by Brian Smith
“Is that sheila in a uni?” Harper asked. “I can’t tell.”
“Looks like USN to me—at least one of them.”
“Righto. Let’s give them a hand. Looks like we’re not the only ones having a rough night.”
Spaceplane Banth One
Oasis Spacedrome, Oasis Habitat
Daedalia Planum Region, Mars
Banth One’s vectored-thrust rockets fired on schedule, and the large commercial spaceplane set down easily in the center of one of the numerous landing pads at Oasis Field. Ashburn had changed his mind about the divert to Kasei Spaceport when he’d seen the volume of traffic trying to set down there, also taking into account the fact that his attempt to contact company headquarters had come up empty. A broader check of the Marsnet indicated that emergency services in Kasei were responding to some unnamed emergency at the Barsoom Traders corporate offices, but he couldn’t obtain any more information than that. At this point, he wasn’t sure he needed to. It was patently obvious that things were going to hell fast and that the fog of war was rolling over them in a thick blanket.
Civil communication channels were still clobbered, and a planetwide emergency was underway in Mars’s middle latitudes. The planet was so sparsely populated that the debris field would cause little damage to human habitations or infrastructure, but the threat was real and impossible to ignore. The proximity of the Crandall Academy, the Crandall Annex, and the large spacedrome complex had given him numerous local landing sites to choose from.
Oasis Spacedrome was a little farther south. It was not officially part of the Crandall Academy complex but was run by the Academy and serviced by its cadet trainees in the same manner as Crandall Spacedrome. It was also officially part of Oasis Habitat, which, unlike the Crandall Academy, was a Trans-Oceanic Alliance joint territory. Given the uncertainty of what was happening on and around Mars right now, Ashburn felt better about putting them in solidly Earth-flagged territory. Of course, as an alumnus of the Crandall Academy he would have felt just as comfortable landing there under normal circumstances, but he knew that there were a fair number of the Omni Systems synths working at the annex—just as there were at Barsoom Traders’ corporate offices in Kasei Spaceport.
Ashburn didn’t plan on being here long. His intention was to give Gina Jackson the time she needed to steer Thuvia clear of danger and then back into Mars orbit. At that point he’d boost again, make rendezvous, and decide whether to burn for Earth. With Boss Forester dead, headquarters not answering calls, and a budding interplanetary war, he wasn’t sure where he stood either legally or in terms of a simple chain of command. From the company organizational chart he knew to whom the decisions for Barsoom Traders fell if something happened to Boss, but his attempts to contact anyone on that chart had failed.
He went through the simple motions of locking down the board; he kept their APU up and running and glanced out the forward viewport. A pair of servicing vehicles were already approaching, and the ship’s AI informed him that they were being queried regarding services. Ashburn networked into the communications directly and ordered up full loads of deuterium for the torch, and liquid-oxygen fuel for their combined-cycle rockets. When asked if they were transient or would be laying over, he started to tell them that they were transients and then amended that to the more nebulous “We’ll let you know.”
Almost as an afterthought, he asked: “Any reports of anything odd going on over at the Crandall Academy?”
“Odd in what way?”
“I don’t know. . . . Anything.”
“Not that we’ve heard of here, sir. It’s busy right now, with every hopper and spaceplane between here and Deimos looking for a place to land, but Crandall Field is handling its own traffic plus overflow without any issues, as far as we’ve heard. We’re too far south here to have to worry about the fallout from Halsey and Yang Liwei. Um, we verified with TRACON that you departed from Nuevo Rio. You’re still good to go on customs and immigration. Anything else we can do for you other than fueling?”
“Not at this time. Direct-bill to Barsoom Traders, please,” Ashburn added. Even with everything else going on, in his mind’s eye he was already seeing Jerry Sommers’s exasperation over the divert and the associated expense of wasted fuel.
“Will do. Yell if anyone needs a ride in.”
“Thanks,” Ashburn replied, killing the circuit. He handed monitoring of the servicing over to the AI and sat back, able to relax and collect his wits for the first time in a couple of hours. The flight-deck door slid open behind him, and Kusaka Shiguro entered and sat down in the copilot’s seat. He was still wearing his exosuit, but he’d taken his helmet off.
