There was nobody here. The only noise in the room was the machines chattering away to one another, a faint humming of transistors and ventilation, whirring, clicking, beeping. She walked quickly around the room, looking at every screen in the hope that she might spot Wachowski, but he was nowhere to be seen. As she left she heard a new sound, a noise she couldn’t quite recognise, a soft, high squeak. She paused on the threshold, hesitant, filled with dread, then turned around.
What was that?
Now she couldn’t hear it.
Just as she was about to turn away again, she heard it once more. Not a squeak, more like a whimper. It was coming from somewhere towards the far end of the room, and it was creepy. Her heart beat faster as she went back into the control room and circled the lift-shaft. Halfway round, it was closer, much closer, a thin, unhappy sound coming from the small recessed space of the coffee nook.
DeLucas drew a deep breath and looked inside.
Lynn Orley was squatting in front of the sink, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, making those forlorn sounds.
DeLucas squatted level with her.
‘Miss Orley.’
No reaction. The woman simply looked straight through her as though she wasn’t there. DeLucas hesitated, put out her hand and touched her shoulder gently.
She might just as well have pulled the ring on a hand grenade.
The Landing Field
Dana cursed. Why did the landing module have to be right at the other end of the spaceport? Every second that passed lessened her chances of being able to clear out of here.
She had to think of some alternatives.
What if she—
‘Wait.’
Someone grabbed her upper arm.
Dana leapt to one side, turning. She saw a tall, well-built astronaut, barely recognisable behind his mirrored faceplate, but his height and voice left her in no doubt. She immediately switched to a secure channel.
‘Where were you?’ she hissed.
‘You set the timer,’ Hanna stated, without answering her question. ‘Did you want to leave without me?’
‘You weren’t there.’
‘Now I’m here. Come along.’
He started moving. Dana followed, just as the bulky shape of the Io came into sight on the other side of the blast walls. The next moment the shuttle was hanging over the landing field, dropping, its engines pumping, blocking their way.
Hanna stopped dead, reached for his thigh, drew his gun.
‘Forget it,’ Dana whispered.
Io settled down, bouncing slightly, and the lift-shaft extended from its belly. There were two of them, facing Leland Palmer’s troupe of five astronauts in peak physical condition and with excellent reflexes, admittedly unarmed but fast and with close-combat training. It might just be possible to take them down in a skirmish, but whatever happened, Dana’s cover would be blown, and she couldn’t allow that at any cost.
That made up her mind.
She switched back to the general-broadcast channel, and unclipped the little pickaxe from its place on her suit. Everyone had one for emergencies. Hanna had spread his legs, taking up position, aiming. The airlock cabin travelled down the shaft to the landing pad. The doors opened. Astronauts emerged. She saw the pistol muzzle track upwards, and she lifted the pick-axe over her head—
And brought it smashing down.
The point of the pick stabbed through the tough material of the suit and into the back of Hanna’s hand, deep in between the bones and sinews. The Canadian groaned in pain. He spun about and struck out at Dana, knocking her off her feet.
‘Help!’ she yelled. ‘Help!’
There was a hubbub of voices. Incomprehensibly, Hanna was still holding his gun, the fingers of his left hand clenched over the hole in his spacesuit, and was aiming at Dana. She rolled, kicked out at his knee and made him stagger. The next moment, she had sprung to her feet and swung the pick again. This time the needle-sharp end hit Hanna’s faceplate and made a tiny hole in the armoured glass. He leapt backwards and kicked her in the belly. The pick-axe was torn from her grasp and stayed where it was, lodged in his visor. She flew away and landed a few metres off, scrambling to her feet. Part of her chestplate splintered off, and she knew he had shot at her. The crew of Io were running towards them across the landing field in huge lunar leaps.
She had to finish this. Whatever happened, the astronauts mustn’t take Hanna alive. She hurled herself at him with a great jump, knocked him to the ground and grabbed hold of the pick-handle that jutted from his faceplate.
For a ghastly moment she thought that she could see his eyes, despite the mirrored glass.
‘Dana,’ he whispered.
She wrenched at the pick and tore it free. Shards broke loose from the visor. Hanna dropped his gun and lifted both hands, but the air left his suit far faster than he could put his hands to his helmet. He lay there with his arms raised as though embracing a woman she could not see. Dana felt for his gun and slipped it into a pocket on her thigh – nobody could have seen her do it – then toppled ostentatiously to one side and called for help.
People hurried towards her. They helped her up. Gabbled at her.
‘Hanna,’ she gasped. ‘It’s Hanna. He – I think he was planning to escape with the Charon.’
‘Did he say anything?’ Palmer asked urgently. ‘Did he say anything about the bomb?’
‘He—’ Whatever you do, don’t seem too unruffled, Dana! Best to make a drama of the situation, so she staggered exaggeratedly, letting the others catch her. ‘I was outside. I saw him running from the base towards the spaceport. First I thought it was Wachowski, but from his size it could – it could only be Hanna—’ She shook off the hands supporting her, took several deep breaths. ‘Then I ran after him, called him on the radio. He ran out onto the landing field—’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘Yes, when – when I caught up with him. I was trying to stop him, and he shouted that this whole place was about to blow up, and – that’s when he attacked me. He just jumped at me, he was going to kill me, what could I have done?’
‘Shit!’ Palmer cursed.
‘I had to defend myself,’ Dana wailed, putting a note of hysteria into her voice. Kyra Gore took her by the shoulders.
‘You did good, Miss Lawrence, what you did was incredibly brave.’
‘Yes, it was,’ Palmer said, pacing back and forth for a moment, then he stopped dead and clenched his fists. ‘Crap! Damn the guy! He’s dead now, the bastard. What are we going to do? What are we going to do?’
Igloo 1
DeLucas felt carefully at her face. Glistening crimson liquid slicked her fingertips. Blood. Her blood.
The woman was mad!
Lynn Orley had unfolded like a flick-knife and launched herself at her, swiping her fingernails across DeLucas’ face and slicing her cheek open, then tried to run out of the control room. She had chased after the fleeing woman, grabbed hold of her and shoved her up against the lift-shaft.
‘Miss Orley, stop it! It’s me. Minnie!’
Then all of a sudden shouts for help were coming over the loudspeakers, snatches of words, Dana Lawrence, Palmer’s voice.
Lynn tore free, swung an arm and hit DeLucas on the nose so hard that for a moment all she saw was a red haze. When she could see clearly again, Lynn was just leaving the control room. Her head pounding, DeLucas ran after her, caught hold again and clutched her tight, doing what she could to dodge the rain of blows from her fists. Lynn stumbled against Wachowski’s empty chair, looked at the lift-shaft and started backwards, her eyes wide.
‘Everything’s okay,’ DeLucas said, coughing. ‘Everything’s okay.’