The Silent War

bridge and inspect the ship personally. They were fully enveloped by the radiation storm now, and although all the ship’s systems were performing adequately, Harbin knew that the crew felt edgy about flying blind and deaf inside a vast cloud of high-energy particles that could kill an unshielded man in moments.

The monitors on the control panels were all in the green, he saw, except for a few minor pieces of machinery that needed maintenance. I’ll get the crew working on them, Harbin thought as he got up from his command chair. It will be good for their morale to have something to do instead of just waiting for the radiation level to back down to normal.

He gave the con to his pilot and stepped to the hatch. Turning back for a moment, he glanced once more at the radiation shielding monitors. All green. Good.

Aboard Cromwell the skipper awoke minutes before his number one called on the intercom. He hauled himself out of his bunk, washed his face and pulled on a fresh set of coveralls. No need to brush his hair: It was shaved down to within a centimeter of his scalp.

He entered the bridge and saw that all the ship’s systems were operating within nominal limits. And they were still sailing inside the cloud of ionized particles. Its radiation intensity had diminished, though, he noted. The cloud was thinning out as it drifted outward from the Sun.

“Are we still shielded against radar?” he asked his communication technician.

“Theoretically, sir,” the man answered with a nod.

“I’m not interested in theory, mister,” snapped the skipper. “Can the radars on Vesta spot us or not?”

The technician blinked once, then replied, “No, sir. Not unless they pump up their output power to two or three times their normal operational mode, sir.”

Not unless, the captain grumbled to himself.

“You holler out loud and clear if we get pinged,” he told the commtech.

“Yes, sir. Loud and clear.”

Pointing at the weapons technician, the skipper said, “Time for a skull session. In my quarters.”

The weapons tech was actually a physicist from Astro Corporation’s nanotechnology department, so tall he was continually banging his head on the hatches as he stepped through them, so young he looked like a teenager, but without the usual teenaged pose of sullen indifference. Instead, he was bright, cheerful, enthusiastic.

Yet he looked somber now as he ducked low enough to get through the hatch without thumping his straw- thatched head against the coaming.

“We’ll be at the decision point in a few minutes,” the captain said as he sat on his bunk and gestured the younger man to the only chair in the compartment.

“Eighteen minutes,” said the physicist, “and counting.”

“Is there any reason why we shouldn’t release the missiles then?”

The physicist’s pale blond brows rose questioningly. “The plan calls—”

“I know what the plan calls for,” the captain interrupted impatiently. “What I’m asking is, are the missiles ready to be released?”

“Yessir, they are. I checked them less than an hour ago.”

The captain looked into the youngster’s cool blue eyes. I can fire off the missiles and get us the hell out of here, he told himself.

“But if we wait until the final release point their chances of getting to Vesta without being detected or intercepted are a whole lot better,” said the younger man.

“I understand that.”

“There’s no reason I can see for releasing them early.”

The captain said nothing, thinking that this kid was a typical scientist. As long as all the displays on the consoles were in the green he thought everything was fine. On the other hand, if I fire the missiles early and something goes wrong, he’ll tell his superiors that it was my fault.

“Very well,” he said at last. “I want you to calculate interim release points—”

“Interim?”

“Give me three more points along our approach path to Vesta where I can release those birds.”

“Three points short of the predetermined release point?”

“That’s right.”

The kid broke into a grin. “Oh, that’s easy. I can do that right here.” And he pulled his handheld from the breast pocket of his coveralls.

SELENE: LEVEL SEVEN

It’s getting warmer in here, Humphries thought. Then he told himself, No, it’s just your imagination. This space is insulated, fireproof. He pushed through a row of suits hanging neatly in the closet and touched one hand to the nearest of the three green tanks of oxygen standing in a row against the back wall. I’ve got everything I need. They can’t burn me out.

Slowly he edged past the suits and slacks and jackets and shirts, all precisely arranged, all facing the same direction on their hangers, silent and waiting for him to decide on using them. He brushed their fabrics with his shoulder, was tempted to finger their sleeves, even rub them soothingly on his cheek. Like a baby with its blanket, he thought. Comforting.

Instead he went to the door, still sealed with the cermet partition. Tentatively, he touched it with his fingertips. It wasn’t hot. Not even very warm. Maybe the fire’s out, he supposed. Ferrer wasn’t pounding on the door anymore. She gave up on that. I wonder if she made it out of the house? She’s tough and smart; could she survive this fire? He suddenly felt alarmed. If she lives through it, she’ll tell everybody I panicked! She’ll tell them I crawled into my emergency shelter and left her outside to die!

Humphries felt his fists clenching so hard his fingernails were cutting painfully into his palms. No, the little bitch will threaten to tell everything and hang that threat over my head for the rest of her life. I’ll have to get rid of her. Permanently. Pretend to give her whatever she wants and then get Harbin or some other animal to put her away.

His mind decided, Humphries paced the length of his clothes closet once more, wondering how he would know when it was safe to leave his airtight shelter.

At least the flames aren’t advancing as fast as they were, Fuchs thought as he lay sprawled on the brick pathway in front of the airlock. The grotto was a mass of flames and smoke that seemed to get thicker every second. Their heat burned against his face. Nodon had lapsed into unconsciousness again; Amarjagal and Sanja lay on the grass beside him, unmoving, their dark almond-shaped eyes staring at the fire that was inching closer. The black-clad security guards sprawled everywhere, coughing, their guns thrown away, their responsibilities to Humphries forgotten.

One of the women guards asked, “How long…” She broke into a racking cough.

As if in answer to her unfinished question, the voice from the other side of the hatch boomed, “We’ve got the airlock set up. In thirty seconds we’ll open the hatch. We can take two people at a time. Get your first two ready.”

Fuchs pawed at his burning eyes and said, “Amarjagal and Nodon.”

The woman slung Nodon’s good arm around her bulky shoulders and struggled up to her feet, with Sanja helping her. Some of the security guards stirred, and Fuchs reached for the laser pistol on the ground next to him.

“We’ll all get through,” he said sternly. “Two at a time.”

The guards stared sullenly back at him.

“Which of you is in charge?” Fuchs asked.

A big-shouldered man with his gray hair cut flat and short rolled over to a sitting position. Fuchs noted that his belly hung over the waistband of his trousers.

“I am,” he said, then coughed.

“You will decide the order in which your people go through the hatch,” said Fuchs, in a tone that brooked no argument. “You and I will be the last two.”