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

Ram shrugged and went on, "News of your escape will be broadcast system-wide; all part of the cover. They'll be suspicious for quite a while, but you've got to infiltrate, despite the risks.

"The mission has many subtleties; you must all understand how they interact. Above all, you must never, despite the most extreme interrogation, betray the mission. In that sense, yes, you are expendable. Small comfort, I know, but insurance against betrayal will entail a simple psy-mod."

"Is there to be a complex one?"

"Yes."

"Let's have it all, man."

"If you are to join these terrorists, pirates, or whatever they are, your characters must be suitable to blend with theirs. On the one hand, you will be loyal to each other and to us; on the other, you, and I mean each of you, will lie, cheat, bribe, subvert, sabotage, and kill for the mission, and if it serves our greater purpose, act convincingly against us. That's one complex psy-mod."

"There's more?"

"There's communications and one other. About comm, off-planet messages from Planet Pluto, especially through spunnel channels, are under the tight control of Pluto's insurgent government. Transmission facilities are under constant heavy guard. You'll all be checked out by the Pluto's security people to make sure none of you are carrying prohibited comm gear or are otherwise wired."

"The 'other'."

"Last resort. It's need-to-know, if and when needed. When you become aware of the crisis to which it applies it will surface in your consciousness and in the mind of one other member of your team. You'll each know what to do."

"Sounds like a jolly crowd."

Ram grinned.

"I'm sure you'll all have a party. Back to comm: the Log Depot and the Terminal work sites have spunnel centers. Zolan will have the access codes to the Log Depot. At all costs, keep the construction site from becoming involved in this intelligence operation. If word got out that we used the Terminals for covert intelligence or military transmissions, the Outer Region governments would blow their collective tops. We can rationalize using the Log Depot if we experience piracy and harassment of our transports and citizens. It'll be extremely dangerous to go beyond that."

"No chance of using the Pluto comm center?"
Brad asked.

"Don't count on it." Ram replied grimly.

"What happens afterward, assuming that we survive? Also, can what you're doing to each of us be reversed so that we can return to what, for us, would be normal?"

"In the order you raise them: first, after this is over you will all be free citizens, records cleared, and we'll help you to return to your former lives, or reasonably close to what they were; second, the mods are reversible and you will all be de-programmed.

"You mention survival, Brad. You may be searching for assurance that you'll come through alive. I can't give you that assurance, for you or for your team. In all sincerity, I think that you and your team have less than an even chance for survival. Understand then, the name of the game is dare, but not stupidly."

Arms folded across his chest, Brad half-listened to Hodak reeling off status from screens that lined the Raven's flaked, time-battered bridge.

The indicators in Brad's line-of-sight, at least those that still functioned, displayed erratic and uncertain status of systems and accessories in the main power plant, fluids pressure pumps, oxygen generators and other vital gear. More than slightly precarious, according to the dials and blinking lights, but the records would show that the ancient utility had been accepted at the spunnel gateway in the void between the Asteroid Belt and Jupiter, despite its technical difficulties.

Sneaking into the tail end of a crowded convoy of Slingshot-bound transports gave them the 'jump' they needed. The Neptune spunnel exit would do fine and provide a seemingly reasonable story under interrogation, if it came to that.

Stripped to her vitals, all but the simplest decisions diverted from her computer, the Raven reminded Brad of his old freighter when he first took her over. The Raven's maintenance records showed that she had slipped to less than marginal. Hodak's expertise with duct tape and hand tools would get credit for the successful escape.

Planet Pluto, in her ashen melancholy, lay dead ahead. Sprawled across the frozen methane plain a couple of points to starboard Coldfield's lights shimmered through its frost-crusted, barely translucent dome. Stretching away from the twenty-kilometer-wide city, the mottled terrain spread in all directions, slashed by ravines and man-made, soil-fused excavations, roads and bridges. Mooring towers, launch and landing pads spotted the barren landscape across which crawled processions of utility tugs.

Near-space cargo and passenger shuttles and taxis landed at and departed from pads adjacent pressurized air docks into the city. Deep-space transports and utilities rode high, immobilized by fore-and-aft mag-beams at the pinnacles of two-hundred-meter mooring towers.

The Raven drifted closer. Brad noted the hard orange glow of energy packs encapsulated in vehicles moving about on the dome and surrounding land surfaces. Adjusted magnification defined the vehicles as personnel carriers, flatbed trailers, dome fissure-fusers, and methane frost scrapers. Coldfield was a busy place.

Charon drifted into view from over the horizon as the Raven nosed forward. Only Lamplight's dome and high-intensity flashers that pinpointed its landing pads, gateways and walkways broke the moonlet's solid gray-green landscape. Further out, the logistics depot slid slowly across the sky like a glowing green-and-orange sausage.

Zolan keyed a signal to Pluto Traffic Control as the Raven crossed the line into the planet's jurisdiction. He added the ship's name and call sign. Several minutes passed without response. Zolan leaned back from the console and winked at Brad. News of their presence had preceded them and the locals were likely wondering why had the ship appeared in their skies.

The receiver squawked, "Raven. Stand by for escort."

A yellow-and-green-striped space tug drifted alongside and flashed its 'Follow Me' signal. Brad nodded at Zolan who acknowledged the tug's instruction. Adari trimmed the Raven's controls and clamped a mag beam on the tug. She and the tug driver exchanged salutations and prattled navigational details as the escort moved off with the Raven following like an elephant leashed to a flea. Adari logged their destination: Slot 09 along Coldfield marker 13K.

Their passage was slow. Despite the heavy traffic of tugs, taxis, and other small craft the lanes were orderly and the flow steady. Traffic thinned as the ship drifted across surface-parked lots for small vessels and disappeared entirely as the Raven closed on its mooring towers.

