“And plan B?”
“I believe we agreed to call it plan AB,” Derby replied with a dry look. I refused to take the bait, and he quickly surrendered with a click of his tongue. “It’s in place.”
I nodded, briefly grinding my teeth in preparation for my next question. “What about Warden?”
“She’s over there, with Blaze,” he said, before hopping back out of my path, as one would after lighting a firework.
Warden was, indeed, talking to Blaze, as well as Daniel Henderson, the three of them surrounded by a crescent of victorious star pilots puffing their chests out at each other like a group of rival frogs. Warden appeared to be dressed identically to when I’d last seen her in the flesh, although she was exactly the kind of person who would own multiple versions of the same outfit, and with a single brush of the hand she was back to not having a hair out of place. This only made me angrier as I bore down like a yeti emerging from the woods.
“Oh, you!” exclaimed Robert Blaze when he saw me approach, a grin bisecting his leathery, careworn face like a zip fastener on a handbag. “Masterful. The way you pretended to denounce star pilots until you could take the upper hand? Masterful. You almost had me believing that was really how you felt!”
“Yeah,” I said, not really listening, but keeping my eyes on Warden.
Daniel’s face was still red and puffy from whatever treatment he’d received from the Biskottis, but now he was additionally colored with the blush of the truly in love. “Mr. McKeown, you . . . are . . . amazing . . .” he said, getting out words like blasts of air from a briefly released balloon.
I gave him a brief nod of acknowledgment, then smoothly transitioned it into a jerk of the head toward Warden. “You need to arrest her. She sent killers after us.”
The numerous star pilots had been creating an excited bustle around us, but it faltered and drifted away to silence as my statement spoiled the party atmosphere. Warden gave me a scowl that could have stopped a charging Cantratic bonesaurus, while a little incredulous laugh puffed from Robert Blaze’s lips. “What did you say?”
“We were attacked off the Biskot system as soon as we arrived by two star pilots,” I elaborated. “And I think she sent them. Because she—”
Warden shifted a single inch to the left. A subtle movement, but its intended purpose was clear. It drew my attention to several of the star pilots in the group behind her, who were all wearing scowls identical to hers. “Did any of you go on an attack mission to Biskot recently?” she asked, not looking away from me.
“No, Miss Warden,” said several of them, not quite in unison.
“None of us have, and therefore logic suggests that another explanation must exist,” said one, coming right to Warden’s side. I recognized him as the slightly older henchman of Warden’s who had kidnapped me from Ritsuko City at the start of all this. His younger friend was noticeably absent.
“There, I’m sure it was all a misunderstanding,” said Blaze, twinkling with charm. “You haven’t spent as much time in the Black as the rest of us; it is still quite hard to tell the difference between pirates and true star pilots at first glance.”
I was scrutinizing his face and tone for the slightest hint of insincerity, and found none. Robert Blaze at least was still entirely on the level, but it was clear that he wasn’t holding the keys to power on Salvation Station anymore. I looked slowly and deliberately over Warden’s goons before I replied. “I’m certainly getting that impression.”
“I think the more important matter,” said Warden, “is that of how Terrorgorn was released in the first place.”
Blaze’s face darkened. “Yes. Someone has a lot to answer for there.” He noticed me and my carefully maintained lack of expression, and set to twinkling anew. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get to the bottom of whatever caused this. As long as Mr. Sturb’s technology holds out, of . . . course . . .”
As his sentence faltered I followed his increasingly white-faced gaze, which had been directed at the part of the floor where Terrorgorn had been lying in a cybernetic stupor. It was, of course, now missing one Terrorgorn.
I jabbed two fingers to my earpiece so fast that it left dents in my earlobe. “Sturb! Turn the plying crown back on!”
“It is on.”
A second look yielded no additional Terrorgorns. I stepped into the place where he was supposed to be in case he had an invisibility cloak, which I wouldn’t have put past the bracket. Nothing. “Then why has Terrorgorn plying wandered off?!”
