by David Weber
“What sort of word?” Boulanger asked.
“No,” Flanders said flatly before Guzarwan could answer. “Not without me.”
“Or me,” Henderson seconded.
“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” Guzarwan said, just as firmly. “It turns out that there’s a larger civilian component to this than I’d realized. I have to give Ambassador Boulanger an opportunity to respond privately to the allegations I’m about to present to you and the rest of the company.”
Flanders looked at Boulanger. The other shrugged helplessly.
“I have no idea what this is about,” he said.
Flanders eyed him another second, then turned back to Guzarwan.
“And Captain Eigen?” he asked, making the question a challenge.
“He’s the highest Manticoran official present,” Guzarwan said. “I know he’s not a civilian, but it’s the best I can do. All I can say right now is that he and Mr. Boulanger need to hear this together, and in private.”
“I have no objection,” Boulanger said. “In fact, I’ll admit to being intrigued.”
“I have a great number of objections,” Flanders growled. “Captain Eigen?”
“I don’t like it, either,” Eigen said. “But I’m willing to go along.”
“Captain Henderson?” Flanders asked, turning finally to the Cascan. “This vessel is under your command. You have the final say.”
“I agree that it’s ridiculous, not to mention insulting,” Henderson said reluctantly. “But unless we want to whip up some truth serum or a torture wheel it doesn’t look like we’ll ever find out this big bad secret unless we play along.” He fixed Guzarwan with a glare that was probably designed to shrivel junior officers. “Five minutes,” he added sternly. “No more.”
“Five minutes should be sufficient,” Guzarwan promised.
Henderson still looked like he was sucking on a sour grape, but he nodded. “All right. There’s a storage compartment at the aft end of the wardroom. You can talk there.”
“If it’s all the same with you, Captain, I’d prefer to use the conference room near your office on the next level inward,” Guzarwan said diffidently. “The one we saw on the tour earlier. It’s more private, and there are larger displays I can link my tablet into.”
“Fine,” Henderson growled. “Just get on with it.”
“Thank you.” Guzarwan gestured to Boulanger and Eigen. “Gentlemen?”
He led the way to the lift, wondering if any of the others had noticed that Kichloo had drifted away at the same time he’d called Boulanger over to join the conversation.
They probably hadn’t. Kichloo was very good at drifting, after all. And military people, despite their fancy uniforms and warships, really weren’t all that observant.
“Can you at least give us a hint?” Boulanger asked as the lift started up.
“All in good time, Ambassador,” Guzarwan said. “All in good time.”
The lift car came to a halt, and the doors slid open. Eigen took a step toward the opening—
And abruptly reversed direction as Kichloo rolled like a silent ocean wave into the car, the muzzle of his gun pressed into Eigen’s stomach. “Softly, now—very softly,” Guzarwan warned, his own gun pressed against Boulanger’s side. “No shouting, yelling, or screaming. Not even so much as a preliminary deep breath. I assure you we can kill you much faster than you can summon help.”
Eigen recovered first. “Who are you?” he asked, his voice tense but under good control.
“The new masters of this ship,” Guzarwan told him. “Depending on your actions over the next few minutes, the transfer of ownership can go through peacefully or with serious loss of blood.”
Boulanger let out a long, shuddering breath. “Captain, you can’t let them—”
“Quiet,” Eigen said.
He hadn’t so much as raised his voice, but Boulanger broke off his protest and sputtered into silence.
“Very good,” Guzarwan said approvingly. “Here’s how it’s going to work. You and Ambassador Boulanger will accompany us to the bridge and persuade the duty officer to hand over the lock codes for the impellers, helm, and navigation. Once we have the codes and my men have started bringing up the wedge, you’ll give the abandon-ship warning and order the crew to the escape pods. We take off, you get picked up by Saintonge or Guardian or one of the other ships, and the incident will be over. Granted, you’ll end up with some egg on your faces, but at least you and the rest of the men and women aboard will still be breathing. I think that’s a fair exchange.”
