After six hours, she had no more idea about whether Independent Mining was a legitimate operation than when she'd started. She rocked the chair back and massaged her throbbing temples. McTavish's words haunted her. She'd look like a moorhk, a moron, a fool. She felt a blush start just thinking about admitting her failure to him.
Ready for a break, her mind drifted to the question of Levine, the Oasis contract, and the money chip hidden in his quarters. Who else might have seen the document? Curious, she pulled up the list of names with access to the business systems: Levine, Miss Patty, Browning, and Roshal.
On a hunch, she wrote a computer program, an automated bot that would seek out information elsewhere in the galaxy. If Samir found out, he'd be displeased. He had no objections to hacking, but he wanted it done his way, with deep layers of misdirection and minimal risk. That took ages. If she did it her way, she'd have an answer before tomorrow morning. A little thrill zinged up her spine as she dropped the bot into the outgoing message queue.
She sneaked out long enough to shower and wash her coveralls, with disappointing results. The giant red blotch still covered the front of them. So much for Miss Patty's assurances. When she turned to them, the Independent Mining incorporation paperwork and the purchase contract, ostensibly signed by Galaxy, were all a lot of legal mumbo jumbo, written so no normal human being could understand it. Her revulsion toward lawyers mounted.
By ten-fifteen, she was nodding off at Levine's desk despite her grim determination to make some sense of the business records. The hum of the station's engines driving the big cylinder's rotation provided a low level white noise conducive to sleep, and she found it irresistible. She raised a hand to stifle a yawn. She ought to check on McTavish. He could be up to anything by now.
The station alarm wailed in the quiet, shattering the silence of the station night cycle. Kama jumped, every cell shrieking with sudden adrenaline, grabbed her duffel, and leaped for the door. She ran down the corridor to the next cross junction where she bounced off Browning's muscular frame.
"What's happened?" she asked, still tensed.
Browning recovered his balance and strode off. She jogged to keep pace with him. The throbbing alarm made every hair on her body stand on end. People scurried back and forth in the corridors, shouting and yelling in confusion. Browning grabbed shoulders and shoved people in the right direction, giving brusque orders, bulldozing any complaints.
Kama lunged for his sleeve and tried again. "What's going on?"
Browning swung an angry gaze onto her. "Something's coming at us, something bigger than the usual space dust and gravel. The trajectory indicates it came from the EcoMech ship. We're evacuating the impact area. So much for trusting our friend in the infirmary."
"If the EcoMech ship launched something at us, McTavish had nothing to do with it."
Browning tossed her a strange look. "How do you know?"
"I don't," she stammered, and fought for more conviction. "But the only contact he's had with the EcoMech ship was when you were right there, so how could he?"
Browning only grunted in reply. He swung into the equipment-packed control center with Kama in his wake. External cameras projected star-dusted images onto screens all around the walls. A white-faced technician manned one of the consoles. Browning clapped a hand onto his shoulder and asked for an update. The tech winced at the ferocity of his supervisor's grip.
"It's coming through in our blind spot where Camera 3B failed," he said. "It must have started out slow enough to avoid setting off the collision alarms, then accelerated."
"How close?" Browning demanded.
"Maybe five minutes out. No more than two kilometers distant."
"Shit. How big is it?"
"Two or three meters long," the tech replied.
"Buddha save us," Browning said. "Something that size could puncture the outer skin. It might weigh hundreds of kilos. Whatever it is, it isn't just some lump of trash; it's capable of course corrections. Get the defense lasers ready."
The tech scurried to another console and tapped keys.
Kama looked on. A red light flashed above the main screen. "Defense lasers?"
Browning nodded. "To burn up micro-meteorites and small-scale debris. They usually operate on automatic, but they don't engage anything bigger than a few centimeters across. We'll need to run them manually."
"That thing's more than a few centimeters."
"No time to launch a tug or a sweeper vessel. Besides, if it's a bomb, I don't want any of our people going near it."
"A bomb?" Kama exclaimed. "Why the hell would it be a bomb?"
