Warhorse (15 page)

“Marlowe?”

“It'll be damned tight, sir,” Marlowe grunted. “The drive nozzles will take the brunt of it, and they're a lot more heat-resistant than the hull itself. But we're not exactly dead-on to the star; and even if we rotate slowly so that each section of the hull gets equal exposure, we'll still reach the theoretical danger point in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Roman nodded. “What else have you got, Kennedy?”

“Not much, sir,” she shook her head. “We can cut it to twenty minutes by shutting down the drive and maintaining our current speed for nine minutes, but that'll mean doing the last eleven at twelve gees.”

Eleven minutes of twelve gees. Eleven minutes of hell for the ship and its human crew…and maybe far worse for the Tampies still aboard.
Could
Tampies even survive twelve gees? Roman keyed his intercom. “Rrin-saa?”

The alien's face appeared. “I hear, Rro-maa.”

“Rrin-saa, we're in a crisis situation here,” Roman told him. “We're going to have to pull eleven minutes at twelve gees or
Amity
isn't going to make it. Can your people take that?”

A shadow of emotion might have crossed Rrin-saa's face; Roman couldn't tell for sure. “I do not know,” he said. “I know Tamplissta have survived eight gees for short times; that is all.” He paused. “Your wishes are ours, Rro-maa. You must do what is necessary.”

Roman gritted his teeth. “Lay in your course, Kennedy. Signal for dangerous acceleration. Rrin-saa…good luck.”

The drive cut off; and as the warning alarm began to hoot, Roman's chair unfolded into its acceleration couch mode. He snuggled down into it as best he could in zero-gee, feeling the contour cushions adjust to his body, and watched the displays. He'd done everything he could, and now there was nothing to do but wait as the laws of physics played themselves out.

A minute later, right on schedule, the expanding plasma shell broke.

The hull temperature numbers skittered upward, higher than Roman had ever seen them, before falling abruptly as all sunside sensors either cut out or flared into uselessness. The pattern of destruction repeated itself around the entire circumference as the slow rotation Kennedy had put
Amity
into gave each section of hull the same deadly exposure in its turn. Within minutes the outer reflective layer was beginning to show signs of blistering, and the temperature within the ship was rising faster than the cooling system could dump it.

And then the fusion drive kicked back in…and Roman gasped for breath as the giant invisible hand jammed him hard into his couch. Jammed him, held him down, did its damnedest to crush the life out of him…

The last thought to flicker through his mind before the blackness overtook him was that putting his ship and crew through this high-pressure volcano was a hell of a way to run a rescue mission.

Slowly, as if in disbelief at her survival,
Amity
began to pull herself together.

“—Damage control reports over twenty buckled hull plates. Repair crews are working on the worst of it.”

“—Breakage of improperly stowed gear is pretty high, Captain, but nothing vital seems to be lost. We're cleaning it up.”

“—The landing was a little rough, but didn't cause any damage to the drive nozzles. We're a few kilometers southeast of the center of the moon's dark side. Rotation period is about nine days, so we can stay put for as long as we'll need.”

“—Casualties, Captain. The Tampies report eight dead during deceleration. No deaths on our side, but a number of broken bones and minor internal injuries. A medical team's gone portside to assist the Tampy doctors.”

Eight dead. Roman swore, uselessly, under his breath. Eight dead…and the fact that they were Tampies almost made it worse. He would have to call Rrin-saa and give his official condolences, of course—

“Captain?” Marlowe called. “I've managed to punch a laser carrier through all that ion-soup static out there. We've got Dr. Lowry's group.”

Roman jabbed at his intercom. “This is Captain Haml Roman of the Cordonale Research Ship
Amity.
Dr. Lowry?”

“Here, Captain.” The static cleared slightly, giving Roman a glimpse of a snowy-haired man in full pressure suit. His face—what could be seen of it through the helmet—looked haggard. “You can't know how happy we are you're here.”

“I'm glad we made it. Where are you?”

“Dark side of the planet. I can give you our latitude and longitude, but that won't help you much—Shadrach rotates once every forty-two hours and we have to keep moving to stay out of the light.”

