Explorer

  “Cameron,” Jase said.

  “Sir.”

  “Conduct this officer down to the lower decks. Let him inspect on crew and colony level. Let him satisfy himself of whatever questions he has.”

  “Yes, sir.” Eager and very glad to escape—that part was no act. He asked the agent who’d stopped him: “You want to come with me, sir?”

  There was a look passed among the Guild enforcers. The rifle was still a question, not quite put back to safety. A second look.

  “Stay in touch,” the senior officer said, and the man moved a step and touched the lift button.

  The lift car was waiting right on their level. The door opened immediately. Bren got in, hands occupied with his trays, and freed a finger for the button, heart crashing against his ribs. He had weapons: a straight-edged tray as well as the gun in his pocket, but the best two were his brain and the awareness of his own staff and Ginny’s. There were service accesses. His staff might move, and he wasn’t ready to have that happen. Jase wasn’t—or he’d surely have included five-deck in the proposed tour.

  The door shut. The Guild agent bulked close to Banichi’s width, given the body armor, the weapons, the equipment.

  Not quite as mentally quick, however. “Thought we were going down one,” the agent said.

  “Cap’n said tour you around the colony deck, sir. Figured you’d want to see that, where we got all the special rigging.”

  The agent wasn’t eager to admit he and his hadn’t a clue what rigging and what arrangements were, and it clearly wasn’t uncommon for Guild levels to keep truths from each other. If there was anything but a top level officer at the other end of the agent’s electronics, figure that that authority would still have to wonder if there were higher-up secrets to which their agents were inadvertently being exposed—he gave himself about thirty minutes of administrative confusion before someone conceivably asked far enough up the chain and got an order to take action.

  But the desire to see all they could see might well keep this fellow tame and following—that left three on the bridge, not four, and just that quarter less force gave Jase more breathing room up there.

  The lift door opened on a bone-cold, very dimly lit corridor.

  “What is this?”

  “Colony level, sir.” He was glad of the coat. Breath frosted. Rime formed on the edge of the door. “Just starting the warm-up.”

  “For what?”

  “Dunno, sir. Best I know, there’s guys you’re sending, and here’s space for ’em, and we’re going to save the day, I suppose, where we’re going. We got the stores—you want to tour the stores, sir?”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” The agent, breath hissing between his teeth, reached for the lift controls.

  Bren hit the order for two-deck. Fast and first. First number entered was the number, unless the user used an override, and the agent didn’t appear to have the key.

  “What’s on three?” The car moved.

  “More crew quarters, sir.” He still had the tray and the basket—and Jase’s picture—clutched against him.

  “You’re not damn bright, are you?”

  “No, sir,” Bren said cheerfully, as the lift doors opened on two.

  The agent looked disgusted. But this level was lighted, it was warm. The agent walked out and Bren walked to his right, tray clutched tight against him.

  “This nearest and straight ahead is medical, sir. Just this way is crew area.” Straight to the right, side corridor, a fair walk, two more corridors. Bangs and thumps came from the distance, cook’s operation. Bren felt his heart thumping while his brain sorted the corridors, the charts, the not-quite-perfect knowledge of what was where among all these unmarked doors.

  There was, for one thing, warm-storage here, for items various departments needed often and didn’t want frozen. There were cleaning closets. He earnestly wished he dared shove the man into one and lock the door.

  That firepower, however, might be adequate to blast right back through a door, and most of these doors were crew quarters. He wasn’t expert in firearms. He wasn’t sure. He wished he could contrive to ask Banichi and Jago that surreptitious question, but he didn’t know how to describe the rifle.

  So he walked, opened random section doors, a meandering tour of two-deck, while the agent held his rifle generally aimed at the walls and not at him.

  Elsewhere the lift operated.

  The man looked in that direction, as if things he saw just weren’t entirely adding up.

  And stopped. Wary. Listening to his electronics.

  “What’s the matter?” Bren asked.

  “Shut up,” the agent said. And aimed the gun at him while he went on listening.

