Lem dove. The transport tailing him dove after him. Lem spun, twisted; the transport responded, mirroring his moves. A laser narrowly missed him on the right. He f
ired a third pair of shatter boxes, but these missed as well. Another dive and spin and twist. Still he wasn't free. He banked right and narrowly avoided colliding with a different transport. He fired behind him and obliterated that one, but the original pursuer held its course.
Lem accelerated and spun left. He couldn't keep this up. He would soon vomit or pass out. The G-forces were overwhelming. His equilibrium was shot. His harness held him tight, but his body was being flung back and forth against the straps like a ragdoll.
He spun again, fired again, missed again.
He had gotten off a few lucky shots. That was it. He was out of his league here. He was not a combat pilot. Why had he thought he could do this? What was he trying to prove?
Ahead of him a mining ship broke apart as two transports cut into it at once. Lem spun away to get clear of the line of fire.
He was going to die, he realized. The only reason he had lasted this long was because he was such a small target.
A laser to his left missed him by inches. He dove again, spun away.
No one would grieve his loss, he realized. There would be headlines and sad admirers and a few blips on the nets about how he had died heroically, but no one would really care. Not deeply. Not in any meaningful way. They would shake their heads, call it a shame, and move on.
Those who actually knew him might even call it a relief.
Father would care, he thought. Father would grieve. Despite whatever it was they had between them, Lem was still his son.
And Simona. She would be upset as well, almost like a friend might, despite how he had treated her.
He thought of Des. Not the real Des. But the person he had thought she was. The fake Des. Young and bright-eyed and full of affection. That version of her would have grieved.
But of course the real Des would only laugh at such news. What a fool, she would say. How easily played.
He wondered where she was now. In another man's arms? Another man's bed? No, not a man. A customer.
The transport giving chase disappeared from his holofield, turned to dust.
A familiar voice sounded over the radio. "You have me to thank for that, Lem," said Chubs. "I take personal checks or money transfers."
Lem smiled. "How many times have you saved my neck now, Chubs?"
"More than I can count. But I hope you're keeping a tally."
Chubs. The man who had been his cocaptain for their two-year trip to the Kuiper Belt. Not a friend, necessarily. But certainly a welcome sight now.
Ten minutes later it was over. Nine of the mining ships were lost. The others were intact and celebrating over the radio, thrilled to be alive. It was then that Lem realized the Valas had been trying to contact him. He responded to their pinging. "This is Lem. Go ahead."
"Mr. Jukes. The landers. They're taking off."
*
After ten seconds in the ship Wit's nose was bleeding. He felt like he was being cooked in a microwave. Every instinct told him to fly back to the safety of the launch tube and seal himself in tight with the others. The heat wasn't just burning him, it was sucking him dry, draining the life out of him like a vacuum. He had never felt so weak or sick in his life. He gripped the wheel at the base of the launch tube and turned. All of the launch tubes except for the one where the others were waiting opened with a whoosh. He could feel the air around him being sucked out of the tubes; like standing against a heavy gale. Had his feet not been anchored to the floor as Victor had suggested, he might have been sucked out as well.
The air depletion went on for almost a minute. Formic corpses flew by him, along with various small items that hadn't been tied down--all of it whisked out of the tubes and into space. Wit could feel the heat in the room dropping, as if the furnace had been turned down from high to medium heat. When it was over he stood there a moment gathering himself. There was more for him to do, he knew. He had another task. He had remembered what it was a moment ago, but it had slipped away.
Crackling static in the earpiece. "Captain O'Toole."
That was his name. Someone was calling him. The team from the tube. He turned and faced them. They were at the glass watching him, their faces concerned. Then he remembered.
"I'm all right. It's ... not bad. Like a ... really hot sauna. The radio gets through ... that's good. I'm ... going to need it."
"Let me come in and help you," said Victor.
"No. I've already been exposed. There's still radiation ... in here. Just talk me to the helm. I've got the map ... but my mind can't ... focus."