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CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Cynthia Robbins was running down a checklist with one of the pilot officers prior to his flying his repaired Speed. The pilot officer wasn't happy to have her so involved in the process and was freely showing it. Actually it wasn't something that she should have been doing. This was a tech's job.

But she reasoned that if she didn't force them to interact with her, they could very easily get into the habit of ignoring and working around her, which would cut into her efficiency. And nothing cuts into my efficiency. Besides, she got a lot of satisfaction out of making them do it. Petty revenge for their nasty suspicions, now mostly laid aside except for some diehards like this. The tasty little triumph at the Mollie base had ensured that.

This task was also done by computer, but Commander Raeder thought that going through it with the pilot avoided complacency. And, Cynthia thought, it means they can't avoid me. 

"Main sensor array data bus?" she said.

"Check," the pilot said in a bored, annoyed voice. Then he coughed.

"Weapons readiness," Cynthia was saying over the pilot's coughing, which was now continuous. "Monitoring." He was hacking now, loud enough to drown her out, which is what she supposed he was trying to do. "Subsystems?"

"Che-ck," he squeezed out between spasms.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

"Help," the pilot said, choking. Then there was silence.

His ramp was up, so Cynthia used her remote, but nothing happened. She dashed over to the emergency release and pressed in the code. The ramp descended reluctantly. Cynthia looked up into the Speed; nothing moved, so she went in.

The pilot was slumped over in his chair, the faceplate of his helmet frosted with moisture. Cynthia broke the seal and took it off.

"Oh," she gasped and took an involuntary step backwards. Whatever gas his life-support system had been feeding him, it definitely wasn't pure air. Her eyes were watering, so she cut the feed. Then she reached for his pulse. It seemed a bit fast, but it was there, and his face hadn't turned any of the off colors you'd expect in a situation like this.

The ramp began to go up.

"Hey!" Cynthia yelled. She rushed forward, but it was too late. "Hey!" she yelled again through the closing door. I hope someone heard me, she thought as it fitted home.

Her ears popped.

That could only mean that the Speed was pumping the air out preparatory to takeoff. Oh, great, she thought, rushing to the control board. Nothing in the life-support system but knockout gas, and no air in the cockpit. Cynthia tried to get the Speed to stop draining the air, but it wouldn't obey her commands. She tried shutting it down, her fingers blurring over the console. It ignored her. Only one thing left, she thought. Remembering the last time things went so badly wrong, she didn't even try to get to the Speed's innards. She had no doubt that they would be protected from her interference. Pulling the pilot's helmet over her head, she blew on the microphone to start the radio set.

"Mayday, Mayday," she said. It was getting hard to breathe.

"Robbins?" It was Raeder's voice.

"Sir, I'm trapped in Friedreich's Speed. The air is being pumped out and the ramp won't open."

"On my way," Raeder said. He grabbed the comm. "All personnel on flight deck, whoever is closest to Friedreich's Speed, this is an emergency. Get his ramp down." Then he bolted for the door.

Cynthia grabbed the pilot under his arms and dragged him toward the ramp. All well and good for the commander to be on his way, but it wouldn't hurt to help herself. Robbins was a fit young woman, but Friedreich's dead weight was more difficult to move than she'd expected. She clenched her teeth and dragged, bracing her heels against bits of equipment. Blood hammered in her ears, and she was panting far faster than she should even under the circumstances. She hadn't made it halfway before she dropped to her knees, straining at the thinning air like something in a bad dream, like running at top speed and getting nowhere. Her lungs strained, but found almost nothing to breath. This isn't going to work, she thought. Her chest hurt and she began to see speckles of white in her vision.

Then she thought of something. Something dangerous, but it might work. Doing nothing was death.

There was a switch at the lower edge of the ramp door; it was hard to reach without taking the covering completely off, but her hand should be small enough to reach in and press. . . . Cynthia twisted her body around on the floor until she could get her hand into position. It was incredibly awkward. She pressed a small catch home and the ramp began to descend. Robbins rolled down with it, trying to keep her hand in place.

Easiest to roll off the ramp, she thought. That way she'd be out of the way of Friedreich's rescuers, and in a slightly more comfortable position as well.

People rushed past her and gathered the pilot up, carrying him down the ramp and laying him on the deck.

"Get some oxygen," Raeder shouted. "Are you all right, Lieutenant?"

"Yes, sir, perfectly fine."

