“You are forgetting Major Wright’s considerable talents, Thelina.”
“Talents!” The word burst from the Ecolitan’s lips. “You act as though he could build and command a space force single-handedly.”
Sam Hall waited, gentle smile unchanged.
“Sam, he’s nothing but a hired killer. He’ll never be more than that.”
“Just like another hired killer would never be more than a cold-blooded Hand of the Mother…?”
Thelina pursed her lips, but the Prime Ecolitan let his words trail off.
Thrummmmmm…
The light in the room dimmed as the thunderclouds and rain approached. A gust of wind riffled the handful of papers on the table that served as the Prime’s desk. Sam stretched his left hand and gently held them down. “You have taken a rather strong dislike to the man. Do you know why?” His words were gentle, almost abstract.
Thelina shrugged. “Do you want a catalog? He acts as though nothing but death could stop him, and maybe not even that. He murdered more than fifty thousand innocents on Halston. He destroyed an entire Imperial outpost to escape—and then thought that we’d be impressed because he rescued two of the rebels the Empire was trying to kill. He still doesn’t seem to understand that Accord is an Imperial colony, and that we have to watch every orbit we break. Worst of all, he takes apparent pride in being a one-man killing machine.”
The Prime nodded. “Did you know that he’s from White Mountain? Or that he had one of the highest recorded Service entrance-exam scores ever? Or that he’s had his calligraphy exhibited? Or that he could have supported himself as a professional musician?”
Thrummmmm…thrummmm…
Thelina frowned simultaneously with the thunder. “I’m supposed to be impressed?”
Sam sighed softly. “No. I just thought you might consider that there is more to Major Wright than meets the eye.”
“There may be, Sam. There may be. He certainly doesn’t show it. Or any of those finer qualities. And all your persuasive words aren’t likely to change my mind.”
The older man laughed. “Words never do. Perhaps his actions will, once he returns.”
The younger woman shook her head slowly. “After he fakes his own death to get the Empire off his trail. Will it work?”
“It should. The bodies will show a complete DNA match, and that’s what the Special Operatives base death verifications on. The courier is equipped exactly as when he commandeered it. All that should prove his death.”
“Until his oh-so-submissive personality reexerts itself and screams to the Galaxy that Major Wright is back in business destroying real estate and killing innocent bystanders.”
“Why don’t you help the Major change, then, Thelina?”
She shook her head more deliberately. “A man like that?”
“Will you give him a chance?”
“Only because you ask it. Only because of you, Sam, and what I owe you.”
Thrummmmm…thrummmmm…whhhsssstttt…
The papers began to lift from the table, and Thelina swept out of the chair to close the sliding window to a crack.
For a long moment she looked out through the rain at the Institute, at the low buildings housing the laboratories, the classrooms, and the physical-training facilities. Under the low and grass-covered hills beyond the classrooms and the formal gardens were the underground hangars for the flitters—and for the other equipment the Empire did not know about, equipment no colony was allowed to have. That the Institute had developed and controlled such resources was only a legal technicality that would not have amused the Imperial Senate, much less the Imperial Intelligence Service.
The Prime Ecolitan watched her, a faint smile playing across his lips.
Thrummmmmm…thrummmmmm…The thunder rolled eastward from the mountains, and the rain dropped in sheets onto the thick green turf and the precise formal gardens.
In time, a tall woman walked down an empty corridor, still shaking her head, leaving the lean and tanned Prime looking into the darkness of the storm alone.
II
CLING.
“Time to jump. Point five. Time to jump. Point five.”
The pilot, wearing unmarked greens, glanced over at the silent figure beside him. The other, a woman wearing the uniform of a lieutenant in the Imperial Space Force, remained facing the screens, saying nothing.
The control room flashed black at the instant of jump, that subjectively infinite blackness that ended so quickly it could not be measured.
Cling.
“Jump complete. Jump complete,” the console speakers announced impersonally. “Insert course tape.”
The pilot touched the console again. “Manual approach.”
“Control returned to pilot.”
The pilot began entering figures and inputs. A representational plot appeared in the lower right-hand corner of the main screen.
“Two plus to target. Not bad,” the pilot noted to himself.
The figure in the copilot’s couch said nothing. The representational screen showed the system entry corridor as clean—the only moving symbol the single red dot of the courier itself. The target—a mineral-poor planet too warm for comfortable human existence, though technically habitable—glimmered a dull silver-blue on the screen.
The remote observation station was the only other red on the screen, a technicality, since the station was in a stand-down condition and would remain so unless triggered by certain activities or by a distress call.
The pilot checked the controls, the readouts, and then locked the control settings. He stood up, wrinkling his nose at the faint remainder of decanting liquor, a lingering acridity mixed with sweetness.
With a brief head-shake, he glanced back at the screens, then headed down the narrow corridor to the crew quarters. He carried the pouch of tools he had retrieved from the small storage space behind the control couch.
Three meters aft of the control room bulkhead, he stopped and slid open a cover set into the side bulkhead, toggling the switch inside. A hatch set into the deck irised open.
