With a cool nod, Bolton returned to her duties.
“She must be a good captain,” Rowan said, shifting his luggage from his right hand to his left. Most of what he carried was equipment intended to help him break into an unknown computer.
“How can you tell?” Armstrong asked. “And which way is forward?”
“This way. Follow me.” Rowan led off, Armstrong trailing along behind. “As for Bolton being a good captain, you can generally tell by the feel of the ship. The crew carrying out their duties efficiently, briskly.”
“No one’s lurking about in dark corners plotting mutiny. Is that it?”
“Something like that,” Rowan agreed. “First time on board a working spaceship?”
“Is it that obvious? I must say, it’s a bit different from your standard passenger ship, isn’t it? Everything’s so . .. well . .. small.”
“Efficiency, not comfort.”
As Rowan said this, both he and Armstrong had to flatten themselves against the bulkheads to allow an apologetic crewman to slide past.
They continued on down the corridor, Rowan leading the way. The ship even smelled new. The walls were a creamy off-white in color, and he could detect the odor of fresh paint. There were, as yet, no streaks or marks on them, although several of the access panels were already smudged with fingerprints. Neat red stripes outlined cabinets containing emergency equipment, such as fire-fighting gear, vacuum suits, oxygen bottles, and first-aid equipment. All the doors were automatic sliding panels, with override controls built into the bulkheads.
The corridor dead-ended. Rowan indicated a ladder leading upward.
“Great,” Armstrong muttered. He began to climb awkwardly, dragging a small duffel bag behind him. “I’m glad I packed light.”
Rowan followed, moving almost as slowly and awkwardly as Armstrong. After a laborious climb, the two men reached the top, paused to watch a crewman slide down the ladder with ease, not even bothering to use the rungs. Looking up, she flashed them a grin. Both men looked at each other, shook their heads dolefully, and continued on.
“This is the forward mess,” Rowan said. “Hopefully we have a cook this trip. Living off frozen and/or dehydrated meals can be hell.” He took a brief survey, nodded his head. “This is fine. Really first class. Even a bar.” He opened cabinet doors, peered inside. “Well-stocked, too.”
Armstrong smiled politely, glanced at the bar without interest.
Doesn’t drink, Rowan decided. “Do you play cards? Ante-up? Bridge?” He indicated several tables, surrounded by comfortable-looking chairs. The mess was the focal point of life for the crew, who used the room for meetings and recreation as well as eating. “We’ll have enough for a foursome when we hook up with Xris and Ito.”
“No, sorry.” Armstrong shrugged. “Never learned. Where did you say our rooms are?”
Taking the hint, Rowan led the way to their quarters. He showed Armstrong his, then left to find his own. The cabin was small, contained a single bed and a sink. Drawers were built into the bulkheads. Rowan emptied his clothes onto the bed and began tossing them into the drawers.
“So Armstrong doesn’t drink and he doesn’t play cards,” Rowan muttered to himself. “Just as well. We won’t have to include him in our all-nighters. Not a bad sort, though. Just boring.”
Captain Bolton came over the ship’s comm to announce that they’d be leaving the system in ten minutes. A knock on the door was Armstrong, wondering how to find the washrooms.
“It’s known as a ‘head’ aboard ship,” Rowan told him, and advised him to try the end of the corridor.
Armstrong thanked him and left.
Clothes put away, Rowan began to unload his computer equipment. He checked it, repacked it into a backpack carrier, stowed it away. He’d have it out again tonight, checking it again. Before they entered orbit around TISor 13, he’d recheck his equipment a dozen times. Ever since that botched assignment in the Omacron Interior, ruined because some bastard had broken in, removed all his interface cables without his knowing it, Rowan had become obsessive about making certain that whatever went into his pack stayed in his pack.
