Cold Fusion - Lance Parkin [85]
‘They can walk through walls, Juno, I saw –’
‘Provost-General!’
Medford looked up, ready to admonish the officer who’d disturbed him. Instead his attention was taken by the main screen: the freighter was lifting from the launch pad, despite the futile efforts of a squad of his men. The fusion bombs were being stolen.
Chris took his position, pulling on a helmet. Nyssa sat in the co-pilot s seat, unsure what she should be doing. Half a dozen Adjudicators were firing at them, but the energy bolts just bounced harmlessly off the ship’s hull. All around came the sound of docking clamps and fuel hoses disengaging.
‘I can fly this thing solo,’ Chris said, flicking switches above his head. The ship pitched around until it was facing deep space.
Nyssa replaced the dress strap which had fallen off her shoulder. ‘Won’t they just shoot us down as soon as we clear the station?’
‘Nope,’ Chris said. He pressed a button and the main engines engaged. The ship lurched forward, pushing Nyssa back into her padded seat.
‘Hold your fire!’ Medford shouted at the weapons officer.
The Adjudicator lifted his hands from the keymat as though it had given him an electric shock.
The freighter was square in their sights, the computers matching the course as it began its descent: Only he and the crew of the freighter knew about the fusion bombs: whoever had hijacked the freighter must just be a thief who chanced upon it. Medford dismissed the thought: some terrorist had got lucky.
It accelerated away from the station, looking as though It was going to punch a jump to hyperspace, then at the last minute it dived down, tucking itself beneath the station.
Now it was curving towards the planet.
‘Sir we have them,’ the gunner complained.
‘That ship is not to be fired upon.’ There was little chance that the fusion charges would detonate, but Medford didn’t feel like risking it. Besides, the charges were needed.
‘Sir, it’s heading over the horizon: they’ll be out of our range in ninety seconds.’
‘Do we have their course yet?’
‘No, sir. The pilot isn’t using the computer.’
‘Launch an interceptor. Order it to shadow that freighter, but not shoot at it, regardless of provocation.’
‘Aye sir. Grey One launched.’
‘Prepare the Battle Platform. I’ll transmat over.’
‘ – interceptor. Order it to –’
The link with Medford cut automatically and replaced with a PLEASE HOLD caption. Whitfield was transfixed by it for a moment, then she cut the connection.
‘Lost in thought?’
Forrester had regained consciousness. Whitfield turned to look at her. She looked drugged, but that was just a residual effect of oxygen starvation. After immobilizing her in the Machine Room, Whitfield had called outside for a couple of scientists. They’d taken the unconscious woman back to the research dome on an antigrav trolley. There, they stripped off her stolen armour, replacing it with a grey kimono belonging to one of the physicists. They d found a pair of handcuffs at the security post and put them round her wrists. Then they’d run the recorder on her armour and found out her name and how she’d fled the Scientifica.
‘How much of that conversation did you hear?’
‘You’re a clever woman, Chief Scientist. If you didn’t want me to overhear, you’d have gone to another room.
Why was your boyfriend so keen to stop the freighter being shot down, do you think?’
‘You really are an Adjudicator aren’t you?’ Bureau members were trained to read body language and read into nuances of speech. At times, Medford would know what she was thinking, could predict her actions, just from a word or the way she was sitting. There was no mystery about this. they had known each other since childhood on and off, and had been lovers for over forty years.’
Forrester smiled. She had perfect white teeth. ‘Yes. And you’ve just used Standard Guilty Perp Tactic Number One: change the subject.’
Whitfield turned away, annoyed with herself, and tapped a control on the walltop next to the videophone.