Spacer, Smuggler, Pirate, Spy Box Set

by J. A. Sutherland

  “Send her out.”

  “Aye.”

  The sail locker’s hatch in Minorca’s bow cycled slowly and a single, vacsuited figure emerged.

  Detheridge made her way a bit to the starboard side, where the other ship now lay off Minorca’s bow, having sailed past, then come up into the wind to stop.

  Detheridge raised her arms and lit the long lighted sticks she held, beginning the long, laborious process of spelling out their message.

  Fusion SCRAM. No Power. Assist - interrogative.

  Detheridge was playing the part of Minorca’s quartermaster, arranging things while the ship’s officers dealt with what was certainly a mess inside the hull. She finally arranged things to everyone’s liking and the other ship took up moving again — it was on them to make the docking, with Minorca ostensibly unable to move.

  The other ship charged her sails, pulled them around to fall off the wind and sail away downwind, then circled back to come at Minorca from behind. It would be an awkward docking as Minorca had been on the port tack when her sails went dark, leaving her in the same attitude toward the winds, rather than coming up into them to heave-to as was typically done. The other ship would have to come alongside while on the port tack as well, a more difficult maneuver.

  They managed it, though, and came to rest a few dozen meters from Minorca’s starboard side.

  The boarding tube extended, touching Minorca’s side with a crew of vacsuited figures carrying a thick cable already inside it. They’d left the outer hatch to their own lock open and Avrel hoped Kaycie, on the berthing deck with their few guns, had the sense to target both those in the tube and that lighter, inner hatch. He swallowed heavily at the thought, but if they could expose the other ship’s interior to vacuum quickly — well, the crew likely wasn’t suited, there being no reason to expect Minorca to attack, after all.

  Avrel clenched his jaw.

  “Fire.”

  The action was short and brutal.

  The other crew, all unsuspecting, was indeed unsuited. Avrel would never know how many died when Minorca’s first broadside opened her main deck to vacuum.

  The other captain and his crew weren’t fools, though, and Minorca’s guns weren’t nearly enough to settle the matter in one go.

  It was barely two minutes, not long enough for any but one of Minorca’s guns to reload, before the enemy’s gunports opened. They’d not bothered to rig their own gallenium nets to keep the darkspace radiations out for a time, simply flung the ports open and stuck the crystalline tubes of their guns through to fire into Minorca.

  The boarding tube and its inhabitants had been shredded by grapeshot, canisters that split the thick lasers of the main guns into dozens of thinner beams, as Kaycie had indeed targeted them. Those in the tube, men who’d only been coming to assist a ship they thought was in trouble, were slaughtered in the one blast, but the tube itself remained in place. Open to vacuum, but still usable to propel oneself between the ships. The lock on the other side was open to space, blasted apart in their first salvo, and Avrel’s crew was already suited, as the enemy was not.

  Figures streamed across from ship to ship, even as the guns were reloaded and fired again. One or two were struck with the full force of shot, but the others kept on. Kaycie had organized the boarding party from the former captives, and they knew the stakes — it was take the other ship, die in the attempt, or return to their captivity.

  They’d opened Minorca’s paltry armory and handed out the weapons — bladed mostly, with the few chemical projectile sidearms going to those spacers who claimed some proficiency with them. Firing those in vacuum, especially if a ship were to lose its gravity generators, wasn’t something most merchant spacers practiced at.

  The guns on both ships were firing again, erratically as the gun crews heaved shot into the breaches. The heavy canisters made up of capacitors to hold the charge and lasing tubes that fired through the guns’ barrels were encased in gallenium to protect them from the darkspace radiations that made all electronics useless when exposed.

  “Bugger it,” Avrel muttered. He clamped his vacsuit helmet over his head and gestured to the others. “There’s nothing to be done from the quarterdeck, lads — it’s not as though we’re going anywhere.”

  Grubbs and Privitt clamped their own helmets on, grasped their weapons and followed.

