ftp.ee.pdx.edu/2014.02.ftp.ee.pdx.edu.tar/ftp.ee.pdx.edu/pub/frp/stories/harrison/har22

Text File | 1992-12-30 | 31KB | 694 lines

               Copyright 1992 by Jim Vassilakos
                      All Rights Reserved

     Permission is granted by the copyright holder to copy
      and distribute this work such that no commercial or
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---------------------------------------------------------------



                           Twenty-two



He stared out the window, silent and unblinking, as the stars
sparkled everywhere, thousands more than he'd ever seen before,
more than in any stellar database or navigation chart he'd ever
read. Each of them glistened, crisp and defined, against a
backdrop of the deepest black his eyes had ever known, and as his
dad tilted the stick, New Eden toppled into view, a ball of
shimmering blue with puffy white patches. Nod, the gas giant,
loomed behind with seemingly menacing intent, preparing to gobble
up its smaller neighbor within a swirling mass of orange and
yellow clouds should the life-sustaining world foolishly drift
too close.
   "You know what that is?"
   "Home."
   His dad smiled, hopeful brown eyes betraying only the faintest
trace of sorrow.
   "Look over there."
   At first the station was just a speck, but ever so slowly it
grew, its dapple-grey exterior sheltering an ever-shifting
collage of light and shadow. Inside, machines crowded against the
bulkhead, some of them vibrating like washers, others sitting
quietly waiting for one of the doctors to float over and poke a
nose inside. The weightless was new and strangely discomforting,
and Mike held to the boarding rail for dear life. He didn't let
go until a intrusive finger tickled him up the armpit, and then
he squealed and soon found himself floating along the ceiling,
which he found to his amazement to be not so much a ceiling as
just another floor.
   From the new vantage, he could see several people mulling
about, quietly picking up test tubes, examining plastic trays
under an assortment of microscopes, and making notes on flimsi
boards. He and his father floated there, presently ignored in the
distended space of shooting neurons, until a middle-aged man
rounded the corner and approached. His hair slided golden and
wavy along his ears, the wrinkles he sported around his eyes only
serving to complement his warm voice, making him look even
friendlier than he sounded, as though that were humanly possible.
   "Well... I didn't know we had a new pilot."
   "Tan, this is my son. Mike, say hi to Tan."
   "Hi."
   "Welcome aboard, Mike. You helping your dad today?"
   Mike smiled self-consciously, not really sure how to reply. It
turned out to be the right response, however, soliciting him a
tour of the base. Tan kept talking about the equipment, what all
the stuff did, how it worked, so much detail that the meaning of
it all got lost somewhere within the folds of his explanations.
Mike just kept nodding, floating to one of the numerous windows
every chance he got.
   "So are you going to be a scientist, young man?"
   "A scientist?"
   "Ah... a scientist figures things out, answers questions...
fixes problems..."
   "And creates them," his father interjected.
   "I'm gonna fly a spaceship."
   They seemed to think he was joking, and outside, New Eden
vanished behind the gas giant, the moment of its disappearance
creating a sloshy feeling inside his stomach. They ended up
