Battle Station by Ben Bova

and reached the station itself.
    â€œMiss Stromsen,” Hazard said softly.
    She jerked as if a hot needle had been stuck into her flesh.
    â€œEasy now,” Hazard said. “All I want to tell you is that you should be prepared to move the lifeboats to intercept any beams that are getting through.”
    â€œYes, sir, I know.”
    Speaking as soothingly as he could, Hazard went on, “I doubt that they’ll fire all eleven lasers at us at once. And as our altitude decreases, there will be fewer and fewer of their satellites in range of us. We have a good chance of getting through this without too much damage.”

    Stromsen turned her whole space-suited body so that she could look at him from inside her helmet. “It’s good of you to say so, sir. I know you’re trying to cheer us up, and I’m certain we all appreciate it. But you are taking my attention away from the screens.”
    Yang giggled, whether out of tension or actual humor at Stromsen’s retort, Hazard could not tell.
    Feeney sang out, “I’ve got a satellite climbing on us!”
    Before Hazard could speak, Feeney’s hands were moving on his console keyboard. “Our beasties are now programmed for automatic, but I’m tapping in a backup manually, just in—ah! Got her! Scratch one enemy.”
    Smiles all around. But behind his grin, Hazard wondered, Can they gin up decoys? Something that gives the same radar signature as an ABM satellite but really isn’t? I don’t think so—but I don’t know for sure.
    â€œLaser beam … two of them,” called Stromsen.
    Hazard saw the display screen light up. Both beams were hitting the same lifeboat. Then a third beam from the opposite direction lanced out.
    The station shuddered momentarily as Stromsen’s fingers flew over her keyboard and one of the orange dots shifted slightly to block the third beam.
    â€œWhere’d it hit?” he asked the Norwegian as the beams winked off.
    â€œJust aft of the emergency oxygen tanks, sir.”
    Christ, Hazard thought, if they hit the tanks, enough oxygen will blow out of here to start us spinning like a top.
    â€œVent the emergency oxygen.”
    â€œVent it, sir?”
    â€œNow!”
    Stromsen pecked angrily at the keyboard to her left. “Venting. Sir.”

    â€œI don’t want that gas spurting out and acting like a rocket thruster,” Hazard explained to her back. “Besides, it’s an old submariner’s trick to let the attacker think he’s caused real damage by jettisoning junk.”
    If any of them had reservations about getting rid of their emergency oxygen, they kept them quiet.
    There was plenty of junk to jettison, over the next quarter of an hour. Laser beams struck the station repeatedly, although Stromsen was able to block most of the beams with the heat-shielded lifeboats. Still, despite the mobile shields, the station was being slashed apart, bit by bit. Chunks of the outer hull ripped away, clouds of air blowing out of the upper level to form a brief fog around the station before dissipating into the vacuum of space. Cartons of supplies, pieces of equipment, even spare space suits, went spiraling out, pushed by air pressure as the compartments in which they had been housed were ripped apart by the probing incessant beams of energy.
    Feeney struck back at the ABM satellites, but for every one he hit, another maneuvered into range to replace it.
    â€œI’m running low on fuel for the lasers,” he reported.
    â€œSo must they,” said Hazard, trying to sound calm.
    â€œAye, but they’ve got a few more than fifteen to play with.”
    â€œStay with it, Mr. Feeney. You’re doing fine.” Hazard patted the shoulder of the Irishman’s bulky suit. Glancing at Stromsen’s status displays, he saw rows of red lights glowering like accusing eyes. They’re taking the station apart, piece by piece. It’s only