“Oh, how so?” Timoshevski focused on Sister Seventh suspiciously.
“Listen to her, Oleg,” growled Burya. “She came with the Festival. Knows what’s going on.” He rubbed his forehead, as if the effort of making that much of a concession to her superior knowledge was painful.
“Oh?” Wheels turned slowly behind Timoshevski’s skull; evidently his plethora of augmentations took a goodly amount of his attention to run.
Sister Seventh stamped, shaking the floor. “Mimes are boring. Say help rabbit. Learn something new, maybe stage rescue drama?”
“If you say so.” Burya turned to Oleg. “Listen, you’re doing a reasonable job holding things down. I’d like to take six of your finest—who do I talk to?—and go sort these Mimes out. We really don’t need them messing things up; I’ve seen what they do, and I don’t like it.”
A sallow-faced commissar behind Oleg shouldered his way forward. “I don’t see why we should listen to you, you pork-fed cosmopolitan,” he snarled in a thick accent. “This isn’t your revolution; this is the independent Plotsk soviet soyuz community, and we don’t take any centralist reactionary shit!”
“Quiet, Babar,” said Oleg. The tentacle sticking out of his back rotated to face the easterner: a dim red light glowed from its tip. “Burya is good comrade. If wanted force centralism on us, am thinking he would have come with force, no?”
“He did,” said Sister Seventh, but the revolutionaries ignored her.
“He go with detachment of guards. End to argument,” Oleg continued. “A fine revolutionary; trust him do right by this—rabbit.”
“You better be right, Timoshevski,” grunted Babar. “Not fools, us. Am not tolerating failure.”
sauer was out of the wardroom and into the security watch office less than a minute after regaining consciousness, cursing horribly, blinking back a painful chloroform headache, and tugging creases from his rumpled and spattered tunic. The petty officer on duty sprang to his feet hastily, saluting; Sauer cut him off. “General security alert. I want a full search for the UN spy and the shipyard engineer immediately, all points. Pull all the surveillance records for the UN spy in the past hour on my workstation, soon as you’ve got the search started. I want a complete inventory on all off-duty personnel as soon as you’ve done that.” He flung himself down behind his desk angrily. He ran fingers through his razor-cut hair and glared at the screen set into his desktop, then hit the switchboard button. “Get me the duty officer in ops,” he grunted. Turning around, “Chief, what I said—I need it now. Grab anyone you need.”
“Yes, sir. Excuse me, sir, beg permission to ask—what are we expecting?”
“The Terran diplomat is a saboteur. We flushed her, but she ran, taking the engineer with her. Which might have done us all a favor, except, firstly, they’re still loose, and, secondly, they’re armed and aboard this ship right now. So you’re to look for crazed foreign terrorists with illegal off-world technology lurking in the corridors. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.” The flyer looked bemused. “Very clear, sir.”
The workstation bonged. Sauer turned to face it. Captain Mirsky stared at him inquiringly; “I thought you were busy keeping an eye on that damned chinless wonder from the Curator’s Office,” he commented.
“Sir!” Sauer sat bolt upright. “Permission to report a problem, sir!”
“Go ahead.”
“Security violation.” Sweat stood out on Sauer’s forehead. “Suspecting a covert agenda on the part of the Terran diplomat, I arranged a disinformation operation to convince her we had her number. Unfortunately, we convinced her too well; she escaped from custody with the shipyard engineer and is loose on the ship right now. I’ve started a search and sweep, but in view of the fact that we appear to have armed hostiles aboard, I’m recommending a full lockdown and security alert.”
The Captain didn’t even blink. “Do it.” He turned around, out of camera view for a few seconds. “The operations room is now sealed.” Beyond the sound-insulating door of the security office, a siren began to wail. “Report your status.”
Sauer looked around; the rating standing by the door nodded at him. “Beg to report, sir, security office is sealed.”
“We’re locked down in here, sir,” said Sauer. “The incident only began about three minutes ago.” He leaned sideways. “Found the records yet, Chief?”
