Star Cops

by Chris Boucher

  When nothing happened, he moved towards the hiding place. As he closed on the lurking presence it crossed his mind that if it was Brownly and the guy had flipped out totally, he could be in deeply serious shit here. This could be peace officer’s hide-and-go-seek he was playing: homicidal rules.

  He stopped just short of grabbing for the figure and shouted at it angrily, “Come the fuck out of there! I’m tired of your bullshit games, friend. Come out of there now, or I’ll bust your ass and you’ll be Earthside from fucking here on.”

  Still there was no response. Maybe no-one was there. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Maybe it was just a slipper some moron had fixed there as a joke. Warily he moved closer. No, there was somebody there. He leaned forward and peered round into the darkened recess. A face peered back at him. It was Goff. With a grunt of shock, Theroux jerked away. “Shit, Goff. That’s not funny,” he said.

  There was still no sound from Goff. Theroux waited a moment, then keeping as much distance as he could between himself and the gap, he looked again behind the storage bins.

  Goff had not moved or changed his expression. It seemed to Theroux that the man’s intense stare was turned inwards as though he was trying to focus on himself, a self that had faded and then was lost to emptiness. Fanciful thought. From the twisted angle of Goff’s head, it looked like his neck had been broken. He wouldn’t have had time to focus on much of anything before he died.

  Odds on, the body was upright because it was easier to cram it into the narrow space that way. It was for sure that Goff hadn’t squeezed in there himself and then twisted his own neck until the spinal column ruptured. Not much room for doubt that he’d been murdered. Not much room at all.

  Nathan was relieved to find the jet pack worked and the tiny braking jets were properly balanced so that his approach was slowed without any directional deviation. He was not ashamed of the way he managed to come to a full stop just on the fringes of the jumble of thin girders and partially assembled modules; he was almost sorry not to be on camera. “Base control, this is Spring. I’m at the main construction area now. I have about twenty minutes for a look round, yes?”

  “Look: don’t touch. That suit you’re wearing is not puncture-proof so do not, repeat do not, go any further into the construction zone.”

  Any further? Nathan wondered. Can he tell just from suit telemetry exactly where I am? He’s good, but is he that good? Unless it’s a radar plot. Yes it’s probably a radar plot. Chances are he can see more of what’s going on right here where I am now than I can.

  “Very well, base control,” Nathan said, and, using the finest calibration available on the jet pack, he set himself rotating slowly. As he turned, he craned his neck within the suit helmet, straining to see just how much of the area could realistically be inspected from a stationary position.

  Again he was struck by how restricted seeing was: not impaired, not even by the photo chromic sun filters laminated into the face cover, but narrowed to a sort of tunnel-vision. You could see more or less everything, but only by scanning each area in smallish sections. Even so, it would be difficult to conceal anything out here, and when Hendvorrsen died, there were five other people floating around and watching. And there was Butler as base control, the self-proclaimed best in the business, which on present evidence he probably was. It seemed unlikely that anything could get past that lot unseen, kill Hendvorrsen before he was able to hit the suit’s panic button, and still leave no obvious trace. Had he reasoned it wrong? Was it simply the freak accident which Box calculated was acceptable as a probability? Maybe he was out here for nothing… He tweaked the jet controls and stopped his rotation so that he was facing the half-completed extensions to the station. The light was vivid on the spars and crossbeams making them stand out starkly against the background blackness of space. The open shells of the unfinished modules sliced through the brightness, cutting solid shadows deep within their curves. Despite Butler’s instructions, he was curious to look more closely into one of those dark places. As far as he could see, there was plenty of room to move through the spider work of girders, if he was careful.

  He nudged forward on the barest touch of a jet and stopped himself with his hands against a tubular reinforcing strut. From here it should be possible simply to pull himself through the gaps and thread his way in the direction of his chosen module. He looked towards the largest. That seemed like a sensible choice, given his difficulties with claustrophobia. And it was not too far in. He should be able to make it there and back here to the jump-off point for the return to the airlock with time to spare.

  Taking elaborate precautions to touch the structure only with his hands, he started the controlled drift into the construction.

  “Base control to Spring. What are you doing?”

  “There’s something I want to look at more closely. It’s not that far,” Nathan murmured without slowing his progress.

  “No!”

  “I’m not taking any unnecessary risks.” Nathan was breathing harder now.

  “All risks are unnecessary!”

  Butler sounded slightly rattled. Sweat prickled at the back of Nathan’s neck. Am I missing something? he wondered suddenly. Can he see something that I can’t see? Where? He glanced round quickly, taking in the suit’s readouts as he did so. There wasn’t anything. “I’m almost there,” he said. “I can’t see anything wrong.” Ahead, he could see just a main crossbeam and strut to be negotiated, and he would be at the open edge of the module.

  Butler’s voice took on an almost strident edge. “This is base control. I am giving you a direct order, Spring. Get back out of the construction zone!”

