Glen Cook - Starfishers 4 - Passage at Arms

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"AMMUNITION GONE!" I SHOUT.
Hyper alarm. Another beam from the corvette. Wham! Launch Three ripped off the torus in a hail of
glowing fragments. Hope the accelerator path wasn't breached. We wouldn't be able to Climb.
Ghosting.
It lasts only a few minutes. Down we go. Cameras searching, hunting the corvette. What's she
doing? Coming after us? There she is. Two thousand some klicks. Accelerating...
"Enjoy," Yanevich says. "The party's just beginning."
Also by Glen Cook
SHADOWLINE STARFISHERS STARS' END
Published by WARNER BOOKS
PASSAGE AT ARMS
by Glen Cook
1 Welcome Aboard
The personnel carrier lurches through the ruins under a wounded sky. The night hangs overhead like
a sadist's boot, stretching out the moment of terror before it falls. It's an indifferent brute
full of violent color and spasms of light. It's an eternal moment on a long, frightening, infinite
trail that loops back upon itself. I swear we've been around the track a couple of times before.
I decide that a planetary siege is like a woman undressing. Both present the most amazing wonders
and astonishments the first time. Both are beautiful and deadly. Both baffle and mesmerize me, and
leave me wondering, What did I do to deserve this?
A twist of a lip or a quick chance fragment can shatter the enchantment in one lethal second.
I look at that sky and wonder at myself. Can I really see beauty in that?
Tonight's raids are really showy.
Moments ago the defensive satellites and enemy ships were stars in barely perceptible motion. You
could play guessing games as to which were which. You could pretend you were an old-time sailor
trying to get a fix and not being able because your damned stars wouldn't hold still.
Now those diamond tips are loci for burning spiders' silk. The stars were lying to us all along.
They were really hot-bottomed arachnids with their legs tucked in, waiting to spin their deadly
nets. Gigawatt filaments of home-brew lightning come and go so swiftly that what I really see is
afterimages scarred on my rods and cones.
Balls of light flare suddenly, fade more slowly. There is no way of knowing what they mean. You
presume they are missiles being intercepted because neither side often penetrates the other's
automated defenses. Occasional shooting stars claw the stratosphere as fragments of missile or
satellite die a second death. Everything consumed in this holocaust will be replaced the moment
the shooters disappear.
I try to pay attention to Westhause. He's telling me something, and to him it's important. "...
instruments are rather primitive, Lieutenant. We get around on a hunch and a prayer." He snickers.
It's the sound boys make after telling dirty jokes.
I'm sorry I asked. I don't even remember the question now. I just wanted to get a feel of the man
who will be our astrogator. I'm getting more than I bargained for. The fifty-pfennig tour.
That's one of the tricks of telling a good story, Waldo. Before you start talking you identify the
parts that are important only to you and separate them from those everybody else wants to hear.
Then you leave out the insignificant details only you care about. You hear me thinking at you,
Waldo? I suppose not. There aren't many telepaths around.
Now I understand the sly smiles that slit the faces of the others when I started with Westhause.
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Took them off my hook and put me on the astrogator's.
I shuffle the mental paperwork I did on the officers. Waldo Westhause. Native Canaanite. Reserve
officer. Math instructor before he was called to the colors. Twenty-four. An old man to be making
just his second patrol. Deftly competent in his specialty, but not well-liked. Talks too much.
He has that eager-to-please look of the unpopular kid who hangs in there, trying. He's too
cheerful, smiles too much, and tells too many jokes, all of them poorly. Usually muffs the
punchline.
I don't know much of this by direct observation. This is the Old Man's report.
Experienced Climber officers are taut, dour, close-mouthed sphinxes who watch everything with
hooded, feline eyes. They all have a little of the cat in them, the cat that sleeps with one
cracked eye. They jump at odd sounds. They're constantly grooming. They make themselves obnoxious
with their passion for cool, fresh air and clean surroundings. They've been known to maim slovenly
wives and indifferent hotel housekeepers.
The carrier heaves. "Damn it! I'll need my spine rebuilt if this keeps on. They can use my
tailbone for baby powder now."
