“Where’d Terrorgorn go?” I hissed.
Daniel pointed a crooked index finger at me. “Um. He was right under there.”
I looked down. The Quantunnel on the front of my chest was flush against the ground. I hadn’t missed. I’d been dead on. Terrorgorn had passed straight through the Quantunnel like a winning basketball shot. The very moment I realized this, I felt something jog the edge of the Quantunnel on my back.
Instinct had been working out pretty well so far, so I let it take over again. I grabbed the back of my harness with my good hand and tore the damaged straps apart, almost dislocating my shoulder in the process, before slamming the rear Quantunnel face down on the floor next to the other, like a pair of recently buttered slices of toast. Then I pulled on the rest of the straps until I could detach myself from the front one.
“Twenty seconds!” said Sturb, his voice breaking slightly.
I gathered my feet under me and launched myself upright, smoothly grabbing my blaster with one hand and Daniel’s shoulder with the other. “Now, we run.”
He nodded, and after a tense moment when I had to manually rotate him when he started going the wrong way, we ran. Him first, me pushing him on with an arm outstretched. Behind us, I thought I heard something light and metallic moving, but it could just as easily have been the echoes of our feet slapping desperately against the metal floor.
We turned the first corner, then the second. The Neverdie’s airlock door was in sight, although the corridor leading to it suddenly seemed a lot plying longer than I remembered.
“Sturb, open the plying door!” I yelled to be heard over the clanking floor and Daniel’s moist gibbering. “How long has the force field got?”
Ten yards to the door, I heard a sound rather like the short buzz a Vengarlian honeywasp makes as it gets squashed against a supersonic windscreen, and the distant sound of howling wind became a lot less so. The temperature in the hallway started dropping instantly.
“That was it. I’m actually impressed I got as much as I did out of that generator. I had to replace parts of the coil transducers with scrunched-up chocolate wrappers—”
“SHUT UP!!” I roared, it feeling immensely satisfying to do so.
The floor was literally freezing beneath my feet. The Speedstar-branded tiles were turning blue white with a building crescendo of metallic crackles and pops. For the last few yards I felt my shoes losing traction, so I opted to use Daniel for balance and skidded the rest of the way.
A cold blast powerful enough to blow Frobisher’s mum away from a buffet table went right up the back of my T-shirt, down all my extremities, and around my internal organs. Just as they started to lose function, I shoved Daniel with all my might, sending him flying into the airlock door with enough force to make his entire face two-dimensional. Fortunately, Sturb opened it just in time, and I fell straight through it onto Daniel, who it seems had opted to lie right where he was until someone explained what was going on.
The storm burst out into Salvation Station’s hangar like the furious bellow of a caged beast. It took my entire body weight, combined with the body weight of Robert Blaze and several of his cronies, to get the door closed, and it still took long enough that everyone and everything in the room acquired a thin layer of frost.
“Jimi—” said Sturb, addressing his phone the instant the door mechanism clicked home.
“Decoupling quantum link,” said Jimi, before any command could be issued. “Quantum link decoupled.” Ice immediately stopped forming around the edges of the Neverdie’s airlock door.
“Wait, hang on.” Daniel sat up. “What just . . . this is what?”
“There was a quantum tunnel over the ship entrance,” I explained. “It was a trap for Terrorgorn.”
“Yeah, yeah, I understand that, that’s cool,” said Daniel irritably. “But how was your ship on, like, an ice planet?”
I stared up at the Neverdie in silence for a few moments, listening to the calming sound of adrenaline still fizzing in my ears. “It wasn’t. We went through a Quantunnel.” I pulled the airlock open an inch and then, when I decisively wasn’t being flash-frozen, the rest of the way. Beyond was the main hallway running through the center of my ship, just as it was supposed to be. I waved my hand at it like a magician gesturing over a seemingly ordinary hat.
“Oh, wow, it’s different now.” Daniel stepped into the airlock to look for the trick.
