The Long Run

by The Long Run (new ed) (mobi)

  Trent looked up from the readout in the triddy tank. He looked blankly out the viewport for a moment, and then turned to study Colonel Webster. With very real horror he said, "Where do they get people like you?"

  The old man stared at him. "Where--"

  "Shut up." Through the fore viewfield Trent could see Luna, hanging mid-phase against a background of stars. When he looked back down into the triddy tank, a sentence hung there, silver text against the ambient blue background.

  Boss, the inventory shows a traceset on board.

  Trent snapped, "Where?"

  Checking ...

  In the triddy tank, a holo of the yacht appeared. The apparent viewpoint entered the airlock, and moved forward into the pilot's cabin. It focused on a spot just behind where Colonel Webster sat, and illuminated a section of the bulkhead. Trent leaned over Colonel Webster without explanation, located the latch to the storage compartment next to Webster's elbow, and popped it open.

  There were half a dozen items inside the storage compartment, ranging from a first aid kit to a repair kit for breached pressure suits. Trent tossed items left and right--emergency food rations, a water bottle, the first aid kit and a box marked "patches," the traceset--

  He lunged back and snatched the traceset out of midair.

  It was larger than any traceset Trent had seen in five years; the trodes alone, at the ends of a single long curved piece of plastisteel that was supposed to snap on around the back of the skull, were three and a half centimeters in diameter. The control, surface mounted on the supporting plastisteel bar, was simply a radio frequency selector marked "Band One" through "Band Eight."

  "Johnny, which band?"

  Try Band Four, Boss; that's the band the hardware here expects to use for diagnostics. it's the widest bandwidth circuit available.

  It was set to Band Three; Trent touched the pressure point next to the readout once, licked the trodes and put the traceset on.

  Trent closed his eyes to go Inside and heard Colonel Webster tensing in the seat next to him.

  Trent said, "Don't do that."

  Webster did it anyway, swung the handheld at Trent's skull.

  Trent did not even open his eyes; with his swollen right hand he slapped Webster's arm away, clenched the hand into a fist, and punched in the general direction of Webster's face. He connected solidly; he was certain that the impact hurt him more than it did the Space Force colonel.

  Trent said, "Please don't do that."

  He went Inside.

  Johnny Johnny came alive.

  The part of him that was Image had time to marvel, briefly, as they coalesced together, at how a fast and simple optical transputer could combine with a slow and complex salt-water based protein soup to produce something far greater than the sum of its parts.

  The part of him that was Trent was far too slow to be aware of the process of joining as anything but instantaneous.

  The brief moment passed and Johnny Johnny went down into the Rolls-Royce's control circuitry.

  Looking out through the ship navigation holocams, Johnny Johnny located the other vehicles moored at the North Bay. The ship that he was in was the only one of its type; the rest of the vehicles were slipships, single-occupant military vehicles designed to be flown by PKF Elite, with twice the yacht's acceleration and maneuverability, three times its firepower. The Rolls' autopilot informed Johnny Johnny that they were powered by microfusion engines running off monatomic hydrogen; at Johnny Johnny's request the autopilot dug up schematics for the ships.

  Five slipships clustered near one another; Johnny Johnny turned the yacht over on attitude rockets and pulled away from the launching bay, out into space. He centered the 4.4 megajoule "communications" laser about two-thirds of the way down on one of the slipships, where the schematics showed the monatomic hydrogen tank, and pulsed the laser once.

  The North Bay exploded.

  Monatomic hydrogen under immense pressure swept out from the damaged slipship in a great wash of flame, mixing with the liquid oxygen from the lifesystems. Like a living thing the flame ripped into the nearby slipships, tearing through hullmetal as though it were plastipaper.

  It was too fast for the human eye to catch; Johnny Johnny sat and watched in calm amazement through the ship holocams as the disaster unfolded. The portion of Johnny Johnny that was Trent had the fleeting thought that he was going to be sick, thinking about Melissa du Bois, trapped just the other side of the airlocks. The chain reaction, as one slipship after another added its supply of oxygen and single-H to the conflagration, was awesome. The flame touched a chain of refueling tanks near the edge of the Bay; the resulting majestic explosion reached out arms of flame to touch the yacht, sent the Rolls-Royce tumbling out into space.

