Children of Hope (45 page)

I’d forgotten about the Station’s gravitrons. They caught me halfway down. I was lucky not to snap my neck; my hands came out just in time. I somersaulted onto my back, lay there a moment, half stunned. I scrambled to my feet, orienting myself. The hole
Olympiad
had pierced was in our side bulkhead. I mimed to Mik to be careful. Lord knew if he understood.

Outside, at ninety degrees to the bulkhead, Mik stepped over the hole, tapped his thruster ever so lightly. He sank. As gravity grabbed him, he fired his side thruster. It didn’t quite work, but he eased his fall. I skittered out of the way so as not to be caught in his exhaust.

I glanced about. Some sort of storage compartment. Cabinets. A locker. A hatch, sealed shut.

I touched helmets. “Now what, sir?”

“Is that table loose?”

I gaped.

“Does it move, God damn you?” He pushed me aside, lifted the edge of the table. Hurt, I grabbed my end. Together, we manhandled it to the bulkhead. The tabletop was just wide enough to cover the gaping hole. He dragged a cabinet, tipped it so its weight held the table to the bulkhead, grabbed me, brought my helmet close. “Sorry I swore.”

I blinked back tears. “Thank you, sir.”

He keyed the hatch control. Nothing. “The bloody safeties won’t let it open in vacuum.” Stymied, he looked about.

“Mr Tamarov, my tank light’s gone red.”

“Ah, that’s it!” He leaped to the locker. Inside, suits. Spare tanks. He dragged two of them out, pulled a clamping tool from his pouch. I turned, to give him access to my pack.

He ignored me. I whirled. Mik was opening the spare tanks’ valves as wide as they’d go.

Again I touched helmets, wishing I could use the radio. But then Station Command would know we were aboard. “What the hell are you doing!”

“Steady, Mr Carr. Grab more tanks. Hurry!”

“But—aye aye, sir!” I hauled out three more tanks. In a moment he had them open.

“Push the table tight!”

Panting, I shouldered the table to the bulkhead as hard as I could. Was it my imagination, or was my suit air stale? I yawned prodigiously.

Mik abandoned the tanks, ran to the hatch, keyed the control. Nothing. He rolled his eyes, flashed me a weak smile. “Patience.”

“Yes, sir.” Dimly, in the distance, an alarm. I blinked. An alarm meant sound. Sound meant air.

In a moment he tried again. The hatch slid open.

His lips moved. “Out!”

I dashed into the corridor, Mik a step behind me. He slapped shut the hatch, checked a gauge on his suit. “It’s—” He flicked off his radio, pressed his helmet to mine, spoke over the din of alarms. “The corridor’s aired. Take off your helmet!”

God, if he was wrong, I’d end like Dad.
Desperately, I thrust away the thought. I needed air, and it couldn’t wait. I unlatched my clamps, tore off my helmet.

Fresh, cool air.

“Attention, all personnel. We’ve beaten off an attack by
Olympiad.
She’s in full retreat. We’ve taken hits. None appear serious. All stations report damage.”

“Out of your suit.”

“Why?” I was already undoing my clasps.

“Mr Carr …”

“Sorry. Aye aye, sir. But the air’s leaking out past that table. If someone opens the hatch …”

“It won’t open against vacuum. Same reason we couldn’t get out.”

“Suited repair party to Level 2 section eight.
”

I glanced about, with an odd stab of recognition. The corridor was like
Olympiad’
s
,
though considerably smaller and not as ornate. Well, the Station was built around an old warship. And the Navy valued tradition above all. But that meant the corridor would be divided into sections, and in a vacuum emergency … I took a few steps, peeked past the bend. Right. The section hatches were sealed. Naturally they would be, with even part of a section decompressed.

When I told Mikhael, he shrugged. “No one said it’d be easy, but we have one thing in our favor.”

“What’s that?”

“You’re a bunch of provincials.” He grinned at my outrage. “Seriously, your security is awful. On Earth they’d never stand for it. Think how easy it was to get on a shuttle at Centraltown.”

“That’s ’cause we don’t have wars and revolu—”

“Precisely.” He unclamped his helmet. “Get rid of your suit.”

“Where?”

“Anywhere. There.” He flung open a hatch across the corridor.

I looked about. Mops, pails, a faucet. Great. Perhaps I should volunteer to clean up. After all, I was just a ship’s boy.

“Repair party to Level 3 Section five lounge.”

“What’s that?”

I glanced down. “A mop handle.”

“A club.”

