The Aggressive (Book 1 of the Titanwar saga): A science fiction thriller Read online

  "Drone team, this is Lancaster actual. You are clear to proceed," said the Station Commander. "Give us at least a five degree shift to be sure. Steady as you go. Over."

  "Acknowledged, Lancaster Actual. Five degrees. Over."

  Tem felt her heart rate increasing. The entire room was silent, except for the controller audio. It was all well and good shifting it out of the way, but seeing the Enigma up close brought home the difficulty they would face trying to get it to stop. Someone would have to dock and get on board, surely?

  Flashes of light on the display interrupted her musings. The drone operators shouted over the radio. Dozens of tiny points lit up across the Enigma and explosions blossomed left and right. The visual feed became a confusing mess as the drone twisted and spun in complex, pseudo-random patterns.

  "We're under attack, Lancaster, I repeat, we are under attack. Seven drones down already. That's eight, now nine..."

  The visual feed cut out.

  "Enigma's point defence system," said an officer. "They used their point defences against the drones—"

  "All drones lost, Lancaster. Please acknowledge?"

  Nobody said anything. In the space of ten seconds, the Enigma had wiped out the entire formation. Alarms chimed around the room. The silence was broken by updates from half a dozen different places in quick succession.

  "Commander, the Enigma has increased its velocity."

  "Enigma weapon systems have gone live. We are being targeted."

  "Velocity still increasing..."

  "Radiological alert—the Enigma has armed nuclear weapons!"

  Even with her very limited technical knowledge, Tem could read the room. Nobody expected this. The Station Commander had turned ashen.

  "So Commander, it sounds like we need to evacuate?" asked Tem.

  "We... we still do not have a complete picture. There is still the Aggressive. This is a misunderstanding. It must be. I will not disrupt the good order of this station on a hunch. Not yet." His hands were trembling. The reality of the situation had dawned on him; it would not be okay in the end. "I can't," he continued, "I won't—"

  "Okay, we're done." With one hand Tem grabbed the Station Commander's tunic at the chest and pushed backwards, hard. With the other, she reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a set of steel handcuffs. The old man's eyes were unfocused. His eyelids were thin and grey. He offered scant resistance but gripped Tem's arm, more to steady himself than to offer a struggle. The surrounding officers yelled in protest, though nobody intervened.

  "You've had your chance commander, I'm done fucking around. I'm confident we're in the middle of an act of terrorism and for some reason, you’re not concerned. So either your balls have crawled up your ass or you know something we don't. Are you in on this? Did someone get to you?" She slapped one of the cuffs onto the Commander's left wrist and threatened the other one. "Right now, I've got sufficient grounds to suspect you're involved in this somehow. You've got ten seconds to order the evacuation before I arrest you as a party to an act of intra-stellar terrorism." Tem willed herself to stay calm. Keeping her eyes fixed on the old man, she angled her head backwards slightly. "How we doing, Tariq?" He always had her back, there was no doubt there, but the odds in the room were bad if she misjudged the atmosphere.

  "We're all cool as cucumbers back here, Tem." Tariq was working hard to sound nonchalant. Irrespective of the words, his voice said everything. They were fine, he was indicating, tense, but fine. She felt the eyes, and the weapons, trained on her. If this didn't work, they were all screwed. The Station Commander craned sideways and murmured to his crew.

  "Lieutenant, signal the evacuation if you would. All decks, all personnel, all ships, condition one."

  A second later Tem was striding out of the control centre.

  "Tariq, with me, please. We've got work to do."

  Chapter 2—Anton

  Anton Biarritz perched in the cockpit of the diplomatic service yacht Jackdaw's Straw listening to the radio chatter. So far, so good.

  The evacuation of Lancaster Orbital had been signalled without explanation, flooding the communication channels with rumour, speculation and panic. Dozens of spacecraft scrambled into space. Anton estimated he had forty minutes before the Enigma was really upon them, and most of the ships would still be around the orbital. A light flashed on the console, warning that the hard-sealed doorway between the ship and the docking boom has been opened. He accessed the internal video feed and observed the family making their way into the ship.

