He strained his ears for any noise from the other side, but it was useless. The seal was airtight. The room above must be an air lock. Since a decompression indicator wasn’t lit up, it must be safe to open.
When he tugged on the handle, it squeaked in protest, echoing down the blackened hole beneath him. Steiner froze for an instant, then without a second thought about it, he jerked the metal arm into the release position. An explosive, high-pitched hiss of air escaped from the cracked seal. He flung the hatch aside and propelled himself up through the entry with his gun held out.
The sight shocked him. Five of the seven engineers were seated in a circle, singing. Their voices trailed off as each of them turned to stare at Steiner.
Daniels stood up, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Captain? Is everything all right?”
Steiner couldn’t answer. He was still trying to comprehend what he was seeing.
“Would you care to join us for our worship service?” Daniels asked.
Steiner held the older man’s gaze for a few heartbeats. He couldn’t detect any visible signs of deceit. Could this actually be what he claimed it was—a worship service?
He surveyed the surroundings just to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. Just as he suspected, it was an air lock, probably used for making repairs to the outside hull. A storage cabinet of space suits occupied the side wall, near the exterior hatch. No weapons were in view.
An old, frayed book lay at Daniels’s feet. It looked like a Bible. Mary had owned one once.
“Captain?” Daniels asked.
Steiner lowered his AT-7 slowly. “Why didn’t you ask me before you had this gathering?”
Daniels shrugged. “I didn’t think it would matter.”
“It does.”
“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll accept full responsibility for my error. Do you wish us to stop?”
Steiner’s suspicions continued to eat away at him. What if this was all an elaborate front to trick him? He looked at the book at Daniels’s feet.
“Is that a Bible?”
Daniels retrieved the old volume from the ground and showed him the front cover. It was.
A tall, lanky, white man climbed to his feet. “Would you care to sing some hymns with us?”
“Who are you?”
“Everyone calls me ‘Spider,’ because of my long arms and legs.”
“He and J.R. are my chief assistants,” Daniels added, then indicated a young black man seated on the other side of the circle.
J.R. nodded in greeting.
“Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline,” Steiner replied. “Carry on without me.”
The group resumed singing as Steiner lowered himself down the ladder and closed the hatch behind him. He knew he probably had nothing to fear from the engineers and was thankful for it.
AT the first beep of his portable comlink, Steiner awoke from his nap. Before it could repeat, he jolted upright in his bed, raising the device to his mouth. “Steiner here.”
“This is Security Chief Richards. We have a disturbance in the bar that requires your immediate presence.”
Steiner stood up, stretching his muscles back to life. What could have happened that his fully capable security team wasn’t able to handle? A cascade of chills ran through his body as he considered the possibilities.
“I’m on my way,” he said into the mouthpiece of the comlink, switched it off, and reattached it to his belt.
When he arrived at the bar, he found Richards and both of his colleagues, Hulsey and Eddie, holding back a crowd of convicts from the entrance.
“What’s the situation?” Steiner asked the chief.
“Four men forced their way inside and refuse to leave.”
“Have you tried to remove them yet?”
“We couldn’t,” Richards answered, holding up his stun gun. “We’re outmatched.”
A lump built in Steiner’s throat. The men inside must be armed with real weapons.
“We evacuated all the bystanders,” Richards added. “We weren’t able to get Bricket out, though. They wanted him to serve more drinks until you showed up.”
The last words echoed in Steiner’s mind. He had known all along that sooner or later someone would get up enough courage to try to cash in on Jamison’s bounty.
“What are you planning on doing?” Richards asked.
That seemed to be the question on everyone’s mind, judging from the stares of the crowd. Perhaps this was the test they had all been waiting for? Could Steiner defend his command?
