know.
Got to give them the slip. If we don't, they'll dog us to Fuel Point and all hell will break loose."
I crane and look at the display tank. The mother is the focus there. Neither side looks inclined to start anything.
Each is hoping the other will screw up.
Reminds me of my short career as an amateur boxer. What was that kid's name? Kenny something. They shoved us in the ring and said have at it. We circled and feinted, feinted and circled, and never did throw a real punch. Not chicken, either one of us. Just cautious, waiting for the other guy to commit, to reach and leave an opening. Coach got peeved and sarcastic. We danced while he badmouthed our conservative style.
We didn't let him get to us. We circled and waited. Then our turn hi the ring was up. They never put us hi again.
The next two kids were Coach's type. Gloves flying everywhere. Whup! Whup! Whup! Pure offense, and the winner is the last man twitching. Your basic kamikaze. Blood, spit, and snot all over the ring. Coach had to cut it off before somebody got creamed.
Coach Tannian stays out of the way while a squadron is departing. He's a mixer but has learned to appreciate the conservative approach. There are times when footwork is more important than punch.
While the butterflies float, the mother keeps increasing her rate of acceleration. The relay talker says, "Coming up on time Lima Kilo Zero."
"What does that mean?"
Yanevich is passing. "The point when we hit fifty klicks per second relative to TerVeen. When we throw a rock hi the pond to see which way the frogs jump. We're following a basal plan preprogrammed after an analysis of everything that's been done before." He pats my shoulder.
"Things are going to start happening."
The clock indicates that Mission Day One is drawing to a close. I suppose I've earned my pay. I've stayed awake all the way round the clock, and then some.
"Bogey Niner accelerating."
We've got nine of them now? My eyes may be open, but my brain has been sleeping.
I watch the tank instead of trying to follow the ascensions, decimations, azimuths, and relative velocities and range rates the talker chirrups. The nearest enemy vessel, which has been tagging along slightly to relative nadir, has begun hauling ass, pushing four gravities, apparently intent on coming abreast of us at the same decimation.
"They do their analyses, too," Yanevich says.
His remark becomes clear when a new green blip materializes in the tank. A parr of little green arrows part from it and course toward the point where bogey Nine would've been had she not accelerated. The friendly blip winks out again. Little red arrows were racing toward it from the repositioned enemy.
"That was a Climber from Training Group. Seems he was expected."
The two missile flights begin seeking targets. Briefly, they chase one another like puppies chasing their tails. Then their dull brains realize that that isn't their mission. They fling apart, searching again. The greenies locate the bogey, surge toward her.
She takes hyper, dances a hundred thousand klicks sunward, and ceases worrying about missiles. She begins crawling up on the mother's opposite quarter.
"A victory of sorts," Yanevich observes. "Made them stand back for a minute."
By evading rather than risking engaging the Climber's missiles, our pursuer has complicated her inherent velocity vector with respect to her quarry. We can take hyper now and shake her easily.
Unfortunately, she has a lot of friends.
The enemy missiles head our way. We're the biggest moving target visible. The mother's energy batteries splatter them.
This is a complex game, played in all the accessible dimensions and levels of reality. The Training Climbers give the home team an edge. Each of then* appearances scrapes another hunter off the mother's trail, making her escorts more formidable against any attack.
"We're almost clear," Yanevich says. "Won't be long before we do a few false hyper takes to see what shakes."
The
Got to give them the slip. If we don't, they'll dog us to Fuel Point and all hell will break loose."
I crane and look at the display tank. The mother is the focus there. Neither side looks inclined to start anything.
Each is hoping the other will screw up.
Reminds me of my short career as an amateur boxer. What was that kid's name? Kenny something. They shoved us in the ring and said have at it. We circled and feinted, feinted and circled, and never did throw a real punch. Not chicken, either one of us. Just cautious, waiting for the other guy to commit, to reach and leave an opening. Coach got peeved and sarcastic. We danced while he badmouthed our conservative style.
We didn't let him get to us. We circled and waited. Then our turn hi the ring was up. They never put us hi again.
The next two kids were Coach's type. Gloves flying everywhere. Whup! Whup! Whup! Pure offense, and the winner is the last man twitching. Your basic kamikaze. Blood, spit, and snot all over the ring. Coach had to cut it off before somebody got creamed.
Coach Tannian stays out of the way while a squadron is departing. He's a mixer but has learned to appreciate the conservative approach. There are times when footwork is more important than punch.
While the butterflies float, the mother keeps increasing her rate of acceleration. The relay talker says, "Coming up on time Lima Kilo Zero."
"What does that mean?"
Yanevich is passing. "The point when we hit fifty klicks per second relative to TerVeen. When we throw a rock hi the pond to see which way the frogs jump. We're following a basal plan preprogrammed after an analysis of everything that's been done before." He pats my shoulder.
"Things are going to start happening."
The clock indicates that Mission Day One is drawing to a close. I suppose I've earned my pay. I've stayed awake all the way round the clock, and then some.
"Bogey Niner accelerating."
We've got nine of them now? My eyes may be open, but my brain has been sleeping.
I watch the tank instead of trying to follow the ascensions, decimations, azimuths, and relative velocities and range rates the talker chirrups. The nearest enemy vessel, which has been tagging along slightly to relative nadir, has begun hauling ass, pushing four gravities, apparently intent on coming abreast of us at the same decimation.
"They do their analyses, too," Yanevich says.
His remark becomes clear when a new green blip materializes in the tank. A parr of little green arrows part from it and course toward the point where bogey Nine would've been had she not accelerated. The friendly blip winks out again. Little red arrows were racing toward it from the repositioned enemy.
"That was a Climber from Training Group. Seems he was expected."
The two missile flights begin seeking targets. Briefly, they chase one another like puppies chasing their tails. Then their dull brains realize that that isn't their mission. They fling apart, searching again. The greenies locate the bogey, surge toward her.
She takes hyper, dances a hundred thousand klicks sunward, and ceases worrying about missiles. She begins crawling up on the mother's opposite quarter.
"A victory of sorts," Yanevich observes. "Made them stand back for a minute."
By evading rather than risking engaging the Climber's missiles, our pursuer has complicated her inherent velocity vector with respect to her quarry. We can take hyper now and shake her easily.
Unfortunately, she has a lot of friends.
The enemy missiles head our way. We're the biggest moving target visible. The mother's energy batteries splatter them.
This is a complex game, played in all the accessible dimensions and levels of reality. The Training Climbers give the home team an edge. Each of then* appearances scrapes another hunter off the mother's trail, making her escorts more formidable against any attack.
"We're almost clear," Yanevich says. "Won't be long before we do a few false hyper takes to see what shakes."
The
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