The Master pointed at a comm console.
Rohan went to it. A single light blinked on the board. Rohan activated it, gaining a coded link with the Diggers on the planet below.
Now the Master spoke with his tortured larynx, using Rohan to communicate with the Diggers.
The Master learned about things he wanted to know. He listened to Digger pleadings for space vessels. And later, he told the Diggers what they must accomplish first before thinking about receiving a spaceship from him.
The Diggers did not like what they heard. They made threats.
The Master also threatened. His threat must have carried greater weight, as the Diggers changed their tune and began to promise again, to promise with many oaths mingled with pleas for help.
“I will return,” the Master said through Rohan. “First, I will track…” The Master ceased speaking before bidding Rohan to shut down communications with the Diggers.
The android did so without asking any questions.
Afterward, the lurker slid away from Therduim III.
Surprisingly, the Diggers had gained information about Marcus Cade. They had gained it from captives after the final but unsuccessful assault upon the Spaceport. The Diggers learned and passed on that Cade and Halifax had fled aboard a sting, although they did not know which one.
The Master questioned Rohan about Cade.
“I knew him as Jack Brune,” Rohan said.
“Tell me what you know concerning his habits.”
Rohan did so, soon exhausting his paltry supply of data.
While gaining the various pieces of information, the Master gained greater separation from Therduim III, doing so in high stealth mode. The Patrol battleship was near, the vessel much larger and heavier armored than the lurker. The Master used the lurker’s teleoptics, studying the four distant stings, each heading in a different direction. Which sting held Cade? It was difficult to know. Random chance meant his choice would likely prove wrong. Finally, however, the Master made a decision. The lurker accelerated, although not as much as he would have liked. He avoided the battleship, slinking away from Therduim III and heading for the chosen sting. Was it the right one, the one holding Marcus Cade the Ultra?
It was time to find out.
Chapter Forty-Two
Cade kept to himself aboard the Patrol sting as it raced for the edge of the Therduim System.
The sting was quite a bit larger than the Descartes had been. The former scout was one of the many vessels that had fled the space station to land with people at the Spaceport. Its Intersplit was still inoperative, however, and thus useless for interstellar travel.
The sting was cylindrical and possessed wings for atmospheric entry. It had two officers and five enlisted personnel and far more spacious accommodations than the Descartes had per person. The sting even had a small brig. It was primarily a police vessel used for searching ships before they docked or for asteroid use as they checked up on miners. The sting had two 50-mm cannons for offensive use and several small rockets and decoy launchers for antimissile work. Against an unarmed vessel, the sting was dangerous. Anything else would chew it up.
It had been five days since Cade had boarded the sting. In less than an hour, they should have pulled far enough away from the Therduim star to engage the Intersplit engine and start traveling faster than light.
A klaxon began to blare.
Cade was lying on his bunk. He sat up as the klaxon continued its harsh song. He stood, crossed his quarters and opened the hatch, sticking his head into the corridor.
An ensign was walking by fast.
“What’s the problem?” asked Cade.
“Missile,” the ensign said, as he hurried elsewhere.
Cade stepped out of his quarters and headed for the control cabin. He tried the hatch, found it unlocked, and stepped into the tight compartment. It was almost the same size and layout as the Descartes’ control cabin had been.
The sting commander piloted the vessel. He was a lieutenant, older than most his rank. The other officer had his face shoved against the sensor scope.
“Anything I can do to help?” asked Cade.
The lieutenant glanced back at him. The man was thin with pockmarked skin and had bony hands. “You’re not supposed to be in the control room.”
“A missile is heading at us?”
“Mr. Cade, I’d appreciate it if you let me do my job and go back to your quarters.”
“The cyborg must have decided he can’t check all of us,” Cade said. “So, he launched a missile at us. I bet you didn’t see where it originated from.”
The officer at the scope looked up. He was portly, much more rotund than Cade could believe a military man should be. The man was positively fat and had rosy, flushed cheeks.
“You’re right,” the sensor officer said. “The missile just appeared. We spotted it because of the exhaust plume. There’s no way we’re going to avoid it before leaving the system.” He faced the lieutenant. “If Mr. Cade can help us, let him. I’d rather live than die on principle.”
“Those weren’t our orders,” the lieutenant said. “You must leave, Mr. Cade. This is a military vessel.”
Cade marched farther into the room. “Forget about that. I’ve dealt with such a situation before. Let me take a look and help as much as a can.”
The portly officer stepped away from the sensor scope.
Cade moved there and peered into the scope. The missile was still accelerating and was fifteen million kilometers away, but it would be here within the hour, meaning before they could turn on the Intersplit engine.
“That’s it,” the lieutenant said. “I’m placing you under arrest.”
Cade looked up and saw the lieutenant aiming a needler at him. The man looked nervous, psyching himself up to pull the trigger.
Cade held up his hands. “No arrest is needed. I’m leaving.” He made no move to do so, however, asking, “How are you going to stop the missile?”
“That isn’t your concern,” the lieutenant said. “Leave while you can.”
Cade judged distances, noticed beads of sweat on the lieutenant’s face and realized the man would fire any second. “I’m leaving. Good luck with the missile.”
