The Silent War gt-11

by Ben Bova

  Okay, she told herself. Just a quick peek. A fast reconnaissance. Nothing heroic.

  With gloved fingers she tapped the code on the hatch’s control panel. It popped open slightly, and she noticed a puff of gritty dust from the floor swirl through the crack.

  Breathing heavily inside her helmet, she pushed the hatch all the way open and stepped tentatively through. The lamps fixed to the shoulders of her space suit reflected light off the steel wall of the shaft.

  “Looks all right so far,” she said into her helmet microphone to the techs in the control center watching her progress in the corridor’s surveillance camera.

  “Some dust or dirt accumulated on the floor of the shaft,” she reported, kicking up little lingering clouds of dust as she turned a full circle.

  She had to crane her neck painfully to look up the length of the shaft. Sure enough, the hatch up at the top was gone. She could see a swatch of stars in the circular opening up there. Feeling jumpier with every heartbeat, Leeza unclipped the hand torch from her waist and shone it up the shaft. The gleaming reflection from the smooth steel lining ended about halfway up.

  “The metal lining of the shaft seems to have been eroded or something,” she said. A pebble pinged on her helmet. She would have jumped halfway out of her skin if she hadn’t been inside the cumbersome suit.

  “It’s eating the metal!” she yelped.

  “Get back inside,” said one of the techs from the control center. “Get back before they start chewing on you!”

  Leeza didn’t wait to be told twice.

  There was no nanotech expert among the HSS crew at the Vesta base. And no way to call for advice or information, with all the surface antennas gone. Leeza ordered the entire team into the galley, the only room large enough to hold the nearly two hundred men and women in the base at the same time.

  “It’s nanomachines,” she concluded, after reporting to them what was happening. “They seem to be attacking metal. Maybe they’re specifically programmed to destroy steel, maybe it’s any metal at all. We don’t know. But either way, we’re in deep trouble.”

  “They could eat out all the hatches and open the whole complex to vacuum!” said one of the mercenary soldiers.

  “That’s what they’re in the process of doing,” Leeza admitted.

  The head of the logistics storeroom, a soft-looking sandy-haired man with a bold blue stylized wolf tattooed across his forehead, spoke up:

  “They’re coming down the shaft and eating at the airtight hatch, right?”

  “Right,” said Leeza.

  “And when they’ve gone through that first hatch they’ll come along the corridor toward the next hatch, right?”

  “We all know that!” snapped a dark-haired woman in pale green coveralls. “They’ll eat up anything metal.”

  “Well,” said the logistics man, “why don’t we spray the corridors and hatches with something nonmetallic?”

  “Spray?”

  “We’ve got sprayguns, ceramics torches, butterknives, for chrissakes. Cover every square millimeter of exposed metal with something nonmetallic. Slather it on good and thick. Maybe that’ll stop the nanos.”

  “That’s ridiculous!”

  “Maybe not.”

  “It’s worth a try.”

  Leeza agreed that it was worth a try. If nothing else, it would keep everybody busy, instead of waiting in dread for the nanomachines to kill them.

  COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND

  A great way to go into battle, thought Dorik Harbin: out of fuel, stripped of armor, and low on rations.

  Sitting in the command chair on Samarkand’s bridge, Harbin turned his gaze from the main display screen to the thick quartz port set into the bulkhead on his left. They were close enough to the Chrysalis for him to see it without magnification; the habitat’s linked circle of metal-skinned modules glinted faintly in the light from the distant Sun, a tiny spark of human warmth set against the cold, silent darkness of infinite space.

  “I have contact with Chrysalis, sir,” his communications technician said, turning halfway in her chair to look at Harbin.

  “Main screen,” he ordered.

  A woman’s face appeared on the screen, ascetically thin, high cheekbones, hair cropped down to a bare fuzz, almond-shaped dark eyes full of suspicion.

  “Please identify yourself,” she said, her voice polite but hard-edged. “We’re not getting any telemetry data from you.”

  “You don’t need it,” Harbin said, reflexively rubbing one hand over his fiercely dark beard. “We’re looking for Lars Fuchs. Surrender him to us and we’ll leave you in peace.”

