As the Wasp started to complete its turn, it began test firing, effectively wasting ordnance. It would take the pilot only a matter of seconds to line them up for his approach run. Faulkner guessed that the other man would target their engine - that was invariably what had happened with the other shuttle.

  Take out the engine and you take out the power. That’d leave them sitting there, unable to manoeuvre as the Wasp pilot set them up for his final kill shot.

  Faulkner felt the little schooner lurch, as it effectively went into reverse, causing him to be thrown forward.

  I’m falling, he thought as he sailed through the air.

  Someone caught hold of the leg of his suit and helped to turn him.

  It was Carroll. He manhandled him into a more upright position until Faulkner could secure a handhold.

  “For God’s sake,” Morton hissed. “Can’t you just sit down?”

  He looked along the cabin. Everyone, bar Carroll, was doubled over with their head between their knees.

  Faulkner took one last look at the incoming ship. An S-10, he was sure of it. More powerful then, but less manoeuvrable. That might just work to their advantage.

  As he sat back down and began to fasten his harness, he was aware of shots streaming all around them. The next thing, the Wasp was hurtling overhead.

  Morton grabbed his sleeve. “What’s going on?”

  “He assumed we’d try to outrun him, which was never going to happen. He’s far too quick for us. By the time he started his attack run he’d already over committed himself. By throwing ourselves into reverse we somehow managed to slip under his guns.”

  Morton looked over at Rodgers who simply threw up his hands.

  “Okay, what happens next?”

  Faulkner hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  “I don’t know. Use the Mantis as a shield?”

  Even as he said it, he realised how desperate that sounded.

  “But he’s going to come back,” Morton said. “We won’t be able to avoid him forever.”

  Faulkner let out a long breath which had the effect of fogging his visor. By the time it had cleared everyone was looking in his direction.

  “You’re right. This thing’s not built for combat manoeuvres and he knows we’re unarmed. Next time he won’t be so impetuous. He’ll just wait to pick us off.”

  “Not necessarily, sir,” Rodgers said. “There might be another way.”

  *

  The manoeuvre was taking too long.

  They were building speed while trying to execute an arduous course re-alignment which would take them directly under the belly of the Mantis. As they had begun to come around, they’d lost sight of their pursuer completely. He could have been anywhere. He could have decided to call it a day and disappear off amongst the multitude of ships arrayed around the station or he might be bearing down on them even now, his thumb hovering over the firing mechanism.

  Petty Officer Rodgers was hanging upside down in front of Faulkner with all the practised ease of an experienced spacer. He seemed perfectly relaxed in that position and, although Faulkner found it somewhat discomfiting, he chose not to say anything. Rodgers was writing something on his knee pad with a pencil.

  “Are you sure this is it, sir?” he asked.

  Faulkner hesitated. He’d only been given the authorisation codes a few hours earlier and hadn’t expected to be using them quite so soon. The codes were a key part of his command. You were meant to memorise everything on the slip they gave you and then destroy it, but because of his health issues, Faulkner had been loath to do so without first making a copy. The codes provided him with access to all the over-rides on the Mantis. The problem was that the slip of paper was still in his pocket and he couldn’t get it out without first taking off his thin suit. He’d just have to hope that he could remember them.

  He mentally ran-through the long number again.

  “Yes. I’m sure, that’s it.”

  Rodgers gave him an expectant look.

  “It’s just that this is a sixteen-digit code, sir.”

  “And?” Faulkner was becoming agitated.

  “There’s only fifteen digits here.”

  Faulkner could hear the spars inside the ship groan as the ship continued its complicated turn. The little vessel hadn’t been built with this kind of flying in mind. If they continued like this, it was more than feasible that they would tear the ship in half.

  As he was thinking this, the pilot’s voice crackled over the comms.

  “I’m making my final approach now. Rodgers, I’m really going to need that code.”

  Rodgers and Faulkner just stared at one another.

  Morton motioned to get their attention.

  “Start again. But this time, get him to write it out himself.”

  Faulkner didn’t say anything, just took the pencil and began with the first number.

  He forced himself to concentrate, blotting out the sound of metal work shearing. Even a wild blast of enemy fire, which sent shadows flitting across the interior, failed to distract him. He finished writing out the number and then meticulously counted out the digits.

  There were sixteen.

  “Is that it?”

  “That’s it.”

  Rodgers touched the mic to his throat and began reading off the code in a clear, precise voice.

  When he’d finished, he kicked off, propelling himself down the cabin with a practiced ease that Faulkner could only admire. He stopped by bracing himself against a far stanchion before twisting around and sliding back into his seat.

  Through the blister, Faulkner could see the rear of the Mantis rushing towards them. The pilot had been so eager to evade their pursuer that he had failed to monitor their speed. They were traveling far too fast for what it was they intended to do.

  Rodgers shrugged on his harness and then touched the mic at the throat. “This is the schooner Aurelius on final approach. Please open main cargo doors.”

