Genellan: Planetfall Page 3

  "Any signs of intelligence?" Quinn asked.

  "No, sir," Hudson replied. "We've picked up some random coherent signals but nothing like you'd expect from a technical civilization, certainly not like what we're detecting from the second planet. We'll know more after we make a survey orbit. Only the telescopes and cameras are up, but engineering is working on the sensors—among other things."

  "Mains are on line and ready for retrograde burn," Buccari announced. "Trajectory for orbit is good. We won't need more than five minutes of burn at two plus gees. Fuel is ten point four—some margin for error."

  "Three minutes to orbit retro, Commander," Hudson reported.

  Quinn did not acknowledge. Buccari looked up to find the pilot staring out at the planet, its image reflecting from his helmet visor.

  "Beautiful!" Quinn whispered sadly.

  Buccari gazed at the brilliant cloud-covered body and nodded. It had been a long time. It looked like Earth. She returned to her checklists.

  "One minute to burn. Orbital checklist complete," Buccari reported. She labored on her power console. "Engineering, power readouts are fluctuating. You sure we have a good cross-connect?"

  Rhodes retorted with a string of expletives, indicating he was satisfied with the state of affairs at his end of the ship. Buccari leaned forward, intent on her instruments.

  "What's wrong, Sharl? You're worried," Quinn said.

  She looked up from the power console. "Nothing I can put my finger on, Commander. Interlocks are off, and there are a dozen primary deficiencies. The whole system is messed up from battle damage, but Virgil's as good as they come. If anyone can jury-rig the plumbing, he can. We don't have many alternatives."

  "Not good alternatives, but we sure got plenty of rotten ones," Quinn replied. "Okay, I've got the controls. Mister Hudson, everybody to acceleration stations. Pass word for retro. Deceleration load two point two gees." Quinn sounded the maneuvering alarm and pivoted the ship, redirecting the massive main engines nozzles along the retro vector. Lapsed time advanced inexorably.

  "Five… four… three…" Buccari' s clear voice sounded over the ship's general address system. She verified axial alignment and confirmed the maneuvering thrusters were armed and functioning. "two… one… zero."

  "Throttle at thirty percent," Quinn re-affirmed as he cleared the safety interlock. He depressed the ignition button.

  Nothing happened. Quinn released the button, cycled the interlock, and pushed again. Nothing.

  "Engineering! We have a problem," Quinn announced. "What about it?"

  Rhodes's voice came back after a short pause. He did not sound confident. "Give us a minute, Skipper. Got a few ideas."

  Buccari updated the retro-burn profile. Every minute meant a tighter orbit window and more power required to establish trajectory. More power for orbit would mean less fuel available for getting the crew and their survival equipment down to the planet.

  "Nash, give me fuel versus time. Work out a worst case," she ordered.

  "I have the trade-offs, Sharl," Hudson replied. "Assuming we get engines to full power, we have nine hours to make worst case orbit, only we wouldn't have any lander fuel left—we'd be stranded in orbit. The window to get everyone down with fifty kilos of equipment is ninety minutes. After about six hours we'll have to start leaving people behind. Depends on how low our orbit is."

  Quinn's helmet pivoted upward as if in prayer. "Run the numbers again," he ordered.

  "I already did, sir—three times," Hudson's voice was confident, if subdued. "That assumes everyone rides down on the apple. We buy some slack with an injection run. We've got six penetration modules and at least six qualified Marines."

  Quinn switched off the auto-stabilizers to conserve fuel. "Rhodes! How're you doing? Give me an estimate!" he demanded.

  Buccari was about to repeat the command when Mendoza, Rhodes's senior propulsion technician, came up on the circuit, gasping for breath.

  "Commander Quinn, we got it figured out, er. it' s—"

  Silence. The circuit went dead, and the ship went absolutely dark, the stark glare of the approaching planet their only light. Buccari keyed her intercom. Silence. She flipped open the control cover on her forearm and activated her suit transceiver. Much of the crew was already up, saturating the frequency. Hudson took charge, directing the confusion. No one was in contact with engineering, the mass of the ship blocking transmissions to that most rearward station.

