“Their apparent emptiness does suggest something like that,” Barna replied.
“The physicists have determined that the walls and floors and ceilings of the structures are composed of an anomalous composite that can extrude itself into any shape. The exact mechanics and physics of this technology have not yet been discerned, but the fact that it existed suggests a very different social structure. I would submit that decor and decoration rested upon the creative ability of the individual inhabitant—and that the shapes, even the colors, of the basic furnishings and accessories were molded by and to the will of whoever lived in each set of quarters.”
Both Bryanna and Chendor nodded.
“Initial indications are that they also possessed devices—built into each unit—that resembled nanetic processors that could provide such items as clothing, food, bedding, and the like. This suggests that wealth—if you will—or power—was based on the ability of the individual to create and conceptualize, and not upon the ability— as in our societies—to manipulate the physical elements of survival in order to create a position of superiority…”
“Not all human societies based power on that—”
“Or those that use the illusory promise of rewards in a hereafter that has never been proved to exist by any scientific test or experimental methods ever developed over more than five millennia,” I added quickly.
Two stewards appeared from the kitchen area, each in the white garb so traditional in military vessels and so impractical for all its tradition. They glided toward the captain’s table. Nearing it, they turned, and in almost measured cadence, each moved toward a different end of the longer rectangular table, each carrying a basket heaped with bread. Both used both hands and arms under the pseudowicker baskets.
Bread shouldn’t have been near that heavy. Ancient alarms went off, and the chair where I’d been seated went flying back as I took three steps, trying to keep my body level.
“What…”
The steward turning toward the head of the captain’s table lowered the too-heavy bread basket slightly. My aim was off slightly, and my shoulder hit the outside of his right shoulder blade, an effort useless except to throw off the aim of the neural disruptor concealed by the basket.
Lieutenant Chang—it had to be her, the only blonde at the pilots’ table—was moving before any of the others.
Thrumml The ugly whine from the weapon of the other steward filled the mess. Someone yelled, and others screamed.
The steward I’d struck tried to bring up the disruptor— and that was a mistake. My elbow crushed his throat. He turned, still trying to bring the weapon to bear. A spray of neural damage slammed across the table where some of the pilots were sitting. Two went down—I thought, but wasn’t looking for that.
I broke the arm holding the disruptor, and the heavy weapon hit the floor with a clunk. His face was turning red, and he kept struggling—deep-conditioning against pain. I levered him to the floor and snapped his good arm out of the socket, then slammed my boot-heel where it should stop his heart.
The second steward had been staggered by a platter thrown into his face, but stepped back, his face totally immobile, and raised his weapon once more, aiming all too deliberately, not toward the captain’s table, but toward the pilots. People were moving, but most all too slowly, as if they could not believe that such an occurrence might befall them.
Chang had tried to reach the surviving steward, but one of the other officers had bolted and knocked her sideways momentarily. Lerrys was behind her, but he’d been blocked as well by someone trying to escape.
The remaining suicider was bringing his disrupter to bear on Chang.
I couldn’t have that. Not at all.
Everything moved so slowly. I’d forgotten that. I snatched a chair, but couldn’t get a clear throw. The only tactic left was to keep the steward from taking out any more officers. Chair in hand before me, I jumped onto the table where the pilots had been sitting and took two steps—and launched myself at the remaining attacker. The chair might deflect some of the disrupter’s flow.
He jerked the disrupter around—away from Chang and toward me—and another thrumm filled the mess, so loud… so very loud… until the darkness swallowed it.
47
Chang
Fourteen hundred, and I was in Morgan’s ops office up on the command deck. Lerrys had taken Braun’s afternoon duty. Shook my head. Still couldn’t believe she was gone, not the way it had happened. Morgan had a black expression. Even without the name, I could have told that his background was ancient Welsh. He didn’t say anything for long minutes after I sat down. Neither did I.
“Thank you.” His words were flat.
“You’re welcome. I did what I could.” Wished it had been more. The first steward had taken out Braun and Rynd. Second had managed to wipe out Major Tepper, Major Alynso, Beurck, and Rigney. All six had died in the mess, brains and nerves scrambled. Couldn’t believe that Braun was dead. Sitting there, eating one minute, and dead moments later. You expect you might die piloting. It’s dangerous, no matter what they say. Don’t expect to get your nerves fried by a disrupter eating lunch. Gone…just like that Fitzhugh had hit the phony steward targeting the captain just in time. She’d escaped being hit. So had the Special Deputy Minister. Except for Braun and Rynd—who’d been caught by the blast misdirected from Fitzhugh’s attack—all the damage had been done by the second steward.
If Major Singh hadn’t gotten in my way, I might have been able to do more. Might have gotten killed, too. Something like that, you can never tell. “If you’d been there, you might have done better.”
“This noon was the first time in days, maybe weeks, when the captain was there and I wasn’t.”
“Sounds like they waited until you weren’t there.”
“It could be. Or it could be coincidence.” Morgan frowned. “Neither one aimed at the Special Deputy Minister. They never even looked at him. They should have. If they’d taken out both him and the captain…”
Hadn’t thought about that. Should have. “Allerde couldn’t be involved.”
“You can’t say that about anyone these days.” He paused. “You’re right, though.”
Had to think about that for a moment. Didn’t like what I came up with.
“Do you know what it means?” Morgan asked.
“Probably not.”
“What do you think?”
“Took time to get the stewards, replace them or deep-condition them. Means that someone knew about the Magellan and Danann from the beginning. Maybe they didn’t know who’d be the Comity rep on board—or if there’d even be one.”
“That’s my guess.”
“Guess? Did you and DeLisle get anything out of him before…”
“No… he had an autonomic nerve bloc. Heart, lungs, they all stopped. In the chaos, it took too long to get him to sick bay. Revival wasn’t possible.” Morgan’s lips tightened. “You and Professor Fitzhugh acted before anyone else. How did you know that there was something wrong?”
“I didn’t, not until the professor threw himself… how is he?”
“He took a direct shot from the disrupter. He’s in a medcrib, but he’ll make it. He shouldn’t.” Morgan didn’t sound happy.
“That bothers you? Without him attacking the first steward—”