FOUR
Less than a hundred hours later, drifting at the edge of the libration point with the deflectors at full power, they watched up close the melted sheathing around the dark hole leading straight into the wreck. The outer layer of frozen helon took incredibly beautiful shapes. The evaporating white-hot metal had hardened in a split second in contact with the absolutely cold vacuum. Many of these fragile sculptures had been destroyed during the wreck’s century-long passage through space, but several had been preserved remarkably well. They could admire one of them in full close up now. A geyser of molten metal had spurted from the wreck’s innards and solidified in the eternal frost, creating a shape in which a human form was clear even for someone devoid of imagination. The helon giant was pointing its outstretched arms toward the perfect blackness of space. There were more limbs than necessary, and one might have caviled at the proportions, but nonetheless this masterpiece didn’t seem any more avant-garde than the sculptures gracing the fashionable contemporary art galleries on the Federation’s planets.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” Morrisey pointed at the crystal-white melted helon. “As though Mother Nature wanted to warn us―”
The piercing wail of an alarm siren interrupted him. Iarrey lunged for the control panel and with one slap restored silence on the bridge; a silence that was immediately filled with the shouts of the crew members.
“Shut your traps, you clones-of-bitches!” Henrichard Morrisey’s shrilling voice was as effective as Iarrey’s hand a moment before. “First Officer, report!”
“Active mine on a collision course,” whispered Iarrey. Everyone heard him quite clearly in the deadly silence.
“So what?” the captain snarled contemptuously at him. “It’s not the first and it won’t be the last. What is that junk anyway?”
“M7.” The first officer still didn’t raise his voice.
Morrisey blanched; all saw it.
“Patient Death,” Nike murmured.
Thus had that kind of plasma mine been christened years ago and thus was it still called. Planted by rebels in the last phase of the conflict, chiefly in the proximity of the Federation’s transport nodes, they were capable of lying in wait, perfectly camouflaged, for decades; and so they took a bloody toll on the stellar routes long after their creators had surrendered. They hung someplace in space, concealed in their designated positions, waiting for that one and only victim, even though the war was long over. Left to themselves, forgotten, but utterly self-sufficient, self-homing, and almost indestructible smart, powerful high explosives against which there was no defense.
“What are the readings?” Morrisey asked in a much less confident voice.
“It locked on to us eight seconds ago,” Iarrey replied. “It’s a classic rebel tech.”
“Distance?”
“Seven hundred and fifty clicks to the blast zone and falling.”
“Honey …”
“I have all the coordinates. I’m slowing our approach.”
“How much time left?” the captain asked.
“Seven minutes tops, if Annataly knows what she’s doing.” Iarrey needed a few seconds to answer the question.
“Watch your own arse,” cornet-pilot Davidoff-Rozerer pouted.
Morrisey, who had already put himself together, looked at the cadet.
“Any suggestions?” he asked.
“The best tactic in this case is to reduce approach speed to a minimum, send out a distress signal, and abandon ship in the stern rescue capsules before the craft enters the blast zone, sir!” Nike trotted out obediently.
“Sure, sure.” A grimace somewhat resembling a smile appeared on the captain’s face. “That’s what the textbooks say. We love this tub like our own home and we’d rather die than let it be damaged, wouldn’t we?”
The rest of the crew nodded, without much conviction, though.
“So what would the army do in this case?”
Nike said nothing. The captain spat on the grille, activating the extractors.
“Number One, put on a spacesuit,” Morrisey said after a moment of awkward silence, “and go to the bow airlock. Numbers Two and Three will wait in full kit in the port and starboard secondary airlocks. Number Four will go to the hold by the rootler. Kitted out in a full spacesuit, too. We’ll defuse the mine during our approach. You’ve got a minute to carry out my orders.”
Morrisey got up from his chair before finishing. Nike didn’t even flinch when the Nomad’s captain disappeared behind his back. The foul odor of grease mixed with the spicy smell of the stuff he never stopped chewing told the cadet his new superior officer had stopped right behind him.
“But waking them will take—” Nike felt a shiver run down his back.
“True, Cadet. The problem is the numbers are still sleeping soundly and the only crew member we can sacrifice right now is you.” He heard the captain’s voice just behind his right ear.
“I beg to report, sir, that the use of inexperienced cadets to defuse smart mines of this class would be suicide,” Nike answered, trying to stay calm.
He was aware of his abilities, which weren’t much greater than those of the other four cadets. He also precisely knew the parameters of the mine standing in their path. That combination didn’t leave a shadow of doubt.
“True.” This time, Morrisey’s voice was behind his left ear. “Have I never mentioned I really am one nasty bastard?” the captain asked and suddenly snorted with laughter.
Surprised by his reaction Nike shuddered involuntarily, feeling a slight spray of saliva on his ear and the back of his cropped head. He glanced nervously at the other crew members. They didn’t look as worried as they had a moment earlier.
“M7, Patient Death, armed and dangerous,” the captain continued, amused, appearing in Nike’s line of vision again. “Do you know what it really means?”
Nike shook his head.
“It’s an absolute guarantee that no one has ever rummaged around in our giant’s bowels,” Morrisey smiled meaningfully. “The Mark Seven is a terrifying weapon, which sowed terror in the hearts of our crews. A ruthless killer you can’t escape from. Unless you happen to have …”
He turned and raised an eyebrow inquiringly.
“… the deactivation codes?” Nike finished the sentence timidly.
“Excellent, my young friend!” the captain slapped his back and laughed aloud. “High Command was kind enough to supply us with the available set of code tables, both ours and the rebels’. All we have to do is decipher the code sent with the localization signal, give the appropriate response sequence, and our M7 will become a regular pile of scrap, and our numbered buddies won’t wake up before we’re back from rifling through our untouched haul of treasure. You won’t be asking for time to change your underwear, will you?”
“Treat that joke as a baptism of fire,” Annataly added. “We usually do it to the numbers, but sometimes one has to make do …”
Nike smiled, seeing the amused expressions of the others, but frowned just a moment later. If they wanted some fun they’d get some.
“You mentioned the available set of tables. Does that mean we don’t have all the codes?”
He noticed with unalloyed pleasure that sweat beaded the forehead of the gorgeous navigator, Iarrey rushed to the control panels, and Morrisey paled once again. This time, the captain didn’t even have to pretend.