Privateers

by Ben Bova

  “You’re the boss,” said the technician.

  The two men watched silently as the Russian shuttle maneuvered toward the factory’s main airlock. The delta-winged craft rotated ninety degrees, so that the hatch built into its top, just aft of the flight deck, locked onto the factory’s airlock. To Dan and the laser operator, the shuttle appeared to be below them; it was as if they were floating a few hundred yards above it.

  The whine of the power generator was almost beyond the range of human hearing as Dan murmured to the technician, “Okay, now. Slice his balls off.”

  The tech grunted once, took the wet, chewed cigar butt out of his mouth and jammed it into a pocket on the leg of his coveralls, then began tapping on the buttons of his control console as delicately as a church organist playing a Bach fugue. High overhead, Dan saw one of the big copper mirrors, thick and square as a coffin, swing silently in its jeweled mounting. He knew it was his imagination, but he thought he could feel the air inside this pod crackling as the mirror began to shimmer, like a desert landscape in the heat of the burning sun.

  Turning his head so quickly that it spun his body about, Dan saw a scalpel-thin line etching itself slowly across the top of the Russian shuttle, angling across its white body just forward of the root of the rakishly angled tail fin.

  “Inner airlock has been opened,” Kaktins’ voice reported over the intercom grill built into the control board. “They are entering main section.”

  “Are they in suits?” Dan asked.

  “No space suits. Only soldier uni-Ah! One of them shot out the camera. Barbarian thugs!”

  “Have you taken all the space suits out of the lockers?”

  “Yes, yes,” Kaktins replied, sounding almost miffed at the question. “Just as you ordered. All suits here in control center with us. No suits anywhere else in factory.”

  “Good. Fine. We’ll be back there with you in about five minutes.”

  “Better hurry. There are about thirty of them, and they are shooting out TV cameras as they spread through factory.”

  “We’re done here,” the technician said, pulling a fresh cigar from his chest pocket.

  Dan saw that the dark-edged cut had sliced completely across the shuttle’s rear end. That should do it, he thought. When they try to light up their engines to get back home, they’ll find out that they’re stuck here. They can limp back to Nueva Venezuela on their maneuvering thrusters, if they have enough fuel left in them. But they can’t retro-burn and return to Earth.

  “Okay,” Dan said, clapping the technician on the back hard enough to send his new cigar spinning out of his mouth. “Let’s haul ass back to the control center.”

  Vasily Malik stood uneasily in the vast, echoing, gloomy expanse of the space factory’s main workshop. The machines were still and silent. The big, high-vaulted chamber was only dimly lit; most of the lamps set up among the curving ribs of the ceiling had been turned off.

  Malik was accustomed to weightlessness, but he did not enjoy it. He was not an astronaut or engineer who had to learn how to work in zero gravity; he was a government official who experienced zero-gee when he traveled into space and much preferred to feel some solid weight, even the feather-light pull of the Moon, and to know in his guts that up was up and down was down. Now he stood alongside a huge pile of machinery, heavy metal beams and grasping arms that looked like a giant robot’s workbench. The chamber felt chilly to Malik, as if the cold and darkness of the void outside were seeping into it.

  Nonsense, he told himself. Randolph thinks that he has me at a disadvantage here. But he will soon learn that I can ferret him out here or anywhere else that he tries to hide from me.

  One of the young lieutenants came gliding up to him and stopped himself only by grabbing at the edge of the aluminum beam next to where Malik stood.

  “They have evacuated every section my men have searched, sir,” said the lieutenant, a little breathlessly. “The place is empty.”

  “They are here,” Malik insisted. “They must have retreated farther, into those pods on the far side of the factory.”

  “Yessir,” agreed the lieutenant.

  Malik saw that more than a dozen soldiers were milling around the outer areas of this big, shadowy chamber, bobbing slightly in the weightlessness. He pulled a flat, slim portable computer about the size of a hand from his back pocket and touched a button at its base. Its display screen glowed to life.

