Mutineer's Moon

“Unfair. You are the captain, and command decisions are your function, not mine.”

“Then shut up and soldier.” MacIntyre spoke firmly, but he smiled.

“Very well,” Dahak repeated.

“Good. Is the suppressor ready?”

“Affirmative. My remotes have placed it in your cutter.” There was another pause, and MacIntyre closed his eyes. Dahak, he thought, could give a Missouri mule stubborn lessons. “I still believe you would be better advised to use one of the larger—and armed—parasites, however.”

“Dahak,” MacIntyre said patiently, “there are at least five thousand mutineers, right? With eight eighty-thousand-ton sublight battleships?”

“Correct. However—”

“Can it! I’m pontificating, and I’m the captain. They also have a few heavy cruisers, armored combat vehicles, trans-atmospheric fighters, and the perso

“Yes, Colin,” Dahak sighed.

“Then this is a time for finesse and sneakiness, not brute strength. I have to get the suppressor inside their enclave perimeter and let you take out their defensive shield from here or we’re never going to get at them.”

“But to do so you will require admittance codes and the locations of access points, which you can obtain only from the mutineers themselves.”

“I know.” MacIntyre recrossed his ankles and frowned, pulling harder on his nose, but the unpalatable truth remained. There was no doubt the mutineers had penetrated most major governments—they must have done so, given the way they had manipulated Terran geopolitics over the last two centuries.

Which meant any approach to Terran authorities was out of the question. It was a pity Dahak couldn’t carry out bio-scans at this range; that, at least, would tell them who was an actual mutineer. But even that couldn’t have revealed which Terra-born humans might have been suborned, possibly without ever knowing who had suborned them or even that they had been suborned.

So the only option was the one both he and Dahak dreaded. Somehow, he had to gain access to the mutineers’ base and deactivate its shield. It was a daunting prospect, but once he’d taken out the defenses that held Dahak’s weapons at bay, the mutineers would have no choice but to surrender or die, and MacIntyre didn’t much care which they chose as long as they decided quickly.

The first of the automatic sca

That was the real reason he wanted to find the link between Anu and NASA. If he could get his hands on just one mutineer—just one—then he could get the information he and Dahak needed one way or the other, he thought grimly. Yet how did he take that first step? He still didn’t know, but he did know he couldn’t do it from here. And he intended to admit to Dahak neither that he meant to play things entirely by ear nor who his single Terran ally would be lest the computer stage a mutiny of its own and refuse to let him off the ship!

“Well,” he said with forced cheeriness, “I’d better get going.” He dropped his feet to the invisible deck and stood, feeling as if the universe were drifting beneath his bootsoles.

“Very well, Colin,” Dahak said softly, and the first hatch slid open, spilling bright light like a huge rift among the stars. MacIntyre squared his shoulders and walked into it.

“Good hunting, Captain,” the computer murmured.

“I’ll nail ’em to the wall,” MacIntyre said confidently, and wished he could just convince himself of that.

A sliver of midnight settled silently amid the night-struck mountains of Colorado. It moved with less noise than the whispering breeze, showing no lights, nor did it register on any radar screen. Indeed, the stealth field about it transformed it into more of a velvety-black, radiation-absorbing absence than a visible object, for not even starlight reflected from it.

It drifted lower, sliding into an u

He sat in his command chair for a moment, studying the miniature duplicate of Command One’s imaging system fed by the passive sca

There was a deep, inarticulate relief at touching once more the soil of home, but it was overlaid by other, less readily understood feelings. A sense of the alien. An awareness of the peril that awaited him, yet more than that, as if the last six months had changed him even more than he had thought.

He was no longer a citizen of Earth, he thought sadly. His horizons had been broadened. Whether he liked it or not, he had become an emigre[aa, yet that bittersweet realization actually made him love his homeworld even more. He was a stranger, but Earth was his source, the home of which he would always dream, and its remembered beauty would always be purer and more lovely than its reality.

He shook himself out of his musings. The night beyond the cutter’s hull was silent, filled only with life that ran on four feet or flew, and he could not justify remaining aboard.

He switched off the display and interior lights and bent to free the suppresser webbed to the deck behind his command seat. It was not a huge device in light of what it could do, but it was heavy. He might have included a small anti-grav generator, but he hadn’t dared to. Inactive, the suppresser was simply an inert, apparently solid block of metal and plastic, its webs of molecular circuitry undetectable even by the mutineers. An active anti-grav was another matter, and the mere fact of its detection would spell the doom of his mission. Besides, the suppressor weighed less than three hundred kilos.

He slipped his arms through the straps and adjusted it on his back like the knapsack it had been camouflaged to resemble, then opened the hatch and stepped down to the grassy earth. Night smells tickled his nostrils, and the darkness turned noonday-bright as he adjusted his vision to enhanced imaging.

He backed away from the cutter, and its hatch licked obediently shut as he concentrated on the commands flowing over his neural feed. The cutter’s computers were moronic shadows of Dahak, and it was necessary to phrase instructions carefully. The landing legs retracted, the cutter hovered silently for an instant, and then it faded equally silently into the heavens, visible only as a solid blot that occluded occasional stars.

MacIntyre watched it go, then turned away and consulted his built—in inertial guidance system. The terrain looked rough to his enhanced eyes, but not rugged enough to inconvenience him. He hooked his thumbs into the knapsack straps and set out, moving like a bit of the blackness brought to life.

It took him an hour to top out on a ridge with a direct view of Colorado Springs, and he paused. Not because he needed a rest, but because he wanted to study the glowing lights spread out below him.

The mushrooming space effort had transformed Colorado Springs over the past forty years. Venerable old Goddard Center still guided and controlled NASA’s unma