The Xenocide Mission (21 page)

Bill Perry had been killed immediately by the first shot. Donna had compartmentalized her feelings on that, shoved them to one side and to the back of her mind, because now she was in charge.

Motion behind the pinnace immediately drew marine fire. The power trolley rolled slowly across the deck and plasma blazed off its metal sides. It wasn’t being driven, just pushed by the Rusties sheltering behind it. It was a good choice for impromptu armour. The Rusties that remained behind the pinnace gave it covering fire.

‘Get the wheels!’ Donna shouted, which was easier said than done. They were covered by a metal skirt that came almost down to the floor. Donna chose a different strategy; where exactly were they pushing the trolley to?

Easy; the remote controls, mounted on a panel in the hanger wall. She took aim and fired, and the panel exploded.

The Rusties didn’t stop. The trolley inched over to stand in front of the remains of the panel. Donna heard the whine of a power drill. They were unscrewing the hull plating beneath the panel, gaining access to the undamaged innards of the controls.

‘Both platoons, concentrate fire on the trolley,’ she ordered, and the trolley began to wilt and melt under a concentrated volley.

But then the elevator whirred into life and the pinnace began to lift up to the ceiling. The Rusties who had been sheltering behind it leapt for cover as their protection vanished.

‘The elevator! Take the elevator out!’ Sergeant Quinlan yelled.

But it wouldn’t be enough. Donna could already see that. They still couldn’t shoot at the pinnace, just the metal shaft that was pushing the platform up towards the ceiling. Solid metal, no vulnerable parts, and in about ten seconds the pinnace would be beyond their reach.

She was still in space armour; she did the only thing she could.

And there it was. It rose up on the boat elevator into the bay and stopped in front of him. Its landing legs retracted and thrusters fired to move it forwards.

Gilmore fired his own thrusters. He only had a few seconds here; the pinnace wasn’t going to hang around. He had just long enough to attach a lifeline and get inside the range of its drive field so that when the main drive came on . . .

Pathfinder
suddenly shot away. The pinnace was accelerating with that deceptive grav-drive ease away from its mothership. It had started on its kamikaze mission. It felt wrong, too easy; there should have been a countdown, a fanfare, drama.

Gilmore began to pull himself in. Get to the handholds, get to the airlock. Then he yelled and almost let go, because there was movement where there should have been none. Someone, something was coming round the side of the boat.

It was a marine, fully armoured. He peered more closely through the visor.

‘What the hell are you doing here?’ he shouted. No response. Their radios were on different frequencies and he couldn’t remember which. So he jabbed a hand at the airlock; Donna nodded and pulled herself after him.

Inside the pinnace he repressurized and they took their helmets off. The boat was too small for artgrav so they clung to the bulkheads and looked at each other. He repeated the question, just as loudly. ‘What are you doing?’

‘Me?’ Her tone blazed with a white-hot anger and he wondered what had pressed her button. Surely not his own quixotic gesture. ‘I had this mad idea of disabling Device Ultimate. Something only a real idiot would do. And since Bill got shot in the back, I had to do it.’

And that explained the rage. Gilmore had only known one colleague killed in his time, and it hadn’t even been someone he especially liked, but it had been a shipmate and it had left a big, big hole.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said sincerely.

‘Right.’ She peered past him. ‘And that’s it, is it?’

Device Ultimate seemed quite innocuous; a collection of black boxes that almost filled the cabin, linked together with thick, industrial-strength power cables. Here and there a light shone or blinked. There was nothing to suggest it was the most powerful, the most lethal weapon of all time.

The command unit was easy to find; a small sub-unit with controls covered with Roving glyphs and the data crystal sitting smugly in its port. First Gilmore yanked the crystal out and placed it against the floor. He braced his hands against the ceiling, raised a foot and deliberately crushed it. It exploded under his heel with a most satisfactory crunch and small particles drifted around the cabin.

‘Too easy,’ Donna said.

‘I know.’ He studied the sub-unit more closely. He wasn’t good at Roving glyphs. There was a display and figures moved across it. They weren’t flashing or showing any other sign of error or alarm. Device Ultimate had downloaded its instructions from the crystal and it was still working.

Now the shock of her presence had faded away, Gilmore realized it was being replaced by a quite unreasonable anger on his part that someone was intruding on his moment of glory. ‘You can give me a hand,’ he muttered.

‘Suits me.’ She stepped forward and looked at the device. ‘What do we do?’

‘Unplug it. Everything.’

‘Right-o.’ She grabbed one cable, braced and pulled. Nothing. ‘It’s screwed in.’ She took hold of the cable end, where it met the box, in one armoured gauntlet and twisted. ‘It’s not screwed in. Hold on . . .’

