Manna Page 7

  “When you put it that way, I’ll manage, Russkie. Just show me where the Tonolia’s panic abort switch is. I’ll figure the rest of it out.”

  “With my help, Sandy, you can hack it. We’ll smoke that can to Ell-Five as fast as its delta-vee capability will permit,” Omer Astrabadi assured me.

  I really didn’t need Omer navigating the aerodyne. ATC kept feeding me vectors to keep us clear of Vamori-Free traffic. And I couldn’t have missed Vamori-Free unless I’d been blind or on the gauges. The place covered 7500 square kilometers and stretched out along the coastline for 150 kilometers. It lit up the night sky as its ramp, pad, and runway lights caught the haze of the ocean and created a corona effect above it.

  “Seven-one-four, Vamori Air Track. Pad at twelve o’clock, two kilometers. Report it in sight,” the comm barked.

  Omer stretched out his arm and pointed ahead. “Vamori Track, seven-one-four has visual on the pad.”

  “Seven-one-four, the pad is yellow. I repeat: the pad is yellow.”

  “Roger, Track. We acknowledge that,” Omer told him. “Seven-one-four requests a clear.”

  “Seven-one-four is clear to leave frequency.”

  Omer directed me to set the aerodyne down about a kilometer to the left of the pad. I had my hands full of an unfamiliar aerodyne, so I didn’t get the chance then to see more than a launch runway with a hulking grey shape sitting on the start end.

  The transition from aerodyne to space ship was fast. The pad crews had been alerted for our arrival with the critically injured General. There was a van waiting to transfer us. Six men wrestled the pyro tank aboard, and we clambered in behind.

  “How is he?” Ali asked Tsaya.

  The doctor was checking the readouts of the portable biodata pack. “I’ve got him stabilized,” she replied briefly and then promised in that soft voice of hers, “I won’t let him die.”

  I was concerned about the effects of lift acceleration on The General and told her so.

  “Pyro tank immersion is not only beneficial to his burned tissue and prevents massive fluid loss, but he’ll also be capable of withstanding many more gees,” Tsaya said. In my excited and fatigued condition I’d forgotten the obvious consequences of putting The General in a pyro tank. That was the sort of shape I was in. Tsaya knew what she was doing,and she went about doing it in a quiet and totally competent manner that was belied by her quiet shyness. She was a pro.

  The Tonolia looked familiar as we got out of the van at the pad, and I remarked as much to Omer. “She should,” he said. “The Toreva Class packets were built at Vamori North Yards. They took the best features of your Arguello Yards’ Tribal Class packets and mixed in some characteristics of the Osakhi Hiko ships.”

  “I can smoke her,” I told him. “The Aerospace Force Hopi Class ships were the military versions of the commercial Tribal Class, and we used to bounce those birds all over on training and proficiency missions as well as liaison sorties. Is she as insensitive to payload as the Tribal Class?”

  Omer nodded as we all walked over to the access stairs to enter her fuselage. “I make rough calculation. We mass three-eighty kilos all together. She’ll lift a metric ton to lunar orbit, so we really move now. What gee limit, Doctor?” Omer asked Tsaya.

  “No limit,” Tsaya told him. “The General could be boosted more than ten gees in the tank.”

  Ali spread his arms to reveal the pseudoskin bandages over the burns on his arms and chest. “These won’t gee-limit me, either. I’ll be on my back.”

  “Then we boost at whatever STC approves for limiting acceleration,” Omer remarked as we followed the men carrying the pyro tank into the open hatch of the Tonolia’s fuselage.

  The Tonolia was familiar yet slightly different from the Hopis I’d flown. Front to rear, she was the same—nose equipment bay, forward impulse bay, electronics bay, flight deck, passenger deck, cargo hold (empty on this flight), propellant bay and wet wings, aeroturbine bay, and engine and aft impulse bay. The difference lay in the fact that a lot of American-type redundant technological frills were missing. The Tonolia was a plain-vanilla high-performance high-efficiency Earth-to-space commercial hot rod, a Commonwealth copy of a Japanese version of a highly successful American design.

