Carnifex

UEPF Spirit of Peace

Wallenstein and a collection of her officers stood at the broad, thick plexiglas window of the shuttle deck as Robinson and Arbeit boarded the Admiral's gig. The lower classes of the deck crew were on their faces in full proskynesis before the Marchioness of Amnesty. Robinson turned once, to wave jovially, then entered the hatch which closed behind them. The lowers arose and evacuated the deck.

The ship began to hum as air was pumped out of the bay. Wallenstein watched the pressure drop on the gauge intently, even as the balloon expanded. She hoped that the shuttle's seals would fail and the crew suffocate along with the High Admiral. No such luck . . . unfortunately.

At her nod, the officer in charge pushed a button. This caused a hydraulic whine to begin as the bay doors began to open. They stopped with a kachunking sound.

"Son of a bitch," the OIC cursed. "You two," he pointed at two prole crewmen, "Get on the manual crank."

With straining and grunting effort, the proles forced the bay doors open by main force. The shuttle pilot applied the smallest amount of power to vertical lift, just enough to raise the Admiral's gig a half meter off of the deck. Soundlessly, as far as the watchers could tell, it rotated until it was facing directly outboard. Gracefully, and still soundlessly, the shuttle moved forward until it was far enough past the ship for it to start main engines safely to descend to Atlantis Base.

Wallenstein's last thought as the shuttle departed was, Crash, you bastards. It was a hopeless prayer.