13 Degrees of Separation (96 page)

When he found out his sister had gone behind his back and
paid the tax, cleaning out his bank account he had been livid. “Why?” he
snarled.

“Because Bob, we've got to think of the future!”

“Future?? I was paid up! I did my bit!”

“Not just you! For once in your life will you think of
someone other than yourself!”

He scowled. “I do!”

“I mean other than me! Where would you be without this
colony? Adrift in space in that tin can of yours?”

“Yeah, now since you robbed me! I've got no choice!”

“Bob, we've got to have it. The system needs to get back on
its feet, back to more than hand to mouth. We need to get the coasters like you
off their asses and keep them producing! It's the only way to survive!”

“Sure, sit on your ass while I go out and risk my neck!
Thanks a lot!” he snarled. “Now I gotta go get more!” he stomped off to get his
suit. He had just enough credit in his account to pay for his air for a week.
That wouldn't do.

“You're welcome!” Her shrill voice cut through his angst
again.

“I never asked for your help! You or anyone else! Just
leave me the hell alone!” he snarled, putting his boots on and then sealing
them. Lucinda was his only family, her, and her kids now that his little
brother was dead. He should be able to trust his kin, after all, who else could
he trust here? Everyone would sell their own soul for a crust of bread, let
alone a... he shook his head angrily. You should be able to count on kin. He
felt betrayed. He stormed off, then turned back. She met him at her hatch door
with his helmet. He took it with a jerk and left without another word.

“Come back in one piece Bob!” she called as he rounded a
corner. “You ornery old bastard!” she added as he slowed. That got a snarl as
he missed a step. He paused for a moment and then he kept going.

His sister was the only one to call him Bob. Barely anyone knew
it was his birth name, most called him Miner Forty niner after his tug. Or
Forty niner for short. It was ironic that he was turning forty nine this year,
last week. His sister had said something in the bar and everyone had had a go
at slapping his back. Of course none of the cheap bastards had offered to buy
him a round. Typical. Not that'd he'd do it for them either.

“She's all set. Fully fueled and her atmo is stocked,” the
Veraxin chief said, climbing into the cockpit with him. The alien pointed to his
food. “I restocked your food, it expired a week ago. No charge. Oh, and your
sister sent along some new e-books for you to read.”

“Thanks,” the miner said gruffly.

“Just come back safe. With rocks. Lots of rocks. Carbon
Chloride's if you can arrange it. A nice ice one if you can find one would be
perfect.”

“I'll see what I can do,” the miner muttered as the Veraxin
climbed out and shut the hatch. He dogged it from the outside and then climbed
down.

...*...*...*...*...

A week later he bypassed a pebble asteroid. He hated the
damn thing, it was such a waste. No one could use it, you couldn't tow or push
the damn thing, it would fall apart if you tried. He'd heard a few people had
tried, even going so far as to make a pusher plate to move the rock... and of
course once it was underway you couldn't maneuver it. That had turned into a
disaster. Miners avoided the damn things. False positives, that's what they
were. False hope, not worth the time or effort to screw around with.

His long range sensors were crap, he had lidar, but it
kicked something wicked so most of the time he left his sensors on passive. It
sucked, not being able to see past your nose most of the time, but one of his
ancestors had come up with a neat astrography program that used the cameras. The
software picked apart still images from each of the cameras, and then
triangulated where a rock was and put it on the map.

That with the map he and others had built up of the system,
plus his innate navigational talents got him to one of his claims. Or normally
did, as long as not to many markers were off course. He frowned, tapping at the
passive sensor feed. There were two readings that shouldn't be there.

He tapped at the flat screen but the two readings
stubbornly remained. He frowned, running a back course. It didn't make sense,
they were traveling together. They could have been a rock that recently split
in half, but that didn't seem likely.

En route with a ferrous asteroid, he discovered a pair of
battered Horath Corvettes trying to sneak through the system. He went to call
in a warning and heard some fool nattering on about this and that. He realized
immediately that the pirates had caught the chatter signals, talk for the new
government and were trying to localize the nearest base to no doubt raid.

“Serves em right,” he snarled. He computed the course and
then snarled again. He pounded a hand on this arm rest, then ran a hand through
his stubble of hair. His free hand clawed at the rigger tape covering the arm
rest.

He realized they were planning to attack the station where
his friends and family are on. Barry, Barbara, Neo, Ryan, Simone. “Damn,” he
muttered, thinking hard and fast.

...*...*...*...*...

Captain Smith grinned a feral grin of anticipation... soon
they would be getting their hands on helpless prey. They would pay them back
for everything that went wrong in Antigua. The humiliation, the loss. The loss
of their mission, loss of Admiral Cartwright... the probable doom of him and
his crew. They'd have enough fuel and life support to get them to another
system. He rubbed his hands in glee over the potential spoils. He had to have
them, they needed them to get to the next system. And quite frankly, he really
didn't care who died on the way. They were pirates after all, it was what they
did. Might made right. Or at least it soon would soon do. That was how his
universe worked anyway.

He turned fighting a snarl as he saw the scorch marks on
the bulkhead. Despite all the scrubbing he had the crew do on their off time,
it stubbornly stayed put. He'd exhausted most of their brushes on the thing.
Even their toothbrushes hadn't worked.

His ship was limping along, Apollo class 901, her sister
ship wasn't much better off. They'd make up for it though, just as soon as they
had prey in their sights. Even now his crew were localizing the signals.

He turned his attention to the past. He frowned, sitting in
his chair. Antigua... he shook that off. He didn't want to face it, so he tuned
it out. Traing.

