by Allen Steele
The attempt had failed, but that meant the second conspirator was in the perfect position for another mission. He’d come aboard the ferry as a passenger and had patiently waited until this point in the journey, when the Brackett was midway between Earth and Mars. The crew was asleep except for a duty officer on the bridge, and the passenger had disabled the circuit in the airlock control panel that would alert the control room that it was being used. So the time had come for him to do that which UI Quorn had commanded.
Ul Quorn’s follower grasped the ladder with first one hand, then another. He pulled himself forward from the airlock and onto the ladder. Then, making a conscious effort not to look either up or down as he clung to the ladder, he groped for the nylon rope coiled at his suit’s utility belt. A small two-wheel truck, the sort commonly used for EVA safety tethers, was attached to the end of the rope. He clipped it to the ladder’s right leg and made sure that it moved freely.
The passenger reached back into the airlock to retrieve the crowbar-like multitool he’d taken from the engineering locker. He’d need it for the job ahead. Then, leaving the hatch open so that he could quickly return to the airlock, he began making his way down the ladder.
Heading for the Comet.
IV
—Curtis…? Curt, wake up, please.
The voice was the Brain’s, but in Curt’s dreaming mind it came not from his Anni but the pilot’s console of a different ship. An asteroid freighter also called the Comet, the kind used to haul ore to and from the Belt. Joan was there, but she was different, too: her hair was blond and much longer, tied back in a braid, while her face was tattooed with butterfly wings around her eyes. She was in the copilot’s seat, and she turned to him to say—
—Curt? Please wake up.
The dream evaporated, and his eyes opened to darkness. In the sallow amber glow of the cabin’s night-light, he saw his unencumbered hands floating above his chest. Freed from the restraints of the hammock, they’d floated upward in zero-g. It was a sight he never completely got used to, even after all the years he’d spent in space.
“Okay, okay, I’m awake.” He yawned. “What d’ya want, Brain?”
—I’m sorry to disturb you, but we may have an emergency. We’ve just lost our external air feed from the Brackett, and it appears we’re about to lose power as well.
As Simon spoke, the night-light flickered and went dark. A moment passed, then the light came back on.
—I’ve restored electrical power from our batteries, and the ship is now on its internal life support system. But this shouldn’t be happening.
“No, it shouldn’t.” Curt unwrapped himself from the hammock’s cocoon and reached for the bodysuit and boots he’d secured with stiktabs to the cabin wall after getting undressed for bed. “Have you contacted the Brackett’s bridge? Maybe they’re doing some sort of maintenance or repair work.”
—I’ve just spoken with their watch officer, and he denies any knowledge of this. Routine maintenance wouldn’t be undertaken while the Brackett is in flight, and there haven’t been any emergencies. Comet’s log confirms that the AI hasn’t received any instructions to that effect from the Brackett. And we’ve just lost the water feed, too.
Tumbling backward in freefall, Curt hastily pulled on his bodysuit. He started to put on his boots, but then thought better of it. If something was disconnecting the Brackett from the Comet—or someone, rather, if it wasn’t being done automatically by the beamship itself—then they must be doing it manually from outside the Comet. Which meant that he’d have to go spacewalking to stop them.
“Wake up the others,” he said, zipping up the front of his bodysuit as he reached for the door handle. “I’m going to have to go out.”
Otho emerged from his cabin just seconds after he did, and Grag had already disconnected itself from the charger and was letting the cable reel itself back into the bulkhead. No sign of Joan, though; her cabin door was closed, and there was no sound of movement from the other side.
“The hell’s going on?” Otho pulled up the suspenders of a pair of cargo pants he’d put on with a sleeveless T-shirt. “How come we lost power and air?”
“Someone’s trying to sabotage the ship from outside.” Curt pushed himself across the wardroom toward the manhole. “Go up and give Simon a hand. Grag, you’re with me. I’m going out to check.”
