Privateer (Alexis Carew Book 5)

by J. A. Sutherland

  “I’ve never seen it so dense before,” Alexis murmured — she had an unexplainable urge to keep her voice down, as though Mongoose were sneaking past some sleeping giant she feared to wake.

  “Most systems haven’t so much,” Villar agreed, his own voice muted as well. “Enough to worry a heavy merchant or ship of the line, perhaps, but nothing so light as Mongoose. I understand it has to do with the systems here being so far apart, as well?”

  “Yes — it does make sense that more would accumulate where it can, when there are fewer places for it to do so.”

  They crept on, altering course as the flying shot from the lead indicated more dark matter ahead than Alexis was comfortable taking Mongoose through, until they finally reached the closest Lagrangian point viable for transition, the solar L3 of the outermost gas giant. There had been a few bodies farther out, but they were small rocks, barely worth the name, and their Lagrangian points were weak.

  “Transition,” Alexis ordered, when they were well situated, and sighed with relief a moment later when the stars appeared and Mongoose’s normal-space consoles awoke.

  “There’s still the getting out through that,” Villar reminded her.

  “Ever ready to cheer my day, eh, Mister Villar?”

  “A first officer’s job, sir, I’m sure.”

  “Ship in-system, sir,” Dorsett announced.

  “Where away?”

  “Farther in,” he said, transferring the data to the navigation plot, “in orbit about the sixth planet off the star’s port side.”

  Alexis nodded. True, stars had no real port or starboard, but from Mongoose’s position and orientation, the planet was to port of the star. It served to form a mental image while the more accurate data appeared on the screen.

  “She’s a big’un,” Dorsett added. “Second, maybe first rate.”

  “That is large,” Alexis agreed. “And may be our commodore.”

  She’d have expected a frigate or a smaller ship-of-the-line, especially given the shoals they’d just come through. A first rate would have had a harder time of it.

  “We have, perhaps, four hours until they’re aware of us, sir,” Villar said.

  Alexis nodded. One of the advantages a ship transitioning from darkspace had was that the light from Mongoose, and the knowledge of her presence, would only begin to spread through the system once she transitioned, but the light from every other ship was already detectable by her — though some four hours old, having traveled so far, as in this case.

  “Send a signal with our identity and intention to return to darkspace and close with her, Creasy. This is our rendezvous system after all, so I presume she’s friendly. Lord knows our foes have no cause to frequent such a desolate place.”

  Thirty-Two

  Mongoose returned to the shoally confines of darkspace and made her way to the L1 point of the planet the other ship orbited. She closed with the other ship and received, after a bit of a delay, notice that it was the Hind, a Marchant Company ship, along with the rather terse instruction Captain to Repair Onboard.

  “A merchantman — a stores ship, do you suppose?” Villar asked. “It would be good to retop our vats and storage with good, safe, New London solutions.”

  “Indeed,” Hacking agreed. “Though we appear to have missed our commodore.”

  “Perhaps next time,” Alexis agreed. “A support ship is as welcome, I suppose.”

  “We can hope. It would be nice to refill our vats with solution we can rely on. But what’s this signal? A bit pushy for a merchantman, don’t you think, sir?”

  Alexis nodded. It was the sort of thing she expected from a senior Naval captain, not from one private ship to another, but she supposed the other captain might well consider Mongoose to be his inferior, given the Hind’s size.

  “She’s bloody huge,” Villar murmured, as more data came in about the other ship.

  “Indeed,” Alexis agreed, studying the plot. I wonder at how she made it so far insystem with that mass.

  The Hind was as large as a first-rate ship of the line. Nowhere near as many guns, of course, but pierced for enough — nearly fifty guns. Where a Naval vessel would carry more guns, the Marchant ship would carry cargo, Alexis knew, and in fact could see that the ship was pierced with only two rows of gunports, the third deck, presumably, being taken up by additional cargo space.

  “Largest merchant I’ve seen outside the Core,” Villar said. “It’s a wonder they can sail her without mechanicals.”

