by Wren, M. K.
6.
Phoenix Four, rechristened CFF Orion F-738-2C, had been carefully prepared for her final voyage. Alex could pilot her alone; the ship was almost entirely operated by remote control through radio relays from the COS HQ. Alex and Ben Venturi were the sole occupants of the transformed Four, but every effort had been made to conceal the fact. Ben was at the comconsole, wearing the SSB uniform with the ease of familiarity. They were entering Pendino as Central Control inspectors, and during the last week rumors of their impending tour of inspection had leaked out in Confleet ranks. They would be expected, if not welcomed.
Four had taken a detour into space from the COS HQ so that it could approach Pendino on a typical entry vector, and now as the ship skimmed Castor’s thin atmosphere, the temperature gauges spinning upward as the altitude indicator turned downward, Alex cut back the MAM-An generator and phased to nulgrav, staying on manual control to bring the ship out of orbit sequence and into the automatic landing grid beamed from Pendino. He was bound by an equivocal calm, mind and body functioning at a sustained pitch just below crisis level.
A glance at the navcomp console assured him he was locked in on the grid. He checked his watch: 17:21 TST. They were two minutes ahead of sequence. He relaxed and looked up at the vis-screens. They were approaching from the west and the stark ridges of the Polyon Mountains rose beneath them. Beyond this rampart was an open plateau enveloped in the fog of a Barrens dust storm. He listened to the voices from his headset as the ship sloped downward.
“Orion F-738-2C, Pendino Navcomp Center on line. We have you in landing grid.”
Then the voice from the COS HQ relayed through Four’s comsystem, “Right, Pendino. We are on automatic. Relative ground speed twenty kpm and decelerating. We are moving into a dust storm. Check reception variance, please.”
“Your signals are clear, Orion. You are two minutes from the field locks.”
Another voice now. “Pendino, this is Captain May, Orion. Major Ransom and Leftant Bently from SSB Central Control are aboard. Request that you have a ’car on stand-by at the hangar to take them to base HQ immediately upon arrival.”
Alex noted the brief pause before the response.
“Uh—yes, sir. A ’car will be ready.”
Alex nodded toward the comconsole. “Put me on the Pendino frequency, Ben.” He heard the faint click, then said quietly into his mike, “Pendino, this is Major Ransom, SSB CC on line. Inform Commander Paten that I’ll expect to talk with him briefly as soon as we’ve touched down. And tell him we’re in a hurry. We have a demanding schedule.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll inform him immediately.”
“Thank you. Out.”
Ben switched off the interconn, smiling obliquely. “The old SSB black magic. Strikes fear into the highest-ranked heart.”
“For once, I’m grateful.”
The storm was falling behind, and on the horizon Alex caught a reflective flash of light. Pendino. The voices went on, dry and monotonous, the yellow, arid plain turned slowly under them.
“Orion, will you require maintenance or servicing?”
The voice of “Captain May” answered, “No servicing is necessary. We will remain on stand-by for departure.”
“Very good, sir. Your crew won’t be disembarking?”
“No. We’ll stay aboard on liftoff alert. We have Pendino on visual now.”
“Yes, sir. Lock approach, one minute.”
The cluster of ’bubbles, slab-shaped buildings, and oblate hangars was visible now. The voices went on, but Alex ceased listening to them; the lock approach would demand no attention on his part. He rose and reached for the helmet in the empty chair beside him.
“You’ll have to inspect me, Ben. I’m not used to this uniform.”
Ben laughed as he reached for his own helmet. “That’s one area where I’m an expert.”
Alex adjusted the chin strap as the voices marked off the final approach, then snapped the holstered X2 on his belt and pulled on the black gloves, pausing to twist the bezel of the ring on his left hand. Ben wore a similar ring; they were equipped with transceivers that put them on open radio transmission to the COS HQ.
