by Jason Fry
Admiral Badawi himself stared down at them, the camera on the Hippolyta’s bridge capturing him from a low, dramatic angle. He was a beefy, chestnut-skinned man with an impressive white mustache, dark eyes that seemed to bore through the viewscreen, and a crisp black uniform heavy with gold braid. Behind him, harried-looking officers were rushing back and forth.
“Captains, it is my honor to command this mission,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “The right and proper authority of the Jovian Union has been challenged by a rabble—a mob bent on fomenting rebellion and disorder. When we arrive at Saturn, that rebellion will be at an end.”
Badawi smoothed his luxuriant mustache with one well-manicured hand, then jabbed a finger at the screen.
“We have assembled this task force to teach these so-called Ice Wolves a lesson they will never forget. Our target is Refueling Station Gamma, which the Securitat has identified as a rebel hotbed. I intend to drive off its defenders and destroy it. When this demonstration is complete, no one from Saturn or Earth will doubt the resolve of the Jovian Defense Force or our ability to mete out justice.”
The admiral nodded to someone out of camera range.
“My navigator is transmitting course data now. Lock in your courses and accelerate to cruising speed on her mark. It’s two weeks to Saturn, ladies and gentlemen—and it’s not going to be a pleasure cruise. When we arrive, it will be as an instrument of the Jovian Union’s will. Whether you are hearing this on the bridge of a warship or aboard one of our . . . auxiliary units, I expect you to carry out my orders with discipline and resolve, and to make our Union proud.”
Badawi’s heels clicked together, and he lifted his chin.
“That is all. Hippolyta out.”
The screen went blank.
“Auxiliary units?” demanded Yana. “Is that what that pompous old walrus just called us?”
“Belay that,” Diocletia said. “For now, Admiral Badawi is our commanding officer.”
“An’ more’s the pity,” Huff said. “Now I’ll say it—that man’s a fool. An’ a dangerous one too.”
In addition to good grooming, Admiral Badawi believed in drills—within the hour, he had a list of simulations prepared and special channels reserved for communications among all nine crews. The Hashoones spent a full shift advancing on defensive lines of imaginary Ice Wolves alongside avatars of the other Jovian warships, virtual cannons spitting brilliant energy, then chasing down the stragglers with the rings of Saturn as a backdrop.
The fourth drill ended with Carlo heading off an Ice Wolf frigate before it could make a suicide run on the Antiope, then driving her back into the sights of the Ingolfur, whose volleys reduced the frigate to glowing fragments.
“Excellent flying, Comet,” Badawi said. “Good thing the rebels couldn’t see this latest drill unfold—they’d have laid down their arms and made our little expedition unnecessary. And where’s the glory in that, eh?”
Carlo grinned at his family as Badawi announced a fifteen-minute break and signed off the shared channel.
“Did you see the way we broke that enemy formation?” he asked, leaning back in his seat with his hands behind his head.
“I did,” Diocletia said. “You did well, Carlo.”
“Then why are you looking like that?” Carlo asked.
Diocletia and Mavry exchanged a glance, but it was Huff who spoke up.
“Because these puppet shows ain’t got no connexion with reality,” he growled. “Them Ice Wolves is experienced spacers, but in that old fool’s sims, they line up to take their licks like malingerin’ apprentices.”
Diocletia started to say something, then folded her arms over her chest, looking unhappy.
“I’m right an’ you know it,” Huff muttered.
“Perhaps the admiral’s working on basic tactics before introducing some more realistic scenarios.”
“An’ perhaps if I flap my arms, I’ll fly to the Oort cloud. Badawi’s brain ain’t equipped for realistic scenarios, Dio. He’s spoilin’ for a fight and fixin’ to get his people killed—and us, too, if we ain’t careful.”
The next two days of drills were much the same—in Admiral Badawi’s relentless simulations, the Ice Wolves assembled to protect Refueling Station Gamma, forming a neat line outside the perimeter of Saturn’s rings, then concentrated their fire on the Hippolyta. Each time, Badawi countered this attack by sending the privateers—or “auxiliary units,” as he invariably termed them—to execute pincer movements, driving the Ice Wolves into the warships’ overlapping zones of fire to be destroyed.
