The Snows of Montora (The Chronicles of Montora Book 3)

by Ward Wagher

  “There is not much light from that star. If we slip out of a port on the other side of the ship, he probably won't spot us.”

  “Probably,” Smith snorted.

  “And then what?” Schubach said.

  “We slip into the cruiser and I start flashing my credentials about. Cambaert can't have co-opted an entire ship.”

  “What are you talking about?” Schubach asked.

  “He's getting ready to hijack us. Can't be anything else. He's either heard, or guessed something about the cargo on board, and decided it was time to look out for number one. He obviously thinks he has us over a barrel.”

  “He does,” Smith said. “What do you expect to do about it?”

  “The popguns on this bucket won't even scratch his paint. So we got to be smarter.”

  “If we get halfway across, Skipper, and he drops the ships into FTL we won't be feelin' very smart,” Smith said. “And, we'll start gettin' downright lonely.”

  “He's not going to get under weigh again until he kills forty Woogies and however many humans he needs to. He can't afford to leave anybody alive. We have nothing to lose. You can guess most of the boarding party is in on the game. Charlie's job is to stall them long enough for me to get control of that cruiser.”

  “There's a lot of slim chances there, Skipper,” Schubach said.

  “No question about that,” Frank said. “Got any better ideas?”

  Schubach shook his head. “I guess not.”

  “Good. I want you to let the Woogies know what's going down. Maybe they'll come up with some ideas. Smith, call Jones and tell him to spin up three suits. We're going swimming.”

  Frank walked over to the door. When it slid open, Sooozie stood in the corridor with maybe a dozen Woogies standing behind.

  “To help the humans stop tyrannical pirates,” came the voice from the vocoder.

  “That's a good idea, Suzie...”

  “Sooozie.”

  “Right. Sooozie. I'm going to take some people and try to slip aboard the Lockhurst. Please talk to Captain Schubach about his plans.”

  “Correct,” the Woogie replied. “Sooozie plans to plan plans with Schooobach.”

  “Er.. right. Let's go, Smith.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  “Okay, here's the deal,” Frank said. “We slip out this hatch and head a mile or so down relative to the ship. Then move laterally to where we are under the Lockhurst. We come up on the other side of the cruiser and pop in through one of the emergency personnel hatches.”

  “And if they lock the door?” Smith asked.

  Frank grinned and tapped a finger on his temple. “As I said, we gotta be smarter than they are. Quit rolling your eyes, Jones.”

  Caught in the act, Jones jumped, and straightened up.

  “You really think this is going to work, Skipper?” Smith asked.

  “We are just about out of options. But, yes, I think it will work. Just be ready to think on your feet and back me up.”

  “And my note to Francine said this would just be a quick nip to Earth and back.”

  “Where is your faith, Cedric?”

  Smith groaned.

  “All right, button up,” Frank said as he fastened the face plate on his space suit. “And keep the suit radios completely off. If they pick up any signal leakage at all, we're cooked.”

  Frank interpreted the look on Smith's face and grinned. “We'd be in more trouble.”

  I don't know how he does it, Frank thought, but he clearly transmits his disgust even while in a space suit.

  The space suits on Forsythia were very different from the assault suits used by the navy. These were designed for emergency EVA and SAR. As such they were heavy on life support and communications. They also had a lot of reaction mass. They were designed to protect human beings who were suddenly adrift in space. They also were only armored to withstand dust and small particles.

  As they dropped below the ship they saw a cutter emerge from the cruiser's docking bay. Frank had decided he was going to have to trust Charles Schubach and Sooozie to take care of things on the merchant ship. In about fifteen minutes they had jetted across to the cruiser and planted themselves on the hull. They gathered around the access hatch.

  Frank opened a small panel cover and looked at the over-sized buttons. He punched in a 27 character code and the hatch slid open. He looked over at Smith with a grin and a raised eyebrow. The three slipped into the airlock and powered the hatch closed. Once the airlock pressurized they stepped into an empty compartment. Frank opened the faceplate on his suit, as did the others.