  "I'm heading back," Buccari said, releasing her fittings and clearing her visor. As she floated into the tubular longitudinal accessway the emergency battle lighting flickered on. A red glow bathed the forty meter tunnel, and Buccari's vision adjusted to the monochromatic pall. Rhodes's bulk emerged from the distant afterhatch.

  "Give me.. one hour to re-run cross-connects," the big man blurted on the radio circuit, his voice an octave higher, his breathing labored, "and to…reinforce secondary circuits. Energy paths overloaded. The power manager locked up, and. I had to run a bypass to override. We lost the load. Goldberg…is rebooting the power manager."

  They met halfway. Rhodes's anguished face, ashen even in the red battle light, ran with perspiration. A bypass on the power manager was a major operation, done by a station crew over a period of hours, even days. Rhodes, with only two technicians, had just done one in less than ten minutes. Buccari refused to think of the shortcuts the engineer had employed, or their consequences.

  Commander Quinn came up on the radio: "We have no choice, Virgil. You take too long and we'll all have nothing but time on our hands."

  "Yes, sir," Rhodes replied. "I understand—"

  "Commander," interrupted Buccari. "I'm going back. I'll run the power manager while Mr. Rhodes finishes cross-connects. I think I know why the connect didn't hold."

  "Sure, Sharl," Quinn replied. "I'll just take a nap."

  Ignoring the sarcasm, she turned to the engineer and smiled. "We got work to do, Virgil."

  "Roger, Lieutenant," Rhodes gulped, trying unsuccessfully to return the smile. He flipped his big body and floated aft, propelling himself by hand rungs interspersed down the bore. Buccari followed.

  Compared to the gray drabness of the flight deck, the expansive engineering compartment, even under emergency lighting, was gaudily illuminated, with banks of instrumentation lining all surfaces, except the aft bulkhead, where an airlock led to the cavernous main engine hold. Next to the lock an observation bay looked out over a labyrinth of reactors, pipes, radiator fins, and turbines. The engineering technicians were engrossed in their tasks. They had discarded their battle suits, stripping down to buff-coloredjumpsuits, their shiny-bald heads glistening with perspiration. Buccari removed helmet and gloves, leaving the apparel drifting in a catch net near the hatch.

  "Mendoza, force the auto-repair diagnostic on the transmission paths," Rhodes ordered. "Goldberg, I want you to finish the reboot!"

  "I've got the power manager, Goldberg," said Buccari, sliding next to the petty officer and hooking her boot around a security tether. "Mr. Rhodes wants you on main memory." The propulsion technician, absorbed in her efforts, looked up with irritation.

  "I'll get it! I'm almost there, Lieutenant—" Goldberg started.

  "Goldberg!" boomed Rhodes. "Main memory! Reset and reboot, now!"

  Goldberg pushed from the console, propelling her thin body across the compartment. Spinning and jackknifing adroitly, she gracefully cushioned her vigorous impact next to the main computer control console and was quickly at work.

  Buccari analyzed power manager status and was soon consumed by the task of reprogramming the computer. Minutes passed in controlled frenzy. As she worked, her mind drifted back to the near disastrous engagement with the alien spacecraft. With startling awareness she realized the limitless scope of their luck: they were still waiting for the same power sequence that fired the laser cannon. The cannon would not have fired, just as the main engines had not. They should have been annihilated by the alien ship. How had they escaped?<
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  Buccari finished programming and checked the time display on the bulkhead. Precious minutes marched into history. Her eyes would not leave the blinking diodes that marked the time, her entire being focused on the inevitable dwindling of opportunity, the irrefutable and immutable narrowing of existence that the passage of time represented. The essence of life was palpable; her pulse pounded in her ears.

  Rhodes's hour was up!

  "Okay, Lieutenant," said Rhodes, interrupting her trance. "Cross-connects are firm, but I need ten more minutes to stabilize ion pressures and temps."

  "Roger," Buccari replied. "Power manager is resetting. You're only going to get a conditional reset. There's not enough time to get a full null, but it'll be good enough. Good luck, Virgil." She redonned helmet and gloves and slipped into the darkened connecting tube, anxious to once again look out upon the shining planet.

