IT WAS DEEP IN Olympiad’s night. I curled up on a lounge sofa. Within minutes, I jumped up, wandered the compartment aimlessly. How could a joey sleep, abandoned and alone? When his eyes stung, his stomach congealed itself into a hard knot?
An hour passed. The lounge was oppressive. I wandered the corridors. Level 1 was cold and impersonal; I went below.
After a time I found myself at the hatch to Cabin 575. I knocked softly. Louder. Again.
“What is it, Randy?” Corrine was disheveled with sleep.
“Could I stay with you and Janey? The floor’s fine. I mean, the deck. I won’t make a sou—”
“In. Whatever happened between you? No, tell me in the morning.” From the closet, a spare blanket and pillow. She tucked me in at the foot of her bed, planted a kiss on my forehead, turned out the light.
I lay awake, learning how to cry in utter silence.
In the lower dining hall, sullen faces, voices kept low. Crew as well as passengers. Even my newfound friends among the crew managed not to see me. I snorted at the irony: I couldn’t be trusted because I was a relative of the Captain, while he’d ordered me out of his life.
Dully, my head full of lint, I spooned the unappetizing mush I’d made of my cereal.
“There you are.” Fingers gripped my arm. Mikhael Tamarov looked weary. “I’ve been looking everywhere.”
“Why?” He’d put me on report. Did he think I’d forget?
“Come along.” He hesitated. “I’m off duty. It’s a request. Please, Randy.”
I abandoned my bowl. “Where?”
“Anywhere. A lounge.”
My whole body ached, but I followed. The moment we were alone, he blurted, “Pa looks like hell. His eyes are red.”
“Why?”
“He wouldn’t tell me, but I could see your bed wasn’t slept in. What’s between you?”
I swallowed. Abruptly, unbidden, the story poured out of me. When at last I wound down, pacing from bulkhead to bulkhead, Mik snagged me, made me sit. “You’re both so bloody proud.”
“And you aren’t?” My voice was hot. “When I tried to stand up for you with Yost—”
He waved it away. “A father’s job is to protect you. That’s what Pa wants to do.”
“You’re on his side? He didn’t protect you from Galactic.”
“Goofjuice. I begged and pleaded, but Pa refused to bring me. It was Derek who took me aboard!”
I swallowed. “Fath didn’t keep a promise.”
“Randy, I don’t care if you’re in the right. It’s torturing him. Go put an end to it.”
“You don’t understand. Dad—Derek—is gone. I saw the outrider kill Kev, my best friend.” Somehow, I made myself say what I didn’t dare. “I … can’t … lose … him … too.”
For answer, Mikhael threw his arm around my shoulder.
When he left, I was too drained for words. I stumbled out to the corridor.
If the alien could submit, so could I. Nothing was worth what I felt.
Fath wasn’t in our cabin. Reeling with exhaustion, I headed for the bridge. I was off duty, but he’d see me. Somehow, I was sure. I knocked.
Lieutenant Frand had the watch, with Tommy Yost. “Yes, Mr Carr?”
“Is the … I was looking for …” I leaned against the hatch.
“Get yourself together, joey.” She swung her chair. “Go ahead, Station.”
“General Thurman here. Might I speak to Captain Seafort?”
“He’s not on the bridge.”
“We have a shuttle docking. The Stadholder is aboard. He urgently requests a meeting with the Captain. He wants me present. Might you return to the Station?”
“Stand by, Mr Thurman.” She stabbed the caller. “Bridge to Mr Seafort.”
“Go ahead, Ms Frand.” Fath, on the bridge speaker. He listened. Then, a sigh. “I don’t see how I can refuse. Summon Mr Van Peer. Return to the Station.”
“To their lock?”
“No, don’t mate. Stand by alongside. I’ll go across in the smallest launch.”
“Aye aye, sir. What about the fish Outside?”
“Heavens, I nearly forgot. Proceed very slowly, and give it a wide detour. If it follows, take no alarm. Alert the laser room watch, though.”
Ms Frand replaced the caller, turned to me. “Well?”
“Fath—Mr Seafort’s talking to the outrider?” I should be with him. Without me, who knew what wild chances he’d take?
“I’m under no orders to tell you his whereabouts.” Her tone was cold. “The Log says you’re suspended from duty.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Joey, this is a personal matter between you and him. Settle it on personal time.”
“Aye aye, ma’am.”
“But, settle it. You hear me?”
“Yes ma’am.” I made my escape.
If something provoked the alien to its gesture of submission, Fath would hurry round to join him, as he always did. But this time he’d be alone. He’d have no thought for himself. A moment ago I’d believed I could live with it. Now I wasn’t so sure. I knew what Mik would have me do; no point in seeking him out. And Mr Branstead was groundside.
