“No one has to get hurt. Take your seats and buckle in,” the woman said quietly. When no one moved, she repeated the words in crisp Japanese.
Sam was amazed. Hadn’t they already been hurt?
“And keep your hands in sight,” the man added in broken Japanese. He emphasized his point with a slight shake of the Ingram machine gun in his left hand. The one he held in his right remained rock steady and aimed at Crenshaw.
“We’re hosed real good,” the Ork bellowed from the cockpit. “De flygirl had a window open and took a stray shot. She’s ready for de meat locker.”
The woman flicked a glance at the man, who nodded and moved to join the Ork. As he passed behind her, she reached under her duster and slid a short-barreled shotgun from a holster.
Sam tried to watch Crenshaw. The obvious attention the attackers were paying her suddenly lined up with the deference the Red Samurai had shown back in Tokyo. She was likely a special corporate operative, what the sereamsheets liked to call a company man. He wondered if she would try something against the reduced odds. The magician looked exhausted, drained from using the powerful spell that killed the Barghest. That would surely slow her reactions enough to give the veteran Crenshaw an opening. The invader’s leveled shotgun seemed to be threat enough to restrain Crenshaw, however. She complied with the orders, found a relatively gore-free seat and buckled herself in.
Sam felt betrayed. Of them all, Crenshaw should have taken the lead. She was trained to deal with thugs like these. Why hadn’t she protected her fellow employees instead of folding in the face of danger? What more could he be expected to do? Resignedly, he pulled Jiro away from his wife’s corpse and into a seat, but the man seemed not to hear Sam’s attempts at soothing phrases.
Sam was buckling himself in when the Amerindian called from the cockpit. “We’ve got real problems, Sally. This damn thing only has rigger controls.”
“Told ya we shoulda brought Rabo,” the Ork whined. “He coulda skimmed us out real wiz.”
“Rabo’s not here,” Sally snapped. “The veetole’s dog-brain will never be able to get us past the patrols.”
The two male invaders reentered the cabin, dragging the limp form of the pilot.
“We can use dese suits as hostages or shields,” the Ork suggested with an evil grin, as he dumped the body on top of Mr. Toragama.
Sally’s only reply was a look of disdain.
“What about the Elf?” the Amerindian asked. “Could he take us out by remote?”
“I don’t know,” she said. Taking a small black box from a pocket, she flipped up the screen and pulled out a cord, snapping it into the jack port on a bulkhead intercom panel. She tapped in a code.
“At your service,” said a voice from the crackling intercom speaker. “Where are you? Your signal is quite poor.”
“We’re cornered in a veetole, with a handful of Raku employees. Pilot’s dead and the damn ship is rigger only. Can you get into the autopilot and fly us out?”
“I wish it were otherwise, Sweet Lady, but what you ask I cannot do. I’m a decker, not a rigger. I don’t have the wiring to control the aircraft.
“I do suggest that you find an alternate means of transportation. And quickly. Their deckers are starting to move now and my position becomes more precarious by the microsecond. I have been able to isolate the communication attempts by the varlets who pursue you, but I fear that central security will soon become aware of the blind spot in their coverage. Even maintaining this communications link is a danger.”
“There must be something that you can do, hotshot,” the Amerindian insisted.
“As you have had to abandon the planned route out, there is very little.” The Elf’s faint voice paused. “Perhaps one of the passengers is a rigger.”
Suddenly, Sam felt the group’s attention focus on him, all eyes on his datajack.
“What’s your name, boy?” Sally asked.
“Samuel Verner.”
“Well, Verner, are you a rigger?” the Amerindian demanded.
Should he lie? If he did, could the magician read his mind and know? Perhaps he could pretend to have trouble with the aircraft. If he could delay these brigands long enough, Renraku security would catch them. But surely not without a fight. Two people had already died for simply being in the way. Sam shook his head slowly. “It’s a datajack. I’m a researcher.”
“You ever flown anything?”
“Gliders. Used to have a Mitsubishi Flutterer.”
“Great,” moaned the Ork. “A toy pilot. I’d rather trust de dog-brain.”
From the intercom, the Elf’s faint voice spoke. “Oh thou great lump of flesh, the boy might not be a rigger, but he does have some experience in flying. His input could add the necessary randomness to the autopilot’s rather limited repertoire of behaviors. Even if he is no pilot, it might give you enough edge.”
“That’s right.” It was the Amerindian who spoke up. “We might have a chance if the Elf could redirect their anti-air and send some of the patrols on the wrong vector.”
Sally looked thoughtful for the briefest of moments. “Well, Dodger. Can you do that?”
The intercom crackled softly as the Elf considered the plan. “It will not be easy, given that they are on alert, but I shall endeavor to do as you wish, Fair Lady.”
“Then it’s time to fly,” she announced. “All right, Verner. Up front.”
Sam looked to his fellow Renraku employees for support, Jiro’s eyes were locked on the body of his wife, and Crenshaw’s face was wholly noncommittal. As for the dead, they were offering no advice. He unbuckled his seatbelt and stood.
The cockpit stank as much of blood and feces as the cabin. Trying to ignore the blood that stained the pilot couch, Sam lowered himself into it. The Amerindian slid into the co-pilot’s seat.
“I am called Ghost Maker in some parts,” he said. “I may not be a pilot, but I know something about this stuff. Try anything and we will find ourselves relying only on the autopilot. Wakarimasu-ka?”
“I understand.”
“Good. Jack in and get us going.”
Sam slid the datacord from its nesting place in the control panel. He had never been given the limited-access familiarization exercises with the datajack that the doctor had recommended on the day after his operation. He was scared. He had heard how a rigger melded with his machine, becoming a brain to direct the body of the vehicle. He had also heard that some couldn’t handle the transition, losing their minds in communion with the soulless machine.
This machine was built strictly for rigger operation, a monument to the hubris so common among the pilots of powerful machinery. No one without a datajack could do more than request a destination and departure time from the autopilot. Hardly the way to make a fast getaway.
These brigands wanted Sam to jack in and override the decision-making functions of the autopilot. Without the special vehicle control implants that would link a pilot’s cortex to the operations of the machine, he could do little more than make decisions about direction, flight altitudes, and when to take off or land. The autopilot would still do the flying. Without him in the link, though, the Commuter would communicate with Seattle air traffic control, following some controller’s directives and restricting itself to well-defined flight paths and low-risk maneuvers and speeds. The invaders wanted him to make their escape easier, and they cared little what it might cost him.