It was, Guzarwan reflected, probably the most ridiculous and naïve plan imaginable, and he was pretty sure Eigen knew that. But the Manticoran’s expression never even cracked. “I suppose it’s the best we’re going to get,” he said. “A bit problematic taking us half a ship’s length at gunpoint, though.”
“I think we can stay close enough together that no one will notice,” Guzarwan assured him.
This time, Eigen was unable to completely suppress the flicker of hope from his face. Traveling casually together in close order, with the captor’s gun necessarily pressed closely against the prisoner’s side, added up to the best odds for turnover that a prisoner was likely to get.
“I suppose we don’t have a choice, do we?” he said, his voice studiously neutral.
“No, you don’t,” Guzarwan agreed. “Let’s get to it, then, shall we?”
Eigen’s eyes took on a cold glint. “Yes,” he said softly. “Let’s.”
The men of Team Two, as per Plan A’s instructions, had gathered themselves casually along the passageways. They drifted away from their positions as Vachali passed, forming a loose group behind him. Labroo, Vachali’s second in command, was anchoring the far end of the line, and passed Vachali’s overnight case to him as he joined the assembly.
By the time he reached the Havenite shuttle, he had a solid mass of other Cascan Defense Force uniforms behind him.
The two Havenite crewmen manning the docking collar were talking with a lieutenant, who Vachali guessed was the shuttle’s commander, when the group arrived. “Ensign,” the lieutenant greeted Vachali, frowning as Vachali waved the group to a halt. “You going to a party?”
“I guess that’s up to Saintonge, Sir,” Vachali said. “We just got orders from Captain Henderson that we’re supposed to hitch a ride over there with you.” He hefted his equipment case. “We were told to bring our overnight kits with us, too.”
The lieutenant and crewmen exchanged puzzled glances. “I wasn’t informed,” the lieutenant said, frowning. “You have a chip?”
“I got the impression it was a last-minute decision,” Vachali told him. “The captain said he’d have someone call and confirm it.”
“No one’s called yet,” the lieutenant said, frowning. Pushing off his handhold, he glided to the intercom in the bulkhead near the collar and caught another handhold there. “Let me see if the bridge knows anything about it.” He keyed the intercom. “Bridge; Bay Three; Lieutenant Riley,” he said. “I have a CDF group who say they’re supposed to ride over to Saintonge with us. Has anyone cut or logged orders to that effect?”
“Lieutenant, this is CDF Commander Kaplan,” Shora’s voice came from the speaker, with a Cascan accent that was even better than his Havenite one. “Yes, we know all about it. Captain Henderson and Commodore Flanders have both authorized the transfer, but there’s a glitch in the software and we’re having trouble getting a chip coded. Let them aboard and go ahead and take off—we should have the problem fixed in a few minutes, and will transmit the official orders to you en route.”
“Yes, Sir,” Riley said. He still didn’t look happy, but Vachali guessed that such snafus had been common as the Cascans removed Havenite programs and protocols from the various computers and installed their own. “Bear in mind that I can’t dock with Saintonge with unauthorized passengers aboard.”
“They’ll be authorized before you get there,” Shora promised. “I’ll call Comman
der Charnay right now and fill him in on the situation, then transmit a copy of the orders to both of you once we have them on chip. Good enough?”
“As long as Commander Charnay’s happy, I’m happy,” Riley said with a touch of cautious humor. “Thank you, Sir.”
“No problem, and sorry about the glitch,” Shora said. “Safe flight.”
Riley keyed off the intercom and jerked his head toward the hatch. “Don’t just float there, Ensign—you heard the man. Get your people aboard, and let’s burn some hydrogen.”
The first risk point came exactly where Guzarwan had expected: as he and the others emerged from the lift into Axial Three and his prisoners discovered the whole area was deserted. “Hold on,” Eigen said, his head twisting back and forth as he looked both ways down the long passageway. “Where is everyone?”
“Somewhere else, of course,” Guzarwan said calmly, floating a couple of meters farther back. If Eigen was concerned or suspicious enough he might choose to make his last stand right here, and Guzarwan had no intention of having his gun within grabbing range.
