Cats in Space and Other Places by Bill Fawcett (the first e reader txt) 📕

Her low voice rippled slightly with droll amusement.

"But . . ."

"Go!" Her imperative was firm, almost angry. "Or it's all over for that convoy. Go. Now. While they're sleeping."

She was right. I knew it, but no brain ship leaves a brawn in an exposed and dangerous situation. The convoy was also in an exposed and dangerous situation. The greater duty called. The lives of many superceded the life of one, one who had willingly sacrificed herself.

I lifted slowly, using the minimum of power the Ocelot needed. She was good like that, you could almost lift her on a feather, and that was all I intended to use. I kept at ground level, which, considering the terrain, meant some tricky piloting, but I also didn't want to go so fast that I lost that camouflage net. If I had to set down suddenly, it might save my skin.

I'm not used to dawdling, neither is the Ocelot and it needed finesse to do it, and every vestige of skill I possessed. I went back through the gap, over the water, heading toward the oncoming dusk. I'd use sunset to cover my upward thrust because I'd have to use power then. But I'd be far enough away from the big sensors at the spaceport to risk it. Maybe they'd still be snoozing. I willed those weaselly faces to have closed eyes and dulled senses and, as I tilted my nose up to the clear dark night of deep space, the camouflage net rippled down, spread briefly on the water and sank.

On my onward trajectory, I used Bethesda's two smaller moons as shields, boosting my speed out of the sun's gravity well before I turned on the FTL drive.

From the moment o.t.s. had mentioned the possibility of an incoming squadron of Khalia I had been computing a variety of courses from Target through the 700 quadrant to Bethesda's system. There was no way the Khalia would miss the convoy's emission trail entering from the 700s, and then they'd climb the tailpipes of the helpless, decelerating ships. I ran some calculations on the eta at the first gravity well maneuver the Admiral had planned and they were almost there. I had to buy them just a bit more time. This Ocelot was going to have to pretend it was advance scout for ships from another direction entirely.

So I planned to re-enter normal space on a course perpendicular to the logical one that the Khalia would take for Bethesda when they exited FTL space. Their ships would have sensors sensitive enough to pick up my "light cone" and I'd come in well in advance of any traces which the convoy had left. If I handled it right, they'd come after me. It's rare that the Admiral's gig gets such an opportunity as this, to anticipate the enemy, to trigger a naval action which could have a tremendous effect on this everlasting war. It was too good to work out. It had to work out.

I did have several advantages to this mad scheme. The Fleet was out of FTL: the enemy not yet. I needed only a moment to send my message off to the Admiral. The rest of it was up to him. The disadvantage was that I might not have the joy of seeing the Fleet running up Khalian asses.

Once in FTL, I continued to check my calculations. Even if I came out right in the midst of the approaching Khalia I could manage. I only needed two nano-seconds to launch the message and even Khalia need more than that to react.

They had to come out somewhere near my re-entry window. They were great ones for using gravity wells to reduce speed, and there were two suns lined up almost perfectly with Bethesda for that sort of maneuver, just far enough away to slow them down for the Bethesda landing. My risk was worth the gamble and my confidence was bolstered by the courage of a camouflaged Hrruban.

I had the message torp set and ready to launch at the Gormenghast as I entered normal space. I toggled it off just as the Khalian pirate ships emerged, a couple thousand klicks off my port bow, an emergence that made my brain reel. What luck!

I was spatially above them and should be quite visible on their sensors. I flipped the Ocelot, ostensibly heading back the way I had come. I sent an open Mayday in the old code, adding some jibber I had once whipped up by recording old Earth Thai backward, and sent a panic shot from the stem plasma cannon, just in case their detectors had not spotted me. I made as much "light" as I could, wallowing my tail to broaden it, trying to pretend there were three of me. Well, trying is it.

The Ocelot is a speedy beast, speedier than I let them believe, hoping they'd mistake us for one of the larger, fully manned scouts to make it worth their while to track and destroy me. The closer they got the faster they would be able to make a proper identification. I sent MAYDAY in several Alliance languages and again my Thai-jibber. Until they sent three of their real fast ones after me. It took them two days before their plasma bursts got close. I let them come in near enough for me to do some damage. I think I got one direct hit and a good cripple before I knew I was in their range. I hit the jettison moments before their cannon blew the Ocelot apart.

"Well, now, Mr. Hansing, how does that feel?" The solicitous voice was preternaturally loud through my audio circuits as consciousness returned.

"Loud and clear," I replied with considerable relief and adjusted the volume.

I'd made it after all. Sometimes we do. After all, the Fleet would have engaged the pirates, and someone was sure to search the wreckage for the vital titanium capsule that contained Mayday tapes and