End Run Page 3

  Harcourt was relieved to see her snap to attention to salute the colors—and the salute was crisp, in perfect form. At least there was something that she did respect.

  Harcourt was about to order the countdown for liftoff when movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned and looked.

  Ramona stood in the hatchway, watching the activity on the bridge with an expression of guarded interest.

  Harcourt had a brief struggle within himself. He knew it was possibly foolish, but the gentleman in him won out. "Would you like to come in to observe, Lieutenant Commander?"

  "No, thank you, Captain." But Ramona made no move to go away.

  Harcourt frowned. "Well, then, I must ask that you return to quarters."

  She gave him a cold stare. "Protocol, Captain?"

  Harcourt suppressed a surge of irritation. "Practicality, Commander. You would be welcome to join us for a few minutes, but then I'd have to ask you to leave anyway. We have a bridge crew of five, and five acceleration couches. After we're under way, you'll be welcome, if you deign… if you wish to join us. But while we're lifting off, I must ask you to stay in your quarters, strapped into your acceleration couch, in accordance with regulations."

  She glared at him, then spun on her heel and stalked away.

  Harcourt gazed after her, eyes narrowing. He should have insisted that she say, "Yes, sir," to acknowledge that aboard ship, the captain is always the senior officer. Even a lieutenant in command of a fighter-bomber can issue orders to an admiral aboard his craft, and be sure he was within his rights and would be obeyed. Of course, the admiral might bust him back down to private later on—but if the matter was really important at the time, the lieutenant could insist on it.

  Of course, the lieutenant would be a fool to try to push an admiral around, unless it were a matter of life and death.

  Harcourt decided to let it pass.

  He turned back to the bridge crew—just in time to see them whisking their eyes back to their screens. He smiled thinly and said, "Commence launch, Number One."

  "Yes, sir," Grounder said. "All stations, ready?"

  "Go," said Billy.

  "Go," said Coriander.

  "Go," Lorraine said over the intercom.

  "Go," Barney echoed.

  "Initiating countdown. Ten… nine… eight… seven…"

  Ramona stormed back into her cabin, threw herself down onto her acceleration couch, and strapped in. How dare that idiot Harcourt order her around like an infant! She steamed, her whole body tense, then realized it was a horrible condition for lift-off, and tried to force herself to relax.

  She had to establish her authority aboard this ship—had to! If she couldn't, she might as well kiss this whole mission good-bye. She knew how closely they had to skim the planet in order to get clear pictures, and she knew as well as Harcourt how heavily-guarded the planet was. She wasn't about to throw her whole career away because some middle-aged idiot wouldn't listen to her, a middle-aged idiot who hadn't even been able to win commander's rank, and was still captain of a mere corvette, a job normally relegated to a lieutenant.

  She would not be treated as a subordinate! She had fought for her rank, she had taken risks, she had endured hardship, she had brought back information under enemy fire—and she wasn't about to let anybody stop her from bringing this mission in successfully completed, either!

  Ramona decided she would have to exert her authority as soon as possible.

  Ramona waited until the graveyard watch, then came up on the bridge when most of the rest of the crew were asleep. She halted, staring at Grounder, wondering if the woman were on drugs, the way she was gazing about her with a happy smile.

  Everything worked now—at least, until their next battle. That was why Grounder had been gazing around her in euphoria—at all the shiny new equipment that actually functioned.

  But of course, Ramona didn't know about that.

  Then Grounder saw Ramona. She started and looked up, surprised. "Good evening, Commander."

  "Good evening." Ramona paced the bridge as though she had every right to be there, ignoring Grounder and Barney.

  "Uh… begging your pardon, Commander," Grounder said, "but I don't think the Captain has authorized your presence on the bridge."

  "Yes, he did." Ramona turned to confront her. "Just before we lifted off, remember? He said I'd be welcome on the bridge once we were under weigh." And she turned her back, inspecting the meters and the screens.

  Her eye lit on the velocity readout. This was a place where she could give orders with no worry about disrupting the ship. "Only cruising speed?"