Her armour joints whined as she started to apply the suit’s power to the task. The cable stayed joined to the box.

‘I don’t believe it,’ she said. ‘Is there a toolbox?’

Gilmore was having similar luck with his own cable. ‘Must be, somewhere.’

‘It could be back on
Pathfinder
. . .’ He glared at her. ‘Hey, just pointing it out. I’ll look for it, you turn this thing round.’

‘Right,’ Gilmore said, and moved for’ard.

Everything unessential had been stripped from the cabin, even the pilot’s seat. He floated at the pilot’s position and looked at the controls.

‘Oh,’ he said.

‘Oh, don’t say
oh
,’ said Donna behind him. ‘
Oh
is a negative word.’ Gilmore didn’t react. She followed his gaze to the pilot’s controls. ‘That hole shouldn’t be there, should it?’

‘No,’ Gilmore said quietly. There was a big hole in the desk. A nav computer-interface-shaped hole. Another hole next to it was where the main drive controls should be. ‘They really weren’t leaving it to chance. They gave the pinnace its course, then took out everything that could be used to override it.’ He toggled a switch: it was dead. ‘We can’t even contact
Pathfinder
.’

‘Not that way, no.’ Donna toggled her own armour’s radio. ‘This is McCallum. Sergeant Quinlan, any marine, do you copy?’

Nothing. She switched to
Pathfinder
’s main comms frequency and tried again. Still nothing.

‘We’re out of range,’ Gilmore said quietly. Suit radios were only meant for short range; they were probably already a couple of light seconds from
Pathfinder
’s position. They were a small speck of light and air in deep space, very alone.

‘So we can’t talk to the ship and we can’t turn round?’ Donna was just as quiet.

‘Nope. We’re about as committed as you can get.’ He tried the controls, one more time for luck, then looked up at her. ‘Next stop, the sun.’

PART III

Sixteen

Day Sixteen: 18 June 2153

The Dead World loomed large in the viewports and on the main display on
Chariot of Rightful Justice
’s flight deck. Jajing prided herself on the speed with which the ship had got here from Habitat 1, and she gazed fondly at the three males who had made it possible; her three sons, the ship’s sole crew.

‘Orbit insertion in five minutes,’ said Second Son. He sounded proud. They all knew they had excelled themselves in following Marshal of Space Barabadar’s orders, promptly and to the letter. Barabadar had sent a priority order from the vicinity of Firegod, that suddenly strangely popular area of space which Jajing knew better than to wonder too much about, and
Chariot
had responded.

‘Approach corridor is confirmed,’ said Third Son.

‘Transmit the codes,’ Jajing said.

‘Codes transmitted.’

Essential repeat essential that you enter along the
following orbital corridor
, Barabadar had said. The orders had been followed by precise co-ordinates – not especially fuel-efficient co-ordinates either – and a series of codes to transmit ahead of them.

Chariot
’s crew had worked out what the codes were for long ago, as soon as the Dead World had been close enough for the ship’s scanners to pick up the satellite shield. An elaborate, a most intricate and no doubt extremely expensive defence system. But the codes had shut the system down so that
Chariot
could approach the Dead World in safety. Jajing could not help wondering, in a small and independent part of her mind which dared think thoughts that the Marshal of Space would rather she did not, what this system was for. She suspected that she was being let into a secret that should not be revealed. Well, her sons could keep quiet, and so could she.

Jajing looked out at the Dead World and suppressed a shudder. Even twinkling in the sky of Homeworld it was ominous, a bright light that set the senses all on edge. Long ago, centuries before space flight, the Dead World – they had called it that even then, long before the birth of modern astronomy could verify it really
was
dead – had been an omen of ill will and bad luck. To have it in your birth constellation had been a terrible stigma.

Those days of superstition were long over and Jajing thanked her battle gods for it, but the instinct remained. And now, to be so close . . .

‘My Mother, the satellites are responding to our queries,’ said First Son. ‘We have a record of the fugitive ship and the path that it took.’

‘Show me,’ said Jajing, and a representation of the Dead World appeared on her personal display. The satellites were green dots and the path of the intruder was . . .

‘That can’t be correct!’ she said. The intruder had swerved all over the sky. She played the scene back from the beginning and now a gold speck approached the green specks. A green speck flared, the gold speck turned red briefly to show the hit. And then it
turned
, impossibly, and turned and turned again; sometimes taking more hits, sometimes evading them. Finally, it put its nose down and dived straight into the atmosphere.

