THE SILENT WAR Page 12

  George turned and ducked through the hatch after her. "I'll give you a hand, Pancho."

  "I can do it myself," she said, heading up the narrow passageway toward the main airlock, where the space suits were stored.

  "You'll need help gettin' into a suit," George called after her. "I'll hafta suit up meself, too, y'know."

  "You don't have to—"

  "Safety regs," George said firmly. "Somebody's gotta be suited up and ready to go out in case of an emergency."

  Pancho hmmphed but didn't object. Safety regulations had saved more than one astronaut's butt, she knew. She allowed George to help her into the suit and check out her seals and systems. Then she helped George and checked him out.

  "What's funny?" George asked as he pulled the fishbowl helmet over his wild red mane.

  Pancho hadn't realized she was grinning. George seemed about to burst his suit's seams. "Georgie, you look like a red-headed Santa Claus, you know that?"

  "Ho, ho, ho," he answered flatly.

  Pancho was ready to step into the airlock when Johannson's voice came over the ship's intercom:

  "A ship's approaching," he called out. "It's coming up fast."

  "Lasers armed and ready, sir," said the weapons technician.

  Harbin nodded curtly, his eyes focused on the image of Mathilda II on the main screen of Samarkand's bridge. Nothing else in range except a minor asteroid, some five hundred klicks away.

  Samarkand carried two powerful continuous-wave lasers, adapted from the cutting tools the rock rats used, plus a high-energy pulsed weapon capable of blowing a centimeter-sized hole in the metal skin of a spacecraft from a distance of a thousand kilometers.

  Mathilda's crew module was out of position, Harbin saw; it had rotated away from his fast-approaching ship and was partially shielded by the bulk of the propulsion system, engines and big spherical fuel tanks.

  "Stand by," Harbin ordered quietly. The three crew personnel on the bridge with him sat tensely, waiting for the order to fire.

  Just a little closer, Harbin said under his breath to the slowly rotating Mathilda. Just turn a little bit more.

  There. The crew module was clearly visible.

  "Fire," Harbin said to the weapons tech. To make certain, he pressed the red button on the keypad set into his command chair's armrest.

  "We got her," he whispered triumphantly.

  Pancho was inside the airlock, ready to go out and claim the unnamed asteroid, when she heard a gurgling scream in her earphones and warning sirens begin an ear-piercing howl.

  "What's that?" she yelled into her helmet microphone.

  "Dunno," George's voice replied. "Sounds like the emergency hatches slammed shut."

  Pancho banged the airlock control panel, stopping its pumps, then reopened the inner hatch. George was in his space suit, peering down the passageway, his shaggy face frowning with worry.

  "Can't get Johannson on the intercom," he muttered.

  Pointing to the control panel on the emergency hatch a few meters up the passageway, Pancho said, "We've lost air pressure."

  "Better stay in the suits, then," said George as he started toward the closed hatch.

  Pancho followed him through three hatches, past the ship's galley and up to the hatch that opened onto the bridge. Red warning lights showed there was no air pressure along the entire way.

  "Jesus!" George yelped once he pushed the hatch open.

  Looking over the shoulder of George's suit, Pancho saw that the bridge's forward window had been punctured with a fist-sized hole and the control panel was spattered, dripping with bright red blood. Johannson was slumped in his seat, arms hanging, blood-soaked head lolling on his shoulders. George went to him and turned the pilot's chair around slightly. Johannson's eyes had blown out, and blood was still cascading from his open mouth.

  For the first time in her long career as an astronaut and executive of a space-based corporation, Pancho vomited inside her fishbowl helmet.

  "Hit!" said the weapons tech.

  Harbin saw that they had indeed hit the crew module dead-on, probably at the bridge. Good.

  "Slow to match the target's velocity," he commanded. "Move in closer."

  Now to slice the ship to pieces and make sure no one survives.

  Suddenly the lights on the bridge went out. As the dim emergency lights winked on, Harbin saw that his pilot's control board was glaring with red lights.

  "What's wrong?" he demanded.

