Davitz had anticipated his arrival, stationing one of his junior assistants at the entrance to the main engine room. It quickly became clear that the man had been briefed simply to delay Faulkner’s progress for as long as possible.

  Even when Faulkner insisted that he be taken directly to see the chief the man had prevaricated, pretending that he wasn’t sure exactly where Davitz might be found. This was an old trick – it was like a rabbit warren down there and the engineers liked to use that to their advantage with regard to visitors. But it didn’t wash with Faulkner: he knew when he was being given the run-around.

  Once he’d made this point to the young officer, he was taken directly to E deck.

  The place was abuzz with work teams all toiling away, illuminated by small pools of light. Faulkner waved his guide away and moved from one group to the next, secretly daunted by the complexity of what was going on. Nothing was how he remembered it.

  He eventually managed to track Davitz down working with a group of half a dozen engineers.

  Faulkner didn’t say anything. He just stood and watched as Davitz went about his work. Down here, there was no sign of the bullishness which characterised the man whenever he ventured outside the engine room.

  After a few minutes, Davitz recognised him, though he didn’t seem pleased to see him.

  “Sir,” Davitz’ salute was sloppy and half hearted. “What are you doing down here?”

  “I thought that would be obvious.”

  Davitz stiffened. “I’m afraid we’re rather busy at present but I’d be happy to arrange a meeting with you later in the week.”

  Davitz’ men, sensing the tension, had started to drift away.

  “A meeting you’d invariably cancel. I’ve just come from a meeting with Commander Webster who tells me that this re-fit is going to take three days. Is that true?”

  Davitz looked over to his crew.

  “As you can see, sir, we’re really busy at the moment, so if you wouldn’t mind,” he indicated for Faulkner to leave.

  He couldn’t believe it. Davitz was treating him like some kind of nuisance visitor. The sort you had to get used to in certain arms of the military.

  “Chief Davitz,” Faulkner was surprised that he’d managed to keep his voice so steady. “I’ve come down here for answers and I’m not leaving until I’m satisfied. How long is this going to take?”

  Davitz took a step back, running a hand through his matted hair.

  “I can’t tell you what I don’t know, sir. You’ll appreciate that these engines weren’t designed to be fitted on a ship of this nature. There are no plans for what we’re doing.”

  “So you’re making it up as you go along?”

  “Pretty much, sir, yes.”

  “So you can’t tell me when the Mantis will next be able to operate under full power.”

  “I could give you an estimate, sir, but that’s all it’d be. I’d just be guessing.”

  Faulkner wanted to remind him of how little time they had whilst knowing that anything he said would be entirely redundant. Davitz knew about the on-coming Da’al threat. Knew what was at stake here.

  Faulkner was tempted to stay, just for the reassurance of watching the men work. As captain, he had every right to do so, but he could also see that it would serve no useful purpose.

  Reluctantly, he started to retrace his steps back the way he’d come.

  “I’ll be on the bridge if there are any further developments.”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as we have something, sir.”

  *

  Faulkner decided it was time to contact Captain Mahbarat, the commanding officer in charge of the Serrayu. He figured that if that really was a Da’al ship out there he was going to need all the help he could get in defending Blackthorn.

  But first, Faulkner sent for Elsbeth Morton, he wanted her on the bridge during the negotiations if only to remind himself of his role as a diplomat in these negotiations. It would be the first time he’d spoken to a member of the Yakutian military since his release and he was conscious of his own feelings towards them as a race. While he waited for Morton to arrive, he quickly scanned through the information the USDC had managed to compile on Captain Perdang Mahbarat. Not much. His father had served during the Long War as the captain of a destroyer but had left the service immediately after the hostilities had ended. Mahbarat himself had trained at Kai-Kuantan, the top naval academy of the Yakutian homeworlds. Prior to the Long War, the Yakutian military had prided itself on the fact that none of its officers spoke English. Afterwards, Kai-Kuantan had been the first academy to make it a requirement for all officer trainees to study the language.

  While it was unclear from the briefing notes whether Mahbarat had won his place at Kai-Kuatan solely on his own merits or as a result of his father’s influence, one thing was clear: Mahbarat’s abilities had yet to be tested in battle.

  Morton arrived while the comms team was still negotiating the formalities of establishing a link with the Yakutian ship. At one point, the Yakutian comms officer appeared on the screen, catching Faulkner unawares. Suddenly, the years melted away and he was back in his cell on Rhagul.

  “Are you alright?” Morton asked.

  “Sorry?” Faulkner struggled to catch his breath.

  “I asked if you were feeling unwell, captain.”

  “No,” he looked away from the screen, trying to hide his embarrassment. “It’s nothing. I’m just trying to get my ideas together, that’s all.”

  Morton adjusted the front of her uniform then walked over to the command chair.

  “Perhaps you should sit down, sir.”

  From her tone it was clear that this wasn’t a request.

  There was no disguising her intent. Faulkner decided that the best way to avoid a confrontation was to do as she asked. As he went to sit down, Morton went across to stand on his right, just out of camera range.