“Let me do that. I’ve had more EVA experience than you. I should—”
“Just do as I say.” Curt wasn’t inclined to stop and argue even though Otho was right. Seconds counted if someone was messing with the Comet. This was his ship, and he was responsible for the safety of its passengers.
“You heard him. Go up top and help the Brain.” Grag had magnetized the soles of its feet and was stamping across the deck, following Curt to the manhole. “I’ll help him suit up.”
Curt didn’t wait to see if Otho obeyed, but instead ducked down the manhole. He’d just emerged into the third deck when he found what had happened to Joan. She wasn’t asleep, as he’d thought, but instead had beaten him down to the ready-room, where she was already unstrapping her vacuum suit from the rack.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Curt caught himself with a ceiling handrail and twisted around until he was right-side up again.
“Getting ready for a spacewalk, what does it look like?” Floating in midair, Joan unfastened the suit’s front and began to thrust her long legs into the thick garment. “I tapped into the Brain’s Anni and heard what he said to you. If someone out there is committing an act of sabotage, it’s my duty to take care of it.”
“My ship, my problem.” Curt pushed off from the ceiling, and sailed across the compartment toward her. “You’re staying here. I’m going out.”
“That’s not necessary, I … hey, watch the hands!” Joan tried to jerk away as he grabbed hold of her forearm. “I’m a law officer and this is my job!” she snapped, doing her best to twist out of his grip. “And I don’t appreciate—!”
“Grag, restrain her, please.” Before she could fight him off, Curt shoved her across the ready-room.
“Yes, Curt.” The robot had just come down the ladder; it caught Joan in its hands and pulled her tight against its chest. “I’m sorry, Inspector Randall. Please don’t struggle. You may hurt yourself.”
Joan fought to pull out of Grag’s grasp, but the robot was too strong and too quick for her. “Curt, this is stupid!” she yelled at him. “I know you’re trying to be gallant or something, but … damn it, tell your ’bot to let me go!”
Curt ignored her as he unracked his own suit. It took just a few minutes for him to put it on; one of the things that had been drilled into him since childhood was how to prepare for a spacewalk as quickly as possible. Still, he was slowed down just a little bit by not having Grag help him, so he’d just put on his gloves when the Brain spoke to him again, this time through his headset.
“Curt, Otho has just spotted someone outside the ship. He’s tethered to an access ladder on the Brackett’s spar, and it appears that he’s now trying to release the berth’s cradle bars.”
A chill swept down Curt’s back. He now knew exactly what the saboteur meant to accomplish. If the man outside could jettison the Comet from the ferry—and once the little racing yacht was detached from the cradle, all that would take was a good, hard shove—he would effectively doom its crew. Although the little ship had enough fuel to reach Mars on its own, at this distance it would take nearly a month to get there. And without replenishment from the Brackett, the Comet had only enough air and water to keep him, Otho, and Joan alive for no more than a week.
There were many legends among spacefarers about crews who’d suffered similar fates. They usually ended with the crew members drawing straws to see who would take a one-way cycle through the airlock. The Brain and Grag would survive, but … Curt shook his head. If it came to that, he and Otho would sacrifice themselves for Joan, although he doubted that the Comet would have enough consumables to support h
er.
Curt snapped his utility belt with its holstered plasmar around his waist, checked the gun to make sure it was connected and fully charged, then switched it to its highest power. This time, he wasn’t going to fool around with trying to take someone alive. They were plainly dealing with a killer.
“If I get in trouble,” he said to Grag, “come out to help me at once.”
“Curt, let me—” Joan began.
“Forget it.” Curt checked his suit to make sure everything was closed. “If anyone is going to survive this—” He stopped himself as he reached for his helmet. “Grag, let her go once I cycle through, but keep an eye on her. Make sure she stays inside.”
“Understood, Curt.” The robot continued to hold Joan tight against its chest.
