While they’d been going over this, notification had come through that the Santiago’s missiles were currently coming within range.

  “Now, this will be interesting,” Winterson was rubbing his hands together.

  There were only six missiles in this salvo, but the overall payload was nearly twice that of the one delivered by the Hudson.

  Whereas the Hudson’s missiles had been tightly targeted, the Santiago’s were more widely spread and while the resultant detonations were more spectacular, the effect was largely the same, though notably without the intriguing ripple effect. Vincenzi reviewed the tape several times looking for evidence of it but came away disappointed.

  Winterson indicated for him to come and sit back down.

  “So, what have we learned?”

  “Apart from the fact that their shields are impregnable?”

  “I wouldn’t say impregnable. The Sloth Gun proved that.”

  “You’re not considering using that again, are you, sir?” Vincenzi said.

  “We may have no choice.”

  “If it were attached to one of our smaller ships, I think we could risk it. But if we fire it and the whole thing backfires then we’d be left totally exposed.”

  Winterson pulled a sympathetic face. “You think it’s too unpredictable to warrant using it?”

  “It’s not just the weapons systems we’d be risking. What if the blackout hits our life support systems as well? We’d be signing our own death warrants.”

  “I think you’re over-reacting, Lorenzo. It’s currently the only thing capable of taking out the enemy’s defences.”

  “That or a full-scale nuclear blast.”

  “Which we’ve already agreed isn’t an option,” Winterson said.

  There might have been some justification for Faulkner’s initial use of a nuclear warhead but the Admiralty had made it quite clear that they wouldn’t condone a second one.

  “Look, sir. I understand that you stuck your neck out in order to get a test firing for the Sloth but that’s about it. As a prototype, it’s proven to be very interesting but we both know that it’s a long way from being a fully functioning model.”

  Winterson lowered his head and let out a deflated sigh. He’d worked so hard to get them to this stage, he didn’t know if he had the reserves to push it through to the next level.

  “Alright,” he conceded. “So, where does that leave us?”

  “I think it might be an idea to contact the Hudson.”

  “You really think we’re onto something with those warheads?”

  “I’m not sure, but I can’t help thinking that we’re missing something obvious.”

  *

  Winterson woke to find that his whole mouth was completely parched, so much so that he had difficulty swallowing. Vincenzi hadn’t noticed that he was awake, he was over in the corner speaking quietly into his comms link.

  Winterson grabbed the pitcher of water on his bedside cabinet. But it was too heavy for him. As he tried to lift it, the water slopped over the side, soaking the top of the cabinet in the process. He scooped up some of the dripping water and rubbed it over his lips, marvelling at how cold and fresh it tasted. From the projected read-out he saw that he’d been asleep for some three hours, the realisation bringing with it a real sense of remorse.

  To fall asleep like that in the middle of an engagement was unforgivable and yet he’d had no say in the matter. His body had simply shut down.

  When Vincenzi had finished speaking, Winterson said, “So, what’s been going on?”

  Vincenzi gave him a troubled look and then came over and rested his hands on the end of the bed.

  “A few interesting developments. Tyr seems to have decided that her best hope of defence is attack. She’s currently heading straight for us. She launched her first salvo a few minutes ago.”

  “Already! Why didn’t you wake me?”

  Vincenzi looked around at all the medical equipment stacked either side of the bed as if that answered his question.

  Winterson persevered. “Anyway, never mind that. What has Kerrigan’s response been?”

  “Kerrigan’s response has been … interesting. He’s given the order to withdraw, falling back on his ‘destroyers.’”

  “I take it you mean Molly Maguire and Blackbeard? They’re no more destroyers than you or I.”

  “Anyway, they’re currently coming up on our flanks.”

  “Withdraw? What on earth is he thinking?”

  “We’ve still got a lot of crew in the forward sections, still trying to patch up the damage from when we were hit.”