“Backtracking now, sir,” said the Chief Petty Officer. “Ah, found external—damn. Begging your pardon, sir, but twelve minutes ago the surveillance cameras in Green deck, accommodation block—that’s where her quarters are—were disabled. An internal shutdown signal via the maintenance track, authorized by—ah. Um. The shutdown signal was authorized under your ID, sir.”
“Oh.” Sauer grunted. “Have you traced off-duty crew dispositions?”
“Yes, sir. Nobody was obviously out of bounds during the past hour. ’Course that doesn’t mean anything—worst thing a sneak would normally get for being caught without a tracking badge would be a day or two in the brig.”
“You don’t say. Get a team down there now, I want that corridor covered!”
Sauer didn’t remember the open phone channel until the Captain cleared his throat. “I take it you’re secure for the time being,” he said.
“Yes, sir.” The Lieutenant’s ears began to turn red. “Someone disabled the sensors outside the inspector’s cabin, using my security authentication. Sir, she’s really put one over on us.”
“So what are you going to do about it?” Mirsky raised an eyebrow. “Come on. I want a solution.”
“Well—” Sauer stopped. “Sir, I believe I’ve located the saboteurs. Permission to go get them?”
Mirsky grinned humorlessly. “Do it. Take them alive. I want to ask them some questions.” It was the first time Sauer had seen his captain look angry, and it made his blood run cold. “Yes, make sure they’re alive. I don’t want any accidents. Oh, and Sauer, another thing.”
“Sir?”
“When this is over I want a full, written report explaining how and why this whole incident happened. By yesterday morning.”
“Yes, sir.” The Captain cut the connection abruptly; Sauer stood up. “You heard the man,” he said. “Chief, I’m taking a pager. And arms.” He walked over to the sealed locker and rammed his thumb against it; it clicked open, and he began pulling equipment out. “You’re staying here. Listen on channel nineteen. I’m going to be heading for the cabin. Keep an eye on my ID. If you see it going somewhere I’m not, I want you to tell me about it.” He pulled on a lightweight headset, then picked up a taser, held it beside his temple while the two computers shook hands, then rolled his eyes to test the target tracking. “Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir. Should I notify the red tabs on green deck?”
“Of course.” Sauer brought the gun to bear on the door. “Open the hatch.”
“Aye aye, sir.” There was a click as latches retracted; the rating outside nearly dropped his coffee tray when he saw the Lieutenant.
“You! Maxim! Dump that tray and take this!” Sauer held out another firearm, and the surprised flyer fumbled it into place. “Stick to channel nineteen. Don’t speak unless you’re spoken to. Now follow me.” Then he was off down the corridor, airtight doors scissoring open in front and slamming closed behind him, turning the night into a jerky red-lit succession of tunnels.
the first thing she realized was her head hurt. The second . . .
She was lying in an acceleration couch. Her feet and hands were cold. “Rachel!”
She tried to say “I’m awake,” but wasn’t sure anything came out. Opening her eyes took a tremendous effort of will. “Time. Wassat? How long—?”
“A minute ago,” said Martin. “What’s happened in here?” He was in the couch next to her. The capsule was claustrophobically tiny, like something out of the dawn of the space age. The hatch above them was open, though, and she could just see the inner door of her cabin past it. “Hatch, close. I said
I had a lifeboat, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, and I thought you were just trying to keep my spirits up.” Martin’s pupils were huge in the dim light. Above him, the roof of the capsule began to knit itself together. “What’s going on?”
“We’re sitting on top of—” She paused to pant for breath. “Ah. Shit. On top of—a saltwater rocket. Fission. Luggage full of—of uranium. And boron. Sort of unobtanium you need in ’mergency, stuff you can’t find easily. My little insurance policy.”
“You can’t just punch your way out of an occupied spaceship!” Martin protested.
“Watch me.” She grimaced, lips pulling back from her teeth. “Sealed—bulkheads. Airtight cocoon ’round us. Only question is—”
“Autopilot ready,” announced the lifeboat. An array of emergency navigation displays lit up on the console in front of them.
“Whether they shoot at us when we launch.”
“Wait. Let me get this straight. We’re less than a day out from Rochard’s World, right? This—thing—has enough legs to get us there? So you’re going to punch a neat hole in the wall and eject us, and they’re just going to let us go?”
