by J. L. Doty
So much had happened, it was hard to remember. But he knew he’d forgotten something and he had to try one more time.
“Computer.”
Acknowledge, it replied.
“Log on. Access equals vocal print confirmation plus Ballinov Francesca Francesca Ballinov.”
Again the computer hesitated, and again York waited and nothing happened. And again the computer was unresponsive, neither granting nor denying access.
“Computer.”
Acknowledge, it replied.
“Confirm access.”
Access is incomplete. Complete access sequence.
York’s heart pounded its way up into his throat. “Log on continuation,” he said carefully. “Access concatenation Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha.”
This time there was an even longer wait, and a bead of sweat rolled slowly down York’s cheek. He jumped when the computer said, Please confirm access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha.
York almost shouted, “Access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha confirmed.”
No hesitation this time. Access Three Charlie Two Niner One Niner Alpha granted. Access priority is ring-zero.
CHAPTER 38: PRISONER NO MORE
It took York several minutes to dig his way into Cinesstar’s system without alerting AI. He also had to be absolutely certain nothing he did showed up on any screen outside Cinesstar. Next he had to override the screens the security team was monitoring, make sure they got what appeared to be normal updates, when in fact they were seeing none of his activity. Then he took a careful look at the telemetry link with Luna Prime.
Comp Central was monitoring a massive amount of data, and setting up dummy data feeds for every element would take days. He pondered that for a few minutes, then decided to use Cinesstar’s combat simulation computer. It was designed to feed simulated data, in infinite detail, to every function of the ship, data so real, and in such detail, that no crewmember on station could tell the difference.
He scanned Cinesstar’s telemetry recordings for the last twenty hours, looking for any major changes in routine that might bring the wrong kind of attention. It wouldn’t do to have a repair crew called back to repair something they’d already repaired. There had been a site calibration on the telemetry feed about four hours ago, but since then it had all been routine.
York made a copy of the last four hours of the full telemetry record, fed it as a standard program to the combat simulation computer, diverted the output of the simulation computer to Prime’s telemetry feed, and, holding his breath, activated the simulation.
Nothing . . . He cleared the access locks on the access shaft he and Dakkart had just used. Again, no response. He took a tally of the AI guards on Cinesstar—forty-two.
“Dakkart,” he called. “Get over here and take a look at this.”
She squeezed her way past the navigation console and appeared behind York, looking over his shoulder.
Twenty of the AI were spread out among ten watch stations at various sites on ship, eight more were split into two teams making the rounds of the various watch stations, and fourteen were in the marine Ready Room. York nodded toward the screen. “Crawl back down that shaft and brief Palevi on this. Tell him to go for the Ready Room first—if he gets there fast he’s only got fourteen to worry about at the moment. Then he can wait for the eight on patrol to return and take them when they do. Then we’ll take the rest one station at a time.”
“Yes, sir,” she said happily, spun and disappeared behind fire control. He’d turned off the sensors in the access shaft, heard the hatch grind open, then creak shut—no alarms; nothing on the telemetry feed to Luna Prime, nothing on the security feed to the AI Watch Commander, nothing.
He watched the screens intently for any sign of discovery. He couldn’t follow Dakkart’s progress, but he could guess when she reached Palevi, and still there came no alarm. He had to guess further about the time it would take them to crawl down the shaft to the Ready Room, to surprise the AI squad down there, to take command of the Ready Room, hopefully without alerting anyone.
Suddenly a red light flashed on his screen—someone in the Ready Room had manually activated an alarm. But York’s combat simulation program continued to feed routine telemetry to Prime, and after desperately scanning all the information feeds in Cinesstar’s systems, York was confident the alert had gone no farther than his console.
Later, he would think back on that moment and realize how stupid he’d been. He could use the excuse that he was tired, that he’d been tortured, that he’d been blown apart and put back together so many times he just wasn’t thinking clearly. But inside he would always know it was just plain careless to concentrate so intently on that screen, to forget everything else around him.
