The Rock Rats gt-11

by Ben Bova

  The screen went blank, leaving Amanda awash in a thousand questions. But none of them mattered to her. Lars is all right and he’s not doing anything dangerous. He’s going to rescue George and his crewman and then he’ll come back here, back to me.

  She felt enormously relieved.

  The airlock compartment felt cramped, crowded once George and his crewman came through the hatch in their bulky spacesuits. And as soon as they started pulling off their suits, Fuchs nearly gagged from the stench.

  “You both need showers,” he said, as delicately as he could manage.

  George grinned sheepishly through his wildly tangled beard. “Yeah. Guess we don’t smell so sweet, eh?”

  The Asian said nothing, but looked embarrassed. He was only a youngster, Fuchs saw.

  As Fuchs led them along the passageway to the lav, George said cheerfully, “Hope you’ve got a full larder.”

  Fuchs nodded, resisting the urge to hold his nose. Then he asked, “What happened to you?”

  Shooing the silent Nodon into the shower stall, George answered, “What happened? We were attacked, that’s what happened.”

  “Attacked?”

  “Deliberately shot to pieces by a bloke with a high-power laser on his ship.”

  “I knew it,” Fuchs muttered.

  Nodon discreetly stepped into the shower stall before peeling off his coveralls. Then they heard the spray of water, saw tendrils of steamy air rising from the stall.

  “I guess we’re not the first to be chopped,” said George. “Lady of the Lake. Aswan… four or five others, at least.”

  “At least,” Fuchs agreed. “We’ll have to inform the IAA of this. Maybe now they’ll start a real investigation.”

  “Dinner first,” George said. “Me stomach’s growlin’.”

  “A shower first,” Fuchs corrected. “Then you can eat.”

  George laughed. “Suits me.” Raising his voice, he added, “If we can get a certain Asian bloke out of the fookin’ shower stall.”

  Harbin was glistening with perspiration as he exercised on the ergonomics bike. Shanidar was cruising at one-sixth g, the same grav level as the Moon, but Harbin’s military upbringing unsparingly forced him to maintain his conditioning to Earth-normal standards. As he pedaled away and pumped at the hand bars, he watched the display screen on the bulkhead in front of him.

  It was a martial arts training vid, one that Harbin had seen dozens of times. But each time he picked up something new, some different little wrinkle that he had overlooked before or forgotten. After his mandatory twenty klicks on the bike, he would rerun the vid and go through its rigorous set of exercises.

  But his mind kept coming back to the central problem he faced. How can I prevent Fuchs from informing Ceres of what happened to Waltzing Matilda? He’s already sent one brief message to his wife. Once he beams out their whole story the IAA will launch a full investigation.

  He almost smiled. If that happens, my career in piracy is finished. Grigor’s superiors might even decide that it would be safer to terminate me than to pay me off.

  It’s imperative, then, that I silence Starpower as quickly as possible. But how? I can’t jam their transmissions; I don’t have the proper equipment aboard.

  I could accelerate, get to them at top speed, knock them out before they get a message back to Ceres. But then I’d be too low on fuel to get back to a tanker. I’d have to signal Grigor to send a tanker to me.

  And what better way to be rid of me than to let me drift alone out here until I starve to death or the recyclers break down? That way Grigor and his HSS bosses get total silence, for free.

  With a grim shake of his head, Harbin decided he would continue on his present course and speed. He’d catch up to Starpower and destroy the ship. Fuchs would die. Harbin only hoped that he could finish the job before Fuchs told Ceres what was going on.

  That’s in the lap of the gods, he thought. It’s a matter of chance. A quatrain from the Rubaiyat came to him:

  Ah, Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire

  To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire,

  Would not we shatter it to bits—and then

  Re-mould it nearer to the Heart’s Desire!

  Yes, Harbin thought. That would be pleasant, to shatter this world to bits and rebuild it into something better. To have a woman to stand beside me, to love me, to be my heart’s desire.

  But that is fantasy, he told himself sternly. Reality is this godforsaken emptiness, this dreary ship. Reality is studying ways to kill.

