Day of the Dragonstar (19 page)

When Canter returned to his cabin on board the
Goddard.
he lay back in his bunk and smiled to himself, satisfied that he had done his part so well. With any luck, he would not even be suspected, much less caught. Besides, he thought, pretty soon old Kemp will have a lot more than a saboteur to be worrying about.

CAPTAIN FRANCIS WELSH
had been a Mission Command pilot in the IASA since the early days of lunar colonization. He had seen the face of the far side of the moon transformed by the hands of man, and at one time had played a large part in that transformation. But as he grew older, he found that the Deep-Space Division was planning to phase him out of the program, systematically replacing many of the older Mission Commanders with young, fuzzy-faced kids. Well, that was the way it always was, thought Welsh, but he didn’t let them put him out to pasture without a fight; he had, in effect, kept them from doing it by transferring to the Mining Division of Copernicus Operations. His many years of training and experience were just the ticket to get him a command on one of the big ore-processing ships. That had been more than four years back, and he’d been serving in that capacity ever since. It was all in what a guy got used to, he often thought, but what the hell. It sure beat going back down to Earth where things were as crowded and confusing as ever. “Screw those poor bastards,” Welsh often said. They didn’t know what they were missing out here.

The name of his ship was the
Andromache,
the first of its type to be outfitted with ram-impulse engines, which made it one of the fastest industrial-class ships in the IASA. It was a big ship, almost two hundred meters long, mostly superstructure and modular ore-holds. Those twenty ore-holds were actually miniature landing modules which could be detached from the main body of the ship and guided down to the lunar surface to be unloaded. Aft of the ore-holds were the crew quarters, the launch bays for the Snipes, and the Command Module. All the way at the rear lay the Lukodanyov engines which had revolutionized Deep-Space Operations and made asteroid mining a feasible, profitable endeavor. Captain Welsh loved his ship, even though it wasn’t much to look at and had none of the media-glamour attributed to the interplanetary exploration ships.

At the moment, he had the
Andromache
in a halo orbit above Ramadas Khan, the TWC lunar colony. Having recently transhipped ore and refueled at Copernicus Base, Captain Welsh was finishing up a routine delivery to the logistically helpless Third World colony. Since the Black and Arab Confederation had no ships capable of Deep-Space Operations, they had arranged through a series of treaties and agreements to be supplied by the IASA. Captain Welsh often wondered how those agreements must have stuck in the craws of TWC leaders, since the situation was a total reversal of the petroleum cartel dictating policy to the rest of the world during the Iast three decades of the previous century. Served the bastards right, thought Welsh. If they hadn’t been such sons-of-bitches about the energy-problems of the past, maybe they wouldn’t be getting screwed so badly by the IASA now. He wasn’t sure how much the TWC paid for shipment and delivery of supplies, but he was positive that they were paying up the hallowed ying-yang.

Checking his control panel, he saw that the on-board screen indicated that there was only one more ore-hold module remaining to be re-docked into the
Andromache.
Then it would be time to head out to the Belt again for another two-month stint. His crew, three officers and sixteen miners, were already on board, preparing for the three-week trip to the asteroids.

Flipping on his radio, Welsh called the TWC receiving dock. “Ramadas, this is
Andromache . . .
What’s the hold-up on that last module? Any trouble?”

There was a pause before his phones crackled slightly and an accented voice replied. “No problems, Captain Welsh. The last of the ore has just been dumped. Launch of Module-18 is scheduled in ten minutes. Please standby . . .”

“Ten minutes? What the hell’s the delay for?”

“Sorry, Captain, but we have a slight malfunction. One of the launch bay doors is sticking. We have a crew working on it, and are promised that the problem will be corrected momentarily. Please stand by . . . Ramadas out.”

Welsh turned to his flight assistant, Lieutenant Knapp, a large, bearded, burly character who looked as though he would be more at home behind the helm of a New England whale. “Can you believe those clowns? They’re always screwing up something, aren’t they?”

Knapp laughed, but said nothing. Their conversations about the TWC were a familiar routine. Welsh hated them; it was as simple as that.