  The professional sangfroid seemed to have deserted the man completely. What the hell was wrong with him? Nathan slid between the woven alloy crossbeam and the smooth tubular strut, and pushed himself gently across the remaining space to the lip formed by the line of outer panels which had been welded into position.

  The way the module was being assembled meant that, at this stage, it looked as though a huge wedge had been carved out down part of its length. In cross-section, perhaps a quarter of the outer circumference was missing here, but its alignment still cut off the interior from all but the faintest of reflected light.

  Nathan floated above the opening and stared downwards into the total blackness inside. As the suit’s sun filters adjusted, his eyes began to play tricks. He thought he saw a movement in the glimmering darkness. He killed the heads-up display, thinking it might be a multiple reflection on his face cover. It made no difference. He stared harder, trying to resolve the wavering shape that suddenly appeared. It expanded as he watched, and for a moment he thought it must be puffing itself up. What on Earth would do that? Not on Earth, though. Then he realized. It wasn’t getting bigger, it was getting closer. It was rising out of the black towards him. He stared and stared, not able to look or move away. Not able to move at all. Whatever it was, it was coming straight at him. Whatever it was.

  When he finally saw it clearly, he tried to duck back and kick himself off from the panels. Recklessly uncaring of the close dangers of the girders, he struggled to pull away. But it was too late to escape the spacesuited figure which lunged out of the darkness and grabbed at him.

  Chapter 11

  They set off the hazard alarms, because it was the fast way to get the attention of all personnel to warn them that one of their number was deranged and running amok. It was not a textbook use of the Charles De Gaulle’s safety systems, but there was nothing in the book to cover this situation. Once the alarms were triggered, the computer immediately sealed and isolated the main sections of the station. It was a logical damage limitation procedure in almost every accident scenario, and in this case it had the advantage of limiting Brownly’s movements and minimizing the damage he might do to life support. Of course, it did have the disadvantage of maybe trapping so
meone in a severely confined space with what they had just been warned was a homicidal maniac.

  Inevitably, the result was chaos.

  Men and women who had come to terms with the calculated dangers of working off-Earth were stripped of logic and abruptly lost in the unreasoning terror of the bogeyman. Brownly the Ripper lurked in every dark place, and all over the station people hit the nearest panic button and yelled for priority assistance.

  The traffic and communications centre was swamped with alarms. Not even Butler could be expected to cope instantly with everything that was coming in. Theroux tried and failed to get through to him from the general manager’s office, where Lancine was already regretting putting the station on emergency alert.

  Wim Bentinck tried and failed to get through to him from the suit storage bay, where he had barricaded Claire Folger in a locker, convinced that she was Brownly.

  In the madness of those early minutes, not even the man who really knew where Brownly was hidden could get through.

  Although he had been prepared for it, the assault panicked Nathan, and for a few precious seconds he had thrashed and yelled and punched frantically at his spacesuit’s emergency alarm.

  The attacker, still only half out of the module, clung onto him grimly, holding him against the panels. He seemed to be trying to smother Nathan’s struggles and keep him from tearing free and jetting away. It was a bizarre fighting style, and this as much as anything helped Nathan get control of himself and remember that there was another man somewhere out of sight. Another man waiting to come at him on the blind side.

  He tried to twist round so that he could get a glimpse of the second man, but the one who was holding him was braced somehow and his grip was gradually becoming more powerful. Was that possible? With sudden, cold clarity, Nathan knew that the grip was not more powerful; he was weakening. He knew too that his suit emergency alarm had failed. Butler was silent and there was no sign of the computer override. There would be no help coming. No-one knew what was happening to him. No-one would know what had happened to him. He was alone.

  He leaned in and tried to see who it was that was holding him, but the sun filters had not cleared enough and they made it impossible to distinguish the face. For a moment, he felt oddly uninvolved and the thought occurred to him that spacesuits were the ideal disguise; everyone looked the same.

  Leaning in had been stupid. The embrace was tighter now, more restrictive. A movement back among the girders tugged at the corner of his vision. He turned his head quickly, as far as the helmet would let him, but there was nothing to see. Whatever it was had gone. Not whatever it was – whoever. Reality rushed back at him. Time was running out. These people intended to kill him. They wanted him dead. This wasn’t a practice exercise. This was happening now.

  If he could just get a hand to the equipment pouch on his left hip… but his right arm was blocked, and there was not enough flexibility to raise his left high enough to reach the fastening. He tried to get more room to move, but he could not get a purchase on the side of the module. He struggled, pushing with his ponderous legs, which paddled and scrambled in a slow-motion nightmare. The only effect was to exhaust him. He was breathing hard now, and despite the suit’s cooling system, he was bathed in sweat.

  He had lost it.

  They were going to win.

  These bastards were going to beat him after all.

  And second prize was to die looking stupid and confident and wrong.

  I do not expect a groundsider policeman wiz your limited experience to understand ’ow we work out ’ere.