  I settled myself in the right seat, fastened the harness, and reached down to pick up the flight manual and check list. The panel before me was strange at first. As I looked it over and began to locate the basic enablement switches, controls, and readbacks, the patterns of habit I’d learned in the Hopi utility corvettes began to be reformed into patterns for the Tonolia.

  But I had some hesitation going through the power-up check list with Omer. The Mad Russian Space Jockey he might be, but he was amazingly patient with me that night. Never once did he reach out to touch a switch or control whose location he knew while I fumbled over the panels trying to find it. Never once did he tell me where to look; he let me find things myself so I’d know where they were if I had to find them again. He was in no rush.

  Having powered-up, we ran through the pre-clearance checks, and I found myself getting better at it. It had been over a month since I’d logged time in the similar Aerospace Force ships.

  “Ready to lift. Inform STC and get our clearance,” Omer finally told me.

  “Vamori Departure Clearance, this is Tonolia. Ready for launch, Area Seven-three, clearance request on file,” I communicated with the local element of Vamori Space Traffic Control. “I hope Wahak or Vaivan or somebody filed for us as they were supposed to,” I added, but only to Omer.

  “They said they would, so they did,” Omer replied flatly.

  “Tonolia, Departure Clearance. Stand by on up-link for computer flight plan load. Five minutes and running.”

  I got the indication that the STC computer had fed the clearance to our on-board computer, so I punched up the display to check the clearance. So did Omer.

  “Cleared for only two-point-four gees,” Omer noted with disgust. “Withhold acceptance. Ask for a three gee boost. Tell them med emergency.”

  I did, but neither of us liked the answer. “Tonolia, unable your request for higher boost. AmSpace Command informs Wichita Center high boost will breach the engagement zone of critical American space facilities in GEO with a closure rate that’s too great. Sorry about that.”

  “Can we get full boost if we delay launch?” I wanted to know.

  “Stand by.” There was comm silence for a moment while Vamori Space Traffic Control center queried their North American counterpart, then replied to us, “Tonolia, if you want to hold for three-point-five hours, Wichita will clear high boost.”

  Omer shook his head. “Nyet! Look at cleared flight plan data, Sandy.”

  “Vamori Clearance, Tonolia acknowledges computer load of cleared flight plan and accepts,” I told them when I saw that our lower-boost clearance would give us an arrival time 2.3 hours earlier than waiting for a high boost clearance.

  “Roger, Tonolia, two minutes and running. Stand by for transfer to auto.”

  “We’ve got it, Clearance.”

  “Contact Departure.”

  It was standard procedure from then on. At one minute, the floodlights came on, illuminating the kilometer of takeoff lane ahead of us that stretched eastward toward the shoreline and the Maro India beyond.

  “Rails? Sled launch?” I asked.

  “Easier on tires,” Omer observed. “Rail slippers are cheaper.”

  What else should I expect from a free enterprise operation? The Tonolia had retractable wheeled landing gear like an aerodyne, but only for Earth landing. For launch, the ship with its landing gear retracted was perched atop a simple rail-mounted framework.

  The launch procedure was slightly different from military practice. The main aeroturbines didn’t initiate start-up at minus-five; the sequencer put them into start mode when the sled’s linear motor was energized.

  The Tonolia made a standard one-gee launch run. Her aeroturbines were full-thrust by the time we
rotated and were airborne at 100 meters per second a little over ten seconds after the sled began accelerating down the track at one-gee.”Lift off!” Omer called as the ship began to climb out.

  “Gear up!” I called out of habit, reaching for where the control was. But it was up already. I’d acted without thinking. “Correction!”

  “You were right,” Omer observed. “Gear is up! Keep cool stool, Sandy! Call two gees and sonic when passed.”

  The mains throttled up as we ascended, and acceleration rose to flight plan level. Two gees came on schedule. So did sonic velocity. The Tonolia wanted to do more, running light as she was. We could have packed as much as four gees without straining her, but we didn’t have clearance for it.

