We All Died at Breakaway Station (26 page)

Now all was well within the Jillie flagship. All systems were functioning properly. And the yellow-glowing sun of Breakaway was swelling in the viewing tanks, a star that even now stood out far more brightly than the rest.

We can imagine that the autocrat, tiring of sitting on its dais, rose and slowly walked around the small control room, perhaps with its six-fingered hands clasped behind its back, peering at scopes and displays and screens, checking to see whether all was as it supposed things to be.

This extraterrestrial was probably no more than a meter and a half tall, for few of its kind ever exceeded this height, and in all likelihood its gastrointestinal sack was safely stored in its quarters until the time came for the assimilation of the foods that it had digested. So this autocrat was pinched thin at the waist like a wasp, lacking a part of its body, though that did not disturb it in the least, this being the normal state of affairs.

As it paced it perhaps observed things of which it did not approve, for that was its job, its very reason for existing, and reprimands were given to those who had been at fault. Probably few, if any, of the violators were executed, then fed into the nutrient tanks that supplied the bulk of the food supplies aboard a Jillie starship. Such executions would have to wait until after the impending battle when every hand would be needed to man the weapons and systems that supported them. Perhaps it made notes of these infractions, or perhaps it just remembered them, for it, like all members of its species, must have had a capacious memory.

Later it would return to its dais, sit down, and observe from a distance the actions of its officers and its crew.

Exactly what was occurring within the mind of this Jillie autocrat as its six ships approached Breakaway would be impossible to guess, though perhaps we would not be wrong in surmising that it thought about the world before it, about the mission that its own superiors had given it: the total destruction of Breakaway Station, the shattering of the communications link between the Paladine and Earth, accursed Earth.

And perhaps we can also guess that there were thoughts of hatred in its mind, for surely the Jillies were capable of hatred. We cannot suppose that all their atrocities were performed coldly, without anger. It must have hated the
men
it had been sent to kill, though we cannot know why it hated them.

Perhaps there were personal reasons, if the Jillies do have what we could call “personal feelings.” Perhaps a close “stomach brother” had been killed by human star-men. Perhaps the world upon which this Jillie autocrat had been born had been ravaged by the ships from Earth. Or perhaps it hated mankind for less personal reasons, for whatever reason it was that this war had begun, whatever taboo we had violated, whatever sin we had unknowingly committed. Or perhaps just for our existence, the fact that we
were,
and some Jillie philosophy said that we should not be.

But then perhaps it did not hate us at all. Perhaps it came to kill us because it had been told to kill us, and for no other reason. We cannot know. We can never know.

Yet it came, it and its six ugly ships, armed with all the weapons of destruction of which the Jillies seemed so proud‌—‌if pride was something that the Jillies could feel.

And as those six bullet-shaped ships grew closer to Breakaway, there came a time when the autocrat of the flagship gave its command, something that might have been the equivalent of mankind’s “general quarters.” The Jillie crew moved rapidly to their stations, checked their weapons, their support systems, prepared to fight, to destroy.

So on they came toward Breakaway Station.

Absolom Bracer stood near the center of the bridge, unmoving, barely breathing, his artificial eyes fixed on the tri-B tank that showed the interior of the domed station on Port Abell, and he waited and he prayed. The full story was coming. Perhaps it was not as bad as it sounded.

Captain Farber was a veteran, and one whom the disciplines of military life did not escape for long. It had taken only a moment for him to regain control of himself, to return to ramrod stiffness and slowly, carefully, perhaps painfully complete his report, his disastrous report. And what it said was this: Admiral Mothershed had, in fact, achieved his goal, and his fleet had begun its return to the Paladine without serious damage. Begun, but not ended. Somewhere, somehow the Jillies had detected them as they were about to turn their bows toward the distant Paladine, and had sent after them another fleet. Perhaps, the admiral said, the Jillies had even guessed their purpose and had sent their warships to see that they never returned to human space to give their report.

