“That’ll keep them out,” he told her. “But what’s keeping me in?”
“That would be me, sir,” said the ensign. She was slightly pink. “Do you think you could put some clothes on, sir?”
“I have my towel,” shrugged Mikkel. “If I get dressed, I’ll be going out.”
“No, sir.”
“Really?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh. And what are your qualifications for keeping me in, ensign? What would you do if I did this?”
His hand was on the keypad in one swift moment. It blinked: Brig Code Required at him.
“Please put your hand down, sir,” said the ensign. Her tiny hand was curled around his wrist, which surprised him; but it only managed to span half the way around, and that was amusing.
Mikkel grinned. He might have taken a step toward her, automatically tugging at her hand to pull her closer. Reality and expectation clashed with a decidedly unpleasant result, and Mikkel had only an amazed moment to realize that he was flying through the air before he slammed into carpet that was less soft that he’d thought it only a few minutes ago.
Pink-washed ceiling was above him in fractured pieces. Mikkel groaned for breath, his head aching, and tried to sit up. Incredibly, his towel was still in decent order.
“You shouldn’t do that, sir,” said the ensign. She had one hand pressed flat on his chest with enough pressure to keep him recumbent. “You’ll be able to breathe again in a few moments.”
Mikkel wanted to tell her that he knew that, and that it wasn’t the first time he’d been winded, but he didn’t have enough breath to do the sentiment the justice it deserved. Instead, he rolled onto his side, forcing breath after painful breath, and sat up. The ensign was looking at him with anxious brown eyes, which was nice, but it wasn’t quite enough to salve wounded pride.
“I’m really very sorry, sir,” she said. “But I did warn you.”
One small hand was levering him up from the vicinity of his rib-cage, and the other seemed to be under his elbow. Mikkel allowed himself to be helped up like an old man, just in time to see something float past his window.
No: someone. A skinny hand shot out to grab the groove outside his window, and a familiar, pinched face was rapidly pulled back into sight. Mikkel couldn’t hear her, but he was certain that what Kez had said was: “Hah!”
Then she was in the room as if she always had been there, a trick that Mikkel found less and less endearing the more he saw of it. It was as if she hadn’t just shifted through space (which was impossible enough for a little girl) but that she’d also shifted back a second or two (which was impossible for anyone).
“Found you!” she said, huffing slightly. Her aerator, unlike the ship in which she travelled, was of the latest design and small enough to make no bulge when she took it out of her nose and put it in her pocket. “Your quarters aren’t where I remembered them being.”
“I know,” Mikkel told her. “I moved them. I don’t like visitors popping in and out whenever they like.”
“Tough biscuit. Hang on a tick.”
Kez vanished briefly, only to reappear towing a short, grease-stained man with a flint-like face by one hand.
Mikkel nodded shortly. “Marx.”
Marx nodded back just as shortly. “Mikkel.”
“What are you trying to pilfer from the Time Corp this time?”
“It’ud spoil the fun if we told you,” said Kez. She narrowed her eyes at the female ensign beside Mikkel, and much to his surprise, he saw wariness in their black shiny depths. “Arabella. You here already?”
Again, Mikkel heard the ensign clear her throat. This time she sounded even more strained. “I don’t know you. How do you know my name?”
Kez jerked her head at Arabella. “What’s she doing here?”
“Protecting me from the likes of you,” said Mikkel. “Not that you can do much more to me: I’m suspended, pending review.”
“Oooh,” said Kez, black eyes glittering. “What did you do, golden boy?”
“I didn’t blow one little girl to smithereens when I was ordered to do so.”
“Who’s that, then?” demanded Kez. She sounded as though she resented any other little girl being given the opportunity to be blown up at Mikkel’s hand.
“You, you little ferret! You and your half-pint off-sider. Get away from that!”
Marx gave him a hard look and went back to the console that he’d pried open.
“Please stand down,” said Arabella pleasantly to him. She was back to her plump, collected self, and although Mikkel liked it better when she was flustered, he found himself looking forward to Marx’s introduction to Arabella’s particular brand of deterrent.