  “Where's the welcoming committee, Skipper?” Smith asked quietly.

  “I have two codes, Smith. The one I used overrides the ship's systems. They don't know we're here.”

  “Somebody in the Navy has a devious mind.”

  “Naval Intelligence, Cedric. “Now let's get out of these suits.”

  “Shouldn't we keep them on in case we have to depressurize the ship?”

  “No. They're not armored, they'll only be in the way. If we depressurize the ship we will have screwed up by the numbers anyway.”

  “Gotcha, Skipper.”

  They peeled out of the suits and Frank put on his beret.

  “The uniform is a nice touch, Skipper.”

  “Thanks, Smith. I'll take any advantage I can get.”

  As usual, Jones said nothing.

  Smith nodded towards the data-port on the bulkhead. “I wish we'd brought a comp-term with us.”

  “The Supply Office is two compartments over,” Frank said. “He will have something on his desk we can access the ship's network with.”

  “More codes, Skipper?” Smith asked.

  “Something like that,” Frank said as he moved towards the hatch into the corridor. “Now look alive. If anybody bumbles along while we're in the corridor, put a sleepy dart into them. We can sort out the sheep from the goats later.”

  “That might be a lot of anybodies, Sir,” Jones commented.

  “No. The ship is probably at stations. So there shouldn't be many of the crew wandering around.”

  The hatch slid open and Frank stepped into the corridor, followed by Smith and Jones.

  “Quiet out here,” Smith said.

  “Keep thinking those happy thoughts, Smith,” Frank said.

  Frank turned to the left and walked normally along the corridor. He stopped at the hatch labeled Supply Office. When the door slid opened he quickly stepped in. Once Smith and Jones were in, he thumbed the button to close the hatch again.

  “At ease, Lieutenant,” Frank said. “Please step away from your desk.”

  “Sir?” The lieutenant had quickly stood up when Frank walked in. She was small, dark-haired and very thin.

  “Please step away from your desk. I need the use of your terminal.”

  “Sir, with all due respect, I don't think that's authorized.”

  Frank looked at Smith and nodded. There was a pffft sound and the lieutenant looked down at the sleepy dart lodged in her stomach. Then her eyes rolled back in her head. Jones stepped forward quickly and caught her as she started to collapse. He pulled across the compartment and eased her to the floor.

  “No time to argue,” Frank said. “Plus she didn't need to see this.” He sat down at the desk and started typing.

  Frank entered another 27 character code and the computer responded with a voice.

  “State your name for voice authentication.”

  “Franklin James Nyman, Senior.”

  “Voice print confirmed. Type override authentication code.”

  Frank typed another long code.

  “Command override authentication confirmed.”

  Frank looked up at Smith and Jones. “By the way, this is considered Top Secret. You have to forget you ever saw this.”

  They both nodded. “I understand, Skipper,” Smith said. “It makes sense.”

  “It certainly does,” Frank replied. “The Navy doesn't want th
eir ships falling into the wrong hands.”

  “Does Cambaert know about this?” Smith asked.

  “He should, as should his chief engineer. But I have rank, plus the Class C cyberints running the ships assume priority for the first person to call for override.”

  “What's next, then?”

  “We lock down the weapons, then the bridge and engineering,” Frank said as he began typing. “It should come as a nasty shock to somebody.”

  “No menus or push buttons,” Smith commented.

  “Right,” Frank said. “It's all command based. And the commands are buried somewhere deep in the system. Even the pathways in there are non-obvious.”

  “So someone is not likely to stumble across them.”

  “Right. Even if they do, it looks like a dead end without the codes. And now....” Frank typed some more. “There. We own the ship.”

