The Cold Between (27 page)

S
he would have to wait for it to fire, Elena realized, taking the best aim she could. With the ship nothing more than a ripple circling them, any kind of guess would be a waste of the small amount of power they had. She set another filter on their holographic display; if it was a heat-seeker, she should be able to get an early look at its source. The question was whether or not the shot that gave her the aim would kill them.

Combat pissed her off. When she was fired on, she got cold and rigid, focused on stopping whatever was trying to kill her. Fear and distress came later, usually when everybody else was in the pub and she could hide in the gym or in her room and have a quiet meltdown. She had known many people who were better fighters than she was who froze during battle, or became so terrified they made bad decisions. She did not believe her reaction had anything to do with character. She thought of it as something physical, like her brown eyes.

Trey, it seemed, was similarly cool-headed, and she was grateful for it. As a general rule she did not care for other pilots; but his hand was steady, and he had demonstrated more than once that he strategized well. She kept her eyes on her readout,
waiting for the flash, counting on him doing whatever was possible to evade their attacker.

The weapon fired without warning, and she aimed and shot. This time Trey throttled back and to starboard, letting inertia slow them down, but it would not be enough. The shot was getting closer, would tear them in half . . . and then the makeshift torpedo she had fired met the enemy's ammunition, and with a great flash both weapons exploded. Trey exclaimed something she did not understand, then said, “That was a prodigious shot, my dear.”

She grinned. “Got lucky. Maybe in more ways than one. They're not firing heat-seekers. Can we utilize the gravity of the wormhole to pull his weapons off course?”

“I am not sure we'll have enough thrust to keep it from pulling
us
off course.”

“It's a risk,” she acknowledged. “But given our current trajectory, we might be able to skip off the edge.”

“We would have to time it precisely.”

She grinned. “I'm beginning to think I should have worked on the nav before the weapons.”

“If you had,
m'laya,
we would already be dead.” He glanced at the readout. “He is coming around again.”

“Okay.” She armed the weapon again. “Let me see if I can connect with him this time. Wait until the last possible second before you accelerate.”

The cloaked ship fired from the other side this time, and she loosed her weapon at the same target. She watched hers approach the other ship, its missile approaching them . . . and just as Trey thrust them forward, her shot connected. There was a flash on the surface of the other ship, and large chunks of gray
metal spun off in different directions. The ripples grew more frequent, and the ship came suddenly into sharp focus: she had hit its cloak.

And now she got a good look at it.

It was the size of a heavy freighter, of the sort that hauled terraformers and building materials, but its design was unmistakably military. She recognized the way the nose was narrowed, and the joinery used between the stern and the body of the ship. Like
Galileo,
it bore a resemblance to a great bird, and was likely sufficiently aerodynamic to fly in and out of atmosphere with some grace. Or it would have been, had she not just shot the hell out of its starboard wing.

There were no identifying marks on it at all.

“That is not one of ours,” Trey told her.

“It's a Central design,” she replied. “I'd bet my career on it. But I've never seen anything like it before. And a
cloak,
Trey. We don't have anything even close to that.”
Or I thought we didn't.
Ellis Systems had been stringing the Corps along for years with their attempts at cloaking tech, and they'd had little to show for it beyond model after model of overheating reflector. She stared at the image of the ship, wondering how much of what she had been told by Central had any relationship to reality at all.

The gray bird pulled away, and she noted it also had some trouble tugging itself out of the wormhole's orbit. Their own trajectory was curving more dramatically, and she wondered how close they could get before the thing would simply swallow them.

Or if they would have the chance.

“That was our last shot, was it not?” Trey asked.

“Afraid so.”

The ship was coming around again, this time giving them a wider berth, keeping itself as far away from the wormhole as possible.

“Can we skirt the gravity well?”

He was studying his instruments. “I do not know,” he said at last. “The gravity field is fluctuating. If we do not get close enough, he will catch us, even with the damage he has taken. If we get too close . . .”

