The Jupiter Pirates

by Jason Fry

  “Obviously they’re diplomats,” Tycho said, which won him a bark of laughter from Huff.

  “If that Soughton’s a diplomat, I’m the eighth sultana of Mars,” Huff said. “Looks like an old-time leg breaker, that one does. Back when pirates ruled space, the old Earth shipping firms used to send their haulers out with toughs aboard—thugs what were half pirate themselves. They’d keep the cargo from vanishing and watch for any crewer that might have a mind to be contactin’ pirates.”

  “Pirates like you, Grandfather?” Yana asked.

  “Aye,” Huff said with a grin. “We intercepted plenty of prizes on account of some underpaid crewer sharing a route in port for a little cash. And why not? Weren’t his cargo, and the shipper would pay the ransom to get ship and crew back, with nobody getting hurt. ’Twas a more civilized way of doing business.”

  The men, still deep in conversation, continued along the vaulted corridor toward the next pressure dome.

  “We have to follow them,” Yana said.

  “What we have to do is get provisions for the Comet,” Carlo said.

  “This is important,” Yana said. “I know it is! Hurry—they’re getting away!”

  “We don’t all need to stand in line, Carlo,” Tycho said. “Yana and I will follow them.”

  Carlo shrugged. “Suit yourselves,” he said with a smile. “While you play amateur detective, I’ll be following my captain’s orders.”

  “Fine with me,” Yana said.

  “Not so fast, lassie,” Huff said. “I’m goin’ too.”

  “No, Grandfather,” Yana said. “They’ll notice you—and besides, your indicators are flashing yellow.”

  “Arrr, so they are,” Huff muttered. “I got too worked up back in the courtroom. Be careful, you two. Anything happens to yeh, yer mother’ll have the half of my head what’s still flesh and bone.”

  “We will be,” Yana promised. “Come on, Tyke!”

  “Keep your communicators on,” Carlo called after them as they hurried down the tube.

  Yana spotted Suud’s aide and his companions, and she and Tycho angled their way through the spacers and workers to get closer. They followed them through one of Ceres’s larger pressure domes, passing the gilded wooden facade of the Bank of Ceres, and then down another tunnel, this one built under the dwarf planet’s surface of loose rock and ice.

  “Where do you think they’re going?” Yana asked Tycho.

  “Beats me,” Tycho said. The lower levels of Ceres were mostly living quarters—kips and hostels, along with shops and bars.

  “I’m telling you, there’s something funny going on here,” Yana said. “And I bet it has something to do with our court case.”

  “You might be right,” Tycho said. “But don’t get too close. If the crowd thins out, they’ll spot us right away.”

  “Good point,” Yana said. “I wish we weren’t wearing our court clothes. They stand out in a crowd and I hate them.”

  Suddenly both their communicators began to chime.

  “Oh, no,” Yana said as she and Tycho activated their headsets. Their father’s voice filled their ears.

  “Captain’s orders—everybody wrap up what they’re doing and return to the landing field,” he said. “We’re prepping for immediate liftoff.”

  Carlo’s voice came over the feed. “What’s going on, Dad? Anything wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Mavry said. “In fact, we’re invited to a party. A party on Ganymede. We’ll tell you more when you get here. Comet out.”

  “Come on, Tyke, we can still follow them a bit longer,” Yana said, striding off after their targets.

  “No, we can’t,” Tycho said, hurrying to catch up with his sister. “You heard Dad—immediate liftoff.”

  “It’ll take at least an hour to round up everybody from belowdecks,” Yana objected.

  “Right, but we’re not from belowdecks—we’re bridge crew,” Tycho said. “And our captain has given us a recall order.”

  Yana made a disgusted sound. “Fine,” she said. “But first I’m going to get that guy’s picture.”

  She fumbled in her duffel bag without breaking stride, pulled out her mediapad, and raised it in the air.

  “Yana, what are you—HEY!” Tycho yelped as his sister shoved him hard sideways, sending him lurching into a heavyset spacer wearing the uniform of a Martian shipping line.

  “Watch where you’re going, kid!” the man yelled as he and Tycho disentangled themselves.

