They were stopping his search.
When he was closer than ever?
Kearn checked the lock on his door, then pulled out the Kraal knife. With uncharacteristic force, he plunged the tip through the message and into his desk.
They'd have to catch him first.
Chapter 21: Flight Deck Night
« ^ »
BY the time the lights automatically dimmed in the corridors to mark shipnight, I'd made my way through six decks, terrorized over forty crew, and witnessed three unfortunate physiological reactions. Floors could be cleaned. I wasn't exactly proud of my efforts, but they were beginning to accumulate nicely.
A particularly effective moment had been when I'd located a node in the intership com system and sang into it, making sure to break off with a suggestive sob. The next node I tried had been deactivated. Well, if I couldn't use it, neither could they.
The changes I'd made to the ship's internal systems accumulated as well. The walls were damp to the touch, the air perceptibly chill, and the amount of carbon dioxide close to levels that should affect Human ability to think clearly. This last was a minor concern to me, as I felt thinking clearly was likely to matter, so I took the precaution of grabbing an emergency air supply and using it whenever I felt my respiration increasing.
It was almost time to dare the brig corridor and find Paul.
Almost. Despite my impatience, I knew if I were to save my friend, it wouldn't be enough to free him. I needed a way to get us off this ship and away. In entertainment vids, this was apparently a trivial task for any hero worth watching. In reality, I knew this was the most difficult task of all.
A vector-class cruiser couldn't land on a planet's surface. It was a distance killer, functioning as a mobile base of operations in times of war. The Tly Defender would have carried hundreds of shuttles and doorcrashers—the one-way stealth gliders used to deliver whatever the military wanted dropped, from biologies to Ganthor troops. The Black Watch, I found as I haunted the flight deck, currently carried three shuttles, one antique aircar being restored, and fourteen life-pods, the latter obviously an afterthought to ferry the skeleton crew to safety if necessary.
None of these would do. The shuttles had translight capability, but were locked into launching grids controlled from the bridge. Somewhat ambitious for a ghost child. The lifepods would only drift and yell for help.
I didn't think about Paul. He would survive and wait for me to save him. Anything else was not acceptable.
The flight deck was the largest on the ship and completely open, wrapping around the circumference of the huge ship so its edges bent downward at the limits of my field of view, perspectives marked by lines of structural pillars curving up to the shadowed ceiling. I wished for slippers—as a costume choice, bare feet were a definite detriment on the cold metal floors—but kept moving, looking for anything helpful.
Then, over the curve of the far horizon, I saw it. When I was close enough to know what I was seeing, I stood gaping at my find in disbelief.
They'd stacked the cargo stolen from traders here; crates made a wall taller than I, stretching to the limits of what I could see of the deck. A lot of it had been food, judging by the smell and long runnels of white-streaked green liquid reaching out in all directions. The crates had been tossed together, not stacked. Most of their contents had to be damaged by the treatment. There was a fortune here, treated like so much garbage.
I thought of my porcelains, indifferent or not, and was horrified at the waste.
Why?
Why steal all of this, only to destroy it? Why hide it, if destruction was the goal?
Inspector Logan. I might have been jumping to ephemeral conclusions, but this seemed like his style—to take, because he could. To destroy, because it suited him.
I went closer, trying to see if I could identify any of the shipments. I pushed aside a pile of packing plas, seeking a label on the nearest crate. It wasn't ours—but it was destined for Inhaven Prime.
Perhaps they all were, I thought. This was by no means all of the shipping heading for Inhaven—but it could represent a significant amount. I couldn't tell without going through every crate, but if the Tly—if Inspector Logan, because I couldn't help putting him at the center of whatever plot this was—wanted to harm the Inhaven economy, there were key goods, strategic needs which could be stopped. Chase's shipment of reduxan 630, for example. If other reduxan shipments had been intercepted by Logan, it could cripple several industries. I could replay in web-memory thousands of cultures conquered from within by such methods.