Her brain spent a few moments scrambling desperately for an alternative, but she came up with nothing. “All right then,” she said. “I've always wanted to know what the inside of one of those things looks like.”

He smiled at her, and it struck her then how much she had missed being side by side with someone who trusted her, someone she could trust in return. They would not survive this. There was no chance. But if they did . . . it was down to this man, whom a day ago she had not even known. She reached out a hand to him, and he took it . . .

And then another ship appeared between them and the gray bird.

T
his is Captain Greg Foster of the CCSS
Galileo.
Your vehicle is unauthorized in this area. Stand down and identify yourself.”

The other ship—almost certainly a Shadow Ops prototype—responded by firing.

So much for protocol.

Greg dodged the ship's first shot and fired at its remaining intact wing, wondering how Elena had done that kind of damage to the other side. His own shot caught the missile housing, but at best he had damaged their ability to aim. It occurred to him the ship might have been more vulnerable when cloaked.

It wasn't vulnerable now.

Greg tried to raise the other ship. “Chief? Elena, can you hear me?” There was no answer. He looked at the civilian ship's flight pattern. No auto nav, he guessed; someone was steering, crudely, with what was left of the ship's thrusters. The stern of the thing was a blackened wreck, but if she was being steered, someone in there was still alive. All he could do was give her a chance at getting away.

He opened up
Lusitania
's substantial weapons banks on the S-O ship's intact wing, keeping himself between its guns and Elena. The other ship fired again, and he jerked the helm to one side. But either he was not as lucky this time, or the shot was packing substantially more tonnage than the earlier salvo.
Lusi
's port side was caught, and a containment alarm sounded. A glance at the atmospheric sensor revealed a slow leak. It was easily reparable . . . if he found himself with five safe minutes to fix it.

“Keep on that S-O ship, and stay between it and the civilian ship,” he told
Lusi.
He stood and moved to the rear storage locker, his eyes never leaving the tactical readout.
Lusi
kept up a steady barrage of fire, most of which bounced off the other ship's hull, as Greg blindly pulled a suit out of the locker and hauled it on over his uniform. He pulled the clear hood over his head and sealed it around his neck; an instant later he was inhaling the stale air of the suit's storage system. “Hit it on the damaged side,” Greg told the ship, and
Lusi
came about.

The S-O ship was not interested in him anymore, it seemed, wasting no firepower going after him, instead dodging in an attempt to move around him.
Lusi
swooped ahead, still firing, and the ship let loose another cannon shot. This one caught
Lusi
broadside; there was a lurch, and the artificial gravity went off, and Greg realized he wasn't going to have to worry about containment after all.

“Stay between the ships!” he shouted, as he hand-over-hand pulled himself back to the pilot's seat and strapped in.
Lusi
was still firing, but the larger ship had figured out their strategy, and was keeping her intact bulkheads facing Greg. He would get in no more lucky shots.

He engaged the broad-spectrum comms. “Mayday, mayday, mayday,” he said. “This is the transport
Lusitania,
off of CCSS
Galileo.
We are under attack by an unidentified ship. There is a civilian transport here that has been severely damaged. Casualties unknown. Enemy ship is still firing; we won't hold out. All ships in this area, please respond.” He looped it, and opened comms to the civilian ship.

“If you can hear me, Elena, Zajec—get the hell out of here and tell someone what's going on. Safe money that's an S-O black ops ship, but firing on you is still an act of war, no matter how undercover they are.” He thought for a moment. “Report it to Admiral Herrod. Keep yelling until they let you talk to him. He's an asshole, but he'll listen. Just get away.”

He took control of the weapons from the ship. Firing was a futile gesture at this point, but he'd be damned if he'd go down meekly.

T
hat's
Lusi,
” Elena said, dumbfounded.