  "Malfunction in the weapons pod," said the pilot, his fingers playing over the console keypads. "Electrical failure and—"

  The lights blinked. This time Harbin felt the ship shudder slightly.

  "We've been hit!" he snapped.

  "Mathilda isn't firing at us," the navigator said, staring at the main screen. "That vessel isn't armed. It's only a—"

  Samarkand lurched noticeably.

  "We're spinning!" the pilot shouted. "Number two propulsion tank's been ruptured!"

  "They're firing at us," Harbin shouted.

  "But they can't!"

  "Somebody's firing at us!" he insisted. "Get us out of here! Now!"

  "I'm trying to bring the ship under control," the pilot yelled, her voice edgy, nearing panic.

  We should get into our suits, Harbin knew. But there's no time for that now.

  "Get us out of here!" he repeated, trying to sound calm, measured.

  That asteroid, he realized. Somebody's on that asteroid and shooting at us. It must be Fuchs.

  Lars Fuchs stood behind his pilot's chair, legs spread slightly, fists on his hips, eyes blazing with anger as he studied the display screen.

  They fired on George's ship, he said to himself. Why? Did they think I was aboard? Or were they trying to kill Pancho? Probably both.

  "The enemy is escaping," Nodon said. He spoke softly, keeping his tone neutral, making as certain as he could not to anger Fuchs.

  "Let them go," Fuchs said. "The dog is whipped, no sense daring him to turn back and snap at us."

  None of the crew on the bridge raised any objection.

  "Sanja," Fuchs said to the man on the communications console, "see if you can contact the ship they attacked."

  Within a few minutes Big George's face appeared on the screen, his brick-red hair and beard still stuffed inside the fishbowl helmet of his space suit.

  "We lost one man," George said grimly. "No damage to the ship's systems."

  Past George's broad shoulder Fuchs could see space-suited personnel smearing epoxy across the bridge's forward window.

  "We'll have air pressure back in half an hour, maybe less," said George.

  "Pancho is with you?" Fuchs asked.

  "Yep. She's okay."

  "You said she wanted to speak with me."

  "I'll get her on the line," said George.

  Fuchs waited impatiently, fighting the urge to pace the narrow confines of Nautilus's bridge. Within a few minutes Pancho's face replaced George's on his screen. She was apparently in a privacy compartment, still in her space suit.

  "He tried to assassinate you," Fuchs said without any preliminaries.

  "Humphries?" she replied.

  "Who else."

  "Maybe he was trying to get you," Pancho said.

  "He promised Amanda he wouldn't try to harm me," Fuchs answered, his voice heavy with irony.

  An odd expression crossed Pancho's face. He could not determine what was going through her thoughts.

  "It might've been a freelancer," she said at last. "Plenty people are after your scalp, Lars."

  He shook his head, scowling. "That was no freebooter. He knew where you would be and he knew you were attempting to make a rendezvous with me. Only one of Humphries's agents would have access to such intelligence."

  Pancho nodded inside her space-suit helmet. "I guess."

  Taking a deep breath, Fuchs said, "Well, Pancho, you wanted to speak with me. Here I am. What is it that's so important?"

  That strange expression clouded he
r face again. "Lars, I need to talk to you face to face about this. Not over a comm link."

  "Impossible. You can't come aboard my ship and I won't leave it. Talk now. What is it?"

  She hesitated, obviously torn between conflicting emotions.

  "Well?" he demanded.

  "Lars... it's about Amanda. Before she died she—"

  "She died?" Fuchs felt his heart constrict beneath his ribs. "Amanda is dead?"

  Pancho looked stricken. "I didn't want to tell you like this. I wanted to—"

  "She's dead?" Fuchs repeated, his voice gone hollow. He felt as if he needed to sit down, but he couldn't show that weakness here on the bridge, in front of his crew.

  "She died in childbirth, Lars."

  "Giving birth to his son," Fuchs muttered.

  "No, not—"

  "He killed her. Humphries killed her just as certainly as if he put a gun to her head and pulled the trigger."

  "Lars, you don't understand," said Pancho, almost pleading.