Despite his warrior instincts, Albion Mothershed would have attempted to escape, but there had been no time for escape, and he had been forced to fight. And he had fought well, he and his men, if his report was accurate, and it probably was. But the odds against the human interlopers were great, and he barely escaped the battle with his flagship and two heavy battle cruisers, all three scarred and battered, but still operative, to an extent at least.

Fleeing‌—‌fleeing cowardly, Albion Mothershed might have said‌—‌pushing his ships to the limits of their endurance, the remnants of the expedition crossed the long light-years toward the Paladine, carrying with them the knowledge that, if used quickly and fiercely enough, could perhaps give mankind the victory he so desperately needed if there were to be a mankind a century hence.

His luck had held for a while. The sun of Adrianopolis began to grow in the tanks, brighter and brighter. His pursuers, knowing that three of their human prey had escaped, began closing the gap. But now, this close to safety, Mothershed had been almost sure that he could make it, that the Jillies would be destroyed as they entered the Adrianopolitan planetary system.

But his ships had been driven too hard, battered and weakened as they were, leaking irreplaceable air into the vacuum of space, energy cells running down, nuclear power sources failing, and at last the pseudospeed generators of his flagship, the ship that carried the supremely important report, smoldering and screaming, had died. Albion Mothershed had come out of star drive for the last time still seven light-hours from home.

Hastily he had sent his first FTL probe, telling Adrianopolis only that he was near, but not telling his superiors the full extent of his troubles.

Now he had. His pseudospeed generators were now beyond repair. Five Jillie warships attacked his three.

Again Albion Mothershed fought for his life, and perhaps for the lives of billions of others. His screens were up; his energy cannon blasted; his last nuclear missiles screamed from their berths. Yet he realized the futility of it. He and his three battered warships could not defeat them alone, or even hold them off for long. He swallowed his pride.

Send help, Albion Mothershed asked of Adrianopolis and Port Abell. Send help at once!

So they waited again.

Absolom Bracer sent for coffee and drank it down. He puffed a cigarette to life and then sent for more coffee. And he waited. And he tried not to think, not to hope, not to fear.

The main forward viewing tank showed the rocky landscape of airless Port Abell, cold and alone, millions upon millions of kilometers from Adrianopolis and the warmth of her sun. Great blazes of light flashed across the plain, splattering against the rocks, heating them to incandescence, and then rose toward the darkness above. One, two, then three and four. The warships of Port Abell lifted.

A voice was speaking in the background, not that of Captain Farber now, but of another man, a communications technician first class with a pleasing, well-modulated voice which somehow, despite it all, inspired hope.

“…and the LSS
Benburb.
From what is known of the Jillie force now in contact with Admiral Mothershed, victory seems…”

“Admiral!” The voice of astrogator Bene O’Gwynn was shrill.

“What is it?” Bracer asked, turning away from the main tank and toward the astrogation position as quickly as his mechanical lower body would allow. Something in the astrogation officer’s voice filled him with a strange dissociation, a nightmarish feeling that this was something he had lived through before.

The plastiskin lids that covered the astrogator’s eyes were pulled back, revealing a depth of shock, perhaps fear in those human eyes embedded in an artificial mask. There was no other expression on her face, if it could be called a face, nor was expression possible or necessary. Those eyes were enough.

The two duty astrogation technicians were peering at scopes and screens and the mech computer read-out board.

“What is it?” Bracer asked. “Report!”

“Space craft, sir.”

“The ships from Earth?” someone asked.

“Quiet!” Bracer snapped. “How many?”

“Six, sir.”

“Position?”

The astrogation officer read the stellar coordinates from the computer screen.

…roger!… Bracer mentally yelled.

…i know, sir. i’m watching them, wrong coordinates, they can’t be from earth…

…where the hell are they from?…

“Do you have range on them?” he asked aloud.

…22.18 million kilometers… Roger answered silently.

“Yes, sir,” Bene O’Gwynn said. “About 22.18 million kilos, sir. They’re sub-light now, but still moving fast.”

“How fast?”

…201,630 kilometers per second… Roger answered.

Two-thirds of light, Bracer thought.

