Technokill

by David Sherman

  Then Herbloc gave a shout of delight. He emerged from the living quarters with a large brown bottle in his hand. "Invergordon!" he exulted. "Scotch! The finest Scotch there is. Inver-goddamn-gordon!" He took a long swig and closed his eyes in ecstasy. "I must say, whatever his faults as a social being, old Sam Patch had good taste in booze. Have some?" He held the bottle out to Jum Bolion.

  "Well, we have a few minutes before takeoff. If the Marines get here before then, at least we'll have a buzz on. Why not?" He drank from the bottle and made a face. "Tastes like—like—burnt cork. But—damn!" He handed the bottle to Gunsel, who drank.

  "Goddamn, Spence," he said to Herbloc, "if this is ‘the finest Scotch there is,’ I'd hate to drink the inferior stuff! Nevertheless..." He drank again and handed the bottle back to Herbloc. It made another round.

  "The taste for Scotch, my lads, is an acquired one," Herbloc said, lifting the bottle to his lips, "and as you can see, I have acquired it."

  "Well, let me acquire some more of it," Bolion said, reaching for the bottle. He drank. Herbloc took it back and drank and then Gunsel took another swig. One by one it made the rounds until it was empty.

  "More!" Herbloc shouted. "‘More, more, more, cried the pirates! Merry men are weee!’" he sang, staggering back into the living compartment. He emerged a moment later with a joyous shout. "Bourbon, me lads! Kentucky sour-mash bourbon! Tim Breem, too. Green label! The finest bourbon there is! No branch water to accompany this wonderful ambrosia but, taken neat—" He swigged out of the open bottle and sighed deeply. "—who needs a mixer?"

  He handed the bottle to Bolion, who drank. "Whew!" Bolion shook himself, passing the bourbon to Gunsel. "Man, that is sooo much better than Scotch!"

  The instrument console on the bridge blinked. "Preflight sequencing is completed," the computer announced in a pleasant female voice. "All systems are go. Ignition sequence on your command. Passengers and crew should now prepare for takeoff."

  "Ah-ha!" Bolion exclaimed as he staggered to the console and sat down heavily in the captain's chair. The instrument panel seemed to wobble before his eyes and go out of focus, but that did not dim the euphoria that possessed him. He could fly that thing to the edge of Human Space and beyond if they wanted him to. Why hadn't Herbloc shared his secret juice with him before now? Gotta treat the doc better after this, he thought. He stared at the instruments. Where the hell was the ignition switch? "Gadfrey," he muttered, and pressed a button. Nothing happened. He stared at the panel. The readings swam before his eyes. "Whew," he said, shaking his head to clear it. "Um," he nodded, finally realizing he'd opened the cargo hatch by mistake. Suddenly the ignition switch swam into focus. "Ahhh," he sighed, "time to go." He reached out a finger. "No, no," he muttered. "Gotta close the goddamn hatch first!" he said, striking the palm of one hand into his forehead. Now where the hell did that hatch relay get away to? He stared at the panel in confusion. It had moved! "Aw, the hell with it," he mumbled, turning back to the others.

  Herbloc was raucously singing a song about whiskey growing on trees. "Another drink, my friends, and then we're out of here!"

  First platoon made planetfall and their Dragons sped toward the smugglers' landing site. The Marquis de Rien was gone by the time they got there. The Lady Tee seemed to be unoccupied. Special Agent Nast used a skill he'd picked up along the way—a highly unauthorized skill, but one sometimes necessary for an isolated agent far from proper backup—and bypassed the Bomarc's lock.

  "So what do we do with it?" Ensign Llewellyn, the first platoon's commander, asked once Nast determined that the ship was indeed untenanted.

  "We have three men still on the surface, and I'm going to arrest them," Nast replied. He gave a Gallic shrug. "But they're naked, and it will take them time to get here. You have another platoon down here, and they've suffered quite a few casualties. I propose we go to their aid. We'll be back in plenty of time to apprehend the naked fugitives."

  "Are you sure? Llewellyn asked.

  "One of them is Art Gunsel. They'll get here. Eventually. Let's go help your wounded Marines."