  Grounder stared, puzzled. Then she said, "Well… yes, sir. That's standard operating procedure en route to a jump point."

  "We don't have time for that," Ramona snapped. "Full acceleration! Right away!"

  "Uh-h-h-h-h…" Grounder exchanged a quick glance with Barney. "I don't know if the power plant will take it, sir."

  "What do you mean, not take it?" Ramona was instantly angry. "I know the specs on a corvette as well as you do, Lieutenant! This tub can take full acceleration for ten hours without any trouble!"

  Grounder bristled at hearing the Johnny Greene called a "tub."

  "This ship can take full acceleration for about one hour, sir. Beyond that, maybe it will and maybe it won't—depending on how well they overhauled the engines."

  "Overhaul?" Ramona glowered. "What was the matter with them?"

  "A near miss from a Kilrathi missile. Jolie shot it down fifty meters from the ship, but some of the shrapnel chewed up the insides of the engines a little."

  "Is that why you have those obscene Kilrathi monsters welded on?"

  For the first time, Grounder really wondered about the woman. "I'd scarcely call them 'obscene,' sir. They're machines, and they work—and I think Chief Coriander worked magic, managing to tie them in with our system."

  "Well." Ramona's lips curved in a nasty smile. "With four engines instead of two, you certainly shouldn't have any trouble maintaining full acceleration from here to the jump point."

  "Nothing except the stress on the structure of the ship," Grounder countered. "The Johnny Greene was built for only two engines; four puts in more stress than the ship will take, if it goes on longer than an hour or so."

  "Don't try to tell me how a ship works, Lieutenant! How do you think I got to be a light commander? Just do as you're told! Retract your scoops and hit full acceleration!"

  "But the fuel supply…"

  "Do it!" A very ugly gleam came into Ramona's eye. "Are you refusing a command from a senior officer?"

  Grounder's face became a flint mask. "No, sir."

  "Then do as you're told!"

  "Full acceleration, aye!" Grounder sighed. The silly shrew would have to learn for herself.

  The little ship surged ahead.

  Ramona grabbed at the back of an acceleration couch and held on until the surge had passed. The little chit had done that deliberately, she knew, to try to throw her off her feet—but she had obeyed orders, so Ramona couldn't really make an issue of it. Instead, she turned away to pace the bridge, her lips curving just a little in a smile of satisfaction. She wasn't about to take the chance of leaving the bridge, though; if she did, that snip of a lieutenant would try to ease the acceleration down again. No, Ramona had issued an order, and she meant to see that it was obeyed.

  She kept watch for two hours, watching Grounder's face grow more and more pale, more and more strained, watched and glared until…

  Until the klaxon blared, tearing at her eardrums.

  Ramona slapped her hands over her ears, staring around, amazed. She adjusted to the loudness of the horn, took her hands away…

  The ship lurched, then began to jolt forward in jumps.

  Ramona stumbled, reaching out and catching herself against the top of a console. "Stop it, Lieutenant!"

  "As you say, sir." Grounder pulled the acceleration control down.

  "Not that!
I said full acceleration, damn it!"

  But Grounder kept easing off. "Sir," she said through stiff lips, "that alarm you hear is for the power plant overheating, and the shuddering you're feeling is the strain on the ship's skeleton that comes from four engines, not quite balanced in thrust, driving a ship that's only designed for two. I can't…"

  Harcourt burst onto the bridge, his hair tousled, clothes in disarray, eyes still filmed with sleep, pajama cuffs still sticking out of the sleeves of his uniform blouse. "Status!" he snapped.

  "Reactor overheated, Captain. Beginning to cool, though."

  "Overheating! And the shuddering we've got going through the frame? What're you doing, Grounder? Running the ship flat out?"

  "Yes, sir," Grounder said through thin lips.

  Harcourt stared at her in disbelief. "Flat out? A two-engine ship with four engines?" Then he realized the order that had to be given. "Decelerate to cruising velocity!"

  "Aye, aye, sir."

