Vector: 9/9
by Nancy Smith and Linda Garrick
9
The "Leviathan" docked at Space Station Seven nearly five hours later. The station was a top security base with a limited area for visiting crewmen. The area consisted of a bar, a lounge, a viewing room and a tiny library. Nothing fancy. The rest of the place was sealed off and no one was permitted inside without proper authorization.
Mombasa, however, had been inside twice during his tenure as a Squadron Commander, and he knew what the authorization looked like. Part of his time in his quarters before the arrival of the "Leviathan" had been spent fabricating himself a set of orders. It hadn't been easy but he had finally succeeded, even to an excellent copy of the Viceregal Seal, courtesy of an anonymous gentleman contacted for Mombasa through a small-time forger who resided in one of the seedier sections of Drevelle. It had cost a small fortune, too, but it had certainly been worth it.
When the ship docked, Norton at once headed for the library. Jed stretched out on his bunk, put the pillow over his face and started to snore. Rick was still brig-bound, along with his opponent, and Mombasa was free to proceed with his plan.
His heart was doing flip-flops as he headed for the Security point. This was the point of no return. If his forgeries didn't pass muster, there was no way for him to escape. He inhaled deeply and took firm control of himself as he strode up to the checkpoint.
The guard accepted his orders without comment and glanced at them. "Helmet off, please."
Mombasa removed his helmet. The guard looked at him and then at the picture on the orders. "All right. Thumbprint here and sign the pad."
Mombasa did so. His palms were sweating and he prayed that the guard wouldn't notice. The guard checked the signature, slipped the sheet bearing his picture and signature into a slot in the panel next to him. A series of bleeps sounded and the sheet slid out of another slot. A light flashed red on the panel. Mombasa forced himself not to exhale in relief. The guard glanced at it and pressed the control under his thumb. The force field dissolved and Mombasa entered the base.
He took care to adopt a casual but businesslike manner as he strode down the corridors, heading for the central power generator. The "Leviathan" had an hour's layover on the station, according to the schedule. What he intended to do would take only a few minutes, and after he had accomplished it he would have about twenty minutes to get out. Not a large margin, but enough, he hoped. He had to time it just right, so that things didn't go blooey before the ship left, or he wouldn't have to worry about how to escape the vengeance of the Jils. But at all costs he had to succeed. The lives of everyone on Nindili depended on it.
He found the generator room without difficulty by simply following the map near the Security gate, thoughtfully provided for newcomers to the station. Again, he glanced at his chronometer. The security check and admittance to the station had taken nearly fifteen minutes, and the trip to the generator room had eaten up another five. Forty minutes left before the ship departed.
Then he jumped uncontrollably as an intercom directly over his head boomed suddenly. "Alert! Alert! Security Camera Malfunction. Security Alert, Stage One!"
He took another deep breath, and tried to will his heart back to its normal place in his chest. Wow! What incredible luck! A Security Alert, Stage One meant that the security cameras were out throughout the station and therefore all critical areas would be assigned a guard until the problem was resolved. No one suspected anything -- yet, anyway.
His original plan had been to lure the generator techs to the wall where the security camera was placed so they would be out of the range of the camera. Then he would deal with them, switch clothing with one and continue his sabotage in full view of the camera, trusting that no one would decide to check on the location of the other tech in the short time that he required to finish.
The Security Alert made things considerably easier. With a silent thank you to all the Fates, he stepped into the generator room.
As expected, there were two technicians on duty. One of them turned toward him. "You the guard?"
"Yeah."
The man turned back to his work without another word. The other didn't even turn around. Mombasa drew his blaster and fired two needle beams.
The men folded silently to the floor. Mombasa dragged them quickly out of range of the monitor, just in case the cameras should come on again. He regretted the necessity of what he had just done, but the lives of the people on Nindili were more important. He glanced at his chronometer. Thirty-five minutes.
Moving as fast as he could, now that all obstacles were out of the way, he located the indicator for the status of the primary and secondary thermal vents and removed a carefully prepared computer disk from his pouch. His computer science background in college and his training as an engineering tech in his early Patrol career served him well now. Quickly and deftly, he slipped the disk into the station's engineering computer. The program on the disk erased the previous instructions to the computer regarding the alarms for generator emergencies and introduced a new set of directions. A second disk wiped out the programming for the backup systems.