  With a deep, heartfelt breath, he said silently, Reality is this damned bike, going nowhere but taking all my energy to get there.

  CHAPTER 28

  Fuchs sat in the galley, nearly stunned with amazement as he watched George wolf down enough food to feed an ordinary man for a week. The crewman, Nodon, ate more sparingly but still put away a good pile of rations.

  “… then after he slagged our antennas,” George was saying through a mouthful of veggieburger and reconstituted potatoes, “he zapped the fookin’ thruster nozzle and for good measure popped our propellant tanks.”

  “He was very thorough,” Fuchs said.

  George nodded. “I figure he musta thought we were still inside the hab module. Nodon and me played doggo until he left. By then, old Matilda was driftin’ in the general direction of Alpha Centauri.”

  “He assumed you were dead.”

  “Or as good as.”

  “You’ve got to tell all this to the IAA,” said Fuchs. “If we’d’a had our cutting laser on board I would’ve shot back at th’ bastard. He caught us with the laser sittin’ on the ’roid and our power pack bein’ recharged.”

  “I have your laser,” Fuchs said. “It’s in the cargo bay.” Nodon looked up from his food. “I will check it out.”

  “You do that,” George agreed. “I’ll call up the IAA people in Selene.”

  “No,” said Fuchs. “We’ll call IAA headquarters on Earth. This story must be told to the top people, and quickly.”

  “Okay. Soon’s I polish off some dessert. Whatcha got in the freezer?”

  Turning to Nodon, Fuchs said, “I’m carrying a cutting laser, too. It’s stored in the cargo bay, along with yours.”

  The Asian asked softly, “Do you want me to connect them both to power sources?”

  Fuchs saw calm certainty in the young man’s hooded brown eyes. “Yes, I think it might be wise to have them both operational.”

  George caught their meaning as he got up and stepped to the freezer. “How’re you gonna fire ’em from inside the cargo bay, mate?”

  “Open the hatches, obviously,” said Fuchs.

  “Better wear a suit, then.”

  Nodon dipped his chin in silent agreement.

  “You both think he’ll be back, then,” said Fuchs.

  “Perhaps,” Nodon answered.

  “Better to be ready if and when,” George said, as he scanned the inventory list on the freezer’s display screen. “I don’t wanna be caught with me pants down again. Could be fatal.”

  Diane Verwoerd could see that her boss was getting cold feet. Martin Humphries looked uncomfortable, almost nervous, as she entered the spacious living room of his mansion.

  “How do I look?” he asked her, something he never did ordinarily.

  He was dressed in a full-fledged tuxedo, complete with a bow tie and plaid cummerbund. She smiled, suppressing the urge to tell him he looked like a chubby penguin.

  “You look very debonair,” she said.

  “Damned silly business. You’d think that after a couple of centuries they’d figure out something better to wear for formal occasions.”

  “I’m impressed that you knotted the tie so perfectly.”

  He frowned at her. “It’s pre-tied and you know it. Don’t be cute.”

  Verwoerd was wearing a floor-length sheath of glittering silver, its long skirt slit nearly to the hip.

  “Stavenger didn’t invite me to the damned o
pera out of the goodness of his heart,” Humphries complained as they headed for the door. “He wants to pump me about something and he thinks I’ll be off my guard in a social setting.”

  “Cocktails and dinner, and then Il Trovatore,” Verwoerd murmured. “That’s enough to relax you to the point of stupefaction.”

  “I hate opera,” he grumbled as he opened the door.

  Stepping out into the garden behind him, Verwoerd asked, “Then why did you accept his invitation?”

  He glared at her. “You know why. Pancho’s going to be there. Stavenger’s got something up his sleeve. He may be officially retired but he still runs Selene, the power behind the throne. He lifts an eyebrow and everybody hops to do what he wants.”

  As they walked through the lush shrubbery and trees that filled the grotto, Verwoerd said, “I wonder what it is that he wants now?”

  Humphries threw a sour glance at her. “That’s what I pay you to find out.”