  They all watched him for what seemed like an age before he received a reply.

  “I’m through to the automated system,” he told them. “And it’s warning us off. It’s saying there’s nothing on its flight schedule and we have to break off our approach.”

  “That’s no use,” Faulkner said. “You’ll have to try again.”

  Rodgers repeated the message but almost immediately received a reply.

  “It’s basically telling us to change course before it’s forced to defend itself.”

  “Maybe it’s not registering out transponder signal.”

  “Sending it now,” the pilot shouted.

  Faulkner lifted himself as high as his restraints would allow in order to see out of the arch of the rear window. The S-10 was just completing its own wide loop in pursuit of them, the pilot pushing his vessel so hard that Faulkner could see the ion trail left in its wake.

  “It’s not recognising us,” Rodgers announced. “It’s saying we have no authorisation to land.”

  “I’m seeing all sorts of systems coming on-line,” the pilot announced. “I think it’s preparing to fire. We have to abort!”

  The ship twitched as the pilot engaged manual controls readying himself for an evasive manoeuvre.

  “Do not abort!” Faulkner shouted. “Continue along this path. P.O., give them the over-ride codes. Do it now!”

  Even as he spoke, he was aware of the Mantis’ point defence system whirring into action. Over to his right, he glimpsed one of the laser batteries as it swivelled around and began tracking them.

  The idea that he was about to be fired on by his own ship might seem absurd but he had to keep reminding himself that they were dealing with an automated system here. It was waiting for a response it could recognise and if it didn’t receive one in the next few seconds then the incoming threat would have to be neutralised.

  While Rodgers read out the codes, Faulkner’s eyes never strayed from their pursuer. The S-10’s powerful engines were bringing him around in a wide arc that was making it impossible for the pilot to get a clear shot at their engine. Once he’d managed to straighten himself up though, it would all be over.

  Faulkner turned to look at Rodgers just as their pilot finally decided to hit the brake. For a moment, gravity re-asserted itself with the front of the ship suddenly becoming ‘down’. The fuselage groaned under the added stress as the engine sought to force its way through the rear of the cabin.

  All the breath was forced from Faulkner’s body as he was thrown against his restraints. The underside of the Mantis completely filled his vision now and he was vaguely aware of a series of impacts, bright as lightning, striking the fuselage.

  The ship behind them was firing wildly in a last-ditch effort to destroy them.

  There was a black blur of movement up ahead and then a glint of light. The cargo bay doors were starting to open. The emergency codes had been accepted, yet the doors were opening far too slowly.

  The pilot must have thought so too because he hit the brakes hard, bringing the nose up at an angle and threatening to spill them from their seats.

  Faulkner caught a glimpse of the other ship’s caution lights as the cargo bay doors inched wider but it still wasn’t going to be enough. They were coming in way too fast.

  An explosion rocked their ship. Something must have struck them from behind because the next moment, they began fishtailing violently, suggesting a complete lack of control.

  Faulkner braced himself as the cargo doors loomed large ahead of them. This was it.

  They collided with the main doorframe at some considerable speed and Faulkner must have blacked out for a second because the next thing he knew they were inside the hold, spinning out of control. An alarm was blaring just behind him while the interior lights flashed intermittently. They hit the deck hard, slamming Faulkner’s head back against the chair as metal ground against metal.

  *

  A handful of CAG crewmen were examining the shattered blister trying to work out the quickest way to free the passengers. They started using hand lasers, working together to cut a hole in the plexiglas. When it was finished, a crew woman lowered herself through before dropping lightly to the floor. She carried a fire extinguisher and, once inside, wasted no time heading to the cockpit. There were a couple of small fires down there and she worked quickly to put them out. Once she’d given the place the all-clear, a doctor clambered inside, using a torch to assess the condition of the casualties.

  Two of the men seemed fine, having sustained no obvious injuries, but it quickly became clear that Byron Carroll was dead, his head twisted at an unnatural angle. The woman next to him was conscious but was pinned into her seat where part of the hull had given way. She was going to have to wait to be cut free. Rodgers was unconscious but appeared otherwise unhurt.

  There was talk of the rescue team cutting away the nose section in order to get him clear.

  Morton was the next to be checked over and she responded patiently to all the doctor’s requests. Apart from a badly strained neck, she appeared to have come through it virtually unscathed. Faulkner was a different case. Still strapped into his seat, he looked to be unconscious and the doctor struggled to rouse him. Even after he’d been given oxygen he still didn’t seem to be responding and Morton was growing increasingly worried.

  By that point, a ladder had been lowered in through the roof and a fire-fighter helped her and the other two men to clamber up it.

  Once they were clear of the battered schooner, the three of them stood and waited for an electric cart to come and take them to sick bay. It turned out that the doctor who had attended them in the cargo bay was the only one on-board so when they arrived they were attended to by a team of nurses. They checked Morton over again and although they could find no apparent injuries they insisted that she was in shock.

