The Rise of Earth

by Jason Fry

  “What’s the holdup?” Carlo demanded, peering down at the Comet’s unoccupied docking cradle. “They already checked our flight logs at Ganymede.”

  Tycho gazed out at space beyond the viewports. Ferries were gathered around the docking cradle, their running lights blinking red and green, waiting for the privateer to muster out her crewers. Below, on the cracked beige surface of Callisto, a cluster of tunnels and domes marked Port Town, the moon’s largest settlement.

  “Lot of ships out there,” Huff growled. “Bet some of ’em are Jovian Defense Force, lookin’ for spacers to press.”

  “You’re probably right,” Diocletia said. “Yana, Tycho, write up exemptions for our crewers. The Defense Force will need to approve them, but they’ll still make a press gang think twice about taking one of our people.”

  “And what if some of our crewers want to serve?” Tycho asked.

  Huff snorted. “No self-respectin’ Comet would run from a privateer to a military ship. Spit-an’-polish uniforms and gettin’ told what to do all day? Arrrrr. That’s why press gangs carry truncheons—can’t win the argument without ’em.”

  “I can’t believe some of the old hulks they’re recommissioning,” Mavry said, peering at his terminal. “That pocket cruiser we saw back at High Port was a modified Ocelot-class. Where’d the Defense Force get her, a museum? And remember those two corvettes at 617 Patroclus? Converted coasters, by the look of them.”

  Diocletia nodded. “Remember the last time there was all this saber rattling, right before Yana and Tycho were born? If a hull would hold air, the Defense Force claimed it and painted a name and number on the side.”

  “Which means they’ll pay good livres for any ship we can bring in as a prize,” Yana said.

  “Hope that includes the cargo hauler we captured a couple of weeks back—the one Mr. Richards brought in,” Mavry said. “Though the prize paperwork for her hasn’t been filed with the admiralty court yet. That should have been taken care of when the prize crew reached Ganymede.”

  “Mr. Richards wouldn’t overlook something like that,” Diocletia said.

  “Maybe the Defense Force seized the hauler—like they’ve tried to do with the Hydra,” Yana said, her voice muffled and strange because of her still-swollen nose.

  Tycho followed his sister’s eyes to the deadly-looking pirate ship moored in her docking cradle. The Hydra had once belonged to Thoadbone Mox, the unrepentant pirate who’d betrayed the Hashoones and his fellow Jupiter pirates at the Battle of 624 Hektor. The Hashoones had captured the Hydra from Mox four years earlier, though Huff had let the pirate go for reasons he’d never made clear to anyone’s satisfaction.

  It had been a grave mistake—Mox had signed on with the Ice Wolves, and nearly destroyed the Comet at the Battle of Saturn. The Ice Wolves had expelled Mox from their ranks for disobeying orders, and no one had heard from him since, but Tycho was grimly certain he was still out there somewhere.

  “At this point I almost wish the Defense Force would seize the Hydra,” Diocletia said with a sigh. “Better that than paying docking fees for a ship we can’t touch.”

  “Incoming transmission,” Vesuvia said.

  “Finally,” Mavry said.

  “You may proceed, Shadow Comet,” said the lieutenant. “Sparrowhawk out.”

  The Comets belowdecks let up a ragged cheer as Carlo grabbed the yoke and brought the privateer down to her docking cradle for the first time in five months. It took an hour for Yana and Tycho to muster out the hands, issuing their exemptions and warning them to beware of press gangs. But then the last crewer hoisted his chest and passed through the port airlock to a waiting ferry, and the Comet was empty of all but her bridge crew.

  The Hashoones gathered their own gear and climbed down the aft ladderwell to the gig. Carlo unlatched the little craft from its socket in the Comet’s belly and let it plummet down Callisto’s weak gravity well, fast enough to make Tycho’s stomach turn flips.

  “Easy on the sticks,” Diocletia complained. “We’re not shooting the Kirkwood Gap here.”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Carlo said with a grin, easing up on the controls and tapping the gig’s retro rockets as it settled on the landing pad, so gently that Tycho barely felt the bump.

  “Show-off,” Yana muttered, and Carlo offered her a mocking bow.

  The Hashoones tramped down the corridor to Port Town’s transportation hub, where their grav-sled was waiting in its stall for the brief trip to Darklands. Tycho was so busy debating the legality of press gangs with Yana that he didn’t notice Mavry had come to a halt and collided with him.

