Providence - Max Barry Page 0,9
was insulated and redundant several times over. He strapped in and felt the harness grip his body. The screens lit up with data.
“Intel checking in,” he said.
Jackson: “Acknowledge. Life?”
Beanfield: “En route. Thirty seconds.”
“Weapons?”
Anders: “Almost there.”
Jackson: “I have eyes on the enemy. We have a single hive, eighty-yard diameter. Contact three minutes.”
Gilly swept his board, just like in the simulations. “Wall-to-wall green here.”
“Thank you, Intel.”
Beanfield: “Life, checking in. All green. There’s a little desat in Engine Two but nothing out of band.”
“Thank you, Life.”
“Weapons, checking in,” said Anders.
“Thank you, Weapons. Hive is expelling hostiles. Counting ten . . . twenty . . . fifty . . .” Gilly could see none of this. His screens were all charts and numbers. When the engagement was over, though, he would be able to play it back with visuals if he wanted. “Intel, you’re green?”
“Confirm green.”
“How’s Armor?”
“Everything’s up.”
“Thank you. We have two hundred hostiles and the hive appears about empty. Weapons, status?”
“Green as grass.”
“I’ll take a full status, please.”
“Pulse is warming up. Mass projectors standing by. Laser batteries two, three, and four relocating fore.” This meant they were crawling along the skin of the ship to reach optimal firing position. The ship itself wasn’t maneuverable at all: It took an hour to turn around, in the sense of arriving at the same location with the opposite bearing. So the guns had to move.
“Thank you. Hostiles are spreading. Contact in thirty seconds, assuming a turn.” Recent engagement data from other ships showed that when first encountered, salamanders would peel off their hive in every direction, as if they were fleeing, then all turn inward together, like a school of fish. “How long until we’re pulse-ready?”
“A few seconds.”
“And there’s the turn. Contact imminent.”
Anders: “Pulsing.”
Jackson: “I see it. Intel?”
“Cores rebalancing.”
“Pulse was ineffective. No targets destroyed.”
“None?” said Beanfield.
“Confirmed. No enemies down. I’m reviewing. Ah. They turned again. Anticipated the pulse. They were outside its maximum effective range at the blip point.”
“Ah,” Gilly said. “That’s . . .”
Beanfield: “Are they supposed to do that?”
“It’s a new tactic.” Gilly had studied every engagement of the war: None had involved a double turn.
Jackson: “Turned again. They’re coming again. Weapons, advise pulse status.”
Anders: “Pulsing now.”
“I see it. Pulse effective. Eighty hostiles down. A hundred or so remaining.”
Gilly said, “Three turns! They’ve figured out our pulse range.”
“Noted. We’ll discuss in debrief. Weapons, full status, please.”
“Laser batteries one, eight, nine in position. Two, three, four in transit. Pulse ready in five seconds, three, two. Pulsing.”
“Confirmed. A good one. Got just about all of them. Life, update?”
“All green here.”
“Your desat is normal?”
“Yes. We get dips in Engineering after each pulse, but it balances out right after.”
“All right. We’re coming up on the hive.”
“Firing. Laser batteries one and eight, thirty percent.”
“Thank you, Weapons. Hive is destroyed. Ten to fifteen hostiles remaining. We’ve got a lot of debris now. Intel?”
“Engines scaling down. We’re forty points off peak. Those laser batteries are decommissioning, too—correct, Anders?”
“Yep. They’re heading home.” This could happen before the end of an engagement if the ship believed they wouldn’t be needed. “Guess we’ve got this one in the bag.”
“Weapons, please continue to call in activity. We just pulsed, yes?”
“Ah, we did, yeah.”
“Then report it. There’s some kind of bubble hanging around the hive. Three or four workers, maybe. Confirmed. I can see them.” Workers were small, fat, pale salamanders who didn’t fight. Every hive had at least a few. They were harmless, but it was Service policy to destroy them.
“And pow,” said Anders. “Pulsed.”
“All hostiles down. Scanning debris. Please stand by.” They waited. “Confirmed no target. There’s nothing out there bigger