  The cocktail reception was out in the open, under the dome of the Grand Plaza next to the amphitheater that housed all of Selene’s theatrical productions. When Humphries and Verwoerd arrived, Pancho Lane was standing near the bar deep in earnest conversation with Douglas Stavenger.

  Nearly twice Humphries’s age, Doug Stavenger still looked as young and vigorous as a thirty-year-old. His body teemed with nanomachines that kept him healthy and youthful. Twice they had saved him from death, repairing damage to his body that ordinarily would have been lethal.

  Stavenger was not an ordinary man. His family had founded the original Moonbase, built it from a struggling research station into a major manufacturing center for nanomachine-built spacecraft. Stavenger himself had directed the brief, sharp battle against the old U.N. that established the lunar settlement’s independence from Earthside government. He had chosen the name Selene.

  Towing Verwoerd on his arm, Humphries pushed through the chatting crowd of tuxedoed men and bejeweled, gowned women to join Stavenger and Pancho. He nearly pushed himself between them.

  “Hello, Martin,” Stavenger said, with an easy smile. He was handsome, his face somewhere between rugged and pretty, his skin slightly lighter than Pancho’s, a deep golden tan. It always surprised Humphries to see that Stavenger was considerably taller than himself; the man’s compact, broad-shouldered build disguised his height effectively.

  Without bothering to introduce Verwoerd, Humphries said, “It looks like you got half of Selene to come out tonight.”

  Stavenger laughed lightly. “The other half is performing in the opera.”

  Humphries noticed the way the two women eyed each other from crown to toe, sizing up one another like a pair of gladiators entering the arena.

  “Who’s your friend?” Pancho asked. Her gown was floor-length, too, and as deeply black as the men’s tuxes. Her short-cropped hair was sprinkled with something glittery. The diamond necklace and bracelet that she wore probably came from asteroidal stones, Humphries guessed.

  “Diane Verwoerd,” Humphries said, by way of introduction, “Pancho Lane. You already know Doug, here, don’t you?”

  “By reputation,” Verwoerd said, smiling her brightest. “And it’s good to meet you, at last, Ms. Lane.”

  “Pancho.”

  Stavenger said, “Pancho’s trying to talk me into investing in a research station to be set up in Jupiter orbit.”

  So that’s it, Humphries said to himself.

  “Selene’s made a pocketful of profits out of building spacecraft,” Pancho said. “You can make even more from bringing fusion fuels back from Jupiter.”

  “She makes a good case,” Stavenger said. “What do you think of the idea, Martin?”

  “I’m on record against it,” Humphries snapped. As if he doesn’t know that, he growled inwardly.

  “So I’d heard,” Stavenger admitted.

  Three-note chimes sounded. “Time for dinner,” Stavenger said, offering Pancho his arm. “Come on, Martin, let’s talk about this while we eat.”

  Humphries followed him toward the tables that had been set up on the manicured grass outside the amphitheater. Verwoerd walked beside him, convinced that the four of them would be talking about this Jupiter business all through the opera, even the Anvil Chorus.

  Which was all right with her. She loathed Il Travotore.

  CHAPTER 29

  With Nodon working in the cargo bay, Fuchs finally got George out of the galley and into the bridge.

  “You must tell everything that happened to the IAA,” Fuchs said, setting himself in the command chair.

  George took the copilot’s seat; overflowed it, actually. He may have been hungry, Fuchs thought, but he hasn’t lost much weight.

  “Be glad to, mate,” George said amiably. “Just get ’em on the horn.”

  Fuchs instructed the comm computer to call Francesco Tomasselli at IAA headquarters in St. Petersburg. “Oh-oh,” said George.

  Fuchs saw that he was pointing at the radar display. A single blip showed in the upper right corner of the screen. “He’s here,” George said.

  “It could be a rock,” Fuchs heard himself say, even though he didn’t believe it. “It’s a ship.”

  Fuchs tapped on his command keyboard. “A ship,” he agreed, after a few moments. “And it’s on an intercept course.”

