CHAPTER 50.
“Mjölnir, this is Meru control. All other traffic has been cleared from your area. Continue your approach and prepare for docking.” The professional voice of the controller shifted to a more personal tone. “And welcome home!”
“Thank you very much, Meru,” Madeline said. “But please, let’s save the welcomes and celebration until after we dock. I don’t think any of us are going to relax until we’re actually there.”
“Understood, Mjölnir.”
She glanced over. The cameras were focused only on her and showed nothing of the rest of the engineering-area-turned-bridge of the Mjölnir. This was a good thing, since General Alberich Hohenheim was sitting not far to her right, and his continued survival was still something that needed to be kept a secret. They’d been in secret communication with Glendale and, through him, with the relevant authorities on Earth. They were bound and determined to see that those responsible for the destruction of the Odin were brought to justice.
She looked at the display clock in her helmet. Five minutes.
Jackie took the central seat with a smile. “With your permission, General?”
“I am still a secret for these few minutes,” Hohenheim replied. “The Mjölnir is yours, Captain.”
“Everyone strap in,” Jackie said. Madeline complied and brought up her own controls. “Anthony, Mia, prepare for final burn.”
“I have verified our matching burn calculations,” Anthony said. “Mia has the numbers. Beginning Mjölnir rotation for burn.” A few moments passed. “Ship rotation complete,” Anthony said. “Main burn countdown begin.”
The last few seconds were ticking away. Looking at Meru and, beyond, the perfect blue-white globe of Earth, she was struck by a cascade of memories: Nike approaching the threatening mass of Phobos; the John Carter careening out of control; turning a corner to come face-to-face with a Tyrannosaurus Rex on Mars; desperate panic as she thought her husband had died mere seconds before she rescued him from a pit on Ceres; landing Nebula Storm on Europa; watching Zarathustra descend into the freezing depths; waiting in the dark as the power of her suit faded. She felt a sudden sense of wonder. How had they survived all that?
Mjolnir roared back to full life, one final thundering blast from the nuclear rocket that had, once, belonged to Nike and had traveled from Earth to Mars and all the way to Jupiter and now, at last, returned like its namesake to the place from which it had come. Now, if ever…she thought. The ideal time to disrupt their homecoming, to send them to destruction, it was this moment, as they approached Earth, to send them hurtling into the atmosphere and burn all the evidence to ash.
But nothing untoward happened. She smiled; honestly, she hadn’t expected anything to happen; even for their opponents, the risk of such tampering was too great. But it was still an immense relief. She felt the gentle force of the deceleration, the vibration thrumming through her, a familiar yet still thrilling sensation, and a comforting one, one that assured her that everything really was going to be all right.
Then it cut off. Hisses, tiny shots of vapor as the attitude jets were used to kill the last remnants of motion, adjust the very final course.
Everything was still. Andrew turned from his console. “Mjolnir now stationary with respect to Meru. Meru’s crews are attaching cables to bring us in and complete docking.”
Without warning, he let out a whoop that almost deafened everyone in the control room. “We have DONE it!”
The cheers were echoed around the room…and from the radio, as well. “We have indeed,” Madeline agreed. Her eyes went to the Earth, slowly turning below, searching for a particular spot.
One last loose end…
* * *
Goswin Osterhoudt was fairly certain that there was no way his involvement in the disaster that had overtaken the Odin could be discovered. Not enough of his involvement for any legal charges to be brought against him, at least. There would inevitably be rumors, of course. But there were always rumors about powerful men like Osterhoudt. Only the scandal sheets would ever print them, and who paid attention to such reports? No one serious; certainly no one in position of authority.
Some of Fitzgerald’s underlings had survived, but they didn’t matter. None of them would have ever known anything about their ultimate employer—and, in any event, the three survivors had not been in Jupiter orbit when the catastrophe occurred.
The wreck of the Odin was somewhat more problematic—it was, naturally, a piece of evidence of deception all on its own…but again, there were ways of making sure certain things were kept quiet. There was far, far too much to lose for the IRI or Ares to risk disrupting a potentially profitable relationship with the EU over what was now over and done with. There would, perhaps, be quiet backroom deals and apologies—without names and behind nondisclosure agreements—but nothing that would truly threaten him.
