by Ben Bova
“A declaration of neutrality,” said the accountant.
“Do you think that will be enough?”
“What else can we do?”
“Arm the habitat. Be ready to fight anybody who tries to take us over.”
George shook his head ponderously. “This habitat is like an eggshell. We can’t fight. It’d just get us all killed.”
“We could armor the habitat,” the Valkyrie suggested. “Coat the outer hulls with powdered rock, like some of the warships do.”
“That’d just postpone the inevitable,” George said. “A half-dozen ships could sit out there and pound us into rubble.”
“A declaration of neutrality,” someone repeated.
“Do you think it would work?”
George spread his big hands. “Anybody got a better idea?”
Silence fell over the conference room.
George drafted his declaration over the next twenty-four hours, with the help of an assistant who had been a history major before coming out to the Belt. The council met again in emergency session, tore the draft to tatters and rewrote it extensively, then—sentence by sentence, almost— wrote a final draft that was quite close to George’s original. Only after that did they agree to allow George to send the declaration to Pancho Lane at Astro, Martin Humphries of HSS, and the governing board of Selene. George added a copy for Douglas Stavenger, and then released the statement to the news media of the Earth/Moon region.
For the next several days Big George Ambrose was a minor media attraction. Ceres’s neutrality was the first realization for most of the people on battered old Earth that there was a war going on in the Belt: a silent, furtive war taking place far, far away in the dark and cold depths of the Asteroid Belt.
For a few days the Asteroid War was a trendy topic on the news nets, even though no executive of Humphries Space Systems or Astro Corporation deigned to be interviewed or even offer a comment. Sam Gunn, the fast-talking independent entrepreneur, had a lot to say, but the media was accustomed to Gunn’s frenetic pronouncements on the evildoings of the big corporations. Nobuhiko Yamagata agreed to a brief interview, mainly to express his regrets that lives were being lost out in the Belt.
Then a major earthquake struck the California coast, with landslides that sent a pair of tsunamis racing across the Pacific to batter Hawaii and drown several Polynesian atolls. Japan braced for the worst, but the hydraulic buffers that Yamagata had built—and been ridiculed for—absorbed enough of the tsunamis’ energy to spare the major Japanese cities from extensive destruction. The Asteroid War was pushed to a secondary position in the news nets’ daily reporting. Within a week it was a minor story, largely because it was taking place far from Earth and had no direct impact on the Earthbound news net producers.
George Ambrose, however, received a personal message from Douglas Stavenger. It was brief, but it was more than George had dared to hope for.
Seated at the desk in his comfortable home in Selene, Stavenger said simply, “George, I agree that Chrysalis could be endangered by the fighting in the Belt. Please let me know what I—or Selene—can do to help.”
COMMAND SHIP ANTARES
Reid Gormley was a career soldier. He had served with the International Peacekeeping Force in Asia and Africa and had commanded the brilliant strike that had wiped out the paramilitary forces of the Latin American drug cartel. He was widely known in military circles as an able commander: a tough, demanding bantam cock who instilled a sense of pride and invincibility in his troops. He was also vain, cautious, and unwilling to move until he was certain he had an overwhelming superiority of force on his side.
He had come out of retirement to accept a commission with Astro Corporation. Fighting in space was new to him, but then it was new to every commander that the big corporations were hiring. The only experienced space fighters were a handful of mercenaries and renegades like Lars Fuchs. Like most of the other experienced officers who were suddenly finding new careers for themselves, Gormley was certain that a well-motivated, well-trained and well-equipped force could beat mercenaries, who were fighting only for money. As for lone renegades, well, they would be rounded up and dealt with in due time.
It took him nearly six months to bring his force up to the peak of efficiency that he demanded. Like himself, most of the men and women in this Astro Corporation task force were either retired military or younger types who had taken a leave of absence from their regular duties to take a crack at the better pay and more exciting duty offered by the Asteroid War.
