Passage At Arms

7 Orders

The patrol is getting to me. I've been rude to or belligerent with almost everybody today. I have a lot of fear and nervous energy pressure-bottled inside me.

I'm not the only Sam Sullen. I see fewer smiles, hear fewer jokes. The tone of the crew is quieter. There's an unmentioned but obvious increase in tension between individuals. There'll be a fight before long. Something has to act as a valve to relieve pressure.

I'll hang around Ops till it happens. I don't want to be part of the process. The Old Man's inhibiting effect makes Ops the safest place to be.

Piniaz has the watch when I arrive. The Commander is on hand. Command has responded to our report.

Finally.

"The sons of bitches," Piniaz growls.

The Commander hands me a message flimsy. It's a congratulatory message. Over Tannian's chop.

"Not one goddamned word about Johnson," Piniaz mutters. "The brass-bottomed bastards. Be the same fucking thing when we get ours. Some sad sack of shit will move us to the inactive file, wait a goddamned year, then send the regret-to-informs."

Nicastro gives Piniaz a poisonous look. His hands are shaking and white.

"Goddamned printout form letter, that's what they send. Full of Tannian's bullshit about valiant warriors making the supreme sacrifice. Jesus. Talk about insensitive."

I get in the way as the Chief lets fly. Startled, he pulls the punch. I tap him back and ask, "How are they hanging, Chief?" He settles into an embarrassed calm.

Piniaz missed the swing, but catches enough of the postmortem to understand. He cans the bitching.

Too many eyes missed nothing. Word gets around.

Maybe this will give me my breakthrough. One ordinary occurrence, entirely unplanned. After all that time trying to engineer something.

The Commander is first to mention the incident. In private, of course. "Happened to notice something odd this morning," he says, between sips of coffee brewed to spice another of our sparring sessions.

"Uhm? I doubt it."

"Doubt what?"

"That you happened to do anything. You choreograph your breathing."

He permits himself a weak, weary, sardonic smile. "You handled that pretty good. Could have caused trouble. Ito would've insisted on his prerogatives." He goes to work on his pipe. "You always were good at that. Guess I'll have to chew the Chief." He finds whatever it is that displeases him about the pipe's bowl, returns the instrument to his pocket.

"Sometimes a patrol goes sour after a fight. Just gets hairier. Like moral gangrene. Between officer and enlisted is bad. Turns the crew into armed camps." He reaches for the pipe, realizes he's fiddled it half to death already. "You bought some time. Maybe the Chief will take a look at himself now." After a pause, "Guess I'll tell department heads to lean on the big-mouths."

I can imagine the potential for disaster. A blow struck relieves pressure but plants a seed.

Establishes a precedent. We need some sort of distraction. Pity there's no room anywhere for athletics.

"You might suggest that Mr. Piniaz be less abrasive."

His eyebrows rise.

"I know. He just said what we're all thinking. It's not what he said. It's the way he said it.

It's the way he says everything."

Still he says nothing.

"Damn it, the man doesn't have to keep proving he's as good as everybody else. We know it. That Old Earther shoulder chip is going to get his head twisted."

"Could be me doing it, too. I'm tired of it. But what can you do? People will be what they are.

They have to learn the hard way."

He's been leading me along. I figure it's time to punch back. "And you? What's your chip? What's eating you?"

His face darkens like an old house with the lights going out. He gulps his coffee, leaves without answering. I don't think to call after him.

Kriegshauser materializes immediately, ostensibly to clean up. But he has something on his mind.

He makes a production of the simple task.

I've barely tasted my coffee. "You drink this stuff, Kriegshauser? Want the rest? Go ahead. Sit down." I'm sure he gets his sips off each batch. Real coffee is too great a temptation.

"Thank you, sir. Yes sir. I will."

I wait, unsure how to draw him out. Like everyone else aboard this mobile asylum, the real Kriegshauser is well hidden.

He finds his nerve. "I've got a problem, Lieutenant."

"Yes?"

Kriegshauser chomps his lower lip. "Sex problem, sir."

"Ah?" It's hard to disbelieve the claim that he never bathes nor changes his underwear. His personal mass must consist entirely of deodorant and cologne. He reeks.

"This's my fifth patrol on this ship."

I nod. I know that much.

"They won't let me off. I've put in."

What does that have to do with boy-girl? Maybe nothing. Few of us are direct.

"There's this other guy that's been on, too..." It gushes.

"Been trying to get me to make it. Putting on pressure. Kept my requests from going through.

That's why I don't wash. It's not for luck, like the guys think. Anyway, he's got me against the wall."