“Everything is cleaned up back there as best we can manage,” he reported, looking absently out the viewport and frowning slightly. “This isn’t Kasei Spaceport. Where are we?”
“Oasis, near the academy,” Ashburn replied. “Kasei was just too damn busy, and I started feeling itchy about it when headquarters didn’t answer up. Listen, I’ve got a question for you: did Federov take any of the Omnisynths when Campbell offered them? Were you using them at your facilities?”
“Hai.”
“Can you do me a favor? Try calling in.”
“It’s late, Mike-san. Everyone will be gone for the day.”
“Do you have a direct line to Dmitri Federov?”
“I do, but, . . .” his voice trailed off. “Let me try,” he added quietly. Kusaka dropped his snoopers and was quiet for a minute or so. Finally, he shook his head. “That’s odd—no response.”
Ashburn nodded grimly and asked Kusaka to try either Dr. Tsong or Dr. Hyman.
Kusaka did so, with the same negative result. He reiterated that it was very unusual—unprecedented, in fact—for all three to be unreachable at once. It was late in Nuevo Rio, true, but it wasn’t the middle of the night by any means.
Ashburn bit his lip and brought up the communications suite. Outside on the hull of the spaceplane, a comm dish that had been stowed for reentry and atmospheric flight deployed and swung around to uplink with an orbiting communications satellite. A few moments later he had a direct line to Thuvia, with only a few seconds’ worth of time delay.
“Thuvia, this is Banth One.”
“That you, captain?” Jackson’s voice sounded tense.
“Affirm. How’s the ship?”
“We’re good, for now. Currently on the deceleration burn for orbital reinsertion. Show’s over up here, captain, and the space around Mars is about as lonely as I can remember it ever being. Dejah Thoris has been calling us, captain. The navy crew has been pressing to send a boat over. They’re starting to get pretty adamant about it.”
“Have you spoken to Dejah Thoris?”
“No, sir. Strict communications blackout, as ordered. We monitored her trajectory as long as was feasible. She was on course to dock at Gateway, on Phobos.”
“Gateway? That doesn’t make a lick of sense!”
“I didn’t think so either, which is why I won’t be taking orders from anyone on that ship, no matter who they claim to be.”
“Damn straight. No navy crew would have taken Dejah Thoris to Gateway instead of Halsey Station, especially not with the navy brass, Boss Forester, and a company crew all waiting for them at Halsey. Funny coincidence how they bypassed Halsey Station right before it went up like a nova, eh? There’s that C-word again, and I’m done with it. Whoever is calling you from the Deety is a bad actor, so conduct yourself accordingly. We fought off an attempted hijack of Banth One by a pair of Omnisynths and have diverted to Oasis Spacedrome. I have a suspicion their real job was to hijack Thuvia, so I’m repeating my orders about not allowing anyone to board the ship without my express authorization.”
“A pair of synths tried to hijack you? Are you okay?”
“We sniffed them out early and got the drop on them—we’re fine. I’m serious though, Gina. If any craft approaches Thuvia looking like it’s trying to force a boarding, melt the son of a bit
ch with the torch. I’m refueling now, and we should be able to rendezvous with you in a few hours. My earlier orders still stand: if something goes sideways, get Thuvia down-well to Earth. Company HQ isn’t answering me, and according to the Marsnet, EMS was responding to some kind of emergency there. Something isn’t right, Gina, and I mean something beyond what just happened to the two spin habs. Send me your keps when you make orbit, and keep your eyes peeled. Capiche?”
“We’re on it, captain!”
“Banth One out,” Ashburn replied, killing the circuit. He turned to Kusaka.
“Riddle me this, tovarich: Why would the United States Navy fly a liberated torchship belonging to Barsoom Traders past its scheduled rendezvous with Halsey Station, opting instead to inexplicably dock her in the Gateway facility, which, the last time I checked, is the exclusive property of Aberdeen Astronautics? A space dock, I might add, that is earmarked specifically for Daedalus?”
