Faulkner suspected that he might have dozed off in his command chair. It was a terrible thing to have to admit, but there it was. He just hoped that no one, other than Yamada, had noticed.

  He watched as a series of ballistic curves arrayed themselves in a number of carefully choreographed patterns.

  “This is Anvil some twenty minutes after the first of Serrayu’s missiles hit home,” Yamada said. He wiped his hand through the air and the image changed. “And this is after the second wave.”

  Apart from the slight change in camera angles, the two images appeared almost identical.

  “But it’s still in one piece. How does that work?”

  Ensign Roberts moved across and manually adjusted the display. A series of charts and equations appeared.

  “As you rightly pointed out, sir,” Yamada said. “It’s still in one piece despite the detonation. The good news is that the Serrayu’s nukes succeeded in knocking it completely off course.”

  “It’s currently heading planetside,” Roberts said. “There‘s a slim chance of it hitting land but we’re hoping that won’t be the case.”

  “Well, that’s not our problem, for now, anyway,” Faulkner said. He’d become more and more pragmatic as the crisis had worn on. “What about our targets? Tell me about Stirrup, first. What’s happening there?”

  Yamada looked suddenly solemn “Perhaps you should ask Lieutenant Commander Bertran about that.”

  Faulkner was suddenly anxious. “What happened? Did we get it?”

  “Pretty much,” Roberts said. “Completely vaporised.”

  “A lucky shot,” Bertran dismissed it with a flick of his wrist.

  Faulkner looked from one to the other, fearful that they were toying with him.

  “The luckiest of lucky shots,” Yamada said but he took no delight in it.

  Something was amiss. Bertran was normally the first one to sing his own praises, but not today. And Roberts couldn’t bring herself even to look at Faulkner.

  “Alright, what is it? What’s wrong?”

  Yamada gathered himself. “Sir, it’s the Hammer.”

  “Our first missile failed to detonate,” Bertran said. “We have no idea why.”

  Faulkner put his hands on his hips.

  Could this be happening?

  “And the second missile? Did that fail to detonate as well?”

  “No, sir.”

  “So what’s wrong?”

  “It appears to have had only a negligible effect, sir,” Yamada said. “Hammer is currently on an intercept course with Blackthorn Station. Due to hit in the next forty minutes.”

  Faulkner stared glumly ahead.

  “Nothing we can do?”

  Bertran threw out his hands. “We can launch more missiles. But at this distance…”

  “I understand. Let’s fire them anyway,” when he spoke again it was more to himself than anyone. “I need to speak with Chief Davitz.”

  Seconds later, the man’s voice, cold and distant, filled the bridge.

  “Davitz here, sir.”

  “Seems like we still have hostiles incoming, Mr Davitz. I’m going to need all engines at my disposal within the next five minutes. Understood?”

  “I’m on it now, sir.”

  *

  Webster and Silva moved through the corridors with fresh urgency, the two Marines taking the lead. At the end of the corridor, they came to a dimly lit stairwell. The light was coming from an open doorway two floors down.

  “You might want to stow that weapon, sir,” Grozier indicated Webster’s pistol. “Too easy to slip with that.”

  Webster did as he was told, stuffing the weapon into the back of his pants. He’d only taken three steps when the sound of gunfire stopped him in his tracks. This time though it was coming from behind them and was much, much closer than before.

  “Okay, let’s pick it up.”

  Grozier hooked an arm under his and started hustling him down the stairs, Webster stepping blindly and hoping for the best. Silva and her aide were right behind them. He assumed that the Marine had to be carrying her, she couldn’t hope to negotiate the steps on her crutches. From above, came the punishing retorts as the troopers behind them returned fire.

  Halfway down the stairs, a figure passed them, causing Webster to miss a step. Without Grozier’s steadying hand, he might well have fallen. A bullet struck the handrail beside him ricocheting off into the distance.

  When they got to the foot of the staircase, Bains and Silva were waiting for them. Silva’s crutches had been discarded.

  “Take her,” Bains was breathing hard but she was still able to shoulder her weapon and fire a volley of shots at the figures massing on the stairs.

  Grozier didn’t need telling twice. Bobbing down, he hefted Silva off of her feet in a fireman’s lift, still managing to keep a hold of his weapon. Then Grozier took off running, with Webster struggling to keep up. Bains stayed where she was, firing short, controlled bursts at targets aligned along the staircase.

  But how can that be? Webster thought. What had happened to the fire-team that been right behind them? Surely, they couldn’t have all been killed?

  He and Grozier were sprinting across the main observation deck, the view to their left looking out onto a panoply of stars. It was no doubt intended to give the VIPs a sense of wonder before they boarded their flights but Webster was too preoccupied to give it even the most cursory of glances.

  He was more concerned with the muzzle flashes coming from the Marines grouped around the pressure door ahead. Even though he knew that they weren’t firing at him, he still flinched every time a weapon cracked.

  There was the sharp rattle of automatic fire from behind and then an awful keening sound which must have come from Bains. But the temptation to look back was over-ridden by an abject sense of dread. At this point, all his body wanted to do was run, his arms and legs pumping wildly.