"How so?"

"There was this girl, see? Leave before last. Said she was eighteen. Well, she wasn't. And she was a runaway."

So? I think. The universe festers with unhappy people. Too many of them are children.

"She was using me to get at her parents."

"Uhn?" That happens. Far too often.

"I found out last leave, when I tried to look her up. Her parents are big in Command. And they're out for blood. The kid jobbed me, but they think I did her. When they caught up with her, she was too far gone for an abortion."

"You sure it was you?" That's a reasonable question considering the situation on Canaan. Anger darkens his face. I change the subject. He cares about the girl. "This other party found out?"

"Yes sir. And if I don't come across, he passes the word on me."

Sexual harassment? Here? It's hard to credit. "Why tell me? I could be the eido. I could put it in my book. Or I could pass the word myself. Don't officers always stick together?"

"Got to talk to somebody. And you don't finger people."

Wish I was as sure of me as he is.

An advice columnist I'm not. As bad as I've screwed up my own life, I'd be a positive peril counseling anyone else. "Is he bluffing?"

"No sir. He's tried petty shit before. Did it to my friend Landtroop."

"How about you just tell him you'll kick the shit out of him if he don't back off?"

"I'd be bluffing."

I nod. That's understandable. We're military and at war. And the thought of personal violence is repellent. An act like Nicastro's occurs only under stress. People are schooled from childhood to contain their animal violence. Society does a fine job. Then we take the kids and make them warriors. We're a curiously contrary breed of ape.

"The damage would be done already, wouldn't it?"

"I suppose. But what would happen if he did talk? We're talking staff-type parents, aren't we?"

Staff people are in a position to exact agonizing bureaucratic revenges.

"I don't want to find out, sir. I just want to get my ten, get laid in between, and get the hell out when I can. Maybe move to a training billet."

Few Climber people expect to survive the war. Most suspect they're playing for the losing team anyway. All they want to do is survive.

This is a strange kind of war. No end in sight. No out till it's over, unless you're torn up so bad you're good for nothing but dog food or sitting by the window at the veteran's hospital. None of that hope for tomorrow which usually animates the young. It's a war of despair.

"That's what you stand to lose. What about him?"

"Huh?"

"It can't be all one way. Isn't he vulnerable too?" I feel like an ass, playing games with people's lives. But I asked for it. I made a deal with Mephistopheles. You can't be selective about getting into lives. I want to know and understand the crew. The cook is one of them.

There'll be no understanding him without dealing with his problem. Otherwise he'll remain a simple human curiosity, a bundle of odd quirks.

"Not that I know of, sir."

"Let's backtrack. How did he find out about the girl?"

"I don't know, sir."

"Who'd you tell?"

"Just Landtroop and Vossbrink, sir."

"Landtroop? You mentioned him before."

"Kurt Landtroop. He was here last patrol. Went cadre. We spent our leaves together."

"The three of you?"

"Yes sir. What're you getting at, sir?"

"You talked to Voss? Ask him if he told anybody?"

"Why, sir?"

"If you only told two people, one of them told somebody else. I'd guess Landtroop. You said he was under the same pressure. You should make sure." He's being intentionally dense. Doesn't want to involve his friends, doesn't want to risk his faith hi them. Maybe he figures he'll lose his best friend if he questions Vossbrink. A very insecure young man. "You need to isolate the leak. It could give you a handle. Get back to me after you talk to Voss. I'll think on it meantime."

"All right, sir." He isn't pleased. He wants miracles. He wants me to push a magic button and make everything right. It's a nasty little habit we humans have, wanting an easy way out. "Thanks for the coffee, sir."

"You're welcome." It would help if he could give me a name. I could corner the predator and threaten him with my book. Power of the press, what? But Kriegshauser won't reveal it. I don't have to ask to know that. The fear in nun is obvious.

There could be a second side, too. We humans, even when we try, tend to tint the facts.

Kriegshauser might be doing more than tinting.

My proposed book is a for-instance. I want to be objective. I plan to be objective. Of course. But how objective can I be? I saw little of Command and wasn't impressed by what I did see. I identify with the fighting men too much already. I'm too much tempted to ignore the reasons why they have to endure this hell....

I snort in self-mockery. I'm a powerful man. One reason these people won't open up is that they're afraid of what I'll do to them in print. So I'm a species of eido after all.

The occasional threat might have amazing results.

Yanevich says that clown Tannian has ballyhooed my presence since I boarded the Climber. He's promised all Confederation a report from inside, the true story of the everyday life of heroes.

