by Victor Koman
"Give me odds."
"One in ten."
I carefully laid the M-16 across his desk blotter and grabbed him by his greying shirt's collar to pull him face-to-face again. He made a gulping sound but allowed me to speak.
"The odds of the people on our tail knowing about StratoDyne are fifty-fifty. They aren't interested in taking prisoners."
"Then the sooner you let go of me, the sooner I can reprogram."
I let go.
He straightened his collar and stood. "I'll get the flight programmers working on it immediately. Head over to Flight Prep and find Gunther. Tell him I'll be over in a while."
"Make it quick." I glanced at the three women and nodded toward the door.
"I'll make it right, if you don't mind." The launch director sat back again in his console chair and swiveled toward his terminal. The keyboard rattled like tapdancers on amphetamines.
People rushed past us as we wandered toward Flight Prep. No one wore any sort of uniform or identifying marks. Most of the people were young and energetic, though some very old people moved among them with easy determination. Almost nobody middle-aged was around. My generation had lived through the strangulation of space travel by the world's governments. The younger people didn't remember that time and the older ones could still recall the good old days.
Isadora wasn't impressed. "What sort of blue-jean space program is this?" she demanded.
"You weren't even around when they tried to make it look glamorous, kid. Space travel is just trucking companies now."
She folded her arms, walking in that way until she realized how silly it made her look. "My mom's
dad
walked on the moon. She told me he was one of the Twelve."
I nodded without paying any attention. Out of one of the building's sliding doors I caught another glimpse of the spacecraft standing tall in the last light of day. The top half caught the darkening red colors that had already passed from the canyon floor. The gantry lights came on just then, small points of tungsten white and sodium orange that glowed like Disneyland. I lost sight of it when we stepped through a pair of doors into Flight Prep.
Gunther was an old man in a tattered lab coat who moved with painfully slow steps.
"You four?" he asked with a trace of a German accent. His hair possessed the texture and color of cirrus clouds under bright sunlight. Beneath skin as tight and aged as a fine old leatherbound book, two bright points of joy twinkled in his gaze. He bent over Isadora.
"I'd wondered for whom was the little monkey suit." He chucked her chin, laughing pleasantly. I hadn't seen a chin chucked in two decades.
She almost bit his knuckles apart. "Keep your mitts off, pervo. What I've got you can't afford."
"What you've got," he said with a mildly stern expression, "wouldn't draw interest even if you could bank it."
"Sir," Bridget interrupted, "we are in quite a hurry, according to Mr. Ammo. Please explain what you would like us to do."
The old coot straightened up to look at her. You could have heard the violins playing.
"Yes," he said when he'd caught his breath. "Why, yes. Of course."
The flight suits hanging on the rack weren't the cumbersome, bulky, outrageously expensive abominations that NASA had utilized to the bitter end. "Pork barrels," Gunther referred to them ungraciously. Our flight suits were composed of just a couple of layers of tight black material that-except for the helmet ring at the neck-looked more like tailor-made wetsuits than like space gear. Our names had been embroidered in gold thread on the left shoulder.
Gunther handed them to us with polite ceremony. First Bridget, then Ann, then the kid. Finally, he handed me mine. Some joker had sewn GodKiller patches over the left breast of each outfit. I had to admit they looked good.
Gunther politely turned his back to the three women. "I apologize for the lack of dressing facilities," he said.
I turned my back to all four of them. The kid horselaughed behind me. Bridget shushed her.
"Are you two men Victorians?" Bridget asked.
"We are apparently both gentlemen," Gunther replied.
The old woman huffed. "Gentlemen do not ignore a woman's body as if it were something hideous."
Gunther turned around halfway through the sentence to do his best at ogling. And the way in which the suits had been constructed gave him plenty of time both to sightsee and render assistance.
The phone rang. Gunther reached it on the third jangle.
"Are you certain?" was all he asked. After a pause, he cradled the phone. Off in the distance a claxon alarm blasted.
"I'm afraid," he said, "that you have just seven minutes left on earth."
"
What?
" we said, almost as one.
Gunther moved as swiftly as his frail build permitted. "Our low level radar has detected three helicopters coming out of the southwest. The shuttle is being fueled now. They've worked up a trajectory, but it only has a three-minute window." He looked worried.
I closed a couple of intransigent zippers. "Let's go."
We followed the old man to a set of doors that opened to the outside. He pointed toward an ancient Dodge van upon which the fading remnants of psychedelic paint fought a losing battle with an encroaching battalion of rust.
At his speed, I wondered whether we'd have enough time to make it to the vehicle, let alone the launch pad.
We climbed aboard as he gunned the engine into life. Ann hadn't even sat down before he peeled away at a dragster's pace. The rear doors alternated swinging open or shut, depending on which way the van swerved.
After less than a minute of breakneck speed, we arrived at the foot of the gantry. Gunther ushered us hurriedly out, urging us into the elevator.
"T-minus five minutes, thirty seconds," blared a calm voice over the loudspeakers. The claxon continued to wail.