  Avrel made his way down to the gun deck. He spared a brief nod to Kaycie, who was rushing from gun to gun, encouraging their crews and seeing to their aim. He wished that he could take the time to say something to her before joining the fight on the other ship, but with the radiations inboard the suit radios were down and he didn’t think he should take the time to touch his helmet to hers so she could hear.

  Instead he raised a hand, turned that into a sweeping gesture forward, and flung himself through the tube at the other ship.

  The aftermath of the battle shook Avrel to the core.

  No class at Lesser Sibward, nor his travels aboard ships, had prepared him for the bleeding, burned, and broken bodies littering the decks of both Minorca and Fancy.

  It was odd, he thought, that he didn’t remember much of the battle itself, though. Only images of his blade and the blades of others — blocked or swinging or cutting through a vacsuited limb.

  His first thoughts were of Kaycie, and though she’d been the one to send word that Fancy’s captain had surrendered and the ship was theirs, Avrel wouldn’t be satisfied until he’d gone through the boarding tube himself and seen her whole.

  She’d already seen to securing Fancy’s crew and officers, so then came the task of sorting the wounded and seeing to their treatment. The worst seen to wherever they lay and moved to a makeshift sick berth in Minorca’s hold, for the main sick berth couldn’t hold so many. Of those not in dire straits, Fancy’s crew were sent to their fellows in that ship’s hold, to be treated as well as could be, while the Minorcans saw to their own.

  Detheridge had taken a slash to her belly during the boarding, but her vacsuit had sealed and Minorca’s surgeon was confident in her recovery. Grubbs had been less lucky as a bolt from Fancy’s guns had taken off his left arm at the elbow. Avrel stopped to visit them both, as they were resting side by side, and was surprised to find them in good spirits.

  “Oh, a prosth’ll set me right, once we’re somewheres civilized,” Grubbs said. “No worries.”

  Detheridge simply nodded and smiled, her expression making Avrel wonder if the surgeon hadn’t given her a bit much in the way of painkillers.

  Regardless, he clapped them each on the shoulder and moved on to have a word with each of the other wounded.

  Once that was done, and both ships put to rights so that they could sail again, it was time to decide on their next move.

  Minorca’s crew and the captives were divided in their desires. Some, those who’d not participated in the taking of the ship, wanted off as soon as possible. They wished nothing more to do with the mutiny, nor with standing against the Marchant Company, and Avrel couldn’t blame them — they’d not asked to be put in a place to take such a stand, merely wanting to live out their lives and do the work they were suited to. Others — Barden Dary and his fellows who’d come aboard as captives — wished to sail off and make their own way in the Barbary. Avrel suspected their own way might have something less than honest trading to it, but couldn’t blame them either, not after their experience. Some of Minorca’s crew fell into this lot as well. The minority were those who, like Avrel and Kaycie, felt the need to sail back to New London space and spread the word about the Marchant’s actions.

  In the end, nearly everyone got their way.

  Dary and those who wished to sail with him took Fancy and disappeared into the Dark, while Avrel took those who wished to find other berths to Kuriyya and set them in-atmosphere. They’d have the chance, at least, to find berths on honest merchantmen and leave their time with the Marchants behind them. Some might contact the company and try to reestablish themselves, but
Avrel thought that a losing proposition for them. He doubted the company would have anything to do with any of Minorca’s complement again. Avrel, Kaycie, and those others who wished to tell their story set sail in Minorca — undermanned, but willing — for Penduli.

  Avrel kept Minorca in orbit around Kuriyya for three weeks, making the final repairs for the long haul back to Penduli. It gave the crew, those who were left, time to think about whether they truly wished to return to New London space with Minorca. Some few more decided it wasn’t truly in their best interests to do so.

  Avrel, on Minorca’s quarterdeck, sighed as the ship’s boat returned from the surface for the last time, three more short than it’d landed with. He tried hard not to begrudge them their decision, but it was hard when he had but two short watches aboard. The sail back home would be grueling for all of them.

  He stepped to the navigation plot, scanned the shipping to ensure no one else was about to leave orbit, and nodded. It was time.

