William Forstchen - Into the Sea of Stars

Colony 122, Ian thought. That would be one of the easy ones. It was the 500 series that he had not discussed with Richard. The last ones up, built in the 70s and 80s. The exiles. A fair percentage of them had headed in toward the galactic center along with the more innocuous 1-400 series. What really scared him was the exile units and the 500 series. They might be ticking bombs. They were the disenfranchised, the dispossessed of a world tottering toward war-the refugee colonies and the colonies made up of entire ethnic and political groups exiled away from Earth. The 500 series with its liberation groups: the Kurd nationalists, the Botswanian Liberation Group, Dr. Franklin-Smith's political penal unit, or L-3 519, and the Pan-Zionist Russian Nationalists. It was groups like that which gave Ian the real fear that he could not express to his comrades.

Such groups seemed slightly romantic now. They were romantic because 1100 years separated them from the present. And as long as they were so distant, they were safe and fascinating to an age now safely run by the Dem ocratic Bureaucracy, wherein nothing could overcome the inertia of the worldwide state. But he could come face to face with the direct descendants of groups that might not feel too friendly about Earth, and the thought gave him the chills.

He stood up, stretched, and turning, looked down at the small suitcase-size crate that he had been sitting on. Stasz had pointed it out to him while doing an inventory.

Ian had been sitting on a thermomine, a nuclear device capable of vaporizing a quarter-mile asteroid or a million-ton colony in a flash. The Discovery had carried hundreds of such mines when it briefly served on a navigation- clearing detail just before being turned over to the grant foundation. This one mine had not been removed, either through an oversight, or because the logistics officer didn't want to go through the paperwork necessary to remove a thermo device and transport it down to Earth.

Ian gazed at the crate, his curiosity aroused. Finally it got the better of him and he unsnapped the fasteners that held the box shut then peeked inside. It was a little dis appointing somehow; he had expected warning signs and sirens to flash on and the mine to look like some incarnation of evil.

It was simply an ugly black ball with half a dozen silver projections locked upright. An instruction manual was hooked to one of the projections; picking the booklet up, he flipped it open.

Notice from the Manufacturer-Clearance Assured Inc.

Congratulations on selection of the enhanced AB-. 23A adjustable-blast clearance apparatus. Satisfaction assured when operated properly. Any and all complaints looked into at once by our experienced quality control personnel.

Be sure to read this operations manual and attached errata sheet before attempting use.

Ian skimmed through the booklet and found the errata sheet. It was printed in bright red ink. He examined it closely.

Warning!!! Warning!!! Warning!!! Starting with the 23A series, arming achieved by pushing down all six levers which will trigger warning devices. In response to complaints that dropping the device in gravity conditions might cause it to detonate, an additional triggering is now required. To activate FINAL COUNT DOWN: pull up, repeat, pull up last lever. Unless otherwise programmed, detona tion will then occur in ninety seconds. Nonradio detonation has been chosen to prevent arming by high solar activity or broadcast from transmitters in nearby spacecraft. Check your manual for timer set tings. Default detonation interval is 90 seconds. This safety feature is added at the request of former dis satisfied users, their heirs, and assigns and has been implemented for your convenience.

Ian stuffed the sheet into the middle of the book. Then, closing the case to the mine, he stuck the booklet into his back pocket.

The object should have filled him with blind terror, but for some reason Ian felt a certain sense of quiet resolution. The Montezuma and Cortez argument was never far from his mind these days. He was a historian and knew the possibilities.

So he had, asked Stasz not to tell the others about the device. Cortez had burned his ships to prevent his men from escaping from the expedition. Ian tried to push the thought aside that he might have to burn his ship, as well, before the expedition ended.

It was no surprise to Ian that Ellen's dinner was ex cellent. She had even produced the right wine for the occasion, and after the first bottle of Brinar Chablis '64, Richard had, for the moment at least, settled into a polite conversation with their hostess for the evening.

"But, Ellen, I thought you objected to spirits. Eight weeks ago you wanted to dump my treasured emergency rations overboard."

"You mean that I wanted to lighten our vessel of a noxious brew one step removed from rat poison." Ellen smiled for a moment, her freckled face lighting up with a malevolent glow. "Of course, it was a mistake, my dear Richard."

"I'm glad to hear you say that. And I must in return compliment you for this amazing repast."

"I am thankful for your appreciation, Richard, and I was going to say my earlier move was a mistake. You see, I think keeping that rat poison was just perfect, con sidering who I hope it will eliminate."

"Charmed, Ellen, simply charmed," Richard muttered as he produced a cigar and prepared to ignite it. Ian feared an explosion on her part and he knew Richard was simply baiting her. He could see her seething under the red-faced smile but she didn't let go, and there was an almost audible sigh of relief around the table.

Of course, he could half guess the reason-she would occasionally smile in Stasz's direction. So, the cabin fever was already setting in, and her original disdain for the "ship's driver" was starting to thin. Stasz was attempting to ignore her, but that was difficult with only five people in the room. As the light conversation flowed back and forth, Ian was fascinated by the subtle interplay between the two of them as Ellen tried not to appear obvious, Stasz tried to ignore her while making yet another pass at Shelley, and Richard laid out bait and traps for both of them to fall into.

Well, this craft is turning in a regular little potboiler, Ian thought as he settled back into his chair, bumming one of Richard's precious cigars.

He was lost in thought for several minutes until Shel ley's voice brought him back into the conversation's flow.

"I said, don't you agree, Doctor?"

"Agree, ahhh, I'll have to think-"

"You weren't listening again." There was a soft chastisement in her voice, like a mother gently scolding a favorite child. "I was saying that I think the Chancellor is most likely the head of the Provincial Department of Educational Services by now."

They fell silent for a moment.

"Yeah, his glory, our lives," Richard muttered.

"It might be a little more complex than that," Shelley responded. "After all, he had a number of reasons for putting you three out here. You were all known to be an opposition to him in the faculty, and as part of the pro motion process, you people would be able to evaluate him. I think, however, that there might be more to it than that."

Suddenly their conversation was drowned out by the electronic wail of the ship's alarm. Ian could feel his heart flutter on the edge of a palpitation. Ellen assumed her classic "oh, my, I'm so flustered" pose. Richard attempted to gently pull on his cigar and exhale with a display of panache, but the sudden tremble of his hand gave it away. Only Shelley and Stasz broke the tableau and, pushing away from the table, they ran forward to the control cen ter. The ship suddenly lurched and there was a momentary sensation of falling away as the vessel performed a radical shift in its course and the dampening system overloaded in an attempt to compensate.