by Jason Fry
Dedication
For Emily and Joshua, the best crew any pirate could imagine
Contents
Dedication
Inhabited Moons and Asteroids of Jupiter
The Shadow Comet
Chapter 1: Deep Space Encounter
Chapter 2: Tycho at the Helm
Chapter 3: Boarding Party
Chapter 4: The Mysterious Diplomat
Chapter 5: Admiralty Court
Chapter 6: Ceres Pursuit
Chapter 7: Destination Jupiter
Chapter 8: Darklands
Chapter 9: High Society
Chapter 10: The Cybele Asteroids
Chapter 11: Return to Ceres
Chapter 12: Mr. Red
Chapter 13: Jupiter’s Trap
Chapter 14: Hunt for the Hydra
Chapter 15: Deep Space Showdown
Chapter 16: Battle for the Hydra
Chapter 17: Secrets in the Cybeles
Chapter 18: Case Closed
A Spacer’s Lexicon
About the Author
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Inhabited Moons and Asteroids of Jupiter
The Shadow Comet
1
DEEP SPACE ENCOUNTER
Tycho Hashoone was doing his math homework when the alarms started shrieking.
For a moment, Tycho was confused. The quarterdeck of the Shadow Comet was dark, and the rest of the bridge crew had retired to their cabins hours ago. The only light came from the white square of Tycho’s computer monitor and the readouts on the other crew consoles. Outside the viewports lay deep space, filled with stars like spilled jewels.
A moment before, all had been quiet except for the hum of the Comet’s atmosphere pumps. Now, it was loud.
“Knock it off, Vesuvia!” Tycho yelled, his hands shaky with adrenaline. “I’m awake! I was awake before! What’s going on?”
“Long-range sensors indicate a single object,” said the cool, flat voice of Vesuvia, the software program that the Comet’s computer brain used to communicate with her crew. “Length of object estimated at approximately two hundred meters. Distance to object approximately fifteen thousand kilometers and closing.”
“Great,” Tycho said. “Turn off that stupid alarm before I go deaf. And get these math problems off my screen.”
“You have not completed your homework assignment,” Vesuvia objected. “Your mother will not approve.”
“Come on, Vesuvia—I’m not going to complete it during an intercept,” Tycho said, sighing in exasperation. It was true that he was only twelve, but he was the watch officer.
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said. The alarms stopped wailing and the math problems disappeared. “Awaiting orders.”
Breathe, Tycho reminded himself. Think! You’ve done two intercepts already and been through this drill hundreds of times.
“Put the tactical readout on the main screen,” Tycho said. “Send all sensor data to my monitor. And bring up the lights.”
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said.
Tycho blinked at the sudden brightness of the quarterdeck lights. On the main screen, a cross marked where the Comet lay in wait behind a thin screen of dust and debris that had once been an asteroid. On the other side of the map, a flashing triangle showed the mysterious object’s location. A dotted line showed that if the object kept to its current course, it would pass very close to where the Comet was hidden.
“Shall I charge up the engines and guns?” Vesuvia asked.
“Let’s wait until we know what we’ve got,” Tycho said, feeling calmer now. “But give me full power on all sensor masts and scanning antennas.”
“The plural of ‘antenna’ is ‘antennae,’” Vesuvia corrected him. “Order acknowledged.”
Tycho heard a faint hum as the Comet extended her sensor arms into the vacuum of space, scanning the approaching object.
“Ion emissions detected,” Vesuvia said. “Calculating profile.”
Tycho grinned. Ion emissions meant the object had a power source attached to it. It wasn’t some rogue asteroid tumbling through the vast darkness of the solar system—it was a ship. But what kind of ship? And more importantly, what was her allegiance?
That question made Tycho stop grinning. If the approaching ship turned out to be an Earth warship, the Comet would have to make a run for it. Most Earth warships were bigger and better armed than the Comet, and all of them treated privateers as enemy vessels.
“Now you can charge the engines and guns,” Tycho told Vesuvia. “And where’s that sensor profile?”
