Rock Killer (28 page)

“Yes, ma’am.”

Just in case
, Takashara told herself. The rumors of the
Rock Skipper
’s demise may have been exaggerated.

***

Alex watched the miners glue pipe together and arc welding supports on the “outside” wall of the water tank. He tried to remember his chemistry: did hardening glue use oxygen? Everyone had removed their pressure suit helmets but Alex required them to wear the suit and carry the helmet–just in case. It was God-awful uncomfortable. As the new supports weren’t in place yet, the asteroid still wasn’t spinning and working in free fall made every simple task that much harder. The miners had no problem with it but everyone else found themselves grabbing anything they could to stay in one place. Plus, as usual, Alex’s stomach was strongly protesting the lack of acceleration.

Taylor was in a corner of the life support section with a woman in an armored security pressure suit. Alex recognized her as Taylor’s companion on the trip to the belt. The women were talking softly among themselves with their hands resting lightly on each other’s upper arms in a proto-hug. Alex looked away as they embraced briefly and separated. Taylor moved toward Alex. She showed him a pressure valve. “We’ll install this at the end of the H-2 pipe. When the hydrogen gets enough pressure in the pipe, just under the interior air pressure, it’ll vent it to space. The valve will keep any water from being sucked out.”

“Good,” Alex said. “Any problems?”

Taylor took a breath. “Not really. I cannibalized some platinum from the damaged Masuka drives for the electrodes and got some sulfuric acid from the assayer. I used all she had. I hope it’s enough.”

“Enough?” Alex asked. “For what?”

“To aid ionization of the water–helps the electrolysis process.”

“Wouldn’t salt work?” Alex suggested. “SRI has taught me a little chemistry. Table salt is a strong electrolyte and dissociates completely in water. The galley’s probably got kilos.”

Again Taylor shook her head. “Since chlorine oxidizes almost as easily as oxygen, if I got the concentration too high we’d get poisonous chlorine gas instead of oh-two. I don’t want to take that chance.”

Alex shook his head. “Never mind. I’ll shut up and let you do your job.”

Taylor smiled. “Okay, boss.”

“It’s looking good, Taylor,” Alex said. “You’re doing a good job.”

“Thanks, Director.”

Alex turned away from her. “Thorne?”

The security man, who had been watching the procedures, pushed himself up to Alex, dragging his hand on the wall to slow. “Yes?”

“Listen,” Alex said, “we need to keep activity to a minimum. The only activity I want is life support and repair of the mass driver. Your people will enforce, keeping everyone still. I don’t want anyone to move for anything. And nobody drinks water. If they get thirsty have them drink whatever’s in the galley.”

“Alcohol?”

“No, that will just make them more thirsty.” He turned to Taylor. “I know solid wastes are dried and stored to sell to NESA but what about urine? Will it be a problem if people use the usual system?”

“No,” Taylor said. “The water recycler can handle their wastes and it’ll be added to the stuff we’re splitting. So let ‘em piss all they want.”

“Will the plumbing hold up under spin?” Thorne asked.

Taylor looked as if she were going to be sick. “I don’t know,” she said rubbing her brow. “It all works with pumps so I think so, as long as the massive sections are supported.”

“Good,” Alex said with a smile. “We just might make it.”

***

Beatty ran and ran and ran. He knew everyone else was either arrested or had been killed by the storm troopers. He’d seen the cops attack the house. There must have been a hundred of them. He’d also seen them put that bitch in an ambulance. The only point now was revenge. That was enough.

He found a couple necking in a car. With his submachine gun he easily got them out of it. He’d start at the nearest hospital.

Chapter Fourteen

“You and your damned ecologist consciousness probably just killed my husband.”

The KS-900 was small enough to fit under the shirttails of Beatty’s untucked, plaid shirt. This time of night, the only open entrance to the hospital was the emergency room. Beatty entered, trying to look worried. When he saw the female cop, he didn’t have to try anymore.

A nurse was in a booth by the door. Beatty could tell the thick glass was bulletproof. There was an intercom for communication.

“Can I help you?” the nurse droned, obviously bored.

“My girlfriend was brought in,” Beatty replied.