Some closet Torquemada had pointed at this antique, crowed, "Personnel carrier!" and ordered us
aboard. The damned thing bucks, jounces, and lurches like some clanking three-legged iron
stegosaurus trying to shake off lice. The dusky sorceress driving keeps looking back, her face
torn by a wide ivory grin. This particular louse has chosen himself a spot to bite if she's ever
stupid enough to stop.
The ride has its positive side. I don't have to listen to Westhause all the time. I can't. I can't
keep tabs on the raid, either.
Why must I chase these incredible stories?
I remember a story about bullriders I did before the war. On Tregorgarth. Fool that I am, I felt
compelled to live that whole experience, too. But then I could jump off the bull anytime I wanted.
I hear the Commander's chuckle and look his way. He's a dim, golden-haired silhouette against the
moonlight. He's watching me. "They're only playing tonight," he says. "Drills, that's all. Just
training drills." His laugh explodes like a thunderous fart.
Squinting doesn't help me make out his expression. In the flash and flicker it jerks like the
action in an ancient kinescope, or some conjured demon unsure what form to manifest. It doesn't
settle. The Teutonic shape fills with shadowed hollows. The eyes look mad. Is he playing a game?
Sometimes it's hard to tell.
I survey the others, Lieutenant Yanevich and Ensign Bradley. They haven't spoken since we entered
the main gate. They hang on to their seats and count the rivets in the bucking deck or recall the
high points of their leaves or say prayers. There is no telling what's going on in their heads.
Their faces give nothing away.
I feel strange. I'm really doing it. I feel alone and afraid, and fall into a baffled, what-the-
hell-am-I-doing-here mood.
There is a big explosion up top. For an instant the ruins become an ink-line drawing of the
bottommost floor of hell. Forests of broken brick pillars and rusty iron that present little
resistance to the shock waves of the attackers' weapons. Every single one will tumble someday.
Some just demand more attention.
The silent monument called Lieutenant Yanevich comes to life. "You should catch one of their big
shows," he says. He cackles. It sounds forced, like a laugh given in charity to a bad joke. But
maybe he's right to laugh. Maybe Climber men do have the True Vision. To them the war is one
interminable shaggy-dog story. "You were too late for the latest Turbeyville Massacre."
Our driver swerves. Our right side tracks climb a pile of rubble. We crank along at half speed,
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with a thirty-degree list on. A band of spacers are trudging along the same trail, lurching worse
than the carrier, singing a grotesquely modified patriotic song. They are barely visible in their
dress blacks. Only one man glances our way, his expression one of supreme disdain. His companions
all hang on to one another, fore and aft, hand to shoulder, skipping along in a bizarre bunny hop.
They could be drunken dwarfs heading for the night shift in a surreal coal mine. They all carry
sacks of fruits and vegetables. They vanish into our lightless wake.
"Methinks they be a tad drunk," says Bradley, who is carrying no mean load himself.
"We looked Turbeyville over on our way here," I say, and Yanevich nods. "/ saw enough."
The Fleet's big on-planet headquarters is buried beneath Turbeyville. It gets the best of the more
serious drops.
The Commander and I had looked around while the dust was settling from the latest. The moons had
been in conjunction nadir the previous night. That weakens the defense matrix, so the boys
upstairs jumped through the hole with a heavy boomer drop. They replowed several square kilometers
of often-turned rubble. They do it for the same reason a farmer plows a fallow field. It keeps the
weeds from getting too tall.
The Commander says it was a tease strike. Just something to keep the edge on their boys and let us
know our upstairs neighbors may come to stay someday.
The abandoned surface city lay immobilized in winter's tight grasp when we arrived. The iron
skeletons of buildings creaked in bitter winds. All those mountains of broken brick lay beneath a
rime of ice. In the moonlight they looked as though herds of migrating slugs had left their
silvery trails upon them.
A handful of civilians prowled the wastes, hunting dreams of yesterday. The Old Man says the same
ones come out after every raid, hoping something from the past will have worked to the surface.
Poor Flying Dutchmen, trying to recapture annihilated dreams.
A billion dreams have already perished. This conflict, this furnace of doom, will consume a
billion more. Maybe it feeds on them.
The carrier lurches. A track has missed its footing and we chum in a quarter-circle. Someone
remarks listlessly, "We're almost there." I can't tell who. No one else cares enough to comment.