He never did identify what hit him, but it was something heavy and blunt. The only thing that saved his life was that Sierka’s throw wasn’t very accurate. But it did strike him a glancing blow along the side of his head, knocked him into a sprawl on the deck and sent his senses spinning near the edge of consciousness. Dizzily he scrambled half way back to his feet, only to catch Sierka’s boot in his ribs.
He bounced off the navigation console, staggered away from it with the deck swaying crazily beneath his feet. Close to blacking out, struggling desperately to hold onto consciousness, he wasn’t even sure where Sierka was, so he swung wildly and tried to pull his side-arm. York got his hand on the butt of his pistol, but Sierka tackled him. He got hold of York’s gun hand, while York wrapped his free hand around Sierka’s throat and tried to bite his ear. Locked together they both rolled off the fire-control console onto the deck. Sierka landed on top of him, trying to knee him in the groin . . .
“Fuckin’ ass-hole.” There was a nasty thud and Sierka groaned and rolled off him. Dakkart stood over them both and snarled, “You’ve just had your last chance, Sierka.”
York scrambled to his hands and knees. His head was still spinning, but he could see clearly enough.
Sierka was on his face on the deck. Dakkart had one knee buried in the small of his back, had put her side-arm away and pulled out a power knife. Her thumb twitched and York heard the power knife hum to life. With her free hand she grabbed Sierka by the hair, pulled hard and lifted his chin off the deck, arching his back so she could cut his throat.
“As you were,” York shouted.
She hesitated, looked over her shoulder at York defiantly. “That’s an order,” York growled. “We may need him.”
She still hesitated. “You can cut his throat later,” York added. “When we know we don’t.”
She let go of Sierka’s hair, thumbed off the power knife. She stood slowly, gave Sierka a final kick in the ribs and turned to York. “Ready Room’s secure, sir. Palevi says if you can give him access codes he can monitor those AI patrols from the Security Console and wrap the whole ship up in half an hour.”
York’s ribs complained painfully as he climbed to his feet. He pointed at Sierka. “Get him on his feet and ready to travel.”
As he sat down at the Captain’s Console he noticed Stacy, Dakkart’s partner, had joined them. From the Captain’s Console he opened up the Security Console, got hold of Palevi, set up access codes for him. “I want those AI goons buttoned up tight. While you’re doing that I’m going to set up access codes for the rest of the crew.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Palevi winked and grinned. “We’re gonna have us a real party, ain’t we, Cap’em.”
York nodded. “Ya. A real loud and noisy party, Sergeant.”
York cleared access on the main lift, then shut down access to it for the rest of the ship. It wouldn’t do to have one of the loose AI patrols blunder into their operations. He called to Dakkart, hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Get Sierka down to the brig. You can use the lift, but no side trips until the entire ship is secure.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Dakkart said. She dragged Sierka to the lift, palmed the doors open and tossed him ungently into it.
> As the doors cycled shut, Stacy stood uncertainly nearby. He was just a kid and wasn’t sure what to do. York nodded toward the lift. “Just stand by. No one on or off the bridge without my permission.”
“Yes, sir,” he said, wide eyed.
Feeling a little paranoid York pulled his side-arm, laid it on top of the command console close at hand. He slaved one of his screens to Palevi’s Security Console so he could follow the progress as they rounded up the rest of the AI. Then he began reprogramming Cinesstar’s access codes. It wasn’t a difficult task, just time consuming, and it required concentration. Occasionally he glanced at the screen showing Palevi’s progress, but Palevi knew what he was doing and needed no help from York. York wouldn’t have looked up from his work for quite some time had it not been for that odd sound, a familiar click that registered on his subconscious, the hammer being drawn back on a gun. Not an energy weapon, but the kind of old-fashioned, chemically powered slug thrower favored by some marines, and most assassins.
