The Medusa Chronicles by Stephen Baxter Read Free Book Online

Webster. “Which began when you Americans manipulated the outcome of the Second World War to crush the British Empire and alienate the Soviets—”
    Embleton sighed. “Oh, for God’s sake. A Global-Sceptic. Part of the old independence movements that opposed the World Government.”
    Webster nodded. “I remember. I was just a kid. Bombs in London, Geneva, Bermuda.”
    Stamp ranted at him, “Then you Yanks used Britain as a missile launch platform in your Cold War against the Soviets. And then you suckered us into the so-called ‘Atlantic Partnership.’ You wouldn’t even back our claim for a seat on the World Government Security Council—”
    â€œI’ve heard enough,” Embleton snapped in disgust. “You’re an embarrassment to a noble history, Stamp. Moss, take him away. I’m damn sure he won’t tell us how he subverted the Bosun—or how I can get that nuclear leech off my window—but try to get him to talk anyhow. Keep the evacuation going. And do whatever you can to hack into the Bosun, you never know . . .”
    Her crew hurried to comply.
    â€œAnd meanwhile,” Embleton said softly, “if all else fails, we need to find a way to remove that thing.” She walked back to the window to join Springer, Falcon, Webster and Dhoni. “Any ideas?”
    Webster asked, “The escort ships?”
    â€œAre World Navy vessels—surface, subsurface, and indeed in the air. I’m told they are working on options. But the Sam Shore is an elderly ship, Administrator, and already destabilised. It would be a tricky operation to get close enough to detach that thing without wrecking us.”
    Webster said, “That’s assuming the leech isn’t rigged to blow if it’s tampered with. I’d set it up that way.”
    Embleton raised her eyebrows. But she murmured to an officer, who murmured in turn into a mouthpiece. “Stamp says it isn’t,” she said at last.
    â€œThat’s something,” Springer said. “Anyhow it sounds like we need torely on our own resources. How can we get at that thing out there? I take it there are no more sprites.”
    â€œAll destroyed save this one, as far as we can tell. And with the Bosun subverted we could not rely on them anyway.”
    Falcon asked, “Do you have other craft? Undersea boats?”
    â€œYes: coracles, they’re called. For tourist jaunts. They have no means of manipulating their environment, and they are already in use as lifeboats.”
    Conseil was still here. “May I serve you?” Falcon stared at it curiously.
    Webster asked, “Why not send a diver out? A human, I mean. Or a team.”
    Embleton said, “Because we are already—depth, Lieutenant?—already two thousand feet down, and descending quickly. Human divers can only descend to fifteen hundred feet, even with pressurised air mixtures.”
    Springer said firmly, “I’d be prepared to try, even so.”
    Embleton sighed. “It would be a heroic but futile gesture, Captain Springer.”
    Falcon said, “I am no human. And my equipment is designed to function underwater.”
    Webster raised his eyebrows. “It’s not a bigger-balls competition, Howard.”
    â€œForget it,” snapped Dhoni. “Your metal shell might keep functioning. Your air supply, your life-support, would not, at this depth.”
    â€œBut that might be enough.” He raised his arms and clicked his metallic fingers. “Geoff, there might be some way to rig a remote control. Even if I were—”
    Webster looked disgusted. “Dead?”
    â€œUnconscious. Maybe with a link through the neural jack . . .”
    â€œI could work your carcass like a puppet, you mean?”
    Embleton had a murmured conversation with another of her crew. “I’m told that might be possible, Commander—given time. But we have