by Rick Partlow
"Oh, what the hell?" she said, shrugging. "I've been living on borrowed time for the last twenty years."
There were a few armed CSF guards along the corridor, but none of them gave us a sideways glanced as we passed. I was beginning to experience deja vu for the days of the Glory Boys, when I would pass this close to Tahni shocktroops, hidden only by the darkness and my combat suit's chameleon circuits. I felt incredibly naked, but not afraid. There was no fear in the machine I had become, only an anticipation of the kill.
Finally, we came to the CSF Investigator's suite of offices, entering through the double doors as they slid aside to admit us. The suite was only sparsely populated, a couple of receptionists occupying the desks in the outer office, while a lone netdiver was nestled in her immersion station. Maybe we'd caught them during a shift change...and maybe not. I suddenly felt very paranoid.
I ran a thermal scan through the door labeled with Wellesley's name and title, marking way too many heat sources for my peace of mind, but in one of the unmarked side offices there was just one, lone thermal signature... I stepped forward as if nothing were amiss, was about to make a cut for the side office when they hit us with the sonic.
It was something like slamming headfirst into a bulkhead---I doubled over and pitched headfirst to the ground, my whole body screaming in agony from the subsonic vibrations coursing through me. Only my headcomp kept me from blacking out. As it was, I could do little but roll around on the floor, moaning incoherently, my vision fading in and out. I clawed helplessly for my pistol, but strong hands jerked it and the tool bag away, and I was dimly aware that I was surrounded by a group of figures in shielded helmets. As the hidden sonic stunner cut off, my subconscious was screaming at me, Sucker!
Rolling onto my back, trying to shake loose of the stupor, I looked up into the muzzles of half a dozen pulse pistols, and the gloating face of Trina Wellesley. I wasn't sure which sight was more unpleasant.
"One nice thing about you backwater colony types," she said. "You're all so predictable."
The Corporate mercenaries behind me reached down to pull me up by the armpits, and I endeavored at that moment to prove just how unpredictable we backwater colony types could be by catching their forearms in a grip against my sides and doing a backflip over their heads. Caught off guard, the CSF goons in front of me fired in a panic, their shots chopping into their own troops.
I threw the mercs' bodies forward into the shooters, then leapt in myself, slashing wide with my talons. As I spun, slicing through the throat---armor and all---of a tall female, I clearly saw Kara McIntire point her left index finger at one of the mercs. From the tip of her finger a crackling laserbolt pulsed, catching the man in the visor and putting a hole through both the transplas shield and his forehead.
Then things became too hectic for me to give what I'd seen serious consideration, as the remaining two troopers tried to back away and get a better shot at us. I caught one by her gun arm, amputated it with a downward slash of my right talons, caught the falling forearm and pointed it at her compatriot, squeezing her finger on the trigger. The heavy pistol shot a three-round burst that blew a fist-sized hole through the man's visor, while the disarmed woman collapsed, screaming in agony, her stump spraying me with bright, arterial blood.
Wellesley let out a shrill scream, turning to bolt for the door as the "secretaries" drew compact pistols and popped off a volley of laserfire at us. McIntire took them out with a burst from her implanted laser, spun to put a round through the head of the Netdiver, while I made a lunge for Wellesley.
Before I could reach her, a squad of Corporate mercs burst through the suite entrance in a confused panic, laying down a swath of laserpulses that blanketed the room. I threw myself forward, emptying the magazine of my appropriated pistol into the troops. My flurry of shots cut through three of them, bunched up as they were, and McIntire sniped two more with her finger while she retrieved one of our carbines from the discarded equipment bag.
The remainder of them, spooked by their sudden losses, tried to retreat from the room, but I launched myself into them talons-first. Two of them went down with their throats torn before they could take two steps, and I shattered another's spine with a kick, while a burst of carbine-fire from McIntire took out the remaining two.
