by Mike Moscoe
Mattim jumped as his comm unit beeped. “Captain, we’ve got another message intercepted from Wardhaven’s Beta jump gate transmitter. It’s in the clear and very explicit. Some major saw the President’s body. He’s dead.” Mattim eyed the admiral’s door. Three hours until launch; the door stayed closed. The marines sat their posts.
“Comm, pass the message to the admiral. Keep me informed of planetary intercepts.” Whitebred might reserve to himself the power to decide what the messages meant to them, but Mattim was damned if he would let himself stay in the dark.
Sooner or later, he would have to make his own decision.
• • •
The car, the shuttle, and the yacht were all waiting for them. They broke orbit only minutes before a hold was put on all traffic. The captain scorned his orders back to dock. “My planet is about to fight for its life, and you want to keep me tied safely up at your pier. I’m headed for the fight.”
“We’ll shoot,” they threatened.
They didn’t.
“We’ll never get there in time,” Rita sighed.
“We already have,” Captain Rose assured her.
• • •
Admiral Whitebred rolled onto the bridge as the clock went to zero. “My ultimatum having expired and the Wardhaven government not having surrendered, you may fire, Captain.”
“With the death of the President, things may be a bit confused,” Mattim observed.
“So you’ve picked up those rumors. That’s all they are, rumors. Probably started by someone to buy time. They have no more time. Launch, Captain.”
A billion people had run out of time, and so had Mattim. Slowly, he studied the bridge crew, the admiral, and his guards. Their guns were pointed out. The younger three looked all too ready to use them. Mattim had played for time, and it had run out. Well, maybe not all of it. It’s not over until it’s over.
“Bomb accelerator, this is the captain.”
“Standing by, sir,” said Commander Gandhi. “I have a bombardment pattern ready. Passing it through to you.”
“Main screen,” Ding ordered. A green globe appeared to the left of the screen, a single dot to the right. Red vector arrows departed the ship. The globe grew as the arrows approached. In a matter of seconds, they covered it with red splotches.
“Very good.” The admiral grinned.
“Commander, begin autoloading bombs now.”
“Say again, sir. Your message is breaking up.”
“Autoload bombs now.”
“Sir, I can’t follow you. Static is breaking you up.”
Mattim glanced at Ding. “Comm,” she said, “we’re getting a complaint from damage control of static on our line to them.”
“You’re coming through five by five to us. Wait one while we check with them.” The pause was hardly long enough to take a breath. “They had no problem talking to us. Sir, I’ve never had static reported on an internal comm line.”
“You have now. Ding, you have the conn.” Mattim headed his cart for the hatch. Whitebred followed on his bumper.
“OOD, you have the conn.” The exec passed it along and joined the parade. Now it ends, Mattim thought to himself. Now it all ends—but will it be with a bang or a whimper?
• • •
Mattim did not give the order to start as he crossed the coaming into the launch bay. He waited until his parade had arranged itself facing launch control.
“Commander Gandhi, you may begin when ready.”
“Beginning autoloading now, sir,” she said immediately. There was a brief pause. “Autoloader is not responding, sir.”
“What?” Whitebred yelled. “What do you mean? It’s testing as fully operational. I’ve reviewed every report. I’ve…”
“We’ve thrown a breaker on the main bus. I got my chief working on it. Just a moment.”
Whitebred was fuming. “This woman is stalling. First she says she can’t hear us. Now she says a fully tested and operational weapon system isn’t working. She ought to be shot.”
“Just a moment, Admiral.” Mattim interrupted the first time Whitebred paused for breath. “Bridge. Give me a slow count.”
“Yes, s…on…tw…th…”
“Thank you, bridge.” Mattim turned to Whitebred. “There’s something major wrong with the electronics in this bay.”
“But only to the bridge?” Whitebred wasn’t buying.
Behind him, Mary studied the ceiling. The sergeant beside her looked around, hunting for someone. Guess sailors weren’t the only ones opposing this launch.
“A bit strange, sir,” Mattim agreed, “but this launcher was installed our last yard period and never tested.”
