Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

“I have a report for you on the, ah, annoyance. If you have time for it now.” Bauer made a steeple of his fingers. “If you can keep it short,” he said gloomily.

“Not difficult.” Mirsky’s eyes glittered in the gaslight. “It was all the fault of my idiot of an intelligence officer. If he hadn’t managed to kill himself, I’d have him in irons.” He took a deep breath. “But he didn’t act alone. As it is, sir, in confidence, I would recommend a reprimand for my FO, Fleet Commander Murametz, if not formal proceedings — except that we are so close to the enemy that—”

“Details, Captain. What did he do?”

“Lieutenant Sauer exceeded his authority by attempting to draw out the Terran spy — the woman, I mean — by means of a faked trial. He somehow convinced Commander Murametz to cover him, damned error of judgment if you ask me: he had no job making a mess in diplomat territory. Anyway, he pushed too hard, and the woman panicked. Ordinarily this would be no problem, but she somehow—” He coughed into his fist.

Bauer nodded. “I think I can guess the rest. Where is she now?” Mirsky shrugged. “Outside the ship, with the dockyard contractor. Missing, probably suited up, don’t know where they are, don’t know what in hell they thought they were doing — the Procurator’s missing too, sir, and there’s an embarrassing hole in our side where there used to be a cabin.” Slowly, the Commodore began to smile. “I don’t think you need waste any time searching for them, Captain. If we found them, we’d only have to throw them overboard again, what? I suppose the Procurator had a hand in this kangaroo court, didn’t he?“

“Ah, I suppose so, sir.”

“Well, this way we don’t have to worry about the civilians. And if they get a little sunburned during the engagement, no matter. I’m sure you’ll take care of everything that needs doing.”

“Yes, sir!” Mirsky nodded.

“So,” Bauer said crisply, “that’s tied down. Now, in your analysis, we should be entering the enemy’s proximity defense sphere when?”

Mirsky paused for thought. “About two hours, sir. That’s assuming that our emcon was sufficient and the lack of active probes is a genuine indication that they don’t know we’re out here.”

“I’m glad you added that qualifier. What’s your schedule for working up to stations?”

“We’re ready right now, sir. That is, there are some inessential posts that won’t lock down for another hour or so, but the ops crew and black gang are already on combat watch, and gunnery is standing by the weapons. The mess is due to send around some hot food; but in principle, we’re ready for action at a moment’s notice.”

“Very good.” Bauer paused and glanced down at his desk. Rubbed the side of his nose with one long, bony finger. Then he glanced up. “I don’t like this silence, Captain. It stinks of a trap.” Martin and Rachel glanced up in reflexive terror, seeking the source of the noise.

Aboard a spacecraft, any noise from outside spells trouble— big trouble. Their lifeboat was drifting toward Rochard’s World at well over solar escape velocity; a BB pellet stationary in their path would rip through them with the force of an antishipping missile. And while warships like the Lord Vanek could carry centimeters of foamed diamond armor and shock bumpers to absorb spallation fragments, the lifeboat’s skin was thin enough to puncture with a penknife.

“Masks,” snapped Rachel. A mess of interconnected transparent bags with complex seals and some sort of gas tank inside coiled from the console opposite Martin and bounced into his lap; for her part, she reached behind her seat and pulled out a helmet. Yanking it on over her head, she let its rim melt into her leotard, dripping sealant down her neck. Crude icons blinked inside the visor. She breathed out, relieved, hearing the fan whine behind her right ear. Beside her, Martin was still stuffing himself into the transparent cocoon. She looked up. “Pilot. Topside sensor view, optical, center screen.”

“Oh shit,” Martin said indistinctly.

The screen showed an indistinct blur that moved against a backdrop of pinprick stars. As they watched, the blur receded, dizzyingly fast, and sharpened into a recognizable shape. Moving.

She turned and stared at Martin. “Whoever he is, we can’t leave him out there,” he said.

“Not with a rescue beacon,” she agreed grimly. “Pilot. Oxygen supply. Recalculate on basis of fifty percent increase in consumption. How does it affect our existing survival margin?” An amber GANT chart flickered across the screen. “Bags of room,” Martin commented. “What about landfall? Hmm.” He prodded at his PA. “I think we can make it,” he added. “Mass ratio isn’t so much worse.”

“Think or know?” she replied pointedly. “If we get halfway down and run out of go-juice, it could put a real damper on this day-trip.”

“I’m aware of that. Let me see … yeah. We’ll be okay, Rachel. Whoever designed this boat must have thought you’d be carrying one hell of a diplomatic bag with you. More like a wardrobe.”

“Don’t say that.” She licked her lips. “Question two. We take him on board. How are we going to stop him if he decides to get in the way?”

“I think you get to use your feminine wiles on him,” Martin deadpanned.

“I should have known you’d come up with something like that.” Wearily, she groped for the stun gun.

“This won’t work in vacuum, you know? And it’s not a good idea to use the sucker in a confined space either.”

“Talking of confined spaces.” Martin pointed to the rather basic mass detector display. “Twelve kilometers and drifting. We don’t want to be this close when they spin up for combat.”

“No, we don’t,” Rachel agreed. “Okay. I’m as ready as I’ll ever be. You got confirmation on suit integrity? Once we vent, you won’t be able to move much.” Martin nodded, held up a balloon-bloated glove. Rachel cranked open her oxygen regulator and yawned, deliberately, hunting the roof of the cabin for an attachment point for her survival tether. “Okay. Pilot, EVA cycle. Prepare to depressurize cabin.” An alarm pinged in the operations room.

“Contact.” Lieutenant Kokesova leaned over his subordinate’s shoulder and stared at the gauges on his console. Lights blinked violet and green. “I say again, contact.”

“Accepted.” Lieutenant Marek swallowed. “Comms, please signal captain to the ops room and condition red.”

“Aye aye, sir.” A red light began to strobe by the doorway. “Any specifics?” asked Marek.

‘Tracking. I have a definite fusion source, came up about two-zero seconds ago. I thought at first it was a sensor malfunction but it’s showing blue-shifted Balmer lines, and it’s bright as hell — black body temperature would be in the five-zero-zero M-degree range. Traveling at well above local stellar escape velocity.“

“Very good.” Marek tried to lean back in the command chair but failed, unable to force himself to relax that much. ‘Time to get a solution on it?“

“Any minute.” Lieutenant Kokesova, tech specialist, demonstrating his proficiency once again. “I’ll see if I can pickle some neutrinos for you.”

The door opened, and the guard beside it came to attention. Lieutenant Marek spun around and saluted stiffly. “Sir!”

“What’s the situation?”

“Humbly report we have a provisional fix on one incoming, sir,” said Marek. “We’re still waiting for a solution, but we have a blue-shifted fusion torch. Looks like we’re looking straight up their endplate mirror.”

Mirsky nodded. “Very good, Lieutenant. Is there anything else?”