by J. L. Doty
“Come on, Cap’em,” Richard said, tapping the side of his head. “You got to start thinkin’ creatively. Her Royal Sweet Ass’ll command a high price anywhere, especially from the feddies. And that little bitch of a princess and the rest of them are gravy, free and clear. What a team we’d make, eh Cap’em, Red Richard and Butcher Ballin?”
That left a bad taste in York’s mouth, not because of what Richard suggested, but because York was tempted to accept the pirate’s proposition. He didn’t say anything, just turned on his heels and marched out of the brig.
“Hey, Cap’em,” Richard called after him. “Where ya goin’? I thought we had a deal.”
York called Alsa Yan from the terminal in his office. “Tank Richard and his entire crew. Tell Palevi it’s my orders.”
Yan frowned and said, “Very good, sir,” but York could see the question she didn’t ask mirrored in her face.
“I don’t want him communicating with anyone on this ship. He’s tricky and dangerous.”
“Yes, sir,” Yan said skeptically, then switched off her terminal.
York had lied to her. He really didn’t want Richard communicating with him.
“Damn!” Add’kas’adanna swore, looking at her screen. “Damn, and damn again!” She activated her com. “Martak, come in here immediately.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away, ma’am.”
Add’kas’adanna shook her head, looked at her screen again. It had become almost a morning ritual—splash a little water on her face, get a cup of hot caff, and then, before anything else, sit down and pull up the map of probable Cinesstar sightings. But that morning it had been different. She’d become so used to looking at the same unchanging map of sightings she recognized the difference immediately. At first she’d been excited, thinking a recent sighting had been logged while she’d slept. But then she pulled up the full report—filed hastily nine days ago by Captain Jewel Thaaline of Pride of Altalane, then misfiled for god knew how long before being properly routed to Add’kas’adanna’s intelligence officer.
Thaaline had been tracking Cinesstar since Dumark, actually engaged the imper once, took some damage, was forced to give up the chase temporarily and lost the trail. But Thaaline had finished by recording her own hunch that, while Cinesstar’s trail appeared to be headed for Aagerbanne, she thought it was a ruse, and the imper was actually headed for Sarasan.
Add’kas’adanna looked at her screens again. She had new data, new sightings, much more information than Thaaline, and it was obvious the imper was headed for Aagerbanne. But Thaaline’s confirmed sightings made it clear which of the other sightings were false, and which were real, and that gave Add’kas’adanna a much clearer picture. The imper should have reached Aagerbanne at about the same time the shooting had started, had probably transited right into it, for all she knew. He couldn’t have reached Aagerbanne before that—her neural interrogation of Sayalla had confirmed the impers still hadn’t located Cinesstar. So the imper had probably waited for her to withdraw, and when she’d done so, she’d passed right over the top of him.
Her intercom bleeped and her yeoman announced, “Commodore Martak is here, ma’am.”
“Send him in,” Add’kas’adanna barked.
Before Martak even sat down she was grumbling orders at him. “Reposition the entire fleet. I want a small strike force—ten of our fastest ships—under my personal command. We’ll drive straight for Sarasan. I want the rest of the fleet spread out between Aagerbanne and Sarasan. He’s out there somewhere, and we’re going to catch him.”
“Captain, I’ve got a hot one here.”
Jewel looked up from her screens, made eye contact with Soe in the cramped confines of the Pride’s bridge. “It came in on general broadcast, coded top priority, for your eyes only. I don’t even have the cipher key to decode it.”
Jewel nodded. “Send a copy down to my cabin terminal. I’ll look at it there.”
Now what, she thought. They were in a good position—approaching Sarasan at a reasonable velocity. They had options now: they could throw warheads at the impers if they wanted to, or sit tight if that seemed the right thing to do. As long as DCO didn’t mess it up for them.
Jewel stood stiffly, turned to the ladder at the back of the bridge, tossed over her shoulder, “Mister Soe, you have the bridge.”
