Then, knowing time was against him, he hurried from the room, heading back for his office.
He had barely stepped through the door when his equerry rushed in and, bowing hurriedly, thrust a piece of paper into his hand. Karr glanced at it, then pointed to the screen on the far side of his office.
"Get him! Now.'"
A moment later the screen lit up and the face of a young cadet officer appeared.
"What's this?" Karr said without preliminaries, waving the piece of paper at the screen. "What do you mean all of our near-space surveillance satellites are down? That's impossible!"
The young soldier swallowed. "No, sir. They're dead. Contact was lost eight minutes back. Right now we're blind."
"Are they destroyed?"
"We ... we don't know, sir. Without physically checking—" .
"Then do it! Send someone up to look!"
He cut contact and sat back, a cold certainty forming in him. This was it. This was the end. First the copies, then the face on their screens, and now this.
The sun's rim dips, the stars rush out; at one stride comes the dark.
He looked to his equerry. The young man stood there, staring at his General, his face openly afraid. Seeing it, Karr knew he had to do something, and fast.
"Okay, lad. Now listen. I want you to summon every officer of the rank of Colonel and above and I want them all here in my office within the next fifteen minutes, understand me? It's time we dealt with all this nonsense. Time we held a proper Council of War."
He saw how the boy straightened up; how his face lit with a sudden sense of purpose. Yet once he'd left the room, Karr felt his own spirits slump.
Marie ... I ought to speak to Marie before it begins, . . .
But there was no time. No time for anything now but war.
SERGEY STUMBLED from the transit, then stood there in the empty corridor, swaying slightly, getting his bearings as the doors closed behind him and the lift began to descend.
Home, he thought, recognizing the familiar wall-hangings, the tiny statue of the horseman that rested on the plinth beside the wall opposite. I made it. I fucking made it. ...
He shook himself and frowned. It was chaos out there in the levels. And if they got through the coming days he'd have that Steward's balls for turfing him out at such an ungodly hour. He had never been so insulted. Never!
He swallowed, feeling distinctly nauseous, then, turning to his right, began to stagger toward the apartment. He had got only halfway along the broad, dimly lit corridor when the urge became insistent and, lurching to his right, he held on to the porcelain edge of the decorative plant trough and, doubled up, began to heave.
"There!" he said, laughing, then straightened, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. "Better out than in!"
For some reason that amused him and he began to giggle. But then he remembered. Remembered just why he'd got so drunk.
The thought sobered him. He spat bile, then turned and stumbled on, fumbling in his jacket pockets for his code key.
"Shit!" he swore, coming to a halt. He must have dropped it back at the club, or on the way here. Still, Catherine would open up. He'd wake the bitch.
He looked up and frowned. The door was open. He could see into the apartment.
"Wha . . . ?" He stepped unsteadily across, then pushed the door open wide. The hallway was empty, but there was a light on in the living room. He turned, closing the door quietly behind him, then, as quiet as he could, tiptoed exaggeratedly toward the living room door.
He peeked inside, not certain what he'd find, but the room was empty. Then, as he stood there, holding on to the jamb, the baby began to cry.
"Fuck it!" he mumbled. "Where is the fucking woman?"
There was another noise beneath the baby's crying; something he couldn't quite make out. He turned, looking back into the darkened hallway, then went out, making his way along the wall toward her room.
He stood there, sniffing the air. The bitch! The fucking bitch! He knew that smell. She'd been having men in here while he was out! He staggered across and felt for the bed in the darkness, half stumbling over it. It was unmade, the sheets crumpled. He put out a hand, looking for confirmation of his fears . . . and found it in the dampness of the sheet.
He sat, nausea making him swallow hard.
"You bitch!" he muttered. "You fucking bitch!"
A sudden anger washed through him. So this was what she did while he was out. Well, fuck her—he'd make her pay for this!
He pulled himself up and staggered out, looking for her. As he came into the living room again, she was standing across from him, framed by the kitchen doorway. The baby was still howling, but she seemed unaware of it. Her eyes were red, as if she'd been crying.
"You!" he said, pointing an accusing arm at her. Then, with a bellow, he launched himself at her.
She yelped and tried to get away but, drunk as he was, he was still too fast for her. Grabbing her hair he pulled her down savagely onto her knees, then leaned over her, putting his face almost into hers.
"Who was it? Who've you been screwing in my bed, you fucking bitch?"
She made to shake her head, but he tugged at it hard, making her cry out.
"It was Ben," she said, her eyes glaring at him venomously now. "Ben Shepherd."
He let her go, then staggered back. "Shepherd . . ." The name seemed to deflate him. He stood there, swaying, his eyes shocked. "Ben Shepherd?"
"That's right!" There was a pure hatred in her eyes now. "And he wasn't screwing me. We made love. Love, Sergey . . ."
He swung his arm and felt his hand connect, hard.
"He's used you. Used you like the cheapest whore to get back at me!"
Her laughter stung him.
"You? You think he cares about you?" Holding her swollen jaw she glared up at him. "He came for me, Sergey. Not you. He came to take me back with him."
He swung again, knocking her down, then crouched over her, his hand raised. "I'll kill you! I'll see you dead before he touches you again!"
He drew his hand back and saw her flinch, then stood, backing off a pace, as if he'd finished with her. Then, with a savagery that surprised them both, he turned and kicked her in the stomach.
He stood over her, watching her gasp with pain, then leaned in, pointing at her, his fingertip directly under her nose. "You're dead, woman! You're fucking dead, hear me?"
Sergey moved back, trembling now, the thought of what had happened making the muscle beneath his eye twitch violently. He turned, looking back at the darkness of the doorway, and wiped his mouth, his eyes full of imagining. For a moment he was somewhere else, and Catherine, seeing that, reached up and, taking the heavy lamp from the table beside the sofa, pulled herself up.
"Wha . . . ?" he began to say, turning back toward her, but it was too late. As his face came around, the lamp caught him on the side of the head and shattered.
For a moment she stared at him where he lay, the blood bubbling from the deep gash in his skull, her hand out, her mouth open in shock. In a daze she went through into the baby's room and lifted her from the cot. Then, knowing there was nothing for her there, she began to walk, out of the room and down the darkened corridor, heading for the transit.
"What can you see?"
The pilot shifted in his seat, then lifted his visor. "The satellite's there all right, but . . . well, it's just dead. And from the infrared readout it's cold as a piece of rock. It's as if it's been frozen."
He waited as his craft slowly drifted in an arc about the satellite, wondering what ground control would ask him to do next.
There was a click and then the disembodied voice sounded again. "Is there any obvious sign of tampering?"
He put his visor down again and readjusted the tracking cameras, trying to get as clear a view of the inert satellite as he could. See for yourselves, he'd have liked to have said, but audio was the only thing working right now. Someone was jamming all the other wavelengths.