  Spacemen are ten-a-penny. What they need is…

  You ’ave conducted your enquiries unintelligently and wizout discretion

  …a good copper.

  Who else do you trust love. If you don’t count that creepy Box there’s no-one to talk to…

  He’s trying to tell you that if you’d had that little scuffle outside you’d have been… apart from me. Point is, you’re not ready Nathan …DEAD MEAT.

  He caught a movement again. Glancing sideways, he saw him this time. The second man, coming fast. Using his jets? Jets among the girders? A risk. Stupid risk. Time running out for them, too? He bent the fingers of his right hand back in the thick gauntlet, feeling for his own jet pack control. He knew it was useless, though. He knew he could not release the small joystick from its wrist mount without using his other hand. The jet pack was as inaccessible as the equipment pouch. Christ, there was nothing he could do. He was tired now – breathless, sweating, and tired to death.

  And then, with a muffled slam, the second man cannoned into him. The shuddering blow was shocking. Everything seemed to jar in the heavy-breathing, suit-enclosed, silence.

  It was a mistake. The man had been hurrying, travelling close to the limits of control, and he was fractionally late with his braking jets. Worse, he was not coming straight, so his momentum was angular and for a moment his accomplice inside the module had to slacken his grip.

  Nathan found himself loose. Not free, but with enough room to cross his left arm between his suit and the module panels. Faster than he realized he could do it, he released the jet pack control. As soon as the joystick slotted into his right hand, he thumbed maximum forward thrust. Keeping the jets open and using all the power the pack would develop, he pulled the directional guidance up and, when he saw that he was beginning to rise, drove it down again hard.

  He watched himself tilt slowly forward over the edge and into the light-less pool of the module’s empty interior. The man who had been holding him rolled backwards, still clutching on and trying to pinion him. The second man made a lurching grab at his backpack and was dragged with them into the dark.

  The three of them somersaulted eccentrically as they fumbled and struggled. In the blackness, there was no sensation of this head-over-heels motion, no sensation of any movement at all except relative to each other. All space and time was finally reduced to a faintly seen, hardly felt, almost silent, scrabble to kill.

  Nathan let go of the thrust control and twisted the joystick, so that it sprang back into its wrist mount, leaving his right hand free again. Using his other hand to push the frontal attacker away, he reached down to his left hip and released the fastening on the equipment pouch.

  The man lunged back and clamped both arms round him, holding him tightly and preventing him from getting his hand into the pouch.

  At the same time, Nathan knew, the man behind him would be working to open the access panel on his backpack. That had to have been their plan all along. And they were not about to give up on their plan. Not even if the victim understood what was happening and put up a fight. How long a fight? They must hit the other side of the module eventually. Would that shake them loose again? Was there time?

  Pale flickers of reflected gleams fleetingly glimpsed in the face cover of the man who held him. The man behind had working lights. These two had come prepared to kill in any conditions. Nothing left to chance with an unfortunate accident to arrange. Another unfortunate accident. Well, not this time.

  Well, not this bloody time!

  The outrage which blazed when he had been attacked in the engineering store flashed through Nathan once again, and with it came furious energy. He forced his hand into the equipment pouch and felt for the spring-loaded switchblade it contained. Brownly’s knife remained where he had clipped it, and as he pulled it clear he pressed the catch and the blade snapped open. Without pausing to think, he slashed the laser tip upwards across the chest of his first attacker’s spacesuit. The green pinpoint of light made a shallow incision, opening only the outermost layers. Water from the cooling system exploded, ghostly, into a fog of ice crystals. The man let go of Nathan, floated for a brief time unmoving, and then jerkily clamped a hand over the cut.

  Inside his suit the man was screaming, but Nathan could hear no
thing. He slashed at him again and again. Desperately the man tried to fend him off with his free arm, and the blade tip became snagged in the toughened fabric of the sleeve.

  The second man heard his companion’s cries over his suit RT and abandoned his work on the backpack. Tugging at Nathan’s helmet, he guided himself over the top of the fight and pulled himself into it. As he reached downwards, the lights on his wrists illuminated the knife, which was still caught in the other man’s sleeve, and he snatched for it.

  By the two thin beams of light waving around him, Nathan immediately saw why the blade was stuck. It was a frictionless stiletto, precision-built to need no weight behind it. A spaceworker’s weapon. Not designed to slice; designed to puncture.

  When the second man plucked at it, he was already too late. Nathan stopped trying to rip the knife through the sleeve, and simply stabbed forward with it. Decompression began even before he had pulled it out. He stabbed again, to be sure. Vapour jets ripped from the holes, spinning the man away to scream in silence as his blood vessels ruptured.

  The surviving attacker was paralyzed, apparently unable to decide whether to fight or make a break for it. The hesitation was fatal. Nathan thrust high, aiming between the lights which marked clearly the position of the man’s arms. He punctured the centre of the chest. It was a neat, almost clinical kill.