the hijackers weren't interested in hostages, or the ship itself, that means they have other motivations. Motivations we haven't seen yet.”
Bernie shrugged. “Okay, but how does that change anything?”
“It changes things because, if they do have access to our patrol plot, then this is just the messy part of some bigger covert operation. An operation that someone is trying to hide, or to keep plausibly deniable. Which means it has to be perfectly sanitary.” He paused. “Which means that the tools they used to carry it out might need to be sterilized. With extreme prejudice.”
“Damn,” breathed Finder, “the kid—I mean, the lieutenant is right. For all we know, the rendezvous at 216 Kleopatra may only be to get information or proof of mission success. Once the extraction team gets what they need, their next move might have been to grease the hijackers themselves.”
“Yeah,” Bernie agreed with a nod, “it fits.” He folded his arms. “Okay, skipper, so what's the game plan?”
“Are all of our own ROV tugs available?”
“One hundred percent readiness, sir.”
“Excellent. And how many remote passive sensor packages do we have in stores?”
“Six, Sir. Of different marks.”
Lee nodded, then leaned over the light-table plot . “Okay, then. Here's what we're going to do . . .”
* * *
Almost two hours later, the crew of the Venerated Gaia was at general quarters, and wondering why the hell Lieutenant Strong was not maneuvering more aggressively. But the cutter—which they had long ago rechristened the Venereal Gato—continued to match the slow progress of the Fragrant Blossom, drifting side by side with the larger hull, fully in its shadow.
Couch-sized debris tumbled along with them. Having originated from the Blossom's cargo decks, it angled away from the twinned craft, the gap between junk and ships widening steadily.
The Gato was almost as silent as the space through which she glided. The hum of computers and the dampened vibration that resulted from running on batteries were unusually noticeable in the absence of human banter. The possibility of an engagement not only had the crew tense, but evoked a sense of the surreal, so rare was space combat. That the potentials of the adversary were wholly unknown only kept their eyes more firmly riveted to their screens, their fingers tense with waiting for orders to act.
The bridge crew had another object to stare at, however. There, in the main viewscreen, 216 Kleopatra—shaped like a 217-kilometer long dog-bone with a maximum width of 94 kilometers—loomed steadily larger. Tumbling end-over-end every five hours, it was a fairly kinetic rock, accompanied at some distance by two planetisimals—three and five kilometers in diameter, respectively. Intermittent sampling and mining ejecta accompanied it as well, the individual objects ranging in size from a handball to a house. And so, depending on the size of the enemy ship—assuming there was only one, of course—it could be hidden behind any of several dozen rocky slabs or lumps in the area, including, of course, the immense Kleopatra herself.
“Kleopatra is now within the outer engagement envelope of our missiles, Skipper,” the first gunner rasped, his throat evidently too dry to get out the words easily.
“Sensors, report,” Lee ordered, not turning to look at the rating in question.
“No change, sir. Of course, we'd get better data if we lit up the active arrays—”
Lee's interruption was quiet but sharp. “Don't even think that thought, Rating. We run dark until I give the word.”
“Yes, Sir, but—”
“I'm well aware that passive sensors don't give us full detection capabilities, much less targeting. For now, just maintain the lascom links to our passive assets and keep me apprised.”
“Yes, Sir.”
Bernie drifted closer. “Lieutenant, you know it's possible that the hijackers don't have anyone waiting for them here, that they just planned to switch to a smaller craft that they stashed here in some little crevice where we'll never see it.”
“It's possible,” Lee admitted.
“But you don't buy it,” Bernie completed the implicit reservation.
“No, I don't. Given all the trouble they went to in setting this up, I just don't—”
“Lieutenant—!” The tense exclamation was in reaction to a sudden orange glow limning the far rim of 216 Kleopatra: a false-colored superimposition of a new heat signature's halo.
“I see it, Sensors. Get me a triangulation on the probable point-source.”
“Can't do it, sir—not with the remote sensors we're depending upon currently.”
Bernie chewed his lip, staring at the orange glow. “That's a lot of juice, if we can see it as this range with portable passive sensors. What do you think—?”