His PR people are good. Half the population will be waiting breathlessly. Oh, ye mighty megaConmarks, gather ye in mine account—

I think Fearless Fred is going to be pissed. I think he assumes I'll follow the Party line.

Can I really do it straight? I really am afraid I won't give the broader picture that shows why Command does things that make the men in the trenches furious.

My real coup, arranging participation in a Climber mission, didn't reside in getting the Admiral to agree. The man is publicity-mad. No, it was getting the predators senior to Tan-nian to guarantee not to interfere with what I write. I conned them. They think I have to show the warts or the public won't believe.

Maybe the coup isn't that great, though. Maybe they outsmarted me. Tannian's foes are legion, and bitter. A lot of them reside in Luna Command. The guarantees could be a ploy to discredit the popular hero.

I haven't found anything but warts. So many warts that an imp voice keeps telling me to hedge my bets, to be sure I get past not only Tannian but that coterie of Admirals eager to defame him.

After talking to Kriegshauser, I clamber into my hammock. It's been an exhausting few days.

The loss of Johnson's Climber finally rips through the shroud of more immediate concerns. I replay the entire incident, looking for something we might have done differently. And end up shedding tears.

I give up trying to force the gates of slumber and go. looking for the cat. Fearless confesses this confessor. He's awfully patient with me.

He remains as elusive as the eido.

Despite the long, enforced proximity of the patrol, I've begun feeling lonely. I've begun detecting traces of the same internal desolation on other faces.

I'm not unique in remembering our sisters. The long, leave-me-alone faces are everywhere. It's a quiet ship today.

Our ship and Johnson's had an unofficial relationship for a long time, a romance that was a metal wedding, a family understanding. The two hunted and played together through a dozen patrols and leaves, beginning long before anyone in either crew came aboard. In the Climbers that makes an ancient tradition.

I find myself asking a bulkhead, "Do Climbers mate for life?" Will we, like some great, goofy bird, now go hunting our own demise? Have we become a rogue bachelor?

An inattentive part of me notes that the bulkhead has grown a layer of feltlike fur, like bluegreen moleskin. I touch it. My finger leaves a track. I wander off, forgetting it.

In Engineering I find a surly Varese supervising two men cleaning the guts of a junction box with what smells like carbolic. "What's up?"

"Fucking mold."

I recall the moleskin wall. "Ah?" I don't see anything here.

In Weapons half the off-watch are scrubbing and polishing. The carbolic smell is overpowering.

Here the fur is everywhere, on every painted surface. It has a black-green tinge. The paler green paint seems to be the mold's favorite snack.

"How the hell does it get in here?" I ask Holtsnider. "Seems it'd be wiped out going through TerVeen."

"They've tried everything, sir. Just no way to get every spore. It comes in with crew, food, and equipment."

Well. A distraction. Instead of pining about dead women, I can research mold.

It's an Old Earth strain that has adapted to Canaan, becoming a vigorous, fecund beast in the transition. Left unchecked, it can pit metal and foul atmosphere with its odor and spores. Though more nuisance than threat, it becomes dangerous if it reaches sensitive printed circuitry. The heat and humidity of Climb encourage explosive growth. Climber people hate it with an unreasoning passion. They invest it with a symbolic value I don't understand.

"Who won the pool?" I ask as I enter Ops, still having found no sign of Fearless.

Blank faces turn my way. These men are busy with mold and mourning, too.

Laramie catches on. "Baake, in Weapons. The little shit-head."

Rose nods glumly, head bobbing on a pull-string. He says, "He only bought one goddamned slip. To get us to quit bothering him. Ain't that a bite in the ass?"

"Better.get him to teach you his system," Yanevich suggests, with a heaviness that implies this scene has been played before. "You only need one when it's the right one."

"Useless goddamned electric moron." Rose kicks the main computer. "You screwed me out of a month's pay, you know that? What the fuck good are you if you can't figure out..."

Laramie and Throdahl bait him halfheartedly. Others join in. They start to show some spirit.

It's a distraction, the cut-low game. Not an amusement anymore. They go at it viciously, but no tempers flare. They're too drained to get mad.

Throdahl's comm gear pings gently. The games die. Work stops. Everyone stares at the radioman.

We're lying dead in space beside the instelled beacon. The rest of the squadron is parsecs away.

We assume that we'll be ordered to catch up.

Command has other ideas. Only now does Fisherman tell me we've been awaiting special orders.

That little ping brings the Commander swinging down from his cabin, an ape in a metal jungle.

"Code book," he calls ahead. Chief Nicastro produces the key he wears on a chain around his neck.

