With her hands clasped calmly in front of her on the desk, she said, “Good morning, Mr. Crow. I presume your Chinese visitors”—she paused very briefly at that word—“are listening in to this. If not, please let them know that I am glad we could offer them rescue and I have forwarded their proposal to my advisers for discussion. Convey my sincerest hope for a speedy resolution to this situation. Also, I’ve spoken to the chief of staff, who knows Admiral Fang-Castro quite well, and says that she can be quite the hard-ass. Inform the admiral that we do not consider her a prisoner of war at this point and that she can negotiate with the Chinese on behalf of the crew. She is not to negotiate the release of the QSUs or any other alien information. That is ours, and ours alone, pending discussions with the Chinese government. That’s all for now, and TTTFO.” Her hand reached over to click the off switch and the screen went blank.
Crow coughed, said, “Sorry, I’m a little nervous. You heard what we heard. Where does that leave us?”
Sun said, “Political doublespeak. I am familiar with it. They will discuss and stall for as long as they can. Eventually they will have to give in. We hold the ship. One thing I did not understand—this ‘TTTFO.’ Code of some sort, Mr. Crow?”
He smiled blandly. “Of a sort, Commander Cui. It’s diplomatic shorthand for the usual boilerplate formalities. Extend the other party the usual courtesies, try not to start a war, et cetera, et cetera.”
Fang-Castro joined the conversation. “So we have nothing of substance back. I didn’t expect we would. You are asking a lot of Washington, regardless of how much control you have over this vessel. Excuse my bluntness, but they are going to take some time over this.”
Sun said, “Double shit.”
“Yes. Now, as legal commander of this vessel, I need to talk in private with Mr. Crow. Regardless of what you may have effected, in the eyes of the U.S. government, I remain the only legitimate authority on this ship. I need to speak to Crow frankly about this situation, and through him, to the President. We can’t have those discussions in your presence. It would be like me expecting to sit in on the private policy discussions of your top party officials in Beijing. If we can’t have opportunities to talk in private, we can’t discuss anything of substance. It simply will not happen—Washington would never permit it.”
Crow did his best to look both sincere and harmless, and added, “I understand you’d consider this a risk. The admiral and I can meet here, and you can search my quarters again. You won’t find any weapons or equipment a diplomat in my position wouldn’t be expected to have. We have no arms, no means to communicate with the rest of the crew, and we will be locked in.”
Sun hated the idea. Who knew what mischief they might dream up? Realistically, though, they were right. If this impasse were to end, they’d have to do more than glare at each other. Reluctantly, she nodded to Cui. “This is getting us nowhere, and we have matters of our own to discuss.”
With curt nods, the Chinese left the room and the door snicked shut.
Fang-Castro turned to Crow. “David, I didn’t think you had it in you. You had me totally convinced.”
Crow raised an eyebrow. “Of what? That I could be diplomatic? It’s necessary at times.”
She chuckled. “No, it’s more that you can come off as so middle management.”
“Much of the time, I need to be not-noticed.”
She understood. “One question, though—that TTTFO? That seemed to catch you up for a second.”
“She surprised me with that,” he said. “It’s White House shorthand, usually applied to members of Congress. Means ‘Tell them to fuck off.’”
61.
The Chinese returned to Crow’s quarters about an hour and a half after they left. They knocked before entering, to Fang-Castro’s surprise.
Cui smiled. “We understand your need for private communication and we want a proper resolution to the problem. In line with that, we’ve drawn up a schedule for the release of your people from their quarters. Not all at the same time, of course, but on a rotating schedule. I believe my people have also distinguished between crew members who are necessary to the continued operation of the Nixon and those who are merely passengers, like our scientists were.
“I think we have drawn up an acceptable duty roster, but please review it. We would also like to do a complete Engineering shift change. They have already been on duty for twice the normal time. We don’t wish there to be any misunderstanding with the on-duty or off-duty teams, so we are providing you with a comm channel to both. Please inform them that you are authorizing this shift change and that we will be shepherding the new engineering team down and the old one back to their quarters.”
Fang-Castro was rankled by having the terms of operation of her ship dictated to her. She swallowed her annoyance; the Chinese were doing the right things, but . . . they shouldn’t have been there at all.
She issued the orders. “You don’t think you can keep control of the ship indefinitely, do you? There just aren’t enough of you to monitor everyone, everywhere, all the time.”
Lieutenant Sun shook her head. “We don’t expect to hold control indefinitely. Just until we get what we want: an equal share in the alien discoveries.”
“We’ve already explained that full access to our computer system and data files is impossible without a presidential directive to release the crypto key, and hell is likely to freeze over before that happens,” she said. “You might as well shoot us now, if that’s what you’re waiting for.”
Crow said, “You’re both military, so I’m sure you can understand this: getting superuser status on that system would be a breach of U.S. security on an unprecedented level. You’d have access to the designs and engineering information for the Nixon, all communications we’ve had with Earth, the security and crypto protocols that supported those communications, and every bit of political or military information that happens to be in the system. That would compromise U.S. operations for years. At the very least we’d have to treat every channel of communication as unsecured until it could be completely replaced and the code rewritten from scratch. If you can start mining our datastore, you don’t just learn what data we’re securing, you learn how we do it. It’s not even open to consideration. If you think it is, imagine what your own superiors would say to the idea that you give us the key to the Celestial Odyssey’s datastore.”
