Passage At Arms

11 End Game

There's a stir in the display tank. They know a Climber has struck. They don't know we're harmless now. Their reaction seems to be a controlled panic.

Carmon goes to his broadest scale. Red and green blips swirl everywhere.

The Old Man is grumbling at Throdahl. Must be arguing with Command. There's no way we can .make a rendezvous at Fuel Point. TerVeen is our only hope.

"Stand by to take hyper," the Old Man says.

We have to jump. Have to get as close as we can. Maybe there's a shred of Planetary Defense umbrella left. Long shot.

We could do a few zigzags and power down completely, go on emergency power, and drift in, but the men aren't up to a norm crossing. The best we could hope for, Canzoneri says, is a nine-day passage. Through the heat and heart of battle.

No thank you. That's a suicide run.

Do we have enough hydrogen to jump and make adjustments in inherent velocity when we get close?...

Why worry? Command may not send tugs into the crucible for a lone, beat-up Climber they don't want there anyway.

The Commander appears only mildly concerned. He's started another up cycle. Telling weak jokes.

Asking Throdahl and Rose for the addresses of those girls they're always bragging about. "Jump, Mr. Westhause. Maximum translation ratio."

Oh-oh. We have company. Nuclear greetings are headed our way.

Our chances look longer all the time. I don't think we'll make it.

It's been one hell of an interesting mission----- The Commander is beside me. "Go get your notes."

"Sir?"

"Get your stuff together. Stow it in a ration case under your seat."

I move down to Ship's Services, strip my hammock in seconds. "What's going on out there?" Bradley asks. He doesn't know we've just shot it out with a corvette, and that a missile flight is closing in.

Kriegshauser is right behind him. "Give it to us straight," he pleads.

I sketch it. "It doesn't look good. But you can count on the Old Man."

That seems assurance enough. The Ship's Services people are unshakable. Maybe they were selected for that.

I pause as I pass through Weapons. Piniaz looks grim. He forces a smile. One hand drifts to my shoulder. "Been all right, Lieutenant. Good luck. Just write it the way it was."

A hell of a gesture for the little man. "I will, Ito. I promise."

I settle my things under the First Watch Officer's seat. Pity I can't make peace with Varese, too.

"What's happened?" I ask Fisherman. The mausoleum silence of Ops demands a soft voice.

"Getting worse." His screen is a-crawl with hyper wakes. The pencil strokes characteristic of hightranslation ratio missiles spaghetti through the mess. We're cruising the middle of a barn-burner.

Both sides have gone kill-crazy.

Chung!

Chung!

"What the hell is that?"

Chung!

Sounds like some mischievious child-deity is hammering the hull with a god-sized gong-beater.

"We're hyper skipping," Fisherman says. "Randomed."

I figured as much. It's one way to rattle a missile's moron brain. But that doesn't have anything to do with the noise.

Chung!

"What's the noise?" It's pounding the can about ninety degrees round the circle.

"Mr. Westhause said he was having trouble with inertial rectification."

"That wouldn't..."

"Commander, Engineering. There's a chunk of water-ice bouncing around in the Six Reserve Tank. Can we have a constant vector and acceleration while we melt and drain?"

"Negative. We can live with the racket. But go ahead and melt."

"Engineering, aye."

That was Diekereide. I haven't seen him for a while. Have to buy him a beer if we get out of this.

"Weapons. Gunnery status?"

"Energy all go, Commander. Got them cooled and tuned enough for a couple shots." We nearly lost them while dueling with the corvette. "They won't last, though."

"We won't shoot unless a Christmas present falls in our lap."

The Old Man has reached back and found one more reservoir of whatever it is that makes him go. He jitters from station to station, restless as a whore in church, almost eager for the squeeze to get tighter. Poisonous clouds belch from his pipe. We take turns coughing and scowling and rubbing our eyes. And grinning at the Commander's back when he moves on. ......_

He's alive. He'll bring us through again.

That faith, the thing that the Commander so fears, resents, and loves, helps me understand both him and Fisherman a bit better.

Fisherman has surrendered his life and soul to a universal Ship's Commander. He just keeps plugging while he waits for that heavenbound ride.

The others yield only to faith in snatches, in hard time, to a man, when they fear their own competence is insufficient.

It's a pity the Commander can find no fit object for faith himself.

He's too cynical to accept any religion, and the Admiral's circus antics have alienated him from any demigod role. What's left? The Service? That's what we were taught all those years in Academy.

