The seconds seemed to crawl by, and the red triangle of the enemy ship grew at a slower pace as the Eysselink field contracted the space behind the ship and lengthened that in front of it. Jason was beginning to wonder if he would ever breathe again, but then, as abruptly as it had settled, the crushing weight lifted from him and he was floating against the straps of the acceleration couch in the bliss of near zero-gravity. On the viewscreen, the red triangle had been replaced by an enhanced visual image from the ship’s telescope. A bulbous passenger pod stuck out from a cluster of hemispherical fuel tanks arrayed around the small fission reactor, and a thin blue line of exhaust stretched out from the single engine bell.
“We’re running just over his speed, sir,” Helm told him, sweat beading on his forehead from the strain of the burn. “At the rate he’s accelerating, we’ll be running parallel to him, a thousand meters off his starboard bow, in five minutes and twenty-two seconds.”
“Communications?” Patel demanded.
“He’s attempting to signal, sir,” the woman reported. “We’ve got him covered though—nothing’s getting through.”
“Weapons?”
“He’s in range for a missile or a railgun shot,” Weapons replied with a shrug. “If you want to use the lasers, it’s another three minutes before we can be assured a full-effect shot.”
“What about his long-range transmission antenna?” Patel asked. “Are we close enough to burn it out?”
“
“Make it happen.”
The ship’s lasers were ultraviolet in frequency, and would have been invisible in a vacuum in any case, but the ship’s computer thoughtfully provided a simulated crimson line that intersected the enemy ship at the juncture of the passenger pod and the reactor, striking the dishlike antenna mounted there and melting it to slag in a fraction of a second.
“His transmission has been terminated, Captain,” the communications officer reported.
“Send him one of ours, Ensign,” Patel ordered. “Tell him he can either cut power and prepare for boarding, or we’ll blast his reactor and hope he’s got the radiation shielding to survive it.”
“Aye, sir,” she acknowledged, turning back to her station to deliver the message.
“Could we disable him any other way, sir?” Jason wondered, frowning at the thought of losing such a potentially valuable intelligence source.
“Of course we can.” The Captain eyed him with evident disdain. “But he doesn’t need to know that.”
“Yes, sir.” Ears burning, Jason looked back to the view of the ship.
“Reply coming in, sir,” Communications reported.
“Put it on the main screen.”
The image on the viewscreen shifted abruptly from the Protectorate ship to a snowy, blurry picture of a man. Pale and gaunt, his bald head was beaded with sweat, and his dark eyes had the look of a trapped animal. He wore some kind of high-collared brown uniform, pulled open at the front to reveal the stained t-shirt beneath, with the flag of the Protectorate displayed on the breast.
“I am Colonel Dmitry Grigor’yevich Podbyrin of the Great Protectorate,” the man said, trying to put more pride and confidence in his voice than could be seen in his eyes. “You will cease this attack on my ship and allow me to proceed unmolested, or your fellows on Earth will suffer the consequences.”
“Don’t waste my time with idle threats, Colonel,” Patel snapped. “You know as well as I do that your transmissions were jammed. If you don’t surrender, I can and will cut you in two, and no one need be the wiser.”
Jason knew that Podbyrin had to have been expecting that sort of reply, but the man’s expression was still one of nervous indigestion. The Russian swiped at his brow, sending globules of perspiration cascading off him in the null gravity and splattering against the video pickup, blurring the picture.
“I can destroy this ship,” Podbyrin stammered, his English worsening as he became more agitated. “There is a device—a thermonuclear device on my ship. I can activate it and damage your vessel if you do not let me go.”
“Sensors, distance?” Patel asked,
“Four thousand meters,” Damphousse replied quietly.
“Colonel Podbyrin,” Patel said, “any device you may or may not have will not be close enough to damage our ship. All you will accomplish is your own death. However, if you surrender, I will guarantee you will be treated humanely.”
“I cannot!” Podbyrin shook his head, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. “The General would…”
“The General will not know,” Captain Patel assured him as he might a frightened child. “They will assume your ship was lost.” The Russian seemed to hesitate, but Patel pressed on. “Consider, Colonel Podbyrin, that whatever your duty to Antonov, you will definitely be of more value alive than dead. I will give you thirty seconds to decide, then we will move to a safer distance and disable your drives unless you power down your ship. Contact me if you make a decision.” He turned to Communications. “Off screen.”
The viewer switched back to an image of the little ship.
“What do you think?” Patel asked Jason.
The question startled McKay—the Captain had seemed so sure of himself speaking to the Russian.
“He’s scared,” McKay said. “He’s scared of you, scared of Antonov, but mostly scared of dying. He won’t use the bomb—if it even exists.”
“That’s my read,” Patel agreed, satisfied at Jason’s confirmation.
“Sir,” the Communications officer announced. “Transmission coming in.”
Podbyrin reappeared on the main viewer, seeming even more haggard than before, his mouth twisted in distaste and abject fear.
“I will not be harmed if I do as you say?” he stammered.
“You have my word, sir,” Patel assured him.
“Very well. I am shutting down my drives. I will await your boarding party.”
The screen went dark as Podbyrin cut off.
“Security.” Patel spoke into the intercom pickup on the arm of his chair. “I need a boarding party in the primary EVA airlock in ten minutes. We’re going to be bringing a ship in tow.”
Not waiting for the reply, the Captain looked up at McKay. “Well, Mr. Intelligence Officer,” he said, smiling thinly, “it looks like you’re finally going to get some real intelligence.”
Jason wasn’t sure, but he thought it was just possible he’d been insulted.
“I will not betray my people,” Podbyrin declared again, hands shaking as he sipped from a squeeze bottle of water.
Jason eyed him with a clinical detachment he wasn’t aware he possessed till a few hours ago. The man had given up his ship—it was now in tow as they decelerated towards Pallas—but steadfastly refused to yield any information. They’d been cooped up together without a break in the same three-meter by three-meter room for the last three hours, just the two of them, while Captain Patel and his Security Chief watched over a video pickup. The room was bare but for a small table and a pair of chairs facing each other over it, and Jason almost felt that he was becoming as claustrophobic and bored as the Russian.
“Colonel,” Jason said, leaning forward in his chair and steepling his fingers, “you’ve got to understand by now that I’m not asking you to give me vital information—not troop strength, or ship armament, or what General Antonov ate for lunch. All we’re trying to do is understand what happened to you. We know that Antonov and his followers fled to the asteroid belt during the nuclear exchange.” Jason saw Podbyrin’s eyes widen at that offhand remark and knew he’d been correct in waiting to spring that nugget until he’d softened the man up. “And we know he took his people through the gateway his expedition had found.” The Russian’s cheek began to quiver ever-so- slightly and his mouth dropped open.
“How do you know these things?” he blurted, slamming his hands down on the table.
“It doesn’t matter how we know,” McKay said calmly. “We just know. What we don’t know, and what we’d like you to tell us, is what happened then. Where did you get the technology to manufacture the biomechanical