"Good job, Robbins," he said. "Lister, bring that stretcher over here."

Cynthia released the pressure of her hand on the catch and the ramp snapped up. She tried to pull her hand out, but it was caught. "Hey!" she shouted, and tried to push her hand back onto the catch. She couldn't find it. The ramp closed over her wrist. It had the finality of memory; she was watching it, disbelieving it, and knowing it was absolutely inevitable all at the same time.

"Nooooo!" she screamed, even before she felt the pain. With horrible finality the ramp crushed the tiny bones of her wrist and she screamed with the shock, falling to her knees. And the worst of it was that it didn't even hurt, not at first. She could feel bone snap, hear it, feel the stretching and rending of tendon and muscle. The ramp clicked home, slicing the flesh that held her upright and Cynthia sprawled on the deck unconscious, the stump of her wrist spouting blood like a severed hydraulic hose.

It had happened too quickly for anyone to react. The ramps weren't supposed to be able to raise that fast.

Raeder rushed to her, one glance at the blood running down the Speed's side told him the story and he pulled out his belt as he ran. He whipped it around her arm, using it as a tourniquet.

"Get Goldberg!" he shouted. "Now!"

 

Cynthia woke to the darkness and the quiet and the medical scent of a sick bay room. She opened her eyes, which felt so very heavy, and sighed.

"Ah, ye're awake," said a deep voice beside her.

Robbins blinked in surprise and turned her head. Paddy Casey smiled at her.

"How are ye then, darlin'?"

"Mm," she said, licked her lips and tried again. "You should call me lieutenant," Robbins told him trying to look aloof.

"How are ye then, Lieutenant darlin'?" he obliged.

She fought it, but Cynthia couldn't help the smile. Then she remembered. Her arm seemed too heavy to lift, so she turned her head and looked down. The wrist was bandaged, but she could see the contours of a presurgical nerve regeneration unit. It would keep the nerves in her wrist functional and receptive while blocking pain impulses. Without it a synthetic hand like Commander Reader's would be impossible.

Her eyes filled with tears. She closed her eyes, trying to regain her composure, but a sob welled up in her chest and broke through her reserve. Paddy was beside her in an instant. He took her in his big arms and gently stroked her hair.

"It's good to cry," he said. "The very best thing for ye. Cry it all out now, dearling." He dropped a kiss on top of her head. "There, there."

She was so surprised that she stopped weeping with a little hiccup. She sniffed and said plaintively, "You shouldn't . . ."

"Lieutenant dearling," he amended. He loosened his hold and smiled down at her. "That was a brief storm," Paddy observed.

She choked up for a moment, then got herself under control. "Not the last, though," Cynthia said. She pulled away from him and he left the bed and sat down on the chair beside it. "What are you doing here, Chief?"

"Paddy," he said.

"Chief Paddy," she said with a small curve to her lips.

He grinned. "Ye're a maddening woman, Lieutenant. I'm here because I thought ye might like a friend beside ye for awhile."

She looked at him for a moment. Hopeful blue eyes, curling red hair, snub nose, infectious grin, and big, very big.

"Yes," she said. "I do like it."

 

"I could almost believe that our saboteur wants us to catch him," Raeder told the captain. "Lieutenant Robbins was one of his best defenses. While everyone thought she was the one, he could go about his business undetected."

Knott pursed his lips, his hands steepled before him. "There are those who would remind you that the Mollies are fanatics who are capable of almost anything." He looked Raeder over carefully; a week in the regeneration tanks had taken care of most of the radiation damage. He just looked ten years older than he had, and that would fade.

"Maiming themselves unnecessarily, and thereby removing themselves from their assigned duties wouldn't be just fanatical, sir, it would be very stupid," Raeder said grimly. "I honestly believe that if our spy had known of that method of opening the ramp door, then it wouldn't have worked. Our man has grown increasingly bloodthirsty."

Knott leaned forward. "You think you know who it is," he said slowly.

Raeder nodded. "With Cynthia removed from suspicion I became convinced it could only be one person. Catching him will be the problem."

"Do you have a plan at all?" the captain asked.

"Yes, sir. The problem has to be in the quartermaster's area. My people are watching each other too closely; no one is alone with any part at any time. If they are, the part is removed and inspected. Ergo, my people were not breaking these parts."

"So the defective parts problem is solved?" Knott asked, his brows rising.

"Sir, we haven't had a one in quite some time."