  It was only when they tried to put her in a bed that Morton decided to pull rank. She insisted that they take her directly to see Faulkner but it took nearly an hour before she got her wish. They had him set up in a small side room and she spoke briefly with the doctor who’d brought him in. He told her that Faulkner had regained consciousness long enough to inquire about her whereabouts. When he’d been told that she was fine, he’d soon dozed off.

  She found that she was oddly delighted to find that he’d asked after her. She told herself that it was because it showed that he’d recovered his wits, but there was more to it than that and she knew it.

  But she didn’t want to think about that now. Instead, she found herself a chair and set herself down outside his room. She closed her eyes a few times but sleep evaded her.

  An hour or so later, Chief Davitz appeared.

  He put his head through the door but didn’t go in.

  “How’s he doing?”

  “They say he was talking earlier but we’ll have to see how it goes.”

  Davitz took out his tablet and started scrolling through the damage reports.

  “Any news about the pilot?” she asked.

  “Which one?”

  “Our one of course.”

  Davitz isolated the appropriate page. “He didn’t make it. Looks like they tried to save him but his injuries were too severe. That’s how it goes with these things sometimes.”

  “Well, you might at least show a bit more compassion,” she said bluntly.

  Davitz looked at her over the tablet. “You’ll have to forgive me, doctor, that’s not really part of my skillset.”

  “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I know what you meant. I’m just being honest.”

  Morton wanted to say more but decided instead to change the subject. “What about the ship that attacked us? Any news about that?”

  “If it’s any consolation, they didn’t survive. The station’s defences saw to that. No information yet about who they might have been working for but I’ll let you know if we hear anything.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” she crossed her arms and tried to make herself comfortable. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to get some rest. It’s been one of those days.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  Webster was woken by one of the warders. The man didn’t look at him, didn’t smile. He just stood there holding the door open while Webster got dressed. When Webster asked about what was going on all the other man would say was that he had a visitor.

  He followed the man out of his cell and through a series of doors. There were no keys involved. All the doors were operated remotely. The rest of the prison was still asleep and they passed only two other warders.

  Webster relaxed a little when he realised where they were going. The visiting area. He’d been there twice before, both times to see his JAG. Both times Webster he’d come away feeling deeply dissatisfied with the outcome but that didn’t stop him feeling optimistic now.

  Eventually, his luck would have to change.

  But he had yet to be formally charged and that was still his major concern. The Yakutians were petitioning to have him extradited so that he could face charges over there. And from what he’d heard, the Yakutian legal system left a lot to be desired. He’d expected the Navy to consider the petition and then to dismiss it after a few days but that hadn’t happened. The JAG had told him that the authorities were taking the situation extremely seriously.

  Nine people had been killed when he’d given the order to fire on the shuttle and didn’t look as though his superiors had any intention of brushing this one under the carpet. Even if he was found to be not guilty, Webster mused, a protracted court case was a sure way of wrecking someone’s career.

  Three crewmen from the Syracuse had already been questioned concerning the incident, although his JAG refused to give him any names. The most incriminating evidence still appeared to be his own admission that he hadn’t issued a warning before opening fire. But it would have been pointless for him to say otherwise - the prosecutors had access to all the ships recordings.

  “What if I’d given a warning and then opened fire?” he’d asked.

  The JAG had barely acknowledged the question. “Well, in that case, we probably wouldn’t be here now.”

  Webster was becoming more and more concerned about his cases’ developments. His requests to contact his parents and sister had both been denied. He had no idea why. The JAG just kept saying that the situation was ‘fluid’ and, after watching the newsfeeds over the last few weeks, he was inclined to agree. The station was mobilising for war. Conflict with the Yakutian Empire seemed inevitable.

  The only question appeared to be: whether the Vardiaans would get involved. While they were just too small to pose a viable threat on their own, they were not to be under-estimated. They had sided with the Yakutians for much of the Long War and many historians believed that if they hadn’t broken ties with them, it would only have been a matter of time before the Confederation was defeated. Since the end of the war, the Vardiaans had poured all of their resources into expansionist policies in the hope of building up their economic infrastructure. If they carried on expanding at the rate they were now, it was felt that in twenty or thirty years they might well be a force to be reckoned with. The issue for them, however, was that unchecked expansionist policies too often produced their own unique set of problems.

  The reason why the Confederation became vulnerable to attack from the Yakutians in the first place was because it had spread itself too thinly. Its military had been starved of finances while everything had been poured into establishing new colonies. Periods of expansion needed to be followed by similar periods of consolidation. It was a lesson the Vardiaans still had to learn.

  Webster had spent the last two days trying to work out all the ramifications of a war with the Yakutian Empire. Such a conflict, if it were to happen, might provide a short-term solution to his current problems but would prove catastrophic for just about everyone else concerned.

  The warder opened the visiting room door and indicated for him to enter, the lights blinking on as he did so. There were ten low tables each with their own set of chairs. All were unoccupied.

  “Where do you want me?”