by Jason Fry
“That’s the plan,” Diocletia said. “The JDF has requisitioned a cargo hauler called the Vesta Runner that’s been stuck here waiting for a bulk shipment to clear customs on Mars. Her hold is big enough for us and another privateer. We sneak our ships inside the hold; then someone makes the rounds here on Ceres, pretending to be part of the hauler’s crew and running his mouth talking about valuable cargo. Then we fly off to the Cybeles, where hopefully Mox is waiting.”
Carlo shook his head.
“Has anyone in the history of interplanetary travel ever started a cruise hoping Thoadbone Mox is waiting at the other end?” he asked.
“Probably not,” Diocletia said. “That’s the plan, though.”
“And you said yes?” Yana asked.
“I haven’t said anything yet,” Diocletia said. “I told the defense minister we had to talk it over as a bridge crew and as a family.”
“What’s to discuss?” Carlo asked. “You’re the captain. Your word is law.”
“Yes, it is,” Diocletia said. “But this isn’t normal privateering, to say the least, and I know some of you were against the last trip we took to the Cybeles. So we’ll put it to a vote. Before we do that, does anyone have an argument to make for or against?”
“I do,” Yana said.
“Okay, let’s hear it,” Diocletia said.
“We already nearly got killed out there helping out the JDF,” Yana said. “Now they want us to go back?”
“What are you, scared?” asked Carlo, leaning forward to grin at Yana.
“Belay that,” Diocletia ordered. “If you’re not scared going up against Mox, I don’t want you on my crew, because you’re going to get us killed.”
Carlo drew himself back and folded his arms, angry spots of color in his cheeks.
“I’m not scared,” Yana said, glaring at her older brother. “I’m also not a fool. We don’t—”
“Belay that too,” Diocletia said. “Go on, Yana. More civilly this time.”
“We don’t do favors for bullies and blackmailers,” Yana said. “If they want us to go back out there, they should do more than guarantee our letter of marque—they should pay us.”
“Amen to that,” growled Huff. “Wisdom from the mouths of babes, that is. If a half-grown girlie can see what’s right, surely the rest of you can too.”
“Not quite the way I would have put it, but thanks, Grandfather,” Yana said.
“Yer welcome,” Huff said with a smile.
“Anybody want to make the counterargument?” Diocletia asked.
“I will,” Carlo said. “We’re Jovians. Those people Mox is capturing out there are our fellow Jovians, and their cargoes are Jovian cargoes. We’re privateers, yes. But that means we fight for the Jovian Union. And this is our chance to prove it—to show all those silly, stuck-up people on Ganymede who we are and what we can do.”
Diocletia smiled. “Let’s vote, then. We’ll go around the table. Dad, do we help or not?”
“No,” Huff said, folding his arms.
“All right,” Diocletia said. “I vote yes. I already spoke with Carina. She may not be flying with us, but this is the family business, so she gets a vote. Which was no. Mavry?”
“Yes,” Mavry said.
“I vote yes,” Carlo said.
“If they wanted us to go, they should have paid us,” Yana said. “I vote no.”
“Well then,” Diocletia said. “It’s three to three. Tycho? You have the deciding vote.”
All eyes turned to Tycho, who swallowed and blew out his breath in a long, slow exhalation.
“It’s our fellow Jovians out there,” he said. “On the other hand, I don’t like being pushed around by the people we’re supposed to be helping. That isn’t right.”
“It’s a simple question, Tycho,” Carlo said. “Yes or no?”
“I don’t think it’s a simple question at all,” Mavry said. “Go on, Tycho.”
“I don’t like the way the JDF has treated us,” Tycho continued. “But what Threece Suud and GlobalRex are doing is worse. Earth has so many more people, so much more money, so many more ships, and now they’re hiring pirates to kidnap our people? While claiming they’re better than us because they don’t believe in privateering?”
Tycho folded his arms.
“That’s not right,” he said. “And I want to make them pay for it. I vote yes.”
14
HUNT FOR THE HYDRA
I hate being cooped up in here,” Yana said, and not for the first time.
