TRAVIS, the helmet said.
Only name he’d made out, on anybody. Wasn’t Bowe. He found himself shakily relieved it wasn’t Austin, as he grabbed a rail and tried to get along the wall.
A suited figure caught up with him in the obscuring dust. BOWE, the helmet said. c. Smeared with blood. Christian looked straight at him. He started to ask… where Austin was… and his com crackled with,
“Damn you, you Hawkins bastard, get out of there!”
A rod shot between them. Rebounded. Hit a can, richocheted again, came back.
He was drifting, on a rebound. Grabbed something.
“Four minutes, “ he heard, in the ringing of his ears. Motion alert, was flashing in his faceplate. “Get out of there, “ com said, male voice this time, “Get out, now, we’re screwed, leave it, leave it, leave it. “
And Capella’s: “Get the card, damn it!”
His back hit the cans. He bounced off, saw a crewman near him, trying for a hand-hold, and he held out an arm, mindless free-fall reflex. The man grabbed him and he grabbed the rail as they grazed the wall in a conjoint tumble toward the bright light, spotlights all he could see in the white-out, except dark beads like frozen oil spatting against his faceplate.
He shoved off, dragging the man with him, grabbed the console rim and stopped their random motion as green seconds bled time away from him in the faceplate display. The man he’d rescued had hold next to him—crew had reached them, trying to pull both of them away; but the man shoved them off, shoved a card into the console they both clung to.
C. BOWE showed grey through the paste of white dust on the opposing helmet. He could see Christian’s face, intent on the card, not on him.
Other voices on Universal sputtered with static. Somebody was yelling, “Close the doors. Kick the cans clear! Shut the cargo doors! Fire window is forty-eight seconds—”
Christian jammed the card down, firm contact, groped for the input slate and the electronic stylus scissor-jointed over it.
Wrote an H. A.
Hand shook, dithered in a fit of shock. V.
“O,” Tom said, furious with his own spasm of shaking. Christian’s hand wasn’t making it. He grabbed the hand, forced a shaky circle. Shakier C. Son of a bitch, it wasn’t just himself and Austin knew Capella’s code.
Lights flashed. Display above the input said, in red letters:
ENEMY IDENTIFIED. TARGETING. POSITIVE.
He flashed on Sprite’s corridors. Marie at her console. But he believed Patrick was real, and Patrick was first on the old hulk’s list. His voice in the dark said so.
While Sprite was out there. Coming toward them. TARGET LOCKED, he saw on display, through a white haze.
FIRE INITIATED.
The hulk’s frame shook. He felt it through the hand-grip. Stared at his brother’s face, Christian staring at him.
Felt something pull at him, trying to pull them away. He held onto the console. But he saw suit lights then, coming around behind Christian, to take him away.
Christian went. But he wasn’t leaving. Wasn’t moving. No. Information was here. On this readout. It was all the truth he had.
“Tom, “ Saby said. Hands tugged at him, failed to move him. “Come on, Tom, dammit, it’s fired, it’s all we can do. “
“Tom. “ Tink’s voice. A new hand pulled and he couldn’t hold on any longer. His gloved hands lost their handhold, and they carried him back toward the doors, through the drifting white.
“Tom. “ Capella’s voice, then. “Tom, Sprite is not, so far, a target, repeat, not, so far, a target. “
“Who’s in command down here?” he heard somebody ask, and Christian answer:
“I guess I am. “
“Not yet. “ Another voice came faintly, scratchy with static. “Not yet, you don’t, kid.—Where’s the damn hostile, can somebody find the hostile?”
“Fireball, “ came from the bridge, smugly. “Any minute now. “
Still couldn’t get enough air. Tom let Saby and Tink pull him ahead, along the railing. He just breathed, his visor dusted over so the lights fuzzed.
“There it goes, “ a female voice said. “Austin. You copy? Got the bastard. “