by J. L. Doty
York stared at his screen for a long second, waiting for someone to tell him there was something wrong with his scan summary, but instead he heard, “That son-of-a-bitch burned ‘em.”
“Captain, the raider’s running.”
“Small warhead, estimated yield strength fifty kilotonnes.”
There would be no survivors in that, York knew. In fact there wouldn’t even be debris to speak of, just vapor—Frank, Elkiss, his marines.
“Captain, the raider’s running. What should we do?”
York looked at his screens. The raider was running at about ten thousand gravities, would be able to make transition in five or ten minutes. They could put a warhead into him, but that was too easy, too clean of a way to die. “Miss Votak. All forward main batteries.”
“It’s done, sir.”
“Mister Jakobee, at this range you should be able to target nicely on his drive and power plant.”
“Targeted, sir.”
“Very good, Mister Jakobee. All main turrets, fire one volley.”
“Fire one, sir.”
Cinesstar’s hull echoed loudly with the thrum of the transition batteries firing in unison. All eight shells tore into the raider’s aft end, scattering debris behind him. The raider went dead in space.
“That debris is really dirty, sir. Picking up a lot of hot stuff in it. I’d say we blew his power plant.”
“He’s broadcasting a surrender flag, sir, requesting aid.”
York nodded, thinking of Frank, and Elkiss. “Mister Jakobee. Target amidships.”
“Targeted, sir.”
“Very good. All main turrets, fire one volley.”
“Fire one, sir.”
The second volley literally cut the raider in two.
“Captain, I have Duart on channel three. He wants to surrender.”
“I’m sure he does,” York said. He put Duart’s picture on one of his screens, turned the volume down, plugged his own audio into the channel so the raider could hear the orders he gave. “Mister Jakobee, line up for a broadside and target all forward main batteries on the forward half of that raider, and all aft main batteries on the aft half of that raider. On my command they’re to commence firing at will. Tell them the first set of turret crews, fore versus aft, who reduces their respective half of that raider to pieces of debris no larger than one cubic meter, will receive an extra water ration and light duty for the next tenday.” Duart’s eyes flashed visible fear, exactly what York wanted to see.
“Captain,” the empress shouted. “You can’t do that. That’s murder.”
“Captain,” Jakobee said. “Targeted and standing by.”
York swallowed hard. “Very good, Mister Jakobee. Commence firing.”
York reflected that there were probably quite a few people on Cinesstar who had never before heard a continuous fire barrage. It was an eerie sound, much like that of a deep bass drum, beginning with the first loud beat as all of the turrets fired in unison on the initial command, but quickly breaking up into randomly spaced beats as the turret crews competed with each other for speed and accuracy.
On his screen Duart pleaded with York, alternating between demands that York recognize his obligation to treat prisoners properly, and begging for mercy. Cassandra and Andow shouted at him to show reason. York saw the helm cluster rising up from the combat configuration, caught a momentary glimpse of Maggie staring numbly at her screens. Finally the empress unstrapped and floated across the bridge, reached out, took York by the shoulders and shook him violently. She must have leaned into the field of view of the camera in York’s console, because Duart’s eyes suddenly flashed with recognition, and for an instant he looked past his own console at someone not visible on the screen. He said, “Captain, they’ve got the empress.”
He replayed Duart’s words in his own mind: Captain, they’ve got the empress. Who was Duart speaking to? And if Duart wasn’t the captain of the raider, then who was?
“Cease fire,” York shouted.
They’d cut the raider into several pieces. York let the raider crew wait while they rescued Dominant’s survivors: no officers, a few NCO’s, and about thirty enlisted men and women. Then he put an engineering crew aboard the wreckage with orders to strip her of anything that might be of use: ordinance, weapons, vac suits, spare parts.
York then had armored marines board the largest pieces of the raider and arrest the surviving crewmembers. There were about fifteen of them.
“I want to see them,” York told Palevi. “Assemble them on Hangar Deck.”
“Olin,” he said, standing. “You have the watch. Get us out of here soonest, on a course to Sarasan.” He stood and left the bridge.
When York stepped out of the lift Palevi shouted, “Atteeuun . . . shuuuuun.”
Palevi and Yagell had the pirates lined up in a row with a half dozen heavily armed marines watching over them. The marines had just lost thirty of their comrades, and hadn’t been kind with the pirates.
The surviving raiders were an undisciplined lot, no uniforms to speak of, some rather garishly dressed, some not, some clean-shaven, some not. Duart stood out among them. Taller than the rest, he looked more like a naval officer than a raider captain. But he’s not the captain.
York stuck his hand out toward Yagell and said, “I need your sidearm.”
Yagell’s weapon of choice was a large caliber grav gun. She put it in York’s hand and grinned at him.
York marched straight to Duart, said, “Do you know who I am?”
The question confused the man so York helped him out. “I’m Ballin, marine SDO.”
Duart’s eyes told York he understood, so York stepped back and shot him in the foot.
Duart crumpled to the deck, screaming in agony. York let him writhe for a few seconds, then stepped in, grabbed him by the hair, pulled his head back and jammed the barrel of the gun in his crotch. Duart froze, gasping and sweating, but he no longer screamed and his eyes locked on York.
