The Night's Dawn Trilogy (228 page)

“Madeleine, Desmond, stop,” he datavised. “Someone’s deliberately screwed the net here.”

Desmond halted his ponderous glide with a semi-automatic slap at the stump of a grab hoop. He reached out to brake Erick.
“I can’t even establish a channel to the ship,” he complained.

“Do you think they got into the life-support capsules?” Madeleine asked. Her own enhanced retinas were scanning around the
fateful inspection panels.

“They wouldn’t get past Duchamp, not while his paranoia’s roused. We’ll be lucky if he even opens the airlock for us.”

“They’re armed, though; they could have cut their way in. And they’re in front of us.”

Desmond peered down the slightly curving corridor, alarmed and uncertain. There was a four-way junction ten metres in front
of him, one of its branches leading directly to the docking bay’s airlock. The only sounds he could hear were the rattly fans
of the environmental maintenance system.

“Go back to the transit capsule,” Erick datavised. “That has a working net processor, we can open a channel to the ship from
there, even if we have to route it through the external antenna.”

“Good idea.” Madeleine braced her feet on a grab hoop stump, and gave Erick’s shoulders a steady push, starting him off back
down the corridor. Desmond was already slithering around them, lithe as a fish. When she looked back she could see shadows
fluctuating within the junction. “Desmond!” She scrambled inside her jacket for the TIP pistol she was carrying. An elbow
hit the corridor wall, setting her tumbling. She tried to damp her momentum with one hand clawing at the coarse composite,
while still fumbling at the obstinate holster. Her feet caught Erick, sending him thudding against the wall. He bounced, trailing
long confused spirals of tubing, ancillary modules flying free.

Shane Brandes, the
Dechal
’
s
fusion engineer, slid out of the corridor which led to the airlock; he was wearing the copper one-piece overall of the local
spaceport services company. It took him a couple of seconds to recognize the frenetic woman four metres in front of him who
was grappling with a gun caught up in her jacket. He gagged in astonishment.

“Don’t move, ballhead!” Madeleine screeched, half in panic, half in exhilaration. She brought the TIP pistol around to point
at the terrified man. Her body was still rebounding, which meant she had to keep tracking. Five separate combat programs went
into primary mode; her thoughts were so churned up she’d simply designated the classification rather than individual files.
Various options for combat wasp salvo attack formations skipped through her mind. She focused through the sleet of data and
looping problematical high-gee vector lines to keep the nozzle trained on Brandes, who was doing a credible imitation of raising
his hands in the air even though they were visually inverted.

“What do I do?” Madeleine yelled to Desmond. He was wrestling with Erick, trying to halt the injured man’s cumbersome oscillations.

“Just keep him covered,” Desmond shouted back.

“Okay.” She squeezed the pistol grip in an effort to stop it shaking so much; her legs forked wide, stabilizing her against
the corridor. “How many with you?” she asked Brandes.

“None.”

Madeleine finally tamed her wayward programs. A blue neon targeting grid slid into place over her vision and locked. She aimed
at a point ten centimetres to the side of Brandes’s head and fired. Composite snapped and boiled, sending out a puff of unhealthy
black smoke.

“Jesus
. Nobody, I swear! I’m supposed to disable the starship’s umbilical feeds, and smash this bay’s net before… ”

“Before what?”

Everybody had shunted an audio discrimination program into primary mode, so everybody heard the transit capsule door opening.

Desmond immediately activated a tactics program, and opened an encrypted channel to Madeleine. Their respective programs interfaced,
coordinating their threat response. He turned to face the bright fan of light emerging from the door, his TIP pistol sliding
around in a smooth program-controlled motion.

When Hasan Rawand came out of the commuter lift the exhilaration he was burning was hotter than any black-market stimulant
program. He fancied himself as a hunting bird, power-diving on its unsuspecting prey.

The sharp reality of the corridor
hurt
. It was a situation so abrupt he was still smiling confidently as Desmond’s TIP pistol nozzle was locked directly on his
head. Stafford Charlton and Harry Levine almost cannoned into his back as they left the commuter lift; the four mercenaries
hired to provide overwhelming firepower were considerably more controlled, reaching for their own weapons.