Still, Osterhoudt prided himself on being a practical man, as well as a smart one. It was always possible that, in the heat of the moment after the ill-fated expedition’s return, rash actions might be taken against him by one or another of the more impetuous police agencies. Which was why he was now at sea on his private yacht, off the coast of Malta and well into international waters.
Very few people knew he was here, at least at the moment. His transmissions were still routed through one of his private homes in Germany, one that was technically supposed to be a secret. In all likelihood, of course, nothing untoward would happen. In which case, he could simply finish a very pleasant and private vacation before returning to Europe.
He sat down in one of the comfortable, well-cushioned chairs and activated his own access network. Once full encryption was established and keys exchanged, he was able to view the current situation with perfect safety. The news channels, of course, were all focused on the approach of Mjölnir. He found himself leaning forward, chided himself for tension, then laughed a bit. Of course I’m tense. No reason for me to hide it, here. His stomach tightened slightly, and he debated having a drink, but decided against it. Best to be as clear-headed as possible. Just in case.
For the next half hour, the news channels devoted themselves to pointless chit-chat between news announcers and various experts brought in for the occasion. The truth was, space travel was boring unless something disastrous happened.
There was a slight hope in Osterhoudt’s mind that such a catastrophe might transpire, given the jury-rigged nature of the spacecraft involved. The Mjölnir was now close enough for cameras to depict in detail its rather grotesque construction.
But it was only a faint hope. The surviving astronauts had been able to cobble together the craft and bring it all the way back from Jupiter orbit. How likely was it that they’d fail now, at the very end?
And it didn’t matter, really. There would certainly be repercussions, of course, for what was far and away the worst disaster in the history of space flight. It was conceivable that Osterhoudt might lose his position as the Chief Operations Officer of the European Space Development Corporation. But the ESDC would provide him with a suitable retirement package, just to maintain the needed facade—and, when all was said and done, he was already a very wealthy man.
The news channel abruptly cleared away the chattering heads and showed the docking bay of the space elevator. “Mjölnir has successfully docked with Meru,” announced the newscaster, a bit breathlessly. “We should be seeing the crew disembark at any moment.”
And, indeed, within a few seconds the hatch swung aside and the survivors of the Jupiter expedition began coming through.
Madeline Fathom came first, followed by her husband Joe Buckley. Then, A. J. Baker, Helen Sutter, Larry Conley, and a dark-complected woman whom Osterhoudt presumed to be the Ares engineer. What was her name? Second? No, Secord. He couldn’t recall her first name.
She was followed by the first of the survivors of the Odin disaster, the tall, blond engineer Horst Eberhardt; immediately behind him was a smaller man with brown hair. Osterhoudt recognized him as the French astrophysicist LaPointe. Then came—
When the next man’s face came into view, Osterhoudt was paralyzed with shock.
Hohenheim? But it was not possible! He was supposed to be dead! The broadcasts from the Mjölnir had explicitly said so. Why—?
Some of Osterhoudt’s confusion was shared by the newscaster, who was babbling away. Hohenheim approached the camera and looked directly into it.
“I am General Alberich Hohenheim, formerly commander of the European Union vessel Odin,” he said, “now in joint command of the vessel Mjölnir.”
His harsh tone softened a bit. “I must first apologize to my family and my friends, who have suffered much at my supposed loss. I can only say I hope you will understand once all is explained.”
Goswin finally grasped the truth, the only possible explanation: that he had been tricked. A lie. A fabrication maintained for months…and all with only one possible goal.
“What happened to Odin and Nebula Storm,” Hohenheim continued, “was no accident. It was a disaster caused by the actions of one man, making use of illegal and covert weaponry placed upon Odin…”
This was far worse than Goswin had anticipated. But he took a deep breath and calmed himself. He was still outside of any territorial waters, after all. He had access to as fine a communications suite as existed almost anywhere on the planet, and had half a dozen excellent lawyers on his payroll. He simply had to remain calm and stay at sea for a while, while he conferred with his legal staff and other advisors.
