by David Weber
Frantically, Travis searched his memory. Was this a trick question? Some kind of test?
If it was, he’d just failed it. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard of them,” he admitted. “Are they important?”
“Maybe,” Donnelly said. “That weapons thing you were worried about was still nagging at me, so I did a little more digging. It turns out that the node Klarian instability they talked about does affect the 9-R modules. But it’s even harder on surge dampers, and they’re at least as expensive and tricky to get hold of as 9-Rs. So why didn’t Jalla ask about replacing those, too?”
“Uh . . .” Travis frowned. “Maybe he didn’t want to bother us with details?”
“He had no problem going on about the 9-Rs,” Donnelly pointed out. “Which he trotted out as one of the reasons he was willing to haul wedge all the way here from Ueshiba. Add in the fact that his instability wasn’t behaving like a Klarian and that he’s got a Ueshiban delegation aboard that Diactoros was supposed to be bringing . . . ?”
Again, Travis heart rate ratcheted upward. Only this time it didn’t have anything to do with Donnelly’s presence. “So where does that get us?”
“I don’t know,” Donnelly said. “But I thought it might be worth checking whether or not Jalla ever asked Saintonge about selling him any 9-Rs.”
“Kind of sloppy not to, if it was part of a cover story,” Travis pointed out.
“Very sloppy,” Donnelly agreed. “But even smart people get sloppy sometimes.” She gestured at the hatch. “I think Patty Boysenko’s on com duty on the bridge. Let’s see if she’ll give Saintonge a call for us.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Back in the Solarian League, where Gill Massingill had cut his teeth, one of a yard dog’s most important jobs was to keep track of times, distances, and locations. So when Captain Henderson allotted Guzarwan five minutes for his private meeting with Captain Eigen and Ambassador Boulanger, Gill had naturally noted the time and started a private countdown.
They’d been gone nine of those five minutes, and Gill was wondering if he ought to point that out to Henderson, when the scream of a depressurization alarm burst across the buzz of Alpha Spin conversation.
Gill’s first instinct was to look up at the small strips of crepe cloth hanging from the ceiling. They were waving gently in the airflow from the ventilation system and the wardroom’s human factors, but there was no universal movement that would indicate the direction of a leak. Wherever the depressurization was coming from, it wasn’t in Alpha Spin.
Or at least, it wasn’t in Alpha Spin Five. One of the two spin decks further inward?
That was clearly what the Havenites thought. Gill looked away from the indicator strips to see that several of them were already heading up the ladders built into the lift pylons. A couple of the Cascan Defense people were right behind them.
Gill had a different priority. Moving crossways against the flow of uniforms heading toward the lifts and around the clumps of nonmilitary planetary delegates standing in frozen bewilderment, he headed for the nearest of the bulkhead-mounted vac suit lockers.
Only to discover that the locker wouldn’t open. The latch moved and gave the usual disengaging click, but the door stayed firmly shut.
“Trouble?”
Gill looked over his shoulder. Commodore Flanders was coming up behind him, aiming for the locker next to Gill’s. “It’s jammed,” Gill told him, turning back to the locker and frowning at the mechanism. It looked like there was something in the gap just above the latch.
Flanders reached the other locker and tried it. Like Gill’s, the latch worked fine but the door itself stayed closed. “What the hell?” Flanders demanded, yanking at the latch one more time and then moving to the next locker. It, too, was jammed closed.
Gill crouched down and peered into the gap. Sure enough, something was stuck in there. On impulse, he leaned close and sniffed.
One sniff was all he needed. “Damn it,” he snarled, shouting to be audible over the alarm. “Commodore Flanders—”
The last word came out in a bellow that rang in his ears as the decompression alarm abruptly cut off. Gill looked up hopefully, but the emergency lights were still flashing red. The crisis hadn’t ended; someone had merely shut off the cacophony.
“What is it?” Flanders asked.
