by Chris Bunch
This didn't apply to Sten's tiny flotilla. Van Doorman proved true to his word. He wanted Sten's butt on toast. He evidently thought the best way to crucify Sten was to keep him busy. The Claggett, Gamble, Kelly, and Richards were used as everything from dispatch runners to chartmakers to the present duty—high escort on this merchant run.
Sten didn't think much of van Doorman's plot—if Sten had wanted to ruin someone's career, he would have kept the person underfoot at all times. Sten was also not upset that his ships were kept on the run—he was still shaking his somewhat motley crew down.
The only problem was the wear and tear factor on the delicate engines. If it weren't for Sutton's brilliance in conniving far more parts and even spare engines than authorized, all four tacships would have been redlined by now.
And so the four ships dozed on high escort. The skipper of the Neosho had cheerfully agreed with Sten's plan to keep his flotilla above the convoy proper, enabling the Bulkeley-class's superior electronics to umbrella the convoy. He had promptly stuck the Neosho at proud point and, as far as Sten could tell from intership transmissions, was spending most of his time on the lead merchantman.
Sten was slightly envious—rumor had it that Sullamora's ships were most plush, and their crews didn't believe in Spartan thinking—but not very.
Sten kept his crews on minimal watch—with one exception. The electronics suite was fully manned and watching. There had been entirely too many nonreports from ships passing through this sector. There were many possible explanations: Merchant ships were notoriously sloppy for transmitting sector-exit reports; accidents did happen; pirates; or Question Mark.
Pirates made no sense. In spite of the livie fantasies, it was impossible for a private individual, given the Imperial control of AM2, to operate a raider for very long. It was the Question Mark that intrigued Sten and Alex.
Four days into the assignment, their question was answered.
General quarters clanged Sten from his cubicle, where he was filling out another of van Doorman's interminable status reports, to the command deck.
The convoy was below and ahead of his ships—Sten noticed that, as always, one freighter was lagging to the rear of the formation. But on the monitor three unknown ships were coming in from “low rear.” Sten checked the prediction screen. Their path would intersect that rear freighter in minutes.
Electronics does not necessarily simplify command: Sten, nearly simultaneously, ordered all weapons systems on the Gamble to standby; alerted his other three ships; cut to the supposedly open command link between ComEscort and ComConvoy, though he got no answer; braced himself and cut onto the assigned transmission band to all convoy ships; and turned away from the convoy screen.
"Below” him was instant chaos. The Neosho and the Commander/Escort's lead merchantman continued, unhearing—Sten guessed it must be a helluva party. Two freighters immediately took evasive action and almost collided. A third freighter sought an orbit directly away from the convoy. The container link began lumping like a giant inchworm, as if all of the tug skippers had suddenly decided to go their own way. The lagging merchantman suddenly and uselessly went to full power, and the two auxiliary cruisers began bleating questions.
Sten was too busy to worry about them.
"All tacships, this is Gamble. Switch to independent command. Acquire targets. Please monitor my attempts to communicate with unknown ships. Permission to fire at commander's discretion, over."
He made another switch to the sector's emergency band, which, in theory, every ship should be monitoring.
"Unknown ships ... this is the Imperial Ship Gamble. Identify yourselves ... alter trajectory ... or prepare to be attacked."
The com screen stayed blank. Kilgour pointed at another screen, which showed violet haze from all three ships.
"First th’ wee Baka ... noo thae’ clowns. Ah thinkit tha Tahn be playin't games."
Another screen had a computer projection of the three incoming raiders.
"Spitkits,” Kilgour murmured. “Ah'll hazard tha’ raiders be converted patrolcraft. Raiders wi’ enough to blast a civilian an’ a prize crew for boardin'."
Foss, at the control board, eyed Kilgour. Maybe the man from Edinburgh had been a pirate.
"Tacships,” Sten ordered, “engage and destroy incoming ships!"
Kilgour had the Gamble on an intersection orbit, coming “down” on the incoming ships. Evidently they were intent on the merchantman. “Weapons selection, sir?"
