“Chief, build us a brain. It doesn’t have to be brilliant. Mr. Brik, you look for booby-traps. Detox this vessel.” To Tor and Hodel, he said, “We’ll stay at Condition Red. Run a twelve-hour clock. Hold at ninety seconds from stardrive injection. We sight anything coming at us in hyperspace, we scramble—and the Burke self-destructs. That means nobody gets lazy. If the alarm sounds, you’ll have thirty seconds to get off the Burke. Beyond that, you’re a footnote in the log.” He turned to Korie. “Pick a crew of twelve. You’ll bring the Burke home. First thing, though, you’ll strip the fluctuators off—no matter what else, I want them. All right,” he concluded, “That’s it. Any questions?”
There were none.
“Good. Thank you. Go to work.” Hardesty pushed his chair back from the table, rose crisply, and exited from the Bridge of the Burke.
Hodel groaned first. “Oh god—why do we always get the hard ones? We are jinxed.” He looked up at the ceiling. “Whatever it was, Ghu—I’m sorry!”
Tor ignored the performance. She was already speaking to her headset. “HARLIE, we’ll need critical path schedules—”
HARLIE was way ahead of her. He was always ahead of everybody. “I’m posting them now.”
Korie looked up to Brik, but the Morthan was emotionless. He swiveled around and stared at the Bridge where the assassin had first been found.
Is it possible that Hardesty has made a very bad decision? Or is there something that I’m still missing?
High-cycle Fluctuators
The two starships floated like lovers, linked together in the brittle paradigm of their rendezvous. They drifted in dreamtime, alone against the deep abyss of distance.
Inside the Burke, high within her engine room, Korie and Haddad sweated over the difficult job of prying loose the fluctuator casing. They stood on the catwalk, working on the highest of the Burke’s three units. It was a large torpedo-shaped structure, braced and reinforced within a shining tubular frame. Below them, other crewmembers worked just as determinedly to remove the other two units without damaging them.
Haddad levered himself up inside the flanged part of the cylinder while Korie waited impatiently. After a moment, the sound of muffled cursing came ricocheting out of the cylinder. “—Fang-dang, filthy, pork-eating, cretin-loving, drunken, godforsaken, vermin-ridden, water-wasting, scrofulous, yellow-dog, leprous, swine-hearted infidel—”
“Easy, Haddad,” said Korie. “You don’t have to insult it. Those things are sensitive instruments.”
Silence. And then, in a different, more professional tone, “Got it.” Haddad pried himself out of the cylinder. “Sorry for the cursing, sir.”
“No problem. It was very educational.”
Haddad grinned and wiped his forehead with a cloth. “It’s out of the circuit now. The bypass is showing green. We can pull it.”
They began to unclamp the fluctuator from its housing. Using a block and tackle, they lowered it gently to the catwalk, where Armstrong was waiting to secure it to a cart.
“Easy.”
“I got it.”
Korie waited until he was sure the unit was safe on the cart, then he turned to Haddad. “You go down and help them with the bypass on number two, Ayoub. Armstrong can help me with this.”
“Right.”
Korie took the rear of the cart, Armstrong positioned himself at the front, and they began to move the heavy unit slowly along the catwalk toward the aft corridor. “The port one, I think,” said Korie.
Armstrong glanced behind himself and nodded.
As they entered the corridor, Jonesy came barreling past them at a run, carrying computer components. He almost collided with Armstrong, but at the last moment turned himself sideways, raised his gear over their heads, bent with the shape of the wall, and darted easily past them.
“Easy, Jonesy. We don’t have time for accidents.”
“No, sir. I mean, yes sir. No time to stop. Excuse me, sir.” He hurried on, leaving Korie and Armstrong grinning in his wake.
To get to the rear access, they had to pass through the shuttle bay. Esker Cinnabar glowered at them from his cage. His lips were curled back in a perpetual sneer, exposing fangs as long as Korie’s wrist.
Armstrong shuddered. “Are we feeding him enough?”
