Their problem-solving logarithms struggled to break the wash of background fuzz which surrounded them so that they were in danger of over-shooting their target. Only then - at that precise moment - The Merry Widow’s engines boosted again, effectively sealing her own fate.

  The drones burned the last of their fuel in a final headlong dive, each ship punching through the Widow’s hull alloy as though it were paper. The impacts spread along the length of the ship’s dorsal section causing massive decompressions throughout.

  But The Merry Widow was a state-of-the-art mega-cruiser in all regards and that extended to its internal defensive systems. The first drones to cut through triggered sealant sprays designed to close the various breaches in seconds.

  But that didn’t prevent the drones plunging onward mostly as a result of their own inertia, slicing through deck after deck before finally coming to a halt.

  One drone made it through ten of the twenty-two decks. In its headlong dash, it struck one of the crewmembers, dissolving him into nothing more than a fine pink mist. The drone continued on, slicing through a vital electrical conduit and in so doing caused multiple electrical circuits within the vessel to immediately over-load. All over the ship, small fires started breaking out.

  On the eighth deck a drone shattered a glass banqueting table sending shards of glass into a crowd of passengers sheltering nearby. Countless people in the vicinity suffered lacerations, three of whom would have bled to death eventually.

  Only they weren’t going to be granted that luxury.

  The drone eventually fizzled after encountering one of the larger swimming pools on-board. By this point it resembled something like a deformed manhole cover.

  Numerous passengers and crew were killed as a direct result of individual drone strikes. More would have been killed if the bulk of the passengers had not already been gathered at the fore of the ship in the grand ballroom and in the main foyer were a number of gravity couches had been hastily assembled. Indeed, it was the very size of the ship which might have saved it, broken up as it was into various autonomous sections.

  However, one of the drones, blinded by sealant, careered on through the main observation deck. Punching through several storage decks, it managed to somehow pierce the armour plating surrounding one of the ship’s eight main engines. The engine immediately went into meltdown.

  It all happened far too quickly for the normal shutdown procedures to be enabled. Temperatures immediately rose to intolerable levels, the engine becoming so hot that it melted its way through the floor on which it was standing. Such was the heat it generated, that it would have invariably kept on going through each of the subsequent floors if it hadn’t come up against the fuel rods situated three decks down.

  The resulting explosion effectively tore the ship in two, with hundreds of passengers killed when a series of fireballs swept through their compartments. Those who had managed to survive this catastrophe had only seconds to reflect before a series of large scale, debilitating decompressions robbed them of any hope of survival.

  Of the nearly six thousand people on-board only thirty-eight were destined to survive.

  *

  Webster sat opposite Silva in the back of the transport. They each wore a pair of Dewar handcuffs linked to a transponder operated by the guard sitting in the front cab. If they were to stray more than 10 meters away from the transponder they would receive a series of electric shocks which would build in intensity the further they strayed. The fifth shock was potentially life threatening and powerful enough to fell a horse.

  “What do you think’s going to happen to us?” Silva asked.

  Webster shrugged. “They’re probably going to use us as leverage.”

  “With the captain?”

  “I guess so,” Webster was still trying to come to terms with their sudden reversal in fortunes. “But that should come as no surprise to you. You pretty much predicted this was going to happen. You even had Parnashikan pegged as the likely perpetrator.”

  Silva peered through the tiny window at the back of the transport. “To be fair, I thought that he’d make a political move to displace Ardent. I never thought he’d instigate a military coup.”

  “If you ask me, he’d been working to take charge of the security services for a long while. That was why he was opposed to having us down here in the first place. I should have seen the signs when we arrived. As far as he was concerned, we were the only thing standing in his way. He already had the main men in his pocket.”

  “No wonder Ardent was so keen to get our help. Though a fat lot of good it did her in the end: arrested in the chamber and then thrown into prison.”

  “They’re never going to throw her into prison,’ Webster said. “Parnashikan’s going to want to keep her somewhere he can keep an eye on her. Somewhere isolated.”

  “Okay. What about us?”

  “I’m not sure,” Webster said just as the transport turned a corner. “But I’d guess it’s a whole lot less glamorous than where they’re taking Ardent. You done much prison time?”

  Silva rolled her eyes. Webster had told her all about his stretch behind bars.

  “You really think they’ll separate us?” only now, there was real concern in her voice.

  “I think that’s a definite possibility. Going to make a rescue attempt twice as difficult if we’re in two separate locations. My main worry is where they might be taking us.”

  Silva turned back to the little window and held up a hand to get his attention. “I think we’ve stopped. Something’s happening.”

  They heard someone running past the vehicle and then the sound of raised voices. Then, nothing for a long while.

  The explosion was close enough to rock the transport on its chassis. Though they were effectively insulated from the outside world, the sound was enormous and, even after it died down, Webster was left with a ringing in his ears.

  Silva pulled away from the window and motioned for Webster to take a look. There wasn’t much to see. Someone was standing directly in front of the door.

