Caine had heard that much over the comm system before the carnage had spiraled out into the small ship’s passageways. As one of the last persons out of the portside passenger compartment, he moved away from the general rush toward the escape pods, since that was also the route to the bridge. Shortly afterward, a sudden increase in gunfire and screams from the bow confirmed his instincts against heading forward. Continuing aft toward the cargo bay, he hoped to find something there that might serve as a weapon.
Finding the bay access doors closed, he had presumed he was the first to enter, but as he stepped inside and hit the reseal button, he caught sight of hurried movement to his left. He dove to the right, behind a cargo-heaped plat, just before a flurry of handgun shots spattered it and the bulkhead behind him.
And so here he was, pinned down by the very terrorists he had been hoping to elude. He had no time to wonder what the terrorists were doing in the cargo bay, or why the overhead lume panels suddenly failed, leaving only the red glow of the emergency lights. Whether or not the battle for control of the shuttle continued was equally unknown. But, at the moment, it was also wholly extraneous: he was in a cavernous hold, alone and unarmed, facing two very armed and dangerous enemies.
Scanning, he saw nothing but the freight and tools common to a cargo bay. Wait: common tools. Caine scuttled over to a power tool bench-box, found a pneumatic wrench. It was typically used for unbolting containers, or affixing modular cargoes to plats like the one he was sheltering behind. But with a slightly undersized bolt snugged into its socket—
Caine inserted an undersized bolt, adjusted the wrench’s torque and pressure settings to maximum, and popped up. Before the two terrorists could react, he snapped the trigger of the wrench sharply: it emitted a curt blast and sent the puny bolt caroming off boxes well to the left of the terrorists. However, the bolt made a sound passably akin to a ricochet.
Caine ducked down a moment before his enemies’ return fire sent two rounds thumping into his cover. Well, since they’re not charging at me yet, they at least think it possible that I have a real gun. And until they decide to test that possibility, I can look around.
Unfortunately, there wasn’t much to see, and almost none of it was useful. There were numerous spools of reinforced cargo netting on the floor and affixed to the bulkheads, most of it made of variable-elastic polymers: tough as nails yet lots of give. There was also a liberal scattering of containers, boxes, packing materials, lashings, c-clamps, carabineer clips, spare parts, and just plain rubbish. But Caine detected one notable detail: a circuitry-access panel was hanging askew at the near side of the door. The terrorists had obviously cracked it open to bypass the lock-outs that restricted access to the doors into and out of the cargo bay—including the bay doors themselves. That was probably why they had come down here: their job was to secure key cargos and get local control over the bay doors for off-loading.
Studying the locations of the nearby containers and boxes more carefully, Caine also realized that he had a mostly covered route back to that panel. There was a single, exposed gap, but it was only half a meter wide. The two terrorists wouldn’t be able to react fast enough to hit him if he rolled, low and fast, across that open space. And once at the door’s control keypad, Caine could open the main entry back into the shuttle, open the bay doors on his way out, and reseal the entry behind him. Heh. Let’s see how those two bastards like getting sucked out into hard vacuum . . .
Caine flinched as the main entry opened. A young boy—no more than nine—ran in, shouting as he did, “Hello? Anyone? We need help! We’ve almost taken back the bridge but we—”
“Get down!” shouted Caine at the same moment that one of the pirates’ guns spat.
The boy fell forward sharply, as if someone had swung a bat into his kneecaps. He shouted in pain, then terror as dark blood began leaking out of a through-and-through wound in his left thigh. “Help me!” he screamed in Caine’s general direction. A moment later, the two terrorists rose up slightly, training their guns carefully on the approaches to the boy.
Caine felt his molars grind together: he could sneak over to the controls using the boxes as cover, trigger the bay doors, and then help retake the shuttle. But that would kill the boy, too. Or he could run to help the boy and get shot to pieces.
Or maybe there was a third option—
Caine quickly scanned the lashings on the plat in front of him and snatched off the biggest carabineer clip he could find. “I’m coming!” he shouted at the boy, tossed up a piece of trash—and was then moving across the open gap toward the control panel even as two shots barked at the fluttering piece of paper he had lofted.