The Jupiter Pirates

by Jason Fry

  “Mr. Grigsby, put Captain Wofford on the communicator before he hurts himself,” Diocletia said with a smile.

  “What part of diplomatic immunity do you not understand, Comet?” the freighter captain demanded.

  “The part where old scows carry diplomats who can barely form an official-sounding sentence,” Diocletia said. “We’re taking your ship to Ceres, where we’ll let the admiralty court sort things out.”

  “This is an act of war, Comet,” Wofford sputtered. “The fines will wipe out your performance bond even if your ship isn’t seized by the authorities.”

  “We’ll see about that, Ceph-Two,” Diocletia said. “Are you going to be cooperative, or do you need to make the voyage locked in your quarters?”

  “I’ll go there myself—and I’ll see you in court,” Wofford said. “The lot of you are no better than common pirates.”

  “We’re far less than that,” Huff grumbled. “That’s the shame of it.”

  “We’re not pirates, Ceph-Two. We’re privateers,” Diocletia said. “Fortunately for you, I might add. Comet out.”

  Diocletia cut the transmission and turned to regard her family.

  “Tycho, you always check your microphone status before sending a transmission,” she said, frowning. “What if the prize had heard you saying something else—warning the crew that we were losing power to the guns, for instance? And how many times do I need to tell you that the first rule of an intercept is to secure the prize’s engine room and communications mast? You put the entire intercept at risk by failing to remember that. Now write up the interrogatories for admiralty court, and make sure you include every detail of what happened.”

  Vesuvia’s computer memory contained a special section accessible only to the captain. It was known as the Log, and the records in it covered some three hundred years of voyages, under the command of dozens of captains. Everything Tycho, Yana, and Carlo did—good or bad—was entered into the Log. Tycho had a pretty good idea which category the intercept of the Cephalax II would fall into. He looked at his feet, defeated.

  “Yes, Captain,” he managed, then stood there and waited for the silence to end. But it went on, horrible and apparently endless, while Carlo and Yana tried to hide their happiness.

  Then he felt his father ruffle his hair.

  “But those things aside, you did a good job,” Mavry said.

  Tycho looked up hopefully.

  “Yes, you did—those things aside,” Diocletia said. “You dealt with the situation on the bridge professionally, and you showed leadership with Grigsby and the crew. Well done, Tycho.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Tycho said, fighting to keep the smile off his face as he returned to his own station. But he couldn’t help it. Yes, he’d made mistakes, but the ship and its cargo were theirs. Yana wrinkled her nose at him, and he felt his happy, relieved grin grow even wider.

  Tycho lay in his berth, listening to the thrum of the Comet’s engines and staring at the gray metal of the upper hull above his head. When he’d joined the bridge crew, he’d scratched his initials in the paint above his head, adding his own to those left by Hashoones who had called this cabin home before him.

  Four bells—it was 0600. Tycho gave up on trying to sleep. He couldn’t stop replaying the intercept in his head, fuming at what he’d done wrong and trying to think of any possible explanation for why there’d been a diplomat aboard.

  He got up and activated the control for the cabin door, which retracted into the wall. The Shadow Comet’s top deck was divided into seven cabins. His parents shared the captain’s stateroom in the bow. Aft of that were two unused cabins. One hadn’t been touched since his aunt Carina had abandoned it eleven years ago, while the other was used as an office. Then came the cabins belonging to Tycho and to Carlo, with the forward ladderwell leading down to the quarterdeck interrupting the passageway between their doors.

  Aft of that, the passageway was split in two by an enclosed ladderwell connecting the top gun turret to belowdecks, with doors to the cuddy and galley on either side. If Tycho kept going aft, he’d find the head, an equipment bay, cabins belonging to Huff and Yana, the aft ladderwell, and a small auxiliary hold reserved for particularly valuable goods.

  As Tycho had hoped, his father was in the cuddy, where the bridge crew ate, reviewing documents and drinking coffee from a thermos. Mavry looked up from his mediapad and gave his son a smile, inviting him to sit.

  “You should get some sleep,” Mavry said. “It’s a couple of days to Ceres.”

  “I tried, Dad,” Tycho said. “But I can’t.”