  “They may have some,” Alexis mused. “It would take a valiant pirate to take her on, after all, so the risk might not be so great as we think.” She raised her eyebrows giving voice to her earlier thought. “It’s a real wonder her captain made it in here through the shoals though.”

  That must have been a sight to see, for the Hind was actually shorter than Mongoose, though with far more volume and mass — built for strength to carry so much mass, rather than the speed of Mongoose’s construction. With the other ship drawing so much more mass, she’d be that much more vulnerable to the accumulations of dark matter around this system.

  “Hadn’t thought of that — I know I wouldn’t want to try it. I wonder at why they’d send such a beast to the Barbary, then, given the conditions?”

  “I suppose it makes sense to someone.”

  It was hours of travel under the conventional drive before they reached the Hind and came to rest relative to the other ship. Alexis took the opportunity to nap, then showered. She wrapped a towel around herself, lost in thought about meeting another privateering captain, if such Hind was and not merely a stores ship, as well as wondering at where the Navy ship and the expected commodore might be, then stared at her bunk in consternation.

  “Isom! What the bloody hell is this?”

  “Uniform, sir!” Isom called from her pantry without returning to the cabin, which showed, Alexis thought, that he knew well how she was going to react to this latest nonsense.

  Brown breeches, which looked far too small even for her, a white, blousy shirt which looked too large, by far, a vest of some sort of skin that was almost scaled, and boots of the same material as the vest — boots which, if they weren’t taller than Alexis’ legs, were certainly damned close.

  She had no idea where the things had come from, having expected her usual dress of denim trousers and linen shirt. If the commodore had been in-system, she might have worn her uniform — appropriate for meeting a senior officer, no matter she was on half-pay — but that wouldn’t do here at all now.

  She picked up the vest, which glittered blue to purple in the light — disturbingly like the changing colors of the bad vat-beef in a way. It was also lacking in any sort of strap to go over one’s shoulders, making it not a vest, but —

  “Isom, get in here!”

  The clerk’s head appeared in the pantry hatchway. “Sir?”

  “I’m not wearing this — where did it even come from anyway?”

  “Picked up on Enclave, sir. The lads come up with it themselves.”

  “The crew is aware of this …” She waved her hand at the clothing, words failing her.

  Isom nodded. “There’s some few, sir, made a comment or two — after we took that prize. And after all those others remarked on your dress.”

  “Comments?”

  “Only as to how you and the ship were so disrespected, sir, by that Malcomson fellow at the first, though he turned out all right, but then Nabb talked of the guards at the jail thinking you were … well, not rightly seeing you were a proper ship’s captain and all.” Isom shrugged. “The lads figured it weren’t right, you having to go aboard prizes and meeting others like them captains dressed as you were, sir. Thought it didn’t properly represent Mongoose, you see?”

  “I do not see, not at all. I went aboard the prizes in a bloody vacsuit. What on earth could be wrong with that?”

  “Well, sir, it’s that this ship’s different than the Navy, right? They’re all good lads, proper Navy lads if th
ey were aboard such, but Mongoose’s not, see?”

  Alexis gestured for him to continue.

  “They’ve their ideas for as how things should go — and, well, there was talk that proper privateer captains don’t go over in the first boarding party. A proper private ship captain should wait, see, until the ship’s took and all under control, then make … well, an entrance, I suppose.”

  “I bloody well did enter, so what’s their complaint!”

  “No, sir, an entrance, see? With, well … style?”

  Alexis stared at him for a moment. “Style?”

  “Not that you’re not stylish at times, sir, only that —”

  “‘At times,’ is it?”

  “Ah … in your proper lieutenant’s uniform, assuredly, sir, or them dresses you brought back from Hanover, but you can’t wear them here, can you? They’re different, see? And all else that’s brought from home are those linen shirts and denim trews — not proper style as the lads see it at all.”

  “I see.”

  “So, then, Coburn, sir, she —”

  Alexis raised an eyebrow at that. Coburn was one of the women they’d taken aboard at Penduli, and she wondered at her being involved in this foolishness.