“Who is Lusi?” Trey asked. He was adjusting the direction of their thrusters; the gravity well was proving more unpredictable than he had feared. If he did not know better, he would have suspected an intelligence in how the strength of the field grew every time they were on the verge of pulling away.

“Not who.” Elena had unbuckled herself, and was making her way aft again. “
Lusitania.
She's
Galileo
's main troop carrier.”

“Why is she out here?”

“From the look of it,” Elena said, “she's trying to save us.”

Elena was right. The troop carrier was tenaciously keeping itself between the winged ship and their transport, despite taking at least two solid hits. Trey applied himself to the thrusters. Their savior had a better ship, but it would not last forever. “What are you doing?” he called to her.

“Trying to get one last shot out of this thing,” she said. “Maybe distract that bird long enough for
Lusi
to get a decent shot.”

“Is she strong enough?”

“No,” Elena said tersely, “but he'll go for the bird's damaged side if he can get to it. That might be enough.”

He.
“You know who is flying.”

“It's Greg.”

Trey did not ask how she knew. “Elena, if you use the power from the thrusters, will you be able to get another shot?”

She paused. “We'll get pulled in if we do that.”

“It is futile anyway,” he told her. “We are too close. The only thing we could do to escape is blow ourselves up, which would be counterproductive.” He turned to look back at her, and was surprised at the anguish in her face. “If we can save your captain, let us try.”

He saw her swallow, and then she nodded. “If you disengage them from there,” she told him, “I can pick them up from here.”

He turned and swept his hand through the ship's navigational display; it disappeared, and immediately he saw the star field swoop and bank as they stopped resisting the wormhole's gravity. He moved out of his chair and crouched on the floor next to Elena. “Let me do the transfer,” he suggested. “You are a better shot than I am.”

She met his eyes, then nodded. “All you need to do,” she said, showing him the readout, “is sever the safety on my mark. The alarms on this thing will bleat, so be prepared.” She moved back to the front of the cabin, and he saw her pull up what was left of the ship's navigational display.

“Whenever you are ready,” he told her.

“Just a few seconds . . .” She was watching their rotation, her hand over the firing mechanism. “Now.”

He switched the line, and sure enough an orange light began flashing. He disabled it with one hand. “Go,” he shouted.

Elena let off the shot, and he watched the explosive head toward the gray bird. Their front window spun so that the ship was invisible; all they had was the holographic readout, where their swan song was nothing but a tiny blip of light. He kept his eyes on the blip, noting peripherally that the light through the window was brightening; slowly the polarizer kicked in, and their rotation steadied.

They were heading nose-first into the wormhole.

“Come on,” Elena whispered.

There was a flash on the readout, and the gray bird staggered.

“Direct hit!” she shouted, laughing.

Trey left their cobbled power system behind, and stood next to her. On the readout, he saw
Lusitania
firing at the bird, shooting at the ship's damaged side. The troop shuttle was still trying to shield them.

“He is a stubborn man.”

“It will save his life.” She glanced up at the window, and her expression grew serious. “Trey,” she said, and held out her hand to him again.

Instead, he embraced her, pulling her against him, his eyes still on the window. He felt her arms go around his waist, felt her heart beating rapidly against his chest. It was, he had to admit, beautiful, all dancing color and snakes of white light, like the FTL field and yet wilder, more organic, more alive. He felt his stomach turn over, but he kept his eyes on it; if they survived this, if he made it home, he wanted to be able to tell Sarah what he had seen,
what mysteries there were left in the universe, even for a man of his age.

He kissed the top of Elena's head. “I was never any good at physics,” he remarked, and he felt her gasp with laughter.

“I'm pretty sure that doesn't matter now, my dear,” she said.

He held the words close to his heart as the bright light swallowed them.

T
he thing about rage,
Greg's father had told him,
is that you have to do something with it. You have to use it. If you sit on it, if you swallow it, it will hollow you out, make you weak. But if you take it, focus it, let it focus you, it becomes useful. If you control the rage, it makes you strong.

