We All Died at Breakaway Station (2 page)

Biting his lower lip to feel a sensation that he knew to be real, Bracer scanned his bridge officers, observing them briefly through the tri-D sensors that relayed the light and dark patterns, the array of reflected polychromatic light to his brain; and he thought that he had not yet adjusted to the appearance of the officers who ran this ship of his, perhaps he would never get used to that. But then… they probably hadn’t gotten used to the appearance of their captain either. Would they?

First Officer Daniel Maxel had no arms, no shoulders, no chest; his head rested on a gray sphere of metal and plastiskin that enclosed what was left of his upper torso, and from that sprouted two armlike manipulative appendages. No attempt had been made to give Maxel’s prosthetics a “human” appearance; too much war, mutilation and death, too much hell in the Paladine had overcome such luxuries as that. Yet his heavy, almost handsome Slavic features were somehow serene, almost smiling as he sat before his command console, while an artificial heart pumped borrowed blood through his body, artificial lungs breathed for him, artificial…

Astrogator Bene O’Gwynn had little that could be called a face. There were still eyes within her skull; somehow they had survived the burns and blasting that had taken away her lower jaw, her ears, part of her skull, that had taken off her left arm and left breast, that had removed half her left leg. A mouth had been fashioned within the plastiskin egg that covered her ruined head, and a voice box that spoke harshly, coarsely, yet still somehow retained the delicacy of speech that she had once had, when she was whole and beautiful, so he was told.

Weapons Control Officer Akin Darbi appeared to be almost a normal man, unless you knew that his torso was filled with prosthetic organs, replacing the stomach, intestines, glands that an energy beam had burned from his abdomen.

Officers of the bridge, Absolom Bracer thought, hospital cases only slightly better off than those in cold-sleep in the
Cragstone.
And what of their captain? Absolom Bracer smiled a twisted, cynical, almost loathing smile. Yes, what of their captain?

Bracer knew what his reflection would have shown: a shiny meter-tall cylinder of metal supporting what was left of the upper torso of a man. Below the waist there was very little of Absolom Bracer left: a few bones, a little living flesh and muscle, a collection of tangled nerves that continually throbbed their pain, their loss. Above the cylinder: a functional spine, ribs, lungs, heart, shoulder, an arm, the right one; a prosthetic grew from his left shoulder, delicately, wonderfully wired into his nervous system, so well done that he often forgot that the arm was not really his own, but one
loaned
to him by the accursedly efficient doctors of Adrianopolis. What else? Well, he had most of his jaws, upper and lower, a little of his cheekbones, about half of his skull, and all of his brain, yes, most important of all, his brain. Metal and plastiskin completed the picture, a globe that covered what had once been his upper face, and two glittering lenses that served as eyes; with these he looked out through the pain, the loss, and saw a universe outside, and cursed it, yet went on, commanded the starship‌—‌back to Earth, back to the hospitals that could take even such a wreck as Absolom Bracer and build it back into something that would pass for a human being.

And there was pain. That was the one real fact of existence. Pain. Forever. Continuously. A red-gray fog that grew greater at times, and at other times grew less, but that was always there. Pain that kept him on the edge of screaming. Pain that heightened rather than dulled his senses. Pain that had almost become a part of whatever it was that was him.

He should have been in the
Cragstone,
in the semideath of cold-sleep, unconscious, unconcerned, unknowing, resting like the dead until his mangled body arrived at Earth where…

But he knew, oh, so well he knew: “We have no starship captains, no whole men we can spare from the war. Put Captain Bracer in shape to command. We can’t spare anyone else to go back to Earth.”

And the doctors had done that (eternally damn them!), had taken what there was of him, and added to that the portable devices that would serve as the organs and glands that he lacked, and had told him that he could make it. And when he asked for drugs to ease the pain, they said, sorrowfully, he supposed, that they could give him no drugs, for drugs would dull his mind, slow his reactions‌—‌and pain would keep him aware, give him the slight edge that might keep him and his ships alive until they reached distant Earth. Oh, thank you, doctors!

Then the admirals placed him on the bridge of the
Iwo Jima,
gave him a handful of officers and a crew in little better shape than himself, gave him another warship likewise outfitted, gave him the hospital ship
Rudoph Cragstone
to escort, and aimed them all Earthward.

