Mutineer's Moon

Dahak to dry him with a swirl of warmed air. For that matter, his new internal equipment could have built a repellent force field on the surface of his skin to shed water like a duck, but he enjoyed the towel’s soft sensuality, and he luxuriated shamelessly in it as he padded off to his bedroom to dress.

“Back to the salt mines, Dahak,” he sighed aloud.

“Yes, Colin,” the computer said obediently.

Chapter Six

“Anything more on the NASA link, Dahak?”

MacIntyre reclined in the captain’s couch in Command One. He was the same lean, rangy, pleasantly homely young man he’d always been—outwardly, at least—but he wore the midnight-blue of Battle Fleet, the booted feet propped upon his console were encased in chagor-hide leather, and there was a deeper, harder glint of purpose in his innocent green eyes.

“Negative, Colin. I have examined the biographies of all project heads associated with the gravitonic survey program, and all appear to be Terra-born. It is possible the linkage was established earlier—during the college careers of one or more of the researchers, perhaps—yet logic dictates direct mutineer involvement in the single portion of the Prometheus program that is so far in advance of all other components.”

“Damn.” MacIntyre pulled at the tip of his nose and frowned. “If we can’t identify someone where we know there’s a link, we’ll just have to avoid any official involvement. Jesus, that’s going to make it tougher!” He sighed. “Either way, I’ve got to get started—and you know it as well as I do.”

“I would still prefer to extend your training time, Colin,” Dahak replied, but he sounded so resigned MacIntyre grinned wryly. While it would be too much ever to call Dahak irresolute, there were things he hesitated to face, and foremost among them was the prospect of permitting his fledgling commander to leave the nest. Particularly when he could not communicate with him once MacIntyre returned to Earth. It could not be otherwise; the mutineers could scarcely fail to detect an active Fleet fold-space link to the moon.

The fact was that Dahak was fiercely protective, and MacIntyre wondered if that stemmed from his core programming or his long isolation. The ship finally had a captain again—did the thought of losing him frighten the computer?

Now there was a thought. Could the ancient computer feel fear? MacIntyre didn’t know and preferred to think of Dahak as fearless, but there was no doubt Dahak had at least an intellectual appreciation of what fear was.

MacIntyre looked about him. The “viewscreen” of his first visit had vanished, and his console seemed to float unshielded in the depths of space. Stars burned about him, their unwinking, merciless points of light vanishing into the silent depths of eternity, and the blue-white planet of his birth turned slowly beneath him. The illusion was terrifyingly perfect, and he had a pretty shrewd notion how he would have reacted if Dahak had casually invited him to step out into it on their first meeting.

It was as if Dahak had realized external technology might frighten him without quite grasping what would happen when that same technology was inside him. Or had the computer simply assumed that, like himself, MacIntyre would understand all as soon as things had been explained a single time?

Whatever, Dahak had been cautious that first day. Even the vehicle that he’d provided had been part of it. The double-ended bullet was a ground car, and the computer had actually disabled part of its propulsive system so that his “guest” could feel the acceleration he expected.

In fact, the ground car had been unnecessary, and MacIntyre had sampled the normal operation of the transit shafts now, but not before Dahak had found time to explain them. Which was just as well, for while they were undoubtedly efficient, MacIntyre had still turned seven different shades of green the first time he’d gone hurtling through the huge tunnels at thousands of kilometers per hour, subjective sense of movement or not. Even now, after months of practice, he couldn’t entirely rid himself of the notion that he was falling to his doom whenever he consigned himself to the gravitonic mercies of the system.

MacIntyre shook himself sternly. He was woolgathering again, and he knew why. He wanted to think about anything but the task that faced him.

“I know you’d like more training time,” he said, “but we’ve had six months, and they’re ready to schedule Vlad Chernikov for another proctoscope mission. You know we can’t grab off another Beagle without tipping Anu off.”

There was a moment of silence, a pause that was one of Dahak’s human mannerisms MacIntyre most appreciated. It was a bit difficult to keep his own thoughts focused when the other half of the conversation “thought” and responded virtually instantaneously.

“Very well,” Dahak said at last. “I respectfully submit, however, that your ‘plan’ consists solely of half-formed, ill-conceived generalities.”

“So? You’ve had a few dozen millennia to think about it—can you come up with a better idea?”

“Unfair. You are the captain, and command decisions are your function, not mine.”

“Then shut up and soldier.” MacIntyre spoke firmly, but he smiled.

“Very well,” Dahak repeated.

“Good. Is the suppressor ready?”

“Affirmative. My remotes have placed it in your cutter.” There was another pause, and MacIntyre closed his eyes. Dahak, he thought, could give a Missouri mule stubborn lessons. “I still believe you would be better advised to use one of the larger—and armed—parasites, however.”

“Dahak,” MacIntyre said patiently, “there are at least five thousand mutineers, right? With eight eighty- thousand-ton sublight battleships?”

“Correct. However—”

“Can it! I’m pontificating, and I’m the captain. They also have a few heavy cruisers, armored combat vehicles, trans-atmospheric fighters, and the personnel to man them—not to mention their personal combat armor and weapons—plus the ability to jam your downlinks to any remotes you send down, right?”

“Yes, Colin,” Dahak sighed.

“Then this is a time for finesse and sneakiness, not brute strength. I have to get the suppressor inside their enclave perimeter and let you take out their defensive shield from here or we’re never going to get at them.”

“But to do so you will require admittance codes and the locations of access points, which you can obtain only from the mutineers themselves.”

“I know.” MacIntyre recrossed his ankles and frowned, pulling harder on his nose, but the unpalatable truth remained. There was no doubt the mutineers had penetrated most major governments—they must have done so, given the way they had manipulated Terran geopolitics over the last two centuries.

Which meant any approach to Terran authorities was out of the question. It was a pity Dahak couldn’t carry out bio-scans at this range; that, at least, would tell them who was an actual mutineer. But even that couldn’t have revealed which Terra-born humans might have been suborned, possibly without ever knowing who had suborned them or even that they had been suborned.

So the only option was the one both he and Dahak dreaded. Somehow, he had to gain access to the mutineers’ base and deactivate its shield. It was a daunting prospect, but once he’d taken out the defenses that held Dahak’s weapons at bay, the mutineers would have no choice but to surrender or die, and MacIntyre didn’t much care which they chose as long as they decided quickly.

The first of the automatic scanner stations had gone off the air, destroyed by the outriders of the Achuultani. Despite the relatively low speed of the Achuultani ships, humanity had little more than two and a half years before they reached Sol … and for him to find a way to stop them.