“Better sit down, Ben,” Alex said, returning to his own chair, his hands resting on the manual controls, “just in case they foul up the autolanding. Here come the locks.”
The Four slid over the bleak landscape, angling down to ten meters and leveling, finally coming to a full stop within the air lock. Across the flat waste of the field, the huddled buildings and mushroom hangars of Pendino seemed small and unreal, like toys or models, but as the ship moved out of the lock and floated toward them, they loomed into reality.
Alex spoke into his mike. “Commander Blayn?”
“Yes, sir. I can take her from here.”
“You’re on, Vic.” He switched off the mike, then rose and donned his cloak. “Ben, do I pass inspection?”
Ben gave him a close scrutiny. “Yes, except for wearing your gun on your left side. I don’t care what Fenn Lacroy taught you, nobody in the SSB shoots left-handed.”
Alex laughed as he moved the holster to his right side. “Right-handedness is a prerequisite in the SSB?”
“No, but you damn well have to use a gun with your right hand. Part of the image of anonymity; no observable personal idiosyncrasies allowed.” He looked up at the vis-screens. “Efficient bunch. There’s our ’car, and that looks like a genuine Confleet major out to meet us.”
The Four was taxiing to a slow stop in front of the main hangar. Alex went to the comconsole and pressed a button, then spoke into his headset mike.
“Jael, we’ve touched down. No problems yet. How’s your pickup on our personal monitors?”
“Clear, Alex. Switch on the ship’s vidicams.”
His fingers moved across the controls. “They’re on.”
“We’re pulling good pictures on all of them.”
Alex felt a slight jolt as the ship came to a stop. Outside, a cluster of ’Fleeters waited by the ’car.
“Jael, don’t hit the destruct switches until all three of us are clear of Pendino, unless someone gets too inquisitive. And close the ship locks as soon—”
“Don’t get hackled; we’ll see to the lifter. And Alex . . . fortune, brother.”
“Thanks.” He removed the headset, then looked at Ben. “Jael sends us fortune. We’ll need it. Ready?”
He nodded and touched his face-screen ring. “Ready.”
Confleet Commander Marvin Paten was nervous.
Alex had no intention of putting him at ease. He strode into the office, ignoring the ineffectual flutterings of the major who escorted them to the HQ, and for the moment ignoring the SSB officer, face-screened as he and Ben were, who stood near Paten’s desk. That would be Captain Torenz, assigned to oversee security for prisoner 10-273.
Alex stopped two meters from the desk. “Commander Paten, I’m Major Ransom. This is my aide, Leftant Bently.”
Paten was a rank-and-file pro, Alex knew, a few years short of retirement, and not at all pleased with the SSB’s attention to Pendino or himself. He had come to his feet when Alex and Ben entered, and now he licked his lips, staring at the dark haze that was all he could see of Alex’s face.
“Uh . . . welcome to Pendino, Major. This is . . . a pleasant surprise.”
“I doubt it’s either pleasant or totally surprising.”
Paten looked faintly alarmed. “I don’t understand, sir.”
“Never mind.” Alex purposely omitted the ‘sirs” that were his due. He turned now to the SSB officer. “Captain Torenz?”
Torenz came to attention, right hand snapping to his left shoulder in a smart salute.
“Yes, sir.”
“Are you the only SSB representative at Pendino?”
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�No, sir. At the present time there are also two PC officers attached to the base.”
“Where will I find them?”
Torenz glanced at his watch. “I believe they’re setting up in the interrogation room, sir. Shall I call them?”
“No, not now. Is the prisoner in interrogation?”
“I . . . not yet. He should be in the DC now.”
Alex allowed himself a sigh of relief. This was a risk they’d taken in assuming the role of inspectors. Andreas wasn’t due for interrogation today for another two hours; the PCs were rushing the schedule to impress the inspectors with their diligence.
“I’m not interested in interrogation procedures, Captain,” he said sharply. “PC isn’t my field. Security is. Now, Commander, Bently and I will have a look at your DC. You have clearance ident cards for us?”
