Prison Ship (10 page)

The vastness of the scene made Steiner feel small and ineffective for the task ahead. He would have to face down all the engineers at once, including their leader, an accomplished assassin. Then it occurred to him. What if they had planted some hidden defense by which to alert them of an intruder’s presence? What if they already knew he was coming? What if they were luring him into a trap?

Steiner stopped his ascent a few feet under the maw of the black tunnel into which the ladder led.
Maybe I should go back now.

Just as he was about to lower himself, he realized that he couldn’t retreat either. It would be a sign of his weakness, an act of cowardice, which would eventually lead to his death anyway. He had to go on.

He closed his eyes, focused his thoughts on Mary, imagining her beckoning him to join her in eternal bliss. If this was his time to die, he would embrace it.

He continued climbing the ladder, the darkness of the tunnel swallowing him up. He slowed, occasionally reaching blindly for the hatch. His labored breathing resounded off the narrow walls of the passageway, accented by his boots making contact with each rung. The darkness pressed in about him, crushing his resolve. His knees quivered. The formless demons in his mind played in the blackness surrounding him.

After a few minutes, he felt a handle above him. He leaned back against the sides of the tube, resting himself, gathering his nerves. His hand unsheathed his AT-7 from its holster. The utmost speed would be required. He had to open the hatch and have his gun trained on them before they could react.

He strained his ears for any noise from the other side, but it was useless. The seal was airtight. The room above must be an air lock. Since a decompression indicator wasn’t lit up, it must be safe to open.

When he tugged on the handle, it squeaked in protest, echoing down the blackened hole beneath him. Steiner froze for an instant, then without a second thought about it, he jerked the metal arm into the release position. An explosive, high-pitched hiss of air escaped from the cracked seal. He flung the hatch aside and propelled himself up through the entry with his gun held out.

The sight shocked him. Five of the seven engineers were seated in a circle, singing. Their voices trailed off as each of them turned to stare at Steiner.

Daniels stood up, running a hand through his thinning gray hair. “Captain? Is everything all right?”

Steiner couldn’t answer. He was still trying to comprehend what he was seeing.

“Would you care to join us for our worship service?” Daniels asked.

Steiner held the older man’s gaze for a few heartbeats. He couldn’t detect any visible signs of deceit. Could this actually be what he claimed it was—a worship service?

He surveyed the surroundings just to see if there was anything out of the ordinary. Just as he suspected, it was an air lock, probably used for making repairs to the outside hull. A storage cabinet of space suits occupied the side wall, near the exterior hatch. No weapons were in view.

An old, frayed book lay at Daniels’s feet. It looked like a Bible. Mary had owned one once.

“Captain?” Daniels asked.

Steiner lowered his AT-7 slowly. “Why didn’t you ask me before you had this gathering?”

Daniels shrugged. “I didn’t think it would matter.”

“It does.”

“I’m sorry, sir. I’ll accept full responsibility for my error. Do you wish us to stop?”

Steiner’s suspicions continued to eat away at him. What if this was all an elaborate front to trick him? He looked at the book at Daniels’s feet.

“Is that a Bible?”

Daniels retrieved the old volume from the ground and showed him the front cover. It was.

A tall, lanky, white man climbed to his feet. “Would you care to sing some hymns with us?”

“Who are you?”

“Everyone calls me ‘Spider,’ because of my long arms and legs.”

“He and J.R. are my chief assistants,” Daniels added, then indicated a young black man seated on the other side of the circle.

J.R. nodded in greeting.

“Thank you for the invitation, but I must decline,” Steiner replied. “Carry on without me.”

The group resumed singing as Steiner lowered himself down the ladder and closed the hatch behind him. He knew he probably had nothing to fear from the engineers and was thankful for it.

AT the first beep of his portable comlink, Steiner awoke from his nap. Before it could repeat, he jolted upright in his bed, raising the device to his mouth. “Steiner here.”

“This is Security Chief Richards. We have a disturbance in the bar that requires your immediate presence.”

Steiner stood up, stretching his muscles back to life. What could have happened that his fully capable security team wasn’t able to handle? A cascade of chills ran through his body as he considered the possibilities.

“I’m on my way,” he said into the mouthpiece of the comlink, switched it off, and reattached it to his belt.

When he arrived at the bar, he found Richards and both of his colleagues, Hulsey and Eddie, holding back a crowd of convicts from the entrance.

“What’s the situation?” Steiner asked the chief.

“Four men forced their way inside and refuse to leave.”

“Have you tried to remove them yet?”

“We couldn’t,” Richards answered, holding up his stun gun. “We’re outmatched.”

A lump built in Steiner’s throat. The men inside must be armed with real weapons.

“We evacuated all the bystanders,” Richards added. “We weren’t able to get Bricket out, though. They wanted him to serve more drinks until you showed up.”

The last words echoed in Steiner’s mind. He had known all along that sooner or later someone would get up enough courage to try to cash in on Jamison’s bounty.

“What are you planning on doing?” Richards asked.

That seemed to be the question on everyone’s mind, judging from the stares of the crowd. Perhaps this was the test they had all been waiting for? Could Steiner defend his command?

He inched up to the doorway to survey the interior of the establishment. Someone had reduced the lighting so that shadows draped everything below the tabletops. Two of the ship’s gunners stood at the counter, drinking and laughing. The taller one was a hot-tempered fuse nicknamed Torch. Steiner couldn’t remember the name of chubby, bald man next to him. An angry scowl bent Bricket’s scarred face, probably because he had lost his paying crowd. The other two men must be hiding somewhere inside.

