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Chapter One


Spin One


“Ugh!” Major Kevin Bowden let the air out of his lungs in a rush as the seven-gee retroboost ended. Finally, he could breathe normally again. “It’s been a while since I was at that kind of acceleration, and you get out of practice fast.”

“We RockHounds don’t do it often enough to get used to it,” Malanye Raptis said. She smiled. “It is wasteful of resources.”

Bowden returned her smile. “Yes, but it was worth it.” The thermal signature had been brief and not pointed in the direction of any of the surveyors. “We did it!” he declared, and held up a hand for a “high-five.”

Raptis cocked her head and looked at Bowden’s hand.

“It’s a—” He looked at his hand for a moment, then he put it back in his lap and sighed. “Never mind. I’m just happy we made it back.” He glanced out the bridge windows of the hijacked Kulsian corvette. The RockHound packet and the stolen Kulsian lighter had maintained formation, and he caught a few glints of reflected light off the nose from the tugs that had been sent out to help recover them. No one—neither RockHound nor SpinDog—had ever piloted a corvette before; common sense dictated it be pulled in carefully.

“I’m relieved, also,” Raptis said. She chuckled. “I never expected this to work.”

“Which part? Stealing a Kulsian lighter, getting a Kulsian corvette to think we were damaged so it would approach us, or commandeering the corvette and bringing it back here undetected?”

“Each step was improbable; to have accomplished all of them . . . well, it strains belief.”

It was all part of the plan, not that Colonel Rodger Murphy had shared any more of it with Bowden than he needed to know. Bowden’s part had been to assist in the hijacking of the corvette that would be used as the template for replicating a whole squadron of copies to stop the coming Kulsian fleet.

“Yeah,” Bowden agreed. “And I’m not looking forward to that part of the debrief where we go over losing half of Tapper’s boarding teams and damn near everything else.” Several of those who’d made it back were still too badly wounded to move. Not only had that taken up a disproportionate share of the available living space, but they’d have to be carried off carefully, necessitating a hard dock when they reached the main SpinDog habitat, Spin One.

“But yet we succeeded.” Raptis’s voice was full of wonder. “Somehow.”

“Yeah, we did.” Bowden winked at her. “But I’m willing to bet that this was the easy part.”

“The . . . easy part?”

Bowden nodded. “Now we have to get the SpinDogs to all work together to copy a bunch of ships, and both the SpinDogs and RockHounds to agree on a plan for how to arm and fight them. And then we have to take on the Kulsians.”

“I’d rather fight the Kulsians than try to get the primae and Legate to agree on anything. It’s probably safer.” Raptis laughed. “Will Murphy be doing that or someone else?”

Bowden winced. “Murphy had Tapper brief the ship takedown; I’m willing to bet that the after-action report is going to be my job.”

Raptis reached over and patted him on the shoulder as the tugs began latching on to the ship. “You have my most sincere condolences.”

It didn’t take long for the tugs to attach and maneuver the corvette into the bay, despite its size and the spin of the core-hollowed asteroid that held the habitat.

Feeling suddenly sluggish in the 0.85 gee equivalent, Bowden shut down the comparatively massive corvette. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go see if they need any assistance with the casualties.”

“They will certainly need someone to show them how to put the ramp down.”

“There’s a ramp?” Bowden asked.

“Of course,” Raptis said. “How else did you think we would exit the ship? Through the boarding tube?”

“Well, I—” Bowden stopped before he embarrassed himself any further. The more I think I know about operating spacecraft, the less I find I actually do. The boarding tube was on the corvette’s main deck, almost four meters above the floor of the hangar—or, as the SpinDogs insisted, the docking bay. The bottom hinge of the ramp was a meter closer, but even at 0.85 of a gee, that was still quite a fall. And for the casualties . . . not good at all.

Raptis led him back to the cargo deck and through the various people who’d been on the mission in various capacities. They appeared to be just standing around—or lying, in the case of the casualties on their improvised stretchers.

“It’s right here,” Raptis said. She shooed a few people back and slapped a large yellow control button. A two-meter-wide section of the deck hinged down, becoming a boarding ramp that reached the deck of the hangar.

Bowden looked at the people waiting to debark and shook his head. How is it that they know how to leave the ship and I don’t? Probably because they haven’t spent all their time on the bridge of it trying to learn how to fly it. Aside from sleeping, he couldn’t remember much time not spent at the controls. Sometimes, he’d slept there, too; they’d had only three qualified pilots to get the three ships back to Spin One.

The ramp touched down with a clang, and Raptis stepped back.

“All ashore who’s going ashore,” Bowden said, motioning to the ramp.