He opens a small locker. The closure is symbolic. The box is hardly more than foil. A screwdriver could break it open.

The Chief takes out a looseleaf book and pack of color-coded plastic cards banded with magnetic stripes.

"Card four, Chief," the Commander says after a glance at the pattern on Throdahl's screen. He slides the card into a slot. Throdahl thumbs through the code book. He uses a grease pencil to decode on the screen itself.

Only the initial and final groups translate: COMMANDER'S

EYES ONLY and ACKNOWLEDGE.

Muttering, the Old Man scribbles the text groups in his notebook, clambers back to his hideout.

Shortly, a thunderous, "Jesus fucking Christ with a wooden leg!" rips through the compartment.

Pale faces turn upward. "Throdahl, send the acknowledge. Mr. Yanevich, tell Mr. Varese to establish a lock connect with the beacon."

The beacon begins feeding a sector status update while he's talking. Our chase, kill, and escape has kept us out of the biggest Climber operation of the war.

The convoy that took so long to gather at Thompson's System is on the move. Second Fleet pecked at it and let it get away. In his grandiose way, Tannian has declared that none of those empty hulls will survive his attentions. One hundred twelve and one twenty are the estimates. Thirty-four Climbers are hi the hunt. Every ship hi three squadrons. Except ours and Johnson's.

"Shee-it," Nicastro says softly. "That's one hell of a big iron herd." His eyes are wide and frightened.

"Bet that escort figure goes up fast," Yanevich says.

"Hell. With that many Climbers they should take the escort first."

"Smells Eke a trap to me," I say. "With bait Tannian couldn't resist."

The fighting hasn't yet begun. Our brethren are still maneuvering into attack positions.

At first I think the Commander is upset because he's been ordered into the cauldron, too. Wrong.

The sense of that is too clear. Instead, our orders are bizarre.

The Old Man explains over coffee, in the wardroom, with all officers present.

"Gentlemen, we've been chosen—because of our superb record!—to initiate a new era of Climber warfare." There's an ironic cast to his smile. He taps a flimsy. "Don't look at me. I didn't make it up. I'm just telling you what it says here. We're supposed to take advantage of the brawl back yonder." He jerks his head as if in a specific direction.

He doesn't pass the message around. He holds to the eyes-only rule. "A hint or two here that they had this planned all along. It's why we were off chasing that Leviathan. Johnson was supposed to go in with us."

"For Christ's sake," I mutter. "What the hell is it?"

He smiles that grim shipboard smile. "We're going to scrub the Rathgeber installations. Right when the other team needs diem most."

Puzzled silence. Makes a strange strategic sense. With Rath-geber's backing the hunter-killers will have a field day, finding thirty-four Climbers hi one small sector.

"Didn't we just get out of there?" I ask, more to break the silence than because I want to know.

"Sure. We were a couple of days away. Still are, on another leg of a triangle." He muses,

"Rathgeber. Named for Eustaces Rathgeber, fourteenth President of Commonweal Presidium. Brought Old Earth into Confederation. Only moon of Lambda Vesta One, a super-Jovian, sole planet of Lambda Vesta." He smiles weakly.

"Been doing my homework. For what it's worth, the base started out as a research station. Navy took over when the research outfit lost its grant. The other firm picked it up during their first sweep."

The wardroom echoes, "But..." like a single-stroke engine having trouble getting started. The Commander ignores us.

"We'll hyper in to just outside detection limits. That and the other intelligence data we'll need will be assembled aboard the beacon. They have a printer. Then we Climb and move in. We go down, tear the place apart, and run like hell."

"What the fuck kind of idiot scheme is that?" Piniaz demands. "Rathgeber? We use our missiles up, we won't have anything to shoot back with while we're getting away. Hell, they've got fifty hunters ported there."

"Sixty-four."

"So how the hell do we get out?"

No one questions our ability to get in, or to smash the base. It's not a plum ripe for picking.

I've been there. It's tough.

"Maybe Command doesn't care about that," Yanevich says.

"Nobody will be home but base personnel," the Commander counters. "This convoy operation will draw them off. Tannian isn't stupid. He figures it's a trap. So we give them what they want, then scrub Rathgeber so they can't take advantage. Hell, everybody's always saying it'd be a rabbit shoot out here if it weren't for Rathgeber."

It makes sense. The strategic sort of sense, where a chess player sacrifices a pawn to take a bishop. Rathgeber's loss would hurt the other team bad, just as we'd be bad hurt if Canaan went.

The Old Man continues, "I think the Admiral is counting on us to pull the escort off the convoy."

