Cold sweat beaded my face. I was gasping for breath. The freebooters or whoever was shooting at us could come up close enough to spit at us now. They’d riddle this pod and me in it.
“Sir, standard procedure calls for you to put on your spacesuit.”
I nodded mutely and got up from the chair. The suit was in its rack by the airlock. At least Forty-niner didn’t mention the tactical manual.
I had one leg in the suit when the ship suddenly began to accelerate so hard that I slipped to the deck and cracked my skull on the bulkhead. I really saw stars flashing in my eyes.
“What the hell. . .?”
“We are accelerating, sir. Retreating from the last known position of the attacking vessel.”
“Accelerating? How? We’re out of—”
“I am using our cargo as propellant, sir. The thrust provided is—”
Forty-niner was squirting out our water. Fine by me. Better to have empty cargo tanks and be alive than to hand a full cargo of water to the guys who killed me. I finished wriggling into my spacesuit even though my head was thumping from the fall I’d taken. Just before I pulled on the helmet I felt my scalp. There was a nice-sized lump; it felt hot to my fingers.
“You could’ve warned me that you were going to accelerate the ship,” I grumbled as I sealed the helmet to the suit’s neck ring.
“Time was of the essence, sir,” Forty-niner replied.
The ship lurched again as I checked my backpack connections. Another hit.
“Where’d they get us?” I shouted.
No answer. That really scared me. If they knocked Forty-niner’s computer out, all the ship’s systems would bonk out, too.
“Main power generator, sir,” Forty-niner finally replied. “We are now running on auxiliary power, sir.”
The backup fuel cells. They wouldn’t last more than a few hours. If the damned solar panels were working—no, I realized; those big fat wings would just make terrific target practice for the bastards.
Another lurch. This time I saw the bright flash through the bridge’s window. The beam must’ve splashed off the structure just outside the pod. My God—if they punctured the pod, that would be the end of it. Sure, I could slide my visor down and go to the backpack’s air supply. But that’d give me only two hours of air, at best. Just enough time to write my last will and testament.
“I thought you turned the pod away from them!” I yelled.
“They are maneuvering, too, sir.”
Great. Sitting in the command chair was awkward, in the suit. The display board looked like a Christmas tree, more red then green. The pod seemed to be intact so far. Life support was okay, as long as we had electrical power.
Another jolt, a big one. Forty-niner shuddered and staggered sideways as if it were being punched by a gigantic fist.
And then, just like that, the comm screens came back to life. Radar showed the other vessel, whoever they were, moving away from us.
“They’re going away!” I whooped.
Forty-niner’s voice seemed fainter than usual. “Yes, sir. They are leaving.”
“How come?” I wondered.
“Their last laser shot ruptured our main water tank, sir. In eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds our entire cargo will be discharged.”
I just sat there, my mind chugging hard. We’re spraying our water into space, the water that those bastards wanted to steal from us. That’s why they left. In eleven and a half minutes we won’t have any water for them to take.
I almost broke into a smile. I’m not going to die, after all. Not right away, at least.
Then I realized that JRK49N was without propulsion power and would be out of electrical power in a few hours. I was going to die after all, dammit. Only slower.
“Send out a distress call, broadband,” I commanded. But I knew that was about as useful as a toothpick in a soup factory. The corporation didn’t send rescue missions for waterbots, not with the war going on. Too dangerous. The other side could use the crippled ship as bait and pick off any vessel that came to rescue it. And they certainly wouldn’t come out for a vessel as old as Forty-niner. They’d just check the numbers in their ledgers and write us off. With a form letter of regret and an insurance check to my mother.
“Distress call on all frequencies, sir.” Before I could think of anything more to say, Forty-niner went on, “Electrical power is critical, sir.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“There is a prohibition in my programming, sir.”
“About electrical power?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then I remembered I had commanded him to stop nagging me about repairing the solar panels. “Cancel the prohibition,” I told him.
Immediately Forty-niner came back with, “The solar panels must be extended and activated, sir,” soft and cool and implacable as hell. “Otherwise we will lose all electrical power.”
“How long?”
It took a few seconds for him to answer, “Fourteen hours and twenty-nine minutes, sir.”
I was already in my spacesuit, so I got up from the command chair and plodded reluctantly toward the airlock. The damned solar panels. If I couldn’t get them functioning I’d be dead. Let me tell you, that focuses your mind, it does.
