Jaunt (37 page)

There was no way around it.

“Just another eleven meters....”

Gilmour and McKean were at a breakneck pace, their respective boots clanging along the steel-floored corridors. On McKean’s holobook, a large yellow grouping of spheres was within their grasp, the biggest cache of jewels the pair had yet found, and it was well within distance of its initial detection. Sidling down the slim hallway, the two tried to muffle any noises they produced, but the cavernous tendencies of the ships’ veins made it nearly impossible. Echoes of their movement could be heard meters down the corridor, making the mission even more hazardous; any moment now, McKean was certain, an NKVD agent would materialize out of thin air to confront them.

Before them was a large, battered and brine-stained bulkhead with a sealed door set into it. A circular handle was built into the door, designed to crank open a heavy locking mechanism. Referring to McKean’s holobook once more, the jewels’ signals lay tantalizingly beyond, in what appeared to be a cargo bay. Nodding curtly to McKean, Gilmour set his hands on the handle and cranked hard clockwise. After just a half-turn, the entire corridor shuddered mightily, leading the pair to wonder just what held this hunk of steel together.

As Gilmour set about to give the handle another crank, the corridor shuddered a second time, but didn’t pause so easily. Now, the ship felt as though it had been rocked from the outside, its interior twisting and bending to absorb the blow.

McKean looked up at the buckling ceiling pipes. “What the hell is going on?”

“Feels like the ship’s been hit by a massive tidal disturbance or another ship.”

Gilmour quickly retrieved his holobook and booted it up to scan the exterior. The electromagnetic signature of a massive conglomeration of steel sat adjacent to the transport ship. Simultaneously, a dozen new infrared signals quickly spread over the ship’s top two decks. “We’ve got company! Looks like twelve, maybe more, moving fast.”

McKean set his hands on the door handle and cranked hard. “Soviets?”

“Hard to tell.” Holstering his holobook again, Gilmour’s hands joined McKean’s in cranking the door open. After two more turns, the lock was sprung with a faint click, and the pair flung the door wide.

McKean fired up his torch and flashed it inside the cargo bay. The light of a thousand crystalline spectra shone back into the eyes of the two, bringing them to a stunned pause. “My god, they’re so beautiful...so many of them. It’s the mother load.”

Gilmour shook his head, reminding himself of their mission. “C’mon,” he ordered, clapping McKean’s left shoulder.

The pair stepped over the threshold and swiftly made their way to the waiting jewels, which lay sprawled out over a six-meter-cubed section of the deck floor, glittering like some jeweler’s prized merchandise. McKean and Gilmour ripped open large sample bags and set them on the floor, hastily scooping the extraterrestrial stones inside.

After several minutes, the bags became so massive that hefting them back to Pashenka’s quarters was going to be problematic. At capacity, each bag was nearly thirty kilograms, a heavy burden coupled with the pair’s concealed hazard suits and equipment. Perspiring heavily, Gilmour looked over the remaining jewels wearily, fully aware that they would have to abandon the rest until a second attempt could be made, if at all possible. One more bag load would do the job; if only they had brought Constantine or his sample bag with them.

Gilmour couldn’t allow that to trouble him now; he and McKean had to get the jewels they did possess back to safety, and fast, if indeed the infrared signatures he detected were reinforcements for the NKVD or the Confederation.

The two agents hoisted the sample bags over their shoulders and headed back to the corridor. Together the pair closed the door once more and cranked the lock back into place, hoping that the crew would pay no heed to the cargo in mid-transit.

Taking off down the dim hallway, Gilmour found his holobook and booted it up, activating the device’s vox system with a single command, “Raise Constantine.”

Automatically, the device webbed the agents’ colleague, alerting Constantine’s holobook that a hail was forthcoming.

After several minutes of silence from his own holobook, Gilmour paused, stopping their progress to double-check his device.

“What’s wrong?” McKean asked, giving his shoulder a respite by setting the massive sample bag to the floor.

Gilmour studied the holobook, confident the intermittent green flash signifying a successful transmission was still present. “No confirmation from Constantine.”

McKean pursed his lips. “Try breaking web silence.”

Gilmour shook his head, his eyes not wandering from the device. “No...I’m not breaking standard operations. Let’s get the hell up there. Now.”