Tannian is Command's strength and weakness. For all his strategic genius, he can't inspire his captains.

The gong-beating fades, but not before the plug-ups rush to a tiny crack in our bulkhead.

The Climber is dying slowly, like a man with a nasty cancer.

A chunk of water ice. Not a completely unpleasant surprise. It means a little extra energy, a little extra mobility. Or a long, cool drink for the crew. Lord, I'm thirsty. I've got nothing left to sweat.

"Stand by, Weapons. We have a possible Target One. Designation vectors coming down now."

What the hell?

One especially intense streak stands out on Fisherman's screen. That the one? Only an advanced tactical computer could make sense of that mess. The mix has grown too dense, the changes too rapid.

We've drawn a lot of attention. The tank shows a lot of green blips. Maybe Command is lending a hand.

The whole mess is probably an ad lib.

"Commander, Engineering." That's Diekereide again. Where's Varese? "I'm getting an erratic flow through Hydrolysis. I don't think we can process enough hydrogen to meet your present translation demand."

"Auxiliary?"

"On the line."

"Reserve hydrogen?"

"Down to fifteen minutes available. We lost the main pressure gauge sometime.... Don't know how long we've been drawing. Had to read it by..."

"Notify me when you're down to five minutes. Mr. Piniaz? We've got a missile coming. Got to skrag it."

"Targeted and tracking, Commander."

"On my mark, then." The Commander exchanges whispers with Westhause.

Rose says, "Commander, we've got another unavoidable coming up." He's insanely calm. They all are.

Weird.

The walls are closing in. The tank makes some sense now, on a local scale. Missile coming in.

We'll have to dance with it, confuse it, take it in norm, with our energy weapons. And the delay will let the other team lock us into a lethal groove.

Alarm. We go norm. "Now, Mr. Piniaz."

The result is unspectacular. The missile vaporizes, but I can't catch its death on screen.

"Commander, Weapons. We've lost the graser for good."

This junk pile is falling apart.

The dream dance on the borders of death continues another half hour. We knock out four pursuing missiles, lose another laser. Westhause squanders fuel tinkering with our inherent velocity. As always, the Commander keeps his own counsel. I haven't the foggiest what he's planning. I try to lose myself in my troubles.

A change. More excitement. I look around. Three missiles have us zeroed. How do we duck this time?

We don't have a time margin to fool with anymore. If we stop to take one, the others will get us.

"Commander, Engineering." Varese is back. "Five minutes available hydrogen."

"Thank you, Mr. Varese. Max power. Shunt as much into storage as you can."

I pan to Canaan. Getting close now. Walking distance.

"Sir?" Varese asks.

"Wait one. Mr. Westhause, proceed. Lieutenant, just give me all the stored power you can."

The Commander loses himself in thought. I look at the tank, at Westhause. He's stopped dancing.

Canaan is expanding like a child's balloon blowing up. We're running straight in.

The Commander switches on shipwide comm. "Men, this's the last hurdle, and the last trick in our sack. This's been a good ship. She's had good crews, and this one was the best. But now she's done. She can't run and she can't fight."

What's this defeatist talk? The Old Man never gives up.

"We're going to assume a cis-lunar orbit and separate compartments. That should satisfy the other firm. Rescue will round us up. During our leave I'll have you all out to Kent for a party in the ship's memory."

I can smell the pines, hear the breeze in their boughs. Is Marie really gone? Sharon... did you bring your Climber through, honey? At least a dozen were lost against that convoy. ...

The crew answer the Old Man with silence. It's the most compelling stillness I've ever experienced.

What's to say? Name another option.

"Men, we made history. I'm proud to have served with you." For the first time ever, the Old Man sits down while he has the conn.

He's done. He's shot his last round. But restless banks of smoke still brew around him. In a weary voice, he asks, "How long, Mr. Westhause?"

We're making a final, brief hyper fly. Skipping in millisecond jumps. Keeping the missiles confused.

"Two minutes thirty... five seconds. Commander."

Strange, that Westhause. Unshakable. Still as professional as the day we boarded. Someday he'll command a Climber with the cool of the Old Man.

"Chief Nicastro, give us a separation countdown. Throdahl, give Command another squirt on our intentions. Mr. Westhause will give you the orbital data. Use Emergency Two."

What will the missiles do when their target splits five ways? Three missiles. Somebody is going to make it.

Give me a break, ye gods of war.

