Fugitive From Asteron by Gen LaGreca Page B

charge. You must
seize him before he starts the engines, which he is surely attempting to do.”
    “If I am an idiot, as everyone
claims, then I lack the brains to start the ship,” I said, “so you have time to
open the door with the combination.” An electronic keypad on the outside would
release the lock if they knew the code to use, which they apparently did not. I
hoped my suggestion would buy time.
    “Captain, sir”—my supervisor
pleaded—“the commander can get us that combination from the flight director. Then
we will not have to damage—”
    “Shut up!” the captain replied. “I
will not have you call my superior and have him think a rebel got by me! Get
the engineer. He knows the combination.”
    With Feran’s policy of giving no
one person too much information, I was not surprised that the guard was
ignorant of the door’s locking combination. By Feran’s design, the security
force had access to the exterior of the ship but lacked knowledge of its
controls, whereas the engineers could enter and operate the ship but had no
access to it without the guards’ authorization.
    Meanwhile, I was still tackling the
computer’s checklist for starting the engines. I knew Feran’s ship could be
flown in two different modes, as a spacecraft or as a plane. I had observed
occasions when he used the aircraft engines for takeoff so that he could do an
aerial survey of sites of interest to him before engaging the rockets for
propulsion into space. I found that for his pending flight the ship was set to
take off in aircraft mode. This meant I could block out all the rocket
gadgetry, which I did not understand, and focus on the plane’s aircraft
controls, which were familiar from my training.
    The activities continued on the
platform outside as the engineer, Dakir, arrived.
    “Dakir, there is an insurgent in
Feran’s spacecraft,” shouted the captain. “Open the door at once with the
combination!”
    “Captain, the rules prohibit me from
opening the door without my superior’s authorization. Let me call her—”
    “No!” screamed the captain. “No
superiors need to know what we are doing here! I will not risk my standing when
we can settle the matter simply with you opening the door. Now!”
    “But . . . but captain—”
    I heard another familiar sound: the
smack of a fist striking a face. A cry of pain followed, then kicks, then more
punches.
    I completed the checklist and
waited to hear the power charge. Nothing happened. A snag! Sweat from my face dripped
onto the instrument panel.
    Dakir gasped. “I have my orders.”
    “Your orders are no good now. There
is an insurgent inside who must be captured!”
    “My rules say nothing about an
insurgent.”
    “Forget your rules and open this
door!”
    “But captain—” Dakir’s voice was
barely audible. I heard the low pounding of more blows, then a violent spasm of
coughing.
    I wondered what step I had missed
in my haste. I reviewed the opening checklist, matching its instructions to my
instrument settings. I suddenly realized something. I found a control that was
set for the ultra-high speed used for space travel. Because the aircraft
engines operated at a minute fraction of that speed, I corrected the setting
and again started the fuel flow to the engines. This time they whined in
answer.
    “Now get up and open this door or
be shot!” shrieked the captain.
    I heard a terrible moan, then a
helpless voice reduced to a whimper. “Yes, captain.”
    I felt my hair growing strand by
strand while I waited for the ship to gain sufficient power for takeoff.
    The voices and sounds I heard next
told me that Dakir was having difficulty rising to his feet after the beating,
so the captain pulled him up and shoved him against the door.
    My supervisor shouted at Dakir. “Hurry,
you imbecile, or we will all go to the Theater of Justice!”
    The beep of the first number Dakir
entered on the keypad shot through my headset like a bullet.
    But it was I who