Fiske cursed weakly at the unemotional robot voice. Somewhere amidships
a dull explosion shook the ship, and then the whole mass of the cruiser
moved sideways as a broadside let loose.
Fiske came to awareness with a jerk. Beside him was Pedersen, his face
a bloody mask, calmly operating the control board. A piece of scalp had
been stripped neatly from his head and hung down the back of his neck
together with the smashed wreckage of his helmet.
"Break off, Pete--I'm back. Get a patch on that scalp and a new helmet.
You'll look silly breathing space if they hull us up here."
"I thought you had it, skipper," Pedersen grinned through the blood.
"That last jump was pretty rough."
"What's up?"
"I don't know. Our Eglan friend is shooting at us from long range. He
doesn't seem very eager to close. Came in to three fifty and has been
matching us ever since. Looks like he's waiting for help."
"We can't let this go on.--What's our situation?"
"Damage control reports we're about eighty percent effective. They're
working on the number three converter but it'll be at least an hour
before she's ready. We've lost two secondary batteries, but the mains
are all right and our screens are keeping out the stuff our playmate's
sending over."
"Our drives?"
"Okay--except for the converters like I said."
Fiske looked into the plotting tank. "Full right turn," he ordered. "If
he won't close--we will."
"Skipper!" the intercom chattered. "We've got that tape in. We're ready
to roll down here."
"Well--get going," Fiske snarled. "Do I have to tell you everything?"
"No sir--but we thought--"
"Stop thinking and turn that broadcast on!"
"Yes sir!"
"Eighty five degrees right turn--down five," Fiske said. "Full
drive--execute!" He bent over the tank and watched the Eglan. The enemy
response was slow. "It's working," Fiske murmured happily.
The blindest observer could see that something was wrong with the
alien. His maneuvering was sloppy, his fire confused, sporadic, and
inaccurate,--and as the "Dauntless" shells crashed into his secondary
screens there were no evasive maneuvers or blazing pyrotechnics of
point reinforcement. Fiske grinned ferociously. A few more salvos and
that would be the end of him.
A violent blow wrenched the "Dauntless" sideways, and another hurled
her forward with a tremendous burst of acceleration. And the drives
stopped dead. Under momentum alone the cruiser shot onward.
* * * * *
"We've had it, boss." Sandoval's voice came in like a knell of doom.
"Torpedo caught us right on the drive lattice. The drives are shot."
"Enemy cruiser coming up dead astern," the talker said. "Range
eighty--closing slowly."
The "Dauntless" lay dead--coasting through space. The faint hiss of
escaping air and the clatter of booted feet were the only sounds in the
hull. The lights still burned on emergency power--but the drive and the
powerplant were gone, and with them the "Dauntless" capability to fight.
Fiske wondered dully what was keeping the ship intact. Somehow the
riddled hulk had failed to explode in the sunburst that usually marked
the finish of a fighting ship. The guns were silenced. The last mine
and torpedo had been fired. The intercom was a shambles of shorted
circuits and dead lines. A hole fully a foot across had been ripped
through the right side of the control room giving a free opening onto
the blackness of space. One more shell, Fiske thought--and that would
be the end of it.
But it never came.
The Eglan ship matched velocity less than a hundred yards away--and
a dazed communications officer reported--"Sir--they've opened a
channel--they want to surrender!"
Fiske looked at Pedersen.
Pedersen looked at Fiske.
The blank incomprehension on the face of one was precisely matched
in the face of the other. This was incredible! The Eglan was still
in fighting trim. The "Dauntless" was a wreck. Yet the aliens were
offering to surrender--and they never surrendered!
"A trap?" Pedersen asked.
"Why? They've got us. We're helpless and they know it." Fiske turned to
the intercom. "Tell them we accept. Tell them to lower their screens
and prepare to receive boarders." He turned to Pedersen. "Wonder how
we're fixed for a boarding party? You have any idea?"
Pedersen shook his head.
"I'm going to have a look." Fiske removed his safety harness and rose
stiffly from his chair, moving painfully toward the manway that led aft
to the main gun batteries and the drives.
He passed shambles. Bodies were everywhere. The sick bay had been
destroyed by a direct hit. Guns and torpedo mounts were twisted
wreckage garnished with dead. The communications center was
miraculously untouched, still operating on emergency power, still
broadcasting over the all wave transmitter as the endless tape ran
and reran through its guides. A hulking figure was bent over the
transmitter, working with torch and welding rod resetting tie-downs
broken by concussion. With dull surprise, Fiske recognized Sandoval.
