The chamber shook again and the screens dimmed, then came back to their normal brightness.
Stromsen punched a key on her console. “Main generator off, sir.”
Hazard knew it was his imagination, but the screens seemed to become slightly dimmer.
“Miss Yang?” he asked.
“All personnel have been instructed to move down to level four and stay off the intercom.”
Hazard nodded, satisfied. Turning back to Feeney, he resumed, “Suppose, Mr. Feeney, that you are in command of
Graham
. How would you know that you've knocked out
Hunter
?”
Feeney absently started to stroke his chin and bumped his fingertips against the rim of his helmet instead. “I suppose ⦠if
Hunter
stopped shooting back, and I couldn't detect any radio emissions from her ⦔
“And infrared!” Yang added. “With the power generator out, our infrared signature goes way down.”
“We appear to be dead in the water,” said Stromsen.
“Right.”
“But what does it gain us?” Yang asked.
“Time,” answered Stromsen. “In another ten minutes or so we'll be within contact range of Geneva.”
Hazard patted the top of her helmet. “Exactly. But more than that. We get them to stop shooting at us. We save the wounded up in the sick bay.”
“And ourselves,” said Feeney.
“Yes,” Hazard admitted. “And ourselves.”
For long moments they hung weightlessly, silent, waiting, hoping.
“Sir,” said Yang, “a query from
Graham
, asking if we surrender.”
“No reply,” Hazard ordered. “Maintain complete silence.”
The minutes stretched. Hazard glided to Yang's comm console and taped a message for Geneva, swiftly outlining what had happened.
“I want that tape compressed into a couple of milliseconds and burped by the tightest laser beam we have down to Geneva.”
Yang nodded. “I suppose the energy surge for a low-power communications laser won't be enough for them to detect.”
“Probably not, but it's a chance we'll have to take. Beam it at irregular intervals as long as Geneva is in view.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Sir!” Feeney called out. “Looks like
Graham's
detached a lifeboat.”
“Trajectory analysis?”
Feeney tapped at his navigation console. “Heading for us,” he reported.
Hazard felt his lips pull back in a feral grin.
“They're coming over to make sure. Cardillo's an old submariner; he knows all about running silent. They're sending over an armed party to make sure we're finished.”
“And to take control of our satellites,” Yang suggested.
Hazard brightened. “Right! There're only two ways to control the ABM satellitesâeither from the station on patrol or from Geneva.” He spread his arms happily. “That means they're not in control of Geneva! We've got a good chance to pull their cork!”
But there was no response from Geneva when they beamed their data-compressed message to IPF headquarters.
Hunter
glided past in its unusually low orbit, a tattered wreck desperately calling for help. No answer reached them.
And the lifeboat from
Graham
moved inexorably closer.
The gloom in the CIC was thick enough to stuff a mattress as Geneva disappeared over the horizon and the boat from
Graham
came toward them. Hazard watched the boat on one of Stromsen's screens: it was bright and shining in the sunlight, not blackened by scorching laser beams, unsullied by splashes of human blood.
We could zap it into dust, he thought. One word from me and Feeney could focus half a dozen lasers on it. The men aboard her must be volunteers, willing to risk their necks to make certain that we're finished. He felt a grim admiration for them. Then he wondered, Is Jon Jr. aboard with them?
“Mr. Feeney, what kind of weapons do you think they're carrying?”
Feeney's brows rose toward his scalp. “Weapons, sir? You mean, like sidearms?”
Hazard nodded.
“Personal weapons are not allowed aboard station,
sir. Regulations forbid it.”
“I know. But what do you bet they've got pistols, at least. Maybe some submachine guns.”
“Damned dangerous stuff for a space station,” said Feeney.
Hazard smiled tightly at the Irishman. “Are you afraid they'll put a few more holes in our hull?”
Yang saw what he was driving at. “Sir, there are no weapons aboard
Hunter
âunless you want to count kitchen knives.”
“They'll be coming aboard with guns, just to make sure,” Hazard said. “I want to capture them alive and use them as hostages. That's our last remaining card. If we can't do that, we've got to surrender.”
“They'll be in full suits,” said Stromsen. “Each on his own individual life-support system.”
“How can we capture them? Or even fight them?” Yang wondered aloud.
Hazard detected no hint of defeat in their voices. The despair of a half hour earlier was gone now. A new excitement had hold of them. He was holding a glimmer of hope for them, and they were reaching for it.
“There can't be more than six of them aboard that boat,” Feeney mused.
I wonder if Cardillo has the guts to lead the boarding party in person, Hazard asked himself.
“We don't have any useful weapons,” said Yang.
“But we have some tools,” Stromsen pointed out. “Maybe ⦔
“What do the lifeboat engines use for propellant?” Hazard asked rhetorically.
“Methane and Oh-eff-two,” Feeney replied, looking puzzled.
Hazard nodded. “Miss Stromsen, which of our supply magazines are still intactâif any?”
It took them several minutes to understand what he
was driving at, but when they finally saw the light, the three young officers went speedily to work. Together with the four unwounded members of the crew, they prepared a welcome for the boarders from
Graham
.
