The Silent War

COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND

Harbin was heading back to the HSS base at Vesta. Samarkand had not escaped its one-sided battle against the Astro freighter unscathed. The loosed rocks and pebbles of his ship’s armor shield had dented and buckled parts of the hull, and now Samarkand was totally unarmored, easy prey for any warship it should happen to meet.

He was worried about the ship’s radiation shielding. Even though the diagnostics showed the system to be functioning properly, with a solar storm approaching he preferred to be safely underground at Vesta.

Still, he left his two other vessels to continue their hunt through this region of the Belt while he made his way back to Vesta for refurbishment.

It will be good to have a few days of R R, he thought as he sat in the command chair. Besides, my medicinals are running low. I’ll have to get the pharmacy to restock them.

He turned the con over to his executive officer and left the bridge, ducking through the hatch and down the short passageway to his private quarters. Making his way straight to his lavatory, he opened the medicine chest and surveyed the vials and syringes stored there. Running low, he confirmed. But there’s enough here to get me through the next few nights. Enough to let me sleep when I need to.

He reached for one of the vials, but before he could take it in his fingers the intercom buzzed.

“Sir, we have a target,” the exec’s voice said. Then she added, “I think.”

Harbin slammed the cabinet door shut. “You think?” he shouted to the intercom microphone set into the metal overhead of the lav. “It’s an odd signature, sir.”

Incompetent jackass, Harbin said to himself. Aloud, “I’m on my way.”

He strode to the bridge, simmering anger. I can’t trust this crew to do anything for themselves. I can’t even leave them alone long enough to take a piss.

But as he slid into the command chair he saw that the display on the main screen was indeed fuzzy, indistinct.

“Max magnification,” he commanded.

“It is at maximum,” the comm tech replied. She too was staring at the screen, a puzzled frown furrowing her pale Nordic countenance.

Harbin glanced at the data bar running across the bottom of the display. Just over twelve hundred kilometers away. The object was spinning slowly, turning along its long axis every few seconds.

“Size estimate,” he snapped.

Two pulsating cursors appeared at each end of the rotating object. Blinking alphanumerics said 1.9 meters.

“It’s too small to be a ship,” said the pilot.

“A robot vehicle?” the weapons technician asked. “Maybe a mine of some sort?” Harbin shook his head. He knew what it was. “Turn off the display.”

“But what is it?” the communications tech wondered aloud.

“Turn it off!”

The screen went dark. All four of his officers turned to stare at him questioningly.

“It’s a man,” Harbin said. “Or a woman. Someone in a space suit. Someone dead. Killed in a battle out there, probably months ago.”

“Should we—”

“Ignore it,” he snapped. “It can’t hurt us and there’s nothing more we can do to it. Just leave it alone.”

The officers glanced at each other.

“A casualty of war,” Harbin said grimly as he got out of the command chair. “Just forget about it. I’m going back to my quarters. Don’t disturb me with any more ghosts.”

He went back to his cabin, stripped off his sweaty uniform and stretched out on his bunk. It will be good to get back to Vesta, he thought. This ship needs refurbishment. So do I.

This war can’t last much longer, he told himself. We’ve driven most of the Astro ships out of the Belt. They’ll come back with more, I suppose, and we’ll destroy them. We’ll keep on destroying them until they finally give up. And what then? Do I retire back to Earth? Or keep on working? There’s always money to be made for a mercenary soldier. There’s always someone willing to pay for killing someone else.

He closed his eyes to sleep, but instead he saw a space-suited figure tumbling slowly through the star-flecked emptiness, silently turning over and over, for all eternity alone in the cold, dark emptiness, forever alone.

His eyes snapped open. Harbin thought about taking a shot that would let him sleep, but he didn’t want to dream. So he lay on the bunk for hours, wide awake, staring at the hard metal of the overhead.

“Wish I could call my people and tell ’em I’ll be spending the night here,” Pancho said. “When’s that laser link going to start working?”

Wine bottle in one hand, pneumatic corkscrew in the other, Daniel Tsavo suddenly looked uneasy.

“They’ll know you’re safe down here,” he said, with a slightly labored smile. “Let’s have some wine and stop worrying.”

Pancho made herself smile back at him. “Sure, why not? You open the bottle while I freshen up a little.”

She went to the lavatory and closed its door firmly. Pecking at her wristwatch, she saw that its link with the satellites that were supposed to be tracking her was dead. She tried the phone function. That was down, too.

Pancho leaned against the sink, thinking furiously. I’m cut off from the outside. He wants me to stay here overnight. Fun and games? Maybe, but there’s more to it than just a romp in the sheets. This place is huge. They’re spending more money on construction than Nairobi’s got on its books. A lot more. Somebody big is bankrolling them.

And then it hit her. Tsavo said to me, “Welcome to Shining Mountain Base.” That’s what the Japanese call this mountain range: the Shining Mountains. And that transfer ship outside is painted in Yamagata Corporation’s blue.

Yamagata’s behind all this, Pancho finally realized. They’re bankrolling Nairobi. And now they’ve got me here; I waltzed right in and they’re not going to let go of me that easy.

She heard the pop of a champagne cork through the flimsy lavatory door. Ol’ Danny boy’s working for Yamagata, Pancho said to herself. And I’ll bet there’s enough happy juice in that wine to get me to babble my brains out to him.

I’ve got to get out of here, she told herself. And quick.

Nobuhiko Yamagata paid scant attention to the bows and self-effacing hisses of his underlings. He went straight from the transfer rocket that had landed him at Shining Mountain Base to the room where Pancho Lane would be interrogated. It was in the base’s infirmary, a small room where his interrogation team surrounded an empty gurney. Father is right, Nobu said to himself. I can learn much more from Pancho than these hirelings could.

The team was gowned and masked, like medics. Two young women were helping Nobu into a pale green surgical gown. Within minutes he was masked, gloved, and capped with one of the ridiculous-looking shapeless hats that came down over his ears.

Then he stood by the gurney, waiting. The members of the interrogation team flanked him in silence.

Well, Nobuhiko thought, everything is prepared. Everyone is here except Pancho.