There's a chance. Not a good one, but a chance. One small point going our way. Those three doomstalkers can't be controlled by their masters. They're dependent on their own dull-witted brains.

Which is why we've stayed ahead this long.

My stomach constricts ever more tightly. Fear. The moment of truth is roaring toward us.

We've passed some barrier the enemy won't yet hazard. Maybe Planetary Defense has maintained a tight death pocket round TerVeen. Only those three killer imbeciles continue dogging our trail.

On camera. There's TerVeen. Battered all to hell, but still in business, a spider spinning webs of fire.

The Climber zigzags. Westhause and Varese exchange curses. Final seconds before orbit.

I'll say this. When you're scared shitless it's hard to concentrate on anything else.

Write. Keep your hands busy. Anything for a distraction.

Nicastro's soft voice drones, "... nine... eight... seven..." Six-five-four-three-two-one-ZERO!

Bang!

You're dead.

No. I'm not. Not yet.

Barrages of sound rip through the hull as the explosive bolts go. Perfectly. God bless. Something is working right. The force slams me from the side. Our rocket pack blasts us away from the rest of the ship.

"We have separation and ignition on Ops and Engineering, Commander." How very perceptive.

Head twist. Glare at the tank. Where are those missiles? Can't tell. The antennae were mounted on the torus. We're flying blind....

Thrust ends. The plug-ups break it up around the Weapons bulkhead. I feel lightheaded-----Freefall.

No artificial gravity.

The Commander drifts out of his seat.

The serials are continuing in the rest of the ship. Ship's Services will be last to separate. The din there must be murderous. Charlie, I hope you make it. Kriegshauser, you never did get back with that name.

"We have separation on Weapons, Commander."

I still have one outside camera. I watch the rockets flame. Jump the magnification. There's the torus, wobbling, spinning, dwindling rapidly, illuminated by the rockets. It shows silvery patches where beams licked it.

The Climber slides out of view. A crescent of Canaan appears. We're tumbling toward the dawn. I hope Rescue can handle the end-over-end.

The sun rises. It's brilliant, majestic, as it crawls over the curve of the world we've lusted after so long.

Where are those missiles?

There's something special about a mother star materializing from behind a daughter planet. It fills me with the awe of creation. I feel it now, even though death bays at my heels. This, and perhaps clouds, are the supreme arguments for the existence of a Creator.

Time to check the torus again.

My God! A new sun!...

Berberian says, "The torus. First missile took the torus." His voice is a toad's croak.

Well, naturally. The torus is the biggest target. It'll be over in seconds.... Sighs all through the compartment. A diminution in tension. We have a fifty-fifty chance now.

"Hey! Torus again!" Berberian shouts. "Goddamned second fucking missile took the torus, too!"

"Let's have proper reports," the Commander admonishes.

I could howl for joy.

And yet... there's that third bird, lagging the other two. Big black monster with my name engraved on its teeth.

Got to get Canaan on screen. I want a world in my eyes when I go.

What a sweet world it is. What a beautiful world. I've never wanted any woman, not even Sharon, as badly as I want that world.

"Three won't target on the torus," Laramie says.

"Shut your cocksucker, will you?" Rose snarls.

Piniaz will try with his one laser, but it won't be enough. He's failed twice already, hasn't he?

Nevertheless, the Old Man has won. There will be survivors.

If Fisherman's Devil exists, his favorite torture must be guilt. Three more compartments out there, and me here hoping the hammer falls on one of them. Part of me is utterly without shame.

A flash brightens my screen. "Gone." I stammer getting the word out.

"Who?" a voice demands.

"Berberian? Throdahl?" the Commander asks.

Seconds pass. I scribble frantically, then wait, pencil poised. Throdahl says, "Commander, I can't get a response from Ship's Services."

"Ah, Charlie. Shit."

"That's it, men," the Commander says. "Secure. Mr. Yanevich, take charge." He pauses to knock ashes from his pipe. "Emergency watch bill."

Kriegshauser. Vossbrink. Charlie Bradley. Light. Shingle-decker. Tahtaburun. All gone? No. Some were in Engineering.

Poor Charlie. He had a future. Crapped out first patrol. Welcome to the Climbers, kid.

I'll mourn him. I liked him.

Wonder if Kriegshauser made it. He hated being away from his little galley.

Well, if he didn't, he doesn't have a problem anymore. Too bad I couldn't help him.

Look on the positive side. They didn't hurt. They never knew what hit them.

Nothing to do now but wait for Rescue. Wait and wonder if we'll ever hear their approach signal.