Lunging over to the control desk, I quickly found the control that closed the security doors. The heavy, duralloy portal slammed down with a crash of metal and I turned to look for Wellesley. I found her quickly---she hadn't gone another step after the mercs had opened fire. She was laying face-down in a pool of her own blood, her upper torso riddled from the mercenaries' wild gunfire.
"Damn," I breathed softly. I felt a bit cheated---I'd wanted to kill her myself. It was something of a letdown, finding myself standing in the middle of the CSF offices, surrounded by dead bodies, and suddenly realizing that I had no idea of what to do next.
"What now?" Kara fixed me with a frankly curious stare.
"We've got to get into the security system," I decided, stepping over to the station where the netdiver had been sitting. His body was half-sprawled over the chair, and I pushed it aside, falling into his seat.
I studied the console, probed it with my neurolink and found the frequency to access it. My systems penetration program ran automatically, worming its way into the main datalink, and I found that the netdiver had made my job easier---he'd been linked into the security system when Kara'd shot him. Presumably he'd been set up to alert the guards in case anything went wrong, but it left the whole network wide open to me, and I took advantage of that to find out just what was going on.
At the moment, station security had been alerted to intruders in the CSF suite, and reinforcements were on their way. They'd also launched assault shuttles, and blocked any ships from leaving the docking cylinder. Fortunately, I was in a position to change that.
Using the security command system, I called off the alert at the CSF offices, issuing a new one for the medical center, on the opposite side of the wheel. I gave the assault shuttles new orders, sending them to Canaan's spaceport, and lifted the alert at the docking bay, liberally sprinkling alerts on every level, trying to draw guards away from the route we'd have to take to the bay.
Before I left the net, I switched over to the docking control systems and accessed the file on the star courier we'd seen. Its name was the Hecate, and, ironically enough, it was registered as Trina Wellesley's private transport. I used the station's docking computer link to access the ship's AI, reprogrammed its security system to include myself and Captain McIntire, and ordered the ship to begin prepping for takeoff, setting the jump capacitors to begin charging.
That done, I withdrew my consciousness from the link, went over to the merc whose spine I had shattered and began stripping off his armor. His body was oddly twisted in mid-torso, like a cat stretching itself...or a broken doll.
"Your fatigues should pass," I decided, looking at McIntire's gray utilities. "Grab some armor and a helmet. We've got to get to that ship before they figure out what I've done."
We quickly pulled on the armored vests and gloves, found helmets that would fit us, and buckled on the mercenaries' gunbelts, replacing their sidearms with our own. I retrieved one of the pulse carbines, handed the other to McIntire, then stepped over to the door controls.
"Ready?" I asked her, hand poised over the button.
"Not really." She brought her carbine up to chest level.
I hit the control, raising the shielded door, then spun around with my pulse gun ready. Nothing. The corridor outside was deserted, probably intentionally---Wellesley had outsmarted herself, evacuating the area in anticipation of our arrival. It had gotten all non-combatants out of the firezone, but it had left no one around to raise an alarm.
I hit the outer door control and shut the carnage in before we set out for the lift station at a brisk trot. I could hear alarms ringing in the distance, but I spotted no other CSF guards until we came within sight of the lift banks. P
osted there were a pair of armored mercs, apparently checking people out as they boarded.
I halted McIntire with a hand on her shoulder, touching helmets so I could whisper to her without using the radio.
"Try to bluff it," I told her. "If we can't, do them as quietly as possible."
She nodded, and we advanced on the lift station, strolling casually up like we owned the place. I nodded to the guards as we approached, started to board the waiting car, but one of them stepped up to us.
"Where are you headed?" the man asked over my helmet radio.
"Docking bay," I told him. "We're checking out an alert there."
"I thought that one was canceled," he said, then seemed to relax, shaking his head. "Look, do you two have any idea just what the hell's going on with all these damn alerts?"
I shrugged expressively. "Hey, I just do what I'm told. Probably a computer glitch."
"You still up for Donnegal's tonight, Frank?" the other guard asked me. I froze for a second, realizing that he must recognize the name etched across my helmet.
