Starship Alexander (18 page)

There was no good way to tell the sailor to keep his mouth shut. She nodded to him instead, and he closed the door behind her as she walked away.

I haven't made a decision. I'm just being proactive. Preparing myself for whatever might happen. I haven't done a single thing wrong. I haven't crossed any lines.

The gun seemed unnaturally heavy as she squared her shoulders and headed for the bridge.

"Why are we blowing up the Gate, Chief? Don't we want to go home?"

Lieutenant Tony DiMarco shot an irritated glance at the cadet who knelt across from him on the other side of the missile. Higgins was an earnest young man who tended to ask interesting, challenging questions about missiles and how they were targeted. He had a knack for looking at things in bizarre ways, and he'd already provided DiMarco with some real insights. DiMarco wasn't sure he could have fixed the targeting system in his hands without the kid's endless, unexpected questions.

However, not every question was insightful or relevant. "That's not our decision, Higgins. The captain makes the tough calls. We just carry out his orders."

"But what if he's wrong?" the cadet persisted.

DiMarco sighed. "First of all, he has access to far more information than we do." He patted the casing on the missile. "Any time there's a disagreement about missile function, we're probably right. When it's a disagreement about big-picture stuff, my money's on the captain." Higgins opened his mouth, but DiMarco spoke over him. "Second, I've served under Captain Hammett for ten years, and I've heard a few stories about his record during the war. He makes good decisions. If he says to nuke the Gate, then the Gate damned well needs nuking."

Higgins looked at the third member of their little team. "What do you think, Shira?"

Shira Mbeki had been a computer consultant on Freedom Station. Her specialty was helping clients recover from disastrous hardware and software failures, and DiMarco found her completely indispensable. She grinned at Higgins. "Setting aside the fact that my opinion is irrelevant, I would have to say that I don't have enough information to contradict the captain."

Higgins said, "But what if he—"

"Help me with this," DiMarco interrupted, lifting the targeting assembly into the nose of the missile. Higgins immediately stopped arguing, leaning forward and moving connecting rods into place while DiMarco held the assembly still.

They were done in a minute or two, and DiMarco stood, knuckling his lower back as Higgins put the outside cover in place. DiMarco walked over to the telephone station on the wall and lifted the handset. "Missile bay to bridge." He listened for a moment, then frowned. "The phone is dead."

Higgins looked up, his face alight with interest. No technical problem was too big or too small to fascinate him. DiMarco thought the destruction of so many ship's systems by the enemy's mystery weapon might have been the high point of the young man's life.

"Forget it," DiMarco said with a grin. "You don't get to fix the telephone. You get to run up to the bridge with a report." The cadet's face fell, and DiMarco chuckled.

A distant boom echoed through the corridor, and DiMarco looked around, puzzled. "That sounded almost like an explosion." He looked at Shira. She was staring at the hatch, her body strangely tense. He said, "What is it, Shira?"

Metal clicked against metal and the hatch popped open, the panel sliding back several centimeters. A couple of hands grabbed the edge of the hatch, sliding it farther open.

Shira cursed and lunged forward. Her hand slapped down on the fat red emergency button beside the hatch. The door started sliding shut, and a man shoved a burly forearm in the way. The hatch pinched his arm against the frame, and he cursed. Then he tugged his arm free, grabbed the edge of the hatch with both hands, and heaved.

Shira pried at his fingers, and one hand popped free. She grabbed at the other hand, and the first hand returned. DiMarco could hear the man grunting with effort, and he started toward the hatch.

A woman's face appeared in the gap. She had wild blonde hair, and the single eye that peered into the compartment looked feverish, almost demented. She snaked a hand through the opening and aimed a pistol blindly at Shira. Shira had her head down as she struggled with the man's fingers, and the pistol lined up unerringly with the top of her skull.

Time seemed to slow down. DiMarco was running in slow motion, knowing he would be far too late. He could see the skin over the woman's knuckle moving, turning white as she squeezed.