I hefted it. It would do. “Hey, sir, isn’t that stuff caustic?” I pointed to a bag of cleansing powder. A few days ago Alejandro and I had been loading supplies, and they’d made us wear gloves for the deck plate cleanser.

“Only mixed with water.”

I seized a bucket, thrust it under the faucet. When it was half full I ripped open the bag, dumped most of the cleanser in it. “Now what, sir?”

“Pray there are no corridor cameras.” We trudged to the section hatch. I looked about, didn’t spot the cameras that were standard gear on
Olympiad.

We confronted the hatch panel, with its confusing array of lights. He bent, studied them. “The override isn’t keyed.”

“What’s that mean?”

“No one’s expecting us. We can open the hatch.”

“Wait!” I smiled weakly; it sounded too much like an order. “Sir, I’m in Naval blues, you’ve got your uniform. If they spot us we’ll stand out like trannies at the opera.”

“We can’t be here when they come to patch the hull.”

We exchanged perplexed frowns.

“Hello?”

I whirled. The voice came from behind a cabin hatch.

“Anyone there? Is it safe to come out?”

Mik gestured me silent. “Identify yourself.” His tone was peremptory.

“Rolf Iverson. Electrician, third shift.”

“What are you doing here?”

“It’s my cabin, sir. I was asleep when the alarms …”

Mikhael wrested the mop handle from my grip. “The corridor’s aired, but we’re evacuating the section for repairs. Didn’t you hear the announcement? Come out at once.” Mik hefted the club.

“Yes, sir, I’m sorry, I—”

The hatch slid open. Iverson was sallow, small-boned, balding. Instantly Mik swung. The mop handle caught him in the forehead. A crunch. He fell into the cabin, thudded onto the deck. Blood seeped.

Mikhael pulled me inside, slapped shut the hatch. He knelt by the prone figure, fished out his ID card, wiped off blood.

Desperately, I tried not to step in the spreading pool. “Is he …” I stared down, aghast. Fath lay inert on the Dining Hall carpet, his lifeblood draining. Around me, chaos.

“I don’t know.” He pawed through Iverson’s clothing shelf. “Wear this. And that.
Pay attention, Mr Carr!”

“Yessir.” Numbly, I undid my shirt.

In moments we were a rather unkempt pair of Station hands. Mik’s clothes were too small, mine too large. At least the shirts were the right color. I hoped nobody would notice we were both named “Iverson.”

Mikhael ran to the janitor’s compartment, hurried back with a mop, handed it to me. “Don’t spill your bucket.”

At the corridor hatch panel, he took up the caller, drew a deep breath, keyed it. “Hello? Anyone there?”

“What are you …”

He waved me silent. “Come on, someone answer!”

The speaker blared.
“Comm Room.”

“Rolf Iverson. I’m on—” he glanced at the hatch panel. “—Level 4 section six. Must be a leak somewhere; the hatch slammed shut. The corridor’s fine. Okay if I open to come out?”

“Ask the Commandant’s office.”

“What’s the frazzin’ code?”

“Twenty-four seventy-five.”
A click.

Mik punched in the code. “Iverson here, ID 70-J-446. Dunno where the problem is, but I’m in the corridor and it’s fine out here. Shouldn’t I report to the machinist?”

A pause. “Very well. Close the hatch soon as you’re through.”

“Right.” To me, “Bring your mop and bucket.”

Calmly, he opened the hatch.

We sauntered through.

Nobody was in sight. We rounded the bend. The far hatch was closed. I said, “Where are we going, sir?”

“I’m not sure.”

Truthful, perhaps, but not comforting. I shot him a dubious glance.

We opened the next section hatch, sealed it behind us. “What we need,” he said, “is a map. Where are the shuttle bays—mop the deck!”

“What?”

Voices.

“Mop!”

Sweating, I bent to my task. Mik would get us killed yet.

He threw himself against the bulkhead, idly toyed with the spare mop handle. “She was something, I tell ya. Ass soft and round, tits like—”

Three techs in suits. With them, two soldiers. One had a pistol, the other a stunner. Unheeding, I sloshed water in their path.

“—so I said, look, baby, why fight it? I’m the best you’ll—” Mik’s mop handle whirled round, caught a soldier behind the neck. Mik dived for the man’s laser. I thrust my mop between the other soldier’s legs. He sprawled. I grabbed my bucket, dumped the caustic cleanser in his face. A scream. He thrashed about the deck, frantically rubbing his eyes. I straddled him, pulled free his stunner.

Mik’s laser flicked between the three techs. “No radio! I’ll kill!” A gesture backed them against the bulkhead.

