Footfall

Half a dozen fithp were beyond the grill. They didn’t seem particularly excited by what they were watching, and they were all doing anything but switching the views on their TV sets. One view stayed. It showed a room like this one, but much larger. There were windows, with stars beyond.

There was Wes Dawson, against a wall, between two of the horrors.

And there, suddenly live on another screen, Alice saw herself peering through an air duct.

Time to move on, Alice thought. Forward. Windows on a spaceship had to be at the nose…

43. STEAM

Lord, Thou has made this world below the shadow, of a dream, An’, taught by time, I take it so — exceptin’ always Steam.

—RUDYARD KIPLING, “McAndrew’s Hymn”

The big digital timer above the war screens ticked off the seconds since Michael’s launch. When it passed six hours, Admiral Carrell said, “Try it now.” He put on his own headset.

Jack Clybourne sidled through the room like an English butler, silently removing coffee cups and emptying ashtrays, before fading back against one wall. Can you type? Jenny thought. She touched keys, and gave orders that flashed across half the globe.

Somewhere out there a submarine sticks its nose up just so we can get a report. The situation boards had showed few changes in the past two hours. The missile sites in Georgia and Missouri were craters now, and a curious pattern of meteoric death, neither random nor any geometric figure Jenny had ever seen, had fallen on the South Atlantic. Nothing had hit Bellingham yet. Harpanet had been badly upset to learn that the Friendly Snout had been painted on the Archangel dome. If the digit ships were given leisure — if Michael fell — they would punish that affront.

There was static in her phones. “Try routing through Florida.”

“Trying, sir.” And if that doesn’t work … “Gimlet, we have Nosebleed.” The computer console identified Nosebleed: Ethan Allen.

“He must have gone deep,” Admiral Carrell said. “I thought we’d lost him.”

“Gimlet, we have Chickenpox.” Another nuclear sub.

“Two possible links. Good enough. Try to get through,” Carrell said.

“Michael, this is Gimlet.” Oh ye Thrones, Dominions, and Powers …

Static burst in her headset. She winced.

“Can you put it on the speaker?” the President asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Gimlet, this is Michael.”

Hurrah! “Michael, this is Gimlet. Your orders are unchanged. Continue your mission. Godspeed, Ed. Report, please.”

“Reporting. We’re 20,000 miles above Africa and climbing, present vel …” The voice faded.

“Come on,” General Toland whispered.

“Garble garble but no serious damage. Casualties are light. We have launched five gunships and one Shuttle to assist in breaking through garble garble …”

Damn!

“… a formation of digit ships above Africa. At plus one poi garble garble its drive. We believe the enemy mother ship running away. Garble garble.”

“They have to catch it!” the President said.

“Michael, continue pursuit.”

“… are in pursuit. Estimate we will be in effective rank within six to twelve hours. We will have to fight our way past a formation of sixteen digit ships they have left to delay garble garble.”

“Hoo boy.” General Toland thought he was whispering.

The countdown timer showed 6 hours, 12 minutes since Michael’s launch.

“We have not been attacked for four hours. The next attack may be worse. No missiles so far. We’ve used more missiles than I like, but we still have plenty, and the spurt bomb supply is garb blurbie garble garble.”

The static increased.

“Link with Nosebleed has been lost.”

“Should we try for a new link?” Jenny asked.

“How long until we have direct contact?”

“About two hours, Relay through the East Coast in half hour.”

“Any orders for them, Mr. President?” Admiral Carrell asked.

“You’re in charge, Admiral.”

“We’ll wait. Hide the subs,” Admiral Carrell said.

“All fishes, this is Gimlet. Run away!”

“Bogeys ahead are at extreme missile range.”

“All right, children, quiet hour is over!”

Harry jumped awake. He had slept! Harry found that amazing. He’d thought sleeping would be as difficult as pissing, which had required two men and fifteen minutes each to open the pressure suits and close them again. He’d slept, and he felt wonderful! Now, what?.

His forward view screens showed sixteen digit ships in a spreading ring. Their light swamped the stars, hellglare green. In their center was a violet-white glare.

It’ll be like a single pass through a Cuisinart. But we’re gaining on Big Mama!

“Acceleration. Stand by.”

WHAM

WHAM

WHAM

Three kicks in the arse. One of the green suns faded, then became a fireball. “How did we do that?” he asked aloud.

“Gamma rays could have set off fusion in the deuterium,” Tiny Pelz said. “That’s a guess. We still don’t know just how their drive works.”

“One thing sure,” Jeff Franklin said. “Hot gamma rays can’t be doing their ships any good.”

“Crews either, if they’re anything like us.”