sitting him in front of one of the larger windows along the outer
ring while the two men huddled together at a small, aluminum
table, drinking zardocha with spots of a lavender rum.
   Quietly they exchanged their words, Mike tuning in only for
the most occasional outburst, and then listening for several
minutes before the phrases became intertwined like a sullen
melody, and his mind fell deeper into the dark, jeweled expanse.
At one point, he thought he heard his sister's name, spoken in
the sort of hushed voice usually reserved for dead relatives. It
was a moment he'd forgotten, until now.
   "I guess it wouldn't help if I called you crazy."
   "No."
   "What are you going to do about her?"
   "I don't know."
   They sat silent, and then his dad spoke again, as though
clarifying the answer.
   "It's not like they take every second-born."
   "Nearly half."
   "Yeah, well... she won't be on the list much longer. If she
gets chosen, I guess we'll have to make a run for it."
   Tan grimaced, a tired, somber stare running along the table's
edge as though he were watching some insect crawl from one end to
the other.
   "You know how that usually works out."
   "Why do you think I keep a gun?"
   "You fly a shuttle, idiot. You can always try to smuggle her
out. Tell them she died."
   "And who'd take a girl from New Eden?"
   "A good samaritan."
   "Slavers, more likely."
   "Well, James, there's risk with everything, even with doing
nothing at all. Sometimes I think you're more motivated by sloth
than concern for the consequences."
   His father snorted, perhaps for lack of a decent comeback. "We
could all be exiled... sent to live with the infectious. You know
the penalties."
   "So what are you going to do? Pray?"
   "Believe me, I have."
   "Oh?"
   "We've been taking them up to the old church on seventh-days.
It's pretty much vacant now, except for the Baxsens and Culwrigs."
   "I thought Bryan Culwrig caught the bug?"
   "He did. I think the whole family may have it."
   Tan shook his head, "Better find a new church."
   "Was thinking about a new deity, actually."
   Then his dad turned sideways and saw him staring back over his
shoulder, brown eyes meeting somewhere in the space in between.
   "Ya ready to fly?"
   Mike smiled, but when he learned the extent of the question,
his emotions turned toward unbridled glee. His dad sat him down
in the pilot seat, pointing to various switches. Mike's mind
swam. But, he learned that taking off from an orbital station was
about as easy as leaping off a diving board. Open helm access,
hit the disengage, switch on the gravitics and inertial
compensation, punch the aft thruster, and slowly bring it up to
full. So easy a child could do it, or so he'd proved.
   He dad finally shook him by the shoulder as if to say "Good
work, I knew you could do it." But this time, the shaking didn't
stop, and he felt the craft rumbling, its windows shattering as
the hull exploded outward. He could see his dad falling toward
the huge gas giant, its bright clouds engulfing him. So bright,
Mike had to squint.
   Johanes stood over him, shaking one shoulder while gripping
the other and hauling him out of the null tube. Mike squirmed,
getting himself dropped to the carpet for his trouble.
   "C'mon Mike, time for another injection."
   "I was dreaming."
   "Congrats."
   "That didn't feel like six hours."
   "It was two?"
   "Two?" Mike blinked, pinching the bridge of his nose, "Thought
I had six."
   "There's been a slight change in plans."