“You killed some people in that boat that were important to me. And I know you’re not the captain. So if you don’t tell me who is, I’m going to blow your balls off, and order my marines to stand here and watch you die slowly, make sure no one helps you. Should take you a couple days to die.”
Duart grimaced in pain, pointed at one of the pirates. “The dumpy little guy.” Only one of the pirates fit that description.
York turned toward the real raider captain. He stopped in front of him, raised the pistol and put the muzzle between the man’s eyes. He thought of Frank—not enough left of him to stuff into a body bag—and Maggie, her chance at happiness blown to vapor.
“Now Cap’em,” the little man said, backing away, bastardizing York’s rank through sloppiness rather than because of any marine custom. “Let’s be reasonable men here,” he said with a heavy accent.
York snarled, “I don’t feel reasonable.” He advanced on the man.
“But shootin’ me’ll be murder, Cap’em.”
“Ya,” York said, grinning. “Murder plain and simple.”
“Wait, Cap’em,” the man pleaded, raising his hands. “Wait. I’m too valuable to you alive.”
“And why is that?”
There was sudden triumph in the little man’s eyes. “Don’t ya be askin’ yerself why go to so much trouble to hide me identity?”
The man had a point. “Spit it out.”
“I’m Richard, Cap’em. The redman, the most famous pirate what ever lived. I’m Red Richard.”
Through the years York had read reports on Red Richard’s activities, and he’d scanned a few security briefings upon occasion. Richard was reputed to be short, dumpy, with black hair, a scar over the right eye, and a heavy, uncultured accent. This fellow fit the description, and he and his men had gone to some trouble to conceal his identity.
“I know all sorts of things, Cap’em. Things real valuable to a skipper bein’ hunted by every ship in a hundred light-years.”
York raised the muzzle of
the pistol until it pointed at the deck overhead and considered the little man carefully. He came to a decision, clicked the gun’s safety, turned to Yagell and tossed her the gun. The marine caught it casually, snapped it into the clips on her thigh. “Interrogate them all,” York said to her. “Confirm without doubt that he’s Red Richard. And I want to know everything they know about anything that might be useful.” York looked at the pirate as he finished, “And I don’t care what condition they’re in when you’re finished with them.”
The grin on Richard’s face disappeared. York got some satisfaction in that.
Cinesstar up-transited out of the Aagerbanne system shortly after midnight. Sarasan was their best hope; it wouldn’t have anywhere near the facilities that Aagerbanne had had before being destroyed, but the defending imperial fleet had retreated in that direction, and the feddie fleet had withdrawn the other way. What better escort for the empress than an entire fleet, even if it had been badly mauled.
Sarasan was twenty-one light-years distant; at Cinesstar’s top speed of better than two thousand lights they could make it in four days. She was running nicely, no one on her tail. There was a little instability in the damaged power chamber, but the two good chambers could handle the load without difficulty, and they were basically back in imperial space now, so York gave Cappik permission to shut Starboard down for a day and see what he could do about repairs. York scanned his screens one more time, decided Cinesstar could do without the guidance of her captain for a few hours.
Maggie was in her cabin. When he knocked on the door she didn’t answer at first, but after repeated efforts her voice came out of the speaker above the door in a garbled mumble, “Enter.”
He found her sitting in the dark, one elbow resting on her desk, a half empty drink in her hand, her eyes staring blankly at the opposite bulkhead. When York closed the door the room went completely dark. “Mind if I bring up the lights,” he asked.
“Sure,” she said. “But not too bright.”
“Computer,” he said. “Lights. Very dim.”
The cabin filled with a faint glow, enough for them to see each other. He pulled another chair out of the bulkhead and sat down opposite her at the desk. “How ya doin’, girl?”
She shrugged with her eyebrows. “Not too good. I keep trying not to think about him, but the harder I try the more I do.” She looked at York seriously. “No chance he’s alive?”
She knew the answer to that before she saw it in his eyes, but she’d needed to ask it anyway. Her eyes returned to the drink. “Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all—the navy, the empire, the feddies, the whole god damned war.” Her voice trailed away with her thoughts. “Fuck ‘em.”
He sat there in silence for a while, then reached out slowly and placed his hand on her wrist. Her face remained blank, but then a tear rolled down one cheek. “Why him?” she pleaded, and her voice broke.
York shook his head. “Why any of them?”
She fought for control. He could see her struggling, but slowly her face screwed up, her lower lip curled outward and started to tremble. “Why couldn’t we have made it? Frankie and me had such plans. Why did the bastards have to take him away from me?”
She started to sob. York stood, stepped around the desk, lifted her up and took her in his arms. He squeezed her tightly and let her cry. “We were going to make babies, you know?”
“No. I didn’t know that.”
“Ya. We were. We were going to get out of the navy somehow, even if we had to desert. Find someplace where they couldn’t find us.”
Her body shook with deep, uncontrolled sobs. “I miss him so much. He’s only been dead for an hour or two and I miss him already. Just knowing he’s dead . . . I’m never going to see him again . . . I just can’t . . .”
