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Date: Fri, 26 Aug 1994 15:28:20 -0700
From: quanta@netcom.com (Daniel K. Appelquist)
To: quanta-ascii@netcom.com
Subject: quanta-aug1994.ascii: Part 3 of 5
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Reply-To: quanta@netcom.com
The security button beckoned. She hit the white switch again, closing the
line and hit the red switch with an angry jab of her thumb.

"Security?"

The door slid compliantly into the wall, and a tall, lanky figure stood
before her. Behind the black face mask, soft blue eyes seemed to rotate
within their sockets. She didn't even feel the two darts hitting her
stomach until a pair of gloved hands caught her fall and carried her gently
inside.

"Who... what..."

The doorway began to spin and blur, and as the walls closed quietly upon
her, she heard a grainy voice reverberate somewhere in the hazy distance.

"This is security.... Please identify yourself. Hello?"

                           ____________________


The Commodore leaned back, seemingly impressed with the story, and Erik
hoped she wouldn't ask about specifics. He was still fuzzy on the details,
himself.

"Let me get this straight. He wants an interview?"

Erik shrugged, "He wants into ISIS... or so he purports."

She frowned, glancing at the wall image of Roxanne's Palace on Tyber.
Computer generated banks of orange, acid smog blew past the structure's
summit, somehow clouding her eyes with memories of the sunrise on Calanna.

"Commodore?"

"Even had I the clout, I wouldn't use it. It's not like the Navy. ISIS
doesn't take applications. Besides, he's too attached to Clay, who already
proved himself a traitor after we had trusted him."

"According to Caiton."

"The more I think about it, the more difficult I find it to believe this
Mikaelis Caiton. Why did Clay expose his entire network on Tizar if he was
never with us? As a sacrifice?"

Erik nodded, "Perhaps."

"No. Even were they all discards, what did he have to gain by risking
Erestyl?"

"He managed to destroy the operation of Calanna."

"A minuscule victory entirely beneath mention. He won nothing. This
prisoner would have us believe that he sacrificed his life and risked
Erestyl for nothing. Preposterous."

"Maybe Clay had second thoughts. That's the only explanation."

Reece cast him a cool stare, "There is another. He could be making the
whole thing up."

"Too many pieces fit. He knows a great deal. He must have been on the
inside."

She nodded, "That is all he has told us. Nothing more."

"Still, given the possibility that he's telling us the truth, shouldn't we
at least humor him?"

"Yes. We should. Regardless, I do want to meet him. If nothing else, a more
thorough questioning might serve to reveal who he really is."

Beep

"Reece here."

"This is Dunham. There's been an incident at sickbay. Your John Doe has
escaped."

Reece looked up, eyes cold as ice.

"On my way."

                           ____________________


Hunter awoke in the infirmary, a swarm of stewards and part-time medics
darting frantically from null to null. They dressed the patients with
neurogram napkins and monitored pulse rates, such was the extent of their
training. She heard Feso's voice somewhere in the back of the room,
delivering instructions while donning a white service coat over his red and
pink striped pajamas, the only calm voice amidst a babble of cacophony.

"Well look who's among the living." He quickly stepped over, reaching for
her arm as she tried to sit upright. "There, Doctor. Just let it pass."

"The living?"

"Don't worry. Everyone seems fine."

"What happened?"

"You tell me. I just got here."

She glanced over his shoulder as the haze slowly dissipated from her mind.
Commodore Reece stood with the Captain and Lieutenant Torin near the main
desk, a first-class power-huddle if she'd ever seen one.

"You didn't tell me we had guests."

"Doctor..."

"C'mon."

She tore the napkin from her forehead and began traversing the distance
with Feso's shoulder in tow, not a mean task considering his reluctance. It
wasn't that he minded substituting for a pair of crutches. On the contrary,
he'd do anything to help a patient. His hesitation was founded in
cowardice, the prospect of interrupting an impromptu executive conference
rating somewhere between jamming his finger in an iris valve and taking a
long walk out a short airlock.

"Doctor, this is not such a good idea. You should lay back down and rest."

"Steady, Feso. You drop me and it goes on your permanent record."

The Commodore was spitting out orders left and right, her voice crisp and
determined and more than a little peeved.

"I want his image circulated among the crew. Also, post armed stewards at
the lifts and escalators. Shoot to maim."

Shoot to maim?

"Excuse me, sir. Might somebody tell me what's going on?"

