by Dan Thompson
“Look familiar? They’re a little tight on me, but I don’t have your dainty hands.”
“Bring it,” she replied, weakly.
Stefan took a half-step away, hauled back his now-armored fist, and struck on her upper chest, right below the collarbone he had kicked before. When he pulled his fist back, she was bleeding from three wounds.
Winner gave a short cry, but clamped down on it. After a few breaths, she whispered, “Bring …”
“What?”
She looked up at him with murder in her eyes. With a deep breath, she screamed at him, “I said bring it!”
Stefan took one more glance back at Dieter. “I’m really going to enjoy this,” he said, and began to pummel Winner in the chest and belly, leaving behind small bleeding wounds with each strike.
Dieter pulled at his restraints, but there was nothing he could do.
“What does DIAG-7A mean?” Michael asked.
“What?” Carlos asked through the hole.
“Your little lockpicker doesn’t say mode six anymore. It says DIAG-7A. Do I need to check the connections again?”
“No … this is actually good. It means we’ve gotten the lock into a diagnostic mode.” He ruffled through his notes, actual handwriting on paper. “I’m not familiar with that one, but let’s try some of the common override codes. Press key, enter 577212, then hit load.”
Michael punched at the keys. “Nothing. It still says DIAG-7A.”
“Okay, try 422980.”
He tried again. “No luck.”
They went through six more codes before Carlos cursed. “I’m not sure where to go from here then. Those codes should have triggered the override for all the manufacturers that I know, Confederate, Catai, or Union. Where the hell was this ship built anyway?”
“I’m pretty sure it was built here.”
“What do you mean, here? We’re in open space.”
Michael shook his head. “Sorry. I meant the Confederacy. We picked it up at Arvin when I was 8.”
“Who did you buy it from? Where were they from?”
“No, it was brand new. I remember some of the bridge control panels still had the protective covering on them.”
“But Skipper, there’s no shipyard at Arvin.”
“Yes there is. The navy has a big one. I don’t think they build the big carriers there, but I know they do a lot repairs on cruisers and ships like that.”
“Sure, but this is a civilian ship.”
Michael was about to agree, but then he remembered his whole reason for going to Arvin in the first place. Commander Collins from Naval Intelligence had once told him that the Sophie was special somehow, and that if he ever wanted to find out how special, he should come by for a visit. “Actually,” he said at last, “it’s possible the Navy built this after all.”
“Seriously?”
“I don’t know for certain, but yes, it’s quite possible.”
Carlos flipped through his pages again. “All right … I have two navy codes to try. Put in Key, 298, Escape, 176, dash, 19, and then load.”
Michael typed it all into the keypad very carefully, and after the final keystroke, he heard a low buzz and a click. He looked at the readout on the keypad. “It says REBOOT.”
“Quick, push the door with your hands. It should be unlocked for about twenty seconds.”
Michael dropped the lockpicker, letting it dangle from the mess by wires and clips. He took a quick swipe of his sweating palms across his shirt and pressed them both flat against the door. With one solid push, the door slid open half a meter. “It’s open!”
“Stick something in there before it closes again.”
He grabbed the crate his uncle Hans had sent him and dropped it into place, just as the door started to slide shut again. On the other side, his little office was empty, and the door out to the corridor was closed. “I’m in,” he called.
The terminal was still logged in under Richard’s account. The first thing Michael did was pull up a command history. He saw the file modifications, the terminal blocks, and finally the alteration to the cabin locks. That was the first thing he reversed. Then he reverted the modified permission files back to their earlier versions, and he was about to unblock the various terminals, but he stopped short. That change would be immediately visible on any blocked terminal throughout the ship, and he did not want to reveal his escape yet.
“How’s it going in there?” Carlos called.
“Doors should be unlocked,” he said. “I’m going to check the cameras.” He opened a separate login for himself and pulled up the security monitors.
“Cameras?”
“I’ll tell you later.” The main deck corridors were empty. So was the bridge. “I’m not seeing anyone else on this deck,” he said. “Bridge is deserted. Galley is empty, and so is the lounge.”
“Where can—”
“Wait … I’ve got what looks like two bodies in the medical bay, one bagged, one not.”
“Do you recognize them?”
“No. The one that’s out looks pretty messed up.”
“And below decks?”
“Checking now … I see someone near the passenger-cargo cage. Switching cameras …” He pulled up the camera from the engineering station.
“What do you see?”
“My God, no!”
Chapter 29
“Leadership is easy. Simply walk into the fire. If they follow you, you’re a leader.” – Malcolm Fletcher
MICHAEL MET CARLOS in the corridor. “We’ll need weapons,” he said.
Carlos nodded. “You should check the medical bay and see if there’s a gun on that body. I’m going to hit the galley and get a big old chef’s knife.”
“Agreed. Get Vivian and Hector and meet me by the bridge.”
With that, Michael turned and headed across to the other side of the ship. He paused at the intersection. The bridge was open and empty before him, but a series of grunts and cries rose up from the stairs below him. It sounded like Winner, but he was not sure. It tore at him hard, and before he knew it, he had taken two steps down the stairs before he stopped himself.
