The Sphere Imperium: Book Two of the Intentional Contact Trilogy Page 2

  “Frack,” Sinja swore under her breath. Security guards had already been alerted to their presence. Probably, she realized with a frown, by a silent alarm sent out after Datch had stunned the worker sent to meet them. Most likely the alarm was triggered by the platform’s integrated AI, detecting either a sudden drop in that worker’s biosignature, or the energy discharge from Datch’s pistol. Either way, the automated defenses would be active and hot, some of them far more lethal than needler rounds.

  As Sinja sped ahead, Datch fell back into a rearguard position, his head swiveling around every five seconds or so to watch for surprises that might hit them from behind. Mercer chugged after Sinja, puffing hard as he struggled to keep up. Sweat poured off his brow.

  The corridor Sinja was running down made a sharp 90° turn ahead. She stopped before reaching it, then took a quick peek around the corner, instantly ducking back. As she had expected, an orange pulse of light blazed past, just missing her head. Sinja smelled ozone as the fusion pulse sizzled into the wall behind her.

  She held up her left hand and made a fist, signaling Datch and Mercer to stop. After they had done so, she extended her forefinger and pinky, prompting Datch to grab a grenade from his utility belt, pull out its pin, and then toss it down the corridor behind them. Sinja heard a whoosh as it exploded, filling the passageway with twenty-eight cubic meters of thick, gray foam. It hardened in seconds, forming an impassible concrete-like barrier.

  No longer worried about guards sneaking up on them from behind, Sinja flipped open a compartment on her utility belt and took out the cloth pouch inside. She then emptied its contents onto the palm of her left hand, keeping her palm level as the tiny black shapes poured out. Once the pouch was empty, she gently jiggled her hand back and forth until the glowmites were spread out in a thin layer. Satisfied that none were clumped atop another, Sinja leaned in and softly blew on the flea-size microbots, activating them. The glowmites fluttered into the air on gossamer wings.

  “Go, my little darlings,” she whispered to them. “Shine bright.”

  They began blinking like a swarm of tiny fireflies as they flew around the corner and into the corridor ahead.

  According to the platform schematics provided by Dupree, a 30mm fusion cannon in a ceiling-mounted, armored turret protected the only entrance into the control room. Sinja had caught a glimpse of it during her brief peek around the corner, the quick pulse it’d fired at her confirming it was hot. To reach it, they must traverse forty meters of empty corridor with no doors and nothing to hide behind―a perfect kill zone. Only force-field shielded marines or marauder warbots could withstand that cannon. She had neither. The glowmites and her stepbrother would have to suffice.

  Datch unslung his rifle and crept up beside Sinja.

  “Ready?” she asked him in a whisper.

  He nodded. They’d practiced this in simulated assaults many times before, getting their timing down just right.

  Sinja spun a control dial on her utility belt all the way clockwise, causing the glowmites to go into frenzy mode. They sped down the corridor in a wild swirl, flashing their little light beacons at the turret as they flittered toward it. The cannon fired a quick pulse, incinerating a glowmite, then again, destroying another. But this was like trying to exterminate a cloud of gnats with a sledgehammer. As the glowmites fluttered closer, the cumulative effective of so many flashing beacons began to interfere with the turret’s targeting scanner.

  “Now,” Sinja whispered.

  Datch leaned out, raised his rifle with the swift grace of an expert marksman, took aim and fired. The 18mm bright-orange fusion beam from his RZ-11 lanced out, striking the turret on its scanner plate. There, where the underlying armor was weakest, a half-second pulse was enough to burn through, and the turret exploded with a loud bang. Molten debris shot out in all directions.

  Datch leaned back just in time, as a white-hot chunk sizzled past, embedding in the wall behind him.

  Sinja smiled, knowing her stepbrother had just made a very difficult shot. “Well done,” she told him with a sisterly pat on the back. “Now let’s go finish this.”

  She ran around the corner. At the end of the corridor ahead was a sliding door with a wall marker beside it labeled Control Room. Sinja ran up to it and stopped a meter away. Holding her breath, she extended an outstretched finger toward the door. She winced as her hand suddenly snapped back, jolted by an electrostatic discharge. This confirmed a Kemplar force field had enveloped the control room. Sinja expected this, knowing it was yet another layer of the automated defenses. A glowmite fluttered into it and was vaporized, leaving a pinprick-sized flash of light.

