The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack by David Drake (ed), Bill Fawcett (ed) Page A

this ship held to no specs, that she was a jumble of ingenuity and modifications hung together by the cleverest criminal in the Alliance meant Jensen was in too deep. If MacKenzie James were freed to right his bit of sabotage, chances were he would create additional havoc in the wiring, perhaps even contrive to regain advantage.
    “I’ll take my chances,” Jensen decided. But his confidence was forced. If Evans had made it on board, he was now in serious trouble.
    With the nooses secured without slack to a deck fitting, MacKenzie James could not roll onto his stomach. Nothing important lay within range of his feet. Certain as be could be that his captive was secure, Jensen sealed the bridge behind him and descended into Marity’s service level. Away from Point Station’s fields, the descent shaft had no gravity. Already the chill of deepspace seemed to have-penetrated its shadowy depths. Jensen drifted in a faint fog, of condensation left by his breath, the ladder rungs icy beneath his sweating hands. His feet tingled with the knowledge that at any second a plasma weapon might sear upward and fry him like a fly on a web. The Freer robe swirled and caught at his ankles and knees. Jensen longed to shed the fabric, but dared not. Sewn into the-sash was the transmitter that enabled Ensign Shields to track him, and Marity , through the deeps of space.
    Jensen reached the base of the shaft without incident.
    Gun at the ready, he barely waited for his soles to grab on the decking before he started forward. His danger now redoubled, for the access corridor extended in both directions; Mackenzie’s mate might easily slip into the bridge behind him and set his captain free. The fact that the mate had no key to release the nooses, and that the material of which they were made was extremely difficult to cut offered only slight reassurance. Under Mac James’s spoken guidance, Evans might take control of Marity from the bridge.
    Jensen glanced nervously over his shoulder, then rounded the crook in the corridor near the access door which had first admitted him. Beyond lay the hold, dark except for the blink of the indicator that showed the life-support system that served that portion of the ship was currently switched off. Jensen agonized for a moment in indecision. If the outer lock was sealed, then Evans was surely on board. No sense in crippling his judgment with worry if the man had died back on Station; crisply Jensen punched the stud he found near the hold’s double safetied access latch.
    Arc lights flashed on, lancing uncomfortably into pupils grown adjusted to the dark. Jensen squinted through glare off the port’s bubble window. Beyond the crosshatch of struts and decking, the lock was securely closed. Nearby, garishly colored in the severe illumination, lay the cargo capsule Jensen remembered from the apron back on Station. Fear raised gooseflesh at the nape of his neck. Whether or not MacKenzie James had triggered a remote control in the opened pilot’s panel, that capsule had not wheeled on board by itself. Skip-runner’s mate Evans had assuredly made lift-off, which made light of any sort a liability. Jensen set his hand on the stud to kill the arcs, and stopped, caught short by something bulky that drifted above the grating that floored the hold.
    The thing twisted gently in null-grav. Jensen made out the limp form of a man, and realized he’d been lucky. The automatic cutoff functions of lift had trapped Evans within the hold. Jensen glanced swiftly at the gauges in the panel by the lock controls. Marity’s hold maintained atmosphere, but no recirculation for oxygen. As a safeguard against stowaways and other breaches of security, cargo areas as a rule did not allow manual access to the habitable portions of the ship. Dependant upon rescue from within, Marity’s mate was probably hypothermic, for the cold of deepspace would swiftly permeate the un-insulated hold.
    Jensen considered, then cold-bloodedly stabbed