  Winterson dismissed the idea. After all, this was a battleship. You couldn’t afford to withdraw at the first sign of trouble. What would the civilian crews think?

  “He hasn’t got time for all this cat and mouse stuff. Not with Thor getting away. No, he needs to give the Da’al something to think about.”

  “He could be trying to draw the Tyr out of position by using The Spur as bait.”

  “That’d still leave these so-called destroyers to do our fighting for us.”

  “Yet, it might work.”

  In a way, Kerrigan’s tactics mirrored the defensive strategies taught at the Academy, only in this case the specifications of the ships involved fell way short of those of their military counterparts. The Blackbeard, for example, wouldn’t last five minutes up against an actual destroyer.

  He plucked an empty glass off the nightstand and indicated for Vincenzi to come over and fill it.

  Winterson was confused. He’d expected Kerrigan, of all people, to take the fight to the enemy. The last thing he’d expected was for him to withdraw – that didn’t seem like his sort of thing at all.

  Winterson nodded his thanks at Vincenzi before taking a sip of his drink.

  “Who was that you were talking to, earlier?”

  “Gordon Ross, captain of the Hudson. We were talking about that ripple effect thing we noticed earlier. He’s sent me the data over and there’s definitely something to it.”

  “Anything we can use?”

  “Not sure as of yet. If they get a chance for a second salvo, there’s a couple of things I’d like them to try.”

  “I doubt you’ll get the chance. The Hudson’s too small to engage this thing. I thought Kerrigan of all people would realise that.”

  “I’m not suggesting that they go toe-to-toe with it, but their close proximity might well provide us with some valuable insights.”

  Activity on one of the screens drew Winterson’s attention.

  “Finally, Kerrigan’s launching his defences,” Winterson said. “Well, at least he’s done something right.”

  “It’s not just The Spur, either, sir,” Vincenzi brought up some data on the main screen. “That’s Molly Maguire and Blackbeard launching their own defensive missiles. They’re covering for us.”

  Winterson sat back in bed and, with some difficulty, folded his arms.

  “Since when has The Spur needed this kind of back-up from civilian ships?” he said.

  “I’m sure he’s thinking about those forward repair crews. He’s taking a real risk not withdrawing them.”

  “And, in the process, giving the impression that he’s making a run for it, leaving Hudson and Santiago to do his fighting for him. I tell you: it doesn’t look good.”

  *

  “Tulip’s sick,” she said.

  The two pimps looked at her in disbelief but LaCruz, standing there in Tulip’s dress, refused to back down.

  “Get her up,” the woman said. “She’s coming with us.”

  Nobody moved.

  From inside, Sylvie said, “It’s no good. She’s been bleeding all night. I think she might have lost it.”

  She kicked the toilet bucket for added emphasis.

  “Lost it?” the man said, looking to the sullen figure of Mariele. “Lost what?”

  Mariele just shrugged.

  “The baby,” Sylvie said. “Don’t say you didn’t know.”

  “She’s pregnant?”

  “Don’t sound so surprised,” LaCruz said. “After all ...”

  The two pimps had a brief conversation. Clearly, one of them needed to go and examine her. She represented something of an investment, after all. Yet they were already late and, no doubt, had a long list of clients to satisfy. Eventually, the two came to an understanding.

  The man stepped inside the cell and spoke directly to Sylvie.

  “What about you?” he said earnestly. “A figure like yours. You’d be much in demand.”

  Sylvie seemed taken aback by such an unsolicited compliment but quickly gathered herself.

  “I’ve got a job, thanks. Besides,” she indicated LaCruz who was trying to get her shoe on. “That dress ain’t never fitting me.”

  The man went back out into the corridor. After staring at LaCruz’s outfit for several long seconds, he started tugging at the material in an attempt to make her look more presentable. The woman came over and when she started applying rouge to her lips, LaCruz didn’t resist.

  “I’m still not sure,” the man complained. “What d’you think?”