Hearing a slight noise, he turned in his seat and saw that the yacht’s captain had entered the cabin. The man had a peculiar expression on his face.
“Mr. Osterhoudt…”
“Yes?” he asked impatiently. There was no time to waste.
“We’ve been hailed, sir. By an Italian destroyer. They say they’re planning to board.”
Osterhoudt stared at him. “Board? But…They have no right to do so!”
The captain cleared his throat. “Perhaps so, Mr. Osterhoudt. But whether they have the right or not, what they do have are 76 millimeter guns—the front two of which are pointed at us—not to mention surface-to-surface missiles and torpedoes. So I don’t believe we have any choice in the matter.”
There was no point arguing with the captain. Clearly enough, the man felt his obligations to his employer only went so far.
Osterhoudt heaved himself out of the chair and clambered up the ladder onto the deck. By the time he got there, he recognized the sound he was hearing. A helicopter was already on the way.
His yacht had a helipad, naturally. For a man of his stature in business affairs, that was a practical necessity as well as a matter of prestige. Within a couple of minutes, the helicopter had landed and two men were disembarking.
Both of them were wearing uniforms of some sort. Osterhoudt didn’t recognize them, but he wasn’t really familiar with the Italian armed forces.
It was only when the men were within a couple of meters that he belatedly realized the uniforms were those of a police force. Something called the EU Transnational Police, apparently, according to the insignia.
He hadn’t known the EU even had a police force of its own. He’d never had much contact with police agencies. A man like Osterhoudt dealt with legal authorities frequently, of course, but the ones they dealt with were the ones who gave orders to policemen. Not policemen themselves.
Abrupt bastards, as you’d expect. “Mr. Osterhoudt, you’re under arrest,” said the larger of the two.
Osterhoudt put on his best derisive expression. It was quite good; had served him well over the years. Just short of an outright sneer, but clearly conveying the sense that those upon whom the expression was bestowed had severely transgressed both reason and polite custom.
“That’s preposterous. Just for starters, we’re in international waters. You have no authority here.”
The policeman who’d spoken smiled thinly. “I’m afraid we do, Mr. Osterhoudt. There’s a long list of charges, which includes conspiracy to commit murder. But the first charge is piracy.” The smile widened slightly. “Pirates, as you perhaps know—this has been well-established legal practice for, oh, centuries now—can be apprehended on the high seas by…oh, just about anyone.”
His associate spoke up, for the first time. “Certainly by anyone”—here he drew forth a sheaf of documents from his jacket—”carrying an arrest warrant issued by the European Union’s official police force.”
The policeman who’d spoken first unclipped a pair of handcuffs from his belt. “And—oh happy chance—carrying suitable manacles,” he said.
His partner’s smile now bordered on an outright grin. He waved the arrest warrant in the direction of the destroyer. “Not to mention half a dozen 76 millimeter guns. They can fire up to eighty rounds a minute, you know. So I really recommend you put up no resistance.”
“This is preposterous. Piracy? That charge will never hold up in court! I’ve never even been on any vessel other than my yacht or a few other similar ships!” Osterhoudt wasn’t resisting, but these people had to understand how ludicrous—how unacceptable!—this entire situation was. Piracy?
The second officer shrugged. “Not for us to judge what holds up in court, sir,” he answered. “But as for you being on the ship, you’re being charged under Article 101(c) of the United Nations Convention on the Law of the Sea, as extended during the debates on Mars to include space. And Article 101(c), sir, specifically includes inciting or facilitating an act of piracy—whether present or not.”
The first officer opened the handcuffs. Osterhoudt stared at the grotesque things and a dreadful leaden weight seemed to fill his stomach as he realized that all his words did not matter. The specific charges didn’t even matter. They were sufficient to the purpose, which was…
“Turn around, Mr. Osterhoudt. And extend your hands behind your back.” There was no concealing the satisfied tone in the policeman’s voice. “As I said, you’re under arrest.”