Ride The Rising Tide (The Maxwell Saga)

by Peter Grant

  Steve switched to the command channel and looked across at Lieutenant Sabran. “So far, everything seems in order,” he commented. “The crates’ details match those on the manifest: dates of manufacture, assembly and packaging, dimensions and weight, and so on.”

  “Sure. Let’s see about their weight.” She tapped Melchin on the shoulder. “Ensign, how about getting the scale over here?”

  “Sounds good to me. I was just checking each crate against the manifest before I did that.”

  The Bosun’s Mate was incredulous. “You wanna weigh these crates? You gotta be kidding! That’d take hours, and they want them aboard Trudish right away! She’s been waiting weeks for ’em!”

  Steve looked towards the open cargo doors. A hulking ten–thousand–ton cargo shuttle slid to a halt just outside them, using her own tractor and pressor beams to lock herself in place. A work party of a dozen space–suited stevedores stepped across the narrow gap between the ships. Their magnetized boot soles and heels held them to the deck until they reached the red–painted demarcation line a meter inside the hold, showing where the ship’s internal gravity field took effect. They ignored the search party and moved purposefully towards the crates containing the inertial compensator.

  “Bosun’s Mate, tell those stevedores to wait!” Steve ordered sharply. “We’ve not finished yet.” He turned back to Melchin. “Ensign, I don’t like the way they’re trying to hurry things. I suggest we get those scales over here ASAP.”

  “Aye aye, Lieutenant. I’ll contact Lieutenant Vikram at once.”

  The stevedores were casting loose the lashings on the first crates. Steve snapped, “Bosun’s Mate, I told you to stop them! Do it! Now!”

  “You gotta be crazy!” the Vargash spacer blustered. “Why in hell would you suspect these crates of holding anything else? I’ve shown you the damn documents. The Patrol’s never questioned them before! You’re costing us money every minute you hold us up like this! I’m gonna ask the First Mate to file an official complaint!” His hand went to the controls on his chest panel to change radio channels, without issuing any orders to the stevedores.

  Steve looked at Melchin. “Ensign, he’s stalling us! Something’s badly wrong here. Can you stop those stevedores?”

  Melchin turned to the Bosun’s Mate. “You heard Lieutenant Maxwell — stop them! What channel are their radios using?”

  The Bosun didn’t reply. Having already changed channels, he couldn’t hear Melchin. His lips were moving as he spoke, presumably to the First Mate.

  Melchin strode over to the stevedores, Steve following him. He held up his hand in a ‘stop’ gesture, then pointed to his ear, raising his hand in a gesture of inquiry. One of the workers indicated the figure 9 using his fingers, and Steve and Melchin set their suit radios to that channel.

  “You men, stop that!” Melchin snapped. “We’re not done with these crates yet, and won’t be for some time. You’ll have to wait for them.”

  The man who’d signaled the channel stepped forward. “You can’t hold us up like this! We’ve got a priority rush order to take these over to Trudish and get her back in service by tonight. She’s supposed to leave tomorrow with a full cargo. Every minute you waste costs us money! If you mess us around, we’ll sue the Patrol to recover every credit!”

  Steve saw the stevedores spreading out behind the speaker, and his instincts screamed a warning. That wasn’t a casual, random movement. They were getting into line, clearing each others’ way. It strongly suggested preparations for a fight.

  He switched his radio to his team’s channel, and snapped, “Heads up, everyone! This could be trouble. Don’t start anything, but don’t wait for orders if they do — just stop them.” As he switched back to channel 9, he saw his Marines begin to spread out, watchful, alert, ready to unclip their bead carbines from their chest harnesses at the first sign of trouble. The Midrash personnel were busy with their inspections, but his Spacers were moving towards them to pass on the alert.

  Melchin was still trying to argue with the foreman. Steve turned back to him and chose his words carefully. He didn’t want to say anything that would trigger hostilities. He knew every word was being recorded by their suit control panels, and would be analyzed to a fare–thee–well in any after–action reconstruction of events.

  “Ensign, I suggest this situation calls for guidance from more senior Midrash officers.”

  “You’re right, Lieutenant. Please deal with this man. I’ll have Lieutenant Vikram contact OrbCon for instructions.”