Where lay my duty: to obey Fath, or protect him?
I had no one to ask.
No one but Anth.
My pulse quickened.
Anth cared for me. He had Dad’s sense of right. He’d tell me what to do.
Fath would never let me go to the station to see him.
I had to. I was desperate.
This time, when we were done, no doubt Fath would punish me without mercy. And I’d deserve it.
Steeling myself, I hurried to the launch bays.
Olympiad, like Galactic before her, had four launches. I found the bay for the smallest, cycled through the lock, peered in the hatch. Two sailors were topping off her propellant. I grabbed an empty duffel from a hook, strolled nonchalantly toward the launch.
One of the ratings glanced up.
“Captain wants this aboard.” I trotted up the ladder. They paid me no heed.
They wouldn’t be handing out suits; the launch was pressurized. I opened the aft suit locker, squeezed in. A tight fit, but I could manage it. I shut the hatch behind me. It wasn’t quite pitch-dark within. The suits had a metallic smell.
I waited a full hour, my calves starting to ache, a thruster-suit’s neck clamps pressed into my collarbone.
At last I heard voices. The Captain. A sailor. Someone else. Mikhael.
I felt us disengage. I gulped, as weightlessness engulfed us. This was no time to lose my breakfast.
The purr of our thrusters. I imagined I could feel the acceleration, knew it wasn’t so.
From the cabin, low voices, chatting.
Bumps, and clicks, as we mated. Sudden gravity made my knees weak.
The hiss of an airlock.
“Captain Seafort?” A new voice.
“Here.”
“The Patriarchs welcome you.”
“What? Why are you—Mik, look out—” A cry of rage.
I flung open the hatch. Three soldiers, with stunners. Fath lay on the deck. Mik was struggling in the cockpit. Abruptly he sagged, dropped to the deck, A sailor cowered in his seat. The nearest soldier touched the stunner to his chest. His eyes rolled up.
No one had seen me. I ducked back in the locker, shut the hatch.
As they passed, I would fling open the door, catch at least one of them. I’d grab his stunner, use it on the others.
I put my shoulder to the hatch, waiting for my moment.
Feet, dragging on the deck. “Never mind, we’ll come back for him!”
I tensed.
The steps faded. The hiss of a lock.
Ever so cautiously, I peered out.
Idiot! You frazzing fool! You were in the aft suit locker. The airlock was toward the bow.
Fath was gone.
Nothing would rouse Mik, though his breathing was regular, his heart strong. He’d be out at least an hour. I paced the aisle, frantic.
Even I knew better than to dash into the Station corridor to look for him. They’d almost certainly have the launch under guard. Furthermore, I didn’t know my way, and would blunder about helplessly, unarmed.
I peered out the porthole. In the far distance, lights against the white blaze of stars. Olympiad. I had to warn her, but I had no idea how to use the cockpit radio. It didn’t look like a ship’s caller.
There wasn’t a single frazzing thing I could …
Think. I’d hidden in a suit locker. We had suits. Where could I go?
Nowhere, but suits had radios. When Kev and I were hiding from the outrider, Fath had said to use frequency seven. Was that Olympiad’s shipboard frequency? Could they even hear me from this distance?
What about the Station? Would they be monitoring that channel? They’d storm the launch and …
No matter. We had to rescue Fath. Feverishly, I donned a suit. There were no three-quarter ones; I had to climb into a full size. I swam in it.
I glanced down, but couldn’t see the radio keys; I was too short. My eyes barely peered over the neckpiece.
The controls would be the same for every unit. I found frequency seven on a hanging suit, set my own by feel, switched on the radio.
“Hello? Olympiad, hello?” I kept my voice low, as if that could protect me.
Nothing.
“Mayday, mayday! Calling Olympiad. For Christ’s sake, answer the frazzing—”
“Comm Room here. Who’s fooling with the radio?” Ms Skor’s voice was sharp. “Suits are for emergencies. What cabin are you—”
“This is Randy. I—”
“Get off this channel. Use the caller. I’m putting you on rep—”
“LISTEN, YOU STUPID GRODE!” My throat was raw. “I’m in the launch, they took Captain Seafort, I mean, kidnapped him. Hurry, Mik’s unconscious and they’re coming back for—”
“Which launch? He didn’t take you. You’ve been suspended.”
I’d get nowhere babbling hysterically. For Fath, every moment counted. I swallowed, forced my brain to slow. “Ship’s Boy Carr reporting, ma’am. I’m in the launch docked at the Station. I sneaked aboard and hid in the suit locker. They came on and stunned Fath, I mean the Captain. Mr Tamarov tried to fight and they stunned him too. They dragged the sailor and Mr Seafort away.”
“Who?”
