His troops had been in full gear but had not readied their weapons. That would have been rude. Some had been quicker than others and were beginning to shoot back. A full half of his garrison turned, pushing for the exits. He wanted to scream at them for their cowardice.
A nearby rattling sound forced him to curl into a ball. Sparks flew from all around him as someone below tried to finish him off. The exit suddenly seemed like a damn good idea. Russell pushed toward one and the burning in his leg turned into nuclear fire. He screamed, pulled his handgun, and fired as he rotated around in an uncontrolled spiral. He managed to unload half a clip on the first spin, the other half on the second. Some of his bullets even went into the maw of the nearest climber car airlock.
Below him, battle raged. A rotating blur of gunfire, hand-to-hand combat, and death. Bodies floated all over the bay, some in perfect stillness, some careening around like mannequins with disjointed limbs. Marble-sized globes of blood drifted around the scene as if someone had fired up a macabre bubble machine.
Another spray of gunfire prattled against the ceiling above Russell. He heard the hiss as one round passed within centimeters of his ear, and he tucked into a ball again on pure instinct. His leg burned, each movement as if a knife twisted there. A serrated knife coated with rusty barbed wire heated until it glowed. The pain flooded his mind like an orgasm without the release of pleasure.
Still curled in a ball, Russell collided with something—someone—and then a floor. He opened his eyes and groaned. Soldiers hung on the walls around him, their hands pulling him away from the bay door.
“Seal it,” Russell hissed. “Seal that fucking room.”
“We still have people in there,” someone said against a background of screams and gunshots.
“I still have people in there,” Russell corrected. “You have an order. Fucking do it.”
In answer the thick door began to close. Someone on the other side shouted, “Wait!” just before the metallic clang signaled the cargo bay had sealed.
“Vent the air,” Russell said. “No one better question that. Vent the air.”
“Sir?” someone said.
A question. Russell looked around but found his vision clouded with tears. He squinted.
“Sir,” the same voice went on, “comm says they came in through the passenger ports down on A. They’re taking prisoners.”
“Then seal that level, too,” he said. “Vent it.”
“There’s innocent—”
“Don’t start. No room for goddamn debate here. Vent the air. We can’t let these bastards gain any more ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
Russell heard a faint whoosh, and a creaking sound that lasted half a heartbeat. The air, sucked out of the cargo bay into space. A fire prevention technique.
The men and women in the room would be suffocating now. Russell wondered how many had made it into the three exits before the doors were closed, and if any of the survivors were on the enemy side.
The enemy. Grillo, you two-faced cunt, I will cut your heart out for this.
“Someone help me get to station ops,” he said. He felt lightheaded. Blood still seeped from his calf in little red spheres.
The operations room on Platz Station looked just like the other suites of cubicle offices that plagued the complex.
Russell entered on one leg, his arm over the shoulder of a guard who smelled like old socks.
“Report,” Russell said as he took a chair. Then he looked at the guard. “Find me a medic. And vodka.”
“Mr. Blackfield,” said the operations lead on duty, a pouty woman with classic Australian features and drawl. “Level A is at zero atmosphere, and the doors are sealed.”
“Good news,” he said. “Did they get farther than that?”
“Reports of sporadic fighting on B, but it seems to be under control now.”
Russell nodded. The woman seemed remarkably detached from the situation. Cool under fire; he liked that. Rational ideas and prudent tactics fought to gain attention in his mind, all eclipsed by the raw thirst for revenge. We have to go down to Darwin now, before he entrenches himself further. He toyed with the idea of rigging a climber to fall uncontrolled on Nightcliff. Fill the thing with fifty tons of old scrap metal and broken parts and it’ll take out the entire fortress. He filed the idea for the moment, knowing Grillo spent more than half his time out in Lyons, or at that bloody stadium.
“Hey,” he said to the woman. “Your name?”
“Jenny,” she said.
“Jenny. Can we do that thing, like Dr. Sharma did? Detach a farm platform?”
