Musing what the two guards must be trying to make of this matter of being chased by one of their own sentries, Lenna braced herself against one of the chairs as she tried to rise. It was awkward enough handcuffed, although much less so than if her hands had been behind her back. Then she hesitated a second time, feeling the vibrations of machinery through the metal floor. The tram was moving.
Lenna had always been particularly fascinated by that aspect of her work, how little things could go wrong in unexpected ways. So far she had found a way to get herself out of even the worst trouble but, as her young friend had recently reminded her, she was also getting old. She looked around, finding the key that the guard had dropped in his surprise and haste to get out of the line of fire. Fortunately it was a simple mechanical lock, still the most difficult type to force open without the key but about the easiest to open with one. Even so, it took a certain amount of dexterity and experimentation to get the key into the lock. Sitting with her back against the driver’s seat, she was at last able to hold the key in her teeth as she carefully maneuvered it into the lock.
Tossing aside the handcuffs, Lenna rose quickly and slipped into the seat. She could not immediately determine whether the tram was being directed remotely or was simply out of control. At least the major portion of the tram’s operating controls had been spared from Bill’s rather indiscriminate attack. The com station, where she had been seated only moments before the attack, was a complete ruin. Just thinking about it made her a little nervous, although she was certain that Bill knew his business with the precision of a machine and would not have hit her.
All the same, the wreck of that half of the control panel assured her of one thing. This tram could not have been under remote control even if they had wanted. The internal control indicator light was clearly lit, but certain other readings were contradictory. The tram was supposedly locked into predetermined settings, but other indicators insisted that it could not possibly be in motion. For not being in motion, however, it was already doing a very healthy, if not hair-raising, 140 kilometers per hour, and all efforts to disable or slow the machine on her part proved hopeless.
Well, when travel became inevitable, one could always attempt to determine the course. She called up the map for the freight tunnels on the main monitor, and saw a clear junction coming up in a matter of seconds. When she selected the alternate course, the tram very obligingly turned off the original track onto that new heading. Encouraged by her success, Lenna bent closer to the map and chose a destination. For the sake of speed and simplicity, she decided to make a quick loop and go back to where she had started. She began selecting junctions that would take her back, reasonably certain that the main routing computers would not switch her down a tunnel that was previously occupied. Theoretically, she knew that the traffic was invariably one way. She was less certain that even the computers could slow this monster if it was about to overtake another tram.
“Bill, do you hear me?” she asked, speaking into her com link.
“Yes, Mistress Lenna?” he responded, his voice thin and weak through the minute speaker.
“I’m on my way back. You go back to bay twelve and get the overhead doors open as soon as you get there. I should have my diversion ready at just about the same time.”
“Yes, Mistress.”
“Damned fool robot,” she muttered as she guided the tram through the next junction, not particularly caring if he heard her.
The next problem was getting herself safely off the tram. Under the circumstances, she was actually rather proud, and relieved, that she thought of that particular item before she reached the end of the line. There was an emergency braking system that, she discovered, did work. Its only problems were that it could not bring the tram to a complete stop, and it worked only as long as she was there to hold down the button. Considering what she had in mind, she decided that it was just as well that it did work that way.
Coming up on the junction to landing bay twenty-eight, she held the brake until the tram slowed as much as it was able, easing the heavy machine around the rather tight turn into the tunnel that dead-ended beside the loading deck of the bay. As soon as the tram was locked onto this one-way path, Lenna released the brake and sprinted for the door, getting herself out of the tram as quickly as she could. The leap down was not very far, but it was made more difficult by the speed of the tram. She hit the ground in a roll and came up running, determined to get herself well away from that side tunnel while she still had time. If her plan was successful, she was likely to get herself killed.
As soon as the drag of the brakes was released, the tram began to accelerate furiously. It was moving at about two-thirds of its full speed when it reached the end of the tunnel, emerging like a shot into the vast landing bay. It came to the end of the track and hit the low rail bumper, which had only been intended to stop a freight tram that was moving at barely a crawl, and which had the effect of lifting this small but heavy unit completely off the ground. Carried by the momentum of its tremendous mass, its trajectory arced well out into the middle of the landing bay. It might well have stayed airborne for the better part of a hundred meters or more, except that it suddenly connected with the munitions freighter sitting across the full length of the bay, plunging right through the middle of the small ship.
An instant later, the explosion of the entire cargo of munitions provided all the distraction that the Starwolves could have wanted.
8
“All pilots to their fighters,” Valthyrra’s voice echoed from the main speakers across the bay. “Stand by to launch fighters immediately.”
Velmeran had been looking up toward the ceiling as he listened to that brief message. He hurried to his fighter, ascended the boarding platform, and climbed into the open cockpit. Benthoran, the bay crew chief, assisted him with the straps of his seat, then slipped Velmeran’s helmet over his head and fastened the clips at the collar.
“What is it?” Velmeran asked, now that he had a private com link.
“Lenna just arranged her little diversion,” Valthyrra explained. “In fact, she just diverted a major portion of that base right out of existence. Bill says that we are to look for the open freight bay.”
“What about Lenna?”
“I have heard nothing from Lenna, and she is not presently with Bill,” the ship explained.
Velmeran frowned within the privacy of his helmet as he waited for the cover of his cockpit to close and lock down. Once they started down, their time was going to be very limited. He could not wait for Lenna to make herself known, and he could only hope that she would be there by the time they arrived.
The important things were never simple.
“All fighters are ready,” Valthyrra reported. “The Number Two transport bay is open, and both ships are standing by.”
“Launch the transport,” Velmeran said. “Order the fighters to power up.”
On the bay deck, the three fighters brought their powerful conversion generators on line, a faint, low-pitched humming surrounding each of the sleek machines as they cycled their power back into their generators. Black as space itself, the fighters were resting in their racks, massive metal frameworks that were locked down on the deck, their landing gear up and ready for flight. There were only three in the group rather than the usual nine, the three that represented the core of Velmeran’s special tactics team. This time only his two most trusted pilots, Baress and Pack Leader Baressa, would be going with him.
At that same time, a pair of small ships moved out of the second of the Methryn’s four transport bays. The first was the transport adapted for use by the special tactics team, a dark rectangular hull somewhat larger than a fighter, but without wings or fins. Following that was the larger form of Venn Keflyn’s Valtrytian interceptor, gleaming white rather than the dull black of the Starwolf ships, in form a flattened flying wing like some deep-sea skate or ray. The two small ships moved slowly away from the carrier’s dark hull and the bay doors began to close, slowly cutting off the bright interior lights.
As soon as the two ships were clear, Valthyrra counted down the launch for the fighters. In the bay, a series of flashing lights above the forward bay door converged on the single, large green light in the center. Engines