“All I heard was, ‘The Patriarchs welcome you.’ He’s gone. Get him back!”
“Hang on.” A click. Silence. I shifted from foot to foot, in growing panic.
“Tolliver, here. Where’d they take him?”
“Through the lock, sir.”
“What’s your status?” Behind his voice, the clang of alarms.
“We’re mated to the Station. Lock is closed, but I heard someone say they’d be back for Mik—Midshipman Tamarov. He’s out cold.”
“Who knows you’re aboard?”
“No one, sir. I was hiding in the locker.” I forced words through the shame. I should have leaped out, protected Fath. If we were family, I owed him not an iota less.
“Stay away from the airlock porthole.”
“Aye aye, sir.”
“Seal your lock.”
“How?”
He told me. I keyed the panel. A light flashed red. “Now what, sir?”
“Randy …” A deep breath. I could almost see Tolliver forcing the edge from his voice. “You’re absolutely sure they stunned him? This isn’t some …”
“Some joeykid’s story?” My tone was bitter. “No, sir, he yelled, and then he was lying on the deck. Please, send sailors. Attack the Station! Get him back!”
Tolliver’s voice was heavy. “A shuttle departed the Station five minutes ago. I assume Nick’s on it.”
“Disable it!”
“This isn’t the holovids. Besides, in—how long, Jess?—two minutes, it’ll reach the outer atmosphere.”
“Call Anthony! He’ll intercept them at the spaceport!”
“Ms Skor’s on the line. Randy, I’ve gone to Battle Stations. Stand by. I need to …” Another click.
Minutes passed that seemed hours. Why hadn’t Fath taught me how to pilot? I’d sail the launch to Centraltown myself.
Could it handle reentry? Its shape wasn’t aerodynamic. I hardly cared. Burning up was better than pacing in a hot, useless suit, while Fath …
I dropped to my knees. “Mik, wake up.” He’d know what to do. I shook him, to no avail. “Open your eyes. Mik, come on!”
Nothing. Not even a groan.
“Mr Carr.”
I jumped. “Yessir?”
“Is there a thrustersuit in the locker?”
“How would I—yes, sir, there is.” Its neck clamps had left indentations in my collarbone. “I don’t know how to use it.”
“Mr Tamarov does. When he’s recovered …”
“They’ll be back any minute for him.”
“You sealed the lock. They can’t get in without a torch.”
“So they’ll get one. Sir, what about Mr Seafort?”
“If the Captain was on that shuttle, there’s nothing we can do about it. In any case I won’t let another shuttle leave, whatever the cost. But if I challenge the Station, I alert them that we’re on to them. I don’t want to do that ’til you joeys are safe.”
“Why’d they take him?”
“I don’t know. Hope Nation’s goddamned politics.” The blasphemy rung in the air. “Now, when Mikhael’s awake, this is what you do …”
At the hatch, banging, muffled curses. In a frenzy, I shook Mikhael. No response. I jabbed my suit radio. “Mr Tolliver! They’re trying to break in!”
“Is Mikhael …”
“Still out.”
The noises ceased.
“Get him suited.”
“Why, what’s—”
“Do it!”
I scrambled to the locker, grabbed a full-sized suit. Wait. Did Mr Tolliver still want a thrustersuit? No time to ask. Manhandling him into a t-suit was no worse than any other. I dropped the suit, chose another.
Mik had twice my mass, and was a dead weight. It was almost impossible to budge him. Somehow, I got his leg into his suit. Then the second. Now his arms …
At the hatch, clunking and scraping. Working at Mik’s suit, I ignored it as long as I dared. Then I scrambled across the aisle, peered through the porthole. It violated Mr Tolliver’s orders, but the Station joeys already knew something was amiss.
Troops, with stunners. A laser pistol.
A cutting assembly.
Feverishly, I hoisted Mik to a sitting position. It almost broke my back. I jammed his other arm into the suit sleeve.
He sighed.
“Mik! Mr Tamarov!” Lightly, I cuffed his face.
“Let me sleep.” He tried to lie down.
“Pa’s in trouble! He’s calling you!”
For a moment, nothing. Then one eye popped open. Mik tried to pull himself up, fell back with a groan. “Where am I?”
“On the launch.” I quickly filled him in, my fingers busy with his clamps.
By the time I was done, he’d struggled to his feet. “Christdamned bastard sons of bitches—” My eyes widened as the string of oaths flowed undiminished. At last he wound down. “The tanks!”
“You’re wearing them. The oxygen won’t flow until your helmet’s—”
“No, you twit, the propulsion tanks!” At the hatch, an ominous hiss. “Grab them!”
“Aye aye, sir.” I snatched them from the locker. “Hurry. They’re cutting through!”
He clamped his helmet, checked mine. “Ask Mr Tolliver, should I break the launch free?”