Just what I needed, I thought with significant self-pity. Another war to stop.
There was that nagging little detail of escape in the way.
I kept looking.
Covered shapes formed a line beyond the dumped cargo. I hurried to the nearest, believing that anything well kept in this place had to be important, and tugged the plas sheet from it with one grab.
Not all of the Tly Defender's armament had been removed, as the Tly claimed. I put out my hand and touched the flat black side of a doorcrasher—the size used for troop deployment, not weapons. I took a quick count without moving. There were enough here to send down several waves—empty spaces evoking those already used.
I felt my hands begin to shake. The Black Watch didn't carry enough shuttles to retrieve any number of troops.
Or was it convenient? I thought of the Ganthor, dying against me, his click speech warning of betrayal and abandonment.
The Tly—or more specifically Inspector Logan—were beginning to have a great deal to explain.
The minor detail of escape kept getting in the way.
Then, under a split-open bag of rancid meat, I found something that might do. I could almost guarantee Paul wouldn't like it, but I didn't see other choices leaping my way.
I began my preparations.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
"MITCHELL." Lefebvre stood in front of the servo door, staring across the corridor as if he could will the other to stir. "Are you asleep?"
"I wouldn't call it sleeping," the voice answered quietly, as if husbanding his strength. "What's the matter? Did they decide to feed us at last?"
"Something's up with the environmental controls." Lefebvre sniffed again, ran his hand along a damp wall for unnecessary confirmation. He knew starships—the system wasn't failing, it had been reset to these parameters. Sabotage? he wondered with a bite of hope. "Your—" he remembered the vids in time to stop and say instead: "Haven't smelled air this foul since the bar on D'Dsel."
"It's an older ship. Are you sure?" This a shade too casual. So Mitchell felt it, too.
Lefebvre nodded to himself. "Humidity's up; temp's below norm. Something's not right with the oxygen/carbon dioxide balance either. Tipped. Odd combination."
"These things happen. I'm sure they'll fix it."
"If they don't get on it," Lefebvre commented, "the crew's likely to get a bit groggy. Might even start hallucinating."
"Then let's hope everyone is careful."
Lefebvre was sure he hadn't imagined the stress on "everyone." Did Mitchell have a contact among the crew? Was this friend he protected with his life here?
He chewed his lip pensively, staring at the vids, then sat down on the cot.
Lefebvre knew how to wait. The only concern he had now was how soon Logan would be back for his appointment with Mitchell. How much more could Mitchell Kane's body endure, even with the med's help? That cough could be a sign of some internal damage they hadn't bothered to repair. There could be more.
If Mitchell had a friend on board, Lefebvre told himself, that friend better hurry.
Chapter 22: Chartroom Night
« ^ »
I HAD to hurry, now that I had the components of our escape ready. There was no telling what the crew was up to, but I was sure the rumors of my otherworldly presence must have spread through the officers' deck by now. Whether they were discounted or not, there wou
ld be some action taken—a search or, better yet, a meeting. Both would keep more Tly crew occupied and out of my way.
The rumors were certainly helping among the lower ranks, as I found when I walked into the secondary chart-room. Or it could have been the air.
"The Child! The Child!" gibbered the poor Human who'd been cleaning the floor, before dropping in a dead faint.
He landed in a contorted heap, gasping for breath. The muscles of my Human-self were woefully inadequate when it came to trying to rearrange his bulk into something more comfortable. Finally, I tucked some dry cleaning rags under his head and hoped for the best.
The chartroom, memory suggested, should have access to internal records. I examined several comp boards before locating the right one, making myself move with care. The last time I'd rushed had resulted in dents. This time, the consequences of a mistake were doubtless more permanent.
Anything detailed would likely be encrypted, if only to some officer's ident. What I sought should be more accessible—aha! I cued the internal power schematics to show the outer decks. As I'd suspected, most were on minimal, perhaps sealed as well. The greatest usages were clustered on the officers' deck, the bridge, a few connecting corridors, and one section of the brig.