There was the sound of the outer door opening. Mombasa drew his blaster and was waiting as the guard entered.
The guard never knew what hit him. Mombasa removed the other man's helmet, glancing at the nameplate as he did so and pressed the com unit control. "Patrolman Riggs reporting from the generator room. All secure."
"Acknowledged, Riggs," came the reply.
He clicked off the com, glanced at his chronometer and went back to work. He manually closed the primary and secondary heat exhaust vents and quickly checked the board. All the readouts appeared to be within normal limits.
Mombasa let out his breath and turned toward the exit. In the hall, he secured the door behind him and used the needle beam to weld the lock shut. If anyone entered the room too soon the alarm would surely be triggered, but a door that gave someone trouble was less likely to alert anyone immediately.
Again he checked his chronometer. Thirteen minutes to ship departure. It would be very inconvenient if he were to be left behind.
He moved, striding rapidly toward the exit and reached it in less than five minutes. His orders were in his hand as he approached the guard post. His time was short, but the chances were that he would be aboard and the ship would be in hyperspace before all hell broke loose.
The guard faced him. "Sorry, Patrolman. No one is to leave the station until the Alert is over."
Mombasa paused per force, since the force field was on. "What do you mean? My ship leaves in less than eight minutes. I have to go."
"Sorry. Orders."
The guard's hand was resting on his blaster and his eyes were alert. A real gung-ho fellow, Mombasa thought disgustedly. Not the type to be easily surprised.
He tried again. "Look man, if I miss the ship, Thoroski's going to skin me alive. I've been late once already this week and he warned me --"
"Next time don't leave things until the last minute. Sorry."
"But --"
"Cool your jets, Patrolman. I have a Commander to answer to, too. I'm not letting you out."
His chances weren't good, Mombasa knew, but if the ship left without him he would have no chance at all. He was going to have to jump the guy and try not to get himself dead in the process. It probably wouldn't work, he acknowledged. The guard was too alert and a bit suspicious of him. He was most likely going to be shot, but there was no longer any choice.
The sound of booted feet, approaching from behind, brought him sharply around. Strike Commander Thoroski strode into view.
"Open the field, Patrolman!" he barked.
The guard seemed to shrink in the presence of the Strike Commander. "Uh, I'm sorry, sir, but I can't let anyone through until the Alert is terminated."
"I countermand your orders. Let me through."
"I'm sorry sir," the man faltered, "but I can't. It's against regulations. Base Commander Lang gave the order, himself."
"I am Strike Commander Thoroski, Patrolman, and I countermand the order for myself and my crewman. Open the field, *now*."
The man seemed to shrink even further but Mombasa saw him tighten his grip on the blaster. "I'm sorry, sir, but I can't."
Someone was approaching from the opposite direction -- two someones. Through the lightning-flicker of the force field, Mombasa saw Dr. Gallagher and Greg Smythe. The guard half-turned toward them. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I can't let anyone in or out. We have a Stage One Alert in progress."
"I got a call, Patrolman. Commander Lang's been injured. Open the field, quick!"
Distracted, the man turned even more and Thoroski's blaster was suddenly in his hand. A stunbeam hummed and the guard folded silently to the deck. Mombasa stared in shock but Thoroski gave him no opportunity for questions. He leaned forward, pressed the switch to extinguish the field and grasped Mombasa by the arm. "Run!" he snapped.
Uncomprehending, Busaidi Mombasa found himself sprinting forward between the Strike Commander and the doctor. Smythe ran before them.
"Time?" Thoroski snapped.
"Two point six minutes," Greg said, not glancing at his chronometer.
The ship's airlock opened as they approached and the ramp descended. Mombasa was propelled up the ramp by the doctor and the Strike Commander. The acceleration warning was sounding as they came through the doors and the airlock clicked shut behind them. Thoroski spoke into his helmet communicator. "*Go*!"
The repulsers roared and Mombasa went to his knees as the ship surged outward. Gallagher and Thoroski pulled him to his feet again. The inner doors of the lock opened with a sigh of compressed air.
"Go with Greg, Patrolman Merriweather," Thoroski said. He turned and headed toward the control room lift at a trot.