“I hope so,” Korie said. “But it’s the between-meal snacking we have to worry about.” Armstrong looked stricken. Korie waved a hand in front of his face to attract his attention. “Hey—Armstrong! Don’t let him get to you. It’s all psychological warfare.”
“I know, but—” Armstrong lowered his voice. “I see all those energy screens and beamers and robot sentries, I see the guards around him and it still doesn’t reassure me. You saw what he did to the Burke.”
Korie nodded. “I saw.”
Hardesty was at the airlock console. He looked up approvingly as they approached. “Oh, Korie. Have you picked out a crew yet?”
“Almost, sir. I’ll have the list for you in an hour. I’m trying to keep your needs in mind as well as mine.”
“Good. Bring the Burke home safely and maybe you’ll get to keep her.”
“I thought the admiral didn’t like me.”
Hardesty shook his head. “That hardly matters. There’s a shortage of trained captains, good or otherwise.”
Korie waited until he was out of Hardesty’s hearing to voice the thought that had come to him. “That explains a lot.”
“Beg pardon, sir?”
“Nothing.” He glanced back over his shoulder—and saw that Cinnabar, the Morthan assassin, was staring across the bay directly at him. And grinning. Korie looked away, disturbed. He pushed the thought out of his mind. It was psychological warfare. Cinnabar was trying to unnerve him—and succeeding.
They had to wait for a moment at the airlock door while Nakahari and Quilla Upsilon maneuvered a long unwieldy pipe through the access. The Quilla noticed Brian Armstrong waiting at the door and smiled meaningfully at him.
“Uh—hi,” he said.
“This one is Upsilon,” the Quilla identified herself. She was taller than the others. “And this one enjoyed it very much too.”
“Oops . . . illon. Right.” Armstrong flushed. He noticed that Korie was looking at him and was further discomfited.
Korie just smiled knowingly and shook his head, as if at some private joke. “They really caught you on that one. Don’t worry about it. After a few years, hardly anyone will care. Push.” He pointed toward the access.
“A few years?” Armstrong’s eyes widened. “Really?” They maneuvered the cart through the door.
“It’ll seem like it. Some of the kidding around here can be a little rough.”
“How long does it usually go on, sir—?”
They had to lift the cart over the joint in the passage floor. Korie said, “It depends on how good you were. Quillas like to talk about their good times. The better you wer . . . well, you know.” Korie grinned across at Armstrong.
They had to lift the cart’s wheels across two more joints, and then they were in the forward access of the LS-1187.
“—at least that’s what I’ve heard,” Korie concluded.
“Really?”
“If you don’t believe me, ask one of them.”
“Wow . . .” Armstrong’s grin widened.
“Eh, you want to help me get this to the engine room first?”
“Oh, right. Sorry, sir.”
“It’s all right. I understand the distraction. But don’t forget why we’re here.”
Hodel came hurrying up the corridor with a clipboard. “Oh, Mr. Korie—I’m glad I caught you. I need a G-2 authorization.” He handed Korie the clipboard. Korie studied its screen in annoyance.
“You know,” said Hodel, “we are not going to make it. This ship has an industrial-strength curse. The bad luck fairy doesn’t like us.”
Korie thumbprinted his authorization. He handed the clipboard back. “If that’s true, Hodel, then why are we still alive?”
“Because, I think the universe is saving us for something really awful.” Abruptly, he remembered something else. “Oh—one other thing. Um . . . I’d appreciate it if you’d consider me for your flight crew. For the Burke.”
Korie raised his eyebrow. “But the Burke’s luck is even worse than ours.”
“Uh-uh.” Hodel spoke with certainty. “They only got eaten. We’ve got the Dragon Lord after us.” He pushed past them and headed forward.
Korie looked back to Armstrong. “Come on, let’s get this thing to the engine room.”
