Threshold

  As the ramp of Munin locked closed and atmosphere began to vent out, Hohenheim chuckled. "Yes, Mr. Fitzgerald, we are going to do exactly that. Because if you make any move to stop them, you will show me where you are. And then"—he braced himself against any backblast from the shuttle—"I will most certainly shoot you dead."

  * * *

  I can't bloody believe this. Fitzgerald saw the doors opening, and very nearly did try to make a dive for the manual cut-outs that would have forced the launch bay to close back up. If the Munin left without him, he'd only live another few hours on the dying Odin before being shot by Hohenheim, killed by a radiation overdose, or—oh, happy day!—making landfall as a meteor on Io.

  But Hohenheim had demonstrated the deadly accuracy of his microgravity firearms skill. Someone had slipped up on part of his background, obviously; the file Fitzgerald had on the general hadn't indicated anything like that kind of skill. While none of the other deaths appealed to him, even less did Fitzgerald like the idea of being shot down like a desperate dog leaping for something he knew he'd never reach. Better to die stalking each other than like that. Dignity mattered.

  And there were still some other angles possible. He'd heard the coordinates Hohenheim had given Horst. Although he knew the rudiments of handling the landing craft and had been given some basic training, Eberhart was a programmer and system engineer, not an experienced pilot. It would take him some time to get Munin under enough control to be able to dock with the right area of Odin to rescue the other refugees. If Fitzgerald could somehow get past the general, he could cut through the ship to get to the refugee area and once more pull the ancient but still effective hostage approach. And once he was on board, Hohenheim would either already be dead or be as good as dead.

  So he watched—not without considerable concern—as Munin lifted and drifted out the doors, which closed once the shuttle was well clear. Time to get things moving. And talking is always a good distractor.

  "Well, now, that was bloody brilliant, General Hohenheim. You've sentenced us both to death, and for what? A little overenthusiasm on my part in carrying out my orders? In trying to make sure we actually succeeded in our mission? Which, if I might remind you, was to find the treasure and get it for ourselves, not share it out to those who were already awash in wealth."

  Hohenheim sighed. "You see, that's the problem. I see now that it's always been the problem, Mr. Fitzgerald. You see everything about you in simple terms, no matter how complicated it really is. To you, this is about you doing one simple job—no matter what. I suppose it was Bitteschell who gave you your directives?"

  "He hired me. He set the general terms." Fitzgerald saw no reason any longer to dance about. Either he or Hohenheim or both would soon be dead anyway. "But the specific orders—not to mention the offer of a monster bonus—came from Osterhoudt at the ESDC."

  "Ah, that company's chief operations officer. That makes sense, now. I had been puzzled by the thought that Bitteschell had given such ruthless instructions. That's really not like him. But Osterhoudt does have such a reputation."

  Fitzgerald didn't really care what Hohenheim said; it was simply important that he be kept responding, because the more he focused on the conversation, the less he might focus on other things. As he got out one of the charges, Fitzgerald said: "I'm amused by your use of the term 'simple.' It might have been simple, if you hadn't kept making it harder. Though I have to give you credit, sir. That was impressive shooting you did. I wouldn't have expected it from a man in your position."

  "Even good intelligence usually misses things, especially when they don't seem important at the time. Fifteen years or so ago, when I was stationed in America for a while, I was friends with some people in their Special Forces. I spent considerable time learning something about small arms and their military uses. I was quite a marksman, in fact. Of course, using those skills in space poses its own challenges. But I have as many hours in space as any astronauts in the world except a handful of Americans and three Russians."

  That explained a bit. But there was a great deal of difference between being a marksman with small arms, even one trained by elite military forces, and being what Fitzgerald himself was. He eased himself along the support as slowly as he could. There were shadows here, and some cover, and he knew that Hohenheim still had to be in the cover of the doorway. If Hohenheim remembered that . . .

