God damn them! That spineless Hohenheim, A.J. Baker and Horst Eberhart. Together they had managed to bugger everything up. He'd had the situation completely under control until they'd created a total cock-up in the coilgun systems. Baker, well, he could understand that, but couldn't the general at least realize that taking out the Nebula Storm would end up being for the good of everyone in the long run? Fitzgerald had been hired to do a job—so had the blasted general himself, for the love of Christ—and then bloody everyone had to keep getting in the way. To put the cherry on top, they'd managed to get the Odin turned into a colander. Mia Svendsen had told him that it was going to take her weeks to get the engines back on line—and they didn't have weeks before their up-close meeting with the most volcanic body in the system.
That left only one option for anyone who wanted to stay alive: the Munin. The lander/transport—and its missing twin, Hunin—were the largest pieces of cargo ever transported between planets, each massing five hundred tons fully loaded. And for convenience and efficient use of space, the Munin had been loaded with maximum supplies as soon as they had set out. It would hold up to ten people, and that would be more than enough, it seemed. Of the total of one hundred or so original crew of the Odin, there probably weren't more than a dozen left alive. Twenty, at most. But most of them were cut off. He couldn't afford to spend hours dragging possibly injured people out of Odin's wreckage, or arranging spacewalks to reach them.
And, being realistic, at this point the fewer people from the expedition who survived, other than his own team, the better. There would be no way now to continue on to Enceladus, so the original mission was in the crapper. The only thing left to do was to survive until they could be rescued, which would probably take years. Then, perhaps, he could cash in eventually on the inevitable fame that would accrue to him from being the surviving officer of the ill-fated expedition.
The prerequisite for that, however, was that no one could survive until rescue other than himself, his team, and whatever crew members were completely ignorant of what had happened. So those of them who were already dead or would die soon were simply saving him the trouble of disposing of them later.
It was an unfortunate situation, certainly, but Richard was no stranger to hard times. He'd get through it well enough, he thought. And there was one bright spot at the moment: Hohenheim had apparently not survived. The general's life signs had gone to zero shortly after the disaster. Shame that, but you brought it on yourself, boyo. If you'd only just listened to old Richard, we'd both be sittin' pretty right now.
The sporadic connection to the formerly seamless shipwide network sputtered back to life. He could access data about the hangar area now. Oh, bugger me. "Feeney! Hold up."
"What is it, Chief?"
"Someone else got to the hangar bay first," he said calmly. He really should have predicted this, but then, there hadn't been much time. "And they're trying to talk to our old friends off on Nebula Storm." He queried the net, using his security authorization. The answer was, in its own way, rather gratifying. "Well, well. It's Horst Eberhart and his sidekick, LaPointe."
Vanna Desplaines looked concerned. "If they're already aboard Munin, that's a problem. We can't force the doors."
"Of course not," agreed Fitzgerald. "But there are ways to convince 'em to come to us." He grinned. "There are always ways, you know."
"—ing Odin. You are on a collision course with Io. You will need to change course. The following is the most efficient . . ."
Horst glanced at Anthony, who nodded. "They are accurate."
"A shame that we cannot do that," he said. Once they'd managed to access the Munin's communications gear, it hadn't taken long to pick up on the Nebula Storm's automated warning. He activated the transmitter. "Nebula Storm, Nebula Storm, this is Horst Eberhart on Odin. There is no point in continuing to broadcast. We can do nothing."
A few moments later, Jackie's voice responded. "Horst! How bad is it?"
"It is hopeless, Jackie," he answered soberly. "The NERVA drive is damaged and would take weeks to repair out here. Lateral thrusters cannot produce the delta-V we need, even if enough of them were intact, which they are not. There are maybe twenty of us left alive. If that."
"Jesus Christ." That was A.J. "Eighty percent of you died?"
"Everything went wrong at once, A.J. Some must have been killed by Fitzgerald's people. A lot of them were in the habitat ring, which was shredded by the blast. Most of them wouldn't have been in suits, so they'd have been killed by the decompression even if they'd been otherwise uninjured. And getting to whatever survivors there might still be on the ship would be hard, if it was possible at all."