"Your patient has escaped, Doctor. What do you last remember?"

Hunter took a deep breath and let go of Feso's shoulder.

"I was trying to enter sickbay, and the door was locked for some reason. I
opened a channel to security. Then the door opened and... everything went
black."

"Hypo darts. You took a double tap in the belly. Did you get a look at
him?"

"I... remember a face mask."

"We found this in your hand."

Reece handed her a flimsi, glowing pink letters scrawled across its face:
"If you ever want to see me again, don't conduct a search. It's tacky, and
you'll only inconvenience the passengers, particularly if you get too close
to me."

Erik broke in, "Commodore..."

Reece put up a steady hand.

"Do you have any idea why this was left in your hand, Doctor?"

"I was the ranking officer."

"Did anyone besides the medical staff and guard have access to the
prisoner?"

"Lieutenant Torin."

"Any passengers?"

"No sir."

Reece pressed her lips together, "One more question, Doctor. Is he well
enough to survive without medical attention?"

"That depends, sir."

"Give me an educated guess."

"Assuming there are no complications, yes."

"Complications?"

"He's very weak. When the regen-compound wears off, his condition will
worsen. How badly, I can't say."

"How soon?"

Hunter glanced toward her thumbnail chronometer.

"He's already past due, but there's a two to four hour grace period on the
compound."

Reece nodded, "There will be a meeting in the executive conference lounge
in two hours. I want an account of inventory losses."

"Aye, sir."

Hunter about-faced as well as her wobbly legs would allow before the
Commodore's words hit her.

"Inventory losses?"

The medicine cabinets hung open, boxes of various drugs and chemicals
scattered haphazardly on the floor. Feso pulled a chair out of the mess,
offering her a place to sit down. She ignored the gesture, bending over to
sort through the contents of some of the emptied boxes.

"What did they take?"

"Haven't had time to check."

She sat down in the middle of the floor, starting to pick up and sort the
miscellaneous bottles, jars, and canisters into tight, alphabetical rows.

"We'd better find out then, Feso. We've only got two hours."

                           ____________________


Johanes administered the injection with all the delicacy of a marsh slog in
heat.

"Oops, missed the vein again."

"Ow... you sure you know you're doing?"

"Don't worry."

If not for Cecil and his bottle of miruvor, Mike figured he'd be heading
back to sickbay on account of his health.

"Told you you'd be out in no time."

Mike shrugged as Johanes withdrew the hypo, placing the empty plastic
capsule in his pocket.

"You're certain about Sule."

"Positive."

"You saw her dead."

"To put it mildly."

"And what about the body?"

Mike accepted a highbowl by way of congratulations, pausing before taking a
sip.

"The body?"

"Anything on it?"

"I don't know. She was wearing a vacc suit."

Johanes shot Cecil a worried glance as he caught the next highbowl, its
course erratic as it teetered, languid, from side to side. Spokes received
the next, and Cecil finally sent his own spinning on a collision course
with the others until it clinked gently against each in consecutive
sequence.

"To freedom."

"To freedom," everyone concurred, everyone except the Draconian.

"I don't want to disappoint you all, but we're not out of the asteroids
yet. We have about enough time for one drink."

"Two drinks," Spokes took another sip and started reattaching his headgear.

"One drink. If they decide to conduct a ship-wide search, I'd like to know
about it before it's too late."

"That would be uncouth."

"That never stopped ISIS before." Johanes gulped down the last of his drink
like a man stranded in the desert. Then he smiled. "I hereby conclude this
celebration. Cecil, you stay here and monitor their communications.
Michael, go to sleep. You've got six hours until the next injection."

"Terrific."

"Don't bitch. Spokes, you're with me."

"Okay, just a sec."

Mike poured himself another highbowl.

"Thanks. Everyone."

"Save your gratitude until we're dirtside. C'mon, we haven't got all
millennium."

"Okay... jeeze."

Mike floated his half-drained highbowl toward the corner of the room as the
door closed behind the dynamic if ill-disciplined duo. Cecil, meanwhile,
leaned calmly beside his multi-wave radio, sipping miruvor and warming a
left-over chili pita in the portable cooker. When it came out, the cheese
oozed between the cracks in the flat-bread like a wad of snot leaking out
the folds of an overused hanky.

"Want some?"

Mike winced, "I'll pass."

"Suit yourself."

"I'd rather stick to liquids for now."

"As in miruvor?"