  “Signal our intent to break orbit, Grubbs,” he said. He’d put the one-armed spacer on the signals console, as he needed every able-bodied man for Minorca’s sails. Grubbs was showing some aptitude for it, as well, and it would do the man no harm to add that to his resume for future ships. He might decide not to return to the tops, even once he had a prosthetic for his missing arm.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Kaycie stepped up to the navigation console beside him and laid a hand over his.

  “And next?” she asked.

  “Home. Home and make the bloody Marchants pay.”

  Epilogue

  Minorca’s speakers chimed once, marking half an hour into the morning watch. The quarterdeck was peaceful, as was the rest of the ship, with none of the bustle normally associated with the morning. None of the crew felt any particular need to clean or perform the small bits of maintenance typically done at the start of the morning while their breakfast was cooking.

  Avrel supposed he might have some of the crew who’d stayed loyal to Morell do the cleaning, but they were nearing Penduli — just a few days away, if the navigation plot were to be believed — and why should he take the risk? Besides that, once at Penduli they’d be turning the ship over to the authorities and likely never see her again.

  Perhaps at trial … perhaps they’ll ask to tour the hold where the spacers were kept on their way to whatever fate was in store for them.

  Or perhaps not.

  Avrel wasn’t entirely sure what to expect once they arrived at Penduli. Minorca’s officers would be tried, of course, but would the case ultimately be heard there or would it be moved coreward, perhaps to New London itself, in order to charge and bring others in the Marchant Company to justice?

  His lips quirked up in a grin.

  Either way, once word was out, Marchant would be badly hurt, perhaps even destroyed.

  His grin widened as he thought about the headlines.

  Marchant Company Stock Plummets, he thought. Frederick Marchant Brought Before the Dock. Slavers in our Midst!

  The press would have at the Marchants like spacers on the last pint, and the public cheer them on. There was nothing either liked more than a man-makes-good story, save a man-makes-good-and-now-it’s-bloody-time-to-tear-him-down one.

  “Sail!”

  “Where away, Grubbs?” Avrel asked.

  “To port, up fifteen,” Grubbs answered. “She’s small — single-masted. Looks to have just come about and is making toward us — she likely saw us before we saw her.”

  Avrel nodded. Minorca’s greater expanse of sail, and he had all she’d bear bent on now in his eagerness to make Penduli, would make her visible at a greater distance than smaller ships. They were close enough to Penduli, though, that this might be some revenue cutter set on inspection.

  “Keep a close eye on her for signals, Grubbs. If she’s Navy I’ll wish us to respond to her instanter, you understand?”

  “Aye.”

  Avrel nodded. Their initial greeting, whether in darkspace or on arrival at Penduli, would likely be a bit tense — until the facts were out about Minorca’s business. He wanted nothing to make the authorities tenser than they may be after whatever rumors of what had occurred about Minorca in the Barbary made their way back.

  “She’s signaling.”

  “What message?” Avrel frowned and glanced at the plot. The other ship was still quite distant, just at the most distant range she might hope for signals to be visible.

  “Heave-to,” Grubbs said after a moment. To his credit, the one-armed spacer had taken to his new post with a vengeance, studying signals and the workings of his console. He could often be found off-watch holed up with his tablet and Detheridge in some remote, private corner of the hold.

  Studying, Avrel considered with a half-hidden grin. But, for whatever else the two might be up to, Grubbs had learned his signals well. A revenue cutter, then — and bored, if she’s signaling so early. Wants to take no chance we’ll sail on before she has a look at us.

  “There’s some more,” Grubbs said. “So dim from the distance the computer’s having trouble with it, but I think she’s spelling out …” He squinted at the blurry image of the ship, fuzzy lights flashing in sequence. “Y … o … u … b … l … o … o … d … y … f … o … o … l … p … e … a … r …” He looked to Avrel, brow furrowed. “Then it’s Heave-to again — and they’ve added Imperative.”

  Avrel sighed.

  “That’ll be for me, then.”

  “You fool! You insufferable, bloody fool!”

  Eades was in a state.

