by Jake Elwood
"Maybe they'll think of it," DiMarco said. "Maybe they won't." He was panting from exertion and adrenalin. He made himself take a couple of slow, deep breaths, and then he looked around.
They were in the auxiliary storage room, used for extra guidance chips or other useful parts. The room also contained several toolkits, left there by DiMarco himself. He hated having to run to Engineering for a wrench or a laser cutter. He found the biggest tool box, opened the lid, and started to rummage.
"What are we going to do, Chief?"
DiMarco straightened up, a large hammer in his hand. He wished he'd had it when those fingers had grabbed the edge of the hatch. "First, we sound General Quarters." He stepped forward and swung at the hatch, and Higgins flinched back. Six times the hammer crashed against the steel panel, and by the end of it Higgins had both hands pressed to his ears.
"Next," DiMarco said, then paused. He couldn't hear his own voice. He set the hammer down and waited for a moment. When the worst of the ringing was gone from his ears he said, "Next, we find another way out of here."
"Another way?" Higgins looked around the rather small chamber. "There is no other way out."
DiMarco favoured him with a grim smile. "We're engineers. We don't let other people's design mistakes stand in our way." He shoved a toolkit toward Higgins and gestured at the back bulkhead. "Let's get to work. We're going to make a new hatch."
Chapter 35 – Hammett
The Alexander popped out of a temporary wormhole into normal space less than a hundred thousand kilometers from the night side of the planet New Avalon. As reports came in from various observation stations he felt some of his tension ease. It was a nearly perfect jump, putting the bulk of the planet between the Alexander and the enemy ships that surround the Gate. "Good work," he told Cartwright. "Ease us into a nice slow orbit around the planet. I want the engines cold by the time we have line of sight on the target."
Cartwright nodded and lifted a handset. She spoke, frowned, and shook the handset. She wiggled the wires where they connected to the bottom, then held the handset to her ear and said "Hello?"
A voice said, "Um." Hammett looked at the line of cadets manning telephones along the starboard bulkhead. Cadet Wilkins met his gaze and said, "My phone just died."
The cadet beside him picked up her handset and listened. "Mine's dead too."
"I think it's all of us," said the cadet at the end of the line.
Beside him Cadet Nakatomi spoke into her handset." Bridge to port lounge. Do you copy?" She listened for a moment. "Thank you." She lowered the phone. "My phone is fine." She frowned and looked down, then lifted the handset. "Port lounge? Are you still there?" She looked up and shook her head.
"Runner," Hammett said. There were only two, a cadet and a civilian girl who couldn't have been more than twelve. She stepped forward, looking nervous and excited. The strip of tape on the front of her shirt said "Smith".
Hammett said, "I need you to find Peter Breckenridge and tell him the bridge telephones are down."
She bobbed her head. "Yes, Sir. Where is he?"
"I have no idea. Go to the forward telephone hub first. See if the phones there are working. Don't come back and tell me. I don't care. Tell Breckenridge."
Smith looked alarmed, but she gave him a crisp salute, then whirled and ran from the bridge.
Carruthers said softly, "This is not a good time for technical problems."
"No. Maybe—"
A distant metallic clang interrupted him. He went silent, counting. Six clangs in total rang out, and he stared at Carruthers. "Who the hell is sounding General Quarters?" Before the man could answer he said, "Never mind. Who has a working phone? Anybody?" The sailor at the weapons station raised her hand, and Hammett hurried over to her. He grabbed the phone from her and barked, "Who's this?"
"Janice Ling," said a wary voice.
There was no time for pleasantries, not if the half-formed worm of fear squirming in his guts had any basis in fact. "I need you to get to the shuttle bay. Don't let anyone stop you, either. Find al Faisal and tell him to launch the Falcon. He has to destroy the Gate. Then find yourself a quiet closet and lock yourself in."
She was silent for several long seconds. Then she said, "Got it," and he heard a thud as she set the handset down. He heard the distant thump of her feet, receding with distance. By the sound of it she was running.
Then silence.