"Hitting them with rabbit punches," Bradley mumbles. He and I lean against a bulkhead, staring down at the in-group. Threaten here, threaten there, make them drop their game plan."

"Right out of the book."

He shrugs.

The Old Man says, "Our problem will be ground and orbital defenses. Intelligence is supposed to give us what we need, but how good will the data be? Those clowns can't figure what side of their ass goes in back. Anybody ever been to Rathgeber?"

I wave a reluctant finger. "Yeah. A two-day stopover six years ago. I can't tell you much."

"What about defenses? You were gunnery."

"They'll have beefed them up."

"You look them over? How's their reaction time? They won't have messed with detection and fire control."

"What do I know?"

"What size launch window can we expect? Can we do it in one pass? Will we have to keep bouncing up and down?'

"I spent my time getting snookered. What I saw looked standard. Human decision factor. You'll get seven seconds for your first pass. After that you only get the time it takes them to aim."

"Very unprofessional. You should've anticipated. Isn't that what they taught us? Never mind. I forgive you."

I stare at the Commander. Why has he accepted a mission he doesn't like? He has the right to refuse.

No one suggests that.

They bitch about Command's insane strategies but always go along.

"Mr. Westhause, program the fly. We'll take hyper as soon as all the data comes dirough." He steeples his fingers before his face. "Till tomorrow, gentlemen. Bring some thoughts. I want to be in and out before this convoy thing blows up. Our friends are counting on us."

I smile grimly. He really hopes we get an extended leave out of this.

Is Marie in his thoughts? He hasn't mentioned her for a long time.

Wonder what she did after we left. By now she must think we're done. Our squadron is overdue.

Command knows we're alive, but they don't keep civilians posted.

Varese keeps fidgeting. He decides to tell us what's on his mind. "We've been out a long time, Commander. We're way down on hydrogen and CT."

"Mr. Westhause, see if there's a water beacon on our way."

We haven't spent much time under pursuit, but daily Climb routine draws steadily on our CT. Normal hydrogen is less of a problem. Some beacons maintain water tanks for in-patrol refueling.

That's the Engineer mentality surfacing. It compels them to start having seizures when fuel stores reach a certain level of depletion. The disease is peculiar to the breed. They've got to have that fat margin. In die bombards they got antsy when down by 10 percent. At 20 percent they kept everyone awake dragging their fingernails over the commander's door.

They want that margin "in case of emergency."

Varese is less excitable than most Engineers.

"We won't need much CT after we shake loose," the Commander muses. "We'll burn what's left going home anyway. We can pick up more water anytime."

Once a Climber concludes active patrol, she remains on annihilation till she has just enough left to sneak in to Canaan. Venting excess is too dangerous, especially near TerVeen.

A Climber is most vulnerable before CT fueling and after final CT consumption. Those are the times when she needs big brothers and sisters to look out for her. She's just another warship then. A

puny, fragile, lightly armed, slow, and easily destroyed warship. Vulnerability is why she has a mother take her out to Fuel Point.

CUmbers aren't sluggers. They're guerrillas. In the open they're easy meat.

Lieutenant Varese takes no reassurance from the Commander's confidence. Engineers never do. A wide streak of pessimism is a must in the profession.

"Any more questions?"

There are. No one cares to broach them.

The Commander allows us to board the beacon. I go through the hatch just to see how those people live.

Holy shit! Fresh faces! Clean faces. Well-fed, smiling faces, with welcomes for the heroes of the universe. Gleaming, apple-cheeked babies. But no women, damn it.

We look like prisoners lately released from a medieval dungeon. Sallow, gaunt, filthy, wild of hair and eye, a little tentative and timid.

Damn! There really are other people...

Right now, the first few minutes, while we're staring at the beacon crew, I feel a fresh wind blowing on our morale. It's a cool gale driving away a poisonous smog. Some of the men grin, shake hands, clap backs.

There's a shower! Rumor says there's a shower! These boys must live like maharajahs. Crafty old me, I disguise myself as a great spacedog and con one of the lads into showing me the way. I'm first man there. Hot needles nibble and sting my crusty skin. I bellow tuneless refrains, luxuriate in the warmth, the massagelike effect.

"Hurry up in there, goddamnit! Sir."

Shouldn't be a pig, should I? There's a line out there now. "One minute." Grinning, I thunder out the "Outward Bound." Several men threaten to make it a shower I'll remember the rest of a very short life.

They have sinks, too. Several of them. Men line up there too, shaving. Don't think I will, though.

I'm used to mine now. Completes the spacedog disguise.

