The Devil and Deep Space (43 page)

The thula leaped away from the underbelly of the
Ragnarok
, its transit showing on the forward screens as a sudden shift in orders of magnitude as it made for the artillery net. A good thing he was webbed in after all, Andrej told himself. There was no motion to be sensed on board the ship, no; but the rate of change on the forward display was enough to make him dizzy.

Five eighths to come to speed, six eighths after that to enter the artillery net’s kill—zone. It would take
Ragnarok
nearly six times as long to follow, what with size and rates of acceleration taken into account. That meant nearly four eights, once all the eighths were totaled, for the
Ragnarok
to transit the fields of fire, unless they cleared a hole in the net.

Four eights . . . the sixteenth part of a shift, the sixty—fourth part of a day. Too long, any way one looked at it. Even with the thula’s advantage of speed it seemed too long to Andrej, because there were detail screens up along the perimeter of the ship’s main forwards, and he could see the battery guns start to turn — taking aim at them.

Wasn’t it about time they shot at something?

A tone on Taller’s board from the chief weaponer, sounding clearly in the quiet of the wheelhouse. Taller turned in his seat and looked back over his shoulder, nodding in response to Andrej’s questioning look. Oh. Good. Time for his contribution, then.

Clearing his throat, Andrej toggled his braid to transmit. He’d rehearsed this, because it was critical that he got it right, and they would have only this one chance. The thula was gaining on an artillery platform at an astounding rate: but there were so many of them out there, and all turning slowly but surely to target the Ragnarok as she came —

“This is Andrej Ulexeievitch. Koscuisko.” He was thinking in Aznir, under pressure. There was no particular reason for Fleet to know who Andrej Ulexeievitch was, let alone why he might bear listening to.

“I am in receipt of direct orders from my superior commanding officer to clear the transit lane for my parent ship. I have therefore issued orders in turn that the artillery platforms capable of impacting the transit lane be removed from operation. If there are any crew on any platforms — ”

One of the side–screens went white as phosphorus; they had been fired upon, though not hit. It was nothing personal. The artillery platforms that comprised the mine field would have been given pre–coded instructions to fire automatically on whomever came within range without prior clearances. Andrej finished his assigned speech as smoothly as he could, surprised at his emotional reaction — anger. They were shooting at him. Were they, indeed?

“ — within the defined transit lane you are cautioned to identify and evacuate. Firing will commence in three eighths. You have three eighths to identify and initiate evacuation. Koscuisko away, the thula.”

The Malcontent’s ship moved more quickly than the artillery batteries could efficiently track; the arti–plats were designed to stop larger ships — and few ships as small as a Kospodar thula carried sufficient firepower to seriously endanger one of them. Would Fleet be expecting a threat from the thula? Taisheki Station surely knew from Admiral Brecinn that the
Ragnarok
had acquired a main battle cannon from Silboomie Station.

“Coming up on t–minus one, mark. Shani, Alpert. Go.”

The intership braid had cleared to all–ship access, now; Andrej could hear the weaponers exchange information. They needed to hear what was happening: because Taller and Lek were responsible for getting the thula to precisely where the weaponers needed it to be, and they could, only spare the three weaponers to watch for rounds directed at the ship itself.

There was a flare, off to the side of the main screen. A voice Andrej didn’t think he recognized. “Successful intercept, Chief. Confirm.”

They were still within target overlap, the kill–zone. Surely almost clear by now, past the barrier that the overlapping fields of fire represented, through to the other side of the mine field, where only the closest arti–plat would threaten the thula — because the ranges between them had been calculated carefully, each platform just less than twice the linear range of anyone of them. Unfortunately the thula had to close, to kill. “Successful intercept, Alport, confirmed. Stildyne, mark on target.”

One eighth left to the first platform, then. The first of sixteen. They had to take out sixteen of them to clear a space through the mine field that was big enough for a ship the size of the
Ragnarok
to traverse, and still be sufficiently removed from the remaining platforms that any residual rounds could be absorbed by the plasma sheath without damage to the hull.