The big man saw him and grinned feebly. It was a miracle that he hadn't
been opened up, but his battered armor was intact except for several
minor rips covered with patches and sealant. His helmet was dented and
the short range communicator at its back was shot away. Fiske shook his
head as he approached and laid his helmet against the engineer's.
Sandoval's voice came through "I've got what's left of my boys working
on the drive. Give us an hour and we'll be moving again."
"Call them off, Sandy. There's no need. The Eglan has surrendered."
"They've what?"
"Surrendered. Quit. Given up. We've won!"
"You sure you're not in shock, skipper?"
"Just get your men together. We've got to make up a boarding party out
of this mess somehow. We've got to collect the wounded and get them out
of this wreck. Since the Eglan's still intact we'll take over his ship."
"But skipper, everybody knows that the Eglani don't--"
"Break it off Sandy, and do as you're told. That's an order."
Shaking his head the big man floated off as Fiske shrugged and turned
upward toward the gun-decks, picking his way through torn and
splintered metal, collecting survivors and issuing orders similar to
those he had given Sandoval. In the next twenty minutes Fiske destroyed
forever his carefully built reputation for compassion and humanity....
* * * * *
They assembled on the main deck--what was left of them. The whole and
the wounded, barely thirty men of a crew that had numbered over a
hundred. They gathered in a tight knot staring into the vision screen
that gave a clear view of the alien drawn up alongside. The Eglan ship
hung black and massive in space, her seamless sides blank save only
for the circle of yellow light that marked an open airlock. No glitter
of screens reflected the icy glint of the stars. There was a stillness
about the ship that was almost frightening as she edged slowly closer
to the battered sides of the "Dauntless."
"Boarders away!" Fiske ordered and the motley group of survivors towing
the wounded who still lived, opened the airlock and pushed off across
the intervening space that separated the two ships. Fiske waited until
the last man disappeared into the circle of light in the Eglan's side
before pushing off. He blinked once or twice to clear the traces of
moisture from his eyes as he looked around the empty stillness that
had been his ship. It wouldn't do at all for his men to suspect that
besides being a softy, he was a cry baby to boot....
* * * * *
The Eglan had a double airlock, and as he emerged through the second
airtight valve, he was met by Olaf Pedersen. Pedersen's helmet was off
and there was a peculiar expression on his face.
"Well? What did you find?" Fiske asked, anxiety in his voice.
"She's all ours. There's no fight left in them," Pedersen said. His
voice was oddly strained. "We just moved in and took over. The men are
collecting the prisoners now--what's left of them." He pointed down the
low wide manway that led into the interior of the ship. "Control room's
down there," he said.
"I know." Fiske looked around curiously. The ship was like the other
captured jobs he'd seen. Even the two decapitated Eglani on the deck
were familiar--and the other enemy dead he passed on the way to the
control room were not abnormal. One expected to see them in a captured
Eglan ship. It was the living who were strange, tight faced, thick
bodied, stiffly erect aliens and their human guards who stood in the
cross passageways watching him as he passed. Fiske shivered. He had
never in his life seen eyes so hell-haunted as those the Eglani turned
on him. The aliens looked like they would shatter at a touch, brittle
shells held intact by a force greater than their wills.
"Gives you the creeps, doesn't it?" Pedersen asked in a low voice.
"It's worse than anything I've ever seen," Fiske replied. "These people
are on the edge of collapse. This is chaos!"
The feeling of brittle tension increased as they entered the control
room in the center of the ship. A short wide Eglan stood beside the
master console. He raised his arm in what was obviously a salute, which
Fiske punctiliously returned. A muscle in the Eglan's cheek twitched
spasmodically. His fingers were clenched, the knuckles white against
his greenish skin.
"I am Sar Lauton, of the Eglan Directorate, commander of this ship,"
the alien said in fluent Terran.
"And I am Commander Alton Fiske of the Confederation Navy," Fiske
replied. "I have transferred my men to this ship since you didn't leave
much of mine."
"For that I am sorry," the Eglan said. "You fought well and deserved
a better end. However, you still have won. It is finished." The Eglan
smiled bitterly. "You see, Commander, we never knew that war could be
such _horror_. To many of my crew it was too horrible. You undoubtedly
saw some of them on your way here."
Fiske nodded. "Now about the surrender terms--" he began.