I did.
“No, it’s too easy a laser target. Suits are smaller, and more maneuverable. The launch is expendable.”
I helped Mik secure his propellant tanks.
Unsteady on his feet, he lurched down the aisle. He led me to the escape hatch, almost all the way aft. Far smaller than an airlock hatch, the escape provided a second exit, on the opposite side of the craft from the lock. We folded the seat that blocked it, bent to the lever, frowned. “It won’t open while we’re pressurized.” He pushed me aside, rushed down the aisle, stumbled, fell on his face. He scrambled up, bolted to the cockpit.
From the airlock, shouts and thuds. I crossed the aisle, peered out the porthole. Olympiad was as distant as ever. Why couldn’t Tolliver have brought the ship alongside to save us?
The hum of a motor. Warning lights flashed throughout the cabin. Mikhael reappeared, face flushed. His eyes shot to the airlock, from whose plating acrid smoke curled. “It’ll be close.”
“What’d you—”
“We’re de-airing.” He thrust me aside, tugged on the panel lever. “Olympiad, Midshipman Tamarov reporting. We’ll be out in a minute.”
Behind us, a crackle. I muttered, “We don’t have a minute.”
He glanced over my shoulder. “Christ.” A mighty kick dislodged the lever. Mik spun the wheel. Abruptly the hatch panel floated aside. Mik kicked it into the void. Without warning, he grabbed me, flung me Outside.
I had no time to grab for the hatchway, the hull, anything. Utterly helpless, I shot into space, windmilling, screaming. The launch and the Station spun crazily in my visor.
“Randy—”
Behind me, a burst of light. A porthole dissolved. Mikhael dived through the escape, kicking off as he did so.
He headed my general direction, but would miss me by meters. I’d float in vacuum until my air ran out and I died. My corpse would float forever in the vast womb of space.
My eyes bulged with the frenzy of my scream.
Mik tapped gently at his suit thrusters. His trajectory changed ever so slightly. “Hang on, joey. And stop that infernal shrieking!”
I paid no heed, kicking and clawing at nothing in a frenzied, useless swim to safety.
Mik caught my hand. “Sir, I’ve got hi—” I convulsed, wrapped myself around his neck, squeezed with all my might.
We floated, rotating slowly. The Station came and went. “Let go. Randy, LET ME GO!”
His rage pierced my terror. I loosened my grip just enough for him to manhandle me, spin me about, clutch me from behind. “I’ve got you. You’re safe.”
My breath came in a long shuddering sob.
Mik reached around, changed my suit frequency to a general channel.
“To the ship, Mr Tamarov. As fast as you—”
“Aye aye, sir.” Mikhael. Then, “Uh, oh.” In the launch’s escape hatch, a suited figure. It aimed a laser. Mik spun me breast to breast, thrust my hands around his waist. “Hold on!” We jetted to the side.
Hadn’t the Station trooper fired? I saw nothing. No beam, no spurt of smoke—
No, idiot, in vacuum I’d see nothing, not even the bolt that burned me to a cinder. I shivered.
Mik bent double, nearly snapping my spine. We veered away from the pistol’s track. On the Station, two laser turrets swiveled, found us. I croaked a warning.
Mikhael craned his neck, spotted them, searched for Olympiad, muttered a curse.
“What?” I wasn’t sure I could handle more bad news.
“Station, hold your fire or I’ll blast you to hell!” Tolliver.
Mik bent, keyed his thrusters.
“Do not, repeat, do not fire on my men!”
The Station shot toward us. I gasped, “Wrong way!”
“Got to!”
The laser turret swiveled. Mikhael jiggled his thruster levers; we lurched this way and that, spinning. The Station loomed. Its turrets followed until the angle was so depressed they could turn no farther.
At what seemed the last second, Mik turned us, fired a full blast. It braked our momentum. We sailed into the Station’s hull. Mik put out his legs, absorbed our inertia as best he could. The blow loosened his grip; my back slammed into the alumalloy hull. Before I could bounce off, he caught me. His fingers clung to a handhold.
“Why’d you go back?” To my shame, my tone was a whine. Get a grip, joey. “Mik—sir—they’ll catch us here!”
He took my hand, wrapped it around the handgrip. “No choice.”
“But—”
“Quiet, Mr Carr. Bridge, Mr Tamarov reporting.” Mik sounded out of breath, as if he’d run all the way from the launch.
“Go ahead.” Tolliver.
“I couldn’t chance it. We’d be under fire all the way.”
“I saw. That son of a bitch Thurman won’t answer us.”
“We’re safe for the moment. What about Pa?”
“I don’t know. I’m about to take the Station apart finding out.”
A new voice crackled. “Do that and I’ll slice Olympiad to ribbons.” General Thurman.
