. . . upon the sea of death, where still we sail darkly, for we cannot steer, and have no port.
D. H. Lawrence, The Ship of Death
Captain Tomi Corbett was in her cabin aboard Galaxy Belle, struggling to get out of her tight-fitting evening gown. She'd been entertaining at the captain's table when word was brought to her—in code, of course, not to unduly alarm the guests—that there was an emergency, she was needed on the bridge.
"What's up, Church?" she'd asked her second in command. Discipline was easy and relaxed on board the cruise liner.
"Federal agent. Came out of nowhere. Requesting permission to come aboard."
"I don't like this," Tomi muttered, staring at the small spaceplane, white paint and GRD insignia gleaming officially among the stars. "Get hold of the boss."
Tomi Corbett was a shrewd officer and a skilled spacepilot. She'd been trained in the Galactic Air Corps, left a brilliant career in the military when it became obvious that they were going to yank her out of space and promote her up to boredom, sitting behind some desk, talking at some computer.
In her late thirties, single, attractive, well off, and carefree, Tomi took a year to consider the job offers that came pouring in. She accepted the captaincy of the Galaxy Belle for one reason—it paid double the salary of more legit jobs. And Tomi had, by this time, grown accustomed to the finer things in life.
The job had other advantages. She was, generally speaking, in sole command of the ship. The boss, Galaxy Belle's owner, ran the games, looked after the business end. He knew nothing about space flight or the ship itself, couldn't have told you the bow from the stern, thought port and starboard were both after-dinner drinks, and was firmly convinced that a parsec had six legs and wings.
Tomi was, therefore, in charge—up to a point.
"I don't like it," she told the boss bluntly. "We've never had this kind of thing happen with the Feds before."
"There's never been a political situation this screwed up before," the boss replied testily. "These jerks probably figure they'd better get what they can while they can before the government topples and they find themselves out of work."
"It could be pirates ..."
"When have you ever known pirates to hit a gambling ship?" the boss scoffed. "They know we don't carry cash. Strictly a credit operation."
"What if"—she lowered her voice—"it's a hit. We heard rumors that the syndicate—"
"One blasted spaceplane with two people aboard? Not even Malone's that stupid. The high-stakes poker game's tonight. I don't want my guests disturbed. You deal with it and deal with it quietly, Captain."
"Yes, sir."
When the boss called her captain instead of Tomi, as was usual between them, she knew there was no point in arguing. She didn't like it, but she couldn't give any solid reason for not liking it, beyond the fact that it was out of the ordinary, out of routine. Tomi had learned, from her days with the Galactic Air Corps, that anything out of routine was almost always trouble.
"What do you think?" She looked at her lieutenant.
Jeff Church had been around a long, long time. He was old enough to be Tomi's father, but he didn't resent serving under a woman less than half his age. He didn't resent anything anymore. An intelligent man, he was also a nice man—too nice. He'd seen people with half his brains but twice his chutzpah promoted over him. He'd retired early on an inadequate pension, was forced to find work. He'd accepted this job gratefully; Tomi being the first captain willing to hire a man his age.
Tomi knew she could trust him, knew she could trust his judgment.
"I don't like it either, Tomi. But the boss says do it so I guess we'd better. It might be a good idea to send a security team down to meet them, though."
"Yes, I think you're right."
She gave permission for the agents to come aboard, and arranged everything else, including dinner, a few hundred dollars worth of chips on the house, agreeable companionship.
"And make that security detail look like a welcoming committee. But I want them armed and ready to really 'welcome' these guys, if necessary. Oh, and don't mention this to the boss."
Church nodded, and went off to carry out his orders.
Having done all she could without offending the boss, Tomi hurried to her cabin to change into her uniform. It wouldn't be dignified for the captain to greet government agents, if that's who they were, in a silver, strapless number, no matter how well it set off her dark brown skin. And if they weren't Federation agents, she needed to be ready for action.
Tomi was fumbling at the buttons on the uniform's designer jacket when the call came through to her cabin.
