by Jason Fry
Diocletia wasn’t on deck yet. On the main screen, a cross represented the Comet’s position; a flashing triangle indicated the unknown ship, with a dotted line representing its current heading.
“Um, Dad, Mr. Vass would like to observe the intercept,” Tycho said.
Mavry cocked an eyebrow.
“I’m not sure you meet the height requirements for this ride, Minister.”
“I assure you, First Mate Malone—”
“Just kidding,” Mavry said. Then his face turned serious. “But if anyone on this quarterdeck gives you an order, Mr. Vass, you need to follow it instantly. Understood? All right, then. Tycho, get our guest a harness and show him how to use it.”
As five bells rang out, Tycho helped Vass into a harness, having to tighten the straps considerably to fit the minister’s elfin frame, then secured him to the ladder, yanking on the harness until he was confident Vass was unlikely to hurtle across the quarterdeck or plummet belowdecks.
“Ready to take sensors,” Yana said. “What have we got?”
“Freighter of some sort, heading for the inner solar system,” Mavry said without turning around. “She’s running hot—every dial on her bridge must be hard right.”
“Not hot enough,” Carlo said. “Plotting an intercept now. I’ll hand over navigation once it’s locked in, Tyke. If you’re ready, of course.”
“Play nice, kids,” Mavry said mildly. “Tycho, holler when your board’s green. We’ll hail on all frequencies.”
Slow, deliberate steps sounded on the ladder. Diocletia stepped onto the quarterdeck, looking quizzically at Vass where he stood trussed to several rungs.
“Mr. Vass wanted to observe the intercept,” Mavry said. “I said yes.”
“Of course you did,” Diocletia replied, unconsciously capturing her hair with a hair band as she walked to the captain’s chair, eyes fixed on the screen.
“Intercept course plotted,” Vesuvia said. “Ten thousand kilometers to intercept.”
“Sensor profile complete—she’s a Chital-class freighter,” Mavry said. “Confidence level ninety-eight point two. Yana, scan her engine signature for a match in the registry.”
“Already doing it. Querying database now. Sing out if you’ve got a match, Vesuvia.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Ready to hail,” Tycho said. “Standard intercept procedure?”
Mavry glanced over at Diocletia. “Captain?”
“Not awake yet. Check back in a minute.”
“Standard procedure, Tycho,” Mavry said. “Vesuvia, display colors.”
Tycho checked his microphone. Behind him came the sharp reports of Huff’s metal feet on the ladder rungs. The half-cyborg pirate grunted disgustedly at the sight of Vass and took his normal spot on the other side of the ladderwell, magnetic feet locking to the deck. The lights on his chest were flashing yellow.
Tycho allowed himself a smile as he activated the control that would transmit his voice across the void to the freighter. He’d figured his grandfather wouldn’t be able to resist being on the quarterdeck for an intercept.
“Unidentified freighter, this is the Shadow Comet, operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union,” Tycho said, the words smooth and familiar. “We have you on our scopes and have locked in an intercept course. Activate transponders and respond immediately.”
“Heading indicates Ceres,” Yana said. “But confidence level is only eighty-four percent.”
“With sloppy piloting like that, I’d hate to see their fuel bill,” Carlo said.
“Target craft has activated transponders,” Vesuvia said. “Jovian colors. Still scanning engine signature.”
Tycho’s fingers flew over his keyboard. These were his favorite moments aboard the Comet—his entire family working smoothly together thanks to years of practice, anticipating each phase of the intercept and adapting to anything unexpected.
“A Chital?” Huff asked. “Arrr, probably one of ours then.”
“She’s transmitting,” Tycho said. “Patching it through.”
“Transmission acknowledged, Shadow Comet,” said a grumpy male voice, the accent Jovian. “This is the Actaeon, out of Io. Bound for Ceres.”
“Nice to see you, Actaeon,” Tycho said. “Please transmit the current Jovian recognition code.”
“Give us a second to decrypt and initiate code sequence,” the Actaeon’s captain said.
“Recognition code received,” Vesuvia said. “Matches current Jovian code.”
“And the engine signature matches the Actaeon’s,” Yana said. “Confidence level ninety-nine point nine nine nine all the way to infinity. She’s ours all right.”
