by Ben Bova
As he stepped out into the corridor, Amanda came out of the ladies’ room. His breath caught in his throat, despite the pill. She was dressed in a yellow pant suit that seemed faded from long use, yet in Humphries’s eyes she glowed like the sun. No one else was in sight; the others must have all gone into the room where lunch was laid out.
“Hello, Amanda,” he heard himself say.
Only then did he see the cold anger in her eyes.
“You’re determined to kill Lars, aren’t you?” she said flatly.
Humphries licked his lips before replying, “Kill him? No. Stop him. That’s all I want, Amanda. I want him to stop the killing.”
“Which you started.”
“That doesn’t matter anymore. He’s the problem now.”
“You won’t rest until you’ve killed him.”
“Not—” He had to swallow hard before he could continue. “Not if you’ll marry me.”
He had expected her to be surprised. But her eyes did not flicker, the expression on her utterly beautiful face did not change one iota. She simply turned and headed up the corridor, away from him.
Humphries started to after her, but then he heard Stavenger and Dieterling coming up the hall behind him. Don’t make an ass of yourself in front of them, he told himself sternly. Let her go. For now. At least she didn’t say no.
CHAPTER 52
As Fuchs studied the image of asteroid 38-4002, Nodon ducked through the hatch and stepped into the bridge. Fuchs heard him ask the pilot if the long-range scan showed any other ships in the area. “None,” said the pilot.
What could raise a lump on a beanbag collection of pebbles? Fuchs asked himself for the dozenth time. Nautilus was approaching the asteroid at one-sixth g; they would have to start a braking maneuver soon if they were going to establish an orbit around it.
Wishing he had a full panoply of sensors to play across the asteroid’s surface, Fuchs noted again that there were several noticeable craters on its surface, but none of them had the raised rims that formed when a boulder crashed into a solid rock. No, this is a collection of nodules, he thought, and the only way to build a blister like that is for something to push the pellets up into a mound.
Something. Then it hit him. Or someone. He turned in his chair and looked up at Nodon. “Warm up laser number one,” he commanded.
Nodon’s big eyes flashed, but he nodded silently and left the bridge.
Turning back to the image of the approaching asteroid, Fuchs reasoned, If something natural pushed up that mound, then there should be a depression next to it, from where the pebbles were scooped up. But there isn’t. Why not? Because something is buried under that mound. Because someone dug a hole in that porous pile of rubble and buried something in it.
What?
“Cut our approach velocity in half,” he said to the pilot. The Asian complied wordlessly.
Several minutes later, Nodon called from the cargo bay, “Laser number two is ready.”
“Number two?” Fuchs replied sharply. “What happened to number one?”
“Its coolant lines are being flushed. Routine maintenance.”
“Get it on line,” Fuchs snapped. “Get number three on line, too.”
“Yes, sir.” Fuchs could hear Nodon speaking in rapid dialect to someone else down in the cargo bay.
“Slave number two to my console,” Fuchs ordered.
He began to reconfigure his console with fingertip touches on its main display screen. By the time he had finished, the laser was linked. He could run it from the bridge.
He put the asteroid on-screen and focused on that suspicious mound of rubble. He saw the red dot of the aiming laser sparkling on the dark, pebbly ground and walked it to the middle of the mound. Then, with a touch of a finger, he fired the high-power laser. Its infrared beam was invisible to his eyes, but Fuchs saw the ground cascade into a splash of heat, a miniature fountain of red-hot lava erupting, spraying high above the asteroid’s surface.
His face set in a harsh scowl, Fuchs held the cutting laser’s beam on the spewing geyser of molten rock. Ten seconds. Fifteen. Twenty…
The mound erupted. Half a dozen spacesuited figures scurried in all directions like cockroaches startled out of their nest, stumbling across the rough surface of the asteroid.
“I knew it!” Fuchs shouted. The three Asians on the bridge turned toward him.
Nodon called from the cargo bay, “They were waiting for us to pick up the transceiver!”