"Then why do you think the problem is in Larkin's area? Maybe one of your people is guilty, but doesn't see the sense of getting caught just to be annoying. As you said, our spy is getting more bloodthirsty."

"True. But our serious problems have always been in sabotaged software. Which can only be accessed by plugging into the Speed's computer directly."

"Well, the security cameras—" Knott began.

"Can be fooled, sir. A really clever spy, like this one, would be prepared for them."

The captain nodded. An alert security chief might have set up something a little more tamperproof. But William Booth was far from on the ball; or he'd chased the one he was following right off Planet Consensus Reality some time ago.

"What's on your mind, Commander?" the captain asked finally. "You wouldn't be here unless you wanted me to do something."

"Yes, sir. I need for you to call a meeting of the quartermaster's staff, himself included."

"And?" Knott asked, spreading his hands.

"The meeting room should be rigged with a black light. It will illuminate the powder I've sprinkled all over the Speed's computer interface replacement parts. Those are the core of our problem. When those lights go on, we'll have our spy."

"What about your people?" Knott asked reasonably. "They must be touching those surfaces all the time. And what if he or she has washed their hands?"

"The surfaces that need to be accessed to change a program are inside the console," Raeder said. "There's a special keyboard for it and those are locked. It's a lock that can be picked, I grant you. But it's not all that easily accessible. And the only people who can legitimately access it are me, Lieutenant Robbins, Chief arap Moi, and Larry Taugh, our computer specialist. None of us had any of it on our hands."

"Not even you?" Knott asked.

"No, sir. I wore gloves. Nor did I confide this plan to anyone."

Knott sipped his coffee. "Where did you get this powder?" he asked. "I don't imagine it's commonly stocked by the quartermaster."

Peter smiled. "No, sir. I bought it at the Spy Shoppe on Ontario Base."

Knott spluttered into his coffee. "You're kidding! There's a spy shop on Ontario Base?"

"Shop-pe, sir," Raeder corrected. "It's for people who are paranoid about their spouses and coworkers who want to get the goods on them without being caught. Kind of an upscale outfit, actually."

Knott shook his head, his expression sour. "I don't imagine we carry black light in our stores, either," he said.

"Not that I'm aware of, Captain." Raeder placed a small bag on the captain's desk. "This will fit any standard fixture. But I only got one." Peter stopped speaking before he could put his foot in his mouth.

"So be careful with it or be prepared to waste time rigging a replacement." Knott smiled. "Will do." He opened the bag and took it out, looked at it, then put it back. "What if he's washed his hands?"

"The powder is so fine it's absorbed by the skin. It won't show up in any but black light, and it won't wash off. It has to wear off."

Knott shook his head, smiling. "It seems too easy," he said. "All right." He rose. "I'll take care of it, Commander. Do you want to be there?"

"If you wouldn't mind, sir."

"Not at all. I'll have my secretary call you with the time and place."

"Thank you, sir." Raeder saluted, the captain returned it, then Peter turned and left.

* * *

"D'ye know, Commander," Paddy said, "I do believe you people have been seriously misjudgin' the darlin' little lieutenant."

Raeder nearly jumped out of his shoes. For a big man Paddy moved like a cat.

"Which darlin' little lieutenant are you referring to?" Raeder asked.

"Tsk! Sure, you know who I mean, sir. It's Lieutenant Robbins I'm talkin' about."

"And how have we misjudged her, Chief?" The expression on Paddy's face was serious and concerned, so Peter stopped teasing him.

"Sure, she's from Clive's Home. D'ye know it?"

Peter thought a moment, then shook his head.

"It's a perfect horror of a place, sir. It was a real mistake to colonize it, if ye ask me. The people live in crowded habitats and the only way to get a little privacy is to keep yer thoughts to yerself. Y'know what I mean," he insisted, though Raeder hadn't said anything. "The masklike face, the carefully controlled voice and gestures. Not everyone can do it. They have a high suicide rate there."

"So when the lieutenant seems so cold . . ." Raeder began thoughtfully.

"She's merely bein' polite. And I'll tell ye something else, sir. She thinks the world of you."

"She does?" That was disconcerting. And how had this big, bluff aggressive New Hibernian found all this out? I've been beating my head against her reserve for months without getting a reaction. He's here two days and she's spilling her guts. On the other hand, you wouldn't think Paddy was an artist with a micromanipulator just by looking at the hands with the callus scar across the enlarged knuckles.