After easing himself down the ladder in the low gee of the courier, the pilot began to work.
“Power flow meter…check…
“Compensator…”
Clink…
In time he came to a black cube, which he did not touch, but which he carefully checked, noting the model number and the other features. He nodded.
“…hours since power-up…”
Then he shook his head. “…stupid…” He stood up from his kneeling position in the cramped power room and went back up the ladder to the control room.
The figure in the copilot’s seat had not moved. The pilot ignored the still form as he reseated himself to manipulate the ship’s data system once again.
“Time to programmed deceleration is point five,” announced the console’s measured voice.
The pilot looked at the representational screen, then called up the forward navigation screen. His fingers continued to skip across the keyboard. Then he tapped a last key and straightened, stretching in place and unconsciously brushing a short strand of black hair off his forehead.
He glanced at the copilot’s seat and shivered, looking away in spite of himself before he stood and walked back down the narrow corridor to reenter the power room.
Once on the deck below, he made several last-minute adjustments before gathering his tools and climbing back up the ladder. Then he triggered the lock switch and resealed the hatch. His steps back to the control room were quick, his motions precise as he replaced the tools in their storage space.
“Point one until programmed deceleration.”
With a sigh, he strapped himself back before the controls, not that such a low level of deceleration would affect the interior gravity of the courier. Only a slight humm and a barely perceptible jerk marked the beginning of the deceleration. The pilot watched until he was certain that the courier was maintaining the appropriate low-power approach to Timor
II.
Then he unstrapped again. His destination was the forward crew stateroom—scarcely more than two bunks and the accompanying lockers. There a still form lay cocooned in each bunk, fully webbed in place. He repressed another shudder and closed the hatch.
Three steps away was the wardroom-common-room-galley, where he opened a package of dried rations and sipped a glass of metallic-tasting water. Methodical mouthful by methodical mouthful, he chewed the rations.
After rinsing the empty glass and replacing it in the rack, he headed forward.
Nothing had changed in the control room except the screen readouts showing the courier’s progress and diminishing power reserves. The pilot sat down and waited, half alert, half resting.
“Programmed deceleration ending in point one. Programmed deceleration ending in point one.”
The man stretched before calling up more detailed readouts from the courier’s data banks. The readouts confirmed the accuracy of his piloting and of the data supplied by the Institute.
Cling.
“Programmed deceleration terminated. In-system closure rate is beyond normal docking parameters,” the console announced mindlessly.
“Of course it is,” mumbled the pilot. He pulled the estimated approach time from the system. Less than point three. “Anytime now…anytime now.”
“This is Timor control. This is Timor control. Please declare your status. Please declare your status.”
“Timor control, this is Dauntless two. Dauntless two. We have system power failure. System power failure.”
“Dauntless two, declare your status. Are you disabled or operational? If possible, state your status in Imperial priority codes…”
The pilot waited for the computer-generated message to end.
“Timor control. Code Delta Amber slash Omega Red. Delta Amber slash Omega Red. Ship control number is IC dash one five nine. IC dash one five nine.”
“Dauntless two, you are cleared to lock one. Lock one. Lock one is illuminated and marked by rad beacon.”
“Stet, Timor control. Approaching lock one this time.”
The pilot split the main screen, the left half for visual approach, the right upper quarter for a local representational screen, and the right lower quarter for a system-wide representational view. After that, he began to enter the manual approach profile, continuing to check the representational screens as he did so.
“Dauntless two, approach speed is above recommended closure.”
“Stet, Will reduce approach speed.”
“Dauntless two, approach speed is above recommended closure.”
“Hades…” mumbled the pilot, his fingers on the controls. A flare of gold showed on the close-in representational screen as the last of usable power reserves flowed forth.
“Dauntless two, closure is acceptable. Closure is acceptable.”
“Many, many thanks, you mindless machine.” The pilot did not transmit his words as he continued to make what adjustments he could with the remaining power.
A single line of green flashed on the close-in screen, indicating a tiny vessel departing the station at extraordinary speed—a message torp. He noted the time absently, estimating that he had a minimum of roughly twenty standard hours to complete the conversion and disable certain station functions. Even as he mentally filed the information, his fingers initiated another minor correction.
In one moment of respite, he wiped his damp forehead with the back of his sleeve before the sweat ran into his eyes. Despite the chill of a control room where his breath nearly stood out as condensed vapor, he was hot.
Clunk…clung…cling…
“Locking complete,” announced the courier’s console. “Receiving aux power from lock.”
“Dauntless two, interrogative medical assistance. Interrogative medical assistance.”
“Timor control, negative. Negative.”
The pilot made an inquiry through the direct data link.
The message screen responded. “Input Imperial power usage code.”
The pilot frowned, then shrugged, tapping in an active code, though one which did not match the ship.
“Power transfer beginning,” the screen responded.
Nodding, the pilot watched the power reserve indicator as the bar inched upward.
