The camera showed the Mantis, gleaming silver, racing towards the station at an alarming rate.

  They’ll be watching this on the station itself, Webster thought. He could only guess at the level of panic that this must be generating as the citizens of Blackthorn braced themselves for the inevitable impact.

  As the Mantis drew nearer, one of the station’s close defence turrets started firing off high velocity rounds. But, with the angle being so acute and the Mantis’ armor so formidable, the rounds glanced off harmlessly, inflicting minimal damage.

  Next, one of the laser batteries started up in a reflexive, last minute response, the shots going wide as the Mantis slipped between a couple of moored corvettes. Webster’s last sight of his ship was of it disappearing beneath the camera’s fixed lens.

  The view switched to another angle, too late to catch the moment of impact, so that all they saw was a series of detonations, each one more violent than the last, slowly spreading out from the central belt. Here and there they could see hull plates beginning to buckle and even fracture in places sending flares of white plasma surging out into space. Sometimes, the internal pressures created were so immense that these were accompanied by eruptions of molten metal venting from deep within the station’s various sub-sections.

  Webster’s concentration was broken by the appearance of Adiche, Silva’s comms operator.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “The lieutenant’s found them,” the woman said.

  “Found who? What are you talking about?”

  “Jackson and Grimes. Only, they’re not responding to their radios. They’re not responding to anything.”

  She stood there waiting for Webster’s orders.

  “Where are they now,” he asked, fearing the worst.

  “A few hundred meters off our port side. She’s hoping to get them aboard somehow.”

  Webster didn’t hold out much hope of that. Operating an exterior pressure hatch was a daunting enough task when you were fully conscious. The idea of getting two unconscious crewmen aboard without another pressure suit was going to be nearly impossible.

  “Okay,” Webster said, his mind beginning to clear. “These shuttles come equipped with servo arms, don’t they?”

  “Er, I don’t know, sir.”

  “Well go and find out,” he snapped. “One of them might still be alive.”

  The woman saluted before taking off.

  Webster rubbed his forehead.

  I’m tired, he told himself. That was why I’m being like this.

  But there was more to it than that.

  *

  There was a forward surge of bodies as the airlock gasped open and Webster had to physically restrain one trooper from rushing into the breach.

  There were three corpsmen on the team and Webster wanted to give them access before anyone else. Hampered with their equipment however, they were having difficulty getting through. He turned and stood with his back to the door, trying to push everyone back in order to clear a path. Still, troopers continued to press forward and it was only when he glanced behind him that he saw why: Grimes’ long lean body had slumped forward onto the floor, arms and legs askew.

  In the chaos which followed, someone pushed Webster aside, grabbed Grimes by the shoulders and started pulling him clear. Only then was one of the corpsmen able to squeeze through and tend to him.

  “Commander Webster,” Silva’s voice boomed through the cabin. “Get everyone clear of that door, asap. There’s one more trooper still to come aboard.”

  The others didn’t need telling twice and quickly stood aside as the air-lock mechanism began to shut.

  Webster watched while one of the medics started cutting away the hood of Grimes’ thin suit. They had a ventilator standing by and, within a matter of moments they had his face uncovered and the mask applied.

  Grimes’ eyes were fixed and glazed. He looked worried, as though aware of some threat that the rest of them couldn’t see.

  Another corpsman was busy working on Grimes’ exposed right leg. The flesh had taken on a translucent sheen so that it was possible to see the blue-black veins just beneath the surface. The man took the time to lay it out straight so that he could more easily work on it.

  For some reason, Webster took that to be a good sign.

  They were told to stand back while Grimes’ ventilator was removed so that the corpsmen could shock him. Grimes’ body was suddenly transfixed, gripped by a single harsh convulsion before collapsing again.

  With no obvious response, the cabin grew ever quieter as the three of them worked to try and resuscitate him.

  The room had become transfixed and it took the sharp ‘click’ of the air-lock door cycling open to break it. Before the gap was more than a few inches wide, one of the men stepped forward and reached inside. He kept pulling until he managed to drag Jackson clear, still dressed in her pressure suit.

  She fell forward onto her knees while a number of bodies surged forward, all of them attempting to remove her helmet.

  Once it was off, they lay her on her side to give her a chance to draw breath. One of the corpsmen went over and strapped a ventilator mask over her head. She seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness but resisted any other form of assistance.

  When her eyes did come open, they fixed on Grimes lying directly opposite her across the floor. She reached across and grabbed his hand, searching for some response but none was forthcoming. His fingers stuck out, cold and rigid.

  She blew out a breath, suddenly becoming distressed. The female corpsman stroked her head in a bid to soothe her but she became more and more upset. Part of the crowd moved forward in an attempt to block her view of Grimes but that didn’t stop her wild, guttural sobs.