This completed, he lay down on the bed and realized that he didn’t want to get up. He was relaxed, more relaxed than he’d been in a month, and he knew he could sleep—something else he hadn’t done for a while. His financial woes would sort themselves out— surely, after all these years of being a responsible customer, his creditors would take a tolerant attitude. As for Kim, well, she was gone and that was that. The hurt was fading rapidly and that should tell him something. If he had loved her—truly loved her, the way Xris loved Marjorie—then the hurt wouldn’t let loose. In a way, this was good.
The knock on the door jolted him awake.
“Yeah?” he called.
“Me, Armstrong.” The voice came through the door. “Ready for the tour?”
“No, not really,” Rowan grumbled, wondering for a moment if he could get out of it. You’ve seen one bridge, you’ve seen ‘em all. Armstrong was interested, of course. As controller, he’d be working on board this ship. To Rowan, it was a means of transportation, nothing more. Still, he didn’t want to offend Captain Bolton. “I’m coming.”
He splashed cold water on his face, ran his hand through his hair, and opened the door.
The bridge was the usual blinking display of electronic equipment and control panels—all the very latest. Any other time, Rowan would have been fascinated. Now, the bright lights blurred in his eyes. Captain Bolton formally welcomed the two agents to the bridge, and gave them a guided tour. She explained the navigation and helm positions, communications station, and the command station. Rowan deftly turned a yawn into a sneeze.
“In this room, Agent Armstrong, is the controller station.”
The captain opened a sealed door off the port side of the bridge. Armstrong entered, took a long and interested look around.
He asked questions, she answered. Rowan, after listening a few moments, lounged back against the door, let the conversation flow past him. Armstrong was sharp, intelligent, obviously knew what he was doing.
“Monitors . . . infrared . . . sensing ... ground communication” floated around Rowan. He smiled and nodded whenever either of them looked at him; had no idea what was going on. He’d take time later to study the setup when he went to work on the Hung codes—after about twelve hours’ sleep.
“Excellent,” Armstrong was saying. “I’ll try a few simulations just to shake it down. Then I’ll program the station for our upcoming mission and load the tactical imagery. That is, if I have time. How long until we jump?”
“We’ll move out of this system and into open space in the next four hours, then make the jump around oh-three-hundred. I’ll sound general quarters fifteen minutes previous, so that you can return to your berth and prepare for the jump. After we come out, we’ll travel under linear drive to the TISor System. That will take around twenty-four hours.”
Armstrong nodded absently. He was already seated, starting work.
Captain Bolton watched him a moment, then turned back to Rowan.
“Would you care to see anything else, Agent?” she asked.
“Yeah.” Rowan yawned. “The insides of my eyelids.”
The captain laughed. “Strap yourself in your bed so that we don’t have to wake you for the jump.”
“Sure thing. Thanks, Captain. See you, Armstrong.”
The controller didn’t even look up. Rowan returned to his room, fell onto the bed, strapped himself in, then remembered he hadn’t taken off his shoes.
“The hell with it,” he started to say, but before he had finished the sentence, he was asleep.
“Agent Rowan, report to the bridge.”
Rowan struggled to wake out of a deep slumber. He had the impression the voice had been calling for him repeatedly; it had managed to work itself into his dreams. He tried to get out of bed, wondered for a frantic instant why he couldn’t move, remembered that he was s
trapped in. He fumbled at the belts and webbing, stood up groggily, and lurched over to the comm.
“Rowan here.”
“Message from the captain, sir. We will be entering the TISor System in approximately one hour.”
“Thanks.”
He’d been asleep for over twenty-four hours. No time now to work on those Hung codes. He’d do it on the trip back.
Rowan dug out clean clothes, went to shower, eat breakfast, and drink about six cups of coffee. Following this, he felt sufficiently restored to qualify as a member of the human race. He returned to the room, collected his equipment, checked it over and, finding everything as it should be, headed for the bridge.
The bridge aboard a small ship such as this one was unique in that it was the only area on board with a large steelglass viewscreen. The screen might seem superfluous to some; instrumentation gave highly accurate and detailed readings about what was outside the ship. A few races (notably the eyeless Corasians) relied totally on instruments, didn’t bother to go to the expense of adding costly viewscreens. But humans needed them. The screen provided the crew with a visual duplication of what their instruments were telling them—essential to humans, who receive a disproportionately large percentage of their sensory input through their eyes.
