my hands.
THREE
Miquol.
Durer PDF listening station 272.
The turnabout.
Miquol was a vast volcanic slab jutting from the black waters of the polar ocean, sixteen kilometres long and nine wide. From the air, it looked bleak and lifeless. Sheer cliffs a hundred metres high edged its shape but its interior was a ragged desert of crags and rock litter.
'Life signs?' I asked.
Medea shrugged. We weren't picking anything up, but it was obvious from the jumping, hiccuping displays that the magnetics were playing hell with our instruments.
'Shall I set down topside?' she asked.
'Maybe/ I said. 'Bring us around for another pass to the south first/
We banked. Cloud cover was low, and banks of chill fog swathed the island's gloomy sprawl.
Fischig joined us in the cockpit.
'You said there was an old facility here?' I said.
He nodded. 'A listening station, used by the Planetary Defence Force in the early years after the liberation. Been out of use for a couple of decades now. It's high up in the interior. I've got a chart-ref/
'What's that?' Medea asked, pointing down at the southern cliffs. Down below, we could make out some derelict jetties, landing docks and prehab sheds clustered on a sea-level crag at the foot of the cliff. Some kind of vertical trackway, a row of rusting pylons, ran from the back of some of the larger sheds up the face of the cliff.
That's the landing facility/ said Fischig. 'Used to serve the island when there were still PDF staffers stationed here/
There's a sea-craft down there/1 said. 'Fairly large/
I looked across at Medea. 'Put down there. The crag there beside the sheds. The cliffs will keep the cutter out of sight too/
It was bitingly cold, and the air was dank with fog and sea-spray. Aemos and Dahault stayed with Medea aboard the cutter and the rest of us ventured out. On the ramp, I turned to Verveuk. 'You stay aboard too, Bastian/
He looked dismayed. That damned yearning look again.
'I'd like to feel I have someone I can count on watching the cutter/ I lied smoothly.
His expression changed immediately: pride, self-importance.
'But of course, lord!'
We crossed the crag in the lee of the high cliffs towards the prefabs. They were old-pattern Imperial modulars, shipped in and bolted together. Time and weather had much decayed them. Windows were boarded and the fibre-ply walls were rotten and patched. Rain and spray had scrubbed away most of the surface paint and varnish, but in places you could just make out the faded crest of the Durer PDF.
Haar and Fischig led the way. Haar had his long-las raised to his shoulder, his fore-sight dropped into place, hunting for targets as he paced forward. Fischig carried a las-rifle in one hand. A motion tracker unit was buckled over his left shoulder, whirring and ticking as it subjected Fischig's immediate vicinity to invisible waves of vigilance. Rassi and I were close behind them, with Alizebeth, Kara and Begundi at the rear.
Fischig pointed to the vertical trackway we had seen from the air. 'Looks like a cable-carriage or a funicular railway. Runs up to the cliff top/
'Functional?' Rassi inquired.
'I doubt it, sir/ said Fischig. 'It's old and hasn't been maintained. I don't like the look of those cables/ The main lifting lines were heavy-gauge hawsers, but they swung slackly in the wind between the pylons and showed signs of fraying. There are stairs, though/ Fischig added. 'Right up the cliff alongside the track/
We crossed to the jetties. They too were badly decayed. Rusting chains slapped and clanked with the sea-swell. The craft moored there was a modern, ocean-going ekranoplane, twenty metres long and sleekly grey. Stencils on the hull told us it was a licensed charter vessel from Finyard, presumably the vessel Thuring had hired to bring him here.
There was no sign of crew, and the hatches were locked down. There wasn't even a hint of standby automation.
Want me to force entry?' asked Kara.
'Maybe-' I was interrupted by a shout from Haar. He was standing in the entrance of the nearest prefab, a docking shed that stood over the water on stilt legs. Haar gestured inside as I joined him. In the half-light, I could see
four bodies slumped on the duckboards of the dry well. Fischig was kneeling beside them.
'Local mariners. Their papers are still in their pockets. Registered operators from Finyard/
'Dead how long?'
Fischig shrugged. 'Maybe a day? Single shot to the back of the head in each case/
The crew from the sea-craft/
He rose. 'Makes sense to me/
'Why didn't they dump the bodies at sea?' Haar wondered.
'Because an ekranoplane is a specialist vehicle and they needed the crew alive to get them here/ I suggested.
'But if they killed them once they were here-' Haar began.
I was way ahead of him. Then they're not planning on leaving the island. Not the way they arrived, at any rate/
I had Kara Swole break into the ekranoplane. There was nothing useful inside, just a few items of equipment and personal clutter belonging to the murdered crew. The passengers had taken everything else with them.
The only thing we learned was that Thuring might have as many as twenty men with him on Miquol, given the ekranoplane's load capacity and the number of emergency life jackets.
They've gone inland/ I decided. 'And that's where we're going too/
'Shall I get Dee to fire up the cutter?' Begundi asked.
'No/ I said. ЧУе'И go in on foot. I want to get as close to Thuring as possible before he makes us. We can call in the cutter if we need it/
'Medea won't like that, Gregor/ said Bequin.
I knew that damn well.
I believed Medea deserved every chance to avenge her father. Vengeance might not be an appropriate motive for an inquisitor, but as far as I was concerned it was perfectly fine for a headstrong, passionate combat-pilot.
However, her passion could become a liability. I wanted Thuring taken cleanly and I didn't relish the prospect of Medea going off in a blind fury.
Bequin was right, though. Medea really didn't like it.
'I'm coming!'
'No/
'I'm coming with you!'
'No!' I caught her by the arms and stared into her face. 'You are not. Not