Gallagher met Mombasa's astounded gaze, grinned and sketched a brief salute. "Nice work, Commander," he said, softly. "Be seeing you." He turned and strode down the corridor.
Smythe's hand was on his elbow. "This way, sir." Numbly, Mombasa followed the valet.
**********
The Strike Commander's quarters on the "Leviathan" were very similar to his own, Mombasa thought irrelevantly when Greg Smythe let them into the cabin, minutes later. Greg crossed the cabin on light feet and snapped on the viewing screen. Mombasa saw the image of Space Station Seven receding as the ship accelerated outward, and then the station erupted in an enormous, silent, globular explosion.
"Whew!" Greg watched for another moment and then turned back to Mombasa. "Cut that a bit close, didn't we? Blasted guard!"
Mombasa let out his breath in a long whoosh. "Yeah." His voice didn't want to work right.
Smythe extended a hand. "Welcome to the Terran Underground, Squadron Commander."
Mombasa took it, still slightly dumbfounded. "Terran Underground ..." His mind seemed to grind slowly back into life as he took in the reality.
The valet nodded. "Unless you want to spend the rest of your life as a fugitive from the Jils, of course, and somehow I doubt that."
Mombasa sank slowly down on the Strike Commander's bunk. His mind was whirling, but above it all was a sudden unexpected sense of hope. The bleak future that he had envisioned for himself didn't have to be. "Thoroski's a member of the Underground." He said it aloud, almost unable to believe it.
Smythe nodded, a faint smile on his lips. He crossed to the liquor cabinet, opened it and removed a tall bottle of ruby-colored liquid. "Sepo brandy," he said, by way of explanation as he efficiently poured two glasses and presented one to Mombasa. "Drink it. You'll feel better."
Mombasa obeyed. The valet was right, he realized a minute later, as he swallowed the drink. He sat watching Greg Smythe, his thoughts whirling. "How did you know?" he asked at last.
The little man smiled more widely. "How do you think?"
The light dawned. "You're a psychic."
"That's right," Greg replied. "I was originally planted here to watch Thoroski. Then things changed and he came over to Terra's side. We've worked together ever since." He shook his head. "I picked up the nervous vibes from you the first time we passed each other in the corridor. You didn't notice me, but I noticed you. I couldn't help it. So I arranged to meet you by the lift." He raised his eyebrows. "Wow! It was a good thing I already suspected you or I might have given myself away." He took a swig from his glass. "So I talked to Thoroski and we arranged with Dr. Gallagher to put you where I could do a thorough reading. Then we decided you could use some help."
"Yeah," Mombasa said. "I guess you were behind the failure of the security cameras."
"Actually, Thoroski was," Greg said. "I was just there in case of emergency."
Mombasa found himself smiling. "Thanks for pitching in. I probably wouldn't have made it without help."
"Probably not," Greg agreed. "Still, you would have saved Nindili, even if you hadn't made it off the station. Now, the question is, how do you want to go on from here?"
"I guess that depends on you," Mombasa said. "Any suggestions?"
Greg nodded. "I suggest that you stay here for the remainder of the trip. I'll be doing some intensive conditioning on you. If you're ready by the time we get back, you can resume your post as Squadron Commander. If you're not -- well, you can be delayed a bit. Something beyond your control, like illness or an accident. We'll get you ready, one way or another."
"You mean, I can return to my ship?"
Smythe nodded. "Thoroski returned to his, and so did Dr. Gallagher. So have a lot of others." He paused. "Your position as a Squadron Commander is too good to waste if we don't have to."
"I guess I can see that." Mombasa contemplated his brandy glass. "I was going to be married in three months."
"I know," Greg said soberly. "Commander, most of our members don't live on isolated bases somewhere. Most of them live in their own homes with their families. Of course, you wouldn't live at home on Nindili, since you're in the Patrol, but there's no reason to change your plans. In fact, there's every reason to go through with them. The best defense, besides mind shielding, is to be as normal in your day-to-day life as possible." He met Mombasa's eyes with a respectful expression. "Patrolman or not, when it really mattered you made your choice without hesitation. You were willing to sacrifice your future and even your life to save your home world from a horrendous fate. Few men or women have that kind of courage and we need that sort of person working for Terra." He reached forward to touch his glass against Mombasa's. "Welcome aboard."
