Chapter Seventeen
"Easy does it," Kraig said to himself. "Pas de problиme." The High Clan certainly wasn't paying him enough to be a hero.
Nothing but nonsense on the com. He touched the sensitive pads under his gloved fingers, adjusting the fighter's trajectory. The ship itself continued on its way, apparently on autopilot, for neither speed nor course had changed.
He dreaded tight-beaming this information to the Kolnari. It made him feel as though he had failed. His mouth twisted wryly. It was definitely time to quit if he really gave a damn what the employer thought. And they scare me. He didn't like that sensation, either.
"Calling merchanter ship Wyal," he said, and waited for reply. He could hear sounds of consternation from her crew as his voice came through their speakers. Merde, merde, merde! he thought. I don't wanna do this! Every instinct that had kept him alive for the last fifteen years told him to stay off that ship. And the same instincts told him that if he left now the Kolnari would track him down and make him regret it.
"Kraig to command," he said; the machine intelligence of the fighter would relay and encrypt it automatically. "Crew incapacitated. Am approaching Wyal."
It was near enough for visual scan now, an elongated spindle, more streamlined than most freighters-built for landing on planetary surfaces. He was mildly surprised that the Kolnari had let it go; it would be perfect as a fleet auxiliary for surface raids.
This mission must be important, at least to whatever passed for brains inside those silver-blond heads.
Delicately, he established zero relative velocity and nudged his fighter towards the airlock, marked out by its square of strobing lights.
"So, Al, how're we going to handle this?" Joat asked, crossing her arms behind her head and stretching. The black Kolnar fighter approached delicately on the screen, like a cat advancing on a suspicious bit of string. She could think about this and stop thinking about Sperin.
Alvec's brow went up.
"I thought Joe was our resident warrior," he said.
"He is," Joat grinned. "But Joe's not likely to leave Amos's side now he's got him under his eye." She glanced over at her crew. "Besides, he knows we can handle this."
"He'll be wearin' space armor," Alvec said gruffly. He frowned and made a clicking sound with his tongue. "Can't charge a guy in space armor."
"Figure he's a merc," Joat mused, "so he won't be wearing Kolnari armor. That's a plus." She folded her hands on her middle and stared into space. "Ninety per cent of the space armor manufactured has lousy surge protection," she said at last. "Give 'em a sustained charge and," she snapped her fingers, "they're fried."
Alvec chuckled. "Set a trap?"
"Either side of the entry hatch," Joat agreed.
"Easily done," Rand said, and displayed schematics of the areas involved. "These segments-" bars of yellow flashed on the screen to indicate the spots he referred to "-are underlaid with support grids constructed of conductive materials. Actually I'm a little surprised at that," it added disapprovingly. "Anyway, they're…"
"I see it," Joat said quickly. "Just cut the power there to give us a chance to work. Then when our visitor steps onto those grids…"
"You can make him dance," Alvec finished, rising to follow a grinning Joat out the door.
"Actually," Rand said, mildly puzzled, "if this works properly he shouldn't be able to move."
Kraig's attempts to communicate with the Wyal had been met with half-hysterical nonsense and unending repetitions of "Mayday."
I'm going to kill that son-of-a-bitch who keeps sayin' that, Kraig thought. Quick too, just to shut 'im up. In the twenty minutes it had taken him to catch up with the merchant ship and align the locks he'd conceived a serious hatred for the prattling lunatic on the com. Aw, Ghu, he's crying now. I'll be doing the jerk a favor. Weight left him as he switched off his fighter's internal field.
He'd have done the woman a favor, too, if he could only get out of this damned suit. The mercenary shuddered. No chance of that, not with some bug loose on the ship. He disconnected his suit from the fighter's feeds and drifted out of his seat. Gripping hand-holds built into the minuscule cabin he pulled himself over to the hatch. Pausing there for a moment he ran a weapons and systems check on his suit.
All green, he thought, relieved. Even knowing he was unlikely to run into any opposition, Kraig was nervous. "Stage fright," one of his friends called it. Yeah, stage fright. Well, curtain up. He hit the control for opening the hatch.
Grapple fields held the two craft less than arm's length apart; the hard flat light of vacuum shone on every irregularity of hull and plating, and the undiffused glow of the airlock lights made the controls of the Wyal's entryway stand out.
e-n-t-r-y, he punched into the pad.
The Wyal's hatch opened after a second's pause to purge atmosphere. He crouched down and waited a full minute, alarm bells going off in his mind. It was always this way for him when things were too easy. He flipped across, catching the handbars by the merchanter's lock and orienting himself so that the internal gravity field would pull him down on his feet. Vibration shivered beneath him as he stood and swung the exterior door closed. Air hissed in automatically; the readouts below his chin showed it breathable.
He wished he had some of the fancy equipment the Kolnari had access to. Getting a nice, safe view of that corridor out there would suit him fine. As it was he'd have to rely on his eyes, and the few enhancements from his face-plate. Sonic and electromag monitor showed no weapons profiles from the access corridor. He readied the needler built into his cuff and stepped out into the ship.
Carefully, exposing as little of himself as he could, Kraig angled himself to look out the hatch in either direction. Nothing. That didn't mean they weren't there, it just meant they weren't obviously there. The suit's sensors would tell him more once he was actually in the corridor.
He pitched himself out of the lock and flattened himself against the wall opposite, his heart hammering.
Nothing. The sensors confirmed it.
He took a deep breath and let it out in a soft whistle. Then he grinned. 'Cause sometimes when it's easy, it's just… easy. Kraig set off for the bridge with a jaunty walk.
"Now," Joat said.
The mottled armor froze in a spectacular shower of fat blue sparks. Ozone drifted through the Wyal's corridors, and the life-support system whined in overload to carry it off. The suit toppled forward slowly in midstride, left leg frozen half-raised. The three hundred kilos of mass struck the decking with a clamor that echoed through the hull.
Help! Kraig thought as the power-armor toppled and he crashed helplessly to the floor, a prisoner inside it. Inertia flung him against the padded restraints inside, hard enough to bruise. His jaw struck the readout panel and blood filled his mouth with a taste of iron and salt. I've fallen, he thought in disbelief. And I can't get up!
A blond woman sauntered into sight, wearing a coverall with an amazing number of pockets for microtools Kraig didn't recognize. He did recognize the arc-pistol in the hand of the bruiser walking beside her. She squatted down beside the fallen mercenary and went to work with one of the tools. A minute later the faceplate came free; Kraig rolled his eyes at the whining head of the tool. Her thumb stroked the control, setting the tiny Phillips' head up and down the scale from a low burr to a tooth-grating whine.