“. . . they did a lot better,” Welsh was saying, “when all they had to worry about were their camels and their spears . . . They got no business out here in space when the people in their own countries are still eating each other . . .”

“C’mon, Captain, it’s not as bad as all that,” said Lieutenant Knapp.

“No, I guess you’re right. I mean, what’s a little famine and pestilence? It makes life more interesting when you’re watching it from within the palace walls.”

Knapp checked his timepiece. “I think we’d better check in with them again. We’ve got to go through check-out with Copernicus before lunch. Linkowski gets pissed when we throw off his schedule . . .”

Welsh shook his head in mock disgust. “Yeah, I’d better find out what the hell’s going on.” He flipped en the radio and called Ramadas Khan.

“We are very sorry for the delay, Captain Welsh,” said the accented voice. “The problem has been corrected and we are preparing to launch. Please stand by . . .”

“Wait a minute,” said Welsh. “Just a goddamned minute! Patch me in to my Module pilot, Ramadas . . . Give me Spec- 5 Burcroff . . .”

“One moment, Captain . . .” the radiophones crackled with static, an ever-present sound which Welsh always ascribed to TWC inferior equipment.

“What’s the matter, Captain?” asked Knapp.

“Something funny’s going on,” said Welsh. “I hailed Burcroff and he’s not responding. He’s supposed to be in Command Cabin while they unload.”

“Jesus, what do you think’s up? Should I notify Copernicus?”

“No, not yet. I don’t want to do anything that will get everybody upset . . . not till we know something for sure.” Welsh hailed Ramadas again. “This is Captain Welsh on the
Andromache.
What’s going on down there?”

“I’m sorry, Captain. We just checked on your Module pilot, and found that he has taken ill . . .”

“What? What the hell is wrong with him? Let me talk to him?”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Captain. Your pilot is unconscious. We have a physician with him at this very moment. Please stand by . . .”

Welsh cut off the channel, and turned to Stuart Knapp. “This is a lot of bullshit! Call Copernicus and tell them what’s going on.”

As Knapp called Copernicus Base, Welsh’s phones crackled again.
Those slimy bastards! What now?
“Andromache, this is Ramadas . . . Spec-5 Burcroff is having some kind of seizure. We have notified Copernicus, and requested that we have one of our own pilots return Module-18 to your ship . . . Do you copy?”

“Yeah, we copy,” said Captain Welsh. “Stand by, Ramadas . . .” He turned to Knapp and spoke softly. “Did you get a confirmation on that from Copernicus?”

Knapp nodded. “Yeah, Linkowski’s blowing his frigging mind. He says to get that Module docked and get checked out. He’s got a shuttle coming in and he’s one flight-controller short today.”

“You mean I’m supposed to let one of those dumb monkeys put his hands on one of our Modules! Is he crazy?”

Knapp shrugged. “He’s already given them confirmation to ferry it up . . .”

“Goddamnit, Stu . . . I don’t like it. Something’s going on!”

“Andromache,
this is Ramadas . . . We have confirmation of launch. Stand by for rendezvous with Module-18 in minus three minutes . . .”

Welsh banged his palm against the Command console. “Those sons-of-bitches!” He flipped on the radio. “That’s affirmative, Ramadas . . . We copy here. Do you have a status report on my pilot?”

“Affirmative,
Andromache.
We’ve sent him to our infirmary. He is conscious and the physician says he will be all right. . . . Stand by . . .”

Welsh turned to Knapp. “We’re going to be a man short, it looks like. Tell Copernicus to have a shuttle ready to bring us a back-up while we’re going through check-out. Also, you’d better have Linkowski log a report with Security. I don’t like the sound of all this shit. . . .”

“Security? You sure, Captain?”

“Yeah, do it.” Welsh flipped a key and watched the schematic on his screen. The ore Module was approaching his ship on a perfect course, and he was surprised that the TWC pilot was that good. Within twenty seconds, he would be aligned with locks and be drawn in automatically by the computer-guidance.

“Module-18, ready for docking,” said an unfamiliar voice in his phones. “Do you copy,
Andromache?”