Tarjan Zntoins, a Missileman, begins hopping about in a parody of an old-time sailor's hornpipe while his compartment mates honk and hoot, using their hands as instrumental accompaniment.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

The beacon is a one-time Star Line freighter. Big mother.

Only the quarters are in use these days. The crew of nine have been out here four months. They're eager for fresh faces, too. Their long vigil is lonely, though never as harrowing as ours. Their tachyon man tells me he's been in beacons since the beginning. He's had only two contacts in all that time.

They're overdue for relief. Three months is their usual stint. A converted luxury liner makes regular rounds, changing crews each three months. Something is happening, though. Command has withdrawn the liner.

They're hungry for news. What's going on? How come they've been extended? Poor bastards. In continuous contact with Command and kept constantly ignorant. I tell them I don't know a thing.

Great guys, these people. They put on a spread. A meal fit for a king. Command didn't skip the luxuries here.

The mess decks are small. We wolf our feast in shifts, dallying and stalling while our successors curse us for farting around.

One last trip to the can. Isn't this great? No waiting. I take another look at my beard. I look like a real space pirate. Like Eric the Red, or somebody. I give it a big trim, to a nice point beneath my chin. There. Gives me the look of a pale devil. The girls will love it.

"Attention. Climber personnel. Return to your ship. Please return to your ship."

The holiday is over. "Up yours, Nicastro," I mutter.

On my way I stop by the beacon's vegetable crate of an office, liberate a half ream of clean paper. I'm tired of keeping notes on scraps.

Command's intelligence is astonishingly detailed. Tannian has had this raid in his trick bag a long time. The man is a little brighter than his detractors admit.

The orbital data for Rathgeber have been redefined to the microsecond and millimeter, finer than we need or can handle. We could make a setdown in null, using the data.

The defense intelligence looks just as good. Surface and holo charts, which can be fed to the display tank, detail scores of active and passive systems, revealing their fields of fire and kill ranges. The companion fire control grids look as though they were lifted from Rathgeber's Combat Information Center. Alterations to the original Navy installation are carefully and prominently noted.

"We must have a guy on the inside," Piniaz chortles. He's delighted with the information.

"Bastards probably gundecked the whole thing," Yanevich counters. "Made it look solid so idiots like us would go in with smiles on our clocks."

"I doubt it," I say. "I mean, Tannian only looks like a prick of the first water. He'll throw lives around like poker chips, but I don't see him wasting many."

"For once we agree," Piniaz says. "This was put together right. And saved for the right time."

Yanevich won't flee the field. "Yeah? Wonder what the big brain had to say about our chances of getting out. Bet you won't find that in there anywhere."

I say, "Only thing I question is the need for the raid. And why they're sending a Climber."

Sourly, Yanevich says, "Fishing for propaganda points inside Navy. It's a job for the heavies."

"Regular units couldn't get past the orbital defenses," Piniaz snaps. "And maybe we don't know everything. Could be some other reason, too."

The Commander says, "Maybe it's occurred to them that this's a classic way to get rid of an embarrassment." He drives one hand into a shirt grown ragged with continuous wear, pauses momentarily. One eye narrows as he looks at me. A what-the-hell crosses his face. "Friend of mine slipped this into the intelligence dispatch." He throws out a piece of flimsy.

Yanevich snatches it. "Shete-it!" He flips it to Piniaz. Ito reads it, gives me an unreadable look, passes it on. It finally meanders around to me.

It's a typical Command press release, describing the Main Battle encounter. That the vessel we destroyed was crippled isn't mentioned. Neither is the loss of Johnson's Climber. The only outright untruths are improbable patriotic quotes attributed to my companions----- And to me. In fact, the whole damned thing is supposed to be my report from the front! "I'll kick that asshole right in the cocksucker!" My juice squeezie ricochets off a bulkhead. "He can't do that to me!"

"Nice throw," Yanevich observes. "Smooth. No break in your wrist."

According to the release, I filed a report running, themat-ically, "Shoulder to shoulder...

Heedless of the death screaming round them... United in their implacable will to exact retribution from the destroyers of Bronwen and plunderers of Sierra..."

"Shit. 'Shoulder to shoulder' is the only true thing here. Should've said asshole to elbow.

Screaming? In vacuum? Where the hell is Bronwen? I never heard of it. And Sierra is such a nothing we didn't bother defending it."

Grinning, Yanevich intones, "'Driven by the justice of their cause...'"

Piniaz titters. "'Inspired by the memories of the slavery these vermin impose... Every man a hero...' Hey. You're one hell of a writer."

"Sure. When butterflies give milk."