  “Sorry!” Tycho said. The spacer muttered a final warning and stalked off. Yana grinned at her brother as she stashed the mediapad in her bag again.

  “Okay, we can go,” she said. “I got a perfect shot of the guy we were following when he turned around—and the guys next to him too.”

  “Are you crazy?” Tycho asked. “That means they saw you!”

  “Pfft, they didn’t even look at me. They were too busy looking at you,” Yana said. “And before you freak out, you were blocked by that big beast of a Martian spacer.”

  “What are you going to tell Mom?” Tycho asked.

  “Zero,” Yana said. “It might be nothing.”

  “But what about Grandfather and Carlo?” Tycho asked.

  “Grandfather’s already forgotten,” Yana said. “And unless he thinks it’s trouble for us, Carlo doesn’t care about anything that doesn’t involve Carlo.”

  “Meanwhile, you could have gotten me killed!” Tycho said.

  “Now who’s being dramatic?” Yana asked. “Quit looking sore—you got shoved into a Martian, so what.”

  “It was a bad idea,” Tycho muttered as they began the long walk back to the landing field.

  Yana just grinned again.

  “Silly Tyke,” she said. “The only bad ideas are the ones that don’t work.”

  7

  DESTINATION JUPITER

  As Yana had predicted, it took more than an hour for the Comet’s retainers to make their way back from the various watering holes where they’d been spending shore leave. With the Comet’s bosun yet to return, Diocletia assigned Tycho to wait at the airlock, checking names against the roster as shuttles, tugs, and taxis docked with the Comet and discharged the roughnecks and brawlers who made up her belowdecks crew.

  The Hashoones had warned their retainers that prize money from the Ceph-Two might be a while in coming, if it came at all. But from what Tycho could see, few had listened. A number returned proudly showing off new earrings or tattoos, while others carried boxes and parcels—gifts for sweethearts and children waiting for them on the moons of Jupiter. Even those who’d been more careful with their money were weighed down with food, a welcome change from the burgoo and flummery that were shipboard rations. Tycho saw strings of sausages, stacks of sweet cakes, fish snacks for the ship’s cat, and everywhere a rainbow of fruit—which spacers loved despite how expensive it was. Grigsby gave him a huge grin around a mouthful of peach, the juice running down his chin and under his collar.

  Tycho assigned the latecomers to the blacklist and whatever punishment Grigsby thought appropriate, then clambered up the forward ladderwell to the quarterdeck, where the other Hashoones were waiting at their stations. Diocletia had her hands on her hips, clearly impatient to get going.

  “Full complement belowdecks, captain,” Tycho said. “One broken arm from a dockside brawl, which the surgeon has already set, but all hands fit for duty.”

  “Excellent,” Diocletia said. For a privateer’s entire crew to return from shore leave with only one broken arm was pretty good.

  “Are we really going to a party?” Yana asked.

  “Yes, we really are,” Diocletia said. “The Jovian Union’s defense minister has asked us to return for a meeting at Callisto Station, after which there’s a gathering of the Union leadership at Ganymede High Port.”

  “Arrr,” said Huff. “Stuffed-shirt Jovians thinkin’ they wanna be Earthfolk. Wish I could space the lot of them.”

  “It’s true, Mom,” moaned Ya
na. “Those things are always so boring.”

  “Those things are important to the people who provide us with our letter of marque, which means they’re important to us,” Diocletia said. “And of course you’ll all be on your best behavior. All of you.”

  “Of course we will be,” Yana said, offering a pretty smile that she didn’t even try to make look convincing.

  “All right,” Diocletia said. “Well then—two days on Callisto, then on to Ganymede.”

  “Two days?” asked Carlo sharply. “Why did you give us an immediate recall order if it means we have to spend two days mooning about at home?”

  Diocletia turned on him, eyes narrowed.

  “Because Ceres and Jupiter are in alignment for only another ninety minutes,” she said. “Miss that launch window, and we’ll burn five percent more fuel. I’d expect a pilot to know these things.”

  Carlo lowered his eyes, embarrassed. Yana grinned at Tycho.

  “So what’s the meeting about?” Tycho asked, trying to change the subject.