  "I understand everything," he growled. "Everything! Now that she's dead even his lying promise to her is gone. Now he'll bend every effort, send every murdering thug he can buy, to kill me. But it won't work, Pancho. He'll never kill me."

  "Lars, please. Let me explain—"

  "I'll kill him!" Fuchs bellowed, raising his clenched fists above his head. "I'll wipe that smug smile off his face and kill him with these bare hands! I'll repay him for Amanda! I'll kill him!"

  He lurched between the two pilots' chairs and punched the communications console so hard that glass broke. Pancho's image disappeared from the display screen.

  "I'll kill you, Humphries!" Fuchs screamed to an uncaring universe.

  HUMPHRIES MANSION

  "He got away again?" Humphries squawked.

  Standing before his desk, Victoria Ferrer nodded glumly. She wore a plain business suit of dove gray: knee-length skirt and collarless jacket, cut low, with no blouse under it.

  Humphries glowered at her. "And Harbin missed Pancho, too?"

  "I'm afraid so," Ferrer admitted. "I've had our top military advisor analyze the engagement. Apparently Fuchs has disguised his ship to look like an asteroid—superficially, at least."

  "And that psychopath Harbin fell for it."

  "As far as the reports show, yes, that's apparently what happened. He damaged Mathilda II but not badly enough. The vessel limped back to Ceres. Pancho Lane was not injured."

  "And Fuchs got away again," Humphries muttered darkly.

  Ferrer said nothing.

  "Fire that lunatic Harbin," he snapped. "I don't want him on my payroll for another microsecond."

  "But—"

  "Fire him!" Humphries shouted. "Get rid of him! Kill him if you have to, just get him out of my way!"

  Ferrer sighed patiently. "If you insist."

  Noting the way her cleavage moved, Humphries allowed a small grin to creep across his face. "I insist."

  "Very well." But instead of turning to leave his office, she remained standing in front of his desk.

  "What else?" Humphries asked warily. He knew from long experience that when he had to ask an aide what was on her mind, it wasn't going to be pleasant.

  "About your son..."

  "Alex?"

  "No. The baby. Van."

  "The runt."

  "He's your son, Mr. Humphries, and he needs medical attention."

  "See to it, then."

  "Don't you want to know—"

  "The less I hear about that runt the better I like it. Don't bother me about him. Just do what needs to be done."

  She sighed again. This time with disappointment, Humphries could clearly see. "Yes, sir," she said.

  Humphries pushed himself up from his desk chair and crooked a finger at her. "Come with me, Victoria. Business hours are finished for this afternoon. Time for fun."

  She gave him a look somewhere between surprised and reluctant. "But there's still—"

  Coming around the desk, he held out his hand to her. "Vickie, if you wear such enticing clothes you can't blame me for reacting."

  She shrugged, which made her even more enticing to him.

  Pancho was still steaming by the time she got back to her home in Selene. That's twice the bastard's tried to kill me, she said to herself as she paced through the suite's front corridor to her bedroom. I can't let him have a third shot at me.

  She tossed her travel bag onto the bed and told the phone to get her chief of security. Abruptly she canceled the call.

  "Find Nobuhiko Yamagata," Pancho said. Silently, she added, Time to fight fire with fire.

  It took several minutes for Pancho's computerized communications system to work its way through the Yamagata Corporation's computerized communications system, but at last the wall of Pancho's bedroom seemed to dissolve and she was looking at a three-dimensional image of Nobuhiko. He was on his feet, in a quilted winter parka, its hood pulled down off his head. Pancho could see snow-covered mountains and a crisp blue sky in the background.

  "Jeeps," she said, "I hope I haven't busted into your vacation."

  Nobuhiko smiled and shook his head. "Only a weekend getaway, Ms. Lane. Your call sounded important."

  "It's important to me," Pancho said. "Martin Humphries has tried to murder me again."

  "Again?" Nobu's brows rose.

  As he listened to Pancho's story, Nobuhiko was thinking that his father's strategy was working perfectly. She believes Humphries has tried to kill her twice. The first time was our doing, of course. But Humphries is playing his role, too, just as Father predicted.

