“That would require them to have some kind of weapons launching capability. But,” he held up the tablet, “looking at this, I don’t think they have. Their ship’s just too small.”

  Webster said, “Of course. There is another possibility.”

  “And that is?”

  “They know who we’ve got on-board and they’re planning something.”

  *

  Morton risked looking behind her. The noncom was marching Faulkner along. Faulkner wouldn’t be used to this level of exertion; he’d barely walked a thousand paces since he’d arrived on the Syracuse.

  Morton stopped at a T-junction.

  “Which way now?” she asked.

  “Turn left,” the man said. “And keep your hands were I can see them.”

  They had made two turns so far. At each junction, Morton had braced herself, ready for a shot that never came. A nerve blaster probably wouldn’t kill her but it would mess her up in other ways. For one thing, she’d lose all those fine motor skills essential to be a surgeon. They were heading in the general direction of the cargo bay, that much was obvious. Did he perhaps have a ship waiting for him down there? If he was intending on stealing one she didn’t think much of his chances. Unless, of course, he knew something she didn’t.

  What if he had an accomplice?

  “You can’t possibly get away with this,” Morton said. “Even if you do manage to steal a ship, they’re never going to let you get away.”

  “Just let me worry about that. We’re taking the next left.”

  Morton took the turning. The corridor was in darkness, the lights blinking on as they approached.

  “What do you intend doing with me?”

  “Haven’t decided yet. You were never part of the plan. I’m really only here for the captain. He’s quite the valuable commodity, don’t you know.”

  “You’re going to sell him on?”

  “That’s the idea. Already got a buyer sorted out but things might change. There’s been a lot of interest since his release. Lots of people with old scores to settle.”

  “I take it they want me alive?”

  It was the first thing Faulkner had said since leaving the mess hall and it took both of them by surprise.

  “For the moment, at least. Though I’m not sure how long that’ll last.”

  *

  LaCruz was on security duty with Corporal Guterres and they’d just come from a sweep of the rear of the ship. The Syracuse was not her usual base of operations, she’d been drafted in specifically for this prisoner release job. No one said it was because she was female but it was obvious to everyone and she had the feeling that some of them resented her for it.

  She was due to be re-assigned once they returned to Lincoln Station and she couldn’t wait. The other Marines seemed to have a particular hard-on as far as Faulkner was concerned and, whenever they got her on her own they’d come up with the most ridiculous questions.

  Did he talk much about what had happened at Tsvengir?

  What exactly did they do to him back on Raghul?

  Someone had said that he was going to be court martialled when he got back – had he said anything about that?

  That’s why she didn’t mind working with Guterres. He had no interest in Faulkner whatsoever, all he wanted to talk about was his music. LaCruz didn’t mind that, even when he was telling her about his role as the platoon’s resident DJ.

  “Look at this,” she said as they stepped through a hatchway. “Who leaves this shit lying around?”

  Someone had piled a broken footlocker on top of some discarded heating cells. And then they had left the hatchway open. It looked as though someone had piled their stuff there while they went off to dispose of some other junk and then hadn’t bothered to come back.

  LaCruz closed and secured the door while Guterres slid the junk into a corner.

  “We can’t leave that there,” she said. “We should dispose of it properly.”

  “Nah,” Guterres pushed the stuff over into the corner with his boot. “Not our job. Besides, this isn’t the first pile of crap we’ve come across. Somebody should be getting their asses kicked over this.”

  “That’s down to the XO.”

  “How come?”

  “It’s his job to make sure everything’s running smoothly. It’s like he never comes down here.”

  Guterres suddenly straightened, pressing the bead in his ear.

  “Okay, we’ll be right there,” he said, the waste instantly forgotten.

  “Trouble?”

  “Sounds like it. We need to get back. Something’s kicking off down the cargo bay. Some guy with a blaster.”

  “The cargo bay? That’s not far from here.”

  “I know. But we’ve been told to avoid it. Rawlins was very clear on that.”

  “Why would we go round it?” she lifted her rifle and sighted along it. “Might only be low-velocity rounds but they’ll get the job done.”

  Guterres rolled his eyes. “Why’d you have to be such a hard-ass?”

  “I’m not a hard ass. All I’m saying is: why go round the problem when we can go to the problem?”

  “I think you’re the problem.”

  *

  “Sir, you might want to take a look at this.”

  Webster and Ross turned to where the station officer was sitting. Then they went over and joined him. Word had come through that an armed man was wandering the decks but that was all they knew.

  The station officer was rewinding a section of surveillance footage.

  “What are we looking at?” Webster said.

  “That’s Doctor Morton,” Ross said.

  The frozen image was unmistakable.

  “And that’s Captain Faulkner,” Webster was experiencing a sinking feeling. “So who’s this guy?”

  Webster tapped the man’s face and the computer’s facial recognition software did the rest.

  “Petty Officer Second Class Blumire,” Ross read off the details. “Joined us at Lincoln. Service history is patchy but now it looks like he’s decided to go into business for himself. Can we get a better look at what he’s holding?”