They were back in the Cybeles, but this time the Comet was inside the cargo bay of the Vesta Runner, next to another privateer, the Ironhawk. At a command from the Vesta Runner’s captain, the massive doors of her cargo bay would swing open and the two privateers would emerge from hiding, ready to engage Thoadbone Mox’s ship. Until then, though, the Comet’s crew was stuck waiting, annoyed with the Runner’s poky pace and her weak sensors.
“It’s been four days already—I don’t think I can take another one,” Yana said.
“We could run another boarding simulation,” Tycho suggested. They’d been through more than a dozen, trying to make everything from selecting their gear to clearing corridors while under fire feel familiar.
Yana just groaned and shook her head.
“We all hate being cooped up in here,” Carlo said. “The difference is the rest of us don’t keep talking about it.”
“I’ll say what I want—” Yana began hotly, before Diocletia whirled around in the captain’s chair with a warning look that silenced both of them.
Huff chuckled, clanking forward to smack Yana on the shoulder with his forearm blaster cannon. Tycho knew it was meant to be a reassuring gesture, but Yana winced and grabbed at her shoulder.
“The pirating life’s always this way, lass,” Huff said. “Days of waiting, interrupted by minutes of terror.”
“Please do not engage that weapon in close proximity to a child,” Vesuvia chirped.
“It’s not engaged, you half-witted addin’ machine,” Huff growled.
“Quit calling me a child, Vesuvia!” Yana yelled.
“‘Engaged’ refers to operational status,” Vesuvia said. “If your weapon is not operational, its indicators are faulty and should be repaired.”
“I’m twelve years old and a midshipman,” Yana protested.
“You want faulty?” Huff asked. “What if I engage this blaster cannon in yer cognitive module, you cheeky tangle of—”
Diocletia turned, eyes blazing.
“Belay that!” she yelled.
Yana and Huff looked at each other.
“Belay what?” Yana asked.
“Belay everything!” Diocletia said. “Honestly, Thoadbone Mox shooting at us would be better than listening to the lot of you!”
“Avast, Dio,” Huff muttered in an uncharacteristically small voice. “’Tis bad luck to say that.”
Tycho just shook his head. This flying slow and half blind was making them all stir crazy. On top of that, he thought, there was no guarantee Mox would even show up.
They’d done their best to set the trap, sending Carlo and a young crewer from the Ironhawk around Ceres’s bars and food shacks, wearing borrowed jumpsuits with the Vesta Runner’s insignia and talking loudly about the massive load of fuel cells they were taking to Jupiter and how nervous they were to be traveling through the lawless Cybeles.
If Mox had even one semicompetent spy on Ceres, he would have heard that a juicy prize with a novice crew was heading his way. But what if he were prowling elsewhere or sensed a trap? Tycho wasn’t eager to encounter the deadly pirate again, but he also didn’t want to think about making a long cruise in the belly of the Vesta Runner for nothing.
The communicator chimed.
“Comet, Ironhawk, this is Branson,” said the clipped voice of the Vesta Runner’s captain. “We’ve got a possible sensor contact, fifteen degrees to starboard, forty-five thousand klicks out.”
“Acknow
ledged, Runner,” Yana said.
She bent over her instruments briefly, then gave up in disgust.
“I can’t see anything,” Yana said, gesturing out the forward viewports, where nothing was visible except the Runner’s empty cargo bay. “Probably another false reading, or a rock with slightly higher-than-expected metal content. By the time that old tub’s sensors tell me it’s the Hydra, I’ll be reading the name off her hull.”
“Keep your eyes open anyway,” Diocletia said. “Remember—”
A massive boom drowned out whatever else she said and left all their ears ringing. The Comet lurched sideways, her lights flickering momentarily, and alarms began to blare.
“Impact,” Vesuvia reported tonelessly.
“Tycho, maintain communications links,” Diocletia said.
“All green,” Tycho said, fighting the urge to add “for all the good it’s doing us.”
“Yana, what’s going on out there?” Diocletia asked.
Yana threw up her hands in frustration.
“I don’t know!” she yowled. “Runner, what the heck was that?”