  The woman reached up under LaCruz’s dress and started adjusting her underwear. “I think it’s a terrible idea. But the dress fits - sort of - and we’ve got people waiting. Even if we could get Tulip back on her feet, I’m still not sure…”

  “Alright, alright,” the man said, turning to LaCruz. “As you can see, we’re not crazy about the idea. But perhaps we can make this work.”

  She said, “I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”

  This sentiment had served her well throughout her military career and seemed to be having the desired effect now.

  The man, fast running out of options, indicated for her to turn around so he could look at her.

  “Yeah, well, I suppose I’ve seen worse.”

  *

  In the end, they passed within eight thousand kilometres of Loki, seemingly unable to halt their onward rush in spite of the fact that they were actively decelerating. It was as if the two ships were being drawn towards one another.

  Loki was effectively twice the size of the Renheim, a fact that was only now becoming clear and Faulkner, for one, was grateful that they hadn’t realised this sooner. It never did for a crew to know exactly what they were up against. Best to wait until after the event, if, indeed, you managed to get that far.

  As Faulkner’s first Executive Officer had been fond of saying: You start a round-up by scaring the horses.

  But now that the fight had gone out of her, Loki seemed far less threatening, a dark nub of ingenuity against a whole sea of black. The only sign of life was the fire which seemed to glimmer deep inside her.

  They’d been able to get their final salvo away unhindered and that had been the beginning of the end for the Loki. Ironically, after his first two salvoes had been met with such abject failure, Whaites’ final salvo acted as an almost perfect example of how to maximise your ordnance’s destructive capabilities. By exploiting the structural damage inflicted by their point-blank energy fire, he had been able to despatch missiles deep within the main body of the vessel, meaning that any crew members who had managed to survive the initial onslaught would be trapped inside a compromised shell, with vital systems slowly shutting down all around them.

  It was difficult not to feel a sense of regret in situations such as this and Faulkner for one wasn’t immune. You had to admire anyone who had the nerve to strap themselves into a ship and launch themselves into space. To do such a thing was the very epitome of danger and there was no denying the ineluctable bond which bound the two crews together.

  In spite of the fact that the Da’al had travelled all this way to bring war down upon them, there was still something deeply troubling about seeing a ship in its final death throes.

  “What do you want to do?” Schwartz said.

  “You know,” Faulkner said. “After chasing them halfway across the system, I’m suddenly unsure. Genuinely, I don’t know what to do next.”

  The others round the table looked at one another. After weeks of calm assurance from their captain, it was slightly discomfiting to hear him admit that he was at a loss.

  “We can’t leave her like this,” Whaites said.

  “You still think she poses a threat?” Schwartz said. “The radiation alone is going to be enough to kill the crew ten times over.”

  “Only if they’re human,” he countered. “Radiation affects different species in different ways. We can’t be sure that it will kill them.”

  “What about you?” Faulkner turned to Khan who, so far, had said nothing. “What do you think we should do?”

  Khan, who had been working on his tablet, suddenly straightened.

  “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask.”

  “Why not,” Schwartz said. “You’re as much a part of this as anyone.”

  “Because I think I know what the answer is.”

  “You do?” Faulkner sat forward. “Then perhaps you’d care to share it with us.”

  “We need to find some way of humanely destroying her. It’s the only way.”

  “Well, that’s my oxymoron for the day,” McNeill said. “Humanely destroy. What exactly do you mean by that?”

  “Just what I said. Look, we’ve done everything we’re supposed to do. We’ve tried to hail her but she’s ignored us. And, if there’d been any survival pods, we’d have seen them by now.”

  “The Da’al aren’t renowned for their love of survival pods,” Faulkner pointed out.

  Khan didn’t seem to have heard.

  “We can’t enter the ship without putting ourselves at significant risk and yet, until the ship has been thoroughly searched, it can’t be said to be clear of all threats.”

