Lois Bujold - Falling Free

The pilot and co-pilot, up front, were busy about their work. Bannerji, commanding the force, and Dr. Yei—and how had she inserted herself into this expedition, anyway?—were strapped to their acceleration couches, Yei in the engineer’s seat, Bannerji holding down the weapons console across the aisle from Van Atta.

“That’s it, then,” snapped Van Atta. “Are we in range for the lasers yet?”

Bannerji checked a readout. “Not quite.”

“Please,” said Dr. Yei, “let me try to talk to them just once more—”

“If they’re half as sick of the sound of your voice as I am, they’re not going to answer,” growled Van Atta. “You’ve spent hours talking to them. Face it—they’re not listening any more, Yei. So much for psychology.”

The Security sergeant, Fors, stuck his head through from the rear compartment where he rode with his twenty-six fellow GalacTech guards. “What’s the word, Captain Bannerji? Should we suit up for boarding yet?”

Bannerji quirked an eyebrow at Van Atta. “Well, Mr. Van Atta? Which plan is it to be? It appears we’re going to have to cross off all the scenarios that started with their surrendering.”

“You got that shit straight.” Van Atta brooded at the comm, which emitted only a grey empty hiss on its vid. “As soon as we’re in range, start firing on ‘em, then. Disable the Necklin rod arms first, then the normal space thrusters if you can. Then we blast a hole in the side, march in, and mop up.”

Sergeant Fors cleared his throat. “You did say there were a thousand of those mutants aboard, didn’t you, Mr. Van Atta? What about the plan of skipping the boarding part and just taking the whole vessel in tow, back to wherever you want it? Aren’t the odds a little, um, lopsided for boarding?”

“Complain to Chalopin, she’s the one who balked at drafting help from outside Security proper. But the odds aren’t what they appear. The quaddies are creampuffs. Half of them are children under twelve, for God’s sake. Just go in, and stun anything that moves. How many five-year-old girls do you figure you’re equal to, Fors?”

“I don’t know, sir,” Fors blinked. “I never pictured myself fighting five-year-old girls.”

Bannerji drummed his fingers on his weapons console and glanced at Yei. “Is that girl with the baby aboard, the ones I almost shot that day in the warehouse, Dr. Yei?”

“Claire? Yes,” she replied levelly.

“Ah.” Bannerji glanced away from her intent gaze, and shifted in his seat.

“Let’s hope your aim is better this time, Bannerji,” said Van Atta.

Bannerji rotated a computer schematic of a Super-jumper in his vid, running calculations. “You realize,” he said slowly, “that the real event is going to have some uncontrolled factors—the probability is good that we’re going to end up punching some extra holes in the inhabited modules while we’re going for the Necklin rods.”

“That’s all right,” said Van Atta. Bannerji’s lips screwed up doubtfully. “Look, Bannerji,” added Van Atta impatiently, “the quaddies are—ah, have made themselves expendable by turning criminal. It’s no different than shooting a thief fleeing from any other land of robbery or break-in. Besides, you can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs.”

Dr. Yei ran her hands hard over her face. “Lord Krishna,” she groaned. She favored Van Atta with a tight, peculiar smile. “I’ve been wondering when you were going to say that. I should have put a side bet on it—run a pool—”

Van Atta bristled defensively. “If you had done your job right,” he returned no less tightly, “we wouldn’t be here now breaking eggs. We could have boiled them in their shells back on Rodeo at the very least. In fact I intend to point out to management later, believe me. But I don’t have to argue with you any more. For everything I intend to do, I have a proper authorization.”

“Which you have not shown to me.”

“Chalopin and Captain Bannerji saw it. If I have my way you’ll get a termination out of this, Yei.”

She said nothing, but acknowledged the threat with a brief ironic tilt of her head. She leaned back in her chair and crossed her arms, apparently silenced at last. Thank God, Van Atta added to himself.

“Get suited up, Fors,” he told the Security sergeant.

Nav and Com in the D-620 was a crowded chamber. Ti ruled from his control chair, enthroned beneath his headset; Silver manned the comm; and Leo—held down the post of chief engineer, he supposed. The chain of command became rather blurred at this point. Perhaps his title ought to be Official Ship’s Worrier. His guts churned and his throat tightened as all lines of action approached their intersection at the point of no return.

“The Security shuttle has stopped broadcasting,” Silver reported.

“That’s a relief,” said Ti. “You can turn the sound back up, now.”

“Not a relief,” denied Leo. “If they’ve stopped talking, they may be getting ready to open fire.” And it was too late, too close to Jump point to put a beam welder and crew Outside to fire back.

Ti’s mouth twisted in dismay. He closed his eyes; the D-620 seemed to tilt, lumbering under acceleration. “We’re almost in position to Jump,” he said.

Leo eyed a monitor. “They’re almost in range to fire.” He paused a moment, then added, “They are in range to fire.”

Ti made a squeaking noise, and pulled his headset down. “Powering-up the Necklin field—”

“Gently” yelped Leo. “My vortex mirror—”

Silver’s hand sought Leo’s. He was overwhelmed by a desire to apologize, to Silver, to the quaddies, to God, he didn’t know who. I got you into this… I’m sorry…

“If you open a channel, Silver,” said Leo desperately, his head swimming in panic—all those children—We could still surrender—”

“Never,” said Silver. Her grip tightened on his hand, and her blue eyes met his. “And I choose for all, not just for myself. We go.”

Leo ground his teeth, and nodded shortly. The seconds thudded in his brain, syncopated with the hammering of his heart. The Security shuttle grew in the monitor.

“Why don’t they fire now?” asked Silver.

“Fire,” ordered Van Atta.

Bannerji’s bright computer schematics drew toward alignment, numbers flickering, lights converging. Dr. Yei, Van Atta noticed, was no longer in her seat. Probably hiding out in the toilet chamber. This dose of real life and real consequences was doubtless too much for her. Just like one of those wimp politicians, Van Atta thought scathingly, who talks people into disaster and disappears when the shooting starts…

“Fire now” he repeated to Bannerji, as the computer blinked readiness, locked onto its target.

Bannerji’s hand moved toward the firing switch, hesitated. “Do you have a work order for this?” he asked suddenly.

“Do I have a what?” said Van Atta.

“A work order. It occurs to me that, technically, this could be considered an act of hazardous waste disposal. It takes a work order signed by the originator of the request—that’s you—my supervisor—that’s Administrator Chalopin—and the company Hazardous Waste Management Officer.”

“Chalopin has turned you over to me. That makes it official, mister!”

“But not complete. The Hazardous Waste Management Officer is Laurie Gompf, and she’s back on Rodeo. You don’t have her authorization. The work-order is incomplete. Sorry, sir.” Bannerji vacated the weapons console and plunked himself down in the empty engineer’s seat, crossing his arms. “It’s as much as my job is worth to complete an act of hazardous waste disposal without a proper order. The Environmental Impact Assessment has to be attached, too.”