  “According to the plan of this place,” he said as the lieutenant peered over his shoulder, “we have entered the factory from here, the main airlock, and worked our way to here, the machine shop.”

  “Yessir.” The lieutenant pointed with an extended finger. “My men have come along this section, past the control center and living quarters, while the other squad has come through this way, where the communications and life support centers are.”

  “And they are all empty. No one in them.”

  “That is correct, sir.”

  “You left men at the communications and life support centers?”

  “Yessir! As you ordered.”

  Malik studied the computer screen. “Good. They must be hiding out in these arms, where the smelters and lasers are located.”

  “If they’re here at all, sir,” ventured the lieutenant.

  “Oh, he’s here,” Malik said. “I can smell him. He’s here, cowering in some dark corner like a trapped rat.”

  “Malik!” The word boomed through the sepulchral chamber like the voice of God. “Vasily Malik, can you hear me?”

  Looking up into the eerie shadows of the steel-ribbed ceiling, Malik shouted, “Randolph! Where are you?”

  “I’m at your jugular vein, Malik.”

  Without thinking about it consciously, Malik pulled his pistol from the holster at his hip. “Give yourself up, Randolph. Surrender yourself and there will be no more bloodshed. Let Lucita go. There’s no reason for you to hold her as a hostage.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong, friend,” Randolph’s voice boomed from the loudspeakers in the ceiling. “You’re the one who has to surrender. You’ve led your men into a trap.”

  “Don’t try to bluff your-”

  “Haven’t you noticed that it’s getting cold in there? I’ve turned down the air pressure.”

  The young lieutenant stared at Malik, his mouth hanging open.

  “Your shuttle is crippled and all the passageways leading back to the main airlock have been opened up to vacuum, as of … now.”

  Malik heard the clang of airtight hatches slamming shut and the distant, muffled Klaxons that warned of air pressure loss.

  “It’s an old Russian strategy.” Randolph chuckled. “Lead the enemy into your territory and scorch the earth behind him. You’re trapped, pal. If I want to, I can pop open the emergency hatches in there. Ever see what happens to a human body when it’s suddenly exposed to vacuum? It’s called explosive decompression. Not pretty.”

  “You’re bluffing! We have occupied the control center, the life support center. …”

  “Sure you have. But I had the equipment in them disconnected before we retreated back here. We’re running everything from the emergency backup equipment out here in the smelter pod.”

  “I don’t believe you!”

  Randolph’s laugh grated against Malik’s nerves. “You don’t believe me? Then go pry open one of the hatches. Blow it open with a grenade, if you’re carrying any. I only wish I had a working camera in there so I could see you when your skin bursts and your eyes blow out of your head.”

  “You’ve killed my men?”

  “Not yet. They’re locked into the communications and life support centers. The airtight hatches will keep them safe, as long as they don’t try to get out.”

  Malik fought down a wave of fear-driven fury that threatened to engulf him. He took a deep breath and looked down at the pistol in his hand until he was quite certain that it was not trembling. Still, his palms felt slick with perspiration.

  “This
delaying action won’t prevent the inevitable, Randolph,” he said, feeling frustrated at having to talk into the shadows. “Soviet spacecraft are on their way here with more troops. …”

  “Are they?” Dan’s voice cut in. “You’d better come up here and take a look.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go to the airlock hatch labeled number four. Enter it. We’ll cycle the hatch from here. Follow my instructions when the other side opens and I’ll lead you here to the smelter pod.”

  Malik’s eyes scanned the perimeter of the big, darkened chamber. He saw a hatch with the numeral four glowing in white above it.

  “Come alone,” Dan’s voice warned. “And leave your gun behind.”

  Chapter FORTY

  From the control station high above the main smelters, Dan watched the TV monitors as Malik made his way along the long tubular passageway from the main machine shop to the smelter pod. As far as he could see, the Russian was unarmed. His holster flapped emptily. But there were plenty of places to hide a weapon inside the tunic, pants and boots of his uniform.

  And he claims to be a martial arts expert, Dan reminded himself. “You’ll have to search him,” he said to Kaktins.