  “Okay, gents, it’s all yours. Impress me.” Sinja stepped aside so Datch and Mercer could get to work, then unslung her rifle and faced down the corridor, ready to provide covering fire in case security guards managed to get past the foam barrier. Unlikely, but Sinja hated surprises, pleasant or otherwise. While keeping a watchful eye out, she turned the control dial for the glowmites from frenzy to standby, causing them to hover in place; they could be useful again in the right situation.

  Datch took off his backpack, knelt down, and reached into it. Out came a spool of shiny silver cord. He handed this to Mercer, who quickly unwound the cord on the floor forming a circle roughly a meter across. Next out of the backpack came a metallic clamp that Mercer used to fasten the two ends of the cord together. Datch then gave him a power rod that Mercer extended until it’d telescoped out to its full 1.3-meter length. That done, he snapped the clamp onto the narrow end of the power rod. With the device now assembled, Mercer spun the control knob at the rod’s base, causing high-voltage current to flow into the cord and make it rigid like a hula hoop. Known as a loophole, Mercer held it out in front the control room door, taking care not to touch the electrified cord. “You ready?”

  Datch nodded. He held a stun grenade in one hand and a brick-size device known as an EM scrambler in the other.

  Keeping the loophole parallel to the door, Mercer pushed it into the force field. There was a crackling hiss followed by an eruption of green sparks as the loophole did its job, opening a meter-wide hole in the energy barrier.

  Datch tossed the scrambler at the now-unprotected door. It landed with a thump and clung there magnetically as it hummed, working to break the electromagnetic seal that kept the door locked and closed.

  Suddenly the door slid open. Datch tossed the stun grenade inside. A few seconds later there was a muffled boom as it exploded.

  That explosion was Sinja’s cue. She pivoted, tossing her rifle to Datch as she ran forward. She then dove headfirst through the loophole, tucking in midair and executing a somersault any gymnast would be proud of as she landed. She sprang up in a Jujitsu-Tao fighting crouch. Dupree had warned Sinja there’d be four people inside the control room, himself among them. A quick scan told her three of them had been knocked out by the grenade. The fourth―a big, burly man―was fumbling under a control console. Probably, Sinja assumed, to get a weapon hidden underneath.

  She drew her stun pistol and fired. The bolt struck the man’s left temple. Somehow, he didn’t drop as he should have; he instead turned his head toward Sinja and gave her a defiant scowl. The man pulled out what she identified as a Glock laser pistol from under the console. He must be stun-protected by neural implants, Sinja supposed. No matter―she ran toward him, her left foot kicking the hand that held the Glock, then a quick sidestep followed by her right hand chopping down hard on the base of the man’s skull. This time he dropped, collapsing to the floor with a heavy thud.

  After picking up his Glock, Sinja scanned the control room, searching for threats. The nerve center of Zeres Able was a round compartment thirty meters across. Six control consoles were spread evenly along its circumference. In the room’s center floated a huge, vividly detailed, three-dimensional holoschematic of the orbital platform, with color-coded symbols, ID markers, and alphanumeric indicators giving the status of the various mining operations. Strob
ing red lights were spread throughout the schematic, highlighting automated defense systems that had gone active when the silent alarm went off.

  To Sinja’s left was a brown-haired man in a black swivel chair, sprawled facedown against a console. Six minidarts from Datch’s stun grenade protruded from his upper back and neck. Tipped with a fast-acting knockout hypospray, the tiny guided missiles honed in on any heat source between 93 and 105 F. They should keep him unconscious for six to ten hours, depending on his resilience. Blood trickled from his nose, but otherwise he appeared unharmed.

  In front of another console, a woman with short-cropped black hair was slumped backward in her chair with both arms splayed out to the sides, mouth open wide in surprise. Her uniform nametag read Sato. Four minidarts sprouted from her neck and chest.