  Captain Mahbarat entered the frame. The whole left side of his face was obscured by an alloy skin complete with various cybernetic enhancements, his eye cold and calculating.

  After their formal greetings, Mahbarat wasted no time in getting to the point.

  “I imagine you’re contacting me regarding the object which recently entered the system through the Felicity Gate?”

  “That is correct, sir,” Faulkner was the very epitome of politeness, knowing that he had to keep his emotions in check. “I thought that it might be wise if we were to share our findings at this time.”

  “I’m afraid that I’ll have to decline your offer, captain,” Mahbarat’s thick accent made it sound as if he was slurring his words. “Only Yakutian vessels are permitted access to our computers after what happened with the Vardiaan fleet.”

  The Vardiaans had been the Yakutians’ ally during much of the Long War but then, when the two sides had turned against one another, the Vardiaans had activated an aggressive virus which had aggressively targeted Yakutian computer networks. It had come close to crippling most of the Yakutian fleet and had been a turning point in the war, giving the Confederation fleet enough time to re-organise their ships and mount a major counter-offensive.

  “I’m sorry that you feel that way.”

  He hesitated, this wasn’t going as smoothly as he’d hoped and he found himself scanning the bridge in the hope of catching Webster’s eye. But, he wasn’t there, of course.

  For a second, Faulkner regretted sending him down to Blackthorn. If the Yakutians’ intentions were aggressive then he would have need of the younger man’s counsel. Still, he’d agreed on a particular course of action and it would be churlish to go back on it now.

  Time for a different approach.

  “You must understand, captain, my main concern is the protection of the citizens of Blackthorn. And with that in mind, I am forwarding to you documents which will reveal most of what we know about this new enemy: the Anjharan Da’al.”

  Mahbarat recoiled. He hadn’t been expecting that and Faulkner took a perverse pleasure in the other man’s discomfort. The Yakutian captain was obviously receiving queries from his comms team via his implants and for a second it looked as though he was about to block the incoming transmission. But then he nodded briefly and regained his composure.

  “I trust that you will accept this information in the spirit that it’s intended.”

  Faulkner hadn’t sent them everything. He’d seen fit to exclude any reference to the alien shuttle they’d picked up and the presence on-board the Mantis of the aliens’ translator. Indeed, only the Mantis’ senior officers knew anything of Hermandal’s existence.

  “You have my thanks. I look forward to reviewing this as soon as possible. But tell me: how do you propose to defend the station?”

  Faulkner mentally took a step back. While he was loathe to share intel with the Yakutians, he was also aware that he desperately needed Mahbarat’s help. To hold back on the details now would jeopardise any chance of them working together. While they could never truly trust one another, there was enough leeway, he felt, for a limited working relationship.

  “We are currently working with Governor Ardent with a view to evacuating the station.”

  “I trust that you aren’t proposing the use of any of those transports?”

  Faulkner gripped the arm of his chair just a little tighter. “I think that we both know what happens when civilians stray into areas of conflict.”

  The largest single loss of life had been the destruction of the Confederation ship, Ulysses. The ship had been carrying some twenty thousand children heading to Earth Prime when a Yakutian battle cruiser, the Vertengarru had instructed it to stop. When the captain failed to comply the Vertengarru had launched a volley of torpedoes. When rescue ships arrived later intending to pick up the survivors, they too had been attacked.

  “Indeed we do,” Mahbarat agreed. “I take it that your intention now is to move them down onto the planet?”

  “That is correct. We can’t guarantee that the Da’al won’t engage in an aerial bombardment but our intention is to keep them away from any production facilities. Hardly ideal but it’s the best we can do.”

  “So, why are you telling me all this? I assume you require my assistance in some form?”

  “That’s correct. We estimate that it’s going to take some time to get everyone off the station, far more time than we have, especially if the enemy vessel maintains its current speed. I wanted to ask you directly whether the Serrayu can be counted on to provide support and assistance?”

  “In what way?”

  “To act as a last line of defence against any possible attack.”

  Mahbarat looked at him dismissively, as if he were a dullard, but then when he realised that Faulkner was serious, his mood changed and his expression seemed to soften.

  “The idea of making a lone stand against the enemy may be the sort of thing that entertains the masses, captain, but you and I both know that we have to deal with practicalities here. There is nothing to be gained by engaging an enemy of unknown strength. We will simply be over-run, achieving precisely nothing. Besides, I have the Vice Consul on board, I would be remiss in my duty if I were to imperil his life by my actions.”

  “I’ve already spoken with the Governor about precisely that matter. She would be willing to release one of her own ships, the Dardelion, to ensure that the Vice Consul would be returned to Yakutian space as quickly as possible. The Dardelion is a seriously fast ship and one with near zero emissions, she could slip out of the system and be away before the Da’al had any idea of her existence.”

  Mahbarat scowled, the skin around his implants straining. “While I would thank the governor for her offer, I must insist that the Vice Consul remains on board this vessel.”

  “Would you be willing to sacrifice so many lives in the hope of saving just one?”