“It’s glued shut,” Gill told him, pointing to the locker door. “Standard Number Three nano-based formula, probably injected with a hypo.” He looked around at the other lockers lining the walls. “Ten to one they’re all like this.”
For a long moment Flanders just stood there staring at him. Then, abruptly, he yanked out his uni-link. “Everyone on the spin ladders—stop what you’re doing,” he shouted into it. “Stay away from the hatches. Don’t touch them. Repeat, don’t touch the hatches!” He listened another second, then swore and jammed the device back into his belt. “Someone get up there!” he shouted, jabbing a finger at a pair of junior officers near the ladders. “You two—go! Tell them not to touch the hatches.”
The officers were already on their way, bounding up the ladders three rungs at a time in the deck’s two-thirds gee.
“What is it?” Gill asked.
“We’ve been sabotaged,” Flanders bit out, “and whoever it is has also shut down the intraship relay system. If they’ve rigged the hatchways—”
He broke off as the officers who’d just headed up the ladder reappeared, sliding down again.
“What the—?” Flanders began.
And stopped as the rest of the people who’d disappeared up the pylon earlier also reappeared, returning at a more subdued pace than they’d left.
“Daurignac?” Flanders called, beckoning to a woman bringing up the rear of the forward group. “Report.”
“There’s something on the viewport, Sir,” the woman said, her face tight as she strode over to him. “Two somethings. I couldn’t tell what they were, but I didn’t like the looks of them. I ordered everything left alone until you could take a look.”
“They’re explosives,” the Cascan captain, Henderson, said as he crossed the wardroom toward them. He was breathing heavily, and Gill belatedly noticed he was coming from the direction of the other ladder. That was different—in Gill’s experience, ship captains normally didn’t rush headlong into potential danger, at least not until someone more junior or expendable did a first-pass assessment.
“Guzarwan,” Flanders said darkly, making the name a curse. “Him and his people. It has to be.”
Gill’s contemplation of Henderson’s heroics vanished in a sudden flash of horrified understanding. His own captain had been with Guzarwan. If Guzarwan was a saboteur—“We have to get out of here,” he said, ignoring the fact that he was interrupting Henderson’s description of the mystery objects. “If they’ve depressurized the ship, we may be the only ones left. We have to get out and see what they’ve done with Captain Eigen.”
“Good idea,” Flanders growled. “How do you propose we do that without suits?”
“We don’t have suits?” Henderson demanded.
“Sealed in the lockers,” Flanders told him. “We can check the escape pods, but I’m guessing they’ve got those locked down, too.”
Henderson swore. “So now what?”
“Maybe they don’t know everything,” Gill said, frowning in concentration. He’d worked on plenty of similar ships back in the League, with a lot of different yard dogs. And if a dumbbell-shaped spin section was a new one on him, basic human nature wasn’t. “Come on—I’ve got an idea.”
He set off at a fast jog through the now silent crowd to the forward ladder and started up. Flanders and Henderson were right behind him.
Half a minute later, they arrived at Alpha Spin Four, the innermost deck, one level above the living/work space of the section and dedicated to equipment and storage. From here, there was nothing but uninterrupted lift pylon stretching between them and the booby-trapped hatch at the main hull. “You know how to disarm a b
omb?” Henderson asked.
“Nope,” Gill said, looking around. “But we may not have to. Not yet, anyway.” A few meters from the ladder, beside the forward-edge bulkhead, was a service airlock. Beside it was an equipment locker that, according to its label, contained tool kits, oxygen bottles, and safety line. Mentally crossing his fingers, Gill pulled open the door.
“What the hell?” Flanders muttered.
“Yep,” Gill agreed, gazing at the two vac suits stuffed more or less neatly together at the side of the locker. “Strictly against regulations to have suits in here. Anyone’s regulations, probably. But EVA crews get tired of having to tromp over to a locker and fill out a sign-chart every time they need to make a quick run outside. So a lot of them finagle a suit or two off the stores listing and stash them where they can just throw them on whenever they need to.”
