The Silent War

“Maybe not.”

“It’s worth a try.”

Leeza agreed that it was worth a try. If nothing else, it would keep everybody busy, instead of waiting in dread for the nanomachines to kill them.

COMMAND SHIP SAMARKAND

A great way to go into battle, thought Dorik Harbin: out of fuel, stripped of armor, and low on rations.

Sitting in the command chair on Samarkand’s bridge, Harbin turned his gaze from the main display screen to the thick quartz port set into the bulkhead on his left. They were close enough to the Chrysalis for him to see it without magnification; the habitat’s linked circle of metal- skinned modules glinted faintly in the light from the distant Sun, a tiny spark of human warmth set against the cold, silent darkness of infinite space.

“I have contact with Chrysalis, sir,” his communications technician said, turning halfway in her chair to look at Harbin.

“Main screen,” he ordered.

A woman’s face appeared on the screen, ascetically thin, high cheekbones, hair cropped down to a bare fuzz, almond-shaped dark eyes full of suspicion.

“Please identify yourself,” she said, her voice polite but hard-edged. “We’re not getting any telemetry data from you.”

“You don’t need it,” Harbin said, reflexively rubbing one hand over his fiercely dark beard. “We’re looking for Lars Fuchs. Surrender him to us and we’ll leave you in peace.”

“Fuchs?” The woman looked genuinely puzzled. “He’s not here. He’s an exile. We wouldn’t—”

“No lies,” Harbin snapped. “We know Fuchs is heading for your habitat. I want him.”

Her expression turned from surprise to irritation. “How can we produce him when he’s not here?”

“Who’s in charge there?” Harbin demanded. “I want to speak to your top person.”

“That’d be Big George. George Ambrose. He’s our chief administrator.”

“Get him.”

“He’s not here.”

Harbin’s jaw clenched. “Are you joking, or do you want me to start shooting?”

Her eyes widened. “George is aboard the Elsinore. Greeting some VIP from Selene.”

“Patch me through to him.”

Sullenly, the woman said, “I’ll try.”

The screen went blank. Harbin turned to his comm tech. “Did she cut me off?”

The technician shrugged. “Maybe it wasn’t deliberate.”

Harbin thought otherwise. They’re playing a delaying game. Why? Do they know we’re almost out of propellant? Why are they being stubborn?

Aloud, he commanded, “Show me the ships parked at the habitat.”

The technician murmured into the pin microphone at her lips and the main screen lit up. Chrysalis showed up as a circle in the middle of the display. Harbin counted eleven ships co-orbiting nearby. One of them was identified as Elsinore, a passenger-carrying torch ship. The others appeared to be freighters, ore carriers, logistics supply vessels.

We’ll have to take the propellants and supplies we need from them, Harbin said to himself. After we’ve found Fuchs.

He called up Elsinore’s manifest. Registered to Astro Corporation. Just in from Selene. No cargo. Carrying only one passenger, someone identified as Edith Elgin, from Selene.

From Selene, he thought. Who would pay the expense of sending a torch ship from Selene to Ceres for just one passenger? Lars Fuchs must be aboard that ship. He has to be. The passenger they’ve identified on their manifest, this Edith Elgin, must be a front for Fuchs.

It must be.

Harbin rose from his command chair. “Take the con,” he said to his pilot. “I’ll be back in a few moments. If Chrysalis’s chief administrator calls, let me know immediately.”

He ducked through the hatch and walked the few steps to the door of his private quarters. They’re not going to give up Fuchs willingly, Harbin thought. They might know that we’re low on supplies, or guess it. Maybe they think they can wait us out. They could be calling for more Astro attack ships to come to their aid.

He looked at his bed. How long has it been since I’ve slept? he asked himself. With a shake of his head he answered, No matter. This is no time for sleep. He went past the bed and into his lavatory. There he opened the slim case that housed his medications. I’ll need to be alert, razor-sharp, he told himself. He picked one of the vials and fitted it to the hypospray. Rolling up the sleeve of his tunic, he pressed the spray-gun against his bare skin and pushed the plunger.

He felt nothing. For good measure he fitted another vial to the hypospray and shot the additional dose into his bloodstream.

Big George was walking Edith Elgin down the passageway to Elsinore’s main airlock, where his shuttlecraft had docked.

“You won’t need a space suit,” George was saying. “We’ll go straight into the shuttle and then we’ll dock with Chrysalis. Shirtsleeve environment all the way.”

Edith smiled, delighted with this big, shaggy mountain of a man with the wild brick-red hair and beard. He would look terrific on video.

“I’m looking forward to seeing how the rock rats live,” she said, secretly berating herself for not having a microcam attached to her and slaved to wherever her eyes focused. Always be ready to shoot, she reminded herself. You’re letting an opportunity slip away.

“Aw, there aren’t many ratties in the habitat. Mostly clerks and shopkeepers. The real rock rats are out in the Belt, workin’ their bums off.”

“Even with this war going on?” she asked.

George nodded. “No work, no eat.”

“But isn’t it dangerous, with ships being attacked?”

“Sure it is. But—” “URGENT MESSAGE FOR MR. AMBROSE,” the overhead intercom speakers blared.

George swiveled his head around, spotted a wall phone, and hurried to it. Edith followed him.

A bone-thin woman’s face showed in the wall phone’s little screen. “An unidentified ship has taken up a parking orbit. They’re demanding we surrender Lars Fuchs to them.”

“Lars isn’t here,” George said.

“I told him that but he said we either give him Fuchs or he starts shooting!”

“Bloody fookin’ maniac,” George growled.

“He wants to talk to you.”

“Right. I want to talk to him. Put me through.”

Harbin felt perfectly normal. Bright, alert, ready to deal with these miserable rock rats or whatever other enemies came at him.

For the moment, though, he was sitting in his command chair and staring into the sky-blue eyes of a man sporting a thick mane of blazing red hair and an equally wild-looking beard.

Stroking his own neatly cropped beard, Harbin said, “It’s very simple. You surrender Fuchs to me or I’ll destroy you.”

“We don’t have Fuchs,” George Ambrose said, obviously working hard to hold back his temper.

“How do I know that’s true?”

“Come aboard and look for yourself! He’s not here.”

“He is aboard Elsinore, don’t deny it.”

“He isn’t. He’s not here. You’re welcome to come aboard and search the ship from top to bottom.”