Science Fiction: The Year's Best (2006 Edition). Аластер Рейнольдс

appreciate your willingness to help us,” the Coordinator said. “Our rescue force should reach you in about seven minutes.”

      A crack slithered across the window directly in front of Sabor. More cracks appeared in the windows on either side. Clouds of particles replaced all three windows. Chilly autumn air flooded the passenger shack.

      Sabor had thrown himself flat as soon as he had seen the first crack. He stretched out his right arm and started crawling toward the barricade Choy had assembled in front of the window.

      Choy had assembled three guns. He and Purvali were lying on their backs with their weapons raised above the barricade and their eyes fixed on the aiming screen mounted on the rear of each barrel. Sabor picked up the third gun and tapped a symbol on the control screen built into the stock. The screen clicked off a ten second count. A line of boldface announced that the gun had linked with the short-range interface built into his wristband.

      “They’re firing at the barricade,” Choy said. “They’ll have it dissolved in about two minutes.”

      “What are you aiming at?”

      “We’re concentrating on the hardbody on the left of the line. I’m assuming we should try to completely eliminate one gun.”

      Sabor had already raised his gun above the barricade. He marked the hardbody on the left with a mental command and the barrel swiveled on its mount. The gun was an elegant piece of smoothly functioning machinery, emitting a well mannered slap…slap…slap as its internal computer calculated the range, checked the position of the barrel, and transmitted a fire command once every four seconds. The anti-personnel loads contained molecular devices that temporarily disrupted the central nervous system. The defensive system built into the soldier’s uniforms deployed defensive molecules that could neutralize the incoming moles. A concentrated attack could overwhelm the defensive moles and remove a hardbody from the firing line for several minutes. The gun wasn’t programmed to compensate for the rocking of the waves but Sabor’s own brain could handle that aspect of the situation.

      He rotated the gun to his right, to keep his target on the aiming screen, and realized the other boat was turning.

      “They’re turning onto a possible interception course,” Choy said.

      “I’ve checked the databanks for information on their jumping capacity,” Purvali said. “There’s nothing explicit but I estimate the hardbodies can probably hop across a two meter separation without making an extraordinary effort.”

      “Can you do me a favor?” Sabor said. “Can you find out what kind of cargo this floating palace is carrying? Perhaps we can find something our captain will be willing to part with. And gain a small increment in our forward progress.”

      Sabor’s cool, chinup elan was one of his trademarks. His mother had included it in his specifications and he considered it one of her better decisions. He had even ordered a biochemical reinforcement when he had reached legal maturity. He could put several million yuris in play and cheerfully sleep, eat, and dally with a concubine while he waited for the results. There were times, however, when he suspected some hidden segment of his personality was trembling in terror while it watched the rest of him treat major calamities as if they were trivial disruptions.

      A list popped onto Sabor’s display—a complete catalog of the boat’s cargo, assembled from the contracts that had been posted in the databanks. Public posting couldn’t be enforced by law but people who ignored the custom enjoyed short business careers. There was no central government on Fernheim. The business community enforced its rules by monitoring deals and invoking the ancient human customs of shunning and ostracism.

      The bulkiest item on the list was a crate containing ten ceramic microwave receptors. The last starship to orbit Fernheim had included a passenger who had brought the program for producing the most advanced model available in the solar system. The receptors would capture fifteen percent more energy than the most competitive model available on the planet—a big increase for a world on which fossil fuels were still under-exploited and only five microwave generators had been placed in orbit.

      The receptors took up most of the cargo space. The rest of the cargo consisted of small orders of luxuries. Meat taken from real animals. Organically grown wine. Nine golden swans.

      “We could use the swans as harassers,” Choy said. “All I need is the activation codes.”

      Sabor pipped the captain. “I would like to buy your cargo. My figure for the total retail value is three hundred and sixty thousand. I’ll add ten percent to cover delays and aggravation.”

      “To lighten ship?”

      “Yes.”

      “It won’t add more than a kilometer per hour to our speed. Given their current position…”

      “We’re in an every-second-counts situation.”

      “It’s yours.”

      “I’ll need the activation and control codes for the ornamental swans. Please transmit them to my assistant, Choytang.”

      The overturned table Sabor was using for cover metamorphosed into dust and fragments. Sabor rolled backward and huddled beside the hatch in the middle of the shack.

      Lights turned on as soon as he dropped through the hatch. The crate containing the ceramic receptors took up almost half the floor space. The eight swans had been arranged on a pallet with a low guard rail. The rest of the cargo had been packed in neatly stacked boxes.

      Choy stepped up to the swans and activated their implants with a command from his own communications implant. Their feathers were as glossy as pure gold leaf. Ripples of light ran along their bodies when they stretched their necks and rustled their wings.

      The boat was a typical example of Fernheim’s betwixt-and-between economy. A big loading hatch on the left side of the boat responded to a direct signal from the captain’s brain and rolled upward on a wheeled track. The crate holding the receptors opened in response to another impulse from the captain’s cerebral cortex. And Sabor and Purvali picked up two of the receptors and lugged them across the hold with the chemical energy stored in their own muscles.

      The hatch was so close to the water line they could have dipped their hands without bending over. Three hundred meters of dark water stretched between the boat and the shore. Two houses stood beside a creek that emptied into the lake. Terrestrial oaks and sycamores spread branches that were covered with autumn leaves. The entire shoreline had been completely terrestrialized for over two decades.

      The captain had given them free access to the information integrator in her command interface. They could examine the entire composite picture the integrator assembled from the sensory moles embedded in every meter of the boat’s structure. They trudged back and forth across the hold with most of their attention focused on the positions of the two boats.

      Choy waited until the other boat was making its last maneuvers for boarding position. The swans lumbered across the hold in two ragged lines. Their huge wings pounded at the air. Choy guided them through the hatch and they turned as soon as they gained altitude and drove toward their adversary’s deck.

      The coal burner had overcome their captain’s best efforts. It was lying almost parallel with the right side of their boat, with a three-meter gap separating the two hulls. The hardbodies were lined up with their guns at port arms. They were obviously primed to jump as soon as their boat’s sidewise drift brought them close enough. The nine swans covered their helmets and torsos with a blanket of hammering wings.

      The hardbodies reacted with the remorseless calm that had been built into their personalities. Their right hands dropped off their guns and gripped the swans around their necks. The two massives reached into the storm of writhing feathers and applied their oversized muscles to the necks the hardbodies had neglected.

      “Have the captain open the right loading hatch,” Purvali said. “Enough for us to shoot out.”

      Sabor started moving toward the hatch while he was still pipping the captain.