Horace Chalmers, one of the team that had infiltrated R’Bak Downport, raised an eyebrow at Bowden’s distinctly maritime order as he helped his friend Jackson to the ramp. The small African-American sergeant’s thoroughly bandaged head appeared mummified; he was still recovering from a fractured cheek and several other lesser injuries he’d sustained while capturing the lighter they’d used as bait.

Bowden watched Chalmers move slowly down the ramp as still-ambulatory members of Tapper’s boarding teams began carrying stretchers toward it. Major Mara Lee and the SpinDog healer who’d helped her with the birth of her child—Naliryiz—were near the bottom, along with some of the Terran medical personnel. Between that group and the rest of the SpinDog onlookers, three other Lost Soldiers stood facing away from the corvette, hands near their holstered pistols. Hopefully that’s just a precaution and not indicative of some new inter-Family tensions.

“Medics!” Major Tapper called. “Get a doctor in here now!”

Bowden turned back as Harry Tapper and Sergeant First Class Marco Rodriguez set down the stretcher. The man on it—a small, Vietnamese sergeant named Pham—was struggling to breathe. His mouth opened like a fish out of water, but nothing went in or out beside a small trickle of blood.

“Hold on, buddy,” Tapper said. “You made it this far. Just hold on.” Pham pushed against the restraints in a reflex to grab at his chest and spasmed. Harry kept his eyes on his soldier but bellowed, “Medic!

Bowden spun back toward the ramp. The troops going down had run into SpinDog security types who had flowed around the medical team toward the corvette; they were apparently under orders to secure the vessel immediately. The cries from inside the ship energized the growing jam into a frenzy of motion; the groups in the docking bay jostled and squeezed past each urgently as those near the ramp tried to sort themselves into upward and downward lanes.

“Clear the ramp!” Bowden roared, pointing at Korelon; as Tapper’s respected XO, he could expect prompt obedience. “Get our people down to the deck!” He scanned the front ranks of the crowd in the bay, found Mara Lee’s eyes, and pointed behind her at Naliryiz. “And get her up here now!”

Mara nodded sharply, took the healer by the arm, and rushed toward the ramp, elbows out. In a command voice that couldn’t be missed, she yelled, “Out of our way!” Naliryiz was already ahead of her.

As she did, Korelon was ordering everyone on the ramp—regardless of which direction they were going—to jump down over the sides, leading by example.

The ramp cleared as the two women stormed upward. Seeing their approach, Bowden raced over to Tapper, who was still talking earnestly to Pham.

“Stay with me. Help’s coming.”

Pham stilled.

“No!” Tapper yelled. “Stay with me. Damn it, stay here!”

“What’s going on?” Mara asked as Naliryiz bent over the small Lost Soldier, hands already at work.

“We were taking him off, but he started struggling to get air into his lungs,” Tapper replied. “A second later, he stopped breathing altogether and jerked. Looked like he had a heart attack.”

“A heart attack?” Naliryiz asked as she moved her medical sensor to Pham’s chest and listened to its hardwired earbud.

“He grabbed his chest like he was in pain.”

“What can we do to help?” a medic asked as he arrived, trailed by two orderlies.

“Help him breathe,” Naliryiz replied. “He did not have a heart attack. More likely he has a blood clot that has reached his lungs.”

The medic put a device over Pham’s face with a rubber bag attached, and he began squeezing it.

“But he was wounded almost a week ago,” Tapper said with a frown. “No sign of anything since. And now it hits all of a sudden?”

Naliryiz nodded. “Your hard counterboost probably caused the clot to break loose. We must get him down to surgery. We can help him, but there isn’t much time.” She looked at the medic. “You—keep doing that.” She looked back to Tapper and one of his men. “Pick him up. Quickly. Let’s go!”

The group sped down the ramp and were soon lost in the crowd that closed behind them. Bowden kept hoping for another glance as they made for the hangar exit; no such luck. He turned back to the remainder of the team in the ship. “All right,” he said, “nothing else to see, or do, here. Time to turn the ship over to the replication experts.”

* * *

Colonel Rodger Murphy almost stumbled when the current of the crowd moving in the corridor abruptly changed from feeding into the landing bay to flowing out of it. Over the suddenly struggling heads and shoulders in front of him, he heard Mara Lee shouting, “Out of the way! Make a hole!”

Murphy pulled several SpinDogs back against the bulkheads, nodded for his adjutant to do the same. Janusz Lasko, the big Polish submariner who was also his bodyguard, frowned but complied: he didn’t like obeying any order that made him less able to protect his commander. In contrast, Murphy’s first “security overseer,” Max Messina, had always “failed to hear” any directive that impeded his mission: keeping the colonel alive. An annoying habit, but also the hallmark of a professional.