"Whatever's being served."

Cecil's single camera danced a bit, the cat taking notice and pouncing on
it with claws outstretched, "Your problem is you don't know when to quit."

"Untrue. I haven't gotten drunk for over a week... unless you count being
force-fed by psychopaths."

"Well, congratulations," Cecil said, almost like he meant it.

"Give me a break, Cecil. I'm on my second highbowl which is nowhere near my
face."

"Why the sudden fit of restraint?"

Mike shrugged, "Maybe seeing that old weasel Gardansa slurping it down..."
he grunted, crawling into the null-tube, "I dunno. I was shot recently,
okay?"

"Good excuse as any."

"Besides, I want to keep clear-headed for a change. You check this place
for bugs?"

"You calling Cecil a fool?"

Mike sighed, "Just do me a favor. Check again."

Setting the pita beside his multi-wave, Cecil dug a small box out of his
suitcase. It's antenna telescoped out, and he proceeded to wave it around
the room, switching off the light and then his multiwave as he scanned.

"Light on. You see. Nothing here but us chickens."

"Meow?"

"What's it key on?"

"Electrostatic emissions. Do us a favor and switch off the sleeper."

Mike complied, and Cecil waved the antenna over the null tube.

"Interesting," his friend commented, as though he'd found a strange insect
on the bottom of his shoe.

"What? Something on the sleeper?"

"No. On you."

Cecil poked him with the antenna a few times, finally stopping at the belt
by which Mike's loose-fitting robe was held shut.

"Johanes find this for you?"

Mike untangled it from around his waist, inspecting the stiff fabric until
he found what he was looking for. The bug was flat and circular, like one
of those old coins he used to find in the barrens, only a little thicker
and without a stately, bearded profile on the side.

"One down."

Cecil kept looking, this time even more diligently than before, but the one
was all they found. Cecil finally cracked it open.

"It's just a recorder. Looks like cheap crystal."

He put it back together and dropped it into the portable heater.

"Cheap crystal fries easy."

Mike smiled, "Now that we're alone, you can start by telling me
everything."

Cecil sat down, his camera taking a thoughtful, sidelong pose as it dumped
Pooper-dumper back to the carpet in a fitful of snarls and hairballs.

"Not much to tell."

"Humor me."

Cecil sighed, leaning himself backward until the multiwave became a
makeshift pillow.

"Spokes showed up at the Sintrivani after you left, and we heard about the
air strike over the three-vee. Assumed you were somehow involved, knowing
your aptitude for mischief."

"I'm flattered."

"You should be. One of the offworlders waiting for transport must have
sneaked near the landing platform with a camera, because next thing we see
is Tizar's favorite gatherer hanging out the airlock of an orbit-bound
vessel. Then some explosions in the sky. Made for an amusing show."

"I was on three-vee?"

"More or less. The back of your head was, at least. We knew who it was.
Johanes dropped by a few hours later and basically confirmed what we saw."

"And so you guys decided to rescue me... just for kicks."

Cecil thought about it before answering, as though he was deciding whether
to be polite or honest.

"Johanes gave you less than even odds against Sule. He wanted our help to
finish her off."

"Assassination. This is getting even better."

"One might remind you that you're hardly virginal, Michael."

"I wasn't in it for money."

"Neither was I!"

Cecil spat the words out, pronoun included, pausing briefly to regain his
composure. The cat darted to the corner of the room, certain a voice of
that volume could only be directed at four- legged personages.

"We agreed to aid him in what he wanted, provided that he aid us in what we
wanted."

"Which was?"

"Your rescue, given the unlikelihood that you would still be kicking after
a confrontation with Sule."

Mike smiled meekly, a little embarrassed.

"That's it?"

The camera nodded, "In verbose totality."

"If it was just you, I'd buy it. Why's Spokes here?"

"Like Cecil said before, he seems to like you. We chipheads stick
together."

Mike smirked, "That's pretty weak."

"Then call Cecil a liar. It won't be a first."

"What are you giving him? Free wedgies?"

Cecil chomped another bite from his cheese pita as he pondered the
question. In the hackers lingo "free wedgies" equated to a gratis
apprenticeship, master to novice, wizard to user, or between any other
combination of disparate proficiencies: in short, Cecil to just about
anyone. Before, Spokes was just the aspiring pupil. But now, given the
risks involved, he was encroaching to the point of earning his keep, making
the so- called "wedgies" not entirely free.