  I found myself thinking it must have been fun in the old days before traffic got so heavy and vulnerable Earth orbit facilities so numerous that space vehicles required flight clearances to make sure there were no collisions or engagement zone intrusions. Now it was computer-controlled and human-monitored according to the international rules of the road for space.

  Our flight plan called for a direct ascent—no climb into parking orbit and apogee boost from there to lunar orbit. Tonolia was a hot rod; she didn’t need those minimum-energy trajectories. I liked her. She jumped when booted in the tail.

  We passed through four different Space Traffic Control Center jurisdictions on the way out, requiring us to confirm our beacon codes on each hand-off. Other than keeping tabs on our computers and verbally communicating with STC for security, Omer and I didn’t have much to do during the hours it took to get to Lagrange-Five in lunar orbit. But we couldn’t leave our posts. In spite of computers and automation, humans were still required to supervise and monitor the computer and autosystems. Things had gone wrong in the past. In fact, Space War I would never have happened if people had been in space and monitoring the automatic systems the day the sky burned.

  I didn’t get the chance to go aft to check The General’s condition, but we got a report when Ali came up to the flight deck. “He’s stable. The tank saved him. We’ve had a bit of trouble, however. The gasket on the upper membrane started to leak when we hit zero gee.

  Can’t get it stopped.”

  “Bad leak or a seep?” I asked.

  “Just a seep, but it creates liquid globs back there.”

  “Forget it. Gaskets are designed to leak; I’ve never seen one that didn’t,” I said. “Use the relief tube to suck up the big globs.”

  Omer indicated the X-, Y-, and Z-plane displays to Ali. “Moy preeyahtyel, there is more than normal movement of traffic out here today.”

  Ali peered at the displays. “Which ones are military vessels?” he asked.

  “Let’s look at four-zero-zero-zero through four-five-nine-nine,” I said. “Those codes cover Aerospace Force, the rest of the Americas, Bahia, Japan, and Europa. Your Tripartite boys, Ali.” I told the computer to kill all blips except those transmitting the restricted codes and to display the codes.

  Although slightly less than half of the Earth-Moon system was blocked by the mass of the Earth, the display showed a freckling of targets nonetheless.”Tape that,” Ali told me. “And do it again every fifteen minutes. When we get to Ell-Five, I want our people there to start taping all military activity. We’ll want some computer analysis of the most active facilities.”

  “You think the Tripartite is moving things around?”

  “Yes. Sandy, I’d like you to confirm our data on the locations of the inclined geosynch Aerospace Force facilities when we get to Ell-Five.”

  “Will do, Ali.”

  It was a good time and place to chat because the Tonolia was free-falling out to L-5. It didn’t take much to monitor displays in this mode, and things were quiet for the first time in a long time. Things had been a bit hectic since I landed in Topawa those long hours ago.

  Although I hadn’t slept except for a nap at Karederu, I felt pretty good. I had my second wind, and I knew I was effective for at least another 12 hours.

  “Was I hired because of what I know about American space facilities and operations?” I asked.

  “No, mostly for what you know about the law of modern armed conflict. The Commonwealth is signatory to all the various Geneva and Manila conventions,” Ali told me, “Some people don’t follow them, and we know it. But we’re going to.”

  “I find that strange in view of the rather strong and forceful ways of Commonwealth justice I witnessed,” I said.

  “Well, we’re rather strong and forceful people…” Ali began.

  “You’ve never dealt with Khazakh internal law,” Omer told him. “The way my people take care of their own internal matters makes Commonwealth law seem liberal, to say nothing of Soviet law which we don’t even bother with.”

  “There’s a wide variation in the degrees to which lex talionis is used,” I observed.

  “Lex who?” Omer asked.

  “The sort of law that requires an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth,” I explained.

  “Some people think it’s barbaric and savage; but properly administered, it’s very effective.”

  “Other nations have the same opinion of the Commonwealth,” Ali remarked. “That’s why we’ve had to develop some innovative methods of handling foreign policy.”

  “Uh, Ali, the Commonwealth’s not known for having a very strong government, much less a strong foreign policy,” I observed. “In fact, the Commonwealth’s a very low profile operation. I’m sure you can protect yourselves internally. But your capability to handle external threats such as the one we’re now facing seems very weak.”

