Chapter Fourteen

"arent you finished yet?" Norlin paced back and forth in the engineering section, hands clasped behind his back. Barse watched him as she petted the cat.

"The RRUs are hard at work," she said, "and have been for the past week. We're almost back at full strength, but I need to try a different solid-state switch on the radiation cannon. If I don't, we're still going to drain ourselves down to our shorts every time we fire that alien mon-strosity."

"It saved us a week ago," he said, his mind on a dozen different things. "We're going to start radiating energy when we're back to max. The Death Fleet pulled back from Sutton and is starting a blockade. They destroyed four cargo

ships that shifted into the system. The instant we move, they'll be on us—"

"Like flies on manure," Barse finished. She tossed the black cat toward the corner of the room. Yowling in protest, he spun around adroitly to get his feet under him for an easy landing. He turned and glared at her, green eyes filled with disdain at such undignified handling.

"It doesn't matter," said Norlin. "Even if we get only one shot with it, we're going to contact base. They've held out for a full week. They need to know there's someone who can help behind enemy lines."

"In enemy lines is closer to the truth," she said. Barse heaved a sigh. "Cap'n, let me tear into an alien power plant. I need to know what they use. We're going to cinder ourselves shoot-ing that damned popgun of theirs if I don't."

"You saw what their scout ship did on ap-proach to take us in tow. It suicided. They aren't going to let us dance in and rip apart their equipment."

"Never hurts to ask." She smiled crookedly. "Just a joke," she said when she saw his reac-tion. "We're going to full power within the hour. You ready to start swatting flies?"

"I'll be sure Sarov is."

Norlin went to the control room and studied the readouts. Barse and the never-tiring robot repair units had worked wonders in the past week as they drifted through space. The Pre- ceptor lacked only a few minor systems be-cause of Barse's parts pirating, but she had put to good use the equipment from the remains of the two Empire Service ships found drifting dead in space. Norlin would have preferred having the ES vessels at his side in battle rather than as part of his own ship, but that option was closed to him. Pavel Pensky had been too clever by far in blowing apart the first destroyer.

For the hundredth time that week, Norlin reran Pensky's battle plan and studied the finer points. The man's tactical sense was un-surpassed. As with too many of the genetically enhanced, though, he had had no common sense.

"Load the tubes," he ordered Sarov. "Here's our preliminary plan. Choose what you need carefully. We won't get a second chance to do it right." Norlin punched in the salient points of his approach plan and let Sarov work out the details. The tac officer handled tactics; it was up to Norlin to decide strategy—what their goals were.

"That takes us through the rear echelons of the Death Fleet," said Sarov. "We can skirt them and not use any nukes."

"I need the static and confusion," said Norlin.

"We can always shift and spread the warn-ing," suggested Gowan Liottey. The sandy-haired XO wiped the beads of sweat off his upper lip. Norlin wished he would either grow a mustache, which seemed unlikely and might look ludicrous, or stop finding ways to run.

"We've told sector HQ," pointed out Norlin. "We don't need to go any farther. They've con-tacted other colonies by now. The Death Fleet can't stop all message-packet missiles."

"They might. Communication is still spotty," the XO said, his voice rising a few notes in shrillness.

"This is our assigned duty station,* Norlin said coldly. "To do anything other than attempt to lift the blockade is treason—cowardice in the face of the enemy."

"They might not even have faces," whined Liottey.

"Makes staring them down harder," said Miza. "But what's the difference? For Liottey, it's im-possible to even look in a mirror without flinch-ing away."

"Full power, Cap'n," came Barse's terse, tense voice. "Sure you want to bull in like this?" For an answer, he flipped the toggle that acti-vated the attack program he had worked on for the past four days. All the computer simulations and mock battles meant nothing now. If he had erred in any significant part, the Preceptor would be dust floating through the Sutton sys-tem.

"Missiles loaded. Autoloading ready for back-ups, too, Captain," came Sarov's measured, deep tones. Norlin stared at the back of the man's bullet-shaped head. He had let his hair grow until he looked like a bristly hog.

