Starship Alexander (20 page)

"Tell me how the bloody engines work." Peter Wyatt loomed over Susan Rani, doing his best to intimidate her. She had confronted him, bristling with indignation, when he had stormed into the engine room with a dozen mutineers on his heels. One of Wyatt's men had backhanded her across the face. Her lip was puffed out to twice its normal thickness, and she had a trickle of blood on her chin. Just looking at her made Wyatt feel ill.

Now he was trying to frighten her, which was much worse. Even worse than that, it wasn't working.

"Shoot me," she said.

He looked at the gun that dangled in his right hand, carefully pointed at the deck plates. He knew he could never use it. He couldn't even bring himself to threaten her with it. Instead he gestured at the four cadets and two sailors who knelt along the aft bulkhead. "Maybe I'll start shooting cadets," he said.

Her eyes drilled into him, and he squirmed at the contempt he saw there. "Go ahead," she said. "Bloody cadets. I never liked them." She glanced at the line of prisoners. "Do me a favor and start with the gangly kid with the big ears."

There were two cadets that might have fit the description, and they looked at one another, alarmed.

"I'm trying to take the ship home," Wyatt said. "Why can't you see that?"

"We'll go home when our job is done. That's how it works." She looked him up and down. "You don't like it, I'm sure we can drop you off back at your station on Kukulcan."

Wyatt scowled, not liking the reminder that these people he was terrorizing had rescued him. He stuffed the gun in the back of his waistband, afraid he would clench his fists and shoot himself in the foot. He hated the bloody pistol. It was a disaster waiting to happen.

"Give me five minutes with her." The speaker was Digby, a burly man with an unhealthy smile and hair the color of a safety poster. Most of the mutineers were alarmed by the enormity of what they were doing, but bleakly determined to do what they must. Digby seemed to be loving every minute of it. He had a pistol, and when he wasn't pointing it at someone he would fondle it and stroke it. He looked at Susan Rani now, and his eyes glittered.

"Forget it." Digby frowned, and Wyatt said, "Take a couple of men and scout the corridor. There'll be a counterattack sooner or later. I want to know about it before they storm in here." When the man gave him a stubborn look, Wyatt said, "Go on. Maybe you'll get to shoot somebody."

Or maybe somebody will shoot you, and all of us will be better off.

Digby gestured to a couple of other men, bullies cut from the same cloth, and the three of them headed into the corridor. The tension level in the engine room dropped perceptibly.

"I could start pulling handles and twisting knobs," Wyatt said to Rani. "Maybe get us all killed. Is that what you want?"

Rani didn't deign to answer.

Fear and adrenalin and frustration churned together in his stomach, making it difficult to think straight. He was well into middle age, with years of experience at leadership and dealing with crises, and he was a mess. How much worse would it be for the younger mutineers? How long before someone got hurt?

That was assuming no one had died already. The young woman at the weapons locker had a concussion at the very least. What was happening on the rest of the ship? Wyatt felt his stomach heave.
It wasn't supposed to be like this.

A sound came echoing in from the corridor, a sound Wyatt wouldn't have recognized an hour earlier. But he'd seen Digby smash a length of pipe into the skull of the sailor guarding the weapons locker. There was nothing quite like the sickening thump you got when a human skull hit metal. That was the sound he heard now, and his head came whipping around.

A man screamed. He thought it was Digby, but he couldn't be sure. There was another fleshy thump, and the scream stopped abruptly.

Mutineers began to cluster in the doorway, looking at one another and fingering their guns. Some of the prisoners were giving Wyatt speculative looks, and he said, "Don't even think about it."

"Hello in the engine room!" It was a man's voice, almost obscenely cheerful. It was that man from Freedom Station, Wyatt realized. The old guy with the cold eyes. Crabtree.

"We've got guns now," Crabtree called. "Three of them. Thanks very much."