Gormley stressed to his troops that while the HSS people were mercenaries, fighting for nothing more than money, they themselves were serving in the best traditions of the military, going into battle to keep the Asteroid Belt free from the dictatorship of one corporation, fighting to save the miners and prospectors scattered through the Belt from virtual slavery. It never occurred to him that Humphries’s mercenaries could say the same thing about him and his troops, with the same degree of truth.
Now he led a force of fourteen ships, armed with high-power lasers and armored with rocky debris crushed from asteroidal stone. His mission was to clear HSS ships from the inner Belt, and then take up a position near Vesta to begin the blockade and eventual strangulation of the major Humphries base.
He had no idea that he was sailing into a trap.
Nobuhiko Yamagata noted that even though it was high summer in Japan, here at the Roof of the World the monastery was still cold, its stone walls icy to the touch of his fingertips. He looked out through the room’s only window and consoled himself that at least the Himalayas were still snowcapped. The greenhouse warming had not yet melted them bare.
His father entered the small chamber so silently that when he said, “Hello, son,” Nobu nearly hopped off his feet.
Turning, Nobu saw that although his father was smiling, the old man did not look truly pleased. Saito wore his usual kimono. His round face seemed even more youthful than the last time Nobu had visited. Is Father taking youth treatments? Nobuhiko asked himself. He dared not ask aloud.
Kneeling on the mat nearer the window, Saito said, “I just learned that one of our loyal agents was assassinated, together with his wife and children.”
Nobu blinked with surprised confusion as he knelt beside his father.
“Assassinated?”
“The man who was assigned to make certain that Pancho Lane was not killed in the cable car incident,” Saito explained curtly.
“That was months ago.”
“His wife and children?” Saito demanded.
Kneading his thighs nervously, Nobu said, “Our security people felt it was necessary. To make certain there would be no possibility of Astro Corporation learning that we caused the accident.”
“He was a loyal employee.”
“I did not approve the move, Father. I didn’t even know about it until after the fact.”
Saito gave a low, growling grunt.
“The incident achieved its purpose,” Nobu said, trying to get his father’s approval. “It started the chain of events that has led to out-and-out war between Astro and Humphries Space Systems.”
Saito nodded, although his displeased expression did not change.
“Both Astro and HSS are actually hiring our own people to help them in the fighting,” Nobu added. “We’re making money from their war.”
A slight hint of a smile cracked Saito’s stern visage.
Encouraged, Nobu went on, “I believe it’s time to consider how and when we step in.”
“Not yet.”
“If we throw our support to one side or the other, that side will win the war, undoubtedly.”
“Yes, I realize that,” said the older man. “But it is too early. Let them exhaust themselves further. Already both Astro and HSS are running up huge losses because of this war. Let them bleed more red ink before we make our move.”
Nobu dipped his chin in agreement. Then he asked, “Which of them do you think we should support? Whe
n the time comes, of course.”
“Neither.” “Neither? But I thought—”
Saito raised an imperious hand. “When the proper moment comes, when both Astro and Humphries are tottering on the brink of collapse, we will sweep in and take command of the Belt. Our mercenary units now serving them will show their true colors. The flying crane of Yamagata will stretch its wings across the entire Asteroid Belt, and over Selene as well.”
Nobu gasped at his father’s grand vision.
He should have been enjoying a restful vacation at Hotel Luna, but Lars Fuchs was not.
In his guise as Karl Manstein, Fuchs was spending the expense-account money Pancho had advanced him as if there was a never-ending supply of it. In truth, it was dwindling like a sand castle awash in the inrushing tide. Hotel Luna may have been threadbare, narrowly avoiding bankruptcy on the trickle of tourists coming to Selene, but its prices were still five-star. Fresh fish from the hotel’s own aquaculture ponds; rental wings for soaring like an eagle in the Grand Plaza on one’s own muscular strength; guided walks across the cracked and pitted floor of the Alphonsus ringwall, where the wreckage of the primitive Ranger 9 spacecraft sat beneath a protective dome of clear glassteel; all these things cost money, and then some.