‘So where did it crash?’ she said.

‘It didn’t, My Mother.’ First Son studied his display. ‘The satellites report that it pulled out at latitude forty-five degrees, then turned south.’

‘It must have crashed! Or burned up. No ship could—’

‘It then flew at hypersonic speed to the equator where it came to rest,’ First Son said. ‘It’s true, My Mother.’

The secret that was the Dead World’s defence system was nothing compared to the secret that was this remarkable ship. No wonder Barabadar wanted it back. Was it some kind of prototype? Had foreign agents stolen it? Was
Barabadar
stealing it? The nation that had a ship like this would be unbeatable in space. Barabadar’s Space Presence had to have it.

‘Display its last known position,’ Jajing said, and the gold speck appeared on – sure enough – the equator.

‘Shall I signal My Martial Mother Barabadar that the ship is intact, My Mother?’ First Son said.

Jajing thought. Barabadar was still out at Firegod, several light hours away. Whatever data they sent, Barabadar would not receive it for hours. Why send an incomplete interim report when, just a little bit later, they could send a complete one?

‘Not yet,’ Jajing said. She checked the fuel displays. ‘Third Son, calculate the fuel penalty involved in changing our orbit so that we pass over the ship.’ A complete report included a visual inspection.

‘Yes, My Mother.’

‘My Mother?’ Jajing looked up in surprise at First Son’s tone, a mixture of caution and annoyance. ‘That will take us out of My Martial Mother’s designated corridor,’ he said. ‘We were not to approach the planet closer than—’

‘We will report,’ Jajing said patiently. ‘We will report everything we are to find out.’

‘But the orders assumed the ship’s destruction, so there’d be no question of our leaving the corridor. If My Martial Mother had wanted us to leave the corridor and report on an
intact
ship, she would have—’

‘The orders, the approach corridor and the instructions plainly related to the satellites, and they’ve been shut down,’ Jajing said, with ever-decreasing patience. ‘I know what Our Martial Mother the Marshal of Space intended!’

‘Yes, My Mother,’ First Son said, but he didn’t seem convinced.

It took half an hour for
Chariot
to change its orbital attitude, its crew strapped into their acceleration couches, but again Jajing was pleased with the smooth efficiency of her sons. She wondered whose performance she could most embellish in the log, without making her intentions too obvious – any one of them would make a good mate to the daughter of another family. First Son traditionally was the favoured prospect, of course, but he had already mated twice, and . . .

She should get on with running the ship. ‘Second Son, stand by on the telescope,’ she said. ‘Try and get as much as you can on the first pass; save us having to go round again. You won’t get anything visual through those clouds; use infra red and radar.’

‘Yes, My Mother.’

Jajing glanced across at First Son and was puzzled for a moment by what she saw on his display. It looked like some kind of power readout.

‘What are you doing, First Son?’ she said.

First Son looked up and tried not to appear guilty. ‘I was scanning the satellites for power surges,’ the irritating runt said. ‘Just in case . . .’

‘In case what?’ Jajing demanded. She sensed the first surge of battle pheromones from the traitor and battle hormones rushed into her own system.

‘In case the orders were—’

‘I have explained the orders!’ Jajing shouted, barely hanging onto her maternal restraint. Then even that was gone and all she knew was
challenge
. This was an intruder, not even a female but a scrappy male, impinging on her territory. Her claws extended from her left fighting hand and she raked the side of his head. ‘Obey!’

And then the male was out of his couch and hurtling towards her, flying impossibly through the air rather than bounding along the ground. Jajing raked his flanks with both sets of claws as he flew past her. Howls of rage filled the cave and to her surprise she saw that there were two other males, claws out, fangs bared. She tore at the annoying straps that held her down and then she was out and floating in the air with them. One of them grabbed her leg and sank his teeth in. Jajing yowled, and her talons tore off half his face.

The fighting went on for a few more minutes. Controlling the ship was the last thing on what was left of any of their minds.

Chariot of Rightful Justice
began to tumble.

The fireball broke through the cloud cover and a few seconds later the distant boom reached Joel’s ears. He stood in the doorway that overlooked the dim, barren plaza and squinted up. A streak of light seared across the heavy backdrop of the overhanging clouds and then was gone. A dim rumble reached his ears a moment later.

‘What was that?’ Boon Round looked up from his corner of the room.

‘Looked like a meteorite. A big one.’ Joel found himself almost wishing it had come right down on top of him, Boon Round, those bastard XCs and the sodding locals holding them captive. It would be a quicker and better death than the one that awaited them.

