The Universe — or Nothing by Meyer Moldeven (summer reads .txt) 📖

and personnel under my command and for UIPS vessels in the Planet Pluto Special Zone leaves me no choice but to accede to your outrageous demands. I do so under most solemn and vigorous protest, and only because your guns are trained at our heads. Be aware these conversations are being recorded and spunnel-transmitted to my Government as we speak."

"Your protests are noted, Colonel Hanno," Drummer said, taking over. "Please convey our respects to your Government. Now, as to procedure for the audit, I suggest we set up a small group of administrators and specialists to prepare schedules and other details. This must be done immediately, as we have no wish to delay your support operations unnecessarily. Do you agree?"

"Yes."

"Good. One of my ships is now approaching the Gateway. I realize you may have reservations concerning one of my military craft entering your restricted zone, and I respect your reservations. Please have your representatives board the Plutonian craft outside the Gateway. My specialists are aboard, and the two groups can work out the details. Is this satisfactory?"

"I reject your term 'satisfactory', and accede under the same protest."

"I understand, Colonel Hanno. By the way, one other matter, concerning the Sandbox. I cannot accept Bura's assurance that his gun crews are on 'stand down'."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, Colonel Hanno, that I insist on an inspection of the Sandbox by members of my military staff so that I am certain the Sandbox's guns are not a threat to the safety of my fleet. I cannot continue to dissipate my capabilities by the need to keep the Sandbox under special surveillance throughout this operation. The Sandbox guns must be rendered inoperative and, frankly, I don't trust Bura to perform that service for me."

"Lieutenant Bura," said Colonel Hanno, "I assume that you and other ships' Commanders have been listening in on this delightful exchange."

"I have."

"What do you say?"

"You're the Zone Commander."

"For the safety of your ship and the rest of us,
I recommend you comply with their demand."

"Yes, sir."

"Admiral Drummer?"

"Very good. Have the Sandbox stand by to receive boarders. This completes our discussion, Colonel Hanno. I'll get back to you if the situation calls for it."

Chapter EIGHTEEN

Brad studied the Sandbox on the utility's view screen.

"I think you'd better have a look," he said to Kumiko as he twisted aside on the cramped flight deck. She peered over his shoulder.

"Got a problem?" Scarf sneered, his bulk cramped the remaining space behind the flitter's pilot seat. He hunched forward trying to see around Kumiko.

Brad ignored the question. He waited for Kumiko's assessment of the Sandbox, dead ahead.

Drummer had given him the job.

"I want this done," he told Brad, "in a way that will demonstrate to the UIPS that we're serious, and can back our words with actions. We've got to replace their image of us as misfits. They've got to see us as an organized military force that can defend its vital interests and, if necessary, impose its will."

"What do you have in mind?"

"I want to use Kumiko's expertise as a weapons officer familiar with Inner Region ordnance. I want both of you to board the Sandbox and check all installed armament that can be directed against our fleet. Avoid a scrap, but if you find the guns have not been deactivated, do it for them."

He pointed at Brad to give emphasis to his words.

"I don't want their weapons slipping back into operational status as soon as you leave their ship. Whatever it is you do, fix their armament controls so that it'll take them at least fifteen hours to get them back on line. We'll need that much time to finish our job here and return to base."

Scarf joined them, listening.

"I don't like it." His words were angry; his features petulant.

Drummer looked at Scarf with open scorn.

"Your likes and dislikes are the least of my concerns," he snorted and turned back to Brad.

Scarf cut back in.

"I repeat, Drummer, I don't like it, and what I like or don't like is your concern. I'm here on counter-intelligence work, and I don't like your sending this guy," thumbing toward Brad, "and one of his sidekicks over to a UIPS ship on a highly sensitive assignment. I'm not that trusting they'll do the job as thoroughly as you're laying it out."

Drummer frowned.

"What do you suggest?"

"That I go along."

Brad stepped back to let the two work it out. He didn't relish the assignment. The Sandbox's commander was not going to accept boarders graciously.

"You go along? What the hell for?"

"To see how the assignment is carried out, and frankly, to make sure this guy doesn't, shall we say, inadvertently pass information to the enemy." After a brief pause, Scarf added, "I'm within my authority, Drummer. Part of the counter-intelligence function," adding, with a smirk, "Don't you agree?"

##

The utility's approach to the cylindrical Sandbox closed in on the port side. Brad, at the controls, increased viewer magnification and inspected the ship closely. Kumiko, looking at the same image, reached under Brad's arm and adjusted knobs and levers, zeroing in on one gun turret after another along the Sandbox's length. She whistled softly.

"They're loaded for bear," she said. "Circle them,
Brad, let's see what's on the other side."

Brad took the utility around to starboard, then topside and below.

Scarf again. "OK, you've looked her over. Now, what's the problem?"

"The ship has four laser-quads and a couple of explosive decompressors. She's a heavily armed attack transport, that's all."

"So what? Can you do the job?"

Kumiko looked at Scarf, her normally soft features twisted, passive but icy. "Oh, yes," she said. "I can do it. May take a little time, though."

Scarf leaned back.

"Well, let's not fool around with these jokers. If they don't cooperate, I'm for back to the Dragon and let our guns talk for us."

"Listen, Scarf," Brad said, exasperated, "our job is to disable the armament, not destroy the ship. Also, if you recall, Drummer wants to get through this exercise without using force. That's why we're here: to fix the Sandbox so they and any other ship commanders of like mind won't get ideas about resisting us. It's a psychological play that will make the rounds of the Outer as well as the Inner Region. It's to our advantage to show we do our job with minimum fuss. So, let's get on with it."

Brad opened the inter-ship comm-line.