“Where’s Captain Seafort?”
“Groundside. He’s charged with treason, heresy, blasph—”
“By whom?”
“The Government of Hope Nation and—”
I hissed, “Goofjuice!” Anthony would never—
Mik jabbed me.
“You’ve no right, to hold a U.N. Naval officer!”
“—and Holy Mother Church, whose authority is universal.” General Thurman sounded pious.
I knew enough to switch off my transmitter. I touched my helmet to Mik’s. “Can they do that?”
“They did. Shush.”
Tolliver’s voice was cold. “Tell Stadholder Carr—”
“Mr Carr is removed from office.”
I blanched. “They can’t!”
“He—I—who the hell’s in charge?”
“Mr Palabee heads a government of national reconciliation.”
“Put me through to him!” Tolliver sounded white with rage.
I tugged at Mik’s arm. “Palabee’s a joke! Where’s Anth?”
“Quiet.”
“Call him yourself, Captain. You have the codes to the Governor’s Manse.”
“They don’t answer.”
“Perhaps after the trial.” Thurman was unctuous.
“Send me my crewmen.”
“Your Mr Tamarov … I believe he’s related to Seafort?”
“If so, what of it?”
“We’ll hold him, for now. Your Captain can be … intransigent.”
A long silence. I fidgeted. “Mile—”
“What?” His transmitter was off. His eyes roved constantly.
“They’ve got Fath and Anthony. It’s Andori’s doing, and maybe that Terran Ambassador, McEwan. Palabee on his own would never dare—”
“What of it?”
“The Church hates them both. If they go on trial—”
“Move. Handhold to handhold, like this.” Mik pulled me along.
“Why?”
“Joeys coming out a hatch.”
I peered over my shoulder. Christ. I scrambled along the hull.
Tolliver’s voice was icy. “You son of a bitch, you’ve got twenty minutes! Call Palabee. Have Seafort released, or the Station’s gone and Hope Nation’s out of the grain business!”
I nodded. Good for Tolliver. For us.
“We’re as well armed as you. Fire on us and you lose your ship!”
“You leave me no choice.”
Thurman said, “Nonsense. Let justice take its course.”
Mik and I had put a protruding launch bay between us and our pursuers. I asked, “What do they want?”
“We’d make good hostages; Pa’s too sentimental.” He shook his head, deep in thought. “Mr Carr.”
“Huh?”
“I’m on duty. So are you.”
“I don’t—yes, sir.”
He clapped my shoulder. “Thanks. It’ll make it easier.”
Oddly enough, it was a comfort. He’d reminded me I had duty, as did he.
“Pa’s been taken groundside. Olympiad has launches and gigs, but nothing to breach the atmosphere. That means Tolliver can’t rescue him.”
I waited.
“There’s half a dozen shuttles at the Station, but Olympiad can’t get to them. That leaves us. If we see a chance, we take it. Agreed?”
My heart pounded. “Yes, sir.”
After a moment, a silhouette against the Station lights. A suited joey on the hull pointed our way, beckoned to unseen figures.
“Hurry!” Mik helped me on my way He switched radio frequencies. “Olympiad, we’re being chased.”
“Flick your suit transponders on.”
“Aye aye, sir.” Mik keyed his, then mine.
“We have you.”
We scrambled along the hull. I reached from handhold to handhold, trying to ignore the queasiness of zero gee.
“Mik—sir—my light’s yellow.”
“Oh, great.” He sighed. “We’ve got about twenty minutes.”
We huddled at a pair of handholds.
“More of them, sir!” I pointed behind him. Half a dozen suited soldiers. They’d come out another lock.
He veered, pulling me along. “Bastards.”
My breath rasped in my helmet.
Mikhael said into his radio, “Sir, we’re … running out of time.”
For a long moment, silence. Then, “Listen carefully. When your, ah, squadmate went to Cabin two fifty-seven, I’ll do what his visitor did just before.”
What on earth was he saying? Abruptly my eyes widened, and I touched helmets. “Mik, two fifty-seven is where Kevin was killed! Kev is the squadmate he’s talking about. The visitor means the outrider. It burned through the hull!”
“Don’t move an inch! Look away!” Mikhael pulled me down.
I raised my head, just for an instant.
Five meters from us, the hull glowed.
Even though my radio was off, I whispered. “What good will it do?”
“All batteries open fire!” Thurman sounded livid. “Destroy Olympiad!”
Mikhael said, “We’re running out of air, and they’re surrounding us. He’s getting us inside. Maybe we’ll have a chance to help Pa.” A moment passed. “Help Mr Seafort.” I grinned. For Mik too it was personal, and would remain so.
The hull plating boiled. Abruptly a speck of light.
