Bran shrugged. "No problem. I'm using radio triggers. They'll be triggered by a suit radio with a modified frequency. I'll touch them off just before we start carving up the inflatables.
Valt grunted. "Yeah. If they work!"
Jirik grimaced. "Shut up, Valt. If-they don't work, we don't laser the inflatables. We try to come up with a Plan B."
Bran looked grim. "I doubt it, Captain. I think that we're only going to get one try. There're spy-eyes in every lock. Unless he's asleep, no sentry could miss the four of us suiting up and cycling the lock; and there's no plausible explanation that we could give for all of us leaving the ship in the middle of the 'night'. If we don't trigger the bombs the moment the lock cycles, he's going to hit the alarm immediately."
Jirik grimaced. "Yeah. And then we'll be up to our eyeballs in pissed off terrorists! Okay, Bran, how much time do you need to make the bombs?"
Bran shrugged. "Not long. I've already made a prototype; all of the parts are standard stock. We need two per hut to be completely sure. That means six of them. I'd say about three hours. I'm glad the biggest dead spot is here in Engineering."
Jirik was startled. "Only three hours? Are you sure?"
Bran shrugged again. "Pretty sure. They can be ready by tonight, anyway."
Jirik nodded, and dismissed the crew. One by one they crept back to their cabins to nap for what was left of the "night".
The entire crew was edgy the next 'day'. Tor was nervous and unhappy about attacking his friend Fyk. Secretly, he was not at all sure that he would be able to kill, and was terrified that he might fail his shipmates. Valt had somehow convinced himself that this was his chance to revenge himself for the beating on Boondock. He was eager to do battle. Jirik was beginning to feel the pre-battle jitters that had afflicted him throughout his Navy career. Even the imperturbable Bran was tense and irritable. Jirik insisted that they follow their routine of visiting the base. He, himself, went to see Cony.
The burly Boondocker looked up cheerfully as Jirik removed his helmet. "Welcome, Captain!" He said with evident pleasure, "I'm glad you came. I've been bored almost to tears!"
Jirik grinned. "Yeah, me too. I thought I'd just come by and see what's going on, if you don't mind telling me."
Cony spread his hands. "I don't mind telling you, but I'm afraid that there's nothing to tell. Until our supplies and crews get here, about all we can do is sit around and twiddle our thumbs
"Yeah," Jirik replied, "I'm having a hell of a time keeping my crew busy. By the way, thanks for letting them visit around, They're going nuts on the ship. Any idea how long before your crews get here?"
Cony shrugged. "I'm afraid not. It may be only a few more days, but it may well be several weeks. I wouldn't start getting anxious for a few more 'days'."
"I wish they'd hurry," Jirik lied, "we're getting tired of sitting on our butts."
They chatted for over an hour before Jirik could plausibly escape. Cony was pleasant and displayed no obvious suspicion. But then, he wouldn't, Jirik reminded himself. The terrorist was too good for that.
Leaving Cony, Jirik wandered casually toward the Comm hut to deliver his two camouflaged bombs. He cursed at the difficulty of looking nonchalant while wearing a space suit as he carefully checked to make sure that he was unobserved. He unhooked the bomb from his equipment belt, and "accidently" dropped it at his feet. He nudged it with his feet until the circuit portion of the bomb rested firmly against the plascrete of the hut, then dropped the drab-colored cloth over it, and walked away, kicking dust over the cloth. At the corner of the hut he paused, then turned and glanced back. Good. The bomb was effectively invisible in the dim light of the distant red star. He repeated his performance on the other side of the hut before returning to the Lass.
As each of the others returned from their visits to the base, they nodded to Jirik to confirm that the bombs were in place.
The 'day', and then the 'evening', dragged on. Bran "accidently" brushed the spy-eye covering the Engineering service corridor.
The crew froze, waiting for what they were sure would be an immediate alarm. It was several minutes before they accepted the fact that no alarm would be raised. They estimated that Bran had succeeded in-moving it enough that its field no longer covered the lock, but only part of the passage.
Finally, they gathered in the Engineering dead zone. Jirik passed out the weapons and last minute instructions
"Bran, you're first out the lock. As soon as the lock cracks enough to clear the radio, trigger the bombs. If they don't work we may just be able to avoid being caught. Once the bombs are triggered, we have to get out the lock as quickly as possible. They won't hear or see the bombs go off, but they'll sure as hell feel the vibration.
"Valt, you and Tor take the inflatables. Laser them from one end to the other. It won't quite be explosive decompression, but they'll be too busy to raise an alarm. Bran and I will cover you, and try to take out anybody quick enough to get out. Whatever happens, though, don't stop lasering those inflatables; that's where most of their men are, and we can't afford to miss many of them."
They suited up, buckling weapon belts over their suits Finally, they were ready. They crowded clumsily into the lock, and cycled it.
As soon as a thread of blackness showed around the hatch, Bran triggered the bombs.
As the lock hatch continued to cycle open, they felt a sudden strong vibration, and the opening hatch revealed clouds of vapor and ice spewing from each of the rigid huts.
Bran dropped the radio trigger and jumped from the opening lock, clawing at his suit holster as he drifted gently to the ground in the 0.2G gravity. The others followed as quickly as their clumsy suits allowed.
Valt and Tor each targeted one of the end huts, and lasers' beams drew instant response in the form of billowing vapor and collapsing plas. As they watched the lumps in the plas that were frantically struggling men, both stood tranfixed, picturing their agony; the gasping for breath, their skins stretching, mouths blackening, eyeballs protruding. Tor retched, and nearly threw up in his suit.
Sudden movement at the surviving hut galvanized them to action, and both lasers' beams chopped into the last hut; but it was too late. Three suited figures had emerged from the hut, firing their needlers as they came. Needlers were not very effective weapons against a suited opponent. It would take most of a magazine to penetrate the suit and kill the man inside. On the other hand, even a single needle could puncture the suit and release the air inside, producing the same effect in vacuum. The Command center erupted in a soundless explosion as Tor and Valt returned their attackers' fire. In its flare, Valt saw a silvery line of needles hit Tor's suit, followed by puffs of vapor that instantly froze. Valt dropped his laser at Tor's strangled cry, and slapped emergency patches over as many of the holes as he could. He dragged the stumbling Tor, blinded by vapor clouding his helmet, back to the Lass and up the ladder. Jirik and Bran provided covering laser fire for Valt and Tor. Suddenly, another figure appeared, staggering out of the ruined Comm hut, firing blindly in all directions, and endangering the terrorists as much as the crew.
Above them the personnel lock opened, its light flooding the barren plain until Valt switched it off.
Chapter 18
Jirik and Bran retreated up the boarding ladder, firing as they went. The Comm hut survivor had apparently recovered his senses. His fire was now directed at the crewmen, along with that of the others. Jirik climbed into the lock, and nearly lifted Bran bodily after him. Jirik's last view as the lock cycled shut was of the four terrorists hurrying clumsily toward the ship. Valt was waiting inside the inner door of the lock, still suited, but helmetless.