Гарднер Дозуа - The Good Old Stuff

“What in space—” the chief began.

“Old beacon in the Gap.” Gollem hunted through them. “I have to go kill it.”

He piled into his boat and threw in the booster. No time for power units now. That yell meant Topanga was in real trouble, she wasn’t calling dead men.

If he tied in the spare booster he could override the field-forms for a straighter course. Strictly verboten. He did so and then opened his commo channels. Topanga wasn’t there.

Fire? Collision? More like, Leo and friends had made their move.

He hurtled downstream in a warp of wasted power, his hands mechanically tuning the board in hopes of pulling in some phagers’ signals, something.

He picked up only far-off mining chatter and a couple of depot ops asking each other what the Mayday was. Someone in Sector Themis was monotonously calling Inspector Hara. As usual Hara wasn’t answering, there was only the automatic standby from Themis main. Gollem cursed them all impartially, trying to make his brain yield a plan.

Why would the phagers move in on Ragnarok so fast? Not their style, confrontation. If he blew they’d lose the ship, they’d have to cope with a new inspector. Why risk it when they had him by the handle already?

Maybe they figured it was no risk. Gollem’s fist pounded on the tuner in a heavy rhythm. Paint it black But they have to keep her alive till I get there.

They want me.

What to do? Would they believe a threat to call Ceres Control? Don’t bother to answer. They know as well as I do that a Company bust would end with Topanga in a gerry ward, Ragnarok in Quine’s trophy park and Gollem in a skull-cage .... How to break Topanga loose from them? If I try to jive along the first thing they’ll do will be to shoot us both up on phage. Addiction dose. I4/by, why did I leave her there alone?

He was going around this misery orbit for the nth time when he noticed the Themis voice had boosted gain and was now trying to reach Coronis, his home base. Correction, Quine’s home base. No answer.

Against his stomach’s advice he tuned it up.

“Medbase Themis to Coronis main, emergency. Please answer, Coronis. Medbase Themis calling Coronis, emergency, please—” The woman was clearly no commo op.

Finally Quine’s girl chirped: “Medbase Themis, you are disturbing our traffic. Please damp your signal.”

“Coronis, this is an emergency. We need help—we’re going to get hit!”

“Medbase Themis, contact your sector safety patrol officer, we have no out-of-sector authorization. You are disturbing our traffic.”

“Our base won’t answer! We have to have help, we have casualties—” A male voice cut in. “Coronis, put me through to your chief at once. This is a medical priority.”

“Medbase Themis, Sector Chief Quine is outstation at present. We are in freight shuttle assembly for the trans-Mars window, please stand by until after launch.”

“But—”

“Coronis out.”

Gollem grimaced, trying to picture Quine going outstation.

He went back to pounding on his brain. The Themis woman went on calling. “We are in an impact path, we need power to move. If anyone can help us please come in. Medbase Themis—” He cut her off. One Ragnarok was enough and his was just ahead now. There was a faint chance they weren’t expecting him so soon. He powered down and drifted. As his screens cleared he saw a light move in the bubbles behind the freightdock.

His one possible break, if they hadn’t yet moved that phage inboard.

He grabbed the wrecking laser controls and kicked the patrolboat straight at Ragnarok’s main lock. The laser beam fanned over the bubbles, two good slices before he had to brake. The crash sent him into his boards.

The docking probes meshed and he sprang headfirst into Ragnarok’s lock.

As it started to cycle he burned the override, setting off alarms all over the ship. Then he was through and caroming up the shaft. Among the hoots he could hear more clanging. Phagers were piling out through the freightlock to save their bubbles. If he could get to the bridge first he could lock them out.

He twisted, kicked piping and shot into the bridge, his arm aimed at the emergency hatch-lock lever. It hadn’t been used for decades—he nearly broke his wrist, yanking the lever against his own inertia and was rewarded by the sweet grind of lock toggles far below.

Then he turned to the command couch where Topanga should be and saw he was too late.

She was there all right, both hands to her neck and her eyes rolling.

Behind her a lank hairless figure was holding a relaxed pose, in his fist a wirenoose leading around Topanga’s throat.

“Truly fine, ‘Spector.” The phager grinned.

For a second Gollem wondered if Leo hadn’t noticed the hand-laser Gollem pointed. Then he saw that the phagehead was holding a welder against Topanga’s side. Its safety sleeve was off.

“Deal, Gollyboy. Deal the fire down.”

No way. After a minute Gollem sent his weapon drifting by Leo’s arm.

Leo didn’t take the bait.

“Open up.” The phager jerked his chin at the hatch lever and Topanga gave a bubbling whine.

When Gollem opened the hatch the game would be over all the way. He hung frozen, his coiled body sensing for solidity behind him, measuring the spring.

The phager jerked the wire. Topanga’s arms flailed. One horrible eye rolled at Gollem. A spark in there, trying to say no.

“You’re killing her. Then I tear your head off and throw you out the waster.”

The phager giggled. “Why you flash on killin’?” Suddenly he twisted Topanga upside down, feet trailing out toward Gollem. She kicked feebly.

Weird, her bare feet were like a girl’s.

“Open up.”

When Gollem didn’t move the phager’s arm came out in a graceful swing, his fingers flaring. The welding arc sliced, retraced, sliced again as Topanga convulsed. One girlish foot floated free, trailing droplets.

Gollem saw a white stick pointing at him out of the blackened stump.

Topanga was quiet now.

“Way to go.” The phager grinned. “Truly tough old bird. Open up.”

“Turn her loose. Turn her loose. I’ll open.”

“Open now.” The welder moved again.

Suddenly Topanga made a weak twist, scrabbling at Leo’s groin. The phager’s head dipped.

Gollem drove inside his arm, twisted it against momentum. The welder rocketed out around the cabin while he and the phager thrashed around each other, blinded by Topanga’s robe. The phager had a knife now but he couldn’t get braced. Gollem felt legs lock his waist and took advantage of it to push Topanga away. When the scene cleared he clamped the phager to him and began savagely to collect on his investment in muscle-building.

Just as he was groping for the wire to tie up the body something walloped him back of the ear and the lights went out.

He came to with Topanga yelling, “Val, Val! I’ve got em!”

She was hanging on the console in her hair using both hands to point an ancient Thunderbolt straight at him. The muzzle yawned smoke a foot from his beard.

“Topanga, it’s me—Golly. Wake up, spacer, let me tie him up.”

“Val?” A girl laughing, screaming. “I’m going to finish the murdering mothers, Val!”

Valentine Orlov, her husband, had been in the snows of Ganymede for thirty years.

“Val is busy, Topanga,” Gollem said gently. He was hearing hull noises he didn’t like. “Val sent me to help you. Put the jolter down spacegirl. Help me tie up this creep. They’re trying to steal my boat.”

He hadn’t had time to lock it, he remembered now.

Topanga stared at him.

“And why do I often meet your visage here?” she croaked. “Your eyes like unwashed platters—” Then she fainted and he flung himself downshaft to the lock.