  “Fuchs?” The woman looked genuinely puzzled. “He’s not here. He’s an exile. We wouldn’t—”

  “No lies,” Harbin snapped. “We know Fuchs is heading for your habitat. I want him.”

  Her expression turned from surprise to irritation. “How can we produce him when he’s not here?”

  “Who’s in charge there?” Harbin demanded. “I want to speak to your top person.”

  “That’d be Big George. George Ambrose. He’s our chief administrator.”

  “Get him.”

  “He’s not here.”

  Harbin’s jaw clenched. “Are you joking, or do you want me to start shooting?”

  Her eyes widened. “George is aboard the Elsinore. Greeting some VIP from Selene.”

  “Patch me through to him.”

  Sullenly, the woman said, “I’ll try.”

  The screen went blank. Harbin turned to his comm tech. “Did she cut me off?”

  The technician shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t deliberate.”

  Harbin thought otherwise. They’re playing a delaying game. Why? Do they know we’re almost out of propellant? Why are they being stubborn?

  Aloud, he commanded, “Show me the ships parked at the habitat.”

  The technician murmured into the pin microphone at her lips and the main screen lit up. Chrysalis showed up as a circle in the middle of the display. Harbin counted eleven ships co-orbiting nearby. One of them was identified as Elsinore, a passenger-carrying torch ship. The others appeared to be freighters, ore carriers, logistics supply vessels.

  We’ll have to take the propellants and supplies we need from them, Harbin said to himself. After we’ve found Fuchs.

  He called up Elsinore’s manifest. Registered to Astro Corporation. Just in from Selene. No cargo. Carrying only one passenger, someone identified as Edith Elgin, from Selene.

  From Selene, he thought. Who would pay the expense of sending a torch ship from Selene to Ceres for just one passenger? Lars Fuchs must be aboard that ship. He has to be. The passenger they’ve identified on their manifest, this Edith Elgin, must be a front for Fuchs.

  It must be.

  Harbin rose from his command chair. “Take the con,” he said to his pilot. “I’ll be back in a few moments. If Chrysalis’s chief administrator calls, let me know immediately.”

  He ducked through the hatch and walked the few steps to the door of his private quarters. They’re not going to give up Fuchs willingly, Harbin thought. They might know that we’re low on supplies, or guess it. Maybe they think they can wait us out. They could be calling for more Astro attack ships to come to their aid.

  He looked at his bed. How long has it been since I’ve slept? he asked himself. With a shake of his head he answered, No matter. This is no time for sleep. He went past the bed and into his lavatory. There he opened the slim case that housed his medications. I’ll need to be alert, razor-sharp, he told himself. He picked one of the vials and fitted it to the hypospray. Rolling up the sleeve of his tunic, he pressed the spray-gun against his bare skin and pushed the plunger.

  He felt nothing. For good measure he fitted another vial to the hypospray and shot the additional dose into his bloodstream.

  Big George was walking Edith Elgin down the passageway to Elsinore’s main airlock, where his shuttlecraft had docked.

  “You won’t need a space suit,”
George was saying. “We’ll go straight into the shuttle and then we’ll dock with Chrysalis. Shirtsleeve environment all the way.”

  Edith smiled, delighted with this big, shaggy mountain of a man with the wild brick-red hair and beard. He would look terrific on video.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing how the rock rats live,” she said, secretly berating herself for not having a microcam attached to her and slaved to wherever her eyes focused. Always be ready to shoot, she reminded herself. You’re letting an opportunity slip away.

  “Aw, there aren’t many ratties in the habitat. Mostly clerks and shopkeepers. The real rock rats are out in the Belt, workin’ their bums off.”

  “Even with this war going on?” she asked.

  George nodded. “No work, no eat.”

  “But isn’t it dangerous, with ships being attacked?”

  “Sure it is. But—” “URGENT MESSAGE FOR MR. AMBROSE,” the overhead intercom speakers blared.

  George swiveled his head around, spotted a wall phone, and hurried to it. Edith followed him.

