Starship

by Michael D. Resnick

  “Thank you, sir,” said Slick, looking not the least bit distressed. “I was just curious.”

  “Try to contain your curiosity,” said Cole. “We're going to be very busy here for the next few minutes.”

  No sooner had he spoken than Christine signaled him that a message was coming in from the approaching ship.

  “Put it on visual,” ordered Cole, “and let's pray that it's not an ambulance out to save us.”

  The holograph of a human form appeared, a tall, dark-haired bearded man. He wore what looked like a surplus military uniform with the sleeves cut off. A little pornographic tattoo on his left arm was in constant motion, more laughable than erotic. He carried a burner, a screecher, and a pulse gun, none with holsters, all bonded onto his belt.

  “Attention, cargo ship,” he said. “My name is Montegue Windsail, and I am the commander of the Achilles. We picked up your distress signal and came immediately. What is the nature of your problem?”

  “This is ship number eighty-one of the Samarkand line,” answered Cole. “I am Captain Jordan Baker,” he continued, using the name of his court-martial defense attorney on the assumption that his own name might be instantly recognized. “Our light drive has gone dead, and at least one of our external stabilizers has malfunctioned. We're on emergency power right now, but I can't stop the spinning. Thank you for coming to our rescue.”

  Montegue Windsail allowed himself the luxury of a smile. “Well, now, rescuing you wasn't exactly what I had in mind. I was thinking of something more along the line of a trade.”

  “A trade?”

  “Those are a nice quartet of laser cannons you have, Captain Baker. You give them to me, and I'll transport your crew to the nearest colony world.”

  “This is extortion!”

  “This is business,” replied Windsail calmly. “And if you don't like my terms, you can wait here and hope a better offer comes along.”

  “Maybe we'll just show you how well our laser cannons work,” said Cole.

  “That seems fair,” said Windsail, smiling again. “You aim at us while you're spinning in space, and we'll aim our cannons at you, and let's see who's the more accurate.”

  “Wait!” said Cole, hoping he sounded desperate enough. “I need a minute to consider your offer.”

  “Take two minutes, Captain Baker,” said Windsail. “But after two minutes either you agree to let us come aboard or we open fire. There's no third way.”

  The Achilles broke the connection.

  “Did you see him?” asked Cole, struggling not to laugh. “The man looks like a cartoon character pretending to be a pirate. That tattoo—and those hand weapons! I wonder if he knows just how ludicrous he looks?”

  “What are we going to do, sir?” asked Christine.

  “Part of it depends on whether their boarding party approaches us in a shuttlecraft, or whether they link the Achilles with the Teddy R,” answered Cole. “Let me know when ninety seconds have passed, and then reestablish the connection with them.”

  “Do you want us to subdue them when they come aboard?” asked Forrice's image.

  “No,” said Cole. “You just stand by near the hatch, keep out of sight of their boarding party, and be ready to storm the Achilles when the time comes.”

  “Wilson,” said Forrice, “I've got an armed party right here. If we don't confront them, there's nothing to stop them between the hatch and the bridge.”

  “Why don't you let me worry about that?” responded Cole.

  “Okay…but I hope you know what you're doing.”

  “If our sensors know where they are on board their ship, it's only reasonable to assume their sensors can do the same thing,” said Cole. “If they see you clustered by the hatch or on the bridge, they won't come aboard.”

  Christine signaled him that he had ten seconds left. He broke the connection with Forrice, then nodded to her, and suddenly he was facing Montegue Windsail again.

  “Well?” said the pirate.

  “Before I agree, I want your promise that you won't harm my crew,” said Cole.

  “We're only interested in your cannons and your cargo,” answered Windsail. “And speaking of cargo, just what are you carrying?”

  “Nothing,” said Cole. “We're deadheading back to Far London.”

  “You had better be telling the truth, Captain Baker,” said Windsail. “If not, I will consider it an abrogation of our agreement.”

  “Wait,” said Cole, looking defeated.

  “Yes?”

