Bradley climbed after the others, taking the rungs two at a time to keep pace. One of the more entertaining parts of the four months of induction training she’d suffered had been a long weekend spent running around an abandoned factory playing capture the flag, equipped with paint guns that seemed designed to produce the greatest possible non-disabling bruise. Her class had been battered and beaten at the end of it, but she couldn’t remember when she’d ever had so much fun, to the point that she’d briefly considered transferring to the Territorial Guard.
They reached the bottom of the shaft, Bishop tarrying for a few seconds to give the others a chance to catch up, then proceeding line astern along the passage, a faint hum all around them, the worrying stink of ozone leeching into the air, an electrical fire somewhere in the distance. They crept forward, moving as rapidly as they dared, knowing that time was running short, that they had to move quickly if they were going to stop their silent intruder before it was too late. To the right, they could hear footsteps, boots ringing on the metal deck plating, and the group froze, raising their weapons to cover the junction beyond, watching the shadows.
“That you, Teri?” a voice asked, the pound of a sonic blast hammering the air above him, Sokolov too quick on the trigger. “What the hell was that for? I’m on your side, damn it!”
“Sorry, Lieutenant,” a chagrined Sokolov said.
“Wait a minute!” Vasquez barked. “Quiet, both of you. I think I hear something.” Bradley strained to listen, detecting a barely audible grinding noise, the sound of machinery whispering.
Frowning, Weber said, “Storage elevator. There’s a network running through all the crawlspaces. Saves us having to trek halfway across the ship every time we need a new tool for something.” He paused, then said, “Though it’s meant to be locked down during a combat alert. Those shafts are a perfect way for fires to spread quickly. I need to take a look.” He moved into the lead, toolkit in hand, Bishop chasing after him.
“Let me take point,” she said. “You can’t…”
“Come on, Teri, we’re…”
His words were interrupted by a terrible report, the crack of a bullet flying through the air, slamming into Weber’s head and sending him sprawling to the deck, blood streaming from the wound as he gasped his last breath. This time Sokolov’s instincts were good, and he fired two quick pulses blindly down the corridor, his weapon set for maximum dispersion in the hopes of catching his prey, no matter where it might be. Bradley fired a second later as the others dropped to the deck, racing forward into cover behind a pair of protruding pipes.
“Dead,” Vasquez said, unnecessarily. She reached for a control panel, and said, “I’m going to lock down this section. We can at least trap our assassin in this part of the ship.” Her hands danced across the controls for a few seconds, red lights flashing on the panel in response to her commands. “It’s not letting me in.”
“I’m not surprised,” Sokolov replied. “The hatches should have locked down automatically.” He looked around nervously, and said, “We might have thought we were the hunters, but I have the distinct impression that we’re the hunted. How long before those fighters get here?”
“Eight minutes minus,” Bishop said, glancing down at the body of her friend. “Bradley, I don’t like this much, but I guess we’re on point. We leapfrog down the corridor, each of us providing cover for the other while they advance. Sokolov, stand guard here and watch out in case someone tries to get behind us. Vasquez follows as reserve. If whoever is up there gets one of us, you take their place. The junction is a hundred yards ahead. You set, Cadet?”
“I’m right with you, Sub-Lieutenant,” Bradley replied, forcing confidence into her voice, hoping her nerves didn’t show. She glanced at Bishop, spotting sweat running down her forehead, her eyes wide as she looked into the darkness. She was just as scared of what waited for them. Just as scared of what might be out there in the dark. Bishop sped forward, racing to the nearest cover, Bradley gazing into the gloom, half-hoping that the sniper would try a shot, would expose himself just long enough to allow her to take him down. Her expectations didn’t materialize. Bishop rolled into place behind a hatch way, then gestured for Bradley to advance.