Grunting, they hefted their equipment and gear onto their shoulders again. The two then fled the vicinity, double-timing it through the corridor.

“How is he doing, boy?”

Pashenka lowered the rag and looked upon Constantine with distrusting eyes, not taking them away from the agent’s shadowed countenance.

“Is he near death?” the stranger’s voice said, growing closer. Constantine’s form shifted, causing Pashenka to retreat a step. “Easy, boy, I don’t mean to hurt you.”

Dropping to his haunches, the agent leaned next to the mattress, near enough now to feel Nicolenko’s faint, cool breath in the broiling room. He was within a hand’s reach...one quick snap of his wrists, and the world would be rid of Nicolenko and the threat of the Confederation. It was all here, so easily in Constantine’s—

A jolt toppled the agent and Pashenka, sending both to the floor in a panic. Next to the mattress, Pashenka’s lamp had been snuffed out by the sudden whiff of air through the rudimentary ventilation shaft, rendering the two blind.

Constantine heard a figure scurry into the corner, surmising that the boy had run for shelter, leaving him and Nicolenko alone. The agent’s hands sifted haphazardly along the mattress-side, looking vainly for the lamp in an attempt to restore some sense of his environment. Without illumination, he couldn’t prepare an adequate defense for himself, nor maintain his vigil.

One more blow throughout the hull and a mightier gust launched Constantine onto Nicolenko. He quickly sprung up after regaining his bearings and distanced himself from the comatose lieutenant in case he stirred. Drawing himself near again after a few seconds away, Constantine took the Russian’s pulse; it was in the mid-seventies, and by all appearances, still comatose.

The second jolt was much larger, and Constantine wondered if they hadn’t been rammed by a passing vessel. Patting down his right leg he felt the absence of his holobook; somewhere along the line he had lost the device—probably after the first blow—

which would make it very difficult for him to scan the ship for details.

“Pa-shen-ka....” he called out in sing-song fashion, his hands all the while roaming the dark. “Where are you, son? Where are you?”

A third jolt reverberated throughout the quarters, although without knocking Constantine over. Swiveling his head, Constantine noted the disturbance this time seemed to be emanating just meters away. Stepping under the cutaway, he went into the quarters’

other half and had the impression the noises were getting closer, in fact, just outside....

Grasping his sidearm from his shoulder holster, Constantine raised it in time to see the door push open with massive force and a darkened figure power his way into the quarters.

Constantine aimed and fired off two rounds, downing the stranger. With the door swung wide, several more figures flooded in and swamped Constantine before the agent could ward them off. Rushing him at full gallop, the strangers overwhelmed him with rifle butts and clubs, beating Constantine to the rusted floor.

Constantine yelped in agony as several ribs, then his collarbone, were crushed by the waves of brutality. The din of repeated cracks filled his mind, soon numbing his devastated body. Bearing the attack for a virtual eternity, Constantine soon lay limp on the floor, drifting between cold consciousness and the more comforting illusions his comatose state brought on.

Sidearms at the ready, Gilmour and McKean crept down the corridor, soon reaching the end where Pashenka’s quarters were located. On a nod from McKean—who covered him—

Gilmour inspected the closed door, then pushed it open with both hands. It squealed horribly once again, revealing a dark room. With one more parting glance down the corridor, the pair entered and shut the massive steel door behind them.

Setting their respective gear and equipment to the floor, twin torches from the pair lit up concentric white circles on the room’s walls. After whirling the illumination around for just a second, both agents gasped and ran to the far wall.

“Jesus Christ!!!”

Gilmour and McKean jumped to the fallen Constantine’s side, quickly checking his vitals. Gilmour nodded to McKean that he had a faint pulse, enough to keep him alive for a few minutes, at best.

Ripping open his own medical kit, McKean produced bandages and a clean antiseptic cloth, then wiped and sopped up the oozing wounds, while Gilmour, nearby, rummaged through Constantine’s gear.

Looking up from his work, McKean asked, “What are you doing?”

“Getting him out of here!” Gilmour pulled up every single piece of

Constantine’s hazard suit and threw them on the floor. “Give me a hand!”

The pair removed Constantine’s overjacket and field boots, put the hood of his bodysock over his head, then painstakingly began dressing the agent in his hazard suit, made all the more tedious by his dead weight. Lifting Constantine’s upper half, the two fitted his helmet over his limp head and neck.