The drills were impressive displays of coordinated fire and precision tactics—but only Carlo still believed they would bear any resemblance to the actual fight awaiting them.
When Yana questioned what Badawi was doing, Carlo had an answer.
“The admiral thinks how we fight is as important as the results of that fight,” he said. “Saturn fell to insurgents because the Jovian Union failed to enforce the rule of law. The way to restore order is to show Saturnians a demonstration of coordinated military action—not to fight insurgents with their own tactics.”
“I don’t know what’s scarier—that you just said that or that you might actually believe it,” Yana said.
“If we maintain formation and fire support, the Ice Wolves can’t stand against us, Yana. This is a military operation, not a slugging match between pirates.”
“Arrr, but there’s the rub,” Huff said. “Both fighters have a say in how things turn out. If I were this Lazander, I’d duck into the rings an’ launch hit-and-fades against our forces from there, evenin’ up the odds. Or jes’ turn tail an’ run.”
“Then we win,” Carlo said. “We destroy Refueling Station Gamma, making the Saturnians rethink the consequences of letting the Ice Wolves take over. Mission accomplished, and we go home.”
“That’s not winning,” Diocletia said.
“Why not?”
“If the Ice Wolves don’t fight, destroying one of our own facilities will just turn more Saturnians against the Union. Dad’s right. If Lazander’s smart, he won’t give this task force anything to fight. He’ll disperse his forces and wait for us to go home—or to do something stupid.”
Carlo looked doubtful.
“We haven’t simmed that scenario,” he said.
“That’s ’cause there ain’t no glory in it,” Huff said. “The only sims Badawi runs are the ones he can win.”
Everyone sat silently for a minute.
“There’s another problem,” Yana said.
“Oh, good,” Tycho said.
“The jamming. We haven’t run a single simulation in which the Ice Wolves use Mox’s jammer—which we know they still have. The Defense Force knows what happened to us at P/2, right?”
Diocletia nodded.
“They do—I had Carina give them the data. You’re right—I don’t know why Badawi hasn’t accounted for that.”
“So what do we do?” Tycho asked.
“Is there anything we can do?” Yana asked.
“Arr, of course there is,” Huff said. “We can go home, leavin’ this fool mission ’fore it becomes our epitaph. We’ve plenty of livres, thanks to young Tyke here.”
“And forfeit our honor?” Carlo demanded.
“Honor’s cold comfort in the shroud, boy.”
“I’m less concerned about our honor than I am about our letter of marque,” Diocletia said. “It’s still more than a week to Saturn. All we can do is wait and see what happens.”
Before the next day’s final drill, Badawi warned his captains that he’d prepared a simulation that was a little different. Which was true, sort of: this time, the Jovian warships were swarmed by pinnaces determined to bloody the Hippolyta’s nose.
“Very good,” Badawi said as the virtual wreckage disappeared from their computer screens. “You handled that well. Now, any questions about what we just faced?”
Diocletia thumbed her headset controls. “Admiral, t
his is Captain Hashoone. A related question for you?”
“Go ahead, Captain Hashoone.”
“We’ve tangled with Thoadbone Mox multiple times, Admiral,” Diocletia said. “The last time, he was in command of three ships and deployed a powerful jammer that overwhelmed our systems until my sensors officer was able to disrupt the interference.”
“She means me,” Yana pointed out to Tycho while covering her microphone. In return, he offered his sister pretend applause.
“How is that question related to the scenario we just explored, Captain Hashoone?” Badawi asked.
“It concerns unorthodox tactics typically used by, um, insurgents—like the ones we’ve now started simulating, Admiral. I can resend the data from our most recent encounter with Mox in case it’s been overlooked.”
“It has not been overlooked, Captain,” Badawi growled. “Mox didn’t use jammers in his raid at Europa, remember.”