“Hundreds of people have crawled all over it. Maintaining it, you told me.” Red was rising on Whitebred’s cheeks.
“Yes, sir,” Mattim agreed. “But without operating it, we can’t be sure. This first launch is its test.”
“Captain,” Gandhi interrupted softly, “we’ve recycled the breaker. It will not hold. We are replacing it. We have a spare standing by, but at three gees it will be risky.”
“Captain,” Whitebred snapped, “get this ship to one gee.”
Mattim so ordered.
“Sir.” Commander Gandhi frowned. “That’ll change all my trajectories. Will we be going back to three gees?”
Mattim raised a questioning eyebrow to the admiral. “No,” he snarled. “We will stay at one gee for the launch.” Mattim wondered how many sabots had depended on three gees for the sabotage. At least they could get out of the damn high-gravity carts.
“Sir,” Gandhi said as she stood up, “I’ll need access to the ship’s full network to redo my calculations.”
Whitebred was distracted as he undid his harness; for once, Mattim was not interrupting. “Bridge, we need all computing power down here.”
“Yes, sir.” A moment later the PA system announced, “Knock off all nonessential net access. Stand by to load priority assignment in thirty seconds.” A minute later, the computer was happily chewing on the new trajectories.
Five minutes later all lighting went off on the left side of the launch bay. “What?” Whitebred squawked.
“Engineering,” Mattim said.
“Ivan here. We just cut power to number three main so they could pull a breaker. Is that a problem?” he asked innocently.
“No problem,” Mattim assured him. Whitebred relaxed.
“Bridge here,” blared from the PA. “We have a problem.”
“Captain here. Yes?” Mattim said as Whitebred turned to face him.
“We just lost power to a third of the distributed network,” they informed Mattim and the entire crew. “That crashed the project we had running. We tried a restart, but it’s corrupted. We’re purging it and will restart as soon as we can.”
“Thank you,” Mattim answered evenly.
“What’s going on? This is sabotage!” Whitebred yelled.
“Sir.” Mattim spoke softly, trying to sound reasonable. “We are attempting a major project with no planning. With all the complex subactivities we’ve got going here, even the best team is bound to have a few social errors. They’re a good team, and they’re improvising the best they can,” Mattim concluded. They were a damn good team and they were improvising as best they could—just not in the direction Whitebred wanted.
In the next five minutes, they restarted the trajectory problem, but using only one third of the net in case it was necessary to take down the second main that also supported the launcher. The new breaker box came on line—and immediately popped. That started a slow walk down of all the power cables in the bay.
“I watched carts go up and down those cables. What the hell were they doing?” Whitebred demanded.
“Just what we’re doing now. Testing and looking for any trouble,” Gandhi answered. “But from a cart, there is only so much you can see, Our problem is not something the tests show.”
It took fifteen minutes to find a bum tester unit. Its
replacement quickly isolated the frayed insulation that popped the breaker. The autoloader powered up and stayed powered.
“Finally,” Whitebred breathed in exasperation.
“Load first round in test mode,” Mattim ordered. For once Whitebred did not second-guess him. Maybe the guy was trainable. Mattim hoped not. The first round rolled slowly down a conveyor, hit the bumper at the end of the chute—and kept rolling as the bumper bent and broke. Work crews scattered.
“That’s impossible.” There was awe in Gandhi’s voice. “That unit is grown from a single crystal. It can’t break.”
“Hope it’s under warranty,” Mary drawled. “Sergeant, have a team look at that for sabotage.”
“I look at it first,” Whitebred shouted.
As a chief and work party set about corralling two and a half tons of stray steel, officers took a look. The shards were wickedly sharp. As Whitebred examined it, Mattim glanced around. Well back in the crowd was his tiny middie. Beside her stood a young fellow in coveralls carrying a tool kit. Mattim remembered him; the guy with the Ph.D. Guns said he had a lot to learn. Material properties probably wasn’t among the lot.
Just how much of this contraption is sabotaged?