York opened his eyes carefully as Stacy stepped into his field of view. The kid had put his rifle down somewhere, was holding a small black pistol with the muzzle pointed at York’s chest. York opened his mouth to ask him what the hell he was doing, but any question he had died on the tip of his tongue as his eyes met Stacy’s, and right then the kid became something more. His features didn’t really alter, didn’t actually shift, but Stacy went from being the kid to someone who could have been anywhere between sixteen and forty. His eyes now showed a certain hardness, a subtle indication of age and experience not there before. York was oddly impressed at the control the man had exhibited. Not one of them had ever guessed he was anything more than just the kid.
“It was you,” York said. “All along it was you.”
Stacy nodded, though there seemed no malice in him. “Sorry, Cap’em. Sorry it’s gotta be this way. I like you, and if it was up to me I’d let you live. But I’m a professional.”
York thought of his gun, sitting in plain sight close at hand. But he knew he wasn’t fast enough. “Abraxa hired you, didn’t he?”
Stacy shrugged. “I don’t know who hired me, Cap’em. They don’t know who I am, and I don’t know who they are. It’s better that way.”
York shook his head. “It was Abraxa. I know that now.” York had to keep Stacy talking, stall for time. If the kid was really a pro, and York had no reason to doubt his word on that, then he was certainly faster and better than York. Just stall, and try to think of something. “He hired you to kill me.”
Stacy shook his head. “Not exactly, Cap’em. Whoever hired me sent me here with orders to keep an eye on you, to protect you if necessary, to report regularly on you. Nothing more.”
York thought he saw a shadow flow cat-like behind Stacy from one console to another. But he dare not take his eyes off Stacy’s face, dare not look that way. “Then why are you doing this?”
“There was a contingency plan in my instructions. If I received a certain coded message, I was to terminate you as soon as possible.” Stacy shrugged. “I’m real sorry about this, Cap’em.”
“I assume your name isn’t really Stacy.”
Stacy shrugged. “No. But then I haven’t used my real name in years. Just call me Wildflowers.”
York glanced at his gun lying on the console. Stacy looked at it also, shook his head. “Don’t, Cap’em. I’m going to make this easy on you, no pain, quick, clean, neat. Don’t mess it up.”
At that moment a soft click sounded behind Stacy, the lock on the hatch to the access shaft. Stacy stepped forward quickly, retrieved York’s gun off the console in front of him and hissed, “No sound, Cap’em, no warning,” then he disappeared into the shadows behind fire-control.
Whoever stepped out of the shaft did rather well, hardly made a sound. If York had been tapping away at his console that would have easily masked the faint hiss of a foot sliding carefully across the deck. Then Dakkart peeked around the side of Navigation with a gun in her hand, frowned at York and mouthed words silently, Where’s Stacy?
Stacy appeared in back of her, pressed the muzzle of his gun behind her ear and she froze. “I’m here, Dakkart.”
“Why you little twerp,” she growled. “I knew it was you, you little ass-hole. I should of—”
Stacy swatted her on the back of the head with his gun and she crumpled over the navigation console, then slid to the deck. Again York thought he saw a shadow flow a step closer to Stacy. Then Stacy stepped forward, and standing over Dakkart he glanced at York. “It’s time to end this, Captain.” With a cold-blooded lack of expression he jammed the muzzle of his gun against the back of Dakkart’s head, but behind him York saw a flash of white hair, and an olive colored hand settled silently on the nape of Stacy’s neck. York heard a snapping crunch and Stacy slumped to the deck next to Dakkart.
Sab’ach’ahn stepped into the light. “My apologies, Captain. I had to wait until his weapon was diverted from you.”
York asked, “Is he dead?”
Sab’ach’ahn’s look said, Need you ask?
Dakkart groaned, crawled slowly to her feet rubbing the back of her head. She looked at Sab’ach’ahn, then down at Stacy’s body and growled, “Little twerp!” and gave him one last kick. “Thought you could fool me. But I knew there was something wrong with you all along.” She gave him another kick.