“What’s her name?” the nurse asked, turning to his computer.

“She didn’t have any ID. They probably didn’t know who she was. I came home from work and the neighbor told me about it. My neighbor said she was wearing a short robe or something with a print pattern.”

“A housecoat?” the nurse asked.

“Yes!” Beatty said excitedly.

“We have a brown haired, green eyed, African-American Jane Doe. Age about 25, five-ten, around a hundred and thirty pounds: gunshot wounds.”

“That’s her,” Beatty exclaimed.

The nurse looked at the cop and she walked over.

“Sergeant Knight, this man claims to know your gunshot victim,” the nurse said.

Knight regarded Beatty.

“I’m her boyfriend,” Beatty pleaded.

“Okay,” the Knight said. “Come with me.” She wasn’t going to take him to the victim but she did want to ask him some questions.

As they approached the metal detector, Beatty reached under his shirt.

***

Charlie heard Beatty fire. She knew it was him: the sound had the cadence and tone of the South African submachine gun and the burst length was extra-long. Beatty liked long bursts.

She also heard screams. There was a single report of a pistol. Adrenalin began pumping into her blood in earnest. She looked around her. She was still in the ER in the trauma room where they had operated on her. She was on her stomach on a high bed or a gurney. An IV ran down to her left arm. A screen near the bed displayed her vitals. The name “Jane Doe” was glowing at the top. She also noticed her blood pressure was really low.

One wall of the room was all light blue cupboards and drawers. She rolled off the bed and landed on the floor with a loud, painful smack. Wires ripped from her body as she tried to move toward the drawers. She felt the same way she did the first time she tried to move in three gees; maybe worse. Her IV tore out of the heparin lock and her blood and lactated ringers splattered onto the tile. Charlie ignored that and got herself to her knees. She was leaving a trail of blood wherever she moved. There were more screams; the sound was getting closer. If she didn’t figure out a way to save herself, she’d die, if she didn’t bleed to death first.

She pulled open the first drawer she found–bandages. She jerked the next open. Yes! Surgery tools. But the scalpel had an extremely short power cord and it would only cut through a few millimeters of skin and not through clothes at all. It was pretty much useless as a weapon but might have a psychological effect.

Damn
, she thought. Then she opened the next drawer and found assorted scissors. She scooped up the biggest pair. They were blunted on the end but if she opened them and held them at the crux she could use them to slash. She moved to her bed, still more crawling than walking, and found the scalpel power source. She plugged the tool into the idiot-proof socket and flicked it on. The laser beam was invisible but the unit buzzed when she pressed the button labeled “CUT.”

By the bed was a light switch. Charlie tried it and the room became dark except for the glow from the video read-outs by the bed. She hid behind the monitor, the scalpel in her hand.

The door slammed open and Beatty stood in the frame, back-lit by the light in the hall. He walked in the room slowly. Charlie held her breath and fought to stay on her feet.

He walked close to the gurney and into the puddle formed by her still-dripping IV bag. He studied the floor and the plastic tubing for a moment, then looked at the read-out. He was about three feet away from Charlie and she hoped the brightness of the screen would make her hard to see behind it. She could feel and hear the blood dripping off the end of her finger onto the floor.

“Jane Doe,” he growled angrily. “This has got to be it.”

Charlie aimed the scalpel at his eyes.

He must have seen the movement because Beatty looked right at her. He started to raise the weapon when Charlie pressed the “CUT” button on the laser. She smelled burning flesh and hair as she moved it back and forth with small flicks of her wrist.

Beatty screamed in pain and grabbed at his eyes. The dropped gun skittered across the tile like some scared animal. He slipped in the liquid and was slapped to the floor.

Charlie grimaced as she nearly fell onto the bed, letting go of the scalpel but still clutching the scissors.

Beatty was trying to stand while holding one hand over his eyes. Charlie turned on the lights. He didn’t even respond; he was apparently blinded.

Charlie struggled to the end of the bed, using it as a prop, then let herself plop to the floor. She crawled after Beatty’s weapon. All she had to do was hold him until help arrived.