  Since too much of the potent knockout drug could cause paralysis, or in some cases even death, the minidarts coordinated their attacks to ensure no one received too large of a dosage, based on the target’s size. Sinja and Datch had transmitters in their utility belts that told the darts they were not valid targets. After thirty seconds of buzzing around the control room, any minidarts that had failed to find a viable target went inert, falling to the floor like suddenly dead mosquitoes.

  Sinja noted that the big, burly man she’d been forced to physically knock out had numerous darts in his upper arms and back. Clearly he was immune to them, and to stun bolts as well. She made a mental note to investigate this at a later date, as it would definitely be a useful enhancement to have.

  Dupree was slumped in a chair on the far side of the control room, a tall man with a flattop haircut, a scraggly mustache, and sizeable paunch. They had only met twice before while planning this hijacking, and Sinja had taken an instant dislike to the man. Not Dupree’s fault, Sinja realized, he just reminded her of the prison guard who’d been exceptionally sadistic during her incarceration. But Dupree came highly recommended from Chantur, the underworld fence who would buy their hijacked cargo, and she had to admit he’d delivered as promised so far.

  Sinja walked over to him, pulled a hypospray neutralizer from her utility belt and injected Dupree in the neck with it, reviving him. She then plucked the minidarts from his chest and arms, dropping them to the floor.

  Dupree groaned, coughed a few times, and then opened his eyes.

  “Kill the alarm,” Sinja told him.

  Still groggy, Dupree went over to a console marked Security and sat in the vacant chair. He placed his right palm on the DNA-scanner. “Deactivate alarm,” he said. “Password is ‘Saxmoor Tariff.’ Reset security level to green.”

  The scanner lit up, causing his palm to glow as blood, tissue, and hormone readings were taken. The scanner chirped, confirming that the person sitting before it was Bristol Edmonton Dupree, ID #133936-4750-C, an authorized duty member assigned to the control room’s third shift. After verifying this member was alive with coercion 98.25% unlikely, it deactivated the automated defenses and reset the security level to green.

  Sinja grinned as the strobing red lights in the holoschematic disappeared. The force field protecting the control room flickered briefly as it switched off, and she turned to face Datch and Mercer, both men walking in with weapons drawn.

  “Well done, gents,” she told them with a smile. “Any ill effects from that loophole?”

  Sometimes a power surge caused burns or numbness, but both men shook their heads in the negative.

  “Good.” Sinja turned back to Dupree. “How long till the hauler’s ready to go?”

  “About three hours. The last cargo holds are being topped off as we speak.”

  “Excellent. Mercer, get to work here while Datch and I go take care of the hauler. I want the platform AI isolated quick and everything here locked down tight. Got it?”

  After Mercer nodded, Sinja gave Datch a follow-me gesture as she ran out of the control room.

  “Be careful with that hauler captain!” Dupree shouted after her. “Name’s Tarn Odin, big fellow, could be trouble!”

  Kappa Sequence:

  The Argonauts

  Argo

  The Goliath-class ore hauler was a nine-kilometer-long pipe shape with a lifezone at one end and a massive engine array at the other. In between were eighty-four cavernous cargo holds, each individually loaded with thousands of tonnes of a pure-grade metal, a rare isotope, or a select radioactive.

  The lifezone was composed of two circular levels. The bridge formed the hub of the upper deck, with corridors radiating out from it like wheel spokes. Equipment lockers, avionic control nodules, the communication room, a small sick bay, plus officer quarters comprised the layout of the top deck. The lower contained the docking bay, various machinery rooms, auxiliary generators, the shipboard AI compartment, and, of course, the storage berths for the 245 robots required to operate such a large ship. These automatons were Argo’s crew, far more efficient and reliable than a human crew could ever hope to be.

  In the captain’s quarters slept a blonde-hair, blue-eyed, husky giant well over two meters tall who resembled a Viking out of old Earth’s Nordic culture. His thick beard hid facial scars from a childhood disease.

  Snoring loudly, he was jarred awake by a voice from an overhead speaker. “Attention,” said a silky smooth tenor. It belonged to Shepard, the hauler’s AI. “Two people have boarded the ship.”

  “Huh?” The captain yawned. “Who . . . what?”