Fuchs ignored them all. He swung the laser toward one of the figures. The man had tripped and sprawled clumsily in the minuscule gravity of the little asteroid, then when he tried to get up, he had pushed himself completely off the ground. Now he floated helplessly, arms and legs flailing.
Fuchs walked the laser beam toward him, watched its molten path as it burned across the asteroid’s gravelly surface.
“Waiting to trap me, were you?” he muttered. “You wanted to kill me. Now see what death is like.”
For an instant he wondered who was inside that spacesuit. What kind of a man becomes a mercenary soldier, a hired killer? Is he like my own crew, the castoffs, the abandoned, so desperate that they’ll do anything, follow anyone who can give them hope that they’ll live to see another day? Fuchs watched the spacesuited figure struggling, arms and legs pumping frantically as he drifted farther off the asteroid. He certainly had no experience in micro-gravity, Fuchs saw. And his comrades are doing nothing to help him.
You’re going to die alone, he said silently to the spacesuited figure.
Yet he turned off the cutting laser. His hand had touched the screen icon that deactivated its beam before his conscious mind understood what he had done. The red spot of the low-power aiming laser still scintillated on the asteroid’s surface. Fuchs moved it to shine squarely on the flailing, contorted body of the mercenary.
Kill or be killed, he told himself. It took an effort, though, to will his hand back to the high-power laser’s firing control. He held it there, poised a bare centimeter above it.
“Two ships approaching at high acceleration,” called the pilot. “No, four ships, coming in from two different directions.”
Fuchs knew he couldn’t murder the man. He could not kill him in cold blood. And he knew that their trap had worked.
It all fell in on him like an avalanche. They knew where the transceivers were hidden. Someone had told them. Someone? Only Amanda knew where the transceivers were located. She wouldn’t betray him, Fuchs told himself. She wouldn’t. Someone must have ferreted out the information somehow. And then sold it to Humphries.
“Six ships,” called the pilot, sounding frightened. “All approaching at high g.”
Trapped. They were waiting for me to show up. Six ships.
Nodon’s voice came over the intercom. “Lasers one and three ready to fire.”
I’ll get them all killed if I try to fight back, Fuchs realized. It’s me that Humphries wants, not my crew.
Suddenly he felt tired, bone tired, soul weary. It’s over, he realized. All this fighting and killing and what has it gained me? What has it gained anyone? I’ve walked my crew into a trap, like a fool, like a wolf caught in the hunter’s net. It’s over. It’s finished. And I’ve lost everything.
With a feeling of resignation that overwhelmed him, Fuchs touched the communications key and spoke, “This is Lars Fuchs aboard the Nautilus. Don’t fire. We surrender.”
Harbin heard the defeat in Fuchs’s voice. And he cursed Martin Humphries for saddling him with this oversized armada and company of troops. I could have done this by myself, he thought. Given the information about where he planted his transceivers, I could have trapped him by myself, without all these others—all these witnesses.
By himself, Harbin would have sliced Fuchs’s ship into bits and killed everyone aboard it. Then he would have carried Fuchs’s dead body back to Diane and her boss, so Humphries could glory in his triumph and Harbin could claim the immense bonus that would be righ
tfully his. Then he would take Diane for himself and leave Humphries to gloat over his victory.
But there were more than a hundred men and women aboard this fleet that Humphries had insisted upon. It was nonsense to believe that each of them would remain quiet if Harbin killed Fuchs after the man had surrendered. It would be too big a story, too much temptation. Someone would cash out to the news media, or to spies from Humphries’s competitors in Astro Corporation.
No. Against his instincts, against his judgment, Harbin knew he had to accept Fuchs’s surrender and bring the man and his crew back to Ceres. Then he smiled grimly. Perhaps once he’s on Ceres something might happen to him. After all, the man’s made many enemies there. They might even put him on trial and execute him legally.
CHAPTER 53
The implantation procedure was not as draining as Diane feared it would be.