"Oh, aye. No one's ever tried to help her get along before this. She's never had many friends, but since she joined the service she's had none. It's lonely she's been. But you helped her and she's that grateful."

"Really?" Well, that's nice to know, Peter thought.

"That's a fine girl, sir," Paddy said, a speculative light in his eye. "She's enough of a catalyst to make me want to go for officer's training."

An image of Paddy as an officer loomed in Raeder's mind. Actually, he might be pretty good, he thought. They'd be good for each other, actually. He could roughen her edges; she could smooth his. 

"I'll be along to see her later," Peter said.

"Good, good," Paddy said.

He stood there, looking at the deck until Peter asked him, "Was there something else, Chief?"

"Yes, sir, there is, thank ye for asking. I was wondering, whereas the Dauntless is goin' to be laid up for a while and so's the little lieutenant . . ." He bit his lip and took a deep breath. "Would ye be willing to consider keepin' me on to do her work?" He looked at Raeder hopefully. "I'm experienced," he said. "And I wouldn't try to throw me weight around. Better the divil ye know than whatever Personnel yanks out of their files."

Like Booth, Raeder thought. "I'll see what I can do, Paddy. No promises, though."

"Understood, sir," the chief said, beaming. "Ye won't be sorry."

Jeez, I hope not, Raeder thought, watching the big man walk away. He could be a real handful. 

 

Stewart Semple dropped the bag on his desk, listening to the distressing tinkle of broken glass. The captain had told his secretary to guard it with his life. Nothing has ever fallen off my desk and broken, Stewart thought miserably. Why this? 

There was only one thing to do. He pressed a key on his comm.

"Larkin, here. Oh, hello, Petty Officer. What can I do for you?"

"Would you have such a thing as a black light?" Semple asked. "I just broke the captain's and I'd rather he didn't know it."

"Gee, I don't know," Larkin said slowly. "What's the captain doing with one of those?"

"He didn't say, sir. He just told me to guard it with my life."

Larkin grinned. "I'll see what I can do," he promised. "I wouldn't want you to have to pay the forfeit."

"Thank you, sir," Semple said gratefully.

The quartermaster broke the contact and sat thinking for a moment. What would the captain want with a black light? Some people used them during kinky sex, but that didn't fit Knott's profile.

What else does black light do? he wondered. Then it dawned on him. It makes some substances glow. He rose from his desk and left his office.

As it happened, he did have a black light. It was in his quarters and he headed there now. Entering his room he pulled the black light unit out of a cupboard and set it up, then he turned off the overhead light and turned on the lamp. His hands glowed green.

Damnation upon them! He'd washed his hands several times since he'd rigged Friedreich's computer. The mark of iniquity, he thought in dull horror. Their iniquity! It could not end this way. He could not allow himself to be taken like a lamb when he was a true warrior of his faith. The shame of it would kill me. And the failure would damn him forever.

Larkin sagged onto his knees and knelt with his head in his hands. O Spirit of Destiny, this test is so hard. It was up to him to craft his own salvation, even at the cost of his life. He took a deep breath and straightened. What is mortal life against the life of the soul? he asked himself. It is nothing, a moment, a passing dream beside eternity. He could not bear the price of failure.

Therefore I must not fail. 

Capture was failure.

They were still on their way back to Ontario Base, so avoiding the Welters was impossible. Larkin knew that as a spy and saboteur his life was forfeit. Therefore, victory lies in choosing the method and the moment of my death. And if possible bringing these evil ones with him into judgment.

 

"Where is the quartermaster?" Knott asked.

"I don't know, sir," Larkin's second answered. "No one has seen him for the last hour."

Knott frowned. There was no use in waiting, they might as well proceed. Though he suspected that none of these people would bear the mark of Reader's trap.

"Mr. Semple, where is the black light?" he asked.

Semple swallowed audibly. "I don't have it, sir. I . . . broke it."

Knott looked at the man steadily. Semple was a good secretary, but Knott suspected that he'd just made a fatal mistake.

"You didn't by chance try to obtain a new one from Mr. Larkin, did you?" Raeder asked.

"Yes, sir," Semple said.

Semple's error had pointed the finger of guilt at the quartermaster as surely as if they'd all witnessed the stains on his hands. The only problem was that it left him free.

"Shut down the elevators, sir," Raeder said, "and lock the emergency stair doors."