  § § §

  Rogers Cambaert sat in his command chair and surveyed the bridge of the Lockhurst. So far his spur of the moment plan was working well. He had spent years carefully co-opting a small team against just such an opportunity. His initial annoyance at being tasked to escort Nyman's freighter evaporated when one of his agents informed him of the nature of the cargo.

  His discovery of the irregularities surrounding Forsythia had been accepted by his executive officer, and the other officers. As soon as the boarding crew secured the ship, he would move over to it and then order the Lockhurst to proceed to Earth. He would then take the freighter and lose himself in interstellar space. It would be too bad about the passengers on the freighter, but this was the kind of score which would allow him to purchase an entire planet.

  “Skipper,” called the tactical officer, “the weapons systems just went down.”

  “What?” Cambaert yelled. “Well, switch to backup!”

  “My systems are not responding, Sir.”

  Cambaert jumped out of his seat and took three quick steps to the tactical section. The systems were completely frozen.

  “Skipper, the helm has gone down,” the helmsman called.

  Cambaert stepped back over to the command chair and pushed the button for internal communications. Instead of the answering tone, nothing happened.

  Cambaert spun and pointed to his yeoman. “Get down to Engineering and find out what's going on.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.” The yeoman answered. He trotted over to the hatchway and pushed the button. Nothing happened. “Sir, the hatch will not open.”

  Cambaert rubbed his hand over his mouth and cheeks, then suddenly paled. He stepped back over to the tactical section.

  “Get out of your chair.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  Cambaert slid into the chair, and quickly typed a 27 character password into the terminal.

  “What's going on, Skipper?” the Tactical Officer asked.

  “Never mind.”

  Cambaert finished typing the password and pressed the submit key. Nothing responded.

  “Sound General Quarters – Intruder Alert,” he commanded.

  The tactical officer reached around the captain to the controls. He flipped up a lid over a button and then pressed the button. Nothing happened.

  Cambaert started swearing and jumped out of the chair. He ran over to the hatchway and started pounding on the button.

  The helmsman looked over at the tactical officer. “We are so screwed,” he said quietly.

  § § §

  Lieutenant Darf Jelliff stood in the Forsythia's boat bay facing the officers of the freighter. Flanking the captain and the first officer were two Woogies. Jelliff assumed they accompanied the cargo.

  “Okay, the way we will do this,” he said, “is I will have a crew supervising the bridge and engineering. We will hold the captain and first officer as hostages to ensure cooperation.”

  He nodded to one of his men. “Take your people and the captain and secure the bridge.”

  “Aye, aye, Sir.”

  He looked to his left. “Take the first officer and secure engineering.”

  He watched as the two groups left the boat bay and then stared at the two Woogies.

  “Can you understand me?” he asked.

  “To listen no problem. We do not understand you, though,” came the voice from the Woogie vocoder.

  He snorted. “You will, soon enough. You are going to lead us to the cargo hold.”

  “To lead is to follow.”

  “Right. Let's go.”

  The two Woogies thrummed across the boat bay to another hatch and opened it. Jelliff and three of his crew followed. Two remained behind to guard the cutter.

  “Are you sure we're safe with these freaks around, Darf?” One of the crew asked as the followed the Woogies through the corridors.

  “Don't worry about it. I've dealt with them before. They're dopes. Now, shut up!”

  The corridor opened into the cargo hold and Jelliff faced a group of Woogies.

  “Whole bunch of Woogies, Darf,” the crewman said again.

  “Yeah, but we got the firepower.”

  Suddenly thirty Woogie arms, holding chrome rings, raised. The cargo hold echoed with the noise of what sounded like wooden rulers strummed against a table top. Jelliff and the five crewman toppled. Jelliff watched the floor of the cargo bay rush toward him. He tried to break his fall, but his arms no longer obeyed him. His cheek-bone shattered with indescribable pain as it impacted the deck.

  § § §

  “What's next?” Jones asked.

  “That, my friend, is the sixty-four Centauran question,” Frank said. “I'm counting on most of the crew not realizing what Cambaert was doing.”