Entering the bridge, Rowan paused, stared, awestruck. The view entering the TISor System was magnificent. The numerous moons shone with the reflected light of the system’s sun and the radiance of its orange gas-giant planet. Times like this, he wondered if the people who were touting the now fashionable worship of God were really on to something.
Vigilance slipped into orbit around the thirteenth moon. Rowan entered the controller room to check in with Armstrong. The agent was already on the coram channel talking to Xris and Ito.
Rowan cast a cursory glance over the equipment. He hadn’t had time to study it; but then, it wasn’t really his concern. And there was always the return trip.
Armstrong gave him a brief and businesslike nod, then returned to his conversation with Xris.
“Everything okay down there?” Rowan asked Armstrong when the conversation had ended.
“Yes. You may proceed. You’ll find the day’s codes in the computer. I’ll send you the cipher key. The shuttle is standing by.”
“Uh, I don’t suppose I could send Xris and Ito a message— something rude and crass. You know. Between friends.”
Armstrong gave him a cold look. “That’s strictly against regulations.”
“Sure, I know. It’s just— Oh, hell. Never mind.”
Rowan walked off, headed rearward for the shuttle bay.
I might have figured Armstrong for a by-the-book bastard, Rowan thought. Probably all that time at HQ. Must be something they put in the water.
He found the crew chief inspecting the shuttle. The woman had a worried frown, was shaking her head.
“How’s she look, Chief?” Rowan asked.
“Well, sir, I’m not certain. I think everything’s okay. It’s just that I’ve been locked out of all of the maintenance routines on the onboard computer.”
“Did you ask Armstrong?”
“He said that was regulation—security purposes. I guess he doesn’t trust us. We’re on your side, you know.” The chief was angry, insulted.
That might be regulation—Rowan wasn’t certain—but if so, it was a bit heavy-handed. He reminded himself to have a little talk with Armstrong when they came back. Regulations were fine, but they shouldn’t interfere with a good working relationship with the ship’s crew. Rowan did his best to smooth things over.
“I’ve never flown one of these new intrusion shuttles before, Chief. Very impressive. Would you show me around?”
Two shuttlecraft were docked in the bay. Somewhat mollified by his interest, the chief gave Rowan a tour of the craft he would be flying, pointed out its significant features.
Rowan listened politely. He’d never flown an intrusion shuttle before, but he had studied them extensively.
“Everything looks okay to me, Chief. Including the computer.”
“I checked the computer out before we left, sir.” The chief was still defensive. “It was working fine then.”
“Then I’m certain it’s working fine now. Don’t worry about Armstrong. He’s just been reassigned from HQ. He’ll loosen up.”
“If you say so, sir.”
The chief looked doubtful, but she smiled and waved good-bye, headed back into the shuttle bay control room.
Rowan boarded the shuttle and moved to the cockpit. Shuttles were launched and recovered by magnetic tractor beams. Unlike spaceplanes, shuttlecraft were not designed to handle the tricky maneuvering required to land or take off from spacecraft. The chief, on board the mother ship, was in control of the shuttlecraft during launches and landings.
Rowan keyed the commlink. “Sunray, this is Javelin. How are my comms? Over.”
Armstrong answered from the mission control room. “Sunray here. All comms check out. Proceed with your launch and descend to the moon’s surface. Sunray out.”
Rowan transferred control of the shuttle to the crew chief for launch. The chief acknowledged and started the suction pumps that removed the air from the shuttlecraft bay.
When hard vacuum had been achieved, the shuttle bay doors opened. Magnetic tractor beams lifted the shuttle off the deck. Slowly, it moved out into space. As the shuttle cleared the bay, it was no longer in the ship’s artificial gravity environment, and Rowan went weightless. His webbing held him in his seat, but he hated the sensation. Spaceplanes and larger spaceships were equipped with artificial gravity field generators. Shuttles were not. At least not the shuttles purchased by the agency.
