Rebellion of Stars (Starship Blackbeard Book 4)

by Michael Wallace

  Tolvern shook her head.

  “He’s retired now. An old fellow when I served under him, with mutton-chop whiskers so big they needed their own berth. A perpetually stiff upper lip and eyebrows drawn up in disdain as if the universe itself was an affront to his dignity. So much starch in his uniform, he could have been killed in battle and it would have kept him propped up at the helm. Not the sort of man you wanted to keep waiting.

  “So when one of my new engines malfunctioned, I didn’t return to Fort William like I should have. Instead, I ran it hot to get to the rendezvous in time, figuring we were putting into port a few days after the jump, where I could see it repaired. Engineering warned me. I ignored the warning. Ten days into my first command, I had to dump plasma to keep my ship from blowing up.”

  Tolvern laughed. “That’s pretty embarrassing, all right.”

  “Oh, it gets worse. Imagine this. We were nearly at jump speed when I had to dump, so now I tell Daw to go through, and I’ll meet him on the other side. I can make it to port on one engine, no problem. He goes through, and engineering tells me I need to squeeze out a bit more speed or I won’t make it through the jump. So I run my second engine hot.”

  “Don’t tell me you didn’t make it.”

  “Oh, I made it. The engine didn’t, though. We arrived dead in the water. Nothing but auxiliary power. I had to be towed.”

  Tolvern winced. “Ouch. Why have I never heard this story before?”

  “If it had happened to you, would you be spreading it around?” Drake remembered the smirks on the faces of the navy engineers as they strolled onto his ship, cracking jokes about his broken-down engines. “And you don’t fix a burned-out plasma engine with duct tape and chewing gum—you need a new containment field. I would be sixteen days at the naval yards while Daw set off without me. A hunk of rock twelve million miles from anything—my crew was thrilled, let me tell you.”

  “Wait, is this the same base where you fought the Hroom raiding party?”

  Drake allowed a smile. “As a matter of fact, yes.”

  “I’ve heard that part.”

  “I was waiting to see if the Admiralty would court-martial me or merely toss my captain’s bars in the trash when three sloops of war attacked the naval outpost. I held them off for sixty-four hours while I waited for Daw to relieve me.”

  “And that’s why you didn’t lose your commission, I suppose.”

  “You feel like a goat now, Tolvern,” he told her, “but take care of business on Hot Barsa, and you’ll return feeling ten feet tall. They’ll build a statue to you back home some day.”

  “Hah. Even on Auckland, they’ve got bigger celebrities than that.”

  “Who? The annual winners of the local sheep dog trials?” Drake said. He and Tolvern were both from the same sleepy rock way out on the end of the Zealand Islands. “Or maybe that guy who built his entire home out of seashells. Remember him?”

  “Thanks, Captain,” she said.

  “For what?”

  “For making me feel better.”

  “It’s always a good idea to pump someone up before you send her to her near-certain death.” He said this with a smile in his voice, but perhaps it was a little too close to the truth, because her expression turned serious again.

  They spent a little bit of time looking at the mercenary ships on hire. Mostly pirates, obviously, although in a time of war, that designation was fluid. Malthorne had hired a few privateers himself to harass shipping out of Saxony, but Drake had an easier time finding ships. Malthorne had ordered the atomic bombardment of San Pablo’s eastern continent, destroying the Hroom cities on that side of the planet in order to stir up war against the empire. Even on the human side, that gesture had been taken poorly.

  There were several small schooners and two frigates, plus several ships that were harder to define. New Dutch and Ladino craft stripped down and cobbled together from so many pieces that Drake could only categorize them as “war ships,” “salvagers,” and “armed galleons.” Not to mention a few that he considered so underarmed and poorly armored that it was pointless to hire them at all. Tiny three- or four-men craft that had to be hauled through jump points, but then could scurry around asteroid belts, staying out of the way of powerful enemies. Unless Isabel Vargus had a darn good reason, he’d tell her to cut them loose.

  The sum total was unimpressive. Drake thought Blackbeard and Vigilant could handle the lot. Certainly, they’d be no match for Malthorne’s heavy cruisers, corvettes, and destroyers, let alone Dreadnought. But, if you threw in Vargus’s Outlaw, plus the always-reliable Pussycat, he supposed they would serve their purpose.

