The Silent War

system will attempt to reconnect.”

Stavenger whirled on Humphries. “If anything happens to my wife I’ll kill you. Understand me? I’ll kill you!”

TORCH SHIP ELSINORE

“Well at least lemme get back to Chrysalis,” Big George was saying to the image on the screen, “and show you that Fuchs isn’t there.”

The fierce, dark-bearded man shook his head grimly. “No one will transfer from your ship to the habitat. How do I know that you won’t smuggle Fuchs in with you?”

With obvious exasperation, George replied, “Because Fuchs isn’t here! Come and see for your fookin’ self!”

“I am not leaving my ship,” said the intruder. “You will produce Lars Fuchs or face the consequences.”

Big George and Edith were in her quarters aboard Elsinor, trying to reason with the scowling image on the screen. As George fumed and attempted to explain the situation to the intruder, Edith surreptitiously went to the travel kit resting on the shelf above her bed. Hoping she was out of the comm screen camera’s view, she slipped one of the micro-cams she had brought with her out of the kit and attached it to the belt of her dress. It looked like an additional buckle, or perhaps a piece of stylish jewelry.

“I know Fuchs is with you,” the dark-bearded man was saying, his voice flat and hard. “Don’t try to tell me otherwise.”

“But he’s not,” George replied for the umpteenth time. “Send a crew over here and inspect the ship.”

“So that you can overpower them and cut my forces in half?” The man shook his head.

He’s paranoid, Edith thought as she stepped to George’s side, hoping the microcam was focused on the wall screen.

“Look,” George said, straining to remain patient, “this ship isn’t armed. The habitat isn’t armed—”

“You provide weapons to the rock rats,” said the intruder.

“No,” George answered. “We provide mining equipment. If the rats get any weapons it’s from logistics ships that the corporations send to the Belt.”

“That’s a lie. Where is Fuchs? My patience is running thin.”

“He’s not fookin’ here!” George thundered.

In truth, Lars Fuchs was aboard Halsey, cruising past the orbit of Mars, nearly 200 million kilometers from Ceres. At his ship’s present rate of acceleration, he would reach the Chrysalis habitat in a little more than three days.

He knew nothing of the circumstances unfolding at Ceres. As his ship traveled through the dark emptiness toward the Belt, Fuchs had plenty of time to think, and remember, and regret.

A failure. A total failure, he accused himself. Humphries killed my wife, destroyed my life, turned me into a homeless wandering exile, a Flying Dutchman doomed to spend my life drifting through this eternal night, living off whatever scraps I can beg or steal from others. I talk of vengeance, I fill my dreams with visions of hurting Humphries again and again. But it’s all futile. All in vain. I’m a beaten man.

Amanda, he thought. My beautiful wife. I still love you, Amanda. I wish it had all turned out differently. I wish …

He squeezed his eyes shut and strove with all his might to drive the vision of her out of his thoughts. You’re alive, he told himself sternly. You still exist, despite all he’s done to you. Humphries had driven you into a life of piracy. He’s made me into an outcast.

But I still live. That’s my only true revenge on him. Despite everything he’s done, despite everything he can do, I still live!

Aboard Samarkand, Harbin stared with dilated eyes at the floundering, fuming image of the red-bearded George Ambrose.

“You will produce the man Fuchs,” Harbin said tightly, “or suffer the consequences. You have less than fifteen minutes remaining.”

He cut the connection to Elsinore. Turning to his weapons technician, sitting at his console to Harbin’s right, he asked, “Status of the lasers?”

“Sir, we have full power to all three of them.”

“Ready to fire on my command?”

“Yessir.”

“Good,” said Harbin.

The executive officer, a blade-slim Japanese woman, suggested, “Perhaps we should send a boarding party to the ships parked around the habitat.”

“To search for Fuchs?” Harbin asked lazily. He was starting to feel calm, almost tranquil. The injection must be wearing off, he thought. Too much stress bums the drug out of the bloodstream. I need another shot. “If he’s aboard any of those ships we can find him,” the exec said.

“How many troops could we send, do you think? Six? Ten? A dozen?”

“Ten, certainly. Armed with sidearms and minigrenades. Those civilians in the ships wouldn’t dare stand in their way.”

Harbin felt just the slightest tendril of drowsiness creeping along his veins. It would be good to get a full night’s sleep, he thought. Without dreams.

Aloud, he asked, “And what makes you think that there are nothing but civilians in those ships?”

The exec blinked rapidly, thinking, then replied, “Their manifests show—”

“Do you believe that if Elsinore, for example, were carrying a company of armed mercenaries they would show it on their manifest?”

She gave Harbin a strange look, but said nothing.

He went on, “Why do you think that red-bearded one is so anxious to have us search his ship? It’s an obvious trap. He must have troops there waiting to pounce on us.”

“That’s—” The exec hesitated, then finished, “That’s not likely, sir.”

“No, not likely at all,” Harbin said, grinning lopsidedly at her. “You would have done well against Hannibal.”

“Sir?”

Harbin pushed himself out of the command chair. “I’m going to my quarters for a few minutes. Call me five minutes before their time is up.”

“Yes, sir,” said the exec.

Harbin knew something was wrong. If the drug is burning out of my system I ought to be feeling withdrawal symptoms, he thought. But I’m tired. Drowsy. Did I take the right stuff? I can’t direct a battle in this condition.

Once he popped open the case that held his medications he focused blurrily on the vials still remaining, lined up in a neat row along the inside of the lid. Maybe I’m taking too much, he considered. Overdosing. But I can’t stop now. Not until I’ve got Fuchs. I’ve got to get him.

He ran his fingertips over the smooth plastic cylinders of the medications. Something stronger. Just for the next half hour or so. Then I can relax and get a good long sleep. But right now I need something stronger. Much stronger.

HABITAT CHRYSALIS

Yannis Ritsos was the last of a long line of rebels and poets. Named after a famed Greek forebear, he had been born in Cyprus, lived through the deadly biowar that racked that tortured island, survived the fallout from the nuclear devastation of Israel, and worked his way across the Mediterranean to Spain where, like another Greek artist, he made a living for himself. Unlike El Greco, however, Yanni supported himself by running computer