One of Marx’s eyebrows went up, shifting a smear of grease higher on his forehead. He studied Arabella for what Mikkel found to be an entirely too long, entirely too appreciative moment and then said: “No.”
Mikkel wasn’t sure quite how she did it, but Arabella was by the console as the word dropped into the air. She slammed it shut with Marx’s fingers still in it and jabbed a short, sharp punch at his face. Marx yelped but seemed to be expecting the punch, because he jerked back just in time to avoid it, grazing his cheek on Mikkel’s single bookshelf. By that time, Arabella had hooked her ankle behind his left foot, and a flurry of tiny, sharp movements saw him bowl across the floor and into the out-facing wall. He bounced to his feet, but he was shaking his head, a little stunned.
Mikkel smirked.
“Good, ain’t she?” said Kez, from somewhere around his elbow. “Forgot how good. Golden boy, why ain’t you wearing any clothes?”
“I was in the shower when you pushed my ship out of orbit,” Mikkel told her, tucking the towel a little tighter. Across the room, Marx made a feint that Arabella ignored. “I assume that was you?”
“Yeah. Marx doesn’t like to be too close to Control. Says they always butt in where they aren’t wanted.”
“They’re not the only ones.”
“Well, I like that!” said Kez indignantly. “Marx and me can’t breathe without havin’ Time Corp there to catch the fog! We’re fightin’ back, and that’s all you need to know.”
“Yes, but do you have to include me in your fighting back?”
Kez winced as Marx was flipped on his back. “Wouldn’t if we didn’t ’ave to: you’ve been a pain in our backside the entire time. Someone high up in the Corp keeps sending you after us. Look, can you call her off? She’s gonna hurt Marx.”
“I heard that!” said Marx’s voice raggedly. He was looking slightly punch-drunk, which pleased Mikkel. “Your confidence in me is overwhelming, kid.”
“Yah,” said Kez, unimpressed. “Well, I’ve seen you fight her before. Never seen it finish any different. Golden boy, ain’t you gonna do summink?”
“Why should I care if Arabella breaks his nose?”
“No reason,” shrugged Kez. “Only you usually resist more, see?”
“Yes, but I’m suspended,” said Mikkel. Marx was nearly done for. “Technically, I’m a prisoner. I can sit back and watch the fun without having to do anything about it.”
Kez’s black eyes were knowing. “Time you got a new job, golden boy. Marx, we gotta go.”
“Right,” said Marx; and there was suddenly a very small, very deadly laser-pulse hybrid in his hand. It looked like the newest LP Torrent, all black and silver trim. Mikkel couldn’t see if it was set to stun or kill, but Arabella was standing very still, her brown eyes wide, and he found that there were still some things he was interested in resisting.
“Sorry, ferret,” he said to Kez. His fingers were already closing around the knife he kept hidden in the foot-rest of his bed, and it took only a moment longer to grab Kez by the scruff.
“Oooh,” said Kez. “Golden boy, wot you doin’?”
Her startled voice was alarmed enough to snatch Marx’s attention away from Arabella. His eyes flicked toward them: flat, dead, and entirely merciless. Mikkel only had a spl
it second to feel faint surprise when Marx’s hand jerked sideways and the Torrent zinged with a released bolt of energy.
Mikkel knew he was dead. He saw the bolt in the breath before it struck his right eye. Only then he wasn’t dead, and the room was somehow blue again, and Kez was still wriggling in his grip, and was that the shower flowing in the background…?
“Blue watch,” he said huskily, trying not to think about the stun bolt that was and wasn’t going to kill him. “We’re back in orbit and I’m–”
“In the shower,” said Kez offhandedly. “Took us back a ways so Marx wouldn’t do something he’d regret. You shouldn’t threaten me. He don’t like it.”
“You can’t do that.”
“Just did. Been practisin’, see. Don’t even have to be scared no more.”
“No-one can do that.”
“Just did, golden boy.”
“But–”
“Organic matter can’t withstand the vacuum of time and space,” nodded Kez. “Only I can, see? Promise not to fight if I take you back?”