Diocletia’s fingers drummed on her armrest. Then she leaned forward, eyes fixed on the screen.
“My starship,” she said. “Tycho, make conversation. Yana, pull the Actaeon’s registry records. I want her home port and the name of her captain. Vesuvia, scan her long-range tanks and cross-reference the results with the standard capacity for that model. I want a fuel-level estimate at ninety-percent confidence.”
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said.
“What’s all this about?” Vass whispered to Tycho. “The ship is clearly Jovian.”
“Not now, Mr. Vass,” Tycho said. “One moment, Actaeon. We’re, uh, having a problem calibrating our code recognition. Should take us a minute at most.”
“She’s registered on Io,” Yana said. “Captain is Pius Wildasin.”
Mavry whistled. “Get that man a nickname.”
“Belay that,” Diocletia said. “Tycho, patch me through.”
“You’re transmitting.”
“Captain Wildasin? This is Captain Diocletia Hashoone.”
“Was something wrong with our code, Captain Hashoone?”
“We’re still calibrating. But I recognize your voice, Hans. I never forget a fellow Callistan.”
“Hans?” asked Vass. Tycho shushed him.
“Um, I don’t believe we’ve met, Captain Hashoone,” the Actaeon’s captain replied. “My name is Pius . . . and I’m from Io.”
“My mistake, Captain Wildasin,” Diocletia said. She shut off her microphone and frowned.
“Are you ordering us to heave to, Comet?” Wildasin asked.
“Arrr,” Huff said, the familiar word a low, satisfied purr.
Diocletia turned in her chair, smiling. “I am now. Tycho, give the order. Vesuvia? Beat to quarters.”
“Fuel-level estimate is not complete at desired confidence level,” Vesuvia objected.
“That’s all right—you can beat to quarters anyway.”
“Actaeon, we invoke our right to inspect your vessel under the articles of war governing interplanetary commerce,” Tycho said. “Heave to and prepare for boarding.”
“I don’t understand—” Vass began, but Tycho shushed him again.
Belowdecks, the bosun’s pipes shrilled out and the sound of running feet and rolling machinery echoed up the ladderwell.
“This is outrageous, Comet,” Captain Wildasin said. “There’s no cause for detaining us! Continue and I will file a protest with the commercial oversight board!”
“You have that right, of course,” Tycho said. “Our order stands. Heave to immediately or you will be fired upon.”
“Light fingers on the triggers, Mr. Grigsby,” Diocletia said. “Let’s try to take her back intact.”
“The lads won’t break anything, Captain.”
“Ion emissions dropping to zero,” Yana announced. “She’s stopping.”
“Now can you explain, Master Hashoone?” Vass asked. “The vessel’s Jovian.”
“The vessel’s Jovian,” Huff said. “But there’s a prize crew on board what ain’t.”
“Fuel level estimated at forty-four percent,” Vesuvia said.
“Forty-four percent?” Vass exclaimed. “That means the freighter wasn’t heading for Ceres at all!”
“She was probably headed for Jupiter when she was seized,” Diocle
tia said from the captain’s chair. “When the Comet showed up on her sensors, the prize crew that’s flying her turned the Actaeon around and tried to make it look like she was heading for Ceres. But they didn’t quite have time to lock in the right course. Still, I had to be sure.”
“And what convinced you?” Vass asked.
“The prize crew already knew Captain Wildasin’s name and home port, so he had to correct me when I addressed him using the wrong ones. Still, he found another way to let me know what had happened.”
“Which he clearly did. And what was that?”
“Fuel’s expensive, Mr. Vass—a captain who doesn’t set an exact course is burning up profits, and an engine restart is just as wasteful. So no captain heaves to without a direct order.”
“Will the prize crew know that too?” Vass asked.
“They might. Captain Wildasin’s risked his safety and that of his crew. So let’s get on board before they pay the price.”
“And might I—” Vass began.
“Not until the Actaeon’s secure.”
Diocletia adjusted her headset.
“Mr. Grigsby, I want starboard gun crews on full alert. Assemble the boarding party at the port airlock. Yana, eyes on your long-range scans—let’s not step in the same trap twice. Mavry, you’ll lead the boarding. Take Tycho with you. Are you willing to go, Dad?”