At the last possible instant Shira looked up, then flinched aside. The gun fired, the noise like a hammer blow against DiMarco's ears, and blood sprayed red from the side of Shira's head. Bone gleamed white for just an instant, and then she collapsed.

The man heaved, the hatch slid open a hand span or more, and then DiMarco's foot slammed into the back of the woman's hand. He distinctly heard the crackle of small bones breaking, before all sound was drowned out by her scream. The force of his kick drove her hand into the side of her face, and he felt a satisfying impact that jarred him all the way up to his hip. The barrel of the pistol hit the hatch, and the gun went clattering across the deck plates.

DiMarco had a quick glimpse of the corridor. It was jammed with people. He pulled his foot back and stood. The hatch was a lost cause. He whirled, scanning the missile room.

Higgins stood beside the missile, eyes wide, his jaw hanging slack. DiMarco reached him in four running steps. "Come on!" He grabbed a handful of the cadet's uniform and hauled him across the bay.

Behind him he heard grunts of effort and a low mechanical hiss as the invaders shoved the hatch open. Then came excited voices and the thump of feet as people poured into the missile bay.

He didn't look back.

Higgins, recovered now from his momentary paralysis, ran beside him. He was young and terrified, and he was a couple of paces ahead of DiMarco by the time they reached their only possible destination: a low hatchway at the far end of the room. Higgins smacked the access panel and the hatch slid open.

"Stop them!" The excited slap of feet told DiMarco that pursuit was coming. Someone shouted, "Get out of the way! You're blocking my shot."

Higgins ducked through the hatch, and DiMarco threw himself after the cadet. He landed hard on one shoulder, grunted as his skull banged against the deck plates, and rolled up onto his knees.

Higgins, though, was already in action. He hit a button, the hatch slid shut, and he pried open the emergency panel beside the hatch controls. The panel popped open, Higgins shoved a hand into the cavity behind it, and the hatch started to open.

The hatch froze, open no more than the width of a man's fist. The muscles of Higgins's back moved as he twisted on an invisible handle, and the hatch began to slide shut.

Someone grabbed the edge of the hatch from outside, a man with thick, muscular fingers. DiMarco rose to his feet, thinking of Shira. Fury and terror filled him, and he screamed as he lifted his foot and drove his heel with all of his strength at those fingers.

His boot hit the hatch, the fingers vanished, and a scream echoed through the compartment. There was a moment of silence as the man took a breath, then another scream that was suddenly muted as Higgins finished closing the hatch.

"It's locked," said Higgins. "Or as good as. The automatic controls don't work once you've started turning the manual control." He was resting on one knee, and he drew his hands out of the little opening, flexing his fingers and rotating his shoulders. "They could open the hatch from their side, though, and turn the same handle. We could try to hold it from our side, but … They have guns."

"Maybe they'll think of it," DiMarco said. "Maybe they won't." He was panting from exertion and adrenalin. He made himself take a couple of slow, deep breaths, and then he looked around.

They were in the auxiliary storage room, used for extra guidance chips or other useful parts. The room also contained several toolkits, left there by DiMarco himself. He hated having to run to Engineering for a wrench or a laser cutter. He found the biggest tool box, opened the lid, and started to rummage.

"What are we going to do, Chief?"

DiMarco straightened up, a large hammer in his hand. He wished he'd had it when those fingers had grabbed the edge of the hatch. "First, we sound General Quarters." He stepped forward and swung at the hatch, and Higgins flinched back. Six times the hammer crashed against the steel panel, and by the end of it Higgins had both hands pressed to his ears.

"Next," DiMarco said, then paused. He couldn't hear his own voice. He set the hammer down and waited for a moment. When the worst of the ringing was gone from his ears he said, "Next, we find another way out of here."

"Another way?" Higgins looked around the rather small chamber. "There
is
no other way out."

DiMarco favoured him with a grim smile. "We're engineers. We don't let other people's design mistakes stand in our way." He shoved a toolkit toward Higgins and gestured at the back bulkhead. "Let's get to work. We're going to make a new hatch."