She started sobbing again, and he held her like that for a long time, neither of them speaking, while slowly her grief dwindled to a quiet whimper. After a time he could feel her weight leaning heavily on him, and he knew she was half-asleep with exhaustion. He let his arms relax a little but she clutched at him desperately. So he picked her up, marveled for a moment at how small she seemed. He expanded the field on her grav bunk, laid her down gently in it. But she wouldn’t let go of his hand, so he lay down beside her and wrapped his arms around her.
“You come with me,” she said. “You and me. We can go make babies somewhere, someplace where they’ll never find us. We can live normal lives, not wonder every moment if today is our last day alive. Will you do that with me?”
He nodded, realized she couldn’t see the gesture, though with his cheek resting against hers perhaps she could feel it. “Ya, I will.”
“Promise?”
“Ya, I promise.”
After that she slept, though it was fitful and she whimpered a little from time to time. He slept a little, but mostly he laid awake and made plans. He planned how he and she would desert as soon as he could figure out a way. He knew more about these things than her. He had a considerable amount of pay in his account and he knew how to withdraw it slowly over a period of time so it wouldn’t draw any suspicion. A bribe here, a bribe there, steal a small courier ship and get lost out on the fringes where, rumor had it, there was no war.
But first, he had to get the empress back in one piece.
He whispered softly, “Ya, Maggie, I promise.”
CHAPTER 25: SARASAN
“Mornin’ cap’em.”
York stood outside Richard’s cell, looked the fat, little pirate over carefully. Richard grinned at him. “There are certain advantages for a pirate who don’t look like a pirate, Cap’em.”
“So you’re admitting to piracy now, not legitimate salvage operations?”
Richard’s grin broadened. “Well now, Cap’em. Just between us girls, it wouldn’t do me no good to deny it, would it? But don’t be expectin’ me to be so free and easy in a court o’ law.”
York shook his head. “Admiralty Court, not court of law.”
“Aw cap’em! Can’t you cut a poor down-and-out fella a break?”
“You killed my friends.”
Richard shrugged. “And you killed most of me crew.”
“Were any of them your friends?”
Richard winked. “Touché, Cap’em. But you and me could be friends, you know? We’re a lot alike, you and me.”
“You don’t know anything about me.”
“Well now, Cap’em.” Richard leaned back in his seat, raised a hand and started ticking off points on his fingers. “You’re Ballin—Butcher Ballin. I could use me a nickname like that. Good for the image, if yer a pirate. Yer also a marine, and the SDO—the most bloodthirsty son-of-a-bitch of an imper anyone’s ever heard of. Yer a lifer, and you’ve managed to survive for more’n twenty years out here. That’s a rare commodity, Cap’em. You don’t have no prospects for the future: we both know they’re gonna take yer command away from you as soon as you get Her Nibs back to His Nibs. And then that little twat of a princess’ll probably have you up on charges. Have I got it right so far, Cap’em?”
York’s crew had obviously been rather talkative, though Richard was probably good at wheedling information. It occurred to York he could have Richard and his crew tanked; then no one could talk to him, but he was reluctant to do that even to the likes of him. “Go on,” he said.
Richard stood, crossed the small cell and faced York through the plast bars. “When you go back they’re gonna take this fine ship away from you, Cap’em. And then they’ll treat you no better’n they’re gonna treat me. But you don’t owe them nothin’. Nothin’ at all . . .”
Richard let that hang for a long moment. York prompted him, “And?”
The pirate waved a hand, indicating the ship around them. “Look at yer opportunities here, Cap’em. You got a beautiful ship—a fightin’ ship like no freebooter ever dreamed of. You don’t owe them nothin’. In fact it’s them what owes you—after you been fightin’ for ‘em for so long.” Richard leaned close and spoke just above a whisper
. “You don’t have to go back, Cap’em. You don’t have to let ‘em treat you like shit, after all you done for ‘em. You just don’t have to.”
“And what are my alternatives?”
Richard shrugged, looked about carefully to insure no one else could hear. “Come with me to Andyne-Borregga. I could show you the way, Cap’em. With this ship and crew, and with the cargo you’re carryin’, you could buy yourself a good captaincy in the Mexaks. Start workin’ for yourself for once.”
York stepped back from the cell. Richard had caught him completely off balance. The infamous free port of Andyne-Borregga—center of operations for the Mexaks, haven for smugglers and pirates, center of commerce for contraband weapons, drugs—whose location was auspiciously a well kept secret. York knew better; it was impossible to keep secret the location of a major center of commerce, even if the commerce in question was mostly illicit and illegal. York didn’t doubt that it could be found and taken by a large and determined fleet. But Borregga was rumored to be well protected by its inhabitants, and even if it was destroyed, the illicit traffic would just crop up elsewhere in short order. So the empire and the Directorate tolerated its existence because it served a basic purpose and it wasn’t worth the trouble. Some effort was made to limit access; its location had never been on any charts that York had seen. And, of course, the Borreggans themselves wouldn’t tolerate the presence of an imperial cruiser, unless someone like Richard could help them gain entry.
“Cargo?” York asked. “What cargo do I have that would be of any value to the Mexaks?”
