so,” said the Box. “The chances are very good that we will all survive.”
Roche was grateful for the “all.” The Box could endure almost anything, and had been known to assume the same indestructibility of its wards in the past. Cane, on the other hand, had already moved across the bridge to help Maii into her harness.
“We have damage,” reported Haid from the weapons station, his voice raised to be heard. “Lost some banks on the starboard bow. I don’t quite know what happened; looks like they’ve been sheared clean off. No pressure drops reported, though, and hull integrity’s intact.”
Roche concentrated on what he was saying. “What have we lost?’
“Hypershields in that area. Some A-P cannon. We’ll be able to compensate easily enough.”
“Good. We—uh!” The Ana Vereine swung to starboard, then down; Roche winced as her restraint harness cut deep into her chest. The thrumming of the engines rose in both pitch and intensity until it became a screaming—like the screaming of a mighty wind—
—she was falling—
—and nausea flared deep within her as the association with the dream made her feel impotent and therefore even more anxious.
The main screen flickered, attracting her attention. Abstract representations of their course swirled into increasingly complex shapes, then disappeared entirely, leaving nothing in their wake. White lines scattered across the screen, making Roche blink; then it went black again.
Without warning, the ship began to steady. Bulkheads settled back into place with a series of decreasing creaks. The screaming of the engines ebbed, losing the desperate edge that had contributed to Roche’s anxiety. The groan of tortured space faded with one last rending sound, then ceased entirely.
In the sudden silence, Roche didn’t dare ask the question.
She didn’t need to.
“We made it,” said Kajic, his voice from near Roche’s right shoulder clear and relieved.
“Yes,” echoed the Box, its voice oddly hushed. “We most certainly did.”
At that moment, the main screen came back to life. Blinding light filled the bridge, dazzling Roche until she managed to bring an arm up to protect her eyes. Compensators cut in an instant later, reducing the glare to more manageable levels. Through the gaps between her fingers, Roche peered at what lay before them.
“What the hell is that?” exclaimed Haid, preempting her own initial reaction.
A blazing yellow-white oval filled the center of the screen. At first she thought it was a sun, but the shape was wrong: it was distorted as though giant hands had gripped it at each pole and stretched it lengthwise. In addition, there were no flares or prominences, no hints of corona or sunspots. Just light, bright and unceasing, coming from something far too close for comfort.
There was only one thing it could be.
“It’s the point-source,” she said, directing her words at the Box.
“Precisely,” it replied, as she’d half hoped it would not.
“But we should be millions of kilometers away from it. I thought you were taking us to the edge of where the system used to be—”
“I did. Yet here we are, only a short distance from what appears to be the center. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Remarkable? Roche echoed to herself. She could think of words to describe it, but that wasn’t one of them.
Before she could say anything, however, Haid’s voice broke into the conversation.
“We have targets!” he called. “Someone else got here before us!”
“Where?” she asked, instantly turning her seat to face his station.
“Two behind us,” he said. “One on the far side of whatever that thing is. Emissions suggest ships, probably Commonwealth, but it’s hard to be sure. There’s some sort of interference fudging our data.”
“They’ve seen us,” said Cane. “One of them is moving in to engage.”
“Launch base-line probes and broadcast our ID,” Roche directed, her heart pounding as she considered their
Roche was grateful for the “all.” The Box could endure almost anything, and had been known to assume the same indestructibility of its wards in the past. Cane, on the other hand, had already moved across the bridge to help Maii into her harness.
“We have damage,” reported Haid from the weapons station, his voice raised to be heard. “Lost some banks on the starboard bow. I don’t quite know what happened; looks like they’ve been sheared clean off. No pressure drops reported, though, and hull integrity’s intact.”
Roche concentrated on what he was saying. “What have we lost?’
“Hypershields in that area. Some A-P cannon. We’ll be able to compensate easily enough.”
“Good. We—uh!” The Ana Vereine swung to starboard, then down; Roche winced as her restraint harness cut deep into her chest. The thrumming of the engines rose in both pitch and intensity until it became a screaming—like the screaming of a mighty wind—
—she was falling—
—and nausea flared deep within her as the association with the dream made her feel impotent and therefore even more anxious.
The main screen flickered, attracting her attention. Abstract representations of their course swirled into increasingly complex shapes, then disappeared entirely, leaving nothing in their wake. White lines scattered across the screen, making Roche blink; then it went black again.
Without warning, the ship began to steady. Bulkheads settled back into place with a series of decreasing creaks. The screaming of the engines ebbed, losing the desperate edge that had contributed to Roche’s anxiety. The groan of tortured space faded with one last rending sound, then ceased entirely.
In the sudden silence, Roche didn’t dare ask the question.
She didn’t need to.
“We made it,” said Kajic, his voice from near Roche’s right shoulder clear and relieved.
“Yes,” echoed the Box, its voice oddly hushed. “We most certainly did.”
At that moment, the main screen came back to life. Blinding light filled the bridge, dazzling Roche until she managed to bring an arm up to protect her eyes. Compensators cut in an instant later, reducing the glare to more manageable levels. Through the gaps between her fingers, Roche peered at what lay before them.
“What the hell is that?” exclaimed Haid, preempting her own initial reaction.
A blazing yellow-white oval filled the center of the screen. At first she thought it was a sun, but the shape was wrong: it was distorted as though giant hands had gripped it at each pole and stretched it lengthwise. In addition, there were no flares or prominences, no hints of corona or sunspots. Just light, bright and unceasing, coming from something far too close for comfort.
There was only one thing it could be.
“It’s the point-source,” she said, directing her words at the Box.
“Precisely,” it replied, as she’d half hoped it would not.
“But we should be millions of kilometers away from it. I thought you were taking us to the edge of where the system used to be—”
“I did. Yet here we are, only a short distance from what appears to be the center. Remarkable, isn’t it?”
Remarkable? Roche echoed to herself. She could think of words to describe it, but that wasn’t one of them.
Before she could say anything, however, Haid’s voice broke into the conversation.
“We have targets!” he called. “Someone else got here before us!”
“Where?” she asked, instantly turning her seat to face his station.
“Two behind us,” he said. “One on the far side of whatever that thing is. Emissions suggest ships, probably Commonwealth, but it’s hard to be sure. There’s some sort of interference fudging our data.”
“They’ve seen us,” said Cane. “One of them is moving in to engage.”
“Launch base-line probes and broadcast our ID,” Roche directed, her heart pounding as she considered their
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