  Ensign Llewellyn gratefully gave the order for first platoon to mount up. Taking care of wounded Marines was more important to him than intercepting criminals who might die of exposure and save everybody a lot of trouble if they weren't picked up quickly. Nast planted a transmitter in the locking mechanism, just to be on the safe side. If anybody opened the ship, the transmitter would notify him.

  Art Gunsel proved even more resourceful than Nast had assumed, and the trio reached the landing site much faster because he came up with the makeshift clothing. The agent was surprised when the transmitter signaled him that someone had opened the Lady Tee's lock. At that time, the two platoons were on their way back to orbit. First platoon's Essay got instant authorization to return planetside, but had to reach orbital altitude before it could turn around. Nast began to worry. If any one of the three was a properly trained Bomarc pilot, the ship would launch long before he and the Marines reached it.

  But the three men were hungry and needed to get dressed in real clothing, none of them had ever piloted a Bomarc before, and Herbloc found the liquor. So they were still there, barely into the launch sequence, when first platoon returned to the landing site.

  Special Agent Nast felt a surge of elation when they found the Lady Tee still on the ground.

  "Shouldn't we go in first?" Ensign Llewellyn asked as Nast stepped into the ship's airlock.

  Nast laughed. "If that were Sam Patch or even Sly Henderson in there, Ensign, I'd call for artillery preparation, but not this trio. I'll go in first and make the arrest. You back me up. I may need some help getting them outside, though. Especially Herbloc." He laughed again.

  Nast calmly ambled onto the bridge, hands clasped behind his back. A squad of Marines rushed in behind him and took positions around the bridge's bulkheads.

  Nast casually looked around the bridge and slowly shook his head. A man lay slumped over the instrument panel, apparently sleeping, another lay curled up on the deck, an empty brown bottle grasped in one hand. A third, a fat, balding old man stood swaying slightly, a nearly empty bottle with a green label clutched tightly in one fist.

  "Gentlemen," Nast said softly, "I am Special Agent Thom Nast of the Confederation Department of Justice. You are under arrest for violation of Chapter Six, Section 3103 of Title Eighteen, and Chapter..." He paused and stared at Herbloc. It didn't make any difference, Nast realized. These men had no rights and there wouldn't be any trial. "You are under arrest," he said at last.

  "Wel—" Hiccup! "—come to my humble but very tem-por-ary abode, Mish-Mister Sh-Shpeshal Agent Nashhht!" the old man said, pronouncing every word carefully. He blinked at Nast, belched, and slowly, gracefully, crumpled to the floor, where he passed out.

  Chapter 26

  The Khe Sanh got under way as soon as first platoon was secure in its compartment and the three prisoners were in the ship's brig. Commander Spitzhaven wasn't concerned about the several hour head start the Marquis de Rien had. The Marquis was a small, old freighter, it simply didn't have the acceleration of a Confederation warship and would need several days to reach its jump point—even with the slingshot effect imparted by swinging close to the local star. The Khe Sanh would have no problem catching it before it got too close to the star, where heat and radiation would prevent the Marine boarding party from launching a breaching operation. Spitzhaven was glad his ship still carried the obsolete breaching equipment that ripped off airlock hatches. Captain Conorado had assured him the Marines were well trained in the use of the old equipment. They certainly couldn't use the new Tweed Hull Breacher, not after Fleet put its use on indefinite hold until its technical problems could be worked out.

  Spitzhaven hadn't figured on the modifications Sam Patch had made on the Marquis de Rien, however. The Marquis may have been old and small, but it had an up-to-date powerplant. It couldn't accelerate as fast as the Khe Sanh, but it was still faster in-system than its size a
nd age indicated. It wasn't long before Navigation reported to him that the ships were going to be perilously close to the local star by the time they closed. The Marines would have to board the Marquis de Rien quickly or it might well reach its jump point and get away.

  Spitzhaven put the engineering department to work on finding a modification for the Marines' armored vacuum suits that would keep them from getting fried while they were close to the star. Keeping the suits cool and radiation-proof wasn't the problem, the engineering department assured their skipper. They could modify the suits easily enough. The problem was keeping the suits small enough to fit into the Marquis de Rien's airlock.

  Commander Spitzhaven's engineering department wasn't alone in working on the problem, though. True to their ancient heritage, the Marines weren't without their ability to improvise.