**********
Epilogue
Squadron Commander Busaidi Mombasa strode aboard his ship, casually returning the salute of a passing junior officer. The corridors of the great vessel were quiet. They were due to depart from Corala in three hours and most of the crew was still ashore.
Lieutenant Mackey was standing by the lift and saluted respectfully. "Good leave, sir?"
"A great leave," Mombasa said.
"Oh? Where did you go?"
"I went home. Patched things up with an old girlfriend and with my parents."
"Oh yeah?" The patrolman grinned. "Sounds kind of tame."
"Depends on how you define tame," Mombasa said. "I'm going back at Christmas. Getting married."
The man's eyebrows went up. "Married! I guess it must have been *some* leave, after all."
"You have no idea," Mombasa said.
"Well then, congratulations, sir."
"Thanks, Lieutenant. I'll be in my quarters."
"Nice to have you back, sir."
"Thanks."
His valet, Marcus Greenburg, met him at the door. Marcus, he had discovered during the trip back from Space Station Seven, was in reality Colonel Marcus Greene of the Terran Underground. He was one of five Terran Underground agents planted aboard the ship. The Underground had a habit of placing their well-conditioned men aboard battlecruisers in the position of Strike Commander's valet to keep a close watch on things. Marcus wasn't a psychic, but he was a highly trained officer in charge of all other Underground agents on board. Greg Smythe hadn't been exaggerating when he had told Mombasa that there were plenty of Undergrounders in the Patrol. In fact, everyone who had witnessed the destruction of the station -- the crew of six in the Control Room and the two men in Engineering -- had been members of the Terran Underground.
The ship's log reported now that the "Leviathan" had arrived ten minutes before it actually had, and had left exactly one hour later. Their entry into hyperspace would have occurred a full four minutes before the station exploded, and the "Leviathan's" crew had remained blissfully unaware that anything out of the ordinary had occurred until their arrival back on Corala. Greg had told Mombasa that the crew had collectively felt a bit cheated that the rest of the Patrol knew about it before they did.
Marcus smiled disarmingly at him. "Good leave, Commander?"
"The best," Mombasa said. "Yours?"
"Pretty good, sir."
Marcus didn't know yet about Mombasa's change of loyalties. Greg had asked Mombasa if he would like to break it to the colonel, himself. Mombasa set his bag on the deck and stretched. "Think I'll have a shower and shave before takeoff, Marcus."
"Very good, sir."
Mombasa crossed to the bunk. "And while you're unpacking, maybe you could fix us both a couple of Shallock Sepo Brandies."
The valet froze in mid step. After a second he turned, his face carefully expressionless. "I -- beg your pardon, sir?"
"Two Shallock Sepo Brandies, Marcus."
"I ... uh ... think we're out of stock, sir. May I recommend Paroli Liqueur in its place? It's of comparable quality."
Mombasa grinned, flopped down on the bunk beside his suitcase and extended his foot. Automatically, Marcus knelt to remove the boot. "Thanks," he said. "The quality of Paroli Liqueur isn't to be questioned, but I prefer Terran Napoleon Brandy."
Marcus kept his face down as the recognition signal was completed. Carefully, and with great deliberation, he finished removing Mombasa's boot and set it aside. Mombasa could feel his uncertainty and could almost see the wheels in his brain turning, seeking confirmation. Slowly, he reached for the other boot and began to unfasten it.
"Well," Mombasa said. "Want to try some other inane formula, or is one enough?"
Marcus set the second boot aside and looked up, his face impassive. "What color is Halthzor's underwear this week?"
"Lavender with cerise polka dots and lime fringe, I was told."
Marcus began slowly to grin. "Welcome aboard, sir."
"I was told to report to you," Mombasa said.
Marcus's grin widened. "And my first order to you is that while we're in enemy territory, you will treat me exactly the same as you always have. I'm Marcus, and you're Squadron Commander Mombasa ... sir."
"Naturally," Mombasa said.
Marcus got to his feet and picked up the boots. "I'll have these shined and ready before takeoff, sir." He cocked his head at Mombasa. "Tell me how it happened."
The End
