John Sandford - Saturn Run

Peng swung himself back toward the bleeding American. Lei was attempting to staunch the flow of blood, but it was like trying to stop a river with his fingers. Summerhill began to shake uncontrollably.

Peng screamed at Langers, “Tell them to hurry, hurry, hurry… he is dying!”

Langers called again.

Too late.

Mo arrived first, Manfred a second later. Mo crouched next to Summerhill, his feet in the growing puddle of blood that seeped across the floor of the bridge. Mo touched Summerhill with an extension from his slate; Manfred crowded next to him, looking at the slate, then they looked at each other and simultaneously shook their heads. No heartbeat, no brain function.

Lei’s bullet had ripped through Summerhill’s carotid artery on its way into his head, through a piece of his brain, and out the far side of his skull.

Manfred stood up: “He’s gone,” he said.

Peng stood staring for a moment. Lei’s gun lay on the floor, in the blood puddle. Peng turned toward Langers and extended his own pistol, and Langers put out his hands to fend off the bullet. Peng said, “No, no… take it.”

He turned the gun in his hands and extended it to Langers butt-first.

Cui was in her quarters, Sun doing a check on her sentries when the call went out. “Shots fired on the bridge…” A moment later, “Dr. Manfred, hurry, hurry…” and in the background, the sound of heavily accented English, “Get back, get back…”

Sun bolted for the bridge, nearly ran into Cui running out of her cabin. “We’re done,” Cui said.

“We’re not done,” Sun snarled.

The bridge was locked: Sun called for Peng to open the door, but the door didn’t open. Peng didn’t answer.

“Something’s going on in there…. Maybe Peng was shot,” Sun said. She looked wildly around, then said, “The Commons.”

“What?”

“The Commons, the Commons, that’s where the most people will be.”

“What…”

But Sun was already running, shaking loose her handgun as she went. There were fourteen Americans in the Commons, including the kitchen crew. Sun skidded to a stop as she entered: the two Chinese guards had drawn their sidearms and were facing the Americans across a narrow open space. Sun shouted, “Americans. Sit down. Sit down behind the tables.”

“What are we doing?”

Sun commed Peng, then Lei, got no answer. She grabbed one of the Chinese guards and said, “Go to the bridge. Pound on the door. Tell them to hook me to Fang-Castro.”

Crow was in his quarters when the call from the bridge went out.

If someone had been shot…

The walls of his quarters were made of hardened foam. There was one spot, indistinguishable from the rest of the wall, near the head of his bed, where it was just a bit softer. He forced his fingers into it, pushed side to side, thrust his hand deeper, and grabbed the butt of his Colt. He pulled it out of the wall, turned it on, did a power check.

Good to go.

Next he checked the door: to his surprise, it was unlocked. He turned back and checked his communication channels. The normal communication channels were open, and he pinged Fang-Castro.

“Yes, David.”

“Shots fired, somebody’s hurt, the comm’s working and the doors are open.”

“Then I’m going to the bridge.”

“Get your sidearm, but stick it in your waistband. Don’t carry it in your hand.”

“Where are you going?”

“Don’t know yet, I’m looking at my personnel screen… hang there just one second, I can give you a reading…”

He pulled up the personnel screen, went to mapping. There were no Chinese heading to either his or Fang-Castro’s quarters. He could see two Chinese running away from the bridge. Barnes had armed himself and was setting up in the main hub intersection. Smart man. Francisco was still in his quarters, working his communications panel.

He tapped back to Fang-Castro. “You’re clear all the way to the bridge. I’d say we’ve got about half the ship back, but I don’t know the bridge status. Let me call Langers…”

Langers came up one second later: “Sir, we have the bridge. Summerhill’s… dead. The Chinese here have given up.”

“Hang on there, the admiral is on her way.”

To Fang-Castro: “Go. Go. We got the bridge.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“There’s a crowd of Chinese setting up opposite Barnes. I’m going that way.”

Before he went he called Greenberg and told her what had happened. “Jam the air lock. Don’t let anybody through.”

“Doing that now.”

He took one last look at the personnel screen. Where was Darlington? He tapped a couple of keys and Darlington popped up. The Commons: with four Chinese and a bunch of Americans. He didn’t bother to count them, just slipped out the door and ran toward the hub.

Everything froze. Armed Chinese and Americans faced each other, but nobody fired any weapons.

As Fang-Castro approached the bridge, she found a Chinese soldier standing outside. He started to draw his pistol, thought again, put it away. “I cannot get in.”

Fang-Castro’s slate was working again. She pinged the bridge and said, “I’m outside, with an armed Chinese soldier. His weapon is holstered.”

Langers replied: “We have control here. The Chinese have surrendered their weapons. Uh, ask him for his.”

Fang-Castro looked at the Chinese soldier, who’d overhead the call. The man scratched his face, and nose once, then said, “My commander is in the Commons. She wishes to speak to you. I have delivered the message, now I go back.”

He left, and a moment later Fang-Castro walked onto the bridge.

Sun kept her weapon fixed on the line of Americans; three or four minutes after she’d entered the Commons, she was pinged by Fang-Castro, whose image appeared on the large view screen. She said, “Lieutenant Cui, Lieutenant Sun, you have lost control of the ship. Please surrender your weapons to the nearest Americans and we will settle this amicably, as we should have from the start. This is not a situation we can really resolve at our ranks—”

Sun cut in. “You may call me Colonel Sun. You still have not understood the situation, Admiral. We cannot allow you exclusive control of this technology. We demand that you and the rest of the non-critical Americans return to your quarters, where you will be locked down until we reestablish control here.”

“We absolutely will not do that—”

“You had better,” Sun said. “I tell you this. We cannot allow you the tech. I will begin executing the people we have here, one every five minutes, until you are locked down again. If anyone attacks us, I will do what I can to destroy the ship. I know I can blow at least two holes in it. I doubt that you’ll survive. The five minutes starts… now.”

Everybody in the room looked at the clock at the corner of the Commons screen. Eight minutes after twelve, straight up.

Two minutes into the count, with no reaction yet from Fang-Castro—she’d asked to consult with her command staff—Bob Hannegan, the physicist, held up a hand. “Colonel Sun, I need to speak to you for ten seconds.”

Sun scowled at him. “Speak.”

Hannegan held up a gold stylus. “This is one of the kill trigger switches.” He gripped it and turned one side against the other. “And this is how it works.”

Sun said, “Wait!”

Hannegan snapped the stylus in half, and said, “Ouch, I cut myself.” And to Sun, “Now there’s no reason to shoot anyone. The QSUs are gone.”

As he said the last word, an alarm sounded, and he added: “There goes the fire alarm. There’s a three-thousand-degree fire in the burn box.”