Vigilante

by Laura E. Reeve

  “One minute remaining.” The message had static, the EM noise affecting even close communications with the Candor Chasma.

  “We’re going to die here. We can’t escape the effects of the quantum glitch on the sun’s fusion.” Tahir slurred his words. Julian’s stunner must have been set on a light charge, if he was already waking.

  She freed the stunner and kept it ready, but Tahir made no move other than to wiggle his fingers. “Emery and Julian?”

  “They’ll be waking up in N-space, if my drop goes correctly.” She tapped the panel of their emergency capsule, trying to bring up a view of the outside.

  “You’re trying to dump the detonation to N-space.” His eyes widened. “There’ll be leakage. There was always leakage on the Terran tests. That means solar flares. G-145 will still suffer.”

  “I’m betting it’ll be better than experiencing a full-fledged TD wave.”

  “Thirty seconds remaining.”

  He looked tired. “And we’ll get sucked along with the ship and the weapon into N-space. My way, we would have lived—in real-space.”

  The Candor Chasma was still transmitting the countdown, which had gone below fifteen seconds. There was so much static that they couldn’t understand the numbers, so she turned the volume down.

  “Not if we’re on, or outside, the Penrose Fold boundary. And you’d better hope that Assassinator missile doesn’t destroy the Penrose Fold before the ship drops. Wait for it. . . .” She paused, shoulders tensed.

  He blanched, and sat quietly.

  The last transmission—“zero point”—came at the same time as a gentle push on the capsule. They could hear something hitting the module. It was the chaff, and she smiled. The ship had pulled the TD weapon into N-space. She felt the tension rush out of her body.

  “Ever wonder why some ships cause a brilliant burst of light in real-space when they drop out? Their engine is tuned badly.”

  “And you made use of excess boundary energy to push us away? Fine and good, you saved us, just to die from lack of air or worse, radiation.”

  “Don’t worry. We’ll be picked up and you’ll face justice.” At least, she hoped they’d be picked up. She hoped too that Owen hadn’t also programmed a profile matching Aether’s Touch into his Assassinators.

  “Justice? That’s the least of my worries,” he said hoarsely. When she frowned, he added, “My father’s still out there. If this mission doesn’t kill us, then he’ll make us wish it did.”

  An alarm over the hatch started beeping. It came from the radiation monitor.

  Joyce told the civilians that Abram would use their friends and coworkers as shields. He also told them they had to kill, maim, or wound Abram’s men, or everyone would suffer. Some of these civilians were going to be more reliable than others.

  “Stunners are better than using this. I mean, it’s positively medieval.” Carly hefted the portable magnetic bolt grappler while looking up at Joyce through her lush eyelashes. Her fading and blotching green skindo only undermined her flirtations a little.

  “Well . . .” Joyce carefully pushed the business end of the grappler to the left so she no longer aimed it at his abdomen. “Those bolts can blow a hole in somebody’s body.”

  He ignored her grimace and looked around at his ragtag team of armed—and he used that term loosely—volunteers. Being the smallest, Carly had the light, thirty-five-millimeter grappler with a muzzle energy of no more than one kilo-joule, intended for personal EVA use. Melissa, who was significantly huskier than Carly, carried their other magnetic grappler. This grappler fired fifty-millimeter magnetic bolts with five kilojoules and was the civilian version of the SAL- 50 that AFCAW issued to boarding teams. They’d emptied the monofilament canisters on both grapplers. Sophi, Paul, and Nikos carried the biggest plasma torches they had found, as they made their way toward the elevator. They also carried stunners.

  “I still think I should have a stunner.” Carly pouted. “This thing can only load four bolts at a time.”

  “Give it a rest, Carly. And stop batting your eyelashes at him.” Sophi adjusted the torch tank coming over her left shoulder and checked the charge on the stunner she held in her right hand. “We’ve only got three stunners.”

  “If somebody’s got a flechette weapon, you need to take them out with lethal force, before they’ve got their weapon pointed,” Joyce said. “I don’t care if it’s one of your friends holding the weapon, because a stun doesn’t stop somebody from firing.”