The
Alexander
popped out of a temporary wormhole into normal space less than a hundred thousand kilometers from the night side of the planet New Avalon. As reports came in from various observation stations he felt some of his tension ease. It was a nearly perfect jump, putting the bulk of the planet between the
Alexander
and the enemy ships that surround the Gate. "Good work," he told Cartwright. "Ease us into a nice slow orbit around the planet. I want the engines cold by the time we have line of sight on the target."

Cartwright nodded and lifted a handset. She spoke, frowned, and shook the handset. She wiggled the wires where they connected to the bottom, then held the handset to her ear and said "Hello?"

A voice said, "Um." Hammett looked at the line of cadets manning telephones along the starboard bulkhead. Cadet Wilkins met his gaze and said, "My phone just died."

The cadet beside him picked up her handset and listened. "Mine's dead too."

"I think it's all of us," said the cadet at the end of the line.

Beside him Cadet Nakatomi spoke into her handset." Bridge to port lounge. Do you copy?" She listened for a moment. "Thank you." She lowered the phone. "My phone is fine." She frowned and looked down, then lifted the handset. "Port lounge? Are you still there?" She looked up and shook her head.

"Runner," Hammett said. There were only two, a cadet and a civilian girl who couldn't have been more than twelve. She stepped forward, looking nervous and excited. The strip of tape on the front of her shirt said "Smith".

Hammett said, "I need you to find Peter Breckenridge and tell him the bridge telephones are down."

She bobbed her head. "Yes, Sir. Where is he?"

"I have no idea. Go to the forward telephone hub first. See if the phones there are working. Don't come back and tell me. I don't care. Tell Breckenridge."

Smith looked alarmed, but she gave him a crisp salute, then whirled and ran from the bridge.

Carruthers said softly, "This is not a good time for technical problems."

"No. Maybe—"

A distant metallic clang interrupted him. He went silent, counting. Six clangs in total rang out, and he stared at Carruthers. "Who the hell is sounding General Quarters?" Before the man could answer he said, "Never mind. Who has a working phone? Anybody?" The sailor at the weapons station raised her hand, and Hammett hurried over to her. He grabbed the phone from her and barked, "Who's this?"

"Janice Ling," said a wary voice.

There was no time for pleasantries, not if the half-formed worm of fear squirming in his guts had any basis in fact. "I need you to get to the shuttle bay. Don't let anyone stop you, either. Find al Faisal and tell him to launch the
Falcon
. He has to destroy the Gate. Then find yourself a quiet closet and lock yourself in."

She was silent for several long seconds. Then she said, "Got it," and he heard a thud as she set the handset down. He heard the distant thump of her feet, receding with distance. By the sound of it she was running.

Then silence.

Hammett handed his phone to the sailor and pointed to the line of cadets along the wall. "All of you are runners now. Get to the engine room, the missile bay, and the weapons locker. Tell them we may be under attack."

Carruthers said, "Under attack? By who?"

"Either we've been boarded by the enemy, or it's mutiny."
Or it's a mechanical failure and someone dropped six wrenches, in which case I'll be quite embarrassed shortly.
He gestured at the cadets. "Go!"

Five of them surged forward, moving as one.

Wilkins, in the lead, was a couple of paces from the bridge hatchway when a crowd came surging in. Cadets stumbled to a halt, Wilkins staggering into a slim figure in dark pinstripes at the head of the arriving mob. There was a burst of light, a smell of ozone, and Wilkins flew back, his arms and legs spasming. He landed on his back on the deckplates, his limbs twitching, froth coating his lips.

Hornbeck stood in the entrance, a stunner in his hand. He looked down at Wilkins, then lifted his gaze and locked eyes with Hammett. The stunner zeroed in on the center of Hammett's chest, the barrel never wavering as Hornbeck stepped onto the bridge. Men and women crowded in behind him, seven of them in total, civilians armed with kitchen knives and improvised clubs.

Hammett said, "How many times do I need to throw you off my bridge?"

