The Silent War

The vast and growing cloud of energetic ionizing radiation that had been spewed out by the solar flare soon engulfed them both. Aboard Elsinore, the ship’s crew and her sole passenger watched the radiation count climb with some unavoidable trepidation. Aboard Cromwell, the crew counted on the radiation cloud to shield their approach to Vesta. Cromwell carried no human passengers, of course. Its cargo was a pair of missiles that carried heavily insulated warheads of nanomachines, the type commonly called gobblers.

Unable to communicate with Cromwell, and equally unable to contact Pancho, Jake Wanamaker had nothing better to do but pace the communications center and glower at the technicians working the consoles. At last he thumped himself down at an empty console and pulled up Pancho’s messages. Maybe there’s something in here that can tell me what she thinks she’s up to, he told himself, knowing it was just an excuse to engage in some busywork before he started smashing the furniture.

A long string of routine calls, mostly from Astro offices or board members. But one of the messages was highlighted, blinking in red letters. A Karl Manstein. No identification; just a call with no message attached. Yet it was highlighted. Wanamaker routed the call through Astro’s security system, and the Mainstein name dissolved before his eyes, replaced by the name Lars Fuchs.

Lars Fuchs had called Pancho, Wanamaker realized. He remembered that she had wanted to contact Fuchs and was chewing out her security people because they couldn’t find him.

The man’s right under their noses, Wanamaker said to himself. Right here in Selene. But he left no callback number.

Wanamaker had the computer trace the origin of Fuchs’s call. It had come from a wall phone up in the equipment storage area. Is he hiding up there? Wanamaker wondered.

He picked up the console microphone and instructed the communications computer to put through any call from Fuchs or Karl Manstein directly to him.

Nothing to do but wait, Wanamaker thought, leaning back in the console’s little wheeled chair. Wait to see what’s happening with Pancho. Wait to find out how Cromwell’s mission to Vesta turns out. Wait for Fuchs to call again.

He hated waiting.

Then he realized that someone was standing behind him. Swiveling the chair he saw it was Tashkajian, looking just as somber and apprehensive as he felt.

Martin Humphries was strolling through his expansive underground garden when Victoria Ferrer hurried along the curving brick path, breathless with news of the rumors about Pancho.

“Who the hell would kidnap Pancho?” Humphries snickered.

Walking alongside him through the wide beds of colorful flowers, Ferrer said, “The betting upstairs is that you did.”

“Me? That’s ridiculous.”

“Is it?” she asked.

“I wouldn’t mind having her assassinated. But why kidnap her?” Ferrer shrugged slightly. “She might have run off with some guy. They say this man running the Nairobi operation is quite a slab of beefcake.”

“Pancho wouldn’t do that,” Humphries said, shaking his head.

“Well, the Astro security people are floundering around, wondering where she is.”

Humphries stopped in the middle of the path and took in a deep breath of flower-fragrant air. “Well, let’s hope that she’s dead. But I doubt it. Pancho’s a tough little guttersnipe.”

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.