  His instincts warned him again, pulling him entirely around the loading arm as two more shots rang out in air that was just starting to return to the landing bay. Thank engineering for nicely redundant and independent support, at least. "Bloody hell!"

  "Yes, I remembered to try infrared sensing this time, Mr. Fitzgerald. A shame I didn't remember that earlier, but most of us are used to visible light. You stand out quite nicely. I can make out your glow even behind that support."

  I'll bet you can. Fitzgerald could see the shadowed infrared glow of General Hohenheim too, if he cared to risk a glimpse at the door. It was nice that sensor suites cut both ways. "And so we'll just be sittin' here for the next, what, day or so until we meet the friendly face of Io?"

  "Actually, Mr. Fitzgerald, I intend to leave that contemplation for you. I have another engagement." Dumbfounded, Richard heard the door open and then close.

  Understanding came immediately. That clever bastard. Hohenheim had realized the same thing that Fitzgerald just had. Fitzgerald had to get past the general, but the general didn't have to get past Fitzgerald. If he succeeded, of course, Hohenheim would have to take back that lovely melodramatic farewell, but Fitzgerald supposed he'd get over it. The general could always console himself with the fact that he'd left Fitzgerald here to die.

  On the other hand, the new situation meant that Hohenheim was also no longer an immediate threat. Richard dove straight down for the doorway, bringing boots finally back into solid floor contact and hitting the control. The door, however, did not open. He had rather expected that, of course; the general didn't want him leaving.

  But Hohenheim probably hadn't known exactly what Fitzgerald still had on him at the end. The one charge he'd selected before might not be quite enough, but adding a second one should do just fine. He set the timer and moved well away to the side. A moment later the shaped charges gave a dull bang, and the door blew to pieces.

  He restrained himself from going right through. Time was of the essence, but he didn't put it past Hohenheim to have waited for a few minutes to see if, in fact, Fitzgerald did have a quick solution to the locked door. The general might be sitting in ambush outside.

  Richard sidled up to the area and took out a small mirror—amazing how useful a polished piece of metal could be. He scanned the area carefully in the reflective surface and caught a faint shape in one of the now-black monitor screens on the wall.

  Hohenheim was there, all right. And obviously he knew Fitzgerald was coming out.

  Bloody hell.

  However, the general didn't know exactly when his opponent would come out, nor how. Hohenheim would have to react, while Fitzgerald would be acting. The problem was that there was a lot of straight corridor outside of this door.

  He could take a dive that would force a hand-to-hand confrontation if Hohenheim didn't get him instantly, but he remembered the general's unexpected strength. While Fitzgerald was not afraid of facing just about anyone in a mano-a-mano confrontation, Hohenheim was in surprisingly good condition for a commanding officer, and he outweighed Richard by many kilograms. It was always possible that he'd gotten some training in hand-to-hand combat from his special forces friends, too. Quality generally outweighed quantity, but, as others often said, quantity had a quality all its own. While he was undoubtedly a more skilled fighter than the general, Richard saw no reason to test whether or not his extra skill would outweigh the general's superior size and possibly superior strength.

  But he did know where Hohenheim was. Which meant . . .

  Seconds later, a body dove headlong from the doorway. General Hohenheim fire
d twice, hitting both times, before it registered on him that the body had been flying oddly limp to begin with. But by that point, Richard Fitzgerald had already gotten a good bead on him from his position at the bottom of the doorway and shot twice.

  The angle was bad, though. Richard would have preferred to do this standing, but that would have exposed him too much. The two bullets ricocheted from the carbonan suit, one very narrowly missing the faceplate, sending the general tumbling. That did, however, give Richard the opening to get out of the launch bay.

  He continued to shield his escape by shoving Feeney's body down after the general. Another bullet whined by him, and another, but by then he was to the end, and through! His security override code locked down that door. For the moment, he was safe.