  “I wish we had Orient Tiger,” Tolvern said after they’d chatted briefly with one of the schooner captains. “Catarina’s ship is better than any of these, and I’ll wager she’s ten times the commander, too.”

  “Catarina Vargus only looks out for herself,” he said. “So put that idea out of your head.”

  “Yeah, I know. I’m just saying. If there’s a way to put out the word, if we can lure her back, she’s worth the money. I’d even take that scary mate of hers with the Gatling gun for an arm.”

  By now, they’d taken a tour around the tarmac and visually inspected the mercenary armada. The shuttle was waiting to haul them back into orbit, where the fleet was finishing taking on supplies in preparation for a quick departure, but Tolvern wanted to take a final look at her destroyer. They entered the hangar to see her ship stretched out beneath cranes. Men and women crawled like insects over the hull, using torches to cut loose segments of damaged plating. Holes opened deep into the interior, where others worked on the electrical, plumbing, and other internal systems.

  Tolvern muttered a low oath. Then, “Sorry for the bad language, sir. I just—to see her like this.”

  “I understand. Get it out of your system and move on. You’ve got a new mission.”

  “Yes, sir.” She paused. “So, me, Brockett, Capp, and Nyb Pim? Will you bring on Philistine’s pilot while we’re gone?”

  “Not Capp. She stays on Blackbeard,” Drake said. “She’ll pilot while Nyb Pim is on Hot Barsa, translating for you.”

  “I could use a marine. Someone handy with a gun. Who will go in her place?”

  “Carvalho.”

  He said it simply, but studied Tolvern’s face to see how she’d react. Tolvern and Capp had become friends of sorts since those initial days of the mutiny, in spite of their class and education differences. But Tolvern had never warmed to the rough Ladino gunner. He was Capp’s lover, and seemed to enjoy goading Tolvern. Drake didn’t think Carvalho held any malice for her, but Tolvern took it seriously.

  “Carvalho is good with a gun,” she said, tone cautious. “Keeps his head in a scrape. I used to think he was a backstabbing crook. More interested in drinking, thieving, and screwing anything that walks than being a good crew member.”

  “And now? What do you think?”

  “I suppose he hasn’t stolen anything for a while.”

  Drake smiled. “Capp will miss him for the other two things.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Drinking, she can do on her own. And I’m sure she’ll find a fellow to fill in for the rest.”

  He’d lightened up on the fraternization rules, partly because he’d violated those rules himself with Catarina Vargus, but he still preferred having Capp and Carvalho separated during combat. In any event, Carvalho would manage well enough on Hot Barsa. No questioning his bravery or ability.

  “Well, then,” Drake said. “Let’s get back to Blackbeard and figure out how to get you down to Hot Barsa alive.”

  “I would appreciate that, sir. And to be frank, I’d appreciate making plans for a safe exit, while we’re at it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Drake emerged from the return jump into the Barsa system to find an urgent message from the Earl of Westmarch, who had been installed as governor of Saxony. No coward, he’d been justifiably alarmed to see the remaining rebel ships abando
n Saxony and set off for parts unknown. Meanwhile, the governor had caught wind of Malthorne’s departure from Albion on Dreadnought. Word had it that the brutal General Fitzgibbons had troop transports filled with Royal Marines.

  Malthorne could only mean to seize Saxony and flatten the rebellion in one blow, the earl insisted. Drake absolutely must return at once to mount a defense. The earl was an efficient administrator and a calm hand at the wheel in managing the jittery populace of Saxony, and so the strength of his demand indicated near panic, so far as Drake could tell.

  Another problem was Mercia. The third planet in the core Albion kingdom had been flirting with joining the rebellion for the past several months, but now the Mercians had cold feet. Rutherford’s uncle, the Duke of West Mercia, declined to stake his claim to the throne of Albion. This, in spite of the fact that he was closer in line than Malthorne, was not a usurper, and seemed to have no tyrannical impulses. Overthrow Malthorne, and it was clear that the people of Albion and her two colony worlds would support the duke.