He was unarmed. It would be suicide.
The grunts continued, punctuated by the dull thuds of fists on flesh.
That was his crew down there, and they were counting on their captain to save them, not to throw his life away on a futile gesture.
He stood there on the stairs for five eternal seconds.
Turning away was the hardest thing he could ever remember doing, but he did it all the same.
Hector curled up in a ball when the door opened. His face was hidden by a pillow, so he could not see who was stepping into his cabin.
“Come on,” the voice said.
“Please don’t hurt me,” he said.
“What?”
He pulled the pillow away. “Please don’t hurt me.”
“Shit, Hector, it’s me, Carlos.”
Hector finally looked. Carlos was looming over him, holding an oversized knife in his hand. “What are you doing?”
“Come on,” he said, motioning back toward the open door. “We’re retaking the ship.”
Hector shook his head. “No.”
“What do you mean, no? They’re already down to two.”
Hector pulled the pillow closer. “I mean no. I didn’t sign up for this. Get yourself killed if you want. I’ll take my chances at the other end.”
Carlos stood there, silhouetted by the light from the door. “You ... damn it. Vivian I could understand. She’s too old and frail for this kind of shit, but you’re young and in your prime. Now, get up off that floor and show me what you’re made of.”
Hector screwed up his face, but all he said was, “No.”
“Fucking coward.”
Hector’s face was hidden again by the time the door closed.
Stefan stepped back out of the cage, and Perry relaxed the strap around Winner’s chest. She slumped back down to the deck, her left sh
oulder twisted at a horrific angle. Dieter stared at her, trying to gauge her injuries, but there was too much blood dripping down from all the tiny wounds on her torso to tell.
Stefan’s hand came down on Dieter’s shoulder. “So much for your audience, Dieter.”
“She’ll kill you, you know.”
Stefan shrugged. “Maybe someday, but not today.”
“I’m still not telling you shit.”
“What was that?”
“I said I’m not telling—”
“I’m not your audience, Dieter. You don’t have one anymore.”
Dieter looked down at Winner. She was still breathing, but she otherwise hung limp.
“And I’m going to see to it you never have one again.”
“What do you mean?”
Stefan grabbed the hair on the back of Dieter’s head and yanked it around to face him. “Do you recognize these?” he asked, holding up a tool in Dieter’s face. He recognized it immediately. It was a pair of cable shears, meant for cutting power lines. The ten-centimeter curved blade was sharp enough to cut through metal, and the double-levered handle gave the wielder enough force to get through almost anything.
Dieter’s face showed that he knew exactly what it was.
“You’re right-handed, aren’t you?” Stefan asked.
“Yes, what the hell are you doing?”
Stefan grabbed at Dieter’s right hand. He made a fist, but after hanging for so long, his hands had no strength. He felt the cutter’s lower jaw slip between his ring and pinky fingers. “I’m going to start cutting off fingers until you can’t play anymore.”
“You wouldn’t!”
Stefan paused, and Dieter felt the cutter slip away, his fingers intact. “You’re right, of course.”
Dieter breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
And then he felt the cutter’s jaw sliding in between the fingers on his left hand. “Because I’ve watched you play, so I know it’s your left fingers that you really need to work the frets.”
Dieter opened his mouth to object, but before he could utter a word, he felt a sharp burning pain in his hand. He cried out as hot blood ran down his hand and arm. A timeless moment passed when all he could perceive was the pain, and then he opened his eyes again.
There it was, held up in front of his face. Most would call it his pinky finger, but to Dieter, it was his E-string finger for the mandolin, his G-string finger for the banjo, and the Shadj-string finger on the sitar. Piece after piece flew though his mind. Each one slipping away with each drop of blood dripping out of that severed finger. Most of his mandolin repertoire. Gone. All but the ancient sitar pieces, gone. Even his banjo, his simple five-string banjo, easily a third of its music was gone.
He screamed, but not for the physical wound.
“Do I have your attention now?” Stefan asked.
“Fuck you!”
“I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Fuck you!” he yelled again. “I’ll get it reattached!”
Stefan snorted. “Out here? That’s way past what our little autodoc can do, and this thing,” he paused to slip it into the jaws of the cutter again, “isn’t going to be in very good shape by the time you get anywhere better.” And with that, the jaws clenched shut, and Dieter’s finger fell away to the floor in two pieces.
Dieter pulled against the chains but got nowhere. He glared at Stefan. “Then I’ll grow the damn thing back, and jam it in your goddamned eye!”
“Yes, you could, but from what I hear, they never work as well as before.”
Dieter clenched his jaw. He remembered his uncle back home on Katora and knew just how right Stefan was. They could graft new bones and artificial tendons back on, but even after the nerves grew back, they would never be the same. “Fuck you,” Dieter said again, but this time it was more whimper than wail.
“Shall we go for two?”
“Don’t you dare!”
“And why shouldn’t I? It’s not like I’ve got anything else to do. It’s certainly not like I can be working on repairing the sail generator without those routing boxes.”
“Fuck—”
“Yeah, fuck me, I get it.”