Even though Fuchs/Manstein took in none of the tourist attractions and ate as abstemiously as possible, a suite at Hotel Luna was outrageously expensive. He spent every waking moment studying the layout of Selene, its tunnels and living spaces, its offices and workshops, the machinery systems that supplied the underground city with air to breathe and potable water. In particular, he tried to find out all he could about the lowermost level of Selene, the big natural grotto that Martin Humphries had transformed into a lush garden and luxurious mansion for himself.
About the mansion he could learn nothing. Humphries’s security maintained a close guard over its layout and life support systems. Fuchs had to be satisfied with memorizing every detail of the plumbing and electrical power systems that led to the grotto. There was no information available on the piping and conduits once they entered Humphries’s private preserve. Perhaps that will be enough, Fuchs thought. Perhaps that will do.
He kept at his task doggedly, filling every moment of each day with his studies, telling himself a hundred times an hour that he would find a way to kill Martin Humphries.
In the night, when he was so exhausted from his work that he could no longer keep his eyes open, the rage returned anew. He and Amanda had roomed at the Hotel Luna once. They had made love in a bedroom like the one he now was in. During the rare moments when he was actually able to sleep he dreamed of Amanda, relived their passion. And awoke to find himself shamed and sticky from his brief dreams.
I’m only a kilometer or so from Humphries, Fuchs told himself over and again. Close enough to kill him. Soon. Soon.
TORCH SHIP SAMARKAMND
“Fourteen ships, sir. Confirmed,” said Harbin’s pilot. The bridge of Samarkand was crowded with the pilot, communications technician, weapons tech, the executive officer, and Harbin, seated in the command chair, all of them in bulky, awkward space suits. The navigation officer had been banished to a rearward cabin, connected to the bridge by the ship’s intercom. “A formidable fleet,” Harbin murmered.
His own force consisted of only three ships. Although he by far preferred to work alone, Harbin realized that the war had escalated far beyond the point where single ships could engage in one-on-one battles. He was now the leader of a trio of ships, a Yamagata employee, working for Humphries under a contract between HSS and Yamagata.
“They’ve detected us,” the comm tech sang out. “Radar contact.”
“Turn to one-fifteen degrees azimuth, maintain constant elevation. Increase acceleration to one-quarter g.”
“They’re following.”
“Good.”
Lasers were the weapons that spacecraft used against one another. From a distance of a thousand kilometers their intense beams of energy could slash through the unprotected skin of a spacecraft’s hull in a second or less. Defensive armor was the countermove against energy weapons: Warships now spread coatings of asteroidal rubble over their hulls. Newer ships were being built at Selene of pure diamond, manufactured by nanomachines out of carbon soot.
But there was a countermeasure against armored ships, Harbin knew, as he led Astro Corporation’s armada of fourteen ships toward the trap.
HSS intelligence had provided Harbin with a very detailed knowledge of the Astro ships, their mission plan, and—most importantly—their commander. Harbin had never met Reid Gormley, but he knew that the pint-sized Astro commander liked to go into battle with a clear preponderance of numbers.
Fourteen ships against three, Harbin thought. Clearly superior. Clearly.
“Don’t let them get away!” snapped Gormley as he leaned forward tensely in the command chair of his flagship, Antares.
“We’re matching their velocity vector, sir,” said his navigation officer.
Like their quarry, Gormley’s crews had donned their individual space suits. A ship may get punctured in battle and lose air; the suits were a necessary precaution, even though they were cumbersome. Gormley didn’t like being in a suit, and he didn’t think they were really necessary. But doctrine demanded the precaution and he followed doctrine obediently.
“I want to overtake them. Increase our velocity. Pass the word to the other ships.”
“We should send a probe ahead to see if there are other enemy vessels lying outside our radar range,” said Gormley’s executive officer, a broomstick-lean, coal-black Sudanese who had never been in battle before.