Having seen enough, Whitebred drew himself up to his full height. “Well, commander, it’s broke. Fix it.”
“Sir, we don’t have a replacement. It’s not supposed to break. And if it does, only a yard can clean it up.”
The admiral and the damage control officer stared at each other. Mattim did not want to see what Whitebred’s next move would be. The damn sergeant was edging toward the admiral.
“If I may have Chief Aso out of the brig, sir, I think we can solve this,” Mattim intervened.
“Sergeant, release him,” Whitebred snapped.
Five minutes later, Aso reported.
“Chief, fix that,” the damage control officer said.
For a half a minute, Chief Aso studied the problem; then he started bawling orders. Fifteen minutes later, shoring beams buttressed a new brake, and sand had been added to the chute to slow down the slide of the rounds.
“Ought to take care of it for now,” the chief muttered.
“Captain, launch those bombs,” Whitebred demanded.
“Commander, let’s bring one out slow.”
“Sir, my firing solution needs recalculation. I’m way past the initial launch point.”
“Launch it, damn you!” Whitebred yelled.
“Recalculate,” Mattim said at the same time.
“Launch,” Whitebred repeated.
“Admiral,” Mattim spoke slowly, “the solution is blown. We could miss the planet, hit one of our ships. Who knows?”
“Recalculate.” Whitebred capitulated. “And make sure there’s nothing else wrong with this damn thing. Commander, I want maintenance people over every inch of it. Sergeant, I want marines looking over every shoulder.”
“Yessir” echoed all around.
As personnel scattered over the launch bay, Mattim found himself next to Mary. “Where’ll it be safe to stand when that thing goes off?” she asked.
“Good question.” Mattim doubted the usual answers had any value. “The autoloader could take your hand off. The acceleration tube’ll be loaded with energy.” He glanced around. “I suspect there’s a reason for the shiny new handholds.” The bay and launch control were lined with railings at waist height.
“I hadn’t noticed them. Strange what people miss.” They exchanged a smile. There were five crises as young marines demanded explanations from sailors for what they were doing. Whitebred was into those rows in a flash. Mattim, Mary, and Sergeant Dumont were right behind. The list of people Whitebred wanted shot if this didn’t go right grew longer and longer.
Fifteen minutes later, they had a firing solution. Without orders, most of the work crews arranged themselves along the wall, handholds in reach. Only Whitebred and his pet Sergeant Dumont stood in the middle of the bay. “Fire, commander, and you’re a dead woman if you fail me again,” the admiral growled.
Sergeant Dumont pointed his assault rifle around the room menacingly.
“I’m just doing my job the best I can,” Gandhi answered. “Launch one.”
A mechanical rammer shoved a round forward into a cage of cables and metal. For a second, the ugly slug just sat there—then it began to move. The naked eye could follow it for only a second as it shot down the launcher rail.
Then all hell broke loose.
Monitor reviews would later show the round departing the track at midpoint and tearing a wide gash in the port side of the Maggie D, exactly as Mattim and Chief Aso had planned it. At the moment it happened, Mattim was busy holding on to keep from being sucked out by the air rapidly evacuating the launch bay. Any space this large in a starship had to be designed with this in mind. Even as Mattim struggled to hold, the ship acted. Doors sliced shut along the launcher, sealing the damage and holding in the fleeing air.
Unfortunately, it also sealed Whitebred and his favorite sergeant in as well. Before Mattim could get a report on the Maggie’s situation, Whitebred was screaming at the top of his lungs, “Shoot them. All of them. Shoot them all.”
While Dumont looked around, trying to catch his bearings and decide whom to shoot first, Mattim and Mary hustled to put themselves in the line of fire.
“Don’t be stupid,” Mattim snapped. “You can’t start shooting people when we’ve got a damaged ship to handle.”
“Shoot them!” was all the answer he got.
“We won fair and square,” Mary said softly to her sergeant. “Marines don’t shoot marines.”
“Fair and square,” Mattim and Whitebred both echoed.
“You had full rein to search. You didn’t catch them,” Mary continued slowly.
