Back From the Dead (34 page)

Allonia
: But mostly in a good way.

Helton
: We’re running at less than half power, even though we have six drive cores more or less functional–

Quiritis
: All six?

Cooper
: I’d be happy to show you around the three Harmons and three Sokolovs … show you how they work.

Everyone pretends to ignore his obvious ploy.

Helton
: And both main power systems nominally up. Made good money on our last job, hauling ammo delivered a week ago, but it’s almost spent already. Mostly on parts. Colonel Lag–

Cooper
: –a Plataean we work with–

Helton
: –still hasn’t gotten paid for a, um, large piece of hardware we picked up for him, so income’s a little uncertain right now. When he does get paid, it’ll likely be worth a couple million to us, but Stenson has lined up about fifty million in parts he wants ordered.

Quiritis
(whistles appreciatively)
: That’s still a lot more than my parents ever got running. They just didn’t have the money or skills, and the local port authority was not exactly helpful. They kept her on shore power, and worked on what they could. But you still need another fifty mil worth?

Helton
: Just in parts. Highly specialized parts to replace the make-do things installed now. Labor’s free, sort of.

Quiritis raises her eyebrows, but Allonia’s honest demeanor assuages her suspicions for the moment.

Allonia
: You saw some of them on the cargo deck. We almost got sunk, too, but the stars came together. We have a Plataean military unit paying some of the bills. It’s worked out very well. And they’re not nearly as scary as I was led to believe.

Cooper
: Especially one in particular?

Allonia
(blushing)
: We’re just good friends!

Quiritis
(laughing)
: So, you have a special friend. A soldier, no less.

Allonia
: He’s really nice.

Cooper
: At least, if he’s not trying to kill you, which he seems to be good at.

Quiritis looks slightly dismayed.

Helton
: He means, he’s good at killing the bad guys, not Allonia. You’d like Kaminski.

Bipasha enters, looking excited.

Bipasha
: Guess WHAT?

Helton
: Harbin’s favorite niece found a job at Seymore’s?

Bipasha
: No! You… I found a quick contract job that I think we can do which doesn’t involve corrupt warehouse managers or interceptors, and will make money!

Helton
: Great! What’s the catch?

Bipasha
: Hmm? No catch. Should be easy. Some antiwar organization is looking to contract freelancers to fly over some cities just inside the militarized zone and pick up any remaining refugees and transport them to one of the camps being set up over near Newer Joysie. It’s a designated war zone so there shouldn’t be anyone left, and there’s been no action in that area. Just got posted a little while ago. We should move fast in case there’s someone more desperate than we are.

Helton
: It’s called a war zone for a reason.

Bipasha
: But this thing is armored, right? Small arms can’t hurt it.

Cooper
: What about all the piles of beans and things on the aft ramp?

Bipasha
: Leave them. We could load everyone with just the bow ramp, maybe even just a side hatch.

Allonia
(skeptically)
: Supplies for passengers?

Bipasha
: Shouldn’t need any; it’s only a short extra-atmo hop to the designated Refugee Center, so we don’t have to feed them or anything. Walk ‘em on, bounce over, walk ‘em off, collect the fee.

Helton
(warily)
: I thought you were going to prove me wrong?

Bipasha
(smiling)
: Oh, I will. I just want to watch you suffer a little longer.

Bipasha finally notices Quiritis.

Allonia
: An old friend, a pilot. Quiritis, Bipasha, our business manager.

They size each other up for a moment. Quiritis stands and sticks out her hand. Bipasha shakes it.

Quiritis
: Happy to meet any friend of Alli’s.

Bipasha
: Likewise. We should move fast on this, Helton.

Helton stands and leans over to the wall intercom.

Helton
(into the intercom)
: All section leaders to the command center.

Kwon
(over intercom)
: Who’s a section leader, and what’s the command center?

Helton
: Kwon, Stenson, and any non-recruit uniforms on board, head for the mess room.

Stenson
(over intercom)
: Why didn’t you say so the first time?

Helton
: Just go, people, if you want to know the plan.

