The Universe — or Nothing by Meyer Moldeven (i like reading .txt) 📕

recess behind, fiddled a couple of seconds, and pulled the panel forward again. It came loose, and he stepped back with it in his hands.

"Cut the power to this console," Kumiko ordered.

Rimov shrugged, moved to another console and snapped several switches. Kumiko watched closely. Rimov turned back and observed her check several lights and dials above the space from where the panel had been removed.

Satisfied, Kumiko drew off her outer glove. Her hand remained encased in translucent, skin-tight insulation. Reaching into the cavity, she withdrew a tiny black chip. Setting it down on a nearby shelf, she repeated the operation. Shortly, a dozen chips lay on the shelf.

Rimov flushed with fury as he watched Kumiko work, but remained silent.

Finally, Kumiko stepped back, pulled a plastic bag from a pocket in her suit, and dropped in the assorted parts. Looking around the room, she went to a wall cabinet, opened the door, rummaged about and withdrew still more chips.

"Back up supplies," she said, adding them to the others in the plastic bag.

Kumiko looked at Brad.

"The fire control center is out of action," she said. "Even if they do have more spares stashed away, it'll take them at least twenty hours to install the parts and calibrate the system."

Brad turned to Rimov. "Let's start with the aft gun turrets, and take them, in order, moving forward."

Chapter TWENTY

The next two hours were given to rushing along passageways, climbing companionways and ladders, and crawling along narrow walkways. Several turrets could only be reached from the outside; Kumiko's advice to wear suits proved sound.

At each gun emplacement, Rimov, his guards and Scarf watched Brad and Kumiko inspect sector guides, range and directional interlocks and power drives.

Once satisfied that a gun emplacement was not booby-trapped, Kumiko inserted random realignment parameters into laser blocks, twirled tracking sequencers into disarray, and switched about chips and connectors. When she was done with a turret, the gun had a zero firing potential, and would take hours to repair, calibrate and test.

Brad noted that Rimov, following Kumiko's work closely, showed grudging admiration in his eyes. She was disabling the guns with gentle care, not damaging them, and Rimov knew it.

Finally, they were at the ship's bow. The final turret had been rendered inoperative.

Brad faced Rimov.

"We'll be on our way. Back to the air lock."

Brad was relieved. They would soon be in the utility, heading back to the Dragon, the job done. Even Scarf could not fault them. Scarf's report might even work to the Sentinel's advantage.

Rimov took the lead. The deckhands seemed less tense. They sensed that Rimov was impressed by Kumiko's professionalism, and they, too, had observed the consideration that Kumiko had shown for the ship's equipment. She was obviously not a crowbar techie.

They moved toward the air lock single file, Rimov in the lead, Brad, Kumiko and Scarf following, and the four deckhands, two abreast, in the rear.

Rounding a corner, they stopped. Ahead, three men crouched, laser-rifles at their shoulders aimed at them.

"Rimov, and you guys in the rear, outta the way.
We're puttin' these bastards down."

The order came from a short, blond-haired buck, eyes glaring above his gunfight.

"Wait," Rimov screamed. "What's the hell's goin' on, Cordy? These guys got safe conduct from Bura."

"I don't buy that, Rimov. We got the word down below that the ship's bein' taken over by Narval's goons. We're gonna stop 'em. Come for'ard, I'm tellin' ya. They're goin' down, right now. Get ready, Joe, Pete."

The two guards behind Scarf and Kumiko dropped to the deck and snaked back around the corner. They were not about to shoot at shipmates.

Rimov dashed toward Cordy, his arms waving.

"Don't fire. Back off," he shouted.

The men with the rifles were momentarily confused, uncertain; one began to lower his weapon. Rimov was a ship's officer; they would be in deep trouble if they disobeyed.

Without warning, the decision was taken from them.

Scarf panicked.

Stepping back and behind Kumiko, using her as his shield, he frantically jerked his heavy hand weapon loose, at the same time crouching in firing position. Gripping the weapon with both hands, he rammed the setting into max and fired around Kumiko. Brad was out of his momentary line of fire. Not so Rimov.