“Still calculating,” Vesuvia said.
Tycho drummed his fingers on the surface of his console, reminding himself to be patient.
“Calculations complete,” Vesuvia announced. “Profile fits Orion-class bulk freighter attached to long-range fuel tanks. Ninety-seven point six two percent match to factory model.”
“Yes!” Tycho exulted.
Freighters carried cargoes—sometimes valuable ones—and privateers like the Hashoones made their living by seizing those cargoes.
As Tycho’s mother, Diocletia, never failed to point out, privateers weren’t the same as pirates. Pirates ignored the law, preying on any spacecraft that had the misfortune to stray into their gunsights. They stole cargoes and mistreated the ships’ crews they imprisoned—if they didn’t sell them into slavery or kill them.
Privateers conducted themselves differently. They obeyed the laws of space, kept careful records about the cargoes they seized, treated prisoners well, and released them as soon as possible. And they used force only when necessary. Those rules were part of the Hashoones’ letter of marque, the document that authorized them to attack enemy ships on behalf of their home government, the Jovian Union, composed of the nearly two dozen inhabited moons of Jupiter, Saturn, and Uranus.
The sensor profile strongly suggested the ship out there was just a big, lumbering freighter—but whose freighter? If she was Jovian, Tycho would have to let her pass. If she flew the flag of Earth . . .
“Hail the bridge crew!” he ordered Vesuvia. “And beat to quarters!”
Tycho heard the bridge crew before he saw them—their footsteps echoed as they descended the forward ladderwell connecting the quarterdeck with the top deck above, which housed his family’s living quarters. From belowdecks, meanwhile, came the urgent call of pipes as the bosun played the tune ordering the Comet’s crewers to lash up and stow their hammocks. Tycho could hear the leaders of the gunnery crews barking orders, preparing to fling open the Comet’s gunports and winch the barrels of her weapons out through the hull. The crewers not assigned to the guns would be strapping on pistols and swords, singing and boasting about what they would do with their shares of the prize money from a freighter full of rich goods.
Tycho’s older brother, sixteen-year-old Carlo, was the first of the bridge crew to arrive. He rubbed sleep from his dark brown eyes.
Carlo grunted at Tycho and buckled himself into his own chair on the port side of the quarterdeck, just forward of Tycho’s console. He jabbed at switches, bringing his instruments to life. With a whine, a U-shaped control yoke rose from beneath Carlo’s console. His hands closed around it and Tycho saw him stretch slightly, feet finding the familiar pedals.
“Vesuvia, test pilot controls,” Carlo said with a yawn.
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said.
Carlo manipulated the control yoke with a practiced hand. The Shadow Comet’s systems could be operated from any of the stations of her quarterdeck—each station had its own yoke and pedals that could be used for steering. But Carlo’s station traditionally belonged to the Comet’s pilot, just as Tycho’s was normally used for commun
ications and navigation.
“Controls feel good, Vesuvia,” Carlo said, yawning again. “What’s going on, little brother?”
Carlo was an expert pilot, with a natural feel for the Comet’s controls. Tycho knew it would be wise to let him steer the ship. But Tycho was the current watch officer, so that was his decision—and he didn’t like that his brother simply assumed he’d take over the piloting.
“Looks like an Orion,” Tycho said. “She’s eleven thousand klicks out.”
Carlo instantly looked more awake. “Whose flag is she flying?” he asked.
“No response to transponder queries,” Tycho said. “She’s probably trying to figure out who we are.”
That wasn’t a surprise. Unless they were traveling very close to home, freighters and civilian starships rarely used transponders to automatically identify themselves and where they came from—that would just make the job of pirates and privateers easier. Tycho and Carlo knew the freighter’s crew must be frantically scanning the area ahead, trying to figure out what kind of ship was lying in wait for them and whose flag she was flying.
The Comet’s bells began to clang-clang, as they did every half hour. Five bells meant it was 0230.