  Nearly a minute passed while Johnny Johnny fought to regain control of the yacht. When he had finally corrected the tumbling and the modest velocity the explosion had imparted the yacht, they hung in space some three hundred meters away from the North Bay.

  Beside him, Trent heard Colonel Webster murmuring a prayer: "--shall become in him a fountain of water, springing up unto life everlasting. Receive their souls, Lord. Amen."

  Amazingly, when the flame cleared, the flight bay was still pressurized.

  Trent felt a surge of elation; once again he had probably succeeded in not killing somebody. Melissa was probably still alive inside. He turned to Colonel Webster. "Woohoo! Do you see that?"

  "That's a miracle," said Colonel Webster.

  Trent detached himself slightly from Johnny Johnny, shook his head. "No, it's engineering."

  Colonel Webster did not even look at him. His eyes were fixed on the destruction Trent had caused.

  "I bet they designed the flight bay to withstand this sort of thing. The PKF," Trent explained to the Colonel, "is terribly damn insecure."

  Space Force Colonel Webster said, "Really."

  "Really." He thought about it. "I'm not sure why."

  Trent envisioned chaos inside of Spacebase One, as thousands of Peaceforcers were roused from sleep by either the shock of the explosion or by other Peaceforcers.

  Trent envisioned turning the yacht around and fleeing toward Luna.

  Trent envisioned being shot down by the Peaceforcers before he was halfway there.

  "What to do," Trent muttered, "what to do."

  "I would suggest surrendering yourself," said Colonel Webster stiffly.

  "I'm not talking to you," said Trent. He went back Inside.

  Aiming at the missile launch window, which also contained, withdrawn into protective bunkers at the moment, particle beam weapons and laser cannon, preparing to fire into the launch window at random until something either exploded or shot back, Johnny Johnny paused.

  What would it take, Johnny Johnny wondered, to detonate a nuclear warhead? Would a 4.4 megajoule laser do it?

  Were there even nuclear-tipped missiles inside?

  As far as Johnny Johnny was concerned, L-5 was wasted on Spacebase One, and just as well cleared for use for something else; but there were people inside.

  Under his breath, Trent said aloud, "What to do, what to do."

  Trent didn't want to kill anyone, not even Peaceforcers who deserved it.

  "Damn, damn, damn," he said, "what to do, what to do."

  Nothing was occurring to him.

  Something occurred to him.

  Aloud, Trent marveled, "Boy, that's a stupid idea."

  "What?" asked Colonel Webster.

  "Still," said Trent, turning to look earnestly into Colonel Webster's eyes, "they can only kill me once."

  The old man nodded uncertainly. "Yes."

  "I'm sorry," said Trent, "but I don't have my squirt gun any more. Can I have your handheld?"

  Webster gave Trent his handheld. "You can't," he said softly, "really think you're going to get away with kidnapping an officer of the United Nations Space Force."

  "Oh, I'm going to give you back," Trent assured the man. "I am sorry," he repeated, "that
I don't have my squirt gun anymore."

  Colonel Webster looked away from Trent for a moment, and then looked back. "Why are you sorry?" he asked quietly.

  Trent grinned at the man. "It was filled," Trent explained, "with Complex 8-A. You know, fadeaway."

  Colonel Webster simply looked at him without comprehension.

  "Don't you get it?"

  Colonel Webster shook his head. "No."

  "I could shoot you with it and say, 'Old soldiers never die, they simply fadeaway.'"

  Colonel Webster didn't laugh.

  Trent's smile vanished. "Your problem," he said, "is you have no sense of humor." Holding Colonel Webster's handheld in his unhurt left hand, he struck the man in the side of the head. The movement sent a spasm of pain through his ribs.

  Colonel Webster simply blinked, so Trent struck him again, harder, and Webster lolled freely in his seat.

  With skill a professional pilot might have admired, Johnny Johnny brought the yacht within meters of the launch window before the Rolls' momentum with regard to the central cylinder of Spacebase One was canceled.

