The Fight for 221 KD
Part 5
The Fantomo-3 lay in its berth, vibrating lightly with the tokamak humming in its belly. The ship almost strained like a dog on its leash.
“Helm, report?”
“Provisional ship’s still running at three gs,” Helm said, a tinge of admiration in his voice. “Glad I’m not them. Gotta feel like human pancakes about now. The math says they have to turn around and start decel no later than fifteen minutes from now, or they overshoot.”
“Wish they’d fly right into this rock,” the commandant said. He punched in the bosun’s circuit. “Bosun, we loaded?”
“Almost,” Bosun answered from the belly of the Fantomo.
“Wrong answer. Who’s missing?”
“Rock-biter crewman and the prisoner, sir.”
“ … You’re joking.”
“I’ve been at the airlock nonstop for an hour, and not rock-biter nor skirt’s come through.”
The commandant rumbled dangerously. “Comms!”
“Aye, sir.”
“Station circuit.—Oi! Rock-biter! Where are you? Where’s my prisoner?”
Silence.
“I know you can hear me.”
Silence.
“I’m perfectly capable of standing off fifty kilometers and punching holes in your shoddy little repair station like a drill press. Do I speak plain?”
“Yes, Commandant.” The signal rattled scratchily and burred with echoes.
“Oh, you do have ears. Where are you?”
“Sorry, Commandant. I can’t accept a transfer.”
“You can and you will, my lad,” Commandant Neri said unpleasantly. “And I want that prisoner on my deck instanter. Thinking of keeping her for yourself? Those blue eyes got you by the heartstrings, lover? Well, that’s one kiss you aren’t getting. If we don’t kill you, the Provs will.”
“She’s not wanting to go back with you, sir.”
“Her wants aren’t in my calculations any more than yours. I want you both in the airlock in ten minutes, or I’m casting off and peeling this place apart like a pomegranate until I find you.”
“You have the time for all that, sir?”
The Commandant made a cutting gesture across his throat, and Comms dropped the line. “Exec?” he said.
The first officer blew out his breath with a woof. “Commandant, as pretty a bint as she is and as rabid a little traitor as he’s becoming—we need to stand off and now, sir. That Provs ship is going to decel any minute.”
“Where is he?”
“Somewhere on the station, sir. Turn it to shredded turnip if you like, sir, but I say we haul for Odysseus as of five minutes ago.”
“Dammit.” The Commander drummed his fingers on his chair arms. “That’s too pat.”
“He knows we don’t have time to search it.” The Exec’s voice grew more urgent. “And we don’t.”
“He knows, he knows.” Neri hemmed. “And if we say ‘Shag it all,’ and carve it up because we don’t need it and the war’s over. Then we kill something the last Provs ships might need, and we don’t need, and something he’s hiding on. So what’s he do then, if he’s sitting on it? He’s a dead man, and his bird’s dead too with him. He’s got to know that’s how that goes.”
“Then let’s hole it and go,” the Exec all but pled. “We’re limping, and that ship’s got three guns for each one we’ve got.”
“Bosun, close it up. Helm, disengage and fire up on my mark.”
“Thank you, Commandant,” the Exec sighed.
“Don’t thank me yet, Herilo,” the commandant said sweetly. “Our amateur comms man and odd jobs dock boy there is on a suit radio. He’s not in the station. Bosun!”
“Closed.”
“Helm!”
“Aye, sir!”
With a burst of attitude jets that rocked the docking arm, the Fantomo-3 drifted back two hundred meters and kept going.
“Helm, spots on and point them at the tank farm down there. Everybody, eyes! Our birds have flown, and they are on the surface of 221 KD. If I see them—” He stopped significantly. “Eyes all!”
Part 7