Fortunately, in zero-gee the concept of a sudden leaping lunge didn’t exist. With only his fingertips on one of the handholds maintaining his position, Eigen would have to either grab the handhold, pull in and then push out, or else rotate ninety degrees and shove off with his feet, and either move would be telegraphed in plenty of time for Guzarwan to decide how nasty his countermove would be.
Eigen knew all that, too. He was still staring at Guzarwan with blood in his eyes, but he was making no move to come at him.
Time to ratchet it down a little. “Relax, Captain,” Guzarwan said in his most soothing voice. “The crewmen on duty are, obviously, at their duty stations. The rest are across in Beta Spin.”
“What are they doing there?” Boulanger asked, looking back and forth as if he was still expecting the missing crewmen to jump out and say boo.
“I invited them to a party,” Guzarwan said, tapping his viber. Where the hell was their backup?
Apparently waiting for a parchment invitation. Five meters down the passageway, Wazir and Zradchob popped into view from one of the spin section maintenance compartments. “We’re here, Sir,” Wazir said briskly.
“Thank God,” Boulanger bit out. “Quick—sound an alarm. The ship’s being . . .” He trailed off, his brain belatedly catching up with the curious fact that neither their captors or rescuers were reacting in the slightest to each other.
Eigen had already figured it out, of course. “Don’t bother,” he told the ambassador bitterly. “I think you’ll find they’re together.”
“Of course,” Guzarwan confirmed, beckoning to the newcomers. “Escort the captain and ambassador to the bridge,” he ordered. “Shora will need them there.” He cocked an eyebrow at Eigen. “You’ll be good, Captain, won’t you?”
“Of course,” Eigen said softly as Wazir nudged his arms behind his back and fastened a slender plastic cable-tie around his wrists. “Just as good as I have to be.”
“I’m sure you will,” Guzarwan said, an unexpected shiver running up his back. Even trapped like a caged animal, there was something in the Manticoran’s voice that momentarily chilled his blood. “Take them.”
A minute later, they were gone. “I thought Shora said we already had the bridge,” Kichloo said as he opened his shirt and pulled out the wide wraparound belt that had doubled as a fake pot-belly.
“I wanted them to think they’re still useful,” Guzarwan explained as he punched the lift call button. “Especially Eigen. He’s still hoping he can alert the bridge crew in time to sound the alarm.”
Kichloo grunted. “I heard the Manticoran Navy was all useless fancy-pants dukes and duchesses.”
“So did I,” Guzarwan said. “Maybe Eigen’s a throwback.”
The two lift cars arrived. Guzarwan locked them in place, wedging the outer doors open just to make sure they weren’t going anywhere. By the time he’d finished, Kichloo had half of the miniature shaped charges out of their pockets and floating in a loose cluster in front of him. “One per?” he asked.
“Make it two,” Guzarwan decided. “Unless there were some pressure hatches you missed?”
“No, I got ’em all,” the other said. “Want me to go do Beta?”
Guzarwan nodded. “Go.”
It took ninety seconds for Guzarwan to affix two of the charges to each of the hatches that opened on the emergency ladders, fastening them to the viewports where they would cause the most destruction if the people trapped in Alpha Spin were foolish enough to try to open them. Two more charges went onto the floors of each of the two lift cars.
When he was finished, he picked a spot where he could cover both of the pylons and drew his gun. It was possible that Flanders or Henderson had noticed that the five minutes they’d given him were up, had investigated the conference room and found it empty, and sent someone up one of the ladders to see what had happened to the lift cars. Guzarwan didn’t want to start any premature commotions, but he wanted someone sounding an alarm even less.
No one had shown up by the time Kichloo reappeared in the non-spinning part of Axial Two, giving Guzarwan a thumbs-up as Guzarwan’s section rotated past him. Guzarwan pushed off the rotating part and brought himself to a floating stop beside the other man. “Any trouble?” he asked.
Kichloo shook his head. “I checked with the EVA team—everything’s ready—and confirmed all our people are clear of this section.”
“Good,” Guzarwan said. “Let’s do it.”