  "Top?" Corporal Doyle's voice was hesitant. Even though as Company L's senior clerk he worked directly for First Sergeant Myer, he had the same uncertainty about approaching a first sergeant that just about all Marines under the rank of staff sergeant seemed to have. First sergeants were entirely too unpredictable.

  "Speak, Doyle." Top Myer didn't bother looking up from the reports he was scanning.

  Speak, Doyle. A Marine's rank, especially for corporals and up, was his first name, and everybody was called by rank as a sign of respect. But not many called Corporal Doyle "Corporal," even though he had a bona fide hero medal, a Bronze Star, to go along with his stripes.

  "Uh..." Doyle had second thoughts about talking to Top Myer.

  Myer flipped down the vidscreen, leaned back in his chair, and fixed Doyle with a steely gaze. "You have something to say, Corporal Doyle?"

  "Uh, yeah, uh, I mean, yes I do, Top." He paused.

  "Well, what is it, Doyle? Spit it out. I've got a boarding operation to plan."

  "Well, Top, it's about that boarding operation." He hesitated again.

  Top Myer drummed his fingers on the top of his tiny desk. "Yes?"

  "I've been thinking about the Tweed Hull Breacher," Doyle blurted.

  "We can't use it," Myer said sourly. "It's defective and kills Marines."

  "I think I know how to fix it."

  The first sergeant's fingers stopped drumming and he looked speculatively at his senior clerk. Corporal Doyle was usually a supercilious little twit, but there was more to him than met the eye. Myer gestured at a small, wall-mounted seat. "Tell me about it, Corporal Doyle."

  Doyle plunked his bottom onto the seat and leaned forward eagerly. "Top, I reviewed the development and testing documents for the Tweed."

  Myer cocked an eyebrow. That was classified material, and he was pretty sure Doyle didn't have high enough clearance to access it. Well, if a clerk was going to be really useful to his first sergeant, he had to find ways around things. He nodded for Doyle to continue.

  "The breacher was developed by Tweed Submersible Recovery Operations. I looked into them. All their expertise is in deep-sea operations. They make and operate equipment that works on the bottom of oceans. "

  "I know that. Tell me something I don't know." He made no indication that he noticed Gunny Thatcher slip into the small compartment used as Company L's office. Thatcher stood quietly where Doyle couldn't see him without turning around.

  "The breacher was tested in a one-atmosphere, one-g setting. Top, don't you see? This equipment that was meant for use in a null-g vacuum was tested at the bottom of a gravity well in full atmosphere."

  Myer waved his hand in a circle, meaning move on—he knew all that too. He ignored Gunnery Sergeant Bass, who leaned on the hatch cowling behind Gunny Thatcher.

  "It's simple, Top. Just like their engineers had to adjust their thinking to allow for the reduced pressure and changed temperature of deep-sea to make the breacher work at one atmosphere, one g, we need to make adjustments to make it work in a null-g vacuum."

  "Doyle, do you think nobody else has thought of that? And how'd you come up with it?"

  Doyle blanched. "Uh, well, uh, I studied mechanical engineering in college—it was my minor. And I'm sure someone else thought about it, Top. But they haven't done it yet, have they?"

  Myer didn't answer with words; his look told Corporal Doyle he had no way of knowing what someone did or didn't do several months' travel away. He didn't acknowledge Captain Conorado, who was now standing behind Bass.

  Doyle flinched from Myer's look but kept talking. "The gases went into the burners with too much pressure, the flame came out too fast for the nozzles to control. Then they lit off the atmosphere in the chamber. All we have to do is damp down the pressure so the gases enter the mixer slower, and not pump atmosphere into the chamber until the hull is breached."

  "No atmosphere in the chamber means atmosphere will slam into it from inside the ship as soon as the hull is holed. Do you want to stand in that kind of maelstrom?"

  "But Top, close the inner hatch as soon as the cuts are through! There won't be much evacuation of atmosphere from the ship to the chamber."

  "Corporal Doyle, come with me," Captain Conorado said, and Doyle spun about. "We're going to see Captain Spitzhaven and pitch your proposal, see if his engineering department can come up with your modifications."

