It was the mess sergeant.

  “Morton here.”

  “Is that Doctor Morton?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Well, in that case, I think we’ve got one of your patients.”

  “Thanks for the heads up, sergeant. I trust he’s not causing any problems.”

  The officers’ mess hall was only a short distance away.

  “Not so far. Too busy tucking into his food.”

  “Oh, right. That’s not so good. Is there any way you could stop him?”

  “From eating? Why would I want to do that?”

  “It’s complicated. Not to worry, I’ll be with you in just a few moments.”

  By the time she arrived at the mess hall they were mid-way through serving lunch and the place was packed. Morton scanned the tables, desperate to spot Faulkner before things could get any worse. But there was no sign of him.

  Then she spotted the mess sergeant. He was pointing over at one of the tables. She waved her thanks and then went over.

  “Captain Faulkner. Mind if I join you?”

  He motioned for her to sit opposite.

  Faulkner’s plate was loaded with an enormous order of hamburger and fries. He was in the process of squeezing tomato ketchup onto one side.

  “What is that thing?”

  “They call it The Holy Cow.”

  “Sir, you’re not intending on eating that, are you?”

  Faulkner looked around at the other diners. “That was sort of my plan.”

  The urge to snatch the plate away was a strong one, but she resisted.

  “Sir, I really think that you ought to reconsider. Think about it: you haven’t eaten solid food for months, possibly years. Tackling a meal like that, with all those animal fats …” she threw up her hands in disbelief. “It’s just not a good idea.”

  Faulkner picked up a French fry and dipped it in some ketchup. He chewed on it with obvious enjoyment.

  “You’re worried it’s going to kill me?”

  “Either that or send your body into gastrointestinal shock. Your system’s just not ready to process this type of food right now.”

  “I hear what you’re saying, Doctor Morton, but you have to understand something: I had some very difficult times back in Dhanza. There were moments there where I didn’t think I was going to make it. Two things kept me going. One was the thought of seeing my wife again.”

  His wife had died three years earlier. Morton had been keeping the news from him but it appeared that he already knew.

  Faulkner avoided eye contact, taking the opportunity to slice his hamburger in half.

  Then he continued. “The other was the thought of what I was going to eat when I got out. I thought about food – fantasised about it, really – almost every day. And that was important to me because it implied that one day my time in jail would come to an end. That one day I would be able to eat whatever the hell I wanted to eat.”

  “And that one thing was this: hamburger and fries?”

  “A giant hamburger and fries, complete with a heroic serving of ketchup. I’ve never possessed what you might call a sophisticated palate so this for me is heaven on a plate.”

  He picked up half of the burger and looked at it. It was dripping with grease.

  Morton said, “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “And I understand that, doctor. But you must also understand: I have to do this. I promised myself I would the first opportunity I got. So, here goes.”

  And with that, he bit into the burger.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Commander Webster was not enjoying himself. Part of their approach vector for Lincoln base took them past the colony on Jocasta. The computer had come up with multiple routes but the most direct took them past two of Jocasta’s moons: Prax and Leda. The moons were home to two breakaway religious groups both of which were followers of Simeon. The fact that they interpreted Simeon’s teachings differently had led to a messy on-going conflict which had lasted nearly fifty years.

  The only thing which had prevented matters from escalating further was that both communities relied heavily on their trade links with Jocasta. So far, neither side had pushed the conflict to the point where the Jocastans were forced to choose between them, as neither Prax nor Leda could afford to be on the losing side.

  They had a history of being difficult with one another over key issues, the most obvious being the issue of air space. Which was why ships passing through the area were advised to give them both a very wide berth. To trade with one of the moons – even to engage in a simple act like re-fuelling – was guaranteed to invoke the fury of the other. Invariably, ships only stopped at one of the moons if they had no other choice.

  Also, there were certain factions within Prax which actively resented the USDC’s presence in the area and bigger ships than the Syracuse had found themselves being targeted. A destroyer, the Summerfield, had received a direct hit a mere three months earlier. No one had been killed but it had been a close-run thing.

  A simple solution would be for passing ships to engage shields but, aside from being extremely costly energy wise, such an action might be misconstrued as an act of aggression. So, the Syracuse proceeded on without shields, forced to slow down to little more than a crawl in line with local traffic. This left them feeling particularly vulnerable as there was also a lot of local traffic about, not all of which appeared to be complying with accepted nautical regulations.

  For this reason, Webster was joined on deck by his XO, lieutenant commander Toby Ross, and two other officers, Bartlett and DeMarco. They were all trying to assess whether there were any potential threats in the area.

  Webster consulted the wireframe schematics.

  “What about this one here?”

  They were studying a three-dimensional rendering of Prax’s shipping lanes and Bartlett, the female lieutenant, stepped up and tapped the ship in question. It instantly ballooned in size.

  “That’s the Durant. Commercial tanker 3.6 million tonnes. Her captain was kind enough to send me over a detailed copy of her manifest. It all checks out.”