What I see over the carrier's armored flanks makes me wonder if the Old Man and I ever got out of
Turbeyville. We might be Fliegende Hollandren ourselves, pursuing that infinite path through the
ruins.
The Pits are another popular target. The boys upstairs can't resist. They're the taproot of
Climber Command's logistics tree, the point where the strength of Canaan coalesces for transfer to
the Fleet. The Pits spew men, stores, and materiel like a full-time geyser.
All they ever reclaim is leave-bound Climber people wearing the faces of concentration camp
escapees.
I was planning to do an eyewitness account of the bold defenders of mankind. The plan needs
revision. I haven't encountered any of those. Climber people are scared all the time. They shy at
shadows. The heroes are merely holonet fabrications. All these people want is to survive their
next patrol; Their lives exist only within the mission's parameters. My companions have left their
pasts in storage. They look no farther ahead than coming home. And they won't talk about that, for
fear of jinxing it.
We've crossed some unmarked line. There's a difference! in the air. The smells are changing. Hard
to recognize them amid this jouncing...
Ah. That's the sea I smell. The sea and all the indignities; unleashed upon it since the Pits were
opened. The bay out there is the touchdown cushion for returning lifter pods. Maybe; I'll be able
to watch one splash in.
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Now I can feel the earth tremors generated by departing lifters. They leave at ten-second
intervals, 'round Canaan's! twenty-two-hour and fifty-seven-minute clock. They come in| varying
sizes. Even the little ones are bigger than barns. They! are simply gift boxes packed with goodies
for the Fleet.
The Commander wants me. He's leaning toward me, wearing his mocking grin. "Three klicks to go.
Think we'll make it?"
I ask if he's giving odds.
His blue eyes roll skyward. His colorless lips form a thin smile. The gentlemen of the other firm
are playing with bigger firecrackers now. The flashes splatter his face, tattooing it withj light
and shadow.
He looks twice his chronological age. He's losing hair inj front. His features are cragged and
lined. It's hard to believef this came of the pink, plump cherub face I knew in Academy.!
The gyrations of the brown girl's tracked rack bother himj not at all. He seems to take some
perverse pleasure in being! slung around.
Something is going on upstairs. It makes me nervous. The aerial show is picking up. This isn't any
drill. The interceptions are taking place in the troposphere now. Choirs of ground-based weapons
are testing their voices. They sing in dull crackles and booms. The carrier's roar and rumble only
partially drown them.
Halos of fire brand the night.
A violin-string tautness edges Yanevich's words as he observes, "Drop coming down."
Magic words. Ensign Bradley, the other new fish, sheds his harness and stands, knuckles whitening
as he grips the side of the carrier. Our Torquemada wheel-woman decides this is the moment to show
us what her chariot will do. Bradley plunges toward the gap left by the removal of a defective
rear loading ramp. He's so startled he doesn't yelp. Westhause and I snag fists full of jumper as
he lunges past.
"Are you crazy?" Westhause demands. He sounds bewildered. I know what he's feeling. I feel that
way when I watch a parachute jump. Any damn fool ought to know better than that.
"I wanted to see..."
The Commander says, "Sit down, Mr. Bradley. You don't want to see so bad you get your ass retired
before you start your first mission."
"Not to mention the inconvenience," Yanevich adds. "It's too late to come up with another Ship's
Services Officer."
I commiserate with Bradley. I want to see, too. "How long before the dropships arrive?"
I've seen the tapes. My seat harness feels like a straitjacket. Caught on the ground, in the open.
The enemy coming. A Navy man's nightmare.
They don't bother with my question. Only the enemy knows what he's doing. That adds to my unease.
Marines, Planetary Defense soldiers, Guardsmen, they can handle the exposure. They're trained for
it. They know what to do when a raider bottoms her drop run. I don't. We don't. Navy people need
windowless walls, control.panels, display tanks, in order to face their perils calmly.
Even Westhause has run out of things to say. We watch the sky and wait for that first hint of
ablation glow.
Turbeyville boasted a downed dropship. It was a hundred meters of Stygian lifting body half-buried
in rubble. There is a stop frame I'll carry a long time. A tableau. Steam escaping the cracked
hull, colored by a vermilion dawn. Very picturesque.
