“I presume you heard all of that.”
“Heard, yes, but I'm still waiting for it to sink in.” Shaking his head, he said, “I thought the prize at the end of the trip would be something big, but this is an order of magnitude greater than anything I could have imagined. A bomb powerful enough to have a destruction radius of light-years? I suppose I can understand Knight's interest.”
“We can't allow that weapon to fall into anyone's hands,” Mallory said. “Simmons is right. If we had it, others would. I can only assume that Knight plans a preemptive strike.” She frowned, then said, “About a year ago, there were rumors of something similar, out towards Cabal space. A group of Triplanetary officers trying to reverse-engineer alien technology for their own ends.”
“Just rumors?”
“An old friend of mine talked about some sort of super-bomb. Though everything involved with that mission was classified way above my level.” She frowned, then added, “Bennett would have known. If she was still alive.”
“She might yet be,” Sullivan said. “Someone did manage to eject from an interceptor.”
“That just makes matters worse if she ends up under interrogation,” Mallory replied. “We've got to find some way of destroying that damn station, before Knight can find what she's looking for, but I've got no idea where to begin. A frontal assault is doomed, and we've lost the element of surprise.”
Nodding, Sullivan added, “And given their superiority in electronic warfare, we might as well throw rocks at them.”
Mallory's eyes widened, and she looked at the pepper-haired man, a smile spreading across her face.
“Damn it, Mo, you're a genius.” She pulled out her communicator, and said, “Cruz, this is Mallory. I need to see you right away.”
“I'm busy,” Cruz replied.
“Right away, Chief. I've got an idea, and you're going to absolutely love it.”
Chapter 11
“I think we're clear,” Blake said, as the footsteps receded into the distance. “Nice big station. Lots of places to hide.” She stretched out, narrowly missing a relay manifold, and said, “We need to think about getting on the move. We've got to find the detention area.”
Frowning, Clarke shook his head, and said, “We need to contact Churchill for instructions. There's no point trying to rescue the prisoners until we know what the tactical situation is. We damn near didn't make it this time, and until we're sure we have a place to go, we can't take a risk.”
“Look, I came a long way...” she said, before pausing, nodding, and continuing, “You have a point. I'll keep watch. You see what you can do.”
She lowered herself carefully down to the corridor, crouching behind an open maintenance hatch, and Clarke looked after her, the frown still locked on his face. Six days, and he'd yet to receive a good explanation for her coming with him out here. He reached down for his communicator, and pulled out the data cable, hooking it up to a nearby port. With a little luck, they wouldn't be able to triangulate the signal, not if he was using the entire station as a transmitting aerial.
“Clarke to Churchill on Scramble Frequency Nine. Come in, please.” He waited for the reply, suddenly wondering whether Churchill still existed, or whether it had been destroyed in the battle that had raged outside the station. “Clarke to Churchill on Scramble Frequency Nine. Come in, please.”
“Churchill Actual to Clarke. We read you. Report tactical situation.”
“Changing to Scramble Frequency Thirty-Two in sixty seconds, mark.”
“Mark.”
“Hidden on station, have evaded detection, have been unable to gather significant intelligence, equipment limited to communicator, civilian datapad and medical kit. Rough estimate two hundred-plus personnel on station, mostly guard detachments. I think they've got a full Espatier company. Request evacuation options.” He glanced at his watch, and said, “Changing frequency.”
“Understood,” the voice said. “Churchill is not, repeat not able to provide safe haven at this time. Do not recommend extraction. Can you locate prisoners?”
“Am willing to try,” he replied. “Changing to Scramble Frequency Nineteen in thirty seconds, mark.”
“Mark. Cadet, our primary need is intelligence. We want you to establish a link to the station's database. They've got a quantum computer over there, and we need you to find it and connect your communicator to a secure data-port. Our hacker can do the rest.”
Clarke's eyes widened, and he replied, “Changing frequency.”
“Cadet,” the voice insisted, “I can't make this an order, not under the circumstances, but we need that link-up. We'll be coming for you soon. I can't give details, but we intend to get you and the prisoners out. To do it we need the datalink.”
“Clarke to Churchill. Understood. We'll give you what you need, somehow.”
“Thank you, Cadet. Attempt to activate the datalink in four hours. We'll be ready on our end by then to accept the datastream. Use Scramble Frequency Forty-Five if you need to signal us sooner. I'm transmitting the schematics of the station to your communicator now. We'll have someone listening around the clock. We're counting on you, Cadet. Make us proud. Out.”
Nodding, Clarke disconnected the communicator, dropping it back into his pocket, as Blake pulled herself back up to their hiding space. She looked up at him, shaking her head as she settled into position opposite her.
“Make us proud?” she said. “Seriously?”
“They want me to evade an Espatier company operating in familiar territory, break into what has to be the most carefully guarded area on the entire station, and sit on an active datalink for long enough to allow a hacker to crack their network and steal whatever it is they're looking for.” He looked at Blake, and say, “And I volunteered to do it.”
