All the while they were moving, a sense of dread was starting to build. What would they do if they got over to the flight deck and found that was sealed off as well?

  What would that mean for the mission - and for them?

  With their only shuttle gone, they’d be left stranded in orbit, which meant that Nash could run the operation however he liked. He was wily enough to turn any situation to his advantage because, to Nash’s way of thinking, everyone was expendable.

  As they got to the main intersection Webster stopped and let out a long sigh of relief. The corridor leading down to the flight deck was clear. Perhaps the damage had been limited to the ship’s star-board side. Perhaps there was a still a chance of them turning this around.

  The plan was still viable, they might just have to adapt it a little.

  They were twenty metres from the blast door when the whole ship shuddered.

  “Nearly there, sir,” the private grinned. He’d be glad to get this over with. But when they got to the main doors they found them securely locked.

  “We have to find another way in,” Webster said.

  While the private and the corporal searched for another access point, he tried to get through to Markham but without success.

  The corporal shot a look at Webster as the actions of the private, desperately searching for a hidden switch, became increasingly more frantic.

  “Can’t we just blow a hole in this thing?” he asked.

  “These doors are built to withstand an explosive decompression – we’d just be wasting our time.”

  “But we have to do something.”

  He thinks we’re going to die out here , Webster reflected.

  He was in the process of searching a small alcove which housed the fire-fighting equipment. It was dark and cramped in there and he felt around for any type of over-ride button. He found something promising hidden behind the fire hose but, when he pressed it, all it did was turn on the light.

  He looked around, trying to think what to do next. Normally, in a situation like this, he’d have to contact the captain - so that wasn’t going to work.

  Then he thought back to Silva.

  Of course, from the cockpit she’d have access to every door on the ship. And if she could only get this one open…

  “Joanna, this is Alex, are you receiving me, over? Joanna, come in, please.”

  The air was thick with static but at least he was getting something.

  “Commander Webster, is that you? This is Lieutenant Silva receiving, over.”

  Her formal tone sounded like a rebuke.

  “I am currently trapped in corridor H-31,” he said, realising that he could smell smoke. “Request immediate access to the flight deck. Door is secured. Repeat, door is secured, over.”

  “I can see that. Someone’s used the manual over-ride to lock it from the inside.”

  In the background, there was the sound of gas tanks detonating. “Is there a problem?”

  “I’m not sure - might be. You’ll have to give me a second.”

  As she worked to find a solution he said, “How are things your end?”

  “We’re coping, but if there’s a system up here that’s not flashing red I’m having a hard time seeing it,” she was trying to keep things light but there was real tension in her voice. “Ah! Here we are.”

  There was a deep click and the mechanism responsible for lifting the massive doors rumbled into life. All three of them winced as their ears adjusted to the sudden change in pressure.

  The private didn’t bother waiting around. He dropped to the floor and, as soon as there was enough clearance, he squeezed underneath. The corporal waited for him to go next, but Webster stepped back to show that he wanted the man to precede him.

  He needed a moment alone with Silva, although he knew that she probably wasn’t alone up in the cockpit and so wouldn’t be able to speak freely.

  “Thanks for the assist, lieutenant.”

  “No problem, sir. Just to let you know that the cargo bay’s been shredded. They’ve suffered a major de-pressurisation back there so I’m not sure how best to proceed.”

  “They’re going to have to deal with it the best way they can.”

  “Doesn’t looking like that power armour unit’s going to be joining you any time soon.”

  “That’s the least of our worries,” he said, ducking under the door.

  As he’d feared, the flight deck was in turmoil with military green crates smashed open and other equipment, strewn across the floor. In the midst of it all, a corpsman was kneeling over someone stretched out on the ground. What was most disconcerting though was a high-pitched hissing sound whose source he couldn’t determine. Someone was going to have to track that down before it developed into something more serious. But who?

  The lighting was out in places, creating odd areas of shadow. A power conduit, which had been torn from the ceiling by the blast, dangled overhead. On the positive side, the shuttle itself appeared undamaged – the restraining bolts having done their job – and the troopers were in the final stages of loading.

  On the wall opposite, the portal was starting to dilate, glowing a cool, pearlescent grey.

  He was struck with the sudden urge not to leave. No one would think it odd if he remained behind. The ship was in a poor state and he could oversee the ground operation from the Dardelion’s cockpit. No one would quibble over that.

  Only, he would know. And he had too much pride to leave Markham to do his dirty work for him.

  The distance between here and the cockpit felt like an insurmountable gulf. And although he desperately wanted to say something to Silva, the thought of doing so with other people listening in seemed ridiculous.

  No matter what he said, he risked coming off as sounding either too flippant or too pompous.

  “We should be ready to depart in a couple of minutes.”

  “The sooner the better,” she said.

  He was running towards the shuttle when there was an ear-splitting roar.

  “You going to be alright?”

  “I’ll be fine. Don’t let me keep you.”