“Power transfer complete. Further transfer would limit station requirements.”
The indicator bar rested at sixty percent, more than enough for the next phase of the mission.
The pilot stood, letting the harness retract, massaging the muscles in his temples with the fingers of his left hand, trying to relax. Finally, he retracted the control console into the standby position.
Kneading the tight muscles between his shoulders with his right hand, he walked back down the narrow corridor to the second crew compartment. There a single cocooned figure rested within the crash webbing.
The pilot surveyed the crewroom, not looking at the face of the courier’s fourth still form, then bent and released the harness. He took a deep breath, then eased the figure out of the bunk and over his broad left shoulder, straightening as he did so. Wrinkling his nose at the acridness of decanting solution, he cleared his throat once, twice…
…cccaaaCHEWWW!!!…CHEWWWW!!!
He brushed the other bunk with his shoulder before regaining his balance and shifting his footing to free his right arm.
…cccaccCCHEEWW…
Ready as he was, the second series of sneezes did not unbalance him, but he was forced to wipe his nose on the back of his right sleeve. The soft coarseness of the open-weave green fabric relieved some of the itching.
Despite the courier’s low internal gravity, he moved slowly and deliberately back to the control section.
Still avoiding looking at the face of the man who wore an Imperial flight suit and a major’s insignia, the pilot strapped him into position.
As he straightened, his eyes instinctively went to the face of the silent form before the controls. The pilot in greens shuddered, in spite of himself, before retrieving his tools and heading back to the lock that would lead him into the observation station. “Jimjoy, old man, looking at your own dead face is enough to unnerve anyone.”
Once in the courier’s lock, he pulled on the heavy-duty vac suit that did not belong there and attached several tools to the equipment belt. The others went in the suit’s thigh pouch. He had left the crew suits in their assigned lockers.
With a last check of the courier’s lock, he adjusted the helmet and tapped the plate.
Hhsssstttt…
As he had suspected, the station pressure was lower than the ship standard. Within the three steps he took into the maintenance lock, his suit was creating a trail of fog before the remaining condensate disappeared.
Two hatches marked the smooth gray metal of the far lock wall. A green light shone above the right-hand one. The left-hand hatch was dark.
He extracted a tool from the belt as he walked toward the left-hand hatch, trying to recall the details of the standard observation/rescue stations.
In less time than it had taken him to cross the maintenance lock, itself large enough to house the courier docked to it, he had manipulated the fields behind the hatch controls. The heavy door swung inward.
DANGER! INERT ATMOSPHERE. DO NOT ENTER. That was what the plaque over the inner door read.
He ignored the warning just as he had ignored the lock on the outer door. Shortly the second locked hatch yielded to his touch.
“This is a prohibited area. Unauthorized personnel are not allowed. Failure to leave the prohibited area could result in extreme danger or death. Failure to leave the prohibited area immediately could result in extreme danger or death.”
The man did not acknowledge the words as he toggled the lighting controls beside the inner hatch. Less than nineteen standard hours before an Imperial response.
His steps vibrated through the heavy suit as he followed the corridor toward the station’s maintenance section. In passing, h
e noted a section where planetary survival equipment was neatly racked. After he had made the necessary alterations to the courier, he would need to remove enough equipment for four people. Remove it and store it in the courier’s small hold.
He hated to spend the time, but he would not have ignored the equipment if he intended to use it, not when he was so desperately wanted by the Imperials, not when he needed them to believe his life was at stake. With a deep breath, he continued down the corridor to his destination.
The clearly marked hatchway—“Maintenance”—was also locked, although it provided even less of a challenge than had the outside locks.
Inside, he studied the arrayed equipment, mentally organizing what he would need before beginning. After a time, he lifted a rodlike device and the accompanying power line reel and strode quickly back toward the courier. The station gravity—roughly one-third gee—was enough for him to carry the equipment comfortably.
Soon a stack of equipment stood by the unopened outer lock that would gain him access to the station’s hull—and the courier’s as well.
“Next…”
He removed two items from the pile and returned to the inner area of the station, where destruction of certain monitoring and record-keeping equipment was necessary. That destruction triggered the launch of yet another message torpedo, noted and ignored by the suited man.
On his return, he forced the lock on the survival storage area and began the first of several loads of assorted material. Unlike the maintenance equipment, the survival equipment went into the courier’s hold—the forward one.
When he had stowed the last survival suit, he stopped in the courier’s mess, slumping into an anchored plastic chair for another tumbler full of metallic water and another set of tasteless rations. As he swallowed the last neutral crumb, he checked the time. Sixteen hours yet.
That was followed by a partial desuiting, the use of certain sanitary facilities, and a sigh of momentary relief.
With a second sigh, not of relief, he began to resuit.
In less than a quarter of a standard hour, the man in greens and the heavy vac suit stood inside the outspace lock from the maintenance space, locking the power reel connections in place, first on the rod-shaped device, then to the special receptacle inside the open lock.
Empire & Ecolitan Page 33