GENELLAN: PLANETFALL(8)

"Roger, restart," answered Quinn wistfully.

Lifeboat pick-up went without incident. With the crew returned to their duty stations, final preparations for orbit began.

"Survey systems are still hammered, but the computer has synthesized a preliminary mass analysis," Hudson said, back at his station.

Buccari interrogated her primary monitor and examined the computer data. The planet, designated Rex-Kaliph Three, was smaller than Earth, at .91g on the surface. Precise flight-path calculations indicated the corvette was not on an collision course; without additional course or speed changes, it would pass the planet on a severely divergent trajectory, receiving a gravity sling into an elliptical solar orbit. A fiery collision with the planet would have been preferable—preferable to being catapulted without fuel or food deep into space.

"Any signs of intelligence?" Quinn asked.

"No, sir," Hudson replied. "We've picked up some random coherent signals but nothing like you'd expect from a technical civilization, certainly not like what we're detecting from the second planet. We'll know more after we make a survey orbit. Only the telescopes and cameras are up, but engineering is working on the sensors—among other things."

"Mains are on line and ready for retrograde burn," Buccari announced. "Trajectory for orbit is good. We won't need more than five minutes of burn at two plus gees. Fuel is ten point four—some margin for error."

"Three minutes to orbit retro, Commander," Hudson reported.

Quinn did not acknowledge. Buccari looked up to find the pilot staring out at the planet, its image reflecting from his helmet visor.

"Beautiful!" Quinn whispered sadly.

Buccari gazed at the brilliant cloud-covered body and nodded. It had been a long time. It looked like Earth. She returned to her checklists.

"One minute to burn. Orbital checklist complete," Buccari reported. She labored on her power console. "Engineering, power readouts are fluctuating. You sure we have a good cross-connect?"

Rhodes retorted with a string of expletives, indicating he was satisfied with the state of affairs at his end of the ship. Buccari leaned forward, intent on her instruments.

"What's wrong, Sharl? You're worried," Quinn said.

She looked up from the power console. "Nothing I can put my finger on, Commander. Interlocks are off, and there are a dozen primary deficiencies. The whole system is messed up from battle damage, but Virgil's as good as they come. If anyone can jury-rig the plumbing, he can. We don't have many alternatives."

"Not good alternatives, but we sure got plenty of rotten ones," Quinn replied. "Okay, I've got the controls. Mister Hudson, everybody to acceleration stations. Pass word for retro. Deceleration load two point two gees." Quinn sounded the maneuvering alarm and pivoted the ship, redirecting the massive main engines nozzles along the retro vector. Lapsed time advanced inexorably.

"Five... four... three..." Buccari' s clear voice sounded over the ship's general address system. She verified axial alignment and confirmed the maneuvering thrusters were armed and functioning. "two... one... zero."

"Throttle at thirty percent," Quinn re-affirmed as he cleared the safety interlock. He depressed the ignition button.

Nothing happened. Quinn released the button, cycled the interlock, and pushed again. Nothing.

"Engineering! We have a problem," Quinn announced. "What about it?"

Rhodes's voice came back after a short pause. He did not sound confident. "Give us a minute, Skipper. Got a few ideas."

Buccari updated the retro-burn profile. Every minute meant a tighter orbit window and more power required to establish trajectory. More power for orbit would mean less fuel available for getting the crew and their survival equipment down to the planet.

"Nash, give me fuel versus time. Work out a worst case," she ordered.

"I have the trade-offs, Sharl," Hudson replied. "Assuming we get engines to full power, we have nine hours to make worst case orbit, only we wouldn't have any lander fuel left—we'd be stranded in orbit. The window to get everyone down with fifty kilos of equipment is ninety minutes. After about six hours we'll have to start leaving people behind. Depends on how low our orbit is."

Quinn's helmet pivoted upward as if in prayer. "Run the numbers again," he ordered.

"I already did, sir—three times," Hudson's voice was confident, if subdued. "That assumes everyone rides down on the apple. We buy some slack with an injection run. We've got six penetration modules and at least six qualified Marines."

Quinn switched off the auto-stabilizers to conserve fuel. "Rhodes! How're you doing? Give me an estimate!" he demanded.