“Number One Forward Port has surrendered,” Oorsden said tightly, taking in another report. “The firing has stopped there. Nickolson is leading his men out, including his reserve. We have no choice.”
Sterm’s eyes smoldered. “I want a full record kept of every officer who deserts,” he reminded Stormbel ‘The ones in the Government Center, the one in Vandenberg, Lesley in the Hexagon, that one there-all of them.” His voice was calm but all the more menacing for its iciness. “They will answer for this when the time comes. General, detach the Battle Module immediately and proceed as planned.”
Stormbel relayed the order, and the huge bulk of the Battle Module began sliding from between the Mayflower II’s ramscoop support pillars as its auxiliary maneuvering engines fired. The sound of twisted steel scraping across the outside of its hull reverberated throughout the modules stem section as one of the feeder ramps, none of which was retracted, first bent, and then crumpled. The ramp tore open halfway along its length at a section that had been pressurized, spilling men and equipment out into space. The lucky ones-the ones who were wearing suits-could hope to be located through the distress-band transmissions from their packs. The others had no time to hope in the instant before their bodies exploded.
“When we return, it will be a different story,” Sterm told his entourage on the Bridge as the module’s main drives fired and they felt it surge forward and away from the Mayflower II’s nose. “But first, we have, to deal with our Chironian – . . friends. What is the report on the Kuan-yin?”
“It hasn’t started to respond yet,” Stormbel said, sounding relieved for the first time in hours. “Perhaps we took them by surprise after all.” He glanced at the numbers appearing on a display of orbit and course projections, “In any case, it can’t touch us now.”
Sterm nodded slowly in satisfaction. “Excellent. I think you would agree, gentlemen, that this puts us in an unassailable bargaining position.”
* * *
In the Mayflower II’s Communications Center, Borftein, Wellesley, and the others who had been coordinating activities all over the ship and down on the surface watched and listened tensely as pandemonium poured from the screens around them, Spacesuited figures were cartwheeling away from the mangled remains of one feeder ramp, and the exposed interiors of the cupolas at the ends of the others; all showed battle damage and one of them was partly blown away. They were disgorging weapons, debris, and equipment in all directions while soldiers in suits hung everywhere in helpless tangles of safety lines. “Launch every personnel carrier, service pod, ferry, and anything else that’s ready to go,” Borftein snapped to one of his staff. “Get them from Vandenberg or anywhere else you have to. I want every one of those men picked up. Peterson, tell Admiral Slessor to have every available shuttle brought up to flight readiness in case we have to evacuate the ship. And find out how many more we can get up here from Canaveral.”
“Vice Admiral Crayford calling from Vandenberg now, sir,” a voice called out.
“The Chironians on channel eight are requesting a report, sir.”
“Major Lesley calling from the nose, sir-”
“Battle Module maintaining speed and course, and about to enter eclipse from the Kuan-yin.”
Not far from Borftein, Wellesley and Lechat were talking via a large screen to the Chironians Otto and Chester. Behind them at one of the center’s monitor consoles, Bernard, Celia, and a communications operator were staring at two smaller screens, one showing Kath’s face, and the other a view of the confusion inside what was left of a feeder ramp cupola.
On the second screen Hanlon, in a spacesuit blackened by scorch marks, was clinging in the foreground to the remains of a buckled metal structure sticking out into
empty space, and hauling on a pair of intertwined lines with ~’-” his free arm, while behind him other soldiers were pulling
figures back into the shattered cupola and helping, them climb to the entrance into the feeder ramp. “L ‘think this
might be the man himself now,” Hanlon’s voice said from the grille by the screen. “Ah, yes., ,a little the worse for wear, but he’ll be as good as new.” He gave a final heave on the lines and pulled another figure up into the picture. Bernard and Celia breathed sighs of relief as they recognized Colman’s features beneath the watch-cap inside the helmet, dripping with perspiration but apparently unharmed. Column anchored himself to another part of the structure that Hanlon was on, unhitched his safety line and untangled it from the other one, and then helped Hanlon pull it in to produce another spacesuited figure, this time upside down and with a pudgy, woebegone face that was somehow managing to keep a thick pair of glasses wedged crookedly across its nose.