  A bone-thin woman’s face showed in the wall phone’s little screen. “An unidentified ship has taken up a parking orbit. They’re demanding we surrender Lars Fuchs to them.”

  “Lars isn’t here,” George said.

  “I told him that but he said we either give him Fuchs or he starts shooting!”

  “Bloody fookin’ maniac,” George growled.

  “He wants to talk to you.”

  “Right. I want to talk to him. Put me through.”

  Harbin felt perfectly normal. Bright, alert, ready to deal with these miserable rock rats or whatever other enemies came at him.

  For the moment, though, he was sitting in his command chair and staring into the sky-blue eyes of a man sporting a thick mane of blazing red hair and an equally wild-looking beard.

  Stroking his own neatly cropped beard, Harbin said, “It’s very simple. You surrender Fuchs to me or I’ll destroy you.”

  “We don’t have Fuchs,” George Ambrose said, obviously working hard to hold back his temper.

  “How do I know that’s true?”

  “Come aboard and look for yourself! He’s not here.”

  “He is aboard Elsinore, don’t deny it.”

  “He isn’t. He’s not here. You’re welcome to come aboard and search the ship from top to bottom.”

  “I’m not such a fool. You’ve already spirited him away to your habitat.” “Search the habitat then!”

  “With a dozen men? You could hide him from us easily.”

  Ambrose started to say something, thought better of it, and sucked in a deep breath. At last he said, “Look, whoever the fook you are. Chrysalis is neutral territory. We’re not armed. We have no weapons. You’re welcome to search the habitat to your heart’s content. We’ll resupply your ship and fill your propellant tanks for you. What more can I offer you?”

  “Lars Fuchs,” said Harbin, implacably. This stubborn fool is beginning to anger me, he realized. He could feel the rage building, deep within him, like a seething pit of hot lava burning its way toward the surface.

  “Lars isn’t here!” Ambrose insisted. “He’s not anywhere near here! We exiled the poor bloody bastard years ago. He’s persona non grata.”

  Harbin leaned forward in his chair, his eyes narrowing, his hands clenching into fists. “You have one half-hour to produce Fuchs. If you haven’t given him to me by then, I will destroy your precious habitat and everyone in it.”

  SELENE: DOUGLAS STAVENGER’S QUARTERS

  Doug Stavenger sat tensely in the armchair at one end of his living room’s sofa. At the matching chair on the other end sat Pancho Lane. Between them, Martin Humphries was on the sofa, beneath a genuine Bonestell painting of a sleek rocket sitting on the Moon’s rugged surface.

  Pancho looks wary, Stavenger thought, like a gazelle that’s been caught in a trap. The trousers of her trim sea-green business suit hid the cast on her left ankle.

  Humphries looks worried, too, he realized. I’ve never seen him so uptight. Maybe being nearly killed has finally knocked some sense into his head.

  “This war has gone far enough,” Doug Stavenger said, leaning forward earnestly. “Too far, in fact. It’s got to stop. Now.”

  Neither Pancho nor Humphries said a word. They look like two schoolkids who’ve been sent to the principal’s office for discipline, Stavenger thought.

  He focused on Pancho. “Despite Selene’s demands, and my personal request to you, Astro has used its facilities here to direct military operations.”

  She nodded, lips tight. “Yep, that’s true.”

  “And you produced a disaster.”

  Pancho nodded again.

  Turning to Humphries, he said, “And that fire in your personal preserve could have wiped out all of Selene.”

  “I didn’t start the fire,” Humphries snapped. “It was that murdering sonofabitch Fuchs.”

  “And why was he trying to get to you?” Pancho interjected.

  “He’s a killer! You know that. Everybody knows it. He even killed one of my assistants, Victoria Ferrer!”

  “And how many have you killed?” Pancho retorted. “You’ve tried to kill Lars more’n once.”

  For the first time in long, long years Stavenger felt angry. Truly angry. These two stubborn idiots were threatening Selene and everyone living in it.

  “I don’t care who started the fire,” he said coldly, “the fact is that you’re running your war from here. It was inevitable that the fighting would spread to Selene.”

