Counterweight (18 page)

Not wanting to waste precious time, he took his bag over and
dropped it next to the floor-to-ceiling windows that supposedly gave such a
magnificent view of the sunrise. After a brief glimpse, he set to work, placing
prospecting charges around the perimeter of the central window.

Before any other consideration, he wanted to be ready.

He knew there was a possibility the Stoners would come after
him. There weren’t many places to hide up here and interrogating him might lead
them to their real target.

His only hope was in the quick arrival of the scout ship.

Once the charges were done, he managed to convince himself
that ordering delivery of a good meal was really the best thing he could do to
maintain his cover. He put in a request and dragged a comfortable lounger over
to the window to start his vigil.

As luck would have it, the ship did arrive early but only
five minutes after the arrival of his meal, which smelled delicious. Chuckling
over the timing, he put down the leg of whatever animal he’d been about to eat
and slid the table out of the way. He gave a simple wave in the direction of
the blinking lights.

Just as he was about to push himself out of the seat, his
head swung around in alarm and he stared at the door to the hallway. He cursed
quietly – they’d come for him after all.

He scrambled out of his seat, snagging a full tube of wine
as he made his way to the wall by the door. He backed up against the metallic
panel, activating his suit’s maglock and almost firing the detonation sequence
in his haste.

He could almost laugh at his own stupidity. He’d had the
presence of mind to grab the wine but, if he forgot his helmet, the blast might
kill him or, at the least, render him unfit for the transfer to the scout ship.

He closed his helmet just as the door opened beside him and
two magisters stormed in.

The first one through the door scanned the main room, eyes
coming to rest on the suited figure clamped to the wall. Rick saw his eyes dart
down to where he was holding his finger over the trigger sequence on his wrist
pad.  The magister’s eyes widened in shock, his head darting back toward
the windows. His left hand came up, too late, to push his comrade back out of
the room.

Rick felt a moment of doubt. This was obviously a good man.
His first thought was to protect his fellow magister and, yet, he had to die if
the plan was going to succeed. It was a war, after all, even if it
was
a
cold one. He touched the pad and the front of his suit was hammered by the
shockwave.

The two magisters staggered back a few feet, then the air of
the hallway behind them shoved them, just as roughly, back into the middle of
the room and out into the black.

He could faintly hear the sound of an alarm vibrating
through the hotel walls and into the atmosphere of his suit. The door behind
him slid shut as part of the station’s safety protocols and the remaining
atmosphere in the room quickly vented.

Rick realized he was still holding the tube of wine.
Somehow, it hadn’t been smashed by the blast. He deactivated his mag-clamp,
walked over to retrieve his bag from the washroom and shoved the bottle inside.
Slinging the bag over his shoulders, he returned to the main room and put his
back to the wall.

Lining up on the faintly blinking lights, he launched
himself from the wall at a dead run, resisting the urge to jump as he crossed
the shattered threshold.  He sailed out into the cold black – more or less
on a straight line to the scout ship.

The staff of the counterweight, he’d been told, was unlikely
to come after him. Unless he carried the locator beacon of someone important,
he’d be left to drift. Since the hotel was above the geostationary cut-off, he
had no fears of falling into the atmosphere but he had a long trip ahead of
him.

He was still moving at the pace of a slow run but he had
close to a hundred kilometers to cover before he reached the scout ship. It
would take close to five hours.

He finally had time to think about what lay ahead. He’d left
3428 as a hunted man and, if he were to set foot on that world again, he’d be
killed but now he was on a trajectory that would take him back. The scout ship
would take him to meet the nearest warlord and she would send a force to claim
3428, with him in some kind of advisory role to whomever was placed in charge.

He could imagine how the residents of the
Canal
would
see things. Rick was lower than low and if that weren’t enough, he’d stabbed
Ted in the neck. Now he’d be following the new ruler of 3428 around, whispering
in his ear…

He’d be lucky to survive a week without finding a knife in
his back.