Robert Blaze stepped forward. “Is Terrorgorn . . .”
“Frozen solid on the surface of Biskot 9,” I assured him. “Either that or frozen solid inside a storage unit that’s currently connected to the surface of Biskot 9.” I thought about this, then caught Derby’s eye. “Should probably talk to the storage-unit people before they try to open that one up again.”
“Indeed,” said Derby grimly.
I checked around for Sturb, and saw him removing the pieces of Quantunnel frame from around the airlock door. He caught my gaze. “So . . . are we prepared to call this over? I’m thinking about it, and I’m pretty sure there aren’t any individuals or organizations currently trying to kill us.”
“No-o, there aren’t,” I said tentatively as I searched my memory. I noticed Warden standing in the hangar doorway, flanked by her henchmen. “Nor any with an obvious reason to start.”
From inside my ship came an odd strangled noise, like a parrot trying to imitate the sound of a bicycle horn being trodden on. Sturb backed out of the Neverdie’s doorway, clutching the pieces of Quantunnel to his chest.
Daniel emerged from the airlock, staggering under the weight of his father’s stiffened corpse. His jaw hung open in midsob, wobbling like a malfunctioning flush handle. He looked around the room, bewildered, his gaze pausing briefly on Warden, on Robert Blaze, and finally on me.
“Ah,” I said, as several members of the congregation looked to me for something to say. “Forgot about that one.”
Chapter 30
Over the course of the next twenty-four hours, a strange atmosphere hung over Salvation Station. Everyone seemed to want to keep busy, while interacting with each other as little as possible.
This was largely because of Daniel, who spent most of the time standing in the hangar on his own, mouth set, eyes staring like two large-caliber bullets mounted on either side of his nose, watching a team from the station’s engineering staff complete the repairs to his ship. There was something about the look in his eyes that made any conversation in his presence impossible. He wasn’t just staring into space. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, intensive notes were being taken.
Mr. Henderson’s body had been left alongside the small pile of fuel and supplies that were destined for Daniel’s ship. Blaze had had the corpse wrapped in cloth Salvation Station banners out of respect, but after the smell had worsened he’d conceded to the whispered complaints of the workers and wrapped him in bin bags as well.
There had been plenty of work to chip in with. As well as repairing the damage Terrorgorn had done to the ships and to the station, there were the now extremely apologetic Biskottis to deal with. Several pilots were enlisted to ferry them back to their home planet, but not before they had been subjected to a series of informative seminars on space travel history and the importance of critical thinking.
That had been Warden’s main responsibility, while I had concentrated on helping out with the ship repair . . . until the time came that Daniel’s ship was ready to go, and when he didn’t immediately move from his spot, some meaningful looks from the other pilots implied that it was my job to see him off.
I walked carefully up to his side, hands clasped behind my back. He blinked precisely once, which I decided to take as a gesture of acknowledgment.
“Well,” I said. “I expect there are a lot of things you need to be getting on with back home.” No response. “And I just want to say again how incredibly sorry I am, we all are, for wh
at Terrorgorn did to your father.” Still nothing. I rocked on my heels a few times. “It was a terrible thing to happen and I hope you don’t feel responsible.”
He blinked again, extremely slowly this time. It was like watching two portholes slowly closing and opening over a view of a catastrophic supernova. “It’s all right,” he said, without expression.
“Oh. Good.”
“I understand now.”
“Great! Understanding is important.”
“I understand what you meant back there. Star pilots were never heroes like in your books.”
“Er . . .”
“Real star pilots were just . . . people let out on the playground who didn’t care whose lives they stepped all over.” He finally met my gaze, and I leaned away, disturbed. “I’m going to change things, Mr. McKeown. I’m going to bring your vision back. I’m going to make star pilots into heroes again.”
As he walked stiffly to the boarding ramp of his ship, I watched him go with a sense of unease. I wasn’t about to shoot him in the back with my blaster just because of an odd hunch, but something told me that it wouldn’t be long before I regretted not doing so.