Hammett handed his phone to the sailor and pointed to the line of cadets along the wall. "All of you are runners now. Get to the engine room, the missile bay, and the weapons locker. Tell them we may be under attack."
Carruthers said, "Under attack? By who?"
"Either we've been boarded by the enemy, or it's mutiny." Or it's a mechanical failure and someone dropped six wrenches, in which case I'll be quite embarrassed shortly. He gestured at the cadets. "Go!"
Five of them surged forward, moving as one.
Wilkins, in the lead, was a couple of paces from the bridge hatchway when a crowd came surging in. Cadets stumbled to a halt, Wilkins staggering into a slim figure in dark pinstripes at the head of the arriving mob. There was a burst of light, a smell of ozone, and Wilkins flew back, his arms and legs spasming. He landed on his back on the deckplates, his limbs twitching, froth coating his lips.
Hornbeck stood in the entrance, a stunner in his hand. He looked down at Wilkins, then lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Hammett. The stunner zeroed in on the center of Hammett's chest, the barrel never wavering as Hornbeck stepped onto the bridge. Men and women crowded in behind him, seven of them in total, civilians armed with kitchen knives and improvised clubs.
Hammett said, "How many times do I need to throw you off my bridge?"
"I regret the necessity of violence," Hornbeck said, his voice cold and steady. "But it's indeed necessary. All that's left to be seen is just how much violence will be required." He came to a stop in front of Hammett. "That part is up to you." He raised his voice. "There's no point in resisting! All of you need to understand that. Wyatt's team has taken the weapons locker and missile bay by now. You can't destroy the Gate, and you can't retake the ship. Do as I tell you and we'll all be home in a couple of days."
"Are you in such a hurry to hang?" Hammett murmured.
Hornbeck didn't answer, just stared at him, chin thrust out. They stood face to face, Hornbeck just out of arm's reach. Hammett thought of going for the stunner, and estimated his chances at about fifty percent. Hornbeck's followers were moving around the bridge, spreading themselves out. Hammett counted three knives. If he made his move, there would be a bloodbath. Still, nine trained Navy personnel would prevail against eight civilians, weapons or no weapons. He took a deep breath and bent his legs, ever so slightly.
There was movement over Hornbeck's shoulder, and Hammett felt a surge of hope. Velasco walked onto the bridge, stepping lightly, her feet silent on the deck plates. She held a gun in her hand.
"Now!" The cry came from Carruthers, and he sprang as he shouted, tackling a burly man with a knife and knocking him sprawling. Hornbeck's head turned, and Hammett stepped forward. His left hand slapped the stunner aside as his right fist slammed into the side of Hornbeck's face. The little administrator flew back, landing on the deck beside the captain's chair. The stunner bounced once and came to a stop at Velasco's feet.
Something moved in the corner of Hammett's eye, he started to duck, and a club made from a table leg grazed the back of his skull. He saw stars, and hurled himself at his attacker before the man could swing again. His shoulder hit a man's chest, strong arms wrapped themselves around him, and he strained against the man, looking over his shoulder at Velasco.
She stooped, picked up the stunner, and straightened. For a moment she stood there with a gun in each hand. Then she took careful aim with the stunner and fired.
Hammett didn't see where the shot hit, but he heard Carruthers cry out.
Velasco turned. Just inside the hatchway a pair of cadets had a civilian
woman by both arms. A cadet lifted his knee, striking the woman's wrist, and a knife dropped from her fingers. Velasco fired twice, and both cadets fell, leaving the woman standing there, arms out, with a look of comical astonishment on her face.
Struggling figures went still all over the bridge. Velasco, her face expressionless, scanned the room. Nakatomi knelt by the weapons station, a deep slash on her forearm dripping blood. She glared up at Velasco, then lowered a thick-bladed carving knife and set it on the deck beside the curled-up body of a fat man in a white suit. The suit was liberally splashed with blood, hers and his own. He had both hands pressed to his face, and blood welled between his fingers and pooled under his head.
Hornbeck rose unsteadily, holding a hand to the side of his face. Velasco handed him the stunner, then extended the pistol and took it in a two-handed grip. She pointed the gun at the center of Hammett's body and said, "That's enough."
