No Quarter

The laser hit burned through the Kildare's shields and vaporized the aft attitude jets in an instantaneous burst of explosion. The ejection of debris and gaseous propellant created recoil that the damaged system failed to counter.

    On the bridge, in the act of rising to visit the head, Commander Jensen was spun sideways into the corn console. The impact left more than a bruise. Over the stabbing pain of cracked ribs, and through the high-pitched, excited curse from the pilot on helm duty, the officer assigned charge of the Kildare strove against a mind-whirling onrush of vertigo to muster the necessary attitude of command.

    'Damages?' he gasped on an intake of air that was all he could manage, being winded.

    Across a narrow aisle banked on either side with instrumentation, the ensign still strapped in his seat recovered from surprise. 'Aft attitude thruster's gone, sir, portside. Also the rear screen sensor. Burnt clear out. Hull's intact, but we'll need the engineer's report to know if it's stable.'

    That explained the horrible dizziness: inertia, not pain. The Kildare tumbled from the hit, her guidance units unable to compensate with one quarter of the system blown out. Left gray and disoriented from his own hurts, Jensen fought the buck of the deck and crashed back into his command chair. 'Find out if she's stable,' he rapped out in reference to the hull. Then he glanced across the gloom of the V-shaped control bridge toward the silhouette of his still-swearing pilot. 'Get this hulk back under control, fast.'

    The pilot, the fair-haired son of somebody's father in the Admiralty, was nowhere near as good as the rating sewn onto

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