Space Stations

Some of the barriers seemed to be warning about drums of rust remover and other cleaning chemicals that had been gathered together; others were guarding against actual holes that went clear through the deck. The whole mess, he knew from their initial sweep, covered nearly a quarter of the circumference of the wheel-shape that was Space Fort Jefferson.

And this was just the mess on Deck Three. Decks Four, Five, and Six were in the same shape.

This, he decided, was going to be a long day. “All right, give me some space,” he told Niende, drawing his gun. The rangers weren't supposed to be armed; but then, they weren't supposed to be hiding either. “Let's find him.”

“Easy,” Annen warned as Sjette and Femte eased the rolling carrier down the corridor, wincing every time it bounced over an uneven section of decking. The Disabler torpedo wasn't especially fragile; but if it should somehow happen to go off, the discharge of high-voltage current would be unbelievably spectacular for the entire quarter second it would take to burn the three of them into unrecognizable lumps of carbon.

Down the corridor, the lights flickered. Again. Annen swore, glancing up at those overhead for signs of similar flickering. Somewhere nearby he could hear the occasional soft click of a spark bleeding current off a bad ground in the clusters of cables running along both lower edges of the corridor. This whole section of the station, clearly, was an electrical disaster just itching to happen.

He shook his head in disgust and a growing sense of uneasiness. The timing and positioning of the flyby, unfortunately, gave them no choice as to which quadrant of the station they needed to use to launch their attack. Even more unfortunately, the zone of necessity was well off both the tourist and living areas of the station and clearly in the advanced-degenerate stage of its life. Uncertain lighting and power were bad enough; but if something else went out—

“Hold it,” Sjette said suddenly, straightening up from his half of the carrier in front of a door with the universal “men's room” symbol on it. “I have to.”

“Make it quick,” Annen said, glancing around. The quiet snapping was getting worse; he doubted the power had been turned on down here for years. Any minute now the corridor would probably blow all its circuit breakers and plunge them into darkness.

“As quick as I can,” Sjette said with just an edge of sarcasm. He pushed open the door and disappeared inside, unzipping as he went.

“This place gives me the creeps,” Femte muttered, twitching at a particularly loud snap.

“What if the power goes out at a crucial moment?”

“Never mind the power,” Annen said. “What about the air system? What about simple basic hull integrity?”

Femte shook his head. “You know, if we can't paralyze both escorts at the same time, one of them will surely sacrifice itself to protect the President.”

“And then Space Force One will land its Marines on top of us,” Annen said grimly.

“We'd better make sure—”

He broke off at the sudden bellow that came from inside the men's room. “Sjette!” he snapped, yanking out his gun and dashing around the back end of the Disabler. If that missing ranger was skulking around in there—

He skidded to a halt as Sjette staggered through the door, soaked from forehead to shins.

“It doused me!” he gasped disbelievingly. “I finished, and it just—it wet me!”

With an annoyed snort, Annen jammed his gun back into its holster. “We're wasting time,” he growled. “Come on.”

“A minute,” Sjette said, lifting his hands and distastefully eyeing the water dripping from his fingertips. Stepping back toward the corridor wall, keeping well back from the Disabler, he lifted his arms and gave them a firm shake downward. A cloudburst spattering of raindrops chattered into the walls or plopped into the growing puddle at his feet—

And suddenly, with a violent thunder crack, Sjette was encased in a brilliant flash of blue-white fire. Annen had just enough time to gasp—

And then the fire vanished, and the corridor's lights all went out.

Leaving only the sound of Femte's startled curse, the pounding of Annen's own heartbeat, and the wet slap of Sjette's body collapsing onto the deck.

Forste's grip on Bob's upper arm was like a lockclamp as he hurried the ranger along at a pace just short of a flat-out run. “What's happened?” Bob asked for the fifth time since Forste and his men had hauled him out of their makeshift prison.

For the fifth time, Forste ignored the question. But at least now Bob had a good idea where they were going: sickbay.

Something about Cummings?

They reached the medical center, and Forste all but shoved Bob through the door. Three of the other terrorists were there: two standing grim and armed, the third twitching half-unconscious on one of the treatment tables. Over the whole group hung the pungent aroma of singed flesh. “There,” Forste said, pulling his gun out of Bob's ribs and jabbing it toward the corner where Cummings was sleeping peacefully in his medpack cocoon.