  Carlo glanced at him, surprised.

  “That’s between me and the defense minister, Tycho,” said Diocletia. “Have you calculated our course to Jupiter orbit?”

  “Verifying headings,” Tycho said. “Should only take another minute.”

  “Good,” Diocletia said. “Take us up to the fueling ring, Carlo.”

  “Aye-aye, captain,” Carlo said. The thrum of the Comet’s engines rose in pitch, and the deck beneath the Hashoones’ feet began to vibrate. Tycho felt a gentle push back into his seat as the Comet rose in a graceful curve from her parking orbit around Ceres.

  Ships visiting port left their bulky long-range fuel tanks high in orbit, meaning every planet and important moon in the solar system wore a permanent necklace made up of bulbous tanks, lumbering fuel tankers, and gunboats on patrol. Carlo smoothly guided the Comet through traffic, then cut the throttle and eased the ship up into the familiar cradle of struts beneath her own tanks. The Hashoones heard a series of sharp bangs from above.

  “Stabilizers engaged,” the mechanical voice of Vesuvia said. “Connecting fuel lines.”

  “Nice flying, Carlo,” Mavry said.

  Carlo smiled and offered his father a little salute.

  “Fuel lines connected,” Vesuvia said.

  “My board’s green,” Carlo said.

  “Our heading to Jupiter orbit is locked and verified,” Tycho said. “Navigational pathways green.”

  “Sensors look pretty as emeralds,” Yana said.

  “‘Green’ will do, Yana,” Diocletia said, examining her own systems. “Mavry?”

  “Green,” Mavry said with exaggerated care, which earned him a sharp look from his wife.

  “Vesuvia?” Diocletia said.

  “All systems are operational,” Vesuvia said.

  “Excellent,” Diocletia said. “Light her up, Carlo.”

  “Aye-aye, Captain,” Carlo said, reaching for his yoke.

  Tycho exhaled sharply as the thrum of the Comet’s engines rose to a whine, then a howl. The trip to Jupiter was a routine one, but the sound of the privateer’s engines kicking in always made his heart beat more quickly.

  He risked a glance around the quarterdeck and saw Yana smile as the rumble of the engines intensified. Huff stood by the ladderwell with teeth bared, his metal feet magnetized to the deck.

  Tycho felt his own grin spreading across his face, and when the engines ignited and shoved him back in his chair, he couldn’t resist a happy “Woo-hoo!”

  “Quiet on deck, Tycho,” Diocletia barked without turning around. Embarrassed, Tycho hid his grin behind his hand. But as the Comet accelerated into the darkness of space, his father looked back, caught his eye, and winked.

  The Shadow Comet’s engines allowed her to achieve speeds of 2.77 million kilometers per hour, but that still meant the journey between Ceres and Jupiter took nearly a week. Once the Comet reached cruising speed, the howl of her engines diminished to a continuous low rumble, and the Hashoones had little to do but wait. Vesuvia would keep the ship on the proper heading, alerting her crew if they were needed.

  Unfortunately, that didn’t mean Tycho could spend the trip goofing off in his cabin. There was homework to be done, and Vesuvia didn’t like the way he’d been doing it. The Comet’s computer had sent Diocletia a long message about Tycho’s mistakes on his math homework and his dismal score on a history quiz, along with an analysis of his inefficient study habits while on watch.

  Sometimes Tycho wished the Comet’s computer needed all of her computational power for running the starship, but Vesuvia could do an amazing number of things at once, from keeping guns charged and conducting sensor sweeps to surprising the younger Hashoones with pop quizzes.

  Tycho didn’t object to the pop quizzes—they were part of a bridge crewer’s apprenticeship, and Yana and Carlo were stuck with them too. But Vesuvia’s notes never seemed to include the most important details, like how she’d sprung that history quiz on Tycho while he was investigating a potentially valuable chemical signature on a passing asteroid, or how the middle watch was a lot less boring if you spread your homework out over the entire four hours instead of doing it all at once. If criticisms were going into the Log, they ought to be fair.