  And, now that he thought about it, the situation was better than he'd realized. General Hohenheim had guessed Fitzgerald had remembered the location of the others, figured out his plan, and had set himself up on the other side of the corridor from the direction that led there, figuring that Fitzgerald would be heading in that direction and thus leave his back exposed.

  So, he'd outthought himself. Now Richard was already heading in the direction he needed to be, and Hohenheim was the one who'd have to take the long way around—if there was a safe way around at all.

  The Odin was still partially intact, but the combination of damage and the fact that nothing had been done to neutralize her spin before the disaster meant that she was still turning. With pieces now no longer connected as they were supposed to be, the giant ship was wobbling on her axis, stressing components in ways they were never meant to be stressed. Things were getting worse, and Richard had to move quickly. By now, Eberhart would have gotten his craft under control, and he only had to make one stop.

  Richard swiftly made his way along the corridors. He knew what route the general must have taken; there were only so many ways to get where they were going. Momentarily there was a flicker of connectivity, and he was able to get a partial outside report.

  There's Munin! Not where she's going yet. Good, good. I have more than enough time.

  He opened the next door, leading to the radial corridor up to the hab ring—and his radiation alarm screamed. Reflexively, he slapped the door shut and backed off.

  Shield failed . . . That would cover the whole radial.

  His suit would reduce the dosages, but at this range from Jupiter and Io, even inside Odin, he wouldn't have that much time. Normal radiation flux inside this region was over thirty-six hundred rem per day, and right now the sensors had been measuring doses of almost twice that, which meant that half an hour's exposure would start making you sick, and a few hours would make you a dead man.

  He'd gotten a quick glimpse up the radial before the door closed, and there was no possibility of making it up in time. It would be a thousand-foot crawl through a tangle of wreckage which could shift and fall at any time. But there might still be a way. There were a couple of maintenance access shafts that provided a shortcut through parts of the main hull, and one of them was just a little ways back the way he had come. He could move over to the next section through that, and then go up to the hab ring where Eberhart would be trying to dock.

  He backtracked, found the access tunnel, and wormed his way in. It was a tight fit in the suit, but he could make it. Another hundred feet and he'd be clear.

  Even as he thought that, the Odin quivered again, and something snap-crunched behind him. Simultaneously, radiation alarms began and an automatic cutoff door slammed down only twenty feet behind. Still, his suit would protect him easily for the next hundred feet, and once he was past this section the other would, hopefully, be shielded.

  It was darker up ahead than he'd expected; he should be seeing light coming from the central corridor. He had to hurry. The dosage meter was slowly moving. That wasn't an immediate concern yet—wouldn't be for at least a half hour, actually—but he didn't like any exposure. Richard didn't fancy coming down with cancer eventually, assuming he survived all this.

  As he continued, it became clear that something was blocking his path. He shone a suit light at it, and realized it was a body. He felt his lips stretch in an ironic smile as he realized it wasn't just a body. It was a body he had put there himself—that of the technician, Erin Peltier.

  Peltier hadn't been dead when he left her, but she was dead now. That much was obvious by the fact that there was no air left in this section of the tunnel. Something, probably one or more of the armor-piercing pellets, had punched a hole through a nearby area of the hull.

  Too bad for the technician, of course. Fitzgerald hadn't intended to kill her—but it was of no major concern to him, either. What was of concern was that her body blocked his exit and, in vacuum, had swelled and securely wedged itself into the tunnel.

  Since she was already dead, however, there was no need for delicacy. A quick set of efforts showed that he couldn't budge her by hand, especially without any weight or leverage. But he still had what was left of Johnson's kit. Explosives . . . Richard sometimes thought there were no problems they couldn't solve.

  He squirmed backward and made sure he covered his head as well as possible. The detonation slammed into him through the floor and walls. Doing his best not to dwell upon the nature of the mess all over, he was able to shove past the remains and come out into the central corridor, back behind still-operating shielding.

  Only to find that another sealed door was cutting off access to the central corridor, one that had been concealed by the dead woman's body.