  “So,” Schwartz said. “What are you proposing?”

  “A ship-buster missile. Just so we’re sure.”

  Faulkner looked up and down the table.

  “But we don’t have anything like that on board, do we?”

  As Tactical Officer, all eyes turned to Whaites who held his interlocked fingers in front of his face.

  He seemed to be considering his options.

  “We could rig one up. Correction. Khan could rig one up,” he turned to his left. “Is that right, Stephen, or am I letting my mouth run away with me here?”

  Khan shrugged. “I could give it a try, I suppose.”

  “But you think it’s possible?” Faulkner asked.

  It was Khan’s turn to look uncomfortable. “Yes, sir. I believe it is.”

  “And what would it do?”

  “Same principle as dropping a hand grenade inside one of those old World War II tanks. You use the actual hull to contain the explosion and thereby magnify its effectiveness.”

  “Alright,” Faulkner sat back in his chair. “If Mr Khan can rig it up, I think that’s decided …”

  Schwartz made to object but he shook his head.

  “I understand your objections, Lieutenant Commander, but I’ve made up my mind. And I think if you’d look at the next item on the agenda you’ll see why.”

  He called up the document he needed before sending it out to each of them in turn.

  “This is of course, highly classified,” he said darkly. “None of this must leave this room.”

  When they’d all finished reading, they looked to Faulkner for further clarification.

  “And has this been confirmed?” McNeill said.

  “Only in so much as it came through the admiral’s office. The necessary codes were in place if that’s what you mean.”

  “It would have been nice to have known some of this stuff beforehand,” Khan said sourly.

  “I can’t see how it would have made that much difference,” Schwartz was going through the document again. “Admiral Winterson’s fleet was involved in a direct engagement. There’s a world of difference between that and a full-on pursuit.”

  “Though the benefits of what we’ve both achieved has been extraordinary,” McNeill said. “Let’s not forget that. Between us, we’ve detected weaknesses in the Da’al’s defences that’ll be game changers in the future. Not often you can say something like that.”

  “I’d agree,” Whaites said. “Though I’m not sure where that leaves us.”

  “What do you mean?” Khan said.

  Whaites turned to Faulkner, seeking permission to try and pull the disparate parts of this new intelligence together.

  Faulkner indicated for him to continue.

  “Whilst the fleet has done some great work introducing the Sloth Gun to proceedings, their destruction of both Odin and Tyr has come at some considerable cost. The loss of the Charles W Morgan. And that’s not to mention the considerable damage sustained by the other ships involved, not least The Spur herself.”

  “Do we have any more information on their casualties?”

  The crew of the Renheim would invariably have friends and, in some cases, family members on board. To find out that one of them had been killed would no doubt have a devastating effect.

  “I’m afraid details are a little sketchy at the moment,” Faulkner conceded. “All I do know is that the bridge was hit. Captain Hoyt was killed and the admiral was badly injured although it’s not thought that his life’s in any danger.”

  “So, who’s in charge over there now?”

  “A Commander Kerrigan who, I have to admit, I have no knowledge of.”

  “I know Tom Kerrigan,” Schwartz said. “I worked with him on The Indomitable.”

  “Okay,” Faulkner said. “And what’s he like?”

  “I can’t say that he’s the most inspirational person I’ve ever met,” she gave an awkward smile. “He’s competent enough, though.”

  “Come on, Katherine,” McNeill said. “What is it you’re not telling us.”

  Schwartz suddenly looked as if she had the weight of the world on her shoulders.

  “I wouldn’t say he’s difficult to work with but he’s very intractable. Likes to do everything his way, which doesn’t always go down well. He’s been in a fair number of scrapes in his time but he always seems to come out smelling of roses. Just lucky, I guess.”

  “Isn’t that what Napoleon said when being introduced to one of his new generals,” McNeill said. “’I don’t care if he’s any good, I want to know if he’s lucky.’ Or something like that.”