  “I understand,” his father said. “After you lead an intercept, it takes a while for your mind to stop going a hundred thousand klicks an hour.”

  “Yeah, exactly,” Tycho said with a grateful nod. He was thankful it was Mavry there in the cuddy and not Diocletia. He loved his mother, but she was the captain and the keeper of the Log—in which, for all he knew, his doubts and fears might be recorded.

  “How long was it before your mind stopped doing that afterward?” Tycho asked.

  “Stopped doing what?” Mavry asked.

  “Running like crazy after intercepts.”

  Mavry smiled. “Oh, it still does,” he said. “Every time.”

  Tycho looked surprised, then nodded.

  “So what’s on your mind?” Mavry asked. “Or should I guess? Microphones, engine rooms and communications masts, and what in the name of the Galilean moons a diplomat was doing on that bridge?”

  “That’s pretty much it,” Tycho said.

  “And how all this will look in the Log,” Mavry added.

  Tycho didn’t say anything but looked down at his lap, embarrassed.

  “Let me put your mind at ease there, at least,” Mavry said. “None of us knows what to make of this Mr. Soughton. It’s as much a mystery to your mother and me as it is to you. There’s no penalty for having to deal with a mystery, Tycho—and you handled it as well as any of us could have. Certainly better than your grandfather would have.”

  “I guess,” Tycho said. “But I can’t stop thinking about it anyway. And I know I shouldn’t always think of it . . . but how am I doing? You know, overall?”

  Mavry took a long swallow of coffee.

  “I’m not the captain, Tycho,” he said.

  “I know, Dad,” Tycho said. “But you must have some idea.”

  “I’ll give you my opinion, if you really want it,” Mavry said. “I doubt it will be a surprise.”

  Tycho nodded.

  “You’re not the best pilot, or the best at reading tricky sensor readings, or a gunnery expert,” Mavry said.

  “That’s pretty much every real job on the Comet,” Tycho said, trying to keep his voice calm. “I mean, what’s left? I key in navigation and run communications. Baby stuff.”

  “Don’t be overdramatic,” Mavry said. “Remember that a captain has to be able to handle every job on the ship. You’re not great at piloting or sensors or gunnery, but you’re not bad at these things, either. I’d trust you to handle any of them. For someone who’s been a midshipman for only four years and bridge crew for two, that’s pretty good.”

  “Really?” Tycho asked.

  “Really,” Mavry said.

  “But how do I compare to—” Tycho began to ask, only to see his father shaking his head, a stern look on his face.

  “I’ll always tell you how I think you’re doing,” Mavry said. “What you’re asking now, though, that’s the captain’s business. You understand that, right?”

  “Yeah, I do,” Tycho said. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Mavry nodded.

  “You want more advice?” he asked, then leaned forward, as if he were about to tell Tycho a very important secret.

  “Get some sleep,” he whispered.

  5

  ADMIRALTY COURT

  When the moons of the outer solar system seceded from Earth’s government and formed the Jovian Union, the dwarf planet Ceres and several of the
more populous asteroids remained independent, refusing to take sides. Nearly a thousand kilometers in diameter, Ceres was the largest inhabited body in the asteroid belt, the vast field of debris located between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. Centuries before, it had been a jumping-off point for the human race’s exploration of the outer planets. Now it remained a hub frequented by traders and explorers, as well as neutral ground for the warships of Earth and the Jovian Union.

  For the short trip down to the surface of Ceres, the Hashoones boarded the Shadow Comet’s gig. Tycho peered out the porthole as Carlo undocked the gig from the Comet. Everywhere he looked, he saw starships—needle-nosed scout ships, great slab-sided galleons, bat-winged warships, bulbous tankers, and even a gaudy passenger liner or two. Smaller ships buzzed around them—packets, tenders, avisos, and gigs like theirs, all taking crewers to and from the mottled orange-and-white globe below.

  “Pirate’s dream, ain’t it, lad?” growled Huff in his ear. Tycho jumped and saw that his grandfather had leaned forward from the seat behind him to look out the porthole, no doubt calculating the wealth aboard all those ships out there.

