Martin Greenberg: Space Stations

It was nearly four hours before Cummings pronounced himself satisfied that Space Fort Jefferson was safe enough for President Ukukho to come within five miles of. What Drexler thought he kept to himself.

“We’ll need to stay aboard until after Space Force One has passed out of magscope range,” Cummings told Bob as they headed back toward the entryway. “We’d like to set up as near the main control area as possible.”

“Certainly,” Bob said. Ahead, he could hear a murmuring of unfamiliar voices from the reception room. Apparently, the GenTronic Twelve had arrived, and Bob tossed up a quick prayer that there wouldn’t be any bored teenagers or inquisitive toddlers in the group. “The station was originally designed for a crew of fifteen hundred, you know.

There’s a duty dayroom just off the control complex you can use.”

They came around the corner into the reception room, and Bob breathed a quiet sigh of relief. No toddlers; no teenagers; just nine youngish, pleasant-looking men in upscale bulkyjackets spread out around the room reading the plaques. Probably rich enough to be sued if they broke anything, which meant they would be careful not to. Hix was hovering nearby, looking like a combination proud mother and nervous curator, all traces of his earlier depression gone from his face. Hix loved showing off his station to visitors even more than Bob did.

“Ah—here’s Ranger Bob now,” Hix said as Bob and the agents stepped into the room. “I was just telling Herr Forste here what a good job you’ve done keeping Space Fort Jefferson running.”

“Nice to meet you, Ranger Bob,” Forste said, smiling. His English had a pleasant North European accent to it. “And who are your friends?”

Bob looked at Cummings, wondering what exactly he was supposed to say here.

Cummings moved smoothly into the gap. “My name’s Alan,” he said. “This is my friend Thomas. You and your friends come from Ceres?”

“Not exactly,” Forste said. “We’re from Free Norway.”

Free Norway? Frowning, Bob turned back to him—

And caught his breath. From beneath their bulkyjackets, all nine men had suddenly produced small but nasty-looking handguns. “You will all please put up your hands,” Forste said.

He smiled genially. “Especially you, Secret Service Agents Cummings and Drexler.”

They picked up Kelsey as he filled out duty logs in Dock Obs, Renfred as he polished plaques in the Number One Fire Control Center, and Bronsoni as he sneaked an unauthorized nap in the Number Thirteen-D torpedo launch tube.

“Which leaves only Gifford Wimbley,” Forste said with satisfaction as he and four of the other gunmen herded the prisoners into the Number Three Defense Monitor Complex.

“Where is he?”

“He’s on a supply run to Ceres,” Bob said. “He won’t be back for another two weeks.”

Forste’s eyes narrowed. “Really,” he said, lifting his left thumbnail to his lips and tapping the tip. “How very convenient. Sjette? You up in Command yet?”

“Yes, I’m here,” a voice came back, just loud enough for Bob to hear.

“Check the duty log,” Forste ordered, his eyes on Bob. “Is Gifford Wimbley off the station?”

Bob cleared his throat. “Uh… Giff usually doesn’t bother to check himself out,” he said.

“Since there are just the six of us, and we always know where everyone is—”

“No sign of anyone checked out,” Sjette’s voice came back. “According to this, everyone should be here.”

Forste’s eyes bored into Bob’s face like rust remover on a gun turret that’s been neglected too long. “Where is he?”

“I told you, he’s on Ceres,” Bob insisted, feeling sweat starting to break out on his forehead.

“He’s hiding,” one of the other gunmen said, sniffing the air distastefully. Defense Three was far off the standard tourist route, and it hadn’t been properly cleaned in ages. Even for Bob, who was used to such things, the scent of old metal and new mildew was a powerful combination.

“Of course he is,” Forste said, lifting his gun another couple of inches. Bob held his breath; and then, to his relief, Forste merely smiled and took a step back. “But that’s all right,” he said. “We have three days; and Space Fort Jefferson isn’t all that big. We’ll find him ourselves.”

“Three days until what?” Drexler demanded.

Forste regarded him coolly. “Three days until President Ukukho comes within firing range of this station, of course,” he said. “Three days until the people of Earth and the Colonies are brought face-to-face with the determined men of Free Norway.”

“Free Norway?” Bronsoni asked, a puzzled look on his face. “I didn’t even know it had been locked up.”

“Don’t be an imbecile,” Forste snapped, his eyes suddenly glowing with revolutionary fervor. “All of us are locked up in our own ways. Norway in particular has been imprisoned by a corrupt press, a bloated welfare bureaucracy, and the insidious, multitentacled cod industry. It must stop.”

“How will killing President Ukukho help you?” Kelsey asked.

“It will bring system-wide attention to our plight,” Forste said, his eyes blazing even brighter.

“Yes, but—”

“How exactly do you intend to accomplish this?” Cummings asked calmly.

Forste focused on him. “Of course,” he said, the fire in his eyes fading back to something approaching normal. “You want to learn our plans in hopes of defeating them.”

He shrugged. “But since you have no way to communicate with anyone outside this station, I see no reason not to tell you. It will be a rapid-fire, three-pronged attack as they reach their closest approach. First, a carefully targeted spread of laser blasts will blind their antimissile defense sensors. Next, two Disabler torpedoes will be launched to paralyze the escorting ships. And finally, a single Hellflare missile into Space Force One itself…”

He left the sentence unfinished. “And the whole Solar System will suddenly understand your problems and tribulations and flock to Free Norway’s side?” Cummings suggested.

“Of course,” Forste said, as if that was obvious. “All the oppressed peoples of the System will rise up as one.”

“And destroy the evil cod industry.”

Forste’s eyes narrowed again. “I don’t like your attitude, Agent Cummings,” he said.

And flipping his gun casually toward Cummings, he fired.

Bob gasped as the boom of the shot hammered into his ears. Drexler shouted something and started into a leap that would probably have cost him his life if Hix hadn’t grabbed his arm and kept him back from the terrorists.

As for Cummings himself, his expression never even twitched. He glanced down at the red stain spreading rapidly across his chest, looked back at Forste, and collapsed to the deck.

“Get him to the medpack!” Bob snapped, taking a step toward the fallen man.

“As you were, Ranger Epstein,” Forste snapped back.

“I’m a Park Service Ranger,” Bob countered, ignoring the order and kneeling beside Cummings. “I have an oath to keep, and that oath includes rendering aid to anyone on my station who needs it.”

He looked up at Forste, trying to ignore the gun now pointed directly at his left eye.

“And even the oppressed peoples of the System,” he added, “don’t appreciate someone who guns a man down in cold blood and then refuses him medical assistance.”

For a long moment Forste seemed to think that one over. Then, as casually as he’d shot Cummings, he raised the muzzle of his gun away from Bob’s face. “I suppose they don’t,” he conceded. “Very well. Take him away.”

The medpack was probably two generations behind standard Park Service medical equipment, which meant it was at least five generations behind state-of-the-art for the rest of the Solar System. But it was good enough to diagnose the problem, remove the bullet from Cummings’s right lung, and plug him into the coma-nutrient rapid-healing system.