Crisis

by David Drake

  Barish tried to turn around, but the chute was too narrow. Crawling backward was impossible because the belt moved faster than he could crawl. He tried to stop the conveyer belt by bracing his hands against the walls, but only succeeded in ripping the flesh from his palms.

  Looking forward, he could see the spinning blades of the shredder coming nearer. In desperation he shoved his carbine in front of him, firing wildly.

  The barrel of the weapon caught in the blades of the shredder, and was jerked violently from Barish’s bloody hands. The machine tried to shred the gun, but to no avail. It jammed between the blades, and the conveyer belt stopped.

  Barish was on the verge of tears of joy when the barrel of the carbine snapped, and the belt leaped forward, pitching him into the shredder. His scream dissolved into a spray of pink foam as the blades reduced him to mulch.

  Geek, hearing the screams echoing up from the garbage chute, fired wildly down into the blackness, then leaped back out into the hall to reload. The magazine slipped in his fingers as he fumbled with the weapon. When he finally fitted it into its slot and slapped it home, Geek started to breathe easier.

  Thick, viscous oil exuded from the tubes that covered his head like hair, and the slimy golden liquid ran down his shoulders and covered his clothes. Geek stood up, shook his head, and moved on down the corridor, checking doors. It was at the end of the corridor that he noticed the light seeping under one of the doors. Carefully he tried the push plate and the door swung open.

  It was a locker room, with lockers along one wall, some benches in the center, and several shower cubicles along the other wall. Geek picked up a towel and wiped off his weapon, then tried to wipe his own secretions from his hands and clothes. Finding it impossible, he looked at one of the shower cubicles. Tentatively he tested the water for both pressure and temperature. Turning the water on full, he stepped into the shower.

  The hanging basket of moss in the corner sensed the presence of someone in the room, and the video camera confirmed that it was one of the intruders. In the pond the plants began to move in a rhythmic Coriolis pattern, the soft ripples being detected by the computer, which immediately closed all drains and locked the shower valves on.

  It was fully two minutes before Geek realized that the water level in the cabinet was halfway to his knees. After trying in vain to shut off the water, he tried to force the door open, to smash its translucent panel, but to no avail. As the hot water rose higher, Geek was seized with panic and his hair excreted even more of the oily amber liquid. He tried to scream, but his mouth filled with water, drowning out any sound.

  Haan and Yrbetta were too pragmatic to worry about locked doors. A solid boot on the push plate usually did the trick–not that there was anything worth taking in this part of the ship. These were the transport quarters, used during the last war to ferry officers to the front-line action. They hadn’t been used in a year, and all were empty.

  As the two Gections rounded the comer, they came face-to-face with a treasure well beyond their limited imaginations. There, growing on the wall in a big silver tank, was mint, the rarest psychedelic-aphrodisiac they had ever known. Back on their home planet, that much mint would be worth enough to establish a family for five, maybe six generations. Even allowing for excessive personal use, they were set for life.

  Dropping their rifles, the two of them began to scoop great handfuls of the mint out of the tank and stuff it into their packs, pausing occasionally to put a wad in their mouths and chew like mad. Soon the frenzied activity began to slow down as the Gections came under the influence of the drug. As the aphrodisiac took effect, they began to weave and sway, slowly making their way to the nearest door. Yrbetta began to pull off his clothes as Haan tried to open the door, and succeeded.

  Like the transport quarters, the airlock on that level hadn’t been used since they had carried that last big batch of Fleet officers at the end of the Khalian wars. But the computer, acting on instructions from Veg-o-matic down in the pond, had no trouble overriding the safety circuit. Haan and Yrbetta, locked in a drug-crazed embrace, were sucked out into space, along with a dubious fortune in mint leaves.

  * * *

  It had taken forty minutes, and Ellis and his remaining men had barely moved one hundred meters down the corridor. Ellis was fuming, and his eye was burning like the coals of hell.

