Voyage Across the Stars Page 7

  “If they had known, you see,” Nan said as the mural faded to swirls of dark pastel, “they would have cut the connection. The power had to be on for three full days before all the passengers in West Section could escape to Elysium. All the survivors.”

  Slade shuddered to bring himself out of the waste of fear and memory where he had lived for the past moments. Music of some sort was a soothing undercurrent in the hall. Patient, friendly faces were turned up to his. “Dear Lord have mercy,” the tanker said. He released his hand from the woman’s. He managed a smile. “I’m Don Slade,” he said. “I was a merchant. . . .”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “I think we’ve got a balance,” said the blonde technician. Her voice whispered out to every human on Elysium except for Don Slade. “We’re going to begin coupling in.” Her fingers played over the banks of rocker switches before her.

  “A little up in the thirties, I think,” said her bald companion. The blonde’s fingers replaced a nod. They touched controls and sharpened the color of the images forming in her mind, her companion’s mind, and in those of the other thirteen thousand Elysians with right-brain implants.

  The bald technician rubbed his temples. “Blessed Lord,” he grumbled. “That spike almost took the top off my skull. And just the mural, not something he’d been through himself.”

  “How’s this?” asked the blonde as the images firmed.

  “Perfect,” said her companion. He touched one of his own controls, minusculely changing the attitude of the hidden probe aimed at the back of Slade’s head.

  “I had the controls set down, just cracked enough to get a reading, I thought. Really.”

  “I’m not blaming you,” the bald technician said. He had closed his eyes. “I never knew an affect to peak like that either. I just hope the shunts catch the next spike the way they’re supposed to. Or—” he smiled, covering a wince of remembered pain— “our guest is going to be very surprised when his audience starts to scream just as he gets to the good part.”

  Then the two of them relaxed behind their instruments. With the ease of long experience, they let Don Slade’s words and the thoughts like sharks beneath those words hiss simultaneously through their own minds.

  “The ship on which I hired passage,” the speaker was saying, “had a lot of military types aboard. There’d been a lot of fighting on Friesland in the recent past. Hard-cases had signed on with one side or another. Now that things had settled down, they were leaving; and sometimes one step ahead of the White Mice, the authorities. Passes weren’t being checked very carefully. The Colonel—ah, President Hammer, the new executive, seemed to figure that it was as cheap to ship the trash out as it was to cull them and shoot them.

  “Or just shoot them, I guess—” A vivid image of bound figures collapsing against a shot-burned wall; a smile on the speaker’s face that matched the image much better than it did his merchant persona. “I hear that might’ve been discussed before a fellow named Pritchard, close to the President, put his foot down.”

  Elysium watched the men with the uniforms and bearing of military men who filled a small, tense room. Young men in battle-dress stood beside the door. The seated men had the age and rank. They were scowling, several of them ready to jump to their feet. Danny Pritchard in civilian clothes was clicking off, coldly as an abacus, the long-term effects of a present resort to terror.

  Don Slade was not a figure in his own vision. The scene was tinged red with suppressed violence. Beneath the physical details ran an awareness of the weight of Slade’s pistol holster and the smooth hardness of the mini-grenade concealed in his left hand. The big man was poised to clear the room if Hammer ordered his friend’s arrest.

  “I wasn’t too worried about the other passengers,” Slade was saying. His voice was a pleasant tenor, sharply at variance with the jagged images in his mind. It was always the striking memories that remained, of course. But what the subject found striking depended on the life that had brought him to them.

  “I’d turned all my, ah, wares to cash, and I figured to arrange a bank transfer when I got home to Tethys. The others aboard the ship, a tramp with just the registry number GAC 59, weren’t the sort of folks I’d have wanted to go to sleep with if I’d had anything worth stealing. But I didn’t, and they knew it, and I figured I could handle minor annoyances about as well as the next guy.” The smile again, and the great, scarred fingers of one hand caressing the knuckles of the other.