  Suddenly, there was a thunderous exchange of gunfire and, when he looked again, Webster found that his view was no longer blocked. He tried to look around to the sides but found it all but impossible. Then he spotted several figures stretched out on the ground.

  Other figures were fast approaching.

  Silva grabbed his arm.

  “What’s going on? Are we being rescued?”

  Webster pushed her away from the door.

  “I wouldn’t be so sure. Parnashikan could have staged all of this. Make it look as though the convoy was ambushed. With the pair of us dead he wouldn’t have to face any difficult questions.”

  Silva gave him a pained look. “You think that’s possible?”

  “I think we’re about to find out.”

  Outside, someone shouted, “Get back from the door!”

  They covered their ears and curled up together against the far wall. The doors of the transport suddenly crumpled inwards and Webster felt his ears pop. The next thing, someone was levering the doors open with a crowbar.

  An armed figure wearing goggles and a face mask thrust his head inside, gave them the once-over and then retreated.

  “They’re both in there. No sign of any hostiles.”

  A second figure loomed through the doorway, similarly attired. He motioned for them to come outside.

  Webster turned to Silva. They both saw that they didn’t have much choice. He went first and she followed to be confronted by a group of heavily armed men and women.

  The man in front of them pulled his mask off.

  Sergeant Markham.

  “Just a moment, sir,” Markham stepped forward, holding up a scanner. He ran it over Webster’s handcuffs. Once he was satisfied, he called over a trooper carrying a portable laser cutter. Webster held out his hands and the man set to removing them.

  Webster couldn’t see what he was doing – it was too bright to look at. All he knew was that his wrists were becoming uncomfortably hot. After a few minutes, the man had finished and the handcuffs fell to the floor. Then he turned his attention to Lieutenant Silva.

  Webster took a moment to look around. They had been part of a three-vehicle convoy, although the third vehicle was now little more than a pile of twisted metal. They had been stopped in some grim looking industrial estate as part of Markham’s cleverly concocted ambush. The three prone bodies he’d seen earlier had been removed and a group of troopers were pushing the lead vehicle off the road.

  There was a range of questions he desperately wanted answers to but he could see that Markham was too busy organising their departure. Webster envied him his standing with the men, each one of them snapping to attention whenever he gave them a job to do.

  In contrast, Webster felt that he himself had turned into something of a liability. Nothing seemed to have gone right for him so far. If Faulkner had wanted to test his second-in-command’s resolve then he’d got his wish.

  “What happened to the rest of you?” he asked. He could only make out twelve troopers. Effectively two fire teams.

  Markham stood back as one of the troopers ran a scan over Webster’s body, checking for booby traps.

  “We were set up. The mercs we arrested got a slap on the wrist and then came back for round two.”

  Webster took in the remaining troopers. “Is this all that’s left?”

  Markham’s teeth flashed white in the darkness. “No, sir. The mercs had set up an ambush for us outside the main terminal building. Lucky for us Grimes and LaCruz got wind of their plan. Managed to turn the tables on them.”

  “So, what happened?”

  Markham made the sound of a very large explosion.

  Webster suddenly remembered that he had heard something as they were being loaded into the van.

  “Where are the rest of your men?”

  “They’re fine. They’re doing some recon over at the governor’s mansion.”

  “The governor’s mansion? Do you know something I don’t?”

  Markham made a noncommittal face. “They’re going to need somewhere to keep her in the short term, sir. Seems like the obvious choice.”

  Webster exchanged looks with Silva. For appearance’s sake, it would be useful for Parnashikan to show that Ardent had survived the coup. Then, once everything had settled down, he would have no further use for her. That would be the point when he could safely afford to get rid of her.

  “Is she there now?”

  Markham studied the monitor attached to his forearm. “She should be setting off from the central government offices about now.”

  “Any chance that we can get to her before she arrives at the mansion?”

  “If we’re going to do it, then we’d best be quick.”

  A dozen possible scenarios for the rescue mission immediately popped into Webster’s head. All of them presented challenges but none of them ended well.

  “But what if we succeed? What if we do manage to free Ardent? What then.”

  “I’ve got a few men over at Terminal 3,” Markham said. “They’re trying to scout us a ride.”

  “Back to the Mantis?”

  “Well we can’t stay here.”

  *

  Faulkner’s offer to help with the recovery of The Merry Widow’s survivors was resolutely refused by the Port Authority who informed him that the station had a series of well-rehearsed rescue procedures in place to cope with such eventualities.

  Even his offer of specialist medical care was rejected. He and his command crew were forced to stand idly by and watch as Blackthorn’s sluggish rescue services began to sift through the wreckage.

  After a few hours of this, Faulkner was having difficulty staying awake. The events of the last few days had started to take their toll. Normally, he would have taken a break at this point but, with Webster still on Blackthorn, he doubted whether he’d be able to get any sleep.

