the window and looked at the bridge crew. It allowed her to clench her fists behind her back without anyone seeing. She said blandly, "I guess we'll need an overhaul when we get back."

Carver had replaced his handset. A buzz came from his console and he grabbed the phone again. After a brief conversation he said, "The generator is ready."

Finally. We need to get home before something else fails.
"Open the wormhole."

"It's open."

"Take us through."

The helmsman reached for a lever and the ship surged forward. Kaur realized she was holding her breath, and made herself exhale.
If the wormhole closes with the ship half way through, holding your breath won't help.
"What's our status?"

Samson reached for his phone handset from force of habit, then lowered his arm, frowning. Carver spoke into his own handset, then flipped a switch and spoke again. At last he said, "Looks like we're about a hundred thousand kilometers from the planet."

"Good. Bring us-"

A sound like a thunderclap interrupted her. Kaur felt herself jump, and saw the bridge crew look at one another, eyes wide. O'Hare said, "What was that?"

Kaur strode to the bridge entrance. She smelled smoke as she drew close, a faint whiff of burning plastic. She hurried into the corridor. The smell grew worse with every step, and she coughed, then closed the faceplate on her helmet. Her eyes burned, and she blinked, feeling tears on her cheeks.

When she rounded the corner she saw a haze of blue-white smoke hanging below the ceiling. A sailor appeared at the far end of the corridor, a fire suppression kit slung across his back. She said, "This way," and led him to the tattered ceiling panel where the alien had breached the hull.

He ripped the panel down, and a wave of pale smoke came rolling out. He lifted a hand scanner and played it across the ceiling. "It's cold here, Ma'am," he said, his voice tinny in the helmet speakers. He played the scanner over one wall, then the other. "Here we are." He indicated a wall panel. "Can you help me open this?"

Together they unfastened the panel. If it was hot, she couldn't feel the heat through her gloves. More smoke came roiling out as soon as the panel was out of the way, and the sailor dropped his fire suppression kit on the deck. He fumbled inside for a moment, then brought up a canister and directed a stream of foam into the exposed cavity.

The smoke didn't seem to be clearing. There were no eddies in the haze, so the fans weren't blowing, drawing smoke into the filters. Another problem caused by burrowing robots, or an unforeseen consequence of the EMP weapon?

The sailor made a discreet gesture, indicating something behind Kaur, and she turned. O'Hare stood in the corridor behind her, doubled over, coughing. The sound didn't penetrate Kaur's helmet. She considered helping the man, then decided she couldn't be bothered. "Do you know how to turn on the filter fans by hand?"

"I think so," he said. "I'll have to open up more panels and expose each fan, one by one."

"Get started," she said. "The fire seems to be out."

Echoing coughs filled her helmet, broadcast from the helmet speakers. O'Hare had finally closed his faceplate, which activated his suit radio. He spent another minute coughing, then straightened, panting audibly. She tried to walk past him, heading for the bridge, and he stuck out a hand, stopping her. She waited, arms folded, as he wheezed and made reflexive attempts to wipe his streaming eyes through the faceplate of his helmet.

"What happened?" he rasped at last.

"You remember that alien object that burrowed through the hull? The one I was worried about? The one you told me to forget about because you wanted to get to Deirdre? Well, it seems to have left behind some surprises."

"What … what will we do?"

"Float here helplessly while we evaluate the damage," she snapped. "If we're lucky, we'll be able to land and pull apart the ceiling and a couple of bulkheads, like we should have done before we launched." Her lip curled. "It'll be a much bigger job now."

O'Hare stared at her, seemed to search for words, then coughed instead. Kaur stepped around him and returned to the bridge.

Every person on the bridge had their faceplate down. Samson stood on his console, his head inside an open hatch in the ceiling. He lowered himself into a crouch, and the haze of smoke around his shoulders began to stir. He closed the hatch and lowered himself to the deck as smoke swirled and vanished into a vent above him.

"No fresh problems," Carver reported. "The rest of the phones are still working."

"Let's get groundside," Kaur said. "There's no way to tell what's going to malfunction next."

The helmsman said, "Oh, for …." Kaur looked at him, and he flushed. "Nav thrusters aren't responding."

