Ben Bova - The Silent War

“It’s been a really good visit,” Pancho was saying. “I’m glad I came.”

Still smiling for her, Tsavo said, “You’ll stay the night, of course.”

Pancho grinned back at him. He was a centimeter or so taller than her own lanky height, and she liked tall men.

“I’d love to, Dan, but I’ve got to get back to my own people. They’re expecting me.”

“But the storm,” he said earnestly. “All surface activities are suspended until the radiation goes down to normal.”

Pancho teased, “Is that what your dinner was for? To keep me here long enough for the storm to hit?”

He looked shocked. “No! Not at all. But now that it’s hit, you’ll have to stay the night.”

She said nothing as he led her a few more paces down the carpeted corridor and stopped at an unmarked door. Sliding it open, he ushered her into a spare but comfortable-looking bedroom, with a small desk set in one corner and a wallscreen that showed the view outside the base. Pancho saw several hoppers standing out there, including the green one she had flown in on. And a transfer vehicle, the kind that brought people in from ships in orbit; that hadn’t been there when she’d landed. In the bright sunlight outside she could see that it was anodized sky blue.

Then she noticed that her travel bag had been placed on the bed, unopened. And there was a bottle of wine sitting tilted in a chiller bucket on the low table in front of the cushioned sofa.

“Champagne,” she noted. “And two glasses.”

Tsavo put on a slightly sheepish look. “Even before the storm came up I had hoped you’d stay the night.”

“Looks like I’ll have to. I ought to call my people at Malapert, though, and let them know I’m okay.”

He hesitated, as if debating inwardly with himself. Pancho couldn’t hear the whispered instructions he was getting.

“All right,” he said, flashing that killer smile again. “Let me call my communications center.”

“Great!”

He went to the phone on the desk and the wallscreen abruptly switched to an image of a man sitting at a console with a headset clipped over his thick dark hair.

“I’m afraid, sir, that the solar storm is interfering with communications at this time.” Tsavo seemed upset. “Can’t you establish a laser link?”

Unperturbed, the communications tech said, “Our laser equipment is not functional at this time, sir.”

“Well get it functioning,” Tsavo said hotly. “And let me know the instant it’s working.”

“Yes, sir.” The wallscreen went dark.

Pancho pursed her lips, then shrugged. “Guess my people at Malapert will have to get along without me till the storm lets up.”

Tsavo looked pleased. Smiling, he asked, “Would you like some wine?”

Harbin was heading back to the HSS base at Vesta. Samarkand had not escaped its one-sided battle against the Astro freighter unscathed. The loosed rocks and pebbles of his ship’s armor shield had dented and buckled parts of the hull, and now Samarkand was totally unarmored, easy prey for any warship it should happen to meet.

He was worried about the ship’s radiation shielding. Even though the diagnostics showed the system to be functioning properly, with a solar storm approaching he preferred to be safely underground at Vesta.

Still, he left his two other vessels to continue their hunt through this region of the Belt while he made his way back to Vesta for refurbishment.

It will be good to have a few days of R R, he thought as he sat in the command chair. Besides, my medicinals are running low. I’ll have to get the pharmacy to restock them.

He turned the con over to his executive officer and left the bridge, ducking through the hatch and down the short passageway to his private quarters. Making his way straight to his lavatory, he opened the medicine chest and surveyed the vials and syringes stored there. Running low, he confirmed. But there’s enough here to get me through the next few nights. Enough to let me sleep when I need to.

He reached for one of the vials, but before he could take it in his fingers the intercom buzzed.

“Sir, we have a target,” the exec’s voice said. Then she added, “I think.”

Harbin slammed the cabinet door shut. “You think?” he shouted to the intercom microphone set into the metal overhead of the lav. “It’s an odd signature, sir.”

Incompetent jackass, Harbin said to himself. Aloud, “I’m on my way.”

He strode to the bridge, simmering anger. I can’t trust this crew to do anything for themselves. I can’t even leave them alone long enough to take a piss.

But as he slid into the command chair he saw that the display on the main screen was indeed fuzzy, indistinct.

“Max magnification,” he commanded.

“It is at maximum,” the comm tech replied. She too was staring at the screen, a puzzled frown furrowing her pale Nordic countenance.

Harbin glanced at the data bar running across the bottom of the display. Just over twelve hundred kilometers away. The object was spinning slowly, turning along its long axis every few seconds.

“Size estimate,” he snapped.

Two pulsating cursors appeared at each end of the rotating object. Blinking alphanumerics said 1.9 meters.

“It’s too small to be a ship,” said the pilot.

“A robot vehicle?” the weapons technician asked. “Maybe a mine of some sort?” Harbin shook his head. He knew what it was. “Turn off the display.”

“But what is it?” the communications tech wondered aloud.

“Turn it off!”

The screen went dark. All four of his officers turned to stare at him questioningly.

“It’s a man,” Harbin said. “Or a woman. Someone in a space suit. Someone dead. Killed in a battle out there, probably months ago.”

“Should we—”

“Ignore it,” he snapped. “It can’t hurt us and there’s nothing more we can do to it. Just leave it alone.”

The officers glanced at each other.

“A casualty of war,” Harbin said grimly as he got out of the command chair. “Just forget about it. I’m going back to my quarters. Don’t disturb me with any more ghosts.”

He went back to his cabin, stripped off his sweaty uniform and stretched out on his bunk. It will be good to get back to Vesta, he thought. This ship needs refurbishment. So do I.

This war can’t last much longer, he told himself. We’ve driven most of the Astro ships out of the Belt. They’ll come back with more, I suppose, and we’ll destroy them. We’ll keep on destroying them until they finally give up. And what then? Do I retire back to Earth? Or keep on working? There’s always money to be made for a mercenary soldier. There’s always someone willing to pay for killing someone else.

He closed his eyes to sleep, but instead he saw a space-suited figure tumbling slowly through the star-flecked emptiness, silently turning over and over, for all eternity alone in the cold, dark emptiness, forever alone.

His eyes snapped open. Harbin thought about taking a shot that would let him sleep, but he didn’t want to dream. So he lay on the bunk for hours, wide awake, staring at the hard metal of the overhead.

“Wish I could call my people and tell ’em I’ll be spending the night here,” Pancho said. “When’s that laser link going to start working?”

Wine bottle in one hand, pneumatic corkscrew in the other, Daniel Tsavo suddenly looked uneasy.

“They’ll know you’re safe down here,” he said, with a slightly labored smile. “Let’s have some wine and stop worrying.”

Pancho made herself smile back at him. “Sure, why not? You open the bottle while I freshen up a little.”