"Uh...sure," I nodded. "No problem."
"I'm sure looking forward to slamming down some brews after a shift like this," the first guard sighed.
"Yeah," I laughed, trying to sound natural, "you and me both."
He seemed to stiffen, his pulse carbine coming up quickly, and I suddenly had this blinding flash of insight that this guy Frank must not drink. I was about to try and jump away and get in a position to take him out when I heard a sharp "crack," and saw a small, blackened hole magically appear in the visor. I didn't have to look to know that the laser had come out of McIntire's implant weapon---she'd used it instead of the carbine because it wasn't as loud and didn't have as much of a visual signature.
The headshot guard collapsed back against the wall and started to slide down it before the other man realized what was happening. Before he could react, I extended my right-hand talons, their ultrasharp blades ripping through the material of the gloves I had appropriated, and sliced through his jugular vein with a flick of my wrist.
I shoved him backwards into the open lift car, McIntire pulling the other corpse in as I hit the touch-pad to close the doors and select our destination. I looked quickly around the car, found the security camera, and blasted it with a burst from my carbine. Hopefully, if anyone noticed, they'd think it had malfunctioned. Not that I thought anyone would notice---the monitors were in the CSF offices.
McIntire raised her visor, regarding me with an amused expression. I tugged off my helmet for a moment and wiped the sweat off my face, glancing at her uncomfortably.
I finally gave in. "All right. Just what's so funny?"
"The fact we're still alive," she laughed quietly.
"Don't get used to the idea," I warned her, slipping the headgear back on.
The lift was about halfway to the docking cylinder when it slowed to a halt and the doors slid open. McIntire and I tensed, bringing up our weapons, but it was only a harried-looking clerical worker---a short, skinny little man whose eyes bugged out at the sight of our carbines. His attention was so fixed on the muzzles of our weapons, he didn't even notice the bodies of the CSF guards---he just slowly backed out of the car and the doors slid shut. I let out a sigh and I heard Kara laugh quietly.
The rest of our ride went uninterrupted, gravity cutting out a little past the halfway point, and we arrived at the transport core after ten minutes of tense silence. We were braced for an attack as the doors opened, but no one even noticed our arrival---the docking bay was a buzz of harried activity, with CSF mercenaries jetting here and there, trying, I supposed, to untangle the morass of alerts and counteracting orders I'd put into place.
I moved out of the lift with McIntire at my heels, pausing to give the car a new destination so it would carry our victims away from the transport core. We kicked away from the closing doors just as a group of CSF troopers floated up to them, their leader proceeding to curse us vociferously.
"Goddamnit!" he yelled at us, slamming a hand onto the recall control. "We've been waiting for that car! Which squad are you shitheads with?"
We tried to ignore him, catching a handhold on the wall, and shoving ourselves farther down the transport core; but as I floated away, I saw the doors to the lift reopen, a cloud of crimson globules drifting out of it.
"What the fuck?" I could hear the CSF squadleader exclaim. "Stop them!"
A couple of the troopers squeezed off bursts of laserfire at us, but the core was crowded with people and the shots that didn't spall the clear, transplas walls around us hit other guards and CSF employees. Shouts and screams erupted all around us, and everyone scattered in different directions. McIntire and I kept increasing our pace, shoving off of each handhold with more power until I began to have serious worries about us being able to stop.
We didn't even try to fire back at the mercs---we couldn't hit them any more than they could hit us, and the last thing we wanted to do was attract any attention to us while we looked just like everyone else. Flying through the panicked crowd of workers and security troops, I was hoping we'd lose ourselves, but the tenacious CSF squadleader kept his group on us at a consistent fifty-meter distance, unable to fire because of the bystanders.
Finally, we came within sight of the courier's docking ring, the little craft visible through the thick, transparent core walls. We began to slow ourselves down, catching furtively at the handholds until we jerked to a halt directly across from the hatch to the docking umbilical.
