Cony looked thoughtful, but before he could reply, the Breakout alarm sounded, and the two hurried to the bridge. Tor and Valt had been replaced at their stations by their terrorist counterparts, and both were standing, looking uncomfortable, though Valt was surveying his replacement's battered countenance with an air of satisfaction.
Jirik took his place at the command console just as they broke out. The system itself was something of an anticlimax, a typical rim system of a smallish red star. The system contained only three gas giants and a scattering of asteroids. No one would give a system like this one a second glance, except possibly as a recal point. Amateurish they may be, but at least the terrorists had selected a good hideout. The terrorist astrogator and Comm Officer were engaged busily, but until they were ready to ground, Jirik could relax. The middle gas giant was the one that they approached. Just inside a thin asteroid belt, it had over twenty moons. The terrorist astrogator identified the target moon, and then vacated his console to Valt, so it was Jirik and Valt who plotted the final approach and landing. The base was unimpressive; merely a small collection of rigid storage huts and inflatables, held rigid in the airlessness by the atmosphere that they contained.
"This is your base?" Jirik asked incredulously, "You really think that you're going to refit the Lass here?" He snickered. "Damn, It'll take years! You don't have the facilities, the equipment, or the personnel."
Cony looked nettled. "It has been sufficient so far, Captain. We didn't need more. Now, however, we do. Don't worry. Arrangements have been made. Within a week, two at most, several shiploads of inflatables, equipment, and workmen will arrive.'
"So, we just sit on our asses until then?" Jirik commented acidly.
"Exactly," Cony replied stonily. "You'll sit on your asses while we drain your fuel and search your ship." He shrugged. "Enjoy the leisure. You won't get much once the stuff starts arriving."
Jirik snorted. "I don't think that we realized that we were hooking up with just a two-minim gang of fanatics. How many of you are there, anyway? A dozen? Twenty? Fifty?"
Cony's expression remained stony. "You're making a foolish assumption based on appearances. Do you really think that a few dozen fanatics could have come up with a hundred thousand credits in cash on short notice to fund your smuggling mission? Do you really think that a few scattered conspirators could have had battle comps made? You're not that stupid, Captain. Why are you trying to provoke me?"
Jirik shrugged. "Maybe to see if I could. Maybe to help me judge just how many resources you do have." He grinned. "All right, we're down. While your crew is pumping out the fuel, how about searching the crew quarters first, so we can get some sleep? Then, you and your people can crawl around the Lass until your heart's content!"
Cony had evidently been paying attention to Jirik's complaints, because the security precautions did lighten up and become less obtrusive once the fuel had been drained and the ship searched. Except for the spy-eyes scattered throughout the Lass, Cony left the crew to their own devices. The terrorists moved into the base.
Naturally, the crew began searching out the spy-eyes, and plotting their areas of coverage, searching for "dead zones" where they could talk unobserved. Within a day they had found several "dead" areas, though only one, in Engineering, was large enough to conceal the actions and words of the entire crew. With hurried words individually with each crew member in the smaller dead zones, Jirik had urged extreme care in avoiding the spy-eyes. "Don't appear to be avoiding them," he explained. "We don't want to make these paranoid bastards even more suspicious, or they'll come back aboard and plug the holes!"
That "night", when the lights were off and the spy-eyes' efficiency at its minimum, the crew sneaked from their quarters one by one, and, hugging the "dead zones", made their way to Engineering. Each of them breathed a huge sigh of relief at finally being able to talk to each other without being overheard.
"Well, Captain," Valt asked, "What now? What do we do?"
Jirik looked worried. "Deity, Valt, I don't know. When they drained our fuel, they tied our hands. It looks to me like it's all up to that Tomys bastard. I sure hope that his idea works!"
"I dunno, Captain," Bran put in, "I think you've done well so far. You've gotten Cony to pull off his guards, and leave us to ourselves, except for the damned spy-eyes, of course. I don't think that we can just sit here and wait to be bailed out. We've got to do something!"
Jirik shrugged. "All I did was talk some sense to him. Luckily, he was smart enough to recognize it when he heard it." He sounded indifferent, defeated.
"Damn it, Captain! This isn't like you!" Bran's tone became savage. "You've always been a fighter. You never give up. Why the deity should you give up now? Think, dammit!"
Jirik jerked as if he'd been slapped. His face reddened, and he seemed ready to make an angry retort. Then, suddenly, the anger faded, as did his defeated air. "You're damned right, Bran I'm not going to let a gang of two-minim fanatics beat us!"
"All right," he barked. "Let's analyze our assets. First, we're in the Lass, and none of those bastards can get to us without suiting up. What else do we have on our side?"
Bran looked relieved. "That's better! Captain, do you know if they cleaned out the weapons locker?"
Jirik jerked again. Excitement crept into his face and tone "Damn! How did I overlook that? No, I'm sure they didn't. They didn't get the key from me, and if they'd broken into it, the alarm would have sounded. Damn, we've got enough weapons and ammo to arm a couple of platoons, anyway!"
"We could use a couple of platoons," Valt put in sourly.
Tor looked confused and suspicious. "Uh, Captain? Uh, How do you figure that they forgot about the weapons? I mean, you'd think that the weapons would be the first thing they'd look for. Maybe they're just setting a trap!"
Jirik looked thoughtful. "Maybe, but I doubt it. It's a little hard to spring a trap quickly when you have to climb into a space suit first." He shrugged. "I dunno. Maybe these rimmers don't have arms aboard their tramps. Or, maybe their skippers just don't advertise them to government bureaucrats, even Ministers of Trade. Governments get weird ideas about weapons. I guess they're scared of them, 'cause they're always trying to take them away from everybody but themselves. No spacer talks much about having weapons aboard, but every ship has them, especially if it's small enough to ground. But I suspect that even the orbit-to-orbit ships have weapons aboard. Let's face it if You're grounding on a strange planet, weapons are good insurance!"
Bran snorted. "Editorialize later! We have to decide what to do!"
Jirik nodded. "All right. We have a ship that can be sealed and personal weapons. Now we have to find out about the opposition. I want to know how many of these assholes there are, and estimates of their fighting readiness. I also want to know about the base. Start getting friendly. If anybody asks, tell 'em you're bored, and you're just looking around. They might saddle you with a guard, but as long as they hope to 'convert' us, I don't think they'll get nasty. Now, we can't afford any more of these all-crew meetings. They're too risky. I'll talk to each of you individually in one of the smaller dead zones each day. All right?"
The others nodded, and the meeting adjourned. One by one they crept back to their cabins.
Bran was the first to announce, for the benefit of the spy-eyes, that he was bored and was going to suit up and "visit the neighbors." Tor loudly decided to accompany him. Jirik busied himself trying to find a way to get into the weapons locker unobserved, while Valt did his daily exercises, and then stomped about the ship discontentedly. Finally, Jirik lost patience, and ordered Valt to suit up and get the hell off the ship for a while.