  At the start of their watch, Webster would have demanded more detail but they’d been at this for six hours now and they’d identified well over two hundred vessels. Bartlett had impressed him with her attention to detail. Tankers that size weren’t known for their rates of acceleration. It would probably take them several hours to bring themselves up to the Syracuse’s speed by which time they could be long gone.

  Besides, he was still getting used to his role as commanding officer. He was much more familiar with the XO’s role where the temptation was to check and re-check everything. He’d have to resist that as c.o. To be effective he was going to have to learn to trust his crew to get on with their jobs.

  “Okay, we seem to have covered Prax fairly comprehensively. Is there anything else we need to look at before we switch our approach to Leda?”

  Bartlett and Ross both shook their heads but DeMarco the young Ensign had his hand raised as though they were still in school.

  “Something up?”

  “I’m not sure, sir, but do you remember that big cruiser we looked at a couple of hours ago?”

  “The one with the odd comms set-up?”

  “That’s the one. The Indra. You asked me to keep an eye on her and let you know if she got within ten thousand clicks.”

  “And has she?”

  “No, that’s the odd thing: she’s kept her distance while at the same time matching us for speed and direction.”

  Webster shot Ross a look. They were the same age but Ross had gone to the Academy late after first training as a structural engineer. Webster reflected that it was only a matter of time before his friend eclipsed him. His Math was better and he had an easy practical manner which endeared him to almost everyone.

  Ross said, “Could be just a coincidence. I’d imagine we’ve passed half a dozen ships you could say that about.”

  DeMarco nodded as if he’d been expecting this.

  “But if I could just show you something?”

  Webster indicated for him to continue. The rendering of the tanker disappeared to be replaced by the Indra, a Yakutian tanker which sported a unique communications array more suited to a military vessel than a cruiser. It was this, more than the fact that this was Yakutian ship, which had sparked their interest in the first place.

  DeMarco passed him a tablet. “We picked up some activity just over an hour ago.”

  Webster activated the screen but then strained to make sense of what it was he was seeing.

  “What was that?” Ross came up alongside. “Looks like they’re dumping a load of water.”

  The water crystallised while they watched, forming itself into a shimmering cloud.

  “Could be excess oxygen,” Ross ventured. “We store it in liquid form. Takes up a lot less space. But why dump it like that?”

  “I know,” DeMarco said. “Doesn’t make sense. But look what happens when we slow the film down.” The image flickered slightly as the cloud blossomed from the rear and the Yakutian ship continued on its way. The solid mass continued to disperse until all that remained was the silhouette of a small craft. After a while, the engines kicked in as it began to come about.

  “Shuttle?” Ross ventured.

  “Too small,” Webster pointed out. “More likely some type of stealth craft.”

  They all watched as the craft finished its manoeuvre and then, with a flare of her engines, accelerated.

  “Good work, Ensign,” Webster handed the tablet back. “I’m assuming it’s heading in our direction?”

  “If it continues on its present course, then yes.”

  DeMarco crossed to the main display and punched up the vectors on all three ships. “It’s due to rendezvous with us in the next twenty-seven minutes.”

  Webster studied the two converging paths, taking it all in.

  He turned back to the others. “Thoughts?”

  “Could be a suicide mission,” Ross said. “Though that’s not likely considering what we know about the Yakutians.”

  “Any chance this could be linked to our passenger?”

  Ross frowned. “It’s possible. There are so many rival factions within the Yakutian state it’s difficult to know what they’re going to get up to next.”

  While the Yakutians united were an extremely competent adversary they had been riven by internal conflicts ever since the end of The Long War.

  “Any other ideas?”

  “Boarding party?” DeMarco ventured.

  The Yakutians had used that particular tactic to devastating effect during the war and the USDC had been slow to respond to the threat. Smaller ships, like the Syracuse were particularly prone to such a practice as they rarely sealed off their cargo bays entirely. To do so would be to effectively rob the ship of its main escape route.

  Webster rubbed his chin. “That’s a possibility I suppose but what are they trying to achieve?” Even if they did get on board, they wouldn’t be able to seize control of the ship – they’d be completely out-gunned. No, there’s something else here we’re just not seeing.”

  *

  Morton sat and watched while Faulkner worked his way through his meal. Almost as soon as he had begun eating he started to look uncomfortable. But that was hardly surprising.

  His digestive system would have struggled to process even a few spoonfuls of solid food. Morton figured that if he kept on punishing himself like this then it was only a matter of time before his body rebelled. While she wasn’t happy watching him attempt culinary suicide there was very little that she could do to stop him.

  At least this way, she reasoned, she’d be on hand when the inevitable happened. She only hoped that the results wouldn’t prove to be too messy.

  Faulkner had managed to put away half of his burger when he abruptly stood up. There was a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead and he’d lost what little colour he’d had.

  She said, “Are you finished?”

  “Not quite. I just need to powder my nose. Won’t be a moment.”