  Melchin stepped back, changing channels, as Steve took his place. “Very well, foreman, you heard that. We’ll wait for instructions from OrbCon. Until we get them, these crates are staying right where they are. Gather your workers over there, please, in that open space beyond the cargo station, and hold them there until we tell you otherwise.”

  The foreman sneered. “And who the hell are you to give me orders, sonny? We’re taking these crates, and we’re taking them now!”

  “Like hell you are! I’m Junior Lieutenant Maxwell, Lancastrian Commonwealth Fleet, and if you don’t do as you’re ordered immediately, we’ll place the whole lot of you under arrest!”

  The man sneered. “Spacer boy, are you? And a wet–behind–the–ears Junior Lieutenant to boot! Well, your rank doesn’t cut any ice around here, DAMN YOU!”

  He yelled the last two words, clearly intending them as a signal to his men, even as he plucked a half–meter pry–bar from his tool belt and swung it viciously. His workers surged forward, trying to get in among the inspection team. Steve realized instantly, even as he began to duck, that if they succeeded they’d render the Marines’ weapons useless. They wouldn’t be able to fire into a pitched melée for fear of hitting their comrades.

  As the pry–bar whipped over his helmet and the foreman tried to recover from his wild swing, Steve lunged forward and drove a solid tegatana handsword strike into the base of his neck, below the helmet mating collar of his spacesuit. He felt something break beneath his blow as it struck home, its effect enhanced by the hardened protective glove of his work spacesuit. The foreman gurgled, dropped the pry–bar and sank to his knees, clutching at his throat through his spacesuit as he desperately tried to draw breath.

  The area around the crates was transformed in an instant into a heaving sea of violence. Most of the Midrash personnel didn’t react fast enough, and went down as the stevedores swarmed over them. Two of Steve’s Spacers did likewise. However, his Marines and the other two Spacers had enough warning to scuttle backwards, out of reach. The Marines ripped their carbines from their chest clips and lined them at their attackers, snicking off their safety catches. Those stevedores who were still upright and exposed to fire slammed to a halt and raised their hands. They may have been angry, but they clearly weren’t suicidal. The Marines motioned with their carbine barrels, herding them to one side of the struggling mass of bodies on the deck.

  Steve didn’t have time to draw the pistol from his holster. As the foreman sank to his knees, two of his workers charged past him and grabbed for Steve. Twisting away from one of them, he snapped a kick to the side of the knee of the other man, dislocating it and sending him sprawling. Staggering, Steve dropped to one knee as he lost his balance, and put his gloved left hand on the floor. It landed on the pry–bar dropped by the foreman, and he grabbed it.

  The worker he’d eluded was coming at him again. Steve drove forward as he rose, straightening his left arm, pry–bar jutting out like a spear, and slammed it into the man’s chest. His victim’s forward momentum blended with Steve’s strike to make the blow viciously effective. The chest control panel on the worker’s spacesuit splintered as the pry–bar’s chisel point smashed through it, fracturing his sternum. His eyes bulged and he opened his mouth, clearly screaming in pain, but Steve heard nothing over his radio. Either the man was on another channel, or his radio had been disabled by the blow. Clutching at the still–embedded pry–bar, he fell to the floor.

&nb
sp; Steve spun around, drawing his pistol with one hand. Designed for spacesuit use, it used a firing bar at the front of the grip, easily operated even when wearing a heavy work glove, instead of a conventional trigger. Grasping the pistol loosely so as not to activate it, he used his other hand to reset his radio to the team’s channel. Instantly his earpiece was filled with clamor as the Spacers and Marines all tried to speak at once. He couldn’t make himself heard at all.

  His eyes fell to the heap of bodies writhing in front of him, where half a dozen of the stevedores struggled with the Midrash personnel and two of his Spacers. Even as he looked, he saw one of the stevedores wrench a pry–bar away from a Midrash spacer and begin to stand, raising it, clearly about to smash it point–first into the man’s helmet. Such a blow would kill him even if it didn’t reach his head, because all his spacesuit’s internal atmosphere would be voided when the helmet ruptured.