“’S about the size of it,” she said. Closing her eyes to watch the pretty blue displays projected on her retinas: “About ten thousand gee-seconds to touchdown. We’re about forty thousand seconds from perigee right now. So we’re going to drift like a turd, right? Pretend to be a flushed silage tank. If they light out their radar, they give themselves away; if they shoot, they’re visible. So they’ll let us go, figure to pick us up later ’s long as we get there after they do. If we try to get there first, they’ll shoot . . .”
“You’re betting the Festival will finish them off.”
“Yup,” she agreed.
“Ready to arm initiator pump,” said the autopilot. It sounded like a fussy old man.
“M’ first husband,” she said. “He always nagged.”
“And here was me thinking it was your favorite pet ferret.” Martin busied himself hunting for crash webbing. “No gravity on this crate?”
“’S not a luxury yacht.”
Something bumped and clanked outside the door. “Oh shit.”
“We launch in—forty-two seconds,” said Rachel.
“Hope they give us that long.” Martin leaned over and began strapping her into the couch. “How many gees does this thing pull?”
She laughed: it ended in a cough. “Many as we can take. Fission rocket.”
“Fission?” He looked at her aghast. “But we’ll be a sitting duck! If they—”
“Shut up and let me work.” She closed her eyes again, busy with the final preparations.
Sneak was, of course, of the essence. A fission rocket was a sitting duck to a battlecruiser like the Lord Vanek; it had about four hours’ thrust, during which time it might stay ahead—if the uncompensated acceleration didn’t kill its passengers, and if the ship didn’t simply go to full military power and race past it—but then it was out of fuel, a ballistic casualty. To make matters worse, until she managed to get more than about ten thousand kilometers away from the Lord Vanek, she’d be within tertiary laser defense range—close enough that the warship could simply point its lidar grid at the lifeboat and curdle them like an egg in a microwave oven.
But there was a difference between could and would which, Rachel hoped, was big enough to fly a spaceship through. Activating the big warship’s drive would create a beacon that any defenders within half a light-minute or so might see. And torching off the big laser sensor/killer array would be like lighting up a neon sign saying INVADING WARSHIP—COME AND GET ME. Unless Captain Mirsky was willing to risk his Admiral’s wrath by making a spectacle of himself in front of the Festival, he wouldn’t dare try to nail Rachel so blatantly. Only if she lit off her own drive, or a distress beacon, would he feel free to shoot her down—because she would already have given his position away.
However, first she had to get off the ship. Undoubtedly, they’d be outside her cabin door within minutes, guns and cutters in their hands. The weakened bulkheads between the larval lifeboat and the outer pressure hull were all very well, but how to achieve a clean separation without warning them?
“Mech one. Broadcast primary destruct sequence.”
“Confirm. Primary destruct sequence for mech one.”
“Sword. Confirm?”
“Confirmed.”
The transponder in her luggage was broadcasting a siren song of destruction, on wavelengths only her spy mechs—those that were left—would be listening to. Mech one, wedged in a toilet’s waste valve in the brig, would hear. Using what was left of its feeble power pack, it would detonate its small destruct charge. Smaller than a hand grenade—but powerful enough to rupture the toilet’s waste pipe.
warships can’t use gravity-fed plumbing; the Lord Vanek’s sewage-handling system was under pressure, an intricate network of pipes connected by valves to prevent backflow. The Lord Vanek didn’t recycle its waste, but stored it, lest discharges freeze to shrapnel, ripping through spacecraft and satellites like a shotgun loaded with ice. But there are exceptions to every rule; holding waste in tanks to reduce the risk of ballistic debris creation was all very well, but not at the risk of shipboard disaster, electrical short circuit, or life-support contamination.
When Rachel’s makeshift bomb exploded, it ruptured a down pipe carrying waste from an entire deck to the main storage tanks. Worse, it took out a backflow valve. Waste water backed up from the tank and sprayed everywhere, hundreds of liters per second drenching the surrounding structural spaces and conduits. Damage control alarms warbled in the maintenance stations, and the rating on duty hastily opened the main dump valves, purging the waste circuit into space. The Lord Vanek had a crew of nearly twelve hundred, and had been in flight for weeks; a fire spray of sewage exploded from the scuppers, nearly two hundred tonnes of waste water purging into space just as Rachel’s lifeboat counted down to zero.