When his ship took off, and no bits broke away as he passed through the one-way force field, I concluded that the repairs I’d assisted with were holding together, and turned to the hangar exit. At that moment, Warden stepped forward.
She was alone, and without her usual tablet, and had the look of a wallflower finally summoning the courage to sidle over and introduce themselves to their crush in the last five minutes of the dance. “Pierce.”
For the second time in as many minutes, I was feeling a strange urge to spontaneously shoot someone. But the oddly vulnerable appearance she was presenting made me pause. I opted to merely give her a questioning look as my hand hovered near my holster, like a cowboy standing in the doorway of a pharmacy that he had mistaken for a saloon.
“I wish to apologize,” she admitted, looking at her toes.
“Do you,” I said, warily.
“As you may recall, I don’t consider myself a good decision maker under extreme pressures. It was wrong of me to bring you into this situation the way I did, and I wish to apologize.”
I sighed. It was difficult to maintain the energy for hatred, especially with a full stomach, my burns slowly recovering, and Daniel no longer bringing the mood of the place down. “I won’t say ‘no harm done.’ I’m just happy we sorted it out before I had to kill more than one of your henchmen.”
“I didn’t specifically order anyone to shoot you down.”
“I’m sure whatever you said was very legally airtight.”
By now I had walked all the way onto the concourse in a none-too-subtle effort to indicate that I wasn’t in the mood to talk, but she remained insistently by my side. “You know, I noticed you were assisting with the repairs. Have you rethought your decision not to join Salvation Station? It seems like a place where you fit in quite naturally.”
I didn’t slow my walking pace. “So I take it you’re worried Henderson’s death is going to bite you in the div.”
Her walk became a notch stiffer. “Not just mine. All our divs. Robert Blaze’s as well.”
By now I was within visual range of the large Quantunnel that was the centerpiece of Salvation Station’s concourse, around which a small crowd had gathered to prepare for the next scheduled connection to Ritsuko City. I slowed my pace and stopped, casting a gaze over the star pilots present. Some tall and wiry, some short and stocky, some in flight jackets, some in silvery jumpsuits, some human, some not so much, but all with one thing in common: I didn’t feel kinship with any of them.
“No,” I concluded, drawing the word out satisfyingly. “No, that’s not going to work anymore. I don’t belong here.”
“Then where do you belong?”
On cue, I noticed Malcolm Sturb in the crowd, accompanied by Davisham Derby, and waved. Sturb hurried over eagerly, with Derby following in his usual manner, hands clasped behind his back and eyes directed elsewhere lest he fail to appear indifferent.
“Made the calls yet?” I asked, after glancing at Warden to make sure she was sticking around to eavesdrop.
“Oh yes,” said Sturb. “The Mind Master’s up for it. So is Doctor Kaos and Doctor Supernova. Professor Civious said he’d think about it, but right after he said that he put his necrolab up for public auction. I noticed because—”
I winced. “Just the four?”
“Well actually, Derby—”
“I have some paltry contacts in the fields of archaic engine-system research among my vast intergalactic network,” interrupted Derby, taking a large stride forward and brushing imaginary dirt from his lapel. “I have enlisted a few individuals to ensure the success of our scheme to lie low amid the Oniris Venture Company.”
“Yeah, it’s a . . . great scheme, Uncle Dav,” commented Derby’s wrist.
“And also, I’ve already spoken to that lady from the recruitment office in Ritsuko,” said Sturb, bobbing on his heels with excitement.
My face fell. “Loretta?”
He read my expression. “Oh, don’t worry, I made sure she knew we were coming through you. She’s really keen about all this and she said you’ll have your pick of bridge crew positions.”
“Okay,” I said through a sigh of relief.
“Also, also,” added Sturb testily, ever focused on getting to say everything he wanted to say. “She also said to tell you that she’s going to blame you if the next ship ends up building doomsday machines on the edge of known space.”