  “Thing is,” Don Slade continued, “there was one thing I had that the others turned out to want: my—trading experience, for the venture they were planning. . . .”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Nice of you to come see us, Slade,” said the leader of the men with their hair dyed blue.

  “Hello, Blackledge,” said Don Slade in a voice as cold as his expression. The tanker did not know why he had been called to the bridge. Likely it had something to do with the fact that the most recent Transit had been four hours ago, far too long for a normal computation.

  It did not concern Slade to find that there were four other passengers on the bridge, along with the normal trio of crewmen. What Slade disliked was the fact that the four were Reuben Blackledge and three of his henchmen from Aylmer’s Guards. That unit had been known for its members’ blue hair and the abnormal brutality with which it conducted its affairs. Hammer had proscribed the Guards as soon as he thought he could spare their manpower. Individual soldiers had shaved or redyed their hair. The smart ones found passage off Friesland while the going was good. It was a bad sign that the outlaws were sporting their old color. It was worse that they lounged on the bridge as if they now owned it.

  “Hey, hang loose, trooper,” Blackledge said, tense to his own surprise when the tanker looked at him. All four of the outlaws had guns. The detector at the bridge hatchway had shown that Slade was unarmed . . . but no one with hands and a mind like Mad Dog Slade was really unarmed. “Look,” Blackledge continued, “this isn’t any hijacking or anything like that, is it?”

  He looked around for support. His fellows nodded. They too had been shocked by the physical presence of the tank officer whom they had expected to overawe. The crewmen nodded also. Levine, the Captain, said, “These are hard times, Mister Slade. I have responsibilities, too, to do what’s best for my crew and my backers.”

  “There’s the matter of responsibility to your passengers, too, Levine,” Slade said. He walked over to the bulb of the navigational display which was now dark and empty. It looked like a harmless motion, because Slade’s back was to four of the Guards; but everyone on the bridge was now within reach of the tanker’s arms. “There’s three hundred of us who’ve paid to be hauled home on schedule and in order, right?”

  “Happens the rest of us,” said Blackledge, “want to change the schedule a little, Slade. Look—” his voice rose in nervous anger, though Blackledge was not a small man either— “it’s fine for you, the fares pay the cost of Transit and the ship makes its profit off odds and sods of cargo it picks up on the way. But there’s a lot of us aboard, your highness, people who spent their last sparkler to cheat the hangman one more time. You get off and transfer a fortune back into your pocket. But what d’ye think happens to most of us?”

  Slade turned slowly to face the outlaw leader. Well, he’d never really believed he was meant to die in bed, for all his determination a month ago that he would go home and live as quietly as a shore-side mussel.

  Blackledge’s face was suffused. In that state it was marred by a scattering of white, hair-thin scars. “I don’t suppose,” said Slade in a reasonable voice, “that you called me here to see if I’d split my pay—” he had more than that, but less than the fortune in loot that Aylmer’s Guards would have expected from someone with Slade’s opportunities—“with everybody at our first landfall.”

  If Blackledge said they did intend such extortion, it was going to get tense. Slade doubted that these blue-haired clowns had the subtlety that would be needed to actua
lly break Slade to their will; but he did not care to be around for them to practice on, either.

  “Naw, we don’t want your money,” the outlaw said. Slade relaxed, and the outlaws relaxed. The ship’s crewmen looked quizzical, but they did not realize how close they had been to a maelstrom of bodies and gunfire. Blackledge was trying to find an alternative to the bantering superiority with which he had opened the interview and to the frightened hostility into which his tones had degenerated. “We’re all mercs, right? We don’t rob each other.”

  Which was a lie, but one whose telling was an olive branch that Don Slade was willing to accept with a smile. “There’s a lot of us, you see,” the outlaw continued, “who didn’t figure on Hammer getting holier than thou once he’d shot his way into the presidency. We figure we’re owed something, and there’s plenty of places out there just waiting to pay us.”