"What's it to you, Michael?"

"Well... I guess I'm just curious how this all came about. I've never known
you to team-up with people, much less take on a long-term student."

"Life brings newness."

"Is that what you told Spokes?"

"Not precisely."

Mike laughed, then coughed.

"Try me."

"Get some RL." Real life, he meant.

"C'mon Cecil. Just the main points. You can spare the slogshit."

Cecil smirked, "Courage as an aspect of knowledge. Necessity of the will to
seek. Proof of intents..."

"You waste my time, I waste yours?"

"Stop whining. It got you out, didn't it?"

Mike shrugged defensively, "I'm not whining. I don't really care that
you're using him. It's merely a transaction as far as he's concerned. I
just wanted to know here everyone stands. For some reason," Mike tried to
laugh, "I just couldn't picture you three guys coming all the way out here.
You maybe. I mean, now we're more or less even again. Right?"

"More or less."

"But Johanes and Spokes... I thought I was dreaming."

"Maybe you are."

"No... I've got other dreams. I guess we both do."

Cecil was silent for a bit after that, finishing the pita and sucking down
the last of his miruvor. Maybe he didn't know what to say. Mike tried
closing his eyes, but sleep wouldn't come.

"Y'think we're gonna get out of here, Cecil?"

He didn't answer. Mike wondered if he'd even heard the question. With eyes
glossed over, Cecil was already in the other world.

                           ____________________

"See `em? Self-replication detected. Zoom."

Chief Tuto looked from one monitor window to the other, his brown eyes
narrowing on the detection pings as they appeared, divided, and vanished in
short order. It was just as before, only quicker, as if they knew they'd
been spotted.

"Where are they coming from?"

Dira shrugged, a tangle of amber hair falling over one eye.

"Tracer says medical, but look at the entry log."

"Could be stealthing. Run a CPU verify."

One hand danced over the keyboard, "Yeah... no... well, something was
there. A difference of two percent detected for about... half a second."

"Run a full heads on exit channels, quick."

It was a waste of time, of course, and by the time they got around to
checking out the entry logs, there were no entry logs. Tuto studied the
blank screen with an equally blank expression, finally releasing an
irritated grunt.

"This is getting rude."

"Maybe not."

Her hand did another dance. "Port 129 shows simultaneous closure."

Tuto glanced toward the wall-chart. 129 was one of the public aether ports.
It could be accessed via wireless terminal, open to virtually any person on
board.

"Entry logs?"

"Nope."

"He's not taking chances. And he's too fast to lock in place." He chewed on
the thought. Speed usually bred sloppiness. "Do a frequency comparison on
the ports."

Dira tapped a few more keys, her dark blue eyes scanning the row of
frequencies as they scrolled off the monitor window. "Got it. Here's the
band they were using, and here it's being used on Port 182. Same exact
frequency."

Tuto nodded, not terribly surprised bytheir trespasser's lack of
precautions. Too bad. The game had just started getting interesting.

"Feed in a command stop. We'll lock him in place and check the entry logs."

Her fingers complied, and the keyboard locked up as though somebody had
yanked it off the desk.

"Huh?"

Tuto went to another console. Same story. He slammed a fist on the keyboard
in frustration. Dira put a hand on his shoulder.

"That won't help."

"It makes me feel better."

"Look at the port display."

One-eight-two flashed all the way from the command console to the security
desk, as cruel a set-up as he'd ever witnessed. Dira seemed to smile at
their predicament.

"We got re-routed, sir."

Tuto pushed the air from his lungs and began pacing around the room,
re-booting each of the consoles in turn. It would be several minutes before
they were back online, and somebody out there was making the most of the
time, probably laughing hysterically.

"This is getting very rude."

                           ____________________

It felt a little like free-ditching off the Aerial Palace, the rush of
adrenalin and anxiety clawing at the will's outer shell. He could break a
sweat just thinking about it, because every time the possibility of fate
catching up was both real and expected. They had a place called "Gyron's
Fall," named after some poor sap whose grav-restrainer failed. Not his
fault. It just suddenly decided to up and quit in mid-air. Became the
biggest joke halfway across the Realm. Gyron ended up bouncing, and they
dug a little crater and buried him head-first, his feet sticking up with a
pair of boots that had foggers in their soles, such was the Draconian sense
of humor. Johanes remembered laughing out loud at the time, wishing he
could have been there.

"It's locked."