  No sooner had Minorca’s hatch opened to the docking tube strung between her and the other ship, than Eades himself was through it. Avrel was a bit surprised at the skill with which the man grabbed the tube’s end and swung himself lithely from the tube to the artificial gravity within Minorca’s hull — all the while keeping on with a non-stop commentary on Avrel’s actions.

  “Mutton-headed, bespawling, addlepated dalcop!” Eades went on as Avrel ushered him in to Minorca’s master’s cabin and slid the hatch shut.

  Kaycie was staring at the man, her eyes wide with astonishment, but a growing grin.

  “Old friend, Jon?” she asked. “Appears to know you well.”

  “And you’re no better, Miss Overfield, to have participated in his lunatic endeavor.”

  Kaycie’s brows rose further at this, likely in surprise that this stranger so easily identified her.

  “Who —”

  “I’d have thought you had better sense, by all reports,” Eades went on, “but I can see where any time around this one would make anyone into an equally blithering idiot.”

  Avrel assumed he was Eades’ “this one”.

  “Who exactly is this, Jon?” Kaycie’s tone had grown cold and Avrel hurried to usher the two to seats on opposite sides of the late Morell’s dining table. “And what does he mean by —”

  “Let’s all sit for a moment, perhaps have a drink, shall we?” Avrel looked around, but had no idea where Morell’s stores were kept. He’d avoided making use of the master’s cabin, even after taking command of Minorca, as it hadn’t seemed quite right to take on the dead man’s possessions. He moved toward the hatchway. “I’ll send a man for a bit of beer, perhaps, and —”

  “There’s drink in that cabinet,” Eades said, pointing. “And lord knows I need one.”

  Avrel stared at him for a moment, torn between relief that the commentary on his intelligence had ended and bewilderment at how Eades would know where Captain Morell kept his stores. He went to the indicated cabinet, opened it, and found an array of bottles — spirits on the bottom and a rack of wine

  “Those are the ones he’d not trust his steward with,” Eades went on. “Bring back several and let’s get on with this.”

  “Jon —” Kaycie began.

  “Malcome Eades, Foreign Office,” Eades interrupted. “I know you because I’m the one who arranged for you to be aboard this ship, thinking — a now pointles
s exercise where you two are at work, I see — that you might be a sort of mitigating influence on young Mister Bartlett’s less endearing qualities.” He fixed Avrel with a cold gaze. “By which, I mean the whole of him, I assure you.”

  “Now see here —”

  Avrel set two bottles on the table with a loud thump.

  “Oh, let him talk, Kaycie. He’ll eventually tire of showing off his own cleverness and get to business.” He poured. A spiced rum he’d not have thought to Morell’s liking, and he hoped not to Eades’ either, then set glasses beside the other two before taking up his own. “Mister Eades,” he said, raising his glass. “My apologies for whatever it is I’ve done to muck up your, I’m certain, cleverest of plans. Please, do, explain your brilliance, my own stupidity, and how it is you shall go about fixing it now.”

  Eades’ eyes narrowed, but before he could speak Kaycie placed her palms on the table and half rose, leaning over and fixing her gaze on each of them in turn.

  “Gentlemen, though I do await an explanation I’m certain will be both edifying and —” She turned to Eades. “— admirable in its form, if ever either of you interrupts me again, I’ll box your ears bloody!”

  Avrel had to chuckle. He’d never heard Kaycie curse before, and for her to get it so wrong relieved a bit of the tension he was feeling.

  “If you’re going to curse, you should get it right,” he said. “The ‘bloody’ goes before ‘ear’, there, so it’d be —”

  “I don’t curse,” Kaycie said, quietly. Too quietly, sprang to Avrel’s mind. “And I spoke my meaning precisely, have no doubt.”

  “Oh —”

  Avrel’s hand went reflexively to his ear and he noted Eades’ fingers twitch as though to do the same.

  Kaycie stared at them for a moment, then, with a satisfied look, sat and raised her own glass.

  “Now, Mister … Eades, was it? Yes? Will you be so kind as to explain what it is we’ve done that’s upset you so?”