"Captain! This is security. We've got trouble. I . . . I—"
She heard a gasping sound, then a noise as of something heavy—like a body—hitting the deck.
"Security! Security!" Tomi beat her fist on the controls.
No reply.
"Shit!" Tomi hit another control. "Church! We've got trouble on hangar bay nine. What's going on down there? What do the cams show?"
"The cams have gone dead, Tomi," reported her lieutenant. "And the hangar bay door's standing wide open."
"Well, shut it!"
"We can't," he reported. "Someone's jammed the controls."
"Get us out of here!" Tomi commanded. "Send every available man on security to nine—"
"I've already done—"
"Seven spaceplanes on our screens, sir!" squeaked an excited young communications officer in the background. "They're all around us! And . . . And they're firing at us, Lieutenant!"
"Raise shields," was the automatic command that came to Tomi's lips, but she clamped her lips shut without saying it. Galaxy Belle had no shields to raise. The ship wasn't even armed. She'd told the boss, time and again, that he should add guns and armaments, but he was afraid it would scare off the paying customers.
"They mean business, Tomi," said Church quietly. "They know what they're doing."
"I'm on my way to the bridge. Get those damn doors shut!"
"Useless, Tomi. We're being boarded."
Nothing to say to that except several words not fit to be spoken over the commlink. Her uniform half-buttoned, her jacket flap hanging open, Tomi grabbed her lasgun belt, buckled it on, left her cabin, and headed at a dead run for the bridge. Guests shrank back against the bulkheads as she flew past, staring at her in drunken amazement, curiosity, or—in some instances when they wouldn't get out of her way fast enough—enraged ire.
She arrived on the bridge, breathless and panting. "Seal that door!" she ordered, pointing at the door through which she'd just run. "At least they won't get on the bridge. Has security reported in?"
"If they've tried, they can't get through!" Church gestured at the control console in disgust. "The commlink's flooded with calls, passengers demanding to know what's going on."
"I wish I knew!" Tomi drew in a seething breath. "Get them off! Now! Clear the lines."
"Should we sound the general alarm?"
Tomi hesitated, shook her head. "No, that would send everyone into a stampede. Have you warned the boss?"
"He's in the poker game. No calls. I've contacted his bodyguards—"
Tomi swore again, tried desperately to think. It had to be a hit. Yet, -yet, something just wasn't right. . . .
"Security!" she shouted, fuming.
A banging came from outside the door. "Open up!"
The young ensign gulped, face pale. "What?—" he began.
Tomi motioned furiously for silence.
"We have boarded your ship," came the voice. "It's under our control. Open up or we'll blow it open."
"Good luck," Tomi told them, turning away. "That should keep them busy awhile. Where the hell's—"
"I've got Security," Church reported.
Tomi ran to the console.
The security guard spoke softly, she was probably in hiding. "Seven spaceplanes have landed. They left two men down here, guarding the planes. The rest spread out th
rough the ship. They know what they're doing, all right. They're armed to the teeth. Some sort of gas pellets knocked out the first security team."
"Dead?"
"No, they're coming around. We've got a few wounded, but these guys, whoever they are, seem to be going out of their way not to kill anyone."
"It's not a hit, then," Tomi said to Church. Frustrated, she beat her fist on the console. "What the hell is going on? What do they want? If we knew, maybe we could—"
"Tomi," said the lieutenant, "the door."
Tomi looked, was astounded to see it starting to open. Furious, she rounded on the ensign.
"I told you to seal—"
"I did, Tomi! I swear it!" His voice cracked in panic.
The door was opening, sliding back smoothly, quietly, efficiently. She thought she saw a tiny whiff of blue smoke puff out of the control panel next to the hatch, but that may have been her imagination. She didn't have time to dwell on it. Her lasgun was in her hand, aimed at the entryway.
A bright blue light flared, blinding in intensity. Tomi fired at it, saw it wink out, saw her burst glance off, as if it had struck an invisible shield. A woman clad in black walked in through the half-open door. She held in her hand some sort of weird-looking sword that burned with a bright blue light. Tomi squinted against it, fired again. The blue light vanished. Again her energy burst was reflected, did no damage.