  He had acted as a pilot chauffeur to the McVeigh family for the past few days, replacing their usual pilot on 'medical grounds'; that is to say, the pilot had come down with a terrible case of being shot in both knee-caps during a 'random' robbery on the orbital. The family consisted of Forest McVeigh, an APSA diplomat, normally based on Titan, his wife and two children.

  He retrieved a large shotgun from the side of the top of the instrument panel and ducked out of the cockpit towards the central corridor. The family would board a few feet ahead of him, at the far end. He heard the airlock closing and aimed the gun where he expected them to appear.

  A short, bespectacled man stepped into the corridor. It was the diplomat. Anton fired and a single shot snapped through the air. The diplomat bent double for an instant before dropping to the ground like a sack of flour. Anton loped to where the man lay prone, groaning and gasping for breath. McVeigh's wife and children broke into a cacophony of screams and shrieks. Anton swivelled the shotgun round to the three of them.

  "Jesus, Mary and Joseph," he cried. "Pipe down, will you? He's not dead, I hit him with a baton round, that's all. He's just a little winded." The screaming subsided. "Thank fuck for that. Now listen carefully; Mr McVeigh and I have some business to conduct. If everyone stays calm and does as they are told, then you will be okay. If there's any funny business though, I will start killing people." Anton pulled a small snub-nose pistol from his pocket and fired down the corridor into the bulkhead at the end. He winced at the deafening gunshot.

  "Fuck, that was loud. It's probably why you're not supposed to shoot in spacecraft." He waved the gun at the family. "It's a terrible habit of mine, I really need to stop."

  He walked backwards to stand over the grunting diplomat. McVeigh looked badly hurt. Hopefully, there was no internal bleeding. He pocketed the pistol and tucked the shotgun under his arm. From his other pocket, he took out a pair of handcuffs and tossed them towards McVeigh's wife. She caught them.

  "Okay, you're doing fabulously, Mrs McVeigh. I want you to take the handcuffs and use them to attach your husband to this tethering point here. Just the one hand will do, he won't be there for long." The children moved behind her, clinging to her hips. "You can keep the kids with you, that's fine."

  He stepped further back, allowing the mother-child tangle to approach. "And Mr McVeigh, I suspect you can probably hear me now, all you need to do is let your wife attach you to the tether point as I have asked. I'm still pointing a gun at her and as you have probably already guessed, you are the only one here who isn’t expendable." The sobs started again. It wasn't clear who from.

  Considering how upset she was, Mrs McVeigh didn't hesitate to handcuff her injured husband. She crouched elegantly in her pale blue evening dress. Mr McVeigh was a piggy-looking creature, short and squat, whereas she was stunning. He was punching above his weight. Judging by their smart evening-wear, the call to evacuate the orbital had caught them in the middle of an important engagement.

  "I'm sorry to have spoiled your evening," offered Anton as she rose back to her feet, unconsciously putting distance between them. The children darted back behind their maternal shield. Her eyes flicked up from beneath dark, dishevelled hair to meet Anton's gaze.

  "What now?" Her voice was calm and firm, although the stiff set of her arms and shoulders, swept-back around her children betrayed the tension and adrenaline flooding her nervous system.

  Flooding everyone's nervous system.

&
nbsp; "Now you will take yourself, little Adam and Amanda to the cargo bay where I will lock you inside. I will conduct my business with Mr McVeigh in peace, and after that," Anton threw an arm wide open, "I leave and you continue your lives a little traumatised, but otherwise unharmed."

  She spat in his face. Anton saw it coming but made no effort to avoid the gobbet of saliva. It struck his cheek and slid down his face. Sighing, he walked back into the central corridor and aimed the shotgun at Mr McVeigh.

  "I'm pretty sure he's coming round now." He shook his head. "He's really going to feel this." She twitched, torn between protecting her husband and protecting her children, but stayed back. In the tense silence the shot rang out, the echoes mingling immediately with more shouts and screams.

  "Yeah, that probably hurt quite a lot." Anton pumped another round into the chamber for effect. "What the fuck is wrong with you? Am I the only one who wants to keep your husband intact? Am I not being threatening enough? Should I have brought bigger guns?" He gestured her toward her. "Wipe my face, please." Anton kept his eyes fixed on her, and the gun pointed at him. As she used a cotton handkerchief to wipe away the phlegm, Anton glanced at Mr McVeigh. With his free hand, the little man was clutching his right side where the last round had struck.