An idea boiled forth. I caught my breath. No time to explain. I keyed my radio, shrieked, “NO, STOP! OH, GOD, DON’T—” I jammed off my transponder, then Mik’s.
He caught my wrist. “Are you insane?”
A patch of hull a meter wide melted and vanished. A swirl of flotsam. Dust, papers, chips, Lord knew what else. Then nothing.
I touched helmets. “Sir, if Olympiad tracks our transponders, so will the Station. They’ll think we’re dead.”
In the distance, Olympiad’s lights shrank.
“So will Tolliver.” He sighed. “It can’t be helped. Come ON!” He shoved me toward the gaping hole.
“It’ll be hot.”
“Only for a few seconds. Avoid the edge. Jump through. Hurry!”
“Aye aye, sir.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded. How, in zero gee, do you jump? I crab-walked to the edge of the puncture, grasped the nearest handhold, dropped my head, pushed off in a dive, as if into the swimming hole behind our manse.
I’d forgotten about the Station’s gravitrons. They caught me halfway down. I was lucky not to snap my neck; my hands came out just in time. I somersaulted onto my back, lay there a moment, half stunned. I scrambled to my feet, orienting myself. The hole Olympiad had pierced was in our side bulkhead. I mimed to Mik to be careful. Lord knew if he understood.
Outside, at ninety degrees to the bulkhead, Mik stepped over the hole, tapped his thruster ever so lightly. He sank. As gravity grabbed him, he fired his side thruster. It didn’t quite work, but he eased his fall. I skittered out of the way so as not to be caught in his exhaust.
I glanced about. Some sort of storage compartment. Cabinets. A locker. A hatch, sealed shut.
I touched helmets. “Now what, sir?”
“Is that table loose?”
I gaped.
“Does it move, God damn you?” He pushed me aside, lifted the edge of the table. Hurt, I grabbed my end. Together, we manhandled it to the bulkhead. The tabletop was just wide enough to cover the gaping hole. He dragged a cabinet, tipped it so its weight held the table to the bulkhead, grabbed me, brought my helmet close. “Sorry I swore.”
I blinked back tears. “Thank you, sir.”
He keyed the hatch control. Nothing. “The bloody safeties won’t let it open in vacuum.” Stymied, he looked about.
“Mr Tamarov, my tank light’s gone red.”
“Ah, that’s it!” He leaped to the locker. Inside, suits. Spare tanks. He dragged two of them out, pulled a clamping tool from his pouch. I turned, to give him access to my pack.
He ignored me. I whirled. Mik was opening the spare tanks’ valves as wide as they’d go.
Again I touched helmets, wishing I could use the radio. But then Station Command would know we were aboard. “What the hell are you doing!”
“Steady, Mr Carr. Grab more tanks. Hurry!”
“But—aye aye, sir!” I hauled out three more tanks. In a moment he had them open.
“Push the table tight!”
Panting, I shouldered the table to the bulkhead as hard as I could. Was it my imagination, or was my suit air stale? I yawned prodigiously.
Mik abandoned the tanks, ran to the hatch, keyed the control. Nothing. He rolled his eyes, flashed me a weak smile. “Patience.”
“Yes, sir.” Dimly, in the distance, an alarm. I blinked. An alarm meant sound. Sound meant air.
In a moment he tried again. The hatch slid open.
His lips moved. “Out!”
I dashed into the corridor, Mik a step behind me. He slapped shut the hatch, checked a gauge on his suit. “It’s—” He flicked off his radio, pressed his helmet to mine, spoke over the din of alarms. “The corridor’s aired. Take off your helmet!”
God, if he was wrong, I’d end like Dad. Desperately, I thrust away the thought. I needed air, and it couldn’t wait. I unlatched my clamps, tore off my helmet.
Fresh, cool air.
“Attention, all personnel. We’ve beaten off an attack by Olympiad. She’s in full retreat. We’ve taken hits. None appear serious. All stations report damage.”
“Out of your suit.”
“Why?” I was already undoing my clasps.
“Mr Carr …”
“Sorry. Aye aye, sir. But the air’s leaking out past that table. If someone opens the hatch …”
“It won’t open against vacuum. Same reason we couldn’t get out.”
“Suited repair party to Level 2 section eight.”
I glanced about, with an odd stab of recognition. The corridor was like Olympiad’s, though considerably smaller and not as ornate. Well, the Station was built around an old warship. And the Navy valued tradition above all. But that meant the corridor would be divided into sections, and in a vacuum emergency … I took a few steps, peeked past the bend. Right. The section hatches were sealed. Naturally they would be, with even part of a section decompressed.
When I told Mikhael, he shrugged. “No one said it’d be easy, but we have one thing in our favor.”
“What’s that?”
