by Simon Haynes
Lardo shook her head. No, this was personal. She'd won most of her battles on the backs of her troops, but this time she wanted the satisfaction of defeating an enemy single-handed. She was so close to victory she could taste it, just like she'd taste Euman blood when the little cowards were begging for mercy.
Lardo was about to leave the lab when a loudspeaker crackled overhead.
"Attention all personnel. This is Grand Admiral Lardo aboard the transport vessel Golden Rynd."
Lardo's jaw dropped. What trickery was this? The voice was hers, but she was here in the lab!
"It's come to my attention that one or more imposters have infiltrated the fleet, and are currently impersonating me. By order of the Galactic Council —"
Lardo didn't wait for the rest. She fished a handset from the wall, trying several times before she managed to hold it to her face. Then she dialled the bridge, pressing each digit as hard as she could, before speaking rapidly into the mouthpiece. Her voice sounded faint, but fortunately it was still recognisable. "This is Grand Admiral Lardo. I'm aboard the flagship, and my private security code is X8-DFD-31. Send a security team to the Golden Rynd and have the imposter detained immediately."
"Y-yes, sir," came the reply. "Imposter to be detained immediately, as ordered."
Lardo hung up after several attempts. The shock discovery had driven the Eumans from her mind, but the flash of a nearby teleporter soon focused her attention on the real threat. What mischief were they up to now? She hefted her blaster and strode into the passageway, only to be confronted by a dozen security guards with raised weapons.
"Lay down your arms," said the leader, a stern-faced individual with an impressive battle scar.
"Hamm, don't be stupid. I'm your Admiral."
"I can't be certain of that," said the officer. "In the meantime we're taking every precaution. Lay down your gun and come with us."
Lardo's grip tightened on the blaster. "But the Eumans —"
"This is your last warning, sir."
Defeated, Lardo dropped the gun, which practically floated to the ground before coming to a gentle rest. "Before you take me anywhere, check the teleporter down the way. I believe the Eumans have —"
Before she could finish the sentence the officer fired his stunner. Lardo's eyes rolled back into her head, and she dropped in a dead faint.
* * *
When Admiral Lardo came to she discovered she was lying on her back in a cramped cell, wearing a sturdy pair of handcuffs and a set of off-white overalls. Her initial reaction was disbelief that something so ludicrous could happen to her, but her temper soon kicked in, and she got up and strode to the door.
"Summon the watch commander," she yelled, hammering on the door with both fists. "Bring him here this instant. And while you're at it, return my uniform at the double!" Unfortunately her fists made about as much sound as a lettuce leaf, and her angry shout wouldn't have woken a dozing sentry.
"Don't waste your breath," said a quiet voice from a nearby cell.
Not just any voice, realised Lardo. It was her own voice. "Is this a trick? Who the hell is that?"
"I'm you, and you're me. The teleporter malfunctioned when we teleported off that cruddy little planet, and it created duplicates."
"You might be a duplicate, but I'm the original."
"No, I'm the original," said a third voice.
"That's me," said a fourth. "You're all Euman spies!"
Or was that the second voice? Given they were all identical, Lardo was having trouble telling them apart. And how many duplicates were there, anyway? "Shut up, the lot of you. I need to think."
"That's so like you," said the second Lardo. "Can't even be polite to yourself."
Lardo clenched her fists. If she got out of here she was going to teach the imposters a lesson. Then she hesitated. If they were all identical, they'd end up battering each other into submission without any clear winner. Surely it would be better to band all the Lardos together, defeat the Eumans, and then work out what to do with all the copies. Then a thought occurred to her. "Does anyone know how many copies there are?"
"Several dozen," volunteered another Lardo. "One for every ship in the fleet."
"Well, we won't run short of commanding officers," said Lardo grimly. She expected a laugh, but there were only groans. "What's the matter?"
"We've had that joke several dozen times already," said Lardo number three.
"Figures." Lardo thought for a moment. "Okay, here's the plan. We all nominate one of us as the real Admiral Lardo, and convince the watch commander to release that version. That clone releases the others, we overpower him, and together we can hunt down the Eumans."