Curt nodded, then entered the airlock. Shutting the inner door, he put on his helmet and pressurized his suit, then started to touch the buttons that would commence the depressurization procedure before thinking better of it. No, that would take too long; the saboteur could have the Comet uncoupled by the time he opened the outer hatch. There was a faster alternative. It was dangerous, but …
“Simon, Otho, I’m going for emergency blowout,” he said. “Stand by for my order.”
A pause, then Otho’s voice came through the comlink: “Affirmative, Curt. Standing by. Be careful.”
Curt said nothing, but smiled as he found the tetherhook on the fuselage beside the outer hatch and clipped his safety line to it. Otho wasn’t going to try to talk him out of this; he knew what was at stake. Turning his body parallel to the deck, Curt planted his boots firmly on either side of the hatchway and took a firm grasp of the handrail to his right and left.
“Blow the hatch,” he said.
A sudden bang, then a roaring windstorm erupted around him. His helmet immediately frosted over, blocking his view with a patina of grainy white, but Curt didn’t let go of the rail to wipe the faceplate clear. His body was being buffeted as if it were caught in a miniature hurricane; he had to strain to keep from being hurled through the open outer hatch.
Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. Only a couple of seconds passed before all the air in the small compartment rushed out into the void. In the abrupt silence that followed, Curt released his grip on the handrails and ran a gauntleted hand across his faceplate. The hatchway gaped open before him, the metal skeleton of Brackett’s spar just beyond.
The explosive decompression must have rocked the entire ship. No doubt the saboteur felt it. Curt cautiously pulled himself to the open hatch and peered outside. At first, he saw no one … but then he turned his head and there he was, about twenty feet away, a slender figure in a vacuum suit.
He’d already disconnected the air, water, and electrical cables leading from the Brackett to the Comet; they dangled nearby like decapitated snakes caught within a shimmering cloud of ice particles. Now he was using a long metal implement that Curt recognized as a multitool to pry open the cradle holding the Comet within its berth. Two of the cradle’s scimitar-shaped bars had been released already. The saboteur had braced his legs between the spar and its ladder to gain the necessary leverage; he had fit the sharp end of the multitool between the cradle bar and the Comet’s hull and was preparing to pry it open.
Curt couldn’t tell whether the other man had noticed him or not, but it didn’t matter. Removing the plasmar from his holster, he pushed himself the rest of the way out the airlock and, grasping the gun with both hands, aimed straight at the saboteur. This time, he didn’t give any warning, but simply fired.
The saboteur must have spotted him at the same instant, though, because Curt’s finger had barely tightened on the trigger when the other man abruptly turned away, twisting himself so that he was shielded by the spar. The plasma toroids were invisible in a hard vacuum, with none of the smoke-ring effect that showed when the gun was fired in an atmosphere. The ladder trembled as the pulses hit it but effectively deflected the shot.
Curt swore as he reached for the ladder, intending to duck around it and get a clear shot. The saboteur had other plans. Before Curt fully realized what was happening, the man came around from behind the spar, kicked off it, and with the multitool raised above his shoulders, threw himself at Curt.
There was no time for Curt to aim and fire again before his enemy sailed into him. The multitool swung about in a wide arc that would shatter his faceplate if it connected. Dropping his gun, Curt ducked beneath the bar and scrabbled with his hands for the front of the other man’s suit. He meant to yank loose the air hose running from the lifepack to the lower left side of the suit, a sure way of stopping an assailant in hand-to-hand space combat, but the saboteur slapped his hands away and swung the multitool again.
Once more, he missed Curt’s helmet, but this time the multitool found a different target: Curt’s lifeline. The multitool couldn’t sever the nylon cord, but the cutting edge at its tip came down with sufficient force to sever the lifeline’s connection to Curt’s utility belt.
All at once, Curt found himself floating free from the Comet. However, the severing of his umbilical also gave him just enough distance to retrieve his gun, now twisting at the end of its cable. As he started to tumble away, Curt snagged the plasmar and took aim at his foe.
