the alarm of militia ships helplessly in the path of the strike. Tibet was
engaged, trying to make the incoming fleet dump speed to deal with them. North
Pole was moving. Merchanter vessels serving as militia were altering course,
slow ships, short-haulers, at a standstill compared to the speed of the incoming
fleet. They could slow it if they had the nerve. If.
“Rider’s turned,” scan op said in her ear. She saw it onscreen. The rider had
gotten their acknowledgment minutes ago, had put about; that scan image was
meeting them now. Longscan comp had put the rest of the arc together and the
comp tech had reasoned the rest by human intent… the yellow fuzz going off from
the red approach line was long-scan’s new estimate of the ridership’s position;
the old estimate faded to faint blue, mere warning to watch that line of
approach in case. They were headed right down it in outgoing plane, while the
incoming rider was obliged to go nadir. And they were all streaming out
together, right down the line.
Signy gnawed her lip, cautioned scan and com monitor to keep up with events all
around the sphere, fretting that Mazian had hauled them out in one vector only.
Come on, she thought with the taste of one disaster in her mouth, no more like
Viking. Give us a few options, man.
cfx / knight / 189-9090-687 / ninerninerniner / sphinx / twotwotwo triplet /
doublet / quartet / wisp / endit.
New orders. The late ships were given the other vectors. Pacific and Atlantic
and Australia moved onto new courses, slow motion flowering of the pattern to
shield the system.
iii
Pell: stationmaster’s offices
merchanter hammer to ecs in vicinity/maydaymaydaymayday/union carriers
moving/twelve carriers our vicinity/going for jump/maydaymaydaymayday…
swan’s eye to all ships/runrunrunrun…
ecs tibet to all ships/relay/…
Over an hour old, proliferating through the system in relay through the com of
every ship receiving and still going, like an echo in a madhouse. Angelo leaned
to the comp console and keyed through to dockside, where the shock of a massive
pullout still had crews spilling out on emergency call: military crews had
handled it, their own way, undocked without interval. Central was in chaos, with
a pending G crisis if the systems could not adjust to the massive kickoff. There
were palpable instabilities. Com was jammed. And for nearly two hours the
situation on the rim of the solar system had been in progress, while the message
flashed its lightbound way toward them.
Troops were left on the dock. Most had been aboard already, barracked onship;
some had not made it, and military channels on-station echoed with
incomprehensible messages, angry voices. Why they had pulled the troops, why
they had delayed to board those they could with attack incoming… the implication
of that was the liberty of the Fleet to run out on them. Mazian’s order…
Emilio, he thought distractedly. The schematic of Downbelow on the left
wall-screen flickered with a dot that was Porey’s shuttle. He could not call; no
one could—Mazian’s orders… com silence. Hold pattern, traffic control was
broadcasting to merchanters in orbit; it was all they could say. Com queries
flowed from merchanters at dock, faster than operators could answer them with
pleas for quiet.
Union was bound to have done this. Anticipated, Mazian had flashed him, in what
direct communication he had gotten. For days the captains had stayed near the
ships—troops jammed aboard in discomfort—not in courtesy to station; not in
response to their requests to have the troops out of the halls.
Prepared for pullout. Despite all promises, prepared for pullout.
He reached for the com button, to call Alicia, who might be following this on
her screens…
“Sir.” His secretary Mills came on com. “Security requests you come to com
central. There’s a situation down in green.”
“What situation?”
“Crowds, sir.”
He thrust himself from his desk, grabbed his coat.
“Sir—”
He turned. His office door opened unasked, Mills there protesting the intrusion
of Jon Lukas and a companion. “Sir,” Mills said. “I’m sorry. Mr. Lukas insisted…
I told him…”
Angelo frowned, vexed at the intrusion and at once hoping for assistance. Jon
was able, if self-interested. “I need some help,” he said, and his eyes flicked
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