Chapter 5

As Corporal Brechtman clattered and clanged his way through the manifold casing of the large reactor in the engine room of the Unfettered, Leonard Dixon sat on a metal equipment crate, frustrated by the utter silence.

“Hand me the Jolley wrench, would ya, Dixon?” Brechtman's voice was somewhat muffled, but his hand was poking out of the cavity he had crawled into, flat on his back. Fingers beckoned, palm open to receive the tool.

The neurojournalist tilted his head the way a dog might when confronted by a word it thinks it probably ought to understand but quite obviously doesn't. He didn't know what the engineer was talking about. At the core, Dixon comprehended that it was some kind of wrench. But what was the adjective all about? Was it a happy wrench? Was there some guy named Jolley who made tools just for radical procedures designed to set a starship reactor to redline toward an explosion that would take out a massive alien vessel? If they hadn't deafened his mind, the question would have been easily answered. A quick jaunt out to the Infomatrix, a brief search query, he'd have everything: Definition, uses, origins, images. Then he'd just have to open the crate, look inside, and yank out the tool like a professional. He might even be able to manage a smug look at Brechtman's obvious surprise.

Thanks to the Infomatrix, Leonard Dixon didn't need to know everything to KNOW everything. All that data stored in the virtual landscape did the knowing for him. He just had to know where to go digging and, within moments, he could be an expert on just about any topic. Without it, though, it was becoming more and more obvious to Dixon that he didn't know a damned thing.

He also missed the other noise: The crowd. All the input coming from people following his broadcasts. God help him, he even missed the frantic calls from his mother. With Lani gone, it was relatively easy to subdue his feelings and lose himself in the wash of everything else to occupy his mind: Mindless chatter, celebrity gossip, shiny new gadgets, the latest holovids. The Infomatrix helped create the illusion that he was never alone. Now, loneliness, frustration, and loss gnawed at him. Add to that a sense of hopelessness and futility. Then, for a kicker, apply a generous helping of impending doom thanks to the toxic mechanism planted under his skin.

Dixon stood, turned, and lifted the lid of the crate. Inside, he found what appeared to be more than two dozen variants of wrenches, pliers, screwdrivers, drills, and electronic gadgets.

“Clock's ticking, Dixon,” the engineer groused.

His brow knit and his jaw clenched as Dixon turned to glower in the direction of the engineer's legs and finger-wiggling hand. “Thanks for reminding me.” He snarled, reached into the crate, and grabbed the biggest and heaviest wrench of the bunch. Then he took a few steps toward the reactor, snatched Brechtman's beckoning hand, slammed it up against the machine's manifold.

“DIXON!” Brechtman yelled. He didn't sound quite as condescending to Dixon now.

He didn't need the Infomatrix to tell him how to apply blunt force. The engineer howled in agonized fury after the metal wrench slammed against his fingers, bruising flesh and breaking bones.

The Unfettered wasn't that big, however, and the engine room wasn't sealed off at the moment. Brechtman's scream brought Captain Panderyn and the rest of his Vanguard soldiers thudding down the corridor, rifles at the ready.

“Dixon, what are you doing?” Panderyn asked, face reddening with anger at the sight of the journalist clutching the wrench, stepping back from the reactor while the wounded Brechtman wormed his way back out to favor the smashed hand. “Drop the wrench!”

“Fuck you,” Dixon snapped, waving the wrench at the captain like a scepter. “How hard is it to just do what these Minders want us to do? Who elected you to play moral crossing guard for everybody?”

“Aim,” Panderyn ordered, his voice and demeanor suddenly cooling as he composed himself after the initial shock of seeing what Dixon had done to his engineer. Dokes, Adelman, and the other Vanguard squad members raised their rifle barrels, pointing them at Dixon. The captain continued: “I'm not counting to three. You either drop the wrench or they drop you. Now.”

His eyes locked on Panderyn's, Dixon didn't doubt the captain's threat. Nevertheless, he couldn't help but burst out laughing. Either the poison would kill him or Panderyn would blow them all up within the next six hours. “Don't do me any fucking favors, Captain,” he said, before tossing the wrench onto the deckplate in front of him.

“Brechtman?” Panderyn looked toward the wounded engineer, who stared, furious, at the journalist. “Think you can still pull this together?”

The corporal slowly broke his attention away from his attacker so that he could reply to the commanding officer. “Aye, sir. It'll slow me down, but it's doable if you give me someone competent and less, y'know, apeshit to fetch tools. Maybe some painkillers too.”

“Dokes, see to his hand and get him the tools he needs when he needs them,” Panderyn ordered.

“Aye, Captain,” Dokes answered.

“Dixon.” The captain turned his gaze back toward him.

“I'm not one of your soldiers,” Dixon said.

“No, you're not,” Panderyn agreed. “This ship is government property, authorized personnel only. I'm revoking your press pass. Get off while we do what needs doing.” He looked at Adelman and said, “Be sure he's off this boat in thirty seconds. If he tries anything you don't like, shoot him.”

“Anything?” Adelman asked.

The captain shrugged. “Your discretion.”

Dixon sighed, rubbing the back of his head. “Whatever, Captain. I know the way out.” The soldiers lowered their weapons and parted to allow him to pass through the hatchway into the main corridor of the Unfettered. As ordered, however, Adelman followed.

Before long, they were through the airlock and starting down the ramp. Dixon was staring at his shoes, mulling the insanity of the captain's blow-it-all-up plan, when he heard Adelman mutter: “What's she doing?”

On the other side of the catwalk, Meghan Falkenberg shuffled along as if dazed, walking toward the aperture that led into the heart of the vessel where the Minders and their Thul minions abided.

“Meghan!” Dixon shouted. He loped down the ramp, onto the platform, and across the catwalk. If she heard him at all, though, she ignored him. She was through the opening two steps ahead of him, which was plenty of time for the force field to crackle back into place. The barrier seemed to grab hold of his face and slam it like a wrestler against the ropes of the ring. Dizzy, seeing double, and bleeding from the ears, he staggered back. He might have fallen off into the chasm below the catwalk if Adelman hadn't been there to catch him.

The woman disappeared into the blue-green shadows of the alien vessel.

“What's going on?” Adelman asked. “Why'd she go in there?”

Dixon cradled his forehead in the palms of his hands, trying in vain to silence the unceasing ringing of cathedral bells that seemed to be going on within his mind. “Plan B,” he muttered.