"We won't waste a Kali. Give me firing prox on a Goblin."
Kilgour had the control helmet on. “And six ... and five ... and four ... and three ... and one. Goblin on th’ way, mate."
The first raider never knew what happened. It simply vanished. The second and third split formation—one ship 180-ing on a return orbit at full power. Sten checked an indicator—the raider's top speed was less than two-thirds of that of any of the tacships.
The third ship, perhaps with a brighter skipper, tried another tactic. It launched two ship-to-ship missiles and, also at full power, tried an evasion orbit, one that would lead it within a few light-seconds of the lagging merchantman. Perhaps the raider thought he could lose himself in the clutter around the freighter."Clagget ... Kelly ... Richards,” Sten ordered. “You want to nail the one that's homeward bound for me? I'll take the sneaky guy."
"Roger, Gamble,” came the cultured voice of Sekka. “But you do appear to be allowing yourself all the fun."
"Negative, Kelly. While you're at it, maybe you could snag me a prisoner or two? And maybe try to get a back projection on where these guys came from?"
"We'll try. Kelly out."
While Sten was talking, Alex had already deployed three Fox countermissiles and produced two satisfactory explosions from the raider's own launch.
"Closing ... closing ... closing...” came the monotone from Foss.
"Unknown ship, this is the Imperial Ship Gamble. Cut power immediately!"
Nothing showed onscreen.
"Puir lad,” Alex observed. “Puir stupid clot. Wha’ he should'a don wha launch on yon freighter an’ hopit we're soft-hearted enough to look for survivors ... Goblin launched. Ah'll try't’ takit just the wee idiot's drive tubes ... closin't ... hit ... ah well."
The raider became another expanding ball of gas.
"Gamble, this is Claggett. Raider exploded. No survivors observed."
"All tacships, this is Gamble. Resume previous orbit."
"Gamble, this is Neosho. What is going on, over?"
The query was rather plaintive.
Foss correctly left the transmission unanswered while Sten and Kilgour figured out a response that wouldn't get them court-martialed when they returned to Cavite.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
STEN CLEARED OFF the small surface that served as his desk, turned on the pinlight/magnifiers, and eased his chair closer. He had determined that this was going to be a perfect evening—one of the rare nights he had absolutely alone to pursue his hobby.
He had given the crews of his ships twelve-hour passes, leaving him relatively free of responsibility. He poured himself a tumbler of Stregg, swirled the crystal liquid around in the glass, and sipped. The fire lit down to his toes.
He sighed in anticipated pleasure, then lifted out the tiny black case and snapped it open. It contained a dozen or more tiny cards, each jammed with computer equations. Sten's passion was holographic models of ancient factories and scenes. One card, for instance, contained in its micro-circuits a complete early-twentieth-century Earth lumber mill, with working saws and gears and belts. Every machine in the mill was controlled by a miniature worker, who went about his individual tasks—as best as Sten could research them—exactly as he had many centuries ago. Sten had completed the mill during his last assignment on Prime World.
He had started his latest model during flight school. It was one of his more difficult moving holographic displays. He slid the car
d into its slot and palmed the computer on. Small figures working in a sprawling field leapt out onto the desk. What Sten was recreating was an ancient British hops field. From his research he knew that hops—used in the beer-brewing process—were grown on towering tripod poles. When harvest time came each year, men and women were recruited from all over the country. The plants were so tall, with the fruited vines at the very top, that the workers strode through the fields on stilts to pick them.
Thus far, Sten's display consisted of the fields of hops, most of the workers, and the ox-drawn carts used to haul out the harvest. Months of work lay ahead of him before he could complete the rest of the sprawling farm. He tickled a few keys on his computer to call up an incomplete ox cart. Then he got out his light pen to start sketching in a few more details.
There was a tentative scratching at his cabin door. Sten felt the anger rise. For clot's sake, he had given strict orders to be left alone. Ah, well. “In!” he called.