They seized the cart with the fluctuator on it again and rolled it down the keel, pushing and pulling it past the sick bay, past the forward access to the Ops deck, past the aft access to the Ops deck, through the operations bay, past the vertical access to HARLIE, and finally to the machine shop below the engine room. Here, the keel widened into a low-ceilinged chamber. This was the starship’s machine shop. The floor of the engine room above was removable to allow easy access between the drive units and the tools needed for heavy-duty maintenance work. Here, Chief Leen would break down the high-cycle fluctuators and run his security tests on them.
Korie and Armstrong slid the cart into position next to a makeshift work-bay. Leen slid down a ladder to help them secure the fluctuator. “Use the clamps,” he pointed. “Here, like this. Hold it—okay. That damned assassin knew what he was doing,” Leen said to Korie. “The Burke’s machine shop is junk. You better pray you don’t have any problems once you get under way.”
“You’d better pray,” Korie corrected him. “I’m asking Hardesty for you—”
“Don’t do me any favors. I’ve got enough work here. I have to break all three of these down and insulate them against resonance effects in case we have to scramble.” He grunted as he secured the last clamp. “I’m not even thinking about installing them yet.”
“Chief, I really need you—”
“You’re right, you do,” Leen admitted grudgingly. He thought a moment. “I really hate to say it, but there isn’t anyone else who could get that ship running. I’m not bragging, that’s just the truth.”
“And Reynolds can manage here,” Korie prompted.
“Yeah. All right.” Leen did not look happy.
Korie slapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks, Chief.”
“Don’t get all mushy. I’m not doing it for you.”
“Well, thanks anyway—”
Leen’s answer was lost in the sudden blare of the alarm klaxon.
“Mr. Korie?” HARLIE interrupted. “I’m picking up an alarm in the brig of the Burke.” The screen on the workbench lit up to show—
At first, Korie couldn’t recognize what he was seeing. It looked like war had broken out. HARLIE was showing him the view from the remote cameras.
Korie realized what was happening with a sudden rush of cold-fire terror. The energy cage hadn’t held him.
The screen showed flashes of laser fire. Something exploded and lurched. Someone was screaming. Korie thought he saw a crewman being hurled across the shuttlecraft bay. There was a brief glimpse of the assassin—and then suddenly, the screen was dead.
HARLIE reported calmly, “The Morthan Cinnabar has escaped.”
“Where’s the captain?”
“He’s on the Burke.”
“Lock down everything!”
“Already in progress.”
Korie didn’t hear it. He was already pounding toward the forward access. Armstrong charged along behind him.
The other members of the ship’s security team were on the way too. They slid down ladders or fell out of doorways or hurtled down the keel after Korie or ahead of him, pulling on vests, grabbing weapons and security helmets, shouting and cursing. The alarm continued to bleat under everything.
The access door was already sealed. Two security guards in heavy armor were in kneeling position before it, one on each side. Their rifles were pointed unwaveringly at the door. Korie grabbed a security harness from a Quilla, pulled it on over his head, and then the armor after it—and then the helmet. Somebody shoved a weapon into his arm. He checked its charge, armed it, and unlocked the safety. He glanced around quickly to see who else was there—Reynolds, Armstrong, Nakahari, half the engine room crew, and two Quillas. He pointed them into position.
And then he was ready—
“All right,” Korie said angrily. “No more Mr. Nice Guy. Set weapons to kill.” To HARLIE, “Okay. Open the door—”
There was a whoosh and the airlock doors began to slide open.
The Shuttle Bay
Korie and the security team burst through the access and out into the shuttle bay of the Burke like a horde of hell-spawned furies.
The shuttle bay was a smoking nightmare. The energy cage was crumpled in a heap against one wall. It still crackled and flashed; sparks skittered across the floor. Smoldering scorch marks scored the walls. Puddles of blood streaked the floor. The robot cameras had been shattered; the sentries lay in pieces; the broken rifles were burning and sputtering.
Korie pointed half his team toward the starboard corridor; he led the other team into the portside passage.
Only moments before, he and Armstrong had wheeled a high-cycle fluctuator along this very way. Korie and his team poured swiftly through the corridor and into the Burke’s engine room.
“Oh my God.”