  Tycho nodded and pulled nervously at his tight collar. The Hashoones had traded their usual shipboard jumpsuits for tunics and button-down shirts, the dress code for admiralty court. Huff had dug up an old tie in a slightly terrifying shade of yellow. He had removed his forearm cannon, leaving a metal stump with an empty socket in it. The socket twitched and spun, trying to follow Huff’s thoughts and find something to shoot at.

  “Yana, don’t scuff up your shoes,” Diocletia said from her seat in the front of the gig beside Carlo. She hadn’t turned around to deliver this warning—she had heard the little thuds and scrapes of her daughter kicking at the deck two rows behind her and identified what they were. Yana caught Tycho glancing her way and bugged her eyes out slightly. Each knew what the other one was thinking: How did their mother sense these things? Was that part of being a captain? If so, would they ever learn to do it?

  “While we’re dirtside, pay attention—not just in admiralty court, but in the rest of the port as well,” Diocletia said, still looking forward to scout the ships surrounding them. “Don’t think you’re off duty because you’re not aboard the Comet. A lot of cruises succeed or fail because of something that happens in port, not space.”

  The surface of Ceres was a maze of tunnels and pressure domes filled with merchant warehouses, provisioning yards, hydroponic greenhouses, repair shops, kips, eateries, and grog houses, advertising their wares with everything from 3D holographic displays to ancient neon tubes. Everywhere you looked there were people: gawking tourists, hurrying merchant spacers, watchful naval officers in Earth or Jovian uniforms, grimy miners, sharp-dressed officials, and hard-eyed men and women who looked like their professions might not be entirely legal.

  The Hashoones shouldered their way through the crowds between their landing field and a pair of broad doors made out of actual wood, with brass fittings. Uniformed guards stood to each side. This was the Ceres Admiralty Court, where disputes about the laws of space were heard and decided upon.

  Tycho had been to admiralty court before, and it always disappointed him that the inside was so little like the outside. After passing through those grand wooden doors, you found rows of metal benches and two plain tables reserved for the principal figures in each side of a dispute, facing the judge’s raised podium and a screen of fake potted plants.

  Diocletia sat down behind one of the two tables at the front of the room and indicated that Tycho should sit beside her. Mavry patted his son’s shoulder as he took his own seat in the row behind them, next to Carlo and Yana. Huff scanned the room suspiciously before sitting beside Yana, a difficult operation that involved whining motors and clattering metal parts.

  At the other table sat Soughton, crammed into an ill-fitting suit that was shiny at the elbows. Beside him sat a slim bald man in a much fancier-looking suit made of iridescent material. Captain Wofford and other members of the Cephalax II’s crew sat on the benches behind them, along with a bunch of men and women Tycho had never seen. He figured they were Earth bureaucrats who worked for GlobalRex, the massive corporation that owned the Ceph-Two and, it seemed, a good chunk of everything else on Earth.

  A door opened behind the judge’s podium, and the Honorable Uribel Quence entered, followed by a uniformed bailiff. Quence was sweating profusely, as usual. Everyone in the courtroom rose and remained standing until the judge settled himself in his chair, grabbed his white wig before it could slide off in a slick of perspiration, and banged on his desk with a gavel. The Hashoones were familiar with the admiralty court judges: Quence was brisk and fair, and had little patience for fools.

  Unfortunately, Tycho had no idea what “fair” would mean today. None of the Hashoones did.

  “We’ve done nothing wrong, so just answer whatever questions the judge asks you,” Diocletia whispered. “But follow my lead—if I start talking, be quiet and wait.”

  Tycho nodded. Judge Quence looked at the mediapad on his desk and frowned, the expression dragging wattles of loose flesh down below his jaw. Then he looked up, and his eyes fell on Tycho.

  “Master Hashoone,” he said. “I didn’t expect to find you in my courtroom quite so soon. You’re a precocious lad. So this is your prize, then?”

  “Yes, Your Honor,” Tycho managed, aware of how many eyes were upon him.

  “And have you brought me a copy of your letter of marque, interrogatories from the intercept, and your condemnation order?” Judge Quence asked.