The door hissed open, revealing a badly frightened sentry. “Begging your pardon, sir, but...” The man started stumbling over his words. “But ... uh, there's a lady."
"I don't care if it's the Queen of—oh, never mind. Who is it?"
"I think it's the admiral's daughter, sir."
Clot! That was just what he needed. A drunk for company. “Tell her I'm not here."
The sentry started to back out, hesitated, and then pushed something forward. It was a single rose and a small gift-wrapped package.
"She said to give you this, sir,” the sentry plunged on. “Said it was to say she was sorry. Uh ... uh ... I think she'd know I was lying, sir, if I told her what you said."
Sten took pity on the man, accepted the gifts, and waved him out. “I'll be with her in a minute."
He placed the rose to one side, took a hefty snort of his Stregg for courage, and slit open the package. There was a small computer card inside—identical to the ones he used in holography. What in the world ... He slid it into one of the drives. A three-dimensional model of a tower jumped out on his desk. It was a perfect replica of one of the barns used by the ancient hop farmers! How had she known?
No matter how one looked at it, this was one hell of a way to apologize.
* * * *
They had a midnight picnic-style dinner at one of the most fashionable restaurants on Cavite. Brijit van Doorman insisted on buying.
Sten almost hadn't recognized the woman when he met her on deck. The last time he'd seen her, she had been beautiful but drunk, with a spoiled pout on her lips. This time there was no pout, just large anxious eyes and a nervous little smile.
"I almost hoped you weren't here,” she said in a soft voice. “I'm not very good at saying sorry—especially in person."
"I'd say you're very good at it,” Sten said.
"Oh, you mean the little barn.” She dismissed the gift with a wave. “That was easy. I just asked your friend, Alex. We've spoken on and off for days."
So that's why the tubby heavy-worlder had gone out this evening, with mysterious chuckles at no apparent jokes and pokes into the ribs of others.
"I assume he also said I'd be onboard tonight."
Brijit laughed. “Is that such a betrayal?” she asked.
Sten looked at the long, flowing hair and the equally flowing body. “No, I don't think so."
Somehow, the stroll back to her gravcar led to a lingering talk that neither seemed to want to cut off with a tank you and good-bye. Which led to the dinner invitation. Which took them to t he restaurant that Sten was sure even Marr and Senn would envy back on Prime World.
It was an exotic outdoor café perched on the edge of a private landing stip. The center was a beer garden, where the patrons could gather and drink and converse as the late night picnic baskets were packed with their orders. Surrounding the beer garden were many small opaque bubblecraft. Each craft was large enough to comfortably hold the basket and two people.
For some reason, Sten was not surprised that Brijit had made reservations. They waited about an hour in the quiet garden, talking, sipping at their drinks, and watching the bubble silently drift off into the night to swirl around and around the restaurant in darting orbits, like so many fireflies.
Sten told her about himself as best he could, skipping with hidden embarrassment over his Mantis Section years. Strange that he should feel that way. The lies were so drilled in and part of him that normally they seemed almost year. Perhaps his discomfort was just a product of the warm night and the chilled wine.
Brijit chattered on about herself and her navy-brat upbringing, which had involved jumping from system to system as her father rose through the ranks. Although unstated, Sten got the idea that she was uncomfortable about the pomp that Van Doorman liked to dress his command with. Uncomfortable, but guilty about her discomfort.
Eventually they were summoned to their own private bubblecraft. They boarded, the gull-wing port closed softly in on them and they lifted away.
There must have been more than a hundred items in the basket, all bite-sized, with no flavor exactly the same as the last.
Brijit told Sten the rest of her story over brandy. Of course, there had been a lover.
"I think he was about the handsomest man I've ever met,” she said. “Don't get me wrong. He wasn't the big-muscles type. Kind of slight. Wiry slight. And dark.” She paused. “He was a Tahn."
It all came together then for Sten. The admiral's daughter and her Tahn lover. Sten could imagine how van Doorman would handle a situation like that. It would be very painful for both parties. It would also be something van Doorman would never let his daughter forget.
