"Agreed," said Concepcion. "Selmo, as soon as we're done here, work with Segundo and Victor on a plan to quickly collect as much of the severed equipment as we can."
Selmo nodded. "The miners can help with that. I've got thirty men already asking what they can do."
"What else is damaged?" asked Father.
Selmo sighed. "Both laser drills are gone. The corporates severed them from the ship, and then sliced them to pieces. There's no way we can repair them. I've already pulled video of the attack. The drills are irreparable. See for yourself." He entered some commands into the holotable, and surveillance video of the exterior of the ship appeared in the holospace. There was the old laser drill, the one with Victor's stabilizer, illuminated by a pair of the safety lights. Selmo fast-forwarded the video, and Victor and Father watched as lasers sliced the drill the ribbons. The light was so bright and the cuts happened so quickly that Selmo rewound the video and showed it to them again in slow motion. Victor felt sick. All his modifications and improvements to the drill, all of which he had created in his head and rarely written down before building them, were gone. Chopped into worthless scrap. Worse still, the drills were the family's livelihood, the two most important pieces of equipment, the means by which the family earned money and survived.
And now they were gone.
Father said nothing for a moment. He understood the implication. The corporates had crippled more than the ship; they had crippled the family's future. How could they mine now? How could they get money for needed supplies or spare parts? How could they exist in the Deep without good drills?
"What else?" asked Father.
"Four of our PKs are gone as well," said Selmo. "That leaves us with two. Here again, the corporates knew what they were doing. They left us with one PK on either side of the ship, enough for us to fly out of here and defend ourselves against most collision threats, but not enough to retaliate and attack their ship. The only upside here, if there is one, is that they didn't slice up the PKs. They just cut them loose. I take that to mean they expect us to recover them and repair them elsewhere."
"How kind of them," said Father. "Remind me to send flowers. What else?"
"Our other big loss is communication. The laserline transmitter's gone. We can't send a distress message even if we wanted to."
"It also means we can't warn anyone about the starship," said Victor.
"True," said Selmo, "but that's the least of our problems right now."
"What about ice?" asked Father. "How are we with air and fuel?"
Selmo smiled. "That's a ray of sunshine. The holding bay is ninety-five percent full of ice. We harvested as much as we could from the asteroid when we first got here. So we're fine for fuel and oxygen for a while. That's more than enough to get us wherever we want to go within, say, five to six months from here."
Victor felt relieved to hear that, at least. Ice was life. The reactors melted it and separated the hydrogen from the oxygen. The hydrogen they used for fuel. The oxygen they breathed.
Selmo moved his stylus in the holospace and rotated the schematic. "If you'd like more good news, it appears as if the other life-support systems are undamaged. Water purifiers are good. Air pumps are fine. Whoever these corporates are they picked their targets carefully."
"Leaks?" asked Father.
"None that we can detect," said Selmo. "We're running another scan just to be certain, but it looks like we got through without a breach. We were lucky. The impact wasn't that hard, and their lasers weren't trying to penetrate. Plus the armor helped."
"Who are they?" Father asked. "Why didn't we see this coming?"
Selmo sighed. "That's my fault. This is the corporate ship we sent the laserline to ten days ago. I should have suspected something when they didn't show up on the scans anymore. I assumed that they had moved on. I never thought that they were creeping up on us."
"No one is at fault," said Concepcion. "They knew our scanning capabilities and they exploited them. End of story."
"If they got our message, why would they attack us?" Father asked.
"Selmo and I did the math," said Concepcion. "When we sent out the laserline, they were already coming for us. They never got our message. They missed it. This has nothing to do with the laserline. They wanted the asteroid, pure and simple."
Dreo came to the holotable. "I've got their network. Give the word and we're a go."
Father turned to Concepcion. "We launched a snifferstick?" he asked.
