Space Stations

“He's hiding,” one of the other gunmen said, sniffing the air distastefully. Defense Three was far off the standard tourist route, and it hadn't been properly cleaned in ages. Even for Bob, who was used to such things, the scent of old metal and new mildew was a powerful combination.

“Of course he is,” Forste said, lifting his gun another couple of inches. Bob held his breath; and then, to his relief, Forste merely smiled and took a step back. “But that's all right,” he said. “We have three days; and Space Fort Jefferson isn't all that big. We'll find him ourselves.”

“Three days until what?” Drexler demanded.

Forste regarded him coolly. “Three days until President Ukukho comes within firing range of this station, of course,” he said. “Three days until the people of Earth and the Colonies are brought face-to-face with the determined men of Free Norway.”

“Free Norway?” Bronsoni asked, a puzzled look on his face. “I didn't even know it had been locked up.”

“Don't be an imbecile,” Forste snapped, his eyes suddenly glowing with revolutionary fervor. “All of us are locked up in our own ways. Norway in particular has been imprisoned by a corrupt press, a bloated welfare bureaucracy, and the insidious, multitentacled cod industry. It must stop.”

“How will killing President Ukukho help you?” Kelsey asked.

“It will bring system-wide attention to our plight,” Forste said, his eyes blazing even brighter.

“Yes, but—”

“How exactly do you intend to accomplish this?” Cummings asked calmly.

Forste focused on him. “Of course,” he said, the fire in his eyes fading back to something approaching normal. “You want to learn our plans in hopes of defeating them.”

He shrugged. “But since you have no way to communicate with anyone outside this station, I see no reason not to tell you. It will be a rapid-fire, three-pronged attack as they reach their closest approach. First, a carefully targeted spread of laser blasts will blind their antimissile defense sensors. Next, two Disabler torpedoes will be launched to paralyze the escorting ships. And finally, a single Hellflare missile into Space Force One itself…”

He left the sentence unfinished. “And the whole Solar System will suddenly understand your problems and tribulations and flock to Free Norway's side?” Cummings suggested.

“Of course,” Forste said, as if that was obvious. “All the oppressed peoples of the System will rise up as one.”

“And destroy the evil cod industry.”

Forste's eyes narrowed again. “I don't like your attitude, Agent Cummings,” he said.

And flipping his gun casually toward Cummings, he fired.

Bob gasped as the boom of the shot hammered into his ears. Drexler shouted something and started into a leap that would probably have cost him his life if Hix hadn't grabbed his arm and kept him back from the terrorists.

As for Cummings himself, his expression never even twitched. He glanced down at the red stain spreading rapidly across his chest, looked back at Forste, and collapsed to the deck.

“Get him to the medpack!” Bob snapped, taking a step toward the fallen man.

“As you were, Ranger Epstein,” Forste snapped back.

“I'm a Park Service Ranger,” Bob countered, ignoring the order and kneeling beside Cummings. “I have an oath to keep, and that oath includes rendering aid to anyone on my station who needs it.”

He looked up at Forste, trying to ignore the gun now pointed directly at his left eye.

“And even the oppressed peoples of the System,” he added, “don't appreciate someone who guns a man down in cold blood and then refuses him medical assistance.”

For a long moment Forste seemed to think that one over. Then, as casually as he'd shot Cummings, he raised the muzzle of his gun away from Bob's face. “I suppose they don't,” he conceded. “Very well. Take him away.”

The medpack was probably two generations behind standard Park Service medical equipment, which meant it was at least five generations behind state-of-the-art for the rest of the Solar System. But it was good enough to diagnose the problem, remove the bullet from Cummings's right lung, and plug him into the coma-nutrient rapid-healing system.

“It says he'll recover to within ninety-seven percent of normal capability,” Bob told Forste, peering at the med-pack's display. “Looks like he'll be in a healing coma for…

sixty-two hours.”

“Sixty-two hours?” Forste said incredulously. “That's ridiculous.”

“That's what it says,” Bob insisted, pointing at the countdown display.

“Any medpack I've ever heard of could patch him up in a tenth that time,” one of the other terrorists insisted suspiciously.

“This is an old and discontinued model,” Bob told him. “It has a lot of problems.”

“Doesn't matter,” Forste said. “Two and a half days. That will still have him up and around in time to watch the show.”

He took a step closer to Bob. “Now. I've done you a favor by letting him live. Your turn.

Where is Ranger Wimbley?”

Bob sighed. “I already told you. He's on a supply run to Ceres.”