“When’s the last time I passed up a boardin’ action?” Huff growled.
“Very well. Mr. Grigsby will be expecting you, then.”
Grigsby had handed the chrome musketoons to Mavry when Tycho and Huff made their way belowdecks to join the throng of crewers. Huff had three carbines tucked into a cracked leather harness across his chest and a wicked-looking sword at his hip, while Tycho carried a pistol of his own.
Mavry nodded at Tycho and Huff, then turned to the tattooed Comets. Several of them had been part of Richards’ unlucky prize crew. Their knuckles were white around their carbines and knives. Richards himself was peering into the airlock, his shoulders rigid.
Tycho raised an eyebrow at his father, and Mavry responded with a slight nod.
“Go easy, Comets,” he said. “Keep your eyes and ears open and follow me to the bridge. And then . . . and then we’ll see.”
“Three cheers for First Mate Mavry!”
“Quarterdeck, we’re ready to open her up,” Mavry said.
“Acknowledged,” Diocletia replied. She sounded tense and unhappy, and Tycho wondered how many times she had sent loved ones through the airlock of a seized ship without knowing what awaited them.
“Tycho? You in there, kid?” Mavry asked, waving his hand in front of Tycho’s face.
Tycho shook his head. “Sorry, Dad.”
“Want me to take point, Master Mavry?” asked Richards.
“I do. But no shooting anybody—not even if the emperor of Earth himself is on the other side of that door.”
The Comet’s airlock door hissed open. The Actaeon’s airlock was open too, and the Comets’ shirts rippled as the atmospheres mixed. Three burly men in royal-blue uniforms were standing just outside the freighter’s airlock, hands held carefully away from the pistols at their belts. Huff’s forearm cannon whined eagerly.
Richards and Laney strode forward, carbines raised, but the two Actaeons offered no resistance.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” Mavry said mildly, chrome musketoons still holstered in their bandolier. “I’m First Mate Malone, of the Jovian privateer Shadow Comet. Will you please lead the way to the bridge?”
The Actaeons exchanged a glance.
“Follow me,” said one. “Just don’t expect a warm welcome. If we’re late making port at Ceres, it comes out of our pay.”
“We won’t keep you a minute more than is necessary,” Mavry said as they headed deeper into the ship. “Heard anything about Earth privateers in the area?”
“Hear a lot everywhere,” the Actaeon said with a shrug. “Whatever trade route you’re on is about to be overrun with Earth privateers. Or Jovian privateers. Or Ice Wolves, Martian separatists, and little green men from the Oort cloud. Hearing it ain’t the same as it meaning anything.”
“You’re a wise man,” Mavry said as they reached the Actaeon’s main ladderwell. He followed the two Actaeons up to the bridge, out of Tycho’s sight. The rest of the Comets followed, with Huff’s metal footsteps echoing throughout the passageway.
The Actaeon’s bridge was lit softly by work lights. Through her wide viewports Tycho could see the immense glowing river of the Milky Way. A middle-aged man sat in the captain’s chair. Tycho supposed he must be Captain Wildasin. One finger yanked irritably at the collar of his green uniform, which was dark with sweat.
Tycho looked around the bridge. The four men and two women at the consoles were wearing green. But there were five other Actaeons on the bridge—the two who’d met the Comets at the airlocks and three others. And all of them wore royal blue.
“It sure is crowded on this bridge, Captain,” Mavry said.
Wildasin wiped his brow and nodded at one of the blue-clad Actaeons.
“Mr. Haines is our engineer,” he muttered. “These are his people.”
“Now that much I believe,” Mavry said.
He drew his musketoon and aimed at the spot between Haines’s eyes. His hand was perfectly still. A moment later the Actaeons wearing royal blue found themselves with carbines in their ears, under their chins, or between their shoulder blades, their weapons taken from them. Tycho noticed with annoyance that his own pistol was wavering in his hand.
“Oh thank goodness,” Wildasin said when the last crewer in royal blue had been disarmed.
Haines’s fingers twitched. He was breathing hard.
“Gently, please, Mr. Haines,” Mavry said. “Now then. You want to tell me who you really are?”