  Steve dropped instinctively into a braced combat shooting stance, his left hand coming up to support his right as it snapped out at full extension, aligning his pistol’s sights on the chest of the stevedore. As the pry–bar began to come down he squeezed off three rapid shots, inaudible in the vacuum of the hold, riding the recoil of the electromagnetic firing mechanism, most of which was absorbed by its inertial compensator. The hypersonic beads slammed into the man’s chest in a tight cluster, rocking his big, burly frame. His eyes opened wide with pain and shock as he staggered back, fighting for balance; but he tripped over two struggling figures behind him, toppling sideways to the deck, dropping the pry–bar as he fell.

  The clamor in Steve’s earpiece was cut off as if by a knife, the sight making everyone in his team freeze for a moment. He shouted, “RADIO SILENCE!” as he spun around, checking his six. The three he’d already dealt with were still down, the foreman clutching his throat, the second man cradling his dislocated knee and rocking back and forth, the third motionless on the deck. The other stevedores stood frozen, hands raised under the threat of the carbines in the hands of the Marines. Ensign Melchin was off to one side, lips moving, so he was obviously speaking on another frequency — most likely calling for backup from the patrol craft. The Bosun’s Mate was flat on his back, Melchin’s foot on his chest and his pistol aimed straight into his face. Clearly, there’d be no trouble from that quarter.

  Steve swung back. The only fighting was now in the heap of struggling bodies on the deck. He called, “Sergeant Eckhard, you and one other Marine lay your carbines down, then use your powered armor to break up this lot. Haul the workers off. Clobber them if they resist, then throw them over to join their foreman.”

  “Aye aye, Sir! Donegan, with me!”

  The two Marines set down their carbines behind their colleagues, who were still holding the other stevedores at bay, and set to work. The exoskeletal synthetic ‘muscles’ of their powered armor, ten times as strong as an unaided man, made short work of the fight. One by one the struggling workers were hoisted up by belt or limb, clobbered if necessary, and flung in the general direction of their foreman. Those still able to do so after a very hard landing looked up, saw the carbines lined at them, and wisely lay still.

  As the Midrash personnel rose to their feet, Ensign Melchin broke in. “Lieutenant, help’s on the way. Lieutenant Vikram’s alerted OrbCon, and our other patrol craft are coming at full blast. We’re to hold in place until relieved.”

  “Got it. Where’s Lieutenant Sabran?”

  “Here,” she replied, breathing heavily, rising slowly on unsteady legs. “I was caught underneath that crush of bodies. I’m OK, just winded — the shuttle! Behind you, Steve!”

  He spun around again. A space–suited figure was standing in the mouth of the cargo shuttle’s hold, lining a bead carbine at him. Steve didn’t have time to assume a proper stance. He snapped his pistol up one–handed as he turned, got a flash sight picture and hurriedly squeezed off a shot. Even as the pistol jumped in his hand, something hard, hot and heavy smashed into his upper left arm. Agony roared through him as he jerked back, the arm falling unresponsive to his side. He felt the sting of vacuum as air and body fluids rushed out of the hole for a brief instant before his spacesuit’s self–sealing lining blocked it.

  It seemed as if every Marine in the hold turned their weapons on the figure in the shuttle at the same time. A hailstorm of beads slammed into him, his body jerking and twisting. He collapsed, the carbine falling from his hands.

  “Cease fire!” Steve called — or, rather, croaked, his voice coming out unnaturally strained and trembling. “Cease fire! Cover the others!” The carbines swung back to the prisoners, but they remained motionless. Having seen two of their number die, with several more down and injured, they’d had enough.

  Miriam hurried over and gently took Steve’s pistol from him. “Ensign, get Lieutenant Maxwell over to the cargo station, out of the way! Call for medevac! I’ll handle things here.”

  Steve tried to say something, but the burning, throbbing, stabbing pain in his arm grew ever greater, stifling his words. He felt a runnel of blood coursing down his arm inside the spacesuit’s sleeve, already reaching his wrist. Melchin took his right arm, tugging him gently. He tried to resist, but Sergeant Eckhard said, “We’ve got it, Sir. You did real well! Go get that arm treated. We’ll take care of this lot.”

  Numbly, he obeyed, stumbling on suddenly nerveless legs towards the terminal. The hold seemed to swim around him, as if in a mist. A wave of dizziness surged over him, but he forced it down.