“You’re a bunch of provincials.” He grinned at my outrage. “Seriously, your security is awful. On Earth they’d never stand for it. Think how easy it was to get on a shuttle at Centraltown.”
“That’s ’cause we don’t have wars and revolu—”
“Precisely.” He unclamped his helmet. “Get rid of your suit.”
“Where?”
“Anywhere. There.” He flung open a hatch across the corridor.
I looked about. Mops, pails, a faucet. Great. Perhaps I should volunteer to clean up. After all, I was just a ship’s boy.
“Repair party to Level 3 Section five lounge.”
“What’s that?”
I glanced down. “A mop handle.”
“A club.”
I hefted it. It would do. “Hey, sir, isn’t that stuff caustic?” I pointed to a bag of cleansing powder. A few days ago Alejandro and I had been loading supplies, and they’d made us wear gloves for the deck plate cleanser.
“Only mixed with water.”
I seized a bucket, thrust it under the faucet. When it was half full I ripped open the bag, dumped most of the cleanser in it. “Now what, sir?”
“Pray there are no corridor cameras.” We trudged to the section hatch. I looked about, didn’t spot the cameras that were standard gear on Olympiad.
We confronted the hatch panel, with its confusing array of lights. He bent, studied them. “The override isn’t keyed.”
“What’s that mean?”
“No one’s expecting us. We can open the hatch.”
“Wait!” I smiled weakly; it sounded too much like an order. “Sir, I’m in Naval blues, you’ve got your uniform. If they spot us we’ll stand out like trannies at the opera.”
“We can’t be here when they come to patch the hull.”
We exchanged perplexed frowns.
“Hello?”
I whirled. The voice came from behind a cabin hatch.
“Anyone there? Is it safe to come out?”
Mik gestured me silent. “Identify yourself.” His tone was peremptory.
“Rolf Iverson. Electrician, third shift.”
“What are you doing here?”
“It’s my cabin, sir. I was asleep when the alarms …”
Mikhael wrested the mop handle from my grip. “The corridor’s aired, but we’re evacuating the section for repairs. Didn’t you hear the announcement? Come out at once.” Mik hefted the club.
“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I—”
The hatch slid open. Iverson was sallow, small-boned, balding. Instantly Mik swung. The mop handle caught him in the forehead. A crunch. He fell into the cabin, thudded onto the deck. Blood seeped.
Mikhael pulled me inside, slapped shut the hatch. He knelt by the prone figure, fished out his ID card, wiped off blood.
Desperately, I tried not to step in the spreading pool. “Is he …” I stared down, aghast. Fath lay inert on the Dining Hall carpet, his lifeblood draining. Around me, chaos.
“I don’t know.” He pawed through Iverson’s clothing shelf. “Wear this. And that. Pay attention, Mr Carr!”
“Yessir.” Numbly, I undid my shirt.
In moments we were a rather unkempt pair of Station hands. Mik’s clothes were too small, mine too large. At least the shirts were the right color. I hoped nobody would notice we were both named “Iverson.”
Mikhael ran to the janitor’s compartment, hurried back with a mop, handed it to me. “Don’t spill your bucket.”
At the corridor hatch panel, he took up the caller, drew a deep breath, keyed it. “Hello? Anyone there?”
“What are you …”
He waved me silent. “Come on, someone answer!”
The speaker blared. “Comm Room.”
“Rolf Iverson. I’m on—” he glanced at the hatch panel. “—Level 4 section six. Must be a leak somewhere; the hatch slammed shut. The corridor’s fine. Okay if I open to come out?”
“Ask the Commandant’s office.”
“What’s the frazzin’ code?”
“Twenty-four seventy-five.” A click.
Mik punched in the code. “Iverson here, ID 70-J-446. Dunno where the problem is, but I’m in the corridor and it’s fine out here. Shouldn’t I report to the machinist?”
A pause. “Very well. Close the hatch soon as you’re through.”
“Right.” To me, “Bring your mop and bucket.”
Calmly, he opened the hatch.
We sauntered through.
Nobody was in sight. We rounded the bend. The far hatch was closed. I said, “Where are we going, sir?”
“I’m not sure.”
Truthful, perhaps, but not comforting. I shot him a dubious glance.
We opened the next section hatch, sealed it behind us. “What we need,” he said, “is a map. Where are the shuttle bays—mop the deck!”
“What?”
Voices.
“Mop!”
Sweating, I bent to my task. Mik would get us killed yet.
He threw himself against the bulkhead, idly toyed with the spare mop handle. “She was something, I tell ya. Ass soft and round, tits like—”
Three techs in suits. With them, two soldiers. One had a pistol, the other a stunner. Unheeding, I sloshed water in their path.