  “I have, Your Honor,” Tycho said, getting to his feet and hearing his chair scrape across the floor. He brought the sheaf of papers to the judge’s desk and stood there, staring awkwardly at Quence’s powdered wig while he waited.

  “The bailiff will take those, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said after a moment, without looking up.

  Tycho heard people laugh behind him. He turned and saw the bailiff waiting with his hand extended, face impassive. Tycho gave the man the papers and scurried back to his chair.

  “Thank you, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said. “You may now transmit electronic versions for the record.”

  Diocletia turned to Mavry, who nodded and punched commands into his mediapad. Judge Quence stared down at his own device for a time, then looked up and pursed his lips.

  “Master Hashoone, am I reading this correctly?” he asked. “You intercepted a freighter in the outer asteroid belt, discovered she was carrying an accredited Earth diplomat, and brought her to Ceres as a prize anyway?”

  Before Tycho could speak, the bald man in the expensive suit was on his feet, turning first one way and then the other to survey the courtroom.

  “That’s exactly right, Your Honor. This is a most distressing case.” The man’s voice was bright and friendly, carrying easily from one end of the courtroom to the other. “As you’ll find from our own documents entered into the record, the Shadow Comet has violated the terms of her letter of marque by ignoring a clear case of diplomatic immunity, a deliberate and extraordinary event that must be swiftly and severely punished. On behalf of Captain Hans Wofford, the GlobalRex Corporation, and His Majesty’s Sovereign Government of Earth, I ask Your Honor to impose penalties against her performance bond for piracy and interference with commerce, and to recommend charges against her crew of kidnapping and multiple counts of illegal operation of a starship.”

  Judge Quence peered out at the man, who was standing confidently before the table with his hands behind his back.

  “Are you Master Hashoone?” Judge Quence asked.

  “No, Your Honor,” the man said. “Allow me to—”

  “If you’re not Master Hashoone, then why are you speaking?” Judge Quence asked.

  Huff brayed laughter.

  “That there is the biggest stuffed shirt this side o’ Neptune,” he growled to Carlo, loud enough for Tycho to hear. Judge Quence gaveled him into silence as Diocletia spun and gave her fat
her a poisonous look.

  “Now, Master Hashoone, what’s the meaning of all this?” Judge Quence asked.

  “Well, Your Honor—” Tycho began, but then his mother laid her hand on his.

  “If I may, Your Honor?” Diocletia asked.

  Judge Quence nodded, and Diocletia pointed over at Soughton, who sat smiling behind the other table.

  “That man does indeed have diplomatic credentials,” she said. “But we don’t believe he’s a diplomat.”

  “Your Honor, if I may—” exclaimed the man in the fancy suit, springing back to his feet.

  BAM! went the gavel. Judge Quence’s wig slid a couple of inches to the right.

  “You may not, sir,” Judge Quence said. “Captain Hashoone, if a man has diplomatic credentials, does that not make him a diplomat? I’m aware the question borders on the philosophical, but . . . you do have credentials, correct, Mr. Soughton?”

  Soughton got to his feet, a folder in his hand, and walked slowly to the front of the courtroom, where Quence indicated he should hand the folder to the bailiff. Judge Quence then reached for it, flipped it open, and began to read.

  “What’s going on?” Tycho asked his mother in a whisper, but she put her finger to her lips.

  “Your Honor,” the man in the fancy suit tried again.

  “You seem determined to speak, sir,” Judge Quence said. “Very well. Who are you, exactly, and what are you doing in my courtroom?”

  “My name, Your Honor, is Threece Suud,” he said in that smooth voice. “Allow me to present my own credentials, which you will find as proper as those of my colleague, Mr. Soughton. It is my pleasure to be newly posted to Earth’s consulate on Ceres as His Majesty’s Secretary for Economic, Diplomatic, and Legal Affairs. I will be representing both Captain Wofford and Mr. Soughton here today.”

  Tycho looked questioningly at Diocletia, who shrugged.

  “He’s an Earthman, all right,” Huff growled. “Lots of fancy talk when plain speech would do.”

  Judge Quence gaveled for order once again, sending his wig sliding left and back into its original position. Tycho peeked back to see Huff muttering and tugging at his yellow tie.