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That boat was pushing mach 2 when her crew lost her, yet she went in virtually intact. The real
damage happened inside.
I decided to shoot some interiors. One look changed my mind. The shields and inertial fields that
preserved the hull juiced its occupants. Couldn't tell they had been guys pretty much like us,
only a little taller and blue, with mothlike antennae instead of ears and noses. Ulantonids, from
Ulant, their name for their homeworld. "Those chaps got an early out," the Commander told me. He
sounded as if he envied them.
The sight left him in a thoughtful mood. After one or two false starts, he said, "Strange things
happen. Patrol before last we raised a troop transport drifting in norm. One of ours. Not a thing
wrong with her. Not a soul on board, either. You never! know. Anything can happen."
"Looks like we'll get in ahead of them," Yanevich says.
I check the sky. I can't fathom the omens he's reading.
The surface batteries stop clearing their throats and begin singing in earnest. The Commander
gives Yanevich a derisive glance. "Seems to be shit flying everywhere, First Officer."
"Make a liar out of me," the Lieutenant growls. He flings a ferocious scowl at the sky.
Eye-searing graser flashes illuminate the rusting bones of once-mighty buildings. In one surreal,
black-and-white, line-on-line instant I see an image which captures the sterile escsnce of this
war. I swing my camera up and snap the picture, but too late to nail it.
Way up there, at least three stories, balanced on an I-beam, a couple were making it. Standing up.
Holding on to nothing but each other.
The Commander saw them, too. "We're on our way."
I try to glimpse his facial response. He wears the same blank mask. "Is that a non sequitur,
Commander?"
"That was Chief Holtsnider," Westhause says. How the hell does he know? He's sitting facing me.
The coupling was going on over his left shoulder. "Leading Energy Gunner. Certifiable maniac. Says
a good-bye up there before every mission. A quick, slick patrol if he gets his nuts off. The same
for her ship if she gets hers. She's a Second Class Fire Control Tech off Johnson's Climber." He
gives me a sick grin. "You almost snapped a living legend of the Fleet."
Crew segregation by sex is an unpleasantry unique to the Climbers. I haven't been womanizing that
much in integrated society, but I'm not looking forward to a period of enforced abstinence.
There's something about having somebody else cut you off that does things to your mind.
The folks back home don't hear the disadvantages. The holonets concentrate on swaggering leave-
takers and glory stuff that brings in the volunteers.
Climbers are the only Navy ship-type spacing without integrated crews. No other vessel produces
pressure like a Climber. Adding the volatile complication of sex is suicidal. They found that out
early.
I can understand the reasons. They don't help me like it any better.
I met Commander Johnson and her officers in Turbeyville. They taught me that, under like
pressures, women are as morally destitute as the worst of men, judged by peacetime standards.
What are peacetime standards worth these days? With them and a half-dozen Conmarks you can buy a
cup of genuine Old Earth coffee. Price six Conmarks without—on the black market.
The first dropship whips in along the carrier's backtrail, taking us by surprise. Her sonic wake
seizes the vehicle, gives it one tremendous shake, and deafens me momentarily. Somehow the others
get their hands to their ears in time. The dropper becomes a glowing deltoid moth depositing her
eggs in the sea.
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"There's some new lifters that'll need to be built," Westhause says. "Let's hope what we lost were
Citron Fours."
My harness is suddenly a trap. Panic hits me. How can I get away if I'm strapped down?
The Commander touches me gently. His touch has a surprisingly calming effect. "Almost there. A few
hundred meters."
The carrier stops almost immediately. "You're a prophet." It's a strain, trying to sound settled.
That damned open sky mocks our human vulnerability, throwing down great bolts of laughter at our
puniness.
A second dropper cracks overhead and leaves her greetings. A lucky ground weapon has bitten a neat
round hole from her flank. She trails smoke and glowing fragments. She wobbles. I missed covering
my ears again. Yanevich and Bradley help me out of the carrier.
Bradley says, "Bad shields on that one." He sounds about two kilometers away. Yanevich nods.
"Wonder if they'll ever get her back up." The First Watch! Officer commiserates with fellow
professionals.
I stumble several times clambering through the ruins. The boom must have scrambled my equilibrium.