  Bloody brilliant. Of course there would be. No decompression of the central corridor would go unsealed.

  He was running out of explosives, but there should be enough for this last door. He'd just have to hope there were no more obstructions.

  He felt, rather than heard, cracking and groaning noises from around him. Whole bloody ship's coming apart soon. A blast shook the maintenance corridor, and he started moving forward immediately. Air whistled past him now, and abruptly everything spun around him, accompanied by screeching, shattering sounds in the thin atmosphere.

  Weakened by impacts, stress, and two successive nearby explosions, a section of the main hull suddenly blew out under the return of air pressure. Richard Fitzgerald was hurled outward from Odin, scrabbling desperately to catch hold of a cable, a support stay, anything. Something loomed up and struck him a heavy blow; he blacked out.

  When he came to, he realized he was falling, falling through space. The jets on his suit managed to stabilize his spin, and he looked around.

  Jupiter loomed over him, enormous, its roiling surface filled with storms beyond imagining. In one direction, receding slowly but surely into the distance, lay Odin. Ahead, a small dot of yellow-orange waited. That would be Io. He couldn't see it growing slowly yet, but he knew it would soon enough.

  Richard quickly checked the fuel remaining for his jets. Not enough to return to the Odin. Not nearly enough.

  He sighed. It was over, then. All hope, all struggle, all effort. All life. Done, over, finished. He was a dead man.

  So be it. Oddly, perhaps, he had not lost any of his equanimity. He'd been a lot more depressed on his fortieth birthday, actually.

  Besides, there was still time for sightseeing. He'd visited the Grand Canyon once and found himself getting bored after gazing upon the magnificent vista for an hour or so. He wondered how long Jupiter would keep its interest.

  Considerably longer, as it turned out. The Grand Canyon had been created by the infinitesimally slow forces of erosion. The thing was grand, certainly, but also static. You saw one part of it, for a while, and you'd pretty much seen it all.

  Jupiter, though . . . The giant planet was alive. Richard found it fascinating, the way those immense storms worked their way across the face of the great globe.

  Chapter 42

  MUNIN

  Hohenheim stared in frustrated chagrin at the locked door. He'd been outwitted on his own ship.

  But it s
hould not be a surprise, really. This sort of operation was Fitzgerald's specialty. Perhaps Hohenheim should not have delayed, but simply gone on ahead. Yes, Fitzgerald would have been in pursuit, but perhaps it would have worked out better.

  Enough recriminations. He would have to try to work his way around and intercept Fitzgerald, though it seemed unlikely he could catch up unless something slowed his former security chief down. Still, there were many things that might happen. And his presence here did give him one advantage.

  That advantage, was that Hohenheim knew that the way in the other direction—which led toward Engineering—was passable. Or had just recently been, at least. If he could make it there, he could take the central corridor straight to the radials.

  "Passable" was, of course, a relative term. It turned out that Fitzgerald and his party must have had to squirm past a number of obstacles, which now slowed Hohenheim's progress considerably. With every passing moment, he grew less optimistic about catching up with either Horst or Fitzgerald.

  Abruptly he emerged into the main engine room. Despite the damage done to the rest of the ship, this area looked deceptively intact. The armor, water, and other bunkerage around the reactors, as well as the angle from the explosion, had combined to protect it. Only the huge number of red telltales and alerts gave away how very little of Odin was still functional.

  However, all the general cared about at this moment was the central corridor. Engineering, of course, had a direct passageway straight to the central corridor, which he followed. But just as he opened the door, new alarms screamed through his mortally wounded ship, and the door resealed itself against a sudden decompression. Something had blown out the side of the main hull somewhere.

  He would have sat down heavily, had there been gravity, for he knew now it was hopeless. If Fitzgerald had followed the right path, and nothing had changed along the way, he would already be where the final survivors were. Perhaps Horst would have picked them up by then, or perhaps not; but whatever was passing there was now beyond the general's ability to influence.