  "You know at this range," Anton looked back at the wife shooed her away back to the children, "there's quite a reasonable chance that a rib or two has not only been broken, but pushed back with enough force to puncture a lung." He motioned with the gun. They moved, with much sniffling and crying, past the airlock and towards the rear of the ship.

  "All I'm saying is, if poor Mr McVeigh ends up with air in his pleural cavity and a collapsed lung, I for one don't know the first thing about performing a chest drain. And it's not good to do business with a man in the middle of a pneumothorax."

  It wasn't a long walk to reach the cargo bay, but Anton chatted as they went.

  "Spitting is a fascinating phenomenon, you know? On the one hand, some cultures value it as a signifier of trust and cleanliness. For instance, combined with a handshake it can bind parties into an agreement. In other cultures it's considered rude to swallow one's saliva, I mean, it makes sense, doesn't it? Why wouldn't you want to get rid of a waste bodily fluid?

  "On the other hand, it's also one of the greatest expressions of disrespect. When you spat at me a moment ago, that simple action communicated a wealth of symbols, meanings and signifiers. I hope you don’t mind indulging me in this?” Nobody answered. He carried on.

  “First of all, you dislike what I'm doing. I get that; I'm holding you and your family hostage. I shot your husband, though remember—not fatally. But swearing or cursing at me just wasn't enough. You needed a gesture more powerful than that. You weren't in a position to attack me violently as I'm armed and you are not. So you spat. It's physical and visceral and unambiguous. It invades my personal space and by spitting at my face you load the assault with the intimacy of interpersonal facial contact, striking me where I'm most vulnerable. What's more, you do all this with a bodily fluid. Saliva is not a pleasant excretion, in fact, it has been very dangerous at times. In the past, your saliva could have transmitted anything from flu to polio to tuberculosis.

  "And it’s so effortless! It's done in an instant. There's no build-up. No warning. It's a sucker-punch. Spitting says, 'I hate you' in a fraction of a second."

  Nobody responded. Anton couldn't blame them. Barely fifteen minutes ago, they'd known him as one of the two pilots assigned to transport them back to Titan aboard their yacht. Now here he was; a thug and a criminal, armed, dangerous and pulling their world from beneath them.

  The cargo bay was located at the rear of the ship, below the engines. It was an irregular shape and the size of four or five bunks joined together. The walls, in contrast to the rest of the ship, were covered with tangles of pipes and electrical equipment. The floor was bare metal, scuffed and dented over years of use. Compared to the rest of the yacht, the cargo bay was dirty and rough. The rear bulkhead was dominated by the wide air-lock, which could be used to transfer or receive cargo even in the vacuum of space.

  Anton cuffed the three captives to fixed points along the walls, each with their hands secured high above their heads. He set the shotgun down leaning against a wall and allowed himself to linger around Mrs McVeigh. He ran his fingers down her arms to her hips, feeling the cool satin beneath his touch. He began to shiver uncontrollably.

  "It's cold. Why...why is it so cold?" she asked, testing her restraints.

  "It's a cargo bay," managed Anton through his chattering jaw, "cargo bays aren't meant to be inhabited. They're always cold."

  "No. Not like this. I've been down here before. What's going on?"

  "Okay, you got me. I've cut the heating and the temperature is falling fast. There's a safety system which means I can't open the airlock if the computer thinks there are people in the cargo bay. So I need to cool your bodies as quickly as possible." He gently cupped the back of her head and neck, holding eye contact as his words sank in. Her face turned ashen. Her eyes widened and her chest heaved, sucking in the icy air in choking gulps. Anton walked away from the woman, now breathlessly uttering obscenities, over to the boy who shrank away. Bursting into action, he covered the boy's head with a plastic sack and viciously fastened a zip-tie around his neck.