Down in her cabin the coded, top priority message was waiting for her. She punched in the cipher key, waited a few seconds for the computer to decipher the message and bring it up on one of her screens.
The picture showed Illcall Terman seated at his console, a trickle of blood streaming down his cheek from a cut over his right eye, more blood drizzling out a nostril, running past his lips and dripping off his chin. The left shoulder of his tunic showed the unmistakable signs of a flash burn, the kind caused by something exploding nearby.
As the recording began a choking cough racked his entire frame, and that brought up a mouthful of blood. Jewel heard pounding in the background and muffled shouts.
The coughing stopped, Terman looked into her eyes and she had to remember it was only a recording. “I don’t have much time, Jew. They’ll be in here any minute—”
He started coughing again, and Jewel wanted to shout, Who’ll be in there any minute?
“You’ve got to trust me on this one, Jew. I don’t have time to explain, but the impers want to burn that imper cruiser as much as we do . . . But we don’t . . . I mean he’s gonna end the war. He’s gonna end the damn war . . .”
There was an explosion in the background—Terman’s picture shook and a chunk of debris barely missed taking off his head. “Don’t let them burn that imper,” he shouted into the pickup. “Just trust me, Jew. Don’t let—”
Terman’s head exploded in a shower of bone and brains; his body rocked forward, slammed against the console only inches from the pickup, then everything went still.
Jewel waited, looking at Terman’s open, dead eyes for an eternity. Then a dim, shadowy figure approached him carefully from behind, and, finally assured that Terman no longer posed a threat, stood erect. Terman’s corpse still blocked most of the figure, but then it pulled him clumsily out of the way by the collar of his tunic and dropped him to one side.
“What was he up to?” the figure asked someone.
“Hell if I know,” the someone answered.
“Look!” The figure pointed at something on the console, a finger only inches from the pickup. “He was broadcasting something.”
“Shit! Still is broadcasting. Kill it.”
The figure reached out, slapped at the console and the picture went blank.
Jewel stared at the blank screen for several minutes. Terman was an old friend. She could count the times they’d met face-to-face on the fingers of one hand, but they’d met by screen hundreds of times over the years.
She wanted to know who killed him. But she hadn’t seen their faces, just a glimpse of a uniform, and that had been unmistakable. The killer had been wearing the uniform of DCO Security.
“It’s a whole fleet. It’s got to be, a whole, god damned fleet. I’ve already picked up close to thirty transition wakes, all within one light-year.”
Jewel looked at her screen.
Soe continued. “And I’m sure some of those wakes are multiple ships, clustered so close together I can’t resolve individual wakes.”
“Steady as she goes,” Jewel said, trying to affect some semblance of calm. “Anything you can identify?”
Soe shook his head. “A wake is a wake, some bigger, some smaller.”
“Andro. Any activity from Sarasan Station?”
Innay shook his head. “Nothing. Business as usual. Shields are probably up, but that’s normal. No activity in the outer defenses, no movement from her orbital weapons platforms.”
That told her what she needed to know. Sarasan had undoubtedly detected the approaching wakes, and if they were unidentified, or clearly Federals, the Station Commander would be bringing all her defenses up
to battle readiness. So the approaching ships had to be an imperial fleet, and from their transition vectors they were coming from their sector headquarters at Aagerbanne.
“Steady as she goes,” Jewel said calmly. “That’s an imper fleet coming in. We’re going to be right in the middle of them. But with all the transition noise they’re making there’s not much chance they can detect us. So let’s just sit tight.”
“Fifty lights and holding, sir. Range: point-one-three light-years.”
York scanned his screens, could feel a bead of sweat running down his back inside his tunic. As they approached Sarasan farspace the entire ship filled with anticipation. Their journey was almost over; safe harbor was within easy reach, but York was spoiling it for them.
Assume nothing, he’d told them. We’re going in with extreme caution. Hunter-killer approach; battle stations; the works.
“Forty lights,” he ordered.
“Forty lights,” Maggie responded. “Serious gravitational instability all over the ship . . . but she’s holding.”