  Places like Tethys, Slade thought as he nodded false approval. Places that hadn’t had an internal war since they were settled. Places whose emergency alert system was cobwebbed from disuse. The chances of this lot getting away with significant loot were slim, but Via! the damage they’d do before the locals mopped them up!

  Via. . . . If Slade grabbed the submachine gun of the nearest outlaw, he could empty it into the control panel before they stopped him. “I don’t know, though,” the big man said as if he were considering. “Three hundred effectives won’t give you much of a perimeter. I suppose everybody’s pretty well agreed on this, though?”

  Another man with scarcely a stubble to dye nodded furiously. It was Blackledge, however, who answered by saying, “This is just one ship of twenty-two, Slade. Isn’t that right?”

  “That’s right,” agreed Captain Levine with a bob of his head. “Ready and waiting. It’s hard to make it on unscheduled loads, stony hard. I owe it to my backers to take a chance when it offers. . . .”

  A chance to be slagged down with your rusty hull, the tanker thought. But he was accustomed to the ravening bite of powerguns, and to the short shrift they gave any but the most refractory armor. Levine did not have that experience; and the outlaws, who probably did understand, would not dwell aloud on the vulnerability of the chariots hauling them to fantasy loot.

  But it meant that whether or not GAC 59 survived, the raids were going to occur. Good soldiers have to be willing to die, but suicidal men have little purpose in a well-run army. They just leave you with another damned slot to train for. “Sounds like you’ve thought things through pretty well,” said Don Slade. “Now I’m just waiting for the other shoe to drop, hey?”

  “We want you to command us,” said Blackledge. He vomited out the words with a forward thrust of his head. The outlaw’s hair waved above his scarred, red face.

  Slade was genuinely surprised for the first time since he stepped onto the bridge. He jerked away from the words.

  “Look, I don’t mean we’d make you God,” Blackledge continued hastily. He gestured toward Slade with his left hand. “There’s a Ship’s Meeting, same as there’s a Fleet Meeting. You won’t have cop to do with that, it’s us that plan things. But after we hit ground, well—” The outlaw frowned across the company of his fellows. “Look, we’ve heard of you, you’re used to commanding things. Most of the other ships, they’ve got their own officers, they left as formed units. Us here don’t. We’re bits and pieces from twenty outfits, and nobody the rest’d listen to. We know we’re headed for some heavy traffic, Slade. You’re going the same place. If you’re smart, you’ll be willing to help steer for a triple share of the loot.”

  Slade began playing again with the navigation bulb. It gave him a look of aimless placidity. “Whatever happened to Aylmer?” he asked. “General Aylmer, I think he called himself, didn’t he?”

  One of Blackledge’s companions began to snicker. Blackledge hushed him with a punch on the shoulder and a molten glare. “Aylmer thought he’d make a deal for himself that’d leave some people hanging,” said the outlaw leader. “Some people got to know about that. I think they may’ve greased Aylmer before they bugged out themselves.”

  A stubble-haired outlaw broke the silence he had maintained until then. “It’s the same thing you’ve been at,” he said. His lips flicked saliva. “Only we don’t have tanks, is all. And don’t worry about what your buddies who stayed on Friesland with the cushy jobs might say. They knew about this. We kept it quiet as we could, but there’s no way a deal this big could have been put together without their high and mightinesses learning, was there?”

  “All right,” said Don Slade. His skin felt as though he were being crushed by an avalanche of needles. But choose Life, even when Life has a gun-stock. “It won’t work, because I don’t think any of your lot have the discipline to make it work. But I’ll give you as much leadership as you’re ready to take.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Slade was the first man through the cargo hatch, because there was no one else aboard he had trusted to lead the rush on the gun position. In fact, half a dozen of his thirty-man assault company were pounding across the rammed-earth field as more pirate freighters roared in to land and the personnel of Desireé Port reached for weapons they had forgotten.

