Mogannen and Weig were getting into space-suits. There were three spare seats at one counter that could be powered back from it and locked. Duun did that with the two of them that were assigned to them when they were on the bridge. “When matters get to it,” Duun said. “Suit up now.”
All very calm. The routine of the bridge went on, except the suiting. Spart and Ghindi took their turn and got back into their seats. Duun drifted loose, suited, helmetless. The waiting became tedium. Thorn’s heart once beating in panic could not sustain it. Panic ebbed down to long vexation. He wanted a drink of water. If he did that he might regret it. In such small indignities the worst moments proceeded. Thoughts of itches inaccessible. His own sweat inside the suit, gathered and undispersed. He hung in midair, watching the viewpoint for want of other distraction in this slow creeping of time and the beep of incoming messages droning methodically about the insane business of ghotanin who wished to kill them. Ships had begun to overcommit. Calm voices reported the facts and called it things like zero-return and no-turnaround.
(Strangely enough you don’t get to see the stars much. You can see from the shuttle if you get up front… It’s beautiful.)
A star brightened while he watched, brightened and brightened, and his heart slammed into rapid beats. “Duun! Weig!” It began to be a sphere.
“Get to that seat!” Duun yelled, and shot that way himself. Thorn dived, caught the back of one and hauled himself into it by the armrest, reached for the furled restraints and started fastening them. He looked up, ahead of them where the star had vanished. “Where is it?”
They had not turned, could not have turned: the shuttle had nothing left.
“Helmet,” Duun said. Thorn pushed the button on the armrest, pulled up the connecting hose and communications plug and inserted them as the helmet came down. He locked it in place, selected the third communications channel. One was unified and two was crew-only, three was non-crew. Himself and Duun. He could hear his breathing, could hear Duun’s, and it was steadier than his own.
(O gods, how do people get used to this?)
There was another star. All in silence. Only the breathing sounds, the faraway noises of the shuttle’s operations that were everywhere ambient, but dimmed by the helmets.
He switched channels, heard the crew talking and the messages coming in. The sweat gathered on his body and his arm was going to sleep until he shifted it. (“Damn suits never fit,” Duun had said.) It was better than the flightsuit. Looser.
(Another star. Are those missiles or are those ships? Are those ships dying?)
The crew-talk made no sense to him, full of codes. He cut third channel in. “Duun, what’s happening?”
“They’re within range of each other. And of us, with far less accuracy. The hatani have headed them off. Outmaneuvered them, if they don’t let one get past. If they do they’ll never get a second chance and we can’t stop it.”
The flashes went on. Thorn shut his eyes and opened them again, wishing he dared take the helmet off. The air was cold and stung his throat and nose and eyes.
“That’s Ganngein,” Weig’s voice broke in on third channel. “They got them all. We’ve got debris on intersect. That’s all.” “How’s Ganngein?” Duun asked. A pause. “Zero-return. So’s Nonnent. Ganngein wishes us well and says they’ll stay in contact. They’re trying to determine their numbers now; they’ve been skewed.”
“Can’t the station send something out?” Thorn asked. “Couldn’t earth?”
“Station’s in ghota hands,” Duun said. “Unfortunately. Hatani there were too few. But there’s no ship at the station now-Hatani got that, thank the gods, or ghotanin’d have overhauled us from behind. It was the ghota outliers that hit us up ahead. Station’s got one shuttle left; earth has a few. But a shuttle can’t stop Ganngein. Not a question of slowing down that mass, which they couldn’t in the first place. Just of catching them in a docking maneuver. They can’t match those speeds even to get the crew off.” (Sphitti’s voice: “Here’s an application now.