  The three carrying the stunners nodded. Sophi, Paul, and Nikos had prior military or civilian security experience. With their agreement, Joyce was satisfied that he’d distributed the weapons correctly. Stunners were trickier to use than the v-plays credited, and he didn’t want his own people going down twitching due to excess or friendly current. He still carried the crazy’s flechette pistol and the shotgun loaded with twelve cartridges of rubber-covered riot-shot. He double-checked the charge; he had plenty. Lack of ammo would be his problem.

  The sound of the elevator’s inner cargo hold sliding into its cradle stopped all further discussion.

  “Take your positions, people,” Joyce said.

  Sophi and Nikos went to the maintenance bay on the left side of the elevator, while Paul and Melissa went to the bay on the right. The elevator airlock was wider than a standard-size airlock; double sets of doors equalized pressure between the elevator interior and the station.The elevator opened almost flush on the side of the corridor. Even though the bays could be used to ambush people coming out of the elevator, they could also turn into nice little shooting galleries, trapping their occupants.

  That’s why Joyce set himself up at the corner of an offset spoke hallway that met the perimeter corridor. He would try to draw the crazies out of the crate and toward the right. The converts, he predicted, would run, and he told his team to let them go.

  Down the hallway behind him, Carly took cover in an open hatch. In theory, she was providing him backup, but she was there because he considered her the weakest link.

  It went down pretty much as Joyce predicted.

  Abram was prepared for problems on Beta Priamos, perhaps because of the fracas near the class B docks. Joyce drew back as he heard the doors open. A quick, one-eyed peek showed five converts forming the first rank. They hesitantly stepped out of the elevator, obviously knowing their purpose as a shield for the occupants behind them. Three carried stunners, all tensely pointed into the corridor.

  He listened. He heard low mutters and a few shuffling steps. Luckily, these amateurs didn’t understand the value of being silent and he waited until they were a meter or two out of the elevator and still unable to see into the maintenance bays on either side. Behind his corner, Joyce edged backward, breathed deeply, and took the shotgun off safety.

  Quickly leaning out from cover, he fired three blasts with the shotgun, then pulled back. The advantage of not using a chemical propellant, such as gunpowder, was that the sound of the shotgun was hard to locate. The kick of the shotgun felt the same, and the riot-shot hurt badly, particularly within the fifteen-meter range. He heard shouts and yelps.

  He leaned out again. Two of the men were down, writhing in pain. One was firing his stunner down the corridor in the opposite direction. He fired four more blasts, then leaned in. This time, two stunners fired back and hit short. They knew that hitting the wall would spread the charge along to the corner, even when covered with display material. That was why he wasn’t snuggled up against the wall for cover, thank you very much.

  The air crackled with ozone and various ionized particles, causing that specific odor from stunner fire that Joyce could never describe well. The mélange of stunner effluent, fried sweat and blood, and melted plastic from the display material on the deck and walls was overwhelming—then his nose shut down all input, in self-defense.

  He’d hoped to make the converts run before this. He leaned out as he fired rapidly, and saw seven more men coming off the elevator. Their living sh
ield was reduced to two men who were wavering; one had already run away and the two overwhelmed by the riot-shot were crawling away. His shotgun took down the final waverers.

  The seven new targets carried flechette pistols. Joyce pulled back behind cover, dropped the spent shotgun, and pulled his own pistol. As expected, only Abram’s men, the real crazies, had flechette weapons.

  His team members in the maintenance bay, bless their civvy hearts, held their fire as he used his shotgun. As instructed, they waited until the crazies exited, then dropped two of them with stunners. Now, however, two men split off to close with the maintenance bays. There were screams on both sides as flechettes met bursts from plasma torches.

  Three of the crazies were in emergency environmental suits, including the center one who turned toward Joyce. The suits gave partial protection against stunners, but only the faceplates would protect against flechettes. Joyce got a glimpse of wide, crazed-with-hate dark eyes before unloading a round of flechette ammo into the chest of the advancing suited man. As designed, the round expanded into twirling needles, hit the chest, and shredded the suit. The man’s steps faltered from the impact, but he kept coming.