Wyatt opened his mouth to tell his people to get back out of the doorway, but he never got the chance. A shot rang out, and Hank Laycraft seemed to spring backward. He landed flat on his back, his head a bloody mess. The rest of the mutineers scrambled backward, retreating deeper into the engine room.

Not all of them. A man lay on his stomach, arms splayed out. As Wyatt watched, he rose to his knees and shuffled forward, his left hand clutching his right shoulder. Blood soaked his shirt. When he had put the bulk of a cooling array between himself and the doorway he collapsed on his chest, still clutching the wound.

I didn't even hear the second shot. He killed a man and critically injured another, and he did it in, what? A second? Everybody is staring at me. I'm supposed to tell them what to do. I don't know what to do! I'm a technician, not a bloody commando.
He looked around at the shocked, frightened faces of his followers, then looked past them at the corpse sprawled in the doorway.
Hank's dead. Good God. He's bloody dead. He's been my friend for fifteen years. He wouldn't even be here if I hadn't recommended him for the Baffin job.

"What should we do? Peter?"

Wyatt didn't know who had spoken. All he could see was Hank, a smart, funny man who would never crack another joke.
Oh, God. He has a daughter. Oh, God, I can't believe he's dead.

A scream snapped him out of it. A woman was on her knees beside the injured man, trying to peel his shirt back from the wound. He moaned, and she looked up, meeting Wyatt's gaze. "He's hurt bad."

"I hear screaming." Crabtree's voice was low and mocking. "Would anyone like to surrender? No? I can promise you, the screaming isn't over."

Wyatt reached back and touched the butt of his pistol.
We need to get to Medical. We could storm the corridor. There's only three of them with guns, right?

Yes. One crack shot, and a couple of friends who will probably just stand back and watch him work. Because he won't need their help. He'll kill every last one of us, and we won't even manage to mess up his hair.

So how can we reach Medical?

We could retreat. We could climb the ladders in the emergency access tunnels at the back. Can we lug that poor bastard up a ladder?

"Let's go," he said. He gestured at the aft wall. "We're abandoning the engine room. We'll go two decks up and join up with the team in the missile bay."

A woman said, "We can't abandon the engine room!"

Wyatt shrugged. "Were we achieving something here?"

Will we achieve something in the missile bay?
He pushed the thought aside. "Come on. Let's go. And for God's sake, put those guns away before one goes off."

The woman who knelt beside the injured man said, "What about Thomas?"

"Once we're out of the way they can take him straight to Medical. But the longer we stay, the longer he lies there bleeding. Let's go!"

A couple of mutineers unlocked the panels that covered the access tube, then checked inside. A moment later, Wyatt gave the engine room a last, sour glance. Then he stepped into the tube and started to climb.

There were two guns on the bridge, and four mutineers. Hornbeck had bustled out several minutes before, taking most of the mob with him. Now Velasco was trying to get the ship lined up to make a run for Gate Eight.

Hammett sat with his back to the port bulkhead, cadets pressed in close on either side. A fat man stood before them, his knuckles white on a long chunk of pipe. It was an adequate weapon under the circumstances. Hammett kept a wary eye on the man, thinking of the ceremonial sword back in his quarters. It would have made a good equalizer.

Carruthers, Wilkins, and a couple other cadets lay stretched out on the deck beside the prisoners. Wilkins was in a bad way, twitching and moaning. Stunners were dangerous at point-blank range. The other two cadets seemed to be fine, if unconscious. Hammett had a strong suspicion that Carruthers was awake and faking it.

Another mutineer stood at the entrance to the bridge, a stocky man with tattoos covering his thickly-muscled arms. He held a crowbar, but he held it gingerly, like he was afraid of what it might do. He looked scared and a bit sick, like a man who desperately wished he was somewhere else.

Katie was his opposite in many ways. She was the only mutineer whose name Hammett knew, mostly because Velasco kept speaking to her, reining her in. She was, as far as Hammett could tell, completely insane. He could see the outline of a gun in the thigh pocket of her jumpsuit, but she hadn't touched it. She was far too enamored of her knife.