"I regret the necessity of violence," Hornbeck said, his voice cold and steady. "But it's indeed necessary. All that's left to be seen is just how much violence will be required." He came to a stop in front of Hammett. "That part is up to you." He raised his voice. "There's no point in resisting! All of you need to understand that. Wyatt's team has taken the weapons locker and missile bay by now. You can't destroy the Gate, and you can't retake the ship. Do as I tell you and we'll all be home in a couple of days."

"Are you in such a hurry to hang?" Hammett murmured.

Hornbeck didn't answer, just stared at him, chin thrust out. They stood face to face, Hornbeck just out of arm's reach. Hammett thought of going for the stunner, and estimated his chances at about fifty percent. Hornbeck's followers were moving around the bridge, spreading themselves out. Hammett counted three knives. If he made his move, there would be a bloodbath. Still, nine trained Navy personnel would prevail against eight civilians, weapons or no weapons. He took a deep breath and bent his legs, ever so slightly.

There was movement over Hornbeck's shoulder, and Hammett felt a surge of hope. Velasco walked onto the bridge, stepping lightly, her feet silent on the deck plates. She held a gun in her hand.

"Now!" The cry came from Carruthers, and he sprang as he shouted, tackling a burly man with a knife and knocking him sprawling. Hornbeck's head turned, and Hammett stepped forward. His left hand slapped the stunner aside as his right fist slammed into the side of Hornbeck's face. The little administrator flew back, landing on the deck beside the captain's chair. The stunner bounced once and came to a stop at Velasco's feet.

Something moved in the corner of Hammett's eye, he started to duck, and a club made from a table leg grazed the back of his skull. He saw stars, and hurled himself at his attacker before the man could swing again. His shoulder hit a man's chest, strong arms wrapped themselves around him, and he strained against the man, looking over his shoulder at Velasco.

She stooped, picked up the stunner, and straightened. For a moment she stood there with a gun in each hand. Then she took careful aim with the stunner and fired.

Hammett didn't see where the shot hit, but he heard Carruthers cry out.

Velasco turned. Just inside the hatchway a pair of cadets had a civilian woman by both arms. A cadet lifted his knee, striking the woman's wrist, and a knife dropped from her fingers. Velasco fired twice, and both cadets fell, leaving the woman standing there, arms out, with a look of comical astonishment on her face.

Struggling figures went still all over the bridge. Velasco, her face expressionless, scanned the room. Nakatomi knelt by the weapons station, a deep slash on her forearm dripping blood. She glared up at Velasco, then lowered a thick-bladed carving knife and set it on the deck beside the curled-up body of a fat man in a white suit. The suit was liberally splashed with blood, hers and his own. He had both hands pressed to his face, and blood welled between his fingers and pooled under his head.

Hornbeck rose unsteadily, holding a hand to the side of his face. Velasco handed him the stunner, then extended the pistol and took it in a two-handed grip. She pointed the gun at the center of Hammett's body and said, "That's enough."

Hammett looked at the man he was struggling with. "I think she means you."

The man snorted and let go of Hammett, stepping back quickly. Hammett turned to face Velasco. He felt no fear, just a weary frustration. The other mutineers drew back from the crew, edging in closer to their leaders. Velasco said, "All of you. In that corner. Move!"

A sailor named Vincenzo was on his knees beside Nakatomi. He stood, his hands completely covered in blood, and said, "I'm getting the med kit."

He started walking across the bridge, and a mutineer stepped into his path, knife in hand. "She said—"

"Don't make me shove that knife up your ass." Vincenzo didn't wait for the man to reply, just stepped around him and opened a wall panel marked with a red cross. He lifted out a plastic case and carried it to Nakatomi.

As he knelt beside her, the mutineer tried again. "Treat Hutchins first." He gestured at the man in the white suit.

Vincenzo didn't even look up. He took several items from the med kit, then shoved the kit in the direction of the bleeding man. The mutineer with the knife took a step forward, and Velasco said, "Leave it. The rest of you, in the corner." She looked at Hammett. "You too, Hammett."

Hammett said softly, "What are you doing, Velasco?"

"It's simple. I'm taking command."