“The U.S. Navy wouldn’t do that,” Kusaka shrugged. “I think we’ve safely established the premise that Dejah Thoris isn’t really a liberated torchship, either. As for who’s responsible for all this? I have no idea, my friend. You do know someone associated with Gateway, however—maybe he could shed some light on the situation?”
“Who’s that?” Ashburn asked. “Campbell? I’m not calling that bastard!”
“I can’t remember his name—but your friend with the eyepatch?”
“Oh, yeah! You’re right! Colin Harper!” Ashburn replied, slapping his knee. “Why the hell didn’t I think of that? Let me see if I can reach him.”
Nuevo Rio Habitat
Amazonis Mensa Region, Mars
“She’s going to be all right,” the doctor told Cheryl Ayers. “It was a fairly deep puncture, but other than scraping her hip bones, it didn’t pierce anything vital. She’s lucky she didn’t regain consciousness when you were bringing her in—the pain would have been excruciating, and with the blood loss it wouldn’t have been a good thing to dose her with morphine. You sure you’re okay?”
“Not a scratch on me,” Ayers reported. It wasn’t strictly true, but it was true enough. Bumps and bruises mostly, and frightened out of her wits.
“Okay, then. We’ve got her sedated. She’ll be out for several hours. The autodoc and nanites have repaired the bone and tissue damage, but she’s going to be sore as hell and it’ll be a day or two before she’s up and around.” The doctor paused, taking obvious note of Cheryl’s dirty, bloodstained uniform jumpsuit. “Navy?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“How is it down at the south complex? We heard there was fighting, and we’re expecting an influx of wounded. . . .”
“I couldn’t tell you,” Cheryl replied. “This all happened when we were trying to get there. I’m not even sure who won, but I wouldn’t worry about a horde of Free Marsmen storming this city. A rifle behind every blade of grass and all that, y’know?” The blank look on the doctor’s face made it plain that she didn’t understand the reference at all. Ayers sighed and patted her arm. “I don’t think there’s any imminent danger,” she added. The look of relief on the doctor’s face made Ayers feel a little better. She mumbled something about having other patients to tend to and excused herself.
Ayers glanced through the glass into the recovery cube where Hutton was laid up. Although Hutton’s hair was sweat-matted and she looked dirty and beat up, she was obviously resting peacefully. Ayers remembered that her friend had been fighting nearly all night, and she wasn’t even a Sailor or Marine, just a law-enforcement officer in the wrong place at the wrong time. At this point Hutton probably needed some good sleep more than anything else.
Ayers turned to Colin Harper, who sat nearby, still armored up and smelling of the ferrous tang of the Martian dust that clung to his combat suit. He’d been listening abstractly to the doctor’s report on Hutton, but most of his attention was taken up with his examination of the compact particle-beam weapon his team had recovered from the rolligon after lending aid to the two women. As a former Royal Marine, Harper had a fine appreciation of good weaponry. This was the most advanced piece he’d ever seen—rugged, durable, and deadly—and he thought he might be in love. He already couldn’t wait to test-fire it.
Ayers practically read his mind. “She’s a beauty, but you can’t marry her,” she joked. When Harper looked up at her and grinned slightly, Ayers gestured toward the weapon. “I’m not sure where those were made or by whom, but they seem to be standard issue among the MIM. I’d be careful about waving it around in public—you might get backshot rather suddenly in a flagged territory.”
“Don’t you want it back?” Harper asked incredulously. “Both of you had them.”
Ayers shook her head, patting her own navy-issue sidearm. “This’ll do for me. I’m a cyber-warfare specialist, not a grunt. Cheryl Ayers,” she added, holding out her hand. “We haven’t been formally introduced yet. I really appreciate the help from your team—we were in quite a jam there.”
“Colin Harper, formerly of His Majesty’s Royal Marines,” Harper replied. “These days I’m the Security Chief for Aberdeen Astronautics. At least for now,” he added fitfully. “If there’s anyone left in the company who ranks me, I’m probably going to get fired. If not, I may be the company CEO. Pretty ironic, eh?”
“Your people get caught up in all this?” Ayers asked.
“I’m still trying to figure that out. I— Oh, bloody hell, what now? Can you excuse me a moment?” he asked, dropping his snoopers.