With a deep breath, Steiner unsheathed the AT-7 from its holster. During his academy days, he had earned an award for marksmanship with this kind of weapon. Those skills would be put to the test.

He stepped inside, scanning the inside walls near the entry with his pistol muzzle. Nothing. Cautiously, he threaded a path through the tables, searching for the faintest of movements in the pits of darkness beneath them.

His gaze locked onto the counter. Since it stretched across the entire back length of the establishment, it offered the best mobility. He guessed that was where the other two assassins were lying in wait.

His focus shifted to the decorative bottles arranged on the shelves lining the rear wall. An idea flashed into his mind.

“So,” Torch shouted, “the mighty captain himself has come to force us to leave.” He turned to his companion. “Will he succeed, I wonder?”

A sinister grin split the bald man’s face as he shook his head back and forth.

Torch lifted his half-filled mug. “A toast to his death.”

The chubby hands of the other brought a glass up also. Both men drank, then belched in unison.

Steiner wanted to shoot the two of them down just to get it over with, but a display of cowardice like that might cause the rest of the crew’s respect to decline further. If that happened, he might lose his command—along with his life.

“You have violated the bar-usage policy,” he shouted, halting five meters from the gunners. “You will both report to the brig immediately.”

They roared in laughter.

“And if we don’t, Captain?” Torch demanded. “What are you going to do about it?”

Steiner met Bricket’s gaze for a split second. The bartender’s eyes shifted to the left in an unnatural fashion.

It was a hint. The two assassins must be hiding exactly where Steiner had expected, behind the counter to the left.

“You’d better leave now, Bricket,” he said, motioning toward the storeroom.

“We haven’t finished our party yet,” Torch cut in. “He stays.”

Steiner’s muscles tightened in anticipation. “You’re finished now.”

Torch’s hand slapped the counter.

That had to be a signal to the other two.

Steiner drew his AT-7 and fired at the supports under the shelves that lined the rear wall. The structure collapsed, raining bottles down on the two figures that bolted upward. The assassins covered their heads, trying to protect themselves from the descending wave of glass and liquors. A wooden piece from the shelves sparked from Steiner’s blasts. Flames burst out around the two men, exploding upward, consuming the falling liquids in flight.

“No,” Bricket cried as he dropped to the floor.

The heat from the sudden eruption forced Steiner to shield his face. He stumbled back in surprise. Never had he expected such a reaction from low-alcoholic substances, unless—

One of the burning assassins aimed a gun. A bolt from Steiner’s AT-7 ripped through the man’s chest before he could open fire. The lifeless body sank into a flaming grave.

Before Steiner had a chance to seek out the other assassin, he saw something being swung at him from a corner of his vision. He ducked, but not in time to avoid being clipped in the shoulder by a chair. The force of the blow threw him to the floor. When he collided with the cold unyielding surface, he lost hold of his weapon.

He rolled back to his feet in time to see Torch reaching for the fallen pistol. With a sweep of Steiner’s leg, the weapon skidded away under the tables.

Muttering a curse, Torch picked up another chair. This time, Steiner grabbed one of his own and deflected a second swing. With a cry of rage, Steiner charged at his opponent, using the legs of his chair to pin the man against the edge of the counter.

Bright beams tore through the air inches from Steiner’s face. He instinctively flung himself backward to the ground. Torch dropped a few feet away, with smoking puncture wounds through his head and upper shoulders.

Steiner dove under the protective darkness of the tables, scrambling deeper into their midst, listening as the bald man scolded the second gunman for killing Torch.

A glance over at one of the tables helped him recognize the other man as James Grant, the best marksman on the firing range. Burns had blistered his face and arms, and dark singes ran up his clothes. His body shook with apparent rage, which might explain why he hadn’t hit Steiner on the first try. With a maddened cry, Grant initiated another assault, randomly cutting through the tables in search of his prey.

Steiner couldn’t possibly stand against him without his pistol. He strained his eyes for any sign of the AT-7 in his blackened world below. A glint of metal caught his attention a meter from the counter’s midsection. Now to get it—

One of his overhead shelters shook violently. Steiner rolled to the side as the shattered table collapsed to the floor. The smoldering wood sizzled from the intense heat of the energy-bolt strikes. He flattened himself as another table crumbled several meters to his left.

“Show yourself, Captain,” Grant screamed, his voice cracking with strain.

As quietly as he could, Steiner crawled toward his weapon. Just a few more seconds—

“He’s over there.” The shout came from the far right. Steiner glanced over to see the bald man pointing directly at him.

Steiner lunged forward with all his strength just as the table above him was slashed apart. Brilliant streaks lanced over him as he scrambled forward, crouched low. He dove under the overhang of the wooden counter. On the other side of the structure, he could hear Grant cursing at his defensive tactic.

Steiner maneuvered to the left, picking his way between the barstools until he was close enough to reach his weapon. His fingers closed around its handle, giving him renewed hope.

A loud eruption brought him about. Two meters away, a large hole had been blasted out of the lower part of the counter. Wooden splinters exploded out as another energy bolt burst through the structure, shattering the legs of a barstool in its path.

Steiner dashed along the overhang, the destructive path following on his heels.

When he reached the wall at the far end of the room, he spun around and watched the oncoming bolts spraying through the wood, heading toward him.

He closed his eyes and listened to Grant’s approach, the scuffle of his boots. He rose from his hiding place, already aiming at his target.

Grant’s eyes widened as he adjusted the angle of his gun muzzle. Two of Steiner’s bolts tore through the man’s torso before he could fire. Grant sprawled back against the floor, where he lay motionless, blood oozing from his body.

All of Steiner’s strength fled at once, replaced by a weakened state of relief. Only one of the four assassins remained.