Outside in the corridor, an announcement sounds over invisible speakers. It’s a pleasant female voice, so vaguely cheerful that it can only be a computer.
“Attention, all personnel. This is a Level Two weather alert. Winds from the north at sixty to eighty kilometers per hour, light to moderate snow, temperature negative two-zero degrees Celsius. All exposed personnel, seek shelter or don appropriate protective clothing. I repeat, this is a Level Two weather alert. Monitor the MetSat channel for updated conditions. Announcement ends.”
“Minus twenty?” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s a bit chilly.”
“And snow. Looks like winter’s starting.”
“Well, grab your armor, and let’s go take a look. I haven’t seen any clean white snow since that combat drop into Trondheim back in ’99. ’Course, that snow didn’t stay white long.”
We’ve only been inside the admin center for two hours, but when we step outside again, the place looks like it has been transplanted onto a different planet. The sky is the color of dirty concrete, and the snow is blowing so densely that I can barely make out the lights on the buildings across the little civic plaza even though they are only fifty meters away. The arctic wind, sharp as a blade, turns the skin of my face numb in just a few moments, and I lower the face shield of my helmet and take a few steps outside. The snow on the ground reaches halfway up the armored shin guards of my battle armor.
“Damn,” Sergeant Fallon says when we’re back inside, ice and snow caking our armor plates despite our merely two-minute sojourn into the weather. “That is some nasty climate out there all of a sudden.”
One of the civvie techs in the entrance vestibule, a burly fellow in smudged blue overalls and a thick thermal jacket, hears her comment and chuckles.
“That? We call that a light dusting. Typical late fall weather.”
Behind us, the announcement system comes to life again. This time it’s not the pleasant artificial female computer voice, but that of the comms tech down in the ops center.
“Sergeants Fallon and Grayson, please report to the OC. Priority tight-beam link from orbit.”
I brush the snow off my armor and stomp my boots on the concrete a few times to knock off the slush.
“Back to work, I guess,” Sergeant Fallon says. “That’s why I hate positions of authority. Everyone always bugs the shit out of you.”
“They popped up on our long-range gear a few minutes ago,” Colonel Campbell says over the voice connection from the Indianapolis. “Three AUs out. They’re right on the ecliptic, heading for us as straight as they can, as far as my sensor guys can tell.”
“Lankies?” I say, dreading the reply.
“Doubtful. Unless they’ve learned to spoof emergency transponder signals bit for bit. Our bogey is squawking an SRA distress signal in sixty-second intervals.”
Sergeant Fallon looks at me.
“I’m out of my field with this space warfare stuff,” she says. “What do we have here? Are we humped?”
“He’s coming our way and sending a distress signal from that far out, he’s not spoiling for a fight, and he isn’t a Lanky,” I say.
“Unless it’s a ruse of some kind,” Colonel Campbell says.
“Has the task force picked him up yet?”
“Doubtful. Nobody there is stirring. Our sensor gear is better than theirs by a lot, and I have snooper buoys out away from the noise. But the way he’s coming in, they’ll hear him before too long. I give it a few hours, depending on how awake their sensor guys are.”
“Any idea what he is?”
“He’s still awfully far away, but from the ELINT signature and the optical profile, I’d say he’s a large deep-space combatant. Heavy cruiser maybe, or one of their big-ass space control cans.”
“Why would one of those come our way with the radio blaring?” Sergeant Fallon asks.
“Well, it’s either a ruse to make us look one way while his buddies come from a different bearing, or—”
“He’s really in trouble and looking for help,” I finish.
“If he’s running from something, it’s not one of our guys on his ass,” Colonel Campbell says. “Every fleet unit in this system is in orbit around this rock right now. And if he’s not running from one of ours…”
Nobody finishes his sentence, but it feels like the temperature in the room just dropped by twenty degrees.
“Let’s hope it’s a ruse, and there’s an SRA task force heading our way,” Colonel Campbell concludes dryly. “At least that would give us a fighting chance.”