by Peter Grant
“PO Maxwell, you were right,” he began without preamble. “Leona’s weight and balance figures don’t add up to satisfactory longitudinal stability. There must be something on board that they haven’t reported. If it’s very heavy, it’ll be located not too far forward of her midships point. If it’s lighter, it’ll be near her bows, where its leverage on her center of gravity will be greater. I can’t see smugglers trying to sneak tens of thousands of tons past the scrutiny they know a legitimate arms cargo will inevitably attract, so I’d expect to find a smaller stash of contraband in Holds One through Eight, near the bows. Holds One through Four are on the upper level, two to starboard and two to port of the main passage. Holds Five through Eight are below them.”
“We’ll give them special attention, Sir,” Dhruv promised. He glanced at Lamartine. “Senior Chief, you and PO Maxwell are both former merchant spacers. I’d like each of you to lead a section of our search party, because you’ll have a better eye for anything out of place on a merchant ship. Any suggestions as to how we should structure the group?”
“Yes, Sir. Let’s have twenty spacers form one large group under your overall command. I’ll lead half of them, and PO Maxwell can take the other half. You can co–ordinate our activities and make any decisions required about anything we find. We can split the two halves into four, or even smaller groups, to check a large area faster if necessary. That’ll be the most flexible arrangement, Sir. The remaining Spacers can make up the groups for the bridge and engineering spaces, plus a couple of independent search parties to check areas less likely to contain what we’re looking for.”
“Very well. We’ll do it your way. Let’s detail our Spacers to their groups before we leave, so there’ll be minimal confusion when we arrive at Leona. Have you assigned two NCO’s to command the detachments on her bridge and in her engineering spaces?”
“Yes, Sir, and I have one of our cutter pilots to take over from PO Maxwell when we arrive.”
“Good. Let’s get to it.”
~ ~ ~
“But why do you want to inspect an empty hold, Sir?” Leona’s Bosun’s Mate protested. “There’s nothing in there!”
“I know it’s empty, but you’re carrying munitions,” Warrant Officer Dhruv replied casually as he continued to walk down the passage. “We’re required to check every compartment in the ship when we’re dealing with such cargoes. Don’t worry, if there’s nothing in the forward hold we won’t spend more than a few minutes inside; but if we don’t check it, and my skipper hears about it, my ass will be in a crack.”
The Leona spacer’s face cleared. “Oh, I get it! Yeah, skippers are the same everywhere, aren’t they, Sir.”
“You said it. Is this the airlock?”
“Yeah, this is Hold One.”
“Thanks. PO Maxwell, take your team inside and check it out. We’ll wait for you here.”
“Aye aye, Sir.” Steve raised his voice. “Team Two, check that your suit radios are set to Channel Three, then put on and seal your helmets.”
They waited a few seconds until indicator lights showed that their suits were now drawing air from their breathing units, then filed into the airlock. Steve activated the controls, extracting the air, then opened the interior door and led his team into the vacuum of the cavernous hold.
He used his flashlight to find the control panel next to the airlock, and switched on the hold’s lights. The bright diodes in the deckhead appeared curiously flat and lifeless in the absence of atmosphere. Turning to his spacers, he said, “PO Watkins, please take your section and check out the forward bulkhead and starboard side. Note the first and last frame number. The rest of you, come with me to check the port side and rear bulkhead. There doesn’t seem to be anything in here, but keep an eye open for any sign of hidden doors or hatches, or panels that can be opened.”
They walked the length of the port side, but found nothing suspicious. Steve mentally noted the first frame, which was marked with the indicator P–03, and the last, P–27. The rear bulkhead was devoid of markings or anything that might be an opening. They met the other half of the team at the far corner.
“Find anything, Watkins?”
“Negative. First frame number is S–03, last is S–27.”
“Same numbers as the port side, and they match the plans Leona sent to us. Very well, back through the airlock.”
Dhruv and the others were waiting in the passage. “Nothing there, Sir,” Steve reported.
“Very good. Let’s tackle Hold Two.”