  “Two people have boarded the ship,” Shepard patiently repeated. The AI waited three seconds to let Tarn Odin wake up a bit before continuing. “This is not a scheduled embarkation. They entered via the starboard side personnel airlock using an unfamiliar override code and are now proceeding at a rapid pace through the upper deck. I surmise their destination is the bridge.”

  Tarn yawned again, rubbed his eyes, and then pulled back the bed sheets. “Must be safety inspectors doing a surprise audit.” He fretted over how long it had been since he’d run a full diagnostics check on the emergency systems. He looked at the wall clock: 03:18.

  “Too damn early for this crap,” Tarn muttered as he rolled out of bed.

  Shepard did not respond, recognizing the captain’s derisive statement was not meant to elicit an answer but to vent frustration.

  Tarn put on his uniform and went to the bridge. He found two people already there waiting for him, a man and a woman, both in dark camouflage fatigues. The woman was too attractive for an inspector, Tarn noticed, with bronze skin and blonde hair. Her muscular companion had the look of military service stamped all over him. Tarn also noticed they held pistols aimed at his head.

  “You must be the captain,” said the woman. “Oh my, you are a big one at that. Put your hands in the air. We’re taking over your ship.”

  Tarn was about to charge them, ready to fight, but something about their manner held him at bay. Veteran of many a barroom brawl, he feared no one, enjoying a lively fistfight every now and again. But in this case Tarn’s instincts warned him discretion was a far better choice than valor.

  The woman gave him a charming smile as she bobbed her pistol up and down, urging the hauler captain to raise his hands.

  Tarn did so, having no doubts whatsoever that she’d shoot him unless he complied.

  Elsewhere on Argo, Tarn’s son, Ritch, was in his bedroom. As was typical for this late hour, Ritch wasn’t asleep.

  Instead the twelve-year-old boy lay on a recliner, wearing baggy shirt and shorts with a strange-looking helmet on his head. Spread across the helmet were dozens of small, blinking nubs, with a red cable connecting it to the simulated-reality unit on the adjacent end table. While active like it was now, the SR unit input computer-generated sensory impulses straight into the cerebrum cortex of whoever wore the helmet, giving that person a realistic simulation of whatever fabricated storyline they wished to enjoy. It was marvelously convincing―you couldn’t differentiate between real life and simulated reality.

  Oblivious therefore to his surroundings in the real wor
ld, Ritch lay on a ridgeline in 1228 England. From the northwest came the unmistakable boom of thunder. Looking in that direction, he saw ominous clouds brewing on the horizon. A wind gust thick with moisture slapped his brow, leaving that cold-sweat sensation he knew preceded a summer storm.

  Frick! Ritch thought. Not another thunderstorm . . . not now!

  When one played a sim on Ultra-Hard level, bad things always seemed to happen, usually at the worst possible moment.

  Ritch looked back to the valley below. A tired, dust-caked caravan crept along a dirt road. Six horse-drawn wagons were escorted by a hundred troops in livery, half mounted, the other half on foot. Inside those wagons was the Black Duke’s tribute to the King. Taking it, Ritch knew, would result in heavy casualties. Yet he was determined to try.

  Spread out alongside him on the ridgeline were his troops, the Highlander Mercenaries, elite veterans all. Ritch had commanded them since the sacking of Kent, just one of many glorious battles he’d waged throughout the action-packed Castle Siege campaign.

  He was about to order the Highlanders to advance on the caravan below when, without warning, the world of medieval England faded to black. A second later it was replaced by his bedroom. “What the―”

  “Emergency!” Shepard warned from an overhead speaker. “Two armed intruders have come aboard. They intend to hijack the ship. Ritch, one of them is heading your way. Run to the lifeboats and get off Argo as quickly as you can. Hurry, there is little time!”

  Ritch yanked the SR helmet off his head and tossed it aside as he rose up out of the recliner. “What about Dad?”

  “They have taken your father hostage,” Shepard replied. “Turn left, Ritch; the intruder is approaching from the bridge. Hurry!”

  Ritch ran to the door, which opened automatically as he approached. He bolted into the corridor outside, turned left, and ran as fast as he could.