One of the lingering effects of the recent battle with the undead boarding crew was that a number of the security doors on board the Rebellion were still not in proper working order. Among these were the doors which separated the forward command compartment from the rest of the ship. They stood open, giving not even a soft “whirr-click” of warning when somebody entered the bridge.
But though Cicada was light on her feet for a cyborg, one of those feet was made of dense metal that could hardly help clanging when it hit the metal paneling that made up much of the floor in the forward section. Absorbed as he was in watching the streaming announcements and public security alerts coming from the Fickle Finger… which said more in what it omitted than what it announced… Dick couldn’t help but hear her approach.
He gave no sign, though. He didn’t even turn back when she leveled her great GSMR pistol at the back of his head and thumbed the stud that did nothing except for make the weapon emit an entirely unnecessary but ominous CLICK while the metal jacket on the mid section of the barrel rotated 45 degrees cosmetically.
“Impressive sound,” he said.
“The other settings are ‘Rising Whine’ and ‘Slide Ratchet’,” she said. “I find neither to be quite as effective for grabbing folks’ attention than a simple, subtle click. Of course, that’s not even the most impressive noise ol’ Gossamer can make.”
“Is that a fact?” Dick asked.
“Recall all personnel and make ready to depart, or you’ll find out.”
“Technically, this is a hijacking,” Dick said.
“If you want to play games, boyo, you should remember something: you can call yourself a captain when the ship’s in flight, but I’m the admiral of the Daniel Shaysian armed forces,” Cicada said. “And by the power vested in me by Daniel Shays on behalf of the planet Daniel Shays, I’m commandeering this vessel. It’s a navy boat now.”
“Well, then,” Dick said. “I guess that leaves me no choice.”
“You’re damn right.”
With the press of a button, the scrolling feeds that had been screened in the pilot’s heads up display changed to a three dimensional rendering of pipes. He turned his chair around, then very slowly and very deliberately ducked sideways under the barrel of her gun as he got to his feet.
“Where are you going?” Cicada asked.
“I’m a civilian,” Dick said. “I don’t fly naval vessels.”
“Well, you’re conscripted,” Cicada said.
“I am a citizen of the Galactic Confederation,” Dick said. “If you impress me into service, technically that’s an act of war. Somehow I don’t think your navy’s going to stand up to the GCN.”
“Look, can we quit fucking around with all this let’s-pretend planet/navy stuff?” Cicada said. “I’ve got a gun. A big gun that makes big holes in people, and if you don’t do what I fucking say I’m going to use to blow your head up from the inside.”
“That’s a wondeful idea,” Dick said. “I keep all my passwords for the helm controls there. If you make a big enough hole, maybe you can reach in and fish them out.” He turned his back on her and started walking towards the exit at rear of the compartment. “Your bridge, Admiral.”
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