                          *     *     *


The headache rated somewhere between skull-splitting and brain-
boiling, such was its intensity. She sat back down, cursing
herself for such stupidity. Meanwhile, all the guards and
miscellaneous crew members stood around panicking, only one with
the self-righteousness to say it to her face.
   "You gonna die?"
   "No."
   "Well, in that case, I told you so."
   "Oh shut-up."
   They had to wait several minutes for the gas masks, and Carla
kept everyone away from her, providing as much air as she could
fan in her general direction.
   "One more dumb question sweetheart."
   "Shoot."
   "What's with the moustache?"
   Hunter got back to her feet and tore the tiny white bandage
from beneath her nose. There followed a loud cheer, lasting all
of about two seconds, right until they came in with the gas
masks. Then dead silence reigned supreme, cut only by
intermittent squeaks and rustles as people either donned their
headgear or backed into the lift. One of the techies slid the set
of doors back open, again manually, and inside, it was as bad as
she'd imagined.
   Erik: dead, a gun in one hand, a folder full of papers in the
other. Commander Simms: same status, face a light bluish tint.
Captain Dunham: not much better, at least his dark pigmentation
hid the deathly pallor, but the expression on his face wouldn't
help morale. He must have been screaming and thrashing about
right to the very end. Finally, there was the Commodore:
communicator still in hand, a blonde mane of hair sweeping over
her head, hiding the distant look in her hollow, blue eyes.
   "I think I'm gonna be sick."
   They re-engaged the air filters manually and got the room
cleared out while Hunter took a browse through Torin's folder.
The papers caught her interest right away, the sort of thing
she'd expect to find in some archaic museum. Everyone used flimsi
leaf except on some of the outlying worlds where the technology
wasn't sustainable. One picture in particular caught her
interest. It was right in front, a small, balding man with thin
arms and a large forehead. He looked frightened, sort of wide
eyed with a sallow complexion. The name "Erestyl" was printed
underneath.
   Brooks showed up not too much later, not that being any more
punctual would have helped matters. The nearest thing they had to
a commanding officer, he'd been on stand-by in the security
armory and didn't look particularly pleased by his sudden
promotion.
   "This the work of the escapee, I take it?"
   She nodded, loading the Commodore's body into a grav-sled. The
phosphorescent light shined off his dark skin as he watched her
work, a sort of oily texture that made him look all the more
determined. Then he picked up the folder, leafing through it
until he stopped at the same picture.
   "What happened?"
   "Cyanide gas."
   He shifted his tongue into one cheek as he looked over the
corpses. His black, frizzy hair seemed to stand on end.
   "Quick death?"
   "Uh... about ten seconds. Twenty on the outside." She was
surprised he asked. "It blocks respiration between the hemoglobin
and oxygen-hungry cells." She took a deep breath, letting go of
the body, "They probably felt like they were suffocating.
Painless... but they knew they were dying."
   "I understand you got a breath of it."
   "Just a whiff, sir. Enough to tell me what it was."
   "You can hold the 'sir', doctor. You're third in command now.
If myself and our illustrious chief engineer hadn't been too
preoccupied to attend this fatal engagement, you'd be captain,
not me."
   She looked down at the floor, "Not necessarily."
   "Come again."
   "The commodore relieved me of duty just prior to when it
happened. I was just completing some final tasks in sickbay
when..."
   He nodded again, as though she's just answered a lingering
question.
   "Why?"
   "A disagreement. She wanted to use our mind scanner on the
escapee. She also wanted a drug destroyed which might have saved
his life."
   "I don't follow."
   "We have reason to believe he's mis-medicating himself. If so,
he'll be dead within a day or so. There's a drug called Anamesa
which could save his life, but I got rid of our supply of it
according to the commodore's orders."
   "Can he get more at Tyber?"
   "Yes... but it won't do him any good. It'll be too late by
then. Since he's already as good as dead, are you still going to
order a full search?"
   He stuck out his chin and sucked in his cheeks, probably
wondering what was going through her mind.
   "You think he has more tricks up his sleeve?"
   "It's a possibility. If we just let him go and let the
medication take it's course..."
   "Fewer casualties for us?"
   "Also, the Commodore wanted to capture him alive. Not kill
him."
   "Why?"
   "Apparently he has some sort of information. Torin was
interviewing him in sickbay just before he escaped."
   Brooks nodded, but he didn't look terribly persuaded.
   "I'll keep it under advisement."
   "What about me? Am I still R.O.D. or what?"
   "We may need your help if there are more casualties... but
until then, we'll honor the commodore's final order. Sorry
Doctor."
   "I understand."
   She about-faced and made a bee-line for the lift. Carla was
standing to one side, quietly stepping in after her friend as the
doors closed behind.
   "You okay?"


