Sigrid approached the banker, prepared for all hell to break loose. “Mr. Wereme?”
She was, however, not prepared for what happened next.
The elderly man looked up, more soup spilling from the shaking spoon. Bright, interested eyes greeted her. “Why, yes, my dear,” he said, blinking at her in a friendly fashion. “What can I do for you?”
The tallest of the mercenaries stepped forward and placed a meaty hand on her chest, pushing her back. “All right, all right… Whatever you’re sellin’, Mr. Wereme ain’t buying.”
“Selling?” Did they actually think she was one of the flesh traders, and dressed like this? It was obvious the mercenaries didn’t think much of this ‘little girl’ or suspect she might carry the arsenal of destruction she did beneath the bulky sweater.
“Actually, I rather thought I might have something Mr. Wereme might be interested in,” Sigrid said hopefully. “Some information.”
The mercenary, still with his hand on her chest—somewhat liberally, Sigrid thought—pushed her back again, ushering her along. “That’s enough, young lady. Mr. Wereme don’t need no information. Now bugger off before I—”
He never finished the sentence. Sigrid had his arm by the wrist, twisting it up and around, bringing the much larger man crumpling to his knees. Too stunned to cry out, he stared up at her, eyes filled with bewilderment. He reached for his gun—gasped as he found only an empty holster. Sigrid flipped the gun over, grasped it by the barrel and used it as a bludgeon to bring down the second of the mercenaries as he charged in. The first man struggled in her grasp; a quick jerk broke his arm; neatly, it would heal without difficulty.
The elderly Mr. Bernat Wereme seemed to find this of great amusement and put his spoon down clattering on the counter, and clapped his hands in appreciation.
“Bravo! Oh, well done. Well done, I say.”
The other mercenary wasn’t amused by Sigrid’s antics. He leaned toward her, but Sigrid held up a cautioning finger and wagged it back and forth before his face. Wisely, he placed his gun back in its holster, taking his seat at the counter, hands raised.
“Hey, I’m not even on salary.”
“Good man.”
Sigrid took the empty seat next to Bernat Wereme.
“Marvelous, dear,” the banker said. “Well done. You must be here to rescue me. Did my sister send you?”
“Your sister?”
Sigrid studied the strange, thin man; he smiled, beaming at her.
“Carol said she’d send for me. She’s such a dear. You know Carol, of course. She said I could ride on the ship. I do so love ships. They’re marvelous, don’t you think?”
“Uh-huh…” Sigrid nodded, words failing her. She scanned the older man; a look to the third mercenary confirmed what she was thinking, confirmed her scans—not that she needed the technology to tell her the obvious; Bernat Wereme suffered from dementia.
“Excuse me,” Sigrid said to the mercenary. “I think there’s been some kind of mistake. Where is it you’re escorting Mr. Wereme?”
The mercenary shrugged. “It’s not a secret. The retirement community on Vega IV. Assisted living.”
Assisted…?
“If you don’t mind me asking,” Sigrid said. “Why the escort?”
Before the man responded, Sigrid knew the answer.
“He won’t go on his own,” the mercenary said. “He has a habit of running off. Isn’t that right, Mr. Wereme?”
“What’s that? Hmm…yes?”
Sigrid shook her head. “I’m sorry. I think there’s been a terrible misunderstanding.”
And then the realization hit Sigrid like a brick. There was a misunderstanding, and it was hers. “Shit.”
Turning, running, Sigrid bolted for the door.
“Hey! Wait!” the mercenary called after her. “What’s this all about?”
Sigrid almost forgot, turned, and grabbed the old man’s briefcase. “Sorry—I’ll be needing this. And sorry about your friends!”
In a flash she was gone, heading quickly back toward the gentlemen’s club, leaving the startled mercenary to tend to his friends and the babbling Mr. Wereme to enjoy his soup.
She needed to have words with Corbin Price. Whoever Bernat Wereme was, he was harmless. His days of defrauding companies were long in the past. Was it possible he actually had something on his person worth all this trouble? Had he really cheated the Merchantmen? Wereme was hardly a threat, hardly worth sending someone of Sigrid’s skill and training for. Why was this worth so much? She had to inform the captain.
