Neutronium Alchemist - Conflict

“Oh, Gen.” Louise skimmed across the narrow space and caught hold of the small girl. She ordered the processor block off, and the glowing bricks flickered into dewy sparkles before vanishing altogether.

“I want to go home,” Genevieve blurted. “Home to Cricklade, not Tranquillity.”

“I’m sorry,” Louise cooed. “I haven’t being paying you much attention on this flight, have I?”

“You’ve got things to worry about.”

“When did you go to sleep last?”

“Last night.”

“Humm.” Louise put a finger under her sister’s chin and lifted her face, studying the dark lines under her eyes.

“I can’t sleep much in zero-gee,” Genevieve confessed. “I keep thinking I’m falling, and my throat all clogs up. It’s awful.”

“We’ll book into a High York hotel, one that’s on the biosphere’s ground level. Both of us can have a real sleep in a proper bed then. How does that sound?”

“All right, I suppose.”

“That’s the way. Just imagine, if Mrs Charlsworth could see us now. Two unmarried landowner girls, travelling without chaperones, and about to visit Earth with all its decadent arcologies.”

Genevieve attempted a grin. “She’d go loopy.”

“Certainly would.”

“Louise, how am I going to take this block back home? I really don’t want to give it up now.”

Louise turned the slim innocuous unit around in front of her. “We escaped the possessed, and we’ve flown halfway across the galaxy. You don’t really think smuggling this back to Cricklade is going to be a problem for the likes of us, do you?”

“No.” Genevieve perked up. “Everyone’s going to be dead jealous when we get back. I can’t wait to see Jane Walker’s face when I tell her we’ve been to Earth. She’s always going on about how exotic her family holidays on Melton island are.”

Louise kissed her sister’s forehead and gave her a warm hug. “Get packed. I’ll see you up at the airlock in five minutes.”

There was only one awkward moment left. All of the Bushay family had gathered by the airlock at the top of the life-support section to say goodbye. Pieri was torn between desperation and having to contain himself in front of his parents and his cluster of extended siblings. He managed a platonic peck on Louise’s cheek, pressing against her for longer than required. “Can I still show you around?” he mumbled.

“I hope so.” She smiled back. “Let’s see how long I’m there for, shall we?”

He nodded, blushing heavily.

Louise led the way along the airlock tube, her flight bag riding on her back like a haversack. A man was floating just beyond the hatch at the far end, dressed in a pale emerald tunic with white lettering on the top of the sleeve. He smiled politely.

“You must be the Kavanagh party?”

“Yes,” Louise said.

“Excellent. I’m Brent Roi, High York customs. There are a few formalities we have to go through, I’m afraid. We haven’t had any outsystem visitors since the quarantine started. That means my staff are all sitting around kicking their heels with nothing to do. A month ago you could have shot straight through here and we wouldn’t even have noticed you.” He grinned at Genevieve. “That’s a huge bag you’ve got there. You’re not smuggling anything in are you?”

“No!”

He winked at her. “Good show. This way please.” He started off down the corridor, flipping at the grab hoops to propel himself along.

Louise followed with Genevieve at her heels. She heard a whirring sound behind. The hatch back to the Jamrana was closing.

No way back now, she thought. Not that there ever had been.

At least the customs man appeared friendly. Perhaps she had been fretting too much about this.

The compartment Brent Roi led her into was just like a broader section of the corridor, cylindrical, ten metres long and eight wide. There were no fittings apart from five lines of grab hoops radiating out from the entrance.

Brent Roi bent his legs and kicked off hard as soon as he was through the hatch. When Louise went in he had already joined the others lining the walls. She looked around, her heart fluttering apprehensively. A dozen people were anchored to stikpads all around her, she couldn’t see their faces, they all wore helmets with silver visors. Each of them was holding some sort of boxy gun. The stub muzzles were pointed at Fletcher the instant he popped out of the hatchway.

“Is this customs?” she asked in a failing voice.

Genevieve’s small hand curled around her ankle. “Louise!” She clambered up her big sister’s body like mobile ivy. The two girls clung to each other fearfully.

“The ladies are not possessed,” Fletcher said calmly. “I ask you not to endanger them. I shall not resist.”

“Too fucking right you won’t, you son of a bitch,” Brent Roi snarled.

•   •   •

Ashly fired the MSV’s thrusters: too hard, too long. He cursed. The drift had been reversed, not halted. Pressure was wiring him close to overload. Mistakes like this could cost them a lot more than their lives. He datavised another set of directives into the craft’s computer, and the thrusters fired again, a shorter, milder burst this time.

The MSV came to rest three metres above the launch tube’s hatch. Like the rest of the Beezling ’s fuselage it was badly scarred and mauled. But intact.

“No particle penetration,” he datavised. “It seems to be undamaged.”

“Good, get it open,” Joshua answered.

Ashly was already extending three of the MSV’s waldo arms. He shoved a clamp hand straight into the mounting hole left by a broken sensor cluster and expanded the segments, securing the MSV in place. A fission blade came on, burning a lambent saffron at the tip of the second arm. Ashly used it to slice into the fuselage at the rim of the hatch, then began to saw around.

Both the Beezling and the MSV trembled energetically. The computer datavised a series of clamp stress cautions, their grip on the mounting had shifted slightly. “Joshua, another one of those and you’re going to shake me loose.”

“Sorry. Won’t happen again, we’re docked now.”

Ashly accessed the MSV’s small sensor suite. The Lady Mac had attached herself to the rear of the Beezling , her aft hold-down latches engaging with the warship’s corresponding locks. A slim silver piston slid out of her ring of umbilical couplings, weaving around slowly as it sought out a socket on the Beezling to mate with.

Spacesuited figures wearing manoeuvring packs were flitting towards the bright circle of light which was Lady Macbeth ’s open airlock. A third of the way around her fuselage one of her combat wasp launch tubes had opened. The front section of a combat wasp had risen up out of it, a dark tapering cylinder bristling with sensors and antennae. Beaulieu was working on it, her glossy body alive with reflected streaks of salmon-pink light that rippled fluidly with every movement. She had anchored her feet in the midsection grid which contained the drone’s tanks and generators. One of the submunitions chamber covers had already been removed; now she was busy extracting the cluster of electronic warfare pods from inside.

The MSV’s waldo arm finished cutting around the Beezling ’s hatch. Ashly grabbed it with the heavy-load arm and pulled it free. A strew of dust motes and composite shavings popped out, quickly dwindling away. The MSV’s external lights swung around, and he was looking straight down into a smooth white cylinder which nested a sleek conical missile whose silver surface was polished brighter than any mirror.