“Fight?” said Mikkel blankly. “What are– no wonder the Time Corp want you! I’m only surprised you’re still running free.”
“Yer, well, only just. Ready to go back?”
Mikkel said: “No,” but the room flicked from blue to pink again without his input. This time they were behind Marx, and there was a still-smoking scorch mark across the room, following the line of his pointed gun.
Kez punched Marx in the shoulder. “You almost killed him!”
Marx grabbed her by the scruff and whirled her bodily behind him. “Put a knife near her again and I’ll put one through your eye,” he said to Mikkel.
Kez punched him again, but Marx only brushed her hand away and said: “Keep out of this, kid.”
“No! I’m not gonna let you kill golden boy!”
Mikkel wondered if he only imagined the swift look of comprehension that passed between Kez and Arabella.
Arabella said: “The captain won’t hurt her. You can put down the gun.”
“No I can’t,” said Marx frankly. “You’ll hit me again. And as enjoyable as that might be, we haven’t got the time.”
“Then perhaps we can negotiate.”
Marx’s eyes narrowed. “Time Corp doesn’t negotiate.”
“No, but my employer does.”
Mikkel’s eyes snapped to Arabella’s face. Kez and Marx shot a look at each other and then turned their shared concentration upon her.
“You’re not Time Corp?”
“Ostensibly, yes. Critically, no. What is it you want?”
“Golden boy’s password,” said Kez. “The core password, mind; access all systems and wotnot.”
“Give you the ability to cripple my ship again?” said Mikkel incredulously. “Not flaming likely!”
He caught the tail end of the grim smile Marx shot at Kez, and the blazingly triumphant grin she shot back.
“Oh, did we scupper your pore liddle ship?” Kez said. “Wot a shame! Wot did we do, golden boy?”
“You linked my firing controls to– wait. Time and my password…you haven’t done it yet, have you? You’re here to get my control password so you can attack us before we get into orbit yesterday morning.”
Kez was grinning. “Sounds good to me, golden boy. Reckon we’re onto Plan B, Marx. Arabella, you gonna help?”
“Of course she’s not going to help!” Mikkel said.
But Arabella was saying: “What’s the offer?”
“We don’t kill him,” said Marx. He was still holding the Torrent; and Mikkel, remembering the split second of searing light that should have burnt through his eye socket and the back of his head, had to shrug off a shiver.
“This has gone far enough!” he said, with an assumption of authority that was undermined by the fact that he was still only wrapped in a towel. “Ensign, you’re under oath to the Time Corp. I forbid you to assist these pirates in any way.”
Kez gave a delighted chuckle. “Pirates, is it, golden boy?”
“Sorry, sir,” said Arabella, quite cheerfully. “I’m not really under oath. Well, not to the Time Corp, anyway. My employers arranged for me to join the Time Corp on a…um, part-time basis.”
Mikkel was still spluttering when Marx said: “Tricky, that. I didn’t think the Time Corp could be infiltrated.”
“Neither did I,” said Arabella. “However, it seems that if you have all the right keys, there aren’t many doors you can’t open. What’s your offer?”
“I told you,” said Marx. “You help us, we don’t kill golden boy.”
“That’s not much of an offer.”
“You haven’t got much of a leg to stand on.”
There was silence in the room. Mikkel thought that Arabella was trying not to laugh, and he would have felt the same, unwilling to believe that Marx and Kez could ever kill him, if it hadn’t been for that still-smoking hole in the wall behind him. Typically, it was Kez who broke the silence.
“Off we go, then,” she said. Mikkel didn’t realize that she had wrapped her hand around Arabella’s until they both disappeared. It left a fragile, too-empty space between himself and Marx that Marx didn’t seem inclined to lessen.
So Mikkel said: “The kid has skills.”
Marx very deliberately levelled the Torrent so that it aligned more perfectly with Mikkel’s bare chest. “You say that like you didn’t already know.”