A thud marked the arrival of Tycho’s twin sister, Yana, who’d grabbed the outsides of the ladder and dropped onto the quarterdeck without bothering to put her feet on the rungs.
“This better be good, Tycho. I was having the best dream,” Yana said.
“Is an Orion good enough for you?” Carlo asked. “Sensor scan indicates she’s fully loaded, too.”
Yana whistled, then grinned. Ships seized under the terms of a letter of marque were considered prizes. Privateers sold their cargoes to the Jovian Union for a small profit, with the Earth corporation that owned the prize paying a ransom for the return of ship and crew.
“Whose starship?” Yana asked. She didn’t mean the freighter out there in the darkness. In the specialized language of starship crews, she was asking who was currently in charge of the Comet.
“My starship,” Tycho said. “Carlo can fly the ship, but I’m keeping the helm.”
“You’ve done what, two intercepts?” Carlo objected. “That’s a big prize out there, Tyke. Mom’s not going to like it if she gets away.”
“Don’t call me Tyke,” Tycho said. “My watch, my starship. If you can’t follow orders, go back to your cabin.”
Yana began buckling the harness that would hold her in place if the Comet maneuvered quickly or took damage. Her usual station was starboard of Tycho’s and was typically used for monitoring sensors and engineering. She glanced up from untangling her shoulder straps to shake her head at her brothers.
“Quit fighting, boys,” Yana said. “Mom’s gonna take over anyway. Want me to run sensors, Tycho?”
“Please,” Tycho said, grateful that his sister didn’t also feel like challenging his authority.
“I’ve got sensors, Vesuvia,” Yana told the Comet’s computer. She peered at her scope. “Distance to target eight thousand klicks.”
The ladderwell rang with new footsteps as their parents, Diocletia Hashoone and Mavry Malone, descended to the quarterdeck from the crew quarters above. Diocletia gathered her black hair into a hasty ponytail as she looked over Tycho’s shoulder.
“It’s an Orion—fully loaded, no transponder code yet,” Tycho told his mother. “Seven and a half thousand klicks.”
“Why do prizes always have to come during the middle watch?” asked Mavry with a yawn and a stretch, sitting down at the first mate’s station on the starboard side, forward of Yana and across from Carlo.
Diocletia said nothing, her eyes leaping from the main screen to the other scopes. Three minutes ago she’d been sound asleep; now her brain was swiftly taking in sensor and navigation data, drawing conclusions, and making plans.
“Do you want the helm, Captain?” Tycho forced himself to ask, trying not to make it obvious how badly he wanted her to say no.
His mother said nothing. She took five steps forward and sat in the captain’s chair, behind the console closest to the bow. She snapped her fingers, and her instruments came to life.
“Captain on deck,” Vesuvia announced, and Tycho waited to be relieved of command. But his mother surprised him.
“Your starship, Tycho,” Diocletia said. “Let’s see if you’ve been paying attention.”
2
TYCHO AT THE HELM
Diocletia turned back to the main screen, leaving responsibility for the Shadow Comet in Tycho’s hands. He swallowed nervously. The quarterdeck was cool, yet he could feel himself beginning to sweat.
“Seven thousand klicks,” Yana said. “You okay over there, Tyke?”
Carlo glanced back over his shoulder. Tycho glared at his sister.
“I’m fine,” he said. “You just keep reading off distance to target.”
Diocletia Hashoone had been captain of the Shadow Comet for eleven years, having taken over from her father, Huff Hashoone. One day, in turn, she would name one of her children to succeed her. So while Tycho, Carlo, and Yana were crewmates and had to work together, they were competitors, too—the Comet could have only one captain. And that meant all three were constantly being tested.
When Carlo or Yana was in command of the Comet, Tycho of course wanted them to succeed: every prize taken was more money for their family and helped the Jovian Union in its struggle against Earth. But he didn’t want them to do too well and hurt his own chances at the captain’s chair. Ideally, something would go wrong—something that wasn’t bad enough to endanger the ship and their lives, but bad enough that their mother would notice and remember. But that was a dangerous game. In space, things that went wrong had a way of proving fatal.