Spokes waved his hands in an apparently arcane gesture as the door slid
open. Johanes regarded his triumphant expression with all the amusement it
deserved.

"We're on a schedule here, okay?"

"Sorry."

Spokes followed him inside with a casual waltz, a sharp contrast to his
crisp-collared maintenance uniform. That was okay. It made him look like he
knew what he was doing. Johanes paced about the room, flipping a power
screwdriver end over end.

"There are fire sprinklers in here."

"So there are."

"Here, hold this."

The chiphead still regarded the canister with a mixture of curiosity and
ambivalence. All he knew was that it held clear liquid sandwiched between
white powder and a fan, each separated by a sheet of impacted polymer with
radio-controlled shutters. Enough information for the average ten-year-old,
Johanes figured, opening a vent.

"There's a sensor in here also."

"So?"

"Tell Cecil we'll need to deactivate it just before this is triggered. All
of them. This has to work perfectly or we all get caught. Understand?"

"I still don't know what you're talking about."

Johanes bit his tongue. Spokes knew, all right. He just didn't want to
admit it, the perfect conspirator, hedging all bets by feigning ignorance.

"Relay the message. Can you do that much?"

The tall one sighed and finally nodded, soft blue eyes seeing no ready
alternative.

                           ____________________

"First of all, we're going to find the escapee. There are no alternatives.
There will be no excuses for failure."

Reece stared around the chamber, slowly taking in all their expressions.
Every officer in the room knew that organizing a ship-wide search on a ship
the size of the Crimson Queen was no mean task. The deadline only increased
the challenge.

"As you all know, we'll be dropping back into normal space in about nine
hours. The traffic situation at Tyber will be enough of a problem without a
fugitive to worry about, so it would seem that time is of the essence. Keep
that fact in mind while you make your reports. Captain?"

Dunham leaned forward, nodding to the Commodore as his broad mass shifted.
With the press of a button, Mike's image materialized over the conference
table in three dimensions.

"This is the man we're looking for. Pictures have already been distributed
to the crew, several of whom have noticed a likeness with this man."

He pressed the button again, and the jacks were replaced by an unkept mane
of long brown hair.

"His real name is Michael Harrison. He's a gatherer with the Tizarian
division of Galactic Press. We believe he has two allies on board. They
used hypo guns with a short-duration sedative in order to incapacitate the
guard stationed at the cage. They also tranquilized Dr. Hunter and two
specialists."

Reece interrupted, "Has the hypo compound been identified?"

Hunter nodded, "Senthinol-3. It's a consumer product made at a number of
systems in this sector. Been in circulation for the past three centuries."

The Captain looked around slowly, drawing presence from the silence before
continuing.

"Harrison is wanted for homicide on Calanna. He is also suspected of
impersonating an ISIS operative in order to get aboard, a felony under
interstellar law."

"He's wanted for homicide?"

Dunham nodded, "Apparently, but we don't have any details."

It made sense. The Calannans were generally private about such things. But
that didn't explain why he wasn't caught.

"They must have sent us his image recognition code."

"Yes, but because of the unusual way he attained passage, he was never
checked out."

Reece bit her lip.

"Any idea on how his associates got the cell combination?"

"We have a theory. Security ran a level two diagnostic of the ship's
computer after the break-in. They found a number of recon---worms. We've
been attempting to trace their source, but so far, no luck."

"You're saying they broke into the system and just read the combination?"

"So it would seem."

Reece bit her lip again.

"Those combinations are well protected. Why wasn't an alarm activated?"

"We don't know."

"How are they avoiding our trace?"

Dunham turned toward a petty officer at his right. "Chief Tuto?"

"They're using a variety of means. Stealth, entry-log erasures,
misdirection tactics. They've also found out how to slip into unused
frequencies unobserved."

"I thought all unused frequencies were observed continuously."

"They've managed to draw out our observation routines and are sending data
packets between the check points. We also believe they're using above-board
frequencies for voice transmissions."

"Have you conferred with communications about this?"

"Actually sir, they were already aware of it." He nodded across the table
to another officer. Tabor shifted in his seat, realizing he was suddenly
on-stage.

"Uh... six hours ago..."

"Who are you?"

"Tabor. Ensign. First Class. Communications Officer, sir."

He looked raw, like a typical navy recruit, the coppery-orange hair cropped
so close to his head that his appearance reminded her of a turnip. She
guessed that his problem had more to do with nerves than hair. He seemed so
scared it made her jitter just to look at him.