Hammett looked at the man he was struggling with. "I think she means you."
The man snorted and let go of Hammett, stepping back quickly. Hammett turned to face Velasco. He felt no fear, just a weary frustration. The other mutineers drew back from the crew, edging in closer to their leaders. Velasco said, "All of you. In that corner. Move!"
A sailor named Vincenzo was on his knees beside Nakatomi. He stood, his hands completely covered in blood, and said, "I'm getting the med kit."
He started walking across the bridge, and a mutineer stepped into his path, knife in hand. "She said—"
"Don't make me shove that knife up your ass." Vincenzo didn't wait for the man to reply, just stepped around him and opened a wall panel marked with a red cross. He lifted out a plastic case and carried it to Nakatomi.
As he knelt beside her, the mutineer tried again. "Treat Hutchins first." He gestured at the man in the white suit.
Vincenzo didn't even look up. He took several items from the med kit, then shoved the kit in the direction of the bleeding man. The mutineer with the knife took a step forward, and Velasco said, "Leave it. The rest of you, in the corner." She looked at Hammett. "You too, Hammett."
Hammett said softly, "What are you doing, Velasco?"
"It's simple. I'm taking command."
Chapter 36 – West
Mathew West sat on his bunk with his guitar on his lap, listening to the fast, frightened thumping of his heart. He had no idea what all the banging and clanging outside meant. That had been bad enough, but then had come gunfire and screams. He felt as if he'd been transported back to the ballroom on Freedom, before he'd lost Jessica and almost his life. He wished Hornbeck and his stunner would show up to rescue him one more time.
The sound of a fist banging on a hatch made him jump. It wasn't even his hatch. By the sound of it, it was one room over. A muffled voice shouted, the tone angry, the words indistinguishable. Someone else yelped.
West tightened his grip on the guitar.
More banging, even louder. That last time must have been two rooms away, then. Now it was next door. He heard thumping from the next cabin. Then, inevitably, the hammering of something solid on the hatch in front of him.
He stood, and the hatch swung open. Why didn't I lock it? But that would just have made them angry. Whoever they are. What's going on?
The man who leaned in looked wild-eyed and angry. He wasn't military, not with that flying hair and unkempt beard. He held a length of pipe in one fist, and he said, "Get out here. Now."
West, too terrified to ask what was happening, stooped through the hatch and stepped into the corridor. Frightened-looking people lined one wall, seven or eight men and women with the same cowed look he remembered from Freedom Station. The bearded man and two companions stomped back and forth, their victims cringing back as they passed. There was a man with no weapon but his fists, and a woman who held a pistol as if she thought it might bite her. West had the distinct impression that if anything startled her – even a loud noise from another deck – she was going to shut her eyes and just start shooting.
"All right, get moving," the bearded man said. When nobody moved his face turned red and he bellowed, "Now!"
West, with no idea where the man wanted him to go, took a couple of steps down the corridor. A thick arm barred his way. "What are you doing?" The man screamed the words, and flecks of spittle hit West's cheek and lips. "Go the other way!"
West pivoted and followed the miserable line of prisoners as they shuffled along. There was a cadet in front of him, a boy with a hanging head, a long red welt that matched the pipe decorating the side of his face. He was the only military prisoner. The rest were ordinary folks like West, probably survivors from Freedom Station, the same as him. Did we get through that nightmare just to die here today? Killed by imbeciles who don't even know what they want?
A staircase appeared on the right, and the woman with the gun used her free hand to shove the first prisoner sideways. It was a thin teenage girl, and she stumbled, clutching the railing to keep from falling down the steps. The others took the hint and followed. West, still clutching his borrowed guitar to his chest, brought up the rear, the bearded man's hand between his shoulder blades.
There was more shouting when they reached the next landing. It seemed no one except Beardy actually knew where they were heading. The prisoners stood in a wretched knot while their tormenters screamed conflicting orders. West, terrified by their twisted faces, turned his head away.