Ayers nodded and stepped back, listening.
“This is Harp— Dakota! Where are you, lad? Are you safe?” In his snoopers, Harper was looking at a virtual avatar of his friend, with almost no signal delay at all. That meant he was nearby—as in, on Mars or in orbit overhead, at most.
“Hey, old man,” Ashburn replied. “I’ve been trying to get a channel for a while. Craziest night ever, innit? I need to run something by you, see what you know or don’t know. Actually, where are you?”
“Nuevo Rio. Listen, Mike, something’s happened—”
“No, let me go first,” Ashburn interrupted. “Boss Forester was up on Halsey Station—he’s gone. Barsoom Traders Company HQ is offline in Kasei, and it sounds like something bad has gone down there as well. Dejah Thoris skipped her rendezvous with Halsey Station right before it blew up—the last report I have is that the ship was docking at Gateway, up on Phobos. Do you know anything about that?”
“Slow down a moment, lad,” Harper said, his mind suddenly reeling. Some of what his friend had just said he could process—some of it didn’t mean anything. “What was that about Dejah Thoris? What’s going on with her?”
“She was the vessel we lost—she was hijacked. The navy supposedly recovered her, and Boss Forester was up on Halsey with a crew to meet her and take her back from the navy. She didn’t stop at Halsey. She kept right on going, to your company’s Gateway dock. At the same time, both spin habs blew up. There’s more, tovarich, but right now I need to know what’s happening up there at Gateway! Who authorized the Deety to dock there? Campbell?”
“Nobody authorized anything! Campbell’s dead, Dakota—that was what I was going to tell you. The Omnisynths up on Gateway were hacked by someone—they killed the human workforce and took over the facility. Down here at Nuevo Rio, someone turned a drone swarm loose in the corporate offices. Bill Campbell is dead, and we’re currently unable to contact any company officers. Aberdeen Astronautics has been deliberately targeted by someone, but nobody stole anything or tried to hack into our computer systems.”
There was a pause on the other end.
“Dakota, are you still there?”
“I’m here,” Ashburn said. “Did I hear that right? Did you just say that Omnisynths killed everyone at Gateway?”
“That’s right, lad.”
“Well, then, you’ll also be interested to know that two Omnisynths impersonating new crew members tried to hijack my spaceplane a few hours ago. I’ve got Kusaka
Shiguro with me from Federov Propulsion, and he hasn’t been able to reach any of his bosses either, including Federov himself. Do you have any contact information for Carter Drayson?”
“I don’t,” Harper replied, hitting the mental shift at the same time as his friend. It isn’t just Aberdeen Astronautics under attack—it’s the Crandall Foundation! That put an entirely different spin on things, not least of which was that the attacks might be politically motivated.
“What about trustee Vasquez?”
“If she’s still alive, we might be able to reach her through the university,” Ashburn said. “I’m not sure what we can do for her, though. Warn her, at least. I have no idea where Drayson is.”
“It may be too late for them,” Harper replied thoughtfully. “In hindsight, it sounds like this was all rather well coordinated. The matter of who is responsible is going to have to wait a bit, I’m afraid. I’m picking up the pieces on this end, trying to safeguard Aberdeen’s employees. There’s been a battle fought at the south spaceport complex—the military field. Nobody around here knows the outcome yet.”
Harper paused, biting his lip as he weighed various plans of action.
“Dakota, there’s something very important I may need your help with, something Campbell asked me to do just minutes before he died. It may tie up in all of this somehow—I’m not sure yet. What were your intentions prior to this call?”
“Simple: I was going to refuel, rendezvous with Thuvia, and get the hell out of Dodge. Need a ride to Earth?” he asked, only half joking.
“Not for myself, but for . . . I’d rather not say over a comm channel. We need a secure meeting place, somewhere safely away from the strife. Nuevo Rio is currently unsafe—the MIM might hold the entire south complex. I wouldn’t bring a ship in here right now if I were you.”
“I won’t, then— Hold on a moment,” Ashburn added. He looked away from the pickup, nodded to someone offscreen, and looked back. “Okay, we’ve got a good place to land not too far from you. Where’s your current CP?”