The entrance to the Pits is well hidden. It's just another shadow among the piles, a man-sized
hole leading into one of war's middens. The rubble isn't camouflage. Guards in full| combat gear
loaf inside, waiting to clear new debris when the last dropship finishes her run, hoping there'll
be no work to do.
We trudge through the poorly lit halls of a deep subbase-j ment. Below them lie the Pits, a mix of
limestone cavern and wartime construction far beneath the old city. We have to walk down four
long, dead escalators before we find one still working. The constant pounding takes its toll. A
series of escalators carries us another three hundred meters into Canaan's skin.
My duffel, all my worldly possessions, is stuffed into one canvas bag. It masses exactly twenty-
five kilos. I had to moan and whine and beg to get the extra ten for cameras and notebooks. The
crew—including the Old Man—are allowed only fifteen.
The last escalator dumps us on a catwalk overlooking a cavern vaster than any dozen stadia.
"This is chamber six," Westhause says. "They call it the I Big House. There are ten all told, and
two more being excavated."
The place is as warm with frenetic activity. There are people everywhere, although most of them
are doing nothing. The majority are sleeping, despite the industrial din. Housing remains a low
priority in the war effort.
"I thought Luna Command was crowded."
"Almost a million people down here. They can't get them to move to the country."
Half a hundred production and packaging lines chug along below us. Their operators work on a dozen
tiers of steel grate. The cavern is one vast, insanely huge jungle gym, or perhaps the nest of a
species of technological ant. The rattle, clatter, and clang are as dense as the ringing round the
anvils of hell. Maybe it was in a place like this that the dwarfs of Norse mythology hammered out
their magical weapons and armor.
Jury-rigged from salvaged machinery, ages obsolete, the plant is the least sophisticated one I've
ever seen. Canaan became a fortress world by circumstance, not design. It suffered from a malady
known as strategic location. It still hasn't gotten the hang of the stronghold business.
"They make small metal and plastic parts here," Westhause explains. "Machinedparts, extrusion
moldings, castings. Some microchip assemblies. Stuff that can't be manufactured on TerVeen."
"This way," the Commander says. "We're running late. No time for sight-seeing."
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The balcony enters a tunnel. The tunnel leads toward the sea, if I have my bearings. It debouches
in a smaller, quieter cavern. "Red tape city," Westhause says. The natives apparently don't mind
the epithet. There's a big new sign proclaiming:
WELCOME TO
RED TAPE CITY
PLEASE DO NOT
EAT THE NATIVES
There's a list of department titles, each with its pointing arrow. The Commander heads toward
Outbound Personnel Processing.
Westhause says, "The caverns you didn't see are mainly warehouses, or lifter repair and assembly,
or loading facilities. Have to replace our losses." He grins. Why do I get the feeling he's
setting me up? "The next phase is the dangerous one. No defenses on a lifter but energy screens.
Can't even dodge. Shoots out of the silo like a bullet, right to TerVeen. The other firm always
takes a couple potshots."
"Then why have planetside leave? Why not stay on TerVeen?" The shuttling to and fro claims lives.
It makes no military sense.
"Remember how crazy the Pregnant Dragon was? And that place was just for officers. TerVeen isn't
big enough to take that from three or four squadrons. It's psychological. After a patrol people
need room to wind down."
'To get rid of soul pollution?"
"You religious? You'll get along with Fisherman, sure."
"No, I'm not." Who is, these days?
The check-in procedure is pleasantly abbreviated. The woman in charge is puzzled by me. She putzes
through my orders, points with her pen. I follow the others toward our launch silo where a crowd
of men and women are waiting to board the lifter. The presence of officers does nothing to soften
the exchange of insults and frank propositions.
The lifter is a dismal thing. One of the old, small ones. The Citron Four type Westhause wants
scrubbed. The passenger compartment is starkly functional. It contains nothing but a bio-support
system and a hundred acceleration cocoons, each hanging like a sausage in some weird smoking
frame, or a new variety of banana that loops between stalks. I prefer couches myself, but that
luxury is not to be found aboard a troop transport.
"Go-powered coffin," the Commander says. "That's what ground people call the Citron Four."
"Shitron Four," Yanevich says.