Walk-Ons

The cargo bay ramp lowers, revealing the small landing field and open space toward the control tower and port buildings. The sun is high and bright, the shadows hard-edged. A few dozen refugees stand near the landing pad, average folks with packs, bags, and other hand-carried items.

Kaushik and Kaminski, armed and armored, advance down the ramp as it lowers. Kaminski sniffs, unimpressed. “Doesn’t look so bad.”

Kaushik isn’t as sanguine. “It’ll get worse. Some of ’em had to see us coming in. These are just the desperate ones with no other option but to wait here and pray.”

“Looked like a ghost town from higher up.”

“Hope you’re right. Let’s just screen ’em fast, get ’em on, get outta here.”

“Wish Harbin and the recruits were here, we could do it faster,” Kaminski says.

“Good day for cleaning and maintenance. Be glad we’re not with them.”

When the ramp touches down, the refugees start moving forward as a mass. Kaminski yells, “We got room, keep it orderly! Everyone form a line!” His voice is as impressive as his armored bulk. The refugees slow down, but start to shove and argue as they try to shuffle into a queue. A device on a spiral cord drops down next to Kaminski, a combination bullhorn, camera, scanner, and display screen. He grabs it and addresses the surging crowd, his greatly amplified voice blasting from speakers above.

“LISTEN UP! NO ONE GETS ON WITHOUT AN ID CHECK. LINE UP QUIETLY OR WE LEAVE!”

The crowd settles down and starts queuing up in a more orderly way. A few more refugees run onto the field, individuals and a couple of families with children. Kaushik points to the front of the queue. “You! Step up and identify yourself! Everyone else, keep back! One person or family at a time!”

A heavyset man in a stained blue coverall steps up, “Tom Corwin.” Kaminski scans his face and palm, and the scanner readout displays images of an eye and a hand with highlighted points. Text appears: “POS ID: retina, facial, prints 100%; THOMAS REGINALD CORWIN, PLUMBER, NO CRIMINAL HIST.”

Kaminski points into the cargo bay, “Go sit there. Await further instructions.” Corwin sighs with relief and walks tiredly aboard, carrying only a small duffel bag.

Kaushik waves to the family group next in line while keeping an eye on the crowd. “You three, step up! The rest, keep back!” The line shuffles around a bit, but the obvious professionalism of the two soldiers (and the ample room in the cargo bay ahead) brings out more smiles of relief than frowns of worry. Refugees continue to trickle onto the field, mostly from the direction of the main terminal.

“Got incoming,” Cooper announces. “Small ship, looks like a private craft.” One of his screens shows the growing black spot of a damaged flier, trailing smoke, heading for the landing field.

“ETA?” Helton asks Bipasha.

“Um, maybe a minute or two.” She fiddles with the controls, not nearly as confident or self-assured as Cooper. “Soon.”

“Cooper, next chance you get, more training for Bipasha on the sensors.”

“Sure.
Love
to.”

“We all need to get better,” Bipasha says, annoyed at Cooper’s innuendo, “Mr. Captain, Sir.”

“
Tajemnica
, how long till they get here?” Helton asks.

“They will arrive after impact and the deceleration to a relative velocity of zero.”

“Great. Really useful.”

“Here, like this,” Quiritis says, tapping at Bipasha’s control screens. An answer flashes up. Bipasha flashes her a thankful smile, then reports crisply, “About 45 seconds!”

Helton thumbs the com mic. “Allonia, everyone ready to sort out the refugees?”

Kwon answers, “Got it covered. Hatches closed and locked. Everyone in place.”

“How many out there now?” Helton asks Cooper.

“Couple dozen at the ramp, a few more heading this way.”

The screens in front of Bipasha and Quiritis, showing diagrams of the local area, explode with numerous colored dots. “Whoa!” Bipasha jerks her hands away from the controls. “All kinds of stuff showing up. Movement everywhere.”

“Computer, show all people on main screen,” Cooper says tersely. Images pop up on several small smaller screens in front of each person showing a 5 kilometer map of the area, the refugees represented by thousands of dots: clusters and singles, so many it looks like static. “I said Main Screen!” All the images disappear except the one in front of Quiritis. “Crap. Useless computer. We ALL need to see what’s going on.” The map appears in front of everyone but Cooper.