  When Webster could stand it no longer, he went over and touched the shoulder of one of the corpsmen ministering to Grimes. The man was breathing heavily after administering a series of manual compressions but, eventually, he turned to look at him.

  Webster gestured mutely. He didn’t know what else to say.

  The man ran his tongue over his lips before slowly shaking his head.

  *

  Surgeon Captain Elsbeth Morton rubbed at the frost that was starting to form on the inside of the plex window. It was already intolerably cold inside the escape pod and the situation was only going to get worse.

  The sensible thing would be to climb into one of the two cryo-chambers, seal herself in and begin the suspension process, but that would have to wait. She was still going over the events of the last few hours.

  Over to her right were the purple and blue hues of the planet Iscaria. Just seeing it there felt incredibly reassuring, it was the one constant in an ever-changing landscape. Suspended immediately in front of that was what looked like a Portuguese Man o’ War in silhouette: Blackthorn Station. It looked odd with its tail having been snapped off. By placing her hand against the glass she found that she could block out the space station entirely. It felt thrilling and frightening in equal measure.

  The Serrayu was out there as well, somewhere, but it was impossible to spot. The distances she was contemplating were vast. Faulkner’s last ship-bound transmission had urged everyone to activate their emergency beacons in the hope that the Serrayu might pick them up. If they were rescued they had been ordered to offer no resistance but to co-operate fully with their captors. That way, Faulkner hoped that as many of his crew as possible would make it. It might well be the practical thing to do but, to Morton, it felt like a terrible act of betrayal.

  That was how Walt, her husband, had died: waiting in vain for those Yakutian recovery teams.

  She wondered what Faulkner had been thinking when he’d made that order. He would have known that the idea of rescuing the Mantis crew would be completely counter to every Yakutian impulse. Mahbarat would have more to gain by simply leaving them in their pods. Attempting to retrieve them all would be a hugely onerous task – one that the Yakutians would surely baulk at.

  But perhaps Faulkner was hoping to play on Mahbarat’s sense of honor?

  Not that he’d had much choice in the matter. With no other Confederation ships in the system, the Serrayu represented their only viable hope of survival.

  Which was why she hesitated now, still unsure whether this was the road she wanted to go down.

  She concentrated instead on the countless escape pods which surrounded her, their pulsing red beacons marking them out against the black void of space. These were her comrades. She might not be able to communicate with them but, in her loneliness, it helped her feel isolated and connected all at the same time.

  There’s too many of us, though, she reflected grimly. They’ll never find us all.

  And, if that were the case then cryo-sleep was her only option. Though she’d have to act quickly, before it was too late.

  She could already feel the beginnings of a headache, linked no doubt to the diminishing air quality inside the pod itself. The pods had only a very limited air supply since they weren’t designed to support a conscious passenger. The only logical thing for her to do would be to submit herself to the vagaries of suspension - though the thought of being trapped behind the frigid glass filled her with dread. She pictured herself as a frozen corpse heading out forever into the vast depths of space.

  She rested her head against the tiny viewport and squinted, one last time, out into the darkness. She could still make out quite a lot of detail and imagined others in a similar situation climbing into their cots, hearing the seals hiss shut as the lights began to dim.

  She wondered what it was that was keeping her awake. What it was that she was hoping to see.

  Then, when the answer came, it was obvious.

  The Mantis. She wanted to glimpse her ship one last time.

  Only the Mantis was gone.

  She had seen it all first-hand. That terrible moment when it had crashed out of existence - a single flicker of silver disappearing into the shadows. Then a protracted pause before the explosions started blossoming out along the station’s thick midriff.

  She thought of Faulkner then. Captain Robert Faulkner and all that he was - and all that she had lost.

  Tried to picture what he would have seen in those last few seconds before the collision. Imagine what he had felt. She wasn’t sure how many officers would have remained behind but there wouldn’t have been many. Faulkner detested waste of any kind.

  Yamada would have stayed, of course. He wouldn’t have left his captain’s side under any circumstances.

  She wasn’t sure about Bertran though. He wasn’t the sort to sacrifice himself. Too mindful of his own advancement perhaps.

  Alex Webster, stuck down on Blackthorn, wouldn’t have had that opportunity. But that was probably a good thing. She wondered how he might be feeling right about now. Would he even survive what was about to happen?

  *

  She jolted suddenly upright.

  Had she fallen asleep?

  It seemed impossible and yet, there it was. She rubbed at her forehead. It was cold to the touch.