Cui looked at her feet: almost a concession of defeat. Then her eyes came up: “But the QSUs aren’t encrypted. You give us two QSUs, and two readers, you jeopardize nothing—”
Sun: “Except your plan to dominate Earth’s technology for a few hundred years . . . which is exactly what we can’t allow. Give us the QSUs.”
Fang-Castro said, “With our ship and people being held hostage, I can pretty much guarantee that Santeros won’t negotiate over the QSUs. Even if she wasn’t mightily pissed off. Her policy has been to never, ever give in to ransom demands.”
Sun opened her mouth to answer, but Crow jumped in: “We need to relax. All of us. Leave it to the governments. Right now, the main thing we all need is patience.”
The Chinese left again.
Fang-Castro said to Crow, “If we hint that we’re willing to give a centimeter, Cui and Sun’ll conclude we’re vulnerable to pressure, and they will ratchet up that pressure in the expectation we will ultimately capitulate on all demands. We won’t, but they will assume we will. They will make things as unpleasant as they possibly can to reach that objective.”
“I’m worried they could decide that you’re bluffing about using the kill switches, and they start shooting people until we turn over the QSUs. You’ve got to think about what you’d do, Naomi. If they say they’re going to shoot one person every so many hours until we give in. If they don’t think you’ll give in, they’ll start with you until, eventually, they work their way down to someone who will. Once that kind of bloodshed starts, it�
��s hard to stop. Even triggering the kill switches might not put an end to it. A very few of our people still have access to weapons, and they might decide on their own to take the ship back. They might even succeed, if they got lucky. A truckload of people would die in the process, though.”
“I have been thinking about that. But you know what? I don’t think they’ll do it. I don’t think they have as much freedom to act as I do. If they start shooting people, it’ll be because the chairman ordered them to. And that could lead to a war of some sort. Will the chairman go to war?”
“Don’t know.”
The Chinese and Fang-Castro put together duty rosters that let most of the Nixon’s crew move about the ship; the Chinese had to do that, simply to keep the ship operating. They maintained armed guards at key points, including the entrance to Engineering, and the bridge, where they monitored and controlled the communications, ship security, and safety workstations. Another person had to supervise life support and one more covered the cafeteria/commons. They agreed to let Fang-Castro and Crow consult in private. When they weren’t talking, Fang-Castro was confined to quarters, except for mandatory exercise. She was allowed inbound entertainment vids.
Crow was not confined, but was allowed access to the ship for two shifts a day, sixteen hours. He spent most of his time talking either to Fang-Castro or to the personnel who still had access to weapons: there were seven of them, but only four were out at the same time.
On the second day, the Chinese government offered a compromise: Martinez and two Chinese engineers would fab a rocket-powered capsule that would contain two of the QSUs, and put them in an orbit back to Earth, where the Chinese would pick it up on arrival.
The American government refused to negotiate any settlement as long as the Nixon was forcibly held by the Chinese.
“Something’s gotta happen,” Crow told Sandy, as they sat in the cafeteria. “The Chinese don’t have enough people to keep this up.”
“I know. There are nineteen of them—turns out they had one hidden on the Odyssey, which I didn’t find out until last night. That boy had some guts. Two of them, Dr. Mo and that Dr. Gao, they’re not military and nobody’s gonna make a guard out of them. So there are seventeen of them, including Cui and Sun, and that’s not enough for everything they have to watch.”
“How many do you think we could take down before things evened out?”
“Should we be talking here about this?” Sandy looked about, a bit nervously.
“Safest place,” replied Crow. “They don’t have enough people to monitor in real time, especially in the Commons, with the mikes picking up overlapping conversations. They don’t all speak great English.” He shrugged. “There’s risk, but this whole business is well into risky territory. You think of a better place to talk, fine. You won’t.”
“If you say so. Okay, my best guess?” Sandy gave him the big goofy grin, just a couple of good ol’ boys bullshittin’ here, eating fake bacon and waffles. “If all your guys with guns could get out at the same time, and they probably could, if we worked it right . . . we could probably get eight of them before they could react. The problem is, they’ve got communications, and we don’t. They’ll know instantly that the shooting’s started, and they’ve got better weapons. After we took out eight of them, they’d start getting some of us . . . and there aren’t that many of us. And what do we do if they hole up and start taking hostages and killing them?”
Crow chuckled. “Want another cup of coffee?”
“Sure.”
Crow got two more, sat down again, scratched his neck, and said, “Then there’s the question of what happens if we’re about to win. Would Sun do something to blow the ship? She wouldn’t have to do much. A few shots into the cafeteria view window and the decompression would take out most of the crew . . . and kill her, of course, but maybe she’d do it.”
“There’s something else I’ve been meaning to talk to you about,” Sandy said. “Way back when, I asked you if I could be a major, and you said, ‘No, but you could be a captain.’ Did I ever get that promotion? I mean, really? On paper?”