There was a moment of silence before Sturb spoke. “I thought we were clear on this?”
“Clear on what?!” I was already jogging along the concourse. Blaze, Warden, Daniel, and a small trail of followers were coming with me.
“It’s not designed to totally paralyze him,” said Sturb, with some reproach. “A massive electric shock could’ve done that. This was a little bit more sophisticated. It dampens psychic ability and higher thinking, but he can still move around in case he needs to feed himself or go to the toilet. It’s inhumane, otherwise.”
Under the circumstances, I was doing a very good job at staying calm. “You are the worst plying supervillain.”
“Well good, actually. Good.”
Daniel Henderson suddenly gave a little cry and pointed ahead of us. I caught a glimpse of Terrorgorn pink, topped with a flash of Malmind steel blue, disappearing through the archway that led to the hangar bay. “He’s trying to get a ship,” I realized.
“Well, there are plenty to choose from,” said Blaze, panting. “Will he be able to take one without keys, or access codes?”
“He won’t have to,” I said, upgrading my jog to a run. There was only one ship in the hangar whose airlock was still open, there not having been an opportune moment to close it while I was being dragged to my trial by the Biskotti horde.
I rounded the archway just in time to see Terrorgorn pass through the airlock door of the Neverdie and disappear into the shadows within. I slowed to a stop, panting.
Daniel Henderson rushed up beside me, red faced. “Mr. McKeown! Terrorgorn’s on your ship!”
“Yeah,” I said, wincing.
“Aren’t you going to go after him?!”
“Nah.” I put my hands on my hips and shook my head, getting my breath back. “It’s over.”
“Don’t give up now! There’s still time!” He was getting overexcited. Flecks of spit were flying from his mouth and his feet were in constant motion, shifting through several inappropriate combat stances.
“You can’t just let him take your ship, not while there’s still a chance,” said Blaze, running up in third place. “Terrorgorn with a ship is the entire galaxy’s problem.”
“Come on, Mr. McKeown!” cried Daniel. To my surprise and alarm, he pulled a blaster pistol out of his expensive imitation flight jacket. It didn’t escape my notice that it was exactly the same model as mine, albeit brand new and with some added cosmetic chrome plating. The sort of thing that gun shops tend to upsell to naive buyers, and which don’t do much more than reduce stability. “You’re not past it, no matter what anyone says! Let’s take down Terrorgorn!”
“Daniel, NO!” I shouted as he ran toward the open airlock.
“It’s because of me that Terrorgorn escaped!” he cried over his shoulder. “I have to set things right! That’s what star pilots doooooo . . .”
He kept the “ooo” going right up until he entered the airlock, and it faded rapidly after he disappeared from sight.
“Plying out loud.” I ran after them before the second thoughts could set in.
Chapter 28
Two days previously, the three of us were scouring the Biskotti debris field for the parts Sturb needed to manufacture new Quantunnel frames. With the autopilot and the external grapple controls, this was a task that Sturb could complete by himself, while Derby and I sat in the cabin, going
over the fine details of the plan. Or rather, as Derby was persistently reminding us, the lack of same.
“Forgive me if it seems like I’m belaboring this point,” said Derby, in his bored, condescending tone that drove me up the plying wall. “But I still feel there are a few gaps in our plan.”
I called toward the stairs. “Sturb, how are we doing? Need me to course correct?”
“No, the autopilot’s handling things really well, actually,” called Sturb from the cockpit. “Just need a few more organic transistors. Prostidroids are a good source. I’m checking the massage parlors.”
“Great.” I sighed. In other words, I had no excuse to stop talking to Derby. “Look. Of course there are gaps. We don’t fully know what we’re going to be dealing with on the station. So the gaps are the bits where we, you know, figure things out on the fly.”
“We hide quantum tunnels under your jacket and use them as our trump card,” summarized Derby. “What if someone shoots your legs? Or your head? How will you ‘figure things out on the fly’ with a hole in your skull?”