“Pinnaces!” Branson yelled back. “They’re so small, our sensors didn’t pick them up! I’m going to open the bay doors—”
“Negative, Runner,” Diocletia barked. “We’re too far out of range. Open up now, and Mox will slip the trap.”
“Runner, this is Ironhawk,” said the voice of Garrett, the other privateer captain. “Comet’s right. We’ll only get one shot at this. Stand your course.”
Tycho gazed at the main screen. A bright cross marked the position of the sensor contact the Vesta Runner had made just before she’d been attacked. It was still at least thirty thousand kilometers away. Mox—if that was really him out there—had taken the bait, but he’d been suspicious, using his pinnaces to try to stop the Runner well short of his position.
The impact had flung an unwary Huff across the quarterdeck. Now he clanked back to the ladder, magnetic footing engaged, and held on.
“Arrr,” he muttered. “Thoadbone always was the tricky one.”
The Comet jumped again as another blast rattled the Vesta Runner. Over the communicator they heard Branson gasp, with voices yelling behind him.
“They’re ordering us to heave to!” Branson yelled.
“He’s trying to scare you, Runner!” Diocletia said. “Don’t you dare stop!”
“But they’ll cut us to pieces!” Branson wailed.
“If you shut down the engines, I’ll cut you to pieces,” Diocletia warned. “Tell them you’re having trouble cutting over to manual control—those impacts scrambled the computer interface.”
“But—”
“We don’t care how you do it,” Garrett said. “Just hold them off for three minutes!”
“I’ll try,” Branson said feebly.
Huff began to chuckle.
“Never send an honest man to do a liar’s job,” he said.
The Vesta Runner continued to creep through space, closing to within 25,000 kilometers of the bright cross on the screen.
“I hate flying blind,” Carlo muttered.
“So do I,” Diocletia said. “Mr. Grigsby, stand by. I want guns hot and crews ready. And prepare three boarding parties.”
“Aye, Captain,” Grigsby said. “We’re ready—you can count on that.”
“Twenty thousand klicks,” Yana said.
“Sensor profile complete,” Vesuvia said. “Contact is Hydra. Confidence ninety-eight point three five percent.”
Another explosion rattled the quarterdeck—this one much closer.
“Ironhawk, Shadow Comet, this is Branson,” the Runner’s captain said. He sounded like he could barely breathe. “I told them we had to extinguish the engines manually. I don’t think I can get you much closer than five thousand klicks, though—they’re already suspicious.”
“Captain Branson, listen to me,” Diocletia said. “Start slowing at 10,000 klicks and keep your communications channels open so they can hear you. At seven thousand, begin yelling at everybody on your bridge about malfunctions and the computer, and then jam the engines on full ahead.”
“They won’t believe me—and they’ll kill us!” Branson objected.
“Yes, I suspect they will,” Diocletia said. “Just like they’ll kill you if we lose this fight, or if they find two Jovian privateers in your cargo bay. Too late to turn back now, Captain, so listen. Once we come out of that bay, Mox is going to be too busy to worry about you. But you’ve got to get us close enough. You understand me?”
“I’ll do my best,” Branson said shakily.
“That will have to do,” Diocletia said, closing the channel.
The Runner closed to within 20,000 kilometers without attracting more fire from Mox’s pinnaces, while the Hashoones grimly watched the distance shrink. At 17,500 kilometers, Huff clattered up the ladderwell to the top deck above, teeth bared in a snarl.
“Ten thousand klicks,” Yana said. “Velocity slowing.”
“I sure hope Branson understood the plan, Mom,” Tycho said.
“Me too,” Diocletia muttered.
The Comet closed to within 7,000 kilometers. The Hashoones looked at one another, frustrated at not knowing what was happening.
“Why didn’t we tell Branson to keep his other channels open to us?” Carlo asked.
“Because I forgot,” Diocletia said with a scowl. “Nothing we can do about it now.”
Huff clanked back into view, carbines tucked in his belt, a bandolier of stun grenades slung over one shoulder, and a wicked-looking knife clenched in his teeth.
“Not a word out of yeh, yeh cursed electric nanny,” he growled around the blade, the words barely understandable through his clenched teeth.
