Something groaned, winding up to a scream as ship’s gravity fought to keep up with velocity changes. But it was a losing battle; Lona was putting the little ship through so many rolls and dives, a four-dimensional computer couldn’t’ve kept up with her.
Which, of course, was exactly the idea.
But their pursuer’s battle comp was good; ruby flashes kept flickering off the walls, now brighter, now dimmer, now brighter again.
“How about the traditional shot across the bows?” Dar called.
“They’re not big on tradition,” Lona snapped, sweat beading her brow.
“I never did have much use for iconoclasts,” Father Marco grumbled.
“It’s a Patrol cruiser!” Sam stared at the rear viewscreen in horror. “The Solar Patrol—the ones who rescue stranded spacemen from starship wrecks!”
“And shoot down smugglers,” Whitey added grimly. “But they never shoot without warning!”
“You’ve been watching too many Patrol-epic holos, Grandpa,” Lona grated. “These are the real ones!”
“Are they?” Sam keyed the transmitter. “Let’s find out! Ray of Hope calling Patrol cruiser! Come in, Patrol cruiser!”
An energy-bolt lanced past them as Lona rolled the ship to starboard.
“Come in, Patrol cruiser! Why’re you shooting at us? We haven’t broken any laws! And we’re not carrying contraband!” Sam let up on the key and listened, but there wasn’t even a whisper of static.
“Maybe it’s broken,” Dar said quickly, “not picking up their answer!”
“Dreamer,” Lona growled.
“I’ll try anything.” Sam spun the sweep-knob, and a voice rattled out of the tiny speaker “… at the top of the roster. It’s on his new holocube, ‘Roll Me to Rigel!’ ”
“Commercial channel,” Sam grated.
A new voice interrupted the announcer in mid-word. “Ganagram News Update—brought to you by Chao-Yu’s Chandlers, with the latest in used burro-boat fittings!”
“Must be the Ganymede 3DT station,” Whitey said, nodding. “They broadcast for the asteroid miners, mostly.”
“How can you tell?”
“Who else uses burro-boats?”
“We interrupt this program to bring you a special hot flash,” the radio went on. “We’ve just been notified that a small pirate ship with a notorious telepath aboard has just entered the Solar System. Citizens are advised not to worry, though—the mind reader’s being chased by a Solar Patrol cruiser. They should be calling any minute to tell us he’s been captured and locked up.”
“They’re talking about us,” Dar choked.
“Correction,” Lona snapped. “They’re talking about you.”
“They did say, ‘he,’ ” Whitey admitted.
“Also, that they’re going to capture us—which sounds like a fine idea, right now.” Sam keyed the transmitter again. “Ray of Hope to Solar Patrol cruiser! We surrender! We give up! We throw down our arms!”
Red light blazed through the cabin, and the whole hull chimed like a singing bell.
“That was really close!” Lona rolled the ship over so fast that Dar’s stomach lost track of his abdomen. “They’ve got a weird idea of capturing!”
“I think,” Whitey mused, “that they’re out to avoid the expense of a trial.”
“So, what do we do?” Dar demanded. “We can’t keep running forever. So far, the only reason we’re still alive is their lousy marksmanship, and Lona’s fantastic piloting.”
“Flattery will get you an early grave,” Lona snapped. “I need ideas, not compliments!”
“Well, how’s this?” Dar frowned. “We came in between Jupiter and Mars, heading sunward. What’s our speed?”
“We’re back up to point nine seven light-speed.”
Father Marco’s eyes lost focus. “Let’s see, that means … it’s been about five minutes for us, so for the people on Earth …”
“It’s been a few weeks,” Lona finished for him, “and if we don’t do something soon, we’re going to get punctured by a small swarm of teeny-tiny asteroids, and flattened when we run into a few big ones!”
“Asteroids!” Sam sat up straight, her eyes locking on Dar’s. “We did it once …”
“And I’ll bet the Solar Patrol aren’t much smarter than pirates!” Dar turned to Lona. “Can you match velocity with an asteroid?”
“Of course!” Lona crowed. “Kill our power, and all we are is a new asteroid with a high albedo!”
“Not even that, if you can get a big rock between us and the sun. Can we slow down that fast?”
“Can do.” Lona nodded. “It’ll take most of our power, though, and it won’t be very comfortable.”
She had a nice knack for understatement; it was hell. Not as bad as it could’ve been—at least she had the courtesy to turn the ship around so she could decelerate with the main engine, and they were plastered back into their seats instead of being slammed against their webbing—but they were rammed so far into their couches that Dar could’ve sworn he felt the hard plastic of the frame, and held his breath, waiting for the couch to either snap or spring a leak. But it held, and he began to wonder if he would. His nose felt as though it were trying to flow around both sides of his face to join his ears; his eyes tried bravely to follow their optic nerves to their sources; and after a while, it occurred to him that the reason he was holding his breath was simply that he couldn’t breathe. It was about three anvils, a barrel of horseshoes, two blacksmiths, and a Percheron sitting on his chest…
Then the pressure eased off, and swung him against the side of the hull as Lona turned. The acceleration couch slowly regurgitated him, and he found himself staring around at a cabin that perversely persisted in looking just the way it had before they passed through the hamburger press.
Then Lona flicked a finger at her console, and the lights went out.
All he could think of was that she was over there, and he was over here, still webbed in. It was such a horrible waste of a great situation.
Into the sudden darkness her voice murmured, “I’ve killed all power, so they won’t have any energy emissions to track us by. Don’t let it worry you; you can still see out the ports. And we won’t lose heat too fast; the hull’s well insulated. But the air recycler’s off, and this isn’t all that large a cabin for five people. So do the best you can not to breathe too much. Breathe lightly—sleep if you can. And don’t talk—that’s a waste of air.”
“If the power’s off, your detectors’re out,” Father Marco murmured.
“Right. We won’t know where they are, except by sight. Which doesn’t do too much good, of course—they could be far enough away to only show as a speck of light, but they could still get here in a matter of minutes.”
“So, how will we know when to turn the lights back on?” Whitey asked.
“When the air starts getting foul,” Lona answered. “When you start feeling short of breath, and drowsy.”
“But they might still be nearby then,” Dar objected.
“Life is filled with these little chances,” Lona murmured. “But let’s make it as long a wait as we can. No more talking.”
Sibilant silence descended on the cabin, filled with the rasp and wheeze of people in various states of health trying to control their breathing. After a few minutes, someone began to snore softly—Whitey, no doubt; Dar could only admire his composure. For himself, he was watching nervously out the nearest porthole, and, sure enough, there was the tiny dot of light, swelling rapidly, turning into a Patrol cruiser which shot by overhead so close that Dar had to fight the urge to duck.
“One pass,” Lona murmured.
“Gadget-lovers,” Father Marco chuckled. “They don’t trust their eyes anymore; if it isn’t on a sensor-screen, it doesn’t exist.”