A hand clamped onto her ankle. She twisted to see Beatty pawing blindly for her like a crazed animal with his free hand.

She could see where the laser had cut into his eyes, the skin around them, and the bridge of his nose. She kicked his face with her free foot but he only grunted and grabbed at it. She tried to pull her ankle loose but it was if her leg and his hand were welded together. In fact, he was pulling her toward him.

His flailing hand ripped off her heparin lock, opening the vein on her arm before connecting with her side. He latched onto the fabric of her hospital gown like it was a rope thrown to him as he drowned. He continued to pull her toward him. There was no doubt in her mind that he was capable of killing her.

She opened the scissors and grasped them at the middle, ignoring how they cut into her hand. She swung them at his face. They cut across his cheek, opening a bleeding gash from his ear to his jaw. He screamed in pain and anger and let go of her gown to try to grab her hand.

She swung again, this time slashing his arm. Her wrist slipped through his fingers and he almost caught her hand.

As he probed the air for her weapon, she waited until his arm was swung aside and he was vulnerable. She swung again with all the strength she had left. If this didn’t work, she knew she was dead.

Hot blood spilled over her fist as his jugular opened. She ripped with the cutting edge, splitting the vein wide. He let go of her and she crawled slowly away. He reached up and grabbed his neck but the blood flowed unabated. Slowly he slipped down to lay on the floor.

Charlie’s adrenal gland stopped propping her up. She, too lay on the floor, breathing heavily. She tried to stop the blood spilling out of her arm but was unsuccessful. Cold darkness enfolded her as she lost consciousness.

***

Freeman’s supervisor wasn’t pleased with being rousted out of bed in the middle of the night. She listened patiently as Freeman explained the situation.

“I called back the LAPD,” he said, “to find out what happened at the house. When the other police officers arrived there was a major gun battle. They killed four GA members and captured the rest. They say at least one escaped. They found two bodies near the burning house that Ms. Jones apparently shot in self-defense. In the safe house they found weapons, explosives, ammunition, and a computer in the basement. They’re going to get a court order to see what’s in it. And they found a data chip on Ms. Jones. They say it’s hers and they’re keeping it safe for her.”

Special Agent Chaikin shook her head on Freeman’s computer’s screen. “We’ll talk about this unauthorized investigation later. Personally, and unofficially, I’m glad to see you go after the GA. But the FBI oversight committee will draw and quarter us for this. I can’t believe we have to answer to that group of politicians,” she finished, saying “politicians” as if it were a vulgarity.

“I know,” Freeman said. “But I thought it was necessary. The GA is, or was at least, on its way to becoming a major terrorist threat.”

“I agree,” Chaikin said. “You going to LA?”

“Yes, and I’m going to get all the evidence I can on Trent and the GA.”

“Fine. I don’t have to report to the committee for three days. That gives you that time to work up a case even they can’t argue with. Up until then, the FBI is officially uninvolved.”

“Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me. Now say good-bye so I can go back to sleep. When this hits the news it’s going to be a long day.”

“Good-bye,” Freeman said.

***

Faruq watched the news report on his computer. The scene was a house in Los Angeles. The sun was just coming up and Faruq could see police were crawling all over the building. The neighboring house was a smoking pile of black cinders.

“Los Angeles Police Department,” the reporter was saying, “reports that this house was the scene of a major shoot-out between police and a suspected terrorist organization. Three police officers were killed and six suspects. This neighboring house was burned to the ground. No motive was given for that burning. Police are being tight-lipped about what terrorist group was using the house but we have this tape.” The scene changed to the same street but it was night. Medics were loading bodies in ambulances and police were putting people in a van.

Some were young, pretty girls dressed, or rather not dressed, in ways that offended Faruq’s Islamic sensibilities.

Suddenly there were tire squeals. The scene was a blur as the camera panned to a civilian van, a modified antique Volkswagen, that was turning in the street. A police car moved to cut it off. Two men jumped out and were quickly overpowered by the police. They were struggling as they, too, were taken to the paddy wagon. One looked at the camera. “The revolution is coming!” he said. “The Gaia Alliance will prevail and all the greedy...” The man was shoved harshly into the police van.