Boundary 2: Threshold (38 page)

And now he is fully armed, and I have one gun,
Hohenheim thought grimly as he pulled himself back into the doorway from which he had entered. He gestured savagely to Mia, who had frozen and tried to drop to the ground—a gesture which had ended with her floating mostly motionless near the boarding ramp. "Get on board
immediately
." As she moved to comply, Hohenheim continued: "Once she is on board, Mr. Eberhardt, you will close the hatch."

"Sir?" There was concern in the young engineer's voice. "Are you not coming on board?"

"No, Mr. Eberhart. I doubt if Fitzgerald is less of a marksman than myself, and in order for me to reach the ramp I must cross a considerable empty space. He will have an excellent field of fire and cover, while I would have to give up all cover in order to board.

"On the other hand,
you
must get out of here immediately for two reasons. Firstly, because if you go to these coordinates"—he transmitted a location on the wreck of
Odin
—"you will find a few more survivors whose time is running out. And secondly, because if I do not keep Mr. Fitzgerald busy"—he suited actions to words by firing two shots in the general direction of the renegade security chief—"he will almost certainly find a way to disable or control the launching mechanisms, and then no one will leave here unless he allows it."

"Only . . . a few survivors?"

"Five, when I left. One was . . . not well. I believe there are no others left that we could reach in time. The radiation shielding was badly damaged in most areas, in addition to the general decompression damage and the many people killed or injured directly by projectiles. I am afraid that even if there are people left alive currently, other than in the location I gave you—which is still shielded—they are simply breathing dead."

"Dear God. I had forgotten about the radiation hazard."

"As did I, at first, until my radiation alarm went off when I tried to enter one of the cross corridors. We are being reminded again, and now as savagely as possible, how deadly the environment is so close to Jupiter. Now go, pick them up. You are no pilot. It will take you some time to master the controls and reach that location, and we have no time to waste."

"But, General—"

"
That is a direct order,
Mr. Eberhart. Get yourself and the remainder of my crew to safety."

"Are you insane?" Fitzgerald finally burst out. "
Munin
can handle at least ten people! There's plenty of room for both of us!"

He could not make out the former Irish mercenary, but looked in the direction of the outraged voice. "Mr. Fitzgerald, there is no room on any ship under my command for a mutineer, a traitor, and a murderer, and you are all three. While I live,
Odin
and
Munin
remain under my command. And since I sincerely doubt that you are ready to nobly allow me to board
Munin
and go down with my ship in expiation for your crimes"—Hohenheim carefully inserted another magazine into his weapon—"it appears that we are about to play out the final act of a melodrama. Carry out your orders, Mr. Eberhardt."

After a moment's pause, Eberhart replied. His voice was strained and thick. "Yes, General."

"Good luck, Horst, Anthony, Mia. It has been an honor having you on my crew."

"It's been an honor to serve under you, sir," Anthony said quietly. The noises in the background indicated that perhaps the others simply could not speak.

"Not so honorable as I might have been, I'm afraid. Please tender my apologies to the
Nebula Storm
and, when the time comes, to my superiors. I accept all the responsibility for the mission's failure. I am now carrying out my final duty as the captain of this vessel." He triggered the airlock, which shut behind him and Fitzgerald. "Launch, Mr. Eberhart."

Fitzgerald's angry voice came again. "So, we're both going to just bloody sit here and watch the only hope we've got
fly away?
"

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 fired 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.