Westhause explains. Explaining seems to be his purpose in life. Or maybe I'm the only man he knows
who listens, and he's cashing in while his chips are hot. "Planetary Defense gives all the cover
they can, but losses still run one percent. They get their share of personnel lifters. Some months
we lose more people here than on patrol."
I consider the obsolete bio-support system, glance at the fitting they implanted in my forearm
back in Academy, a thousand years ago. Can this antique really keep my system cleansed and
healthy?
"You and the support system make prayer look attractive."
The Commander chuckles. "The Big Man wouldn't be listening. Why should he worry about a gimp-
legged war correspondent making a scat fly from one pimple on the universe's ass to another? He's
got a big crapshoot going on over in the Sombrero."
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"Thanks."
"You asked for it."
"One of these days I'll learn to keep my balls from overloading my brain."
For the others the launch is routine. Even the first mission people have been up this ladder
before, during training. They jack in and turn off. I live out several little eternities. It
doesn't get any easier when our pilot says, "We punched up through a dropship pair, boys and
girls. Should have seen them tap dancing to get out of the way."
My laugh must sound crazy. A dozen nearby cocoons twist. Disembodied faces give me strange, almost
compassionate looks. Then their eyes begin closing. What's happening?
The bio-support system, into which we have jacked for the journey, is slipping us mickeys.
Curious. Coming in to Canaan I didn't need a thing.
My lights go out.
I have trouble understanding these people. They've reduced their language to euphemism and their
lives to ritual. Their superstitions are marvelous. Their cant is unique. They are so silent and
unresponsive that at first glance they appear insensitive.
The opposite is true. The peculiar nature of their service oversensitizes them. They refuse to
show it. They are afraid to do so because caring opens chinks in the armor they have forged so
their selves can survive.
The boomer drop was rough for me. I could see and hear Death on my backtrail. It was personal.
Those droppers were after me.
Navy people seldom see the whites of enemy eyes. Line ships are toe to toe at 100,000 klicks.
These men are extending the psychology of distancing.
Climbers sometimes do go in to hand-to-hand range. Close enough to blaze away with small arms if
anyone wanted to step outside.
The Climber lexicon is adapted to depersonification, and to de-emotionalizing contact with the
enemy. Language often substitutes for physical distance.
These people never fight the enemy. Instead, they compete with the other firm, or any of several
similar euphemisms. Common euphemisms for enemy are the boys upstairs (when on Canaan), the
gentlemen of the other firm, the traveling salesmen (I suppose because they're going from world to
world knocking on our doors), and a family of related notions. Nobody gets killed here. They leave
the company, do any number of variations on a theme of early retirement, or borrow Hecate's Horse.
Nobody knows the etymology of the latter expression.
I'm trying to adopt the cant myself. Protective coloration. I try to be a colloquial chameleon. In
a few days I'll sound like a native—and become as nervous as they do when someone speaks without
circumlocution.
The Commander says the TerVeen go was a holiday junket. Like taking a ferry across a river. The
gentlemen of the other firm were busy covering their dropships.
TerVeen isn't a genuine moon. It's a captive asteroid that has been pushed into a more circular
orbit. It's 283 kilometers long and an average 100 in diameter. Its shape is roughly that of a fat
sausage. It isn't that huge as asteroids go.
The support system wakened us when the lifter entered TerVeen's defensive umbrella. There're no
viewscreens in our compartment, but I've seen tapes. The lifter will enter one of the access ports
which give the little moon's surface a Swiss cheese look. The planetoid serves not only as a
Climber fleet base, but also as a factory and mine. The human worms inside are devouring its
substance. One great big space apple, infested at the heart.
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file:///G|/rah/Glen%20Cook/Glen%20Cook%20-%20Passage%20at%20Arms.txt"AMMUNITIONGONE!"ISHOUT.Hyperalarm.Anotherbeamfromthecorvette.Wham!LaunchThreerippedo\ffthetorusinahailofglowingfragments.Hopetheacceleratorpathwasn'tbreached.Wewouldn'\tbeabletoClimb.Ghosting.Itlastsonlyafewminutes.Downwego.Cameras...

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分类：外语学习 价格：5.9玖币 属性：156 页 大小：436.63KB 格式：PDF 时间：2024-12-08

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