  “Safe journey, lieutenant.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  *

  “We have to get out of here,” LaCruz said as explosions sounded all around them.

  The internal door was sealed so there was no hope there. That just left the gaping hole high up on the far wall. Mensah had managed to send up a drone to check it out. They’d been able to get some basic measurements before the drone had been sucked into space. The four suits stood around in a huddle. There was something reassuring about being able to see one another even if their faces were obscured.

  “I don’t see, how,” Barnes’ voice was crystal clear over the comms.

  “We could always use the cone jets,” Walker said. It was the first time he’d spoken.

  “Only we don’t know how to use them,” Mensah said. “That’s a jagged hole. Misjudge things up there and you’ll get cut in half.”

  LaCruz said, “Well we can’t stay here, I’m getting out.”

  She was busy cycling through her suit’s information packages, desperately trying to find something, anything, on the cone jets.

  The sound of another explosion ripped through the ship. LaCruz felt strangely insulated inside her suit, as if she were still operating in VR. It was a pleasant illusion, but a dangerous one.

  “If we could just get them to cut the gravity, we could float out,” Barnes rolled his eyes upwards. “It’s not that far.”

  “I say we just wait this thing out,” Mensah said. “Someone’s bound to come get us. We go out there, there’s no telling what might happen.”

  “We stay here, we’re all going to die,” LaCruz said. “Does anyone know anything about these jets?”

  “Stop going on about the jets!” Mensah said. “It’s not happening.”

  “There’s got to be a simple cheat,” Walker said. “Like with the machine guns.”

  Everyone knew that one. A broad smile would automatically activate the machine guns, leaving your hands free for other things. The first time LaCruz had discovered that her face had ached for days.

  “There’s another one for mortars,” Barnes was saying. “Only I can’t remember what it is.”

  “Let’s go through the automatic set-ups,” LaCruz said. “Must be something there.”

  “Whistling,” Mensah snapped. “It’s whistling. Alright?”

  “To activate the cone jets?”

  “That’s what I said.”

  A quavering whistle filled their comms and Barnes lifted a little way into the air but then faltered before dropping back down.

  “A sustained whistle,” Mensah corrected.

  “Try again, Barnes,” LaCruz said. “But this time keep it going.”

  The whistling started low pitched but continued to rise just as Barnes did. As he soared ever higher, they could see the individual jets flaring from his elbows and heels.

  LaCruz watched as he experimented. By easing his elbows back, he was able to angle himself forward. At first he was only moving slowly as he approached the ragged tear. From the ground it had looked tiny but the drone pics told them that it was more than big enough for Barnes to get through. He edged forward nervously and then, with a short surge from his jets, he was through.

  “Okay, Walker,” LaCruz said. “Now it’s your turn.”

  “I can’t whistle like that,” he sounded embarrassed.

  “Just do the best you can,” Mensah snapped.

  “I can only do tunes,” he turned in LaCruz’ direction. “That alright?”

  “It’ll have to be.”

  Walker tried a few experimental bars which saw him lifted momentarily off the deck before settling back down again.

  “Alright,” he said, wetting his lips. “I think I’ve got this.”

  The first few bars sounded familiar as Walker rose jerkily into the air. It took him a little longer than Barnes but he got there. It was only as he approached the gap that LaCruz recognised the tune.

  The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

  Just as he disappeared, another explosion rippled through the deck and all the lights went out. The suits automatically switched to Night-vision.

  LaCruz turned to Mensah. “You’re up next.”

  “I don’t think so. Tell you what, Jackson. Why don’t you go ahead - I’ll bring up the rear.”

  LaCruz let out a heartfelt sigh. “Suit yourself.”

  She concentrated on going up through the scales, just as Barnes had done. It was hokey, but fun and she rose smoothly through the air.

  She waited until she was level with the hole before she stopped whistling and, mercifully, she didn’t drop. The hole looked a lot bigger from up there but there were plenty of edges she could catch herself on. Sensitive to the fact that she was being watched, she jabbed a finger straight ahead before launching herself forwards.

  It helped that as she flew through the gap, she could make out Barnes and Walker’s lights up ahead.

  Once she was completely clear, she started to relax a little.

  “Okay, Mensah. You’re up next.”

  In the top right corner of her HUD she started looking for an interior camera for the cargo bay. Instead, all she came across were priority systems messages. Everything on board appeared to be failing.

  As she started to catch up on the other two, she activated a camera which allowed her to look back at the ship. Cloaked in shadow, it appeared to be dwindling away to nothing.

  “Mensah. It’s time.”

  “You go on ahead,” Mensah’s voice was choked. “I’m fine.”

  “Mensah, girl. Are you crying?”

  “I’m just being silly. See, I never did learn to whistle. My mama said it wasn’t ladylike.”

  The first explosion came from the stern, the flash illuminating the whole of the fuselage.

  It was followed by three more explosions, each one greater than the last.

  Then the whole ship seemed to shudder as a vast confluence of internal pressures conspired to break the Dardelion in half.