“I don’t see what that would—”
“Just answer, please.”
She grimaced, nodded. “All stations have a separation gap capability, so they can move away from the cord and reposition.”
“I love you, Jenny. Pick one and start the process. Someone find me a map of Darwin.”
Naked horror flashed across her face as she realized what he intended to do. She visibly gulped, studied her screens for a moment, then set to work.
A nurse came in, dropped a case of supplies on the floor next to Russell, and began to examine his leg. The man worked quickly, unconcerned if his probing caused pain, or perhaps hoping it would to know where the damage was. He used a pair of scissors to cut the pant leg away, revealing two red holes on either side of the calf muscle.
“Get me Alex Warthen on the comm,” Russell said.
Jenny turned to her screen and began to tap in commands. “Um,” she said. “Getting a lot of chatter here.”
Before Russell could speak, she turned to face him, one finger pressing a headset into her ear. “Reports coming in from the other stations. Anchor Station is overrun. Gateway is under heavy assault.”
The rage within Russell Blackfield transformed into a block of ice. He thought back to the day Grillo had offered warriors to aid in his assault on Tania’s colony. Months of excuses and delays. Then, suddenly, he had the men, plus the nerve to ask if Jacobite delegations could begin visits to Anchor. Pilgrimages to their holy site, he’d had the gall to say.
“Hab-Six is reporting casualties,” Jenny went on. “Hab-Five. Midway.”
“Enough,” Russell said. Grillo, you bloody snake. The nurse sprayed his wound with something that made his leg go cold and numb, then began to wrap gauze around his calf.
“Incoming climbers,” another station operator said. A young man with a nasal voice.
“They won’t get far,” Russell said. “The first wave are still docked.”
“From above and below,” he added.
Stupid, Russell thought. They’ll just clog the cord waiting for an opening. Unless … “Blockade,” Russell said aloud. “They’re going to pen us in here. Starve us until we give in.”
“I don’t think so. They’re not slowing.”
Everyone went silent. Russell knew they were looking at him. Climbers speeding toward the station meant one thing: total destruction. Plan fucking B for the Jacobites and their holy slumlord.
“How long?” Russell asked.
The young man glanced at his display. “Sixteen minutes.”
“Okay,” Russell said. “New orders. How long … fuck, doesn’t even matter how long … Detach Platz Station from the cord, right now.”
Jenny stared at him, her face a sudden mask. She blinked, as if hearing his command a second time and still not believing it. The other operators were still, too. Even the nurse froze his work at Russell’s order.
“Relax, we’re not going to go all kamikaze on Darwin. We’re going to survive.”
“Sir,” Jenny said, “it’ll take at least an hour to clear everyone from the slice bulkheads. Eight hours to have the station prepped for null gravity, minimum.”
Russell shot her a glare that cut off the argument. “How long does it take if you throw every goddamn safety reg out the window? If you wanted, say, to save all our lives.”
She swallowed, gave him a terrified nod, and began to enter the instructions. “I need your code to authorize it,” she said after a time.
“ ‘Sex machine.’ ”
Jenny looked at him, an eyebrow arched.
“Yes, my code is ‘sex machine.’ Keep staring at me like that, love, and I’ll prove it.”
Jenny glanced down at her screen and tapped in the code. Warning lights began to spin. Klaxons wailed.
From the hallway outside came the sound of emergency bulkhead doors closing. More noises came from under the floor, inside the walls and ceiling. Water pipes sealing themselves, Russell guessed.
“Warning,” a pre-recorded voice said over the station intercom. “This station is about to experience null gravity. Stow nonsecured objects immediately. All noncritical personnel …”
“Everybody better hang on to something,” Jenny said. “Killing spin in five, four, three …”
“You,” Russell said to nasal-boy. “Count off the minutes till those climbers get here.”
He nodded, his face white as a bedsheet. “Uh. Nine minutes.”
“Jenny?”
She’d finished her countdown. “We’ll clear the cord in … eight,” she said. As her words came out the sensation of gravity began to fade.