This time, Cade headed for the hatch. It galled him to go like this. He didn’t believe the two youngsters could deal with a cyborg missile. If it had come from the lurker, and it must have, it could have a human brain guiding it. Cyborg missiles had all sorts of gimmicks to help them reach target.
The hatch closed behind him. Did he let the lieutenant deal with the problem? It could be an old lurker missile from the War. Well, one designed by the cyborgs of that time. A human brain likely couldn’t have lasted that long. Still, how did he know the lieutenant could defeat the missile?
“You don’t,” Cade whispered.
He scowled. He’d given his word to the Chief Arbiter to listen to the sting commander. But this was about his reaching Raina alive. On the one hand, he had his honor to consider. On the other, his wife’s smiling face—Cade swore quietly, marching to his quarters. He sat on the bunk, his hands clasped together. This was infuriating. He could take his gun, man down the lieutenant—
There was a click, and the lieutenant’s voice came out of a wall speaker. “We’re about to begin evasive maneuvers. Please take the necessary precautions. I’ll tell you once we’ve successfully evaded the missile. That is all.” The wall unit clicked off.
Cade threw himself against the bed, found a restraint and snapped it into place. He didn’t have long to wait. The small sting began violent maneuvers. That would never fool a cyborg missile brain. Did one control the missile?
It must not have, because twenty-eight minutes later, the lieutenant’s voice spoke out of the wall speaker.
“The missile passed us,” he said. “There, it just detonated. What’s its blast range?” He must have asked the sensor officer. “Good news, people. The missile detonated far enough away that we don’t have to worry
about radiation. It looks like we’re in the clear. Yes. We’re turning on the Intersplit Field—now. Next stop is the Vologda System, which should take us seven days to reach.”
Cade unbuckled the restraint and sat up. The youngsters had done it. The missile must not have had a human brain attached. He chuckled dryly. The young could get things right sometimes. How about that? He chuckled again, realizing he’d successfully retreated from the Therduim System. Now it was time to start planning his next move in earnest.
Chapter Forty-Three
SEVERAL MONTHS EARLIER
The secret cyborg chase of Marcus Cade had one other parameter to it, although it did not apply in the Therduim System. The other event was set into motion because of certain knowledge gained through the capture of the arms dealer Tarragon Down. Armed with the extra data torn from Tarragon, the Web-Mind decided upon one other mission. This mission might at first blush have seemed far-afield from Cade, but it set into play a critical element in the coming confrontation that would decide so much in this part of the Orion Arm.
The event occurred on the planet Durdane II in the city of Garwiy with Roguskhoi Metals. Cade and Halifax had been there a few years ago, dealing with the real Group Six agent, Leona Quillian.
She was very much alive and presently reading a report at her desk, which was in the Octagon Tower Building.
Quillian had been to Earth several years ago and had spoken to Director G.T. Titus. He’d given her emphatic instructions. At that time, she was supposed to watch Dr. Halifax and Marcus Cade acting as Jack Brune. If either of them gave the impression they were about to go “off the reservation,” she was supposed to take care of it. She was a cleaner, the best Earth Intelligence possessed. A cleaner took care of special problems: in Quillian’s case that often meant a nail to the back of a head or a rope around a guilty throat. She was thoroughly ruthless and exceedingly good at her job, although she’d failed in Cade’s case.
The woman behind the desk had short dark hair and darker eyes, wearing a dark business suit and shoes. She was slender like a rapier and enjoyed marvelous dexterity. One of the secrets to her continued survival was clones of herself. She’d found a unique cloning machine years ago on a mission and had kept it for her personal use. She sent such clones on the most dangerous missions, which meant that she survived even if the clones did not. And that meant Leona Quillian had survived far longer than any other Group Six cleaner.
Perhaps more importantly, as far as the real Leona Quillian knew, Director Titus knew nothing about the clones. Almost no one did. She definitely wanted to keep it that way, too.
Ms. R. Quillian—the Real Quillian—was on the 12th Floor of the Octagon Tower, her desk situated near a window overlooking the city and the mountains beyond. She was presently reading a missive sent by Director G.T. Titus via mail packet.
What made spies and assassins so interesting in this case was the breadth of the Concord, the limitations imposed by the Intersplit engine and that no message could travel faster than a ship going from one world to the next. In this case, it meant that Director Titus was referring to the events of five years ago when the L. Quillian clone had died on Helos, Cade had used atomics on Avalon IV and later raided Roguskhoi Metals in Garwiy for funds to pay for his voyage home.
According to the missive, Quillian’s new instructions concerning Halifax and Cade were twofold. If it proved possible, she was supposed to recapture them, concentrating on Marcus Cade. If she could not capture them, she was supposed to kill them. On no account could she allow Cade to reach Earth.
Director Titus did not say why, but Quillian had a good idea as to the reason. Group Six denied using Ultras as agents. No one in Earth Government wanted Ultras running around, as they were too dangerous. But there were rumors concerning their use. Director Titus had gone on record as forcefully denying said rumors. He had done so countless times. If an Ultra should show up on Earth then, and explain how he’d been a Group Six agent, it would mean “Bye-bye Director Titus.”