A shield of some sort.
The woman came straight for her. Blue light flared in an arc. Tomi tried to fire again, felt pain sear the flesh of her gunhand. She smelled burning flesh, could see her own skin blister and bubble. And yet the blade had never touched her, it had only come close.
Moving swift as thought, the woman shifted the blade's position. Its blue light glowed near Tomi's breast. She could feel the intense heat radiate from it.
"Drop your weapon," said the woman.
Tomi, despite the pain in her burned hand, gripped the gun tightly. Point-blank range, she couldn't miss if she tried. This woman with her sword or shield or whatever it was couldn't possibly react faster than the speed of laser fire.
Tomi looked the woman in the eyes, to keep her attention from the gun. The blue light of the sword reflected off gray eyes that were cool and dispassionate as a frozen sea. The sword's blue light seemed to envelop Tomi, enclose her in a dazzling halo. She couldn't see anything beyond the light, except the woman standing before her, and the sudden, fearful thought came to Tomi that everything beyond the light had vanished, leaving her isolated, alone, adrift in time and space. Only the woman with the gray eyes was real.
"Drop your weapon," came the voice, speaking from within Tomi, not outside her. "I don't want to have to kill you."
Tomi willed herself to shoot, but her fingers no longer responded to her command. They were under the control of the woman with the blue light and the gray eyes. The lasgun fell to the deck with a clatter.
The blue light vanished, leaving Tomi—so it seemed for an instant—in red-tinged, eye-aching darkness. The woman turned her attention away from her and Tomi felt, suddenly, as if she'd been dropped to the deck with her gun. She was herself again, her will was her own. The bridge, the deck— reality was back.
"All secure, Xris?" the woman asked a cyborg, who had entered behind her.
"All secure, sister."
Tomi glanced around, saw her lieutenant clutching a bleeding arm, a dart sticking out of the flesh. His own side arm lay on the deck. The cyborg, of course. She made a mental note, spotting the sophisticated weapons hand he wore. Her communications officer cowered at his console, his hands held so high in the air it seemed he might, with little effort, grab hold of the ceiling.
The cyborg must have augmented hearing, too. "Someone coming," he reported to the woman, and he moved to stand against the bulkhead, near the open door.
"How many?"
"One."
Tomi strained her ears, couldn't hear anything, but it must be a member of the security team. Probably heard something or seen something to make him wary, suspicious. She could picture him in her mind, treading soft-footed down the corridor, weapon drawn, walking into a trap . . .
Tomi started to shout a warning.
Xris, standing against the wall, looked at her, smiled, shook his head. Laying his real flesh-and-blood finger to his lips, he drew the metal finger across his throat in a slashing motion, then glanced significantly at the open doorway.
"Shout and you won't die. He will," was the unspoken threat.
Tomi kept quiet.
The security man dashed onto the bridge, beam rifle raised, aiming at the woman, who stood watching him with an expression of cool interest. The sword in her hand flared blue. The man paused, startled, eyes blinking.
Xris never moved away from his stance by the wall. He lifted his arm, pointed it at the man. The cyborg's hand flew off the end of his wrist, struck the security man hard on the back of the head. He crumpled onto the deck with a soft groan. The hand fell down beside him with a metallic clang.
"Any more?" asked the woman.
The cyborg listened, seemed satisfied. Walking over, he picked up his hand, reattached it. "No, that's it. Agis's coming . . . and Brother Daniel."
Tomi heard the pause between the names, saw the cyborg's lip curl when he mentioned the second, filed this sign of a possible lapse in team spirit for future reference. Her hand hurt. Trying to ignore the pain, she turned to help her lieutenant.
"Here, sit down," she said, leading him to a seat. "You all right?"
Church's face was ashen, but he managed to smile. Blood welled from beneath his fingers. The metal end of the dart protruded from the flesh. "He needs a medic," Tomi said angrily, turning to the woman. "Let me send for the doctor."