  She shouldn’t be so surprised. The air quality was quickly deteriorating and if she didn’t act soon she would find herself incapable of performing even the most basic procedures. She was already desperately cold, probably hypothermic and if she blacked out again that might well be the end of her. What would her rescuers think if they were to open the pod only to find that she had expired mere inches from the safety of the cot’s interior, a victim of her own sheer bloody mindedness?

  No. She could delay no longer. If she didn’t get into one of those cots now she was going to freeze to death.

  It was customary for crew members to strip down to their underwear before activating the cots’ sensors, but in reality she couldn’t bring herself to do it. She was just too cold. It was all she could do to remove her jacket and kick off her boots. After that, she just flopped down inside, scrabbling around to locate the various drains and sensors she was shortly going to need.

  Everything on the overhead read-out appeared to be functioning normally, though some of the plastic on the interior had started to degrade.

  A wave of weariness threatened to overwhelm her then and she had to force herself to keep her eyes open. Her brain was slowly being starved of oxygen and she couldn’t allow herself to give in to it.

  Securing the hatch was a lot more difficult than she remembered. She pulled down on the handles, mindful of the importance of applying constant pressure. She tried closing it twice, both times failing to get a proper seal. The lights in the interior would engage once that had happened but – so far – nothing. Looking down, she saw that she had somehow managed to drag her jacket in after her. So now, she had to work to hook it out with her foot. Finally, she pulled down on the handles again.

  This time, it worked, the interior lights twinkling into life, and she was rewarded with a sudden burst of fresh oxygen wafting over her face. The effect was instantaneous. Her mind started to clear, which was just as well as there were numerous last-minute checks she had to work through, endless wires to connect and various tubes to insert. Even with the fresh burst of air, she was surprised how nimbly her fingers flew about their tasks so that, in less than two minutes, everything was ready.

  Her last act was to brush her hair back off her face. She always kept a hair tie in one of her pockets for just such an occasion and she quickly fished it out now. It was the work of seconds to secure it.

  And that was it, once she pressed ‘Enable’, the whole cryo-process would begin automatically. She would be stuck there indefinitely, with no way of breaking the seal from the inside.

  It was this decision, she realized, that she had been putting off all this time.

  Before she went ahead, she pulled herself forward using the handles, affording herself one last look out into space.

  Nothing could have prepared her for what came next.

  Anvil dominated the single viewing window. So large that it completely blocked her view of Iscaria, throwing the vast flotilla of escape pods into stark relief. It was tumbling, end over end, through space in a blue-grey blur. Even as she watched, she was conscious that this was an image so remarkable that it would stay with her for the rest of her life.

  But then the moment passed and Anvil was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

  Her arms began to shake. She’d been gripping the handles so tightly that her muscles had started to spasm - yet still she held on. There was just one more thing she wanted to see.

  And there it was: the Portuguese man-o’-war still bobbing on the tides.

  Blackthorn, still in one piece.

  “Thank God.”

  She slumped back, a single sob escaping her throat. The air quality was already beginning to change, it had an odd metallic quality to it, though not unpleasant. After a last check of her harness, she forced herself to try and relax, her seat subtly adjusting to accommodate the curves of her body.

  If Blackthorn could survive this, then perhaps there was hope for her, also.

  It was the last thing she remembered.

  ACT OF WAR

  Book 3

  R.L. GIDDINGS

  © R. L. Giddings

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  CHAPTER FORTY

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  CHAPTER FORTY-TWO

  CHAPTER FORTY-THREE

  CHAPTER ONE

  Elsbeth Morton felt like she was going to die.

  Things were happening all around her but she hardly noticed. All she could think about was trying to control the wave of nausea which threatened to overwhelm her every time she tried to lift her head.

  The lights were coming on one by one and it was cold. In the background she could hear the low drone of machinery.

  She was in some sort of cryo-pod, that much was obvious, but for the life of her she couldn’t think how she’d come to be there. Not that that particularly concerned her. Her long-term memory seemed fine and she was confident that the rest would kick in soon enough. She knew who she was, at least: A Surgeon Captain in the USDC. She also knew that she was currently serving aboard the Confederation ship, Mantis.

  But that was where it started to get confusing.

  Because this wasn’t the Mantis. No, this was a much newer ship. It had that new ship smell about it. The lay-out of the ceiling and walls was nothing like the interior of any ship she’d served on before – much more spacious than anything she was used to. All the straight lines and right angles she was familiar with replaced by soft curves and asymmetrical designs.

  The realisation was slow in coming but, when it did finally arrive, she felt as though she’d been gut punched.

  Oh my God, I’m on a Yakutian ship.

  Something had gone horribly wrong.

  She tried to pull herself upright but her arms felt weak and wobbly. Her neck struggled even to lift her head. It took a huge effort of will just sit up, but somehow she managed it.