  Halfway through the trip home, though, Tycho felt he’d made enough progress to satisfy even the tough old computer. He’d scored nine out of ten on a navigation quiz, and Vesuvia had approved his essay tracing the tradition of the black transponder back to the Jolly Roger, the skull-and-crossbones flag used by Earth’s ancient seagoing pirates. She’d even given him extra credit for noting that some ancient pirate flags were red, and that the name Jolly Roger might have been derived from joli rouge, ancient French for “pretty red.”

  So Tycho was feeling pretty good, until Diocletia and Mavry summoned their children to the quarterdeck one morning. They arrived to the clang of a single bell announcing 0800 to find their father at his usual station, while their mother stood in front of the main screen, arms behind her back.

  “Man your stations,” Diocletia ordered.

  Tycho looked questioningly at Yana, who shrugged.

  Diocletia waited until they were buckled in, then began to pace back and forth.

  “A starship crew is a team,” she said. “Recently the three of you have been so busy thinking about the Log that you’ve forgotten about that. If the Comet gets turned into space dust because you can’t work together, everybody loses. What you do individually goes in the Log—but so does what you do together.”

  Her eyes held each of theirs in turn.

  “Still, like any team, different people are better at different things,” Diocletia said.

  Carlo turned to smile at his twin siblings.

  “Pay attention, Carlo,” Diocletia said. “Getting too specialized leads to trouble. All of you have to be able to do everything on this ship—piloting, sensor scans, navigation, docking, remotely operating the guns, intercepts, boarding actions, maintenance, repairs, preparing a cargo manifest, writing up interrogatories, and more. A captain has to be able to do everything and know within a second or two if someone else is doing it right.”

  Tycho glanced at his brother and sister. Having been rebuked, Carlo was now sitting straight up at his station, nodding at what their mother was saying. Yana had her arms folded, looking annoyed. Tycho tried his best to sit like Carlo.

  “So . . . welcome to a full day of simulations,” Diocletia said.

  Tycho groaned involuntarily, then covered his mouth—a slip that earned him only a passing glower from his mother.

  “You’ll each start with things we know you need to work on,” Diocletia said. “Tycho, you’ll begin by simulating intercepts and then work on your piloting. Vesuvia says you’re consistently overshooting your targets.”

  Tycho nodded, and Diocletia turned to Carlo. “Carlo, you’ll be working on intercepts too, and then it’s on to a few hours of sensor work. You can’t depend on Vesuvia
to detect anomalies when performing scans.”

  Diocletia turned to Yana—but stopped when she saw her daughter’s face.

  “Is there somewhere you’d rather be, Yana?” she asked.

  “Don’t pretend like I have a choice, Mom,” Yana said, glaring back. “I want it put in the Log that I was tested right after pulling a middle watch.”

  “What I put in the Log is my business,” Diocletia said. “Who told you that privateering is fair?”

  Yana held her mother’s gaze for a long moment, then dropped her eyes back to her console.

  “Nobody,” she muttered.

  “Good,” Diocletia said. “It’ll be piloting for you, followed by maintenance and manifests.”

  Faced with a long, mostly dull day, Yana sighed.

  “More privateers die because they skip maintenance or do it badly than die in battles,” Diocletia said. “You’d all do well to remember that. Mav?”

  Their father got to his feet, hands behind his back.

  “After your mother and Vesuvia are done with you, it’ll be my turn,” Mavry said. “We’ll end the day with a flight simulation—a re-creation of the Battle of Deepspace Margolis. It’s a tough one—our side got pasted. So if that happens to you, things won’t be any worse than they were in real life.”

  “That’s a pleasant thought, Dad,” Carlo grumbled.

  “A pirate is always cheerful,” Mavry said with a grin.

  “Privateer,” Diocletia said.

  “Them too,” Mavry said, still grinning. “Okay then, kids. Good luck!”

  For simulations, the Hashoones donned goggles and headsets, plunging themselves into virtual worlds of Vesuvia’s making—ones they navigated by using each station’s pedals and control yoke. Vesuvia started Tycho off with three intercepts in which nothing went wrong, then surprised him with a freighter crew that chose to scuttle the ship rather than surrender to the Comet’s boarding party, followed by another routine intercept and then an ambush on the bridge.