"How the fuck should I know?" Browning retorted over his shoulder. "Maybe that CEO of theirs wants to threaten us. Whatever it is, it's on a collision course."
"But you said the lasers don't work on things that big."
"They might poke enough holes through it to throw the goddamn thing off course." He turned to the tech. "How long until we need to hit it if we want to prevent impact with the station?"
"We're just about there now."
"Bring up the sensors and target the lasers," Browning ordered.
The tech pointed to a console, where a blurry rectangle floated around a set of crosshairs. Browning seized a joystick and manipulated the view until the object was centered in the lasers' sights, then raised a finger to the technician.
"Prepare to fire."
The tech reached for the trigger. Kama still looked at the flashing red light above the screen, trying to make out the tiny printed sign beneath it. Ultra-high what? Oh no! She leaped forward. "Don't fire!"
"Hey, what the—" Browning began, then stopped as Kama flicked a control.
A burst of static came over the audio feed, and then a voice, very faintly. "—Greg Nighthorse. I'm out of thruster fuel, and my oxygen is in the red. Can you hear me?"
Kama shoved the technician away from the trigger. "That's not a bomb! It's someone in a spacesuit!"
"What?! What's he doing out there?" Browning shouted.
"I don't know," she snapped. "You can't shoot him."
"At the rate he's coming, we won't need to. He'll pancake when he hits the hull. Goddamn stupid idiot!" He smacked the joystick to point the lasers away, and thumped a fist down on the console, cracking the plastic housing.
Kama grabbed his arm. "Get some men out there to slow him down. Where's the transmitter switch? Greg Nighthorse, this is Kamala Bhatia. Do you hear me?"
The reply came through a storm of static. "Hello?"
"Greg, what are you doing?"
"I'm trying to get to the station to help my uncle, Rafe McTavish."
Kama thought of the gangly teenage boy she'd seen on the monitor when McTavish had called Goldman. "Kali save his stupid ass. He's just a dumb kid. Browning, get going! We haven't much time!"
Browning jumped for the door.
Kama's hands shook on the transmitter, but she tried to keep her voice light and level. "Greg, do you have any thruster fuel left?"
"No," he replied. "My oxygen started to run out so I used all the thruster fuel I had to get here faster."
"And what is your oxygen situation now, Greg?"
"It's in the red. It's been in the red for the last couple of minutes." He paused. "Am I going to die?"
The technician waved to get her attention, pointing her to the main screen. Red LED numbers had appeared above on it, counting down from five minutes.
"We have a rescue crew coming out for you now," Kama said. "You just have to hold on a few minutes more." She shuddered as she pictured him slamming into the bristling surface of the station. His suit would be shredded, and his body smashed to pulp before decompressing and freezing at the same time.
"Are they coming in a runabout?"
"No, Greg. They're coming out in suits to get you. You're in a little close for a runabout now. You need to save your air, so I think you should stop talking." She flicked off the transmitter. "How long does it take to get people out into space?"
she asked the tech.
"Five minutes," he replied, his voice dull. Kama wondered if he was afraid he'd be blamed if Greg died. By missing the light indicating the boy's transmission, he'd wasted invaluable time.
She saw movement on one of the screens showing the feed from the security camera in the main airlock. Four men, Browning among them, were throwing spacesuits on with the speed of quick change artists. She switched on the sound, and heard Browning spitting instructions and cursing like a drill sergeant through his suit-to-suit radio. In less than three minutes, they were out the airlock.
The radio crackled. "I can see them, Ms. Bhatia," said Greg, his voice quavering.
"You can call me Kama."
"Um, Kama, why do they have a net?"
She recalled some of Browning's curse-laden instructions. "Well, you're coming toward the station a bit too fast, and we need to slow you down a little before you get here."
"Oh." After a pause, he continued, "I guess I screwed up, huh?"
"Yeah, you screwed up. But, hey, we all make mistakes. We just have to bounce back." She cringed as soon as she said it.
