Free Battle Station by Ben Bova

“You’re on the air!”
    â€œBuckbee, this is Hazard.”
    All six of the boarders froze for an instant, then spun weightlessly in midair, trying to locate the source of the new voice.
    â€œYou are trapped in that section of corridor,” Hazard said. “The mist that you see in the air is oxygen difluoride from our lifeboat propellant tanks. Very volatile stuff. Don’t strike any matches.”
    â€œWhat the hell are you saying, Hazard?”
    â€œYou’re locked in that passageway, Buckbee. If you try to fire those popguns you’re carrying, you’ll blow yourselves to pieces.”
    â€œAnd you too!”
    â€œWe’re already dead, you prick. Taking you with us is the only joy I’m going to get out of this.”

    â€œYou’re bluffing!”
    Hazard snapped, “Then show me how brave you are, Buckbee. Take a shot at the hatch.”
    The six boarders hovered in the misty passageway like figures in a surrealistic painting. Seconds ticked by, each one stretching excruciatingly. Hazard felt a pain in his jaws and realized he was clenching his teeth hard enough to chip them.
    He took his eyes from the screen momentarily to glance at his three youngsters. They were just as tense as he was. They knew how long the odds of their gamble were. The passageway was filled with nothing more than aerosol mists from every spray can the crew could locate in the supply magazines.
    â€œWhat do you want, Hazard?” Buckbee said at last, his voice sullen, like a spoiled little boy who had been denied a cookie.
    Hazard let out his breath. Then, as cheerfully as he could manage, “I’ve got what I want. Six hostages. How much air do your suits carry? Twelve hours?”
    â€œWhat do you mean?”
    â€œYou’ve got twelve hours to convince Cardillo and the rest of your pals to surrender.”
    â€œYou’re crazy, Hazard.”
    â€œI’ve had a tough day, Buckbee. I don’t need your insults. Call me when you’re ready to deal.”
    â€œYou’ll be killing your son!”
    Hazard had half expected it, but still it hit him like a blow. “Jonnie, are you there?”
    â€œYes I am, Dad.”
    Hazard strained forward, peering hard at the display screen, trying to determine which one of the space-suited figures was his son.
    â€œWell, this is a helluva fix, isn’t it?” he said softly.
    â€œDad, you don’t have to wait twelve hours.”
    â€œShut your mouth!” Buckbee snapped.
    â€œFuck you,” snarled Jon Jr. “I’m not going to get
myself killed for nothing.”
    â€œI’ll shoot you!” Hazard saw Buckbee level his gun at Jon Jr.
    â€œAnd kill yourself? You haven’t got the guts,” Jonnie sneered. Hazard almost smiled. How many times had his son used that tone on him.
    Buckbee’s hand wavered. He let the gun slip from his gloved fingers. It drifted slowly, weightlessly, away from him.
    Hazard swallowed. Hard.
    â€œDad, in another hour or two the game will be over. Cardillo lied to you. The Russians never came in with us. Half a dozen ships full of troops are lifting off from IPF centers all over the globe.”
    â€œIs that the truth, son?”
    â€œYes, sir, it is. Our only hope was to grab control of your satellites. Once the coup attempt in Geneva flopped, Cardillo knew that if he could control three or four sets of ABM satellites, he could at least force a stalemate. But all he’s got is Graham and Wood . Nobody else.”
    â€œYou damned little traitor!” Buckbee screeched.
    Jon Jr. laughed. “Yeah, you’re right. But I’m going to be a live traitor. I’m not dying for the likes of you.”
    Hazard thought swiftly. Jon Jr. might defy his father, might argue with him, even revile him, but he had never known the lad to lie to him.
    â€œBuckbee, the game’s over,” he said slowly. “You’d better get the word to