Miranda's Demons

by Ian Miller

  "Gotcha!" Harry yelled through the intercom.

  "Couldn't face us fairly, could you?" came Marisa's scornful reply.

  "You still wouldn't have got me," Harry replied.

  "Wanna bet?" Cornelius roared. His ship fired its side thrusters, and swung back towards Harry. Harry fired the small thruster under the nose, his rear port side thruster, and opened up the main motors to full thrust. He was just pulling away as the nose of Cornelius' ship came around. Suddenly the front of Cornelius' ship flared, and laser weapons tore through space. Harry's turn could not quite manage to avoid the fire, and the lasers tore into the rear of their ship. The ship shuddered, and spun away, crashing into the side of the hulk before spinning off into space, van Lugt's weapons now turned off.

  "God damn you!" Pennlington roared at Harry. "Take your love spats somewhere else!"

  "Harry!" came Cornelius' very anxious voice. "I swear I had no idea these weapons were active."

  "It's all right," Harry called back. "Excuse me while I try to regain control." The rear motors were cut back, and Harry found that the major damage involved a bite having been taken out of the rear motor casing. Harry found he could compensate with continuous firing of his turning thrusters, with the main motor on one-third thrust. Accordingly, he could limp back to Earth.

  Harry had a quick discussion with Pennlington, and then Harry found out how good Mike really was. Once he established how much controllable power they had, he huddled over the computers for ten minutes, then came up with a sequence of decelerations, aerobraking when they hit the atmosphere, some gliding and flying, which should get them to Tashkent.

  "Of course," Mike said quietly, "I'm assuming the craft will hold together and there's no damage other than the motor casings. If there's anything structural, we could fly to bits during the aerobraking. With our motors we'll hit the atmosphere a lot slower than those old shuttles, but the outer skin will still hit about seven to eight hundred centigrade, which the ship will take easily, but if there're any bits sticking out, they'll peel away."

  "We'll check!" Cornelius offered, and so his ship circled their ship for some time.

  "There's a bit sticking out just in front of the motor damage," he finally reported, "but even if it all peels, you won't be much worse off than you already are." He paused, and then suggested, "You two could wait for rescue, you know."

  "We're not exactly overladen with air," Harry replied, "and anyway, I have no intention of abandoning this ship unless I absolutely have to."

  "Then if you're going through with this, we'll fly right beside you. Transmit over your parameters, and if something goes wrong we'll try and nudge you back on course, and if you have to eject, we'll pick up your capsule."

  "Thanks, but hopefully that won't be necessary," Harry said, then he switched off the transmission and turned to Pennlington. "Mike," he said, "if you put the program into the autonav, you're not needed. It would be safer in the other craft."

  "Perhaps," Mike replied, "but if something else goes wrong, you need me to make corrections, and if you're going to eject, adding me doesn't alter things much."

  "Ejecting during the aerobraking may not be survivable," Harry warned.

  "You're a lucky bugger!" Pennlington said with a very forced grin. "I'll be OK alongside."

  "Fair enough," Harry said. "I appreciate your staying." He opened the switch, and said, "We start our 'return-to-Earth' manoeuvres in four minutes."

  "Good luck!" Cornelius replied.

  "Yes, good luck," Marisa's voice said, then she added, "and Harry, please believe me, I had nothing to do with that."

  "Thanks," Harry replied, then he added, "and yes, I believe you."

  He did. The obvious option at that moment would be for the two of then to cross to van Lugt's ship and abandon this craft. If he did that, Marisa would be sent home in disgrace. Only his evidence would save her, and to have the chance to save her, he had to have standing. If he brought the ship back down, he would have sufficient reputation, standing, call it what they would, to insist on the investigation the way he wanted it. Mike had keyed in the flight pattern to the computers, and at the appointed time he gave his motors a brief burst, to set the craft into an elliptical orbit that would skim by Earth at a useful distance.

  The problem then would be to lose enough energy in a controlled fashion to descend without burning up, and to have enough control that they could bring this masterpiece of engineering to the ground at a survivable velocity. His instruments, and the video from the other ship, indicated that the ship should have sufficient structural integrity. It would fly like a wounded hippopotamus, but that would merely add to the challenge. He ignited the motors, and managed to keep the craft on the line indicated by his computer screen. Then the motors were cut, and he leaned back. So far, so good. He glanced across, and noticed that Mike was trembling. Yes, he had good cause to be concerned. He had to risk all and trust Harry, and Harry would get all the credit. Mike knew he should be on the other ship, but he knew his duty lay here.

  "I'll heat a coffee sachet for each of us," Harry said, as he undid his seat belt and glided up. He tried to make his way elegantly to the rear, but his lack of experience in space showed as he collided with an obstruction and he gave a short jerky flail that he only recovered from by grasping a convenient handhold.

  "Thanks," Mike responded in a low-pitched gasp.

  "Biscuits?"

  "N no thanks." Mike paused, and added, "I think I'll relieve my bladder."

  "Good idea," Harry nodded. "I'll put your sachet beside your controls."