Going to find an empty hammock. Probably won't sleep, but I need a change. Need to get away.

Chatter down below. "Think they'll throw anything else?" That's Cannon. "We're sitting ducks."

"Don't worry your pointy head, Patriot," Nicastro says. "We won't know it when it hits us." The Chief refuses to believe there's a tomorrow.

"How long we got to wait?" Berberian asks.

"Throdahl? Anything?"

"Sorry, Chief."

"As long as we have to, Berberian."

Berberian says, "Thro, get on the horn and tell them to get their asses out here."

"I did, Berberian. What the fuck more you want?"

"Pussy. Pussy and more pussy. Whole platooons of pussy. Just line them up and I'll lay them down."

I was right. Can't sleep. I roll,. Jown through the tangle.

The Commander is seated near Westhause, writing something. He rises, struggles up to his cabin.

Even in free-fall he finds the climb hard work. He's burned out. Nothing left.

You got us home, old friend. Hang on to that.

"Let's get on it here," the First Watch Officer snaps. "We're supposed to conserve power." His tone is relaxed, confident. The tone of a Commander. He's come along. "Carmon, secure the tank.

Mr. Westhause, Chief Canzoneri, lock your memory banks and close up shop. You too, Junghaus.

Berberian, Throdahl, stay warm. Might need to help Rescue. Laramie, secure the cooler and atmosphere scrubber. Going to get cold anyway. Give us a spritz of oxygen while you're at it.

Chief Nicastro, secure some lights. If you don't have something to do, crap out."

Men lying still use fewer calories and perspire less. The First Watch Officer is gentling us into the starvation leg of our journey.

"Hope to fuck they hurry," Throdahl grumbles. He keeps tinkering, trying to find something on the Rescue band. "I'm hungry, thirsty, horny, and filthy. Not necessarily in that order."

"I'll buy that," Rose says.

"What the hell does that mean?"

"That you're filthy, Thro. Right down to the stinking core."

The pace picks up. Laramie joins in. Berberian contributes the occasional quip. They're feeling better.

For me the waiting is intolerable. We're too near home.

Laramie moans something about he's going to perish if he don't get some pussy in the next twentyfour hours.

"You'll last," Fisherman snarls. The men look at nun, mouths open. No. He's not joining the game.

The cut-low session recesses. Junghaus's shipmates aren't insensitive.

"At least you had water," the usually silent Scarlatella grumbles. I roll slightly, peer through the tangled piping. Lubomir Scarlatella is a strange one. He's Electronic Technician for Chief Canzoneri. I don't think he's said a hundred words all patrol. Silent, proficient, imperturbable.

You hardly notice him. Now hysteria edges his voice.

"Until it was a choice between using power to recycle it or to heat the ship." A sublime calm visibly overtakes Junghaus. In a gentle voice he begins quoting scripture. Nobody shuts him up.

I slept. I don't believe it. Twelve hours. Might have gone longer if Zia hadn't wanted the hammock. Clambered down to my old seat. Listened to the halfhearted murmur of the men. Mostly it was speculation about what's happened to our friends in the other compartments.

Hour fourteen. Thro lets out a whoop. "Here they are!"

"Here who are?" Mr. Westhause asks. He has the watch, such as it is.

"Rescue... goddamned. They're going after Weapons. The bastards." He slugs his console angrily.

'Take it easy. We'll get our turn."

The sons of bitches!

You don't know how selfish you can be till you're in a survival situation seeing someone else being saved first. Forty-two minutes, every one spent hating and cursing Piniaz's cutthroats.

Now our turn. With Rescue cursing us as heartily as we cursed Weapons. It takes them three hours to get the spin off the compartment.

"Not going to tow us," Throdahl announces. "They're going to take us out right here. Going to scab a tube to the top hatch."

A chung echoes through the compartment. More delicate sounds follow it. Someone is walking around on the roof.

Yanevich waves me over, beckons Mr. Westhause. "Let's get up by that hatch. We'll have to keep order."

"What do you mean?"

"You'll see."

I do. We have to threaten violence when the fresh water comes through. Some people seem willing to kill for a drink. We're lucky they're really too weak to riot.

"Take it easy!" I snap at Zia. "Drink too much and you'll make yourself sick."

Yanevich says, "Throdahl, get back to the radio. They'll tell us when to open the hatch."

The stench of bile assails my nostrils. Zia has puked his stomach empty. "I told you-----" Never mind. He had to learn.