  “That’s exactly how we want to be perceived. A cat is a furry, purring piece of lap fur unless you anger it. Then it has claws.”

  “What are the claws of the Commonwealth? They’re not obvious or evident.”

  “We’ve developed a special solution because of our need to keep a low profile until we were big enough to survive,” Ali told me, gazing out the forward windows at the blackness of space. “Others tend to look to our foreign office, which isn’t very potent by design. They don’t look elsewhere because they don’t understand our free market philosophy. Sandy, we have a very powerful foreign service. It’s capable of diplomacy or conducting a decisive economic war. You’re part of it now. It’s the Landlimo Corporation.”

  Chapter 6

  The Top of The Hill

  Lagrange-Five wasn’t a big unified space facility but a collection of habitats, factories, power plants, and military complexes in lunar orbit. Everything’s there because the region’s the easiest place in the system to get to or from; it has no gravity well and sits atop the gravity wells of both Earth and the Moon.

  There’s an identical region called El-chetteereh—or L-Four in English—60-degrees ahead of the Moon where the Soviets have a facility that includes, among other things, a military complex. They don’t talk about it, but the U.S. Aerospace Force knows about it.

  The Aerospace Force has military facilities at L-5, and they don’t talk about it, either.

  It was a “balance of space power” affair.

  The Aerospace Force permitted other organizations and nations who were members of the Ottawa Pact to use L-5, provided specific rules regarding the Space Defense and Identification Zones were scrupulously followed. Nations belonging to SocDef called at L-5 only occasionally and then with thorough pre-clearance.

  If the United States and other “free nations” were indeed under the control of power groups as The General believed, it was probably a good thing that the Soviets had El-chetteereh to counterbalance things.

  Or was it the other way around?

  It made little difference to me now. I’d cast my lot with the Commonwealth.

  Omer piloted the Tonolia during approach. In my fatigued condition, I might have botched it.

  A docking crew from Commonwealth Space Transport and Forwarding Corporation—ComSpat, for short—was waiting in the portlock.

  So was Ursila
Peri whose enthusiasm for seeing Ali again was evident even though she was very careful how she hugged him. “It’s so good to have you back!” Ursila said as they embraced with a fervor I hadn’t seen him exhibit thus far.

  “Let Tsaya treat these burns first, moapa,” he replied.

  “Then we’ve got some catching up to do,” she promised him. She had a slight accent, almost British except for a tendency to round her “o’s” and clip her consonants. On her it sounded good. “How’s The General?” she asked anxiously with the concern and respect evident on the part of everyone connected with the Commonwealth.”I’ll know more when I get him to the Haeberle Clinic,” Tsaya told her, helping guide the tube-festooned pyro tank out the hatch.

  Although it wasn’t necessary because we’d met by video during the previous evening’s telecon, Ali re-introduced me to Dr. Ursila Peri who seemed much more vital and animated than on voxvideo. I could well understand Ali’s feelings toward her because she possessed a classic female attractiveness which provoked and excited. Like a veil that reveals yet hides, Ursila seemed to have something she wasn’t showing. That excites men.

  “Glad you’re with us, Sandy,” she told me as we touched hands. “We want you.”

  Ali put in, “Ursila, Sandy’s one outstanding pilot. He’d been checked out only in the Aerospace Force version of the Tonolia, yet he flew right seat for Omer.”

  “I’ll fly with him any time,” Omer said curtly.

  “Come, Ali,” Tsaya reminded him in her cool, professional fashion. “I must see your burns under treatment, too.”

  “I’ll tag along,” Ursila said. “You can bring me up to date.”

  Ali turned to me and said, “Sandy, I’ll be out of action for a day or so. In the meantime…Jeri, come over here, please,” he called out to someone supervising the transport of The General’s pyro tank.

  A long-faced, long-limbed, almost skinny man broke away from the group of people and floated over to us. He grinned, “You bellowed, sir?” he said with mock obsequiousness.