The knife was an ornate thing with an engraved blade as long as her hand. Hammett had the impression that if the mutiny ended before she had a chance to cut someone, she would be keenly disappointed. Right now she was standing over Cartwright, alternately testing the edge of the blade with her thumb and touching the point to the side of the woman's neck.

"That's enough, Katie." Velasco sounded weary. "Katie! Back off."

Katie pouted, then retreated a couple of steps. She held the knife in front of her stomach, tilting the blade back and forth and watching light play across the engravings.

"Take us home, Cartwright." Velasco spoke like the parent of a cranky toddler who wouldn't eat. "That's all I ask. What any sane person would ask." She gave Hammett an accusing glare. "Get us through the Gate. Take us back to Earth." She touched the pocket where she'd put her pistol, then seemed to think better of it.

"Sure," said Cartwright sarcastically. "I'll get right on that. I'll grab one of these phones that stopped working when your new friends cut the wires. I'll start calling all the cadets who are dead, or locked up wherever you maniacs put them. I'll get them working on those maneuvering thrusters." She made a show of lifting a handset. "Hello? Starboard lounge? Hello? Hello, can anyone hear me? No? How about now?"

Velasco clenched her fists, and Hammett smiled. "Quit being a smartass," she grated, "and find a way to make it work."

"Sure," said Cartwright. "I'll try this phone instead." She lifted a different handset and said, "Hello? Port lounge?"

"I'll make her cooperate." Katie stepped forward, the knife stretching toward Cartwright's face. Cartwright had to lean back, the blade almost touching her left eye.

That, Hammett decided, was bloody well enough. He stood. The fat man took a step back, raising the pipe. Carruthers chose that moment to sit up, and the fat man turned, lifting the pipe over his head. Nakatomi shifted, and Vincenzo rose to one knee. The fat man retreated another step, almost bumping into Velasco.

She drew her pistol and levelled it at Hammett's chest. "Sit down."

Katie turned to gawk, and Cartwright knocked her arm aside. She sprang out of her chair and the two women grappled, struggling for control of the knife.

Hammett took another step.

Velasco took careful aim at his heart. "I'll shoot you, Richard."

"That's Captain Hammett to you." He took another step.

"I'll kill you. I swear. I'll do it."

He looked past her to where Cartwright fought for her life. "Well, get on with it, then." He took another step.

"Captain …" Velasco's voice was desperate and afraid.

Hammett took one more step, she started to back away, and for just an instant her head turned as she glanced behind her. In that instant Hammett moved, his left hand catching the barrel of the pistol and twisting it up, his right hand lashing out in a punch that caught her in the center of the face. She fell back, hit the captain's chair, and sprawled across the seat.

She left the pistol in Hammett's hand.

Cartwright and Katie faced each other, both of Cartwright's hands wrapped around the other woman's right wrist. Katie was trying to punch with her free hand, but Cartwright had her elbows out to protect herself. Katie changed tactics, hooking a foot behind Cartwright's heel and then shoving with her arms. Cartwright fell back, losing her grip on Katie's wrist. Cartwright landed on her back, and Katie, crowing with triumph, lifted the knife high.

Hammett shot her three times in the chest.

There was a metallic clatter as the mutineer at the door dropped his crowbar and raised his hands. Hammett turned in time to see Carruthers take the length of pipe from the fat man, who didn't resist.

Hammett sighed, pocketed the gun, and turned to face Velasco. She stared up at him, both hands pressed to her nose. Blood covered her mouth and chin and dripped onto her blouse. She stared up at him, her eyes wide, and he said, "Get out of my chair."

When the first armed sailor took a quick peek into the shuttle bay, the mutineers didn't even see it.

West sighed. A man's head and part of one shoulder appeared for just an instant, then pulled back. A moment later the head returned, and he saw the outline of a rifle in the man's hand. A group of sailors and cadets crossed the open doorway, all of them armed, and West knew the carnage was about to start.