They'd kept running after Triang, the captains had thought the
devil ship would have followed them. The big bastard hadn't, or at least hadn't
by the time they'd jumped. Instead of heading south to Briev 4 and dubious
safety in the arms of the red queen, they had headed to the nearest jump point,
Senka. The problem was, now they were desperate for fuel and supplies. The
captains had been forced to reduce crew expendables twice. The air was thin and
a lot of people were suffering headaches. They were down to quarter rations and
he knew he looked like shit. Felt like shit too. He hoped the coming battle
would go over easy, a cake walk as some said. He wasn't sure his people could
put up much of a fight if the natives dug in. He didn't have many people to
lose either. His crew... he frowned.

The crew didn't know what the captains planned, the two
officers had spent long hours arguing over a scrambled frequency in their
quarters. Scuttlebutt said they were going to double back, head to Triang, then
south to Briev 4 and either get sanctuary there or refuel and move on.

Another source said the ships were looking for one of the
intel ships wandering the jump lines in the sector. That was a long shot, if it
was even true.

There were dark rumors of sacrificing some of the lower
ranked crew in order to get to where they needed to go. Already the CF-901 had
fed two of her draftees to the ship's recyclers. One alive, or so the rumors
said. She was short handed, down to thirteen people.

The captains were aware of the trap they were in. Heading
back to empire space was the goal, but how to go about it was how they
differed. In order to get there they would either have to get enough materials
to jump the long chain of dead systems from Senka to Beta 95A3 and the picket
stationed there at the Nuevo Madrid jump point... most likely dying somewhere
along the way, or head south as the crew assumed.

For now though, their long range goal was superseded by the
immediate goal of survival.

...*...*...*...*...

Miner forty niner used the one weapon he had, his tug and
his brain. He used rocks as cover to get to his starting point. If this was
going to work, he'd have to shoot carefully, he'd only have one shot. Already
he was in the red zone on fuel and atmo, if he had to maneuver beyond what was
needed to get back to the base he was screwed. Sure the tug might get there on
a ballistic course, but he'd be a popsicle when it arrived.

But, and there always was a but, but, if he didn't do this
there would be no home to return to. A perfect catch 22, damned if he did,
double damned if he didn't.

He pushed a two ton rock to hit a bank shot into a pebble
asteroid that was on course with the intruders. The Corvettes were keeping the
pebble on their flank, it was drifting in an orbit that would cross the base's
orbit within two days. Apparently they wanted to use the rock as cover, letting
them get in close so the base couldn't be evacuated.

He timed it so the shot would hit the pebble asteroid from
behind, cloaked by the drifting belt, the cloud of dust, and the star four AU
beyond. The collision shattered the rock, spraying the ships with the gravel
like a shotgun, overloading their shields but leaving them alive.

“Yeah! Now that's what I'm talking about!” The miner said,
clenching his fist and teeth in celebration. He did a fist pump then patted the
old girl, miming pulling an air horn cord.

“Every action has an equal and opposite reaction. And a
body tends to remain in motion unless acted upon by an outside force... Thanks
Newton,” the miner said, grinning. He rubbed at his grizzled chin and then did
an assessment.

One Corvette was damaged, adrift but salvageable with some
effort. A lot of effort he thought with satisfaction, studying her
spectrographic readings. She was leaking heavily. The other ship however was
still functional. It's RCS kicked, she was trying to come around. He could see
it was still alive, though venting atmosphere. The other ship had partially
shielded it from the shot gun blast.

He cursed as he powered up. It maneuvered to shoot at him.

“Oh this is good,” he snarled. He glanced at his fuel
gauges. He didn't have enough to get home. One problem at a time he thought.

This was what it was about, he realized. He dodged behind a
rock, keeping to the stern of the craft, forcing her to maneuver. She was
inside him, but he could change direction, forcing the ship to expend more fuel
to maneuver.

He remembered a movie his sister had shown him. She'd said
it had come from Earth. It was an ocean thing, a documentary of a predator,
some sort of big fish with teeth that liked to eat selkies.

No, not selkies, seals! Yes, he remembered now. Seals. The
giant fish would rush up from the deeps to bite them, tearing them apart,
sometimes leaping out of the water to do it. The fish were faster than the
seals, running was useless. And the only way for the seals to survive a failed
ambush was to stay on the predator, wear it out, dive and twist, keep moving,
stick near its tail.

Which was what he was doing. But he knew even his luck
would run out eventually.

And what was he doing it for? The people here? They could
care less, all they wanted him for was for air and water. His sister. Barbara.
Barbara the barbarian. The only thing he had to live for, his entire universe.
What would he do if she died? If he backed off, slunk away and let the bastards
get to her?

He lived for her. No, he couldn't allow it... but... Could
he die for her? Would he?

Realizing no one would be there to help the station and his
chances of survival were nil, he recorded a last gruff message to his family
and ejected it in a beacon before setting course to ram the second ship. “Don't
forget me,” he muttered, punching the drive's engine past the red line one
final time. He closed his eyes, relaxed, finally at peace.  “I love you sis,”
he whispered and then licked his lips, ready for the inevitable.

...*...*...*...*...

Realization on Corvette CF-901 came too late, they were low
on fuel and too close to maneuver. Their weapons were useless, the one missile
they had left was pointed in the wrong direction. “What is he doing?!” the exec
demanded, voice going shrill as he started to stand. The tug was coming faster,
on a direct course. “He's got nowhere to go!”

“He's on a collision course!” the helmsman said, voice
rising in panic.

“He's picking his death. Better to die with your enemy!
Helm! All over, get us out of here!” the Captain snarled, clutching at an oh
shit bar for dear life.

“Too late!” the helmsman said just as he tried to get away
anyway. Instinctively his hands went up to ward the threat away.