York would have liked to question Stacy further. “Get him out of here,” he snarled. “Real soon he’s going to get in the way.”
As Dakkart threw Stacy’s body over her shoulder the Command Console started bleeping at York. It was Palevi. “Captain. We got most of the AI in the brig. There’s a squad of about fifteen holed up on G deck, but we’ve got ‘em isolated and bottled up tight. It may take us a while to dig ‘em out, though.”
Cinesstar’s hull echoed with the distant thump of a concussion grenade. Palevi shrugged. “May have to kill a few too.”
York checked the telemetry feed to Prime. He then dug into the system, pulled up the access codes for the comp locks imprisoning his crew in their quarters. “You’ve got the comp-lock codes on your screen. Release my crew.”
York had to wait about five minutes.
“It’s done, sir.”
Well, York thought, here goes.
He keyed his implants and spoke carefully. “Watch condition red.”
In his implants the computer demanded, “Confirm watch condition red.”
“Red confirmed,” York said. The status horn burped once and the alert klaxon started blaring. York switched his pickup into allship. “Watch condition red. Battle stations. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill.” He repeated the message once more, recording it, then put it on continuous replay and sat back to watch the combat status summary on one of his screens.
Palevi and the marines green-lighted first, though their time was terrible. He could forgive them that under the circumstances. He waited, watching his screen for more green—and he waited. At about two minutes a defensive pod checked in. At four minutes one of the transition launchers yellow-lighted.
York cut the recording of his voice, left the alert klaxon blaring and switched into allship. “This is Captain Ballin. I’m sitting here on the bridge, and more than four minutes have passed, and most of you have yet to check in. Get off your fucking asses and get to your stations.” He shouted the last word, “Now!”
The first station green-lighted one minute twenty-one seconds later—an entire station, not just an isolated pod or launcher. Then he heard the lift open and McGeahn took a tentative step onto the bridge. York didn’t give her a chance. “What the hell are you waiting for?” he shouted.
She jumped, shot across the bridge and practically fell into her couch. Eldinow was right behind her, and the lift door cycled shut. Only seconds later it cycled open again and Gant and Jakobee stumbled over one another as York shouted them to their stations. It wasn’t a full bridge crew, but it was all he had left, and it was enough.
Yo
rk blanked the combat status summary from his screen. “McGeahn,” he growled. “Check all actives on board ship. If anyone is still in their quarters and not sure what to do, please instruct them personally. And no communications outside this ship. And don’t touch that combat sim I’m running. That’s what’s feeding phony telemetry to Prime so we can maybe get away with this.”
Cappik was on station in Engineering. “Check out our drives and power plant,” York ordered him. “We’re going to have to make a run for it, and we’ll probably need full combat status.”
Temerek checked in on Hangar Deck. “Forget Hangar Deck,” York told him. “I need bridge crew. Get up here, on the double. Wait. On second thought, first get Hangar Deck organized, put someone you trust in charge, then get up here.
“Jakobee. I want an ordinance inventory soonest, and a status summary on all offensive and defensive stations. And review your crew assignments. We may have to restation some of them to get even coverage.”
CHAPTER 39: BAIT
York sat at his console and drummed his fingers nervously. They needed hours, days, but all they had was minutes. Something would eventually focus Prime Central’s attention on Cinesstar.
York tapped into Prime’s command grid. The Admiralty had deployed Home Fleet out near the edge of the system, just beyond heliopause. They were too far out to hinder Cinesstar if she made a run for it. There were a few AI ships in system, and Seventh Fleet was a good day out, driving in hard, though the idiot in command of her had strung her out over several light-years.
There was something odd and wrong with the deployment of Home Fleet, something equally wrong with the way Seventh Fleet was strung out. He stared at his console for a long moment, realized some piece of data was missing from the equation, then recalled that Soladin, during the meeting of the Admiralty Council, had said something about a Kinathin fleet.