“Yeah.” Roman had looked through the viewport at the planet only once. Low in the sky, showing about half a disk, and shining only by light reflected from fairly dark rock, it had still damn near blinded him. “I assume you have some sort of lander down there?”

“Yes—a Sinor-Grayback TL-1. A little cozy for all fifty of us at once, but we can manage.”

“Kennedy?” Roman murmured.

“A bit on the large side, sir,” she said promptly, “but with our own lander gone there'll be enough room for it in the hangar.”

“Thank you. We can handle that, Doctor. How's your fuel situation?”

“We had to abandon a lot of it at the base, and we've used some since then to keep out of the sunlight, but we've got enough left to meet you in orbit whenever you're ready. Assuming it's not too high an orbit, that is.”

“I think we'll be able to accommodate you,” Roman said. “Now, I understand there's a Tampy group down there, too. Are they with you?”

Lowry shook his head. “I'm afraid they're beyond help, Captain,” he said tiredly. “Their encampment was on the sunside when the dwarf first flared up. They're all dead.”

Roman felt his stomach tighten into a hard knot. “You're certain?”

Lowry's sigh was just barely audible, and even through the static and pressure suit Roman could swear he saw the other shudder. “We're certain. We went to their encampment as soon as it had rotated to the dark side. They had no warning whatsoever, no chance to escape. If the flare hadn't blown off Shadrach's minuscule atmosphere and sent shock waves through the ground we'd have been caught the same way ourselves.” Lowry's hand reached up, as if to run his fingers through his hair, then dropped in obvious embarrassment. “We don't know why the dwarf triggered so soon; it should have been all right for at least another month—”

“We can sift through the details later, Doctor. Are the rest of your people all right?”

Lowry visibly drew himself together. “We're fine—or we will be as soon as we can get out of here. Just tell us when we should lift to meet you.”

“It'll be a while yet, I'm afraid,” Roman told him, glancing at his scanner repeater display. “We'll have to wait until the light intensity goes down enough for us to get across to you. We're presently on your larger moon's dark side.”

Lowry stared. “You're not over Shadrach itself? Captain—” He swallowed and took a deep breath. “Captain, you can't wait that long. Our calculations show that the next flare-up will be the final one.”

Roman's mouth felt suddenly dry. “The nova?”

Lowry nodded. “And the intensity won't decrease more than a magnitude or so before that.”

The bridge had gone very quiet. “How long have we got?” Roman asked.

“As best as we can estimate, between sixty and seventy hours.”

Sixty hours. And it would take a minimum of twenty-five of those to get back to Pegasus… “All right, Doctor, we'll see what we can do.
Amity
out.”

He tapped the disconnect key, and the static abruptly shut off. It made the silence in the bridge that much more noticeable. Turning carefully—the twelve-gee run had left aches in every muscle—he looked at Marlowe. “You heard all that,” he said. “You and Stolt get your heads together and find out how much more the hull can take.”

“We've already done that, Captain,” Marlowe said. The light-intensity curve on Roman's repeater display disappeared and was replaced by a second curve and a column of numbers. “Commander Stolt estimates the drive nozzles could handle another fifteen hours or so without damage,” Marlowe continued, indicating the appropriate part of the curve with his mousepen. “Unfortunately, we can't go from here to Shadrach's shadow in that position—the maneuvering jets don't generate enough thrust.”

“How about the rest of the hull?”

Marlowe's cheek twitched. “In twenty minutes she'd start popping seams.”

Roman pursed his lips. “What about it, Kennedy?”

“No good, sir,” she replied, shaking her head carefully. “If I stay below eight gees we can't make it in less than an hour. And any higher acceleration will just kill more of the Tampies.”

Which reminded him, he had some unpleasant news to break to the aliens. He'd have to make time for that soon. “What about putting extra shielding on the hull?” he asked Marlowe. “I know we've got some spare drive plates.”

Marlowe's lips compressed briefly. “I doubt we've got enough spares to do any real good, sir, but I'll check.” He hesitated, his eyes flicking to Kennedy, and for a moment he seemed to be teetering on the brink of saying something else. The uncertainty won, and he started to turn away—

“You worried about the nova, Lieutenant Marlowe?” Roman asked mildly.