Quillian smiled wolfishly. G.T. Titus was more ruthless than she was. The man frightened her, and she’d badly failed with Marcus Cade. The Director was too sharp as well. He might wonder how she’d survived the nuking of the Helos space station. If she couldn’t capture or kill Cade as a gift to Group Six, to Director Titus—
There was a buzzing noise from the intercom on her desk. Annoyed at the interruption, she leaned forward and pressed a button. “Yes?” she asked.
There was silence from the other end.
“Is this a prank?” Quillian asked.
“Y-Y-You’re in your office?” asked an obviously nervous and confused female clerk.
Quillian almost snapped at the fool. A highly ingrained and honed sixth sense came to her rescue. This was odd, and a strange thing for the clerk to say. Could that mean…?
“Is someone else with you?” Quillian asked cautiously.
“Yes,” the clerk said.
Quillian thought fast. “Can they hear me?”
“No.”
“Can they hear you?”
“…Yes,” came the delayed answer, as if the clerk had looked to check first.
“Listen to me closely,” Quillian said. “I want you to only answer yes or no. Do you understand?”
“Yes.”
Quillian nodded. “Is there a…an impersonator standing there?”
The clerk breathed a sigh of relief. “Yes, yes, that’s exactly—”
“Just yes or no answers,” Quillian said, interrupting.
“I understand.”
Quillian frowned at the intercom.
“Yes,” the clerk said hurriedly.
Here was the key question. “Does the impersonator look like me?” Quillian asked.
“Emphatically yes,” the clerk said, sounding even more relieved. “She—I know, just say yes or—”
“Shut up,” Quillian hissed.
There was silence from the other end.
Quillian was thinking hard and fast. A clone had obviously returned. The clone had also broken ingrained protocol by coming to Roguskhoi Metals. That was a serious breach. What could it mean?
“Ma’am,” the clerk said.
“Silence,” Quillian hissed yet again. “I’m coming down. Could you ask the—listen very carefully. You must do exactly as I say. This is another test. You passed the first one. Will you pass the second?”
“A test?” asked the clerk.
“Have the impersonator wait in the Quiet Room. Tell her I will be there shortly. Can you do that?”
“Yes.”
“Smile, be polite and have her wait in the Quiet Room. Do that…and the raise I’ve been considering will go to committee for consideration.”
“Oh,” the clerk said. “I didn’t know I was in for a raise. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet,” Quillian said, “as you’ve still yet to pass the second test. Begin now.”
“Yes—” the clerk obviously kept herself from saying more.
Quillian turned off the intercom and voice-activated the security system. She eyed a clone of herself standing before the clerk at the rotunda. The clone wore bright colors: a blouse, jacket, slacks and shoes. Her hair was up in a spiky style and she wore lots of makeup. Each stylistic choice was a warning sign. Taken together—
“Mental tampering,” said Quillian to herself.
She watched the clerk open a gate, step out of the rotunda and escort the clone down a hall toward the Quiet Room. At her desk, Quillian stood, pulled open a drawer and extracted a silenced pistol. It was time to find out just what had gone wrong with her clone.
Chapter Forty-Four
The real Leona Quillian breathed through her nostrils, eliminating emotions. She stood behind a hidden door, watching the damned clone in the Quiet Room through a two-way mirror.
The room had eight soft chairs, plenty of magazines and soothing music. The clone sat in a chair, reading a gardening magazine. The choice surprised Quillian. The clo
ne did not seem nervous or in a hurry.
She’d sent this one on a mission to Helos in the Rigel System, to see what the situation was like years after the space station had exploded. Quillian touched the fingers of her left hand. That would be four years ago now. The original clone sent to Helos to watch Cade and Halifax had died. The real Quillian still did not know how.
Each clone had a deeply ingrained psychological inhibition against killing the real deal, herself. Could the bright clothes, spiky hair and excessive makeup be a disguise?
Behind the hidden door, Quillian shook her head. She did not believe that. Her senses were alert and screaming at her to beware the clone. Quillian trusted her senses and was already highly suspicious of unusual things. This was wrong, off—
Quillian made her decision. She drew the silenced pistol, opened the door and stepped through.
The clone’s head jerked up as she lowered the magazine. Quillian noted that both hands were holding it. She would have shot the clone otherwise.
“Don’t move,” Quillian said.
“What is this?” the clone asked. “Why are you pointing a gun at me?”
“You should know.”
The clone shrugged. “A precaution, I suppose. Do I make you nervous?”
“Answer your own question.”
“Yes, I see that I do. Why?”
“You should be able to answer that too,” Quillian said.
The clone set the opened magazine onto her lap, releasing it.
“Keep your hands where I can see them,” Quillian warned.
“Sure, fine, no problem,” the clone said, placing her opened hands on top of the magazine.
“Now answer the question.”
“You mean mine?” the clone asked.
Quillian wasn’t stupid. Neither were her clones. She waited, appearing calm, with the suppressed pistol aimed directly at the clone’s center mass.
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