  “That’s it!” he shouted. “This ain’t right. How many raids have we been on? Fifteen, twenty? And did we ever board a ship that’s as tight as this one? No. And you know why? Because this isn’t a ship, it’s a trap. Come on, we’re going back to the sled.”

  They had come to the first bulkhead hatch, and Ellis had already ducked through it, when the current hit the men behind him.

  At first they only felt a tingling sensation in their legs. But as the current built in power and amperage, the tingling turned to pain and the men started to scream, stuck to the deck and unable to escape. As it reached full power, the men were slowly incinerated before Ellis’s glassy-eyed stare. He gaped at the charred corpses and fought back the bile that was rising in the back of his throat. Then, dropping his weapon, he turned and ran back toward the pocket rocket.

  He pulled up short and ducked for cover as he reemerged on the flight deck, for Talley and Huntley were standing over the inert form of his Khalian pilot. The Weasel’s tail was pointing stiffly overhead, and the end was badly charred.

  Talley touched the Khalian with the point of his sword. “So tell me again what happened,” he said. His voice was incredulous.

  “Well,” began Huntley, “I was working my way up alongside the hangar so that I could try to sneak in to the sled here, when this one comes out and walks around to the front of his ship and starts to relieve himself.” Huntley was trying hard not to laugh. “Suddenly there’s this big blue flash, and everything smells of singed cat hair. Must’ve shorted a wire or something.”

  Talley nodded. “Yeah, it must have been something, all right. Okay, get a tug and drive it over here. We’ve got to get this sled turned around.”

  Stunned, Ellis moved around to the other side of the deck and quietly climbed up to the airlock, slipping through the door and heading forward to the side cargo decks. The lift panel on the freight elevator indicated that the car was parked on the fourteenth cargo level. Playing a hunch, Ellis punched the call button and, when the elevator arrived, entered and sent it back down to level 14. On the ride down, he turned out the lights and reached into his boot for the thick-bladed knife that he always carried. When the car finally stopped, he was crouching low, ready to spring if anyone tried to enter the car.

  The door opened to an empty corridor of the freight docks. Carefully, Ellis stepped out of the elevator and surveyed his surroundings. If there was anyone here, they could be hiding anywhere. The best thing to do would be to look for obvious hiding places–the sort someone might run to, if in a panic. That meant straight ahead.

  Quietly Ellis moved down the aisle between the rows of carefully stacked freight. Twice he paused, straining to catch even the slightest sound, but there was nothing except for the emptiness of the room.

  As he moved farther along the corridor he felt his foot slip just a bit as he brought his full weight onto it. He glanced down and saw several large splashes of hydroponic fluid crossing the space between the two rows of freight. Looking more closely with his one remaining eye, he spotted the violets hanging in the basket next to the bulkhead. He put his hand into the basket and it came away wet. He turned and looked at the freight opposite the flowers.

  Surveying the military field toilets, Ellis had to admit that they provided excellent cover and concealment. Shame about leaving the tracks though. Could have just as easily put up a neon sign. Standing outside Purvis’s hideout, he considered his next move, finally bending close to tap softly. Inside, he felt rather than heard someone move.

  “It’s okay to come out now,” he whispered, smiling. “It’s over.”

  Inside, Purvis wasn’t
taking any chances. She remained motionless and said nothing.

  “Come on, open up,” the same voice again. “It’s all right.”

  Purvis slowly let out her breath. The voice didn’t belong to the skipper or any of the crew that had been left behind. That meant it had to belong to one of the raiders. And since the voice was reasoned, then it probably belonged to the Syndicate rep. In any event, the owner of the voice knew where she was, and if he wanted to be nasty–well the odds were in his favor, to a point. Gripping the scalpel tightly behind her, Purvis unlocked the door.

  The door slowly started to open but then stopped.

  “Wait. I think I hear someone coming.”

  Instinctively Purvis opened the door. “Quick, get in . . .”

  Ellis needed no second invitation. Before Purvis could react, he was in the booth with her, one hand over her mouth, the other stabbing repeatedly into her abdomen.