  Grigsby was standing in the corridor, his duffel bag at his feet and a grimmer-than-usual expression on his face. Behind him stood a knot of morose-looking spacers, hats in their hands. Tycho recognized them as the Comets who had been sent aboard the captured cargo hauler weeks earlier.

  “I don’t suppose you’re here to welcome us home,” Diocletia said.

  Richards stepped forward, eyes downcast. “’Fraid not, Captain. It’s my duty to tell yeh we lost the prize, ma’am.”

  Tycho and Yana traded looks. The cargo hauler had been flying Earth’s flag, and while she wasn’t the stuff fortunes were made of, she’d been worth enough to make the Comet’s last cruise a moderately successful one. Without her . . .

  “Lost the prize?” Diocletia asked. “How did this happen, Mr. Richards?”

  “She was recaptured, ma’am. A rescue ship from Earth intercepted us a day out of 153 Hilda. Frigate by the name of the Gros-yoo.”

  “Gesundheit,” Yana said, earning a stern look from her mother.

  “We couldn’t outrun her, Captain,” Richards said. “Not much in the solar system could. She took back the prize and her captain made us give our parole. Then he hailed a liner heading for Jupiter and put us on it.”

  “An Earth captain paroled you?” Diocletia asked.

  Tycho understood his mother’s surprise. Earth regarded privateering as thinly disguised piracy. Many captains in His Majesty’s navy would have taken the Comet’s prize crew prisoner. But this one had allowed the Comets to return to Jupiter.

  “I was surprised meself,” Richards said. “We thought we was bound for the brig, but this captain was a right decent cove, Earthman though he was. He turned us loose, and the Gros-yoo took the prize back to the asteroid belt.”

  “I’ve never heard of an HMS Gros-yoo,” Mavry said. “Are you sure you’re pronouncing that correctly, Mr. Richards?”

  “Maybe not, but it’s summat like that. ’Cept the Gros-yoo ain’t no navy ship, sir. She’s a privateer, she is. Carryin’ a letter of marque from Earth.”

  “That’s impossible,” Huff said. “Earth ain’t issued letters of marque since the Third Trans-Jovian War.”

  “Seen the papers meself, Captain Huff. Weren’t forgeries, neither—I know a Port Town special when I see one. These had a holo-seal and everything.”

  “We believe you, Mr. Richards,” Diocletia said. “And you have my thanks for making your report in person. That was no enviable duty.”

  Richards ducked his chin gratefully as Diocletia turned to the other Hashoones.

  “Let’s get back to Darklands,” she said. “Sounds like there’s a lot to discuss.”

  4

  HIS MAJESTY’S PRIVATEERS

  Yes, the privateer is real,” said Carina Hashoone, Diocletia’s sister. “She’s called the Gracieux, and her captain is Jean-Christophe Allamand. He’s retired from Earth’s navy. Spent most of his career chasing Martian blockade runners in the Floras.”

  “So the commission is legitimate,” Mavry said.

  Carina nodded. “Yes, and there are five others, all issued within the last six weeks. These new privateers have taken at least three Jovian vessels, all in the Cybele asteroids, and have rescued two Earth and Martian vessels taken by our privateers before they could be condemned at admiralty court. These letters of marque have been issued by Earth’s new war minister, Threece Suud.”<
br />
  Tycho gaped at his aunt. Four years earlier, Tycho and Yana had discovered evidence linking Suud—then a secretary in Earth’s diplomatic corps—to payments made to pirates preying on Jovian ships. That had led to the Hashoones capturing the Hydra and discovering labor camps in which Jovian citizens were working as near-slaves. Earth’s government had been badly embarrassed, and Tycho had assumed Suud’s career was over.

  “Well, this changes things,” Mavry said. “Commissioning privateers is a lot more serious than saber rattling.”

  “Let them stuffed-shirt Earthmen come across the Kirkwood Gap—we’ll give ’em what-for,” Huff said, accepting a cup of tea from Parsons, Darklands’s gray, dignified majordomo. Huff’s forearm cannon sensed the old pirate’s agitation and began to spin, seeking a target. Parsons glanced mildly at the weapon and glided away with one eyebrow raised.

  “If they’re in the Cybeles, they’re already across the Gap, Grandfather,” Carlo pointed out.