“Mark on target, Chief, confirmed.” Stildyne’s voice, yes. It was a little odd, to Andrej, to hear Stildyne addressed without rank, and hear him return his own rank in address to the speaker. The chief weaponer for this mission was a junior weapons systems analyst from Engineering; but on a mission flight like this, ability took absolute precedence. Avenham was the best chief weaponer on board of the
Ragnarok
.

It was the same in his own area, Andrej reminded himself — he might have rank, and he unquestionably had the best qualifications for some surgeries, but that did not mean that he had any business controverting with Infectious Disease or Psychiatric. Quite the contrary.

Suddenly the braid from their parent plaited in again, an urgent message for Taller and Lek alike. “Thula, this is
Ragnarok
. We have an evacuation party on target six. Can you adjust?”

Target six. They had a preprogrammed kill–sequence laid in, and a set of alternates ready to load; all designed to prevent the intelligence that controlled the arti–plats from predicting where the ship would strike next, and moving to target them accordingly. Andrej had no idea where “target six” actually came in their list of targets. Lek took a moment to find out; but when he answered, it was a relief.

“Convert to sequence nine. Weaponer Avenham. Re–sequence after target four, advise preferred response.”

Advise him of what Avenham’s preferred response was to be, Lek meant — whether he was going to want a different approach. These people understood the language they were speaking. It was only confusing to him because he had no place within the tight group dynamic of this crew, and couldn’t share the most part of their communications.

“Lek, switch your flyby on proximate hit when we get to it. Shani, your kill, confirm. Preparing to discharge round.”

The artillery platform grew gray and ominous on the forward screens. They were going to run dead into it at any moment — but the ship spun to one side, rather than colliding, and at the nearest possible approach, just before the thula broke its head–on course Andrej felt — rather than saw — the huge flare from the thula’s forward gun, as Avenham fired.

Blooming like an astraffler in the side–panel screen the artillery platform blew up, sending bits of stalloy and debris in all directions.

“Piece of work, this cannon.” Avenham’s voice was appropriately respectful. “Next up on four, Lek? Stildyne. Pin it in the second laterals.”

Now that they were through, now that they could run behind the mine field, it would be one round after another till the gap was cleared. Great
Ragnarok
labored to gain speed behind them, and they had less than the eighth part of a shift to clear the field before their ship would enter the kill–zone. The thula threw herself upon her target as if shot from a howitzer–piece; and Stildyne — on ship’s–left laterals — hit the sequence perfectly. That was two, then.

Lek ran the ship at extreme tolerance, the consumption monitors cycling at an alarming rate. Silent and tense, Andrej watched the remote sensors, fixed as they were on
Ragnarok
well behind them —
Ragnarok
, standing for the vector, and the eager convoy of heavy Security from Taisheki Station straining after her.

Three and four; five, and the arti–plat had the thula targeted a shade too narrowly for comfort, so that the energy wash blinded the screens for a long instant before the ship’s auto–recovers picked up feed again.

Six and seven; eight, nine, and Lek played the thula’s navigation like a man in a dream, his every gesture slow and deliberate — only at so fast a pace that he didn’t seem to stop moving for an instant. He was working hard, and Taller beside him struggled to keep pace. Lek knew what he was doing; he didn’t hesitate. And still the odds against which Lek had to fight to do his work were staggering, Safe or no Safe.

Ten platforms down. Only six to go. There was a voice in the forward cabinet, and it was neither Avenham’s voice nor Lek’s voice, Stildyne’s, Lorbe’s, anybody’s. Andrej was confused, so focused on the target grid above the primary display that it took him a moment to realize who was talking.

“Thula. Evacuation party is reporting to host, damage to craft — translation injury. They’re losing heat.”

First Officer, that’s who it was. The eleventh platform came up on the forward scan; Lek circled around it so that Alport could fire from the backside of his arc even as he was changing vectors for the next target. Was anybody paying attention to First Officer?

Or was Mendez talking to him? Plaiting into braid, Andrej reached for more information. “The evacuation party’s craft suffering damage, First Officer. Losing heat. How bad is it?”

“The harriers are still four eighths behind us, Andrej, and we’re not going to be able to afford to slow for tractor. If you can pull them on board. If not, well.”