In the process of assembling her lifeboat, the robot factory in Rachel’s luggage had made extensive—not to say destructive—changes to the spaces around her cabin. Supposedly solid bulkheads fractured like glass; on the outer hull of the ship, a foam of spun diamond half a meter thick disintegrated into a talc-like powder across a circle three meters in diameter. The bottom dropped out of Rachel’s stomach as the hammock she lay in lurched sideways, then the improvised cold-gas thrusters above her head kicked in, shoving the damply newborn lifeboat clear of its ruptured womb. Weird, painful tidal stresses ripped at her; Martin grunted as if he’d been punched in the gut. The lifeboat was entering the ship’s curved-space field, a one-gee gradient dropping off across perhaps a hundred meters of space beyond the hull; the boat creaked and sloshed ominously, then began to tumble, falling end over end toward the rear of the warship.
On board the Lord Vanek, free-fall alarms were sounding. Cursing bridge officers yanked at their seat restraints, and throughout the ship, petty officers yelled at their flyers, calling them to crash stations. Down in the drive maintenance room, Commander Krupkin was cursing up a blue streak as he hit the scram switch, then grabbed his desk with one hand and the speaking tube to the bridge with the other to demand an explanation.
Without any fuss, the warship’s drive singularity entered shutdown. The curved-space field that provided both a semblance of gravity and shielding against acceleration collapsed into a much weaker spherical field centered on the point mass in the engine room—just in time to prevent two hundred tons of bilgewater, and a twenty-tonne improvised lifeboat, from hammering into the rear of the Lord Vanek’s hull and ripping the heat exchangers to shreds.
In the Green deck accommodation block corridor, a nightmare cacophony of alarms was shrilling for attention. Lights strobed overhead, blue, red, green; blow-out alarm, gravity failure alarm, everything. Lieutenant Sauer cursed under his breath and grappled with an emergency locker door; “Help me, you idiot!” he shouted at Able Flyer Maxim Kravchuk who, whey-faced with
fear, was frozen in the middle of the corridor. “Grab this handle and pull for your life!”
Farther up the corridor, damage control doors were sliding shut; as they closed, struts extended from their inner surfaces and extended bright orange crash nets. Maxim grabbed the handle Sauer pointed him at and yanked. Together they managed to unseal the stiff locker door. “Get inside, idiot,” Sauer grunted. The blow-out alarm, terror of all cosmonauts, stopped strobing, but now he could feel the keening of the gravity failure siren deep in his bones—and the floor was beginning to tilt. Kravchuk tumbled inside the locker and began to belt himself to the wall, hands working on instinct alone. Sauer could see the whites of the man’s terrified eyes. He paused in the entrance, glancing up the corridor. The UN bitch’s cabin was in the next segment—he’d have to secure this one and get breathing apparatus before he could go and find out what she’d done to his ship. It’s not just the skipper who’ll be asking questions, he thought bitterly.
Sauer clambered into the locker even as the floor began to tilt sideways; but the tilt stabilized at a relatively tolerable thirty degrees. He began to feel light on his feet. Drive must be going into shutdown, he realized. Leaving the door open—it would close automatically if there was a pressure drop—he began systematically to pull on an emergency suit. The emergency suit was basically a set of interconnected transparent bags, with enough air to last six hours in a backpack, no good for EVA but a lifesaver inside a breached hull. “You get dressed,” he told the frightened rating. “We’re going to find out what caused this.”
Four minutes later, Chief Molotov and four armed red-tab police arrived, laboriously cycling through the sealed-off corridor segments; the young Procurator tagged along behind them, face flushed, evidently struggling with the unfamiliar survival suit. Sauer ignored him. “Chief, I have reason to believe there are armed saboteurs inside the next corridor segment, or the third compartment in it. When I give the signal, I want this door open and the corridor behind it cleared. I don’t know what the occupants have by way of defenses, but they’re definitely armed, so I suggest you just saturate with taser fire. Once we’ve done that, if it’s empty, we move on the compartment. Got that?”
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