“O-kay,” I repeated, with less confidence.
“Attention,” came the voice of the bored star pilot in the hidden control booth who was operating the Quantunnels that day. “The Quantunnel to Ritsuko City will be opening shortly. All travelers to Ritsuko City, just, you know, get ready for it.”
I took up the classic waiting-for-the-elevator pose, feet planted, hands behind back, gazing up at the Quantunnel’s closed shutters like a baby bird waiting for a worm.
Behind my placid smile, my mind was racing, thinking about which bridge position to take. Captain was right out. I’d probably go with the helm, since it was closest to my main skill set, but the navigator might be the more relaxing, less responsible position. Then again, the navigator would have to take the helm in emergency situations, so there’d still be responsibility, and only when things were at their tracciest.
The Quantunnel shutter began to make the telltale signs of getting ready to open—vibrating, rattling, and occasionally halfheartedly clanging like the springs in a hotel mattress during a disappointing second honeymoon.
And then there was the Neverdie. It was safe for now in the hangar of Salvation Station; in fact, that was probably the place it was most likely to find a buyer. I was going to put it up for auction right alongside Professor Civious’s necrolab. And even I was surprised by how undisturbed I was by the thought. The destruction of my flight jacket was already feeling like a great weight had been lifted from my shoulders.
Which reminded me: I had to invest in a new wardrobe once I had the proceeds from the Neverdie. Maybe a nice pea coat for those long, dull explorations of newly discovered ice moons . . .
The shutters rattled upwards, revealing the central concourse of Ritsuko City, and absolute bedlam, in that order.
The usual sampling of interstellar travelers and out-of-work star pilots trying to attract tourists had been shoved up against the far walls to allow for a thick mob of journalists and Jacques McKeown fans who were just barely being held back by a ring of riot officers armed with plexiglass shields and nightsticks. That was all I was able to make out before I was forced to shield my eyes from the flashbulbs. It was like being attacked by a swarm of radioactive fireflies from the swamps of Theda 8.
“Mr. McKeown!” cried a reporter.
“Over here, Captain McKeown!”
“Mr. McKeown, were you victorious in your final battle with Terrorgorn?”
“What?” I slurred, disoriented.
A figure emerged from the flashing lights to my right, a series of silhouetted blobs that gradually coalesced into Inspector Honda, tottering forward like he could just barely be bothered to do so. “Terrorgorn. How did it go?”
“Oh yeah. That’s been sorted out.” The flashbulbs paused momentarily. They were clearly expecting more. “He’s back on ice.”
I was deluged by a fresh outburst of questions, too loud and overlapping to be understood, so I just blinked repeatedly and kept my mouth shut.
As the pause between flashbulbs gradually expanded, I saw the integrity of the police barricade begin to break down. A couple of reporters had almost slipped through and gotten close before being grabbed and dragged back by their greasy ponytails. A few other, savvier, ones had escaped into Salvation Station to point microphones at Robert Blaze and anyone else who happened to be around.
A small woman appeared before me, with her hair pulled back so tightly that she seemed to be physically incapable of blinking. “Mr. McKeown, I’m Emily, from Blasé Books? We’ve talked on the phone.” She gave me approximately two nanoseconds to consult my memory. “We have some logistics that are really very important to discuss. You’re due for another royalty payment and some really very interesting opportunities have—”
A very physically fit man wearing an expensive suit and a smile almost as wide as his shoulder pads materialized next, thrusting out a hand to shake. “Mr. McKeown! Tudge Burdinson. I represent Dreamweaver Pictures and, wow, we are just keen as hell to talk about a nineteen-film cinematic universe based on your books. We can set up a meeting just as soon as we get a signature on a few—”
“Out of the way!” commanded a voice louder and more experienced in public speaking than all the others. I saw Mayor Sanshiro violently shouldering his way through the crowd while it was still debating on whether it was going to part for him or not.
Will Destroy the Galaxy for Cash Page 31