“I work well under pressure,” I said patiently. “It’s served me all right so far.”
“We don’t even know that Sturb’s mind control technology will work on a being like Terrorgorn.”
“Uh, yeah,” interjected Sturb from upstairs. “That’s something I’ve been meaning to talk to you guys about, actually.”
“So what are you going to do if the crown doesn’t work? Throw your shoes at him?” Derby clicked his tongue. “This is what I find so contemptible about star pilots. It’s always figuring things out on the fly, making it up as you go. Then presenting that attitude as some kind of virtue, rather than the pure laziness that it is.”
I chewed the inside of my mouth for a second, smarting from the dig. “All right. How would you suggest we plan for the things we can’t plan for?”
Derby’s wrist emitted a delicate cough. “I think what Uncle Dav means, is, maybe we could also think about a plan B?”
“We would need to complete plan A before we can add a plan B,” said Derby. “What we need is a plan AB, if anything. We should at least consider what we’re going to do if the slave crown isn’t enough.”
“Oh, are we going over the plan again?” said Sturb, descending the steps. “Great. I’ve got a few minutes while the grappler’s bringing something in. So, just to go over the main points, the captain goes in there with Quantunnels under his jacket, and the moment he’s close enough to Terrorgorn . . .”
“Assuming his head remains entirely unperforated at that point,” added Derby, arms folded.
“. . . we throw out a bunch of smoke bombs, and then the captain concentrates on keeping Terrorgorn blinded while Mr. Derby jumps out and secures the area.”
“Then you slave crown Terrorgorn,” I added, wishing to underline the point that much of the previous two days had been spent arguing over.
Sturb made a sickened grimace that I had lately become extremely familiar with. “Right. That thing.”
“You’re sure it’ll work?” I asked.
He swallowed back a little wave of nausea, and slipped into the professional tone he used when he didn’t want to dwell on his own thoughts. “It’ll work. The fundamentals of synapses differ very little in sentient beings. It’s one of the areas of least biological variance, alongside neck structure and eyebrows . . .”
“We were just saying,” said Nelly, “maybe we should think about a backup plan?”
“Oh, do you think we need one?” Sturb dug his smartphone out. “Jimi, do you see any problems with the plan?”
“I have identified eight thousand four hundred and twelve potential scenarios in which unaccounted-for factors result in the failure of the plan and total fatalities,” said Jimi cheerfully. “I have identified an additional one hundred and seventy-one thousand six hundred and fifty-eight scenarios in which only partial fatalities are suffered.”
“But it just might work,” muttered Derby, giving me a faintly accusing look.
“Okay, well,” said Sturb hurriedly. “No reason to be discouraged.”
“Would you like to hear my suggestion?” continued Jimi.
That gave me pause. It was the first time I had ever heard an AI actively prompt a response, rather than reply passively to requests. Then again, my experience with AIs was limited to basic autopilots and occasionally getting my smartphone to read aloud the lyrics to racy drinking songs, which somehow never ceased to be funny. “Okay?” I said.
“Terrorgorn fully or partially overpowering the effect of the slave crown is a potential factor occurring in approximately fifty-seven percent of my projections. Further projections indicate that Terrorgorn will either attempt to escape the station or kill all present. Creating a trap around an obvious point of escape would significantly increase the chances of success in the former case. In the latter case, death is certain, and no further amendments are necessary.”
While Jimi was discussing our upcoming hideous violent deaths with less than what I would call a sympathetic tone, its intelligence was unsettling, and from the way Derby was exchanging slightly creeped-out looks with the inside of his wrist, I wasn’t the only one feeling that way. Jimi was sounding less like a computer voice and more like a sentient being putting on a bad impression of a computer voice.
“And what’s the obvious point of escape?” asked Derby guardedly.
