The cargo bay was a hive of activity. Helped by the first mate and the chief engineer, Shinoda and her marines were cutting the Starlight apart, the pieces pushed into towering heaps around the massive cargo bay door. Michael nodded his approval. If the Hammers were to be distracted long enough for him and his marines to survive, the more debris the better. He beckoned Shinoda over.
“This looks good.”
Shinoda looked around. She nodded. “You said you wanted 500 cubic meters of junk, so we’re got a ways to go yet, but we’ll get there.”
“I’m still worried about getting a decent spread. All that stuff is no good if it stays in one big clump.”
“I know,” Shinoda said. “Fifty kilos of plastic explosive would have come in handy.”
“Yeah, it would. I think I need to talk to Marty again.”
“You do that. I’ve got a ship to shred.”
Michael waited for Marty to finish. With exemplary forbearance, the chief engineer was busy explaining to Marine Prodi why using a laser cutter in close proximity to a high-pressure hydraulic system was a bad thing. Laser cutter … hydraulics; an idea popped into his head. That might do it, he thought.
When Marty had satisfied himself that they weren’t all about to be killed, Michael took him to one side.
“What pressure do you keep the ship’s atmosphere at, chief?”
“A bit under three-quarters of normal atmospheric pressure.”
“What’s the hull rated to?”
“Ah, now there’s a question.” Starlight’s chief engineer thought for a minute. “Test pressure is two atmospheres,” he went on, “but she’s designed to cope with three, though I think that’s optimistic given her age.”
“And can you boost the pressure in just one compartment, say, this one?”
“Sure.”
“And the cargo bay door will still open despite that overpressure?”
“All our doors and hatches have to. It’s a safety requirement.”
“Is your hydraulic fluid flammable?”
“Of course it is,” Marty snapped. “You think those penny-pinching management assholes would let me buy the good stuff?”
“How much oxygen do you carry?”
“Oxygen?” By now Marty looked completely baffled. “Um, let me see … We have reserves of 4,000 cubic meters in cryogenic tanks. That’s at one atmosphere, of course.”
“Sounds like a lot.”
“It is, but we’re certificated to carry eight crew and forty passengers. We have to be able to keep them alive for three weeks if we have problems with our carbon dioxide scrubbers.”
“So if you wanted to fill this cargo bay with oxygen, you could do that?”
“So many questions. I hope you’ll tell me what the hell you’re talking about, Mister Helfort.”
“Sorry, chief, I will. Just bear with me.”
Marty sighed and shook his head. “Let me think … not completely, but near enough. The only problem is that you’d have a huge-” The chief engineer stopped as realization dawned. “I see what you’re getting at,” he said. “Leave it to me. I think I need to do a few calculations.”
Shinoda came over to where Michael stood. “We’ve missed something, sir. Kalkuz. He’s no fool. Asking him about the backup protocols would have told him that Horda helped us.”
“Damn,” Michael said. “I didn’t think … and if DocSec get their hands on Kalkuz-and they will-Horda’s as good as dead.”
“Along with the rest of the crew.”
Michael nodded. He felt sick. “No need to ask what I have to do.”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“My fault. I should have thought things through before I got you to talk to Kalkuz. Leave it to me. I need to talk to Horda.”
Friday, June 25, 2404, UD
Deepspace
Horda sat and stared at the holovid screen. He looked worried; a finger tapped out his concern on the tabletop. “The Starlight is not one of your fancy warships,” he said after a while. “You do know that?”
“Of course I do,” Michael replied; he looked equally troubled. “All I ask is that you get the best you can out of your ship.”
“I’ll do my best, but will it be enough? I don’t believe in committing suicide.”
“I don’t either, but we have to try. There’s too much at stake.”
“So you keep telling me,” Horda muttered, scowling, “even though you won’t tell me exactly why you have to get back to Commitment in such a hurry.”
Michael bit his lip in frustration. “Can you drop the Starlight where I want it or not?” he asked.
“What if I can’t?”
Michael stared at Horda for a long time. “If you can’t,” he said at last, “then we’re screwed and you know it, so do me a favor and answer the fucking question.”
“Okay, okay,” Horda said, putting his hands out to pacify Michael. “Keep your hair on. Now, let me see. You want me to drop this ship not just into Commitment nearspace but here-” He stabbed a finger out at the screen. “-only 300 or so kilometers above the planet’s surface. Right?”
“Right.”
“And you want me to do that after a 33-light-year pinchspace jump.” Horda shook his head. “The last time you pulled this stunt, you said you dropped your ships 8,000 kilometers out, not 300. And you had the benefit of military-grade AIs. The Starlight’s were built before you were even born, and even then they weren’t state of the art. Oh, yes, and the Hammers weren’t expecting visitors. They are this time.”
“Listen,” Michael said taking a deep breath to keep a lid on his temper. “I appreciate the positive spin you’re putting on things, but can you answer the damn question? Can you put us on the drop datum, yes or no?”
“You’re lucky because I’ve been captain of this ship for twenty-two years, and here-” Horda brought a new screen up on the holovid. “-are the results of every drop I’ve done in the last five years.”
“Holy shit!” Michael hissed after a moment’s study. “That’s very, very impressive.”
Horda nodded. “Yes, it is,” he said looking very pleased with himself. “Better than any of your fancy mil-spec AIs can do, and you know why?”
“Why?”
“You space fleet guys don’t spend more than a couple of years in a ship. Me? I’ve spent years talking to the AIs that run this ship. Oh, I know they’re not people, but they might as well be. When I first took command of the Starlight, the navigation AI had trouble dropping us into the right system. But we worked on it together, and there are the results.”
“I’ll be damned.”
“From what I’ve heard, I think you already are.”
“Thanks. So you’re saying you can do it?”
“As long as you accept that there’s no margin for error, none at all, and that we’ll all be dead if we miss the drop datum, then yes.”
“Thank you.”
“You remember I said that I’d miss the Starlight, that she was our home?”
“I do.”
“It’s not the ship I’ll miss,” Horda said, his voice soft and his eyes glittering with tears. “It’s just a whole lot of metal and plasfiber. No, it’s those damned AIs …” His voice choked up, and he stopped. “They’re like people to me, you know?” he whispered. “No, not people … my friends.”
“What can I say?”
“Nothing.” Horda took a deep breath. “I’ll do what I have to. You said you wanted to talk about Kalkuz?”
“I did. Look, there’s no easy way to say this, but the man knows too much. I’m going to have to-”
“Stop!” Horda barked. “I don’t want to know. He’s your problem. You fix it. Now go.”
Michael left, too wracked with guilt to say another word.
“On your feet, Mister Kalkuz,” Michael said.
The man looked up. He must have sensed something was wrong. His hands shook. His face was a pasty gray. Sweat beaded on his upper lip. “Why? I’ve told you everything, I swear.”
“Just do it.”