Merci , Lance. Andrs grin was scathing as he received the datavised flight vector.
The four crewmen watched the civil servant retreating, and laughed. Erick was congratulated for calling the other mans bluff, Bev Lennon fetching him half a litre of of imported Lbeck beer.
You had me panicking! the wiry fusion specialist protested as he dropped the tankards down on their table.
Erick took a sip of the icy beer. I had me panicking.
It was going well, they accepted him, reservations (and he knew some still had them) were fading, breaking down. He was becoming one of the lads.
Along with Bev Lennon and Desmond Lafoe, the ships node specialist, a brawny two-metre-tall bear of a man, Erick spent the next ten minutes talking trivia while Andr Duchamp sat back with a blank expression reviewing the vector he had just bought.
I dont see any problem, the captain announced eventually. If we use a Sacramento orbit to jump from we can rendezvous any time in the next six days. Fifty-five hours from now would be the ideal ... His voice trailed off.
Erick turned to follow his gaze. Five men wearing copper-coloured one-piece ship-suits walked into the Catalina bar.
Hasan Rawand caught sight of Andr Duchamp as he was about to sit at the bar. He tapped Shane Brandes, the Dechal s fusion engineer, on the side of his arm and flicked a finger in the direction of the master of Villeneuves Revenge . His other three crew-members, Ian OFlaherty, Harry Levine, and Stafford Charlton, caught the gesture and turned to look.
The two crews regarded each other with mutual hostility and antagonism.
Hasan Rawand walked over to the window booth table, his crew right behind him. Andr, he said with mock civility. So nice to see you. I trust you have brought my money. Eight hundred thousand, wasnt it? And thats before interest. It has been seventeen months after all.
Andr Duchamp gazed straight ahead, his hands cupping his beer tankard. I owe you no money, he said darkly.
I think you do. Cast your mind back; you were carrying plutonium initiators from Sab Biyar to the Isolo system. Dechal waited in Sab Biyars Oort cloud for thirty-two hours for you, Andr. Thirty-two hours in stealth mode, with freezing air and iced food, pissing into tubes that leaked, not even allowed a personal MF player in case the navy ships picked up its electronic emission. Thats not nice, Andr; its about as close as you can get to a Confederation penal colony without being shot down to the surface in a drop capsule. We waited for thirty-two hours in the stinking dark for you to show so we could take the initiators in, doing your dirty work for you and carrying all the risk. And when we got back to Sab Biyar what did I find?
Andr Duchamp grinned round at his own crew, trying to brazen it out. Im sure youll tell me, Anglo .
You went to Nuristan and sold the initiators to one of their naval contractors, you Gallic shithead ! I was left trying to explain to the Isolo Independence Front where their nukes had gone, and why their poxy rebellion was going to fail because they hadnt got the fire-power to back up their demands.
You can show me the contract? Andr Duchamp asked mockingly.
Hasan Rawand glared down at him, lips compressed in rage. Just hand over the money. A million will see you clear.
To hell with you, Anglo filth. I, Andr Duchamp, owe nobody money. He stood up and tried to barge past the Dechal s captain.
It was the move Erick Thakrar was waiting for and dreading. Sure enough, Hasan Rawand shoved Andr Duchamp back in the booth. The back of the older captains knee struck a seat which almost tipped him off balance. He recovered and launched himself at Hasan Rawand, fists flying.
Desmond Lafoe rose to his feet drawing a frantic gasp from Ian OFlaherty when his size, weight, and strength became apparent. Huge hands reached forward, and Ian OFlaherty was jerked off his feet. He kicked out wildly, toecap striking Desmond Lafoes shin. The giant merely grunted, and then threw his victim across the room. He landed awkwardly on one of the aluminium tables, his shoulder taking the brunt of his momentum before he crashed down backwards onto a pair of chairs.