The boss would know what was going on by now. His bodyguards were trained hit men, they'd worked for the syndicate for years. A call to him, pretending to ask for Doc, and . . .
"I don't think so," the woman responded in a pleasant and totally uncaring tone of voice. "I believe that there are enough of us here at present."
"But he's hurt!"
"That's not my concern," said the woman.
A man entered the door, glanced around swiftly, summing up the situation with cool, deliberate calculation. A professional soldier if Tomi ever saw one. Her heart sank. Whoever these people were, whatever they wanted, they were obviously quite capable of taking it.
"Everything's secure, my lady. Xris's men are rounding up the passengers, escorting them to their rooms. Sparafucile has located the water supply. Raoul is preparing the chemicals now."
"What?" Tomi demanded. "What are you doing to the water supply?"
My lady. He called the woman "my lady." Strange. But then none of this made any sense. What did these people want?
"Casualties, Agis?" My Lady asked, ignoring Tomi's question.
The soldier's eyes flicked to the lieutenant, clutching his bleeding arm. "Only a few, my lady, and most of those are minor. Some of the passengers proved uncooperative, but threats and the butt ends of beam rifles soon settled them. The owner of the ship was more difficult to handle. He and several of his men barricaded themselves in his stateroom. We blew the door, tossed in gas. They'll be unconscious for quite a while, but they'll be all right."
Tomi bit her lips, hoping no one would hear her sigh. Her last hope ended.
"Satisfactory," said My Lady. She pointed at the console. "Cut off all communications. Enter the course change. Xris, see if you can shut that door. Oh, Brother Daniel"—the woman glanced around at a young man who had just entered-— "you have three patients who would be grateful for your attention."
The young man, unlike the cyborg and the soldier, appeared uncomfortable, ill at ease, confused, and helpless. He followed the woman's gaze to Tomi and the lieutenant. Tomi saw his eyes widen at the sight of Church's injury.
Brother Daniel, the woman called him. Tomi remembered the sneer in the cyborg's voice. She lowered her eyelids hurriedly, fearful that he
r exultation would be noticed. She had just found the weak link in the chain.
Church was breathing heavily, his face was soaked with sweat. The young man approached him, his gaze fixed on the lieutenant's wounded arm, his eyes creased with concern. He reached out hands that looked strong, skilled, delicate.
Tomi flung one arm protectively around her lieutenant's shoulders.
"You butcher! Get back! Don't touch him!"
Brother Daniel, riveted by shock, stared at her, wordless.
Tomi was aware, obliquely, of My Lady watching them. The young man quickly regained his composure.
"I assure you, ma'am—"
"Captain!" Tomi snapped.
"I assure you, Captain," the young man said, flushing, not looking at her while he talked, "that I am a trained nurse. That wound needs attention—" His lowered gaze caught sight of her own injury. "And so does that burn on your hand," he said, at last lifting his eyes to meet hers.
Swiftly, he lowered them again.
"Don't worry about me. You're right about Lieutenant Church. He needs treatment, but I'm not letting any of you butchers touch him. The infirmary's right down the corridor—"
"You're not leaving the bridge, either of you," said My Lady with utter finality. "And no one else enters. Brother Daniel treats the lieutenant here and now or he bleeds to death."
Church was obviously on the verge of passing out. Tomi, with a show of reluctance, grudgingly moved to one side. "You'll be all right," she said to Church, who managed a weak smile.
Brother Daniel hurried forward. Tomi backed off, managed, as she was doing so, to brush up against the young man. She was startled to feel his body go rigid at her touch. He shrank away from her, his face flushed a burning crimson. He moved swiftly, hurriedly, past her to his patient.
"You should lie down."
Brother Daniel put his arm around Church, guided him to a low, cushioned bench that ran along one far wall, provided for the comfort of the guests when they made their tour of the luxury liner after first coming on board.
Tomi looked around the bridge—what had been, until moments ago, her bridge. The man, Agis, was altering the course. Nursing her burned hand, Tomi leaned over to see what figures he punched in.
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