  A gun barked behind them sending up little clouds of dust where they hit the plascrete.

  Webster focussed on the four troopers who had stopped to give them covering fire.

  If I can reach them, I’ll have made it, he told himself as his body screamed for him to stop.

  The troopers were taking turns to fire, carefully picking their targets.

  That was when Grozier was hit, pitching Silva onto the floor. She cried out as she hit the ground but, the speed that Webster was running, it was a good few steps before he could stop himself to go and help.

  Grozier was down on one leg, clasping the top of his hamstring. In the background, Webster could see a small group moving relentlessly in their direction. It was difficult to know for sure how many as they were dressed from head-to-foot in polychromatic camouflage.

  A bullet whipped past Webster’s head at that point and he froze.

  “Keep moving?” Silva shouted, grabbing his arm in attempt to pull herself upright. Webster could see that she was holding her leg at an odd angle.

  Even down on one knee, with blood seeping from his wound, Grozier moved with surprising grace. He managed to spin around before squeezing off three rounds in quick succession. One of the camouflaged figures lurched to one side and didn’t get back up.

  “Sir,” Grozier shouted. “You need to take her and go. Now.”

  But Webster couldn’t move. He was too busy staring at Specialist Bains. When she’d hit the ground, her helmet had come off, spilling her long dark hair over the floor.

  The next thing, Silva was tugging at his arm, telling him they had to go. That was enough to break his concentration. He got his shoulder under her arm and from there, the pair of them scrambled for the door, the four Marines providing them with covering fire.

  As soon as they were through the door the Marines immediately began the difficult job of pulling it shut. They could hear the sounds of bullets caroming off the metal exterior.

  “No, no, no,” Webster protested. “We’ve got to wait for the others.”

  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young corporal shook his head. “It’s too late. They’re all gone.”

  *

  “Closing rear hatch.”

  They were the last ones to board the Dardelion, the governor’s private shuttle. All the seats in the main cabin were occupied with Marines making themselves secure. Webster and Silva were led off to a forward cabin where Markham was waiting for them.

  “Good to see you both,” he said and meant it. “Are you okay? I heard it got a little hairy back there.”

  Webster was angry and wanted to say something but he couldn’t think what. The loss of Bains and Grozier had hit him hard but there was also the question of what had happened to the other fire team – the one bringing up the rear. He wanted to tell himself that they’d taken a wrong turn and got lost, that they’d no doubt turn up safe and sound but he knew he was only deluding himself.

  “We’re fine, really,” Silva said. “I take it we’re all set? Where’s the governor?”

  Markham twitched his head towards a side door. “In there. Looks like she took a stray round on her way in here.”

  Silva moved towards the door but Markham stopped her.

  “Really, she’s okay. Bullet glanced off her hip. I’ve had a corpsman dress it and so now she’s taking a nap.”

  Silva thanked Markham for all that he’d done before she allowed Webster to escort her to the flight deck. She was trying her best to walk upright but it was clear to Webster that she really was in a lot of pain.

  They had to lower their heads to get through the door. A trooper, who looked even older than Markham, was firing up the auxiliary power unit prior to firing up the engines.

  There was a small fold-out seat just inside the door and Silva indicated for Webster to take it. Balancing on one leg, she used the cramped conditions to her advantage, moving in on the trooper.

  “You know how to fly one of these things?”

  “Me, lieutenant? No. I used to work ground crew before I joined the Corps, so I know my way around but that’s about as far as I go.”

  “So, how are we getting out of here?” Webster asked.

  The trooper shrugged. “I thought the governor …”

  “She’s out for the count,” Webster said. “So, no - that’s not happening. Guess again.”

  “It’s alright,” Silva said. “We do have another pilot on board.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Webster said. “The last time I flew anything like this was in Flight Training School.”

  She gave him a withering stare. “I meant me.”

  *

  “Ark One this is the tower,” the voice was becoming more strident. “You do not have clearance for take-off. Repeat, you do not have clearance for take-off. Please power down and return to your berth.”

  “How’re you going to tackle this?” Webster wanted to know. “You can’t just take off and head straight for the Mantis – tempting though that might be.”

  If they waited long enough, the station’s natural rotation would bring the Mantis around to them, but they didn’t have time to wait for that. While it wasn’t impossible for them to pick their way through the sprawling mass of Blackthorn’s superstructure, it would be an extremely brave pilot who decided to risk it considering all the dangers involved. The worst thing that could happen to them now was that they would get snagged on something and find themselves unable to maneuver.

  But Silva had no intention of letting that happen. She gently adjusted one of the thrusters, bringing the nose of the craft around. “I’m not going to rush this – I’ll do it the old-fashioned way. I’m just going to take her out and round.”

  “Is that a good idea? As soon as you get clear of the station, they’re going to start viewing us very differently. And that’s when all their defensive measures’ll come into play.”

  “You really think they’d shoot us down?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’d rather not find out. We’ve just stolen one of their shuttles for god’s sake. Even without Ardent onboard, I think they’d consider themselves fully justified.”