He inched up to the doorway to survey the interior of the establishment. Someone had reduced the lighting so that shadows draped everything below the tabletops. Two of the ship’s gunners stood at the counter, drinking and laughing. The taller one was a hot-tempered fuse nicknamed Torch. Steiner couldn’t remember the name of chubby, bald man next to him. An angry scowl bent Bricket’s scarred face, probably because he had lost his paying crowd. The other two men must be hiding somewhere inside.
With a deep breath, Steiner unsheathed the AT-7 from its holster. During his academy days, he had earned an award for marksmanship with this kind of weapon. Those skills would be put to the test.
He stepped inside, scanning the inside walls near the entry with his pistol muzzle. Nothing. Cautiously, he threaded a path through the tables, searching for the faintest of movements in the pits of darkness beneath them.
His gaze locked onto the counter. Since it stretched across the entire back length of the establishment, it offered the best mobility. He guessed that was where the other two assassins were lying in wait.
His focus shifted to the decorative bottles arranged on the shelves lining the rear wall. An idea flashed into his mind.
“So,” Torch shouted, “the mighty captain himself has come to force us to leave.” He turned to his companion. “Will he succeed, I wonder?”
A sinister grin split the bald man’s face as he shook his head back and forth.
Torch lifted his half-filled mug. “A toast to his death.”
The chubby hands of the other brought a glass up also. Both men drank, then belched in unison.
Steiner wanted to shoot the two of them down just to get it over with, but a display of cowardice like that might cause the rest of the crew’s respect to decline further. If that happened, he might lose his command—along with his life.
“You have violated the bar-usage policy,” he shouted, halting five meters from the gunners. “You will both report to the brig immediately.”
They roared in laughter.
“And if we don’t, Captain?” Torch demanded. “What are you going to do about it?”
Steiner met Bricket’s gaze for a split second. The bartender’s eyes shifted to the left in an unnatural fashion.
It was a hint. The two assassins must be hiding exactly where Steiner had expected, behind the counter to the left.
“You’d better leave now, Bricket,” he said, motioning toward the storeroom.
“We haven’t finished our party yet,” Torch cut in. “He stays.”
Steiner’s muscles tightened in anticipation. “You’re finished now.”
Torch’s hand slapped the counter.
That had to be a signal to the other two.
Steiner drew his AT-7 and fired at the supports under the shelves that lined the rear wall. The structure collapsed, raining bottles down on the two figures that bolted upward. The assassins covered their heads, trying to protect themselves from the descending wave of glass and liquors. A wooden piece from the shelves sparked from Steiner’s blasts. Flames burst out around the two men, exploding upward, consuming the falling liquids in flight.
“No,” Bricket cried as he dropped to the floor.
The heat from the sudden eruption forced Steiner to shield his face. He stumbled back in surprise. Never had he expected such a reaction from low-alcoholic substances, unless—
One of the burning assassins aimed a gun. A bolt from St
einer’s AT-7 ripped through the man’s chest before he could open fire. The lifeless body sank into a flaming grave.
Before Steiner had a chance to seek out the other assassin, he saw something being swung at him from a corner of his vision. He ducked, but not in time to avoid being clipped in the shoulder by a chair. The force of the blow threw him to the floor. When he collided with the cold unyielding surface, he lost hold of his weapon.
He rolled back to his feet in time to see Torch reaching for the fallen pistol. With a sweep of Steiner’s leg, the weapon skidded away under the tables.
Muttering a curse, Torch picked up another chair. This time, Steiner grabbed one of his own and deflected a second swing. With a cry of rage, Steiner charged at his opponent, using the legs of his chair to pin the man against the edge of the counter.
Bright beams tore through the air inches from Steiner’s face. He instinctively flung himself backward to the ground. Torch dropped a few feet away, with smoking puncture wounds through his head and upper shoulders.
Steiner dove under the protective darkness of the tables, scrambling deeper into their midst, listening as the bald man scolded the second gunman for killing Torch.