And the closest med room to that section.
I cleared the display, keeping myself focused on my task. I called up the vid displays, hoping for something useful. The machine requested my ident, flashing a threatening red bar across its screen as I hesitated. Immediately I canceled, hoping I'd been fast enough.
Time to leave, I decided. I didn't know if the Tly were sufficiently gullible to believe in ghosts who tried to access their security comps, but I wasn't planning to chance it.
Not when I had to make my way through almost one quarter of this ship to reach Paul.
Elsewhere
« ^ »
THE scoring from the blister stick on his palms was almost gone. Lefebvre turned his hands over, flexing the fingers, involuntarily clenching them into tight fists on his knees. Otherwise, he was motionless, breathing in short, hard pants, muscles locked until they threatened to spasm.
This, he did for Mitchell, and for himself. He sat, making no move, no sound of his own, doing nothing to give them reason to stun him into blissful insensibility. He listened to the torment of a friend, making the only offering he could—he stayed.
There were never understandable words. The inspector's voice was too soft, too high-pitched to carry across the corridor. Mitchell's wordless voice not only carried, it echoed—it must have been audible throughout the deck and, by rights, should have penetrated the hull—a desperate yet proud incoherence Lefebvre judged the bravest thing he'd ever heard.
Then, nothing. Lefebvre opened his fists, unsurprised that he'd driven bloody holes into the palms with his fingernails. He held his breath.
The silence was shattered by the thudding of booted feet, moving rapidly. Lefebvre lunged up and hurried to the servo door, craning to see. A body on a grav sled sped by, heading toward the med room, surrounded by guards and followed by Inspector Logan. Logan paused in front of the opening to look down at Lefebvre.
Lefebvre couldn't help himself. He spat, watching the liquid flash to steam as it was intercepted by the servo door's automatics. "You won't get away with this, Logan! You hear me? If you've killed him, I'll make sure you pay!"
"Do you enjoy irony, my good Captain Lefebvre?" the giant Human said mildly, as though they engaged in polite, dinner conversation. "I don't, as a rule. It so rarely lives up to its potential. But in your case?" Logan's lips thinned in a satisfied smile. "The irony is so rich, it's almost—painful. Sleep well."
"What about—?" Lefebvre couldn't finish. He sagged, every muscle burning.
"A foolish, stubborn individual. Don't worry, Captain. I have scheduled my next appointment with your—friend—for tomorrow morning. I'm sure the med-techs will have him ready to join me. Again, good night." The inspector turned and walked away down the corridor, his back easily as wide as any two of the guards who preceded him. He would have been intimidating at any size, Lefebvre admitted to himself. Evil usually was.
He slammed his palms against the sides of the opening, leaving tiny red streaks, then turned away. Although every mouthful sickened him, Lefebvre forced himself to finish the meal tray brought earlier. There was nothing to be gained by weakening himself.
Mitchell hadn't told him what he wanted done—but Lefebvre knew he would do it. There was something about Mitchell Kane that made him the kind of leader you would die for, the kind Lefebvre had believed didn't really exist, the kind beings like Kearn couldn't begin to imagine.
Lefebvre made himself think coolly, drawing on years of experience assessing vague and disconnected clues. Mitchell wasn't dead—not yet. And there was something going on. Earlier, the intership had broadcast a child's voice, singing a pretty little tune, something unfamiliar to Lefebvre, but which elicited a great deal of reaction from the Tly in Mitchell's cell. One guard had apparently been dismissed, and Lefebvre had watched him running down the corridor—an expression of horror on his face. From a song?
The air quality had continued to diminish. The Tly must have noticed by now, but there hadn't been any improvement. He and Mitchell had talked about this ship, about the possibility it was undercrewed for its size. Perhaps there were other problems on board—mechanical ones—problems he could use. If he could walk through walls.