"Undog the hatch," Throdahl yells. "They've got the tube on."

Yanevich checks the telltales on our side, unlocks the hatch. Several men surge up behind him.

A pair of Marines squat outside the hatch. "Get back," one says. They're wearing combat suits.

"You don't get out yet." They slither in, station themselves beside the opening.

A med team follows them. A doctor and two medical corps-men in white plague suits. What is this?

Are we carriers of the Black Death?

The men crowd round our visitors, touching, murmuring with the awe of primitives. They can't really believe they're saved.

Have these rescuers ever seen anything this bad? We're worse than a bunch of galley slaves.

Unbathed for ages. Un-shaved. Clothed in moldy rags. Skin masked by scab and scale. Some men losing hair.

Lucky the med team aren't female. Good way to get torn apart. These men aren't human anymore.

In a few months the process of degeneration will begin anew, aboard a new Climber. But I won't be going out. Thank god. Not again. Neither will Chief Nicastro...

The Chief. "Steve. Waldo. Where's the Chief?"

"Nicastro?" Yanevich says. "He was right... come on."

We spread out. Not much to search. Westhause finds him immediately. "Here. DC station. Medic!"

I find him with fingers against Nicastro's jugular. He shakes his head. "Medic!" I shout. "What happened, Waldo?"

"I don't know. Heart maybe."

Yanevich mutters, "He was determined he wasn't going to make it."

The doctor goes the whole CPR route. No good. "Nothing I can do here," he says. "Under normal conditions..."

"Nothing's normal in the Climbers."

I'm so numb I couldn't mourn my best friend. Nothing but low, banked coals of rage remain.

The men are leaving. The Marines are making sure they stay civilized.

"Where's the Old Man?" Westhause asks.

"Upstairs." I point.

"I'll get him," Yanevich says. "Go ahead."

"Where's Fearless? Hey! Fred!" Suddenly, that cat is the most important thing in my universe.

The men are all out. Westhause clambers through the hatchway. "Now you," the doctor says.

"Can't. Got to find..."

The Marines make short work of me.

The long tight tube leads to a receiving bay aboard the Rescue ship. I scramble through fast.

Another med team is waiting. They're expecting animals. A barrage of water smashes me flat. I tumble across a cold, hard deck. Three times I get to my feet and go after the hose man.

He has no trouble protecting himself. The bay is under full gravity. My weary, weak muscles can't handle it. Disgusted, I surrender to the inevitable, let myself be driven into an immersion bath.

They don't give me time to shed my clothing.

Takes the piss and vinegar out of you fast. I suppose that's why they do it.

Splashing and wailing, I struggle to the tank's far side. There's no fight in me anymore. A hand comes down. I grab it. In a moment I'm lying on the deck, panting. My shipmates gag and gasp around me. Throdahl, in the bath, is promising murder. The med crew don't let him out till he changes his mind.

"Can you stand up?" My helper's voice is spooky. Planetary atmosphere here, and he's wearing a mask. I grunt an affirmative. "Get your clothes off. Sir."

It's a struggle, but I manage. "What about my stuff?"

The medic scoops my rags into a basket with a little plastic pitchfork. "You'll get it back. If you want it."

"I mean my stuff from the ship. It's important." This is the critical passage. My notes and pictures could disappear without my being able to raise a finger.

A horrible caterwauling erupts from the escape tube. An orange Fury whirls out. Fearless is reluctant to leave home. He's giving a Marine all he can handle. Man, is he going to be mad when... the hose man goes to work.

I'm wrong. Old Fearless is so stunned by the indignity of it all he just goes along. He barely reacts when I drag him out of the pool. He hasn't the strength to don his usual mask of aloofness.

A hand is in my face. "Drink this." I drain a small squeeze bottle. "Now use one of the showers."

The medic points. "Be thorough, but don't waste time. Your buddies are waiting. So is breakfast."

"Breakfast?"

"It's morning to us, sir."

"Come on, Fearless." I waste little time showering. That squeeze bottle contained an all-time purgative. There's little for my stomach to be rid of, but it's making a valiant effort.

Breakfast turns out to be lunch. They put us through four hours of intensive decontamination before they dump us into the ship's hospital quarters and feed us. By then I'm so dopey I don't know where I am. I fall asleep with an IV in my arm, feeling like a voodoo doll after the ceremony.

I waken much later. Pain. Gravity gnawing at my every cell. Yet I feel healthier than I have in months. My body has been flushed of accumulated poisons.