  “I’d better get into a suit and back to the cargo bay with Nodon. You suit up, too.”

  As he followed George down to the airlock compartment where the spacesuits were stored, Fuchs heard the comm unit’s synthesized voice said, “Signer Tomasselli is not available at this time. Do you want to leave a message?”

  Fifteen minutes later he was back in the bridge, feeling like a medieval knight in armor, wearing the cumbersome spacesuit.

  The blip was centered in the radar display now. Fuchs peered through the window, but could see nothing in the dark emptiness out there.

  “He still approaching?” George’s voice rasped in his helmet earphones.

  “Yes.”

  “We got your laser connected to the main power supply. Ours is down, something’s buggered it up.”

  “But the one is working?”

  “Yeah. Swing the ship around so we can get a clear view of ’im.”

  “George,” Fuchs said, “suppose it’s not the ship that attacked you?”

  A half-moment of silence, then, “You think somebody else just happened to drop by? Not bloody likely.”

  “Don’t shoot at him unless he fires on us first,” Fuchs said.

  George grumbled, “You sound like some bleedin’ Yank. ‘Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.’ ”

  “Well, we shouldn’t—”

  The comm screen suddenly flashed brightly, then went blank. With gloved fingers Fuchs tapped out a diagnostic command.

  “I think he’s hit our main antenna,” he said to George.

  “Turn the bloody ship so I can shoot back!”

  The air pressure alarm started shrilling, and Fuchs heard the safety hatch at his back slam shut.

  “He’s punctured the hull!”

  “Turn, dammit!”

  Hoping the controls still worked, Fuchs heard a startled voice in his head say, Mein gott, we’re in a space battle!

  This might work out after all, Harbin told himself.

  His first shot had disabled Starpower’s main communications antenna. And just in time, too. Fuchs had already put in a call to the IAA back Earthside.

  His second shot had holed their habitation module, he was certain. They were swinging their ship around, trying to protect the hab module by moving it behind their cargo bay. Harbin studied the schematics of Starpower while he waited for his laser to recharge.

  No sense wasting time or energy. Hit the propellant tanks, drain them dry and then leave them to drift helplessly deeper into the Belt.

  He shook his head, though. No, first I’ve got to disable their antennas. All of them. They could scream their heads off to the IAA while I’m puncturing their tan
ks. They could tell the whole story before they drift away and starve to death. If they had any sense, they’d be broadcasting on all frequencies now. They must be panicked, too terrified to think clearly.

  You have much to be terrified of, Harbin said silently to the people aboard Starpower. The angel of death is breathing upon you.

  “What’s he doin’?” George asked.

  “He’s hit us several times,” Fuchs replied into his helmet microphone. “He seems to be concentrating on the hab module.”

  “Goin’ for the antennas, just like he did to us.”

  “The antennas?”

  “So we can’t call for help.”

  Fuchs knew that was wrong. What good would it do us to call for help? It would take ten minutes or more for our signal to reach Ceres. How could anyone possibly help us?

  “I can see him!” Nodon shouted.

  “Now we can shoot back at ’im,” George said excitedly. “Hold us steady, dammit.”

  Working the reaction jets that controlled the ship’s attitude, Fuchs’s mind was racing. He’s not worried about our calling for help, he realized. He doesn’t want us to tell anyone that we’re under attack. He wants us to simply disappear, another ship mysteriously lost out in the Belt. If we get a distress call off then everyone will know that ships are being deliberately destroyed. Everyone will know that Humphries is killing people.

  He called up the comm system diagnostics. Every last antenna was gone, nothing but a string of baleful red lights glowering along the display screen.

  What can we do? Fuchs asked himself. What can we do?

  George blinked at the sweat that stung his eyes maddeningly.

  “Are you ready?” he shouted at Nodon, even though the spacesuited crewman was hardly three meters from him. They were standing on either side of the bulky cutting laser, a collection of tubes and vanes and piping that looked too complicated to possibly work correctly. Yet George saw Nodon nod, tight-lipped, inside his bubble helmet.