"Calling Sandbox. This is Curtin on Dragon Utility One, approaching from your starboard. Are you prepared to receive us?"

"Ready," came back. "Your air lock is number 4, starboard. Go there now. We will extend umbilical and catwalk as soon as you're matched up."

Brad guided his craft around and along the Sandbox to a portal bearing a large painted "4." Slowing the utility, he closed with the Sandbox, gently fingering controls until they were matched precisely to the heavy transport's bearing and drift.

"Now," he said.

Kumiko hit a switch, and the utility beam-anchor connected to a triangular plate above the airlock, immobilizing and fixing the utility to the huge transporter's axis.

The number 4 clamshell panels drew back and slipped aside. A yellow and white-striped catwalk snaked out and suckled up to the utility's hatch.

Kumiko took in the overhead dials and lights.

"On track," she said, and after a moment, "connected and secure."

Brad closed a bank of switches, opened another. "We'll take no unnecessary chances," he said. "I'm setting the thruster to cut in at twenty percent as soon as we're back in and slam the hatch. Five seconds and into forty, another three and we go max. That's for just in case. So, if we need to move fast when we board, hit the accello-nets pronto. Got it?"

"Right," from Kumiko.

"Scarf?"

"Sure, sure. I got it."

"Next. I want 'em to be able to see that the power settings on our sidearms are low enough so as not to kill or cause serious injury. Is that clear?"

"If they start anything, I'd just as soon take a few of them out for good." Scarf postured his belligerence.

"Nothing doing, Scarf," Brad shot back. "Using our weapons on this mission is bound to delay the schedule, if not much worse. It's been fouled up already by this little sortie. So don't provoke 'em; set your weapon in the lower levels."

Brad set his weapon at the extreme low setting and noted that Kumiko did the same. Scarf set his at the highest level in the non-lethal category, and with a sneer at Brad, returned the weapon to its sheath.

Kumiko looked thoughtful. "We should wear suits while we're on board the Sandbox, Brad," she said. "It may slow us down a bit, but we'll need to look at gun emplacements that have minimal air or none at all."

"Sounds reasonable. OK, keep your suits on."

They rigged their sidearms for control from within their suits and transferred them to outer sheaths. They donned the suits, checked each other's suit security, seal pressure, inter-suit communications, and reported.

"Move out," Brad said.

Chapter NINETEEN

The Sandbox's receiving officer observed Brad and his party's approach through a clear pane in the air lock's pressurized section. The four husky deckhands and the officer-in-charge hefted snub-nosed rifles.

A pressure-suited deckhand responded to Brad's hand signal that his crew was aboard by conducting a visual safety check of the ship-to-utility connections. He turned away, and Brad felt the deck vibrate as the clamshells slammed shut. Kumiko and Scarf moved up to stand behind Brad as pressure equalizers hissed. Moments later, the air lock's inner door slid aside and they passed through. Opening their helmet faceplates, they returned the glares of the receiving party.

"Rimov, and gunnery is my business," said the officer, "what in hell are you gonna do to my guns?"

Brad wished he were beside the grizzled spacefarer facing their common adversary, rather than confronting him.

"Curtin, and my business is to make sure your guns don't get you all killed. I want to check your weapons control center, and every gun emplacement. First, central control."

"Hey," chimed in Scarf. "How about a drink with the ship's commander? Courtesies of the space-ways, and all that? I'd sure like to sample some Inner Region booze."

"You guys ain't invited guests, no way," Rimov flashed back. "The Commander is fussy about the people he drinks with."

"Well, you tell him…" Scarf raised a fist to add gesture to his words, but Brad waved him off, his eyes holding on Rimov.

"To hell with that," he snapped. "We're here to do a job and get back to our ship. I repeat: first, the fire control center, then each gun emplacement. Now."

"Our fire control center has been deactivated. Why do you have to see each gun?"

"You know damn well, Rimov," Brad said, putting as much harshness into his tone as he could muster. "Your pieces can be fired independent of central control; I'm going to make sure they won't be. Let's get on with it."

Brad noted that Rimov was staring at the intensity slide visible on the breechblock of his sheathed weapon. Rimov then tilted his head to scrutinize the settings on Kumiko and Scarf's weapons. His brows tightened, puzzled. It passed.

"OK, follow me," he said, pivoting and taking the lead.

The passageways were narrow, confining them to two abreast. Rimov and one of his men walked ahead, the other three escorts followed close behind Brad and his party. The corridors they traversed had been cleared; no encounters.

Brad, familiar with transports of the line, memorized their route. They had boarded amidships, lower starboard, and were headed for an armor-enclosed section near the stern. The surveillance and tracking gear and the laser-quads' fire control computers should be there. That part should be relatively simple. They reached a closed, heavy door. Rimov turned to Brad, his face reflecting rage.

"You didn't answer my question," he growled.
"What're you gonna do to my guns?"

"Nothing you couldn't fix in a couple of work shifts," Brad replied, motioning to the door. "Let's move."

Grudgingly, Rimov placed his palm on the disk lock. A click and the heavy door retracted into the adjacent bulkhead.

As Brad expected, the fire control center consisted of dozens of consoles, scopes, directional and power control devices, and clusters of computer terminals.

Kumiko and Brad circled the small room as Scarf watched from his position inside the entryway. Rimov stood beside Scarf, his guards along the bulkhead, tense, weapons directed at the deck.

Kumiko pointed to a console.

"I've got to see behind that panel, Brad," she said, pointing. "The master firing system controls should be concentrated there."

Brad turned and waved Rimov closer. Scarf didn't move; he got it all on his helmet intercom.

"Remove the panel," Brad said, pointing.

"Won't take my word, will you," Rimov growled.

Reaching over, he snapped several quick disconnects, slid the panel forward, reached into the