She had insisted that all the attending personnel be women, and Selene’s medical staff had complied with her demand. They were smiling, soothing, soft-spoken. After an injection of a tranquilizer, they wheeled Diane into the little room where the procedure would take place. The room felt cold. A plastic container sat on the table where the instruments were laid out, steaming icy white vapor. The frozen embryo was in there, Diane realized, her thoughts getting fuzzy from the injection.
It’s like being put on the rack by the Spanish Inquisition, she thought. The instruments of torture lay in a neat row beside her. Bright lights glared down at her. The torturers gathered around her, masked and gowned, their hands gloved in skin-thin plastic. She took a deep breath as they gently placed her feet in the stirrups.
“Just try to relax,” said a soothing woman’s voice. Good advice, Diane thought. Just try.
Humphries was seated up near the head of the table, one chair down from Stavenger. Dieterling was at his left, Pancho Lane across the table from him, and Big George Ambrose at his right. Humphries did not relish being next to the big Aussie; the shaggy redhead was intimidating even when he was doing nothing more than sitting quietly and listening to the others wrangle.
Amanda was on George’s other side. Humphries couldn’t even glance at her without leaning around the Australian and being obvious about it.
“The essence of agreement is compromise,” Dieterling was saying for the nth time. “And compromise is impossible without trust.”
Dieterling expects the Nobel Peace Prize for his work in the Middle East, Humphries thought. It won’t matter much what he accomplishes or fails to accomplish here. But he’s so damned earnest. You’d think his own life hinges on what we’re doing today.
Pancho, across the table, eyed Humphries for a moment, then said to Dieterling, “Astro’s willing to compromise. I’ve been sayin’ all along that there’s so much natural wealth out in the Belt that there’s plenty for ever’body. What we need is an agreement about who gets what.”
Stavenger shook his head. “I don’t think you can carve up the Belt the way Spain and Portugal divided up the New World back in the sixteenth century.”
“Yeah,” Big George agreed. “What about the independents? You can’t give the whole fookin’ Belt to the corporations.”
“What is required,” Dieterling said, “is an agreement to forgo the use of violence; an agreement to proceed peacefully and respect the rights of others.”
Humphries’s phone buzzed in his jacket pocket. Ordinarily he would have been annoyed at the interruption, but at this point he welcomed it.
“Please excuse me,” he said, plucking the phone from his pocket. “This must be extremely important. I gave orders that I wasn’t to be disturbed.”
Stavenger spread his hands. “This is a good time for a short break, I think.”
Humphries strode off to a corner of the conference room as the others all got up from their chairs.
Tucking the phone’s little speaker into his earlobe, Humphries flicked the device open and saw urgent—priority 1 printed across its tiny screen.
“Proceed,” he said softly.
Dorik Harbin’s dark bearded face formed on the screen. “Sir, we have captured the man Fuchs and his entire crew. We are on the way back to Ceres with them in custody.”
Kill him! Humphries wanted to cry. Instead, his eyes scanned the conference room. The others were standing at the refreshments table. Amanda was nowhere in sight; probably gone to the rest room, he thought.
Knowing that his response would not reach Harbin for nearly a half-hour, Humphries said tightly, “Good work. Make certain you don’t lose him. If he tries to get away, or if anyone tries to free him, take appropriate action.”
Appropriate action, Grigor had assured him, was the euphemistic code phrase that meant, kill the sonofabitch if he twitches an eyebrow.
Humphries closed the phone and slipped it back into his jacket. His pulse was thudding in his ears; he tasted salty perspiration on his upper lip. It’s over, he thought, trying to calm himself. It’s finished. I’ve got him, and now I’m going to get Amanda!
He stayed in the far corner of the room as the others slowly came back to their seats. Amanda returned, looking calm, even dignified. She’s grown over the years, Humphries realized. She’s become much more sure of herself, much more mature. Stavenger glanced his way, and Humphries—working hard to suppress a grin and look serious—slowly walked to his own chair.
Instead of sitting, though, he gripped the back of the chair and said, “I have an announcement to make.”
They all looked up at him. Even Amanda.
“The one sticking point in our discussion today has been the one-man guerilla war of Lars Fuchs.”
