No Surrender

by Kevin J. Anderson

  Kal cursed loudly, then ducked into a crossway, turned to see a dead-end, and finally pelted down an altogether different corridor that seemed as neglected as the last.

  A lift shaft entrance appeared, with somewhat clean-looking double doors.

  Kal slammed a hand on the hatch release. The double doors opened and a surprised woman in a standard spacer’s jumpsuit looked out into the corridor as Kal stood there, chest heaving in air.

  Kal looked at the woman once, grimaced, and rushed in.

  The woman yelled, but Kal silenced her with the crack of a gun butt to the woman’s skull. The unconscious body tumbled out of the car, and then the door began to close.

  Kal leapt on the controls and ordered the car to the top level of the freighter—or however close to the top the shaft went.

  Just as the door was shutting, more privateers came into view. But just for an instant.

  Automatic small arms fire pinged and panged off the doors as they closed.

  The car creaked and rocked, and then began to shoot upward at an uneven rate.

  Kal was tossed about as the car jostled her, then there was a terrible screech and the lights went out.

  The lift had come to a complete halt.

  Chapter 6

  Viking Station was a hoop-shaped warren of cargo holds, starship docks, seedy temporary lodging, shops, gambling dens, and other establishments of variably descending repute. The Blackmatter ships docked at an inner hoop that was immobile, while the outer hoop—easily three kilometers in diameter—spun on its central axis. For simulated gravity.

  Kal and Tim disembarked the Freefall and made their way to one of the less grimy places of lodging. There they set up shop and went about quietly looking for their contact, who’d supposedly been informed that they were coming.

  Gulliver was the man’s name.

  Though Kal was reasonably certain he was working under an assumed identity, just as they were.

  It took nearly a local week of quiet inquiry to find him.

  They met in one of the adult entertainment halls.

  A place simply called The Shiny.

  It lived up to its name.

  Kal and Tim took seats at a table towards the back, in a dark spot where it was impossible to see the faces of any of the customers—though the glistening, mostly-naked bodies of the entertainers were spotlighted by lamps projecting from the ceiling. The ratio of female to male dancers was about three to one—each of them acrobatically cavorting across their separate stages, which were festooned with chrome-plated poles attached to the ceiling. Cash notes—both paper and coins—were being heaped at the feet of the more energetic entertainers.

  Kal noticed Tim’s eyes kept straying to one particularly well-endowed woman who had short red hair, a narrow waist, and wide hips. The dancer spun artfully around her pole, staying expertly balanced on a pair of impossibly tall, high-heeled pumps.

  Kal gently kicked Tim’s shin under the table—to keep him focused.

  “Took you a while,” said a shadowy male shape sitting across the table from them.

  “You’re a man who makes himself hard to track down,” Kal said.

  “Occupational hazard,” he said, lifting his shoulders in a shrug.

  “Do you think you can help us?” Kal asked.

  “Perhaps. I haven’t got my fingers in the cookie jar of every black market outfit in the Occupied Zone, but I make it my business to know about the comings and goings of major shipments. The Blackmatter retardation mines are only partially effective, you know. The good smugglers know where the holes in the network are, and use them on a fairly regular basis.”

  “Something for Central Command to fix,” Kal said.

  The silhouette of the man across the table began to laugh.

  “I think Central Command is well aware of the problem. They just can’t do anything about it. Or won’t. You should know that there are CAF officers in the blockade fleet who are working those holes to their advantage.”

  “Graft?” Kal said.

  “Of course. You know as well as I do that being assigned to Oz is a job for both heroes and fools. Some people are here for the excitement, and to build a reputation. Others are here because they couldn’t be sent anywhere else. You’ve got the good mixed with the bad.”

  “Which one are you?” Tim asked, his eyes still occasionally darting to the stage where the red-headed dancer seductively undulated in a rather pendulous fashion.

  “Depends on who you ask,” their contact said.

  A shadowy arm stuck out across the table.