Mik tried cabin hatches until he found one unsealed. “In here!” It looked like an unused lounge; a few dusty holovids and games lay about. As we passed through, a suited tech leaped for Mik’s laser. They struggled. I touched the stunner to his side. Nothing. Cursing, I fumbled for the safety. Behind me, a suited arm wrapped around my windpipe.

I couldn’t free myself, couldn’t breathe. I poked the stunner around my ribs, touched something, pulled the trigger.

Suddenly my throat was free.

The tech’s gloved fist slammed into Mikhael’s chest. The middy’s face went white. As the tech wrestled the laser from his grasp I lunged at him, caught him in the side with the stunner. He dropped. Mikhael slid down the bulkhead. Wild-eyed, I spun to the third tech.

He backed to the wall. “No, don’t—”

I jabbed him. He went limp.

I ducked through the hatch. In the corridor, one soldier lay still. The other thrashed about. I stunned him, dragged him by the heels into the lounge. Then the last.

Panting, I slapped shut the hatch. “Mik? Sir?” He couldn’t speak. I knelt by his side. “Breathe deep as you can.”

He clutched my wrist, squeezed ’til I thought I’d scream. “It hurts.” His voice was a croak.

“He caught a neural plexus.”

“A what?”

“A pressure point.” I extended my palm, hesitated. Was it a crime to touch an officer?
Randy, don’t be an idiot.
I massaged his chest, as gently as I could.

Slowly, his color returned.

“Now, what, sir?”

“Should you be a tech or a soldier?” He debated. “A tech. Pick one and use his suit.”

“They’re too big. I’ll look silly.”

“You’ll look sillier as a soldier.”

I didn’t like it, but he was right. Hope Nation forces didn’t enlist joeykids, as did the Navy.

We stripped a tech of his suit, fished for his ID card.

At a holovid console Mik called up a Station map. “Launch bays are there. Level 5.” He jabbed the screen.

I said, “Can you pilot? Take a shuttle groundside and find Fath.” In turn, he would help us free Anth.

“If we took a shuttle to
Olympiad,
Mr Tolliver could send an armed party.” He grimaced. “What’s the point? The Station lasers would get us.”

“Where’s laser control?”

“Two of us, attacking the laser compartment? Don’t be ridiculous. Besides, they can bypass the consoles and fire from anywhere.”

I paced, half beside myself. Then, “Sir, this was once a ship?”

“Yes, what of it?”

“On
Olympiad,
Fath—Captain Seafort—had to release the laser safeties from the bridge before Mr Dakko could fire.”

Our eyes met.

“Where’s the Commandant’s office?” He bent to the screen, answered his own question. “Level 1. The lasers would be under the Commandant’s sole control. They’d have to be, especially after the fiasco at Earthport.” Control of the Station’s laser cannon had enabled the Navel rebellion Dad had died to quell.

Coolly, Mikhael entered a soldier’s ID, read from a list of caller codes. “Wish me luck, brother.” He took up the caller. Then, “No, their readout tells them where it’s coming from. Hurry.”

He led me on a race back to section six. He used the caller at the corridor hatch. “Staff Sergeant Burns, sir. I’m bringing Technician Ouward. He has an artifact General Thurman ought to see.”

“What is it?”

“Are you cleared?”

A splutter.
“For what?”

“They found it Outside, with those Navy grades’ bodies. A holovid. The screen has a map, showing the route to—no, this is for the General himself. He’ll decide who ought to know.”

A pause.
“He’s in his office.”

“I’ll bring Ouward up.” Mikhael rang off.

In moments we were redressed. I wore the smallest of the suits, and still swam in it. Mikhael wore the outfit of Sergeant Willard Burns, Hope Nation Home Guard. He holstered his laser.

“What’s the plan, sir?”

“Find the laser safety, make sure it’s off, call
Olympiad.
” Mik tucked the stunner into my work pouch.

“Right.”

We started on our way. He matched his pace to my necessarily slower one. “Don’t forget your codes.”

“367-T-491.” I bobbed, barely able to see out of the helmet. “Sir, we’ve had incredible luck so far. If we don’t both make it …” I drew breath, hardened my resolve. “Save Fath, whatever else. And tell him I’m sorry for how I acted. I never had the chance.”

“He knows.”

“Tell him.” In a helmet, you can’t wipe your frazzing eyes.

W
E TRUDGED UP TO
Level 1, Mik’s steadying hand on my forearm. Cool as ice, following the map he’d memorized and the occasional corridor sign, he led me to the anteroom of the Commandant’s office.