  But the duke said he didn’t want the throne. Neither did the other powerful dukes, earls, and barons of Mercia want anything to do with the rebellion. The Mercians still claimed neutrality, but they would apparently return to Albion’s fold without complaint if the rebellion was put down.

  Blasted cowards is what they were. They didn’t want Malthorne—the man had as good as killed King Bartholomew himself and meant to corrupt the throne for his own vainglory—but neither did they think the rebellion stood any chance. Not with Saxony abandoned by the rebel fleet.

  Drake calmly sent responses to both Saxony and Mercia. In it, he broadcast his next move. Drake had tested the Barsa system’s defenses and found them wanting. Now, he was back in the system to mount a full-scale assault on Hot Barsa. He meant to wipe out Malthorne’s forces in the system, capture or destroy his sugar galleons, and widely distribute arms and the sugar antidote to rebellious Hroom. Once the primary source of Malthorne’s wealth was wiped out, he would return to Saxony to defend the planet.

  All of this pronouncement was meant to find its way into Malthorne’s hands. To goad him, force him to defend his land and wealth on Hot Barsa.

  Had Drake been the one in possession of Albion, with eighty percent of the Albionish population, two-thirds of the fleet, and the majority of its resources, he’d have abandoned Hot Barsa and focused on seizing Saxony. At the helm of Dreadnought and with Fitzgibbons’s marines, that could be done whether Drake and Rutherford returned to Saxony’s defense or not.

  But he was not the lord admiral. The lord admiral was a proud, vengeful man. Acquisitive and greedy. Drake counted on these character flaws to force Malthorne to defend Barsa. And so he made sure that the enemy received word of his intentions.

  But first, a terrific fight awaited them as they approached Hot Barsa. Two enemy cruisers, backed by three times that number of destroyers, corvettes, and frigates, took up position near Cold Barsa, readying a defense of the inner worlds. Captain Lindsell, formerly of HMS Calypso, had been given command of Churchill. She was the third of the Punisher-class cruisers, equal to Vigilant and Blackbeard. Lindsell was a hothead. Why was he holding back in a defensive posture? He must be expecting aid or planning a trick of some kind.

  Well, then. Drake had a few moves of his own to play.

  He sent Vigilant and a few support craft in a feint toward the enemy fleet, then charged the bulk of his forces toward Hot Barsa. Lindsell didn’t bite. Instead of waiting for the attack, his fleet abandoned Cold Barsa and moved to intercept Drake. Rutherford turned and followed in Vigilant.

  Meanwhile, four more rebel ships had jumped into the system from a jump point deep on the Z-axis, opposite the sun. These were two captured and refurbished cruisers, HMS Richmond and HMS Calypso, plus two missile frigates. Caites was in command on Richmond, and she’d picked up a corvette and a destroyer from the forces called out from Saxony. Caites’s ships recovered quickly from the jump and raced toward Hot Barsa to join the battle that was brewing in the inner system.

  There were now four separate forces converging on the sugar world. The most powerful of these was Lindsell’s fleet. It would arrive shortly after Drake and pin his forces against the forts. Then it would be up to Rutherford and Caites to relieve him while he dropped Tolvern to the surface.

  Or, he could abandon the attack on Hot Barsa, gather his forces, and fight Lindsell away from the planetary defenses. If he meant to destroy them in open battle, that would be the prudent move.

  But there was a ticking clock. He had to get Tolvern in and then withdraw. Find out if Lord Malthorne was on his way or moving on Saxony.

  #

  Drake woke from his next sleep cycle and arrived on the bridge only three hours out from Hot Barsa, with the ship already decelerating. Capp was in the pilot’s chair, with a young ensign assisting her. Nyb Pim was no longer on the ship; the fight would go on without the Hroom pilot’s masterful skills.

  “Are we on course?” Drake asked Capp as he settled into his chair. “Good. Get me Outlaw.”

  Isabel Vargus appeared on the screen moments later. She flashed that lean, wolfish smile that both Vargus sisters wore when anticipating battle. “Ready for bloodshed and plunder, Drake?”

  “We’re not here to take prizes,” he said.

  “As you wish.”