  The Latvian nodded, a lopsided grin on his face. “It will be new experience for me for Russian to be prisoner.”

  Most of the men and women of the factory complex were gathered down in the smelter area where, ordinarily, raw ores from the Moon were melted down and separated into their constituent aluminum, titanium, silicon, oxygen and other elements. But now the smelters were cold and quiet, their huge maws gaping blankly, the conveyor belts that fed them unmoving.

  The control center was a curving tube built above the big, blackened smelters. Row upon row of consoles and monitoring panels lined its length and wrapped themselves all around the circular inner walls, except for a long slit of a window that looked out on the smelters themselves. Built for zero-gravity operation, the control center contained no chairs at all, only occasional posts jutting out from the consoles, like perches for birds, where the technicians could roost and anchor themselves for a while. Dan hovered weightlessly in front of a set of display screens, like a man floating before a giant insect’s segmented eye. Behind him, half a dozen technicians watched the panels that now controlled the entire factory’s air, heat, electricity and communications.

  Far down the long line of consoles, almost lost to Dan’s sight by the bend of the curving room, Lucita stood in front of a communications screen, her blue-jeaned legs wrapped around an anchor post. Dan could make out her father’s face in the screen, drained almost white, eyes bleary.

  He put out a hand to steady himself as his body drifted slightly. Over his head, another set of screens showed the sight that he still found almost unbelievable: eight spacecraft, ranging in size from little flitters to big, delta-winged shuttles, converging on Nueva Venezuela. They bore the markings of the Pan-Arab Federation, Polynesia, the United African States, India and Japan: every space-faring nation or group of nations.

  “A message for you, boss,” called one of the communications technicians, a woman. “It’s from the Japanese shuttle. Sorry I can’t switch it to one of your monitors.”

  “That’s all right.” Dan pushed away from the monitors, which showed Malik entering the airlock that opened into the smelter pod, and let his body glide up to the communications screen. Looking down toward Kaktins, he said, “Take a couple of the biggest men you can find and search him thoroughly before you let him out of the airlock.”

  Kaktins grinned and glided for the exit at the end of the control room.

  Dan bobbed up to the big communications screen and blinked twice when he saw Saito Yamagata’s face beaming at him.

  “I request the honor of docking at your factory complex, old friend,” said the Japanese industrialist.

  “Permission granted,” Dan said immediately. “What the hell are you doing up here?”

  Yamagata’s laughter rocked his head back and made his eyes squeeze shut. “I thought you would be surprised. When Nobo told me what was happening, I immediately embarked for Yamagata One, bringing a trained squad of security troops with me. I thought you might need help.”

  “We can use all the help we can get. Thanks, Sai.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Dan briefed him quickly on what was happening, then ended the conversation and turned back to the TV monitors. Kaktins and two other men were escorting Malik from the airlock toward the control center.

  He glanced back at Lucita, saw her still deep in talk with her father’s image. It could still all blow up in our faces, he told himself. We’re not out of the woods yet.

  Malik looked grimly defiant when they brought him into the control center.

  “You might as well surrender,” were his first words to Dan. “More Soviet troops are on their way.”

  Taking him by the elbow, Dan turned the Russian slightly so that they were both facing the bank of communications screens.

  “Look,” he said. “Spacecraft from every space-faring nation, heading here to help us. You’ve jammed our radio links with the ground, but we’ve been getting news from the other space stations, relayed by commsats over laser links. All hell’s broken loose down there. The General Assembly is going to meet in emergency session in another twelve hours or so. The chairman of the IAC has threatened to suspend the Soviet Union’s license to mine lunar ores if you don’t withdraw your troops from here. The government of Venezuela has protested your seizure of Nueva Venezuela and the killing of Venezuelan citizens.”

  Malik’s face went gray.

  “If I were you, I’d get in touch with Moscow and see what they have to say about all this.” Dan grinned his broadest, happiest grin.

  “I know what they’ll say.” Malik’s voice was as heavy and dull as lead.