"There are no terms," the alien said woodenly. "You have won." His
face twitched. "Can't you appreciate what your weapon has done? I
am an Eglan. An Eglan never surrenders. Yet I and half my crew have
surrendered. Don't you appreciate the implications of that? Can't you
realize that the Directorate is doomed--that you have won a victory
here that is more complete than any we have won in a thousand years of
war?"
"But--"
"From birth," the Eglan went on, ignoring the abortive interruption,
"we of the warrior caste have been trained to believe that there is
no glory other than in battle--that the honor of the Directorate and
its supremacy is paramount--that the Directorate must expand to bring
the blessings of order to the less favored--that the orders of a
superior are to be obeyed unquestioningly--that it is only right that
we subordinate ourselves to the greater glory of the Eglan race--that
our minds and lives are dedicated to this service--that there is no
higher honor, no greater glory than to die for the Eglani." He sounded
as though he was reciting a litany that had suddenly become no longer
believable.
"But this, I find, is wrong. Such a belief is not life. It is
death--extinction first of the soul, then of the mind, and finally of
the body. Your weapon struck us here at the core of our belief and
through our weakest link--a link we had to keep because, paradoxically,
it was also the source of our strength and unity. Through our
neurocommunicators your feelings, emotions, and beliefs waged battle
with our own. And yours won because their truth was more basic and more
just than our own. And so we were disarmed. We were confused. We could
not hold control. And finally we could not kill--not even ourselves!"
The muscle in his cheek twitched again.
* * * * *
Fiske drew a deep breath. With sudden understanding he recalled his
own feelings when he had heard Ellen on that tape. But there must have
been more than Ellen--much more. All those others--and somehow the
Eglani had sensed the true meaning behind that nauseous gabble! And the
meaning had destroyed them!
Of course, this single action wasn't the end of the war, but it was
the beginning of the end. The war would go on, but now it wouldn't be
humanity with its back against the wall. The Eglani, too, would know
the meaning of defeat. Fiske sighed. Somehow he couldn't help feeling
sorry for them. They were _too_ understanding!
"Thank you," Sar Lauton said unexpectedly. "Your sympathy is
appreciated."
Fiske looked at him uncomfortably. "Take him away, Oley," he said, "and
put him with the others. I'm getting this crate out of here." Fiske
sank into the control chair and scanned the board. There was no problem
here. He knew Eglan centralized controls almost as well as his own. One
man could operate this ship if necessary although it took many others
to fight and service it.
He energized the drives and the ship moved ahead. The view-screens
glowed framing star studded space and the battered shape of the
"Dauntless" falling slowly astern. The old girl lay quietly, coasting
through space, gleaming faintly in the cold light of the distant stars.
Slowly she shrank to a toy as the Eglan ship moved away.
It was time, Fiske thought, as he adjusted a vernier dial and pushed
a small lever. The faint ion trail of the torpedo shone like a pale
swordblade in the darkness vanishing toward the derelict astern.
Seconds passed and then a gigantic fireball blotted out the stars, and
with its dying the "Dauntless" was gone save for a fiercely radiating
haze of molecules that spread rapidly outward through circumambient
space....
* * * * *
Pedersen came in quietly and took a seat opposite Fiske. "The prisoners
are secure, sir, and our men are ready for Cth jump," he said.
"Good. We'll start familiarization after we reach cruising component."
"Aye sir."
"The "Dauntless" is gone," Fiske said absently as he energized the
converters and the ship shivered at the border of hyperspace.
"I know. I saw her die."
"She was a good ship."
"The best. She won our war."
"I hated to kill her, Oley."
"I know that too. But you had to do it."
Fiske sighed as he took the ship up through the Cth components. It
handled smoothly enough, but not as smoothly as the "Dauntless." The
two men sat silently with the control board between them.
Fiske spoke finally. "You know, Oley," he said. "I thought it was a
calamity when Bordoni broke his recordings."
Pedersen looked at him soberly. "You might still be right," he said.
"We're going to win this war now. We're going to win it completely.
They can't stop us now we know their weakness."
"And that's a calamity?"
"Possibly. After all--what are we going to do when we win? What sort
of conquerors will _we_ be? How will we treat them and the races they
have conquered? We have no precedents. We've bypassed other intelligent
races in our sphere. We've left them alone because we didn't know how
to handle them, and we knew we didn't know. But we can't leave the
Eglani alone. They're going to be our responsibility--and we've never
learned to rule."
Fiske stared, shrugged, and grinned. "Could be that the Eglani will
win after all--even though we defeat them in battle. They have the
administrative experience."
Pedersen chuckled without humor. "You see what I mean? It still may be
a calamity."...