  The station officer obliged, switching to another camera and then focussing in on the man’s hand. Webster could see that he was holding some kind of weapon but he couldn’t make out any details. He turned to the officer. “Contact Master Sergeant Rawlins and tell him to hang back. I don’t want this guy getting rattled. And get that corridor sealed off.”

  Ross said, “What about the cargo bay. Shouldn’t we seal that off as well?”

  “No. If he thinks he’s trapped he’s liable to panic and we don’t want that. Get the place locked down and then get everyone out of there. I don’t want to give him any more targets. What about our stealth friends? Any news?”

  On the other side of the room, DeMarco looked up from his console. “They’re still closing at the same velocity. Eight minutes before they come alongside.”

  “That’s cutting it fine,” Webster raised his voice and spoke to the rest of the bridge. “Okay everyone, assume we’re at battle stations but I just don’t want to issue a general alert. There’s no telling whether this guy is working alone or whether he’s linked to the people outside. Give me passive targeting ideas for the Indra and lock lasers on that smaller craft. But no one starts firing ‘til I give the say-so. That understood?”

  A chorus of voices echoed around the bridge.

  *

  “I don’t like this,” the man with the gun said. “Just stop a minute.”

  Morton stopped and turned, careful not to say anything. They’d been walking for a solid five minutes without encountering anyone coming the other way. On a ship of this size, that was highly unlikely.

  “I need to think.”

  The man stepped away from Faulkner and Morton saw the weapon clearly for the first time. A blaster with various settings. There was no telling where he’d got it but it was powerful enough to get the job done.

  “We really should keep moving,” Faulkner said.

  “Why’s that?” the man was rubbing his forehead.

  “So that we can retain the initiative. If we just sit here they’re going to try and box us in. Isn’t that right …?”

  He waved at the man impatiently.

  “Blumire. The name’s Blumire.”

  Blumire looked accusingly at Morton as if she were the one responsible for their present situation. Faulkner hadn’t said much but what he had said clearly seemed to register with their captor. She was still coming to terms with the way that Faulkner had referred to himself and the gunman as ‘we.’ Was he trying to gain the man’s trust? If so, it appeared to be working.

  “Forward or back?” she asked.

  Blumire acquiesced to Faulkner.

  “Forward,” Faulkner said. “Keep the good doctor ahead of us, though. Disrupt their line of fire.”

  Blumire motioned with the blaster and Morton, reluctantly, started forward.

  “Do we have a destination or are we just going to keep walking in circles?” Morton asked.

  “We’re heading for the cargo bay. Is that good enough for you?”

  “That’s all I need to know. Thanks.”

  That confirmed her suspicions. Blumire was going to try and get off the ship. Would he try and take her with him or just shoot her once she’d served her purpose?

  She had to assume the worst and formulate some kind of plan, but she was going to have to work fast. They were only a short distance from the cargo bay and if she went in there without a clear idea of how she was going to escape, the chances of her coming out alive were very slim indeed.

  *

  Webster and Ross went over their plan a second time in an effort to check that they hadn’t missed anything.

  Ross pushed himself away from the table.

  “I’m not so sure. We’re cutting it very tight, timing wise.”

  “I disagree,” Webster said. “The stealth ship is the one setting the agenda. They’re going to want to get in and out as quickly as possible and we’ve got a fairly accurate time-scale for all that.”

  “They’re assuming that once they’ve got Faulkner aboard then they’ll be safe. That we won’t fire on them.”

  “And they’d be right. We can’t afford to jeopardise his safety.”

  “So, what do we do?”

  Webster worked to keep his voice as calm as possible.

  “We’re pretty sure that this Blumire character isn’t in direct contact with the stealth people. If there had been any communication between them then we’d have been sure to have picked up on it. This leads me to believe that they’re working to pre-arranged timings. It’s essential for everyone involved that Blumire is inside that cargo bay when they arrive. There’s no room for error there: they’ll have already committed themselves. If he’s late then the whole thing’s off. Not a good outcome for any of them.”

  “Okay,” Ross was mulling over everything that Webster had said but there was still something bothering him. “What if they’re not working together? What if they represent two separate factions, both with an eye to capturing Faulkner?”

  Webster pursed his lips. “Well, in that case – things are about to get very messy very quickly.”

  “Sir, I’ve getting readings from the stealth ship,” the pitch of Bartlett’s voice had subtly changed.

  “Okay,” Webster said. “Let’s have it.”

  “Some kind of power surge, sir. I think their weapons are coming online.”

  *

  Morton was ten steps away from the cargo bay doors and she still hadn’t decided how she was going to resolve this.

  The fact that the corridors ahead were deserted suggested that their plight had not gone unnoticed up on the bridge. But that didn’t mean that she could relax. Had Webster and his team had enough time to set out an appropriate plan of action? She found herself suddenly questioning Webster’s operational capabilities. He was still very young. Would he even know what to do in these circumstances?