The last time they’d tried this Cinesstar had dropped into down-transition at forty lights. Maggie was getting better at this. “All right, Maggie. Start easing her back slowly until she drops into transition, and when she does, hold onto all the velocity you can. Keep our flare to a minimum.”
York waited, tried to watch all his screens at once, couldn’t ignore the tumbling in his stomach as a cluster of gravity waves rolled through the ship. Maggie got Cinesstar down to thirty-one lights before she dropped into transition. Cappik cut the deck gravity instantly and they floated free.
They all waited for Gant. York wanted to bark at her to hurry up, but he knew better. Finally, she cried out, “Clear to a hundred thousand kilometers.”
York let out his breath. “Drones out—passive.”
The hull echoed with the clang of the drone launch. Jondee acknowledged, “Drones out.”
Gant started filling in the details. “We’re point-one-two light-years from Sarasan farspace, coasting at point-nine-three lights, dilation factor two-point-seven. Preliminary scan shows no activity between here—” Her voice shot up an octave. “Wait! Contact. Dead ahead. Ranging at point-oh-five lights.”
“Us or them?” York demanded. “And are they closing.”
“They’re headed this general direction, but I can’t tell more than that. With the drones passive I don’t have enough of a baseline for the resolution I need. Whoever they are they’re driving hard in sublight, or I wouldn’t be able to pick them up. But I can’t get a good vector on them, no possibility of a targeting solution, and I certainly can’t resolve a recognition profile.”
Whoever was out there was driving hard, and that had to mean they’d been spotted. “Tell Mister Cappik to stand by with full power for the shields. Let’s power up and have a look.”
York felt the weight of gravity in his bones again, and Gant started to smile as her drones spread out under power.
“Incoming,” she suddenly shouted. “Extreme long range transition shot.”
“Hold your fire, Mister Jakobee,” York growled, “unless it’s actually targeted on us.”
The shot flared about one million kilometers in front of them—a shot across the bow—the standard calling card of a deep space picket. Gant confirmed York’s suspicion. “It looks like one of ours, sir.”
“Mister Jondee. Send them an imperial recognition code, but don’t identify us.”
York waited for several seconds, then, “I’m getting a reply, sir, but I can’t decode it. Our codes must be out of date.”
“Resend the recognition code until they reply in kind.”
Jondee had to broadcast the code eight times before the captain of the distant ship decided to communicate with them in a code they could decipher.
“Captain,” Jondee said. “You’d better take this.”
The image of a middle-aged woman in an imperial uniform with commander’s pips on her collars appeared on one of York’s screens. York knew her, had met her somewhere, though he couldn’t recall her name, or the circumstances under which they’d met.
She spoke immediately, “Your codes are out of date. Identify yourself and . . .” Her eyes narrowed.
Good, York thought. She recognizes me too.
“York Ballin,” York said. “Late of H.M.S. Invaradin. Presently commanding H.M.S. Cinesstar.”
She flinched, frowned, an odd reaction. York continued, “And you are?”
She considered his image for a long moment, then nodded. “Commander Vilnay. Commanding H.M.S. Australis, attached to the Third Fleet. Please excuse me for a moment.”
York gave her a nod and she blanked her screen. He looked at the empty screen, began to feel uneasy. She should have asked for more information, should have paid deference to certain courtesies, should have expected him to return those same courtesies in kind.
York’s screen suddenly flashed back to life, but now it was split, with Vilnay occupying one half, and an older man with admiral’s stripes and scrambled eggs all over the bill of his cap on the other. There was something about the look in the man’s eyes, as if he expected absolute, unquestioned obedience. Vilnay said, “Captain Ballin. May I introduce His Grace, Sergai Leonavich, Duke de Neptair.”
Shit! York thought, almost said it aloud. He managed an appropriate bow of his head and said, “Your Grace. I’m honored.”
Leonavich didn’t have to pay deference to any courtesies. “We’re sending you a transition plan for a short jump into Sarasan nearspace. Execute it immediately. That’s an order.”