  Bren had his hand on a door switch. Storeroom. He was ready, heart in mouth, to make a desperate maneuver and hope the door was adequate, if that was his only choice.

  “What’s that?” The agent motioned at that hand with the gun barrel.

  “Service closet, sir.” He punched it open to demonstrate the fact, and dropped the offending hand.

  “Don’t get smartass. Where’s life in this place?”

  “All these cabins. They’re still waiting in quarters. Ship’s rules when we dock, sir.”

  “What’s that?”

  There’d been a sound, a clank, a clatter. A cart, somewhere in motion not far away. “Oh, I imagine that would be galley, sir. The staff’s delivering food around. People got to eat, no matter if shift’s held over.” The storeroom door shut. Doors always did, left unattended. But the agent was jumpy. Very. The gun twitched that direction. And something in the Cameron bloodstream, some ancestral fool, suddenly just had to push when pushed. “Door’s automatic, sir. Watch your fingers.”

  “Where’s auxiliary ops?”

  “That’s on a ways aft, sir. We can go there when you like. But there’s more.”

  “Let’s go that way.”

  He obliged the man. They walked. They saw exactly nothing. They might go to the galley, Bren decided, lacking a plan, not sure how far or how long his staff was holding off, but absolutely certain they were being tracked. He could arrange a diversion, maybe get cook’s help to shove the fellow into a storeroom, his best amateur imagination of a solo heroic finish to this foolery.

  But the minute he made a move on this highly wired individual, conversely, and probably what Banichi and his staff was thinking, Jase would have to answer for that action upstairs, with all the others and all that delicate equipment up there—not to mention the communications links this team of enforcers presumably had to the station’s inner workings, where Sabin was also exposed to reprisals. Banichi and the rest might be maneuvering into position in the service accesses, for what he could guess—which was a cold, arduous business, getting between levels. But he wasn’t alone. He was sure he wasn’t alone, and that all the problems he could think of were being thought of: Banichi might have been deceived once about the sun and the stars, but the handling of an armed intrusion and a hostage situation was no mystery at all to him.

  The question here was who was hostage. Bren rather thought he wasn’t, that he, in fact, had this part of the problem in hand.

  So they walked. And walked. Bren rattled on about safety procedures, the most boring official tour information he could muster, a compendium of the orientation video tour the crew had put together for groundlings. He clutched the trays and the damning picture against him as they walked, and he toured the man up one hall and down the other for what felt like a gun-threatened eternity, telling himself he was gaining time for those who knew what they were doing to work matters out—possibly for Gin to communicate with Jase and coordinate actions.

  Meanwhile small rackets led their tour steadily toward the galley’s open door, where cook’s mates came and went. The armed approach drew an anxious look, but no one, thank God, reacted in panic.

  “Galley, sir,” Bren said brightly, the obvious, and led their tour inside, stopping just inside the door, where he set th
e tray and its load onto the nearest shelf and trusted no one to ask brightly what the picture was.

  The agent gave everyone the cold eye. A food truck wanted out the door. The agent stood there just long enough to be inconvenient, saying nothing, asking nothing, just looking. The agent moved and the innocent cart trundled past.

  “Want a soft drink?” Bren asked, pushing it way beyond bounds, at the same time cuing cook what part he was still playing. “Cup of tea, sir?” He asked himself in an afterthought whether the food menu and the planet-origin smells might give away to this man as much as Jase’s photo; but most anything could pass for synthetic, if the observer were predisposed to believe everything in the universe was synthetic. “Stuff’s real good.”

  “Not here for that,” the agent said, and walked out, shoving him aside in the process.

  “So what are you looking for?” Stupid question of the hour. Bren followed him. Got into the lead again. Without the damning tray.

  “Checking things out,” the agent said, and pointed at random. “Looking for answers. Open that door.”

  “It’s just a door, sir. It’s a cabin.”

  “Open it!”

  “Yes, sir,” Bren said, and politely pushed the entry-request, same as a groundling’s knock at the door.

