Fire with Fire(41)

Digger made a shuddering hnnnhhhh sound, back arching—but he was not unconscious. Caine felt for the selector switch, snapped it to max, laid the baton across Digger’s twitching cheek, closed his eyes and held down the button.

Digger made two quick gagging sounds and then was silent, his body quaking spasmodically. Caine cast the baton aside, stowed the Thermos, and pulled out the multitool, peripherally noting that Digger was still alive. And will hopefully live to hate my guts.

Caine backtracked down the corridor, stopped at a ceiling-to-floor panel outlined in yellow-and-black caution striping, located the release bolts.

“Five minutes to zero-gee. Mr. Riordan is to report his whereabouts immediately by any means possible.” The intercom went silent, but Caine heard Captain Burnham’s follow-on orders over the palmtop: “Damn it, where is he? Harris, I say three times, breach the privacy protocol and locate Mr. Riordan’s transponder. This has gone far enough.”

“Breaching privacy protocol on your order, sir.”

Caine undid the last bolt: the panel swung down.

And revealed a white door. Caine swallowed, so loud he could hear it. A cryopod—or, more accurately, a lifepod: the newest means of abandoning ship in a hurry, and in deep space. Once inside, you surrendered control. The machine’s expert system would make all the decisions. Would do away with his clothes, his consciousness, and maybe his life, with cool impersonal efficiency.

He knelt down before the white door and began—inexpertly, and with the aid of a “how-to” program—to override the control protocols. And if I’m really lucky, I won’t cut the wrong wire and pre-launch the pod—and myself—into hard vacuum. As Caine started clipping wires—and dripping sweat—he heard the predictable exchange begin on the bridge:

“Captain?”

“Yes, Trilling?”

“Sir, I have a red light on portside escape pod aught-five. Systems indicate that the pod is no longer in the command loop.”

“Damn; as if we didn’t have enough problems. Run a diagnostic.”

“Sir, we can’t. The pod is entirely nonresponsive.”

“Bloody hell. Have security check it, then. Have them pull the damn thing’s plug if they must.”

Caine stared at the recessed handle in the center of the white door. You have to do it. You have to do it to yourself. And you have to do it now.

“Sir, no response from security in that sector.”

“What the—? What sector, man?”

“Section B3: portside module pylon, just near hab mod DPV 6.”

A long pause, then Burnham’s voice—firm, decided—rapping out orders: the chance events—Caine’s truancy from his suite in DPV 6, the pod’s malfunction, security’s failure to respond in that same area—were all coming together. “Security, all available personnel to section B3, portside pylon. Detain Mr. Riordan on sight. Engineering, prepare for new orders—”

Caine saw the second engineer glance up sharply at that command, then look uncertainly toward his control panel.

Time to leave. Caine pulled the handle in the center of the white door. The oval hatch opened with a pop and a sigh; the emergency klaxon shrilled at him. He made sure the transponder was in his bag, then jumped into the closet-like interior of the life pod.

From there on, everything happened with unnatural speed. The door slammed shut behind him with a breathy squeal: hermetically sealed. Straps closed down around him and pulled him tight into an acceleration harness. There was a deafening yet hoarse blast and a sudden full-body sledgehammer of five gee acceleration: the jettisoning charge was kicking the lifepod free of the Tyne.

The sound and image on the palmtop were starting to break up. One of the bridge officers—Sensor Ops, probably—called out: “Sir, secondary array indicates we have a pod away.”

“Engineering, confirm.”

“Unable to confirm, sir. It’s either away or no longer drawing power.”

That was when the pod’s real rockets kicked in: a less intense, but steady pressure on his chest pinned him down. Using the armrest controls, Caine snapped on the pod’s small external viewscreen while watching the last seconds of clear transmission from his bug aboard the Tyne’s bridge.

“Sir,”—the sensor officer, again—“we’ve located Mr. Riordan’s transponder signal—but we’re losing it.”

“Losing it?”

“Yes sir; best guess is that he’s—”

“Aboard the pod. Yes, of course. Engineering, clear your board for an emergency counterboost. Communications, hail the Commonwealth and—”