Labyrinth of Night by Allen Steele Page B

canopy windows. ‘Okay, let it roll.’
    ‘You got it, Falcon One. Let’s go hunt some bear…’
    Arthur Johnson found Richard Jessup in the command module; he didn’t look away from the bank of TV monitors he had been closely watching when the astrophysicist pushed the hatch open. Johnson was about to say something—exactly what, he didn’t know, except that he was still pissed off and only too willing to let Jessup know it—until he reached Jessup’s side and saw what was on the screens.
    Two of the screens showed scenes from cameras mounted outside the habitat. On each, a Bushmaster was quickly striding across the rocky terrain between the habitat and the City; in the background of each screen one or the other of the autotanks could be seen. They seemed to be taking up positions alongside each other.
    The third screen displayed a ceiling view of the interior of Module One, the vehicle garage and airlock. Its double-doors were shut; centered in the screen was Maksim Oeljanov, The CIS Army major was encased in a Russian CAS; the carapace lid of the armor was open and they could see his head protruding through the suit’s thick inner lining. Oeljanov was wearing a white cotton Snoopy helmet. As they watched, his lips moved silently.
    ‘Look at that,’ Jessup said quietly, for the first time acknowledging Johnson’s entrance. He pointed at the other two screens. The upper turrets of the two Bushmasters rotated forty-five degrees, their guns both pointing east and tilting upwards towards the sky.
    ‘Bastard.’ Jessup’s voice was an awed near-whisper. ‘He’s figured it out and got the Bushies slaved to voice-only command. I tried to squirrel into their AI system interface, but they locked me out.’ He shook his head. ‘Maybe the Hornets can ECM the signals, but I doubt it because…’
    Johnson didn’t wait to hear the rest. He yanked his beltphone from his hip, switched to Channel One, the common band for base operations, and raised the phone to his face. ‘Major Oeljanov, this is Dr. Johnson,’ he said. ‘Do you hear me? Over.’
    Oeljanov’s head cocked upwards, apparently responding to Johnson’s voice. Jessup turned and made an effort to take the phone away from Johnson, but the scientist stepped back, pushing Jessup out of the way. ‘Maksim, this is stupid,’ he said. ‘I don’t know what Jessup was planning, but if you go ahead with what you’re doing, you’ll be endangering the whole project. Just…’
    ‘Art, don’t try to…’
    ‘Shaddup, Dick,’ he said. ‘Look, Maksim…get out of that thing and come back in here and we can talk it over. Okay? We don’t have to go through with this nonsense.’
    Oeljanov clumsily turned around in the heavy armor and peered straight up at the camera lens. A sardonic smile appeared on his face before the lid of the CAS slowly dropped on its pneumatic hinge. Then Oeljanov raised his right arm—the one which ended in the ugly, stubby maw of a laser-sighted machine gun—toward the camera. There was a microsecond-brief flash from the barrel of the gun; the screen fuzzed out and went blank. A second later the computer replaced the TV image with a line of type: CAMERA 1.01 INOPERATIVE / 1838:32:45/6-18-30 / TOTAL FAILURE
    ‘I don’t believe it,’ Johnson murmured. ‘He shot out the…’ At that instant there was a sharp bang! from somewhere nearby; alarms began to go off within the habitat. Johnson whirled around and checked the flatscreen readout on the environmental control station: DECOMPRESSION MODULE 1 / AIRLOCK INOPERATIVE / INNER HATCHES SEALED / INTERNAL PRESSURE STABLE MODULES 2-9 / 1838:33:01/6-18-30
    ‘Goddamn!’ he shouted. ‘Blowout in Module One! He blew a hole right though the skin!’
    ‘Will that keep him from opening the garage door?’
    ‘No. He can still get out by using the manual override…’
    ‘Damn.’ Jessup remained calm. ‘And now the TV camera’s gone. If you hadn’t done that, we might have been able to