He looked at the remaining mutineers, five men and women who thought they were doing the right thing, and now found themselves in over their heads. They were scared and desperate, and he found he didn't want to watch their bodies being ripped apart by a hail of bullets. He laid his hand across the guitar strings, silencing them, and shouted, "Wait! Hang on. Don't come in yet."

Every head in the shuttle bay turned to stare at him.

Now you've done it. You spoiled the element of surprise. Now the body count will be much higher. This better work, or you'll have a lot of blood on your hands.
"Sailors outside the shuttle bay doors," he boomed. "Please wait for just a moment. I'm negotiating a peaceful surrender."

Most of the mutineers were facing the entrance now. A couple of them even had the sense to take cover. One young man stood over West, shoving the barrel of a pistol in his face. "What are you talking about, man?"

West stared down the gun barrel, suddenly sick of this circus of idiocy. "Take the gun out of my face. Then we'll talk."

The man responded by jabbing him on the forehead. "Who are you talking to?"

"Oh, for fuck's sake." West looked past the gun at the man's pale, sweaty face. "Shoot me or don't shoot me. Just get on with it."

A tendon stood out in the man's neck. "I'll kill you!"

West shifted on his plastic crate, turning slightly so he was staring at the side wall. He strummed the guitar, pointedly ignoring the man. The other mutineers were all behind cover now, and most of the prisoners were lying flat. Someone in the corridor was using a mirror to scan the inside of the bay. The gun wobbled in the corner of West's eye, and the man said, "I'll shoot you."

West strummed the guitar.

Slowly, a painful degree at a time, the pistol descended. When it was pointing at the deck, West turned and looked the man in the eye. "You were saying?"

Instead of an armed desperado, the man suddenly looked like a frightened kid. "What's going on?"

"I think the mutiny is over. There's armed men just outside. They've got long guns, too. That means they have a huge advantage." He looked past the man at the entrance to the bay. "The doors are, what, forty meters away?" It was barely more than half that distance, but West chose to exaggerate. "It's pretty hard to hit anything at that range with a pistol. A trained man with a rifle, though?" He shook his head solemnly.

The pistol started to rise. West gave the man a hard look, and the pistol descended again. The man's voice was barely above a whisper as he said, "What am I going to do?"

"Surrender, of course." West tried to make it sound obvious, inevitable. "Or take a bullet in the head." He gestured around the bay. "And get a lot of other people killed, too."

The man touched his tongue to his lips, looking around, seeking inspiration. "We could—"

"Don't be an idiot! I don't care if you get yourself killed, but I'm not dying in a crossfire. Put that stupid gun away before you make things even worse." He glared at the man, letting all his frustration show. Then he spoke again, enunciating each word carefully. He made sure his voice carried to all the mutineers, and to the sailors in the corridor outside. "It's over. No one else needs to die. There's only five of you, armed with handguns. You're up against trained military personnel. You don't have a chance. Lay down your arms, and two minutes from now you'll still be alive."

A long, tense moment stretched out. The man seemed to be paralyzed with indecision, so West reached out a hand, ever so slowly. He closed his fingers around the barrel of the pistol and tugged it gently from the man's hand.

"You made the right choice." He spoke for the benefit of the sailors outside, and the other mutineers who had their eyes glued on the doorway. "I'm going to set the gun down on the deck. The rest of you need to do the same thing. It's okay. Just lay down the guns, and raise your hands." He set the pistol on the deck, put his foot on top of it, and laced his hands behind his head. The sailors when they came in wouldn't know who was a mutineer and who was a prisoner. West was a pretty big target, and he didn't want anyone making a mistake.

He heard faint metallic clicks as mutineers set guns on the deck plates. A pair of hands rose, then another, and another. When he was sure every gun was on the floor, West took a deep breath and called, "All the mutineers have surrendered. You can come in now. No one is armed."

Sailors and cadets poured in at a rush, a dozen of them, rifles and pistols levelled. West felt tension drain from his body, until it was a struggle to remain seated upright.

It was over.