Collision with Chronos

Heshke was taken aback. One could not help but have respect for Ascar’s penetrating intellect, whatever the state of his mental health might be.

“I’m surprised to see you take this attitude,” he admonished. “I thought you were as anxious to see the aliens defeated as anyone.”

Ascar merely shrugged, scowling derisively, and continued engorging steamed rice in rapid spoonfuls.

They returned to Gann’s room. “Plainly we can’t count on him to help at first,” the officer conceded reluctantly. “Nevertheless I don’t think he’ll refuse us technical assistance when the time comes. We’ll just have to tackle the dangerous part by ourselves.”

Heshke, whose enthusiasm for the venture was less than he cared to admit, sighed. “I don’t see how we’re going to manage anything. Just us against the whole ship!”

“It’s our duty to try, whatever the odds. Besides, if we fail it will still remain our duty to kill ourselves before this ship reaches its destination. We can’t allow them to interrogate us. So we have nothing to lose.” Gann looked grim. “We’ll have to kill Ascar, too.”

“Very well. So what now?”

“I’ve evolved a plan.” Gann reached into his tunic and drew out a sharp-bladed knife.

“Where did you get that?” Heshke asked, astonished.

“From the ship’s kitchen. I wandered in there, and managed to pick it up before they shooed me away.”

“It’s still not much,” said Heshke doubtfully.

“It’s not all. Wait.”

He unbuttoned his tunic and pulled up his shirt, then probed a spot on his abdomen, just under his ribs, with his fingers. “Feel there.”

Heshke obeyed. He felt a hard lump under the skin.

“Something the Chinks don’t know about,” Gann said, with a note of satisfaction. “A vial of nerve gas.” Suddenly he thrust the knife at Heshke. “Here.”

“What?” Heshke blinked.

“Cut it out!”

Though squeamish with distaste, Heshke complied. Gann lay down on the chair-couch and took the cuff of his sleeve between his teeth. Heshke plied the knife, uncomfortably aware of the other’s pain.

Fortunately the capsule was only just below the skin. It had been cleverly grafted in, so that the skin showed no trace of surgery. Heshke wondered whether all Titans were similarly equipped. Probably they were, he thought. It was like all the other thoughtful touches of Titan elitism: the blood-group tattooed on the inside of each man’s arm, for instance.

The capsule came out easily, an egg-shaped spheroid slippery with blood. “Thanks,” Gann gasped. “I could have done it myself, but I was afraid I’d make a mess of it.”

“You’re bleeding quite a bit,” Heshke commented.

Gann looked around, snatched up a cloth that covered a small table and tore a strip off it with strong hands. He passed it around his waist, binding up the wound.

“That’ll do for now. This is our plan of operations, Heshke.” Gingerly he took the capsule, wiping off the blood. “Our first requirements are, one: weapons, and two: command of the control room. Now, most of these Chinks don’t seem to carry weapons, but you’ve seen those ones dressed differently from the others – wearing blue jackets with high collars?”

Heshke nodded.

“I’ve reason to think that they do. They’re probably officials or troops of some sort. There’s always one of them standing guard outside the control room. You’ll walk up to him and engage his attention. Then I’ll come up behind – right?” He brought up the knife, going through the motions of grasping a man from behind and cutting his throat.

His stomach turning over, Heshke nodded.

“Right. Then we’ll take his gun, and chuck the gas capsule into the control room. It’s very quick-acting, but disperses after about half a minute, so we’ll be able to take over. If anyone does come charging out before the gas gets him, we can simply shoot him.”

“And what do we do then?”

Gann frowned. “Then, I’m afraid, we’ll have to improvise. There’ll still be the rest of the crew to deal with. But we’ll be in a good position – at the nerve centre of the ship, and with plenty of weapons at our disposal. At least they’ll know they’ve been in a fight.”

Murder isn’t my business, thought Heshke as they made their way toward the execution of Gann’s plan. I’m an archaeologist, a middle-aged archaeologist. I wish there was some way out of this.

But there wasn’t.

In a way their being devs made it easier; not like killing True Men.

But even killing a dog was unpleasant.

The thoughts were still spinning around in his mind when they came to the last intersection before the control room. Gann touched his elbow encouragingly and slipped off down a side passage.

Heshke continued on until he arrived at the demilune where some swing doors gave entrance to the control room. There was always a Chink standing here, like a commissionaire before the door of an expensive hotel. At the sight of him Heshke froze, momentarily paralysed. The Chink was so young, so affable-looking.