"You saying I ain't a hero? I'll sue, you slanderer. I can prove it. Says so right here. If the Admiral says it, it's got to be true."

I can't take any more. I fling the flimsy at Bradley. "Here, Charlie. More toilet paper."

That goddamned Tannian. Just when I was starting to defend him. Issuing press releases over my name.

It's a kick in the head, that's what. I don't mind having my name spread all over Confederation.

That'll help the book when it comes out. But I want the words by which I'm known to be my own.

I can cut my own wrists just fine, Admiral. Don't give me any help.

Maybe Johnson's fate and Command's failure to acknowledge it are making me a little touchy. I don't know. But these cockamamie reports have got to stop.

I suppose it's time to follow through on a project that's hung around the back of my mind for a month. From here on in I'll keep duplicate notes and have somebody smuggle them out. Let's see.

Somebody to get them off the ship. Somebody to carry them down to Canaan. Maybe my friend the courier to carry them back to Luna Command...

First I have to survive this Rathgeber raid.

Right now, judging by this release, my assurances that I'll be allowed to write what I want are worth the paper they're written on.

The bastards. I'm going to pound it to them.

"Don't get your balls in an uproar," Varese sneers. "If you complain, they'll just look surprised and say it's what you'd've written if you'd really filed a report."

He's probably right.

The Commander agrees. "It would've come out the same. They've probably been publishing under your by-line since we left. You being out here is too good not to turn into a circus."

Yanevich says, "Wouldn't be surprised if they had an actor who does live holo reports."

"I'll give them reports. I'll write a bomb that'll blow the asses off those charlatans." I'm mad, yes, but I have only myself to blame. I should've seen this coming. I had enough clues. It was these dreadfully false-sounding releases that brought me snooping in the first place.

"Now, now," the Commander says. He grins a real old-time grin. "Just think what you'll have to say about the Rathgeber raid."

"I can't wait."

"They might not mention it," Yanevich says. "They haven't admitted losing the base."

"Little thing like consistency won't slow them down." The Old Man turns my way. "The spooky thing is, Tannian believes the shit he puts out. He keeps it up in private. He lives in a whole different universe. I'm going to get us through this. Whatever it takes. I want you to tell the real story."

"That would be nice." The anger is going. 'Trouble is, people have been served bullshit so long they might not believe toe truth."

Piniaz, Varese, and Bradley fidget. Westhause looks bored. They don't give a damn what the public believes. All that interests them is staying alive long enough to get out.

Do Yanevich or the Commander care? This may be a game of spit and roast with me playing the suckling pig.

"I divided the data into packets," the Commander says. On cue, Chief Nicastro appears with several folders. "Take yours. After we finish our hyper approach, I plan to order holiday routine. Be a meeting then. Bring your questions."

Holiday routine? Sounds like a mistake. Too many men getting too much time to think.

One man got too much time. Me. I ease into the wardroom in a near-panic.

I have this feeling that I've just moved to the one slot on death row. I've quit duplicating notes almost before starting. Why bother?

"Mr. Yanevich?"

"All go in Ops, Commander."

"Mr. Westhause?"

"Concur, Commander. Penetration program ready to run."

It better be. He calculated it often enough, trying to reduce the chance of error. He's good, this Westhause. Does that make me confident? Hell no. Something will go wrong. Murphy's law.

Chief Nicastro agrees. And the Chief doesn't suffer in silence till the Commander has him aside.

"Mr. Piniaz?"

"Go, Commander, though I'm getting minor stress indicators from the graser. They'll get four missiles, the accumulator banks, and whatever your friend can throw with his popgun."

I've been directed to operate the magnetic cannon. The Commander wants to hit them as hard as he can. The missiles will be targeted on Rathgeber's ship-handling facilities. The energy weapons are supposed to take out detection and communications facilities. The rest of the base is mine.

I've chosen the tower at the hydrolysis station as my first target. On follow-up passes I'll snipe at the solar power panel banks.

The Commander is contemplating three missile passes. None should last long enough for us to be targeted.

Why bother with the cannon? Even perfect shooting on my part will contribute little. The other firm can jury-rig some means of extracting hydrogen from water. The solar panels are there only as an emergency backup for the base fusion plant.

"Mr. Bradley?"

"Ship's Services go, Commander." He's cool. He doesn't understand what we're jumping into.

"Mr. Varese?"

"Commander, I'm damned short on fuel. If we have to..." He wilts before a basilisk glare. "Go in Engineering, Commander."

Does the Old Man have some special interest in this assignment? He looks willing to sacrifice ship and crew to prove Tannian incompetent.