“We caught them. We just couldn’t make it stick.”
“It’s the same thing, Du.”
“Shoot them!” Whitebred screamed.
“Captain!” blared from the speakers in the launcher bay. “Comm here, I have a message for you from Captain Ramsey of the Sendai. He has orders for you.”
“I’ll take it in my quarters,” Whitebred shouted.
“It’s not for you. It’s for the captain. Putting it on the screen down there.” The wall across from the launcher control lit up. There was Buck Ramsey.
“Matt, this message is for you. Whitebred is released from command and rank immediately. All his orders are countermanded. Skobachev will assume command. I repeat, Whitebred is no admiral and he gives no orders. The orders promoting him are being looked at real close. I know nothing about that. What I do know is I have official orders from the military commander at Pitt’s Hope to return him immediately. I will wait for your response. We would have been here sooner, but I don’t know how Sandy found that point so fast. We’ve spent the last three days trying to pin it down. By the way, I think the war is over. I will await your answer. Ramsey out.”
“Wait one, comm,” Mattim said, then turned to Whitebred. “I don’t know what this is about, but it’s over.”
Like so many things lately, Mattim had that one wrong too.
• • •
“You bastard. You lying bastard.” Sergeant Dumont was so enraged he ignored his rifle and went for Whitebred’s throat with his bare hands. As Whitebred fended him off with one hand, his other went for the assault weapon.
Even in defeat, Whitebred still wanted to “shoot them all.”
Mattim hardly saw her coming. Kat the Zap came in fast and low. One moment the two men were struggling; the next second they lay ten feet apart and the middie stood between them not even breathing hard. Whitebred was screaming, clutching his knee. When this was all over, Mattim wanted to know two things: how his crew poleaxed up the launcher, and how one tiny young woman put two men twice her size down so fast.
• • •
“Mr. Crossinshield, you have a problem.”
Trevor gulped; when his client knew he had a problem before Trev
or did, something had gone terribly wrong. Today, his client met him at the edge of a pond in a pleasant park. The noise of the city was held at bay, whether by the trees or more exotic means Trevor did not need to know. The big man fed crumbs to white swans. To Trevor, he fed gall. “You have been out of touch with your man, the one who knows the door to the galaxy.”
“Yes, sir. He is in the Navy and does sometimes go aboard ship. Communications through those channels are often strained.”
“Yes, but do you know where he is? I am picking up strange rumors. I do not like rumors, Mr. Crossinshield. I like facts.”
From across the pond, two ebony black swans knifed through the water to scatter the white ones. Trevor’s client smiled and tossed them corn as their reward. Trevor glanced around. From the path through the trees, three men emerged and walked toward them. The one in the lead looked straight ahead. The two behind him signaled, People whom Trevor would have sworn were part of his client’s security detail nodded and began to close in.
His client continued to feed the swans, both black and white. “Sir.” Trevor was surprised to hear himself squeak.
“Speak up, boy.”
“Sir, I believe you have company.”
His client turned. And maybe for a split second Trevor saw surprise on his face. Then he calmly turned back to the pond. This time, however, he tossed nothing to the swans.
“Good afternoon, Henry.” The man paused to smile down at Trevor’s client. “I thought I’d find you here. There are things we must talk about. If you gentlemen will leave us alone.” The guards turned at his command—all of them—and returned to their alert meanderings.
Trevor turned to go. “Not you. You will stay.”
“Edward, is that any way to treat one of mine?”
Trevor had not recognized the man with his clothes on. Now he did. This was the other man, the man who had locked horns with his client in the sauna—and lost. He did not act like a loser now. “Henry, the question is, is anyone yours?”
Trevor’s client made no reply. The new arrival settled comfortably on the other end of the bench. Then he reached over, took the small sack of grain from Trevor’s client, and began feeding the swans. Behind the bench, Trevor wanted to run, but his legs were water. Unable to stand, he risked leaning his hands on the back of the bench. Surprise filled Trevor; despite the power shooting between the two men, he was not electrocuted.