It was that very same, and very large, veteran of the Vietnam War who now pushed out of the crowd like a one-man flying wedge, almost staggering when he hit the open space Murphy and Janusz had cleared. With a nod, he pounded past, sweeping his arms to push any leaning gawkers back against the walls.

Right behind him, Tapper, Rodriguez, and Korelon hustled forward with a stretcher. The feet-first occupant was small: Pham, the senior NCO of the small group of North Vietnamese Lost Soldiers. He had various SpinDog monitors and tubes connected to his chest. Securing his head and watching his vitals, Naliryiz was half bent over him as they moved, oblivious to everything except her patient.

The crowd started backfilling the wake of empty space behind them . . . but more angry shouts cleared them back: Chalmers pounded past, arm around Jackson, whose head was a large, lopsided knot of bandages and medical tape.

“And where is Yukannak?” Janusz muttered. Like many large men, he was notably good-natured, which made his bitter tone all the more significant. Yukannak, a Kulsian collaborator, had betrayed the team shortly after the lighter launched from R’Bak Downport. And if the usually mild Polish torpedo loader wanted a piece of the traitor, then it was a surety that many less peaceful types would be after his scalp. Or possibly more personal parts of his anatomy.

“Yukannak won’t be coming through here,” Murphy answered.

“Why not, sir?”

“Because I ordered him taken directly to a maximum security cell.”

Janusz nodded sharp approval. “Let the dog lick his wounds alone.”

“I’m not locking him up to punish him.”

Lasko frowned. “Then, why, sir?”

Murphy looked back at the man who was almost a full head above his own six feet. “To keep him alive. We still need him.”

Janusz’s eyes shifted to look over his commander’s head. “But—isn’t that him?”

A pair of survivors from the SpinDog boarding team hustled yet another head-swathed figure forward.

Murphy recognized the man’s light build. “Vat?”

The only response from beneath the con man’s bandages was a mumble-punctuated groan as he was half-carried away.

“That is Lieutenant Thomas?” Janusz wondered. “But there was no report that he was injured when they seized the lighter.”

“He wasn’t,” answered the broad-shouldered man who followed along behind.

“Report, Sergeant Roeder,” Murphy ordered sharply.

Tapper’s medical specialist started, peered around Lasko, straightened. “Beg pardon, sir. The lieutenant wasn’t part of the fight to grab the lighter; he’d already been drugged by Yukannak. But he got cocky when he interviewed one of the Kulsians from the corvette.”

“He got ‘cocky’? In what way, Sergeant?”

“Didn’t want restraints on the prisoner, but then leaned into him hard and personal. I wasn’t there, but scuttlebutt said it was about his dirtside girlfriend’s uh, unusual sex play. The Kulsian went ballistic.”

Murphy raised an eyebrow. Vat knew only one Kulsian: Yukannak. Furthermore, most of the intimate information Vat had gathered while at Downport involved members of the gay community. How he’d discovered useful sexual—or possibly romantic—leverage to facilitate the interrogation of an unknown Kulsian crewman was unclear. “And how did Vat get so badly injured? Did he send away the guards?”

“No, sir, but the Kulsian lost his shit so quickly that the guards didn’t dogpile him before he reached the lieutenant.”

“And they couldn’t pull the prisoner off before he rearranged Vat’s face?”

“That’s easier said than done when weightless, sir. And the Kulsian had great zero-gee skills. Our guys . . . well, not so much.”

Two more of Tapper’s boarding team appeared around Roeder, a prisoner held between them, nursing a bandaged hand. When they’d passed, Murphy muttered, “I take it that was the interview subject?” Roeder nodded. “I’m surprised that he’s still alive.” Vat had a sharp, often vengeful temper.

The sergeant obviously thought the colonel was referring to possible payback from the guards. “That Kulsian wouldn’t be breathing now, except that Lieutenant Thomas gave direct orders that under no circumstances was the prisoner to be offed—er, seriously injured.”

Murphy glanced at Roeder. “Why?”

Roeder shrugged. “Don’t know. The lieutenant said the guy was a ‘ringer.’ Which were the last words he spoke before I had to immobilize his jaw.” The sergeant sounded grateful that he’d had a medical imperative to muzzle Vat for the trip back to Spin One.

“Thank you, Sergeant. Carry on.”

“Sir, yes, sir.”

Like Murphy, Janusz stared after Roeder’s receding back. “Colonel, what is a ‘ringer’?”

Murphy shook his head. “A person of special, even crucial, value.”

“But how would this common Kulsian crewman be a . . . a ringer?”

“That,” Murphy said with a nod, “is precisely what I intend to find out.”


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