This proved to be a larger compartment. Dhruv had Leona’s spacer activate the hold lights. With no atmosphere to refract their radiance, they glittered weakly in the vacuum. Containers of various sizes were stacked in rows at the rear of the hold, the forward part being filled with crates and pallets of cargo in tall stacks at regular intervals.
“That’s what I’d expect to find in a forward hold,” Steve informed the Warrant Officer privately. “Standard–size containers are always in the larger midships holds, which are sized to fit them in stacks, with space for robotic cargo handlers to move them around. The small forward holds are for odd–sized and –shaped containers, and for break–bulk cargo. There’s a lot less of that than containerized shipments, of course, because handling it is much more labor–intensive and expensive.”
Dhruv divided the team into pairs, with Steve and Watkins taking the outer bulkheads once again. The pairs walked slowly from front to back of the hold, looking around carefully, checking each stack of cargo for signs of anything out of the ordinary. They reassembled in the center of the rear bulkhead.
“Find anything?” Dhruv asked hopefully.
“Sir, could we please confirm that the scrambler is active?” Steve asked quietly. He saw the Warrant Officer glance down at the chest display of his spacesuit as he lifted it to the horizontal. Senior Chief Lamartine and PO3 Watkins did likewise.
Dhruv let the display fall back to its hanging position. “Scrambler’s operational. This channel should be secure. What is it, Maxwell?”
“Sir, the last visible frame in the previous hold was 27. Frame 28 would be covered by the inter–hold bulkhead, so the first frame visible in this hold should have been 29. That’s also what’s indicated on Leona’s structural diagram. However, on the port side the first frame visible is P–30. What about the starboard side, PO Watkins?”
“Same thing. The first visible frame number is S–30.”
“There you are, Sir. I reckon a second bulkhead has been built across Frame 29, forming a hidden compartment between Frames 28 and 29. That’s a two–meter depth, stretching across a hold forty–five meters wide and twenty meters high. That would produce an eighteen–hundred–cubic–meter compartment — the same internal volume as three or four decent–size houses. It could certainly hold enough mass to influence the ship’s center of gravity and longitudinal stability, as Senior Lieutenant Razçak warned us, Sir.”
Dhruv nodded. “And we’re far enough forward for even a relatively small mass of contraband to have that effect. Any sign of an access point?”
“I saw something, Sir,” Lamartine replied. “About halfway between the center of the hold and the starboard side, there’s a rectangular line in the forward bulkhead. I thought at first it must be a laser weld line from a repair, perhaps where cargo had shifted and ruptured the bulkhead; but in the light of the frame discrepancy, it’s probably a concealed hatch to the hidden compartment. The bulkhead’s also been freshly painted in that area, Sir, maybe to disguise the work they did in cutting that opening. There are no cargo stacks near it, either, perhaps to make space for a work crew to lift boxes in and out of the opening.”
“Very good. Let’s head back towards it.”
“Aye aye, Sir,” Lamartine acknowledged. “What about Leona’s Bosun’s Mate?”
“I’m going to ask him about the bulkhead discrepancy as we walk back up the hold. Stay close to me. Remember, he may not be personally involved in any illegal activities,
or even aware of them. If he allows us to investigate without any trouble, all well and good. On the other hand, if he tries to stop us or resists in any way, secure him at once.”
“Aye aye, Sir.”
Dhruv signaled to the spacers to head back up the hold. He beckoned the Bosun’s Mate closer as they walked, changing channels to talk to him on one of the ship’s frequencies. Steve and Lamartine also switched channels to listen to the conversation.
“Bosun’s mate, we have a discrepancy. Your structural diagram shows this hold beginning at Frame 29, but the first visible frame is number 30. D’you have any idea why?”
“Er… ah… no, but I’ll check. Hang on.”
The man didn’t wait for an answer. His hand went to the chest controls of his spacesuit, as if to change radio channels.
“Sir!” Lamartine shouted. “Stop him! He may be warning them!”
“Hold it!” Dhruv reached for the Bosun’s Mate’s arm — but it was too late.
