The Icarus Hunt Part 3

"Boscor Mechanics Guild."

"Good outfit," I said, shaking his hand. He had a good solid grip, the sort you'd expect of a starship mechanic. "Been waiting long?"

"No, just a couple of minutes," he said. "Kind of surprised to be the first

one.

here, actually. From the way Borodin talked last night, I figured he'd be in as soon as the gates opened. But the entry's locked, and no one answered when I buzzed."

I stepped over to the base of the stairway and touched the OPEN command on the keypad. There was a soft beep, but nothing happened. "You check to see if there were any other ways inside?" I asked, looking up at the ship again.

"Not yet," Jones said. "I went around that Trink's bow first to see if I could see Borodin coming, but there's no sign of him that direction. You want me to circle the ship and see what's on the other side?"

"No, I'll do it," I said. "You wait here in case he shows up."

I headed aft along the side, circling the rest of the small sphere, then walking alongside the engine section. Seen up close, some of the hull plates did indeed look like they'd been fastened on by Jones's semi-trained chimps. But for all the cosmetic sloppiness, they seemed solid enough. I rounded the thruster nozzles-which looked more professionally installed than the hull plates-and continued forward along the starboard side.

I was halfway to the smaller sphere when a pair of indentations in the engine section caught my eye. Thirty centimeters apart, they were about a centimeter wide each, and an exploring finger showed they were about two centimeters deep and five more down, running to an apparent point. Basically like the latch grooves for a snap-fit lifeline, except that I'd never seen two of them set thisclose together before. Peering up along the side of the hull, squinting in the glare of the rising sun, I could see what looked like four more pairs of the slots rising in a vertical line to the top of the engine section.

I mulled at it for a moment, but I couldn't come up with any good reason to have a group of latch grooves here. Still, considering how unorthodox the rest of the Icarus's design was, I wasn't inclined to waste too much brainpower on the question right now. The ship's specs should be in the computer; once we were off the ground, I could look them up and see what they were for.

On impulse, I pulled out the now useless guidance tag and tore it in half.

Loosely wadding up the pieces, I carefully stuck one into each of the lower

two.

latch grooves, making sure they were out of view. The thin plastic wouldn't block or impede any connector that might be put into the slot, but the act of insertion would squash the plastic down to the bottom of the groove, leaving proof that something had been there.

I finished the rest of my inspection tour without finding anything else of particular interest. The wraparound tunnel/airlock we'd seen on the port side had no match on the starboard, as I'd thought it might, and there were no other entrances into the ship that I could see. By the time I returned to the stairway, there were four others and their luggage waiting with Jones: two men, a Craean male, and-surprisingly enough, at least to me-a young woman.

"Ah-there you are," Jones called as I came around the curve of the smaller sphere to join them. "Gentlefolk, this is our pilot and navigator, Captain Jordan McKell."

"Pleased to meet you," I said, giving them a quick once-over as I joined the group. "I sure hope one of you knows what's going on here."

"What do you mean, what's going on?" one of the newcomers demanded in a scratchy voice. He was in his early twenties, thin to the point of being scrawny, with pale blond hair and an air of nervousness that hung off his shoulders like a rain cloak. "You're the pilot, aren't you? I thought you pilots always knew everything."

"Ah-you've been reading our propaganda sheets," I said approvingly. "Very good."

He frowned. "Propaganda sheets?"

"A joke," I said, sorry I'd even tried it. Apparently, humor wasn't his strong point. "I was hired off the street, just like all the rest of you were."

I sent a casual glance around the group as I spoke, watching for a reaction.

But if any of them had had a different sort of invitation to this party, he was keeping it to himself. "I'm sure we'll all have our questions answered as soon as our employer arrives," I added.

"If he shows up," the other man murmured. He was tall, probably around thirty years old, with prematurely gray hair and quietly probing eyes. His musculature was somewhat leaner than Jones's, but just as impressive in its own way.

"He'll be here," I said, trying to put more confidence into my tone than I felt.