                          *     *     *


"No... not really," Bernie leaned back in his seat, munching down
the last of a jelly donut as a self-satisfied smirk crept up the
side of his face. The guard seemed vaguely disgusted.
   "Why not?"
   "Look buddy. I have orders coming straight through the
commodore that these frequencies go down and stay down. No if's,
and's, or but's from nobody."
   "The commodore is dead."
   "Aha... sure. That's great. You want a donut?"
   "Just turn it off."
   "Look, I'm under orders here!"
   Tabor came in a moment later, more than little breathless.
   "We have to take the shouter offline."
   "This is a joke, right?"
   "No joke."
   "What's going on? This guy's telling me the Commodore's dead."
   "Long story. Just take it off."
   Bernie shrugged, getting up to pull the plug on the most fun
he'd had since the time he impersonated Dunham's voice for a mess
inspection. The guard seemed satisfied, heading back toward the
lift, and Bernie was glad to see him go.
   "Now that Captain Carnage is out of here, tell me what in hell
is going on."
   "Something about poison gas. All I really know for sure is
that Brooks is in charge."
   "Poison gas?! Sheesh, I pull a bunch of freqs for you and next
thing, all hell breaks loose. You're a real pain in the you-know-
what, you know that?"
   Tabor stared back, an incredulous expression traversing his
face like a sonic wave.
   "You think you're on the receiving end? I was right there just
before it happened. A few minutes sooner and it would have been
me dead, Bernie, so don't give me any..."
   "Okay... okay. Take it easy."
   He keyed open the comm-shed, switching the shouter off with a
flick on his finger.
   "Look, I'm sorry, but you know that shutting this thing
down... I mean... you saw the free lanes. I just don't get the
logic."
   "They're jamming one and two."
   "So use the internals."
   "No routing software. Somebody got inside the computer, killed
internal routing and erased all passenger records."
   "Inside the computer? You tried going to backups?"
   "It locks up every time we try. Tuto figures they punched
holes in the op-sys. Perfect, neat, little holes just to screw us
over."
   "Neat holes, eh? That's great. Just great."


                          *     *     *


Hunter picked up a chunk of swiss cheese on the way back to her
quarters, biting off the rubbery corners and slowly working her
way around the neat, little holes. It was salty, a taste she
liked to think by. All the events of the day passed through her
mind like an angry whirlwind, each somehow connected, but none of
them making any sense as a whole. She finally gulped down the
last of her treat in the shower, and the spray got her nose going
again.
   The faint trail of blood blended so well with the water,
however, that by the time it hit the shower floor, there was
nothing much to see even if she had been looking. She finally
opened her mouth, letting the warm mist massage her tongue. The
taste of salt hit her as strange, and she began to feel between
her teeth for a loose sliver of the cheese. A minute later,
blotting her face against a towel, she saw the red stain.
   The red spot on the towel seemed to laugh at her and at her
apparent inability to fix so much as a bloody nose. She went back
to her work clothes, still scattered carelessly below the laundry
chute and checked all the pockets for some nose bandages. The
pockets were needlessly cluttered, as her pockets almost always
were, a slide from some chemical analysis, a not-very-neatly-
folded flimsi, a flex-glove, a lightpen, a blood-spotted
handkerchief, a little, metallic cylinder.
   A little, metallic cylinder?
   It glinted faintly in the dim light, nothing to have a
hysterectomy over, or so it seemed to be saying. She threw on a
robe, the blue mendwear with one of her favorite if more
offensive proverbs embroidered on the back, "Never mess with a
chemist on PMS." Then she bandaged her nose. With the random
segments of a hunch quietly huddling about her consciousness, she
plopped down on her cushi-bag with the strange object, sinking
slowly and deliberately as the warm, gelatinous interior oozed
beneath.


                         *     *     *


Bernie shoved his finger through another donut, the jelly oozing
down into a cherry puddle on his desk. He hated to see it go to
waste, yet he couldn't bear to eat. It was the ultimate dilemma.
   "You okay Bern?"
   Sandra stood at the door, just popping in to collect another
two-dozen walkie-talkies for security. Without the internal comm
network, they'd have to rely solely on wireless transmission, not
a particularly well-stocked alternative.
   "Is this all you got?"
   Bernie licked the sugary filling off his finger.
   "Hey Bern... you okay?"
   He looked up and stared coldly, trying to look callously
reserved, or so he imagined. Then it broke, and he chucked the
donut across the room.
   "Bern..."
   "I killed 'em. If it wasn't for that damn shouter..."
   "Look Bern, don't get morose now. Save it for later."
   He sighed, and she nudged him in the ribs.
   "Brooks has a little present for you."
   "What?"
   She took the mask out of her grav-cart, tossing it next to the
red puddle.
   "And there are five guards stationed outside."
   "Five?"
   "Just in case."
   "Oh great. To protect the shouter? Why don't we just destroy
the damn thing?!"
   "Might need it."
   She snatched a donut before leaving and then turned sideways
before the door, looking backward across one shoulder as her hair
flopped over the other.
   "It's not your fault, Bern, so stop blaming yourself."
   He sighed as she exited, leaving him to quietly monitor the
free lanes for any sign of trespassers. It was a heck of a job,
boring as all hell, and generally unimportant to boot. This time
things were different, however. It was still boring, but with
five guards outside, he had no illusions as to its importance.
The door opened again about a minute later. He looked up,
expecting to see Sandy standing there, donut in hand. Instead, it
was a woman in a blue robe, her short, dark hair combed back,
damp and shiny. He put a napkin over the jelly and scooted his
chair backward several inches.
   "Yah?"
   "Comm-hardware?"
   "You're in the right place."
   "I'm Dr. Hunter."
   "Oh... what, am I late for a check-up?"
   She leaned over the desk, dropping a small, metallic cylinder
to its surface.
   "Can you tell me what this is?"