Carver crossed to his side and looked over his shoulder as he tried several controls. The ship trembled, then stilled. The helmsman said, "We've got port-side thrusters only. We can only go in one direction."

Kaur sighed. "Fine. Get on the radio to Hammett. Tell him to come pick us up." She scrubbed a hand through her hair. "Don't mention the rock. Not over unsecured radio."

Hopkins grabbed the handset connected to the radio. He conducted a low-voiced conversation, then turned to Kaur. "Hammett says he's got half his hull plates scattered around the landing field. The colonists have a ship, though. He's asked them to come get us."

There goes the last bit of dignity that might have clung to our return.
"Ask them to hurry. Tell Hammett we have urgent news. Then call Schwartz and tell him to get started on repairs. Just enough to get the ship on the ground." She thought of the giant rock, hurtling toward Ariadne, speed and rate of acceleration impossible to calculate. "We're racing the clock. We've got a deadline, and we don't know what it is. We need to get this ship on the ground so we can repair it properly and get back out there." She pictured the rock slamming into the planet and shivered. "There's rather a lot at stake."

"Three days," said Benson. "Mr. Geibelhaus says that's the best he can do." Geibelhaus himself wasn't at the meeting. He was busy putting the hull of the
Tomahawk
back together.

"Schwartz says he can't be sure," said Kaur, "but he says we should be able to land the
Achilles
in about eighteen hours. After that, I would think we'd be able to tear everything apart, check for hidden damage or hidden alien parts, and get it all reassembled within a day to a day and a half." She spread her hands. "It's impossible to be more specific." She was the only representative from the
Achilles
. Every crewman with a ranking of Technician One or higher was in orbit, working on repairs.

Five more people sat around the polished boardroom table in the meeting room in the terminal building. O'Hare, who had recovered much of his bluster, sat with crossed arms, glowering at each person as they spoke. He had the air of someone longing to voice an objection, frustrated because no one would say anything outrageous.

Swanson sat beside him, looking nervous and unhappy. Hammett found himself almost liking the man. The major might have been a decent person, or at least harmless, if the EDF movement hadn't sprung up and drawn him into its unwholesome ranks. Swanson hadn't spoken yet in the meeting, and didn't seem likely to start.

Christine Goldfarb and a man named Ron represented the colonists. They were supposedly there to learn what the Navy force needed and to offer whatever help they could. So far, neither of them had spoken beyond making simple introductions.

"I don't recommend launching the
Achilles
before the
Tomahawk
is ready," Hammett said. "This fight will be tough enough with both ships covering each other. One ship alone won't stand a chance."

"It's only a few hours difference," O'Hare said grudgingly. "I suppose we can wait." His eyebrows drew together. "I want all Naval personnel ready to abandon the planet if we can't stop this rock. We should take any useful munitions or supplies with us. There's no point in leaving it here."

He spoke not a word about the colonists who would die when the rock struck. He didn't even glance at Ron and Christine, and Hammett felt a familiar lump of anger burn in the pit of his stomach. "Yes, Colonel."

O'Hare tilted his head, checking the time. "I want a status report first thing in the morning. I expect repairs to continue on schedule. I won't tolerate any delays."

Hammett didn't speak, just stared straight ahead. In his peripheral vision he watched O'Hare lean forward, plant both hands on the tabletop, and heave himself to his feet. "If no one had anything more to add, this meeting is adjourned." When no one spoke he headed for the door.

The others stood, drifting toward the door of the meeting room. O'Hare strutted out. Swanson looked at the others, clearly embarrassed. Then he shrugged and followed O'Hare.

Christine paused in the doorway. She glanced at Hammett and raised an eyebrow, then peered into the corridor. A moment later she closed the door and returned to her chair. Hammett sat as well, hiding a grin. He hadn't had to explain a thing to the young scientist. She had read the situation perfectly.

Ron and Christine exchanged glances. She nodded, and he spoke. "I don't think they know a thing about the
Theseus.
I should bring the rest of you up to speed, though." He waited as the others took seats. "I hesitate to trust you," he said. "It seems like a horrible thing to say, I know. But I'm quite sure I can't trust the EDF."

