Another jolt. More red lights on the board. The alarm seemed to screech louder.
“Our fusion drive thruster cone has been hit, sir.”
Two laser shots and we were crippled. As well as deaf, dumb, and blind.
“Turn off the alarm,” I yelled, over the hooting. “I know we’re in trouble.”
The alarm shut off. My ears still ringing, I stared at the hash-streaked screens and the red lights glowering at me from the display board. What to do? I couldn’t even call over to them and surrender. They wouldn’t take a prisoner, anyway.
I felt the ship lurch again.
“Another hit?”
“No, sir,” answered Forty-niner. “I am swinging the ship so that the control pod faces away from the attacker.”
Putting the bulk of the ship between me and those laser beams. “Good thinking,” I said weakly.
“Standard defensive maneuver, sir, according to Tactical Manual 7703.”
“Shut up about the damned tactical manual!”
“The new meteor shields have been punctured, sir.” I swear Forty-niner added that sweet bit of news just to yank my chain.
Then I saw that the maneuvering jet propellant went empty, the panel display lights flicking from amber to red.
“Rats, we’re out of propellant!”
I realized that I was done for. Forty-niner had tried to shield me from the attacker’s laser shots by turning the ship so that its tankage and fusion drive equipment was shielding my pod but doing so had used up the last of our maneuvering propellant.
Cold sweat beaded my face. I was gasping for breath. The freebooters or whoever was shooting at us could come up close enough to spit at us now. They’d riddle this pod and me in it.
“Sir, standard procedure calls for you to put on your space suit.”
I nodded mutely and got up from the chair. The suit was in its rack by the airlock. At least Forty-niner didn’t mention the tactical manual.
I had one leg in the suit when the ship suddenly began to accelerate so hard that I slipped to the deck and cracked my skull on the bulkhead. I really saw stars flashing in my eyes.
“What the hell . . . ?”
“We are accelerating, sir. Retreating from the last known position of the attacking vessel.”
“Accelerating? How? We’re out of—”
“I am using our cargo as propellant, sir. The thrust provided is—”
Forty-niner was squirting out our water. Fine by me. Better to have empty cargo tanks and be alive than to hand a full cargo of water to guys who wanted to kill me. I finished wriggling into my space suit, even though my head was thumping from the fall I’d taken. Just before I pulled on the helmet, I felt my scalp. There was a nice-sized lump; it felt hot to my fingers.
“You could’ve warned me that you were going to accelerate the ship,” I grumbled as I sealed the helmet to the suit’s neck ring.
“Time was of the essence, sir,” Forty-niner replied.
The ship lurched again as I checked my backpack connections. Another hit.
“Where’d they get us?” I shouted.
No answer. That really scared me. If they knocked Forty-niner out, all the ship’s systems would bonk out too.
“Main power generator, sir,” Forty-niner finally replied. “We are now running on auxiliary power, sir.”
The backup fuel cells. They wouldn’t last more than a few hours. If the damned solar panels were working—no, I realized; those big fat wings would just make terrific target practice for the bastards.
Another lurch. This time I saw the bright flash through the bridge’s window. The beam must’ve splashed off the structure just outside the pod. My God, if they punctured the pod, that would be the end of it. Sure, I could slide my visor down and go to the backpack’s air supply. But that’d give me only two hours of air, at best. Just enough time to write my last will and testament.
“I thought you turned the pod away from them!” I yelled.
“They are maneuvering too, sir.”
Great. Sitting in the command chair was awkward, in the suit. The display board looked like a Christmas tree, more red than green. The pod seemed to be intact so far. Life support was okay, as long as we had electrical power.
Another jolt, a big one. Forty-niner shuddered and staggered sideways like it was being punched by a gigantic fist.
And then, just like that, the comm screens came back to life. Radar showed the other vessel, whoever they were, moving away from us.
“They’re going away!” I whooped.
Forty-niner’s voice seemed fainter than usual. “Yes, sir. They are leaving.”
“How come?” I wondered.
“Their last laser shot ruptured our main water tank, sir. In eleven minutes and thirty-eight seconds, our entire cargo will be discharged.”
I just sat there, my mind chugging hard. We’re spraying our water into space, the water that those bastards wanted to steal from us. That’s why they left. In eleven and a half minutes, we would no longer have any water for them to take.
I almost broke into a smile. I’m wasn’t going to die, after all. Not right away, at least.
Then I realized that JRK49N was without propulsion power and would be out of electrical power in a few hours. I was going to die after all, dammit. Only slower.
“Send out a distress call, broadband,” I commanded. But I knew that was about as useful as a toothpick in a soup factory. The corporation didn’t send rescue missions for waterbots, not with the war going on. Too dangerous. The other side could use the crippled ship as bait and pick off any vessel that came to rescue it. And they certainly wouldn’t come out for a vessel as old as Forty-niner. They’d just check the numbers in their ledgers and write us off. With a form letter of regret and an insurance check to my mother.
“Distress call on all frequencies, sir.” Before I could think of anything more to say, Forty-niner went on, “Electrical power is critical, sir.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“There is a prohibition in my programming, sir.”
“About electrical power?”
“Yes, sir.”
Then I remembered I had commanded him to stop nagging me about repairing the solar panels. “Cancel the