Frowning, Blake said, “Did they test for insanity before you were admitted to the Academy? Because if they did, someone needs to be fired.” Shaking her head, she replied, “Maybe we should try the detention area. Someone there...”
Looking at her, he replied, “We're not doing anything until I get some answers.”
Putting her hands on her hips, she said, “Answers? From me? Since I first met you, all you've done...”
“You didn't have to come here. In fact, you insisted on it. Hell, hopping onto that freighter was your idea!”
“Do we really need to have this argument now?”
Taking a deep breath, Clarke said, “Look, I know why I'm here, and I know that someone I've never met has just given me a mission so risky that I'll probably never get the chance to tell her just how suicidal her proposal is without a Ouija board, but I still haven't got the first idea what you are doing here. Just that you had business of your own. So either you tell me what it is, or...”
“Or what?” she replied, a smile curling her lips.
“Or...I'll get angry.” He shook his head, smiled, and said, “It's been a long day.”
“I told you my father was a medical doctor, and that he was killed by the scum on that station.” She paused, then said, “That might not have been completely accurate.”
“Which part?”
With a sigh, she continued, “My father was a medical doctor, but his specialty was xenopathology, before he went on the run. He worked with a man named Simmons on a project involving this area of space.” Shaking her head, she said, “Back then, we lived on Mars. He was a researcher at Syrtis Tech.”
“Xenopathology? The study of dead aliens?”
Shrugging, she said, “Don't ask me. I was still on my first year at medical school when we had to leave. One night, Simmons turned up at our apartment and told us that someone was coming after him, that we needed to get away, as fast as we could. My father and I were on the next transport out, and it happened to be going to Carpenter Station.”
“This Simmons was that convincing?”
“Two of their mutual colleagues vanished, and another was murdered. Along with his family, in some sort of shuttle crash. That was enough to convince us to go on the run. That was a year and a half ago. My father wanted to help people, so he set up the clinic.”
“And was killed for his trouble.”
“He was killed for his research. It was stolen by one of the murderers, and when I managed to catch up to him, the last thing he told me before he died was that he'd been hired to take my father's work and hand it over to a man named Harrison. Who is here, on this station.” She paused, then said, “At least, that's my theory. I know he left Carpenter on the Thomas O'Dell heading to an unlisted destination, and I know he never came back. He must be here.”
“That's a bit of a...” Clarke paused, then said, “The last thing he said before he died?”
Nodding, Blake said, “Yes. I killed him. He murdered my father while I watched, and the security patrols weren't going to do a damn thing about it. Out here on the frontier, you only get the justice you make for yourself.” She looked at him, and said, “You really are just a first-year cadet, aren't you. Not an undercover agent.”
“I did try and tell you,” Clarke replied, shaking his head. “Don't ask me how we've lived through the last few weeks. And your knowledge of transport ships?”
“Nothing so exciting. My mother was a shuttle pilot on the Phobos-Deimos run for ten years. She used to take me on some of her runs. Before she ran off with a spice merchant from Titan. I haven't seen her since I was twelve.” Frowning, she said, “The people responsible for the death of my father are here, on this station, and I intend to make sure that they pay for what they did to him.”
“Even if it costs you your life?”
“I might get it back if I avenge his death.” She sighed, and said, “Now you know everything. Does it help?”
Shaking his head, he said, “Now we have two suicide missions instead of one. Do you know anything about this Harrison? Rank, position, anything at all?”
“Only that he's a senior officer. That's all. And, as I said, that he's here, on this station.” She paused, looked at him, and said, “We have two suicide missions?”
“As far as I see it, I'm going to need you to help me with mine, so I suppose it's only fair that I help you with yours.” Raising a finger, he added, “Though we do mine first. A lot of people are counting on me to pull it off. Besides, if we destroy this station...”
“Not enough,” she said. “I have to be sure he's dead. Then, maybe, I can move on myself.”
“Fine,” he replied. “Now, all we have to do is find a way to sneak into a heavily guarded installation somewhere on this station with no equipment, no training, and no help.” He paused, then said, “Your medical kit. Let me see it.”
She frowned, then passed the pouch over to him, her eyes widening as he tugged it open, rummaging through the contents, carelessly dropping ampules onto the floor. Reaching across, she snatched one before it could roll out onto the deck below.
“Careful, damn it. We can't replace this stuff.”
“Got it,” he replied, pulling out a small gray box. “Medical analyzer.”
“So?”
Tapping the control to activate it, he said, “This is basically a highly specialized datapad, right, with a lot of sensors and attachments? With the ability to relay information to a ship's computer for assistance with diagnostic analysis.”
“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “So what?”
“So we might not need to get into the quantum computer room itself. Right outside ought to do.” Tapping the box, he said, “We can use this as a data relay to boost the hack.”
“Correct me if I'm wrong, but surely standing outside the control room is still going to attract a lot of unwanted attention.”
“Not if we're outside the station.” He reached for his communicator again, flicking through the monitor, and said, “If the quantum computer they're using here is anything like the one on Phobos, it'll be close to the outer hull. You need hard vacuum to make it work, so why not use the real thing?”