Greg watched the civilian shuttle disappear into the mouth of the wormhole, and let the rage wash over him.

“
Lusi,
” he said, “let's blow that motherfucker out of the sky.”

They were still no match for it, of course, but he had a chance now, thanks to Elena. He had no doubt now that she was alive—that she had been alive. Who else would think to throw bits of an FTL field generator at an attacker? It was a crude weapon, and might have easily detonated before she blasted it out of her ship, but she had made it work. She had saved his life.

There was something else there, under the rage.

Lusitania
focused all of her weapons systems on the S-O ship. With nothing left to protect, they were free to circle around to the ship's damaged side and chip away at it. They swooped close, focusing on the starboard engine, and with some concentrated
fire it dropped off the ship and exploded. Their enemy was not incapacitated, but they sure as hell had slowed her down.

Where would the field generator be on a ship like that? He thought about all the ships he'd ever studied, thought about the prototype plans he had seen, all the top-secret stuff he was told was only theoretical. The field generators were usually protected, nestled adjacent to some sharp angle; but they needed to have external access, and a bird that size would need a big one.

Did you hear me? Did you at least know I came after you? That I didn't abandon you?

The starboard engine had gone with too much ease; he guessed the generator was nestled under the port wing. Ducking
Lusitania
under the other ship, he pivoted in flight and laid down targeted fire as they sped past. “Come on, you bastard,” he muttered at it.

The other ship dipped its wing and reversed, dropping behind
Lusi.
Greg pivoted, but a shot caught his aft engine and he lost attitude control.

An alarm sounded. “System targeting unavailable,”
Lusi
said.

He pulled up the manual controls and started firing, but most of his shots went wide. Taking his cue from Elena, he used his thrusters to even out his flight, but the other ship, damaged as it was, had quickly matched his trajectory, getting ready to fire . . .

. . . and then a massive blast hit the ruined starboard wing of the S-O ship. As Greg watched, a third ship rose above them, her hull burnished black, her lines half-familiar. She strafed the S-O ship as she passed over them, and Greg saw the ship's port weapons take another hit.

He came about again, aiming for the port wing. The S-O ship spun away from him, all the while firing on the newcomer, who was making some impressive evasive turns. Greg tumbled under them both, his shots ineffective.

“
Lusi,
comm the new ship,” he said.

There was a pause. “Outgoing only,”
Lusi
said.

That would have to do. He opened the connection. “The field generator is under the joint of the port side wing. I can't target anymore.”

He turned again, firing futilely, attempting to draw the S-O ship's attention. Above him the newcomer sped and rolled, then stopped and inverted in place. She was firing before she moved forward, dashing at an angle toward his attacker, concentrating on the ship's port side.

With one final bright shot, the rear of the wing exploded with a telltale blue-white fire.

“Got you, you son of a bitch,” Greg yelled.

His exultation was short-lived. There were alarms going off all around him. The internal oxygen was nearly gone, and he had almost no shielding left. He did not think he would last more than a minute or so; he could do more damage in that time, but unless the pilot was absurdly stupid he would be unlikely to get in a kill shot. But without a field the ship wasn't going anywhere. The newcomer might uncover what was going on, might figure out who the hell in Shadow Ops was willing to go this far, and for what.

But he would never know.

There was a lurch, and they started to yaw. “Did we lose nav?” he shouted over the alarms.

“No,”
Lusi
told him. “We are in the gravity well of the wormhole.”

The newcomer sped vertically out of his line of sight, then down again; she was looking for a way to get to him. He engaged the comm one last time. “Don't come after me,” he told the other ship, “or you'll be trapped as well.”

All the rage drained out of him. He took his hands off the controls, watching the spinning remains of the S-O ship out his front window. He had done what he could. He had done what was possible. It was not all he wished, but in that moment, he thought it would do. He thought he could be remembered like this, and it would be all right.

“
Lusi,
shut down the engines,” he said.

And he fell.