“We will give you cover into interstellar space,” Fleet Admiral Paolo Ommart had said. “Once clear of the system and into star drive, you should be able to avoid any Jillie warships.”

So, with his orders, and his pain, Absolom Bracer and his three starships lifted from Adrianopolis of the Paladine, aimed toward dim and distant Sol, and went into star drive, moving in microjumps of fantastic pseudospeed, motionless motion, across the dark universe.

Now the trip was nearly a third over. Beautiful, Earthlike Adrianopolis lay far behind, her sun almost lost among the stars. And the sun of the world called Breakaway swelled in the tanks. The worst danger was past. At least the admirals had told him it would be, but then it is not always wise to believe all that admirals say. They have a job to do too.

…captain… the mental voice of the OC, Roger, rang within his skull. …one minute to cutoff of stardrive…

…acknowledge…

His right hand‌—‌the real one‌—‌automatically fell across the all-call switch of the console before him. And as automatically he spoke:

“Attention all hands. This is the captain. Star drive will be cut in one minute. All hands to stations. Full Alert.” And he wondered, despite himself, how many of his crew had hands, real hands, and not prosthetics. Hands!

To Roger: …begin counting…

The voice of the Organic Computer, pieced modulations, snips of the sound of the voice of a man, confident, reassuring, fatherlike, began counting down the seconds until star drive was cut, until the three starships ceased their motionless motion, ceased microjumping through the universe, returned to normal and real space time.

Wish I could let the crew have shore leave at Breakaway, Bracer said to himself. Might do them good to blow off a little steam. But, as Doc Jaffe says, it might be even worse than their being cooped up in this ship‌—‌to see normal people, men and women with the proper number of arms and legs and eyes. In our little universe we’ve sort of adjusted to the idea that no one has the number of things he ought to have. What would happen if they‌—‌we‌—‌I‌—‌saw
normal
… That’s enough of that! We don’t have time for shore leave anyway.

Bracer touched a switch on the console before him.

“Yes, captain,” replied the voice of Eday Cyanta, the legless communications officer.

“As soon as star drive is cut, see if you can raise Breakaway Station.”

“Yes, sir,” the comm officer replied. “I’m already on their frequency and will begin transmitting immediately after cutoff.”

“Very good.”

“Thirty seconds,” said the audible voice of Roger the OC.

A third of the way back, Bracer said to himself again, Thirteen light-years of it behind us. Twenty-seven still to go. Pick up the wounded here, stow them in the
Cragstone,
move on toward Earth. It’s not going to be so bad if we all keep our heads.

Wonder how Mothershed’s doing, he thought again. Wonder if he’s even still alive. Good chance he isn’t. The Jillies probably caught him a long time ago. But, God, I wish I were with him!

“Fifteen seconds.”

A flaming pain flickered in the ends of severed nerves, a place where a primitive and unreasoning part of his mind thought his left thumb was, but where
he
knew was nothing, nothing at all! He bit his lower lip, cursed the doctors, wished they’d allowed him drugs, knew it was best that they hadn’t, and cursed the admirals on Adrianopolis, and particularly Admiral Ommart, for making it all necessary.

Then it came. “Star drive out.”

That last comment from Roger had been totally superfluous. No one had to be told that he was coming out of star drive. You knew that in the marrow of your bones; to the very core of your being you knew that the pseudospeed generators were no longer operating, that the universe was again the universe and not some meaningless in-between limbo that could not be expressed in words, only in mathematical symbols. Oh, how obsolete language is in the day of star travel! Bracer looked over toward the communications officer, saw the tank before her flickering as she attempted to establish visual contact with Breakaway Station.

…orders, captain?… Roger asked.

…stand by… Bracer replied. Then, into the microphone: “This is the captain. We are now out of star drive and approaching Breakaway Station. The ship will remain on full alert until we have established orbit. That is all.”

By this time there was a recognizable image forming in the communications officer’s tank.

“Give it to me,” Bracer said.