                          *     *     *


Saloris shrugged, swigging down another hit, "What does it
matter, man? It's not cheap."
   "Anything on it?"
   "I dunno."
   Zak rubbed his overgrown moustache with the back of his hand,
eyeing its reflection for any traces of foam against the
holocrystal's shiny white surface. It did look expensive, the
sort of durability you could crap on and still invoke a clean
image.
   "Where'd you get it?"
   "Look man... you gonna value it or fold?"
   "Hey... I'm just curious. Five."
   "What?!" spraying half his brew over the table.
   "Okay, eight."
   "Fuck you!"
   "Ten. Ten tops, and don't say a word. You want me to report
this?"
   Saloris scowled, "It's worth way more than ten."
   "Maybe, but it's probably stolen, or maybe you'd like me to go
find out."
   "Don't threaten me, man."
   "It's all part of the game, Saloris. Ten?"
   Shaking his head, "Like I really have a choice."
   Zak ended up winning it with a pair of starbursts, the sort of
hand that made him wonder why he wasn't folding, but Saloris had
a reputation for drawing shit, and his luck while drinking was
about as flavorful as a goblet of warm, slog piss. Zak spent the
next hour or so searching for a viewer. Most of those on board
were four centimeter standard. This was two, built for
concealment more than convenience. It was just another aspect
which intrigued him.
   Just when he was about to give up and chuck it, he happened
across comm-hardware, an office he'd walked past maybe a hundred
times without once going inside. Five guards stood at intervals
up and down the corridor, one stopping him as he made for the
entrance.
   "Need some I.D."
   He dug it out, going inside only after the guard had a chance
to run it through her portable magnetic scanner. The ship's
doctor was inside, wearing a blue robe and sweat pants. She was
talking with a plump guy at the desk, her voice low and serious,
like it had been after "the incident".
   The incident had been a minor brawl in the enlisted mess, and
he'd been pretty defensive about anyone, particularly a woman,
trying to help him. She responded by drawing a laser scalpel and
threatening to cut off his head. It may have been crude, but the
prospect of further bodily injury shook him up enough to make him
succumb to reason. After he let her bandage his face and stop the
bleeding she became somewhat more congenial.
   "Well well... if it isn't crewman Dagler."
   "Hi Doc... uh... doctor... uh, sir."
   She smiled, "You're going to have to wait your turn."
   "I'm just looking for a two centimeter holo-player."
   Bernie pointed a jellied finger toward the cabinet on the
left.
   "Second shelf."
   "Thanks."
   "So you're sure it's a bug?"
   "Uh-huh."
   He inserted the crystal and flipped it forward to somewhere in
the middle. The image promptly materialized in a half-meter
diameter sphere, a man and a woman standing upon a mauve carpet.
At first he smiled, thinking it was a sick joke. Saloris
collected his fair share of pornography, some of it far from the
mainstream, and on more than one occasion Zak had found himself
exposed to yet another fetish he'd never dreamed existed. But
instead of sex, they just talked, her strange, silvery-white mane
shifting as she turned her head to speak. She'd ask some
question, and he'd reply, his voice quiet and stubbornly accented
by numerous stops. He looked dazed, as though he'd been drinking
to the point of vomit-readiness, but his answers, the words in
particular, came out more like a lecture in astrophysics, many of
the phrases as technically alien as to be virtually
incomprehensible.
   "What have you got, crewman?"
   It was the doctor, probably attracted by the convoluted lingo.
He took a half step to the side, giving her some viewing room.
Her eyes seemed to focus in on the man, perhaps since he was
doing most of the talking, but there was more than that, and as
she adjusted the contrast, her eyes widened even further.
   "Erestyl."
   "You know him, sir?"
   "In a manner of speaking. Where did you get this?"
   "Umm... it was a present."
   "From who?"
   "A friend."
   "Can the run-around, mister. Who gave it to you?"
   "Crewman Saloris, sir."
   "Saloris... same Saloris that was on the away team to the
Louise?"
   Zak gulped, trying to remember whether or not anything like
that came up.
   "You'd have to ask him yourself, sir."
   "He was. He was with the gunship medic when Harrison came
aboard."
   "Sir?"
   "You're dismissed, crewman. I'll hold onto your present for
you."
   "Yes sir..."
   Zak left, a mixture of anger and relief crowding his mind, and
all he could mutter was, "What is this shit?"