A dozen men and women scurried about the base of the launch pad and up the gantry. The chill cold of liquefied fuels ran down the sides of the boosters. I gazed heavenward.
The sky was almost black. Against the starry backdrop towered
Starfinder
. Something like awe began swelling inside my throat.
A firm hand shoved me into the lift.
"Move it!" Gunther closed the door and hit the power button. We rose with unsettling speed. Gunther watched us for signs of vertigo.
"Where's Canfield?" I asked him.
"He should be inside running through the checklist."
The elevator jerked to a halt, tossing us a foot into the air. Gunther slid the cage aside and led us across the gantry arm to the cockpit hatch.
"In order to avoid being apprehended," he said, reaching inside the pocket of his lab coat, "I want you to wear these disguises." He handed each of us a pair of Groucho glasses-the ones with the fake nose, eyebrows, and moustache. He paused long enough to laugh at our bewilderment.
"In. In." He pushed us toward the hatch. "Have a textbook flight. We'll see you when you come down."
"Gunther," I said, "those copters may be carrying bombs. You'd better clear everyone out."
He dismissed the warning with a wave of a wrinkled hand. "I survived the raid on Peenemunde. Three whirlybirds are nothing."
He took a loving final look at Bridget, winked, and sealed us in.
The hatch cycled with an ear-pressing sigh. I turned to see the cockpit. Everything was cockeyed. If you took an airplane and stuck it on its tail, the seats would run up the side of wall, too. It wouldn't matter once we were in orbit, and we'd be sitting properly while gliding back home. If we made it that far.
Up in the pilot's seat was a black-clad figure already strapped in. He wore his helmet with the gold-anodized faceplate pulled down. Looking at him, I only saw my own reflection.
"Canfield," I said, "think we can get out of here in time?"
"We will if you put on your helmets and strap in." His voice sounded tinny and odd coming from the speaker mounted on his ch
est controls.
I helped Bridget, Ann, and Isadora climb up to their seats. Then I had to use their seats as a step to reach the forward right-hand seatthe co-pilot's chair. We retrieved the helmets from the clasps on the seat backs and fastened them onto the metal neck rings.
"
T-minus two minutes
," Launch Control said in our helmet speakers.
"Get comfortable," our pilot informed us. "We'll be pulling over five Gs at blastoff."
The kid piped up. "Don't you have anything to say to Launch Control?"
"It's nearly all automatic until we reach high earth orbit, little lady." His voice sounded relaxed and self-assured. "I'm here mostly for the unexpected."
Something clanked behind and below us. Canfield turned his helmet toward the hatch, his expression hidden behind golden reflections.
"
Gantry arm retracting
," Launch Control reported. "
All personnel clear the launch pad.
"
The pilot relaxed in his seat.
At T-minus one minute, a confused chatter of voices jammed the airwaves. The voice of Launch Control shouted, "
Quiet!
" loud enough to jangle my hearing, then said, "Starfinder,
we have choppers reported within our long-range attack boundaries. Do you wish to scrub the launch?
"
"Negative, Launch Control." I liked the sound of that. "Continue the countdown."
"I suggest we scrub," Canfield interjected.
"Any technical reason?" I asked.
The pilot shook his head. "No. I simply think we should postpone the launch to a safer time."
"There won't be a safer time. We go now."
"They could pick us off with a heat-seeking miss-"
"They could kill us on the ground as well. We stand a better chance of surviving by launching now!"
Canfield sighed. "It's your choice, Mr. Ammo. I can't make the decision myself."
The ground rumbled beneath us.
"This is it," I said. "Blastoff!"
"Those are
bombs!
" the pilot shouted. "Abort, man! For God's sake!"
"That's exactly why I can't," I said.
"
T-minus ten seconds. Ignition sequence start.
"
An explosion somewhere to port rocked like thunder over the spacecraft. It coincided with the rumble of four powerful rocket engines firing up.
"
There's another one!
" shouted Launch Control.
At that instant, a black Huey roared directly in front of our forward windows. It fired all its missiles at once.
But not at us.
"
Okay, tough guy
," radioed a familiar voice, "
you're in the clear! Ace the son of a bitch for me!
"
"Corbin?" I managed to mutter as the cabin began to shake like a giant attempting to dislodge us.
"Blastoff," a disembodied voice said, just as the giant started squeezing my chest.
"
Yeah
," echoed a voice a few million light-years away. "
It occurred to me that this chopper might be of some assistance if the Ecclesia found you. Guess I was right. So long again!
"
The giant sat on my heart and lungs and other organs for daysmaybe years. I couldn't answer our rescuer. I couldn't hear another word. My senses collapsed into a red-black throbbing mass of dizzying discomfort. I could only think about an amusement park ride I'd been on years before that supposedly shoved riders forward at four times the acceleration of gravity. It lasted a few seconds and made me giddy. This was lasting forever. I was far beyond giddy.
A couple of millennia later, the pounding faded from my ears. A distant voice heralded my salvation.
"
Engine shutdown at T-plus six minutes, seventeen seconds. Stand by to jettison outboard tanks.