  All hell broke loose. The boy kicked and struggled, caught between the suffocating bag and the choking plastic tie. The girl shrieked, unable to look away from her brother. The worst was Mrs McVeigh. She screamed as if her soul was being torn out from her chest. Without missing a beat Anton continued, applying the bag and zip-tie first on the girl and then on Mrs McVeigh.

  He walked back into the centre of the room and inspected his work. The screaming soon gave way to grunting and kicking. Feeble kicking. The boy was lifeless first and the girl and her mother not long after. He took a small box-cutter knife from his pockets and approached the boy. He made an incision into the top of the boy's shirt collar and carefully cut downward, pulling away each item in turn, eventually removing all clothing. He tossed the rags towards the middle of the room and began the same task on the girl. After all three had been stripped Anton stepped back and looked at his handiwork. He nodded at the scene.

  "Efficient. No blood. Good work."

  Anton left the cargo bay, rubbing his hands as he went. He got back to the diplomat, still handcuffed near to the airlock and looking somewhat recovered. Keeping his distance he threw over a set of keys and levelled the shotgun.

  "Mr McVeigh," he laughed a little as the man struggled to grasp the key. "It's time to get down to brass tacks. There's the key. Unlock yourself and let's head to your study. Walk straight in, don't turn round as you go. If you're thinking about locking yourself in and calling for help, that's fine. I'll just override the lock. I'm your pilot remember? You'll find communications are down, and I'll be inside with you faster than two shakes of a crying baby. Then I'll break both of your legs, kill one of your kids and we'll carry on as planned. Understood?"

  "Fine. Let's get this done." He had fire in his belly, presumably alongside a good amount of rich food and fine wine, by the look of him. He tried to hold himself with dignity, which was difficult when handcuffed on the floor, even while wearing a finely tailored suit and expensive shoes. He removed the handcuffs and straightened his large, gold-rimmed spectacles. The diplomat looked less pathetic now he was upright. Marginally.

  "Excellent," said Anton. "Just a few moments of business for us and then this will all be over."

  McVeigh snorted. "Bullshit."

  "Maybe, but let's pretend anyway, shall we?"

  Forest, limped towards his study. They entered one after another. Forest waited for the next instruction.

  "Take a seat," said Anton.

  Forest went to sit in front of the desk. Like the rest of the yacht, the room was a study in unrestrained luxury. Every surface was wood or titanium. Even the carpet felt expensive.

  "No,"
corrected Anton, "your own seat, of course, I'm still the guest. A man should sit at his own desk. It's just manners."

  He moved around the desk and sat down.

  "Fuck you."

  Anton leaned across the desk and used the butt of the shotgun to club McVeigh square between the eyes. He dropped backwards off the chair, flailing like a clown. Anton stood beside his head and looked down at him.

  "You're walking a very fucking fine line for a man in your position. Have you forgotten where your wife is? Have you forgotten where your fucking children are, you chinless skid stain?" Anton knelt down. "Can I be candid? I feel like I can be candid with you. I really like this part of my job. The bit where I get to be a really nasty bastard. Where I get to physically intimidate you, coerce you, at the threat of violence, to do things you don't want to do."

  Anton fished around on top of the desk and took a pencil. It was unused and sharp. Leaning his weight onto McVeigh's chest, he used one hand to push the smaller man's face back and the other to locate the pencil up the diplomat's nose. McVeigh resisted, both hands gripping Anton's wrist, but he was too weak. He couldn't stop the pencil moving slowly into the orifice. The low, muffled sounds of a struggle gave way to shouts, screams and eventually high pitched wails and begging as the pencil met more resistance. With a smirk, Anton released the pressure on the pencil. He snapped the end off before taking it out and tossing it across the study. The diplomat clawed at his nose, alternately crying and snorting to remove the fragments of wood and graphite from his nasal passage.

  "I think the reason this is my favourite bit," Anton mused, "is because on some level I believe posh, middle-aged politicos, like yourself, deserve to have this kind of blunt force trauma in your lives. It makes me happy to be the one who puts it there. It's like a perk, except I'm also making the world a better place." Anton levered himself up from the diplomat and took his seat on the opposite side of the desk. Recovering his twisted spectacles, McVeigh righted the chair and groped his way back onto it. He was shaking with a combination of fear, adrenaline and pain.