"Go ahead, Ensign."

"Six hours ago, one of our engineers noticed some very interesting readings
>from an instrument which measures fractures in the normal-space bubble
around the ship. The device operates by bouncing a short-wave signal along
the bubble's area perimeter."

"Excuse me, Ensign," Reece waved from the other side of the table. "Is this
going to take a while to explain? We don't have time for a lecture in
astrophysics."

"Umm... I'll be brief, sir."

"Very brief."

"Yes sir. The gist of it is that this radio frequency is being used
continuously while we are in hyperspace, but to someone unfamiliar with
engineering, it looks like normal line noise between usable bands, thus
qualifying it for exploitation by a tight frequency transmission."

"You're telling me that they're using a voice frequency which is already in
use?"

"Anyone sufficiently skilled in communications can compress transmissions
into data packets, fire each one off several times, then decompress the
packets, check for inconsistencies caused by the line noise, correct, and
presto; they're using a frequency which also happens to be in use by a
non-sentient system, and their transmission goes through entirely
undetected. But in this case, it didn't."

"I think you just confused me more. Try the gist again."

Tabor took a deep breath, "Okay. Prior to jump, they must have been looking
for an above-board frequency with residual noise. Something that wasn't
being used, but that had enough random noise on it that it wouldn't be
scanned like a clean frequency where their transmission would be picked up
in an instant. This frequency qualified perfectly. The computer was running
tests on it by generating random noise, transmitting it externally to the
sensor, and making comparisons to see whether or not the sensor was
operating within its safety parameters."

"So you're saying this particular band was ideal for their purposes?"

"Very much so. If this had been an older craft where the comm system isn't
as tight and clean as it is on this ship, they would have had a lot more to
choose from, but on this vessel we don't really have any junkie above-board
frequencies, so their choice was very limited."

"And our engineers caught them when their transmissions interfered with the
operation of the sensors."

"Correct."

Reece nodded, "I understand, but why wasn't this reported immediately?"

Tabor took a deep breath, "I didn't learn about it until I came on shift
about three hours ago, and at that point I didn't believe it. By the time
the second transmission rolled around, I was convinced, but..."

"There were two?"

"Three, sir. The first six hours ago which lasted for a minute or two. The
second, a little over two and a half hours ago, which lasted only few
seconds. And the third began a little over two hours ago and has been
continuous since then."

Reece bit her lip yet again, this time hard enough to make her reconsider
the action.

"Let me get this straight. Harrison has been using a restricted frequency
for the past six hours, the past two hours continuously, and this is the
first I hear of it?"

"Sir, we didn't even know what we were dealing with until news of the
prisoner escape started to circulate. For all we knew, it was some sort of
localized hyperspace phenomenon or even a prank."

"A prank?"

"Yes sir."

Reece regarded Dunham with a sinister stare, and the Captain's dark cheeks
grew rosy under her scrutiny.

"Well, it's a relief that the crew has grown proficient at entertaining
themselves. We wouldn't want morale to suffer. Ensign, can we pinpoint the
signal source?"

"Not with the equipment on board."

"Can you at least tell us what it's saying?"

"The instrument's readings are used and removed from computer memory in a
continuous cycle, so we lost the first transmission entirely. That's gone
forever. The second one lasted only for a few seconds, and I've already
tried around a thousand standard decryption routines, none of which has
worked. I wouldn't put too much hope on us ever deciphering its contents,
at least not any time soon, and certainly not without very powerful
computer support. The current transmission is still being saved, but I
expect that we'll find the same problem we're having with the second."

Reece took a deep breath, "So in other words, no."

Tabor just sat there looking pale.

"In the future, Ensign, when I ask you a question, don't give me a speech.
A yes or no will suffice."

"Aye, sir."

"Can you jam the frequency?"

"Yes, sir."

"Do it. Immediately. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir."

He saluted and exited.

"Chief Tuto, I want all passenger access to the computer stopped and aether
port access restricted to pre-verified frequencies. You're dismissed."

"Aye, sir."

Reece waited for him to leave as she studied the stony expression on
Dunham's face. He seemed to be waiting for some comment, or perhaps a pat
on the head. She might have obliged him had she a sturdy club.

"Pranks?"

"They do happen, sir."

"We could have spotted this hacker hours in advance if there hadn't been
such leniency. Now that they've had hours to feel out our system..."