The trip was monotonous, despite the inherent dangers of
travelling just under a hundred kilometers through space. Chaco Benthic, at
least, had relatively clean orbitals. The planet had never experienced a space
race. The company had arrived, converted a troopship into a counterweight, and
started construction on the city. Some nuts and bolts had probably escaped but
they were no threat to the counterweight’s nav shields.

It was unlikely that Rick would encounter anything and he’d
be able to avoid it, anyway. With a fourteen-second warning of its approach, he
could simply use his maneuvering thrusters. Still, he didn’t like the idea of a
paint flake hunting for him at twenty thousand kilometers per hour.

It was a long time before he was able to discern the outline
of the scout ship but, once he did, it rapidly began to grow in size. He’d
learned from C’Al, as the Ufangians had called him, that the Long Range Group
favored a modernized variant of the combat shuttles that the
Canal
had
carried.

There were still twenty of the combat shuttles on the
Canal
but they’d been out of serviceable condition for over a century. All of the traded
parts he’d received had been used to bring the main ship’s systems up to
scratch. Fixing the shuttles had been a much longer-term plan. They served as
quarters for small families of three children or less.

He couldn’t imagine them holding seven LRG crewmen for
months at a time, though he supposed he’d experience it soon enough. He was
close enough now to make out the runes on her bow. It was a Midgaard crew, or
captain at least.

He was heading for a point twenty feet below the small ship
and, when he began to wonder if he’d missed something in C’Al’s hurried
briefing, the recovery net finally deployed.

At least thirty feet long and spreading out in a wide arc,
the net was fired out from a modified escape chamber on the craft’s ventral
surface. Rick tumbled into the silk web with a feeling of elation.

Sometimes, you only feel the fear after the danger is done.
The Human mind has an incredible capacity for deferring fear in the right
circumstances.

As directed, he ensured that his limbs were well tangled in
the net; otherwise, he’d simply tumble out again. After his forward motion had
begun to translate into a rotation around the origin of the web, it pulled him
into the chamber and the hatch slid shut with a muffled clang.

He felt the plates of his suit flex as the small chamber
pressurised and then the inner hatch slid open to reveal a face staring down at
him, inspecting their catch.

Rick retracted his helmet, his ears slightly muffled from
the sudden difference in pressures. He searched his protocol training for a
brief moment before speaking. “Permission to come aboard?” he asked in
Midgaard. He’d learned it, along with Dheema, from the pods on the
Canal
but he’d at least been able to practice it with the stranded Midgaard who lived
on the lost ship.

His efforts were rewarded with a grin and an extended hand.
“Permission granted,” the crewman said, helping Rick clamber out of the tight
hole and into a cramped engineering space dominated by the drive plant.
“Welcome aboard the
Brisbane.
”

Rick took a closer look at the crewman, wondering if he was
joking. “Those runes outside say the
Brisbane
? Doesn’t sound very
Midgaard…”

A laugh. “It’s not but most ships in the LRG are named for
an Aussie town. It’s a tradition started by Gabs over a century ago – makes for
a luckier ship.”

“Gabs?”

“Commander Gabiola. She pretty much created the LRG on her
own initiative. She got captured about forty years ago.” He jerked his head to
the right. “C’mon, let’s go check you in with the captain.”

The walk to the bridge was as short as one might expect.
They opened the hatch from the fifteen-foot-long engineering compartment and
passed through a small airlock to enter what appeared to be storage and crew
quarters. A small electric brazier in the middle showed the accumulated carbon
of an endless series of charred meats. Crew hammocks hung along the outer edges
and a single suit-sanitizing station stood against the starboard side next to a
shower unit.

The space smelled strongly of sweat, machinery, and charred
meat. It was a lot homier than the
Foxlight II
.

Three crewmen, evidently off duty, watched him walk through
the thirty-foot-long compartment. One of them stood over a refrigerated
compartment, holding what appeared to be a small dead animal. Whatever it was,
Rick was certain he’d eaten worse.

