Damn lot of variables.
And Patrick’s estimated position was shifting constantly now in the numbers on his screen. Patrick had begun his run—in longscan’s primary estimation. That estimated v was coming up fast.
Couldn’t fire dead ahead while you were putting on v like that—you’d run into your own ordnance. Patrick had to get off a passing or retreating shot. The EM bath that Sprite’s ID was sending out was no help at all. It echoed off solids, just like radar. Thank you, thank you, Marie Hawkins.
“This HAVOC code, nav, just what’s it do?”
“Sir, I think it’ll respect the user. Nothing else. Damn sure nothing shooting at it. “
“Hulk won’t do that anyway, will it?”
“Sir, I’m not need-to-know on that level. “
Shit.
And the Hawkinses out there, ship full of fools.
Shit on them.
Beatrice wasn’t talking. Not since drop. Probably was aware, but when Beatrice was working this particular bitch of an approach, she was in her own universe. The Object had no motion to speak of, but their two masses made one bitch of an impact possible, if they didn’t soft-touch, and the Object didn’t talk to you. Silent as any spook, always. Cold. Very.
Beatrice professed not to like it.
Like she didn’t like sex.
Sudden slam from the engines. The screen suddenly showed an on-rushing dark spot. The blot on the stars rushed at the camera. Filled the screen, total dark.
Jolt. Stop.
The body had—gut-level, intellectual, rational functions to the contrary, and no matter how many times they’d done it—braced for impact.
“We have the Object between us and Sprite, “ Beatrice announced calmly, then, smoothly as on station approach. “Touch in ten minutes. Do we believe nav, or what?”
“Thank you, helm. Yes, we believe nav, because we have no fucking choice.”
He punched general com. “This is the captain. We have a very short window to offload. Enemy is in system, proceeding toward us from dead v at two seconds light. We will, however, offload to shed mass, and we are going to offload at all possible speed. We cannot afford mistakes. We have a narrow margin. Touch and dock in less than ten minutes. When the siren sounds, all hands, repeat, all hands, on-shift and off-, not at this moment at ops-critical stations, suit for vacuum and start cargo offload. We’re going to tie down the brake levers, on both sides. We don’t care if we dent the walls. I want volunteers for the release-station in the receiving hold. Hazard pay and hazard privilege both apply, and we hope the receiving equipment takes it.”
—vii—
“I’M GOING,” TOM SAID, still flat in bed, while trim-up went on. “Got to be at least an e-suit or something I can borrow. Saby, I swear to you. I grew up in the cargo office, I know the boards, I know the equipment. I’ve worked the line. I swear, I swear I won’t screw it, I don’t want to sit up here waiting to be blown.”
He expected argument. But Saby didn’t argue.
“Michaels has to be on the bridge. He’s our gunner, he won’t suit. Use his rig. I’m running Hold Technical. Just keep the cans off my neck.”
Michaels. He remembered a man beaten.
Remembered why, then. Knew the rules, Tink said. Follow the rules. Ship was at stake. All their lives. Ship had its own logic. Forget everything else.
Remembered Michaels… saying, Kid’s shaky… light duty…
Contact. Easy bump. Grapples activated, banged into lock.
Saby’s belts clicked on that sound. So did his, and he cleared her path as she scrambled across—tried to help her up and threw a supporting hand against the wall, his own equilibrium not so reliable as he’d thought.
Saby didn’t wait for amenities, opened the door and headed out, zipping what she’d loosed for comfort.
Crew and dockers in dress and undress thumped into the corridors at a wobbly, staggering run, generally in their direction, down lower main, knocking into walls, some of them, but going as fast as they could.
It was an eerie feeling, everybody running the same direction, like suit drill, but not drill, nothing now was drill. It was the emergency a spacer lived all his life trying never, ever to have.