My stomach knots in hunger.

Clean! I feel clean. There's nothing more sensual than clean sheets against freshly scrubbed skin.

A male nurse helps me sit up. I survey the ward. Seems we're still aboard the Rescue ship.

Westhause is in the bed to my left, Yanevich to my right. Both are awake, staring into nothing.

"Where's the Old Man?" Varese, Diekereide, and Piniaz lie beyond the astrogator. We're laid out in Service pecking order.

Westhause won't meet my gaze. He hears me, I know. But he won't answer.

"Steve?"

"Psych detention," he whispers. "They brought him out in a straitjacket. Didn't realize it was over. Wanted to light off the drive. Said he had to help Johnson."

"Shit. Goddamned, shit. Wonder if I can find Marie? Maybe she can put him back together. Shit.

This fucking war."

"Won't find Marie. Won't any of us see Canaan again."

I survey the ward. Everyone is here. Including Bradley and his gang. How can that be? That missile got them-----Or did it? Did Ito get in one straight shot, when it counted?

Yanevich plunges ahead. "They have troops down on the surface."

What? If Canaan is lost, everything is done for. Holy shit. I twist toward Westhause. He has family down there. There's a tear track on his cheek.

Something stirs beside me. Fearless rises, stretches, moves to a new napping place atop my chest.

What are the medics doing? "At least you'll get out, you one-eyed pirate. Whether you want it or not. How long till we make TerVeen, Steve?"

Yanevich gets the same hollow look Westhause has. "We're headed outsystem. They've broken through TerVeen's defenses, too. Hand-to-hand fighting, last we heard. Rescue people say they've lost contact."

Westhause curses softly.

"He had a girl there. Under your seat, all your stuff; I made them bring it out."

Down the way Rose and Throdahl revise plans for their leaves, wherever we're going. Second Fleet's baseworld, I'd guess. Laramie and Berberian trade halfhearted insults. Fisherman is seated in the lotus position on his bed, looking more oriental than Christian as he communes with his god. Diekereide is telling Bradley a story we've heard before. Varese and Piniaz have retreated into their sullen, solitary worlds. Kriegshauser is curled in a fetal ball, facing the wall. They're all here. All but the paterfamilias.

"Shit. This fucking war."

You cheated me, my friend, you never did come in out of the bushes. You didn't shed your warpaint and reveal the man behind. Maybe now you're so well hidden no one will see you again. If so, goodbye. We loved you well. I wish you'd given us the chance to understand.

This goddamned war.

That evil-mouthed Laramie is humming the "Outward Bound." One by one, with malign grins, the others take it up.

What the hell? Here's up yours, Fred Tannian. "Hmm-hmm-de-dum..."

Epilog Twenty years have fled since Clara Barton carried the crew of 53-B from the Canaan System. The hospital was the last ship out, given safe passage by the other firm. Admiral Frederick Minh- Tannian died with weapon in hand twelve days later, as TerVeen finally fell. He lived and died the role he demanded of his command.

His death was his great triumph. Historians now mark it as the watershed of the war.

We who served him, for one mission or many, and survived, can neither forget nor forgive. Yet the man was a genius. He established a goal, and fulfilled it. One stubborn mongrel nipping at the enemy's hamstrings, he broke Ulant's inexorable stride. After that the war was won. Numbers and production were our advantages, though blunt instruments slow to hammer out the armistice.

They were heroes, the people of Climber Fleet One. They were everything Tannian claimed. In the aggregate. However, we were individuals, frightened men and women trapped in the crucible of war.

True heroes seldom picture themselves as heroes. True heroes just stick to their jobs in the teeth of the dragon winds of heart and hell.

Twenty years have flown. Only now has the bitterness waned enough to permit this true tale to be told. There was no effort to censor me, back when. Civilians decided the public was not ready for this. Even now, those who bring you this are afraid of the furor it may raise----- For all he seemed shattered and lost, my friend recovered with his confidence redeemed and renewed. Six years later he commanded the Task Group that reclaimed Canaan.

Yanevich, Westhause, and Bradley likewise prospered. The first and last are still in, and Admirals today. Westhause is a math professor on Canaan.

Piniaz perished his second mission after they gave him his own Climber. Diekereide was his Engineer. What became of Varese no one knows.

Of the enlisted men of 53-B, six survived the war. Of those, two have survived the peace. The price of the Climbers, and of victory, continues to be paid. Sometimes it seems Ulant came out better than we did.