With a crash they could not hear in the vacuum of the hold, but felt as it vibrated through the deck, the rectangular patch on the forward bulkhead fell outward and down on concealed hinges along its base. Four space–suited figures were revealed, lining carbines at the boarding party. They opened fire at once. Dhruv, Lamartine and the Bosun’s Mate were leading the loose formation of Spacers. All three spun around and fell with cries of pain as the first beads struck home, followed by three more Spacers around them. The rest of the party dived for cover behind nearby stacks of cargo.
Steve found himself lying behind a stack of crates without conscious memory of how he’d got there. Panting for breath, he put his head up, and instantly ducked as a burst of fire tore chunks from the corner of the crate behind which he lay. He lay motionless for a moment, cursing, quivering as adrenaline blasted through his system, then looked around, careful to keep low this time. Every Spacer was crouched behind cover. Very few of them were shooting back at their attackers. Six bodies lay exposed in the middle of the deck, two motionless, four rolling and jerking in agony. He could only hope their self–sealing spacesuits had closed any holes made by incoming fire, protecting them against vacuum.
The team radio channel was clogged with exclamations, calls for help and cursing. He swore again, then reached for his chest panel and activated his emergency beacon. It broadcast a shrill tone on the radio channel, cutting off every other sound. He left it on for five seconds, then switched it off. Everyone else had fallen silent.
“Radio silence!” he shouted before the panicked chatter could begin again. “Put fire down on that hatch! Use single shots to conserve ammo! Keep their heads down!”
As the Spacers began to respond to his orders, he switched to the command channel. He knew the leaders of the other parties spread throughout the ship would be monitoring it.
“Attention all teams! This is Maxwell in Hold Two. We’re under fire from at least four attackers. We’ve suffered five casualties, including our first and second in command, current status unknown, plus one casualty from the ship’s company, status unknown. Be on the lookout for false bulkheads — the attackers were hidden behind one. Cutter, radio Grasswren and Baobab and tell them we need reinforcements and medical assistance right now! Have them send another officer to take command. Cutter acknowledge. Over.”
“Cutter to Maxwell, understood, calling Grasswren and Baobab now, over.”
“Maxwell to bridge and engineering teams, secure your locations at once! Arrest all Leona crew in sight pending further orders from higher authority. Acknowledge. Over.”
As he spoke, he belatedly remembered that the cutter pilot and the NCO’s in command of both parties were senior to him; but none of them seemed to object to his issuing orders.
“Bridge to Maxwell, securing the area, over.”
A brief pause, then, “Engineering to Maxwell, area secured, duty watch arrested, gravitic drive shut down in local control. Over.”
“Maxwell to Bridge and Engineering, thank you. Cutter, communicate that to the ships, then stand by. I’ve got to get back to the fight. Monitor Channel Three. Maxwell out.”
He switched channels, watching as a hail of bead fire bounced off the bulkhead at the front of the hold. Less than half appeared to be entering the opening. His lips tightened in anger.
“Maxwell to search party, watch your aim, dammit! You can’t get a cheek weld to use conventional sights while you’re wearing a spacesuit helmet! That’s why your carbines have laser target beams. Use them with your helmet filters! Stop wasting ammo!”
The firing tempo slowed as the search party recollected themselves, remembered their training, and began to use their infrared sighting beams instead of firing wildly. The infrared filters in their helmet visors would show them the beams, but an opponent wouldn’t be able to see them unless similarly equipped.
Steve looked around, picking out Spacers near him who could move without exposing themselves to incoming fire. “Wilson, Sand, Feroze, Iniga, Mendip, Zaballa, to me!” He called the nearest members of Grasswren’s crew, because he could identify them by name — he didn’t know most of the Baobab spacers in the search party. Those he’d called looked around, saw him beckoning with his hand, and crawled towards him.
