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x-radiation and ionization levels were within acceptable range.
The icons of the position monitor indicated that I had emerged at precisely
the coordinates I had calculated, five hundred kilometers from the cometary
nucleus in a matched solar orbit, with the bulk of the comet between
Chispa and the trundling broom tender, and the sun in line with all three of
us.
So far, so good. Now for a look at the iceberg itself. I toggled the aft
sensors, since the comet lay behind me and slightly to the left, and 2231 -001
-Z1 came onscreen.
Chispa was so close to the comet that the filmy double tail could not been
seen. Even the hoodlike envelopes of the corona were invisible, lost in the
pixie-dust glitter of the inner coma. I
had expected the sunlit nucleus to be chunky and irregular in shape,
resembling close-up images
of other comets I'd studied in long-ago astronomy classes back at the
University of Arizona on
Earth. But I'd forgotten that Zl was a near-virgin, making its latest pass
around the sun after lurking for nine million years in the outer reaches of
Kedge-Lockaby's solar system. It was no misshapen clinker but rather a nearly
perfect sphere, turning very slowly as I watched, mesmerized.
The surface was reddish-black, a thin cindery crust of polymerized organic
material punctuated with countless holes and crevices like an enormous sponge.
From the orifices, luminous jets spewed at me, straight as a die and glowing
with rainbow splendor, fountains of
mingled water-ice crystals, dust, and gases sublimed from the comet's frozen
interior by the heat of the sun. To me, Zl looked almost like a celestial sea
urchin with hundreds of luminous spines radiating from its sunlit side, an
eerie and beautiful simulacrum of life.
I gave
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Chispa a minuscule nudge with the AG thrusters, emerging from behind the
comet, and picked up the broom tender, which was presently some eight million
kilometers distant. It had not changed course, so I assumed it hadn't seen my
exit flash and spooked. The odds were good that
Zl's electromagnetic hyperactivity would conceal whatever small-scale
maneuvering
Chispa now did within the inner coma.
I had 24.55 minutes in which to prepare my ambush.
Chapter 4
Romping through interplanetary space in a mechanical excursion suit is not my
favorite activity, but there was no other way I'd be able to abduct Branson
Elgar from the tender. The more efficient ship-to-ship docking maneuver
customarily used by Qastt and human pirates (and smugglers) would not have
been a prudent option unless I first disabled my quarry's engines.
Unfortunately, only a primo gunner could manage the trick without also
breaching the hull and killing the tender's occupants, and I didn't qualify.
I'd be lucky to do a decent job firing bluff shots as I'd planned.
I linked the cerebral command headset into navigation and made certain that
all the peripheral-
vision displays were functioning. The lower data crawl-strip, evanescent
little yellow letters that blurred if you tried to look at them directly,
said: 19
MINUTES TO TARGET INTERCEPT INITIATION
.
Right. I visited the captain's head, relieved myself of some of the coffee I'd
drunk, then trudged off to the excursion bay to don armor for the joust.
I propped two units, doing a special job on the one intended for my prisoner,
which I tethered to my own suit with a six-meter steel flex on a zing reel.
After I had disabled the internal command and monitoring systems of Elgar's
suit, switching its controls to the computer in my own unit, the number-two
piece of space armor became nothing more than an elaborate man-can.
Its occupant would be incapable of independent movement or even environmental
adjustment. I
figured that final modification might come in handy later, when I had the
bastard safely aboard
Chispa and started to interrogate him...
Almost ready. I fastened a pair of Kagi blue-ray blasters to the shoulder
mounts of my own suit and made certain that the brainboard hooked them into my
optic nerves. Then I exchanged my clothes for the technolongjohns of the
armor, climbed inside, braced myself, and powered up.
Things grabbed, stabbed, and engaged. The suit computer announced that the
abominable machine was supporting my life and showed me prideful displays to
prove it. I responded with an obscenity.
I loathe the way excursion-suit plumbing insults my family jewels. I find
servo augmentation of my human musculature to be creepy. I dislike hearing my
own breathing to say nothing of pops and squeaks from my sinuses and inner
ears and the gurgles of my gastrointestinal tract. The wondrous gadgetry that
virtually transforms a human being into a miniature spaceship had a certain
small-boy fun factor; but it can't compensate for the attendant claustrophobia
and divorce from normal human sensation. To my mind, excursion suits suck.
Nevertheless, on that day I was going to learn to love mine. I wriggled and
shrugged and made myself as comfortable as possible.
I sampled the helmet's quartet of sipping tubes, which typically provide
water, insipid electrolitically balanced faux juice, high-calorie vanilla
soyshake, and pro-teinoid gunk that tastes like off-brand peanut butter.
Thanks to Captain Bermudez, the refreshment reservoirs of Chispa's suits had a
better menu. Besides the water, there was nonalcoholic piña colada, a decent
cognac that I couldn't quite identify, and a spicy paste of refried beans.
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The lower crawl-strip now said: 3
MINUTES TO TARGET INTERCEPT INITIATION
. The navigation data displays reassured me that my starship was poised to
pounce just as soon as the broom tender came within the designated striking
zone of 486,029 kilometers.
The computer spoke up:
Target in scan range.
I told it, "Confirm target ID." A cartoonish diagram bloomed before my eyes.
Bingo! The
identification was positive for GAL-6236T. I said, "Cancel icon." The little
vision winked out.
The computer said:
Target vector deviates point oh-two-six percent from stored parameters.
Do you wish to make a correction?
"Affirm. Feed precise target vector to ship navigation plot. Power-up ship
actinic cannons.
Merge ship proper situation display and suit targeting grid. Maintain ship
full defensive shields.
Open ship broadband hail. Adjust com wattage input to range plus-minus one
kilometer."
The excursion bay where I stood waiting seemed to vanish. My eyes became the
eyes of
La
Chispa, seeing what she saw. The cometary nucleus seemed to drift farther
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