Ten meters forward down the passageway was the first of the ungimmicked pressure hatches. Guzarwan and Kichloo positioned themselves on the forward side of the door, and Guzarwan nodded. “Do it.”
Kichloo nodded back and tapped the activation code on his viber.
And from seemingly all around them came a multiple dull thud as the exterior hatches in Péridot’s amidships area were blasted open.
The raucous hooting of the decompression alarms and the sudden wind at Guzarwan’s back had barely begun when the pressure hatch in front of him and Shora slammed across their view, cutting off the airflow as the automatics kicked in to isolate the hull breach.
But for once, the safeties weren’t going to do their job. Peering through the hatch’s viewport, Guzarwan could see the other red-rimmed openings still wide open, their protective hatches frozen uselessly in place in their wall pockets by the nano-enhanced glue that Kichloo had surreptitiously injected into each opening during the tour.
There was a lot of air in even a partial section of a ship the size of Péridot, and it would take more than a handful of seconds to drain all of it out into space. But it was already too late for anyone aboard to take any action to stop it. Most of the officers and crew were in the two spin sections, which had become separate islands of air, sealed off from the rest of the ship by the very pressure hatches designed to protect them.
There were micro airlocks in each of the spin section pylons, of course, that could normally be used to let vac-suited crewmen into the vacuum to find the damage and make repairs. But with the charges Guzarwan and Shora had now rigged to the hatch viewports, that option was no longer available. Any attempt to open the hatch would blow the charges, killing the person in the airlock and rendering it useless.
In fact, given that they’d put two charges on each hatch, it was entirely possible that the blast would also rupture or deform the inner hatch. Unless the captives had been cautious enough to set up a secondary barrier further inside, that would depressurize a good portion of the spin section and kill everyone who was unlucky enough to be in that area.
“Send an acknowledgment to the EVA teams,” Guzarwan instructed Shora. With one last look through the viewport, he pushed off the pressure hatch and headed forward. “And order the engineering teams to move in.”
He pulled out his uni-link and keyed it on. “Mota?”
“Here, Chief,” the hacker’s voice came.
“Link to the shu
ttle laser and tell Jalla to start bringing up his wedge,” Guzarwan ordered. “Then lock down the com board and get busy cracking the bridge lock codes.” He looked at his chrono. “Wanderer’s wedge will be up in forty minutes. Make sure we’re right behind her.”
Gravitics Specialist First Class Jan Vyland, Travis had found, wasn’t nearly as outgoing or helpful as Lieutenant Kountouriote. In fact, he thought of her as something of a cold fish, an opinion that was shared by at least a sizeable percentage of the petty officer contingent.
But if she wasn’t interested in actually helping Travis learn the ropes of gravitics readings, she nevertheless didn’t mind him hanging around during her watch and watching over her shoulder. As far as Travis was concerned, that was good enough.
Though at the moment there wasn’t anything much for him to watch. All of the ships in orbit were floating peacefully along in the simple elegance of Newtonian mechanics. Elsewhere in the system, a grand total of two wedges were on the plot, belonging to a pair of mining ships maneuvering through the rings of one of the system’s three gas giants.
Most of Guardian’s crew probably saw them as what they were: simple asteroid miners. For Travis, though, such ships were a ghostly reminder of the ill-fated Rafe’s Scavenger and the even more ill-fated Phobos. Those memories, combined with the general quiet and inactivity of the watch, had stretched a gloomy haze across his mind.
He was practicing running the wedges’ strength and position in a back-of-the-brain calculation when the door across CIC slid open. He turned, wondering if the Officer of the Watch had decided to make a snap inspection.
It wasn’t the Watch Officer. It was, in fact, probably the last person Travis had expected.
“There you are,” Lieutenant Donnelly said, floating in the hatchway. “I’ve been looking for you.”
“Yes, Ma’am, I was here,” Travis said, feeling his heart rate pick up. She’d been looking for him? “Captain Eigen gave me permission to observe when I’m off—”
“Yes, yes, fine,” Donnelly interrupted. “Those P-409-R control modules you asked me about. What do you know about Clarino surge dampers?”