The escort rattled off the coordinates and the Raven fixed her position. Adari released the mag-beam. The tug slipped around to starboard and mag-nosed the clumsy vessel into its slot. A command from the tug and mooring beams glowed at the fore-and-aft towers to immobilize the Raven. Adari and the tug driver exchanged rough civilities and the escort was up and away.

"Lock down, fore and aft," Brad intoned. "Safety check mooring beams and vital connections. Secure all internal hatches and passages. Set environment controls at minimal levels for an indefinite stay. Report."

He keyed the order into the log, added the time of entry, and keyed the record closed using his suspended Space Master's code.

Myra assembled records required by port officials. Hodak and Adari consulted checklists as they trooped from one compartment to the next; Hodak opened and closed switches, turned wheels and secured and sealed valves as Adari observed and verified. She surveyed each station, mumbled, "confirmed," and initialed the appropriate items on her copy of the checklist.

Zolan closed down the deep space communications system and inspected their suit's intercoms. Kumiko drew six handguns from a rack, checked firing controls and charges, and fitted the weapons to suits.

Zolan called for a taxi.

##

"Lock-sealing the effective range on personal weapons is the first order of business for all newcomers."

The officious clerk in the Port Registration Office was skinny, short, stooped and sallow; and he squinted as if he had just emerged from darkness into glare. The deep wrinkles around his mouth twitched from cast-iron grin to scowl and back as he pointed from Brad's holster to the waist-high counter that separated them.

Brad drew his sidearm, checked the safety and set it on the counter. His companions followed suit. The clerk hefted each weapon in turn, double-checked the safety, and positioned it under a penetray scanner to check for illegal modifications and, using a hand-held standard, reset the range to Coldfield's limits.

"Five meters, max," he said as he worked, "and minimum-effect level at all times. Set it any way you want when you leave the dome, but reset it as soon as you come back in. We do the first one for the record; after that it's up to you. Penalty for violation depends on circumstances; minimum is a couple of sleeps in the brig."

He peered at them across the counter.

"We know who you are and where you came from," he said. "Keep out of trouble and you'll get by OK."

As he finished each weapon inspection he returned it to the countertop, pointing the muzzle into a shielded enclosure and stepped back behind a barrier. The owner picked up the sidearm, rechecked the safety and the setting, and slipped it back into its sheath.

"Hope you were listening when I said we know who you are," said the clerk, scowling, looking from one to the other. "If you didn't hear me the first time, I'll repeat it: keep out of trouble and you'll get by OK. Y'hear?"

Brad scowled back, silent. Hodak grinned; Myra and
Kumiko nodded and vigorously pointed at themselves.

"I hate trouble," Myra said with solemn sincerity.

"Me too," Kumiko chimed in. "I hate trouble.
I really do."

Adari laughed, leaned over the counter, and rumpled the little man's scant hair. He jerked away.

"Wouldn't think of it, Buster," she boomed.

She drew her hand back, looked at the palm, and rubbed it on her suit as she turned away. Zolan ignored the scene.

Hodak leaned over the counter and waved the clerk closer.

"So you know where we're from, do you?" His voice was a friendly growl and he got a curt nod in reply.

"Then you know we came here for sanctuary,"
Hodak said. "How do we get it?"

"Your entry permit is provisional; permanent party status depends on how you adjust to our rules."

"This is the only place left to us," Hodak added a whine to his voice. "We're not about to start trouble and wear out our welcome." Switching to a hoarse whisper, he added, "Look, man, we need a place to put our stuff, and then we want to look around. Maybe we can find action in our kind of work that'll build up our credits. We've talked it over." He thumbed to include his companions. "We're available, and we can't afford to be choosy. The Inner Region doesn't mean a thing to us. Know what I mean?"

"Sure."

The clerk repeated his grin-scowl, snickered, and slapped Hodak on the shoulder.

"What's the word on living accommodations under the dome?" Adari cut in.

"Gotta register for permanent quarters, and you'll need a permit to build a place of your own. They're almost impossible to get. Try for 'temporary' until you know your way around. Good place to start is the Condor over on Con-man Slash."

"How do we get there?" Kumiko asked.

"Taxi to dome air lock 22," he replied. "Inside, take the second transit strip. The off-ramps are Smuggler's Alley, Faithhealer's Spread, Plunder Cove, Bunco Crawl, and then Con-Man Slash. It's in the center of town; you can't miss it." He waved them toward the air lock. "On your way, folks; you're cleared."

He watched them suit up and enter the air lock. When he heard the whisper of the outer door, he lifted a comm device, pressed buttons and spoke hurriedly.

Clearing the outer door, Zolan leaned against the buffer, tightened his bootstrap with one gloved hand, the other pressed against the wall to steady himself. Seconds later, he pulled away, shook his leg to settle the boot for comfort, and caught up with Brad.

Grasping Brad's elbow activated the secure to-suit circuit. Myra, Hodak, Adari and Kumiko crowded in close and energized a camouflaging mix of artificial jive and loud laughs on the nature of the terrain, the location of the Transit Strip, the tank town's appearance in the distance, whatever served as a barrier to electronic penetration.

"The clerk passed the word about us," Zolan said. "Gave full descriptions and said to notify someone called 'Scarf'. By the way, he did a lot more than check our weapons while we stood at the counter. We were scanned down to our bones. He's sending the file to his control, including the main portal's lock combination on the Raven. He'll have a lifter ready for someone who's to arrive soon. Looks like they're going to search the ship."

"Fine," Brad nodded. "Nothing there to cause
us a problem. Pass the word as we move along.
No changes in plans until some contacts develop.
Then we'll regroup and go on from there."

Boarding a robo-taxi that had