  With a look of wide-eyed innocence, Dr. Edna Purvis died almost before she realized that she had betrayed herself. The Syndicate spy slumped to the floor next to the violets that had been crushed during her last, brief struggle. Unseen, a video monitor in the far corner focused on the broken flowers.

  Ellis reached out and closed the door of the field toilet, locking it behind him as he did. As he was looking at Purvis’s body, contemplating his next move, he did not hear the silent hum of the electric gantry as it stopped above him.

  Operated by a computer deep within the ship, two strong hydraulic arms descended from the machine and clamped tightly to the sides of the field toilet. Lifting the toilet clear of the ground, the gantry then hummed across the ceiling and moved to the far forward end of the ship. Inside, Ellis felt the movement and beat frantically on the door, but it was held closed by the unit’s pincerlike grip.

  Finally, the gantry had the high-tech outhouse in just the right position, not five meters from the barrel of an ARP Gatling gun. Capable of firing one hundred rounds per second, it too was a holdover from the last days of the Khalian wars, installed as a last-ditch measure to prevent boarders from entering the ship by the forward cargo hatch. Slowly the cargo doors behind the field toilet opened, and for an instant Ellis, trapped inside, could feel the pressure drop.

  Then the ARP opened up.

  What sound could be heard in the thinning air sounded like ripping sailcloth as the three-second burst pulped the sanitary sanctuary and everything that was in it. With mercifully uncanny accuracy, the first round smashed through Ellis’s skull, just inches from where his missing eye had been. He never knew what hit him.

  On the hangar deck Huntley had managed to turn the sled, and had the pocket rocket pointing at the hangar doors.

  “Okay,” said Talley, “get into the control tower and open the doors. I’ll see how this puppy flies.”

  Huntley trotted off to the control tower, tipped the lever, and opened the hangar doors. Below him on the flight deck, he saw the thrusters on the pocket rocket ignite, and Talley shot gracefully out the door.

  Inside the Syndicate raider, its pilot watched as the sled came up closer and, at the last moment, flipped over on its back to dock with the larger ship. A moment later he felt the gentle bump of the pocket rocket sliding into the hangar bay of the ship. He settled down to a quick preflight check, and didn’t pay any attention to the man approaching from behind until he felt the sword prick the back of his neck.

  He turned slightly, but the voice caused him to freeze where he was.

  “Don’t even think about it. Just put this ship down in the hold of my transporter.” Talley added, almost as an afterthought, “I’d try for a very smooth landing if I were you.”

  * * *

  Once the hangar-deck doors were closed and the deck pressurized, Huntley met Talley at the hatch of the Syndicate raider. The pilot was the first out, and stood by quietly as Talley crawled out the hatch behind him. He said nothing to either man, but rather waited for them to make the next move. Talley Iost no time in making that move.

  As soon as his feet hit the deck, Talley had his prisoner flat on his face on the ground. Using a nylon strap, he ziplocked the man’s hands behind his back, then dragged him upright and shoved him toward Huntley.

  “Lock him in one of the cabins. I’ll want to talk to him before Fleet gets their hands on him.”

  An hour later Talley had discovered the remains of most of the pirates. He had also begun to develop a grudging respect for the Veg-o-matic and her unusual control system.

  In the kitchen, Chief Commissary Officer Ruel was pouring Lieutenant Bermann a cup of coffee as Talley came in through the main companionway door. As he pushed the door open, he tripped the deadfall that Thelma had so carefully constructed. Before he could be warned, it was too late, and several hundred kilos of slightly thawed broccoli and dehydrated eggs came cascading down.

  Talley hit the floor like he’d been pole-axed, sliding across the galley and coming to rest at the feet of the galley slave. Everything went hazy, and Talley found himself back in the dream where he was a cadet, and Thelma Ruel kept trying to force her attentions on him.

  He didn’t return to full consciousness for almost an entire day. When he did, the first thing he saw was the cook as she held out a spoonful of soup. In it floated large chunks of green and white.

  “Eat,” she encouraged him. “Vegetables can be good for you.”