  The Ensign sat him down gently on the seat in front of the terminal. “Hold on, Sir,” he muttered over the radio as he checked that Steve’s spacesuit had successfully sealed the breach in its airtight integrity. “Help’s on the way. Do you need to lie down?”

  “No,” he replied, gritting his teeth. “It hurts like hell, though. I think the… bone’s broken, and I can feel… blood running down my arm.” He had to speak in short bursts as sudden spikes of pain stabbed at him.

  “We’ll get you medical help as fast as we can. You’ll probably be taken down to the Sector Hospital. You’ll be in good hands there.”

  “I guess so. Why the hell… did that idiot try to shoot in the first place?… He couldn’t possibly have… saved his buddies. We already had things… under control in here.”

  “We’ll ask the prisoners about that later,” Melchin promised. His eyes went to the gap between the cargo shuttle and the hold doors. “Here’s Patrol Craft Six arriving. Lieutenant Shelby’s aboard her, if I remember correctly.”

  Sure enough, Brooks hurried into the hold within minutes, accompanied by his heavily–armed search party. He came straight over to Steve.

  “What happened, buddy?” His voice was filled with concern. “They said you got shot.”

  “Yeah — left arm. All… under control now. There’s something very fishy… about those crates containing the… inertial compensator. Check ’em out…”

  “You bet we will!” He glanced at the Ensign. “An ambulance cutter with a doctor on board is on the way here.”

  Some of the new arrivals herded the stevedores back into their cargo shuttle, arrested its crew, and departed in it to the Patrol Service base. Others fanned out throughout the ship, arresting every member of her crew and confining them to quarters until they could be ferried over to the base for processing. Through it all, Steve sat quiescent, the ship seeming to swirl around him. The fingers of his left glove felt heavy and swollen with the blood that had run down his arm from his wound.

  The ambulance cutter seemed to take forever to arrive. At last two medics and a doctor hurried into the hold. Ensign Melchin greeted them with a sigh of relief.

  “I’m glad you’re here. He’s in a lot of pain.”

  “We’ll take it from here, Ensign.” The doctor’s voice was crisp, professional. She glanced at Steve’s spacesuit sleeve and grimaced. “How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

  “Lousy, Doc. Arm’s… red–hot. Bones feel like they’re… grating against ea
ch other whenever… I try to move.”

  “Don’t move, then! We’ll have to get you into atmosphere, then cut off this spacesuit to see what we’re dealing with. That’ll hurt, so I’m going to give you a shot to knock you out.”

  “Sounds… good to me, Doc.”

  She wiped the thinner, more flexible material of the spacesuit over his neck with a cleaning and disinfecting patch, then pressed a needle injector against it. He grimaced at the sting of the injection; but within seconds, his pain faded as darkness engulfed him.

  ~ ~ ~

  Slowly Steve’s consciousness returned, as if rising towards the surface after a long submergence. Faintly in his ears he heard what sounded like birdsong… but that couldn’t be, surely? There were no birds in space! Even the air smelt different, fresh, clean, far more pleasant than the usual ‘canned’, filtered and recycled smell of air aboard a spaceship, that no amount of fresheners or deodorizers could completely mask. It was subtly different, too, carrying overtones of scents he didn’t recognize.

  He opened his eyes a crack. The room in which he lay was dim, light filtering through the curtains over the window… window? Curtains? So he wasn’t on a spaceship! He opened his eyes wider, and carefully turned his head. He was in a white–painted room, lying on a high bed, its upper half raised slightly, his head resting on soft, plumped pillows. The window on his left was open, fresh air moving the curtains slightly in a breeze — and yes, that was birdsong, coming from outside.

  He lay silent for a moment, then tried to move; but something was wrong with his left arm. It seemed heavy, unresponsive. He slowly turned his head to look. It lay outside the covers. A plastic hard–shell cast began around his shoulder, ran down his upper arm, made a right–angled turn at the elbow, and ended at his wrist. He gazed at it for a moment, puzzled, then slowly memory began to return. The freighter… the fight in the hold… he’d been shot…

  The door opened quietly, and a woman dressed in a white uniform looked cautiously around the edge. Her face brightened. “Ah! You’re awake, right on time.” She came in, bustling up to the bedside, beaming at him. “And how are you feeling?”