He laughed, hysteria tingeing his voice.
Browning cut in over the suit-to-suit frequency, breathing hard.
"Hate to break up the party, but shut up and listen. Kid, we're going to accelerate toward you, catch you in the net, and hope we've got enough momentum between us to slow you down. Don't touch a goddamn thing, and don't move a muscle."
"Thank you, sir, I—"
"And don't talk either. Stupid little bastard. If we live through this, I'll kill you anyway."
With no outside video feed, Kama had to imagine the scene from the bursts of conversation she heard over the radio. Browning and his men positioning themselves, firing their suit thrusters madly to accelerate away from the station, unfurling the coarse cargo net between them. The tangled confusion as Greg hurtled into the center of the net, folding it up around him and dragging all five of them toward the station with his residual momentum. And then the shock and the curses as they thudded into the hull, winding them, bruising them, but no more.
Kama quit the control room and sprinted toward the airlock. She was a couple turns away from it when she rounded a corner and plowed into McTavish, barefoot and wearing surgical scrubs two sizes too big. He grunted and staggered sideways against the wall, pain draining what color remained in his already pale face. Behind him, Roshal looked first panicked and then guilty, like a kid caught stealing candy.
"What are you doing out of bed? Moorhk!" As he swayed, she ducked under his left arm and supported him.
"Call me names if you like, but I'm leaving the station before anyone else sets their sights on me," he replied. He sounded whispery and breathless and leaned heavily on her.
"Excellent timing. Your nephew has just arrived, I presume to rescue you." He groaned, but she didn't think it was from pain.
"Put us both back on the shuttle then," he said.
"Love to. If only he'd come in a shuttle." She felt the lump of the stunner in the pocket of his scrubs and deftly transferred it to her own pocket. He looked at her with a questioning expression. "He used a spacesuit. Apparently stupidity runs in your family."
She thought she heard him mutter a curse, or maybe he gasped for breath. She couldn't be sure.
The medic trotted up, eyes troubled, and slid under McTavish's right arm. "Not much for brains, eh?"
They staggered back toward the infirmary. Browning emerged from a cross-corridor sputtering explicatives in a torrent punctuated by coughs. A hangdog Greg followed in his wake. Three more miners brought up the rear. He spotted Kama's party and strode up to her, making a visible effort to breathe. His powerful, stubby fingers rubbed the grey-sprinkled fuzz on his head. "Touch of insanity in this McTavish clan, is there?"
Greg's voice saved her the need to reply. "Thank you so much for rescuing me. I know what I did was really stupid. I'm so sorry. You guys saved my life, and I won't forget it."
He reminded her of a younger, taller version of his uncle, right down to the cobalt blue eyes and the natural charm.
"You idiot!" the supervisor raged. "What the hell did you think you were doing out there? Don't you understand the basic principles of physics? We nearly blew you away with the proximity lasers!"
Kama began to see that Browning's anger was as much about nearly killing the boy as it was about the kid's stunt. Poor Greg hung his head in shame until he recognized McTavish. His eyes grew round. For a moment, Kama thought they'd be picking Greg up off the deck next. Miners drifted up and looked on with animosity.
Browning turned his anger on Rafe. "And where the hell do you think you're going?"
"Give him a break, Browning," Kama snapped. She purposefully moved her eyes over the gathering crowd. "He was worried about his nephew. Help us get him back to the infirmary."
Browning glanced around. "What are all you gawking at? Get back to bed before I find something for you to do."
Kama saw a look pass between Roshal and McTavish, and then Roshal jittered away. The other miners were slow to respond. A few muttered angry threats, and one spit on the deck at McTavish's feet. The muscles in McTavish's jaw tightened, but he kept walking. She gave him credit for poise under fire—even if he didn't have a brain in his head when it came to taking care of himself. The more she saw of his grit and determination, the less she wanted him hanging around getting in her way. She needed to be rid of him and his loopy nephew.
When the miners were gone, Kama called out. "Hey, Browning, maybe since McTavish is up anyway, we should send him and his nephew back to their ship."