“This ship. With the airlock facing the hangar door, open, and the engine on standby. Considering Terrorgorn’s known psychological profile, he will take the obvious bait under stress. A quantum tunnel placed secretly just inside the airlock can be used to place Terrorgorn in a location that will pacify him. Davisham Derby can activate it while securing the concourse of Salvation Station.”
“Okay, I’m onboard,” I said, no pun intended. “So we use another Quantunnel in the Neverdie’s airlock to play the old ‘cling film on the toilet seat’ trick. And then we put the exit tunnel, where, in the middle of a sun?”
“Oh, it wouldn’t survive in a sun,” said Sturb, whose various extruding flab zones were vibrating with nervous excitement. “The alloy I’m using only has a melting point of around—”
“Yes, all right, I know; it’s called thinking aloud, you doint,” I said rapidly.
“No data exists on the effect of heat upon Terrorgorn,” said Jimi, in the voice of a humorless primary school teacher explaining to me why it’s a bad idea to stick crayons up my nose. “Data does exist on the effect of cold. Terrorgorn has previously been neutralized by cryonic suspension.”
A brain wave occurred. Actually it had occurred some way into Jimi’s statement, but only now could I get a word in edgeways. “There’s an ice planet in this system. Biskot 9. Rudimentary atmosphere, so we won’t depressurize the station. We drop the exit tunnel on there, Terrorgorn goes through, gets frozen. There we go. Plan B.”
“Reassessing projected outcome. New most likely projected outcome: every person on Salvation Station dying of exposure.”
I chewed on the inside of my mouth a bit more. “It was your plying idea.”
“Furthermore, Terrorgorn would not enter the quantum tunnel if it obviously led to icy wasteland,” continued Jimi patiently. “The tunnel must lead to a location sufficiently resembling the interior of this ship that Terrorgorn will be fooled for at least a short time.”
Sturb thoughtfully reached over to the cabin shutters and parted them with two chubby fingers. “There’re all kinds of old Speedstar station modules out there. One of the industrial outposts would look enough like a ship. We could tow it over to Biskot 9 and leave it on the surface.”
“Measures would also be required to prevent the flash freezing of the station’s interior the moment the planet’s surface is exposed,” said Jimi.
Sturb eyed the debris field. “Well, that’s easy enough. The outpost’ll have a f
orce field generator for holding the atmosphere in. We could activate it before we crash it on the moon to keep most of the cold out, and then deactivate it remotely once Terrorgorn enters and we’ve shut the door behind him.”
“This is turning plying complicated for a plan B,” I complained, to the acknowledgment of no one.
“Reassessing projected outcome,” said Jimi. “Likelihood of mission meeting parameters of success has increased by a significant percentage.”
I gave Sturb’s phone another suspicious look. As someone who still refused to use autopilot during takeoff or landing because it felt too much like cheating, taking Jimi’s advice to this level wasn’t sitting well with me.
“Of twenty-four percent,” added Jimi, possibly sensing my unease.
I looked to Sturb. “You . . . created this AI, did you?”
“Yes. Well. Bits of it.”
“Bits of it.”
“It’s open source.” He waved his phone. “I am the only person with a smartphone that can run it. I modified it myself. See, the same micro-Quantunnels that allow the ansible function can also be used to create theoretically limitless processing power from—”
“Thank you, that clears everything up,” I said loudly.
Chapter 29
Two days later, I passed through the Quantunnel frame that had been secretly placed just inside the Neverdie’s external airlock door and into a Speedstar manufacturing facility on the surface of Biskot 9. I could hear the constant tinkling roar of Biskot 9’s winds smashing shards of razor-sharp ice into the force field, but it seemed to be holding, even if it wasn’t keeping all the warmth in.
We had been quite chuffed to find an industrial facility almost completely intact in the debris field. It was an old manufacturing unit set up to support multiple commercial stations by keeping them supplied with a constant flow of disposable plastic cutlery, napkins, and miniature shampoo bottles in a display of energy wastage that would have shamed a black hole.
Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash Page 29