“—so I said, look, baby, why fight it? I’m the best you’ll—” Mik’s mop handle whirled round, caught a soldier behind the neck. Mik dived for the man’s laser. I thrust my mop between the other soldier’s legs. He sprawled. I grabbed my bucket, dumped the caustic cleanser in his face. A scream. He thrashed about the deck, frantically rubbing his eyes. I straddled him, pulled free his stunner.
Mik’s laser flicked between the three techs. “No radio! I’ll kill!” A gesture backed them against the bulkhead.
Mik tried cabin hatches until he found one unsealed. “In here!” It looked like an unused lounge; a few dusty holovids and games lay about. As we passed through, a suited tech leaped for Mik’s laser. They struggled. I touched the stunner to his side. Nothing. Cursing, I fumbled for the safety. Behind me, a suited arm wrapped around my windpipe.
I couldn’t free myself, couldn’t breathe. I poked the stunner around my ribs, touched something, pulled the trigger.
Suddenly my throat was free.
The tech’s gloved fist slammed into Mikhael’s chest. The middy’s face went white. As the tech wrestled the laser from his grasp I lunged at him, caught him in the side with the stunner. He dropped. Mikhael slid down the bulkhead. Wild-eyed, I spun to the third tech.
He backed to the wall. “No, don’t—”
I jabbed him. He went limp.
I ducked through the hatch. In the corridor, one soldier lay still. The other thrashed about. I stunned him, dragged him by the heels into the lounge. Then the last.
Panting, I slapped shut the hatch. “Mik? Sir?” He couldn’t speak. I knelt by his side. “Breathe deep as you can.”
He clutched my wrist, squeezed ’til I thought I’d scream. “It hurts.” His voice was a croak.
“He caught a neural plexus.”
“A what?”
“A pressure point.” I extended my palm, hesitated. Was it a crime to touch an officer? Randy, don’t be an idiot. I massaged his chest, as gently as I could.
Slowly, his color returned.
“Now, what, sir?”
“Should you be a tech or a soldier?” He debated. “A tech. Pick one and use his suit.”
“They’re too big. I’ll look silly.”
“You’ll look sillier as a soldier.”
I didn’t like it, but he was right. Hope Nation forces didn’t enlist joeykids, as did the Navy.
We stripped a tech of his suit, fished for his ID card.
At a holovid console Mik called up a Station map. “Launch bays are there. Level 5.” He jabbed the screen.
I said, “Can you pilot? Take a shuttle groundside and find Fath.” In turn, he would help us free Anth.
“If we took a shuttle to Olympiad, Mr Tolliver could send an armed party.” He grimaced. “What’s the point? The Station lasers would get us.”
“Where’s laser control?”
“Two of us, attacking the laser compartment? Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, they can bypass the consoles and fire from anywhere.”
I paced, half beside myself. Then, “Sir, this was once a ship?”
“Yes, what of it?”
“On Olympiad, Fath—Captain Seafort—had to release the laser safeties from the bridge before Mr Dakko could fire.”
Our eyes met.
“Where’s the Commandant’s office?” He bent to the screen, answered his own question. “Level 1. The lasers would be under the Commandant’s sole control. They’d have to be, especially after the fiasco at Earthport.” Control of the Station’s laser cannon had enabled the Navel rebellion Dad had died to quell.
Coolly, Mikhael entered a soldier’s ID, read from a list of caller codes. “Wish me luck, brother.” He took up the caller. Then, “No, their readout tells them where it’s coming from. Hurry.”
He led me on a race back to section six. He used the caller at the corridor hatch. “Staff Sergeant Burns, sir. I’m bringing Technician Ouward. He has an artifact General Thurman ought to see.”
“What is it?”
“Are you cleared?”
A splutter. “For what?”
“They found it Outside, with those Navy grades’ bodies. A holovid. The screen has a map, showing the route to—no, this is for the General himself. He’ll decide who ought to know.”
A pause. “He’s in his office.”
“I’ll bring Ouward up.” Mikhael rang off.
In moments we were redressed. I wore the smallest of the suits, and still swam in it. Mikhael wore the outfit of Sergeant Willard Burns, Hope Nation Home Guard. He holstered his laser.
“What’s the plan, sir?”
“Find the laser safety, make sure it’s off, call Olympiad.” Mik tucked the stunner into my work pouch.
“Right.”
We started on our way. He matched his pace to my necessarily slower one. “Don’t forget your codes.”
“367-T-491.” I bobbed, barely able to see out of the helmet. “Sir, we’ve had incredible luck so far. If we don’t both make it …” I drew breath, hardened my resolve. “Save Fath, whatever else. And tell him I’m sorry for how I acted. I never had the chance.”
“He knows.”
“Tell him.” In a helmet, you can’t wipe your frazzing eyes.