“Listen up! We’ve got to get the wounded out of the line of fire. Work in twos. Cut the straps holding those crates,” pointing to a stack of them next to the one behind which they were crouching. They were about four meters long and one meter high. “Slide each crate towards the wounded over the cargo rollers on the deck. They should move easily enough, even if they’re heavy — that’s what cargo rollers are for. Stay behind the crate so you’ve got cover. Build a line of crates from here to out in front of the wounded to screen them from enemy fire. As soon as you’ve done that, two of you take more crates, stack ’em on top of each other, then pull them towards the airlock while a third uses them as cover to drag or carry one of the wounded. Get him through the airlock, then come back and get the others, using more crates for cover. As soon as they’re all out, help them as best you can. I’ve already called for medical assistance. Got it?”
“Aye aye, PO!” All of them spoke or nodded in unison.
“Then go to it. Work fast! We can’t counterattack until you’ve got the wounded out of the way!”
He looked around. The volume of fire from the hatch had diminished as those inside were forced to stay low; but the situation was stalemated. The smugglers — he presumed that’s what they were — could no longer risk exposing themselves to take accurate aim at his Spacers; but equally, he couldn’t risk exposing his Spacers to take accurate aim at them. He had to find a way to seize the initiative and take control of the fight. His eyes searched desperately around the forward part of the hold. Was there another entrance to the hidden compartment? Was there anything that might give him an advantage?
He grinned ferally as his gaze fell upon a gravity control panel mounted on the bulkhead, two frames back from the forward end of the hold. It surely had to operate the artificial gravity field in the forward half of the hold, probably including the hidden compartment — but he couldn’t make use of it yet. He had to wait until all the injured were out of the line of fire.
He keyed his microphone again. “Pick your shots carefully! Don’t waste ammo!”
They’d only been issued a single charger of a hundred rounds for their bead carbines, something he now regretted bitterly. He swore to himself that if he ever had anything to say about such things in future, he’d insist that everyone carry at least one reload, more if possible. They’d just have to make the best of what they had for now. His carbine was still full, he suddenly realized — he hadn’t fired a shot yet. Flushing, he raised it to his shoulder and began to fire slow, carefully–aimed shots at the rim of the hatch, trying to bounce the beads off the steel and raise sparks, offering a visible deterrent to persuade those inside to keep their heads down.
He watched as the wounded were carried to the airlock one by one. He mad
e a mental note to commend the Spacers he’d tasked with the job. They were keeping their heads down, making sure the wounded were shielded from those inside the hidden compartment as they pulled them clear of the fight. As he watched them, he was struck by a sudden thought. They weren’t the only ones who could use crates for cover! He reached for his belt tool and cut the straps holding together the stack of crates in front of him, loosening the top one so it would move freely.
As soon as the sixth and last victim was clear, he acted. “Heads up! Stand by for free–fall! Get hold of the stack of cargo in front of you and make sure it’s tied down! As soon as the artificial gravity field cuts out, I’m going to jump upward towards the deckhead. That’ll give me a clear shot over the lip of the hatch at those bastards inside. They’ll try to shoot at me, but to do so they’ll have to expose themselves to your fire. When they do, blast ’em! Stand by!”
He waited a few seconds, looking around to ensure everyone had hold of something, then aimed carefully at the gravity control panel. His first round had no effect. His second produced a shower of sparks, then a sudden feeling of weightlessness as the local artificial gravity field cut out.
He gathered his feet beneath him. Holding fast to the crate he’d loosened, he thrust hard against the deck with his legs, floating upwards, pulling the crate in front of him to provide at least partial cover against return fire. He lined his carbine past it at one of the four figures in the hatch, all of whom were now kicking and struggling as they floated off the deck in unexpected free–fall. He fired, seeing his target arch, then slump, carbine drifting from his suddenly nerveless grasp. The other three bobbed in mid–air, staring at their stricken comrade, then up at Steve. He began to turn under the influence of the recoil of his shot, even though it had been attenuated by the carbine’s inertial compensator. Cursing, he tried desperately to swing back as the three surviving smugglers pointed their carbines at him. Two fired, but they hadn’t taken the time to aim properly. The crate he’d pulled upward with him absorbed their shots.