  "All right. Cancel the klaxon."

  Grounder toggled the alarm off.

  Harcourt drew a deep breath, striving for calm. "What in the name of Heaven possessed you, Number One?"

  Ramona realized she'd better acknowledge her error before Grounder could blame it on her. "She was acting under my orders, Captain!"

  Harcourt grew very still.

  Then, slowly, he turned, his eyes chips of ice. "Orders? Who are you to give orders aboard my ship, Commander?"

  In spite of herself, Ramona felt a chill of fear at the sheer mayhem leashed in his eyes.

  She couldn't let him see that, of course. She thrust her jaw forward and snapped, "We have to get to Vukar Tag ASAP, Captain! We need to get to that jump point now, and…"

  "And in one piece, Commander!" Harcourt stepped closer, eyes iron, fists on his hips. "Everybody aboard this ship knows the modifications we made—had to make, just to keep this ship on station! For two years, Commander! And fifty-three Kilrathi raids! They know their ship, and you don't! I will comply with the orders that have been given me to the best of my ability, my crew's ability—and my ship's ability! Any interference from you will hamper our ability to execute this mission!"

  "Interference!" Ramona felt a surge of anger coming to her rescue. "Captain, I am in charge of this mission!"

  "And I am in command of this ship!" Harcourt turned to Grounder. "No one aboard this ship is to accept any orders from Commander Chekhova unless they have been cleared through me first! Is that understood?"

  "Yes, sir!"

  "Yes, sir!" Barney echoed.

  "See that the order is promulgated to the entire crew at breakfast, Number One."

  "You are not executing your orders to my satisfaction!" Ramona raged.

  "Then you may file charges against me, in accordance with established procedure." Harcourt was suddenly icily formal. "When this mission is completed!"

  "But at the rate you're going, this mission will never be completed!" Ramona knew it was untrue, of course, but all that mattered right now was winning the fight—and making this pigheaded captain realize who was boss.

  "Forget about the breakfast announcement, Number One." Harcourt stepped over to his console and pressed "all stations."

  "Attention all crew! Wake up and hear this! All stations attend! No one is to accept orders from Commander Chekhova without my express approval! Signify understanding!"

  Everybody was awake, of course. In fact, they had been halfway to battle stations when Grounder had canceled the alarm. Now they responded from their cabins.

  "Gunner A acknowledging, Captain."

  "Tailgunner acknowledging, Captain."

  "Gunner B acknowledging, sir."

  When the roster was completed, Harcourt turned his icy gaze on Ramona. She stood, fists clenched, face dark with fury at the public humiliation. "Captain Harcourt, this is insubordination of the worst sort!"

  "No, Commander. Your action took that honor."

  "I am in charge of this mission, and you will have to maneuver as I prescribe in order for me to obtain the visual survey that I have been commanded to conduct!"

  "And so I shall—within the margins of safety for this ship." He stepped closer, too close, crowding her. "But you will issue all your orders to me, and through me, Commander—or I will place you on report on the instant, and confine you to quarters until we have completed the jumps to the Vukar Tag System. Is that understood?"

  Ramona glared at him. It was a standoff, and she knew she should stand her ground…

  But she knew it was quicksand, and she was sinking fast.

  "Understood, Captain," she grated. "I'll wait till we get to Vukar Tag."

  The unspoken threat hovered in the air between them. They stood with gazes locked, every muscle tense.

  Finally, Harcourt gave a curt nod. "Thank you, Commander. That will be all. Please return to your quarters."

  He stepped aside. Ramona marched past him, head high, chin up…

  Until she reached her cabin.

  There, she secured the door behind her, toggled her audio pickup to "Off," then "Interrupt," so that it could not be activated from the bridge…

  And threw herself on her bunk, the sobs tearing at her throat.

  The moment of disorientation passed, and Ramona stood up from her acceleration couch, a gleam in her eye. It had been a month, a month of staying in her cabin when she could. When she couldn't, she had avoided the vindictive glances of the crew, enduring Harcourt's brittle courtesy at table, and swallowing her pride.