“To tell you the truth, I forgot all about it,” Crow said.
“But when Becca was killed, and you had to tell the doc about my post-traumatic stress problem so he could rig the grief drugs . . . you called me ‘captain,’” Sandy said.
“Just giving you a little more status in the eyes of the crew, you know. Letting them know you weren’t just some jerk-off Hollywood videographer. . . . But if you’re really worried about it, I can talk to the guys on Earth and get the routine started.”
Sandy got his grin going again and slumped in his chair and said, “That’s not where I’m going, Crow. When we went over to the Celestial Odyssey, Sun referred to me as ‘Captain Darlington.’ Showing off, like she did with you.”
Crow rubbed a spot between his eyes and said, “Okay. I missed it, goddamnit. Where’d she get the ‘captain’?”
“Curious minds . . .”
Crow glanced around the cafeteria. A dozen people, eating and chatting, two sleepy-looking Chinese . . . with guns. “They’ve not only got a spy on board, he could talk to them. Maybe talk to them directly, ship to ship.”
“Yeah. So if you decide to cook up a little revolution . . . who do you trust?”
“Ah, Jesus.”
As it happened, trust wasn’t critical.
62.
No one was entirely sure what Lieutenant Albi Summerhill had in mind when he came on shift at the security station, midday on Sunday, April 29, 2068. He hadn’t discussed plans ahead of time with anyone, hadn’t even hinted at any. Maybe he hadn’t had one. Maybe he just thought he saw an opportunity and seized it.
Whatever his reason and forethought, or lack of it, shortly after one o’clock in the ship’s afternoon, when the Chinese soldier who was monitoring Summerhill’s activities was eating his lunch, Summerhill attempted to surreptitiously unlock all the American crew quarters from the security panel.
Lieutenant Lei was not as distracted as Summerhill had thought. He pushed toward the console, his sidearm drawn, and ordered the lieutenant to relock the doors. When Summerhill tried to stall him, Lei attempted to push past and take control of the security station himself. Summerhill grabbed him, they wrestled, and Lei’s firearm went off.
They recoiled from each other, the Chinese as startled as the American, the American bleeding from the back of the head and the neck. The blood dripped with surreal slowness as the American’s body toppled slowly toward the deck.
As Summerhill and Lei began struggling, Lieutenant Peng Cong launched himself at them from the opposite side of the deck, leaving Ferris Langers unsupervised at the ship’s safety and communication station. As Summerhill dropped toward the deck, Peng waved his pistol at Langers: “Call for help! Call for a medic,” he screeched.
Langers hit the open channel tab, his call went out ship-wide.
“Shots fired on the bridge. We have a man down. We need medical personnel here, immediately.”
Seconds later he got nearly simultaneous acknowledgments back from Doctors Manfred and Mo—“On my way,” “Coming.”
Peng swung himself back toward the bleeding American. Lei was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but it was like trying to stop a river with his fingers. Summerhill began to shake uncontrollably.
Peng screamed at Langers, “Tell them to hurry, hurry, hurry . . . he is dying!”
Langers called again.
Too late.
Mo arrived first, Manfred a second later. Mo crouched next to Summerhill, his feet in the growing puddle of blood that seeped across the floor of the bridge. Mo touched Summerhill with an extension from his slate; Manfred crowded next to him, looking at the slate, then they looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads. No heartbeat, no brain function.
Lei’s bullet had ripped through
Summerhill’s carotid artery on its way into his head, through a piece of his brain, and out the far side of his skull.
Manfred stood up: “He’s gone,” he said.
Peng stood staring for a moment. Lei’s gun lay on the floor, in the blood puddle. Peng turned toward Langers and extended his own pistol, and Langers put out his hands to fend off the bullet. Peng said, “No, no . . . take it.”
He turned the gun in his hands and extended it to Langers butt-first.
—
Cui was in her quarters, Sun doing a check on her sentries when the call went out. “Shots fired on the bridge . . .” A moment later, “Dr. Manfred, hurry, hurry . . .” and in the background, the sound of heavily accented English, “Get back, get back . . .”
Sun bolted for the bridge, nearly ran into Cui running out of her cabin. “We’re done,” Cui said.
“We’re not done,” Sun snarled.
The bridge was locked: Sun called for Peng to open the door, but the door didn’t open. Peng didn’t answer.
“Something’s going on in there. . . . Maybe Peng was shot,” Sun said. She looked wildly around, then said, “The Commons.”
“What?”
“The Commons, the Commons, that’s where the most people will be.”
“What . . .”
But Sun was already running, shaking loose her handgun as she went. There were fourteen Americans in the Commons, including the kitchen crew. Sun skidded to a stop as she entered: the two Chinese guards had drawn their sidearms and were facing the Americans across a narrow open space. Sun shouted, “Americans. Sit down. Sit down behind the tables.”
“What are we doing?”
Sun commed Peng, then Lei, got no answer. She grabbed one of the Chinese guards and said, “Go to the bridge. Pound on the door. Tell them to hook me to Fang-Castro.”
Crow was in his quarters when the call from the bridge went out.
If someone had been shot . . .
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