A glance over at one of the tables helped him recognize the other man as James Grant, the best marksman on the firing range. Burns had blistered his face and arms, and dark singes ran up his clothes. His body shook with apparent rage, which might explain why he hadn’t hit Steiner on the first try. With a maddened cry, Grant initiated another assault, randomly cutting through the tables in search of his prey.
Steiner couldn’t possibly stand against him without his pistol. He strained his eyes for any sign of the AT-7 in his blackened world below. A glint of metal caught his attention a meter from the counter’s midsection. Now to get it—
One of his overhead shelters shook violently. Steiner rolled to the side as the shattered table collapsed to the floor. The smoldering wood sizzled from the intense heat of the energy-bolt strikes. He flattened himself as another table crumbled several meters to his left.
“Show yourself, Captain,” Grant screamed, his voice cracking with strain.
As quietly as he could, Steiner crawled toward his weapon. Just a few more seconds—
“He’s over there.” The shout came from the far right. Steiner glanced over to see the bald man pointing directly at him.
Steiner lunged forward with all his strength just as the table above him was slashed apart. Brilliant streaks lanced over him as he scrambled forward, crouched low. He dove under the overhang of the wooden counter. On the other side of the structure, he could hear Grant cursing at his defensive tactic.
Steiner maneuvered to the left, picking his way between the barstools until he was close enough to reach his weapon. His fingers closed around its handle, giving him renewed hope.
A loud eruption brought him about. Two meters away, a large hole had been blasted out of the lower part of the counter. Wooden splinters exploded out as another energy bolt burst through the structure, shattering the legs of a barstool in its path.
Steiner dashed along the overhang, the destructive path following on his heels.
When he reached the wall at the far end of the room, he spun around and watched the oncoming bolts spraying through the wood, heading toward him.
He closed his eyes and listened to Grant’s approach, the scuffle of his boots. He rose from his hiding place, already aiming at his target.
Grant’s eyes widened as he adjusted the angle of his gun muzzle. Two of Steiner’s bolts tore through the man’s torso before he could fire. Grant sprawled back against the floor, where he lay motionless, blood oozing from his body.
All of Steiner’s strength fled at once, replaced by a weakened state of relief. Only one of the four assassins remained.
The bald man stood alone in the center of the room, panting in apparent terror.
His knees aching, Steiner walked along the smoldering ruins that used to be the counter. The fire continued to burn behind it, lighting the surroundings in flashes of red and orange. The stench of death hung in the air. Smoke trailed from the jumbled ruins of seared furniture, filling the ceiling with a ghostly haze. The crowd outside the entrance froze to complete stillness.
When Steiner neared the unarmed gunner, he holstered his AT-7. If his prisoner went to the brig peacefully, there would be no more need of further violence.
The bald man’s eyes darted wildly from his dead comrades to Steiner. He dashed his glass mug against a tabletop, leaving sharp jagged edges on its rim. With a loud scream, he burst forward.
With a reflexive draw of his pistol, Steiner severed the gunner’s arm from his torso with a single blast. The man cried out, stumbled to the right, and fell headlong into a smoldering pile of furniture.
When Steiner got closer, he saw a charred piece of wood protruding from the gunner’s back.
The test had ended. Steiner had survived without losing any respect. He closed his eyes, listening to the whispers of astonishment from the spectators, intermingled with the quiet crackling of the fire.
A shudder ran through the floor, followed by another, then a mechanical hum. Steiner spun around in place, aiming his AT-7 at Tramer, who had stepped through the people gathered at the entrance. The cyborg halted a few feet away. Steiner’s finger tensed on the trigger.
The mechanical man remained motionless.
A long heartbeat passed.
The cyborg’s black lips parted. From out of the mechanical device on its neck came what sounded like, “Behind you.”
Steiner hesitated, wondering if he had heard correctly. Was it trying to trick him?
Within the reflection of the fire dancing on its breastplate, a dark shape moved.