"It makes them all the more dangerous," he took the luxury of completing
her thought.

"I want one of your people to run through the passenger lists and see who
looks like they might qualify. Unless those have already been erased."

"Will do, sir."

"Also, see if any of the passengers are mentioned in our library records as
being associated with this Mr. Harrison."

"Of course."

Reece leaned back, seemingly examining the ceiling.

"I'd like to order a re-boot as well."

Dunham smiled, "Not a good idea, sir."

"No, not while we're in hyperspace," the Commodore reluctantly agreed.
"Lieutenant."

Erik snapped to attention, "Yes, sir."

"Give me a scenario."

He took a breath, "Gatherer in search of a story. He learns more than is
wise; breaks some planetary laws. He decides to turn tail but gets cornered
at the starport. He calls us, pretends that he's an ISIS agent, and we
obligingly offer him a ride. His friends figure out what happened easily
enough. They rescue him."

"A great deal of risk on their part. And what about Erestyl? What about the
information we so ardently desire?"

Erik bit his lip. "More than likely it is gone, blown to bits by Clay.
Perhaps he wasn't lying except about his own role."

"If he is simply a gatherer, then how did he happen upon Draconian
fleximesh?"

"Bought it at a Calannic yard sale?"

"Right," Reece smiled, then frowned again, looking back across the table at
nobody in particular. "It seems to me this whole thing reeks of the DSS,
and who more willing to take such a risk, provided the pay-off is right?
Which would suggest that Harrison is important to them alive. All the more
reason for us to take him alive. Commander Simms?"

"Sir."

He had broad-shoulders and a square jaw, the sort that made her wonder if
he spent his free time doing push-ups in three-gee while chewing down
carrots and ironweed.

"Are we prepared for a top to bottom?"

"Yes, sir."

"Word to the troops?"

"Shoot to maim, sir."

"I don't want him dead."

"Aye, sir."

She began to wonder if there was a half a brain in there. Then she noticed
the look on Hunter's face, half way between fear and urgency.

"Doctor, you look like you have something itching up your backside."

"Yes, sir."

"Spit it out."

"Well, first of all, I think this Mr. Harrison is in trouble... to put
things mildly, sir."

The Commodore's eyebrows arched playfully.

"Enlighten me."

"We found several vials of Torogon-66 missing from our stores. It's a
wide-spectrum regen-formula common to the outer worlds. We've kept it in
stock for patients who are unsuited or prove allergic to the in-house
compound."

"So?"

"The Torogon formula is never injected directly following use of our
in-house compound without an intervening stabilizer and a twelve hour
waiting period. If this isn't done, the interaction of the formula and our
compound will cause a high-potential for misreads of the patient's DNA."

"What, he mutates?" said with a smirk.

"I doubt he'll live long enough for that. It'll begin by wiping out the
delicate systems, two critical ones being the immune and nervous systems.
He'll lose control of his lungs in a day or two, and he'll have to invent a
new way of fending off opportunistic viruses sooner than that."

"Did they take any stabilizers?"

"I haven't found any missing."

Reece nodded, "We can only assume that our thieves are pharmaceutically
inept. They have probably already injected him. Is there any treatment?"

"Yes, there's a compound called Anamesa."

"Go on."

"It'll stop the interaction between the regens and boost the immune system
so the body has time to restore itself, but if it isn't applied within the
first six to twelve hours, you can forget it. It'll be too late to do
anything without extensive medical resources, much greater than we have
onboard."

Dunham sat upright, "How soon until he gets sick?"

"Like I said, it varies, though usually by the time the patient is
seriously ill, it's too late to apply the Anamesa. You can still
artificially boost their immunity to specific diseases, however, the damage
to their system, per se, is already there."

"And restoring it is not easy."

Hunter shook her head, "Some might say impossible."

The Commodore grinned from ear to ear, "I hate to be celebrating another
person's misfortune, but all in all, that's excellent news. I want our
supply of Anamesa destroyed, and I want our mind-scanner readied for use."

"Sir?"

"You have moral reservations, Doctor?"

Hunter averted her eyes. "Sir, we have never used the mind-scanner."

"You don't have trained staff?"

"No, it's not that. I just... it's over ten years old. I don't even know if
it'll work. And as for destroying the Anamesa, if you do capture this Mr.
Harrison, that may be the only thing you have to bargain with."