Taking a deep breath, she complied, hunching down low and sprinting down the cramped passageway. She heard a crack from ahead, and flung herself to the deck, feeling the force of the bullet as it sped past her hair, her reactions saving her just in time. She heard the rhythmic pound of a sonic blast over her, and a loud wail echoed from the walls, the target catching the blow and staggering to the wall. Reacting quickly, she raced forward, catching her would-be murderer in the chest and sending him sprawling, smashing him across the head with a well-placed punch as the others caught up.
“Easy, Cadet, we’ve got some urgent questions for him,” Bishop said. Before she could turn back to the figure, there was a brief flare of light, enough to send them all falling back to the deck, the stink of roasting flesh filling the air. She looked at the figure, shook her head, and said, “What the hell?”
“Self-destruct. Cranial bomb, maybe. It’s a trick the CFA are using these days. Sometimes the subject doesn’t even know that they’ve been implanted,” Sokolov said. “No way to tell who it was, not without an autopsy. I don’t think we’ve got the time.” Stepping over the charred corpse, the pilot looked at the conduit, and said, “There’s something here, Sub-Lieutenant, something that definitely doesn’t belong. Looks like some sort of shaped charge, right over the data link.”
Bishop’s eyes widened, and she said, “If that goes off, it’ll knock out the sensors all over the ship. We’ll be flying blind into battle. Our point-defense turrets won’t be worth a damn thing!” She raced over to it, trying to tug it from the wall, and said, “Magnetic seal. There has to be some way to disarm it.”
Shaking his head, Sokolov replied, “Not once they’re activated. I think the only man who might have been able to do it just died.” An amber light flashed on, and he added, “If that’s like the charges they use in the Territorial Guard, we’ve got three minutes and counting to detonation. They’ve timed this to perfection. We’ve got to get the hell out of here.”
“Wait a minute,” Bradley said.
“We don’t have a minute, Cadet,” Sokolov said, moving towards the hatch. “We don’t have seconds.”
“Damn it all, there’s got to be some way to salvage this situation. We can’t just give up. Sub-Lieutenant, you said that the secondary data link can’t handle the whole load. How much can it handle?” She paused, then said, “It doesn’t have to take in everything. Just the short-range sensors on the port side, to strike at the fighters when they make their pass. Everything else can wait for the repair, or for another ship to get out here to fly escort. Hell, we’d only have to limp to Mitchell Station, right?”
“Sure, that’s possible,” Bishop said. “We still don’t have time. You’d have to switch the systems from the relay controls, and they’re outside the ship. We don’t have anyone with that sort of experience.” She paused, looked at Bradley, then said, “Or do we? How much salvage work did you do in that job of yours?”
“I need a spacesuit, now,” Bradley replied, running to the emergency airlock. “Help me get dressed, point me in the right direction, then get the hell out of here.” She tore open the cabinet, suit components tumbling out onto the deck, and the three officers frantically assembled the suit all around her, bolting and locking the pieces into place, the heads-up display flickering on as Sokolov slid the helmet smoothly into position. She nodded, ducking into the airlock, activating the emergency cycle to seal the inner door and open the outer, not waiting for the atmosphere to drain away. The boost tossed her clear of the side of the ship, but she was expecting that, firing her thrusters to stabilize her, moving into position over the exterior of the vessel, a small insect crawling on the seemingly colossal hull section.
A dotted line flashed on her display, taking her to the control box, and a p
ang of fear raced through her as she realized that the bomb was almost directly beneath her, ready to explode at any time. She reached for the control box, tugging it open, working the controls and calling up the data distribution network. There was no time for her to do anything even remotely resembling a good job, only for her to send the sensor feeds that the turrets desperately needed. She tapped one control after another, redirecting the data links one at a time, amber lights winking on with distressing sloth as she worked.
“You’re doing good, Cadet, you’re doing damned good,” Bishop said, her voice echoing inside the helmet.
“Get clear, Sub-Lieutenant,” Bradley replied.
“We’re behind the hatch now, locked and secure. I’m monitoring the telemetry. You’ve got four connections left.”
“Roger, copy,” Bradley said, fumbling with her bulky gloves as she struggled to complete her work. Three more connections, then two, then one. Then, at long last, none, the last amber light engaged.