“Rawand, I’ve programmed in a dead man’s trigger,” Desmond said loudly. “If you shoot me, you still die.”

The
Dechal
’
s
captain swore murderously. Behind him the mercenaries were having a lot of trouble deploying in the cramped corridor. Fast
encrypted datavises assured him three of them were targeting the crewman from the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
. Give the word, we can vaporize his pistol first. We’re sure.

They weren’t exactly the kind of odds Hasan Rawand was keen on. His eyes swept over the figure encased in medical nanonic
packages. “Is that who I think it is?” he inquired.

“Not relevant,” Desmond replied. “Now listen, nobody makes any sudden movements at all. Clear? That way no real untimely tragic
accidents occur. This is what we have here: a standoff. With me so far? Nobody’s going to win today, especially not if anyone
starts shooting in here. So I’m calling time out, and we can both regroup and conspire to stab each other in the back some
other happy time.”

“I don’t think so,” Hasan said. “I don’t have a quarrel with you, Lafoe, nor you, Madeleine. It’s your captain I want, and
that murdering bastard Thakrar. You two can leave anytime. Nobody’s going to shoot you.”

“You don’t know shit about what we’ve been through,” Desmond said, an anger which surprised him powering his voice. “I don’t
know about your ship, Rawand, but this isn’t a crew which deserts each other the first second it hits the fan.”

“Very noble,” Hasan sneered.

“Okay, here’s what’s going to happen next. The three of us are going to back up into the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
, and we’ll take Brandes with us for insurance. One mistake on your part, and Madeleine fries him.”

Hasan grinned rakishly. “So? He never was much use as a fusion engineer anyway.”

“Rawand!” Shane screamed.

“Don’t fuck with me!” Desmond shouted.

“Stafford, burn one of those medical modules our dear Erick is so attached to,” Hasan ordered.

Stafford Charlton laughed, and shifted his maser pistol slightly. The module he chose let out a vicious crack as the lance
of radiation pierced its casing. Boiling fluid shot out of blackened fissures as the internal reserve bladders were irradiated.
Tubes broke free, chemicals spraying out of their melted ends, causing them to whip about with a serpent’s ferocity.

Desmond didn’t even have to datavise an order; acting on the evaluation of their combined programs, Madeleine fired her TIP
pistol immediately. The pulse burned away half of the flesh covering Shane Brandes’s left shin. He howled in agony, clutching
at the mutilated limb. His voice subsided to a sob as his neural nanonics erected axon blocks against the pain.

Hasan Rawand narrowed his eyes, enhanced retinas absorbing the entire scene. He put a tactical analysis program into primary
mode, which offered him two blunt options: retreat, or open fire. Estimated casualties on his side were fifty per cent, including
Shane. When he added the secondary goal of successfully entering the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
the only option was retreat and reorganize.

“Want to play double or quits?” Desmond asked calmly.

Hasan glared at him; being thwarted was bad enough, but being mocked was almost intolerable.

The transit capsule doors opened again. A fist-sized sphere emitting intolerable white light soared into the corridor. Hasan
Rawand and his accomplices were closest to it, receiving the full impact of the photonic blitz. Two of the mercenaries who
had their retinal sensitivity cranked up wide were instantly blinded as the implants burnt out. For the others it was as though
the terrible light were boring right through their eye sockets and into the soft tissue of the brain. Instinct and situation
analysis response programs fused into a simple protective act: eyelids slammed shut and hands jammed over eyes.

Unseen in the glare, the three members of the CNIS covert duty squad dived out into the corridor, following Lieutenant Li
Chang. Dressed in smooth neutral-grey armour suits, their active optical sensors were filtered for the intensity of the quasar
grenade.

“Break through Rawand’s people, snatch Erick,” Li Chang ordered. She fired another quasar grenade from her forearm magazine,
aiming along the corridor at Desmond. It never reached its intended goal, one of the blinded mercenaries struck it as he thrashed
about.

The mercenaries had linked combat programs, coordinating their response. Guidance and orientation programs allowed them to
fix an accurate line on the transit capsule door and bring their weapons to bear. Thermal induction pulses discharged, maser
beams slashed about.