  It was brilliant; she opened the flight deck hatch to a white flood of natural light and had to squint to see the instruments. She flashed Hudson a thin smile and then hit a button on her wrist controls, causing her gold visor filter to click instantly into place.

  "Well?" Quinn demanded. "What's it look like?"

  As if in answer, the ship's lighting flickered to normal. Buccari glanced down at her power console as the primary circuit indicators switched to green, clearing most of the error messages on her screen.

  "Rhodes needs ten minutes to complete cross-connect, but it looks functional," she reported, locking into her seat. "I wouldn't want to use the power paths again. Main busses are fried, and the alternates are just hanging together. We tested for load. They'll hold. We got at least one shot."

  Quinn grunted and busied himself with preorbital checks. Buccari joined the litany of preparation; challenges were answered with responses of unequivocal certainty. The ship was a wreck; systems were out of specification, or inoperable, but the checklist moved onward and around these obstacles, measuring their impact and weighing the risks and alternatives.

  "Preorbital checks complete," Buccari reported. She saved the checklist deviations to the logfile and cleared the checklist screen. She punched a button on the communications panel. "Flight deck to engineering. Your turn, Mr. Rhodes. Status?"

  Goldberg responded. "Power manager shows a conditional reset, just like you said. You sure we can't get it to full function by a reload simulation? Mr. Rhodes and me think we can do it in five minutes."

  "Go with what we you have, Goldberg," Buccari almost shouted. "The power manager may not hold together for that long, and we have a date with a planet in a few minutes."

  "Mr. Rhodes says—"

  "Ready for ignition, now! No more questions."

  The circuit went silent. "Aye, sir," Goldberg said at last. Hudson shook his fingers as if they were on fire. Buccari ignored him.

  Quinn came up on the command channel: "Ignition in ninety seconds. Let's slow this bucket down. You ready, Mr. Rhodes?"

  The engineer responded: "Retro in ninety. Engineering is ready."

  Quinn hit the maneuvering alarm and broadcast over the general circuit: "All hands to stand by for. five gees. Five gees for five minutes. Commencing retro sequence now."

  Buccari monitored fuel readings and rechecked burn times. Five gees for five minutes would get everyone's attention. She switched the injection profile over to her primary monitor. Klaxons sounded and a controlled cacophony of chatter emitted from her headset, each station reporting their status. The ship's crew settled into known procedures, conditions for which they had trained and retrained, the urgency of their struggle dispelling the shock and surprise of post-combat and the helplessness of being in deep space without power.

  Buccari's voice droned professionally as she verbalized checklist items rolling down her console display. Quinn's replies were equally sterile. The prominent digital clock was once again counting the seconds to their destiny, the gaudy red flickering a mechanical symbol of the tension rebuilding under the dispassionate routine of the checklist. Buccari rechecked the craft's alignment to the retro-axis for the twentieth time; cross hairs were centered on the thrust vector. A slight oscillation was apparent, but it was within vector limits.

  "Orbital checks complete. Twenty seconds to retro," Buccari announced over the general circuit. "All stations prepare for final count."

  Quinn locked the throttle at sixty percent, flipped back the ignition switch cover, depressed the interlock, and positioned his hand over the ignition. Buccari' s hands curled around the acceleration grips on her arm rests, fingertips playing lightly over the controls. She finished the countdown: "Five… four… three… two… one… ignition, now."

  Quinn depressed the button. After an agonizing delay a surge of pure power pressed her into her seat. Never had five gees felt so good! She sensed the familiar gee-induced vibration inside her eyeballs. Peripheral vision tunneled inward. The red diodes of the ignition timer counted positive seconds into the burn…009…010…01 1. Buccari forced her lungs to exhale a load of air.

  "Igni-shun plus fifteen sec-con's. F-fuel flow p-peaking," Hudson grunted. An eternity passed, and then Hudson's voice again: "Plus thir-thirty secon's."

  Buccari scanned the master display. Warning lights illuminated, some steady, some flickering. The power plant was functioning—outside of limits, but it was holding steady across the board.