"Good idea," muttered the medic. "Since we don't have a proper morgue."
Browning pulled to a halt in front of the infirmary door and faced them, hands on hips. "Yeah, maybe we should."
"But Uncle Rafe," Greg blurted, "I thought you were going to find out what's going on here. I mean, that's why you came, isn't it? And I'll assist you just like you said. I came to tell you Mr. Goldman ordered two cruisers of space marines from First Security. He says if the miners won't stand down, he'll take the station by force. They'll arrive tomorrow afternoon."
Chapter 9
Rafe sat on the edge of the cot in the station infirmary, wondering what he'd done to deserve his current situation. It seemed a tremendous miscarriage of karma. Every inch of him ached. He felt nauseous, which probably meant he was bleeding internally again. His stupid, stupid nephew stood across the room thinking of himself as some junior spy master, and the damnably contrary drop-dead gorgeous Oasis technician had relieved him of his only weapon. Had he missed anything? Oh, yes, his helpful brother-in-law intended to turn the station into a war zone tomorrow. And Browning wouldn't stop roaring.
"I asked you, can he make it to the runabout bay?" Browning shouted a foot from the medic's face. "I want both of them out of here now."
"I can make it," Rafe said through gritted teeth. "There's nothing I want more than to be off this station."
"Great!"
Browning made to grab for Rafe's arm, but the medic blocked him. "No way. He's done walking around until I say otherwise."
"No problem," the supervisor bellowed. "I'll carry him."
"Browning, think about it," Kama pleaded. "When those mercs arrive, there's nothing to stop them from assaulting the station. Men will get injured or worse. You have to keep McTavish here while you get the place under control. They won't come aboard if they think he could get hurt in the fight. He's too important."
Wasn't she the one warning him he might become a hostage? And now she was advocating they do exactly that? Whose side was she on?
"We aren't going to hide behind some namby-pamby guy in a suit," shouted Browning, and Rafe wished he had a suit instead of the ridiculous, embarrassing scrubs. Or maybe fatigues and body armor.
The supervisor marched over to stand toe-to-toe with Kama. Despite his rage, she remained calm, but Rafe noticed that her hand slid into the pocket with t
he stunner. Cool, but prepared. If only he were going to have time to get to know her better, but he wouldn't put himself or his nephew in the middle of this fight. They were leaving the station tonight. Leon could back the yacht away and bring in a crew of professional negotiators or space marines or rodeo clowns, whatever made him happy. He didn't care anymore. He should never have taken this job in the first place. If his father's reputation went up in flames with the station, so be it.
"EcoMech won't allow the use of deadly force," Rafe said. "It would cost them too much in damage claims from the victims' families. They'll board and flood the station with knockout gas. If you keep me or my nephew here, you'll be adding kidnapping on top of whatever else Goldman decides to charge you with."
Kama glared at him. "What good is gas against spacesuits? And the mercs will answer with deadly force when the miners go at them with laser cutters and worse."
"Yeah," Browning said, whirling on him. "We'll break out the old torpedoes from the munitions bunker and greet those ships with a light show like they've never seen before."
Rafe frowned. It made his face hurt. "Torpedoes?"
"They buy decommissioned torpedoes from EA and recycle the explosive to break asteroids apart," Kama said. "The propulsion systems have been stripped."
"Don't worry, we can fix that," Browning said.
"Uncle Rafe, Mom's counting on you to help Gramps. You can't let the station get wrecked."
Rafe's chest constricted, and it had nothing to do with his injuries. The iron fist of failure squeezed his heart. The medic stood by his bedside and read his medical monitor. Rafe looked him in the eye, seething.
"Don't mess me about. How bad's the bleeding?"
"Not as bad as I thought, but not good. The treatment's been partially successful. You would have died without it, but it hasn't worked as fast or as well as surgery. The best I can do is hang another bag of blood and wait to see if the seepage stops. The more you move around, the worse it gets. You need time."
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