“But he might in a defensive situation against a superior force, Admiral. Particularly when the ships of that force are trying to coordinate offensive operations, as you’ve been teaching us to do.”
“I wouldn’t put anything past a known traitor and renegade. But let me assure you, Captain Hashoone, that our countermeasures teams are more than prepared for your scenario. If Mox uses his little toy, we’ll have it analyzed and neutralized within seconds. Unless we just blast Mox and his ship to atoms—I’ve found that the simplest defenses are often the most effective. Does that address your concerns, Captain?”
“It clarifies things admirably, Admiral,” Diocletia said, then plunked her headset down on her console in disgust.
“Yana, when we reach Saturn, have details of the procedure you used to break the jamming at P/2 ready to send to the other ships,” she said. “Admiral Badawi may not think it’s important, but I do.”
“For the record, Captain Hashoone, you were very diplomatic,” Mavry said.
“Great. These days, that and a letter of a marque will buy you a one-way trip to Saturn.”
Tycho slept fitfully and started awake at five bells. He stared at the darkened ceiling above him, listening to the reassuring shush-shush of the Comet’s air scrubbers and the thrum of her engines. Normally the combination of those familiar sounds would nudge him back to sleep within a few minutes, but not tonight. With a groan, he abandoned his bunk and descended the ladderwell to the quarterdeck.
Diocletia was sitting in the captain’s chair, staring at her monitor while absently twisting her ponytail behind her head with one finger. She turned at the sound of his feet on the ladder’s rungs, and the alarm on her face was replaced by a smile and a nod.
“You’re a bit young for the Hashoone curse,” she said.
“What’s the Hashoone curse?”
Diocletia indicated the empty quarterdeck. “Sitting at your console in the middle of the night with no watches scheduled. Or staring at your mediapad in your bunk.”
“Oh, that. Doesn’t seem to affect Yana, though.”
“Your sister could sleep through an emergency reentry. But then the two of you have been as different as could be since the day you were born.”
Tycho settled into his chair, closing his eyes at the familiar way the imitation leather creaked and then seemed to fit around him.
“So why are you on the quarterdeck in the middle of the night?” Diocletia asked.
Tycho hesitated. It was just him and his mother, and for a moment what he wanted most was to tell her what had happened with DeWise, how he had done something for what he swore was an admirable reason—or mostly an admirable reason—but one thing had led to another, and now he was stuck, unable to go back but not wanting to go forward.
“Oh, you know . . . everything,” Tycho said, shrugging helplessly.
“I know,” Diocletia said, then smiled. “It’s not as bleak as it may seem, though. This mission is a bad idea, to say the least. But we’ll be okay if we keep our heads. And in the meantime, here’s something that should cheer you up.”
Tycho got up and stood by the captain’s chair. His mother typed on her console.
“Carina’s people have sold off the Iris cache. That’s the amount per share—four of the five shares are ours, since we’re not giving Thoadbone his. We’ll have to give the crewers their cut, of course, but I’d call it a pretty good payday.”
Tycho whistled appreciatively. Two or three years’ worth of cruises might not yield that much money.
“We barely got to celebrate your find—the solar system had other plans, as it so often does,” Diocletia said. “But we will. And we’ll get to do so because you saw what nobody else saw, and insisted we look where nobody else thought to look—including me.”
This, Tycho thought, was a moment he should want to go on forever: his mother talking about how his success had helped their family, an accomplishment that would certainly be remembered when the time came to choose a new captain.
But he remembered DeWise’s words, and his smile faltered.
“What is it, Tycho?”
“I’m glad I was right about where the Iris cache was, but something’s still bothering me. Why was it there? Johannes must have hidden it under Darklands. But it’s pretty clear he didn’t tell anybody else.”
“You don’t know that. It was a long time ago, and the Collective members were being hunted by the Securitat. Maybe it was a temporary arrangement, and everybody forgot.”
“That’s a lot of money to forget. And the treasure got there without Johannes ever taking his scanner from the Bank of Ceres.”