But they were running short of time, and Andrej didn’t know for certain whether Mendez’s braid had even fed into any plait but his. He was the last person on board of the thula who could hope to judge whether they were going to be able to pick up a damaged evacuation craft or not. “Thank you, First Officer. Thula away.”

Twelve. It was a temptation to call the run off, and go for the evacuation party, and let the
Ragnarok
hazard the remaining guns. But it was unthinkable to try to stop now, unthinkable to hazard seven hundred lives to try for eight. No.

The evacuation craft had been damaged by debris; they had not fired on the evacuation craft — they were not responsible. The cold was not so bad a way to die. And the people in the evacuation party, they had all been willing that the
Ragnarok
should be forced into Taisheki Station, with a Fleet Interrogations Group all too probably in the wings. He had to keep his peace. To speak now would be to betray Lek. And not only Lek — but every soul on board of the
Ragnarok
.

Thirteen, and Lek shook the thula fiercely from side to side, running down the platform’s line of fire as the guns tried to fix on them for long enough to get a target registration and shoot. One of the weaponers stopped a round midway between the platform and the ship, but the impact was too close — the thula lost her course for one terrible moment, and rolled against the shock like sea–wrack at flood.

Lek set the board to rights and closed on target. Stildyne fired the left–lateral battery and blew the platform into utter ruin. Only three to go. Those people on the artillery platform had surely expected to be well clear before the mine field was called into active play. For all Andrej knew, they weren’t even Fleet resources but civilian contractors.

Fourteen. The thula heeled back on her own impulse–train and ran for the next target, eager for the kill, and the chief weaponer gave the word. “Go for it, Smath. Your hit. Good shot.” It was fractions of an eighth left before the
Ragnarok
would come into range, and only one arti–plat still threatened her. One last platform and
Ragnarok
was clear to breach the mine field; the ship already had the advantage of speed in the chase, because the pursuit ships were either too small to do the
Ragnarok
’s great black massy hull much harm or too big to gain sufficient speed to close.

One final platform, only one more, and it turned its primary guns toward them, blossoming into a cloud of dust and scrap and useless chunks of trash as the thula fixed and fired and killed. The
Ragnarok
was clear.

Steady, almost stately, the
Ragnarok
made full transit into what had been the kill–zone as the remaining stations fired on the ship in a vain attempt to reach beyond the range of their emplaced guns and put a stop to its deliberate progress.

“Nicely done, thula.” First Officer, again, and Andrej unstrapped himself from the webbing in his secure–shell to go see that Lek was all right. “Well flown, Lek. Very nicely shot, weaponers all. Come on home, we’ve got a vector to catch, and the sooner we hull over the happier Wheatfields is going to be with all of us.”

Andrej didn’t like the confused sideways glance Taller was giving Lek, nor did he quite understand the fearful intensity of Lek’s focus on his boards. The thula did not seem to be reorienting toward the
Ragnarok
, nor to face pursuit, scant eighths behind the ship.

“Mister Kerenko?”

The expression on Lek’s face was one of utter concentration, not the anguished conflict of a governor going wrong. No conflict at all. Determination, rather, and — meeting Lek’s dark sharp Sarvaw eyes — Andrej knew as surely as if he had been told exactly what was going on in Lek’s mind.

“We can make it work, sir. Their only chance.”

Yes. Plaiting into braid, Andrej keyed into the standard emergency strand. “This is Andrej Ulexeievitch Koscuisko. We have been given to understand that an evacuation craft is damaged. It is our intent to take this craft into cargo.” Switching onto ship–strand, he continued. “Weaponer, if you would direct the tractor.”

Three of the pursuit ships had veered off from their primary course, moving to intercept. That was their right, perhaps. The point that First Officer had made was that the pursuit ships could not reach the damaged evac craft in time: the thula could — so there was a chance.

Why should they risk their lives — and a death about whose full horror they suffered no illusions — for the lives of an artillery emplacement crew, just recently engaged in doing all they could to set the traps that would ensnare great
Ragnarok
and every soul on board?