"And of those twenty," Anthony put in, "at least four are Fitzgerald and his people."
"Marvelous," Maddie said. "So he's got all the weapons, and the survivors are divided."
"But we are on Munin, which is the only escape," Horst said with a touch of grim satisfaction. "If he wants to live, he's going to have to play our way. He cannot force the doors on something this size, especially if he wants it intact."
"Don't get cocky," Maddie said. "He may have overrides or other plans. If there's nothing else we've learned about Fitzgerald by now, it's that he's a cunning bastard."
"I will try to remember that," Horst answered. "Once we get Munin out, we will be able to escape from Io. I believe the Nebula Storm could then tow us eventually to safety, with the right computations, yes?"
There was silence—silence for so long that Horst thought for a moment that they must have lost the connection. Then Jackie's voice came on, this time heavy with regret. "I'm afraid not, Horst. We could have . . . but Fitzgerald got us."
"How?" demanded Anthony LaPointe. "It is too far, and you are too small. It is beyond belief that you could have failed to see the attack or avoid it."
"Fitzgerald was a smart one," A.J. said. "Those shells weren't like the little fat bullet he shot at Ceres. These were big, relatively smart cans of armor-piercing BBs the size of my thumb. He bracketed us with his shots, and then the damn things chased us when we tried to dodge. So . . . short story is, he got our reactor."
"No way to repair it?"
"Not without at least a place to sit her down. Or a spacefloating drydock. I need a place that either has gravity or that's enclosed so I can work on the ship opened up without worrying about where stuff might drift off to," Jackie said quietly. "And we haven't got what it takes to—"
Her voice dissolved into a mass of static. Horst blinked, then swung toward the instruments of Munin; Anthony was doing the same thing. "Horst—"
"Yes. I do not think they suddenly stopped transmitting, and that means we are being jammed. Which would need something very close."
The external ramp cameras came on. Standing in the doorway of the hangar were three figures: Richard Fitzgerald, security officer James Feeney, and Mia Svendsen. Fitzgerald gave a cheery wave. "Why not say hello, boyo? It's the friendly thing to do."
Chapter 40
Richard saw the furious face of Horst Eberhart materialize in his VRD. He let Horst give vent to a considerable range of epithets. Most of them were in German, some in French, two in English, one in Italian, and one in Czech. He hadn't realized the lad was such a linguist.
Shame he wasn't in any position to actually do anything. "Yes, yes, let's take it that you've told me what you think of me and my ancestors. We're wasting valuable time here, since our dear friends on Nebula Storm have sent us heading straight for a very un-soft landing on Io."
"Nebula Storm? It is you who have doomed us, Fitzgerald!" Anthony LaPointe almost shouted. "Had you never attacked them, had you not tried again, then all of us would still be alive!"
He shook his head. Of all the wrongheaded things to be arguing about! "I was doing a job. You don't have my job, and innocents like you never do understand how things work, anyway. It's simply a waste of time to argue about who did what to whom. The real question is how those of us still alive can stay that way.
"Now, it seems to me that Munin has more than enough room for you two, the four of us, and little Mia here. She's all fueled, she's loaded, she's ready. And I happen to be qualified to pilot her, too, which I don't think either of you two are."
"I have flown some," Horst said. "In space. Between myself and Anthony, I think we can fly it."
"Maybe so. But it's a lot different in real life than the simulator, don't you forget that. Still, I won't force you to trust my flying. Just open up and let us on board."
Horst laughed. "Let you on board? You must be joking!"
Richard shook his head. "Now, that kind of talk gets us nowhere, Horst." He nodded, and Feeney pointed his pistol at Mia's head. Behind him, Johnson and Desplaines emerged, flanking him on either side. "Do I have to draw you a picture? Surely you're bright enough to see the bargain. Or do you think we won't hurt her?"
Horst was silent, clearly trying to think of some argument he could make, or of some other threat which wasn't immediately cancelled by the threat to the Odin's chief engineer. "We'd be outnumbered four to three, counting Mia. That's bad enough. No one's coming on board armed."