Having a murder charge hanging over Cameron's head was going to severely cramp his mobility. "While we're waiting, how about you starting off the introductions?"

"Sure," the gray-haired man said. "I'm Almont Nicabar-call me Revs. Enginecertification, though I'm cleared to handle mechanics, too."

"Really," Jones said, sounding interested. "Where'd you journeyman on your mechanics training?"

"I didn't go through an actual program," Nicabar said. "Mostly I just picked it up while I was in the service."

"No kidding," Jones said. Apparently our mechanic was the terminally sociable type. "Which branch?"

"Look, can't we save the social-club chat till later?" the nervous kid growled, his head bobbing restlessly as he checked out every s.p.a.cer that came into sight along the walkways.

"I'm open to other suggestions," I said mildly. "Unfortunately, as long as the entryway's locked-"

"So why don't we open it?" he cut me off impatiently, peering up at the wraparound. "A cheeseball hatch like that-I could pop it in half a minute."

"Not a good idea," Jones warned. "You can break the airlock seal that way."

"And that would leave our hull/EVA specialist with nothing to do," I said, turning to the Craea. "And you are, sir?"

"I am Chort," the alien said, his voice carrying the typical whistly overtones of his species, a vaguely ethereal sound most other beings either found fascinating or else drove them completely up a wall. "How did you know I was the s.p.a.cewalker?"

"You're far too modest," I told him, bowing respectfully. "The reputation of the Crooea among s.p.a.cewalkers far precedes you. We are honored to have you with us."

Chort returned the bow, his feathery blue-green scales shimmering where they caught the sunlight. Like most of his species, he was short and slender, with pure white eyes, a short Mohawk-style feathery crest topping his head, and a toothed bird's bill for a mouth. His age was impossible to read, but I tentatively put it somewhere between fifteen and eighty. "You're far too generous," he replied.

"Not at all," I a.s.sured him, putting all the sincere flattery into my voice that I figured I could get away with. The entire Craean species loved zero gee, whether working in it or playing in it, with the lithe bodies and compact musculature that were perfect for climbing around outside ships. On top of that, they seemed to have a sixth sense when it came to the depressingly regular hull problems created by hypers.p.a.ce pressure, plus the ability to evaluate the condition of a plate through touch alone.

All of which meant they were highly in demand for hull/EVA positions aboard starships, to the point where ship owners frequently tried to cajole, bribe, or otherwise steal them away from rivals in port. I wasn't sure how Cameron had managed to get him to sign on with us, but a little ego-ma.s.sage here and there wouldn't hurt our chances of keeping him here.

Unfortunately, our nervous type either didn't understand such subtleties or just didn't care. "Oh, give it a rest," he growled. "He saw your luggage, Chort-you can tell there's a vac suit in there."

The blue-green scales edged with the pale red of surprise. "Oh," Chort said.

"Ofcourse. There's certainly that, too."

"Don't mind him," I told the Craea, controlling my annoyance with a supreme effort. "He's our certified diplomacy expert."

Jones chuckled, and the kid scowled. "I am not," he insisted. "I'm electronics."

"Do you have a name?" Nicabar asked. "Or are we going to have to call you Twitchy for the rest of the trip?"

"Har, har," he said, glowering at Nicabar. "I'm Shawn. Geoff Shawn."

"Which just leaves you," I said, turning to the woman. She was slim, with black hair and hazel eyes, probably no older than her mid-twenties, with the sort of lightly tanned skin of someone who played a lot outdoors. Like Shawn, she seemed more interested in the pa.s.sing pedestrian traffic than she was in our little get-acquainted session. "Do you cover both the computer and medical specialties?"

"Just computers," she said briefly, her eyes flicking to me once in quick evaluation, then turning away again. "My name's Tera."

"Tera what?" Jones asked.

"Just Tera," she repeated, giving him a coolly evaluating look.

"Yes, but-"

"Just Tera," I cut Jones off, warning him with my eyes to drop it. She might just be the shy type; but there were also several religious sects I knew of who made it a policy to never give their full names to outsiders. Either way, pressing her about it would be pointless and only add more friction to a crew that, by the looks of things, was already rapidly reaching its quota.