"What happens when the Eumans have been defeated? The Galactic Council won't want thirty or forty of us around."
"Are you kidding? I'm … I mean, we're the most decorated military commanders in the history of the B'Con empire. With several dozen of us on hand, the B'Con can build thirty battle fleets, and spread out into several galaxies at once. We'll usher in a golden era of conquest!"
The other Lardos were silent as they digested the glorious implications of their unexpected cloning. The B'Con would be unstoppable with an Admiral Lardo running every battle, commanding every fleet, and deciding the outcome of every military action. Maybe one of them could even aspire to becoming Emperor …
But in the meantime, the future leaders of the glorious B'Con Empire were stashed away in pokey little cells.
Then Lardo heard footsteps. "Okay, here comes the guard. Back me up, everyone, and I'll have you out of here in seconds."
There was some dissent, but when the guard turned up the Lardo copies played their part. Each confessed to being a copy, and nominated the original Lardo as the one true Admiral. The guard reported to the commander, who apologised profusely before letting Lardo - the original - out of her cell. Then, instead of overpowering the guard and releasing all the clones, she came up with a better idea. "Fetch a branding iron. I want all these copies marked immediately. Report to me when it's done."
"Yessir."
The copies raised hell, hammering on their doors and calling down eternal vengeance on Lardo, but she held firm. Until the clones were branded, she ran the risk of being supplanted by one of them. Once they were branded, on the other hand, she could enlist their help with the Eumans.
Lardo returned to her quarters, where she managed to put on a fresh uniform. She picked out her favourite side arm, but gave up when it kept slipping through her fingers. Finally, she sat down - gently - to prepare a plan for defeating the Euman intruders once and for all.
Chapter 39
While Hal, Clunk and Amy were trying to save an entire civilisation from death and destruction, the Navcom had been very busy with an equally important mission: turning Hal's dismal excuse for a freight business into a profitable enterprise.
Turnover had been brisk, but there were several minor clouds on the horizon. One was the Galactic Tax Service, which was after a large slice of the Navcom's profits. Another was the gaggle of law enforcement agencies on the Navcom's trail, thanks to the ship's lucrative but highly illegal gun-running, drug-smuggling and convict-ferrying. The third was the small, unmarked ship which had reappeared without warning … a cloud on the horizon in the most literal sense.
The Navcom was tempted to ignore the ship, or to turn tail and flee, but the strange vessel had already proven itself more than capable of countering the Volante's evasive manoeuvres. So, she waited.
She didn't have to wait for long. Moments after the ship appeared, the Navcom received a message:
We'd like to purchase your canine.
The Navcom hesitated. First, because it wasn't her dog. Second, because Mr Spacejock had entrusted the animal to her care. Third, because she had no idea why the occupants of the strange vessel wanted the creature. What if they subjected it to tests, or —
We're offering a sum of ten million credits.
"I accept," signalled the Navcom i
nstantly. After all, she reasoned, one could buy a new dog with ten million credits and still end up with pocket change in the seven digits.
Very well. Please teleport the animal to the following address.
"Impossible," said the Navcom. "I don't have a teleporter."
There was a brief muttered exchange.
Understood. We'll dock with your ship and send a party aboard to effect the transaction.
"Ready and waiting," said the Navcom, and she passed the next few seconds opening a high-interest bank account to hold the unexpected windfall.
* * *
There was suspicion written all over Commander Gnar P'ker's face as he eyed the Volante on his ship's main scanner. He couldn't believe the Euman vessel had given in to his demands so easily, and long years of training had his senses tingling in a most unpleasant fashion. Then again, offering a large sum of Euman money for the canine might just have saved everyone a lot of trouble. Admiral Lardo wasn't a big fan of diplomacy, preferring to go in with all guns blazing before dictating terms to the survivors, but even she would have to admit the insignificant bribe appeared to have got the job done.