Richard considered. He liked having weapons, but he really couldn't afford to shoot anyone at this point, even Eberhart and LaPointe. Eberhart might also be able to get around the guns' personalized locks, in which case bringing them on board could end up putting a weapon in the German engineer's hands. "I suppose I can give you that, for the sake of some small goodwill. You're not silly enough to think that us getting rid of the guns will mean we can't hurt Miss Svendsen, are you? Didn't think you were." He gestured. "Lose the guns, mates. And any other toys we brought along. We shouldn't be needing them."
Johnson stared at him. "Chief, are you sure about this?"
He cut out his transmitter. "Seven of us having to survive somehow is none too many," he said, voice low but carrying to the others. "And besides, if two engineers and an astronomer can beat the four of us in unarmed combat, we're nothing but a bad joke and that's the truth."
The other three looked reluctant, but followed orders. Richard collected the weapons—six firearms, three knives, and an explosives kit—put them in one of the mesh holding bags used for loose items in weightless spaces like the hangar, and held it up. "There they are," he said, transmitter active again. "I am putting them over here."
He went to the wall, clipped the bag securely, then rejoined his group, where Johnson was keeping Mia in a restraining hold. "Satisfactory? Now open up."
"How do I know you don't have anything concealed inside your suits?"
Richard rolled his eyes. "You don't, boyo. And I don't think I'm getting out of my suit just to make you feel better. Sudden decompression without a suit doesn't appeal to me, and the shape old Odin is in, that could happen just about any time. You take what you see. Now open up."
Horst hesitated, but Richard could see that he knew he'd run out of options and delaying tactics. The younger man began to reach for a control out of sight of the camera.
Something warned Richard Fitzgerald; perhaps it was a very slight shift of Horst's gaze, a widening of the eyes; perhaps it was an intake of breath on the part of Anthony LaPointe. Perhaps it was just more than a quarter-century of instincts honed in lethal conflicts around the world. Whatever it was, he found himself suddenly diving forward and up, launching himself across the hangar toward the support and loading mechanisms—just as the thunder of a large-caliber handgun blasted out from behind him.
Johnson never had a chance to even scream. One second he was stolidly holding Mia immobile, the next his head exploded in a spray of red. Feeney, startled, tried to whirl, actually managed to complete a quarter-turn before the gun roared again, blowing a hole in his neck. Vanna Desplaines made a desperate dive toward the net bag holding their guns. Two more shots echoed out, deafening in the enclosed room. The first spanged off her carbonan suit, sending her into an uncontrolled spin to smack into the wall. The second hit her just as she began to rebound, and took her right between the eyes.
Richard stared down incredulously at the shadowed doorway, searching for some sort of weapon—a crowbar, a hammer, something. Four shots, three dead? Even he would have had a hard time pulling that one off. Who in the name of . . .
An involuntary chill went down his spine as the figure in the doorway moved into view. Looking directly at him, golden eyes gleaming cold as dead men's treasure, General Hohenheim raised his pistol.
Chapter 41
"General! You're alive!"
Hohenheim found the relief and genuine pleasure in Horst's exclamation warming. But he didn't have time or luxury for enjoyment at the moment. "I am. Mr. Eberhart, while Mr. Fitzgerald stays extremely still, I would like you to open the Munin's hatch and allow Mia to board." He looked down at the wide-eyed engineer, who was pale and shaking—and covered with blood and other remnants of her former captor. "My apologies for being unable to warn you, Miss—do not move, Mr. Fitzgerald! I have excellent peripheral vision, and I believe I have demonstrated my accuracy with this weapon. As I was saying, my apologies, Miss Svendsen. I hope you are unharmed?"
Mia swallowed, then nodded. "I . . . I am all right, General. They had said you were dead."
He smiled grimly. "That is what I intended them to think." The Munin's hatch opened. "Now get on board."
Mia stood, a bit shakily, and moved toward the ramp. Her boots gripped the deck and allowed her to walk and keep her balance despite being at the edge of collapse.