Hammett didn't speak, just nodded his understanding.

"Your people liberated Ariadne," Ron said. "Some of your people have died defending my world, and I'm not about to forget that."

"Just the same," Hammett said, "though it pains me to say it, your distrust is entirely warranted."

Ron nodded. "Still, I have to take a leap of faith." He glanced at Christine. "We aren't military people. Oh, we've learned a lot since the Hive came. But when we fought alongside Lieutenant Nicholson and the others, we realized how much we don't know. Quite simply, we need your help. But it won't be a one-sided relationship. We have something to offer as well."

Hammett looked at him, waiting.

"There's a reason we brought you down in shuttles," he said, looking at Kaur. "We didn't want to reveal the
Theseus
. We've given her an overhaul."

They've probably mounted a couple of industrial lasers on a freighter
, Hammett thought.
I'll have to find a diplomatic way to tell them it's hopeless.
He gave Ron a polite smile, opened his mouth, and hesitated. This was not a pair of foolish civilians playing at being soldiers. This was the man who led the resistance on Ariadne and the woman who saved the
Tomahawk
with a reconfigured alien weapon. He said, "What have you done, exactly?"

Ron nodded to Christine. She gave Hammett a self-deprecating shrug. "I'm sure it's not up to military standards, but we've done the best we could. Maybe it's simplest if I show you." She gestured. "The ship's next door."

They peeked into the hallway before they left the meeting room. No one wanted O'Hare inviting himself along. The shortest route was to the left, through the arrivals lounge, but that would take them past the EDF offices. They turned right instead, pushed open an emergency door, and ducked under a low spot on the polymer sheet covering the roof.

Christine led them around the terminal. "We don't have any lasers," she said. "I have some ideas for adapting that alien tower. I've almost figured out how to duplicate what they did. I'm pretty sure I can make the gun a lot smaller." She looked over her shoulder and flashed a smile at the Navy personnel. "They have all this redundancy in their technology. It's inefficient. My version will be just as powerful, but well under half the size. It'll be able to shoot faster, too."

She unlocked a small door in the hangar wall. "I just haven't had time to work on it. I've been too busy with the
Theseus
. Here it is."

Hammett stepped through the doorway, then moved to one side as the others followed. The big hangar doors were closed now, a sad concession to the distrust the colonists felt for the people who should have been their allies. A dozen men and women swarmed around and on the freighter, some of them glancing over at the newcomers, most of them concentrating on their work.

The ship was ugly. That was Hammett's first impression. It was blocky and unlovely, with turrets jutting like warts and strange patches of metal spikes that looked almost like fur. He guessed the ship had twice the volume of the
Tomahawk
, but she probably had less mass. The inside would be mostly empty space for storing cargo.

"These dissipate heat," Christine said, walking over to the ship and stretching a hand up to point at a cluster of impossibly thin spines. "I call it Fourier metal. It covers nearly the entire ship, and it distributes heat evenly across the hull. The spines allow the heat to dissipate." She moved toward a ramp. "Let me show you what's inside."

They entered the ship's cargo hold. There didn't seem to be much room for cargo. The space was almost entirely filled by thick metal tubes that ran the full length of the ship, front to back. Each tube was thick enough that a man could have crawled inside.

"These are the main rail gun batteries," Christine said. "Nine tubes in a three-by-three grid pointing forward, and nine more pointing aft. We can't aim them. They fire where the ship is pointed. We have some smaller guns mounted on turrets. Those can be aimed. These are our heavy hitters, though." She walked over to stand under the nearest tube. It was almost low enough for her to reach up and touch it. "By putting all the tubes together, we can use the same set of electromagnets to fire forward or back." She smiled. "We can't fire forward and backward at the same time, of course."

"Of course," Hammett echoed, feeling dazed. "Why are the tubes so big?"

She frowned, puzzled. "Well, more mass means more impact, right?"

He looked up at the enormous tubes running above her head and felt his perspective shift. "You mean … your rounds are …" He held his arms out in front of him, indicating a circle as big as one of the tubes. "This big?"