“Cheap bastards!” Rowan muttered.
This won’t last long, he told himself. When he drew near the moon, its gravity would begin to take effect. Soon he’d be sitting in the pilot’s chair like a normal person, not like some helium-filled balloon tethered to a string.
When the shuttle was one thousand meters off the aft of the ship, the chief bid Rowan good-bye and good luck.
“Sunray, this is Javelin.” He reported in. “The shuttle is under my control, and I am beginning my descent. Please feed the coordinates of the ground ops and the cipher key for tactical communications into my nav computer.”
“Javelin, stand by to receive ground ops coordinates and cipher key.”
Again, routine procedure. The cipher key was the codes that would be used by the team during the operation. For security reasons, the codes were changed on a daily basis and were issued to the operatives immediately prior to the job. Xris and Ito would have already received the day’s codes.
“Roger, Sunray. Receiving ground ops data now. Thanks. Javelin out.”
The shuttle turned in a graceful arc and headed for the thirteenth moon’s surface. Upon entering the moon’s atmosphere, the shuttle encountered upper-level turbulence, began to buck and rock—a most uncomfortable and unnerving experience. But at least now the moon’s gravitational pull was compensating for the shuttle’s lack of gravity. Rowan sank back down in his seat and felt better.
The descent was a long and boring process. He had nothing to do. The computer would handle the entry until the shuttle had dropped to the moon’s stratosphere, at which point he would take over. Rowan sat back and played tourist, admiring the spectacular view of the gas giant and its many moons. He kept his mind as empty as the darkness around him, refusing to let anything intrude on the job at hand. He was looking forward to seeing Xris and Ito, though. They’d be a bit leery of him, but a handshake, a nod, a smile, and his friends would know he was back on track.
“Entering the stratosphere,” the computer reported.
“Taking over manual control,” Rowan informed the computer, and began to line up with his projected bearing of descent. He turned to the left.
The shuttle did not.
Rowan checked his instruments. They registered the correct turn, but the shuttle was flying in the
same direction, at the same angle of ingress.
“Computer, release flight control to me.”
“Flight control is already in pilot’s control.”
“Computer, your systems registered a turn, but the shuttle has not turned. Explain.”
“Flight and navigation computers have registered a turn of forty-one degrees. Your new bearing is twenty-one degrees, angle of descent thirty-one degrees, speed of . ..”
Rowan didn’t need to hear his speed, which was rapidly increasing. What the hell was wrong?
Nothing—according to the computer.
“Computer, bring up maintenance routine two-one—flight controls.”
A text message flashed across the display console: Access denied.
Rowan swore. The shuttle was now nearing dangerous velocity. The hull temperature was rising due to friction with the moon’s atmosphere.
“Computer, how long until impact with the moon’s surface?”
“Four minutes thirty-one seconds.”
The hull temperature indicator continued to rise.
“How long until hull has lost integrity?”
“Two minutes three seconds.”
Rowan activated the comm. “Sunray, this is Javelin. Mayday! Mayday! Mayday! My nav computer is out and I can’t bring up the maintenance routines in order to correct it. Manual is out. Please advise.”
No response. Only static. The comm was working; no one was home.
“Damn it, Sunray! Mayday! Mayday! Where the hell are you?”
The static on the line was now being drowned out by the rumble of the shuttle’s hull, creaking with the stress of its accelerating descent.
I’ve been locked out of all of the maintenance routines on the onboard computer. The chief’s voice echoed in Rowan’s mind.
Sabotage. Deliberate sabotage. That was the only explanation. Someone wanted him dead.
Rowan took a deep breath. He didn’t fight the instinct to panic; rather, he put panic to good use, as he’d been trained—keep calm, use the adrenal rush to aid your thought process. Unstrapping himself from the webbing, he left the cockpit and headed for the rear compartment, grabbing his backpack on the way.
The Knights of the Black Earth Page 23