No mention of the empress. No request for assurances that she was all right. No request to speak with her. York bowed again. “Very good, Your Grace. Can you clear us for contact exchange. With updated codes we’ll be able to set it up a lot easier and faster.” Only a small half-truth.
“Sure,” Leonavich said almost angrily. “Do it, Vilnay. It won’t do any harm.”
It won’t do any harm. An odd thing to say. That phrase made York think back to the look on Vilnay’s face when she’d first heard him identify Cinesstar.
Australis’ computer set up a link with Cinesstar’s computer. The two ships exchanged contact packets in an automated process each had gone through hundreds of times, and in minutes Cinesstar’s codes were up-to-date and she could tie into Third Fleet’s command grid.
It won’t do any harm.
York looked at the plan Vilnay had fed them: a short transition hop into the Sarasan system, but nowhere near Sarasan herself. They were receiving data from Third’s command grid now and York could see the deployment of all the elements of the fleet. The plan would have them down-transit in the midst of a cluster of cruisers and destroyers. It was safety, of a sort, having your friends all about you, but not as safe as having Cinesstar transit deep into the system well behind the protective armaments of the fleet. York made a slight adjustment to the plan that put them close to, but not in the midst of, the cluster of fighting ships.
“But sir,” Gant said. “Duke Sergai’s orders—”
York growled at her, “You just worry about my orders.”
It was an easy jump. They barely had time to accelerate before down-transiting. York had his crew set up the down-transit without any deceleration. They were close to two thousand lights, and the resultant flare was excessive, would be momentarily blinding to any targeting computer trying to compute a solution on them.
“That’s it,” Tac’tac’ah shouted. “Big flare. That’s our imper.”
“He’s close enough for a solution,” Soe added. “We’ve got him now.”
Jewel looked at the system summary on her screen. “I want solutions on all of them,” she said.
She should be elated. Their imper had come right to them, was almost asking to be burned. And yet she couldn’t erase the image of Illcall Terman’s dead eyes staring at her from the recording he’d sent. In a way it was his last will and testament, something he’d felt was important enou
gh to die for. That image, and his last words, had haunted her dreams, had kept her awake at night.
“Funny thing,” Innay said. “His friends are closing about him like he was one of us, like they didn’t trust him.”
“I want targeting solutions on all of them,” Jewel repeated. “All of them.”
Leonavich was on one of York’s screens immediately. “What kind of sloppy vectoring is that, Ballin?”
“I’m sorry, Your Grace,” York lied. “We have a damaged drive chamber; it threw us off a bit.”
Leonavich’s ships were moving quickly to close about Cinesstar. It wasn’t the action of a friend welcoming an ally home after a long and dangerous journey.
It won’t do any harm. And the look on Vilnay’s face, the look that now settled on Leonavich’s face: distaste, as if confronted with the need to perform an unpleasant task.
“Your Grace,” York said. He tried to get Leonavich to meet his eyes, but the Duke looked away under some pretext. One of the nine most powerful people in the empire, Sergai, Duke de Neptair, couldn’t meet the eyes of a former juvenile delinquent, lower deck pod gunner, spacer second class. York pleaded with him, “What’s going on here, Your Grace? Please.”
Leonavich finally met his eyes. The Duke’s eyes were angry, and tired, but mostly they were sad, and they were hardened, as if reluctantly accepting the need to do something unpleasant.
“Captain!” Jondee’s voice intruded. “Captain, I just got us tied into their command grid, and there’s been some sort of mistake here.”
York’s eyes remained locked on Leonavich’s. He flipped a switch on his console so Leonavich couldn’t hear Jondee, then he asked, “What kind of mistake, Mister Jondee.”
“Well, I don’t see how it happened, or maybe I’m just reading this wrong, or maybe we’ve got com problems, or—”
York grew impatient. “Spit it out.”
“Yes, sir.” It was rare for Jondee to be so respectful. “Sir, we’ve been allocated as a target on Third’s command grid. I know it’s not possible, but—”