  He pulled out his hand-held communicator, and pushed a button.

  “Schubach.” came the voice from the device.

  “It's Frank, Charlie. We have the ship. What's your situation.”

  “We're secure, Frank. We have the boarding party locked up.”

  “Any injuries?”

  Schubach chuckled. “Not hardly. We have forty Woogies on board, each with a Woogie-Whacker. The ship's security vids caught it. It was the funniest thing you ever did see.”

  “Good enough. I'm going to need a prize crew to get this thing to Earth. Can you send over Ridley and maybe another half dozen people. I'll need a helmsman, navigator, com and engineering support.”

  The Woogie-Whacker is a hand-held stun gun invented by the Woogies. While it is a widely respected and useful weapon, it never spread widely, because Woogies were the only beings who seemed to be able to aim the things properly.

  “Are you coming back over, Sir?”

  “No, Charlie. We'll have our hands full here. I've got to figure out a way to feed and water the crew without somebody trying to take the ship back.”

  Schubach paused. “You know, I'm really tempted to space the boarding crew.”

  “You're within your legal rights to do so,” Frank said. “However, I'd like the Naval Intelligence interrogation teams to wring them out.”

  “Quite so.”

  The Merchants and Manufacturers League had decreed the death penalty for piracy. While it was difficult to enforce by planetary governments, starship captains had absolute authority while in space. On the rare occasions when a crew was able to overcome piracy, the ship captains almost always dispensed justice as was their due. Being ejected from an airlock sans spacesuit seemed not to deter other pirates, however it did serve to reduce the pirate population somewhat. The more merciful captains would shoot the pirates before ejecting them, but this was not the universal practice.

  “Let me know when you're sending them over. You can use Lockhurst's cutter.”

  “Right, Sir.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Carlo Roma stood on the patio of the Tuscan villa, and gazed across the verdant fields of his estate. He sipped on a glass of wine as he pondered the arrival of his guest. Admiral Willard Krause had slipped in earlier that day, unannounced, and uninvited. Yet, he had no regrets about seei
ng the man who had become his partner in the great game of the worlds.

  The rains were good this year, he thought, and therefore the estate would turn a tidy profit. Out of habit Carlo Roma expected profits even from the properties where he took his leisure, even though in its best years the monies accrued from his landholdings were but a footnote in the financial statements of Nano Roma.

  Carlo took another sip from his glass, then spun on a heel and walked back across the ceramic tile into his study. Krause, wearing khaki slacks and jacket, sat with his boots removed and his feet on the coffee table. He had just finished clipping a cigar and was busy with the lighter, coaxing the stogie alive.

  "Certainly good of you to make yourself at home, Willard," he said.

  "It's not very often I get to travel out of uniform," Krause replied. "It's nice to relax."

  "I cannot say I am delighted with the news that you bring."

  "Hey, the Woogies are bringing a big enough pot of gold to make a difference even on your bottom line, Carlo. What problem could you possibly have with that?"

  Roma had been standing in the middle of the room staring at Krause. Now he turned around and strode over to the executive chair behind the desk, and collapsed into it with a sigh. He ran his hands over the glove soft leather of the chair arms and soaked in the atmosphere of the room. Although he alternated between about fourteen homes in the solar system, this place seemed the most like home to him, and it best reflected his tastes.

  Roma scraped his teeth over his bottom lip, and then shook his head with a grimace. "I have several problems with it, right off the bat. First of all, it's money I did not earn. It rightfully belongs to the Woogies."

  "But they feel under obligation to you," Krause said. "You know how the Woogies can be when they perceive they are indebted to someone."

  Roma snorted. "Nobody keeps score like the Woogies. Still, even though I technically held the charter on Woogaea; and that through a subsidiary. I was happy to leave them alone. It's just a piece of paper anyway. If they had asked for it, I would have just given it to them."

  "So, we agree you don't deserve the money, what other problems do you have?"