Sniffersticks were small hacker satellites launched from one ship to spy on another. To work, they had to be within range of a ship's network yet far enough away to avoid triggering the ship's PKs. Fifty meters was about as close as any snifferstick dared. Accessing the ship's network was the tricky part, especially if it was a corporate ship. Corporates had armies of coders and specialists who did nothing but devise defenses against sniffersticks. Most families wouldn't dream of even trying to hack a corporate. But most families didn't have Dreo, either, who could wiggle his way into any network.
"We launched it just before you came to the helm," said Concepcion. "I want to know who bumped us."
"What if they detect us nosing around their network?" said Father. "That might instigate another attack."
"They won't know," said Dreo. "I've taken every precaution."
"No offense," said Father, "but are you sure? We've been out here for years. Who knows what other sweeper programs they've got running these days? They might have new ways to detect us that we don't know about. Is this a risk we want to take? They're corporates. What else do we want to know?"
"They have no reason coming out to the Kuiper Belt when there are so many asteroids in the A Belt, ready for the taking," said Concepcion. "If they're moving out here now, the other families will want to know. This will affect all the clans. We've lived in relative peace for a long time now. If corporates are beginning to invade our space, that's intel we need to spread. Dreo assures me we'll remain invisible."
"Then why don't we upload some malware or venomware and damage their systems while we're in there?" said Victor.
"Because we are not going to attack them at all," said Concepcion. "I want information, not revenge."
Victor looked at the faces around the table, and saw that not everyone shared in that opinion.
"Please proceed, Dreo," said Concepcion. "And bring up their network on the holotable, if you wouldn't mind."
Dreo returned to his workstation, and the schematic of the ship in the holospace disappeared, replaced with a series of three-dimensional icons spinning in space: flight log, engineering, laserlines, field trials, Lem, Dr. Benyawe, and others.
"Give me the manifest," said Concepcion. "Tell me who the captain is."
Photos and a holovideo of a handsome man in his early thirties appeared. Concepcion selected the window of data beside one of the photos and expanded it.
"Lem Jukes," she said, reading the name.
"As in the Jukes?" said Father. "Is he related?"
"Ukko's son," said Concepcion.
"I'll be damned," said Selmo. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
"Copy as much of this data as we can," said Concepcion. "I want to know what their intentions are. Then let's get the severed sensors back in the ship and get out of here before Mr. Lem Jukes decides to take more potshots. I'm going to be with Gabi and Lizbet, and then I'll head to the fuge to address the family." She turned to Father. "Don't waste time and energy working on what we can't fix. Work with Selmo to identify those things we can repair. Power first, communication second."
"What about the starship?" asked Victor.
"What about it?" said Concepcion. "Selmo's right. We're not in any position to address that right now. Nor can we relay what we've found. We're silent until we get communication back online."
"We're not going to be able to recover everything," said Father. "We're going to need parts and supplies."
"The nearest weigh station is four months away,
" said Concepcion. "The closest help we have are the Italians. They received our message and are watching the sky. If we hurry, maybe we can reach them before they move on. They'll have plenty of supplies we could use."
Victor looked at Father and could tell that he was thinking the same thing Victor was. Going for the Italians was a risk. There was no way to send the Italians a transmission to tell them to stay put and wait. If El Cavador arrived and the Italians had moved on, the ship would be in serious trouble.
Concepcion left the bridge.
Victor turned back to the holospace and looked at Lem Jukes. Some of the photos were ID shots: a straight headshot, a profile shot. But others were more casual photos taken from the ship's archives: Lem standing with his father, Ukko Jukes, in a ceremonial photo at what must have been the ship's departure; a more editorial shot of Lem in action at the helm, leaning forward over some holodisplay, pointing at nothing in particular, clearly a staged shot for the press. And then there was the brief holovideo. It was twelve seconds long at the most, running on a loop, playing over and over again. Lem was at a dinner party, sitting at a table after a meal. Empty wineglasses, fancy cutlery, a slice of half-eaten cake on a plate. There was no audio, but Lem was clearly telling a story, using his hands and his charming smile to emphasize his tale. Two beautiful women sat on either side of him, hanging on his every word. The story reached its end, and everyone burst out laughing, including Lem. Then the video began again.