Vesuvia, for once, decided it would be a good idea to stay silent.
“Five thousand,” Yana said.
“Come on, Branson!” urged Tycho.
A loud whine began somewhere beneath their feet.
“Velocity increasing,” Yana said.
Then another explosion rattled the ship—this one followed by a shriek of torn metal. The Vesta Runner shivered and rolled slightly to starboard.
“That was no warning shot,” Mavry said. “Mox is playing for keeps now.”
“Three thousand!” Yana said.
The Runner rumbled, shaking steadily now with impacts.
“Yana, give me a sign at five hundred klicks,” Diocletia said. “Captain Branson, Captain Garrett, this is Comet. Open the cargo bay when we close to within five hundred klicks. Ironhawk, we’ll take starboard, you take port.”
“We won’t last that long!” Branson wailed.
“Two thousand,” Yana said.
“Almost there, Runner,” Garrett said. “Stand your course.”
“One thousand,” Yana said, raising her voice to be heard over the thud and boom of impacts.
“Carlo, get ready,” Diocletia said. “Tycho, monitor all channels. Mr. Grigsby, stand by. Aim for the pinnaces, then the Hydra. Yana, eyes and ears peeled. Vesuvia, we’ll launch with colors displayed.”
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said.
“Seven fifty!” Yana yelled. They could hear alarms shrieking on the Runner’s bridge.
“Here we come, Mox, you chrome-pated buzzard!” Huff roared, transferring the knife from his teeth to his hand.
“Five hundred,” Yana said.
“Branson—GO!” Diocletia yelled.
They heard the cough and whine of machinery in the bay outside.
“That doesn’t sound right,” Mavry said.
The cough and whine turned into a clattering rattle.
“The bay doors have been damaged!” Branson yelled. “They’re stuck shut!”
15
DEEP SPACE SHOWDOWN
The Vesta Runner, her cargo doors jammed shut, took a direct hit and lurched in space. Carlo, Yana, and Tycho exchanged frantic looks.
“Captain Garrett,” Diocletia said, “looks like we’ll have
to blast our way out.”
“Agreed,” Garrett said grimly.
“Are you both insane?” shrieked Branson.
“Mr. Grigsby, any gun crews that have a clear line of fire on the cargo bay doors, fire at will,” Diocletia said. “Do it now!”
The Comet’s guns thundered, the ship shuddering with the continual barrage of fire. The Vesta Runner’s cargo bay began to fill with smoke.
“Two hundred klicks,” Yana yelled over the roar of the guns.
“Ambient heat in the cargo bay is approaching unsafe levels,” Vesuvia said.
“Keep firing, Mr. Grigsby!” Diocletia yelled.
Metal gave way with a shriek, and they saw the blackness of space above the bay. The smoke instantly whisked away into space with the rest of the atmosphere. Belowdecks, the gun crews yelled in triumph.
“Punch it, Carlo!” yelled Diocletia, but her son was already stomping on the throttle and yanking back on the control yoke. The Shadow Comet shot upward, out of the Vesta Runner’s ruined cargo bay.
Alarms began to scream.
“Proximity warning,” Vesuvia said. “Collision imminent.”
“Watch out for the Ironhawk,” Diocletia said.
“Hang on,” Carlo warned. He shoved the control yoke and the Comet rolled to starboard, away from the Ironhawk. Through the viewports, Tycho could see each gun barrel on the other privateer’s hull as she cut in front of the Comet, maybe ten meters away.
“Whoa,” Tycho breathed. “That was close!”
“Too close,” muttered Yana.
Carlo let the Comet continue to roll, leaving the Hashoones upside down in their harnesses as the ship turned completely over. Tycho risked a look backward and saw Huff still clamped tightly to the deck, his beard flopped upside down and hiding half his face.
The ship shuddered briefly as her engines scraped the top of the Vesta Runner’s hull, and then she was free and right side up once more.
“Mind the paint, son,” Mavry said with a smile.
“Vesuvia, damage report,” Diocletia said.
“Minimal,” Vesuvia said.
The bells rang out—six clang-clangs, 0700.
