“How can we be sure the customs personnel won’t detect us?” Will asked as he lowered himself into one of the recesses.
“These deck panels contain thermal masking technology!” Targon replied, as he secured a floor piece over Brink. “Best in the business. Plus, anti-scan tech that will thoroughly obfuscate the interiors. Trust me, ye won’t be discovered. This little craft used to belong to drug smugglers, ye know. Bought it from the impound. Now duck yer heads! And robot, get inside as well!”
Horatio ducked into the last remaining alcove, next to Rhea.
Targon moved from alcove to alcove and reattached the panels with his rod device. Rhea ducked her head when her turn came; the floor piece descended above her, locking in place and plunging her into darkness.
It was lucky she wasn’t claustrophobic. Well actually, that wasn’t entirely true. She didn’t quite like being cramped into such a tight space, but there was nothing she could do about it.
Without vision, her hearing seemed to take over as the dominant sense, and she was more aware of her inhales and exhales, which seemed loud in her helmet.
“Shut off yer comm nodes,” Targon transmitted. “Don’t be emitting signals that will give ye away!”
She obeyed, and lost contact with her companions.
She heard a muted thud—it was picked up by the helmet’s external microphones and retransmitted to her ears via the internal speakers. No doubt it was Targon, brushing against a bulkhead as he jetted past overhead, likely to the cockpit of the Molly Dook, which he called the “bridge.” Then there was only silence.
Several minutes of quiet passed. She heard the occasional clang as someone shifted in an alcove nearby. Those soft noises were a comfort, and reminded her that her friends were still there, similarly confined.
When her entire alcove shook, she knew another vessel had attached to the hull. Another vibration a moment later alerted her to the opening of the main hatch.
She heard intermittent clangs above as individuals shoved off or landed against different bulkheads or floor panels. She did not hear any voices, of course—Targon would be wearing his spacesuit, as would any members of the boarding party, if they were human anyway. She wasn’t sure what the protocol would be if the customs personnel were robots, as Horatio was required to wear a suit when transferring between vessels after all. But even if they were unsuited, their voices would have to be transmitted over a comm channel for Targon to hear in his helmet.
She heard nothing for several moments. Then a distant tapping sounded… a repeated staccato, like that of gloved fingers probing somewhere nearby. The sound gradually increased in volume, as if the customs official responsible was slowly getting closer, tapping his, her, or its fingers across the different deck panels.
If she had a human heart, it would have been beating faster. As it was, Rhea couldn’t help the increase in her breathing.
I’m going to be discovered.
She twisted the righthand glove of her spacesuit, opening it. As soon as the seal was broken, her suit’s internal life support system deactivated. She removed the glove and let it float beside her. She did the same with the lefthand glove.
She did this to expose the Ban’Shar, so that if she had to activate the knuckles, she wouldn’t needlessly destroy the gloves in the process.
The intermittent taps continued until they seemed to be coming from directly above her. She had the impression the customs official was trying to discern if the deck was hollow. Then the tapping ceased entirely.
Rhea froze, preparing for the worst. She held her breath. Silence never seemed so loud.
The tense moments ticked past.
One second.
Two.
Three.
And then the tapping came again, sounding softer. It continued to recede in volume—evidently, the customs official had moved on.
She exhaled in relief.
But then a loud thud came from directly above. She activated her LIDAR and white polygons outlined the alcove. A portion of the metal sheet over her head had bent inward, forming fingerlike depressions where strong digits had wrapped into the panel. Apparently at least one of the customs officials had remained behind, and it was a robot, judging from its strength.
The panel jerked upward violently, and she found herself gazing into the featureless face of a machine, as she had guessed. It was only inches from her own. And it was wearing a space suit.
Instinctively her hand shot up. She smashed through the glass composite of its faceplate and wrapped her fingers around its head. She squeezed, hard, and considered crushing its face in her grip, but something stopped her.
She hadn’t realized it, but apparently she’d authorized the release of nano machines well before she raised her hand, because they began flowing from her fingers and onto that metallic head an instant later.
The robot apparently didn’t have weaponry built into its forearms, because it drew a service pistol and attempted to point it down into the alcove at her, but she grabbed the weapon with her other hand and ripped it free.
Meanwhile, her nano machines crawled into its head via tiny openings: the vents comprising the mouth grill; the small gap between the antennae and the forehead.
She heard a muted clang as another robot shoved off from somewhere, likely toward her hiding place.
She threw the current robot back and it hurtled upward to strike the overhead hard. It repositioned its body, as if intending to shove off from the ceiling, but then it simply ceased moving and floated lifelessly in place. Her nano machines had taken effect.
She braced her body against the partitions of her alcove, ducking lower as she waited for the second robot to show itself.
The robot’s suited upper body floated past above her—it had its pistol pointed downward, into her hiding place.
She shoved off from the deck, activating the Ban’Shar knuckle in her left hand in disk mode to protect herself as the robot opened fire. She deactivated the Ban’Shar the