Diocletia bit her lip. “True.”
Tycho was quiet for a moment.
“I wanted to think Orville Moxley was the one who ambushed Josef Unger at P/2,” he said, going over the thoughts that had plagued his restless nights. “I tried to convince myself Thoadbone had the coordinates for P/2 from his uncle’s logs, figured out we were going there and tried to head us off. But it was much simpler than that—Mox got our course heading from the trackers and found P/2 the same way we did, by searching against known orbits.”
“Most likely,” Diocletia acknowledged. “But what about Muggs Saxton? His scanner was gone too. Maybe he ambushed Josef. Or maybe it was the Securitat. Or some pirate we don’t know about.”
“Then how did the treasure wind up under our own home?” Tycho said. “Muggs didn’t have the guts for a deep-space ambush. And the Securitat wouldn’t have killed Josef unless they were sure they didn’t need him anymore.”
Diocletia looked surprised.
“That’s a pretty ruthless thing for a fourteen-year-old midshipman to say. How did you get so knowledgeable about the Securitat?”
Tycho looked away, his stomach churning.
“But I think you’re right,” his mother said. “So what you don’t want to say, Tycho, is that you think Johannes killed Josef Unger.”
“Yes,” Tycho said. And ruined many lives that came after him, he thought of adding, but decided not to.
“I wish I could tell you there are a million reasons why you’re wrong, and Johannes would never have betrayed a fellow pirate. But I can’t. Your theory makes a lot of sense.”
“I know. I wish it didn’t.”
“Still, I can’t tell you you’re right, either—as I told you on Callisto, I looked in the Log. There’s no mention of the Iris, unless Johannes restricted access to it. In which case we’ll never know.”
“I guess I have to learn to accept stuff like that and not let it drive me crazy.”
His mother smiled. “When you figure out how to do that, tell me the secret.”
Tycho smiled back.
“Still . . . ,” Diocletia said.
“Still what, Mom?”
“Vesuvia, I need a course plot based on orbital coordinates.”
“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said. “Awaiting input.”
“Call up the orbital data for P/2093 K1,” Diocletia said. “But this time I want the coordinates beginning in . . . what yea
r should we start with, Tycho?”
“The raid on the Iris was in 2809.”
“Vesuvia, can you calculate orbital positions for P/2093 K1 since 2809?”
“The calculations are straightforward,” Vesuvia said, and Tycho thought the ship’s AI sounded slightly offended. “Shall I display them on the main screen?”
“That won’t be necessary. Do you have a record of any course intercepting those coordinates?”
“Yes,” Vesuvia said.
Diocletia and Tycho looked at each other.
“When?” Diocletia asked.
“April 17, 2895. Twenty-three days, nineteen hours, twenty-one minutes, and nine seconds ago.”
Tycho laughed. Diocletia shook her head, exasperated.
“I seem to remember that trip, Vesuvia,” she said. “Do you have a record of any other course intercepting those coordinates? Set a confidence interval of 85 percent.”
“Coordinates match no record.”
“Does your definition of ‘record’ include data to which a captain has restricted access?”
“No. Records are limited to accessible data.”
Diocletia drummed her fingers on her console, eyebrows lowered, teeth working at her lower lip.
“Let’s try it another way,” she said. “Were coordinates intersecting the orbit of P/2093 K1 already in your memory before we plotted them last month?”
Vesuvia was silent for a second, then two. Then three.
“Yes,” Vesuvia said.
“When were those coordinates entered into memory?” Diocletia asked quietly.
“On July 3, 2816.”
“Seventy-nine years ago,” Tycho said.
Diocletia nodded.
Tycho tried to think of another explanation, but there wasn’t one. Seventy-nine years ago, when Johannes Hashoone was captain, someone aboard the Comet had used the ship’s computer systems to plot the coordinates of a lonely ball of ice and tar, one of millions hurtling through the wilds of the solar system.
The Foundling had been there too. But unlike the Comet, Josef Unger’s ship had never returned.