“You’ve done it!” Bishop yelled. “Now, get the hell out of there!”
“Doing it,” she said, firing her thrusters to send her spinning around, but before she could kick herself clear of the hull, the bomb detonated, just as she had engaged the boost. A tissue of flame briefly raced along the hull, sending a cloud of debris flying through the air, but it was the force of escaping atmosphere that did the worst of the damage, throwing her far from the side of the ship with overwhelming strength. She heard a load report on her suit, and for a second, she thought she was dead, that her suit had been holed, but her heads-up display flashed up a diagnostic warning. Communications were out, the antenna neatly severed. All telemetry would have failed. She tried to fire her thrusters again, but another warning flashed on the display. Out of fuel. Either someone had neglected to top up the tanks after the suit was last used, or she’d suffered more damage, but right now, that was irrelevant. Calling up her sensor display only added to her troubles. As far as she could tell, she was heading directly into the path of the incoming fighters.
She might have saved Ariadne. At least they had a chance.
Unless something changed, and soon, she didn’t.
Chapter 9
“Jack, I know you don’t want to hear this,” Nguyen said, “but I’m still not picking up any telemetry from Vicky’s suit, not even a distress beacon. The last signals Ariadne did get showed her systems going offline, and she was flying right into a cloud of debris.” He looked down at the sensor display, and added, “There’s so much junk out there that the computer’s having trouble processing the course plots, and we’re going to be running into the enemy fighters in a matter of minutes.”
“You’re right,” Winter replied. “I don’t want to hear this. You didn’t have to come along for the ride.” He threw a control, altering his course, and added, “Run the numbers on a course projection again. We should have better data from Ariadne now on the amount of atmosphere they lost. That should help.” Shaking his head, he added, “And check the course trajectory of those fighters again, just in case they’re planning another surprise.”
“They hardly need to,” his friend said, shaking his head. “They’ve already done more than enough.”
“Shuttle Three-Niner to Ariadne Actual,” Winter said, leaning over a microphone. “Shuttle Three-Niner to Ariadne Actual. Come in, please.”
“If they’ve got any spare data capacity, Jack, they’re funneling all of it to their defense turrets. They don’t have any to spare for their friendly neighborhood Don Quixote. I’m surprised they managed to punch out that first message to us.” Looking up at the screen, he added, “Those Hawk pilots know their stuff. They’re moving into close attack formation, right out of the old Terran manual. I guess someone managed to get hold of some training programs when they bought the cruiser.” He paused, then said, “Where the hell is the transport, by the way? I’m surprised to see one out without the other.”
“I’d been wondering that myself, but I have a horrible feeling that’s the second part of the surprise.” Looking at the close-range sensors, he said, “We’re not going to get a trace through all the debris.”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for the last five minutes. I know this is hard, but…”
“She’s not dead, Danny,” Winter said with surprising equanimity. “Trust me, I’d know if she was. This just means that I have to try something different.” Tapping controls, he added, “I’m searching for traces of carbon dioxide. Waste gasses from her life support system. By now any escaped gasses from Ariadne will have dispersed so much that we wouldn’t be able to pick them up. Anything we do find out there is going to be hers.”
“You’re too smart to die so young,” Nguyen replied with a smile.
Winter scanned the display, hoping against hope to spot something, knowing that even if his daughter was floating around out there somewhere, time was almost certainly running out. Emergency spacesuits were only intended for short-term use, lacked most of the equipment and critically supplies that a proper hardsuit possessed. Not to mention the approaching fighters, which were currently on a perfect vector for an intercept. He looked again, fine-tuning the controls on instinct, Nguyen throwing more projections onto the display.
There. Something at extreme range. A trace of carbon dioxide. He focused the sensors, and picked up a heat bloom, and a faint crackle as though a disabled communicator was attempting to signal. Working frantically, he crunched the data through the navigation computer, swinging around for an intercept.