  “Is the away pod ready to go?”

  “Everything but the passengers. Tolvern is here with me. The others are relaxing in the mess. Should I send them down?”

  “Still too early. Give me another hour—I’ll let you know.”

  “Got it.”

  “Don’t forget those torpedo boats when you go in. We’ve got to assume they’re still lurking in their hangars. Might be other nasty surprises, too. Those forts pack a punch.”

  “You just keep those cruisers off my back, James Drake. I’ll worry about the forts.”

  #

  These pirates could be prickly when it came to their ships, but Isabel Vargus had allowed Tolvern to assist on the bridge. For that, she was grateful. It helped with the nerves. Nyb Pim, Brockett, and Carvalho sat in the mess, eating, playing cards. Waiting and helpless, the way she saw it.

  It was awful being away from one’s station in battle. You felt the ship’s engines straining, the artificial gravity shifting you about as it kept the massive g-forces from turning your body to jelly. If something hit the ship, it shuddered through the hull and into your very bones, but you had no idea how serious it was until the sirens started and the air filled with smoke. No, it was better to be up here, watching the action play out.

  As for the battle itself, she didn’t like how it started. Drake’s fleet was delayed by the slower mercenary vessels, and Lindsell caught him before they’d come within range of the orbital fortresses. He’d be forced to deal with this threat, and so Tolvern was not surprised when his strong, serious face appeared on the viewscreen.

  “This is it, Vargus,” he said. “You’re on your own. Take care of my people.” And then he was gone.

  “You ready?” Vargus asked.

  “Just about.” Tolvern didn’t rise from her seat. “How long have I got?”

  The other woman shrugged. “Ten more minutes and we’re under fire. I’m gonna bob and weave to get past that, then we’ll make one pass before I skip off the atmosphere. Second pass is when you launch. Let’s say twenty minutes until I need you strapped down.”

  “In that case, I’ll stay. Better send those other guys down, though.”

  A raised eyebrow from Vargus. “Oh, sure. Make them sweat it out.”

  Tolvern returned a smile. “Command has its privileges.”

  “Hah. In that case, make yourself useful. We’ve got an underpowered defense grid computer. Once the fur is flying, it can’t keep track of it all. Kipper has his hands full and could use your help. Forget my bloody shark teeth—we survive this encounter by avoiding direct fighting. You see anything coming in straight, launch chaff. I’ll turn and t
ake it at an angle.”

  Vargus turned away and gave orders to Tolvern’s companions, sending them to the away pod. Tolvern took her place at the defense grid station.

  She found herself liking Vargus. It helped that Isabel hadn’t slept with the captain like her younger sister had. But there was a certain whimsy about her that Tolvern hadn’t noticed before. She’d bleached her hair since the Battle of Albion, except for a shock of pink. Her vest buckles were made of punched-out coins, and her vest sported a fringe of tiny silver bells that jingled when she walked. Unlike the businesslike bridge of a naval ship—which Blackbeard maintained even after going rogue—Outlaw’s reflected a lighthearted crew. Skulls, plastic sharks, and strings of beads hung from consoles. The captain used an Old Earth-style ship’s wheel to swivel her chair about to face various crew members.

  Even the way Vargus spoke to her crew was different, more like they were peers. Not the Royal Navy way of stuffy formality. Of course, there was a reason why naval forces fought with discipline and deadly precision, while these mercenary types scattered when things got tough. Let’s see how they did when those forts let loose.

  But curiously, the forts held their fire, at least initially. Vargus sent Pussycat out front. Aguilar’s squat, warthog-like pirate frigate suffered poor maneuverability, but boasted enough arms and armor to deliver and take a beating. Pussycat was to trade blows with the forts while the rest of the mercenary force swooped in for a closer pass.

  But nothing happened. The nearest fort, the same ten-mile-long baked-potato rock whose torpedo boats had mauled Tolvern’s destroyer a few weeks ago, swung around the planet and out of range without firing a single shot. A second fort came around the planet. The instruments on board Outlaw lit up with enemy targeting systems, but the thing didn’t fire. Pussycat launched an exploratory missile. It thumped the hollowed-out asteroid, but did little damage. Still no return fire.