  “I’m sorry for that,” Pancho said. “Really sorry. But I had nothing to do with Fuchs’s attack on the mansion.”

  Humphries glared at her. “Didn’t you? You brought Fuchs here to Selene, didn’t you? You protected him while he plotted to kill me!”

  “I brought him to Earth to save his hide from your hired killers,” Pancho countered, with some heat.

  “Enough!” Stavenger snapped. “You want to fight your war, then fight it elsewhere. You’re both leaving Selene.”

  “What do you mean?” Humphries demanded.

  “Both Humphries Space Systems and Astro Corporation will move out of Selene. That includes the two of you, all your employees, and all your equipment. I want you both out, lock, stock and barrel. Within the week.”

  “You can’t do that!”

  “Can’t I?” Stavenger said, meeting Humphries’s angry gaze. “The governing council of Selene will formally declare both your corporations to be outlaw operations. If you don’t move out by the deadline they will seize all your assets and forcibly exile any of your people still remaining here.”

  “That’s illegal,” Pancho blurted.

  “It won’t be by this time tomorrow,” said Stavenger. “I guarantee it.”

  Humphries jabbed an accusing finger at him. “You can’t expect me to—

  “I do expect you to clear out of Selene. Now. Immediately. I don’t care where you go. I don’t care if you slaughter each other out in the Belt or in the pits of hell. But you will not drag Selene into this war. And you will not endanger this community. Is that clear?”

  Humphries glowered at him for a silent moment, then seemed to relax and lean back into the sofa’s ample cushions.

  “So I’ll go to Hell Crater,” he said, with a smirk.

  Stavenger turned to Pancho. “And you?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe Malapert. Maybe we’ll set up shop in one of the habitats at L-4 or L-5.” Humphries sneered at her. “Good idea. I can wipe you out with a single nuke, then.”

  Stavenger suddenly shot out of his chair, grabbed Humphries by the collar of his tunic and hauled him to his feet.

  “Why don’t I just break your damned neck here and now and get this war over with?” he snarled.

  Humphries went white. He hung limply in Stavenger’s grasp, not even able to raise his hands to defend himself.

  Stavenger pushed him back onto the sofa. “Martin, I can see that you’re
not going to stop this war of your own volition. It won’t stop until you’re stopped.”

  Some color returned to Humphries’s face. With a trembling hand he pointed to Pancho. “What about her? She started it!”

  “I started it?” Pancho yelped. “That’s the biggest motherhumping lie I ever heard.”

  “You started arming your ships!”

  “You tried to assassinate me!”

  “I did not!”

  “The cable car from Hell Crater, remember? You’re saying you didn’t do that?”

  “I didn’t!”

  “Liar.”

  “I didn’t do it!”

  “Then who the hell did?”

  “Not me!”

  Stavenger’s phone chimed, interrupting their finger-pointing.

  “Phone answer,” Stavenger called. Edith Elgin’s face appeared on the screen. She looked tense, worried, almost frightened. “Doug, I know you’re going to hear about this one way or the other. The rock rats’ habitat at Ceres is being threatened by somebody who wants Lars Fuchs. It must be a Humphries operation. I’m safe on the Elsinore so far, but we don’t know what’s going to happen. This could get ugly.”

  The screen went blank.

  “Edith!” Stavenger called.

  The screen remained gray, but a synthesized voice said, “Transmission was interrupted at the source. The system will attempt to reconnect.”

  Stavenger whirled on Humphries. “If anything happens to my wife I’ll kill you. Understand me? I’ll kill you!”

  TORCH SHIP ELSINORE

  “Well at least lemme get back to Chrysalis,” Big George was saying to the image on the screen, “and show you that Fuchs isn’t there.”

  The fierce, dark-bearded man shook his head grimly. “No one will transfer from your ship to the habitat. How do I know that you won’t smuggle Fuchs in with you?”

  With obvious exasperation, George replied, “Because Fuchs isn’t here! Come and see for your fookin’ self!”

  “I am not leaving my ship,” said the intruder. “You will produce Lars Fuchs or face the consequences.”