  The field was defended by a pair of heavy powerguns on opposite sides of the perimeter. The ball-mounted weapons were hardened, but not to the point that Slade would not have preferred to take them out with bursts from a tribarrel. None of the ships in this rag-tag assemblage would admit to having more than small arms aboard, however.

  Levine had landed a full seventy-five meters from the gun Slade was to assault. The chill air and icy footing effectively doubled the distance that was already too long. Shots were being fired, some at random, some in the attack on the control tower that another vessel had been told off for. A bolt ripped a long gouge through the snow near Slade. One of the pirates following the tanker threw away a pistol and began to run back toward the ship.

  The door to the gun turret was flush-fitting and locked. One of the pirates fired at it from a meter away. Steel crashed and sprayed. The gunman howled as he danced back. He began swatting at the sparks that had ignited his tousled hair.

  “Back, Via!” Slade shouted. The oval gouges in the door surface were bright orange, but the lime core within still glowed white and smooth. Gimbals squealed above the attackers as the gun tube shifted from its vertical alignment. Slade wore a set of back-and-breast armor, too small for him and so joined along the right side with leather straps. The armor prodded him over the collarbone as he slapped the home-made limpet mine over the lock plate of the door. The tanker had a helmet but no commo. He was point-man, not commander, might they all burn in Hell!

  The gun fired above them. It was a sharp crack and a cone of heat that fanned across the snow. A pirate freighter, fifty meters up and settling on thrusters, collapsed inward around a cyan flash. The ship hit the field hard enough to bury half of itself before it blew up.

  “Fire in the hole!” Slade shouted into the ringing pandemonium. He was unreeling the four meters of wire between the battery pack and the blasting cap in the mine. That length should take him safely around the curve of the gun emplacement. “Fire in the hole! Fire in the hole!”

  Somebody in the Control Tower blew divots from the concrete to either side of Slade’s head. The tanker threw the switch, knowing that if he ducked he would be back in the blast cone. Two of the outlaws who had followed Slade did duck. They were hurled sideways as the mine blew in the door. Slade was through the gap while the smoke still roiled. His submachine gun hosed a long burst as if the bolts were a knotted cord dragging the big man into the gun emplacement.

  There were three men in civilian clothes within. One was on his back, unconscious. Two were screaming and frightened, with their hands rising even as the bolts savaged their torsos. . . .

  “But after we traded on Desireé, they decided to touch down on a place called Mandalay,” Don Slade said to the Elysian citizens before him.

  The castaway’s nails were ti
ght against his palms because of his memories of the raid. The initial butchery, and then the savage counter-attack which the locals were able to mount because no one would listen to Slade shouting they should cut and run before Desireé had time to organize. Looting and raping . . . and then, for many of the outlaws, dying. The universe was better for that result, of course.

  “I was against it,” Slade’s mouth said, “but all I could get was a delay for GAC 59. We held a light-minute out while the rest of the fleet landed.”

  “This is crazy!” Blackledge cried. He threw up his hands for emphasis. The outlaw was careful to speak toward the commo screen and not toward Don Slade who sat against a bulkhead on the edge of a plotting can. “There’s five thousand of us, that’s more’n in the whole settlement down there. They’re not going to ladle cop on us, even if we weren’t allies, like to say.”

  “The fact they’re a bunch of bandits and you—we’re a bunch of bandits,” said the black-haired tanker, “doesn’t make anybody allies. Besides—” He absently fingered the fresh scab on his biceps, a memento of concrete flying during the Desireé raid. “I could tell you stories about allies.”

  The main bridge screen was slaved to one of the exterior pick-ups on the flagship. An Awami League hasildar named Al Husad styled himself Fleet Admiral now. He was accepted as such in much the same way that Slade was a captain. Al Husad owed much of his position to hints that his vessel mounted ship-killing guns in one cargo bay. The Admiral had denied that loudly during planning for the Desireé attack; and Slade’s duties had not kept him too busy to see that the flagship landed on Desireé after both gun emplacements were in pirate hands.