“Got her,” he said, a smile on his face.
“I’ll be damned,” Nguyen replied. “What’s our speed at intercept.”
“Thirty-nine.”
“That’s too fast,” the engineer said, his face falling. “Can’t we cut speed, decelerate?”
“If I cut too much, we’ll miss her, or run right into those fighters.” He looked at the monitors, tapping the thrusters, then said, “Thirty-five is the best we can do.”
“I’ll get into the airlock,” Nguyen said, clipping on his helmet. “What sort of distance?”
“Ten meters at closest approach. That’s in seventy-two seconds.” He paused, then said, “I’ll have to maneuver at ninety-five, so you’ll have to be secure by then.”
“Understood,” Nguyen replied, climbing into the cramped airlock. The inner door closed, and Winter looked at the hatch, wishing he could have been the one in the suit, attempting to rescue his daughter. It couldn’t be. He had to stay at the controls if they were to have any chance of living through this maneuver. There was little point saving his daughter’s life only to throw it away a few minutes later, and the enemy fighters were getting closer and closer by the second, setting themselves up for a devastating attack run.
He looked at the trajectory plot, finally able to see his daughter clearly, floating amid the debris. As he watched, she stabilized herself, kicking towards the shuttle, trying to make Nguyen’s task easier. The seconds ticked away, one after another, each lasting for what seemed an eternity as the shuttle inched closer and closer, the outer hatch opening to allow Nguyen to drift free, reaching for his daughter. Winter looked at the controls, setting up the maneuver that would take them to safety, waiting for the signal from his friend.
Closest approach came, and went. No signal. Plus one second. Plus two. Plus three. Soul-crushing despair clutched at his heart, a tear running down his cheek as the reality of the situation hit him for the first time. Plus four. Plus five.
“Got her! Coming back, express!” Nguyen said, and Winter breathed a sigh of relief, wiping the wetness from his cheek as he called up the thruster controls, ready to send them speeding the safety. A green light flashed on, the outer hatch safely closed, and he took that as his cue to pivot the shuttle around, running the throttle as hard as he could, racing onto a new course. The inner hatch opened, and his daughter came sprinting out into the cabin, tossing her helmet free.
“Dad?” she said. “How the hell…
”
“Don’t worry, kid, this is just what fathers do.” He gestured to the co-pilot’s seat, and said, “Buckle up. This is going to be wild as hell.”
She looked down at the trajectory plot, shook her head, and said, “Have you managed to contact Ariadne?”
“Their systems are still fried, but their turrets are moving to bear on the enemy fighters.” He paused, then asked, “Just what were you doing outside the ship in the middle of a battle, anyway? We just got a three-second signal from some woman called Bishop, and…”
“I managed to re-route the auxiliary data stream to funnel the short-range sensors to the turrets. Someone sabotaged the ship, Dad. Planted a bomb right under the primary data conduit.”
“I’m guessing they’re the ones who destroyed your fighters, as well,” Nguyen said. “Those missiles didn’t just misfire. Someone rigged them to detonate as soon as they were armed. You’ve got a damn creative saboteur on board.”
“He’s dead,” she replied. “A cranial bomb, when we were about to capture him. I guess they wanted to make sure that we couldn’t take any prisoners.” She paused, then said, “If he wasn’t operating alone…”
“Then Ariadne is in a lot of trouble,” Winter replied, with a frown. He glanced at the controls, and said, “Danny, contact the station, see if there’s any chance we can get any fighters up.”
“I’ll try, but I doubt it. We’ve only got three pilots anyway. Hell, even if they could launch right away, there’s damn all they could do. Those fighters will be making their attack run in less than four minutes. We’re going to have a hard-enough time getting away ourselves, but I think I can boost our acceleration a bit. These civilian engineers are rather on the conservative time.” He leaned over the communicator, and Bradley turned to the trajectory plot, a finger stabbing at the screen, a triumphant smile on her face.
“We’ve got a ten-second window for an intercept.”
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