"Mr. Westhause said he was having trouble with inertial rectification."

"That wouldn't..."

"Commander, Engineering. There's a chunk of water-ice bouncing around in the Six Reserve Tank. Can we have a constant vector and acceleration while we melt and drain?"

"Negative. We can live with the racket. But go ahead and melt."

"Engineering, aye."

That was Diekereide. I haven't seen him for a while. Have to buy him a beer if we get out of this.

"Weapons. Gunnery status?"

"Energy all go, Commander. Got them cooled and tuned enough for a couple shots." We nearly lost them while dueling with the corvette. "They won't last, though."

"We won't shoot unless a Christmas present falls in our lap."

The Old Man has reached back and found one more reservoir of whatever it is that makes him go. He jitters from station to station, restless as a whore in church, almost eager for the squeeze to get tighter. Poisonous clouds belch from his pipe. We take turns coughing and scowling and rubbing our eyes. And grinning at the Commander's back when he moves on. ......_

He's alive. He'll bring us through again.

That faith, the thing that the Commander so fears, resents, and loves, helps me understand both him and Fisherman a bit better.

Fisherman has surrendered his life and soul to a universal Ship's Commander. He just keeps plugging while he waits for that heavenbound ride.

The others yield only to faith in snatches, in hard time, to a man, when they fear their own competence is insufficient.

It's a pity the Commander can find no fit object for faith himself.

He's too cynical to accept any religion, and the Admiral's circus antics have alienated him from any demigod role. What's left? The Service? That's what we were taught all those years in Academy.

Tannian is Command's strength and weakness. For all his strategic genius, he can't inspire his captains.

The gong-beating fades, but not before the plug-ups rush to a tiny crack in our bulkhead.

The Climber is dying slowly, like a man with a nasty cancer.

A chunk of water ice. Not a completely unpleasant surprise. It means a little extra energy, a little extra mobility. Or a long, cool drink for the crew. Lord, I'm thirsty. I've got nothing left to sweat.

"Stand by, Weapons. We have a possible Target One. Designation vectors coming down now."

What the hell?

One especially intense streak stands out on Fisherman's screen. That the one? Only an advanced tactical computer could make sense of that mess. The mix has grown too dense, the changes too rapid.

We've drawn a lot of attention. The tank shows a lot of green blips. Maybe Command is lending a hand.

The whole mess is probably an ad lib.

"Commander, Engineering." That's Diekereide again. Where's Varese? "I'm getting an erratic flow through Hydrolysis. I don't think we can process enough hydrogen to meet your present translation demand."

"Auxiliary?"

"On the line."

"Reserve hydrogen?"

"Down to fifteen minutes available. We lost the main pressure gauge sometime.... Don't know how long we've been drawing. Had to read it by..."

"Notify me when you're down to five minutes. Mr. Piniaz? We've got a missile coming. Got to skrag it."

"Targeted and tracking, Commander."

"On my mark, then." The Commander exchanges whispers with Westhause.

Rose says, "Commander, we've got another unavoidable coming up." He's insanely calm. They all are.

Weird.

The walls are closing in. The tank makes some sense now, on a local scale. Missile coming in.

We'll have to dance with it, confuse it, take it in norm, with our energy weapons. And the delay will let the other team lock us into a lethal groove.

Alarm. We go norm. "Now, Mr. Piniaz."

The result is unspectacular. The missile vaporizes, but I can't catch its death on screen.

"Commander, Weapons. We've lost the graser for good."

This junk pile is falling apart.

The dream dance on the borders of death continues another half hour. We knock out four pursuing missiles, lose another laser. Westhause squanders fuel tinkering with our inherent velocity. As always, the Commander keeps his own counsel. I haven't the foggiest what he's planning. I try to lose myself in my troubles.

A change. More excitement. I look around. Three missiles have us zeroed. How do we duck this time?

We don't have a time margin to fool with anymore. If we stop to take one, the others will get us.

"Commander, Engineering." Varese is back. "Five minutes available hydrogen."

"Thank you, Mr. Varese. Max power. Shunt as much into storage as you can."

I pan to Canaan. Getting close now. Walking distance.

"Sir?" Varese asks.

"Wait one. Mr. Westhause, proceed. Lieutenant, just give me all the stored power you can."

The Commander loses himself in thought. I look at the tank, at Westhause. He's stopped dancing.

Canaan is expanding like a child's balloon blowing up. We're running straight in.

The Commander switches on shipwide comm. "Men, this's the last hurdle, and the last trick in our sack. This's been a good ship. She's had good crews, and this one was the best. But now she's done. She can't run and she can't fight."

What's this defeatist talk? The Old Man never gives up.

"We're going to assume a cis-lunar orbit and separate compartments. That should satisfy the other firm. Rescue will round us up. During our leave I'll have you all out to Kent for a party in the ship's memory."

I can smell the pines, hear the breeze in their boughs. Is Marie really gone? Sharon... did you bring your Climber through, honey? At least a dozen were lost against that convoy. ...

The crew answer the Old Man with silence. It's the most compelling stillness I've ever experienced.

What's to say? Name another option.

"Men, we made history. I'm proud to have served with you." For the first time ever, the Old Man sits down while he has the conn.

He's done. He's shot his last round. But restless banks of smoke still brew around him. In a weary voice, he asks, "How long, Mr. Westhause?"

We're making a final, brief hyper fly. Skipping in millisecond jumps. Keeping the missiles confused.

"Two minutes thirty... five seconds. Commander."

Strange, that Westhause. Unshakable. Still as professional as the day we boarded. Someday he'll command a Climber with the cool of the Old Man.

"Chief Nicastro, give us a separation countdown. Throdahl, give Command another squirt on our intentions. Mr. Westhause will give you the orbital data. Use Emergency Two."

What will the missiles do when their target splits five ways? Three missiles. Somebody is going to make it.

Give me a break, ye gods of war.

There's a chance. Not a good one, but a chance. One small point going our way. Those three doomstalkers can't be controlled by their masters. They're dependent on their own dull-witted brains.

Which is why we've stayed ahead this long.

My stomach constricts ever more tightly. Fear. The moment of truth is roaring toward us.

We've passed some barrier the enemy won't yet hazard. Maybe Planetary Defense has maintained a tight death pocket round TerVeen. Only those three killer imbeciles continue dogging our trail.

On camera. There's TerVeen. Battered all to hell, but still in business, a spider spinning webs of fire.

The Climber zigzags. Westhause and Varese exchange curses. Final seconds before orbit.

I'll say this. When you're scared shitless it's hard to concentrate on anything else.

Write. Keep your hands busy. Anything for a distraction.

Nicastro's soft voice drones, "... nine... eight... seven..." Six-five-four-three-two-one-ZERO!

Bang!

You're dead.

No. I'm not. Not yet.

Barrages of sound rip through the hull as the explosive bolts go. Perfectly. God bless. Something is working right. The force slams me from the side. Our rocket pack blasts us away from the rest of the ship.