  “Don’t think that isn’t being discussed, Carlo,” Diocletia said. “On Ganymede they think—”

  Carlo’s reaction brought his mother up short—he crossed his arms over his chest, scowling, then turned away to look at Carina, who was blowing on her cup of tea.

  “Do you think it will come to war, Aunt Carina?” he asked.

  Tycho glanced inquiringly at Yana, who raised her eyebrows, clearly surprised. Diocletia drummed her fingers on the tabletop.

  Carina ran her thumb around the rim of her teacup, frowning, and Tycho could guess what she was thinking. Carina knew a captain’s authority—to say nothing of a mother’s—extended well beyond her ship. After all, Carina had been Huff’s choice to succeed him as captain, but vowed never to go into space again after learning her fiancé, Sims Gibraltar, had died from radiation poisoning suffered at 624 Hektor.

  “I believe your captain was answering that,” Carina said finally.

  “Apparently my opinion isn’t valued on this particular subject,” Diocletia said in a low, dangerous voice, not looking at Carlo. “Go on, Carina.”

  Carina sipped her tea. The only sounds were the chuff of Darklands’s air exchangers and the plinks and clinks of silverware and plates from the kitchen.

  “War would be a disaster for the Jovian Union,” she said finally. “Earth can build more ships in a month than we can in a year, and a trade blockade would starve us. And though things have been quieter than expected—recent unpleasant events notwithstanding—we still have to contend with the Ice Wolves. Losing Titan to them would be nearly as bad as a war with Earth.”

  “I hadn’t heard about anything happening at Titan,” Mavry said.

  “As far as we know nothing is,” Carina said. “But on Ganymede there’s a lot of worry that it’s the Ice Wolves’ real target. Titan is the economic engine of the entire outer solar system. If we should lose it . . .”

  Her voice trailed off and she shook her head.

  “Here’s what I don’t understand,” Yana said. “Earth knows we’re caught between two enemies. So why not take advantage of that?”

  “Because a war would be a disaster for Earth, too,” Carina said. “Any disruption in the delivery of raw materials from the outer solar system—particularly from Titan—would cost their corporations trillions of livres.”

  “It all comes down to money, doesn’t it?” Yana muttered disgustedly.

  “Of course it does,” Carlo said. “For us and everybody else in the solar system. Don’t be naïve, sis.”

  “I’m not naïve—I just think there are more important things than money.”

  “Such as?”

  “How about freedom? And self-determination? And not wanting to be bullied?”

  “People don’t worry about that stuff unless they have enough livres to feed their families,” Carlo said with a sniff.

  “That’s enough, you two,” Diocletia growled before Yana could reply.

  “His Majesty’s forces would have trouble defeating us,” Mavry mused. “Their supply lines would be too long to defend, and Earth’s task forces can’t operate indefinitely without fuel and food. We’d prove a tougher opponent than our old friend Mr. Suud might think.”

  “Yes, we would,” Carina said. “But that brings us back to Titan. Earth’s fleets could get all the fuel they needed if they occupied it—which a lot of His Majesty’s ministers would consider worth a war. If you ask me, that’s what’s kept the Ice Wolves quiet. Seizing Titan could ensure their independence—but it would also lead to Earth’s intervention.”

  For a moment there was no sound but the squealing of Huff’s agitated blaster cannon.

  “Fortunately, you can bet Earth’s war ministers have considered this same dilemma,” Carina said. “If His Majesty wanted to retake the Jovian Union, he’d be signing a declaration of war, not letters of marque. And we have to remember, Earth has problems of its own—the Martian separatists blew up a military communications array on Deimos last month. Issuing letters of marque is a provocation, and a dangerous one. But it’s still only a provocation.”

  “So it won’t be war,” Tycho said.

  “I didn’t say that. Nobody wants a war, but sometimes everybody gets one anyway. Dangerous events have a momentum of their own.”

  Carina smiled and nodded at Parsons, who’d reappeared to place a platter of sandwiches on the revolving server in the center of the table. The sandwiches were real bread, with ribbons of in vitro beef peeking out.

  Tycho spotted Yana eyeing a particularly robust-looking sandwich and hastily spun the server before she could take it. He grinned triumphantly at his sister, then looked over to see his father had nimbly intercepted the sandwich as it passed in front of him.