Erick felt a hand close around the neck fabric of his ship-suit. It was Shane Brandes who was hauling him out of the booth; a forty-year-old with a bald head and small gold earrings, smiling with ugly anticipation. The unarmed combat file in Ericks neural nanonics went into primary mode. His instinctive thought routines were superseded by logic-based patterns, calculating inertia and intent with an ease surpassing any kung fu master. Nanonic supplement boosted muscles powered up.
Shane Brandes was surprised how easy it was to pull his opponent out of the booth. Gratification became alarm when he kept on coming. Shane had to backstep to keep balance, his own neural nanonics assuming command of his mass positioning. He cocked a fist back to smash into Ericks face, only to have a nanonic warning blare in his mind as Ericks forearm swung up with incredible speed. His punch was blocked, arm chopped painfully to one side. A furious kick to Ericks groinhis knee nearly fractured from the impact of the counter-kick. He reeled to one side, banging into Harry Levine and Bev Lennon, who were locked together.
Erick slammed an elbow into Shanes ribs, hearing bone break. He let out an agonized grunt.
The unarmed combat file said that speed was essential, take out your opponent as soon as possible. His neural nanonics analysed Shanes movements, the half twist as he clutched at his ribs, bending over. The motion was projected two seconds into the future. Interception points were computed. A list materialized in his consciousness, and he selected a blow that would cause temporary incapacitation. His right leg shot out, booted foot aiming for a patch of empty air. Shanes head fell into it.
A threat assessment sub-routine shifted his peripheral senses into priority focus. Andr Duchamp and Hasan Rawand were still battering away at each other on the side of the booths table. Neither was inflicting much damage in the confined space.
Harry Levine had got Bev Lennon into a head lock. The two of them were on the floor, squirming round like theatrical wrestlers, sending chairs spinning. Bev Lennon sent a flurry of elbow jabs into Harry Levines stomach, attempting to knock his navel into his spine.
Stafford Charlton obviously had a boosted musculature. He was standing in front of Desmond Lafoe, landing blow after blow on the big man, arms moving with programmed efficiency. He had almost doubled up from the pain, his right arm hung limply, the shoulder broken. Blood ran out of his flattened nose.
Ian OFlaherty rose behind Desmond Lafoe, berserk loathing contorting his face, a pocket fission blade in his right hand. With his enhanced retinas on full amplification, the yellow haze emitted by the activated blade dazzled Erick for an instant. The threat assessment sub-routine activated the defensive nanonic implant in his left hand. A targeting grid of fine blue lines flipped up across his vision. A rectangular section flashed red, and wrapped itself around Ian OFlaherty, adapting to his movements like elastic thread.
Dont! Erick Thakrar shouted.
Ian OFlaherty had already raised the blade high above his head when the shout came. In his wired state he probably wouldnt have obeyed even if he heard. Erick saw the muscles in his lower arm begin to contract, the knife quivered as it started on its downward slash.
The neural nanonics program reported that even with boosted muscles Erick couldnt reach Ian OFlaherty in time. He made his decision. A small patch of skin above the second knuckle of his left hand dilated, and the implant spat out a dart of nanonic circuitry, barely as large as a wasp stinger. It struck the bare skin of Ian OFlahertys neck, penetrating to a depth of six millimetres. The fission blade had already descended twenty centimetres towards Desmond Lafoes broad back. As soon as it sensed it was buried inside the flesh, and its momentum was spent, the dart sprouted a fur of microscopic filaments. They quested round on a preprogrammed search pattern for nerve strands, tips wriggling between the close-packed honeycomb of cells. Ganglions were located, and the sharp filament tips forced their way through gossamer membranes sheathing the individual nerves. At this time the knife had descended twenty-four centimetres. Ian OFlahertys right eyelid gave an involuntary twitch at the small sting from the darts entry. The darts internal processor analysed the chemical and electrical reactions flashing along the nerves; it began to broadcast its own signal into the brain. His neural nanonics detected the signal at once, but the circuitry was powerless to help, it could only override natural impulses originating from within the brain.