  It was at this point that comms intercepted a transmission from the Serrayu to Blackthorn. The message was heavily encoded and would take some time to make sense of but, even so, the fact that the Yakutians were contacting the space station directly had to be significant.

  Within minutes of the broadcast, the Serrayu had left her docking area and had started making her way out of the exclusion zone.

  The Serrayu didn’t move like a conventional ship, certainly not like any Faulkner had ever seen before. Its nose section tipped forward as it oriented itself in the direction of the oncoming Da’al ship. Two huge exhaust vents flared, bright enough to dazzle Faulkner, as twin missiles set off in the direction of Big Daddy.

  “Did you see that, Mr Bertran? Those missiles. Never seen anything like them before.”

  Bertran was scrolling through his console, shaking his head.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” he looked at his team for their response but none was forthcoming. “Those are new to me as well. We’ll be able to study the playback and get some ideas from that, but I have no idea what they are.”

  Faulkner nodded. It had been a fearsome display and it unsettled him slightly, though not for the obvious reasons. He’d spent the last few months studying the technological capabilities of the Yakutians but – of course – most of that intelligence was years out of date. A lot of it would be obsolete by now, replaced by brand new weaponry - like the missiles they’d just witnessed. More and more he was starting to feel out of his depth in this new world.

  He reflected on how tempting it was to assume that your side was the only one capable of innovation. The rules of engineering, indeed those of physics itself could be employed by anyone possessing the necessary resolve. Clearly, the Yakutian engineers had not been idle.

  He asked to be put through to the bridge of the Serrayu. A degree of obfuscation and delay was to be expected when attempting to communicate with their former enemy so Faulkner was surprised to be put straight through.

  “Captain Mahbarat for you, sir.”

  “Good day, captain,” Faulkner said. “Nice to see that you’ve finally entered the fray.”

  “You can thank me later,” Mahbarat said. “Once the missiles have done their job.”

  “Of course, of course. That was an impressive display nonetheless.”

  “I take it that you’re referring to our new ordnance?”

  “I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I didn’t notice things like that. But tell me: what made you change your mind?”

  “About engaging the alien threat, you mean?”

  “Yes. You were adamant you wouldn’t defend a Confederation colony.”

  “Quite correct, captain, and I still haven’t changed my mind in that regard.”

  Faulkner was confused. “How so?”

  Mahbarat feigned disinterest. “It seems that there have been some major personnel changes at Blackthorn. Governor Ardent, it would seem, is no longer in charge.”

  Faulkner felt something shift in the pit stomach. “Who’s taken her place?”

  “The Deputy Governor for the moment. And it seems that he is noticeably less inclined towards the Confederation than his predecessor was. He recognises that in order for Blackthorn to reach her true potential as a trading centre, she needs to step out from under the USDC’s repressive gaze.”

  Faulkner could see where this was going.

  “Are you saying that Blackthorn has broken off her ties with the Confederation?”

  “Precisely so. The Confederation is yesterday’s news. Governor Parnishkan has applied for full membership of the Empire. The treaty should be formally ratified within the next few days.”

  Faulkner felt physically sick. To have come this far, only to be robbed at the last. It was almost too hard to contemplate.

  “Which, I suppose, explains why you’re now happy to assist in the destruction of Big Daddy.”

  “Of course. The defence of Blackthorn is now my highest priority.”

  There was a tartness to Mahbarat’s tone that Faulkner didn’t like.

  “And you think those two missiles are going to be enough?”

  “You’re quite right of course, most missiles could do little more than scratch the surface of an impactor mass on that scale. There’s only one weapon powerful enough to get the job done.”

  Mahbarat nodded to someone off screen.

  Ensign Roberts was gesticulating wildly over to Faulkner’s left. When he looked to see what she was up to, he saw that she was pointing to the external view of the Serrayu.

  Four firing tubes had opened up along the ship’s hull. One by one, each missile was launched with a minimum of fuss. They emerged almost lazily, climbing vertically for several hundred meters before their independent propulsion systems kicked in. The whole bridge watched in silence as first one, then the others, burst into vivid life before soaring off into the distance.

  Faulkner had no trouble recognising the old T-187s. Old they might be, but these so-called smart missiles were the ultimate ship-killers. Faulkner had been commander on board a ship which had been targeted by a T-187. To this day, he still counted himself lucky to have survived the encounter.

  “Nukes? Are you telling me that you had nukes on-board all this time and didn’t see fit to tell anyone?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Mahbarat said archly. It wouldn’t do for the c.o. of a Yakutian battle cruiser to discuss real time intelligence issues with the captain of a rival vessel.

  “But what if you’re wrong? What if the nukes only succeed in breaking Big Daddy up into chunks? There’ll still be enough destructive power there to take out Blackthorn and us along with it.”

  Mahbarat’s head dropped as he considered this. When he next looked up it was as though Faulkner was seeing him fully for the first time.

  “You may well be right, captain. You may well be right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Webster felt surprisingly calm under the circumstances.