Unlike their captivity on SkySpy, food wasn’t a problem. But Joel knew about radiation poisoning. Maybe it would have been better if he hadn’t. Perhaps he was just imagining the symptoms; increasing nausea, hair and teeth falling out, cancers blossoming in a variety of interesting ways in essential organs.

He certainly wasn’t imagining the hallucinations – a meaningless montage of scenes from his life, even things he had long forgotten as a small boy – and the headaches that accompanied them. Often his father or Donna would appear, though more usually the scenes were recent, since he had come to SkySpy. Meanwhile spears of burning white light would burn through his brain, sometimes coaxing out the most amazingly obscure memories. His life was literally flashing before his eyes. It was like someone was rummaging through his head, dredging up all kinds of stuff at random. Joel wished them luck in making sense of it.

All the anti-radiation treatment they could need, smart drugs that would seek out and repair the damaged cells and DNA within their bodies, was not far away in the lifeboat. But he had been brought here unconscious, to wake up with a splitting headache and an anxious Boon Round gazing into his eyes, and he had no idea where the lifeboat was. He had very little memory of the events leading up to the moment when, according to Boon Round, the big female had clobbered him. He had no memory at all of the clobbering.

It was a strange sort of captivity, here in this empty house overlooking a stone plaza. Food and water were provided once a day; the water in a jar carried by a local, the food by other means. There was no door, nothing to keep them in; but if he or Boon Round stepped out, within seconds a couple of weapon-bearing locals would appear from somewhere. Making a break for it wasn’t an option.

The locals had taken his aide but left Boon Round his translator unit. Joel assumed they had been guided by the XCs as to how to proceed, based on what the XCs themselves had seen and heard. Joel could use his aide to get at the lifeboat; all Boon Round’s translator unit was good for was talking to the Rustie, and that was becoming less and less fun as the days passed. The translator unit should have been able to contact the aide but Boon Round had had no joy when he tried. Both aide and translator unit were built for a society that was covered by an ever-present electromagnetic blanket; they didn’t need a vast range because wherever you went, there would always be something nearby to pass on the message, even route it up to a satellite if needed. Here there was nothing. It was the Commonwealth’s technological reliance against the electromagnetic silence of the Dead World, and the Dead World won.

Joel leaned against the doorpost and gazed gloomily out at the plaza. One corner was cut off by an open stream flowing through a stone gutter, and the water steamed gently. Joel remembered the evidence of volcanism that he had seen from the lifeboat; this was what kept these people alive.

Otherwise, the plaza was very like the one that the lifeboat had landed in. Same dark stone, same manic architecture. Occasionally he would see some of the locals. They usually scuttled by quickly, trying to keep out of the wind as much as possible as they went about their business. The exception was the processions.

The locals did a lot of proceeding, though it wasn’t exactly carnival time. A parade would shamble through the square. They would enter and leave by any of the square’s four main entrances, eyes on the ground, absorbed in what they were doing but clearly taking their time. Sometimes they would be in single file, sometimes double; sometimes there would only be a handful of them, sometimes so many it would take a couple of minutes for the procession to pass by. No doubt it made sense to them.

If it weren’t for the dark stone and the squashed lines of the buildings then the whole scene would have been attractive in, say, a Mediterranean setting on Earth, or down the coast from the Admiralty back on the Roving. Here on this cold, barren planet in the depths of a nuclear winter, it was even more bleak and dreary than it ought to be.

He reached for his ident bracelet for the umpteenth time; his one, slightly desperate source of consolation. Sometimes, just seeing Donna’s face would fill the gut-wrenching emptiness inside him and renew his determination to stay alive and see her again. Sometimes, it just made him think of his chances of actually doing so and would depress him still further. You never could tell until the picture was actually activated. He wondered what it would be this time.

But then a movement caught his eye and he watched the small party approach purposefully from the far corner.

‘Food party,’ he said. ‘It’s the little one.’

He knew the routine by now. He stood back from the door as the small group came near. The usual mix; four of the Dead World locals, scuttling on their four legs, with spears clutched in their two arms and swords strapped at what could reasonably be called their waists. Another local would be with them, unarmed; and then the only variable, one or the other of the XCs, bearing a pile of food concentrates from the lifeboat which had been formulated to be edible by both humans and Rusties. This time it was the small male.

The XC came up to the door, threw the food in without ceremony and turned away. Joel noticed yet more scars and slashes on its head and body, even tearing through its spacesuit, and he wondered what exactly the locals were doing to the XC prisoners. And when they were going to start on Boon Round and himself.

‘Concentrates,’ he said as he picked the pile up and dusted everything down. ‘Gee, you shouldn’t have.’