  Shedding the traceset, Trent unstrapped himself from his seat. Ignoring the pain movement caused him, he opened his briefcase and withdrew the reel of monofilament. He donned the pressure suit's right glove, closing the airseal with his left hand. He had to take off the traceset before he could get the helmet on. Reaching over his shoulder, again with his left hand, he pulled on the helmet and sealed the neck's locking ring. Trent wiggled his left hand into the glove hooked to his hip. Without expression, he used his broken right hand to close the airseal on the glove.

  Standing in the airlock, Trent leaped five meters over to the missile launch window. Unreeling the fineline, he located the laser cannon and particle projectors and began weaving a web of fineline over their tracking mirrors, not tightly, but firmly enough so that if anyone tried to move either the weapons or their aiming mirrors, the restraining monofilament would slice them into small pieces.

  Trying not to think of what would happen to him if anybody fired a missile while he was actually standing in the launch window, Trent proceeded to do the same thing with each of the four clusters of missiles.

  He had far more fineline than he needed to do the job.

  When he was finished, Trent went to the edge of the launch window, and looked at the stars.

  It's the tourist in me, Booker; I've always wanted to see Luna.

  The Earth hung over Trent's head; Luna was off to Trent's right. There was a tiny bright spot, off past Luna, that was Almundsen Military Base at L-4, and another, somewhat fuzzier bright spot, just to one side of Earth, that was Halfway, the massive industrial zero-gee factory park that circled Earth in Clarke orbit.

  The stars were even brighter than they had been in the holo on the wall of the Flandry.

  It was all quite lovely.

  The remark to Booker had been, at best, only half a joke.

  Trent sighed, and returned to the yacht.

  The proton-boron engine fired at just better than two gravities, on a trajectory to the far side of Luna.

  Trent struggled to breathe. With each breath a lance of fire crawled down his right side.

  In the seat next to him Trent had bound Colonel Webster's arms at his sides, using a snakechain from the airlock. Colonel Webster's helmet was clamped shut; Trent had done that, too.

  The man wouldn't shut up, and Trent didn't want to hit him again.

  At first Trent was not sure what had changed.

  Then the beeping sound penetrated his consciousness. Through the traceset, Trent said, Johnny.

  Incoming call, Boss. Judging from the intensity of the signal, it's a wide-beam maser from Spacebase One; they don't actually have a tight beam on us.

  If I answer it, can you alter my voice print without them being aware of it?

  On this hardware ... there'll be a delay of about a hundred thirty million nanoseconds, Boss.

  Eighth of a second? Good enough.

  "Hi," said Trent. "Hi there." Moving slowly under the two thousand cepssa, carefully, muscles aching, Trent unstrapped from his seat and pulled Webster's helmet off. He checked the man's respiration and heartbeat; although the man was still unconscious, both eyes dilated equally when exposed to light.

  A deep, hard voice, like speaking stone, said, "Trent."

  "That's a good guess," said Trent. "Who am I speaking to?"

  "Commissionaire Mohammed Vance, PKF Elite."

  "Oh?" Trent remembered being told by Rogèr Colbert that the quarantine of the Flandry would last only three hours; it meant that Vance must still be in the pursuit ship, and had not actually arrived at L-5 yet.

  Belatedly, on general principles, Trent instructed Johnny Johnny to beam the conversation to Almundsen Military Base at L-4. "I know you," Trent said to Vance. "I stole your dossier the other day."

  "I know," the voice rumbled. "I paid the Syndic for holographs of you yesterday evening. Apparently I've also paid for your passage aboard the Flandry, your cab fare, and a phone call to a number I haven't been able to trace."

  "It's not there."

  "Excuse me?"

  "The number doesn't go to the number it goes to."

  A chuckle. "As you say."

  It was twenty-four minutes before the yacht would enter Lunar orbit, twenty-six before it would be beyond line of sight to L-5. "Hey, Vance," said Trent, "where did I screw up?"

  "A bit too much flashiness, Trent. It's a common mistake among the young. You shouldn't have stolen the Unification Councilor's car."

  "I was late," Trent muttered.