“Of course, sir. My secretary has them for you. But I thought . . . that is, Captain Torenz assumed you’d want him to escort you—”
“That won’t be necessary. I suppose it’s too late to ask you not to warn anyone in the DC of our arrival. However, I’ll ask you to give them no further warning. I’m not here for a parade inspection.”
Paten swallowed, glancing uneasily at Torenz.
“Of course not, sir. I assure you—”
“We won’t be long, so if you will, keep yourself available. Captain Torenz, I’ll talk to you after I’ve completed my inspection.”
Torenz stiffened, then with a quick salute, “Yes, sir.”
Alex answered the salute in a desultory fashion and started for the door.
“But—but, Major . . .”
Alex turned, conveying his annoyance in the stiff set of his shoulders, and Paten fumbled out, “Don’t you—uh, need someone to . . . well, guide you, sir?”
“I’m quite familiar with the parts of your HQ of interest to me. Bently, let’s get on with it.” He turned on his heel and strode out of the room with Ben a pace behind.
His mind and body were still functioning at that sustained pitch, tension reined into concentration. He didn’t speak to Ben as they stopped to pick up their clearance cards. There would be no words between them unless it became absolutely necessary; they would be monitored every step of the way. Alex had seen the array of screens behind Paten’s desk.
Three of them were focused on the DC.
The reaction of the Confleet personnel to the SSB uniforms was an advantage they were playing on. Their appearance generated a silence wherever they went. The clearance cards served to pass them through every check point, but the uniforms were equally effective. They marched down the quiet corridors, booted feet marking a rhythmic cadence, Alex leading the way, guided by the memorized floor plans, translating the flat images of lines into the three-dimensional reality of halls, doorways, junctions, monitoring stations, nulgrav lifts.
They had calculated that it would take five minutes to make their way from Paten’s office to the DC; five minutes in which Paten or Torenz might have second thoughts, and a call to SSB Central Control in Concordia would suffice to unmask the “inspectors.” But Torenz was a captain; he’d think twice before questioning a major. So would Paten. At least, an SSB major.
They paused to show their cards to the guard at the lift that took them to Level 1. Alex’s eyes were constantly moving behind his face-screen, assessing every detail, searching for discrepancies in expected procedure, while he mentally reexamined the plan, calculating time intervals, extrapolating potential alternatives.
It would be over within minutes. The two guards at the monitoring stations in the DC would be vital, if unwitting, accomplices to Andreas’s escape. Both men had had leaves in the last two weeks, both had spent them in Helen, and both had spent part of their leaves in the COS HQ with Erica Radek. Neither would believe that if he were told, but at the right cues, they would respond with carefully programmed responses. They would open the doors for Andreas.
Sargent John Macintire, on the corridor station, was conditioned to go through the usual pass procedures, allowing them to enter the DC, then after activating the hall shock screen, he would fall immediately into a nonreactive trance state.
Sargent Jeremy Ross, on the monitoring station inside the DC, would react similarly. Once Alex and Ben identified themselves, he would turn off all the monitors and all the cell shock screens, then go into a trance state.
The most vital part of Ross’s role was switching off the cell shock screens. The hall screen was distant enough to cause no interference in MT transmission, but the cell screens would surround them in an electrical field that would make the MT virtually impotent.
Once the cell screens were off, they would have less than a minute to complete transing; Paten and Torenz would sound the alarms as soon as the monitors went off. But it would be time enough. The MT at the COS HQ was already homed in on the fixes in their boots. The trans would be instantaneous once the order was given.
The corridor monitoring station was only a few meters ahead, looming closer with the long strides that set Alex’s cloak whipping around his legs. He didn’t so much as glance at Ben, but he trusted his reactions, trusted the almost telepathic rapport existing between them.
Sargent Macintire was at his post.