The dissipation layers on the suits which Li Chang’s squad wore deflected or absorbed most direct hits. The composite walls
of the tunnel had no such protection. Flames squirted out amid fountains of smoking composite. Fire alarms screeched in warning.
Turbulent jets of thick grey extinguisher gas roared into the air, turning to blobs of oily turquoise liquid as soon as the
substance came into contact with any flame, smearing the combustible surface. Huge bubbling clumps congealed around the quasar
grenades, smothering them.

Answering shots from Li Chang’s squad eliminated three mercenaries straightaway. But their bodies formed a formidable tangled
obstacle blocking off the corridor, as well as contriving a shield against further energy weapon fire. Behind it, Hasan and
his remaining active cohorts rallied hurriedly.

Li Chang fought her way through the swirling extinguisher gas to grapple with one of the corpses. Her armour suit gauntlets
couldn’t get a decent grip on anything. The gas had slicked every damn surface. Two maser beams struck her chest and shoulder
as she attempted to force her way forwards. She could actually see the gas crystallizing in long straight lines marking out
the beams. One of the covert squad members was beside her, clawing at the dead man’s neck. The body was bucking fitfully between
them, its mass impeding every move.

Another TIP shot struck her armour, diffracting. A wide splash of skin on the dead man veered to a rancid bruise-brown as
the energy punched it. His clothes were smouldering, drawing the extinguisher gas like a condensing dew.

Her neural nanonics had to activate a nausea suppressor program. “Use the smarts,” she said, formulating search hunt parameter
patterns. A volley of centimetre-long darts slid out of the cartridges on her belt. Miniature programmable missiles with a
tiny ionic exhaust. They curved and rolled through the seething air, sliding around the awkward contours of the lifeless mercenaries,
and accelerated down the corridor.

Li Chang heard a savage firecracker barrage as over two hundred diminutive EE warheads detonated in the space of three seconds.
Sharp flickering fingers of blue-white light stabbed back past the floating bodies. Ripples of purple static surfed along
the composite walls towards her. There was a sudden surge of air, sucking her towards the source of the light and sound. The
three battered corpses began to move. A pressure drop warning sounded, its metallic whistle dopplering as the pressure thinned
out fast. Emergency hatches were sliding out of the corridor walls, sealing off the damaged section.

“Captain Thakrar?” she datavised. “Sir, are you there?”

Scrambling after the corpses she could see the butchery which the smart darts had inflicted. A galaxy of blood globules spun
around the ripped torsos of Hasan Rawand and the others. She assumed there were four in total. It was hard to tell.

Chunks of gore were splatting against the cracks in the wall, producing temporary seals which would shake and wobble under
pressure, before being sucked through. Holding her breath—which was ridiculous as the suit provided her with a full oxygen
supply—Li Chang flung herself through the centre of the bloody pulp, flinching every time the suit’s tactile sensors faithfully
reported an
object
slithering down her side.

The corridor beyond was empty. An emergency hatch had cut off the junction. Li Chang hauled her way along to it. The wind
was abating now, almost all of the air had gone.

A small transparent port was set in the centre of the hatch. When Li Chang pressed her shell helmet sensors against it, all
she could see was more hatches closed across the other corridors. Captain Thakrar and the crew members from the
Villeneuve’s Revenge
were nowhere to be seen.

That was when a new sound was added to the fading clamour of the various alarms: a deep bass rumble which she could feel through
the structure as much as hear. The light panels flickered, then went out. Small blue-white backup globes came on.

“Oh, God, no,” she whispered to herself inside the helmet. “I promised him, I said he’d be safe now.”

The
Villeneuve’s Revenge
was launching from inside its docking bay. AndrÉ had released the cradle hold-down latches, but without the bay manager to
assist there was nothing he could do about the umbilical couplings and airlock tube. Secondary drive tubes ignited, power
from the main generators vaporising hydrogen at barely sub-fusion temperatures. Clouds of searing blue ions billowed out around
the spherical starship as it rose laboriously. Hoses and cables jacked into their sockets on the lower hull tore and snapped;
streams of coolant fluid, water, and cryogenic fuel sluiced around the cylindrical bay. Once the starship was above the cradle
the drive exhaust played directly over the girders, reducing them to garish slag in seconds. The airlock tube stretched and
flexed to its limit, then ripped free of the docking ring, pulling spars, data cables, and locking pins with it.