“The heat alone should be enough to confuse the scanners,” Bertran agreed.

  “So we don’t know if it has been destroyed?” Faulkner asked.

  “It’s too early to say,” Yamada said.

  A notification pulsed on Faulkner’s command chair. He went and stood over it. It was from Engineering.

  He hesitated before putting them through.

  “I hope this is good news, chief.”

  “I hope so too, sir,” it was Davitz but there was something off about his voice. “We’ve managed to complete the installation process on all four engines.”

  Faulkner squeezed his hand into a fist, a movement that wasn’t lost on the officers around him.

  He said, “Why is it that I’m expecting a ‘but’?”

  “It’s not a ‘but’, sir, although it does come with some important qualifiers. The engines are fine, green lights all the way, but it’s going to take some time to bring them fully on-line. It’s not the sort of thing we can rush.”

  “How long?”

  “If I push it, we’re talking about maybe two, two and a half hours before we’re ready to maneuver.”

  “That’s too long. With this K.E.W. inbound we’re going to need to act sooner than that.”

  A Kinetic Energy Weapon. That was precisely what Big Daddy had been all along.

  “Sir, if we rush this, we’re in danger of undermining everything we’ve achieved thus far.”

  There was a warning tone to Davitz’ voice which Faulkner didn’t much care for.

  “I understand that chief, but I need to have those engines at my disposal in the next sixty minutes. Captain out.”

  Faulkner tried to get a hold on his emotions as euphoria vied with a sense of rising panic. He’d been cooped up on the bridge for far too long. He needed a walk around the decks to burn off the stress but he wasn’t going to get that opportunity.

  There was still work to be done.

  He went back to stand with his officers. The computer simulation had changed and was now throwing up a series of hypnotic waveforms which his mind struggled to make sense of.

  Elsewhere, data was flooding in, waiting to be sorted. At the centre of all this activity was the tiny figure of Ensign Roberts flitting from station to station. Something significant was happening but he had no idea what it was.

  Faulkner appealed to his communications chief for some clarity on the matter but Yamada was just as baffled as he was. Yamada pointed towards the young ensign as if to say, ‘don’t look at me.’ And it seemed, in that moment, as if Ensign Roberts had finally come of age.

  “Any news about what’s happened to the K.E.W.?” he asked.

  “It’s as we feared,” she said. “It appears to have been broken into chunks rather than being completely destroyed. We’re struggling to get a clear picture but it’s pretty obvious we’re looking at multiple projectiles.”

  “Okay,” Faulkner said wearily.

  “Luckily, we can dispense with the majority of them. Their trajectory has changed enough that they no longer pose a threat.”

  Faulkner said. “How many sections are we talking about?”

  Roberts took a moment to punch in a series of equations into her console and then went across to stand in front of the simulation.

  It was now showing three distinct shapes, with one of them clearly posing the most significant threat.

  “The long thin one we’ve designated as Hammer. This one in the centre, we’re calling Anvil because of its size,” it was bigger than both of the other two combined. “And this smaller one we’re calling Stirrup.”

  “Stirrup? Oh, I see: hammer, anvil and stirrup.”

  “That’s right, sir,” she said. “The bones of the inner ear.”

  Faulkner nodded absently. “I get it now. And is that it?”

  Yamada stepped in front of her. “And these are the only ones whose trajectories threaten the station directly.”

  “Yes, but that’s not the only thing we have to worry about,” Roberts said. “The explosion also sent out a debris cloud which we’re going to have to deal with first.”

  “We should be able to ride that out,” Yamada said. “But it will affect our communications short term.”

  Faulkner looked to Bertran.

  “What about these new threats? I take it you have some sort of response figured out.”

  “It’s not going to be easy,” Bertran mused. “Especially if we have to deal with this on our own.”

  “You’re talking about contacting the Serrayu?”

  “Yes,” he went and stood at the centre of the display. “After what we’ve just seen, I imagine they have the firepower to cope with Anvil. And if that’s the case I think we can figure out a way of dealing with these other two.”

  “Is the idea to try and vaporise them?”

  “I think that’s being overly optimistic. This is crisis management, sir. At this point, we’re all out of winning scenarios.”

  Faulkner sobered at that. “Okay. Weapons packages?”

  “I’ve already sent you my proposals. If this is going to be a joint operation would you like me to share my ideas with the Yakutians?”

  Faulkner was shocked just at the thought of it but he attempted to calm himself.

  “Let me talk with Captain Mahbarat about it first, but, yes. That seems all in order.”

  He went and gathered Yamada, Roberts and Sturgess the intelligence officer together.

  “What are we going to tell Blackthorn? Is there any point in them trying to evacuate?”

  The others looked uncertainly back at him.

  Sturgess said, “If word of this gets out there’s going to be a huge panic.”

  “So, what?” Faulkner said. “We don’t tell them.”

  “Things have changed down there even in the last few hours. You don’t know who’s going to get their hands on this information or how it’s likely to be interpreted.”

  “True,” Faulkner said. “But they’re not idiots. They’ll be monitoring this for themselves. Mr Yamada? Thoughts?”