"Means we're missing our medic," Nicabar put in, smoothly stepping in and filling the conversational awkwardness. "I wonder where he is."

"Maybe he's having a drink with Borodin," Shawn said acidly. "Look, this is stupid. Are you sure that entryway's sealed?"

"You're welcome to try it yourself," I told him, waving at the keypad and wishing I knew what our next move should be. I certainly didn't want to leave Cameron behind, particularly not with a murder charge outstanding against him.

But if the Ihmisits had already picked him up, there wasn't much point in our hanging around, either. Maybe I should give Ixil a call over at the Stormy Banks and have him do a quiet search.

From above me came the ka-thunk of released seals and the hissing of hydraulics, and I spun around to see the entryway door swinging ponderously open. "What did you do?" I demanded, looking at Shawn.

"What do you mean, what did I do?" he shot back. "I pushed the d.a.m.n OPEN b.u.t.ton, that's what I did. It was unlocked the whole time, you morons."

"Borodin must have had it on a time lock," Jones said, frowning. "I wonder why."

"Maybe he's not coming," Tera suggested. "Maybe he never intended to in the first place."

"Well, I'm not going anywhere without the advance he promised," Shawn said flatly.

"Besides which, we don't know exactly where we're supposed to go," I reminded them, stepping past him and peering up the stairway. It canted to the right at a slight angle, one more example of slightly shoddy workmanship to add to my growing list. I could see a glowing ceiling light over the hatch inside thewraparound, but nothing else was visible from this angle.

"He told me we were going to Earth," Chort offered.

"Right, but Earth's a big place," I reminded him. "With lots of different parking s.p.a.ces. Still, we might as well go in." I picked up my bag and started toward the stairway- "Hang on a second, Jordan," Jones cut me off. "Someone's coming."

I turned around. From around the stern of one of the nearby ships a large, bulky man was jogging toward us like a trotting hippo, a pair of travel bags bouncing in his grip. "Hold on!" he called. "Don't leave yet. I'm here."

"And who are you?" I called back.

"Hayden Everett," he said, coasting to a stop beside Tera and taking a deep breath. "Medic certificate. Whew! Had some trouble at the gate-didn't think I was going to make it."

"Don't worry, you're not the last," Jones said. "Our employer hasn't shown up yet, either."

"Really?" Everett said, frowning. He had short black hair and blue eyes, and the slightly squashed features I usually a.s.sociated with professional high-contact sports types. Up close, I could see now that, unlike Jones and Nicabar, most of his impressive body ma.s.s ran to fat, though there were indications there'd been a fair amount of muscle there once upon a time. He was also crowding fifty, considerably older than the rest of our group, with an impressive network of wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

I could also see that despite the implication that he'd jogged along the slideways all the way from the gate, there was no sheen of sweat on his face, nor was he even breathing all that hard. Despite his age and surface fat, his cardiovascular system was apparently in pretty decent shape.

"Really," Jones a.s.sured him. "So what do we do now, McKell?"

"Like I said, we go inside," I told him, starting up the steps. "Revs, you get to the engine room and start your preflight; I'll find the bridge and get things started from that end. The rest of you, bring your luggage and find your stations."

Given the Icarus's iconoclastic design I knew that that last order was going to be a challenge. To my mild surprise, someone had antic.i.p.ated me. The wraparound tunnel curved around the smaller sphere to a pressure door at the surface of the larger sphere-apparently, the whole wraparound served as the ship's airlock- and attached to the wall of the corridor on the far side of the pressure door was a basic layout of the ship.

"Well, that's handy," Tera commented as the six of us crowded around it, Nicabar having already disappeared in the other direction along the wraparound to the engine room. "Where's the computer room?-oh, there it is. Odd placement."