The burst hit Rimov between the shoulder blades.
There was a sharp, crackling sound as cloth and
Rimov's flesh carbonized. He fell forward, dead
before he struck the deck.

No one moved. Cordy and his men stared at their fallen officer.

Brad didn't wait for them to recover.

"Back," he shouted to Kumiko and Scarf. "Around the bend. Now."

Kumiko whirled and raced around the corner. Scarf rolled back on to his feet and dashed after her. Brad followed.

Rimov's guards were nowhere in sight.

There was a roar of rage behind them.

Cordy.

"They shot Rimov. After 'em. Shoot to kill."

The passageway was long; they would be at the wrong end of a shooting gallery as soon as Cordy reached the bend. The only break was a narrow ladder through a hatch in the overhead.

"Up," Brad commanded. "Fast."

Kumiko first, then Scarf. Brad followed.

As Brad drew his legs up through the hatchway a searing blast struck the frame, missing him by centimeters. Brad twisted away as another bolt flashed up through the hatch, scorching the bulkhead from which he had just moved.

Brad shouted down. "First guy who shoves his head through the hatch gets it burned off." Turning to Kumiko and Scarf he whispered, "That won't hold them for long."

"Listen, about that shooting…", Scarf began.

Brad snapped him short with an impatient gesture.
"Not now. Let's get to the utility."

They looked around. The space was almost dark; the only light from widely spaced, low-power neutro-lamps. They were standing on a narrow platform, little more than a ledge, from which a catwalk bridged a complex of girders and cables.

Brad mentally reconstructed their route before Cordy's challenge. The portal through which they boarded should be within fifty meters of where they crouched. Their lives depended on the catwalk passing close to it.

Studying the arrangement of the structures around them and the coding on cable bundles, Brad peered along the catwalk, first in one direction, then the opposite.

He looked at the open hatch and shouted down. "We demand safe conduct to our ship. Do you hear me?"

Silence.

Scarf shoved his face close to Brad.

"Are you kiddin'?" he said, his tone expressing his disbelief. "I just killed one of their men. They're not gonna give us safe conduct anywhere."

"I know that," Brad replied. "Even if they do promise us safe conduct, it'll be just to get at us. I want them to think we're going to hole up here until they give us an answer. Bura must know by now. We've got to get off before he personally takes charge of the search."

Brad again scrutinized the ship's stringers and cable insulation colors. He pointed.

"Stay close."

They crossed stretches where ledges and walkways narrowed abruptly to barely enough for passage. Sharp projections along the way snagged and abraded their protective suits. They realized that they might face serious seepage from their suits as soon as they entered the vacuum of space.

A sudden, raking fire erupted behind them. Metal frames around them darkened from the bolts of energy.

Scarf jerked his weapon and returned the shots before Brad could stop him. The flash of his weapon provided the ideal target, and brought concentrated fire in return.

Stooping and sliding, Brad and Kumiko stumbled forward. Scarf scrambled along behind, firing haphazardly to the rear.

Scarf howled with sudden pain. Brad looked back. In the dim light, Scarf hung over a girder, motionless. Brad raced back to his side. A wide strip from sleeve and shoulder was burned away; blood oozed.

Kumiko bent beside Brad. She yanked her glove off, reached in through the still smoking sleeve and felt for a pulse in Scarf's neck.

"Alive."

She stepped back. Brad, in the cramped space, hauled the unconscious Scarf upright, bent, and with Kumiko's help, lifted him on to Brad's back.

Scarf's scream of pain had brought a pause to the firing.

Grasping stanchions and cables for support,
Brad staggered along the catwalk.

"Hatch up ahead."

"Might be it."

Brad gasped. Even in the light pseudo-gravity,
Scarf's bulk was hard to maneuver.

"Take a peek."

Kumiko was gone and back in an instant.

"Looks clear."