"I only have one question,” Sten said.
"Oh, you mean Rey?"
"Yeah, Rey. I understand you two are engaged."
"Rey thinks we're engaged. Father knows we're engaged. But as far as I'm concerned—” She broke off, staring down at the lights of Cavite.
"Yes?"
Brijit laughed. “I think Rey is a clot!"
"So, what do you plan on doing?"
Brijit leaned back on the soft couch that spanned one side of the bubble. “Oh, I don't know. Play the game, I guess. Until something better comes along."
Sten had heard tones of something like this before. “Aren't white knights a little out of fashion?"
Brijit came up from the couch and snuggled herself under one of his arms. She peered up at him with a mock batting of large liquid eyes. “Oh, sir,” she said softly, lifting up her lips. “I don't believe in white knights at all."
A moment later they were kissing, and Brijit was falling back on the couch. Her dress slid up, revealing smooth ivory flesh covered only by a wisp of silk between her thighs that was held in place by a slender gold chain about her waist.
Sten brushed his lips across the softness of her belly. Then he unclasped the chain.
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CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
"THIS IS IMPERIAL Tacship Gamble. Request landing clearance."
There was no visual onscreen, but Sten could feel the controller down on the planetoid below goggle.
"This is Romney. Say again your last."
"This is the Gamble,” Sten repeated patiently. “I want to land on your crooked little world."
"Stand by."
There was a very long silence.
"Ah think, young Sten, y're givin't these smugglers more slack'n's warrantable."
"Maybe."
At last the transmitter crackled. “Imperial ship ... this is Jon Wild. I understand you want landing instructions."
"Correct."
"Since when does the Empire knock on doors like ours?"
Kilgour relaxed. “You were right, lad. Now we're gettin't somewheres."
"This is the Gamble. When we want to trade."
"Trade? There's just one ship up there."
"Correct, Sr. Wild."
"Clear to land. Follow the GCA beam down. I wish I could make some kind of threat if you're lyi
ng to me. However ... this conversation is being recorded, I know, and I have a right to counsel, legal advice, and such..."
The voice turned mildly plaintive.
"It would be interesting if you're telling the truth,” Wild continued. “A vehicle shall be waiting to transport you to my quarters. Romney. Out."
* * * *
Jon Wild was a piece of work—as was his planetoid. Romney was a planetoid hanging just outside anyone's known jurisdiction. It had been domed generations earlier as a transmission relay point. But technology had made the relay station obsolete, and it was abandoned.
It had taken Sten some time to find Romney. Actually, the whole idea had been Kilgour's.
"Lad, wid'y vet m'thinkin't,” he had begun. “When y’ hae ae dictatorship ae th’ Tahn, y’ hae violators, human nature bein't wha’ it is. Correct?"
"We saw enough of that when we were on Heath,” Sten agreed.
"Glad y’ concur. If y’ hae pimps ae thieves an tha', dinnae it be possible't’ hae smugglers?"
Sten got it instantly and put Kilgour in motion. The tac-ships had gone out beyond the Fringe sectors and hung in space, silently monitoring single-ship movements.
None of these reports had gone to 23rd Fleet Intelligence—Sten knew that there would be an immediate order to investigate. Eventually there had been enough data to run progs. Yes, there were smugglers, moving in and out of the Tahn worlds. Yes, they did have a base—actually, less a base than a transfer point for goods coming from Imperial worlds intended for import to the Tahn.
But there are smugglers and smugglers. Sten had swooped on a number of ships heading for Romney, checked cargoes, and interrogated crews. Satisfied, he had marooned, on a conveniently outlying planet sans communications, the smugglers and survival supplies.
He had enough to discuss the state of the galaxy with whoever led or spoke for the smugglers. Evidently that person was Jon Wild. Sten had conjured many pictures of what a master smuggler might look like, from a grossly overdressed and overfed sybarite to a slender fop. He did not expect a man who looked as if he would be most satisfied working in Imperial Long-dead Statistics.
