Charles Sheffield: The Compleat McAndrews

It was quicker to go aft and take a look than to call Bryson or McAndrew and ask them what they could see from the rear viewing screens of the Control Stage. Leaving Yifter, I dived head-first down the stairway — a risky maneuver if there were any chance that the drive might come back on, but I was sure it couldn’t.

It took me about thirty seconds to travel the length of the Control Stage. By the time that I was halfway, I knew I had been thinking much too slowly. I heard the clang of a lock, a shout, and the sputtering crackle of a hand laser against solid metal. When I got to the rear compartment, it was all finished. Bryson, pale and open-mouthed, was floating against one wall. He seemed unhurt. McAndrew had fared less well. He was ten meters farther along, curled into a fetal ball. Floating near him I saw a family of four stubby pink worms with red-brown heads, still unclenching with muscle spasm. I could also see the deep burn on his side and chest, and his right hand, from which a laser had neatly clipped the fingers and cauterized the wound instantly as it did so. At the far end of the room, braced against the wall, were five suited figures, all well-armed.

Heroics would serve no purpose. I spread my arms wide to show that I was not carrying a weapon, and one of the newcomers pushed off from the wall and floated past me, heading towards the front of the Control Stage. I moved over to McAndrew and inspected his wounds. They looked bad, but not fatal. Fortunately, laser wounds are usually very clean. I could see that we would have problems with his lung unless we treated him quickly. A lobe had been penetrated, and his breathing was slowly breaking the seal of crisped tissue that the laser had made. Blood was beginning to well through and stain his clothing.

McAndrew’s forehead was beaded with sweat. As the shock of his wound wore off, the pain was beginning. I pointed to the medical belt of one of the invaders, who nodded and tossed an ampoule across to me. I injected McAndrew at the big vein inside his right elbow.

The figure who had pushed past me was returning, followed by Yifter. The face plate of the suit was now open, revealing a dark-haired woman in her early thirties. She looked casually at the scene, nodded at last, and turned back to Yifter.

“Everything’s under control here,” she said. “But we’ll have to take a Section from the Assembly. The ship we were following in caught some of the blast from the Lesotho , and it’s no good for powered flight now.”

Yifter shook his head reprovingly. “Impatient as usual, Akhtar. I’ll bet you were just too eager to get here. You must learn patience if you are to be of maximum value to us, my dear. Where did you leave the main group?”

“A few hours drive inward from here. We have waited for your rescue, before making any plans for the next phase.”

Yifter, calm as ever, nodded approvingly. “The right decision. We can take a Section without difficulty. Most of them contain their own drives, but some are less effective than others.”

He turned to me, smiling gently. “Jeanie Roker, which Section is the best equipped to carry us away from the Assembly? As you see, it is time for us to leave you and rejoin our colleagues.”

His calm was worse than any number of threats. I floated next to McAndrew, trying to think of some way that we could delay or impede the Lucies’ escape. It might take days for a rescue party to reach us. In that time, Yifter and his followers could be anywhere.

I hesitated. Yifter waited. “Come now,” he said at last. “I’m sure you are as eager as I am to avoid any further annoyance” — he moved his hand, just a little, to indicate McAndrew and Bryson — “for your friends.”

I shrugged. All the Sections contained emergency life-support systems, more than enough for a trip of a few hours. Section Two, where the guards had been housed, lacked a full, independent drive unit, but it was still capable of propulsion. I thought it might slow their escape enough for us somehow to track it.

“Section Two should be adequate,” I said. “It housed your guards in comfort. Those poor devils certainly have no need for it now.”

I paused. Beside me, McAndrew was painfully straightening from his contorted position. The drugs were beginning to work. He coughed, and red globules floated away across the room. That lung needed attention.

“No,” he said faintly. “Not Two, Yifter. Seven. Section Seven.”

He paused and coughed again, while I looked at him in surprise.

“Seven,” he said at last. He looked at me. “No killing, Jeanie. No — Killing vector.”

The woman was listening closely. She regarded both of us suspiciously. “What was all that about?”

My mouth was gaping open as wide as Bryson’s. I had caught an idea of what McAndrew was trying to tell me, but I didn’t want to say it. Fortunately, I was helped out by Yifter himself.

“No killing,” he said. “My dear, you have to understand that Professor McAndrew is a devoted pacifist — and carrying his principles through admirably. He doesn’t want to see any further killing. I think I can agree with that — for the present.”

He looked at me and shook his head. “I won’t inquire what dangers and drawbacks Section Two might contain, Captain — though I do seem to recall that it lacks a decent drive unit. I think we’ll follow the Professor’s advice and take Section Seven. Akhtar is a very competent engineer, and I’m sure she’ll have no trouble coupling the drive to the kernel.”

He looked at us with a strange expression. If it didn’t sound so peculiar, I’d describe it as wistful. “I shall miss our conversations,” he said. “But I must say goodbye now. I hope that Professor McAndrew will recover. He is one of the strong — unless he allows himself to be killed by his unfortunate pacifist fancies. We may not meet again, but I am sure that you will be hearing about us in the next few months.”

They left. McAndrew, Bryson and I watched the screens in silence, as the Lucies made their way over to Section Seven and entered it. Once they were inside, I went over to McAndrew and took him by the left arm.

“Come on,” I said. “We have to get a patch on that lung.”

He shook his head weakly. “Not yet. It can wait a few minutes. After that, it might not be necessary.”

His forehead was beading with sweat again — and this time it was not from pain. I felt my own tension mounting steadily. We stayed by the display screen, and as the seconds ticked away my own forehead began to film with perspiration. We did not speak. I had one question, but I was terribly afraid of the answer I might get. I think that Bryson spoke to both of us several times. I have no idea what he said.

Finally, a pale nimbus grew at the rear of the Section Seven drive unit.

“Now,” said McAndrew. “He’s going to tap the kernel.”

I stopped breathing. There was a pause of a few seconds, stretching to infinity, then the image on the screen rippled slightly. Suddenly, we could see stars shining through that area. Section Seven was gone, vanished, with no sign that it had ever existed.

McAndrew took in a long, pained breath, wincing as his injured lung expanded. Somehow, he managed a little smile.

“Well now,” he said. “That answers a theoretical question that I’ve had on my mind for some time.”

I could breathe again, too. “I didn’t know what was going to happen there,” I said. “I was afraid all the energy might come out of that kernel in one go.”

McAndrew nodded. “To be honest, that thought was in my head, too. At this range, the shields would have been useless. We’d have gone like last year’s lovers.”

Bryson had been watching the whole thing in confusion. We had been ignoring him completely. At last, pale and irritable, he spoke to us again.