Moments later the communications tank in his own console came to life, flickered, then cleared, revealing the three-dimensional image of a heavy-set, middle-aged man wearing the insignia of a colonel in the Communications Corps, Armed Forces of the Galean League.

“Colonel, I am Captain Absolom Bracer, commanding officer of the LSS
Iwo Jima,
registry number TU-819, flagship of Hospital Convoy 031, out of Adrianopolis, bound for Earth, flight 311-68.” All this Bracer said as an expected formality: all the necessary information about the identity and purpose of his ships had already been automatically beamed to Breakaway in the identification signals broadcast microseconds after coming out of star drive. “I think you’re expecting us,” he concluded.

“Yes, sir,” replied the image within the tri-D tank. “You’re matching your ETA within several hours.” The Communications Corps officer on Breakaway paused for a moment, then asked, “Did you have a good trip out?” There was an odd edge to the commander’s voice when he asked about the trip, something which Bracer attributed to the half-human, half-machine appearance that he himself presented to the officer. “Good enough,” he replied. “No Jillies, if that’s what you mean.”

“I’m glad to hear that, sir,” said the communications officer on the distant planet, and again with what Bracer believed to be an edge to his voice.

Something’s eating that man, Bracer told himself, but it’s probably none of my business what it is. They’ve got their own troubles down there. If it is my business, he’ll tell me‌—‌I hope.

“Oh, pardon me, captain,” the image said suddenly. “I’m Arthur Lasin, Breakaway’s comm officer.”

“I’m glad to meet you, Colonel Lasin,” Bracer said, and then went on slowly, probingly, wondering suddenly whether the relief convoy that had preceded his own three ships from Adrianopolis by a week was somehow connected with the commander’s discomfort. “I trust that Captain Donnelson has arrived safely.”

“Captain Bracer,” Commander Lasin began slowly, “I suggest that you discuss this with General Crowinsky.” Bracer felt the breath of a cold night wind where his stomach should have been. Maybe…

“Very well,” he replied at last. “Connect me with your commanding officer.”

“I‌—‌I believe he’s in his office, captain,” the communications officer of Breakaway Station stammered in reply. “Please stand by.”

Oh, dear God, don’t tell me that the relief convoy never made it. That convoy left a week before we did. Should have been here six, seven days ago. Three battle cruisers and a freighter. The Jillies couldn’t have stopped it, couldn’t have prevented it from reaching Breakaway with those supplies and equipment and men. God, it couldn’t have happened!

And another part of Bracer’s mind said slowly, coldly, bitterly, The hell it couldn’t have!

Comm Tech Sheila Brandt knelt on the cold, naked stone, cramped and uncomfortable in her vac-suit, and carefully clipped the probes of the meter she held in her hand to a set of terminals on the device embedded in the stone. There was an aching in her breast and in her loins and she didn’t know which was from the interminable fear and which was from her longing for Len. God, she was scared, she thought, and asked herself why, because now there wasn’t any need to be. Nothing was going to happen now. Then she looked up, waited for the orders from her section chief, and looked across the stone and dust toward the distant, ragged hills.

It was summer now, she thought, though summer only meant that it was always day here at the planet’s pole. It certainly didn’t make any noticeable difference in the amount of heat they received from the feeble yellow star that was Breakaway’s excuse for a sun, but then no one who had been on Breakaway for any length of time expected it to. Breakaway was simply a hell of a duty station.

Still, she told herself, trying to drive down her unreasoning fear, it was almost nice to be able to come out onto the surface again, after being cooped up there underground for so long, cramped in there with all those other people. It was almost a kind of freedom.

Well, it really wasn’t that long, she told herself after a few moments of thought, just three weeks, but, Lord, that seemed like a long time. But then, three weeks and a day ago she hadn’t even expected to be alive this much longer‌—‌not with those Jillie ships bombing and beaming Breakaway like they had been‌—‌and just being alive was something to be happy about in itself.

And maybe things weren’t quite as bad as she and everybody else made them out to be. There was supposed to be help coming from the Paladine, and if the stories were true, Earth was getting ready to do something really big, like a full-scale attack on the Jillie homeworlds themselves. And if they did that, the Jillies wouldn’t even think of going to the trouble of hitting Breakaway again. So, well, who knows…