  That bastard’s got body armor, at least in the chest area. Joyce was sure he was Abram. So far, nobody had been equipped with armor, but this changed things and made Joyce’s current tactics foolhardy.

  Abram aimed his pistol. Joyce pulled back behind the corner quickly, but something slammed his shoulder. He heard a scream from Carly and, looking down, saw what was left of his right shoulder. Now the pain welled up and his sight blurred. As he backed away from the corner, he managed to get the flechette pistol into his left hand. He shouted, “Fall back,” over his shoulder.

  Abram came around the corner with the false confidence that armor gives nonprofessionals and Joyce fired his flechettes at Abram’s lower arm and hand. Abram yelled and dropped his weapon.

  “Fall back!” Still backing up, Joyce glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of Carly’s backside. She was running in a full-fledged dangerous retreat. You were supposed to fall back with your weapon pointed at the bad guys. Simple enough instructions, he’d thought, but now he had no hope of getting cover fire from her.

  Damn civvy. He was fucked. But he knew Carly might crumble, and that’s why she wasn’t in one of the maintenance bays. Turning back, he was astonished to see Abram already had the pistol off the floor and in his other hand. Abram shot before his pistol rose above knee level. The flechette round took out Joyce’s right knee and left behind ground meat.

  Please, Carly, turn around and shoot! As he fell, he brought up his left hand to fire the pistol, but that was also the arm and elbow he needed to cushion his fall. He pulled the trigger as he hit the floor and his shot went wide, up toward the ceiling where the flechette needles stuck in the display material.

  Abram leapt forward and kicked the pistol out of his hand.

  Carly, for the love of Gaia, shoot! He tried to grab Abram’s leg but missed. Abram stomped, pinning his left hand and wrist. He felt a spike of pain as something broke. He looked up into Abram’s faceplate and saw a rictus formed of hate and teeth.

  Abram aimed his pistol at Joyce’s unprotected neck, a killing shot. Abruptly, he staggered backward, a small magnetic bolt protruding from his chest. His other suited hand, the wounded one, flailed at it.

  Good, Carly. You gotta hit him again. Abram was still standing, trying to get his shot off at Joyce. His armor had slowed the penetration of the small bolt.

  Joyce’s sight was fading as Abram’s chest exploded above him. A shower of bloody viscera sprayed outward, bits landing on Joyce’s face. The business end of a big magnetic bolt protruded and pushed Abram’s rib cage outward. Abram’s hand jerked, and the flechette round missed Joyce’s neck and flayed the right edge of his chest.

  Good civvies, good Melissa . . . He passed out as Abram sagged forward and fell on him.

  The Minoan ship screamed and writhed in pain. Matt would have covered his ears, if he could have used his hands. As it was, his arms and legs pinwheeled about in an effort to protect his body. He wedged himself into a corner, with no time to consider that oddity in an originally oval room.

  “Ooof!” David Ray suddenly pressed against his side.

  “What the—”

  The corner tightened and the ship held them, squeezing them into jelly—no, they were surrounded by jelly. Matt couldn’t breathe.

  “What’s going on with the Minoan ship?” Aquino asked. “How come they’re suddenly showing on our sensors?”

  “Not sure, sir.” Captain Stavros magnified the trace display, which showed the Minoan ship suddenly taking an erratic vector. This was the first time they could clearly detect the ship.

  “Chief Warrant Officer Marinos on the Rhapsody reports one explosion has resulted in casualties—sending full report to Damage Assessment.” Lieutenant Kozel turned to look at the trace of the Minoan ship. “Do you want me to query the Minoans regarding their course?”

  “They made another course change,” Stavros said. “Whoops—another one. Sir, they’re going wonky, to quote the chief.”

  Oleander turned to watch Colonel Edones, who was frowning at the trace display.

  Edones’s cool blue glance moved to meet Oleander’s. “Lieutenant, what’s the status of our missiles? And what have we got on the light-speed data for the Candor Chasma, Captain Stavros?”