“I thought you seemed angrier than usual,” said Mikkel casually. His heart was beating a little faster than he liked. “I’m a Captain, not Commodore or Admiral of a fleet. To Time Corp, I’m a lackey. They tell me who, when, where, and what laws have been broken. That’s all. I doubt they’d have sent me after such a prize if you two hadn’t kept popping up on my radar. They probably thought there was a connection from the start.”
Marx gave a short laugh. “Time Corp thinks you’re helping us? Awkward for you.”
“That’s one way to put it,” Mikkel said dryly, leaning his hips into the foot of the bed. “I’ll be lucky if I’m not Court-Martialed after this. My Commander seems to have made an unfortunate report suggesting that I knew about your attack prior to its commencement.”
“Clever of him.”
“Very. I’ve already lost enough to you two. You’re not getting my core password as well. I might as well scupper the fleet myself.”
In Marx’s narrow eyes, Mikkel thought he saw something akin to sympathy. It worried him, because he was already wondering how Arabella had managed to infiltrate the Time Corp, short of someone turning her once she was enlisted, or– a core password.
“Now me,” said Marx, tapping one forefinger against the barrel of the Torrent; “I’d be wondering how a privately employed civilian managed to pass herself off as an enlisted agent of the Time Corp. The Core’s current in all aspects of time, constantly updated and always accurate. How’d she slip past that? And why you?”
Mikkel stifled a groan. “You’ve already got the password.”
Marx shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“It hasn’t changed, though,” Mikkel said, frowning. “Protocol dictates that if a password is compromised at any point in time, the holder must change it. The change filters through the Core to the holder in every aspect of time.”
“Only if you report the breach,” said Marx, his eyes narrower than ever. “Maybe you don’t report the breach.”
“Like heck, I don’t!”
Marx shrugged again. “All right, golden boy. But the password hasn’t changed, has it?”
There wasn’t any answer for that. Instead, Mikkel said: “What’s the connection between you and Arabella?”
“Not much, that I know of. She turns up every now and then to say hello. Her connection seems to be with you, golden boy. I won’t deny that it was a bonus to find her here already: she can be um, persuasive.”
Mikkel had started away from the foot of the bed before he knew it, anger stabbing cold and sharp right
to his toes. “You’re using her to vamp a password from someone?”
“Step back, golden boy,” said Marx, his eyes cold and watchful again. “You’ll thank me later.”
“Like heck, I will!” said Mikkel again. “Bring her back!”
“Are you two still fighting?” said Kez’s voice, in the split second before their bodily presence informed Mikkel that she and Arabella had returned. Kez was looking triumphant and decidedly gleeful. Arabella was looking…flustered. Her plump rolls of hair had tumbled down to her shoulders and an enticing rosy flush was spread over her cheeks. Mikkel felt a searing sense of regret that he hadn’t been the one to cause that flush.
Arabella didn’t quite meet Mikkel’s eyes as she quickly tidied her hair again, but when she said: “You could have warned me!” to Kez, her voice was creditably even.
“Wouldn’t have been as fun,” said Kez, grinning. “Anyway, you got it, didn’t you? Don’t whinge.”
She pranced up to Marx and he bent his head to catch her whisper. When he straightened, he was grinning too.
“Nice work, kid. Here, hold the Torrent. Try not to kill anyone.”
“What if he moves?”
“Shoot him in the knee.”
“Oh, good!”
“Thanks a lot,” said Mikkel. He leaned back into the foot of the bed, more worried at the angle of the Torrent now that Kez’s inexpert hands held it than he had been when Marx held it. He kept his eyes on the console that Marx was manipulating, and caught the last four digits in the code sequence. They were his.
This time when he said: “Thanks a lot,” it was aimed at Arabella.
She still didn’t quite meet his eyes, which tickled his interest, but she did say: “Sorry sir.”
“What are you doing to my console?” he demanded of Marx.
“Nothing you need to worry about,” said Marx, shifting so that his body hid the tiny liquid glass screen. “It’ll be as if we weren’t even here.”
“It never is,” muttered Mikkel. Kez grinned, taking it as a compliment. Behind her, Marx snapped the console closed and gave it a thump for good measure.
A Time-Traveller's Best Friend: Volume One Page 5