                          *     *     *


Mike sat, stiff backed, his innards gasping and wheezing with
every push. Cecil's voice curled from beneath the door.
   "All fair in there?"
   "I'm fine."
   He pushed again, gritting his teeth, as a bloody fecal
specimen forced its way from his bowels.
   "You sure this regen is working?!"
   "We took you off it."
   "What?!"
   *Beep*
   "Attention all hands and passengers. This is Lieutenant
Commander Brooks. As many of you have already heard through the
grapevine, Commodore Reece, Captain Dunham, Commander Simms, and
Lieutenant Torin were assassinated as of seven hundred and forty
hours via a canister of hydrogen cyanide. Under R.F. protocols, I
have assumed command of the ship. We believe that the culprit is
a Tizarian gatherer by the name of Michael Harrison. If you have
any information concerning his whereabouts, please contact
security immediately. He is to be considered armed and dangerous.
All passengers are requested to return to their cabins and to
submit themselves and their accommodations for inspection. All
off duty crew are to report to the main auditorium for security
duty instructions."
   Mike let the automatic flush take down his offering, hunching
back to his feet as he appreciated the tumbling rudiments of
terror.
   "Cecil... we need to talk!"


                          *     *     *


"Hey Jo... can't we at least discuss this?"
   "What's there to discuss?"
   "Well, our lives for one thing."
   Spokes stood still, rubbing his hands together in the chill
air. Trying to wash off the blood, Johanes figured. Good luck,
kid.
   "I mean... this is crazy and stupid. We can just... you
know... dump Mike out an airlock. We don't have to die."
   Johanes smiled, fishing into the hyperfield controller's
circuitry. Each of the cords were labeled by color and number, a
different set of generator grids associated with each cord.
   "What's the matter Spokes? Afraid of dying?"
   "Yes. Very much so."
   "Good. Fear is a sensible trait. Hand me the canister."
   Spokes reluctantly complied, and Johanes tugged several loose
cords through one end, painstakingly deliberate and all too
mindful of the consequences of even the most minor fumble. The
short blades lining the shutter were mono-molecular quality, the
sort of technology that made cermelicon minisaws look like the
little, plastic knives that came free with Siryn take-out. Cut a
wire, and the ship's hyperfield would cave in, taking part of the
ship with it. Cut several, and it would be worse, a lot worse.
   Johanes wasn't an expert on the subject. He couldn't even
begin to estimate over how many millions of kilometers the
wreckage would be dispersed. He only knew it would be a very warm
day in space. And Spokes seemed to know it too, absorbing the
implications as though by osmosis.
   "Look Jo... just tell me, because I'm confused," he backed a
step, almost tripping over the body of the engineer who had been
on duty. "I don't see why you're doing this."
   "You ever gamble, Spokes?"
   "Uh... yeah, sure."
   "What do you do when you got a lousy hand? I mean, it stinks."
   "Uh... you fold."
   "But you can't fold. The stakes are already too high."
   Spokes shifted to the side, unsure where he was leading.
   "Okay, you bluff."
   "But you tried that, and it didn't work. What do you do then?"
   "I dunno."
   Johanes closed the circuitry compartment, turning around with
a spin of his heels.
   "It's obvious, isn't it?"
   "No."
   "You kick over the table. Chips scatter everywhere. Game's
over. You lose, they lose, everybody loses. But at least nobody
wins."
   "You're crazy."
   "You see this?"
   He held up a pocket, holocrystal recorder, no bigger than his
fist. Spokes had to get a good look before he realized what it
was, and even then, it only increased his sense of confusion.
   "Where'd you get that?"
   "Back at the starport. Our friend Sule left it behind with
some burnt scraps of quagga liver. The liver was great. This...
this, my friend, is bad."
   "I don't get it."
   "They've got a good hand, and we don't, but that canister is
the boot that's gonna send the table flying, and if we're
lucky... very lucky, we may just live through it. Now get a hold
of Cecil; tell him we're set to link him to the interweave
governor."
   Spokes shifted, "I still don't like this."
   "Just do it. I have to find a place to stuff Mr. Corpse."