  “— says, ‘Well, look at that Malcomson fellow,’ she says, and the lads do and see what dress he has, what with that great fur cape of his and them tight leathern pants what shows his —” Isom cleared his throat and his face went red. “Well, what shows he’s … mean to say … well, he’s a well put together sort of man and that sends a certain message, that does.”

  Alexis did have to admit that. When Malcomson walked into a pub, the place grew quiet and he received a wide berth until he’d chosen a place and settled in. How the lads thought she might have the same effect, she couldn’t say.

  “And so you’ve come up with this?”

  “The lads did, sir … Nabb, he talked to that Malcomson’s coxswain and asked about the other private ship captains.”

  “Nabb was a part of this?”

  “Aye, sir, and it’s the same as Malcomson to hear talk of the others. They’ve a certain style, sir, each of the private ship captains.”

  Isom came farther from the pantry door now, as though becoming reassured that he might not need to duck behind the hatch. Alexis was not so sure of that, but both Nabb and Isom were steady and had nothing but her interest at heart, she was certain, so she was willing to listen at least.

  “The lads, sir, they put their own coin together for it, as well, you should know. They came to me for sizes and such, which I have for your uniforms. It was all them, though.”

  “Really.” She stared at Isom for a moment and thought she caught a twinkle in his eye that belied his claims that it was all the crew and none of his doing. She took in the clothing again, it gaining nothing from a second look in her opinion.

  “Aren’t the trousers a bit small?”

  “Ah … I’m told they stretch, sir.”

  “Stretch?”

  Isom nodded.

  She held up the not-vest. “Stays, Isom, really? Am I some pub girl on a colony world needing to tote and carry all day?”

  “It’s said that skin there’ll turn a blade, sir.”

  Alexis sighed. “Tell the lads they’ve had their joke, will you, and set me out some proper clothes.”

  Isom hesitated. “It’s no joke, sir.”

  “Oh, this is a joke, believe me. They’ve had their fun and I’ll laugh along with them, but I draw the line at wearing this nonsense even for a moment.”

  He hesitated again and Alexis began to suspect he was quite serious that the lads weren’t joking with her. She frowned.

  “Get me Nabb, will you?”

  In a moment her coxswain was in the cabin. The lad came to a dead stop, flushed deep red, and fixed his gaze on the aft bulkhead. It was only then that Alexis remembered she’d come from the shower, hadn’t dressed yet, and was clad only in a towel. She was so used to Isom being about her cabin that she hadn’t noticed — the tight quarters made modesty an impossibility, in any case. She’d expected Nabb to have come to the same conclusion below decks, what with Mongoose having a number of female crewmembers now, but he was young and it might be taking him more time to acclimate to the idea.

  “Nabb, what’s this rubbish about the crew buying me a bloody costume?”

  Nabb took a deep breath. “It was a sort of general idea, sir, but the detail started with Creasy, I think.”

  Alexis closed her eyes and rubbed at her temples, where she was certain she could feel the start of a headache. Creasy, the signalsman from Nightingale come along with the rest of that ship’s quarterdeck crew. Creasy with his superstitions, his Dutchmen and other terrors of the Dark. She sighed.

  Nothing good ever started with Creasy.

  “What’s he done?”

  Nabb grimaced. “Told a tale or two of Nightingale to the new lads, sir. About the Dutchmen we faced and —”

  “There were no bloody Dutchmen! They were suicidal religious fanatics who sent themselves off to God knows where by transitioning outside a bloody Lagrangian point! They were done in by bloody science not some … some specter of the Dark!”

  Nabb nodded. “There is that, sir, but Creasy …”

  “Aye, ‘but Creasy’.” She sighed. “What else has he told them?”

  “Boots, sir, and Nightingale’s last battle with the Owl.”

  Alexis turned her gaze to her bunk, where, surely as if conjured by his name, the vile creature was sitting next to the bloody costume, sniffing at the stays.

