GENELLAN: PLANETFALL(2)

Quinn spun back to his command console and flipped the weapons switch on the intercom. "Gunner, you on line?"

The response from weapons control, two decks below, was immediate: "Affirmative, Skipper," responded the gravelly voice of Chief Wilson. "I sent Schmidt and Tookmanian to the lifeboats. What's go—"

"Stay put, Gunner. We got another card to play. You'll be getting a green light on the cannon panel. Update your solution on the bogey and get ready to toast his butt. You copy?"

"Huh...roger that, sir," Wilson growled. "No kidding? Bogey's squealing garbage all over the place, but I'm still tracking him solid. Down-Doppler. Estimate no more than seven or eight minutes before we reengage. I don't know what Virgil's telling you, Skipper, but my panel says we're two weeks away from a hot cannon."

Buccari looked at Rhodes. The engineer threw back a thumbs-up with one hand and an "okay" signal with the other.

"Have faith, Gunner," Quinn said. "Control sequence is manual and power's being transferred on the aux bus. Stand by."

Buccari, floating above her station, stole a look at tactical. The alien ship irrepressibly passed the apogee of its turn. Screeching adversary warnings steadied out.

"Back to your seat, Sharl. Fire control stations," Quinn ordered.

She grimly complied, calling up weapons status as she strapped in.

"Engineering's talking," Rhodes said, punching intercom buttons. "Goldberg patched the circuit. I'm going back to main control." The engineer clambered across the flight deck, hitting both pilots with sundry parts of his body.

"Mr. Hudson, you've got the EPL," Quinn ordered. "Take charge of the evacuation. Get the Marines and non-required crew away from the corvette."

"Sir?" Hudson blurted. "I'm not apple qual'ed. I—"

"You heard the skipper," Buccari said. "You've just been qualified."

"But—" Hudson protested.

"Now, Ensign!" Quinn snapped. "Move!"

Hudson stuttered a response, released his tethers, and sailed from the flight deck. Buccari shifted her attention to the chatter on the fire control circuit; Rhodes and Wilson were discussing preparations for manually firing the energy weapon.

"Okay, gentlemen," she interjected, overriding their transmissions. "Full manual. Pick up the checklist at pre-sync."

"Rog', Lieutenant," Wilson responded. "Ready for checks."

"Power's too low for capacitance alignment, Lieutenant," Rhodes reported. "Need twenty seconds. We're only going to get one shot out of this mess. After we discharge it'll take a half hour to regenerate. Maybe a lot longer."

"Standing by, Virgil. Let's go over pre-arm, Gunner," Buccari commanded. She struggled to suppress her rising anxiety. Was there enough time?

As she orchestrated checklists, Buccari stole glances at Quinn, concerned he would slip back into his stupor of self-pity. Perhaps it no longer mattered: their crippled ship was hurtling helplessly through space, all aces played. During the hectic engagement the pilot had used the ship's decreasing power and diminished weapons to full advantage. His last blast of acceleration had been a desperate, spasmodic action, sapping the last gasp from the main engines, but it had propelled the corvette through a pattern of explosions and slicing energy beams, past the approaching enemy. Up to that point he had fought hard and well, with no hint of surrender, but then came the panicked messages—distress calls— from T.L.S. Greenland, the corvette's mothership. The horrible implication of Greenland's desperate pleas for help had melted the metal in Quinn's spine: his wife was senior science officer on the battered mothership.

"Skipper," Buccari barked, "roll ninety for weapons release."

Without replying, Quinn disengaged the autostabilizing computer, hit the maneuvering alarm, and fired portside maneuvering rockets. The ponderous corvette rolled crazily. Quinn stopped the rotational wobble with deft squirts of opposite power.

"Nash! Evacuation status," Buccari yelled into her throat mike.

Hudson's reply was instantaneous. "Apple needs another minute. Request hold maneuvers until I get the bay doors open. Lee and the injured are in lifeboat one, ready to go. Number two lifeboat is not being used. Still some confusion about who's staying and who's leaving, but that won't stop us from jettisoning on your command."

An anxious voice—Dawson, the ship's communications technician—broke in: "Skipper!" she transmitted. "Flash override incoming."

"Dawson, everyone to lifeboats," Buccari shouted over the circuit.

"Commander!" Dawson persisted, her voice uncharacteristically agitated. "We've got a clear language burst transmission from a panic buoy. The task force has jumped, sir. The fleet's gone!"