Alex had the ident card in his hand; he flashed it briefly as Macintire came to his feet and saluted.
“Major Ransom, SSB,” Alex said tersely. “This is my aide, Leftant Bently.”
“Sargent Macintire, sir. I’ve been exp——” He stopped, flushing with embarrassment. “I . . . uh, well, I mean—”
“I know exactly what you mean, Sargent. Military grapevines are the fastest form of communication known. I suppose Sargent Ross has also been alerted to our arrival?”
Macintire glanced down the hallway into the DC. “Well, Sargent Ross isn’t on duty today, sir. He’s in the infirmary on sick call.”
Alex was too stunned to respond, and he was grateful for the face-screen. He could feel the blood draining from his face and knew he was beyond controlling his features.
That meant someone else was on the DC station; someone who wasn’t conditioned.
His hesitation was brief; the subcrisis mental set still functioned. He felt Ben’s accedence to necessity.
“A postleave ailment, no doubt,” Alex commented acerbically as he leaned closer to study the monitoring console. At least Macintire was here; his reactions could be depended upon.
There was a vidicom screen for each of the twenty cells, but only five were occupied; the prisoners all seemed to be supine in various stages of stupor, recovery, or boredom. His gaze moved to cell number eleven, but he let it rest there—and on the figure huddled on the bed-ledge, apparently asleep—only momentarily. He felt the acceleration of his pulse, but his tone was cool, almost indifferent.
“I see you have backup controls on the cell shock screens, Sargent.”
“Yes, sir. This console is an exact duplicate of the one inside the DC. I can take over any of the DC stations’s functions. The cell screens are controlled individually—” He pointed to a row of switches, then at a larger one at the end of the row. “—or this switch turns all of them on or off at once.”
Alex took careful note of the position of the latter control. “And the hall screen?”
“Again, either station can control it. We take the precaution of verbal notification by intercom when either of us changes the status on any of the screens.”
“Who has access to the DC?”
“No one who can’t show me—and the DC guard—a clearance card from Commander Paten, sir.”
Alex turned and looked down the hall into the DC. The monitoring station and the guard were clearly visible, but he was looking past it to the open doorway of cell eleven.
“Very good, Sargent. You may clear us for entry into the DC.”
“Yes, sir.” Macintire sat down and activated the intercom, and at his next words, the man at the DC station turned to look down the hall. “Sargent Kile, I’m passing Major Ransom and Leftant Bently, SSB CC. Hall screen going off.”
The voice came through the speakers, curiously remote. “Very well, Sargent.”
Alex turned and started down the hall with Ben falling into step beside him. The click of the hall screen reactivating after they passed was the only sound except for the echoing beat of their footfalls. Inside the DC, Alex felt a fleeting chill. White. The walls, the floor, the low ceiling, all white. The distance between the monitoring station and cell eleven was five meters. It seemed a long span.
As they approached, Sargent Kile rose and saluted. A young man, not long out of Confleet training school, Alex judged. The worst possible substitute for Ross. He might still be fired with the zeal of conscientious ambition.
“May I see your clearance card, Major?”
Alex sighed; a zealous youth. But his voice had a cool snap as he presented his card.
“Yes, of course. Leftant Bently, your card. At least we have one man on duty who sticks to security procedures. Sargent Kile, is it?”
He returned the cards and nodded. “Yes, sir.”
“Sargent Macintire was explaining your monitoring system. Perhaps you could enlighten me further.” Alex leaned over the low railing, locating the shock screen controls, then added, as if it were an afterthought, “Oh—Bently, you may as well look in on the prisoner. Sargent, will you open the cell shock screen, please?”
“Of course, sir.” Alert, efficient, nothing slow or sloppy as he seated himself at the console and touched the switch marked eleven. Impressive, Alex thought bitterly.
Ben was on his way to the cell, moving at an unhurried pace. Alex stayed on the side of the station closest to the DC entrance to draw Kile’s attention away from him.