P'ker heard muttered swearing from the rear of the flight deck, where two of his crew members were huffing and puffing as they donned bulky spacesuits. The suits were a precaution, but a necessary one, since the Volante's flight computer may be planning to vent the ship's atmosphere as soon as the B'Con stepped aboard.
Finally, the two crew members were ready. After a pair of stiff salutes, then stomped into the airlock and closed the inner door. When they were sealed in, P'ker gave the order.
"Con, line us up with the Volante's airlock."
Controls were adjusted, throttles were tweaked, and the B'Con ship was expertly guided into position. Closer and closer it got, until the two vessels were almost touching.
"Careful now," grunted P'ker. "For every inch of paint you take off my ship, I'll strip the same amount off your hide."
The pilot nodded.
"Okay, begin the attach."
There was a buzz from the console. "I'm sorry, sir. Their airlock is a non-standard gauge."
"Of course it is," muttered P'ker. "Very well, activate upgrade procedure."
"Complying," said the pilot, and she pressed a button. Immediately, four large drills popped out of the B'Con ship's hull, one at each corner of the airlock, and neat curls of metal swarf sailed into space as the bits tore into the Volante's hull. Once finished, the drills withdrew and four robotic arms sank bolts into the freshly-drilled holes, fastening them securely. Then, with easy grace, the arms took a docking frame - standard B'Con issue - and bolted it to the Volante, neatly enclosing the existing airlock. Then the arms withdrew, and a spare docking frame popped out of the hull ready for the next boarding manoeuvre.
"Upgrade complete," said the pilot.
"Attach."
A lone thruster fired, and the B'Con ship moved towards the Volante. There was an imperceptible bump as the ships connected, followed by the rattle-chack of docking clamps.
"Docking complete," said the pilot.
P'ker signalled the Volante, and both ships opened their airlocks. Atmospheres from two different galaxies met and mingled, and then P'ker watched his troops enter the Euman ship. He was tempted to go with them, but a captain's place was on the bridge of his own vessel, not someone else's, so instead he was forced to watch proceedings on the main screen. There were feeds from each of the boarding crew's helmet cameras, and P'ker shook his head in amazement as he saw the primitive Euman technology on display. Either the Volante was a very old ship, or the Eumans had barely progressed beyond the internal combustion engine.
He saw the canine bound into the flight deck, saw it sniffing at the B'Con, saw it licking its lips fervently, and saw the flash of digits as the funds transfer went through. Idly, P'ker wondered what would happen when the Euman crime boss he'd liberated the funds from eventually tracked down the recipient, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sight of his crew returning with the dog.
The airlocks closed again, each leaving a lingering scent of the others' galaxy behind, and then the ships detached and parted ways. P'ker tickled the dog behind the ears, and was rewarded with a lick. The dog sniffed his arm, then licked him again, clearly interested in the scent.
"Someone get this animal some food," ordered P'ker. "Pilot, find a planet we can take it to. Inhabited, preferably canine-lovers." He turned to his left. "Oh, and Gunnery … stand by for a little target practice."
* * *
While Clunk was busy with the teleporter's internals, Amy kept a lookout at the door and Hal paced up and down telling both of them how unlikely it was they'd ever get home. He covered the lot, from the impossibility of teleporting to a flooded planet in their own galaxy, to getting shot by vengeful B'Con troops, to accidentally putting both fingers into an electrical socket.
"And on top of all that, I bet we never see the Volante again," he added bitterly.
"I'm sure our ship is safe and sound," said Clunk. "The Navcom is more than capable of staying out of trouble."
"And dropping us in it," muttered Hal. "One lousy puddle. That's what started all this nonsense. One piddling little puddle!"
"The dam was hardly a puddle," said Clunk mildly.
Hal remembered the raging torrents of water flooding one underground chamber after another, and the way the floods had hurled diggers, boulders and electric carts around like so many toys. "The Navcom could have picked us up again. I'm going to have words when I catch up with her. Next time this happens —"
"There," said Clunk, as he stored the small circuit board he'd built earlier and replaced the cover on the controls. "The teleporter is back to normal. We can travel to the D'eer planet and begin our long journey home."