  Doyle, jaw gaping, merely stared at his company commander.

  "Don't just sit there, Corporal," Conorado said. "We need to see the Skipper." He turned and strode away.

  Corporal Doyle jumped up and skittered after him.

  "Corporal Doyle," Bass called after him, "if you ever want to change MOS, come and see me." Then, in a lower voice because Doyle was too far away, "I'm sure I can find a way to fit a corporal into a lance corporal's slot in my platoon."

  Myer and Thatcher exchanged a glance. Doyle had won his Bronze Star on a patrol Bass led, so they assumed Bass knew what the clerk was capable of. Maybe... Nah, not that supercilious little twit, Corporal Doyle.

  Commander Spitzhaven listened without interruption as Corporal Doyle repeated his idea. Then he made him repeat it again for his engineering head and the engineering chief. General Cazombi quietly joined them during the retelling.

  "Why didn't I think of that?" groaned Chief Petty Officer Magruder when Doyle finished.

  "For the same reason I didn't," Lieutenant Haselrhampti snorted. "I'm a nuclear engineer; you're an electronic engineer. That's a mechanical engineering solution."

  Chief Magruder nodded "Right. The navy's heavy on nuclear and electronic engineers, light on mechanical and civil engineers." He looked around for a place to spit, didn't see one, made a sour face. "This here jarhead might be the only man jack in all the naval services to have come up with the solution."

  "How long will it take?" Spitzhaven wanted to know.

  "Less time than coming up with modified armored vacuum suits that'll fit into a standard freighter airlock," Chief Magruder replied

  Lieutenant Haselrhampti agreed with his chief.

  "Then do it," Spitzhaven ordered.

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Good job, Corporal," Spitzhaven said to Doyle. "That is all."

  "Thank you, sir," Doyle said. He executed a sharp about-face and headed briskly back to Company L's offices. Even though it was sometimes interesting to listen in while officers talked, it was never interesting when they were aware of his presence.

  "Too bad you Marines are so fixated on battle that you only give medals and decorations for combat," Spitzhaven said when Doyle was out of earshot. "If his idea works, that corporal of yours just earned himself an ‘Atta-boy’ medal."

  Conorado nodded. "It does sometimes seem unfair," he agreed, "but long ago, when we Marines did give out Atta-boys, too damn many people who didn't deserve more than a pat on the back for a decently done job got a chestful of medals for little more than just doing what they were supposed to do."

  "You're right, but sometimes..." Spitzhaven's voice trailed off. It might not be fair, but there wasn't anything he could do about it.

  "Actually," General Cazombi said,
speaking for the first time since joining them, "I'm the nominal commander on this operation. That makes this, technically, an army operation. The army does give out Atta-boys. If this works, I'll give him one myself."

  Captain Conorado gave him a bland look. While he privately agreed that Doyle deserved an Atta-boy, he thought it might set a bad precedent. He didn't want to see the plethora of commendation medals return to the Marine Corps; he thought they cheapened the decorations for combat heroism. The Marine Corps wasn't about doing desk or other support jobs well, it was about fighting.

  Lieutenant Haselrhampti and Chief Magruder were back to Commander Spitzhaven in a matter of hours.

  "Got it, sir," Haselrhampti reported. "The cutters work in null-g vacuum now."

  "Will they be able to cut through the hull fast enough?"

  Lieutenant Haselrhampti nodded. "Like butter, sir. That class of freighter has a single-skin hull."

  "Single-skin?" Commander Spitzhaven blurted out. "What kind of fool designed a starship with a single skin?"

  "It's a planetary lander, sir." Haselrhampti understood his captain's surprise. "They had to sacrifice a lot of mass. Not having a double hull saves a lot of mass. It's like the chief said, it wasn't a popular model."

  Spitzhaven shook his head at the sheer stupidity of some people. Well, it wasn't his problem. "What about the atmosphere-exchange problem?" he asked, turning the subject to something that was his problem.

  Chief Magruder sighed. "I'm afraid we'll have to test that one in live action, sir." One of his sailors would have to do it, and he didn't like risking a man's life that way. He'd have to make the danger clear when he asked for a volunteer.

  The Marines solved the problem of a volunteer.