Helton scans the screens rapidly. “That’s a lot. But … that’s everything in 5K. That can’t be right. Limit range to one kilometer.” The screen adjusts, still showing hundreds of dots converging on them. Cooper leans over to look at Bipasha’s screen, but the map disappears before he can get more than a brief glance. “If that’s not a glitch, we don’t have room, let alone air when we button up. That many would need several trips.”

“Don’t care about that, as long as they pay us for every trip,” Cooper says. Then, petulantly, “Come on ‘puter, show it on
my
screen! Damn thing’s as useless as the boss crashing a crew party.”

A new image appears on the main screen, the cockpit of a small private flier with three people inside: a pilot wearing a helmet and flight suit, Penger Trask, and Trask’s frightened wife, Lucretia. The signal is weak and staticky, the pilot’s voice on the edge of panic. For a moment it comes in sharp and clear. “This is Trask Flier 61, calling anyone at the field. We are damaged and losing altitude. Get emergency vehicles ready. We were hit by ground fire and will be coming in hard. Please respond.”

“This is
Tajemnica
, we see you,” Bipasha answers. “The tower is abandoned. Land near us if you can, we’ll try to help.”

“Thank God there’s someone there!”

Trask leans forward to look over the pilot’s shoulder. “Abandoned?”

“Just land,” Helton says. “Talk when you’re down.” The pilot nods and the screen clears.

On the ground around the boarding ramp, the scene is growing increasingly chaotic. A surge of people is coming around the corner of a port building, heading toward the ship. Refugees near
Tajemnica
notice the incoming flier, headed their way. It is closing fast, at too steep an angle, trailing flame and smoke. They point and yell warnings and scream and start to run away.

The flier hits hard, breaking off landing struts and sending debris flying. It slides to a stop barely ten meters from the closed boarding hatch on
Tajemnica
’s side. People gawk, but keep well back from the flames.
Tajemnica
’s side door drops rapidly. Lag, in light armor with a carbine, sprints to the side of the flier and pops the hatch. He helps the shaken and bleeding Trask, then his wife, handing her off as soon as she’s out. He glances over the growing crowd and points to
Tajemnica
’s side hatch. “GET ABOARD!”

Trask looks him firmly in the eyes. “The pilot! And the cases in back! Get the attaché cases!”

Lag shifts his carbine to his back and charges into the cabin of the flier. The pilot is slumped in the cockpit with part of the craft’s side crumpled into him, impaling his chest. Lag checks for a pulse briefly with a finger to the throat while scanning the cockpit for anything of importance, then heads for the back. He emerges with two large attaché cases and runs to the side hatch.

Penger and Lucretia Trask are still limping up the stairs while watching the flier. Lag throws the attaché cases aboard ahead of them, shakes his head about the pilot, and turns back to the flier. Lucretia starts crying, and Trask helps her up the rest of the stairs and into the ship.

Lag exits moments later with one more attaché case and runs for the hatch just as the flier explodes in flames. He glances down the side of the ship, sees people running his way, leaps up the stairs and tosses the last attaché case inside. With a well-practiced movement he swings his rifle back around to the front and brings it up to a low ready, clearly willing to use it to prevent unauthorized boarding, then hits the button to close the hatch. The refugees headed for the side entry stop, yelling and angry as it closes in front of them.

Trask emerges into the cargo bay from the side hatch passageway, supporting his crying and slightly bloodied wife and carrying one of the large attaché cases. Lag is right behind them, carrying the other two. A cluster of refugees huddle by the opposite door, corralled by Allonia and Kwon’s son John, both in camo with light armor, carrying carbines.

“That poor pilot!” Tears streak Lucretia’s face.

“Worry about yourself right now, ma’am. Get up to sick bay,” Lag orders. Quinn peeks out from a far stairwell. “QUINN!” Lag snaps. “Show these two to sick bay! On the double, soldier!”

“What are you doing here?” Trask says to Lag. “I thought–”

“What’s in the boxes?”

“Very important paperwork. But what–”

“We can talk later. How important?”