  “Any ships caught out in the open when this thing hits will be lucky to survive. I’d like to think that Blackthorn would come through it but the simulations we’ve been looking at are suggesting otherwise. Even if we’re successful in taking out those two targets…”

  His voice trailed off.

  “There’s a twenty four percent chance that Blackthorn will be destroyed,” Roberts said.

  “Hit, or destroyed?” Faulkner asked.

  “Destroyed,” Roberts said bluntly. “In the simulations, we’ve been seeing a loss of life in the range of thirty-five to sixty five percent.”

  No one said anything for a long time.

  “Alright. Patch me through to the Serrayu.”

  *

  The Marines dispensed with their medical disguises just as soon as they were safely inside the building. It was an adjunct to the main terminal which was over a kilometer away. Even coming in this way had proved to be something of a trial. That was until someone suggested they used the ambulance’s siren at which point people had grudgingly allowed the convoy through.

  This section of the space port was more exclusive, catering for executive space craft. One of the female troopers let out a low whistle as they took in the luxury of their surroundings.

  There was a large seating area arrayed with white leather sofas, interspersed with plants and fresh flowers. The lighting was subtle and subdued, picking out the long Art Deco theme of the bar in the corner and the period artwork along the walls.

  The holdalls containing the weapons had been dumped on the floor allowing the troopers to come over and help themselves. They’d all been brought in on a succession of covered gurneys. The Marines hadn’t appreciated being relieved of their weapons for a second time and didn’t need Markham to tell them to undertake a thorough weapons check when they reclaimed them.

  Webster still had his side arm and was glad of it. Ammunition was limited but after some initial disputes, enough was passed around to pacify the majority of them.

  “Which way to the ship?” Markham asked.

  “It’s complicated, “Ardent said. “Probably best if I lead the way.”

  “That’s okay, ma’am,” Markham said. “Just point us in the right direction and my men will do the rest.”

  “I’d be happy to,” Ardent said. “Just as soon as you stop calling me ‘ma’am.’”

  Webster looked around, marvelling at the luxury of their surroundings. It was a million miles away from the makeshift barracks they’d been staying in. The majority of the troopers had probably never seen real leather before and had naturally assumed that the sofas were fake.

  At the same time, he was amused by how naïve Ardent appeared to be about her own safety. She still didn’t seem to have registered how much danger they were in – as if Markham was just going to let her go trooping off in the lead, mindless of whatever threats lay ahead of them.

  Privately, Webster was a mass of nerves. He told himself that he was concerned about Silva. She’d had to trade in her wheelchair for a pair of crutches, but that wasn’t it either. This sudden attack of nerves was all the more peculiar because earlier, when he’d had to face down Ardent’s security convoy, he’d experienced no fear at all. Too busy focussing on the job at hand to really think about the consequences if it all went south. But now, with their liberty within easy reach, he was having to concentrate to keep his hands from shaking.

  Markham quickly took charge, basing his formation around various fire teams. He kept the governor with him at the centre, while Webster was placed in the group behind.

  They’d only gone a few hundred meters when they encountered their first obstacle: a pressure door which also served as a security checkpoint. There were various signs warning of the dangers of opening a door into vacuum but, from the look of it, they were going to struggle just to get the thing open.

  “We do have access to explosives,” Markham said. “But I wouldn’t recommend using them. Otherwise we’re going to have to look for another ingress point.”

  “Only there isn’t one,” Ardent sounded suddenly very tired. “At least, not as far as I’m aware.”

  “Okay, ma’am,” Markham winced at his error. “Sorry, Governor. Do you have any suggestions?”

  “Is that touch screen still working?”

  There was a small panel set into the wall. One of the troopers touched it and it sprung to life.

  Webster moved to stand alongside her. “What are you going to do?”

  “I still have my access codes. I thought I might give those a try.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Webster asked. “They’re bound to have changed them by now.”

  “And what if they’re booby trapped,” Markham said. “What then?”

  Ardent moved forward confidently. “That is a possibility, but still…”

  Webster stepped across to block her. “We can’t take that risk.”

  “What if someone else entered the code?” Silva suggested.

  “It’s more sophisticated than that,” Ardent said. “It’s designed to recognise only my pheromones.”

  The four of them stood around looking at one another.

  “I’m not happy about this,” Webster said.

  “Neither am I,” Markham said. “I’m going to send a couple of troopers off – see if they can’t find some other access point.”

  The troopers were all back within ten minutes.

  “Looks like there’s no other option,” Ardent said. “Either you let me do this or we sit here and wait to get picked up.”

  Webster ran his fingers through his hair. “Okay. The way I see it: we don’t have any other option.”

  “Let’s get everyone away from this door,” Markham barked.

  The troopers didn’t need to be told twice, shuffling around the corner to stand with their backs braced against the wall. They had to wait for Silva, shuffling along on her crutches, but eventually she too was in position.

  “I’m entering the first code now,” Ardent announced.

  *

  “Hell of a thing, eh?” Roberts was saying.

