The Silent War

SELENE: STORAGE CENTER FOURTEEN

Fuchs paced along the dimly lit walkway between storage shelves and humming, vibrating equipment, trying to avoid the scattering of renegades and outcasts that lived among the shadows, turning aside whenever he saw the flashing red light of an approaching maintenance robot. He rubbed at the back of his neck, which was tight with tension. Absently, his hand moved to massage the bridge of his nose. His head ached and he felt frustrated, angry, aching, and—worst of all—uncertain.

What to do? What to do? Humphries must have had Pancho kidnapped. Who else would do it? Right at this moment they’re probably flying Pancho back here to his mansion. If they haven’t killed her already. What can I do? How can I help her?

He knew the answer. Get to Humphries and kill him. Kill the murdering bastard before he kills Pancho. Kill him for Amanda. For all the rock rats he’s killed out in the Belt. Execute him, in the name of justice. He snorted at his own pretensions. Justice. No, what you want is vengeance. Don’t talk of justice; you want revenge, nothing less.

Alone as he paced the walkway, he nodded his aching head fiercely. Vengeance. Yes. I will have vengeance against the man who destroyed my life. Who destroyed everything and everyone I hold dear. And what risks are you willing to take for your vengeance? he asked himself. You have three people with you; Humphries has a small army of security guards down there in his mansion. How can you even think of getting to him? There is no one in Selene who will help you. No one in the entire solar system would lift a finger for you, except Pancho and she’s a prisoner or perhaps already dead.

Fuchs abruptly stopped his pacing. He found himself in front of a large wall screen, set up against the side of a massive, chugging water pump that was painted bright blue. The screen was mounted on rubberized shock absorbers, to separate it from the pump’s constant vibration. In the faint light from a distant overhead lamp Fuchs saw his reflection in the blank screen: a short, stocky man with a barrel chest, stubby arms and legs, a bristling black beard and deep-set eyes that glowed like twin lasers. He was dressed in shapeless black slacks and a pullover shirt, also black as death.

No more thinking, he told himself. No more planning. Get Sanja and the others and strike. Tonight. Humphries dies tonight or I do. He almost smiled. Possibly both of us.

His headache disappeared along with his uncertainty.

“It was a really great dinner,” Pancho said as Tsavo walked her along the corridor. “You got some sharp people working for you. I enjoyed talking with them.”

Tsavo beamed at her compliments. “I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

During dinner he had learned that Nobuhiko Yamagata had landed, scant minutes ahead of the leading edge of the solar storm, and had gone immediately to his interrogation team. Now the voice whispering electronically in his left ear told him to take Pancho to her quarters and let her fall asleep. To help make her sleep, Yamagata’s people had injected a strong sedative in the bottle of wine that waited on Pancho’s bedside table.

“It’s been a really good visit,” Pancho was saying. “I’m glad I came.”

Still smiling for her, Tsavo said, “You’ll stay the night, of course.”

Pancho grinned back at him. He was a centimeter or so taller than her own lanky height, and she liked tall men.

“I’d love to, Dan, but I’ve got to get back to my own people. They’re expecting me.”

“But the storm,” he said earnestly. “All surface activities are suspended until the radiation goes down to normal.”

Pancho teased, “Is that what your dinner was for? To keep me here long enough for the storm to hit?”

He looked shocked. “No! Not at all. But now that it’s hit, you’ll have to stay the night.”

She said nothing as he led her a few more paces down the carpeted corridor and stopped at an unmarked door. Sliding it open, he ushered her into a spare but comfortable-looking bedroom, with a small desk set in one corner and a wallscreen that showed the view outside the base. Pancho saw several hoppers standing out there, including the green one she had flown in on. And a transfer vehicle, the kind that brought people in from ships in orbit; that hadn’t been there when she’d landed. In the bright sunlight outside she could see that it was anodized sky blue.

Then she noticed that her travel bag had been placed on the bed, unopened. And there was a bottle of wine sitting tilted in a chiller bucket on the low table in front of the cushioned sofa.

“Champagne,” she noted. “And two glasses.”

Tsavo put on a slightly sheepish look. “Even before the storm came up I had hoped you’d stay the night.”

“Looks like I’ll have to. I ought to call my people at Malapert, though, and let them know I’m okay.”

He hesitated, as if debating inwardly with himself. Pancho couldn’t hear the whispered instructions he was getting.

“All right,” he said, flashing that killer smile again. “Let me call my communications center.”

“Great!”

He went to the phone on the desk and the wallscreen abruptly switched to an image of a man sitting at a console with a headset clipped over his thick dark hair.

“I’m afraid, sir, that the solar storm is interfering with communications at this time.” Tsavo seemed upset. “Can’t you establish a laser link?”

Unperturbed, the communications tech said, “Our laser equipment is not functional at this time, sir.”

“Well get it functioning,” Tsavo said hotly. “And let me know the instant it’s working.”

“Yes, sir.” The wallscreen went dark.

Pancho pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Guess my people at Malapert will have to get along without me till the storm lets up.”

Tsavo looked pleased. Smiling, he asked, “Would you like some wine?”