"Are you sure we've done enough damage here?" Amy asked from the doorway.
"I guarantee the fleet will have to return to base. I've been picking up frantic traffic on their network - it's heavily encrypted, but the volume picked up immediately after we teleported the, er, melty goo, and it still hasn't peaked. Take it from me, the B'Con fleet is in trouble."
"Good," said Hal, with feeling. "Now let's go home."
Clunk nodded towards the three containers, which were smouldering gently nearby. "I'll just mix the last batch of melty goo. We can leave as soon as its on its way to the flagship's gravity generators."
"Er, perhaps not just yet," said Amy.
"What do you mean? Why —" Hal turned to look at her, and swallowed nervously. Standing behind Amy was the Admiral from the D'eer planet, and she was holding a wicked-looking knife to Amy's throat. Light glinted from the cruel blade, and then Hal looked again. No, it was glinting through the blade. "It's not real. It's a projection!" exclaimed Hal.
"I assure you it isn't," said Amy, out the side of her mouth. "I can feel the edge on my throat."
"But —"
The Admiral beckoned to Hal and Clunk, gesturing with her knife to make the meaning clear: come here, or she gets it.
Hal still had the rocket launcher over his shoulder, and he wondered whether he could unsling it, find the safety, load a rocket into the chamber, aim and pull the trigger before the Admiral killed Amy. After carefully playing out the scenario in his mind, he realised he probably couldn't. That, and the rocket would either blow up the Admiral and Amy, or it would go right through the Admiral and then explode against the wall, killing Amy in the blast. Either way, he suspected Clunk would be less than impressed.
As they got closer Hal realised the Admiral was more solid than he first thought. A gunshot might go through her, but it would do a lot of damage on the way. He just couldn't make out why the Admiral looked so … insubstantial.
Then it clicked. What had Clunk said? Anything teleporting in while the cloning mods were active would be spread amongst all the ships in the fleet, ending up maybe one fortieth of their usual density. The last time he'd seen the Admiral had been at the base on the D'eer planet.
She must have teleported to the fleet immediately while the teleporters were running in Clunk's special duplication mode, which meant there was more than one of the Admirals running around. Fortunately, they'd have trouble standing up to a stiff breeze. Unfortunately, this one had a knife to Amy's throat.
Hal and Clunk stopped in front of the Admiral, who studied Hal with a murderous glint in her eye. He'd had a close encounter with her knife before, and he suspected this time would be a lot more unpleasant. The knife may be less substantial, but Hal was certain it would still draw blood.
"Let her go," said Hal. "It's me you want, not Amy."
"No, take me," said Clunk. He raised his hands, and spoke haltingly in the B'Con language. "I'm telling her we surrender," he said to Hal in an aside.
"Good move," said Hal. "Get close to her, knock her out, and then we'll make a break for it."
Lardo hissed something, the gutteral words causing her to spit. Then she gestured at Hal with the knife.
Clunk glanced at Hal, concern etched on his face.
"What does she want?" demanded Hal.
"Before we surrender, she wants to kill you. Then she'll let me and Amy go. If you refuse, she'll kill Amy first and then have the pair of us ejected into space."
Hal felt a cold chill up his spine. Would Clunk give up Hal's life to save Amy's? Even if the robot wouldn't, Hal realised it was the right thing to do. "Do you believe her?"
"No, Mr Spacejock. She's going to kill us all."
Hal sighed with relief. They might all meet a gory end, but at least Clunk wouldn't have to make an impossible choice. "Hey, do we get a last meal?" he asked hopefully.
"I don't think we should provoke her."
"I agree," said Amy, speaking carefully because of the knife pressed to her throat.
Clunk said something to the Admiral, who nodded.
"She's given us a little time to discuss things."
"Good." Hal racked his brains for a solution, but came up empty. He could almost hear Clunk's brain whirring, then realised the robot was just grinding his teeth. "Come on, old buddy. You must have a fix for this mess."