“Pashenka!” Gilmour yelled, swiveling his head to the cutaway. “Pashenka, where are you?!”

Discreetly, a noise sprung from the other half of the quarters, then a small figure emerged into the room a few seconds later, silhouetted by the lit torches.

“Pashenka, that you?” Gilmour’s voice labored.

“Yes....”

“Who did this? Who were they?!”

The boy crept closer to the agents, still afraid, but more comfortable than with Constantine. “Very big men, lots of men. Very loud...I didn’t like them. They took papa’s man, too.”

“Goddammit....” Gilmour uttered under his breath. He stood and placed his hands on the boy’s shoulders. “Did they say anything? Anything at all?!”

Pashenka shook his head, closing his eyes. “Just the...” a wave of fear came over his face, “man hurting, crying...he cried a lot when they hurt him. It always sounds the same. Papa sounds the same, too.”

McKean clicked Constantine’s helmet ring, sealing him in completely. “Gilmour....”

Gilmour stepped away from Pashenka and walked over to his gear. “Take him back,” he ordered.

An incredulous look crossed McKean’s eyes. “What are you going to do?”

“Find Nicolenko.” Gilmour removed his jacket and fitted his bodysock hood over his head.

“What about the rest of the jewels?”

“To hell with the jewels!!!” Gilmour spat. Taking his boots off, he slid his hazard suit’s torso and leg sections on. “I want to find out who took off with Nicolenko and did this to Constantine! Jaunt back to Ottawa and tell de Lis what’s happened. Don’t wait around for me!”

Knowing well enough not to countermand an order, McKean readied Constantine’s Casimir systems, then slipped into his own hazard suit. After both agents had suited up, they lifted Constantine and placed his arms around their shoulders, then walked him and the captured kilos of jewels, with much difficulty, to the door.

Once in the corridor, McKean toggled his suit’s voxlink, opening a channel to Gilmour. “Good luck. See you back soon.” It was more of a request to his colleague than a farewell.

Gilmour simply nodded. He closed the door and stepped back inside to face the waiting Pashenka.

“Where are you going now?” the boy asked, trauma creased into his countenance.

Gilmour rotated his fullerene faceplate back. “I have to find where the men took Nicolenko. I have to know why they hurt my friend.”

Pashenka lowered his head. “How can you just leave?”

Gilmour cleared his throat. Bending down on one knee, he looked into the boy’s eyes. “I don’t belong here...I can’t stay. But I can’t take you with me.”

“Why not? I have nothing here. My papa cares more for his bottles than me, when he even comes home.”

“I am sorry. But if I tried to take you with me, it would hurt you. That’s why I wear these clothes to protect me.” Dissatisfied, Gilmour rose and found McKean’s torch, still lit, on the floor. Picking the slim, eleven-centimeter device up, he handed it Pashenka. “Take this as a gift from me. It’s better than your lamp, and will last for a year continuously, even when it’s on.”

The torch fit plumb in Pashenka’s hand as he studied the alien tool.

“Keep it handy, keep it at your side no matter where you go. You’ll always be able to find your way home.”

Pashenka nodded weakly. “Goodbye. I hope your friend will be all right.”

Gilmour’s eyes lowered. “I do, too. Take care of yourself, Pashenka.” He then turned and made his way to the door.

“What’s your name?”

His gauntlet poised to open the door, Gilmour paused. “It’s James.”

A faint cracking of the lips appeared over Pashenka’s face. “I’ll never forget you.”

“Never.” Tilting his faceplate down, Gilmour smiled one last time before leaving. He hoped the boy would find his way, even as Gilmour moved further and further from his own. Gilmour raced to the top deck of the transport ship in time to see a smaller, perhaps military vessel, disembark and set for the open sea. Clanging his gauntlets to the ship’s weather-worn railing, he produced his holobook and scanned the ocean currents with lidar, attempting to discern the military vessel’s previous course and origination. The problem was, he could spend hours refining and triangulating various currents, time he didn’t have. Nicolenko was on that ship; he had to be. His choice was laid out to him thus: Jaunt aboard and kill Nicolenko then and there, or go back to his own era and try to stop the Confederation from finishing the mining of the Kuril-Kamchatka Trench.