  Talley found it hard to argue.

  Articles of War

  Article XII

  Every Person, not otherwise subject to this Act, who, being on board any ship, shall endeavor to seduce from his Duty or Allegiance any Person subject to this Act, shall so far as respects such Offence be deemed to be a Person subject to this Act, and shall suffer Death or such other Punishment as is herein-after mentioned.

  Article VIII

  Every Person subject to this Act who shall, without any treacherous intention, hold any improper Communication with the Enemy, shall be dismissed with Disgrace, or shall suffer such other Punishment as is herein-after mentioned.

  Admiral “Dynamite” Duane bent over a display of space within ten light-years of the Khalian/Target system. They were coming. Scoutships had hovered at the fringes of the Syndicate fleet for almost a year. The attrition rate among these observers had been over eighty percent. But their vigilance had paid off. A tachyon transmission from an approaching scout had brought the warning that the entire enemy fleet had jumped up to FTL and was less than a day behind it.

  This left Duane with a decision he had been dreading for months. The glowing yellow blips representing Khalia and Target were inches apart in his tank. These two planets were the only places worth defending, or attacking, for a hundred light-years. They were also so close that until the Syndicate fleet dropped back into normal space, there was no way to determine which was their objective.

  Both worlds were vital to any future Alliance effort to carry the war to the worlds of the Families. Target contained the largest spaceport outside of the home port of the Fleet itself circling Tau Ceti. It contained repair facilities capable of servicing a hundred ships and refining and storage capacity greater than those on Regulus IV. And the Syndicate’s leaders had to be aware of this. They had built the port to support their then Khalian allies.

  Six hours’ flight time away from Target sat Khalia. On that planet sat half a billion “Weasels,” once the pawns of the Syndicate and now sworn to serve the Alliance with equal fervor (an enthusiasm about which Duane was more than a little skeptical). Also on Khalia were dozens of automated small-arms factories capable of producing an impressive array of deadly Weasel- or man-carried weapons. Khalia’s manpower and resources made it fully as valuable as the facilities on the much more thinly populated Target.

  A space battle is often a game of numbers. Like every other major battle, victory went to those who fought the best with the most. Intelligence estimated that the Syndicate’s fleet at least equaled that which Duane how commanded. That had at least in part given the premat
urely graying admiral many sleepless nights. Duane simply could not afford to defend both planets. While they were too close to allow him to determine which the enemy would strike at, they were too far for any ships assigned to one to support the other. The two Khalian worlds were six hours’ flying time apart. It was unusual for a space battle to last more than two. With virtually no basis to make it, he had less than twelve hours to decide which world to defend. If he guessed right, they would have their battle. If he was wrong, the undefended world would be a charred cinder by the time they could correct the mistake.

  Staring at the tank, Duane hoped for a miracle. Trying by sheer force of desire to have a letter appear like on the temple wall in Babylon. “Mene, men defend Target, or may Khalia,” he visualized them. Neither seemed correct, neither seemed wrong. Ready to act, Duane hesitated. He was still staring into the tank three hours later when he got his answer. Though from a source far less angelic than he had expected.

  THE LASER HIT burned through the Kildare’s shields and vaporized the aft attitude jets in an instantaneous burst of explosion. The ejection of debris and gaseous propellant created recoil that the damaged system failed to counter.

  On the bridge, in the act of rising to visit the head, Commander Jensen was spun sideways into the com console. The impact left more than a bruise. Over the stabbing pain of cracked ribs, and through the high-pitched, excited curse from the pilot on helm duty, the officer assigned charge of the Kildare strove against a mind-whirling onrush of vertigo to muster the necessary attitude of command.

  “Damages?” he gasped on an intake of air that was all he could manage, being winded.

  Across a narrow aisle banked on either side with instrumentation, the ensign still strapped in his seat recovered from surprise. “Aft attitude thruster’s gone, sir, portside. Also the rear screen sensor. Burnt clear out. Hull’s intact, but we’Il need the engineer’s report to know if it’s stable.”