Tycho shook the thought away. Now it was his turn at the helm, and Carlo and Yana’s turn to hope he did well but still made a mistake or two.
“Engine status?” Tycho asked.
“Green across the board,” Carlo said, indicating that all systems were working normally.
“Detach tanks and take us out, Carlo—intercept course,” Tycho said. “Vesuvia, get me Mr. Grigsby.”
Carlo flipped switches on his console with practiced ease. Above them, the Hashoones heard a metallic clank, then felt a bump as the Comet separated from the bulky fuel tanks she used for interplanetary voyages. The tanks dwarfed the ship, which was a slightly elongated triangle about sixty meters long, widening from her narrow bow to the three maneuvering engines protruding from her stern.
Beneath his feet, Tycho felt the thrum of the Comet’s thrusters rise in pitch as Carlo accelerated out from behind the jumble of rocks and dust that had hidden the ship.
“Grigsby here,” a harsh voice crackled over his speakers.
“Mr. Grigsby, this is the helm,” Tycho said. “Remind the gunnery crews they are not to fire unless fired upon.”
“Aye, Master Hashoone,” Grigsby said, recognizing Tycho’s voice. “She’s a prize, then, Captain?”
“Not sure yet,” Tycho said. “If she’s Jovian, we’d better not put a hole in her. And if she is a prize, let’s take her intact.”
Tycho hesitated, imagining the Comet’s warrant officer standing at his communications unit in the wardroom belowdecks. “Better the condition, bigger the shares. Isn’t that right, Mr. Grigsby?”
Out of the corner of his eye, Tycho saw his father smile.
“Right you are, Master Hashoone,” Grigsby said. “We’ll be ready.”
Carlo fed extra power to the Comet’s starboard engine and accelerated, banking the ship to port. Ahead, through the viewports, the approaching freighter grew into a brighter dot against the glittering stars.
“Five thousand klicks,” Yana said.
“Hail the freighter on all channels,” Tycho said.
“Channels open,” Mavry said. “Go ahead, Captain.”
Tycho hesitated. “You don’t want to hail her, Dad? Mom?”
Diocletia turned in her chair, eyes narrowed.
“Your starship,” she said.
Carlo shook his head, amused, and Tycho felt his face flush. He nodded and fitted his headset over his ears, then checked to make sure that he was transmitting.
“Freighter, identify yourself,” Tycho said.
The communicator crackled with static.
“Four thousand klicks,” Yana said.
“We’re lawful traders with a schedule to keep, unidentified ship,” a gruff voice finally responded. “Why don’t you identify yourself?”
Tycho shut off the external microphone.
“Vesuvia, display colors,” he said.
“Acknowledged,” the ship’s artificial intelligence said, activating the Comet’s transponders so they broadcast her true identity and allegiance.
“This is the Shadow Comet, operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union,” Tycho said, reactivating his microphone and trying to make his voice as deep as possible. “I repeat, identify yourself.”
“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” the freighter’s captain asked. “We’re Jovian too—this is the Cephalax II out of Ganymede.”
“Transponders report Jovian Union allegiance,” Yana reported, one eyebrow arched skeptically.
“It’s a trick,” Carlo said.
Tycho checked that his microphone was shut off. “Of course it’s a trick,” he said, annoyed. “Just keep us warmed up for intercept.”
“Three thousand,” Yana said.
Tycho turned his microphone back on.
“Nice to see you out here, Ceph-Two,” he said. “Once you transmit the current Jovian recognition code, we’ll accept your pass and see you on your way.”
There was a long pause. The Hashoones looked at one another.
“Our communications antenna suffered some damage on the voyage to Earth, Comet,” the captain said. “I’m afraid our codes aren’t up-to-date.”
“Sorry to hear that, Ceph-Two,” Tycho said. “We’ll also accept last month’s code.”
“Two thousand klicks,” Yana said.
“Comet, our antenna problems short-circuited our transponders,” the captain said. “Afraid we can’t transmit.”