Dieterling and several others nodded.
“That problem has been resolved,” Humphries said, looking squarely at Amanda. For an instant she looked startled, frightened, but she recovered quickly and looked squarely into his eyes.
“Lars Fuchs is in custody. He’s aboard one of my ships and heading back to Ceres. I presume he’ll stand trial there for piracy and murder.”
Absolute silence fell across the conference table. Then Amanda slowly got up from her chair.
“Excuse me, please,” she said. “I must try to contact my husband.” She turned and headed for the door.
Pancho started to get out of her chair, but thought better of it and sat down again. “Okay, then,” she said, as Amanda left the conference room. “We got nothin’ in the way of making an agreement we can all live with.”
Humphries nodded, but he was thinking, There’s nothing in our way except Fuchs. But he’s not going to interfere with my plans any more. He’s not going to live much longer.
CHAPTER 54
“Will you release my crew once we reach Ceres?” Fuchs asked dully, mechanically.
Harbin replied, “That’s not up to me. That decision will be made—”
“By Martin Humphries, I know,” said Fuchs. Harbin studied the man. They were sitting at the small table in Shanidar’s galley, the only space in the ship where two people could converse in privacy. The hatch to the bridge was shut, by Harbin’s orders. Fuchs had looked utterly weary, dispirited, when he had first been brought aboard Shanidar. The look of defeat: Harbin had seen it before. A man stops fighting when he becomes convinced that no hope is left; victory begins when the enemy’s will to resist crumbles. But now, after a decent meal and a few hours to adjust his thinking to his new situation, Fuchs seemed to be regaining some spark of resistance.
He was a powerfully-built man, Harbin saw, despite his smallish stature. Like a badger, or—what was that American creature? A wolverine, he remembered. Small but deadly. Sharp teeth and utter fearlessness.
For a few moments Harbin contemplated what would happen if Fuchs tried to attack him. He had no doubt that he could handle the man, despite Fuchs’s apparent strength and potential ferocity. It would simplify everything if I had to kill him in self-defense, Harbin thought. Perhaps I can goad him into attacking me. His wife is apparently a sore point with him.
But then
Harbin thought, to be convincing, I’d need at least one witness. That would be self-defeating. With another person in the room Fuchs probably would be smart enough to keep his hands to himself. If I tried to goad him, the witness would witness that, too.
Fuchs broke into his thoughts with, “Where is my crew? What have you done with them?”
“They’ve been placed aboard my other ships,” Harbin said. “No more than two to a ship. It’s safer that way; they won’t be tempted to try anything foolish.”
“I expect them to be treated properly.”
Harbin bobbed his head once. “As long as they behave themselves they will be fine.”
“And I want them released when we get to Ceres.”
Barely suppressing a smile at Fuchs’s growing impudence, Harbin said, “As I told you, that decision will be made by higher authority.”
“I take full responsibility for everything that’s happened.”
“Naturally.”
Fuchs lapsed into silence for a few moments. Then he said, “I suppose I’ll have to speak to Humphries directly, sooner or later.”
Harbin answered, “I doubt that he’ll want to speak to you.”
“About my crew—”
“Mr. Fuchs,” Harbin said, getting to his feet, “the fate of your crew is something that neither you nor I have the power to decide.”
Fuchs rose also, barely reaching Harbin’s shoulder.
“I think it would be best,” Harbin said, “if you remained in your privacy cubicle for the rest of the flight. We’ll be at Ceres in less than thirty-six hours. I’ll have your meals brought to you.”
Fuchs said nothing, but let Harbin lead him down the passageway to the cubicle they had assigned him. There was no lock on the sliding door, which was so flimsy that a lock would have been useless anyway. Fuchs realized that Harbin had been clever to break up his crew and parcel them out among the other ships in his fleet.
I’m alone here, he thought as Harbin gestured him into the cubicle. The door slid closed. Fuchs sat heavily on the hard spring-less cot. Like Samson captured and blinded by the Philistines, he told himself. Eyeless in Gaza.