  Morton nodded. He probably needed to go and be sick. The only question was whether he’d be pig headed enough to come back and try and finish the job. And that was more likely to happen if she was still sitting here when he got back.

  What to do?

  When Faulkner eventually reappeared he seemed slightly fresher. But, as he started walking back over he was intercepted by a noncom. The man looked completely out of place in the officer’s mess but he seemed to have Faulkner’s attention. She was too far away to make out what was being said but the other man seemed pretty insistent about something. They spoke for a while and then the man took Faulkner’s arm.

  He started guiding Faulkner towards the far exit. Morton went to get up but something forced her to stay put. She needed to see what was happening first.

  The noncom now had a firm grip on Faulkner’s elbow and had an arm at his waist. While the other officers in the room had noticed what was going on they were keen to spare their visitor any embarrassment. They all knew who he was after all.

  She watched as they started moving through the mess hall, away from the heads and towards the exit.

  What was she to do? Was the noncom part of the mess staff or was there something else going on that she wasn’t aware of? The man’s uniform suggested he wasn’t one of the waiting staff. It was quite possible that Faulkner had felt faint and was too self-conscious to ask her for help.

  But then, wasn’t that all the more reason to get him back to sick bay as soon as possible?

  And yet something was telling her to hang back. Just to watch what was happening before she decided her next move.

  *

  DeMarco looked up from his console. “Captain, the Indra is changing course.”

  “Let me guess: they’re preparing to ram us?”

  “Not quite, sir, but they are closing to within eight thousand kilometres.”

  Webster turned to Ross.

  “That’s a big ship.”

  “And we’re operating in international space. He’s taking a risk.”

  The words ‘international space’ gave Webster an idea.

  He went over to the comms console and was quickly connected with Master Sergeant Rawlins; the man in charge of the ship’s Marines. They weren’t a permanent fixture, in fact they’d only been assigned to the Syracuse this one time.

  “Sir, what can I do for you?”

  “Master Sergeant, we have a small vessel approaching on our port side. We believe it to be some kind of stealth craft – no sign of a transponder signal. Could you get a squad assembled? I’d like you to put together a welcoming committee.”

  Ross was standing behind him. “I’ll contact the cargo bay. Let them know we’re expecting company.”

  *

  Something was wrong.

  The man was leading Faulkner out of the far exit. Either Faulkner was confused about where he was headed or something sinister was going on.

  Once she had decided to act, Morton couldn’t move fast enough. She had left it too long, she realised, before trying to catch up with the pair but her mistake was compounded when a large group of men finished eating at the same time and stood up, effectively blocking her way. By the time she’d managed to push past them, Faulkner and his companion were nowhere to be seen.

  She looked everywhere, imagining that they might have doubled back into the canteen, only when she turned to look there was no sign of them. She raced out into the wide corridor. There were various people standing around the vending machines but no one who looked familiar.

  She suddenly became aware of a presence behind her.

  “Turn around. Slowly.”

  Morton did as she was told.

  The noncom had stepped out from a corner niche. He was much taller than she’d first realised but with a noticeable gut. He gestured for Faulkner to come and join them then squinted at her name tag.

  “What’s that say? Oh, Doctor Morton. Now that might come in handy. Do you know what this is?”

  He lifted his arm away from his body and turned his hand to show her what he was holding.

  “Looks like a nerve blaster to me.”

  “Close enough. Now, I see that you’re an intelligent woman. So I know that you don’t need me to tell you what happens if you don’t do as I say.”

  “I’ll do whatever you ask,” she made a dismissive gesture in Faulkner’s direction. “But you don’t need him.”

  “I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong. He’s the reason I’m here.”

  The shock must have registered on her face because he gave her a broad smile.

  “Now, do us all a favour and walk to the end of that corridor.”

  “Where are we going?”

  The man pulled Faulkner towards him, jamming the weapon against his ribs.

  “I won’t ask again.”

  Morton started walking while the noncom followed behind with Faulkner. There were other crewmen about but none of them paid her any attention. She felt like such an idiot. If she’d alerted security immediately her suspicions had been aroused this would probably all be over by now. As it was, this man would most likely shoot her in the back the first chance he got.

  She needed a plan.

  *

  Ross studied the latest images of the stealth craft on his tablet looking for something he could use.

  “They think they have the advantage because they think we haven’t seen them,” Ross said. “What if we just put a shot across their bows? Let them know we’re onto them.”

  Webster considered this. “We could, but that would rob us of the element of surprise and I’m curious to know what they’ve got planned. We’re vulnerable to attack at this speed and they know it. Might they simply be trying to plant explosives on our hull?”

  “Disable us, you mean?”

  “I seem to remember the Yakutians trying something like that in the war.”

  Ross brought up the wireframe design of the ship and set it to slowly rotate.

  “But that was when our ships were stationary – usually in port. Might they be looking to get close enough to open fire on us in some way? With our shields down, they could do some damage.”