  “Unfortunately, that is not my decision to make. I have my orders, captain. But even without the Vice Consul aboard, I couldn’t agree to jeopardise my ship on a holding action we have no guarantee of winning. No. We’d do best, you and I, to make our excuses and leave. That way, we’ll be able to re-group later in order to make the best use of the intelligence we’ve gathered.”

  That was it then. Mahbarat couldn’t make his intentions any clearer but Faulkner was unwilling to leave it like that. He had to make one last attempt to appeal to the man’s sense of honour.

  “People will die,” he said flatly. “A great many people.”

  “An unfortunate side effect of all armed conflicts. You of all people should know that.”

  “So I can’t convince you to stay? To lend some assistance?”

  “By refusing to sign our proposed agreement, Governor Ardent has made it very clear where her true allegiance lies. She can’t expect to command the loyalty of both sides. And anyway, could you honestly say that in my position, you’d act any differently? Could you?”

  Faulkner dropped his head, secretly ashamed of what his answer must be.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Who have you got coming out to meet you?” the pilot asked.

  Webster was only half listening. He had been distracted by the sight of the biggest port area he had ever seen. It was unheard of for a space port of any size to come to a standstill but the sight of this one standing idle simply beggared belief. These were the most lucrative concessions in the galaxy, their operating costs so high that any time they weren’t processing space traffic their owners were literally haemorrhaging money.

  “Meet me?” Webster asked lamely. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”

  The pilot turned back and gave him a patronising stare. His name was Gilhooly and at some point in the past he’d paid to have the front of his hairline re-grown. The labs had done had a good job, the only problem being that the rest of his hair now looked threadbare in comparison.

  “This is a Guild run station, commander. Nothing moves an inch out here without the Guild’s say-so.”

  “That might be the case,” Webster said. “But we’re out here at the direct request of the governor. I’m sure if you radio ahead they can verify everything. If its landing codes you want…”

  Gilhooly snorted. “Look, commander, I’m sure that back where you come from everyone sticks to their rules and regulations. But that’s not how things work out here.”

  “I’m sorry, what are you getting at?”

  “Out here, money talks. The governor might think she’s in charge but that’s only because the Guilds allow her to think that way. Soon as she starts to get ahead of herself - she’s gone. And all this…” he took in the whole of the port area with one sweep of his hand. “This suggests that she’s not going to be around for very much longer.”

  “It’s as bad as that?” Webster said non-committaly.

  He’d heard these kinds of ‘expert’ views in every port he’d ever visited.

  “Thing is, you’ve got nine main guilds and they control pretty much everything. Take me for instance, I’m in the Transportation and Distribution Guild which has worked out pretty good. I don’t just own this little beauty, oh no. I’ve got six more like this. Not all as nice as this but we’re getting there. Problem is, while they’re sitting in port they’re costing me money and that can only go on for so long.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. If you’re not making money, the Guild’s not making money.”

  Gilhooly turned and gave him a re-appraising look. “That’s right. You know, I can see now why you’re the guy in charge.”

  “Well, thanks for the vote of confidence but how does this affect me and my men?”

  “Simple, you need an agent, someone who can negotiate for you with the guildsmen. Someone who knows how things work down here. Stop you doing anything that you might regret.”

  Webster pictured the Marines in the main cabin. Tried to imagine the kind of ‘trouble’ they might get themselves into.

  “And where would I find such an agent?”

  “Well, I haven’t exactly been run off my feet lately. Perhaps we could come to some arrangement. I could help you open a few doors.”

  “I’ll bear that in mind,” Webster said, dismissing the proposal out of hand.

  With nothing better to occupy his thoughts, he watched as Gilhooly lined the transport up to approach the internal docking area. He wasn’t used to this kind of configuration on a military shuttle - they had engines fore and aft on this particular model. Webster had more experience of ungainly dropships, but was still surprised by how adroitly Gilhooly handled himself within such a confined space, coming in quickly before feathering the thrusters in order to engage the locking collar.

  Once this was secure they only had to wait for the gantry to attach itself before they were able to leave. The majority of the Marines stayed in their seats, Webster had decided to take two privates with him in order to work out the transport arrangements. Despite their rank, both men had been handpicked. Reed had the wiry build of a prize-fighter with the nose to go with it while Castilla had the dark good looks of an old-style crooner. The Marines had been allotted a temporary barracks somewhere but Webster had failed to find it on any of the maps. He told the privates to leave their rifles behind. They weren’t happy about this but at least they didn’t instantly try and appeal to Staff Sergeant Langham, for which he was grateful. When they asked if they would be required to discard their side arms as well he gave them a conciliatory shake of the head.

  The dock was largely automated so they had to put their trust in the systems and wait to be told that the air pressure had equalised before venturing out. There was the usual awkward moment as they transitioned over to the station’s artificial gravity but the two privates, Castilla and Reed, made it look easy. The corridor was dingy and care-worn with two black tracks running down the centre aisle. Webster had expected the place to be better maintained because of its age but it was as grimy as every other port he’d ever been in.