Yet the only real fault of the plan is that this isn't a traditional Cumber mission. Precedent is, perhaps, too important in Navy.

"You ready to go?" the Commander asks me.

"Of course not." My grin hurts. "Let me off at the next corner."

He frowns. This is no time for whimsy. "I'll go over it again. Down to fifty meters in null, over Base Central. Four seconds in norm. Missiles launch at one-second intervals. Cameras rolling.

Energy weapons on continuous discharge. Same for the cannon. Then twelve minutes of Climb. That'll require fast target evaluation.

"Positional maneuvers in null will conform to lunar motion. We'll go norm again at the same point.

Two seconds. Four missiles at half-second intervals. Energy weapons and cannon.

"Then thirty minutes in null for comprehensive evaluation and selection of final targets. We'll take an attack position suited to neutralizing the most important facilities remaining. Two seconds for the final salvo. Half-second intervals again. We'll then climb and evaluate.

"If the computer recommends it, we'll continue attacking with energy weapons. If not, we move out.

I estimate our maximum attack window at two hours... If we're to escape the hunter-killers.

"Gentlemen, the actual attack looks like an exercise. I don't see how they can stop us. Getting away will be the problem. Questions?"

Again, scores are left unasked. Sometimes you'd rather not know.

"All right. Have the men take care-of their business. We begin in a half hour." He catches my arm as I start to go. "Don't miss a thing on this one. If we luck through... I want it all on the record."

"If? It's an exercise, remember?"

"The easy ones never are. Murphy's law operates on the inverse-square principle." He grins.

"I can't follow anything from the cannon board."

"I had Carmon bug Engineering and Ops for you. A plug for each pointy little ear. You'll hear everything. Have the men fill in any blanks later."

"Whatever you say." Resigned, I collect notebook and recorder and get in line outside the Admiral's stateroom. The place is drawing a crowd. There're all the usual cracks about taking a number, selling tickets, and using someone's pocket.

I finish with time to spare, so I visit Kriegshauser, who looks in need of encouragement, and Fearless. All the activity has the cat edgy. He knows its meaning. He's not fond of Climb. I even grab a few seconds with Fisherman. "I'm no good at praying. Say one for me, will you?"

"Ability has nothing to do with it, sir. He hears every prayer. Just accept Christ as your Savior and..." The alarm cuts him short.

The cannon board control chair seems harder than usual. I set out my notekeeping materials, start writing. My hand shakes too much. I concentrate on getting Carmon's talking earplugs into place.

The hyper alarm sounds before I finish. I see Holt-snider looking my way, smiling nervously. I wave in pure bravado.

Climb alarm.

It's begun. We're on our way. I feel cold. Very cold. My pores are twisted into tight little knots. I'm shivering. Air temperature is down, but not that much.

It begins, as always, with waiting. The seconds grind slowly away. At hour two Westhause takes us down just long enough to make sure he won't have to fine-tune his approach. Rath-geber's sun is the brightest star.

There's nothing to do but think.

Are they keeping a close watch out there? Did they see us drop?

Just sitting here waiting for the walls to cave in. We're in the final leg of our approach. I have the cannon pre-aimed. I've gone through the numbers four times, just to have something to do.

Nothing is happening anywhere. The bugs are a waste. Except for occasional muffled remarks from the First Watch Officer or Commander, Ops could pass as a tomb. From Engineering there's nothing but Varese's occasional remark to Diekereide bemoaning the fuel situation. And, of course, the endless, repetitive, ritualistic status reports. Those I tune out automatically.

It's no different in Weapons, though it was livelier while they were arming, testing, and programming the first missile flight. The tests have been re-run and the programming doublechecked.

Done to death for something to do.

Just like an exercise. As the Commander promised.

So why are we all scared shitless?

"Five minutes." Nicastro is doing the time-scoring. His voice betrays as much humanity as that of a talking computer.

We must be close. Within a few kilometers of our point of appearance. We're playing mouse hi the walls of the universe, looking for the perfect hole to the inside. A mouse armed to his cute little teeth.

It seems incredible that the other firm won't know anything till we start shooting. All my instincts say they'll be waiting with a megaton of death hi each hand.

God, this waiting is shitty. The fear thoughts, the what ifs, keep chasing one another round my head like a litter of kittens playing tag. My palms are cold and wet. I keep moving slowly and carefully so as not to do anything clumsy. I don't want the others to see how shaky I am.

They don't look scared. Just professional, businesslike. Inside, though, they probably feel the way I do. I don't see how it can be helped. We're great pretenders, we warriors.

Shit. Almost time. God, get me through this one and I'll...

I'll what?