The other seemed to stiffen, and the wince that crossed his face was probably not entirely due to sore muscles. Again his eyes went to Kennedy, a hint of pleading in them.

“I believe, sir,” Kennedy spoke up, “that the lieutenant wished to point out that the higher resistance of the drive section means we can head
away
from B anytime we wish to. We have adequate fuel left to do a straight-line drive all the way back to Pegasus, provided we don't waste any of it on the way.”

Roman locked eyes with her. “That would leave fifty people stranded on Shadrach, of course,” he said. “Are you recommending that we abort the mission? Either of you?”

Just inside Roman's peripheral vision, Marlowe looked thoroughly uncomfortable. Kennedy, directly under his gaze, didn't flinch. “Not at this point, sir,” she said evenly. “But if we can't get to them in thirty hours that
will
have to be my recommendation.”

The bridge had gone quiet again. “Consider it noted, Lieutenant,” Roman told her. “Let's just hope it doesn't come to that.”

“Yes, sir.”

She and Marlowe turned back to their consoles, and the background hum of conversation resumed…and Roman found himself studying the back of Kennedy's head. Wishing her file had spelled out her previous military service a little more explicitly. She'd served on mainline warships, certainly; probably seen actual combat in one of the plethora of interplanet squabbles that had popped up with depressing regularity all over the Cordonale before the Tampy problem had taken everyone's attention away from all such minor disagreements.

It was entirely possible she'd had to abandon people to death before.

He shivered.
Yes
,
let's hope it doesn't come to that
, he told himself fervently. So far he'd never been forced to send men to die, and he had no real interest in starting now.

And then memory hit him like a splash of ice water, and he felt his face warm with embarrassment and shame.

No, he hadn't sent men to die. Just Tampies.

For a long moment he stared at his intercom, stomach muscles knotting painfully. But the call was long overdue, and putting it off any longer would only make it worse.

As usual, it was Rrin-saa who answered. “Rro-maa, yes?”

“Yes, Rrin-saa,” Roman nodded. “I wanted to offer my condolences on the deaths of eight of your people.”

“Eleven. Three more have died of internal injuries. We mourn them.”

Eleven.
“I'm sorry; I didn't know.” He hesitated. “I'm afraid there's more bad news from the planet. It appears your research base here was completely destroyed by the first great flare.”

Rrin-saa gave the Tampy equivalent of a nod. “This is as expected.”

Roman frowned. “You already knew?”

Rrin-saa closed his eyes briefly. “If the Tamplissta had survived there would have been no need for a rescue, Rro-maa. They would have transported themselves and the humans alike to safety.”

“Oh. Of course.” Which meant, Roman realized, Rrin-saa and the others must have known or at least suspected as soon as the distress call came through. But he hadn't bothered to ask their thoughts on the matter…and Tampies seldom volunteered such information. “Again, I'm sorry. I wish things had gone differently.”

“As do we. I must leave now, Rro-maa. The mourning continues.” The screen went dark.

Stolt's face on the intercom screen looked haggard and vaguely uncertain—the face of a man juggling a dozen crises, all of them clamoring for immediate attention. But there was nothing vague or uncertain about his words. “There's no way, Captain,” he said, shaking his head carefully. “Between the spare drive plates, shielding sections, and spray-on ablative material we've got maybe enough stuff to add two extra centimeters to the outer hull. Assuming, that is, that we could spread it all out evenly, which of course we can't.”

Roman nodded heavily. “I didn't think we'd have enough, but it seemed worth checking. Any progress on that reflector umbrella you proposed earlier?”

“We're still doing simulations, but it's not looking especially hopeful,” Stolt admitted. “Every material we try can handle either the light
or
the radiation, but not both. Woller's setting up a trial with a multi-sandwiched sort of layering, but I'm not optimistic.”

“Captain?” Kennedy spoke up, turning to face him. “Would there be enough spare shielding to adequately cover a lifeboat?”