"
A sudden feeling of unease washed over me. A feeling of being dropped from a great height. And falling, falling, falling.
Weightlessness.
They didn't call it
free fall
for nothing. My first instinct was to grip the chair arms and try to hang on. No good. Everything was fallingthat's what it meant to be in orbit. My stomach, though, refused to listen to reason.
Something buzzed on the pilot's side of the control panel. Canfield did nothing. He seemed to be taking it as badly as the rest of us, which didn't make sense.
"
Do you read me
, Starfinder?
Jettison outboard tanks.
"
The pilot still made no move. A small hand reached forward from behind us to punch a flashing button on the console. Explosive bolts sheared with a sound that vibrated through the shuttle's hull.
"
Outboard propellant tanks jettisoned. About time
, Starfinder."
The figure in the pilot's seat remained silent.
"Oh, shit," Isadora said, pulling her arm back from the shuttle controls.
"Invoke and ye shall receive," said the pilot. He reached up to unfasten his helmet.
"It's
you!
"
I had a bad feeling about whom she meant.
"Now that I have a captive audience," Emil Zacharias said, doffing his helmet, "I'd like to discuss our little contract." He smiled as coldly as ever.
"Where's Canfield?" I struggled to get my helmet off.
He laughed and tossed me a brass bottle about the size of a thimble.
"Don't open it," he said. "The cabin's crowded enough as it is." He turned to view the three other passengers. "Crowded with members of the weaker gender." He smiled at them as sweetly as any cat would at cornered rats.
I heard helmets coming undone behind me. One of the three was unzipping her pressure suit.
"I finally have all four of you together and under my power. Ordinary physical power." He looked forward at the steady, unblinking stars that blazed in the Cimmerian darkness of space. He smiled. "By the simple act of smashing this console, our tiresome contract will be canceled regardless of your desires." He turned to smirk at the women. "Or of Her..."
Bridget's hand smacked him on the face and held on tight.
"By the magician's oath with Fate," she cried, "I
bind
you!"
Zack made a weak sort of hiccupping sound, incapable of speech. Even so, the old crone maintained her grip. A piece of paper crackled crisply inside her palm.
"Nice little trick-"
"Shut up, Dell." She gazed deeply into his hateful, frozen stare. Her voice grew deep, ominous.
"
By powers older than your own,
"
From spark of Life by
Woman
grown.
"
I bind your soul inside your hate
"
And curse you to your chosen Fate!
"
Her hand withdrew to reveal a square of parchment stuck to his forehead. A weird, intricate design had been drawn on it in purple ink. Zack just sat there, motionless as a wax dummy.
"How soon till we dock?" she asked calmly.
"Uh, I'll find out." I pulled the stopper from the little brass bottle and pointed it away from me. I don't know what I expected, but after a moment I hazarded a peek inside.
Nothing.
A muffled voice from behind the payload area hatch hollered in bewilderment. The hatch hissed open. A disoriented Canfield-still wearing his coveralls-pulled himself into the cockpit.
"I must've blacked out. I'm-hey! How did we get into orbit? Whenwho's that?"
"A stowaway," I said, unstrapping myself. "Leave him there and use my seat." I floated back to the economy section. At least the events of the last few minutes had distracted my stomach. I was almost getting used to the
perpetual sensation of dropping. I unstrapped Isadora and slipped between her and the seat. Strapping us both in securely proved to be a difficult feat in free fall.
Canfield glanced ruefully at the flight suit Zacharias had expropriated. He strapped himself in and made contact with Flight Control.
"CapCom, this is
Starfinder
. Standing by for, uh..." He gazed at the instruments. "Standing by for target docking."
"
Roger
, Starfinder.
Target is five hundred klicks off your bow at my mark. Mark. Approaching target at point-five klicks per second. Begin braking.
"
Canfield rotated the shuttle about on attitude jets so that we approached our destination ass-backward. He pulsed the remaining two engines gently, using them as retro-rockets. With every pulse, the kid pressed against me with a feather's weight. This wasn't so bad.
"Are we almost there?" Ann asked.
"Not quite," Canfield said. "We're coming up on an unmanned tug that'll lift us up to synchronous orbit. Right now we're only a thousand kilometers up. We've got another thirty-five thousand to go."
Isadora groaned miserably.
"Don't worry," he said. "Those first few kilometers were the worst."
We docked with the tug-a nondescript cylinder with a StratoDyne logo painted on its side-and made the proper connections by remote control.
After conferring with CapCom, Canfield ignited the engines and we settled into another bout of acceleration.
"Hang on," he said over his shoulder. "Here we go again!"
He had lied. This time it felt worse and lasted longer. Maybe that was due to the kid's weight crushing against me-she was heavier than a bad conscience. She didn't care much for the way I was contoured, either, and said so through distorted lips.
When the engines cut off after a few eons, I was relieved to be weightless again. I was getting my spacelegs at last.
"At least I don't feel like throwing up," I muttered.
"You can't throw up in zero-gee," the dear child piped out. "My gramps told me so. You can only throw
out.
" She grinned.
I wondered whether I could drop-kick in zero-gee.