“All overrides default here, correct?” Klauskin asked.
“It wouldn’t be much use as an emergency bridge if they didn’t,” Biurk said. “Oh, sorry, Admiral. I didn’t mean to sound sarcastic.”
“You really ought to watch your mouth, son,” Klauskin said. From his pocket, he pulled a hold-out blaster.
Biurk’s eyes widened as if he thought the admiral’s gesture were a not-too-funny joke about disciplinary measures.
Klauskin shot him in the chest.
Biurk went down on his back, the impact making the floor panels ring. Smoke curled up from the scorched patch over his breastbone, and a little blood oozed from the burned flesh.
He tried to speak, to reach for his comlink, but Klauskin sadly shook his head and fired two more times.
There. One grim task out of the way.
Using the codes he’d just heard Biurk use to open and activate the auxiliary bridge, Klauskin ensured that the doors could not be opened again.
Then he moved to the communications board. He activated a line to the main bridge and said, “Lieutenant Siro. I’m cutting all external communications. From this point on, any communications you make will actually be going to the sim program. If you get an override message from the fleet, it will be accompanied by a red blink that indicates I’m the real thing. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
Klauskin punched in controls that would disable all communications antennas aboard the frigate-all but one, which he reserved for use of his own comm board.
He moved to the main computer and inserted a data card into its slot. The computer accepted the program and activated it.
All over the ship, every internal door or hatch controlled by a servo slid and locked open. Klauskin imagined the officers on the bridge staring in puzzlement at the doors as intership communications began buzzing with questions.
The door into this bridge remained resolutely shut, of course. It wouldn’t do for Klauskin to die with the others, though even if he did, his primary mission would still be successful.
The main computer display came up with a text message indicating that all safety protocols concerning exterior hatches had been overridden. Klauskin nodded. All he had to do now was stand by, though he did have ten seconds in which he could abort this sequence
He didn’t. And when the tenth second counted down, warning lights and chime alarms began to fill the air.
Klauskin switched the main display from view to view. First was the interior of the frigate’s small starfighter bay, where the force field holding the atmosphere had just dissipated. Atmosphere rushed out through the great gaping hole through which starfighters normally launched or landed, and some of the starfighters in the bay rocked slightly. A lone mechanic standing too close to the main opening stumbled, forced along by the air currents fleeing into space, and was swept into the void. Her arms flailed as she drifted out toward explosive decompression and death.
The next view showed personnel in the ship’s mess. They stood, looking around, their eyes wild, as they began gulping for air. Some began running for emergency control panels and wall comm boards. Others turned around and around, looking for the source of their trouble.
All over the frigate, it was the same. Every exterior hatch or portal was open and was pouring precious atmosphere into a vacuum that would drink until it was all gone. Only the auxiliary bridge was safe, and Klauskin could feel cool air blowing onto his neck from an overhead venttie switched the display to look at the bridge. The holocam view from the bridge was dominated by the face of the human communications officer. He was so close to the holocam that his features were distorted. To either side of him, other bridge officers stood, shouting, clutching their throats.
This wouldn’t take long. And when it was done, he would be a hero of Commenor. Somehow the thought, so reassuring across the last several days, failed to lighten the heaviness he felt in his chest.
He returned to the comm board and punched in a frequency, then activated it. “Klauskin to K’roylan, please respond.”
A moment later the face of a black-and-tan Bothan appeared on the display. “K’roylan here.”
“The eye is closed, and Shamunaar is ready for a prize crew. She’ll be repressurized by the time you get here.”
K’roylan smiled. “And exactly on time, Admiral. I admire your punctuality.” Then his expression became one of concern. “Are you all right?”
“Yes, of course. Why?”
“You seem to be … crying.”
Klauskin reached up. His fingers found tears on his cheeks. That startled him, but it would not do for this Bothan to see him discomfited. “Ah, yes. A result of the atmospheric pressure changes aboard.”