  “Fortunately, there’s some good to come out of all this trouble,” Carina said. “The Jovian Union is offering rich commissions on prizes seized in the Cybeles, and paying a premium for ships willing to serve as escorts.”

  Huff’s face twisted in disgust.

  “Escort duty? Playin’ shepherd for a bunch of tea wagons ain’t pirate work—more like deep-space babysittin’. Talk to me when there’s a bounty on this Jean-Chris What’s-His-Name.”

  “The way Captain Allamand is taking ships, that will be soon,” Carina said. “And whatever bounties there are, in the Cybeles you’d be well positioned to collect them.”

  Huff grunted, scratching his bearded chin with the muzzle of his blaster cannon.

  “There’s something else, too,” Carina said. “The Jovian Defense Force hasn’t been able to recruit enough privateers, so they’ve issued new letters of marque. I don’t have the whole list of recipients, but I know the Widderich brothers each got one, as did Canaan Bickerstaff and Kanoji Ali.”

  Mavry and Diocletia exchanged a surprised look.

  “I’ve heard of the Widderiches, but not the others,” Tycho said. “Who are they?”

  “Straight-up pirates, the whole lot of ’em,” Huff murmured, his face a half-living, half-metal grin.

  “Pretty much,” Mavry said. “All of those captains were either denied letters of marque when piracy was outlawed or lost them because they couldn’t stay on the right side of the law.”

  “So this is what we’ve been reduced to,” Carlo said, his lip curling in disgust. “Letting known pirates fly our colors. It makes us look bad by association.”

  Yana rolled her eyes at Tycho.

  “Arrr, I’m in,” Huff said, bringing his metal fist down on the table. “Always liked 65 Cybele—’tis a lively little rock, an’ this company will make it livelier.”

  “And where do the loyalties of this lively little rock lie at the moment, Carina?” Diocletia asked.

  “Publicly, the Cybeles are trying very hard to not be on anyone’s side right now,” Carina said. “A declaration of allegiance would dam up the free flow of livres. And right now they’re flowing very freely indeed in that part of the solar system.”

  “Uh-oh, money. Does this mean Yana’s going to make a speech?” C
arlo asked.

  “Yeah, a short one,” Yana said. “You’re an—”

  “That’s enough,” Diocletia snapped. “It’s decided, then. We go where the opportunities are. And right now that means the Cybeles.”

  “But no escort duty, Dio,” Huff said. “Nothin’ worse than a tea-wagon captain what thinks he’s spotted a pirate—”

  “I’m not fond of escort duty either, Dad. But if something’s profitable, I’m not ruling it out. After all, I have no personal objection to livres.”

  “Except when there are too many of them in other people’s pockets and not enough in ours,” Mavry said.

  “True,” Diocletia said. “I never have liked that.”

  The lowermost level of Darklands was reserved for the family crypt.

  No one was actually buried there—like most spacers, the Hashoones were horrified by the idea of spending eternity entombed in rock and dirt. The family memorials were digital—holograms of Hashoones who’d died decades or centuries earlier, their smiles preserved for descendants they’d never met.

  Tycho heard the low buzz of his grandfather’s voice as he descended the short flight of steps into the crypt—Huff always spent a few hours in the crypt after the Comet returned to Callisto, communing with his ancestors.

  Tycho coughed politely to make sure he wouldn’t surprise his grandfather. Huff’s eye was a brilliant spark in the gloom, beneath the bluish glow of a towering hologram.

  “Lemme guess, lad,” Huff said. “Carlo hoggin’ the flight simulator again?”

  “Like always. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

  “No, lad,” Huff said softly, tapping keys on the holographic display. “Jes’ renewin’ old acquaintances. Ol’ Johannes fought a number of dustups in the Cybeles, did yeh know that?”

  Tycho looked with distaste at the image of Johannes Hashoone, his great-grandfather. Eighty-five years earlier, Johannes had been the ringleader of a crew of pirates who had stolen a fortune from the mail boat Iris—a fortune that had been lost until Tycho figured out that Johannes had hidden it from his fellow Jupiter pirates beneath the Hashoones’ own homestead, in the lightless ocean beneath Callisto’s crust. In solving that mystery, Tycho had also discovered that Johannes had ambushed and killed his friend Josef Unger, leaving his ship broken on the surface of a comet.