The first singleship flew past the forward bridge window of the Argent so closely that Billy flinched.
“What the hell was that?” he asked.
“A one-man fighter craft. They have not yet fired upon us. Here comes another one.”
There was a teeth-jarring impact and an alarm rang from below.
“Damn! That one hit us.”
“Suicide,” Guthrie stated. “Not a worthwhile tactic.”
Billy grabbed his speaking tube. “Everyone all right down there?”
“What the hell was that?” Edgar Burroughs replied.
“You don’t want to know, Eddie. Ya’ll holding together? Any leaks?”
“Everything seems all right. The engine doesn’t seem affected.”
“Can we go to second gear?” Billy asked.
“The transmog has got a couple more minutes to spin up to that speed. Then you can punch it.”
“We may not have that long,” Billy said.
He pulled up on the yoke and dodged another ship.
“Master,” Guthrie said, and raised his head to regard the ceiling.
“What now?”
“I think—”
A loud clank came from directly overhead. Then another.
“What was that?” Billy asked.
“I do not know,” Guthrie said. “But it came from outside the ship.”
“Go see about it.”
“Yes sir.” Guthrie sprang upward from his seat, pivoted in the air to strike the bulkhead at an angle, and flew toward the hatch.
Billy was alone on the bridge of the Argent. He calmly leaned to the speaking tube.
“Carter?”
“Yes?” the voice came back.
“You said you wanted the chance to shoot something?”
“Damn straight!”
“Then get up
here. Bring Ian.”
“We’re on our way!”