There was a murmur of general agreement. The interior layout was fully as odd as the exterior design, with the three levels of the sphere laid out in possibly the most arbitrary fashion I'd ever seen. The bridge was in its standard place,nestled just behind the nose cone on the mid deck; but the computer room, instead of being connected to the bridge as usual, was at the opposite end of the sphere, pressed up against the wall of the smaller sphere on the starboard side of the centerline, directly behind the wall we were currently looking at.

The machine shop, electronics shop, and EVA prep area were slapped together on the port side, where vibrations and electronic noise from one would inevitably slop over into the other, with the sick bay and galley/dayroom across the corridor from them just forward of the computer room.

The top deck consisted of six cracker-box-sized sleeping cabins and an only slightly larger head, plus two main storage rooms; the lower deck was two more sleeping cabins, another head, the main bulk of the ship's stores, and the air- and water-scrubbing and reclamation equipment. There were other, smaller storage cabinets scattered around everywhere, apparently wherever and however the designer's mood had struck. The three decks were linked together by a pair of ladders, one just behind the bridge, the other aft near the wraparound.

I also noticed that while the wraparound and engine section were drawn with a certain minimal detail, the smaller sphere was drawn as a solid silhouette, labeled simply CARGO, with no access panels or hatches shown. When Cameron had said the cargo was sealed, he'd meant it.

"This has got to be the dumbest ship I've ever been on," Shawn declared in obvious disgust. "Who built this thing, anyway?"

"It'll be listed on the schematics," I told him. "Tera, that'll be your first job after you get the computer up and running: Pull up the plans so we can see what exactly we've got to work with. Everyone else, go get settled. I'll be on the bridge if you need me."

I headed up the corridor-literally up it; the Icarus's floors were sloped at the same ten-degree angle as the ship itself-and touched the release pad set into the center of the door.

Considering all the extra s.p.a.ce the Icarus had over the Stormy Banks, I might have expected the bridge to be correspondingly larger, too. It wasn't. If anything, it was a little smaller. But whatever other corners Cameron and his cronies had cut with this ship, at least they hadn't scrimped on vital equipment. The piloting setup, to my right as I stood in the doorway, consisted of a full Wurlitz command console wrapped around a military-style full-active restraint chair, a half-dozen Valerian monitor displays to link me to the rest of the ship, and a rather impressive Hompson RealiTeev main display already activated and showing the view out the bow of the ship. To my left, the other half of the room was dominated by a Gorsham plotting table connected to a Kemberly nav database records system.

And sitting in the center of the plotting table were an envelope and a large metal cash box.

I stepped over to the table and crouched down, giving the box a long, careful look. There were no wires that I could see; no discolorations, no pa.s.sive triggers, nothing that struck me as an obvious b.o.o.by trap. Holding my breath, I.

picked it up and eased it open a crack.

Nothing snapped, flashed, hissed, or blew up in my face. Perhaps I was getting paranoid in my old age. Exhaling quietly, I opened it the rest of the way.

Inside was money. Crisp one-hundred-commark bills. Lots of them.

I looked at the cash for another moment, then set the box back on the plotting table and opened the envelope. Inside were a set of cards, the originals of the registration and clearance papers Cameron had showed me in the taverno lastnight, plus a single sheet of paper with a hand-printed message on it: To the captain: Due to circ.u.mstances beyond my control, I will not be able to accompany you and the Icarus after all. I must therefore trust in your honor to take the ship and its cargo to Earth without me.

When you reach Earth orbit, please contact Stann Avery at the vid number listed at the bottom of the page. He will give you specific delivery instructions for your cargo and arrange your final payment. The settlement will include a substantial bonus for you and the others of the crew, over and above what we've already agreed to, provided the ship and cargo are delivered intact.

In the meantime, the initial payments for all of you are in the box, as well as the money for fuel and docking fees you'll need along the way.

Again, my apologies for any inconvenience this sudden change of plan may cause you. I would not be exaggerating when I say that delivering the Icarus and its cargo safely will be the most significant accomplishment any of you will ever do in your lives. It may in fact be the most significant deed any human being will perform during the remainder of this century.

Good luck, and do not fail me. The future of the human race could well lie within your hands.