The shuttle bay had been a warm-up for this. The only things in the engine room not destroyed were the two remaining high-cycle fluctuators. Korie slid down a pole to the floor of the engine room; the rest of his team followed, either down the poles or the ladders.
Haddad lay on the floor, his throat ripped open. The bodies of the others who had been working here were hung on the singularity framework like so many sides of beef. The engine room looked like an abattoir.
Korie and his team moved into the room, weapons held high and ready. They moved past the bodies quickly. Three men and one woman, all dead—and still dripping. Korie’s first impulse was to say, “Take them down from there.” But he stifled it, unsaid. There wasn’t time. Not yet. Maybe later.
“This could have been us,” Armstrong started babbling. “If we hadn’t carried the fluctuator out—”
“Shut up, Armstrong!” Korie’s bellow startled even himself.
Abruptly, the klaxon stopped. Korie was staring at Haddad’s strangled expression. He wanted to say something; he wanted to apologize—a sound caught his attention; something was moving forward. He swung his weapon around—
Brik and Bach burst into the engine room from the forward keel, fanning their weapons before them. The two security teams stared at each other. The sense of horror leapt outward from the space between them. Where’s the Morthan?
Korie couldn’t help but wonder—is this how it started on the Burke?
“He’s not forward?”
Brik shook his head. He glanced around. “He got this far.”
“You didn’t see him?” Bach asked.
Both Korie and Brik gave her the same look. Don’t be silly.
“Sorry,” said Bach, realizing. The question was stupid.
Korie pointed to an access hatch in the wall. “Inner hull?” he asked Brik.
Brik nodded. “It’s the only way—” He was already pulling the hatch open. He dropped through it into the dark space beyond. Reluctantly, Korie followed.
The space beyond the wall was dark and shadowy. It was as unfinished and spooky as the inner hull of the LS-1187. Korie and Brik both switched on their helmet lights and peered around grimly.
Everything here was beams and cables and stanchions. It was more than uninviting. It was suicidal.
“HARLIE,” Korie asked. “Have you got a lock on the captain yet?”
“No, Mr. Korie.”
Korie took a hesitant step forward into the darkness. He frowned. He was sure he could hear the Morthan assassin breathing in the gloom. He was sure they were being watched. He glanced sideways at Brik. “You feel it too?”
>
Brik grunted.
“Why doesn’t he attack?”
“Because it’s not part of the trap.”
“I don’t like this,” Korie said. “Too much opportunity for disaster.”
Brik agreed. Korie pulled himself up out of the inner hull, back into the light of the engine room. Brik followed.
Bach was arguing with Armstrong. “—I want to know how he got out of the cage!”
“Ease up,” Korie interrupted her with a gentle tap on the shoulder. “We’ll worry about that later.”
Nakahari reported, “Mr. Korie, S.A. says the Burke’s totally locked down now.”
Brik responded to that. His skepticism was obvious. “No. The assassin had too much time to reprogram the Systems Analysis Network. Don’t trust it.”
“Brik’s right,” Korie said. “This whole thing’s a trap—” He gave the looming Morthan a grudging look of acceptance, and then added, “—and I’m not getting sucked into it any deeper. Evacuate the Burke. Now. Everybody off!” He started waving them back with crisp military gestures. The team fell back in a guarded withdrawal, their weapons covering every step.
“HARLIE,” Korie ordered, “sound the evacuation. Do it now.”
Harder Decisions
The alarm rang through the Burke, clanging and banging. The crewmembers of the LS-1187 still aboard her came running for the airlock access. They popped out of cabins and utility tubes and everywhere else they had been hiding and pounded along the catwalks and the keel toward their only escape. Korie hurried them onward, shouting as they passed, “Off! Everybody off!”
He and Brik were the last two to exit. They paused at the aft access, their weapons covering the ruined shuttle bay. “HARLIE? Is everybody out?”
“I show no active monitors.”
“Where’s the Captain?”
“His monitor is no longer working, Mr. Korie. I have begun a scan.”
The Voyage of the Star Wolf Page 21