  He returned to his seat, took a book from his bag, and began reading. For the time being, this would be tedious, and having something to take his mind off the problem was highly desirable. The problem was, it didn't. Eventually he decided he should turn the occasional page, but he had very little idea of what was on the pages.

  Gradually the Earth became larger, then eventually the computer flashed a message.

  "Time to fly!" Harry said with a grin, as he flicked a switch. He had to grin. It was only by trying to impress Pennlington that he could maintain self-control. He opened the remaining motors, and began the orbital deceleration that would lead to descent, and higher velocities. The trick was to lose lateral velocity at a rate that did to lead to too great a loss of altitude, and while this would normally be straightforward, with only half power coming out from one side of the craft it was anything but simple. The trick, Harry realized, was to calculate a net vector thrust from the motors, and try to align the ship so that the centre of mass lay as close as possible to that vector, and balance the net rotational thrust with thrust from the side thrusters. The net result was reasonably controlled loss of velocity and altitude as the ship half-crabbed its way across space.

  This, of course, would tear the ship apart when they hit the atmosphere. At that point, the ship had to be aligned, and the motors balanced properly. As the atmosphere came closer, Harry was later to admit that his pulse rate increased, and his stomach felt anything but settled, however Pennlington was to tell the tale that Harry never even faltered in the slightest.

  The ship began to vibrate, and Pennlington was huddled over his screens, quietly calling out suggested power settings. The aim was to attempt to keep the craft as near to horizontal as possible, to lose altitude as slowly as possible, but this was difficult when the rear thrusters kept trying to make the craft fly in circles in both the horizontal and vertical planes. Nevertheless, somehow Harry managed to keep the outer temperatures to a manageable seven hundred degrees, and gradually the outside air pressure rose.

  It was at seven thousand meters, and an air speed below Mach 1 that Harry finally leaned back a little and said, "I think we're going to make it."

  "Well, since you're that confident," Mike said, "would you like to try turning a corner, because otherwise we're going to miss Tashkent."

  "Ooops!" The relief for both of them was obvious.

  Eventually Harry landed at Tas
hkent, and had the dubious honour of being the first pilot to land such a craft with all possible thrusters firing. He was escorted by van Lugt, and when that craft landed, Lieutenant Robeiro was immediately placed under arrest for attempted murder. Several witnesses had already testified that she had threatened to kill Harry.

  Chapter 8

  Harry had never seen the inside of a military prison, and the sight chilled him. The walls were made of the traditional Uzbek mud brick, and the cells themselves were underground. Marisa's cell consisted of the barred door, which allowed full view of the cell at all times, one electric light which was never turned off, one simple box-like stool to sit on, and a large can. There was no bed; sleep required lying on the mud-brick floor. There was no heating available, although this was not the problem it might have been; the mud was a reasonable insulant, and everything was, if anything, too warm. It also had a stench; the cleaning of the cells was not a priority. There was an ablutions room, but it was in full view of the guards. There were two things that were absolutely barred from the prisoners: privacy and comfort.

  "Come to gloat, have you?" Marisa flared at him. Whatever else, her spirit had not been broken.

  Cornelius had also come to visit. He looked at Harry, and pleaded, "Harry, please. If you don't file a complaint, she'll be out of here and sent home."

  "No!" Marisa cried. "I didn't do anything! I'm not going home in disgrace."

  "Harry, she's right. She was as surprised as I was when those weapons fired, and she really tried to turn them off. But look at the crows up above. She'll never be able to prove it."

  "Marisa," Harry said quietly but firmly. "I'm going to get you out of here. Please, trust me."

  "I don't need your charity," she said defiantly.

  "It's not charity," Harry said harshly. "I know you didn't do it, and I want the bastard that did. That means getting you out, and getting someone else back in."

  "What makes you so sure?" she asked derisively. "Everyone else seems pretty convinced."

  "Come off it, Marisa. You don't hate me any more than I hate you. You're angry, and I'm still not convinced you wouldn't throw the contents of that can all over me if I got close enough, but you wouldn't sit down and plan to kill me. Maybe it's because I still love you that I'm all wrong, but I don't think so. Just hang on there. You'll be out of there in less than six hours after I see the Commissioner." Harry turned and strode off down the corridor.

  "Harry!" she called after him.

  "Yes?" he turned.

  "Even if you get me out of here, it won't make any difference between us."

  "I was hardly expecting gratitude from the likes of you," Harry retorted, and continued on his way.

  "I am grateful," Marisa yelled. "That's got nothing to do with it."

  "It wouldn't," Harry muttered as he turned around and started walking back. "Well, what is it with you, then?"

  "It's your stinking rotten system," Marisa snarled. "You people represent everything I hate. Everything's got a price hasn't it, and nobody's got a value. I thought for a while you might just be different, but all you were doing was dealing, like any other stinking little corporate. Dealing, getting ahead, get to the gravy and the hell with anyone's feelings."

  "That's not true," Harry started to protest. "Sure I wanted to win a trophy, but you were winning too."

  "Harry, look into my eyes and tell me you were thinking about my feelings while we were flying together."

