He turned his attention back to the open bay and glided inside. The airlock was a no-go, much too small for his COMS to fit. So I’ll make my own hole, he decided. With his thrusters set to stabilize him, he powered up his saw and started cutting into the inner hull.
Mars One shuddered sharply.
“I have breached the aft module’s outer hull,” Nadia reported. “Moving on to the inner sections now.”
Brad finished slicing an opening large enough to fit the powerful fingerlike appendages of two more of his robot’s mechanical limbs. Bright white light, oddly flat in a vacuum, was visible through the gap. He gripped the edges of the slit he’d cut and then fired several of his COMS’ thrusters at full power, pulling back and to one side.
For a moment, the section of hull plating held… and then it gave way — peeling back like tinfoil. Given the payload constraints involved in any rocket launch, no one built spacecraft like an armored battleship. Conduits and cabling running through that area of the inner hull ripped loose in a cascade of sparks. The bright white light he’d seen winked out, replaced instantly by dim red emergency lighting.
Instantly, Brad let go and maneuvered over to the breach he’d opened. He looked into a compartment full of electronic consoles and displays. A single cosmonaut in a white space suit was tethered by an umbilical to one of the consoles. Through the visor of his helmet, the Russian’s eyes were wide with fear. The cloth name tag on his suit identified him as Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Anikeyev. A sign on one of the compartment’s intact walls read: oкружающая среда и техника.
“Environment and Engineering,” his computer translated helpfully.
Brad swung the limb holding his powered saw toward Anikeyev and activated his short-range radio. “Sdavaysya! Surrender!”
Immediately the other man raised both hands.
The station rocked again.
“I’m inside the forward module,” Vasey said carefully. “No hostile contact yet.”
“Copy that,” Brad said. He turned his attention back to Anikeyev. “Do you speak English?”
“Yes, a little,” the other man said shakily.
“Good. Then stay here and don’t move,” Brad ordered. “Do you understand?”
“Da,” the cosmonaut agreed.
Frowning, Brad used a short burst from his thrusters to enter the compartment. Hatches on either side opened up into narrow corridors. “No way is this thing going to fit through those,” he muttered to himself. His robot’s thermal sensors were picking up the heat signatures of at least two more Russian crewmen down the corridor to his right — the one that led off toward where the Federation orbiter and one of the Progress cargo ships were docked. Another sign over the hatch indicated this was the way to the station’s command compartment. He spun the COMS in that direction, trying to decide what he should do next.
And through his rear-facing sensors, he saw the Russian cosmonaut suddenly lower his hands and grab a pistol that had been Velcro’d to the side of the closest console. It came up, aimed straight at his robot.
“Not cool,” Brad growled. He lashed backward with the powered saw. Blood sprayed lazily across the compartment, already boiling away in the vacuum of space. Another of his flexible limbs grabbed the pistol as it drifted out of the dead Russian’s gloved hand.
His COMS computer identified it for him. “The weapon is a Vektor SR-1M 9mm pistol loaded with armor-piercing ammunition able to penetrate 2.8mm of titanium plate at one hundred yards.”
Or this robot I’m riding, Brad realized. His jaw tightened. These guys weren’t going down easily. “Wolf One to all Wolves,” he said tightly. “Stay sharp. This crew is armed.” His computer transmitted pictures of the pistol to the other COMS.
“Roger that, Wolf One,” Nadia replied. “The Russian I just encountered was similarly equipped.”
“And?”
“He resisted,” she said simply. “It was futile. I threw him out of the station. Major Filatyev should reenter the earth’s atmosphere in approximately twenty minutes. He will have ample time to regret his error.”
Harsh, but eminently fair, Brad decided. “How about you, Constable?” he asked.
“Captain Revin has opted for the better part of valor,” Vasey answered. “I have his pistol.”
Which left the two cosmonauts whose heat signatures he’d detected, Brad thought. It was time to put an end to this. He toggled his radio again. “Attention, surviving Mars One crew, this is McLanahan. It’s over. Surrender and we’ll spare your lives.”
“Yebat’ tebya! Go fuck yourself,” an older man’s voice replied.
“But, Colonel, maybe we should…” a younger voice said hesitantly.
“Shut up, Konnikov!”
Based on its triangulation of the radio signals it had just received, the COMS computer tentatively assigned identification tags to the two thermal signatures. Brad studied their indicated positions and improvised a quick plan. It was probably insanely risky… so he decided not to waste any more time thinking it through. Pushing these Russians fast and hard was the surest way to beat them.
He released the robot arm holding his explosive breaching charge and swung it into position in front of the opening to the station’s command compartment. “Set the charge timer for thirty seconds,” he instructed his computer. “But deactivate the detonator.”
“The timer is set and running,” the computer replied. “The detonator is inactive.”
Without waiting any longer, Brad disconnected his neural link and life-support umbilical. His awareness of the COMS dropped away, leaving him feeling fully human for the first time since they’d loaded aboard the S-29 Shadow several hours before. He squirmed around and punched the hatch release mechanism. It cycled open and he floated out into the environment and engineering compartment. The electronically compressed carbon fibers of his advanced Electronic Elastomeric Activity Suit protected him against vacuum and he had enough air to last at least thirty minutes.
He took the Vektor pistol out of one of the robot’s hands. Its safety was off. He scooped up the rectangular breaching charge. A red light on its top winked on and off, counting down seconds.
With a crooked smile, Brad braced himself against the COMS. Then he tossed the breaching charge down the corridor toward Mars One’s command compartment. It sailed away, flying straight and true.
One. Two. Three, he counted mentally. Now!
Brad pushed off hard with his boots. Holding the 9mm pistol out in front of him, he shot through the open hatch and along the narrow corridor.
The explosive charge flew out into the next compartment. Its red light blinked rhythmically, apparently signaling imminent oblivion.
“Bombit’!” the younger man screamed over the radio. “Bomb!”
And then Brad soared into the compartment right behind the dud charge. Out the corner of his right eye, he saw a cosmonaut desperately trying to pull himself down behind a bulky console. No threat there, he decided. At least not immediately.
But straight ahead, he saw another space-suited figure rising from cover. Time seemed to slow down, with single seconds seeming to stretch out into whole minutes. That other Russian’s weapon was already swinging toward him, coming on target with frightening control.
Brad squeezed the trigger.
There was no sound. Only the sensation of a slight deceleration when his pistol fired, bucking back against his hand.