  “We're carrying one hundred sixty-three pieces of alien artwork to the Odysseus Art Gallery on Far London.”

  “Thank you, Captain Baker. You may lose your cargo, but you have saved your crew's lives. We'll rendezvous with you in approximately three minutes. I will lead a boarding party to your bridge, where you will order your crew, in my presence, to turn over your cargo to us and not to hinder us in any way while we are appropriating your laser cannons. Is that understood?”

  Cole glared at him.

  “Is that understood?” repeated Windsail ominously.

  “It's understood,” said Cole.

  “Good. I'll see you in a few minutes.”

  Windsail broke the connection.

  “Get me Odom!” said Cole urgently.

  The engineer's image appeared a few seconds later.

  “Mr. Odom, I want you to kill all the power to one of the airlifts on my signal.”

  “You mean you want to kill the gravity?” asked Odom.

  “The gravity, the oxygen, everything.”

  “No problem. Which airlift?”

  “Whichever one the pirates take to get from the hatch to the bridge.”

  “The fall could kill them before the lack of air does,” offered Odom.

  “Well, that's the chance you take when you decide to become a pirate.” He paused briefly. “It occurs to me that we may need someone to go with them, so they don't smell a trap. That means Slick, since that Gorib of his can keep him going without air for a few hours. Can we rig something he can grab hold of while everything else is plunging down? Once they hit bottom you can turn the gravity back on, as long as it's still airless.”

  “I can't rig anything they won't be able to spot,” said Odom.

  “I'm willing to risk it, sir,” said Slick, his image appearing across the bridge from Odom's. “If I'm ready, if I'm prepared, I can probably land atop them and break the fall.”

  “I can't take the chance, Slick,” answered Cole. “I need you for later. You're the one crewman who can't be incapacitated.”

  “Sir,” said Sokolov, his image appearing beside Slick's. “I've been down here working with Slick, so I've heard what's been said. I'd like to take a shot at it.”

  “Are you feeling especially suicidal today, Mr. Sokolov?” asked Cole. “The reason I thought of Slick is that he can live without air for a few hours. Unless you've been holding out on us, you can't.”

  “No, sir,” answered Sokolov. “But I can act so damned eager to misdirect them that I'll bet I can get them to order me off the airlift.”

  “What you're betting is your life,” said Cole. “Are you sure you want to do that? We can arrange a pretty hot reception for them on the bridge if we have to, but I've only got about a minute and a half to prepare it.”

  “Let me try it, sir. They're going to have their weapons drawn when they reach the bridge. You'd be risking too many casualties.”

  “Even if you survive the fall, there won't be any air,” said Cole. “We may not get you out of there in time.”

  “This is war, sir,” said Sokolov. “It's not the one I signed up for, but the principle is the same. They're the enemy, and I'm ready to do whatever has to be done to win.”

  “Okay, I'm out of time,” said Cole decisively. “Meet them at the airlock and let's hope you're as obnoxious an actor as you think you are.”

  The Achilles reached the Theodore Roosevelt half a minute later. An extension reached out from its hatch, bond
ed to the Theodore Roosevelt over its hatch, and the two ships were locked together, spinning slowly. Even Cole had to admit that it was a hell of a nice job of maneuvering.

  A moment later Montegue Windsail, looking every bit like a refugee from a bad holo entertainment, boarded the Theodore Roosevelt, followed by seven men, all humans.

  “Greetings, Captain Windsail,” said Cole, his holograph appearing at the end of the short corridor. “The man who is stationed at the hatch to guide you is Vladimir Sokolov. He will take you to the airlift that leads directly to the bridge.”

  “Why is he armed?” demanded Windsail. “We have an agreement. No harm will come to your crew if you honor your end of it.”

  “Pirates killed my brother and my wife,” growled Sokolov. “I don't trust any of you bastards.”

  “Perhaps they were killed because they would not relinquish their weapons,” suggested Windsail. “I think it might be best if you relinquished yours.”

  “Not a chance,” said Sokolov. “My orders are to take you to the airlift. Let's go.” He indicated the direction.