"Hold them for a second." I handed McIntire my carbine, kicking across to the access hatch.
While I worked the control panel, Captain McIntire opened up with both weapons, scattering our pursuers and everyone else in the area. I typed in the I.D. code I'd read off the security net, then let the scanner take a look at my retina to confirm the pattern I'd programmed in at the control center. The board went green and the hatch popped open with a soft hiss.
"Come on!" I called to McIntire, drawing my pistol to give her cover.
She glanced at me, then looked back at the CSF guards long enough to empty both carbines before she kicked off from the wall and shot across through the open hatch into the docking umbilical. I fired off a volley at the group of mercs approaching us before I ducked in after her, pulling the hatch closed and locking it after us.
Brushing past the scout captain, I palmed the airlock's security panel. It read my palmprint, again installed through the command net, and the outer and inner lock doors slid aside, allowing us into the ship's equipment locker. I turned and hit the control to close the lock while Kara paused to stow the carbines in an equipment locker. The interior of the little ship was cramped, and I had to squeeze past her to worm my way down the narrow corridor to the cockpit.
Pulling myself into the pilot's seat, I powered the acceleration couch forward and strapped in as McIntire moved into the cockpit. She halted herself above the copilot's seat, frowning at me.
"How long's it been since you flew a starship?" she asked me suspiciously. "Maybe you should let me..."
I shook my head, cutting her off. "You don't know where we're going and we don't have time to argue---strap in."
She clambered resentfully into the right-hand couch while I linked with the ship's A.I., taking over its navigational and helm systems, leaving the rest for my unwilling copilot. Kara, I saw out of the corner of my eye, was plugging the 'face jack from her station into a socket behind her right ear, and I felt her, through the net, linking with weapons, life support and commo. Good. At least she was a professional.
I separated the ship from the docking umbilical over the automated protests of both the station computer and the Hecate's built-in manufacturer's safety warnings that I didn't have clearance to leave. I overrode the ship's safeties and ignored the station, concentrating instead on nudging us away from the transport core with the maneuvering thrusters.
Faint banging sounds echoed through the hull as the chemical jets pushed us gently out int
o the open periphery of the docking cylinder, and I could see on the main viewscreen the station crewmen shooting around willy-nilly with their little hand-held gas jets, trying to get out of the way. I gave the rear maneuvering jets a short blast, and the courier headed forward, toward the open end of the cylinder and the starry freedom outside of it.
"Attention courier Hecate," came an annoyed voice over the cockpit speakers, not accompanied by a holo image. "You are not cleared to depart the station. Return to dock immediately."
I ignored the order, instead powering up the ship's fusion plant, a 150-Megawatt jobber with an onboard fuel supply of metallic hydrogen that could last a year. The second the monitors went green, I started feeding power to the jump capacitors. We'd probably need them fast, when we needed them, and they took too Goddamned long to charge. Military scouts and attack ships usually kept them charged at all times, but that was too inefficient and dangerous for a civilian craft.
"Attention, courier Hecate." The voice was sounding more and more pissed off every second. "Return to dock immediately. You will not be allowed to leave the docking bay---we will close the bay doors if you do not turn back immediately."
Even as he spoke, I could see the massive, articulated iris of the cylinder doors beginning to dilate inward, and I knew we'd never make it in time---not on maneuvering thrusters anyway. Cursing softly to myself, I cut off the flow of energy to the superconducting capacitors and fed a burst directly to the twin Teller-Fox warp units.
The warp unit was originally developed shortly before the Second Interstellar War, by Catherine Teller and Lamar Fox, to create a smaller, temporary version of the wormhole jumpgates we'd been using since the latter half of the Twenty-first Century. The comparatively low energy state of Transition Space for which the warper opened the way meant journeys of weeks or months, rather than the instantaneous travel the wormholes allowed---that was the price for being able to enter T-space at will, and one we'd been happy to pay. But the gravimetic warp field that the unit emitted had several other applications that its inventors hadn't even dreamed of.