"I've got pickup on approaching enemy ship. Big one. We're not going to dance away from him." Miza's displays showed an alien battle-ship changing course to intercept.

Norlin cursed. He had hoped to take on a smaller ship. The few scouts they had encoun-tered had proved a match for the Preceptor. Such a massive war vessel outgunned and out-everythinged a Nova Class cruiser like the Pre-ceptor.

"Too late to shift out," he said. "We fight. Barse, get the radiation-cannon power feed ready. Sarov, fire at will."

The Preceptor shuddered as Sarov's computer locked on to the target and sent the artificial intelligence-guided missiles at the intruder. The AI circuits sought the shortest path with the highest probability of detonation on target. A randomizing factor had been built into the mis-siles to prevent a pattern from developing dur-ing long exchanges.

"One impact. Negligible damage," reported Sarov. "We got its attention, though. Predis-charge coronas on three turrets. He's hot—and he's mad!"

"Comlink established with base, Captain," cut in Miza.

Norlin blinked in surprise. "How did you manage that?"

She shrugged. "Luck. No skill involved. They might be letting us through to see what we've got to say to each other."

"Who's on the other end?" Norlin's attention

focused on the computer display representing relative positions of the Preceptor and the alien battleship. Being burdened with official orders only complicated the situation.

"Admiral Bendo from an underground posi-tion. The station has been destroyed."

"Captain Droon?"

"Vapor," said Miza.

"Keep firing the missiles. Ready the radiation cannon for one quick shot. A microburst, not a full blast." Norlin sucked in air and let it out slowly. "Patch the admiral into my 'link." The line officer's face appeared a few centime-ters beyond Norlin's heads-up display of instru-ments. Voice meshed with picture in a few seconds.

"Captain Pensky?"

"Pensky died during an attack. Sublieutenant Norlin in command of the Preceptor once more."

"Highly irregular. You were—never mind. Re-port."

Norlin transmitted a microburst of coded in-formation. Even if the aliens intercepted the nanosecond spurt, it would do them little good. The encryption could be broken, given time. De-coding a month from now gave the aliens no edge.

"Received and verified with cyclic redun-dancy check. I'll put in for a medal for Pensky. An Empire Star, the same as we gave Dukker. As for you and your crew, Norlin, land in a shuttle at these coordinates." A sharp hiss sounded in Norlin's headphones. He frowned, wondering what had happened. On his private circuit with Miza, she said, "Got the microburst a few seconds before he said he was going to send it. The second burst is a decoy."

"Record," Norlin ordered mechanically. He was too engrossed in thought. Admiral Bendo had ordered them to the surface of Sutton II. They didn't belong there. They needed to be in space where the real battle occurred.

"Have indications of the battleship's main turrets warming for attack," came Sarov's even, measured voice. "Missiles away, each aimed at a gun placement."

Norlin glanced at the progress display from Sarov's weapons display. Enough explosive power had been unleashed to level half a good-sized continent. The first two missiles hit squarely and didn't even scratch the hull.

"Why do you want us to land, Admiral?"

"Don't question orders. You have the coordi-nates."

"True coords marked, trap ones discarded, Captain," said Miza. "It looks good and official to me."

"Fire the damned radiation cannon," he or-dered. When Sarov hesitated, Norlin used his command chair override. His finger stabbed down and hit the button with a ferocity he had not thought he possessed. The Preceptor screamed in agony as the alien weapon dis-charged. The lights dimmed but did not plunge the ship into total darkness.

"Good work," he complimented Barse. The only reply he received was a string of profanity as the engineer worked to fix the new damage caused by firing the radiation cannon. Norlin grinned when he saw they had disabled the bat-tleship. The massive craft had taken the deadly beam squarely amidship. What had been de-stroyed aboard the vessel, he didn't know.

It hardly mattered. The ship tried to limp away. The mistake gave Sarov the opening he needed. Flight after flight of missiles sought out vital parts of the space-borne fighting machine and chipped away tiny pieces. The behemoth was being brought down by gnat bites.