Steiner ducked, barely missing two energy blasts rending the air where he had been standing. He twisted his body about, his pistol muzzle searching for the source.
Grant had pulled himself onto the bar counter. One bloodied arm held a smoking gun. Before the man could ignite another bolt, Steiner shot him. The headless corpse slid off the structure, leaving a red smear across the polished wooden surface.
Steiner looked back at the cyborg, which hadn’t moved from its original position. Two black, charred marks discolored its shiny breastplate where Grant’s energy bolts had struck it. Servos whined as the cyborg’s right arm rose slowly to its head to give a salute.
Steiner blinked. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
With a whirl of mechanical components, Tramer turned around and marched out of the room. The crowd at the door parted instantly to allow it through.
For a few seconds, Steiner remained still, trying to recover from his utter shock.
Bricket rose from his shelter behind the undamaged section of the counter. He hobbled toward the blaze a few meters away, whimpering something about how much it would cost to replace his collection of bottles.
Sheathing his AT-7, Steiner slid over the counter. He took one of the remaining bottles from what was left of the shelves.
“I had always wondered how people could get drunk from low-alcoholic drinks,” he said, removing its cap.
He took a deep drink. It was the real thing—strong liquor.
Bricket choked up a sob. “What do I do about my bar?”
“Rebuild,” Steiner replied, handing the bottle to the bartender. “I’m sure you have plenty of that low-alcohol stuff to sell.”
The bartender frowned.
Swimming in a newfound feeling of pride from his success, Steiner hopped back across the structure and headed toward the exit. He planned on finishing his nap once he reached his cabin. As he walked through the crowd at the entrance, they stared at him in awe—even Eddie the Giant. Steiner had proved himself master of the ship. For the moment, at least.
As long as Jamison’s bounty existed, he knew it wouldn’t be long before someone tried to kill him again.
CHAPTER 9
WHISTLES and hurrahs erupted from the spectators, standi
ng against the walls.
Steiner stroked his two-week-old beard, gratified by how well the crew seemed to be responding to his new game, bruiseball.
A new round began as one team gave the opening toss to the other. Snatching the yellow-painted helmet from the air, Eddie the Giant charged down the center of the cleared-out cafeteria. Since none of his opponents could slow him down, one of them jumped under his feet, causing him to topple down on everyone around him. Body armor protected all the players from injuries.
Steiner had created the game to give the convicts combat training for the raids ahead. They loved it, not just playing but watching, too, as evidenced by the cheering of the spectators.
A week ago, he had never expected to stand among a group of convicts like this, without fearing for his life. Much had changed since the pivotal battle he had fought against the four assassins in the bar. Mason, who was in the command center at the time of the attack, had watched the entire ordeal through the security monitors and had told the tale countless times to anyone who would listen. Whispers of the legendary “Ironhand” had circulated throughout the ship. Crewmen had begun acting respectfully to Steiner and strove to please him. Potential had begun surfacing among the crew. The missions ahead didn’t seem so impossible anymore.
A howl broke out as another bruiseball player, nicknamed Rex, dove on top of Eddie, ripped the game prop away, and raced in the opposite direction. He tossed it back and forth with one of his teammates, Bo, then faked out the goal’s protector and slammed it through the posts.
Teamwork like that had made them the best bruiseball players on board. They would be valued raiders in the missions to come.
Rex and Bo did a victory dance.
Cheers rose from the crowd, along with a couple of cat-calls. Richards stood ready with his stun gun just in case a disturbance broke out.
Steiner caught a glimpse of the overhead camera panning across the room, reminding him of Tramer’s unseen presence. The cyborg hadn’t said a word to him since the battle in the bar. He still didn’t know why it had saved his life. Its breastplate bore no trace of the energy-bolt scorch marks it had received, but had been cleaned and buffed back to its previous shine, which indicated the metallic body was impervious to small-arms fire. That was cause for worry. How could he stand against it if it opposed him?
Prison Ship Page 8