Victor watched it a second time, and this time Victor imagined the words coming out of Lem's mouth. "So we blow up their mooring cables," Lem was saying. "And there were these three men out on the hull of their ship. The devil only knows what they were doing out there. So I told my pilot to rush them, to hit them hard and knock that PK right where they were standing. And lo and behold, that thing smacked one of those gravel suckers right between the eyes."
Laughter from everyone at the table.
Father was talking with Selmo. Victor stared at the laughter in the video.
That man killed Marco, Victor thought. Lem Jukes, son of Ukko Jukes, heir to the fortune of thieves and murderers, killed Marco.
Concepcion wanted them to focus on power and communication. Fine. Victor would do that. But he was also going to rebuild one of the PKs, a special one, strong enough to wipe that stupid grin right off Lem Jukes's face.
CHAPTER 7
India
Captain Wit O'Toole sat up front in the cockpit with the pilot until the plane was an hour away from the drop zone. The eight passengers in the cabin were Wit's newest recruits, soldiers plucked from Special Forces units in New Zealand, South Africa, Spain, Russia, and South Korea. In his most optimistic estimations, Wit had counted on finding six men to join MOPs. Coming home with eight was like Christmas come early.
None of the men had ever met one another before this flight, so Wit had intentionally left them alone immediately after the plane had taken off from a private airport in Mumbai. If he had sat with them, they would have deferred to him as their senior officer and waited for him to initiate conversation. But now, as Wit left the cockpit and made his way back to the cabin, he heard laughter and conversation as if the men were the oldest of friends.
Sociability and friendliness were the first traits Wit looked for in possible recruits. There were thousands of soldiers who could shoot with accuracy and fight with ferocity, but there were few who could quickly earn trust among foreigners and strangers. This was especially important in MOPs, whose soldiers often rushed into violent situations where civilians were being brutalized, often by their own militaries and governments. It meant MOPs had the difficult task of earning the trust of those who distrusted anyone in uniform. These men had what it took.
Wit entered the cabin, and the South Korean, a lieutenant named Yoo Chi-won, sprang to his feet, came to attention, and saluted. The others quickly followed his lead and stood up.
"As you were," said Wit.
The men sat down.
"I appreciate the gesture, gentlemen," said Wit, "but this is not the South Korean Army or the Russian Army or whatever. This is MOPs. We follow a different protocol. You need only salute me in formal settings, and those are rare anyway. You will show me a much greater respect in the field by immediately following orders. You need not even address me formally, if you wish. I answer to Wit, O'Toole, or Captain. And speaking of rank. As all of you have no doubt noticed from your introductions and insignia on your uniforms, I am not the only captain on this plane. We have several captains and lieutenants and NCOs among us. These ranks were all well earned. You are to be commended for them. But they are ranks from a different army. You are no longer a captain or a lieutenant. You are all equal. Should you choose to address each other formally, you will call each other 'soldier.' Soldier Chi-won. Soldier Bogdanovich. Soldier Mabuzza. I hold a rank because I have been doing this for a while and my superiors need someone to blame if something goes wrong."
The men smiled.
"There are other small matters of protocol, but these we will pick up as we go along. At the moment, we have more pressing matters. Beneath your seats you will find masks with one hundred percent oxygen. I advise you to begin breathing that now."
All eight men reached under their seats, found their masks, and put them on. Wit put his on as well, speaking through the transmitter at the base of the mask.
"Since all of you are trained in high-altitude jumps, I need not explain the importance of flushing all the nitrogen from your bloodstream prior to the jump."
The men exchanged glances. Wit had not yet told them where they were going or what they would do when they got there. His instructions had simply been to come to a designated hangar at an airfield in Mumbai with nothing but the uniform they were wearing. A plane would be waiting.