  “After you,” said Windsail.

  “I don't turn my back on pirates,” said Sokolov. “Just get on the airlift, and keep your hands where I can see them.”

  “That's the airlift?” asked Windsail, indicating the shaft.

  “That's right.”

  “Then I think we can dispense with your services.”

  “My orders are to go with you,” said Sokolov coldly. “Captain Baker said to take you up to the bridge, and that's what I'm doing.”

  Don't overplay it, thought Cole. He's already told you to stay out of the airlift. Let it drop.

  But Sokolov had read his audience correctly. “I'm in charge now,” said Windsail. “And I say you're staying behind. I don't need an armed enemy standing behind me on the bridge.”

  “Fuck you!” said Sokolov heatedly. “I don't take orders from pirates!”

  “Vladimir,” interjected Cole, “do what Captain Windsail says.”

  “But sir—”

  “You heard me,” said Cole.

  “Yes, sir,” muttered Sokolov, glaring hatefully at the pirates.

  “Thank you, Captain,” said Windsail, as he led his crew of seven onto the airlift. It rose half a level; then Cole said “Now!” and the eight pirates plummeted down four levels. Their cries became inaudible gurgles as the air vanished from the shaft.

  “Not the brightest bears in the woods,” said Cole. “Christine, share Domak's sensors and see if one of you can spot how many men are still on the Achilles and where they're located. Slick!” he said, raising his voice. “Time to get to work.”

  Forrice's image floated in front of Cole.

  “Are we ready to board the Achilles now?” asked the Molarian.

  “Soon,” answered Cole. “We're just finding out where all the bad guys are. By now their sensors will have shown them that their captain and his team are dead.”

  “Then we'd better move fast,” said Forrice. “They may decide to cut and run.”

  “It won't do them any good,” said Cole. “The two ships are bonded together.”

  “Sir?” said Christine.

  “Yes?”

  “There are six of them on board. They seem to have gathered in the control room.”

  “You mean the bridge?”

  “Pleasure yachts don't have bridges. I guess a control room's as close as they can get.”

  “You heard it, Four Eyes. They're in the control room. Christine, put a floor plan of the Achilles on every private and public screen on the ship. Four Eyes, Luthor, Jack-in-the-Box, the rest of you—study it so you know where everything is when you get there.”

  “It's too small for them to hide in,” said Forrice. “Either they surrender or we kill them.”

  “Let's give them a chance to think about it,” said Cole. “Christine, patch me through to the Achilles, audio and video, all frequencies.”

  “You're on,” said Christine a moment later.

  “Crew members of the Achilles, this is Wilson Cole, the Captain of the Theodore Roosevelt, the vessel that Captain Windsail thought was a distressed cargo ship. You six are the only remaining crew of the Achilles still alive. We will soon be sending a boarding party onto your ship.” He paused. “You have three choices: you can pledge your allegiance to us and join us as members in good standing of the Theodore Roosevelt, a former Republic warship which is now”—he searched for the right words—“an independent contractor. You can surrender and choose not to join us, in which case your weapons will be confiscated and you will be set down on the nearest colony planet with an oxygen atmosphere and acceptable gravity. Or you can refuse to join us or surrender, in which case you will suffer the consequences. I'm going to give you five minutes to make up your minds. This channel will remain open.”

  The bridge became silent. Then, some three minutes into the countdown, Slick's image appeared.

  “I'm done, sir.”

  “Are you back aboard the ship?” asked Cole.

  “Yes, sir,” answered the Tolobite. “I'm on my way to the Gunnery Section.”

  “Blow them right now.”

  A brief pause. “Done, sir.”

  “Crew of the Achilles,” said Cole, “if it will help you to reach a decision, I can now inform you that your laser cannons have been disabled.”

  Two more minutes passed, and the Achilles offered no response. Cole made a slashing motion across his neck, and Christine killed the connection.

  “Now?” asked Forrice.

  “Something's wrong,” said Cole. “They've got six men and nothing more than hand weapons against a military ship that for all they know is carrying a full crew. Let's let ‘em sweat for another few minutes.”