  "He called it in; I had tags out for anything involving that sort of, shall we say, casual theft. DataWatch did a bit of scouting around, and you'll understand, it was the work of a moment for me to realize that the Mohammed Vance who boarded the Flandry was not myself."

  "Thanks, Vance. I was curious. What now?"

  "I presume you are not interested in surrendering yourself for trial and subsequent execution?"

  "Gosh but you're a smart Peaceforcer."

  "I thought not. Well, then, we can spend the next ... seventeen minutes and fifteen seconds or so discussing psychology, negotiating, what-have-you. Seventeen minutes, now, is the time I have left before I must send the missiles to destroy you. I'd have preferred to simply destroy your craft's drive with laser cannon, but I'm informed that the aiming mirrors are no longer responding."

  Trent said, "Psychology?"

  "The relationship between the hunted and the hunter. It fascinates me."

  "I bet."

  "Let me give you an example. Having studied all of the data I've been able to accumulate about you, I've made a small wager with myself. As I see it, Trent, you have two alternatives, and I believe I know which one you will choose."

  Two alternatives was at least one alternative more than Trent could think of. "Two alternatives?"

  "The first," said Vance, "is to take Colonel Webster down to the airlock, seal his suit, activate his beacon, and push him away from the shuttle, so that he'll have a chance of surviving when we destroy the ship."

  Trent glanced at Webster, tied in the seat next to him; the man was twitching slightly in his seat, as though he were straining, through his pressure suit, against the bonds that held him in place. "And the other alternative?"

  "Keep him with you, and drag him to your death with you."

  "Oh. This is a subtle way of letting me know he's of no use to me as a hostage, is it?"

  "Would you prefer I be plainer?"

  "No. No, really. Which way are you betting?"

  "I think," said Vance, "that you'll let him live. Your behavior throughout this event has been most interesting."

  "Thank you," said Trent after a moment. "How do you turn on the beacon?"

  "It's a small, bright red button," the deep voice said quietly, "on both the inner and outer surfaces of the helmet's collar." Trent located the button immediately. "Press it once and then don't press i
t again."

  "Okay. Thanks again."

  "You are quite welcome, Trent."

  "By the way, Commissioner. There are two things you do not know."

  "What might those be, Trent?"

  "Well, the first one is that I've been beaming this conversation to Almundsen Space Force Base at L-4."

  There was silence at the other end of the maser beam. Five minutes gone by; by Vance's reckoning, there would be about twelve minutes left in which he could still destroy Trent.

  Vance said slowly, "You're bluffing."

  Trent said, "Wanna bet?"

  There was no response from Vance's end.

  "Call them, ask," Trent said. "Better yet, wait; they'll call you."

  Trent broke the connection and took off the traceset. "Johnny," he said aloud, "cut the acceleration, please." He unstrapped himself again as the rockets died, unstrapped the colonel, and in drop dragged Colonel Webster back to the airlock.

  Standing in the airlock, Trent checked Webster as thoroughly as he could from the outside; seven hours of air, the vampire gauge on the man's earlobe showing sufficient oxygenation of the bloodstream. Webster was shouting something at Trent; Trent could barely hear his voice through the man's helmet.

  Trent sealed his own helmet again, closed the inner airlock door and touched the pressure point to begin evacuation. He chinned the radio bar on the right hand side of his helmet. "Colonel Webster?"

  A blast of noise hit him the second he released the chin pad; Webster, screaming, shouting obscenities at Trent.

  Trent shouted, "Shut up!"

  The airlock status light went bright red; Colonel Webster, rather to Trent's surprise, shut up. "Look," said Trent, "I'm going to push you out into space and the Peaceforcers are going to come get you after they blow me up. Okay? I'm throwing you away so you'll be safe."

  The man's eyes were wide inside the helmet. His voice quivered. "You're throwing me away?"

  "So you'll be safe," Trent assured him. "Try to look on it as an Experience, like something Winnie the Pooh might get involved in; Floating in Space while Awaiting Rescue. Like that."

  "Winnie the what?"

  For a solid two seconds Trent had no idea what to say. "You don't know who Winnie the Pooh is?"