  “You can call me Gulliver, which is how most people in Oz know me.”

  Kal and Tim shook the man’s hand in turn.

  He had a strong, reassuring grip.

  “Do you know about the missing Tremonton hardware?” Kal asked.

  “Yup.” Gulliver said.

  “Any idea where it’s been taken?” Tim asked.

  “No. But I think I have a method for finding out. Rumor has it that one last shipment of armor is still coming here—to Viking Station—before moving on to the secure Tremonton test facilities that the CAF is jointly operating on-planet. It’s probable that shipment will be snatched, just as the others have been. I can make sure you’re in the right place at right time when it happens. You might be able to learn more.”

  “That’s what we’re here for,” Kal said.

  “I can’t promise you’ll be safe,” Gulliver added, after gently clearing his throat.

  “This is Oz,” Kal said. “You’re stating the obvious.”

  “I’m not just talking about the usual scammers and cutthroats,” Gulliver replied, leaning on his elbows so that he didn’t have to speak as loudly to be heard. Kal could just make out his profile: balding, with a prominent chin, and a pale complexion.

  “Oh?” Tim asked.

  “The Ambit League is alive and well,” Gulliver said, in as close to a hushed tone as he could manage. “Folks back home assume we crushed the League during the war, and the Conflux Assembly is eager to perpetuate that perception with voters. But really, the separate pieces of the monster are subtly gaining strength. For a time when they might reconstitute. And I am not sure there’s anything the blockade can do about it.”

  Kal felt her blood begin to run cold.

  Tim’s eyes were now fully on Gulliver.

  “How long until they renew hostilities?” Kal asked.

  “Difficult to say. But I can tell you that they’ve been using the holes in the Blackmatter retardation network to place a lot of personnel and assets outside the reach of the blockade, in uncharted space—on the other side of the Zone. Stealing cutting-edge Tremonton tech is only the first step. They intend to improve upon and replicate what’s been taken.”

  Kal and Tim exchanged concerned glances.

  Gulliver sat back in his chair, allowing his eyes to watch the two female dancers who had shimmied their way over to a part of the branched stage that was closest to Gulliver’s table. The dancers began vigorously applying a fresh layer of oil to each other, while occasionally giving Gulliver winks and smiles.

  Gulliver smiled back, and dropped a few cash notes on the stage

  “So tell us where to be,” Kal said, trying to ignore the display of pulchritude going on behind her.

  Gulliver reached into his jacket and pulled out something, slipping it across the table towards them. Kal collected the wafer drive and slipped it into the inner pocket of her own jacket.

  “Are we done?” Gulliver said.

  “Yes,” Kal said. “Thanks.”

  He said nothing in reply. Merely kept watching the dancers.

  Kal stood up, and Tim did the same, though somewhat reluctantly.

  “Oh,” Kal said, “one more thing.”

  Gulliver appeared to merely wait for her question.

  “Who is paying you to pass us this information?”

  “Whatever you may have been told about me,” Gulliver said, “I can assure you, my p
atriotic allegiance is to the Conflux. I’m not CAF anymore. At least not officially. And I’m going to admit I kind of like it out here, beyond the boundaries of polite society. But I think the Conflux is worth preserving.”

  Kal waited, studying the shadowy man with her eyes.

  How much of what he’d said was truth?

  She really couldn’t tell.

  “Right,” Kal said, then turned to Tim and added, “let’s go.”

  Chapter 7

  The lift car was pitch black inside. No emergency lights.

  Kal whipped out her microlamp and flicked it on. Tendrils of acrid smoke filled the car. Scanning the lamp around, she located the emergency hatch on the floor of the car. She pulled the release key and waited for the hatch to pop loose by itself.

  Nothing.

  Kal kicked it. Still nothing. Damn.

  The locks were probably rusted shut.

  Kal stood, and backed up against one of the car walls, aiming her lamp with one hand and the P3110 with her other hand.

  She pulled the trigger.

  The report was deafening, and sparks flew from the floor.