Dieter felt the lower jaw of the cutters slipping between his fingers again, peeling his ring finger out away from his bloody fist. That was the F-string finger on the mandolin and banjo and the Rishabh-string finger for his sitar. Without it, his repertoire was down to a few simple open-interval songs he learned as a child.
“Wait!”
“For what, Dieter?”
“I’ll tell you.”
“Tell me what?” The sharpened jaw of the cutter bit against his finger. “I don’t have much patience left.”
Damn. He looked down at Winner, limp, bloodied, and broken. It was all for nothing. He sobbed in anguish, but the bite of the cutter brought him back. “The routers. They’re in my quarters.”
“Where in your quarters?” The bite of the cutter eased.
“In the kaddu.”
“The what?”
“The resonating chamber on my sitar.”
“You got that, Perry? It’s that funky banjo I bashed him with.”
Perry’s face appeared on the other side of the cage. “Yeah, I remember seeing it up there.”
“Then get ready to go.”
Dieter sunk his head in shame. He had doomed them all, and for what? Some tiny fraction of what music was left to him.
“Dieter?” Stefan’s voice was close. “You still with me?”
He nodded.
“A sign of my musical appreciation.”
And the jaw of the cutter pulled tight and through. More blood surged out onto his hand and down his arm. The pain was duller this time, but it burned all the way down to the tip of the finger he knew was no longer there.
He screamed again. “Why? Why the fuck did you do that? I told you everything!”
Stefan smeared the bloody stump against Dieter’s cheek. “And now I believe you.”
Michael came back from the medical bay with the pistol in his hand. It came from the messy body, which he thought had once been the oldest of the three hijacking passengers, but that was mostly from the remnants of the hair rather than any facial recognition. Whoever it had been, they must have been very close to the sail generator when the sails collapsed. Michael had tried to get the holster off the body, but parts of it appeared to have melted to the pants.
He only hoped the gun was still working.
He turned the corner into the cross-corridor to see Carlos standing on the other side of the intersection. He held an eight-inch curved knife from the galley, but he was alone.
“Vivian and Hector?” Michael whispered.
Carlos shook his head. “There was only one gun?”
“And I’m not even sure this one works.” He held it before him in both hands. “Is there some kind of safety I’m missing?”
Carlos opened his mouth to answer, but the sound of approaching steps cut him off. He pulled back from the intersection and pressed his back into the aft wall.
Michael tried to imitate him, but mostly he found himself standing in the hallway, gun in clueless hand.
The man came up the stairs. It was one of their hijackers, Perry.
Michael aimed the gun and pulled the trigger. Nothing happened.
The hijacker stepped back in surprise, drew his own pistol, and raised it to fire. He never got that far. Stepping from behind, Carlos raised the knife high to the side, and in one swift stroke plunged it into the hijacker’s neck.
Michael never even saw surprise register on the man’s face. He simply dropped to his knees and fell forward onto the deck.
Carlos knelt to retrieve the gun from the body. “Good distraction, sir.”
“The gun didn’t fire.”
Carlos looked over the one in his own hand. “These have thumb scanners. Only the owner can fire it.”
“Damn.”
Carlos knelt back over the body and pulled the kn
ife out of the neck. Blood flooded out over the deck. He then grabbed at the dead man’s right hand.
“What are you doing?”
“Getting us a thumb while it’s still warm,” he replied and hacked at the dead man’s right hand.
“But …”
It took several strikes and some sawing action, but Carlos got the thumb off. It was a bloody mess, but Carlos wiped the thumbprint clean against his sleeve. He offered both thumb and gun up to Michael.
Michael looked back and forth between Carlos’s offering and the stairs.
“It’s no time to be squeamish, Skipper.”
He thought about his mutinous first officer waiting below at the far end of the engineering deck with Dieter and Winner for cover. “It’s not that,” he said. “I’m a terrible shot. He won’t be.”
“Then trust to luck.”
Michael shook his head. “He’s got cover and two of my crew as hostages.” He hefted the useless gun in his right hand. “I’m going in first. You follow, slow and quiet. Find a way to get a clear shot, then take him down.”
He turned to go, but Carlos grabbed his arm. “He’s just going to shoot you.”
Michael did his best to smile. “Not when I’m gloating.”
With that, he descended the stairs.
The forward environmental station was deserted. He could see Dieter past the sludge tank, chained to the cargo cage. Past him, he could make out one of Winner’s legs and some kind of movement beyond.
He gritted his teeth and stepped forward.
“Stefan!” he called out. “Too bad about the sails.”
He saw a flash of motion and heard scuffled steps. “Perry, is that you?”
“No, Stefan. It’s Michael Fletcher, the man whose crew you’ve betrayed.”
“What are you talking about, Captain?”
“You don’t get to call me that anymore, Stefan.”
“Look out, Captain,” Dieter called out. “He’s got—” but he was cut off as his right foot jerked out from under him.
“So you figured it out,” Stefan called out. “What gave me away?”
Michael saw it now, the gun snaking around the edge of the metal mesh, with his mutinous first officer hiding low behind the corner of the cage.