They'd talked a long time before Logan's return, in spite of the state of Mitchell's throat, an easy conversation that wound its way around places they'd both seen, amusing stories, childhood dreams. They'd surprised each other: Mitchell had confessed to grand visions of a multispecies' library, a collection of languages and cultures designed for use by anyone, not just experts—inspiring Lefebvre's own admission of hoping to be an alien contact specialist, of joining one of the teams pushing the borders of Human knowledge about others.
He'd left the academy to join the Botharis patrol instead—to learn how to hunt other Humans. The conversation had faltered there, Lefebvre uncomfortable revealing more than the name of his target, until Mitchell changed the subject to his children, a grown daughter and son of whom he was obviously proud.
They'd never talked about his friend, Lefebvre remembered, both wary of the vids.
Yawning, he pushed the tray toward the opening, ready for the servo to retrieve on its rounds. There was nothing on it to use for a weapon, the tray itself being a spongy material about as dangerous as the mashed vegetables it had held. Lefebvre lay down on the blanketless cot, shivering in the damp chill, and threw an arm over his eyes to keep out the dimmed light.
The song was sweet, not so much because of the lyrics but because of the voice lifted in its melody. Lefebvre thought he was dreaming at first, then, as the song grew perceptibly louder, he took his arm from his eyes and realized the music was coming from the corridor.
He got to his feet quietly, making the movement casual for any Tly guard watching the vid, and walked over to the servo door.
She was there, almost floating down the night-dimmed corridor, a young Human, a girl dressed in what looked like bloodstained rags—which couldn't be right, Lefebvre told himself numbly. There was nothing suggesting injury in her soft voice or the way her slim hand supported a bag over her shoulder. Her other held a long-handled broom she was using to gently mark time with her song.
He felt something cold slide down his spine, as if part of his mind tried to warn him this wasn't real, that he saw an apparition or created one in his drug-abused thoughts.
She looked right at him.
Nothing prepared him for her eyes. Meeting them was like drowning in some bottomless ocean, like falling through aeons of time. He couldn't have told their color or shape. He did know the emotion filling them—he shared it.
Desperation.
Without wondering how he knew this tiny slip of a being was the friend Mitchell protected, Lefebvre said quickly, "He's
alive. They took him to the med room." Then he glanced meaningfully at the vid just behind her.
Still singing, she nodded her head, placing her bag on the floor. She began walking down the corridor, waving her arms about as though reaching for some invisible support. Lefebvre moved so he could watch her, again wondering if she was real or hallucination.
Then, she calmly drove the broom handle through the protective grate, into the nearest vid, destroying it with a hot shower of sparks that danced past her hair—a tactic she repeated until the corridor was monitor free.
Definitely, Lefebvre thought with relief, not a ghost.
Chapter 23: Brig Night; Flight Deck Night
« ^ »
I BRUSHED sparks from my hair and shoulders as the last vid in range exploded overhead. This should allay any lingering doubts a ghost was on board, I sighed, but the disguise was wearing thin anyway. I wished I could say the same for the now-dried liquid I'd poured over my clothes and skin, scratching at my arm as I headed back to Lefebvre's cell.
The lock was mechanical—perhaps a safety feature in case this outermost deck lost power during battle. I used the broom to help lever it open, grumbling to myself about the lack of strength in my current hands, but not prepared to do anything about it at the moment. Not with who was standing in front of me in the now-open door.
Lefebvre looked the worse for wear and definitely smelled it. Despite this, and his avowed task of hunting for Paul, I found his attempted smile the most encouraging thing I'd seen all day. He bent in order to look me in the eyes, then nodded to himself. "You're Mitchell's friend, aren't you. So am I."
I blinked at this, somehow finding it completely feasible Paul could charm even an archenemy, and nodded. "You said he'd been taken to the meds. Where?" Why? I kept to myself, able to guess and having enough to do keeping my temperature within Human norms.
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