  “Yeah. I think I do, too. You’re finished, Vasily. They’re going to throw you to the wolves. If they get the chance.”

  The Russian’s brows rose a scant millimeter. “What do you mean by that?”

  “You murdered twelve of my men. Good men. You ordered them killed, slaughtered without a chance.”

  Malik’s handsome face broke into a crooked, bitter smile. “I see. And you are going to execute me. Like the sheriff in the Wild West.”

  Dan shook his head. “You still don’t understand how we do things, do you? The sheriff just arrests the bad guys. A judge and jury tries him.”

  “You’re not going to-”

  “Yes, I am, pal. Right here. We’re going to pick twelve good people and true and try you for mass murder. We’re going to give you a fair trial. And then we’re going to hang you.”

  Malik lashed out at Dan with both hands, blurringly fast, without warning. The force of the blows slammed Dan back against the communications console. Glass shattered and Dan felt a stabbing pain in the back of his neck. Kaktins kicked against the console and launched himself after Malik, who was pushing himself hand over hand along the rows of electronics gear past the startled technicians, toward Lucita.

  The two smelter operators who had been with Kaktins stared dumbly, unsure of what to do. Dan grabbed one of the perch-poles and hurled himself after the Latvian, feeling blood trickling down his neck.

  Kaktins grappled for Malik’s booted feet, but the Russian suddenly turned, the slim blade of a knife gleaming in his right hand, and slashed at Kaktins. Blood spurted and the Latvian howled with pain, doubling up.

  “Lucita!” Dan shouted. “Look out!”

  She turned from the screen just in time to see Malik rush up toward her, the reddened knife in his upraised hand.

  “I’ll kill her!” Malik screamed. “If you come any closer I’ll kill her!”

  Dan reached for Kaktins, who was clutching his shoulder and moaning.

  “I thought you searched him, for Chrissake,” Dan growled.

  The Latvian blinked pain-fogged eyes. “I thought I did, too.”

  Dan pushed himself past Ka
ktins to confront the Russian. Malik was holding Lucita around the waist, keeping her in front of him, like a shield. He pressed the point of the knife against her throat. The other technicians had flown in the opposite direction, away from the danger. A couple of them pulled Kaktins back as Dan faced Malik and Lucita.

  “I’ll kill her, Randolph!” Malik snarled. “I’ll kill her!”

  Dan hovered weightlessly a few feet in front of them. Lucita was wide-eyed with shock, gasping, her hands gripping the Russian’s arm with white-knuckled intensity.

  “It’s all right, Lucita. He’s not going to hurt you,” Dan said calmly. “It’s me he wants, not you.”

  Malik’s eyes narrowed slightly.

  “That’s right, isn’t it, Vasily? You don’t want to kill her. You want to kill me. Well, you’ll never have a better chance than now.” Lapsing into Russian, Dan said, “Come and get me, you cowardly son of a whore!”

  With a strangled roar, Malik flung Lucita to one side and dove at Dan, knife first. Dan stretched one arm up, his fingers touching the panels overhead just enough to give him some traction, and pushed himself sideways to evade the Russian’s thrust. As Malik dived past, Dan kicked with both feet at his chest and face.

  The Russian grunted and spun crashing into the consoles. Dan glided effortlessly between Malik and Lucita.

  “You’re hurt,” he heard her say.

  But he kept his eyes on Malik, and the knife still in his hand.

  “I’m not a kung fu expert, Vasily, but I’ve fought in zero gravity before,” Dan taunted. “It’s been a long time, many years, but it’s like riding a bicycle: it all comes back to you when you try it again.”

  Malik glanced over his shoulder. A solid mass of technicians loomed behind him, blocking his retreat.

  “Come on, Vasily. Cut my heart out. I’m just as defenseless as the men you had murdered. I’m an old man, and you’re a trained expert in the martial arts. Right? You told me so yourself. So come and get me, shithead.”

  Warily, cautiously, Malik advanced on Dan. He kept his left hand out, groping against the consoles for balance and support. Dan refused to move, refused to be maneuvered out of his position in front of Lucita.