  “Eleven of the missiles reported in, sir,” Oleander said. “Eight of those suicided, with no target found. The others are in countdown, and I’ve lost comm with the twelfth.”

  “Sir, light-speed data indicates the Candor Chasma dropped to N-space. That report’s delayed by—” An alarm on the sensor console distracted Stavros and she tapped acknowledgment, silencing it. “We’re recording solar flares and rising radiation levels. Sorry, sir, I lost the Minoan ship. They apparently got their invisibility cloak back online.”

  “We’ll assume they’re back on course for boarding the Pilgrimage,” Edones said smoothly and quickly. “Lieutenant Kozel, if we’ve still got comm with the Rhapsody, tell them to prepare for strong solar flare activity. Hope they can protect those poor sods in EVA suits and reduce their radiation doses, but make the point they’re on their own. We’re too far away to help.”

  “Pilot and navigator, fastest speed toward the Pilgrimage . Get us behind Sophia One and in the shelter of that magnetosphere.” Aquino’s commands were sharp. The Bright Crescent carried more effective shielding than a pinnace like the Rhapsody, but he apparently thought they’d be in danger also.

  “Yes, sir.” Captain Hoak now sat in the pilot seat, replacing the exhausted Captain Janda.

  Oleander turned to see Aquino lean toward Edones. “What just happened?” Aquino asked in a low voice.

  “I think someone tried to use N-space to swallow a TD explosion. Some of the TD wave will leak and cause problems for the sun, even if we can’t detect it.”

  “Did the Minoans?” Aquino jerked his head toward the trace display.

  “Perhaps.” Edones looked thoughtful. “One practice they adamantly wanted stopped was the Terran ‘secret’ test procedure of shunting the TD wave into N-space. They were very insistent about enforcing the test treaty first.”

  “So we’re safe now.” Aquino’s tone was half question, half statement. “There’ll be no TD detonation.”

  “Well, we won’t see a quantum glitch in the sun’s fusion engine or any nova. However, we may still see strong coronal mass ejections.”

  Edones and Aquino lowered their voices and Oleander turned back to her console, but she could still hear scraps of their conversation. They discussed whether anything could be done to help those aboard the Rhapsody pinnace, the Aether’s Touch, and the TLS Percival. All those occupants would experience a more severe dose of solar-generated radiation than the Bright Crescent.

  “If they get a buoy lock, can they drop—”

  “Not when the buoy’s controlled by the i
solationists. But perhaps—”

  Oleander tried to ignore the quiet conversation behind her. She looked up at the trace diagram that Stavros displayed, which now included a snapshot of their half of the solar system out to Laomedon. The closest magnetosphere, for any of them, wrapped about and stretched behind Sophia I. However, the sensors and comm were degrading, due to interference from solar activity, and the ship traces were mostly intelligent guesswork. Aether’s Touch and Percival were probably heading toward Sophia I with all the boost they had—Percival easily outrunning Aether’s Touch, but not the EM radiation.

  She finished her report on the release of the missiles, signing with her thumbprint. Without sensor support, her best guess was that only one of the missiles came close to the Candor Chasma. She figured the ship sucked it into N-space during the transition. It was gone; any vehicles that entered N-space and weren’t attached to a buoy-locked referential engine, disappeared forever.

  “Lieutenant Oleander, find your second-shift weapons officer and report to the boarding teams forming on deck three,” Aquino said.

  “Yes, sir.” She stood up and stretched surreptitiously. This wasn’t over, not by a long shot. She had to stop worrying about radiation exposure and move on to the business of taking back the Pilgrimage III.

  CHAPTER 24

  Disheartened Autonomists might think the Consortium has run off its idealistic rails and consider Qesan’s isolationism attractive. First, however, you should realize his manifesto only applies to the elite males in a stratified society. I also suggest you read reports from the Enclave El Tozeur relief teams. Tribal leaders asked these teams about creating cheap, reliable methods for detecting and aborting female fetuses, which they called “abominations” if they took the rightful male position of first child. . . .

  —Misogynist Freaks, Lauren Swan Kincaid, 2103.043.11.25 UT, indexed by Heraclitus 29 under Conflict Imperative