  "... so I was thinking that a strategic alliance between our two corporations would make a lot of sense. Together, we could outmaneuver Humphries, and outmuscle him if we have to."

  Nobu pretended to be impressed. "The problem is," he said slowly, "that Yamagata Corporation has confined its activities to Earth ever since the greenhouse cliff devastated Japan and so many other nations."

  "I know," Pancho said, after the nearly three-second lag that bedeviled communications between the Earth and Moon. "But if our two companies work together, Yamagata can get back into space industries as Astro's partner."

  Stroking his chin thoughtfully, Nobu replied, "That is something worth considering, naturally. I will take it up with my board of directors. I'll call a special meeting, as early as I can."

  Almost three seconds later Pancho nodded. "Okay. I appreciate that. In the meantime, though, I need some advice. Military advice. Can you recommend someone to me?"

  Ahh, thought Nobuhiko, now we come to the real reason for her call. She is going to war with Humphries and she needs a military force.

  "There are several organizations of mercenaries that might be of service to you."

  "I want the best," Pancho said.

  "I will send you complete dossiers on the best three organizations," Nobu said, while thinking, Father will be very impressed. His plan is moving well. Let Astro and Humphries destroy each other. Yamagata Corporation will even help them to do so.

  "Terminated?" Harbin stared at Grigor's message on his screen. "Just like that, they kick me out?"

  He was in his quarters in Vesta while the damaged Samarkand was undergoing repairs. Leeza Chaptal was in bed with him when Grigor's stinging message came through. Simply one line: Your services for Humphries Space Systems are hereby terminated. Period.

  Harbin knew it would take at least half an hour for him to get a message back to Grigor. But what could he say? Ask why he'd been cut loose? That was obvious. He'd failed to get Fuchs, and failed to carry out his assignment about Pancho Lane. They were finished with him.

  How many have I killed for them? Harbin asked himself. For more than eight years I've done their bidding, and now they kick me out. Terminated. Like some bug they squash under their boots.

  Leeza saw the frozen expression on his face, realized that Harbin was raging beneath his mask of icy indifference.

  "It's all right," she said, sliding her arms
around his neck. "Yamagata will hire you."

  "How can you be sure?" he muttered.

  "They've wanted to hire you for months. Now there's nothing to prevent you from accepting their offer."

  "But if I'm no longer with HSS, why would they hire me? They only wanted me to spy on Humphries for them."

  "They'll hire you," she repeated. "I know they will."

  "Why?"

  Leeza smiled at him. "Because there's going to be a war here in the Belt, and you are a warrior."

  ASTRO CORPORATION HEADQUARTERS

  Technically, the principal offices of Astro Corporation were still at La Guaira, off the drowned coast of Venezuela. But Pancho had moved almost all of the corporate headquarters staff to Selene. Most of the board of directors lived in the lunar city, and those who didn't attended board meetings electronically. The three-second communications lag made the meetings tedious to some extent, but Pancho was perfectly willing to accept that. Astro's business was off-Earth; even shipping asteroidal ores Earthside was almost entirely a space operation, and Pancho had always insisted on being where the action was.

  Now she sat in the richly paneled boardroom, in her usual place at the head of the long polished conference table. The only other person in the room at this moment was Jacob Wanamaker, known as "Hard-Ass Jake." A retired commander of the International Peacekeeping Force, Wanamaker was a big-shouldered, heavy-bellied, genial-looking older man with a wry, lopsided smile and sad, pouchy brown eyes that had seen much more than their share of death and destruction.

  Nobuhiko Yamagata had recommended three military advisors to Pancho: a Japanese mercenary who had fought in miniwars from Indonesia to Chiapas, in Mexico; a Swedish woman who had organized the multinational force that pacified the turmoil in southern Africa; and Hard-Ass Jake. The first two had never been off-Earth; Wanamaker had served several tours aboard a missile-defense space station in Earth orbit. Besides, Jacob Wanamaker had been an admiral in the U.S. Navy before accepting a commission with the IPF, and Pancho figured that fighting in space would be more closely akin to naval warfare than land campaigns.