Jamming. And the vessel out there was running silent, no tracking beacon or telemetry emissions.
A freebooter! All of a sudden I wished I’d studied that tactical manual.
Almost automatically I called up the comm system. “This is Humphries Space Systems waterbot JRK49N,” I said, trying to keep my voice firm. Maybe it was a corporate vessel, or one of the mercenaries. “I repeat, waterbot JRK49N.”
No response.
“Their jamming blocks your message, sir.”
I sat there in the command chair staring at the display screens. Broken jagged lines scrolled down all the comm screens, hissing at me like snakes. Our internal systems were still functional, though. For what it was worth, propulsion, structures, electrical power all seemed to be in the green. Life support, too.
But not for long, I figured.
“Compute our best course for Vesta,” I commanded.
“Our present course—”
“Is for 78-13, I know. Compute high-thrust course for Vesta, dammit!”
“Done, sir.”
“Engage the main drive.”
“Sir, I must point out that a course toward Vesta will bring us closer to the unidentified vessel.”
“What?”
“The vessel that is jamming our communications, sir, is positioned between us and Vesta.”
Rats! They were pretty smart. I thought about climbing to a higher declination, out of the ecliptic.
“We could maneuver to a higher declination, sir,” Forty-niner said, calm as ever, “and leave the plane of the ecliptic.”
“Right.”
“But propellant consumption would be prohibitive, sir. We would be unable to reach Vesta, even if we avoided the attacking vessel.”
“Who says it’s an attacking vessel?” I snapped. “It hasn’t attacked us yet.”
At that instant the ship shuddered. A cluster of red lights blazed up on the display panel and the emergency alarm started wailing.
“Our main deuterium tank has been punctured, sir.”
“I can see that!”
“Attitude jets are compensating for unexpected thrust, sir.”
Yeah, and in another couple minutes the attitude jets would be out of nitrogen. No deuterium for the fusion drive, and no propellant for the attitude jets. We’d be a sitting duck.
Another jolt. More red lights on the board. The alarm seemed to screech louder.
“Our fusion drive thruster cone has been hit, sir.”
Two laser shots and we were crippled. As well as deaf, dumb, and blind.
“Turn off the alarm,” I yelled, over the hooting. “I know we’re in trouble.”
The alarm shut off. My ears still ringing, I stared at the hash-streaked screens and the red lights glowering at me from the display board. What to do? I couldn’t even call over to them and surrender. They wouldn’t take a prisoner, anyway.
I felt the ship lurch again.
“Another hit?”
“No, sir,” answered Forty-niner. “I am swinging the ship so that the control pod faces away from the attacker.”
Putting the bulk of the ship between me and those laser beams. “Good thinking,” I said weakly.
“Standard defensive maneuver, sir, according to Tactical Manual 7703.”
“Shut up about the damned tactical manual!”
“The new meteor shields have been punctured, sir.” I swear Forty-niner added that sweet bit of news just to yank my chain.
Then I saw the maneuvering jet propellant go empty, the panel display lights flicking from amber to red.
“Rats, we’re out of propellant!”
I realized that I was done for. Forty-niner had tried to shield me from the attacker’s laser shots by turning the ship so that its tankage and fusion drive equipment was shielding my pod, but doing so had used up the last of our maneuvering propellant.