“Damage...”
“You've seen this station from the outside,” he continued. “One good hit will wreck it anyway, so why worry about the internal layout? Any defense has to be based on keeping that single impact from happening.” Waving the communicator, he said, “Besides, I'm right. It's about a quarter of a mile from here, around the lower rim.”
“They'll see us,” she said. “As soon as we get close, they'll pick us up on sensors.”
“That's going to happen anyway,” he replied. “I'm not smart enough to think of a plan that allows us to get in and out with no one spotting us, so the best we can hope for is to get in and out before we're caught.” Tapping the screen, he said, “There's an airlock about an eighth of a mile from here.”
Peering at the screen, she replied, “In the wrong direction.”
“Perfect, it'll throw them off the scent. Besides, I think we can come up with a diversion as well.” He looked around the walls, finally spotting what he was looking for, tugging open a maintenance locker. Fishing around inside, he pulled out cables and conduits, tossing them to the floor. “We're going to need to turn these into a bomb.”
“Traditionally, bombs need some sort of explosives. We don't even have a pistol.”
A smile crossed his face, and he replied, “They don't know we haven't got them. I think we might be able to encourage them to overestimate us a little. Think about it. In a sane universe, a first-year cadet and a dropped-out medical student wouldn't be on an undercover infiltration mission in the first place.”
“True.”
“Which means they are going to make the same mistake you did. They'll assume that those are just cover stories, and that we're crack operatives working for Triplanetary Intelligence. All we have to do is pretend to set the charges, and they'll have no choice but to send teams out to look for the rest.”
“You've got this all figured out, don't you,” she said. “Come on, let's at least try and make this look convincing.”
Chapter 12
As Churchill slid into position behind the asteroid, work crews already preparing to lock the cables into position, Cruz looked across at Mallory, a scowl on her face.
“You're got to be out of your mind. You do know that.”
“I've been told that before,” Mallory replied. “Technically, this wasn't my idea.”
“Throw rocks at them,” Sullivan said, shaking his head. “This is a hell of a rock.”
“Fifty-nine thousand tons, to be specific,” Clayton said. “We're in position, Captain, tucked in behind the asteroid. All we need to do is...”
“Find some way to patch our battle damage while anchoring us to an asteroid,” Cruz replied, the scowl growing by the second. “I don't have enough engineers now, and I certainly don't have enough for crazy ideas like this. You realize that we'll be lucky to make one-tenth gravities, right? Less than five percent of our normal top acceleration.”
“True.”
“Which means we'll be lumbering like, well, a rock. A big dumb object that will be an easy target for anything that wants to come near us.” Turning to the scanner, she added, “Assuming that we don't simply shake the damn thing to pieces once we light the main engine. And that Churchill doesn't falter under the load. She isn't designed to do this, damn it!”
“Right now, that doesn't matter,” Mallory said, turning to the engineer, her face reddening. “Chief, we've just found out that millions, perhaps billions of people's lives are at stake unless we can bring down that station. A conventional attack won't work, but an unconventional idea might. If you have a better suggestion I will be more than happy to listen, but if you don't, I suggest you get out on the hull and start attaching cables. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, ma'am,” she replied, her face sour. Wit
hout another word, she turned and walked off the bridge, all eyes on her as the door slammed shut. Morgan looked at Mallory, the worry lines growing on her face.
“Can we talk in your office?”
“Of course,” she replied, leading the way. He stepped in after her, waiting for the locks to engage before speaking.
“She might be right, Captain. No one knows this ship better than she does.”
“I'll say to you what I said to her. Come up with a better idea. Please, do.” Pointing at the viewscreen, she said, “That's almost sixty thousand tons of stone, iron and ice. An ablative shield that a thousand missiles couldn't tear apart. All we have to do is barrel down towards the station, live through the firestorm, and it'll all be over.”
“Moving so slowly, that there's a chance the station could move out of the way.”
“We've got an infiltration team that might be able to help us with that.”
Reaching for a datapad, Morgan said, “I've managed to pull the service history for Cadet Clarke, if you want a rundown.” Scanning the data, she read, “John Clarke is an excellent candidate who will doubtless be a credit to the service if appointed, and has passed the entrance examination with honors.” Looking up, he continued, “Aside from his physical characteristics, that's it.”
“Ensign, I know...”
“He's eighteen. Eighteen years old. His birthday is next month. He's completed four months at the Academy out of a three-year course, and that would only qualify him as a Midshipman, not a commissioned officer.” With a sigh, he continued, “That means almost all of his training has been in the classroom. They don't even ride real shuttles until the third semester.”
Turning to him, Mallory replied, “I know, dammit. I know.”
“He's just a kid,” Morgan said, quietly. “You had no right to push him into a suicide mission like that. You or I might have had the tools and experience to pull it off. He doesn't have a chance in hell.” His face dropped, and he continued, “You don't expect him to complete the assignment at all, do you? This is just some sort of decoy plan, isn't it.”
Aggressor (Strike Commander Book 3) Page 11