 

Larkin heard the alarms go off. Too late, he thought. I shall achieve my goal. I shall take this ship of evil with me into the night. 

He ducked into the emergency stair well. They would seek him here, but by then it would be too late. He would have carried the bomb to the containment area and set it off, bringing five thousand of the enemy the death they deserved.

That they know it is good, he told himself. They will suffer more. 

The bomb was not large, but then all it needed to do was breach one containment vessel. Then the antihydrogen that they have stolen will do its work, he thought gleefully. His glee glimmered as suddenly as it arose. He had hoped and planned to accomplish the release of the antihydrogen while the ship was in the vicinity of major facilities. Ah well . . . Surely this would be enough to spare him Hell. Stuffing the infernal device into his shirt he began the long climb down.

When Larkin reached the bottom of the ladder, he thought, I should set the timer now. I dare not take the time later; I would not want them to take it from me and disarm it. He knelt on the floor, praying as he set the timer for the shortest time possible. It will take me two minutes, no more, to reach the containment area. He was a good runner, and he hadn't had to kneel on the rod of punishment for several days.

He imagined the explosion. It would be beautiful and pleasing to the Spirit of Destiny. Larkin chanted a song softly as he worked. Words like "flog" and "extirpate" abounded. When he was finished, the timer was running.

He rose and reached for the dogging lever. There was a click from without, and when he tried to turn it, it wouldn't move.

Larkin rattled the lever, but it wouldn't budge. They've locked me in, he thought in disbelief, frantically keying the pad beside the hatch. It rejected his codes. The sons of bitches locked me in! Should he pound on the door, cry out for help? Everyone knew by now that he was the spy, so that would be the same as turning himself in. He looked at his bomb. One minute and thirty seconds left.

The least I can do is try to take some of them with me, he thought, disappointed. He sighed. Then he knocked on the door.

"Hello," he shouted. "Anybody out there? I'm locked in, could you please let me out?"

All he heard was the emergency klaxon. No one seemed to be out there. He yanked on the knob and kicked the door, bellowing to be heard over the klaxon. "Hey! Open up! Hey!"

There were only fifty seconds left and sweat beaded his upper lip. "Shit!" he said passionately. He knelt down and studied the bomb. He would have to change the timer. I refuse to die alone, he thought.

He pressed the stud that would stop the clock. The timer kept ticking down the seconds. Only thirty-nine left now.

"Hey!" Larkin shouted, on the off chance that someone was passing. "Let me out of here!" He tried to pry it open to get at the timer's power source, but it was a well-made bomb, all of a piece. And he'd brought no tools with him, never thinking they'd be needed.

Spirit of Destiny, he prayed, help me. Don't let me die like a fool. 

He pried at a seam until his nail bent back below the quick and he dropped it with a startled cry of pain. Picking it up again he saw that he had only five seconds left. Larkin jumped to his feet and began to climb. He was less than seven feet from the bomb when it went off.

 

"And so it's over," Knott said sadly.

"Yes, sir," Raeder agreed.

The damage to the ship hadn't been too bad. The emergency stairwells were heavily constructed, especially on the containment level, and all the blast had done was to blow out the door and rupture the metal at the scene of the blast.

Larkin, however, had all but disappeared.

"Damn," Knott said.

"He failed, sir," Raeder said.

"I wouldn't say that," the captain said sourly. "I'd say he was pretty damned successful. He came very close to ruining the light carrier program."

"But he failed," Raeder reminded him. "That's the thing with the Mollies. It doesn't matter how many times you succeed. They only count the failures."

"The lunatic killed a lot of good people, Commander. I hate to say it, but I hope the bastard suffered."

"He did, sir. He died knowing he was going to hell."

* * *

"Clever," Sarah said, after hearing Raeder's plan for trapping the quartermaster.

"Thank you," Peter said. He paused to admire the candlelight on her face. It softens her, he decided.

Sarah grabbed the candle and held it close. The dark shadows it made at this new angle made her look like a ghoul. He laughed and she put it down with an answering grin.

"So what made you change your mind about accepting my invitation?" Raeder asked.

She looked around. "I really like Patton's," she said.

"Oh. I thought maybe you'd decided to give an ex-Speed pilot a second chance." He raised an eyebrow at her.

"Who says you're an ex-Speed pilot?" Sarah asked.

Peter blinked, then grinned. She likes me! he thought. She really likes me. 

It was enough to make you forget that the war was a long way from over. Forget, for a while.

 

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