“Captain Trybuszkiewicz,” Sigrid signaled through her comlink. “Come in, Captain.”
Nothing. Static.
“Ōmi Maru, this is Sigrid Novak. Are you there? Andrzej?”
Again, nothing. Sigrid felt the panic well within her and quickened her pace. Her search through Bernat’s bag revealed little. Notebooks filled with illegible scribblings, empty meal wrappers, old tissues, a scarf. There was nothing here. Had she missed something? Perhaps on his person—perhaps him?
No. There was no package. The entire operation had been a ruse. But for what?
Sigrid stopped in her tracks. There was indeed something of value on the station? The bounty on her head was no secret, but Corbin Price had expressed little interest. If he was really after her, why not set a trap? Why send her on this goose chase—what purpose would it serve?
Sigrid felt the cold realization creep along her spine.
It was the ship. It was the Ōmi Maru, or rather, what it held. The freighter’s navigation computer held one thing of tremendous value: the location of New Alcyone.
Sigrid turned back the other way, ran for the docking platform as fast as she could. If only there was time.
* * *
The docking platform lay abandoned, the laborers gone. And the Kimuran crews were missing. Unstowed cargo lay strewn about, dropped and forgotten. Sigrid called with her comlink again, but still there was no answer. Her heart sank as she entered the hold. Blast marks scorched the walls, evidence of the recent skirmish—a skirmish that Sigrid knew she was responsible for.
Sigrid leapt up the ladder and ran down the narrow corridor, her boots clanking on the metal deck plates.
“No…”
Andrzej Topa, the ship’s chief engineer, lay slumped against the helm. Sigrid ran to him, sensed his pulse, the shallow breathing.
Alive. He was still alive. Sigrid lifted the man in her arms. His face was bruised, his shirt torn and bloodied where a shot had grazed him. But he was alive. Sigrid popped a stimtab beneath his nose and gently rubbed his cheeks. The chief stirred in her arms and stared up at her, eyes struggling for focus.
“The captain,” Sigrid said. “Where is he?”
Andrzej looked about, blinking, trying to remember. “Left. Told me to stay…to watch over you.”
She could see the stimtab taking hold, the chief regaining his faculties. He saw Wereme’s case by her side. “Is that…?”
“It’s garbage,” Sigrid said, kicking it aside. “Worthless. It was just an excuse to get me away.”
Sigrid took him by the shoulders, holding him firmly. “Andrzej—the captain. Where did he go?”
The chief struggled to stand; Sigrid helped him. “He went…he went to see the trader. Price. But then, his men…came. There were too many. We tried to defend… They took the crew.”
“Took them? You mean alive?”
“I don’t know—I think. I’m not sure.” More alert now, remembering, the chief’s eyes shot to the navigations console. “Sigrid, they got the—”
“I know!” Sigrid had already checked the navigations computer log, verified the breach and confirmed her fears. They had stolen the data—downloaded the location of New Alcyone. Corbin Price had exactly what he’d come for. And Sigrid had delivered it to him, boxed and wrapped.
“We have to stop him,” Sigrid said.
“Stop him? We don’t even know where he’s going.”
&nbs
p; Sigrid rose, walked to the helm, and punched up the forward navigational monitor. “Yes, we do.”
There was little traffic in the space surrounding Konoe Station, fewer places to hide. There was no missing the single lumbering freighter, her bright colors garish against the black backdrop. Large and slow, she turned, her course taking her straight to the Warp Relay. Even without its transponder blinking out her identification code, Sigrid would know this ship; she was the Merchantman.
“We have to go after her,” Sigrid said. “We can’t let her escape through the Relay. If she does…” Sigrid didn’t want to think about it.
The chief leaned heavily on the console beside her, verifying the information. The Merchantman was already 1,500 kilometers out, every second increasing that distance as she accelerated away, blasting toward the Warp Relay and escape.
Andrzej reached for the com. “I’ll signal the other transports—get them to ward her off.”