  The door took its time opening. A couple of uniformed crewmen stood there looking confused. Alarmed, to have a stranger with a rifle standing in their cabin doorway.

  “This is Mr.—” Bren hesitated, trying to keep it social, ridiculous as it all felt, and he wasn’t sure what level of inanity might just be too much. “Didn’t catch the name, sir.”

  “Esan,” the agent said, giving the two occupants his long, flat stare.

  “Mr. Esan,” Bren amended the introduction, stupidly cheerful. “Mr. Esan, here, is giving the ship the once-over before we do the formalities. Captain Sabin’s on station doing whatever’s necessary. Captain Graham says I should just tour him around.”

  The two crewmen weren’t stupid. And in this corridor of all corridors they’d likely gotten cook’s warning and knew they were the lucky people to deal with a ticking bomb.

  “Glad to meet you,” one said, and moved forward to offer a hand.

  Esan flinched, oddly enough. Didn’t take the offered hand. Then did, as if the crewman were holding something objectionable . . . or contagious.

  Well, well, well.

  “Benham,” the crewman said, doggedly cheerful. “Roger Benham.” He indicated the second, younger man. “My cousin Dale. Welcome aboard, Mr. Esan. It’s good to meet somebody from Reunion.”

  “Hard voyage?” Esan asked.

  “Oh, average,” Benham said. “Glad to meet you. Esan. Aren’t any Esans aboard.”

  “We all took to station,” Esan said grimly, and walked out.

  Bren stayed with him. Kept cheerful. And stupid.

  “Much the same with the rest of this?” Esan asked—meaning the doors. Having found nothing subversive.

  “All the same,” Bren said. “Well, except the storerooms. We can go back there if you like.”

  “Bridge,” Esan said. He seemed to be listening to someone. Muttered a quiet, “Yeah,” to that someone at the other end.

  “Yes, sir,” Bren muttered, wondering at what time something might go very wrong upstairs and Officer Esan might simply level that rifle and shoot him without warning. The policy decision on this one was more than the dowager and Banichi and Cenedi: Sabin might start something, if she sent word; and Jase might, if he decided he had to move. And something up on the bridge had clearly changed.

  Suddenly.

  “Back to the lift,” Esan said.

  “Yes, sir,” Bren said, and led the way, beginning to think of the gun in his pocket, thinking if things had gone wrong up there he could prevent reinforcement—but getting his electronics up to that deck could give Banichi and Cenedi direct information about the situation. He sweated, trying to figure.

  The lift was quick in coming. He boarded with Esan, punched in the bridge, and kept bland cheerfulness on his face, stupidest man alive, yes, sir.

  Not a word. Esan was listening to something.

  “What’s going on?” he asked.

  “Meeting in the captain’s office,” Esan said.

  “Yes, sir,” he said, deciding not to shoot Esan through his coat pocket. A meeting. His heart settled marginally and he was ever so glad he’d gotten that picture out.

  The door opened, letting them back onto the bridge. “Captains’ offices are this way, sir.” He stuck like glue, his stupid, cheerful presence guiding the way.

  The bridge crew was still pretending to work. They drew stares. The tension was palpable as they walked the short distance from the lift area, past the bridge operations area, into the administrative corridor. Jase’s men were there, Kaplan and Polano, armed, that was worth noting. Armed, but outside, looking anxious while Jase was, evidently, inside.

  “Here’s where, sir,” Bren said, and Kaplan opened the door to let Esan in.

  Jase was secure behind his desk. Two of the investigators were sitting in chairs in front of it, one standing in the corner. Esan made four.

  “Mr. Esan, is it?” Jase rose and came around the corner of the desk, offering a hand. Esan confusedly reciprocated.

  Then Jase turned a scowl, aimed at Bren. “Mr. Cameron.”

  “Sir.”

  “Out!”

  No question. Bren ducked back for the door, fast as any offending fool.

  Jase stalked to the door in pursuit. “Cameron, you stupid son of a bitch! What the hell are you doing?”

