He looked down at the draft treaty and swore, under his breath. The Russian Government had refused to send an Ambassador to the meeting, knowing it would force them to either concede New Russia permanently or break ranks with the other spacefaring powers. They’d made their feelings clear, Peter had been told. But it was also clear that they were about to be betrayed. The other colonies were minor investments, a few billion American dollars worth of infrastructure ... but New Russia was different. There was nothing that could compensate the Russian Government for what it had lost in the war.
And his orders were clear. In the event of a betrayal, he and his team were to launch a final attack on the aliens. They knew it was likely suicide, but they would carry out their orders without fail. The price for being what they were, cybernetic infiltrators, was being programmed to obey orders, provided they came from the correct authority. He could alter his tactics to suit himself, but not disobey outright.
It could cost the human race everything, he knew, but he understood. The Russian Government would never accept permanent subordination – and that was what they would be facing, if the treaty was passed without further argument. At best, there would be decades before they could count themselves as a first-rank spacefaring power; at worst, the chaos on the Russian border would sweep northwards and eventually overwhelm civilisation. He thought of the barbarity of the Central Asians and shuddered. Better to die hacking and slashing at the aliens then be condemned to a slow lingering death.
He rose for his feet, then reached for the communicator. It was fortunate that the British had respected diplomatic immunity, for he’d been able to bring a considerable amount of equipment onto the ship with only a handful of cursory scans. Avoiding detection had been relatively simple. All he needed to do now was start the operation and hope everything went according to plan.
And if it doesn't, he thought, at least we’ll show them that Russian interests always have to be taken into account.
***
There were people, including some of her co-workers, who would have considered Galina Bezukladnikov a monster. She had no conscience. Indeed, any traces of conscience had been carefully edited out of her by the procedures that had cleared her to work in the Russian Biological Warfare Centre years ago. She’d gone into the operating room a bright young woman with a boyfriend and a loving family; she’d left a scientist so dedicated to scientific research that she’d ended her relationship with her boyfriend and moved everything she wanted to keep into the complex. But there hadn't been much she’d wanted to keep. Her old life no longer really existed, even in her own mind.
The challenge of creating a bioweapon designed to attack the aliens had been thrilling, about the only thing that did thrill her these days. She’d worked hard as part of the joint research team, often pushing the limits much further than they’d considered possible. But then, she had no moral or ethical doubts about her work. It was merely a scientific puzzle that had to be solved, like some of the other riddles she'd tried to solve over the years. The Russian Government wanted a disease that would attack everyone who wasn't of Slavic descent; Galina had worked on the program, heedless of the dangers. It was just another job for her, after they’d tampered with her mind. She didn't even care that they’d harvested eggs and raw genetic material from her body in hopes of producing the next generation of scientists.
She glanced down at her wristcom as the message arrived, then carefully removed the device and dropped it on her desk. The holographic representation of the bioweapon flickered, then vanished as she cancelled the display. It was a beautiful piece of work – pride in their creation was almost all the emotion she was allowed – but there was no time to become lost in admiration. All that mattered was that there was no need to try to build safeguards into its genetic structure. It would burn its way through the alien biochemistry like a forest fire, with no hope of a cure being discovered in time to save the aliens from certain death.
Opening her secure drawer, she removed a case and opened it, revealing a pair of stunners and one full-sized pistol. Keeping them hidden had been a challenge, but every scientist had their own personal workspace and no one else was allowed to use it. Galina would have rolled her eyes, if she’d been able to care enough to sneer. She had spent months taking time off her work to learn how to shoot properly, even though it wasn't her strong point. But then, she was already inside the defences. No one else could get into the biological warfare laboratory without permission.
She hefted one of the stunners, then walked around her desk and through the hatch. Outside, four technicians – all British – sat at their desks, refining future versions of the bioweapon in the event it became necessary. Galina lifted the stunner, then opened fire, zapping all four of them before they even knew they were under attack. She watched them fall off their chairs and hit the deck, then walked dispassionately around the compartment until she reached the hatch to Doctor Russell’s office. He was fond of her, she knew; his eyes followed her sometimes, just like some of her superiors back on Russia. But she had no feelings about his attentions, one way or the other. All that mattered was her work.
The hatch hissed open and she stepped through, drawing the pistol from her belt. It looked much more intimidating, she’d been told, than the stunners, even though she didn't dare actually kill him until her mission was complete. Doctor Russell looked up at her and smiled in welcome, an expression that vanished the moment he saw the pistol in her hand. She pointed the weapon at his head and motioned for him to stand.
“Galina,” he said, shocked. “What are you doing?”
“Stand,” Galina ordered. “Do not attempt to sound the alert.”