Sigrid moved to the helm and initiated the startup sequence for the engines, clearing their moorings. The chief stopped her, his hand on her shoulder. He checked the monitor and shook his head. “She’s too far out. We’ll never catch her. Even if we could, we have nothing to stop her with. We have no weapons.”
“Sorry, Chief. That’s where you’re wrong.”
* * *
“Has anyone ever told you you may be clinically insane?” the chief asked, helping Sigrid fasten the faceplate to her pressure suit.
Sigrid considered the question and was surprised at the answer. “I suppose I’d be lying if I said the subject never came up.”
Sigrid zipped up the pressure suit. This was only her second time in space. She was grateful to have a suit that fit her this time, unlike the bulky, clumsy thing she’d worn during the action with the Agatsuma. Made to measure, her new suit permitted much greater mobility and featured harnesses and clips to accommodate her weapons and equipment.
Every light in the suit blinked green. She had pressure; she had air. She also had a plan.
“Help me with this.”
Together, they slid the freshly stolen joy-rocket on a skid toward the cargo airlock. This one seemed a particularly nasty piece of engineering. The hybrid rocket motor had clearly been salvaged from a thruster pylon from a much larger vessel. Two meters wide and five long, it took up much of the space in the hold. A simple acceleration couch had been laser welded onto its fairing; her only controls were a throttle lever and a kill switch. Pitch and attack angles were handled by four maneuvering jets taken from an old EVA unit. Once launched, she knew it would have one basic maneuver—straight ahead.
“You don’t have to do this,” the chief said as Sigrid climbed into the chair.
“This is my fault, Chief. I’ve endangered the crew. I’ve put us all at risk.”
“You’re being a fool!”
“And you’re wasting time,” Sigrid argued back, angry at herself, at Corbin Price—at anyone she could think of.
“You don’t even know if this contraption will work. Is it even fueled?”
Sigrid’s sensors could scan on a number of levels. Chemical composition was one of them. The rocket motor was fueled and ready; although she didn’t want to think too long as to its construction or its integrity. It could very easily explode when she ignited the mixture—her along with it.
“Only one way to find out. Now, unless you want to come with me, I suggest you go back to the bridge.”
The chief frowned in a pronounced fashion, as if struggling but unable to come up with a decent retort. “Bring them back alive, Ms. Novak.”
Sigrid felt the Ōmi Maru’s engine’s cut out as the freighter rotated 180º. Interfacing directly with the ship’s computer, Sigrid began the depressurizing sequence. Lights flashed green in her HUD; Sigrid opened the outer door to the cargo hold.
The Merchantman was there, visible now, but so was the Warp Relay behind her. There might still be time. With the doors cleared, she switched off the ship’s artificial gravity, allowing the missile on which she sat to float free.
“Here goes nothing.”
Sigrid ignited the fuel and squealed despite herself. The joy-rocket shot out of the hold, streaking toward her target, the Merchantman, accelerating to a nerve-rattling eight-point-two-six Gs. She looked at the throttle control in her hand; it was only at halfway.
Sigrid slowly pressed her thumb down, increasing the flow of the oxidizer. The leap in acceleration ripped the wind from her chest. Twelve-point-eight Gs, still accelerating. She squeezed her abdominal muscles tight, kept her breathing short. The acceleration registered, pressing her deeper into the couch, threatening to push her out the other side—the vibrations threatening to rip the entire chair off its frame. Worse, the heavy throttling seemed to initiate a starboard roll she couldn’t bring under control.
Leta has got to try this, Sigrid thought, watching the stars whirling around her, then cursed herself. This was hardly the time for such thoughts.
With her focus squarely on the gleaming hull of the Merchantman, Sigrid did her best to ignore the spinning, whirling star field. She could see the three other Kimuran freighters in pursuit. They were closing on the larger freighter, veering to cut her off, but the transports did not have the weapons to dissuade her from her flight. Sigrid would have to make their case.
She was slowly narrowing the distance, gaining ground, but not fast enough. Already at the limit of her endurance, Sigrid pressed the throttle switch all the way home, braced for the crush of the extra Gs. Nothing happened. Sigrid pressed it again, but the only response was the sudden sputtering of the rocket motor, its fuel exhausted.