In desperation, the saboteur raised the multitool as if to hurl it at Curt. He never got the chance; the plasma beam disintegrated his helmet.
Curt barely caught a glimpse of the red cloud that silently exploded where his enemy’s head had been. In zero-g, the recoil from the beam striking another object at close range was as effective as if he’d been kicked. Before he realized what was happening, Curt found himself tumbling head over heels away from the Comet.
Stretching out his left hand, he made a desperate attempt to grab hold of the spar ladder, but he wasn’t quick enough. The ladder was beyond reach, and in the next instant the beamship rushed past him and away.
Helplessly flailing his arms, Curt fell into the void.
V
Joan saw everything. Clutching a ceiling rail, she’d watched through the wardroom porthole as Curt engaged the saboteur in single combat outside the ship. Although she’d put on a headset and patched into Curt’s comlink frequency, she dared not say anything that might distract him, and through the earpiece she heard nothing but his labored breath and the occasional grunt. The fight was in silence, with no words exchanged between the combatants.
When the saboteur’s multitool parted Curt’s lifeline, Joan immediately recognized the danger Curt would put himself in if he fired his gun at close range. Before she could warn him, though, he retrieved his weapon and fired at his enemy. The plasma toroids were invisible in a vacuum, but the effect was devastating … to both men. The saboteur was killed instantly and Curt was thrown clear of both the Comet and the Brackett.
“Curt’s off the line!” she yelled.
“I know!” Otho shouted back from the flight deck above. “Grag, go out and get him!”
“Affirmative.” Grag was still on the third deck, guarding the airlock to prevent Joan from suiting up and going out to help Curt. More than ever, she wished the stupid ’bot would learn to ignore its masters every once in a while.
“Grag, no! Cancel that order!” Shoving herself away from the porthole, she put herself between the robot and the airlock.
“You heard him.” Grag responded. “If he gets in trouble, I’m to go out there and—”
“You’ll only get lost out there, too!” She tapped her headset mike. “Curt, can you hear me?”
“Affirmative … affirmative, I hear you.” Curt’s voice was strained, his breath coming in fast gasps. “I’m … I’ve been thrown off. My line…”
“We know.” Joan scrambled hand over hand along the rail to the ceiling manhole and hastily pulled herself through it. “Calm down, okay? Everything’s going to be all right. We’re coming to get you—”
“Oh no, we’re not.” The Brain was hovering beside Otho, who’d taken over the pilot
’s chair. One of his eyestalks moved in Joan’s direction while the other remained turned toward the forward window. “We can’t detach ourselves, Inspector. The Brackett has to do that for us, and they wouldn’t do that because it would only put everyone aboard this ship—everyone who draws breath, that is—in mortal danger.”
“Then we’ll get ’em to turn around and retrieve Curt!” Otho reached for the com panel.
“They won’t do this either.” Simon’s voice was maddeningly calm. “You know that. The Brackett is traveling too fast to decelerate on its own, and its engines are only meant for orbital maneuvers.”
Joan understood. Without an active proton beam to provide propulsion, the Brackett would be in the same position the Comet would have been if the saboteur had succeeded. The ferry was traveling too fast to stop on its own, and it couldn’t turn around to retrieve someone who’d fallen overboard.
“You can’t … you mean you can’t get to me?” Curt asked.
Too late, Joan realized that the comlink had been active the entire time. Curt had heard everything they’d said, including the Brain’s cool assessment of the situation. Pulling herself closer to the forward console, she peered over Otho’s shoulder at the forward porthole. Curt was nowhere to be seen. He was probably miles away by now and getting farther with every passing second.
“Hang in there,” she said. “We’re working on something.”
Joan muted her headset, then closed her eyes and took a deep breath. There was another option, probably the only one they had. However, it meant revealing something that she hadn’t wanted the others to know. But with Curt’s life at stake …
“Hey, Inspector,” Otho said, “if you’ve got a plan, now’s the time to let us in on it.”