  “What do you think is going on, sir?” asked Christine.

  “I don't know,” answered Cole. “We're not at war. They can't be willing to blow up their ship in a fit of patriotism or pique. Whatever loot they're sitting on, it's not worth dying for. I'm missing something, and I'm not sending my people over there until I figure out what it is.”

  “Sir?” said Christine, staring at her sensors and frowning. “Something very strange is happening.”

  “What?” demanded Cole, suddenly alert.

  “Now there are only three men on the bridge. The rest seem to be heading down toward the belly of the ship.”

  “Shit!” exclaimed Cole. “Now I know! Four Eyes, get your party over to the Achilles on the double! I don't think you'll meet much resistance in the control room, but that's not your destination. Get down to the shuttle level as fast as you can! That's where you'll find them!”

  “We're on our way,” said the Molarian, spinning his tripodal body through the hatch like some alien dervish.

  “That's what I was missing,” said Cole to Christine. “I had Slick not only blow the cannons, but also all but one shuttlecraft. I figured we'd stick any survivors on it and set it to land on a colony world—but they've already figured out what I should never have forgotten: that they've got an operative shuttle. My guess is that they're loading their loot onto it right now. They might leave one or two misdirected idiots behind to make a lot of noise and try to slow us down.”

  “But they know we'll be able to destroy them at more than a light-year's distance,” said Christine. “It doesn't make any sense.”

  “It makes a lot of sense,” answered Cole. “They're counting on the fact that we're not going to destroy the shuttle when it's got their treasure aboard it, and they're hoping they can get to a friendly planet before we can catch them.”

  “Are there any friendly planets out here?” she asked.

  “I told them who we are, remember? You total up the rewards the Republic is offering for me, for Sharon, for Four Eyes, and for the Teddy R, and just about every damned planet on the Frontier will give aid and comfort to anyone who can lure us there.”

  “That right,” she admitted. “I'd forgotten.”

  “S
ir,” said Domak, staring at a screen, “at least one of our party is down. Just from the positioning, it looks like there's a pitched battle in the control room. One of the non-humans, I can't tell from the readings if it's Forrice or Jaxtaboxl, has reached the shuttle bay…. Now a human has joined him.”

  “It's my fault!” said Cole, furious with himself. “We've got shuttles to spare. I should never have told Slick to leave that one alone!”

  “The battle in the control room seems to have ended. Two Achilles crewmen and two of ours are dead or disabled.”

  “And we still haven't got a doctor on this fucking ship!” grated Cole. “It's a damned good thing I'm not still in the Navy or they'd be taking another command away from me!”

  “Well, I'll be damned!” blurted Christine, still glued to her monitors. “Good for you, Forrice!”

  “What happened?” said Cole.

  “One of them, Forrice or Jaxtaboxl, blew the mechanism that opens the shuttle bay. Now it can't leave the ship!”

  “That should do it,” said Cole, relieved. “There's no escape. They'll surrender, and then we can try to save the ones who aren't already dead.”

  Suddenly Forrice's image appeared above Christine's bank of computers. There was the purple fluid that passed for his blood running down his arm, and his neck had been singed by a burner. He was crouched down behind the disabled shuttlecraft, pulse gun in hand.

  “Are you there?” he asked urgently. “Is this getting through to you? I've got to speak to Cole!”

  “I'm here,” said Cole. “What is it, Four Eyes? It looks like the shooting's over.”

  “Yes and no,” said the Molarian, grimacing in pain as he shifted his position.

  “Explain.”

  “We have what I would call a situation,” said Forrice.

  “I'm on my way,” said Cole, walking toward the airlift.

  “I thought the Captain and the First Officer never left the ship at the same time in enemy territory,” grated Forrice.

  “We're in neutral territory,” answered Cole. “And as long as the Achilles is bonded to us, I consider it an extension of the Teddy R.”

  “That's my Wilson,” said Forrice.

  “I'll see you in about a minute.”