“Where to?” He tugged at his hospital robe, trying to keep up with Vane’s pace.

“We’re taking a tram to the core shelters-” Vane stopped speaking and listened as he ran. A voice thundered around them. Commander Powell’s voice issued from every loud-speaker in the corridor.

“Battle lasers damaged! Ships holding their position. Angling mass drivers for-” Powell’s voice died. As they ran into the sunlight, the grinding sound of machinery slowing to a stand-still filled the air. Vane stopped.

“They’ve hit our power relays. Forget the tram.”

“How about batteries?” Baker asked.

Vane resumed a slow, even pace, “Should’ve come on already. That spot up there”-he pointed to a cylinder at the habitat’s axis-“has auxiliary power for the combat station, but they must have hit the batteries, too. They mean business. Looks ’zif we walk.”

Baker followed the Pharmaceutic and craned his head around to observe all of the vast globe that enveloped him. All the way up and over him, life apparently continued as usual on the inside of the sphere. Sunlight shone crisply through the mirror arrays to illuminate the farmland lining three-fourths of the habitat. A lot of the hectarage, though, either lay fallow or appeared to be overgrown with vines and tumbleweeds. Baker estimated from this that Fadeaway supported less than a hundredth the population it was designed for. The air was warm and dry, sure signs of climate control problems that could not be fixed by simple realignment of the solar mirrors. Fadeaway was slowly dying-had been dying for years-and the old soldiers were dying with it. Vane strode briskly toward the axis of the sphere. Since the hospital sector already rested halfway up the side of the sphere, the climb was steep but the climbing easy.

“How did you like the history lesson?” Vane asked.

“What history lesson?”

Vane’s even stride broke for only an instant, then resumed. He said, “Jord Baker again, eh?”

Baker stopped, then nodded and resumed his ascent. “I’m getting sick of this. I want a way out.”

“Out of Fadeaway?”

“Out of sharing someone else’s body. I’m only vaguely aware of events when Kinney’s in command. I don’t like that feeling of helplessness.”

“It’s Kinney’s body. Can you presume to claim squatter’s rights?”

Baker rubbed at his nose with Virgil’s fingers, then reached out for the railing that stretched up the side of the sphere until it became a ladder. He turned his gaze on Vane for a moment, then continued looking ahead.

“I think, therefore I’m not dead yet. If Kinney can evict me, let him try. I’ve got a plan of my own.” Something puttered behind them like a broken fan. Baker looked around. From the center of the sphere flew two men, each wearing a small hydrogen-powered jet. Flying on a vector that reduced their velocity tangential to the axis-thus negating the pseudo-gravity imparted by the sphere’s spin-they flew as fast as they could for the terrace nearest Vane and Baker.

At the last conceivable instant, they threw their engines into reverse and decelerated until they struck the wall of the terrace. One man rolled with the motion until he came up standing, the other touched lightly with his hands and walked like an unsupported wheelbarrow until he had absorbed all his momentum and converted it to the spin of the sphere at that latitude. All these maneuvers were performed reflexively, learned through years of living in the habitat. Baker, Earth born and raised, marveled at the pair’s agility with the jet-packs. No longer weightless, the men stood and dusted themselves off.

The first man handed Vane and Baker communications head-sets, saying, “The enemy’s knocked out all power except for ComStat.” He jerked a thumb toward the Command Battle Station at the central core. “We can’t fight them until they board.”

Donning the headset, Baker heard the voice of Commander Powell speaking with crisp, calm timbre.

“-pretty good. Mass drivers inoperative. Cut section five-oh-two. Still hanging in there. Monitor all bands.” The voice paused. One of the fliers ran to a door in the side of the terrace and disappeared.

“Where to now?” Baker asked his companion. “Keep climbing?” Which way is the shuttle? This pole or the other?

“Hang on a minute,” the other flier said. “Let Lance get back here.” He hunkered down and crouched to stare into the distance. He spoke into the headset mouthpiece.

“I see it. Next to the Tyler farm. Probably panel one-twenty-thirty west by eighty-four-forty-five north. I’d say a two meter breach.”

Baker followed the man’s gaze. Far above them and slightly spinward, on the other side of the axis, a small cloud eddied around one of the huge windows that admitted sunlight from the mirrors outside. A section of wall tumbled from a terrace above and vanished into the cloud. He wondered how long it would take for such a blasthole to vent the sphere’s air into space. Before he could even guess, a voice buzzed in his ear.

“Vane. Lieutenant Williams says you’ve got Kinney. How is he?”

Vane frowned for a second, then answered, “Fine. Only he’s Jord Baker again. Why-”

“We got a message from the approaching attack vessel.

They’ll trade our lives and Fadeaway for him.”

Chapter Ten

23 May, 2163

Baker watched Vane and listened silently to the conversation with Commander Powell. Lieutenant Williams emerged from the terrace with two more flying harnesses, which he handed to Vane and Baker.

“Do you scan, Derek?” Powell asked.

“Yessir.” Vane struggled with the harness, then zipped it up and jumped up and down twice. Williams helped Baker into his. The harness consisted of a firm fiberglass corset similar to those of recreational jet packs on Earth. The stiff rigging from shoulder to buttocks prevented side-to-side hip movement that could lead to a shifting center of thrust and wild gyrations. The rocket gymbals could be controlled either by a powerglove or by remote, eliminating the need for bulky armatures and a separate mounting for the exhaust nozzles.

“They wanted his ship, too,” Powell continued, “but they’re out of deals on that account. Seems the ship took it upon itself to transfer out when the other ships transferred in.”

“Shall I escort Baker to the airlock?” the Pharmaceutic asked.

“Negative. They don’t plan to let us live. Nobody sends a destroyer class ship at fifty gees to pick up a prisoner. Especially when they know he can survive a transfer. They’d just pop in, grab him and take him back in one of those fighters.”

“Why didn’t the destroyer transfer out here?”

“Derek-I don’t know.” His tone of voice altered to that of a commander of men and he said, “Attention all hands. Scramble Red. Don pressure suits and weaponry from nearest available lockers. Power’s off, so go to any battle station, even if it’s not yours. Stand by for further orders. ETA for destroyer is approximately Twenty-One Thirty. Stay at condition Red until further notice.” His voice softened a bit, as though he were speaking only to Vane and Baker. “Get Baker to ComStat, Derek.”

“Here,” Williams said, attaching a nylon cord between his waist and Baker’s. “In case you can’t get the hang of it.” He connected a ribbon cable from the control box on his chest to the one on Baker’s. “We’ll fly synched, so just relax and don’t panic.”

Starting up his engine, Baker wrinkled his nose at the sharp odor of half-burned hydrogen that assaulted his senses for an instant. “Shove off,” the lieutenant said. He and Baker kicked off together.

Though Earthborn, Baker knew from vacations to resort habitats that the terms “artificial gravity” and “centrifugal force” were both misnomers for what held people, buildings, and loose items to the inside of the Bernal sphere-or any other rotating space station. The spin of the sphere caused everything touching it-including the atmosphere-to move in the direction of the spin, tangential to the axis. Someone standing on the outside of the sphere would be flung into space as if thrown from a slingshot. On the inside, however, such tangential motion met a firm obstacle: the inside surface of the sphere. It was this constant motion outward that caused the illusion of gravity.