She motioned for him to stand against the bulkhead, then pressed the weapon into his back as she searched him roughly, removing his wristcom, terminal and collection of pens and pieces of paper. He’d always been scribbling down notes as they’d talked their way through the development process, something Galina had always found inefficient. If the Russian Government hadn't needed the British DNA samples to construct the bioweapon, she was sure, they would have developed one of their own far faster. And they wouldn't have needed such a complex plot to actually deploy the damned thing. But the British had managed to keep firm control over the living aliens ...
“Come with me,” she ordered. “And keep your hands on your head.”
He was shaking as he walked back out of the cabin and into the research chamber. Galina noted his terrified movements with some irritation, although part of her mind was pleased. If he was scared, unlike her or anyone else with her conditioning, it was much less likely he’d try something heroic. He almost stopped dead when he saw the stunned technicians, gaping at them as if he thought they were dead. Galina almost rolled her eyes in annoyance. She’d seen co-workers die slowly, a moment’s carelessness costing them their lives. There was no point in whining over stunned co-workers when they could easily be dead.
“Galina,” Russell said, “why are you doing this?”
Galina prodded him with the barrel of the gun, forcing him towards the large sealed hatch that led into the bioweapon vault. If she could have opened it without Russell, she would have stunned or killed him and opened the hatch herself, but the safety precautions insisted they needed two people to open the hatch. A normal human would have cursed. She just took it in his stride.
“I won’t open the hatch,” Russell said. He stopped, trying to look stubborn despite his obvious fear. “The bioweapon ...”
Galina pointed the gun at his leg and fired, once. Russell screamed in pain as the bullet shattered his bone, sending him falling to the deck. Pain – real physical pain – had never been part of his life. It hadn't really been part of Galina’s either, she had to admit, but she’d had her pain sensitivity modified too. Pain was nothing more than a distraction from her duty.
“If you refuse to cooperate, I will shoot you again, then leave you to bleed out on the deck,” she hissed. “And then my comrades will do
truly awful things to the other technicians.”
Russell stared at her, his eyes wild. Galina sighed, pulled him to his feet and dragged him over to the hatch, leaving a trail of blood on the deck. Russell didn't even try to struggle as she pushed his palm against the sensor, which accepted his code. She added her own code a moment later, opening the first hatch. Inside, a keyboard glowed in the semi-darkness.
“Enter your code,” she ordered. She hauled him up and held him in front of the keyboard. Behind them, the outer hatch slid closed. “Enter your code or the pain will become a great deal worse.”
“Fuck ...” Russell said. “I ...”
Galina slapped him. She didn't have time to let him go into shock. Perhaps she should just have twisted his arm instead, but that would have meant letting go of the gun. Russell stared at her, his eyes clearing, then looked at the panel. They didn't have long before the security systems realised that no secondary code had been entered and sounded the alert, then put the entire complex into lockdown. It would be disastrous.
Russell weakly reached out and input his code. Galina didn't pray, but she braced herself to kill him and then herself if he inputted the wrong code. If the system locked down, they would both be trapped until the entire complex was reopened by the Royal Marines. They’d find the stunned bodies and know that something had gone badly wrong. But the secondary hatch clicked open, revealing a waft of cold air. Inside, the bioweapon was waiting.
She dropped Russell to the deck and strode over to the first set of vials. It was a truly brilliant weapon in its own right, she knew, although she also knew that anyone with a conscience would consider it thoroughly horrific. Deployment wouldn't be a problem, not as long as they had a shuttle and the correct ID codes. And it was completely harmless to human life. She could smash a dozen vials on Earth and nothing would happen. Unless, of course, the aliens took the planet and turned it into a colony.
This will ensure we never lose our worlds, she thought. The bioweapon would slaughter any alien or alien-derived lifeform that set foot on an infected world. And the aliens will know to leave us alone in future.
Galina pocketed four of the vials, then took one last look at Russell. He was clutching his leg, completely unaware of the outside world. She considered killing him for a long moment, then dismissed the thought as pointless. Instead, she walked back out of the hatch and closed it behind her. The chamber would remain sealed until someone opened it, but she was fairly sure he would survive. And if he didn't ... his work was already done. She didn't give a damn about his future.
She strode through the outer chamber and then through the decontamination compartment, without bothering with the procedure. It was useless, she knew; they were hardly working with anything that could harm humanity. And besides, the alien diplomats on the ship shouldn't know anything about what was happening in the lab. If they did come to visit, they'd wind up being used as test subjects. It felt odd not to have live test subjects – she'd used political prisoners and other undesirables in Russia – but the computer simulations were excellent. The bioweapon was completely lethal – and completely incurable. Or so they hoped.
Dropping her lab coat in a rack, she pulled on a tunic and settled back to wait. It wouldn't be long now.