“Our radar can pick up craters on the moons of Jupiter, for god’s sake,” Gormley snapped back. “Do you see anything out there except the three we’re chasing?”
“Nosir,” the Sudanese replied uneasily, his eyes on the radar screen. “Only a few small rocks.” Gormley took a quick glance at the radar. “Pebbles,” he smirked. “Nothing to worry about.”
The Sudanese stayed silent, but he thought, Nothing to worry about unless we go sailing into them. He made a mental note to stay well clear of those pebbles, no matter where the quarry went in its effort to escape.
Wearing a one-piece miniskirted outfit with its front zipper pulled low, Victoria Ferrer had to scamper in her high-heeled softboots to keep pace with Martin Humphries as he strode briskly along the corridor between the baby’s nursery and his office.
“Send the brat to Earth,” he snapped. “I don’t want to see him again.”
Ferrer could count the number of his visits to the nursery on the fingers of one hand. She had to admit, though, that the room looked more like a hospital’s intensive care ward than an ordinary nursery. Barely more than six months old, little Van Humphries still needed a special high-pressure chamber to get enough air into his tiny lungs. The baby was scrawny, sickly, and Humphries had no patience for a weakling.
“Wouldn’t it be better to keep him here?” she asked, hurrying alongside Humphries. “We have the facilities here and we can bring in any specialists the baby needs.”
Humphries cast a cold eye on her. “You’re not fond of the runt, are you?”
“He’s only a helpless baby…”
“And you think that getting him attached to you will be a good career move? You think you’ll have better job security by mothering the runt?”
She looked genuinely shocked. “That never crossed my mind!”
“Of course not.”
Ferrer stopped dead in her tracks and planted her fists on her hips. “Mr. Humphries, sir: If you believe that I’m trying to use your son for my own gain, you’re completely wrong. I’m not that cold-blooded.”
He stopped, too, a few paces farther along the corridor, and looked her over. She seemed sincere enough, almost angry at him. Humphries laughed inwardly at the image of her, eyes flashing with righteous indignation, fists on her hips. Nice hips, he noted. She breathes sexy, too. “We’ll see how warm-blooded
you are tonight,” he said. Turning, he started along the corridor again. “I want the brat sent Earthside. To my family estate in Connecticut, or what’s left of it. That’s where his brother is. I’ve got enough staff and tutors there to start a university. Set up a facility for him there, get the best medical team on Earth to take care of him. Just keep him out of my sight. I don’t want to lay eyes on him again. Ever.”
Ferrer scurried to catch up with him. “Suppose they can cure him, make him healthy. Maybe nanotherapy or—”
“If and when that happy day arrives, I’ll reconsider. Until then, keep him out of my sight. Understand?”
She nodded unhappily. “Understood.”
Feeling nettled, fuming, Humphries ducked into his office and slammed the door shut behind him. Send the runt to Connecticut. Alex is down there. My real son. My clone. He’s growing up fine and strong. I should’ve gotten rid of that miserable little brat his first day, the day his mother died. I’ve got a son; I don’t need this other little slug.
Once he got to his desk, Humphries saw that a message from Grigor was waiting for him. He slid into his desk chair and commanded the phone to call his security chief.
Grigor appeared in front of Humphries’s desk, seated at his own desk in his own office, a few meters down the hall, dark and dour as usual.
“What is it?” Humphries asked without preamble.
“The Astro flotilla that has been assembled in the Belt is pursuing our Yamagata team, as predicted.”
Humphries dipped his chin a bare centimeter. “So the computer wargame is working out, is it?”
“The simulation is being followed. Gormley is rushing into the trap.”
“Good. Call me when it’s over.” Humphries was about to cut the connection when he added. “Send me the video record as soon as it’s available.”
Grigor nodded. “I think you’ll enjoy it,” he said, mirthlessly.
“They’re veering off,” Gormley said, his eyes riveted to the navigation screen. “Follow them! Increase speed. Don’t let them get away!”