He found himself staring through the railings into a shadowy space under the stairs. In that dark cave he saw another face staring back at him. It was a cadet, looking very young and frightened, holding himself motionless, gazing at West with wide, unblinking eyes. It took a moment for West to notice the others. There were at least three cadets under the steps, their dark uniforms blending into the shadows.
A hand closed on West's collar and yanked. "Get moving, you. I'll break your fucking skull."
He stumbled to the bottom of the steps, then followed the others down a short corridor and into the shuttle bay. More prisoners waited there, dozens of them, crowded together in one corner, pressed up against stacks of plastic boxes. Half a dozen men and women stalked back and forth in front of the prisoners, guns in hand.
West let them herd him toward the corner. His hands were sweaty on the guitar. The teenage girl was beside him, and she shied suddenly sideways, bumping into him. He let go of the guitar neck long enough to catch her shoulder and keep her from falling, then felt his fingers tighten as he saw what had startled her.
A corpse lay on the deck. It was a fat woman in her forties, and she lay on her back with three gaping holes in her chest and stomach. West could see raw flesh, but no sign of blood coming from the terrible wounds. She was dead.
"Ouch, you're hurting me. Ow!"
The girl twisted from his grip, rubbing her shoulder, and he muttered "Sorry" without taking his eyes from the dead woman.
Just beyond the corpse a sailor lay on his back in a pool of blood. West couldn’t see if it was a man or a woman. Three people knelt around the body, an older man in a medical officer's uniform and a pair of cadets. As West shuffled past, the officer looked up and said, "You have to let me take this woman to Medical!"
"Forget it," said the nearest gunman. His voice sounded high and frightened, and he levelled a pistol on the doctor, as if he thought the man would leap up and attack him. The doctor turned his attention back to the injured sailor and West joined the rest of the prisoners in the corner.
He sensed fright from everyone around him, but the mood of the crowd was changing. A woman was bleeding to death not more than six paces away, and West heard frustrated muttering, turning quickly to anger.
The bearded man with the pipe led his two followers back out to the corridor, leaving six guards alone with thirty or more surly, restless prisoners. The injured sailor moaned, and West felt the tension in the bay rise sharply. In a moment there was going to be violence. How many shots could six people get off before the mob overwhelmed them?
It didn't bear thinking about it.
His ankle bumped into one of Dulcie's plastic boxes, and he sat on it. The plastic sides groaned but held, and he told himself he would just sit there quietly and do nothing to draw attention to himself. From a sitting position it would be quicker to hit the deck when the shooting started. He could see people discreetly grabbing rail gun rounds, one in each hand. They made a nice solid handful. They would make excellent missiles. It was, after all, what they were made for. He imagined the guards going down under a hail of hand-thrown cylinders. Would it be enough?
Not likely. Some of these people were going to die.
His fingers slid along the neck of the guitar, seeking comfort in the familiar touch of smooth wood and taut strings. He didn't even realize he was playing until people near him turned to gape. He played a simple melody, a lullaby he'd learned more years ago than he cared to count. The notes, low and soothing, flowed out from the guitar and one prisoner after another turned to stare.
"What are you doing?" The speaker was a wild-eyed young man, advancing on West with his arm stretched out straight, the gun trained on West as if he thought the lullaby was an attack. He's scared, West realized. He's much more frightened than I am, and I'm terrified. He's in over his head and he knows it. He just doesn't know what to do. The gun's all he has. Shooting someone is the only trick he knows.
He kept playing, not speaking, not making eye contact. He could see the gun in his peripheral vision, levelled at his head, then swinging left and right to cover the other prisoners. "Stay back! Don't move! Back up! Don’t move!"
Idiot. And some other idiot gave him a gun. God help us. The kid didn't want to shoot anyone, though. He was just out of his mind with fear.
"I'm going to play a song," West said. He kept his voice soft and conversational. "It won't do any harm, and it'll help keep everyone calm." He strummed the guitar. "Is that all right?" More strumming. The kid didn't speak, just stared at him with the whites showing all around his irises. West said, "Well, shoot me if it bothers you," and started to play in earnest.