"Oh, don't worry Doctor. We'll capture him. I just have no intentions of
serving him the opportunity to live, and besides, this way it isn't
anyone's fault." She smiled, then frowned.

"What is it, Doctor?"

"They took more than the Torogon-66."

"Such as?"

"Hydrochloric acid and potassium cyanide."

"Enough to pose a threat?"

"Not to the entire ship, but to a small section, yes. I would like poison
filters circulated to the crew and passengers."

Reece shook her head, "We don't have enough except for the senior officers.
I wouldn't worry about it too much Doctor. It's a lame threat. He's asking
us what its worth to catch him. The answer is yes... it's worth a few
lives."

"I am prepared to declare quarantine."

"That won't be necessary." Reece shrugged. "They probably won't use it.
They would have nothing to gain and everything to lose. I could see them
smuggling it to Tyber, but..."

"And that sits well with you?"

"The Tyber Corporation is just barely Imperial aligned as it is. We owe
them no favors."

"Sir, the Tyberian population is extremely impacted. In such an
environment..."

"I know, Doctor. Look, cyanide gas is easy to make; its components are easy
to come by. Nobody will trace it to us, and even if they do, we can simply
deny involvement."

"Commodore..."

"Don't argue with me, Doctor. There's more at stake than you may realize."

"Sir... with all due respect, human life is at stake."

Reece felt her cheeks flush red with anger. What did she think this was? A
playground?!

"Doctor, I can see that you've been under a great deal of stress lately. I
don't want you to take this the wrong way, but I'm relieving you of your
post until we leave the Tyber system. I want to you get some rest, and
under no circumstances are you permitted to discuss any of this with
anyone. Understood?"

"You're relieving me of duty?"

"Affirmative."

"Sir..."

"Don't argue with me, Doctor. I'm made up my mind. Now go to your quarters
and get some rest."

"But sir..."

"That's an order."

Hunter took a deep breath. "Yes, sir."

                           ____________________


The bridge seemed imersed in slumber as Tabor exited the lift. The reason
was fairly apparent. Most of the officers took their sleep shift during the
ship's final hours in hyperspace. It was a common practice. Everyone wanted
to wake up and be ready for sightseeing. That was the real attraction to
working on board a liner.

Of course, somebody had to stick around. The Captain didn't want people
calling the bridge to end up talking to a computer. It would leave a bad
impression, and people would start wondering if anybody was ever up there
in the proverbial nerve center. It was such a joke. The computer was in
charge while in hyperspace, and everyone knew it. They just refused to
accept it.

So while everyone else was dozing, he and Lish often had the whole place to
themselves. A communications officer had to be there. Communication still
went on, hyperspace or normal space, it didn't matter. But she was a sensor
operator. She could go to sleep, though she seemed to prefer the solitude,
fiddling with the equipment during the wee hours, programming new image
recognition routines, skimming library files, and generally being a
nuisance or a quiet companion as the mood suited her.

"How'd it go?"

"Oh... not so well."

She grinned, turning back to her work station.

"Lots of questions?"

"Yeah. A few too many. Oh, terrific. What are they doing now?"

She turned around again.

"What is it?"

"These bastards. I don't believe this. Just when I'm about to jam their
frequency..."

Lish studied the monitor from over his shoulder, "Why is everything
blinking?"

"They using the clean bands, must be switching continuously. They're not
even trying to disguise it anymore."

He hit a switch, listening for the familiar pop signaling a channel
opening.

"Bernie?"

"Huh? Oh, hi."

"Bernie, have you been watching the free lanes lately?"

"Yeah. Did you just freak the system? I think it's space sick."

"It's working fine. Look, I'm gonna need you to hook up our wide-band
transmitter."

"The shouter?"

"Yeah. We need to jam all the free lanes."

"All of `em? What's up?"

"Freeloaders."

"Ah... so we've got a little war on our hands, do we? Just gimme a minute
or two to get it online, and we'll have `em sending smoke signals."

                           ____________________

"Okay, open sesame."

The door complied, and Johanes peeked inside, spraying a canister of
air-freshener from ceiling to floor. The Lieutenant's cabin was decked out
more nicely that he probably deserved. Queen-sized null tube, a full length
wall monitor, and the sort of fluffy red carpet that suggested Imperial
royalty.

"Hmmm... cozy. A trifle insecure but very cozy."

"Don't you think you're over-doing it?"

Johanes turned around, "One can never over-do it."

*Beep*