  “Oh jeez! Will you look at that!” Barnes marvelled as a string of secondary explosions rippled through the forward bow section.

  They terminated in one final, terrible explosion which took out the entire cockpit.

  The Dardelion was no more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Morton was becoming more and more frustrated by the process.

  In many ways, Faulkner could not have been receiving better care than he was currently getting. There was not one but two neurosurgeons in attendance along with a cardiothoracic surgeon as well as a vascular specialist. They were supported by an award-winning anaesthetist and a team of top-drawer medical technicians.

  And yet Faulkner was dying.

  She leaned in close to Bunayega, “What’s happening now?”

  The young translator eyed her as if she’d broken some unspoken code. Sunderam had provided her with a young doctor for a translator in order to avoid any possible communication problems regarding precise medical terminology. But his selection had created a smaller, though no less invidious a problem. It was possibly because Bunayega was a trained physician that his natural allegiances lay with his superiors. In turn, the older surgeons would patiently explain to him the intricacies of whatever process they were currently undertaking.

  For Morton, it was like observing in a teaching hospital. The only real problem being that Bunayega was becoming more and more protective about sharing the information he was receiving. No doubt he was reticent about divulging what could possibly be groundbreaking techniques with a member of the opposition. This left her often unable to follow the process she was watching simply because important aspects were being omitted.

  The only way to deal with this was to constantly ask Bunayega direct questions. While this made it more difficult for him to evade answering, her constant questioning clearly didn’t go down well with the rest of the medical team. She must come across as a medical incompetent with no practical idea of what was going on from one minute to the next. This in no way added to their opinion of her.

  “They have programmed the auto-doc to test for basic heart function.”

  Faulkner’s various heart defects had been a major stumbling point when planning his re-animation and so they had taken the difficult decision to operate on him prior to initiating the main procedure. But while the operation itself had been a great success there was every indication that Faulkner wouldn’t survive long enough to enjoy the benefits.

  The auto-doc had been responsible for the bulk of ultra-fine surgery involved in what was technically a heart bypass operation and she had been surprised how efficiently the machine had coped with the demands. The Confederation versions of an auto-doc were much more rudimentary and never used in such complicated procedures.

  “Are they happy with the work?” Morton asked. “The surgeons themselves?”

  The implication was clear. The auto-doc would consider the transplant a success even if the patient subsequently died. And there were some surgeons who shared a similar mind-set.

  “That is what they are attempting to ascertain now,” Bunayega said through gritted teeth. His emphasis on ‘attempting’ suggesting that Morton was somehow interfering with the process simply by asking the question. “They’re concerned about possible necrosis.”

  “And if all that checks out - how long before they can re-start the heart?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Bunayega said pointedly. “Would you like me to ask them?”

  Morton struggled to keep a handle on her growing frustration.

  “I’m going to take a break,” she said. “Be sure to let me know when they re-start the heart.”

  She could feel the relief in the room as soon as it became clear that she was leaving.

  Do they really hate me that much?

  One of the medical technicians followed her out of the operating room, quickly helping her remove her scrubs.

  “Thank you,” she said as they took her apron, struggling just to appear civil.

  There were a number of medical personnel in the observation room. The work that they were attempting was ground-breaking by Yakutian standards so they were always guaranteed an audience. She went out of her way not to engage with anyone directly, taking her time at the hand neutraliser. It was one of the few times in her day when she didn’t have to question everything she was doing.

  “Surgeon Captain Morton,” a familiar voice. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  It was Hermendal, almost unrecognisable in medical scrubs. Even his beard looked neat.

  “What in the world are you doing here?” she was so pleased to see a friendly face that she wanted to hug him.

  Hermendal looked around as though he was thinking the same thing, the Yakutians doing their best to ignore both of them.

  “This is where they’ve got me working now.”

  “Really?” Morton couldn’t hide her scepticism. “I didn’t realise you had any medical training.”

  “Oh, I haven’t, but it seems as though there’s some Confederation bigwig who’s making a complete ass of themselves. Someone thought it might be an idea if they had a – shall we say – impartial translator come down here. I’m thinking, surely this woman can’t be as bad as everyone’s making out.”

  “That’s great,” she laughed. “But I already have a translator.”

  Hermendal rested his hands lightly on her shoulders. “No. What you have is someone who speaks both languages. A translator is something quite different. Let’s say: part diplomat, part therapist, part humanitarian. A translator understands what it is that the person wants to hear and succeeds in gently softening the blow when the bitter truth is finally revealed.”

  “And that’s your skill I take it?”

  Hermendal threw up his hands immodestly, “Countless plaudits would have us believe so. How are things going?”

  “We’ve reached a bit of an impasse in there, so I thought I’d pop out for a moment,” she looked past him, to the small group that had gathered by the window. “It’s alright, though. As I’m nominally in charge, they can’t start anything without me. Not that they’d ever admit it.”