  She knew that there were Marines aboard and she just hoped that Webster would have the forethought to position snipers within the cargo bay itself. That way, they would have a decent chance of taking out Blumire before matters got completely out of hand. Whatever was going to happen was going to have to happen in the cargo bay area, she was certain of that now. The USDC had gone to great lengths to get Faulkner released and it would be an act of supreme incompetence on Webster’s part to allow him to be snatched away at this point.

  As she set foot in the cargo bay it all seemed so familiar: the echoing acoustics, the smell of burnt jet fuel but something was different. She had to shield her eyes against the yellow shimmer of the pressure wall’s caution lights but, as far as she could make out, the place appeared to be completely deserted.

  She’d never seen it look so neat and uncluttered. There were normally two or three ships of various sizes standing around being serviced or made ready for flight but now there were none. Even the little fleet of tool trolleys was nowhere to be seen.

  Not that Blumire appeared to notice. He only had eyes for one thing: the sight of the pressure wall. She had to admit, it took some getting used to. A translucent skin which allowed ships to pass through without compromising the ship’s environmental integrity. Morton found it easier not to look at it for too long. It was difficult not to feel as if you were about to be sucked out into the vastness of space.

  As he stood there transfixed, she thought that this would be the time to tackle him. While he was still distracted.

  But the moment passed and the man hauled Faulkner across in front of him, to use him as a shield.

  “What’s happening now?” she said.

  It was tempting to draw his attention to the lack of available spacecraft, to the obvious conclusion that this was the end of the road, but she held back. The moment that he saw that the trap was closing in might well be the moment he panicked and she wanted to delay that for as long as possible.

  “Over there,” he pointed with his blaster. “The evac area.”

  You couldn’t miss it. A huge rectangle right in the centre of the bay with EVAC picked out in bright yellow letters.

  She was halfway there when something caught her eye. Movement, high up and to her right. The temptation to look up was enormous but she managed to restrain herself.

  Could this be one of the snipers she’d been hoping for: repositioning themselves to get a clearer shot?

  She very much hoped so. The temptation to look up was enormous but to do so would be to needlessly give away their position, and so she kept her eyes locked straight ahead.

  She was aware of Blumire watching her. Weighing up his options. It wouldn’t be long before he had to decide what to do with her.

  If she was going to do something she’d better do it soon.

  But, when she glimpsed the movement again, she couldn’t help glancing upwards.

  She had been wrong. It wasn’t snipers at all.

  Some sort of spacecraft was out there, just beyond the pressure wall. It was impossible to judge the size of it, particularly as it had an exterior designed to match the darkness of its surroundings but it was there.

  It seemed to be coming closer and, as she watched, it slightly adjusted its position, glittering like a piece of silica.

  “Here they come,” Blumire looked exultant.

  As he stared up at the ship, his body seemed to slacken. His gun arm relaxed and dropped to his side.

  Morton looked across at the row of storage bays facing her, each the size of a house. There were three to choose from.

  If she was going to make a break for it, now was the time. But they suddenly seemed an awfully long way away. How far was she going to have to run? Sixty or seventy metres? It was difficult to say and the difference here could be the difference between life and death.

  Or perhaps she should just stay put and hope for the best?

  In the end, the decision was taken out of her hands.

  Just as the gunman was pulling Faulkner round to stand between him and the doors they’d just come through, a series of enormously bright flashes lit up the whole interior.

  Morton covered her eyes and shrank back just as a scuffle broke out between Faulkner and Blumire. Initially, she thought that Faulkner was going to get hurt – he looked so frail - so it came as a surprise when Blumire was the one staggering backwards, clutching his throat. He stumbled over his own feet and fell, his blaster hitting the deck and bouncing.

  It landed between the two men and lay there. Faulkner got there first, his fingers clutching the blaster as Blumire righted himself. He lashed out with his foot, catching Faulkner on the side of the head.

  The shock of the blow sent Faulkner reeling, the blaster tumbling to the floor.

  Blumire move swiftly to retrieve the weapon. He waved it in Faulkner’s direction.

  “Stay there! Don’t move.”

  A woman’s voice echoed around the cargo bay and Morton spun round. Two Marines had appeared in the doorway and were spreading out in opposite directions.

  Both of them had their weapons levelled at Blumire.

  Not snipers then, Morton realised. It took her a second to recognise LaCruz Jackson. As soon as she did, she started to relax.

  Now there was a woman you didn’t want to pick a fight with.

  “I won’t tell you again,” Jackson was tracking sideways to stay out of Blumire’s line of fire. At the same time, her partner was moving in the opposite direction.

  Blumire rose to his feet, still gripping the blaster. He seemed uncertain now how best to continue. Faulkner was still on the ground. It would be a simple matter just to shoot him there and then. To spoil all their plans.

  Blumire turned his head slightly, so that he was looking straight at Jackson.

  He gave her the slightest nod of acknowledgement before quickly bringing the blaster around and firing three times in quick succession.

  The shots hit the wall just to the left of LaCruz’s head.

  She fired once.

  The shot hit him in the right eye and exited out of the back of his skull in a fine pink spray.

  Blumire went straight down, his head hitting the ground with a wet smack.