  "H-how's it look, Sharl?" Quinn grunted into the intercom.

  "R-real ug-ugly." Buccari contracted her abdomen, forcing her diaphragm to expel her words. "S-shunt's working, and the mains are holding, b-but w-we got over four minutes to shake, rattle, and roll."

  An ominous thump-thump-THUMP vibrated through the frame of the ship. Buccari wrenched her head sideways to look at Quinn, who did likewise toward her. They were powerless to take action. The mains might not take the stress of powering up again. Unless they rode out this deceleration they would be doomed to death in deep space. If the mains blew, all their problems, and their hopes, would be over. Both pilots worked their heads forward, returning their view to the engine instruments, to wait.

  Four minutes later the timed retrofire terminated. Weightlessness returned, and Legion corvette, Harrier One, was in orbit.

  Chapter 4. Debriefing

  "Excuse me, Admiral," Commander Ito reported. "It's time." The flag aide poked his head through the chromed hatch of the admiral's habitation ring stateroom.

  "Right behind you, Sam," the admiral replied. "What's the latest?" Runacres, with Merriwether and Wells at his heels, sauntered through the half gravity of Eire'shabitation ring, following the flag aide.

  "Of the twenty-two survivors," Ito updated them as they entered the briefing compartment, "four irretrievably died of trauma before being picked up; two others were resuscitated but are in critical condition and no longer capable of meaningful existence. They will be allowed to terminate. Ten others are seriously injured but should recover, two as unregenerative amputees. They'll all be spending time in radtox."

  Runacres wearily shook his head. The corvette group leader and other senior members of his staff were already seated while junior staff sat at stations outside the sensor perimeter. On the bulkheads in front and to each side of the admiral were segmented vid-images being transmitted from the other ships. Most attendees were quietly seated, although the normal movement of latecomers and kibitzers gave the screens a kaleidoscopic character. Movement ceased as the admiral took his seat.

  Commander Ito, somber image filling the speaker's vid, commenced the briefing, running down the agenda and designating speakers. Runacres looked at the secondary screens, identifying faces in the electronically connected assemblage but pondering on those who were missing. The center screen moved into a close-up on the first speaker, a woman, obvious even though she was smoothly hairless. She spoke in a firm contralto. A medical dressing masked one of her crystal blue eyes and obscured her fine features. Runacres recognized Lieutenant Commander Casseopeia Quinn— Jack Quinn's wife.

  "Greenland's s
urvey computers had data link with Harrier One's survey system," she reported. "Instruments show that Harrier One was functioning when the fleet jumped—the crew was still alive." A single tear broke loose and rolled halfway down her cheek before it was intercepted by a quick knuckle. Runacres averted his eyes; a lump grew in his throat—and anger. He should have been notified about this in advance of the brief. There was nothing he could do about her husband and his crew. The silence was mercifully cut by the resumption of Quinn's narrative.

  "…and," she continued, her voice firm, "those same instruments indicate that R-K Three is alpha-zed."

  Runacres hit his command button and glared at the conference screen. "Excuse me, Commander…Cassy, isn't it?" Runacres interrupted. "First permit me to offer my condolences for the loss of your husband, and of so many of your valiant shipmates. Second, allow me to thank you for your courage in making this presentation so soon after your ordeal. I hope your injuries are not serious."

  "Thank you, Admiral," Quinn replied, chin up and voice steady. "My injuries will heal, the loss of my husband will not. But…there may be hope…yet."

  Runacres considered the beleaguered female's situation. Her husband was marooned in an alien system, and there was only one reason the fleet would ever return to that system: a habitable planet.

  "Alpha-zed, eh?" the admiral muttered. "Have you evidence?"

  "Yes, sir, I do," Quinn replied, "and I apologize for letting my emotions get the better of me. Permit me to resume, sir."

  "Please do," he said.

  "Humans have been exploring the stars for two centuries," Quinn said, addressing the conference. "And other than Shaula, our exobiologists have not discovered any life forms more intelligent than the aborigines of Arcturus Four."