Christine nodded. "You can see for yourself. Here's some of the ammunition." She led the way aft to a bin full of colossal cylinders. The bin itself was easily three times Hammett's height, made of thick wire mesh that gave a clear view of the objects within.

Each rail gun round was the size of a keg, a keg big enough to hold a grown man. He thought of the fist-sized rounds the Tomahawk fired and whistled.

The massive projectiles weren't made of metal, he saw. Each round was cut from stone, with a steel cap on each end and half a dozen steel bands linking the caps.

"We don't have enough steel to make solid rounds," Christine said. "That's why the gun barrels have to be so long. We need every bit of distance to get a good muzzle velocity."

For a long time Hammett didn't speak. He just stared at the bin of gigantic ammunition, thinking about the ramifications. The Navy would never adopt guns like these. They were hopelessly inefficient. There was barely enough steel to let the magnets function. The waste of space was phenomenal.

When your starting point was a freighter with a big empty cargo hold, though, it made perfect sense.

"You may have inadvertently solved a problem we've been having," said Benson. "The aliens have some kind of deflector. Probably magnetic." He grinned. "I can't wait to see them try to deflect a round that weighs a thousand kilos and is ninety percent stone."

"There's more," said Christine, looking pleased. "Follow me."

She led them aft to a staircase that climbed in zig-zags to the top hull. They walked along a catwalk, looking down on rail gun tubes and other hardware, catching only infrequent glimpses of the deck plates far below.

"We put a fusion plant in the nose to supplement ship's power," Christine said. "The rail guns need a lot of juice. There are battery backups for the turrets. They should be good for a thousand rounds or so. Haven't tested them yet. No backups for the big guns, though." She reached the end of the catwalk, pausing in a hatchway. "This is the bridge."

Hammett climbed a short ladder and stepped onto the bridge. His first sense was of alarming exposure, though to be fair it was not much worse than the bridge of the
Tomahawk
. The bridge of the
Theseus
jutted above the hull like a steel and steelglass blister, with windows on every side. The bridge was fairly far aft, and he could see the hull of the freighter stretching away before him.

It bristled with weapons.

The rail gun turrets were clearly new, compact bumps sticking up from the hull, each with a set of four rail gun barrels poking out. These barrels were much smaller than the behemoths set into the cargo hold, probably smaller even than the guns on the
Tomahawk
. He grinned to himself at the thought. Naval guns had never seemed puny to him before.

"Wow," said Benson. "What caliber is that one?"

Hammett turned. Benson was staring through the aft windows, and Hammett crossed to join him. A turret sprouted from the hull just behind the bridge, with a single barrel as big as Hammett's leg.

"Fifteen millimeter," Christine said. "We've been experimenting with different sizes. The Hive keeps adapting. We wanted lots of different things to throw at them."

Hammett said, "How many rail guns do you have, exactly?"

Her forehead scrunched. "I'm not sure, to tell you the truth. We've got eleven turrets, but some have one barrel, some have two, and some have four. And then there's the big guns. Six forward and six aft, like I said."

Hammett whistled. "I'm not sure the
Tomahawk
could even carry ammunition for that many guns. Not for a fight that lasted more than about a minute, anyway."

"The fabricators have been running day and night," she said. "We have about twelve thousand rounds on board. We're not actually sure how many we can carry. There's still cargo space available. Finding a way to store it so everything's available in an emergency – that's the real challenge." She pointed at Ron. "He's been handling the logistical stuff."

Ron shook his head. "Ammunition's been a nightmare. We finally stopped manufacturing the big rounds. We built magazines that can feed the guns directly. Once the magazines are empty, though, that's it. The gun is done." He spread his hands. "The ammunition is just too bloody heavy to move. We can't reload manually fast enough to do any good."

Hammett blinked. "You reload manually?"

"Yep." Ron grinned. "Welcome to the frontier, where even the most sophisticated tool has some kind of human labor bottleneck." He chuckled. "No, we've been stretched to the limit just putting together guns that will actually fire. Machinery to load the ammo automatically?" He waved a dismissive hand. "Forget it. It's not happening, unless you can talk the Hive into giving us a few more months to get ready."

"Manual loading," said Hammett. "You'll need a sizeable crew, then."