stream—the images of the battlecruiser being gathered by his drone. It was the best intelligence they’d received so far on the enemy warship. Tyre searched for weaknesses, clues to its configuration, signs that anything the
Lynx
had thrown at it had managed to do any damage.
Damn. Marx was so close, yet the images were blurry, not much better than distant transluminal returns. Ensign Tyre wished he would go to active sensors. Of course, the scout wouldn’t last long once he did. The battlecruiser’s close-in defenses looked pretty solid.
Tyre gestured, bringing her second sight closer to the blackbody monitor drones that had just appeared and begun firing on some of Marx’s subservient drones. The blackbodies were normally almost invisible, but against the sunlit background of the receiver array she could make out several more of them. The three that had opened fire had turned up at just the right place; either the Rix had guessed lucky or had enough of them to cover every approach. She wondered how many of the dark, silent monitors coasted in front of the Rix warship.
She felt the hands of her superior on her shoulders. Kax stood right behind her seat. There were five crew crowded into the tight confines of Data Analysis. In battle configuration, their usually large space had been annexed by the two adjacent gunnery stations. Kax’s hands clenched as the
Lynx
maneuvered, its slow coldjets pushing them with the sway of an oceangoing vessel.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Kax asked.
She nodded. “They’ve configured for heavy defense, sir.”
“See if you can get a count. The captain will want to know how many blackbodies are out there before the
Lynx
gets too much closer.”
“Yes, sir, but I’ll bet you right now there’s at least a hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“If you take a—”
Suddenly, a rush of noise exploded through the room. A searing wind struck Tyre, throwing her from her webbing to the floor. Her exposed skin—hands and cheeks—were being scoured. Her mouth and eyes clenched instinctively shut. Her ears popped as the air pressure plummeted.
A burning sound reached her ears through the thin air, and she felt heat on her hands and face.
Ensign Amanda Tyre, like every recruit to the Navy, had gone through dozens of decompression drills. She knew well the expansion of the chest, the screaming pain of ears and eyes. But this was her first time to experience the event in battle.
It felt as if some demon were astride her, crushing the breath from her body. Tyre remembered the symbol on the academy’s decompression drill room door: the Asphyx, the spirit that visits the dying to steal their last breath. Through the haze of synesthesia, she had a sudden vision of the Asphyx—the blank eyes, the yawning mouth hungry for her life.
Then she command-gestured, clearing her data mask of all synesthesia, and saw that it was Kax’s face before her. He had fallen to the deck next to her. But even in primary vision, his face remained horrifying, burned and bleeding, the flesh peeling from it as if stripped by hungry insects.
“Class,” he said, his voice ravaged.
Tyre rolled out from under him. As her hands sought purchase on the tilting deck, she felt the grit of tiny bits of broken glass cutting into her palms. Her pressure uniform was torn and felt invaded with some sharp presence, like the insinuating fingers of fiberglass against the skin.
The other three in the DA room were stunned, their faces and arms cut with thousands of tiny nicks. The phosphorus fire had burned itself out too quickly to hurt them.
Rating Rogers, still in his webbing, coughed as he spoke.
“It’s glass. From the optical core next door.” He pointed to the access tube, from which coiled a bright, heavy mist, half vapor and half dust. Of course. Data Analysis was adjacent to one of the
Lynx
‘s processing towers, a column of dense optical silicon and phosphorus. Tyre hadn’t been following
Lynx
had thrown at it had managed to do any damage.
Damn. Marx was so close, yet the images were blurry, not much better than distant transluminal returns. Ensign Tyre wished he would go to active sensors. Of course, the scout wouldn’t last long once he did. The battlecruiser’s close-in defenses looked pretty solid.
Tyre gestured, bringing her second sight closer to the blackbody monitor drones that had just appeared and begun firing on some of Marx’s subservient drones. The blackbodies were normally almost invisible, but against the sunlit background of the receiver array she could make out several more of them. The three that had opened fire had turned up at just the right place; either the Rix had guessed lucky or had enough of them to cover every approach. She wondered how many of the dark, silent monitors coasted in front of the Rix warship.
She felt the hands of her superior on her shoulders. Kax stood right behind her seat. There were five crew crowded into the tight confines of Data Analysis. In battle configuration, their usually large space had been annexed by the two adjacent gunnery stations. Kax’s hands clenched as the
Lynx
maneuvered, its slow coldjets pushing them with the sway of an oceangoing vessel.
“You thinking what I’m thinking?” Kax asked.
She nodded. “They’ve configured for heavy defense, sir.”
“See if you can get a count. The captain will want to know how many blackbodies are out there before the
Lynx
gets too much closer.”
“Yes, sir, but I’ll bet you right now there’s at least a hundred.”
“A hundred?”
“If you take a—”
Suddenly, a rush of noise exploded through the room. A searing wind struck Tyre, throwing her from her webbing to the floor. Her exposed skin—hands and cheeks—were being scoured. Her mouth and eyes clenched instinctively shut. Her ears popped as the air pressure plummeted.
A burning sound reached her ears through the thin air, and she felt heat on her hands and face.
Ensign Amanda Tyre, like every recruit to the Navy, had gone through dozens of decompression drills. She knew well the expansion of the chest, the screaming pain of ears and eyes. But this was her first time to experience the event in battle.
It felt as if some demon were astride her, crushing the breath from her body. Tyre remembered the symbol on the academy’s decompression drill room door: the Asphyx, the spirit that visits the dying to steal their last breath. Through the haze of synesthesia, she had a sudden vision of the Asphyx—the blank eyes, the yawning mouth hungry for her life.
Then she command-gestured, clearing her data mask of all synesthesia, and saw that it was Kax’s face before her. He had fallen to the deck next to her. But even in primary vision, his face remained horrifying, burned and bleeding, the flesh peeling from it as if stripped by hungry insects.
“Class,” he said, his voice ravaged.
Tyre rolled out from under him. As her hands sought purchase on the tilting deck, she felt the grit of tiny bits of broken glass cutting into her palms. Her pressure uniform was torn and felt invaded with some sharp presence, like the insinuating fingers of fiberglass against the skin.
The other three in the DA room were stunned, their faces and arms cut with thousands of tiny nicks. The phosphorus fire had burned itself out too quickly to hurt them.
Rating Rogers, still in his webbing, coughed as he spoke.
“It’s glass. From the optical core next door.” He pointed to the access tube, from which coiled a bright, heavy mist, half vapor and half dust. Of course. Data Analysis was adjacent to one of the
Lynx
‘s processing towers, a column of dense optical silicon and phosphorus. Tyre hadn’t been following
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