"And yes, we are about to make a high-altitude jump," said Wit. "Your new home for the next few months is a training facility in the Parvati Valley in the foothills of the Himalayan Mountains in northern India. These two cabinets here contain the remainder of your gear. Leave your old uniforms here in a pile. You won't need them. They represent your old life. You are MOPs men now. I suggest you change quickly."
The men got up, opened the cabinets, and began distributing the gear. As Wit had suspected, they worked calmly, passing out the equipment and showing as much concern for one another as they did for themselves. They then removed their uniforms and dropped them where Wit had indicated. Wit could have asked them to come in civvies, but the ritualistic shedding of old affiliations helped remind the men where their new devotion lay.
Wit put on a dampening suit, then a jumpsuit, which was thick and heated and laced with the latest biometric sensors. There was other gear as well. Wit had placed a few exotic items in the bags to see how the men would respond. A Korean altimeter, for instance, was completely foreign to everyone but Chi-won. They were the best altimeters in the world, but they were exclusive to the Korean Army. Wit was pleased to see Chi-won quickly show the others how to strap the device to their wrists and plug it into their suits. The APAD--automatic parachute activation device--was a Russian model, and Bogdanovich kindly instructed the others on how it worked and what to expect in their heads-up display just before it activated.
Wit placed his holopad on a table and asked the men to gather. A holo appeared of a large military complex with barracks and training facilities and other buildings, all surrounded by a well-fortified wall.
"This is one of the training camps of the Indian Para Commandos," said Wit, "one of the most elite Special Forces units in the world. The PCs are tough men, well equipped and expertly trained. At the moment, three hundred and seven of them are stationed here undergoing training. Their commanding officer is Major Khudabadi Ketkar, a good man and skillful soldier. Our assignment is to train with his men for the next seven weeks. To initiate the training, Major Ketkar suggested we make a little wager. A game of Capture the Flag. Thirty MOPs versus three hundred and seven PCs. The loser will clean the latr
ines and mess hall for the extent of the training. I accepted that wager. Not for the prize--we will clean the latrines and mess hall anyway. I accepted because this is a chance for me to show the other MOPs already on the ground that I have brought them eight men worthy to be counted among them. The nine of us are going to take the flag."
The men were smiling.
"Now, here's what we know," said Wit. "The flag is here in Ketkar's office." He touched the holo and left a blinking red dot on one of the buildings, then waved his hand through the holo and zoomed in on the building. Walls disappeared, and the building became a three-dimensional schematic, showing four floors of offices. Twenty soldiers were patrolling the roof. Ten more were patrolling the halls inside. Forty others surrounded the building outside beside a blockade of assault vehicles.
"This is a live feed," said Wit. "Ketkar has nearly a third of his forces guarding the flag. Each of these men is wearing a dampening suit similar to yours. Their weapons, like yours, are loaded with spider rounds. Hit them, and they freeze up. They're out. However, the status of each suit is broadcast to every other suit. In other words, they will know the instant one of their men goes down. So they'll know when and where we're attacking." He waved his hand through the holo again and it zoomed out to the entire compound. "There are guard towers here, here, and here. Each with snipers. The front gate is here. There is only a single road leading up to the complex. As you can see, that road is well defended. This here to the south is the Parvati River. It is fast moving, especially now in spring. Winter snowmelt and glacial thaw coming off the mountains raise the water a few feet. Our camp is here three miles to the south. It's a wide, open meadow with a few tents. Twenty-one MOPs, the rest of our forces, are defending our flag there. From the air it looks like the most poorly defended piece of land in the area, but our boys have prepared a few surprises. They are counting on us to bring them the enemy flag. I have promised them we would do so." He stood erect and looked at their faces. "Now, we have about twenty-nine minutes before we reach the drop zone. Tell me how we're going to do this."
The men understood. There was no plan. They had twenty-nine minutes to devise one. The ideas came quickly, and Wit liked what he heard.