***
The interior of Ark Royal was confusing as hell, but Peter had one advantage the British might not realise he possessed. It hadn't been that long since a team of Russian commandos had deployed on the ship and they’d taken the opportunity to map the ancient craft’s interior as thoroughly as possible. Some details were lacking – the commandos hadn't been allowed anywhere near the bridge or main engineering – but it was complete enough for him to mentally fill in the blanks. And besides, as an observer, he had been given a tour of the ship along with the ambassadors.
He glanced into a compartment and smiled as he saw a junior crewman inside, folding clothing. It was one of the details of military life civilians never considered; someone had to wash the uniforms and do the ship’s laundry, after all. Peter slipped inside, came up behind the crewman before he had a change to blink and snapped his neck effortlessly. The crewman let out a groan and collapsed like a sack of potatoes. Peter hastily undid his uniform jacket and trousers, removing them from the corpse, then pulled them onto his own body. A quick glance in the mirror revealed that he looked like a sloppy but passable crewman. His nametag read BUCKLEY.
Picking up the laundry basket and positioning it to cover the nametag, he walked out of the compartment and headed up towards Officer Country, passing several other crewmen on the way. Hardly anyone paid attention to him, which wasn't surprising. No one ever noticed the help, he knew; the FSB had always learned more from janitors or maids than it had from higher-profile spies. It was astonishing what people would say when they considered themselves alone, as if their servants were far from human. He passed through the hatch into Officer Country, then paused and checked his watch. He was five minutes ahead of schedule ...
He hesitated. Timing was everything; it wouldn't be long before their actions were very noticeable, no matter how much they sneaked around. And then all hell would break loose. The ship would go into lockdown, the Royal Marines would search the interior inch by inch for the Russians and they’d be wiped out. Eventually. They could do a great deal of damage before they died, he knew, but destroying the carrier had never been part of the plan. The human race was going to need Ark Royal.
He pushed the thought aside. There was no time for woolgathering.
Can’t afford to waste time here, he thought, as he strode towards the Captain’s cabin. I’d be noticed and ordered to go find something else to do.
He stopped outside the solid hatch, then keyed the switch.
***
James had been reading the latest tactical report on the system when the hatch opened. It didn't sit well with him to consider ending the war on such poor terms, but he was starting to think the human race didn't have a choice. The aliens might well have a larger industrial base than humanity and, if they did, the war would be ended when they drowned humanity in carriers, starfighters and other warships. If the aliens hadn't been so diverse themselves, he suspected, the war would have been lost by now. Instead, they had a chance for peace.
The Russians will be furious, he thought. But what choice do we have?
Uncle Winchester would probably be relieved, he considered. And so would most of the British population. They needed time to rebuild, to establish more colonies and learn the lessons of the war. Then, perhaps, they could renegotiate the terms of the treaty. Or find other ways to work with the aliens. If both sides had learned a great deal from merely fighting each other, who knew what they could discover in peacetime?
The hatch bleeped. James frowned, then called “Open.”
He looked up, surprised, as a crewman stepped into his cabin, carrying a laundry basket. But his steward handled his laundry ... and the crewman was wearing a very ill-fitting uniform and ...
It was too late. He saw the gun in the man's hand an instant before the intruder fired.
Chapter Thirty
“Major,” the tech snapped. “Someone attempted to use the codes!”
Major Charles Parnell swore. He’d hoped to have more time to get his forces organised before the shit hit the fan. As it was, he was still badly undermanned and he’d barely managed to get a handful of armed crewmen rounded up to reinforce the Marines. Against alien boarders it might not have been a problem, but against humans it was just asking for a friendly fire incident. That was the last thing they needed.
“Shit,” he said. “What did they try to do?”
“I’m not sure,” the tech said. “I think they tested the codes and discovered they weren't responsive.”
Charles thought, fast. “Declare a security alert,” he ordered. “And put the entire ship into lockdown. No one goes anywhere without the right authorisation.”
“Aye, sir,” the tech said.
“Then call the
deployed platoons,” Charles added. “They are to move in and secure the diplomatic zone. Treat the diplomats gently, but firmly.”
He looked down at the display as the ship’s alarms started to howl. There were seven Russians on the ship – eight, if one counted the researcher assigned to the bioweapon ... he swore, violently, as he realised what the Russians might have in mind. The bioweapon was humanity’s ace in the hole, the secret weapon that could be used to threaten the aliens with utter catastrophe if they didn't agree to reasonable peace terms. And the Russians had been very involved with producing and testing the weapon.
You fucking idiot, he told himself. How the hell did you miss that?
“Redeploy Platoon Two,” he ordered. Armed and armoured, Platoon One should have no problem handling unarmed diplomats. “They are to secure the biological research laboratory and put it into complete lockdown. I want every one of those damn scientists accounted for.”
Ark Royal 3: The Trafalgar Gambit Page 30