  Now, though, she would be in charge. She went to the door.

  The cabin speaker came to life. "Commander Chekhova to the bridge, please," Harcourt's voice said. "Commander Chekhova to the bridge."

  It was a nice try at face-saving, but Ramona wasn't about to let him get away with it. She marched out into the companionway and swept up toward the bridge.

  Retribution was coming.

  But retribution stalled at the bridge hatchway. As she stepped through, she saw it—the battle display, repaired and working all too well, alight with colored symbols that showed her the situation.

  At the center, a green circle represented the Johnny Greene. Halfway to the rim, a yellow circle that represented Vukar Tag lay at two o'clock—but at the rim itself was another, much larger, yellow circle—swollen, a fat yellow dot lying near it, with fireflies hovering about.

  "We seem to have arrived during war games," Harcourt said, watching the display. "Makes sense, with a bunch of gung-ho pilots this far out in the boondocks, with nothing to do but chew their claws and go crazy aching to be back at the front lines, where they can earn some glory… Well, any commander would need to do something to keep their fighting skills up, not to mention keeping them from clawing out each other's throats."

  "Yes." Ramona's mouth was dry. "He would." Then, "So they have fighters stationed on the gas giant's moon?"

  "Artificial moon." Harcourt nodded at Billy, who said, "The readings indicate an orbital station, Commander."

  Harcourt nodded. "At maximum velocity, they'd have no trouble at all cutting us off between Vukar Tag and the jump point, when we're trying for our exit." Finally, he turned and looked up at her. "Seems this planet is even better guarded than we knew."

  "Yes." Ramona saw the chance to push a confrontation, and forced her attention sternly away from it. The mission came first. "Kind of strange, for a ball of sand and rock."

  Harcourt turned back toward the display. "Has to be something going on in their furry little minds that we don't know about… Well, I guess we leave that to the folks in Psych."

  "Right," Ramona said. "Our job is to bring in pictures of that world, every square foot. How can we do it, Captain?"

  "Oh, we can get in there and take pictures, all right," Harcourt said breezily. "Four fly-bys, and you'll have the whole planet scanned—or do you need more?"

  "Four is enough," Ramona agreed. "One polar orbit will do in a pinch, if I'm high enough up—the computers back at HQ
can compensate for distortion and magnify the details, as long as I have million-pixel resolution on the crystal, which I do. They can plot a polar projection there, or magnify any square foot they want."

  Harcourt nodded. "That's good, because we can get in there for an orbit, but the chances of our completing more than one without being shot down are minuscule. One, though, we might complete." He looked at her again. "What we can't do is get those pictures back to the jump point."

  Her eyes sparked anger. She locked glares with him. "Can't, Captain?"

  Harcourt shook his head with full conviction. "We can try, Commander. We can try like fury. But the Cat admiral who is commanding this little fleet only needs to be halfway intelligent to blow us up before we clear the orbit of Vukar Tag's moon—and even if we make it that far alive, he'll definitely cut us off before we get to the jump point."

  Slowly and conscious of every ounce of dignity, Ramona turned back to the battle display, feeling a cold weight sinking within her. He was right, she knew; even a dunce would be able to keep them from escaping.

  Of course, the odds that the cruiser wouldn't tear them to pieces with its fighters, before they even completed one orbit, were minuscule, too, no matter what Harcourt said. Personally, she wouldn't even want to bet on their getting close enough for that orbit, without being shot to shreds.

  But she heard herself saying, "I can't take any pictures from this far away. How long before they discover us, Captain?"

  Harcourt shrugged. "Could be two seconds from now, could be an hour. It all depends on when they have a planned sentry-scan of the jump point. But we're not waiting."

  "Oh?" Ramona didn't want to sound ignorant, but she had to know. "How are you going to stop them?"

  "Barney?" the Captain asked.

  Barney pointed at a faint, fuzzy line between Vukar Tag and the gas giant. "Asteroid belt. We can hide in there for a while, sir."