  Three more times, she repeated the procedure. Then walked up to the emergency hatch—her ears ringing badly—and stomped on it once. Good and hard. The metal panel creaked and groaned. She stomped again. And again. Finally the door dropped away into the shaft below.

  It clanged loudly when it hit bottom. Kal guesstimated she was maybe seven decks up. Quite a fall if she slipped.

  She knelt by the hatch and looked below her. The sides of the shaft were just as corroded as the outside, and cobwebs filled the nooks and crannies.

  Kal was still looking when she heard feet land on the top of the car. The slamming of metal on metal told Kal she didn’t have time to waste. They were coming in after her, one way or another.

  Kal quickly maneuvered herself into the bottom hatch, legs flailing in midair until her feet found the rungs of the emergency ladder on the side of the shaft. She searched by feel for some kind of handhold on the bottom of the car—her microlamp clenched between her teeth as she worked—and swung out of the hatchway, almost losing her grip.

  Kal’s heart thudded wildly as she scrambled for the ladder.

  The microlamp slipped from her mouth and spiraled down the shaft, along with the second pistol she’d taken off the man who’d initially accosted her. They, too, hit bottom.

  The lamp went out.

  Kal cursed, but managed to get a solid grip on the ladder.

  The smell of old mildew, machine oil, and rusty steel was pungent in her nostrils.

  Kal tried to calm herself. She hated heights. And, on top of that, she hated confined spaces.

  She stepped down a rung and then heard a thunk from the car.

  No time left!

  Kal worked quickly down the ladder, by feel.

  Suddenly she felt a gust of fresh air.

  Exploring with her fingers, she found the ventilation duct.

  There was no screen across it.

  Kal knocked her forearm around the edges of the opening, and realized the duct was just large enough for a person to crawl into.

  Swallowing hard, she maneuvered off the ladder and shimmied into the duct, feeling the pain in her abused elbows and knees as she worked her way forward.

  Kal crawled a number of meters and then stopped.

  In total darkness, she had no idea where the shaft might lead. Only the occasional burst of fresh air told her that going forward was preferable to going back.

  Outside, voices cursed as the privateers discovered the lift car to be empty.

  How long would it take them to figure out what had happened to her?

  Kal closed her eyes and rested her forehead on her wrist for a moment, then returned to worming her way forward.

  After a long, filthy period of claustrophobic effort, Kal came to the first of many grill plates that opened sideways into the interior of the ship. No light was evident, and Kal couldn’t see anything. But she could feel the air moving through the grills—with the palm of her hand.

  Not wanting to be trapped in the duct any longer than she had to be, Kal curled herself into a ball and put her feet on one of the grills, then pushed.

  The grill snapped free, clattering to the deck in the darkness beyond.

  Kal led with her feet, then dangled by her hands, then let herself drop.

  For a split second, her brain imagined a free-fall.

  But her feet hit flooring almost instantly, and Kal allowed herself to crumple, staying still on the metal plate. Not moving. Not really thinking. She was just damned glad to be out of the ductwork.

  At some point, Kal must have drifted off.

  She snapped awake when the grinding whine of motorized gears announced that a hatch was opening.

  A beam of light stabbed into the darkness, and Kal stayed quiet as she watched the light play about the room. Rectangular storage containers of various sizes filled the space. Kal had landed directly between two of them. Which put her out of the line of sight of whoever had entered.

  A woman’s voice said, “Now in compartment 86-C.”

  A tiny muttering of a different voice—as if through a transistor speaker—responded back.

  “Negative,” said the female voice. “Not a goddamned sign of the intruder ... Yeah, I’ll keep looking ... Yeah, it would have been nice if we took care of this bitch in orbit, but that didn’t happen, did it? ... You know, we should see if her friend can tell us something ... how many of his fingers do you think we’d need to break, before he’ll talk?”

  Kal slithered to the edge of the container that concealed her—waiting for the beam of the light to face the opposite direction—then lunged.

