Nineteen
The elevator door opened onto the Suit Repair lab. Big enough for a half-court basketball game and filled with massive racks supporting half-assembled pressure suits like hard-used mannequins. A table by each offered meticulously racked tools and fittings for welding gas and water. Bins along the far wall contained enough spare parts to build a couple dozen suits from scratch.
And now it held five people threatening me with stunners.
People I knew. Montague Security people.
In the middle, Bakula had the bleary eyes of someone rousted out of bed. She was bigger than me, but who isn’t? Her rumpled uniform said she’d been yanked from a sound sleep. I knew the other four in passing. They left the tritium shipping security station each morning as I checked in.
Bakula might look gr