  They were watching Anvil tumbling end over end towards them. When the mass impactor had been intact it had been almost impossible to get a grasp of how truly huge it was. Now that it had split into smaller parts it appeared far more real – far more threatening.

  They’d launched their missiles over twenty minutes ago. Three for Hammer and two for Stirrup.

  There was nothing to do now but wait.

  “What did Captain Mahbarat have to say for himself?” Faulkner asked.

  He’d instructed Bertran to handle all the practical arrangements for the coordinated attack with the Yakutians while he had overseen the Mantis’ launches. He knew he lacked the necessary expertise where missile selection was concerned and couldn’t risk any possible miscommunication between himself and their sometime allies. Mahbarat clearly had no such misgivings, handling all the launch decisions himself.

  Either the Yakutian captain had an inflated sense of his own abilities or he was an extremely competent commanding officer. Faulkner hoped that the second option was true. They really couldn’t afford any slip-ups at this point.

  “I think it helped that we asked him to take out Anvil personally,” Bertran said. “It appealed to his sense of ego. He might have refused if we’d suggested going for one of the secondary targets.”

  “There’s still a lot of mass in that attack. Is Mahbarat confident that he can get an effective outcome?”

  “He was very confident, sir. As expected, he’s gone down the nuclear route.”

  “Probably just as well,” Faulkner said. The Yakutian captain seemed to enjoy an incredibly rich variety of armaments. “We don’t have much wriggle room here. Did he give you much in the way of details?”

  “Very little. The captain likes to keep his cards close to his chest.”

  Bertran transferred his findings up onto the main display.

  “His biggest problem seems to be plotting Anvil’s trajectory – its irregular and we don’t have time to get a proper fix on it, so he’s working within certain parameters. He’s sent four T-187s straight down the middle - though his chances of a direct hit aren’t good.”

  “Hoping that a near miss will be good enough to get the job done?” Faulkner said.

  “Normally, a weapon’s mass isn’t the main issue in terms of accuracy,” Bertran said. “But in this case it could prove crucial.”

  Faulkner saw for the first time that the other man had dark bags under his eyes. This business was taking its toll on all of them. “I’d assume he’s going to detonate them in two separate waves, hoping that the second wave will take out whatever the first one misses.”

  “That’d be the obvious thing to do, so, yes,” Bertran said.

  “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “He’s cutting it very fine, assuming that once Anvil is destroyed, he’s only going to be left with small fragments, at most.”

  “And you think he’s wrong?”

  Bertran twisted around to look directly at Faulkner.

  “Let’s just say: I hope he’s right.”

  *

  The Marines around Webster prepared themselves for a blast which never came.

  “Okay, that’s it,” there was a sing-song quality to Ardent’s voice. “You can come through now.”

  They emerged sheepishly, the big pressure door standing open. Ardent looked radiant. Silva ambled forward and gave her an awkward hug, her crutches swinging wildly.

  The Marines feigned disinterest.

  Once through the pressure door, the Marines were forced to spread out, the troopers quickly forming up into their fire teams. Once again, Ardent joined Markham while Silva dropped back with Webster. Markham assigned two competent looking Marines, Grozier and Bains, to keep an eye on them.

  Sections of the corridor were completely unlit, clearly Markham had decided not to activate the lights for fear of alerting anyone to their presence. This didn’t pose a problem for the Marines who were equipped with night vision goggles but Webster and Silva had nothing like that and kept walking into people in the dark. Twice, Silva stumbled and almost fell.

  After a while the Marines in front got the message and started leading them along physically whenever the corridors narrowed or they had to stop abruptly. Webster could handle the odd guiding hand on his elbow though he didn’t think he’d ever get used to being told to: “Watch your step there, sir.”

  They had been moving for so long in almost total silence that the abrupt sound of machine gun fire, when it came, was deeply unnerving. Webster felt a hand on the back of his neck forcing him to the ground. The troopers were talking to one another on their squad link but when he tried to ask what was happening Grozier immediately shut him down.

  This was their territory and he was going to have to abide by their rules.

  Webster carefully drew his pistol, the weight of it reassuring in the darkness.

  They stayed like that, pressed against the floor, for several minutes until they were all told to move to one side in order to let someone come through from the rear. In the dark, he could make out very little.

  “Who’s that?” he asked.

  “That’s Corporal Jackson. Now, no more questions.”

  They spent so long in the crouched position that Webster started to lose the feeling in his leg and, when he tried to transfer his weight, found that he couldn’t do so without toppling over. Someone – he assumed it was Grozier – caught him with the flat of his hand and pressed him back against the wall.

  Feeling foolish, he had started massaging his calf in an attempt to get the blood flowing again when three massive retorts echoed down the corridor.

  Grozier started climbing to his feet.

  “Are you sure it’s safe?” Webster asked.

  “Those were hi-ex rounds,” Grozier said. “She’s not missing with those.”

  *

  “Okay, what am I looking at?” Faulkner rubbed his eyes trying to clear the grit.

  Yamada was trying to show him something but Faulkner was having difficulty focussing. Their missiles had struck Hammer and Stirrup some twenty minutes earlier but they were only now getting the feedback.