  Silva wasn’t convinced. “I’m not sure they would. Ardent’s name still carries some clout around here.”

  Silva let the ship carry on along its current trajectory while they considered their options.

  The radio suddenly blared into life.

  “Ark One, be advised, in ninety seconds you will be within range of our Gauss guns. You are jeopardising the safety of everyone onboard this station. If you do not return to your berth immediately then we will be obliged to open fire.”

  Webster crossed the flight deck and started toggling through the screens available to him. It took him a moment to find the one he wanted: a tactical view of the Northeast quadrant. The Dardelion was depicted by a red arrow. He searched along it until he found what he was looking for: a second, smaller arrow highlighted in green moving rapidly in their direction.

  “Green? What’s that for?” he asked.

  “Green?” Silva said. “Probably maintenance. Let me look.”

  She leaned over as far as she could and tapped the screen.

  A set of schematics were displayed. They were looking at the designs of an ovoid maintenance drone, front and rear. This one was carrying a pair of Gauss guns, one mounted on either end.

  “Jesus,” Silva said. “They take their security pretty seriously. What do you think we should do?”

  “How much damage do you think a Gauss gun could do?”

  “Quite a lot actually. The Dardelion might be armour plated but it won’t stand up to a sustained attack. You better pop back there and give those Marines a heads up. Get them into those thin suits, just in case.”

  Webster did as he was told.

  The Marines’ training kicked in straight away. They found the suits under their seats and immediately started pulling them on.

  Webster stepped back into the cockpit, just in time to see a weather satellite explode over on their right.

  He stepped back onto the flight deck just as a line of tracers cut across the space across in front of them.

  That happened in total silence, but there was no mistaking the sound of heavy fire raking across their fuselage.

  “Shit, they’re not hanging around,” Silva leaned forward and opened up a general comms channel. “All hands brace for acceleration.”

  Webster, caught unawares, was thrown back against the cabin’s rear bulkhead. “Turns out they weren’t bluffing after all.”

  “Evasive action. That thing’s not playing around.”

  Webster launched himself towards the co-pilot’s seat and started strapping himself in just as Silva reversed the engines. They had come up alongside an electrical substation which would shield them temporarily from the drone’s guns.

  “What’s your thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. If I head for the Mantis that thing’s going to be on us before we know it. And if it sticks with us, chances are we won’t make it.”

  “Can’t we just outrun it?”

  “It’s not as easy as that. While its fuel may be limited, it’d certainly be able to hang with us for the short term. And if we try to play cat and mouse with it, it’ll just wear us down eventually.”

  “What about going the other way round the station?” Webster signalled. “Counter-clockwise. Take the long route.”

  Silva nodded. “That could work if we can sucker it into chasing after us. But if it works out what we’re trying to do it’ll simply circle back. Be ready to greet us on the other side.”

  Webster studied the quadrant display. As an afterthought he started scrolling across, trying to find the Mantis but it was nowhere to be seen. He had to widen the search area twice before he eventually found her.

  “That’s odd,” he said, mostly to himself.

  “What is?”

  “The Mantis has changed position. According to this, she’s more than thirteen thousand kilometers from when I left her.”

  Silva swivelled around. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m looking at the astro-sims now for possible corrections but there are none.”

  A warning klaxon began sounding on the flight deck.

  Silva gave him a hard stare. “What did you touch?”

  Webster pushed back from the dashboard, ready to argue his innocence but when he looked up a paradigm shift seemed to have occurred in his brain.

  He simply couldn’t believe what it was he was seeing.

  “Oh my God,” he muttered. “What the hell is that?”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  The bridge crew watched in real time as their last two missiles impacted against the side of what remained of Anvil. The two explosions were distinct and easy to see. They flared green for a few moments before being extinguished.

  All around Faulkner, the officers and aides on the command and communications consoles started speaking at once. They were all desperate to prevent what was about to happen while at the same time being powerless to stop it.

  The comms teams were picking up various Mayday signals from all over Blackthorn. The problem was: what were they supposed to say? There was nothing to be done.

  Bertran appeared at his side. “I’m sorry, sir.”

  “Don’t be,” Faulkner said and meant it. “There was nothing you could have done.”

  “If we’d had access to more nukes…”

  “I’m not even sure that would have helped. Mahbarat played his hand – it just didn’t come off, that’s all.”

  The words sounded hollow even to him.

  A lot of innocent people were about to die and there was nothing that they could do about it.

  Nearly three quarters of a million men, women and children. The best they could hope for now was a quick death. A chance detonation within the vast superstructure itself would come as a blessed relief, vaporising men and materiel in an instant. At least that way they would be spared being exposed to vacuum. Every spacer had seen the training films and what it did to the human body.

  People would be scrambling to access the escape pods right about now but those would be severely limited. There could never be enough to hold that many people.

  Faulkner made a conscious effort to push the thought away. Surely, there was something they could do? He had hoped that the missiles might have made more of a difference, nudging Anvil off its predetermined course, but that had been a vain hope. He realised that now.