  "Well, I . . ." Harry was stunned. What did he feel, while flying down a maze? Nothing! He was too busy avoiding walls. What sort of a stupid question was that?

  "You couldn't have cared less what little Marisa felt," she shook her head. "She's just a girl, keep her happy, use her, take what you want, discard her. Great corporate philosophy! You'll do well in this society. But when you get old, remember me, and ask yourself whether it was all worth it."

  "Marisa, I'm not a corporate . . ." Harry began to protest.

  "That's another problem you've got," Marisa snorted. "The corporations want to rape Brazil, but you couldn't even get up the nerve to rape little Marisa. You're a corporate all right. You all are, but you haven't the guts to act like one. You're a pathetic little boy! Now get out of here. Go and tell the Commissioner if you want, but don't think you're doing me a favour. Take your revenge, make yourself look like a good guy, but don't try to salve your conscience. You corporates haven't got one."

  "Hey, come off it," Cornelius interposed. "That's not entirely fair."

  "Neither are the corporations," Marisa snarled. "And don't forget, you're a corporate."

  "Then why am I here?"

  "When the going gets really tough, you bow to the corporates here. I've seen you. Remember when that Chinese corporate's boy walked all over you last week? Big and tough, aren't you, but when he said 'Gimme', you gave. You're not men, any of you. Come to the big shots, and you're all a bunch of wimps."

  "Leave her alone," Harry said, shaking his head. "She doesn't understand."

  "Oh yes I do," Marisa snorted. "I know why you'll go to the Commissioner, even after all this. Because the Commissioner wants me to be innocent, and you'll get even cosier with her. You're doing it for influence, and revenge. Not for me!"

  "Maybe," Harry snorted, as he turned to leave, "but I'm still going to get you out."

  * * *

  "That, I think, is the lot," Natasha said wearily, as she passed the last pile of weapons development files to Gaius, who in turn passed them to Marcellus. Marcellus had taken each file he was presented with, and glanced at each page. He seemed to have total recall of the contents, a thought that chilled Natasha slightly.

  "So much for the mechanicals," Gaius sighed wearily. "That only leaves the hard part to deal with."

  "And what's that supposed to mean?" came the tart reply.

  "The men," Gaius replied.

  "And what's wrong with them?"

  "It's not their fault," Gaius responded quickly. "The problem is, they're not fighters. They're careful, methodical, exactly what was needed before, but now we need the odd wild one, someone to put a bit of spirit into the rest, someone who'll bend the rules a bit."

  "Oh, no," Natasha almost moaned, as she picked up the last sheet of paper from her in tray.

  "What's wrong?"

  "A disciplinary matter. It looks as if you'll get your wish."

  "What's happened?"

  "One of the more arrogant men struck a senior officer. Perhaps I shouldn't have, but I ordered six lashes, and he's appealing to you."

  "Then tell him he can if he wants to," Gaius said. "I actually agree with him. I think the punishment's most inappropriate."

  "Perhaps," Natasha replied angrily, "but my authority's . . ."

  "Have that man told that he should plead for more lashes," Gaius said coldly. "His alternative is the three standard Roman military nails." He paused, then said to Natasha, "Yes, I said I wanted spirit, but under no circumstances will I tolerate a lack of discipline. Believe me, the last thing he wants is Roman military discipline in his position."

  "I'll get someone to pass the message back," Natasha nodded.

  "Now," Gaius said as he leaned back in his chair, "perhaps we had better let our young Lieutenant in."

  "Yes, he's waited long enough, I think." She pressed a button on her desk and called into an intercom, "Send in Lansfeld only." In a few moments the door opened, and Harry charged in, suddenly realized the formality required, halted, saluted, and stood rigidly to attention.

  "I wish to speak on behalf of Lieutenant Robeiro," he said in a formal, clipped tone.

  "At ease, Lieutenant. Take a seat, and try to tell me what you wish to say, calmly."

  "Thank you, Commissioner," Harry said as he took a seat. "What I came to say is that in my opinion, Lieutenant Robeiro is being wrongly held."

  "And you wish to withdraw the complaint?"

  "I wish to prove she's innocent, and start the search for the real culprit."

  "And ho
w do you plan to do that?" came the amused reply.

  "Commissioner, Lieutenant Robeiro could not have planned to kill me, because the tuning of the weapons system takes a half-day for a trained technician. She would have had only two hours warning that I was on the other ship, and further," he added in an almost apologetic tone, "Marisa really isn't much of a mechanic."

  "She could have done it on board?"

  "Without van Lugt knowing, or without the ship's computers knowing? She'd have to go outside to do it. Then, additionally, she'd have to access a G-44 exciter; remember, these are taken out and accounted for."

  "Someone must have got one," Natasha pointed out, but more as a challenge than a contradiction.

  "Given enough time, of course one could be got. But in the last two hours? Anyway, without the tuning equipment, you'd still not get the weapons to fire properly. Those weapons were armed on the ground."

  "Agreed," Natasha smiled. "I'll have her release papers signed. As it happens we were going to release her anyway, since we were coming to much the same conclusion. It isn't as if it was the first time Robeiro's been sabotaged."