  “How Boots was loose before the fight, sir,” Nabb went on, “and how old Garbett died. Slipping as he did in what Boots left behind and knocking his gun just so, as to put the final shot of his life dead into that breach in the Owl’s stern, straight into her fusion plant and saving Nightingale as he did.”

  “It didn’t save Nightingale,” Alexis said, though she knew the reality would make no difference to Creasy or his tales — nor to those who heard them, in all likelihood. “Nightingale had already battered the Owl’s stern so badly it was breached — she’d have taken the ship regardless.”

  “Only after a bitter fight still, to hear Creasy tell it, without old Garbett’s sacrifice.”

  “It was no sacrifice,” Alexis whispered, though she thought she could hear a distant voice muttering “it doesn’t matter” over and over again as she spoke. A crew would believe what they would. “It was coincidence. No spirits of the Dark or whatever else Creasy’s come up with involved.”

  “Aye, sir, there’s them that sees the truth of that.”

  “And those that don’t,” she finished for him.

  “And those that agree Boots is just lucky — lucky for a ship named after him and lucky for a crew of …”

  Nabb trailed off and Alexis opened her eyes to stare at him. He’d taken his eyes from the aft bulkhead and was staring at the deck near his feet, flushing again and not from the sight of Alexis’ towel, she suspected.

  “Sweet Dark, there’s more isn’t there?”

  Isom cleared his throat and looked away, then darted toward the pantry.

  “Just tell me and get it over with, please?”

  “It was the translator, sir, your tablet?” Nabb explained. “Back on Bisharet? That ship we took but you let go.” He paused for a moment. “Word of how that captain muddled the ship’s name … well, it rather set right with the lads. To have a nickname, and all.”

  “A nickname?” Alexis asked, certain she couldn’t bear any more.

  “Snakeeaters, sir,” Nabb said. “The boots and stays there are some sort of scaly beast, you see?”

  Alexis looked back to her bunk and could now see that the odd pattern was quite scaly. Also that the vile creature was out of hiding and sniffing at the boots — for once, she could almost wish the thing would destroy the pair all entire, and save her from having to wear them.

  For that was where she saw this going. If the crew felt str
ongly about it, she’d acquiesce, she knew — to do otherwise would damage morale. And they were a good bunch — odd though the outfit might be, if both Isom and Nabb were unopposed, then she could be certain there was no ill-will in the gesture.

  And she had been thinking she needed a uniform of some sort, with no doubt that Malcomson, as well as some of the other captains, even merchantmen, she’d seen in Enclave’s casino, each had a certain … style, as Isom said, about their own.

  “Snakeeaters,” she muttered.

  Isom poked his head in from the pantry. “More than one new tattoo’s come out of our visit to Enclave, sir, if you’d like to see.”

  The outfit did have, Alexis had to admit as she regarded herself in the mirror, a certain something.

  The trousers had indeed been too small and did indeed stretch — to a quite alarming degree, which made them fit with an equally alarming snugness. The boots, Isom informed her, were not to be worn at their full length, but with the tops turned down — which placed them at only mid-thigh. They did fit well, as Isom had all of her sizes and measurements available through her tablet for ordering uniforms.

  The boot material, though, was astounding, and Alexis found she quite liked it. They were made of a skin native to Desva here in the Barbary, and very much like a serpent, which is why the men chose it. It consisted of small, close knit scales with five sides, each of which caught and reflected the light in hues ranging from deep purple to a dark watery blue.

  The stays, of the same skin as the boots, fit snugly over the far looser blouse and its billowing sleeves. It also had an ingenious little pocket at the small of her back which would keep her flechette pistol discreetly tucked away, while still allowing her to draw it quickly — something the crew would have had to have custom made.

  She turned to the side and observed herself from that angle.

  It was not, perhaps, the very worst thing the crew could have come up with. In fact, it was … flattering. Far from the slightly baggy ship’s jumpsuits or the straight-lined uniform of a Naval officer, certainly, but Alexis did have to admit she looked … quite good in it.