"Got it. One up the rear engine exhaust," crowed Sarov.

The shudder that passed through the battle-ship brought a cheer to Norlin's lips. He quieted. Only he and Sarov saw the victory. A human cruiser had met and defeated the largest ship in the aliens' fleet!

"I don't want to see anything but molten droplets on the vidscreen," he told Sarov.

"Hard to do, Captain. The lasartillery is best for this work, and we're down two mounts."

"Turning the Preceptor." Norlin worked the cruiser around its axis to bring the four remain-ing lasartillery batteries to bear. Barse cursed even more volubly when Sarov powered up the laser cannon and began working on the battle-ship parts.

Norlin felt drained. He had wanted the battle^ ship as intact as possible to study their power plant. Pragmatism had won out in making the decision for all-out attack. He doubted the ship's destruction had gone unnoticed by the aliens.

Reducing it to metallic vapor gave a better chance for evasion. Possibly—just possibly— the battleship's rescue party might hesitate and run spectroscopic readings to verify the ship's demise. Every second he bought now gave him a bet-ter chance at survival.

"Are we really going to shuttle down to Sut-ton, Captain?" Gowan Liottey stood beside the command chair, one hand on the arm. Norlin resisted the urge to brush off the almost-skeletal hand with the chewed decorative nails. Before he replied, he ran a quick life-support check and cursory examinations on the other systems under Liottey's control. The officer had been doing little—and the Preceptor had been lucky. Little repair work on those systems was needed.

"Would you disobey an order from an admi-ral?" Norlin asked.

"We'd have to abandon the cruiser."

"Dangerous," agreed Norlin. Liottey's prob-lem lay in stark fear for his life. Norlin's reluc-tance to obey came from finally realizing he was a spaceman. He belonged on a ship, not stuck on a mud ball buried under kilometers of rock and metal shielding. Mobility gave safety; the Pre-ceptor's offensive weapons gave safety. The idea of being on-planet and having to shoot at only those ships choosing to show themselves over the horizon bothered him.

"We can't disobey a lawful order," said Liot-tey. "Unless we mutiny."

"What are you getting at?" Norlin turned in the chair and pushed back the command visor so that he looked squarely into the XO's blue eyes.

"The other ships. Rumors." Liottey glanced at Miza, who ignored him. "Mutinies. Crews refus-ing to be slaughtered like herd animals."

"We can run or we can fight. We saw how likely the Death Fleet was to give quarter. Is running the answer to stopping them?" de-manded Norlin.

"The galaxy is vast. We can drift in front of them. There are planets they'll never reach. Can you imagine them striking Earth? Impossible!" Liottey's eyes glowed with manic intensity.

"Each captain is entitled to deal with mutiny in his own way. It might be a black mark on the mutineer's record for minor disturbances—or it might be as extreme a punishment as tossing the miscreant out the airlock. Which do you choose, Mr. Liottey?"

"We'll die if we stay!" pleaded Liottey.

"No one lives forever. Not even the emperor." Norlin turned and made a quick inspection of the major systems. Barse worked well to bring them back to full power. She cursed constantly and occasional yowls from the ship's cat could be heard over her opinions on the heredity and personal habits of all captains. He was amazed. She never repeated herself.

"We're going into parking orbit around Sutton II," he announced to the others. "I don't like abandoning the Preceptor, but disobeying Admi-ral Bendo's direct order is even more distaste-ful."

"He's got the reputation of being a sharp strategist," pointed out Sarov. "It's not as suicidal as it sounds."

"The parking orbit is clear. The ground batter-ies are sweeping the sky in just the right pattern to protect our approach," affirmed Miza.

Norlin heaved a sigh and punched in the proper sequence to power down his ship and launch the small shuttle for the planet's surface. Everything the admiral had told him proved to be correct. They were needed below.

He had to obey.

Even if it meant giving up the safety of his ship. His ship.