  A bewildered investigator started to intervene. But Jase shoved Bren back hard, dived out after him, whirled and hit the door switch as the man tried to come out.

  The door shut. The investigator had skipped back: security doors meant business. Kaplan immediately hit lock.

  And that was, if not that, at least a significant improvement on the ship’s onboard situation.

  Bren let go his breath. Jase straightened his jacket.

  “Good job,” Bren said shakily, and in Ragi. “The intruders are now contained in Jase’s office, nadiin-ji.” He was astonished and relieved, quite astonished at himself, and Jase, and Jase’s team. He didn’t know what precisely what they were going to do about the morsel they’d just lodged in their collective gullet, but they’d defended the ship from capture. They’d won. Themselves. The human species had won one.

  Jase gave an approving glance to Kaplan and Polano: “Well done. Well done, gentlemen.” Pressman, the third of Jase’s men, appeared from a little down the corridor, out of Ogun’s office, with a rifle.

  “Any word coming from Sabin?” Bren asked.

  “No,” Jase said sharply. “Her signal’s quit. And these bastards aren’t getting off this ship until there is word.”

  Not good news. Not at all.

  “Everything all right down on crew level?” Jase asked.

  “Everything but third-shift crew stewing in their cabins.”

  “We’ll fix that,” Jase said, and led the way back into the bridge area, into the middle of the bridge. “Cousins,” Jase said to all and sundry on the bridge, “the problem is now contained. C1, kindly continue jamming any output or input from station. Then give me contact with my office, intercom image in my office to monitor thirty-two, with audio.”

  “Yessir.” C1 cheerfully punched buttons, and began the process.

  Jase picked up a handset and thumbed in a code. “Gentlemen.”

  Bren stood by, watching the monitor, on which one saw four armored station agents battering the office door with rifle butts—and asking himself how, if they had begun jamming, they were going to hear from Sabin at all.

  They would not, he feared.

  “Mr. Becker,” Jase said.

  Battering stopped. The group looked at the desk.

  “Our captain’s signal has ceased,” Jase said. “You are now jammed, gentlemen. Turn in all armament and electronics a
nd cooperate with Phoenix authority, and we’ll negotiate for your return to your own command. The same authority that established Reunion in the first place is now in charge of this station, and will be in charge, and I advise you not to disarrange my office, gentlemen, since I may be judging your case.”

  Bren earnestly wished he had a tap into what Jase received on his earpiece.

  “That’s all very well, gentlemen,” Jase said, “but you’re on our deck, this ship maintains its own rules, and I don’t give a damn about your local regulations. Turn over your weapons and peel out of the armor. To the skin. You’ve far exceeded your authority and my patience, and unless I get a direct countermand from the senior captain, not likely under current circumstances, the lot of you are under close arrest.”

  One man moved. Leveled a gun at the door and fired. The sound reached the corridor.

  Jase punched one more button. “Kaplan! Fire suppression, B4.”

  The view on screen clouded. Instantly.

  The intruders had, Bren recalled, masks among their body-armor. They surely had internal oxygen. They surely were going to use that resource, fast.

  “Gentlemen,” Jase said, “I’m going about other work. Advise me when you’re ready to comply with instructions. I know you’re on your own air. But we can keep the office in fire-suppression for the next century or so. And if you do succeed in breaching that door, gentlemen, be assured you’ll walk into worse. Would you like to negotiate at this point? Or do you want to be carried out after your air runs out? Because I’m prepared to hold out until the next century, but I don’t think you’ll last near that long.”

  Bren didn’t hear what the men answered. But Jase seemed grimly pleased.

  “C1,” he said, “take precautions, condition red.”

  There was an answering murmur from exhausted crew, all the while crew locked down, pulled down covering panels for the consoles, all calmly.

  Small under-console panels divulged weapons. The bridge crew armed itself, hand-weapons, a few heavier, to defend the ship’s heart and nerve center if it got to that. Jase might have read his captain’s training out of a rule book, but damn, Bren thought, he’d learned a few things on the planet, and he was ice calm.