Henderson had crouched down and was pulling the suits out and onto the deck. “Looks like medium and a large,” he said. “You suppose there are any more in the other pylon?”
“You can check,” Gill said. “But I doubt it. Getting two suits off-record is hard enough without trying for three or four. Besides, the reactor side of a spin section is where more of the nasty stuff is located and where you need to be more careful. You don’t mind the datawork and safety checks so much when you’re going into a yellow or red zone. There are more green zones here on the forward side—that’s where people think they can play things more casual.”
“So we’ve got suits and an EVA hatch,” Flanders said, straightening up. “I don’t suppose we have any demolition experts in Alpha Spin who could go in and disarm the hatch bombs?”
“I certainly don’t have any,” Henderson said. “Besides, what’s the point? Even if we could get the hatches open, there’s vac on the other side. From what I could see of the status lights through the viewport, it could be the whole amidships section.”
“With the rest of the ship probably in Guzarwan’s hands by now,” Flanders said bitterly. “We’re sitting ducks, Gordon. Sitting, crippled ducks. We’ve got to get word to Saintonge about what’s happened.”
“They’ve locked down intraship communications,” Henderson reminded him. “That probably means all external com systems are locked, too. Even if we could get to a console we couldn’t get a signal out.”
“We could use one of the radar arrays,” Gill suggested. “They won’t have shut them down, and you can tie a suit’s com into one without too much trouble.”
Flanders and Henderson exchanged looks. “I thought Eigen said you were a former impeller tech,” Flanders said.
“I have experience with a lot of different systems,” Gill said evasively. Now was not the time to explain that he’d been sent here to scope out Haven’s ships in hopes that someday Manticore could come in and undercut their prices. “The aft radar would be best—if Péridot is holding its same attitude we should be able to contact both Guardian and Saintonge from there.”
“How do we get there?” Henderson asked. “Over the hull and in through one of the aft hatches?”
“There are sensors on Péridot’s external hatches,” Flanders warned. “If Guzarwan is monitoring them he’ll know where we come in.”
“I presume the sensors can be bypassed,” Henderson said.
“No need,” Gill said. “They either bypassed or blew at least one of the hatches in order to depressurize the amidships. We find that hatch, go in, use one of the minilocks to get into a pressurized part of the service accessways—either the starboard one by the hyper monitor or the portside one by the pump room; either will get us past the reactor and the impeller room—and head aft.”
He ran out of air and explanation and stopped, suddenly aware that both men were staring at him. “You sound like you’ve got more than just a little experience with these ships,” Flanders said, his eyes narrowed. “Where’d you learn all this, anyway?”
Gill sighed. Admiral Locatelli had sworn all of them to a black-rimmed oath of silence, and had made it very clear what would happen to anyone who blabbed. But if they were going to get out of this, he needed these men to trust him. “I used to be a yard dog in the League,” he conceded. “Péridot looks to be based on the League’s Antares-class cruisers, and I did a fair amount of work on those.”
“Interesting,” Flanders murmured, his eyes narrowing a bit. “I wondered why Manticore had sent a nondiplomatic civilian. So you just came here to look things over?”
“Doesn’t matter why he’s here,” Henderson cut in impatiently. “What matters is that he knows how to get to the aft endcap without being caught. That just leaves the question of who goes with him.”
“I don’t need anyone else,” Gill assured him. “I can handle things just fine.”
“Two always have a better chance than one,” Henderson said firmly. “We’ve got two suits; that means we send two people. I’m the captain, which makes it my responsibility. Help me on with this, will you?”
“This isn’t necessary, Sir,” Gill said urgently. The last thing he needed while trying to get past saboteurs or terrorists was to have a newbie along for the ride. “Accessways aren’t exactly the safest part of the ship, you know. There are tight spots, edges that can snag a suit, and sometimes power junctions are left open. One brush with the wrong wire, and you’ll fry.”
“We’ll all fry anyway if this doesn’t work,” Henderson countered. “Now, help me into the damn suit.”