“Shit.”
The maneuvering jets still had power, and she used them now to adjust her angle of attack, aiming for the top of the lumbering freighter. Eleven hundred meters—her trajectory was ballistic now, floating free, closing fast, but the Merchantman still blasted its way under full power, inching toward the Relay and escape. If her calculations were correct, she could still intercept the freighter; if she were wrong, she would float off into deep space.
There was nothing left for it. Sigrid braced and pushed, launching herself from the seat of her spent missile. She saw the flare of the Merchantman‘s turrets firing; her PCM picked up the ordnance aimed at her, too small and moving too fast for her optical module to pick up. The joy-rocket tore apart under the barrage of flechettes, but Sigrid kept on her ballistic path. The freighter was coming up fast now. Four hundred meters. Too fast. Red numerals flashed in her HUD, the distance counting down at an alarming rate. At her current velocity, impact would be fatal.
Arms spread wide, Sigrid fired her suit’s maneuvering jets, expending her entire reserve of fuel in one desperate burst. Braking hard, she aimed as best she could for a ‘glancing blow’ across the Merchantman’s hull. The sudden deceleration knocked the wind from her lungs. The jets sputtered, their fuel spent. It wasn’t enough. She was almost on the ship now, braced for the impact. This would hurt.
Sigrid remembered little of the impact. Only the pain. Her right shoulder took the brunt of it and was completely numb. Her head had taken a good smacking against the hull, and she’d blacked out. Nano swarms surged to the injured areas, effecting repairs to the damaged tissues. Her PCM prepared and released concentrated doses of stimulants. Sigrid was instantly awake and alert. She’d pay for it later, but that mattered little now.
She was spinning now, tumbling head over heels, skidding down the length of the freighter’s hull. She scanned frantically for handholds, reached out, arms outstretched desperately, missed, only to tumble helplessly back into space.
A grappling claw was clipped to the belt at her waist. Breathing hard, trying not to think about the freighter falling further and further away, Sigrid unslung the thin cord and attached the claw to the launcher. She aimed and fired. Using her PCM, Sigrid guided the claw’s trajectory toward a beveled edge in the ship’s hull. It hit, grabbing hold. Sensors embedded in the claw’s teeth instantly
analyzed the surface composition, creating and injecting a bonding agent strong enough to hold better than a metric ton, more than adequate for Sigrid’s fifty-four-kilo frame.
The tether whirred, played out, first slowing her velocity then gently reeling her in. Steadily, it dragged her back toward the hull of the great freighter. Several indicators flashed yellow and red in her HUD. She’d sustained a concussion; her suit had been breached and was slowly leaking vital oxygen. But she was alive.
Now all she needed was to find a way in.
There was no ‘quiet’ way of gaining entrance to the freighter. Sigrid located a service hatch on the dorsal hull; it was a simple thing to interface with the crude lock, override its securities, and sever the safeties. The alarms made a terrible racket and brought crew running from all sections. But these men were not prepared for combat.
Shots from her high-caliber rounds echoed soundly in the narrow corridor; smoke wisped from the smoldering barrels of her twin 18 mm recoilless sidearms. Sigrid holstered the weapons, setting them back in their clips, and stepped carefully over the bodies of the merchant crewmen as she made her way deeper inside.
The designers of the Merchantman had kindly provided numerous signs to mark her way. Computer terminals were all too happy to dispense vital information—once she’d sliced the securities. The Kimuran crew was being held in a makeshift brig on C Deck, but she could find no sign of the captain or of Corbin Price. If they were even here.
There was no time to wonder. She had to disable the ship, and quickly. More bootsteps thundered toward her. These Merchantmen were not professional soldiers; a simple gas grenade plucked from her belt made quick work of the lumbering men.
A junction in the corridor held a ladder leading up and down extending to all decks. Bridge or engineering? Sigrid wondered. She might take control of the ship from the bridge, but there seemed little time for finesse in her operation. It was time for blunt action. Disable the engines; stop the Merchantman dead in her tracks.
Sigrid slid down the ladder two decks, landing softly on the floor below. The engineering section was visible ahead. She had but minutes to spare.
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