"No choice. Down you go. I'll drop him through."

Kumiko dropped out of sight. Brad thrust Scarf through the hatch and followed. The drop was not deep.

The number 4 air lock was less than ten meters ahead. Brad heaved Scarf across his shoulders, and with Kumiko leading the way, they rushed toward it.

The deck carried the slap of running feet, fast and closing.

Cordy appeared at the end of the passage. Seeing them, he crouched on one knee and raised his weapon.

Kumiko beat him; at the sound of running, she had raised her sidearm. As Cordy took aim, she fired. Cordy fell back, stunned.

Brad had the door to the outer air lock open, Scarf on the deck inside. Kumiko rushed past Brad and he slammed the door and clipped it sealed. She snatched an emergency space stretcher from a bulkhead rack and snapped it open. It took the two of them to roll Scarf's inert body into the envelope, seal it around him and start an oxygen flow.

They snapped their faceplates closed. Brad hit switches. The outer portals slid apart. The catwalk and other connections to the utility were still in place. Carrying the stretcher between them, they crossed over.

Chapter TWENTY-ONE

Brad poked his head into Drummer's office at Fleet Headquarters. Drummer, at his desk, bent over a document, cast frequent glances at electronic displays on the wall nearby. Racks of data capsules, no space for them on the busy desk, crowded the floor nearby. A conical view tank, recessed in the wall to his left, glowed with symbols of ships and their military characteristics, along with tactical and logistical links.

Scanning the monitors and view tank, Drummer hefted a hand control and pressed keys. Eyes half-closed, he silently transformed mental images into memoranda and messages. Aware of Brad's presence, he paused and focused on him in the doorway.

"I thought you planned to take a couple of days off after Tornado Six," Brad said.

"Can't," Drummer replied, his eyes back to his notes.

"What's happening?"

"Until Tornado Six, our forces functioned as separate units. Tornado Six was our fleet's first integrated operation. The mission succeeded because we got away without military opposition. I can't trust that sort of luck to hold. We need to refine our tactics, based on our experience with the log depot and that armed transport, and in anticipation of an early organized response by the UIPS."

Brad appeared uncertain whether to remain or move on.

"Stand by a moment, Brad."

Drummer resumed recording. Symbols in the tank flashed off and on too quickly for the eye to follow, but Drummer was no longer giving them his attention. He touched a glowing disk on the arm of his chair, sighed, and leaned back. The view tank cleared to continue its work unobserved.

"I need a break. Here's what's happening, Brad."

He motioned Brad to a seat alongside his desk.

"Narval was impressed at our success, especially how we bluffed our way through it. Just as well we didn't push too hard and force an eyeball-to-eyeball confrontation. He wants much more preparation before we get to that point. I agree, we'll leave that until our next no-notice inspection."

"Well, we did have a fire fight, of sorts, on the
Sandbox," Brad interjected.

"By itself, much less significant than the raids we've made on UIPS patrols and shipping. The Sandbox incident was the ship commander's fault however one looks at it. By the way," Drummer grinned. "I suggested to Colonel Hanno that he chastise the Sandbox's commander about allowing his people to attack my agents. Lax discipline, and all that."

Brad laughed, but grimly recalled Rimov's wasted death. Drummer joined him in the laugh, then quickly resumed his serious expression. Elbows on desk, hands clasped, he frowned at Brad.

"In categorizing the Sandbox incident 'insignificant' I do so only in the context of its effect on objectives and strategy. In another sense, it was quite important."

"Oh?"

"Narval was pleased with the way you handled yourself on the Dragon in dealing with Hanno and Bura."

"How did he find out?"

"Scarf's nature, it seems, made him anxious to get a verbatim record of everything said in his presence during Tornado Six. He was wired, and everything said in his presence was recorded. Had events gone otherwise, I'm convinced he would have lifted statements that each of us made and twisted them to discredit us.

"Putting Scarf in hospital immediately upon return to base didn't give him the chance to tailor the transcript. Since he reports directly