                          *     *     *


"Corpses?"
   "Yes sir."
   Brooks leaned back at the master security console, still shy
of approaching the captain's seat. The bridge lights were dim,
the noises rare and quiet, leaving the chamber in a muted,
melancholy slumber. With only Tabor and Lish to keep him company,
and both of them keeping well aside, he'd finally had a chance to
peruse Torin's papers. The subject matter was sketchy at best,
most of the papers referring to others which weren't contained in
the folder. There had to be more in the lieutenant's little safe,
locked away with all the relentless intractability of this
troublesome gatherer who seemed to attack one moment and
disappear the next.
   Lieutenant Anders stood quietly, probably waiting for some
sort of response while Brooks punched up a visual of the main
auditorium. Crew members were still filing in, each one searched,
their ID's checked as they entered. It was a slow process, but
with the potential for another attack, the precautions were
necessary.
   "Sir... the corpses..."
   "Yes, what do you want me to do about it?"
   "People are gawking at them, sir."
   "Gawking?"
   "Yes sir."
   "Well, must be getting everybody pretty pissed off, eh
Lieutenant?"
   "Sir?"
   "To see four officers dead, Dunham and the Commodore included.
I bet there's gonna be some shooting first and asking of
questions later when we catch this punk."
   Anders blinked, "Sir... displaying their dead bodies without
even the barest modicum of decency..."
   "Modicum of decency? They're dead, Lieutenant. They don't need
decency; they need revenge."
   "Yes sir."
   "I want a camera set up in front of the bodies, and I want the
picture transmitted to this frequency." He pointed at the
console. "I want everyone to see it."
   He turned his head to the beeping of the comm console. Tabor
and Lish were watching it as little blips of light danced from
one channel to another.
   "They're at it again, sir."
   "See if you can predict their switching."
   "Aye aye."
   Lieutenant Anders just stood there, confused as usual.
   "You're not going to jam them?"
   "It works both ways, Lieutenant. We jam them, they jam us.
Look, after we're done showing the crew what this Mr. Harrison
did, take the bodies to a shuttle. There's no point in keeping
them in sickbay."
   "Aye sir."
   "And tell Archie that I want that safe open yesterday!"
   He looked back at the visual. Alongside the picture were
displayed the names, sections, and ranks of everyone reporting,
enough people to scroll off the screen and then some. It would be
one hell of a pep rally, crammed full enough with vengeful
intents to make Satan himself jealous. And then, with a terrible,
bloodthirsty cry, the search would begin, and the gatherer's
paper would have one more obituary to report come its next
edition.


           _   /|
           \`o_O'          Jim Vassilakos
             ( )     <---  [e-mail]
              U            [e-mail]
           Aachk!

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