  The beam spun back around just in time to catch Kal square in the face.

  She aimed and fired her P3110 in the same reflexive instant.

  The light flew up and then clattered across the deck as the female privateer was tossed bodily backward, slumping loudly against one of the containers.

  Kal snatched up the lantern and dimmed it by half, creeping slowly up to the body.

  The woman had a neat hole in her throat that bled thick, dark blood.

  Kal grimaced, electing not to search the body. But she did find the headset the woman had been using—laying on the deck three meters away.

  Putting it on her head, Kal immediately got an earful of voice chatter. Many people, all talking at once. They didn’t seem to realize what had happened, much to Kal’s relief. The woman she’d shot hadn’t been depressing the SEND switch on the side of the headset when Kal had fired.

  Thank goodness for small miracles.

  She waited, listening to the goings-on of the intra-ship network.

  All hands had been scrambled to look for Kal. It sounded like they wanted her alive. Many people seemed to agree with the dead privateer at Kal’s feet: the sole, living prisoner would be a good tool to use against Kal.

  Tim. Kal knew she had to find him before it was too late.

  Checking her pistol to be sure it still had sufficient ammunition in the magazine, Kal then aimed the lantern back toward the hatch through which the female privateer had first entered.

  Best to not go back that way. There might be more people.

  Surveying the compartment more thoroughly, Kal discovered another hatch at the opposite end.

  Would its motors work?

  Only one way to find out.

  Chapter 8

  For two weeks, Kal and Tim laid low. Not venturing out into Viking Station for more than a few minutes at a time. The wafer drive’s information said that a Blackmatter ship—the Broadbill—would be arriving with a discretely allotted shipment of Tremonton gear aboard. There was no indication as to who—if anyone—would try to seize such equipment. Only that the best way to get more information was to be aboard the ship when it happened.

  Now, Kal eyed the Broadbill as the huge ship rested in its dock. Kal, herself, was lassoed tight
to a small magnetic tractor that gripped the exterior hull of Viking Station, preventing her from floating off into deep space. She watched as the last of the ship’s personnel, departing for shore leave, moved through the big starship’s several gangways—just tiny little dots moving against the small lit windows of the gangway tubes.

  Kal verbally commanded the tractor to move forward. It beeped acknowledgement and began to trundle slowly towards the Broadbill’s bow shield—a mighty dome of layered armor designed to catch or deflect debris while the ship was moving forward. The shield proper was locked into the grapples of Viking Station’s smaller docking ring.

  As the tractor traversed the distance to the ship, Kal tried to avoid breathing through her nose. Her used space suit was mildly and unpleasantly aromatic inside—too many occupants and not enough sanitary detergent.

  Kal was well familiar with extra-vehicular activity. She’d done plenty in her time. Range of motion and vision were somewhat restricted, but if you could get a rhythm of movement going, you could cover ground fairly quickly. Assuming you were traveling under your own steam.

  For this job, Kal was reliant on her technology. The tractor was a standard piece of Viking Station hardware. Hundreds of them were in constant motion across the hull, checking for hairline fractures and cracks, as well as hauling maintenance personnel to and fro.

  Connected as she was to her tractor, Kal looked no different from any of the other blue-collar engineers tasked with keeping Viking Station operational.

  It was all part of Gulliver’s suggested plan.

  Unlike the Freefall, the Broadbill was a cradle ship: the main mass being an entirely separate sublight vessel which was locked into a series of mooring catches that ran along the barren spine of the starship. Most of the Blackmatter Drive ship’s functions were automated, and controlled remotely from the sublight ship’s bridge. Given the Broadbill’s design, she could potentially travel in-atmosphere. Or even land, when she arrived at her eventual destination.

  The Broadbill’s exterior surfaces sparkled in the starlight: pristine, and without blemish.

  When Kal’s tractor crossed over from the surface of the bow grapple to the surface of the ship, it beeped hesitantly until Kal gave it a series of verbal commands that ordered it to ignore the fact that it was leaving home.