…estimated time of arrival at breakaway station… Roger was saying, …including probable rate of deceleration, approximately 23:17, this date…

Bracer whistled despite himself.

“201,630 kilos per second, sir,” the astrogation officer was saying. “They should…”

“I know. Identification?”

…unknown. too far out yet…

“Unknown, sir.”

…probable enemy…

…probable! dammit, roger, can’t you be sure?…

…assumed enemy, sir…

“Keep track of them,” he told the astrogator. “God, we’ve got just eleven hours.”

He looked at the main forward tank. The rocky plains of Port Abell stretched toward a close horizon, then fell around the curve of the cold, airless world. High above those plains the glowing drives of the four climbing starships dwindled, then winked out as they went into star drive, moved toward the speed of light and beyond, as they rushed out to where Albion Mothershed fought.

The tank flickered for a moment, returned to the interior of the domed station, and showed the face of the puzzled comm tech who apparently had not been told what to do next. He stood still for a few seconds, then said, “We now return you to Admiral Ommart on Adrianopolis.”

Again the tank flickered.

So close, so damned close. Couldn’t they wait just a few more hours, a few more days, and then it would all be over. No, the Jillies never do things the way you want them to. That’s why we’re out here in the first place. Oh, damn them, and damn the admirals, and damn me too. We could have been home by now.

“Miss Cyanta, inform Breakaway and our companions of the sighting. Give them the coordinates and see if they have any additional data.”

Then, “Attention all hands,” he said into the microphone before him. “This is the admiral. Six unidentified ships have been sighted approaching the Breakaway system. All hands rig for combat. Stand by for further instructions.”

…roger, anything more?…

…not yet, sir. they’re still too far out to tell anything about them, miss o’gwynn knows as much about them as i do. i’ve got work to do, admiral…

…then get it done…

“Get me Captains Medawar and Bugioli,” Bracer yelled to his communications officer.

The words had hardly been spoken when the two images appeared in the tank of his command console, a hair-thin line separating them, giving the appearance of a neatly cracked mirror.

“This may be it,” he told them without preamble.

“We can’t tell much about them, sir,” said Bugioli of the
Pharsalus.
“Could they possibly be the ships from Earth?”

“Too many. Wrong direction,” Bracer snapped.

“Some other League ships, admiral?” questioned Captain Medawar, a forlorn hopefulness in her voice.

“None that we know of. For the time being we must assume them to be the enemy.”

For a few long moments Bracer looked at the two images in the tank before him. Lena Bugioli, her face hard, rocklike, her body supported by a metal cylinder. Medawar with no face at all, nothing, not even real eyes. Hell, I’m no better. Three cripples, commanding ships full of crippled crewmen. What can we do against six Jillie warships? How much help can we possibly be to Breakaway Station? To anyone?

I don’t know, dammit! But we can try. We‌—‌I‌—‌asked for this, and by God we’d better do the best we can. If we’re all going to have to die again, we sure as hell better make some Jillies die along with us.

“We will follow our outlined plans,” he finally said aloud. “Our purpose will be to keep the Jillies away from Breakaway Station as long as possible. I’ll see if we can do something about getting that report from Adrianopolis hurried up some.”

That’s what we’re fighting for now, he told himself, Mothershed’s report. If we can keep the Jillies off until it’s sent on to Earth‌—‌well, then maybe it will have been worth the trouble. Maybe…

“For the present, prepare for combat. We’ll move out to meet the enemy as soon as we’re ready. That’s all. Bracer out.”

The captains of the
Pharsalus
and the
Rudoph Cragstone
nodded, saluted, and then faded away as he broke the connection. “Get me General Crowinsky,” Bracer told the communications officer.

“He’s already calling, sir.”

“Okay, put him on.”

Crowinsky’s thin face was white, his eyes wide, the skin of his cheeks pulled tight against the bone. Years of age had fallen on him with the terrible swiftness of an avalanche. “Admiral, are those Jillies?” he asked.

“Apparently. We can’t be sure yet.”

The commanding officer of Breakaway Station nodded slowly, reluctantly, painfully. “I see. How long do we have?”