Flanders hissed out a sigh. “No,” he said reluctantly. “I worked in aft engineering aboard Péridot when I was an ensign. I know that section of the ship, including some of the accessways. I’ll go with him.”
“My ship, my responsibility,” Henderson repeated harshly.
“The best person for the job,” Flanders countered.
For a couple of seconds the two men stared at each other. Then, Henderson inclined his head. “You’re right,” he said with clear reluctance. “What do you want me to do?”
“Go back down and check out the escape pods,” Flanders said as he unfastened his tunic. “I’m guessing Guzarwan found a way to lock them down, too, but maybe you can get around his blocks and get one of them working. Do I assume their radios are locked down until they’re ejected?”
“Yes,” Henderson said. “I see where you’re going—if we can get one loose, we can call Saintonge from there and give the alarm.”
“Right,” Flanders said, picking up the suit and starting to put it on. “Meanwhile, Massingill and I will try his aft-radar idea. With luck, one of us will get through.”
“Agreed,” Henderson said. He held out his hand. “Good luck, Commodore.”
Flanders gripped the other’s hand briefly. “And to you, Captain.” He gestured to Gill. “Shake a leg, Massingill. We have a ship to save.”
Com Specialist Second Class Patty Boysenko was ready and willing to give Saintonge a call.
Lieutenant Grace Burns, Officer of the Watch and daughter of Baron White Springs, was neither.
“No,” she said, her voice carrying all the weight and pomposity of someone new to her position and determined to make the most of it. “Regulations don’t permit random or unauthorized communications with non-RMN vessels. Especially communications with no official military purpose.”
“This has a military purpose, Lieutenant,” Donnelly insisted. “If Jalla didn’t actually inquire about the components he told us he needed—”
“Then what?” Burns interrupted. “Seriously. What? He forgot, or changed his mind, or is planning to do it later. Are you suggesting Guardian be brought to Readiness One over a simple housekeeping issue?”
“We’re trying to find out what Jalla and Guzarwan are up to,” Donnelly said between clenched teeth.
“What makes you think they’re up to anything?” Burns held up a maddeningly placating hand. “Never mind. You think you have a case? Fine. Go persuade someone who can authorize the call to do so, and I’ll be happy to have Boysenko make it.”
“Y
ou can authorize the call,” Donnelly bit out, trying hard to keep a grip on her rapidly disintegrating temper. Burns was in charge of the aft tracking equipment, and the two women had had a pair of small run-ins over equipment usage on the long voyage from Manticore. Burns’s side of the argument had been overruled both times, and this was obviously her payback.
Burns shook her head. “Not according to regulations.”
Donnelly looked at Long, wondering briefly if he appreciated the irony of Burns’s professed rule-stickler attitude. From the intensely focused expression on his face, he probably hadn’t even noticed it.
“Fine,” she said, turning back to Burns. “We’ll be back. Ma’am.”
“What now?” Long asked when the bridge hatch was once again closed behind them.
“We call Commander Metzger,” Donnelly said grimly, pulling out her uni-link.
“Wait a second,” Long said, suddenly looking uncomfortable. “Do we—? I mean, are you sure about this, Ma’am?”
“Aren’t you?”
Long’s face screwed up with uncertainty.
“I don’t know,” he admitted.
“Well, I am,” Donnelly said. “You may have a knack for outside-the-line thinking, but I have a knack for hunches. Trust me on this one.”
She keyed her uni-link, not waiting to see whether he decided to trust her, and not really caring either way. “Lieutenant Donnelly for Commander Metzger,” she instructed the computerized switchboard. “Tell her it’s urgent.”
The Havenite shuttle from Péridot was nearly to Saintonge when the promised passenger authorization for Vachali and the others finally came through.
“About time,” Lieutenant Riley growled, peering at the display. “I don’t know. This thing looks a little rough.”
“Yeah, sorry about that, Sir,” Guzarwan’s voice came over the cockpit speaker. “We’re having some transmission problems. Everything’s coming out muddy. Saintonge, did you get the copy we sent you?”