A mug on the desk next to Russell began to drift upward, as if he were levitating it with his mind. Scissors from the nurse’s first aid kit began to float out of their compartment, followed by a stack of bandages that splayed out like a deck of cards.
Across the room, random items began to rise toward the ceiling as if ascending to heaven. Then the station lurched. The walls creaked, and in the same instant there came a chorus of surprised gasps from those in the room, the hall outside. Russell gripped the arms of his chair. Though brief and gentle, the pulse of acceleration still sent every floating item hurling across the room. Flotsam smacked into people’s heads and rattled against the wall to Russell’s left. A framed picture on the wall shattered when someone’s forgotten headset smacked into it, shards of glass expanding into a cloud around the frame.
“Everyone cover yourselves,” Jenny said, sounding on the verge of tears. “Reverse thrust coming.”
Russell cringed. “Can you cancel that?”
“What? Don’t stop?”
The plan formed in Russell’s mind like a Darwin thunderstorm. He felt it before he could see it. “Cancel it. How much fuel do we have?”
Jenny glanced at her screen. She tapped a few icons. “Retro-burn canceled; station is adrift.”
“Good. How much fuel?”
“Very little. A typical station reposition, if there is such a thing, requires only six brief thrusts. Detach, stop. Reposition, stop. Attach, stop. Of course, I’ve only done this in simulation, but the reserves allow for maybe seven or eight reposition maneuvers.”
Russell tried to think of alternatives, knowing there were none. Grillo had pulled off an incredible coup, if the station reports were accurate. Alex Warthen conveniently left on the last climber before the attack. Russell was alone. He’d lost Darwin willingly, fooled himself into thinking he could get it back. He’d alienated himself from the Orbital Council with such success that Alex Warthen had needed to sit him down like a delinquent schoolboy, for which Russell rewarded him with a reinstatement of sorts.
All he needed to become the true reincarnation of Neil Platz was a bullet between his own eyes. His kingdom had shrunk to this tin can, one marvelous whore in his bedroom, and stubborn delusions of revenge against Tania Sharma.
“Russell?” Jenny asked. “What do we do? Where can we go?”
Vary the pattern.
“The enemy of my enemy is my friend,” he said, and glanced at the girl.
She stared at him, a mixture of hope and fear in her wide eyes. Everyone stared at him.
“Save the fuel; we’re going to need it,” he said. “We go to Brazil. To the colony, and trust in the kindness and mercy of Tania Sharma and Zane Platz.”
Chapter 44
Cappagh, Ireland
Date imprecise
THE DOME RATTLED as if the very planet below it had cracked open.
Fist-sized chunks of earth from the lip of the pinnacle broke away and fell. Skyler’s foot slipped in the ascender and he kicked hard to keep his toes within the loop.
Vanessa’s scream below turned into battle cry, followed by the rhythmic hammer of gunfire. Her weapon chattered in short bursts. Once, twice, then a third time, each a split second apart.
Ana screamed, her voice a mix of terror and warning.
There came another sound, a new thing that Skyler couldn’t comprehend. Below, a swarm of distinct thrumming objects could be heard, emitting an almost electrical hiss, each at its own frequency.
Skyler fought the urge to look down, because the creature in front of him held his gaze with an absolute promise of death in its bloodshot eyes. Tangled strands of greasy gray hair hung across the subhuman’s twisted face. Its nostrils flared. Its cracked and blistered lips were slightly parted, revealing a filthy mess of gritted teeth. Soiled clothing still clung to the creature’s muscle-corded body. Scrapes and scabs littered its arms.
Its hands and feet were in a perfect row across the front lip of the alien object upon which it perched. Twenty cracked and jagged nails, the middle portion coated black, in an uneven line like some kind of saw blade.
The creature grunted at him. Skyler saw white knuckles on those toes, and the black-covered fingers curled almost imperceptibly as they tightened against the alien object. He saw a slight coiling motion of the body and the lowering of hips, and he did the only thing he could think do to.