“Like the captain said—”
“They’re a prize crew from His Majesty’s privateer Kerensky,” Wildasin said. “She jumped us two days ago, pretending to be a patrol out of 617 Patroclus. They were taking us to Hygiea when you spotted us.”
Huff stomped across the bridge and stepped so close to Haines that Tycho could see the distorted reflection of the man’s face in his grandfather’s chrome skull.
“So this stuffed-shirt Earthman wants to play pirate,” he growled.
“I am a member of His Majesty’s naval forces!” Haines bleated. “Taking part in a lawful action against enemy commerce according to the terms of our letter of marque!”
Huff’s metal fingers closed around the front of Haines’s uniform.
“Yer an Earthman what talks like a lawyer,” he roared, hurling Haines across the bridge to land in a heap on the deck. “Dunno which part I like least.”
“No need for that, Huff,” Mavry said, hastily interposing himself between his father-in-law and the fallen Haines. He holstered his musketoon and adjusted his headset.
“Dio? Did you hear all that? Then come meet our new friends.”
“The man refuses to be reasonable,” Vass said in disgust, turning away from where Haines sat sullenly in the chair that had belonged to the Actaeon’s actual engineer, recently released from captivity in the freighter’s hold.
Diocletia was leaning against Captain Wildasin’s station.
“Must you be difficult, Mr. Haines?” she asked, then looked over to where a glowering Huff was pacing back and forth by the Actaeon’s ladderwell, his metal feet striking sparks from the decking. “It’s a dreadful cliché, but we have ways of making you talk.”
“My prize crew and I are lawful combatants, Captain Hashoone,” Haines replied. “Neither you nor this . . . bureaucrat has the right to interrogate us outside of a military tribunal. And it is your obligation to guarantee us good treatment and swift repatriation.”
Haines glared at Huff. “Seeing how you have already failed in that obligation, I can assure you the proper authorities will be told that I was assaulted in clear violation of—”
“Things ca
n go wrong while securing a prize, Mr. Haines,” Diocletia said, studying her fingers. “Terrible things, sometimes.”
Six bells rang out. The Actaeon’s recording had a bad case of static, Tycho noted.
Diocletia looked up at Haines. “But I’m familiar with the laws of war. And I have every intention of taking you to a neutral port—in this case, Cybele. There, I’m sure His Majesty’s representatives will secure your release.”
“You’re finally acting civilized,” Haines said. “Therefore, as an officer in His Majesty’s service, I give you my parole. My men can bunk in the common area of your ship, but I will of course expect to be housed in proper quarters. And to have my sidearm returned at once.”
“Mmm,” Diocletia said. “Mr. Richards? Take these men and put them in the Comet’s brig. And fetch Mr. Haines a crate to sit on. A fancy one befitting his status as an officer in His Majesty’s armed forces.”
Haines stared at Diocletia, his face mottled with rage.
“Into the brig or out the airlock, Mr. Haines,” she said. “Let Mr. Richards know what you decide.”
“This is outrageous!”
“Or you can answer Mr. Vass’s questions, in which case we might find room for you to bunk belowdecks with one of the loblolly boys. Let’s get moving, Comets. Captain Wildasin has a journey to resume, and so do we.”
“You just wait, Captain Hashoone!” Haines roared. “You Jovians will learn some manners when you meet Jean-Christophe Allamand!”
Diocletia shrugged. “I’m always looking for ways to improve.”
9
A VETERAN OF 624 HEKTOR
Tycho wasn’t on watch for a while yet, so he retreated to the Comet’s top deck as the Actaeon resumed her interrupted course for Jupiter.
He paused at the door to his own cabin and then headed aft, passing the galley and the cuddy, the enclosed ladderwell that led from belowdecks to the Comet’s top gun turret, and the head. Huff’s cabin was the last one on the starboard side. Tycho knocked, then thumbed the door control open when he heard his grandfather’s grunt.
Huff’s cabin was cramped; next to his rarely used bunk was a humming power unit, connected by multicolored cables to a long, low metal tank. The lid of the tank was closed, with Huff’s head and shoulders emerging from a hatch at one end. His metal legs were lying on the floor of the cabin, next to his artificial hand, forearm blaster cannon, and a scattering of clothing.