Finally, Hazard watched on Stromsen's display screens as the boat sniffed around the battered station. Strict silence was in force aboard
Hunter
. Even in the CIC, deep at the heart of the battle station, they spoke in tense whispers.
“I hope the bastards like what they see,” Hazard muttered.
“They know that we used the lifeboats for shields,” said Yang.
“Active armor,” Hazard said. “Did you know the idea was invented by the man this station's named after?”
“They're looking for a docking port,” Stromsen pointed out.
“Only one left,” said Feeney.
They could hang their boat almost anywhere and walk in through the holes they've put in us, Hazard said to himself. But they won't. They'll go by the book and find an intact docking port. They've got to! Everything depends on that.
He felt his palms getting slippery with nervous perspiration as the lifeboat slowly, slowly moved around
Hunter
toward the Earth-facing side, where the only usable port was located. Hazard had seen to it that all the other ports had been disabled.
“They're buying it!” Stromsen's whisper held a note of triumph.
“Sir!” Yang hissed urgently. “A message just came inâlaser beam, ultracompressed.”
“From where?”
“Computer's decrypting,” she replied, her snubnosed face wrinkled with concentration. “Coming up on my center screen, sir.”
Hazard slid over toward her. The words on the screen read:
From: IPF Regional HQ, Lagos.
To: Commander, battle station
Hunter
.
Message begins. Coup attempt in Geneva a failure, thanks in large part to your refusal to surrender your command. Situation still unclear, however. Imperative you retain control of
Hunter
, at all costs. Message ends.
He read it aloud, in a guttural whisper, so that Feeney and Stromsen understood what was at stake.
“We're not alone,” Hazard told them. “They know what's happening, and help is on the way.”
That was stretching the facts, he knew. And he knew
they
knew. But it was reassuring to think that someone, somewhere, was preparing to help them.
Hazard watched them grinning to one another. In his mind, though, he kept repeating the phrase “Imperative you retain control of
Hunter
, at all costs.”
At all costs, Hazard said to himself, closing his eyes wearily, seeing Varshni dying in his arms and the others maimed. At all costs.
The bastards, Hazard seethed inwardly. The dirty, power-grabbing, murdering bastards. Once they set foot inside my station, I'll kill them like the poisonous snakes they are. I'll squash them flat. I'll cut them open just like they've slashed my kids â¦
He stopped abruptly and forced himself to take a deep breath. Yeah, sure. Go for personal revenge. That'll make the world a better place to live in, won't it?
“Sir, are you all right?”
Hazard opened his eyes and saw Stromsen staring at him. “Yes, I'm fine. Thank you.”
“They've docked, sir,” said the Norwegian.
“They're debarking and coming up passageway C, just as you planned.”
Looking past her to the screens, Hazard saw that there were six of them, all in space suits, visors down. And pistols in their gloved hands.
“Nothing bigger than pistols?”
“No, sir. Not that we can see, at least.”
Turning to Feeney. “Ready with the aerosols?”
“Yes, sir.”
“All crew members evacuated from the area?”
“They're all back on level four, except for the sick bay.”
Hazard never took his eyes from the screens. The six space-suited boarders were floating down the passageway that led to the lower levels of the station, which were still pressurized and held breathable air. They stopped at the air lock, saw that it was functional. The leader of their group started working the wall unit that controlled the lock.
“Can we hear them?” he asked Yang.
Wordlessly, she touched a stud on her keyboard.
“ ⦠use the next section of the passageway as an air lock,” someone was saying. “Standard procedure. Then we'll pump the air back into it once we're inside.”
“But we stay in the suits until we check out the whole station. That's an order,” said another voice.
Buckbee? Hazard's spirits soared. Buckbee will make a nice hostage, he thought. Not as good as Cardillo, but good enough.
Just as he had hoped, the six boarders went through the airtight hatch, closed it behind them, and started the pump that filled the next section of passageway with air once again.
“Something funny here, sir,” said one of the space-suited figures.
“Yeah, the air's kind of misty.”
“Never saw anything like this before. Christ, it's like Mexico City air.”
“Stay in your suits!” It
was
Buckbee's voice, Hazard was certain of it. “Their life-support systems must have been damaged in our bombardment. They're probably all dead.”
You wish, Hazard thought. To Feeney, he commanded, “Seal that hatch.”
Feeney pecked at a button on his console.
“And the next one.”
“Already done, sir.”
Hazard waited, watching Stromsen's main screen as the six boarders shuffled weightlessly to the next hatch and found that it would not respond to the control unit on the bulkhead.
“Damn! We'll have to double back and find another route ⦔
“Miss Yang, I'm ready to hold converse with our guests,” said Hazard.
She flashed a brilliant smile and touched the appropriate keys, then pointed a surprisingly well-manicured finger at him. “You're on the air!”
“Buckbee, this is Hazard.”
All six of the boarders froze for an instant, then spun weightlessly in midair, trying to locate the source of the new voice.
“You are trapped in that section of corridor,” Hazard said. “The mist that you see in the air is oxygen difluoride from our lifeboat propellant tanks. Very volatile stuff. Don't strike any matches.”
“What the hell are you saying, Hazard?”