It was at that moment that everything went wrong. Vanna Desplaines' body had continued to ricochet gruesomely in slow-motion around the docking area, and at that crucial instant she passed between Hohenheim and Richard Fitzgerald.
The speed of Fitzgerald's reaction showed that he had already anticipated exactly that turn of events—had watched everything, estimated angles, movements, timing. He dove toward the body, her armored corpse making a shield that Hohenheim's single reflexive shot did not penetrate. He then spun his body around, flinging his associate's toward Hohenheim and gaining a change in vector that caused him to sail directly to the wall he had just recently left. Before the general could get a clear shot, his former security chief had ripped the mesh bag from the wall and bounded away, back into the shadowed reaches of the support and loading mechanisms.
And now he is fully armed, and I have one gun, Hohenheim thought grimly as he pulled himself back into the doorway from which he had entered. He gestured savagely to Mia, who had frozen and tried to drop to the ground—a gesture which had ended with her floating mostly motionless near the boarding ramp. "Get on board immediately." As she moved to comply, Hohenheim continued: "Once she is on board, Mr. Eberhardt, you will close the hatch."
"Sir?" There was concern in the young engineer's voice. "Are you not coming on board?"
"No, Mr. Eberhart. I doubt if Fitzgerald is less of a marksman than myself, and in order for me to reach the ramp I must cross a considerable empty space. He will have an excellent field of fire and cover, while I would have to give up all cover in order to board.
"On the other hand, you must get out of here immediately for two reasons. Firstly, because if you go to these coordinates"—he transmitted a location on the wreck of Odin—"you will find a few more survivors whose time is running out. And secondly, because if I do not keep Mr. Fitzgerald busy"—he suited actions to words by firing two shots in the general direction of the renegade security chief—"he will almost certainly find a way to disable or control the launching mechanisms, and then no one will leave here unless he allows it."
"Only . . . a few survivors?"
"Five, when I left. One was . . . not well. I believe there are no others left that we could reach in time. The radiation shielding was badly damaged in most areas, in addition to the general decompression damage and the many people killed or injured directly by projectiles. I am afraid that even if there are people left alive currently, other than in the location I gave you—which is still shielded—they
are simply breathing dead."
"Dear God. I had forgotten about the radiation hazard."
"As did I, at first, until my radiation alarm went off when I tried to enter one of the cross corridors. We are being reminded again, and now as savagely as possible, how deadly the environment is so close to Jupiter. Now go, pick them up. You are no pilot. It will take you some time to master the controls and reach that location, and we have no time to waste."
"But, General—"
"That is a direct order, Mr. Eberhart. Get yourself and the remainder of my crew to safety."
"Are you insane?" Fitzgerald finally burst out. "Munin can handle at least ten people! There's plenty of room for both of us!"
He could not make out the former Irish mercenary, but looked in the direction of the outraged voice. "Mr. Fitzgerald, there is no room on any ship under my command for a mutineer, a traitor, and a murderer, and you are all three. While I live, Odin and Munin remain under my command. And since I sincerely doubt that you are ready to nobly allow me to board Munin and go down with my ship in expiation for your crimes"—Hohenheim carefully inserted another magazine into his weapon—"it appears that we are about to play out the final act of a melodrama. Carry out your orders, Mr. Eberhardt."
After a moment's pause, Eberhart replied. His voice was strained and thick. "Yes, General."
"Good luck, Horst, Anthony, Mia. It has been an honor having you on my crew."
"It's been an honor to serve under you, sir," Anthony said quietly. The noises in the background indicated that perhaps the others simply could not speak.
"Not so honorable as I might have been, I'm afraid. Please tender my apologies to the Nebula Storm and, when the time comes, to my superiors. I accept all the responsibility for the mission's failure. I am now carrying out my final duty as the captain of this vessel." He triggered the airlock, which shut behind him and Fitzgerald. "Launch, Mr. Eberhart."
Fitzgerald's angry voice came again. "So, we're both going to just bloody sit here and watch the only hope we've got fly away?"