“We copy, Module-18. Auto-guide should be taking over just about now . . .” said Welsh, watching the screen, just as another thought came to him. Cutting off his mike, he turned to Knapp again. “Stu, call Rappaport, and tell him to get his ass down to the airlock for 18. Have him call me if anything looks funny . . .”

Knapp nodded and used the intercom to the crew section.

A green light flashed on his screen, indicating that the Module was locked into the superstructure. Welsh continued to watch the screen, and was surprised to see that a yellow warning bar began flashing—an indicator that the ore-holds had been opened from the inside, facing the airlock which ran along the main corridor of the ship.

“What the hell’s going on? Somebody just opened the hold on Module-18.” He radioed the Command Cabin of 18, and got no response, and he felt a fist tightening around his stomach. It was a sixth-sense feeling that something terrible was about to happen. “Stu? Any word from Rappaport?”

“No, Captain . . .”

He keyed in a channel to Copernicus quickly. “Linkowski, this is Welsh on the
Andromache . . .
We’ve got a problem up here, do you copy?”

“You’re goddamned right, you’ve got a problem, Welsh . . . You’re throwing me off schedule, and —”

“Screw your schedule! I’ve got an unauthorized airlock entry on Module-18. I want you to—”

He was interrupted by a klaxon blaring through the ship, sounding a general quarters alarm. “What the hell—? We’ve got a general quarters in here, Linkowski! Get a Security ship scrambled!”

“Captain, I’m not getting any response below decks,” said Knapp.

Welsh felt the rising jolt of panic that was surging through his heart and up the back of his neck. “Linkowski?! Did you copy that last transmission? We’ve got big trouble up here. Our little brown brothers have given us a shot in the ass!”

Welsh’s phones crackled for an instant as the Copernicus flight controller started to reply, but Welsh was not listening. The hatch to the Command Cabin had been opened behind him and he had swiveled around to see what was going on. Three men dressed in olive green jumpsuits, LS-helmets, and face-shields stood on the threshold.

They were holding weapons at their hips.

“Captain—!” Stu Knapp had started to get out of his chair when the first slugs caught him in the chest. His uniform blossomed red. He was thrown back against his console, eyes still open, but seeing nothing, ever again. Welsh started to move as the two men rushed him, the closest swinging the stock of his weapon against the side of his head.

Captain Francis Welsh didn’t even have time to see stars before blacking out.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, the three men surrounded him. Lieutenant Knapp’s body lay near the hatch. One of the intruders was sitting in his chair, his face still hidden by the faceplate of his helmet. One of the other men leaned down, sticking the weapon of his gun under Welsh’s nose.

“A thousand pardons, Captain Welsh . . . but I regret to inform you that your ship has been commandeered by the TWC.”

The words sunk into Welsh’s numbed mind slowly and for a moment he didn’t react. He looked up at the anonymous figure, trying to ignore the weapon in his face. “Why? What do you want? What’s happened to my crew?”

“Your crew is dead, Captain. We have already left lunar orbit.”

“What for? Where are we going?” Welsh shook his head, put his hand to a damp, pulpy gash on the side of his head. He couldn’t believe what was happening. The thought of his crew being killed was absurd. It couldn’t be true . . .

“It is not necessary that you know the nature of this mission. We have already reprogrammed your navigational computers, and you will not be needed in that capacity.”

“Then why don’t you kill me too, you bastards?”

The man chuckled behind his faceplate. “An engaging idea, but I have decided against it, Captain. We shall keep you alive in the event of an emergency, since your knowledge of this ship may prove helpful. . . .”

“Well, you may as well shoot me now, because I wouldn’t help you for all the shit in the world . . .”

Again the unseen chuckle. “We shall see about that.” Turning to the third man, the leader spoke again. “Take him to his cabin and keep him under guard. And get this body out of here . . .”

Welsh was pulled to his feet and escorted from the Command Cabin. He was tempted to turn and go for the man’s weapon. Go out in a blaze of glory and all that crap, he thought. But then another thought struck him. A thought that was far simpler and more logical:
screw it,
he thought, and began laughing softly to himself.