Free Virus by S. D. Perry

repaired.
    What a waste, so much gone . . .
    There was a crackle of static in the stillness and Woods’s jerky, nervous voice entered the silent room.
    “Captain? You see anything, Captain?”
    Everton sighed and unclipped the radio unit from his belt. “You’ll be the first to know, Woods,” he said, and paused—it sounded like the Maori was talking from farther, away, the deep voice of the deckhand mumbling something . . .
    “. . . e aku tipuna—” The rest of the chant was lost as Woods stopped transmitting, but Everton had to stifle a grin as he tucked the walkie-talkie back into place. He’d spent some time in New Zealand, knew a few words. Hiko was praying.
    Better pray that the Russians want this hulk back as much as I think they will, he thought mildly, and reached into his pocket for a handful of nuts.
    Even damaged, the Volkov was worth millions. The cargo barge was nothing compared to what he was going to make off this.

    Foster walked carefully around the bridge, deeply uneasy as she studied the ruined equipment. The depth of violence implied was unnerving, and she wondered what could have gone down to inspire such brutality. It was obvious from the dried brown stains that people had been hurt or killed here . . .
    She looked up from a shattered computer screen and saw Squeaky looking at her, one eyebrow raised.
    “Pirates?” she asked.
    “Mutiny—” he said, and then Everton cut them both off.
    “Pipe down. Foster, check the radio.”
    She already had. “It’s smashed.”
    Steve held up a logbook, frowning. “The logs are useless unless anyone here reads Russian.”
    Foster glanced out the starboard windows and saw that the light was still fading, blocked by storm clouds on the horizon. “Captain, we’ve got less than an hour . . . Captain?”
    She turned, saw Everton pacing the back wall, deep in thought.
    “He’s thinking, Foster,” said Richie, sneering. “Something you were hired for.”
    Foster sneered back, but Richie had already turned to Everton. “Are you thinking what I think you’re thinking, Captain?”
    Squeaky frowned. “Thinkin’ what?”
    “Salvage,” answered Steve, and Everton stopped suddenly and addressed them as a group, his eyes glittering in the murky light.
    “You all signed on for a percentage, but you never figured I’d bring you this, did you? A ship abandoned in international waters. Maritime law says she’s a derelict; all we have to do is tow her to safety, slap a salvage lien on her, and the Russian government’s gotta pay us ten percent of her value to get her back. Richie, put a number on this.”
    Richie grinned. “Let’s see . . . three parabolic satellite dishes, one’s kind of fucked up—forty labs, all primed with state-o’-the-art stuff—we’re talkin’ . . . two, three hundred million.”
    Everton didn’t even bother trying to contain his excitement. “Three hundred million dollars. Ten percent of that’s thirty million, and that’s what’s coming our way. The opportunity of a lifetime—if we play our cards right.”
    Squeaky was frowning. “One percent of thirty million is . . . uh, what, thirty grand?”
    “Three hundred grand, Squeak,” said Steve.
    “I’m willing to change that,” Everton said easily, “cut all of you in for ten percent. A cool three million each. What do you think?”
    In spite of her disgust for the man, her amazement at the calculated greed in his voice, just the sound of “three million” gave Foster pause; that was nothing to laugh at. She looked around, watched as the others digested the information.
    Squeaky looked at Steve. “Is it legal?”
    Steve nodded. “Totally.”
    “Then I’m in,” Squeaky said, and then looked at his partner uncertainly. “Steve?”
    The engineer paused for a beat and then turned to Everton, his expression blank. “Yeah. Sure, we’re in.”
    Richie’s answer was obvious, and Foster suddenly realized that they were all looking at her. She didn’t say