They passed a second airlock at the forward end of the
compartment and entered the bridge, if it could be called that. At fifteen feet
long, it had room for a pilot at the front and the captain/navigator and
weapons officer behind. The arrival of the crewman with Rick had made the place
positively crowded.

“Got room for another in first class, Captain?” the crewman
asked with a grin.

She looked up from her chart screen. “Name?” she demanded
simply.

“Rick Heywood, ma’am. Second Engineer of the
Guadalcanal.”

A murmur of surprise filled the small space. She raised an
eyebrow. “You’re an actual engineer? Combat ship or commercial?”

“Uhhh, well ma’am…”

“Just call me Freya. We’re not very formal in the LRG.”

“All right, Freya…” Rick was sure his face was turning red.
He hadn’t really given much thought to her looks at first introduction but her
face
did
have the austere grace common to her species.

And, story of his life, she was out of his league. He forced
the growing cobwebs out of his mind and concentrated. “The
Guadalcanal
is a carrier. She was taken by mutiny a century and a half ago but the
engineering division has held up the original standards, supplies permitting.”

The captain’s eyes narrowed. “Which side of this mutiny were
you on?”

 Rick shrugged. “I wasn’t alive back then but my
ancestor was against the mutiny; he came along because they forced him. Without
the chief engineer, the ship wouldn’t have gone very far.”

She nodded. “He’ll be asked to give evidence, if this ever
comes to an inquiry…”

“He died more than a century ago,” Rick advised her. “I
should explain. We’re what you seem to call ‘originals’ – we haven’t had the
vaccination.”

Silence filled the compartment. Rick looked around to see
all four faces turned to him. “I’m nineteen years old,” He explained.

“Norns!” The weapons officer finally broke the silence.
“He’s even younger than you are, Freya! If you fancy a younger man, you’d
better hurry – before he keels over of old age!”

Everyone but Rick broke out laughing. He waited patiently
for the hilarity to ebb. They slowly settled, casting him condescending glances
as the poor Human who can’t take a good ribbing. He grinned.

Ivar and his small community of stranded Midgaard on the
Canal
were among the few who treated him well and he’d spent as much time with them
as he could. Their directness and friendly insults served as a pressure
release, in most cases, and he could easily fall into their banter.

Rick leaned in closer to the captain. “If
I’m
not to
your taste, I’d think twice,” he whispered loud enough for all to hear, “before
choosing a man who advises haste.” He angled his head toward the weapons
officer.

“Har!” The man leaned over to give Rick a light punch on the
hip. “He’ll do,” he declared simply, turning back to his terminal.

“I reckon he will,” Freya said mildly. She nodded at the man
who’d brought Rick aboard. “You’ll share the engine watch with Thorstein, here.
He’ll show you where to stow your gear and hang a hammock.”

With that, she turned back to her charts.

Rick was glad she wouldn’t see the redness returning to his
face.

One
Day

Chaco
Benthic

C
al
drifted back out of the side alley and glanced around. The best spots, the ones
far from the noise and moisture of the central atrium, were all taken and the
NRW’s who slept there were even protective of their
neighbors’
places.

Cal had decided not to go back to his small apartment.
Patrol activity in his neighborhood had increased and he had a feeling the
administration wanted a stronger presence in the event he showed up there. He
figured there was a twenty-percent chance they’d identified him and he hadn’t
survived this long by running risks.

There would be no reporting to work tomorrow, or ever again.
He hadn’t planned for things to move along this quickly but the success of his
‘hope’ offensive had surprised him. The arrival of the young Human from 3428
had also pushed the tempo in ways they hadn’t anticipated.

The three Stoners, ironically, were becoming figureheads for
the resistance. Their presence at several incidents, whether involved or not,
had inextricably linked them to the desperate plague of hope infecting the
city’s underclass.

“You’re him, aren’t you?”

Cal turned at the sound of the voice to find a small girl
looking up at him. “I’m who, little one?”