“Reactor?” Carrasco asked, subdued.
“Unstable, Captain. Seven men are alive in Engineering. I estimate another thirty were blown out in decompression. I must report that I am currently functioning at five percent . . . and failing.”
“No,” Bryana whispered, too wrung out to do more than sit and stare dumbly at the monitors. Vague images of the men and women blown out in decompression hovered in her mind. She could imagine them, floating forever, frozen eyes staring at silent stars and eternal blackness.
“So Mote It Be,” Carrasco added gently. “Anything else, Boaz?”
“No, Captain.”
“First Officers?”
Bryana had trouble swallowing. She turned, frightened glance meeting Art’s. It did feel colder. Five hours? She tried to smile—tried desperately to pull some sort of courage from the depths. But the well of her soul had run dry.
Art’s lips quivered under his beard. “I don’t have anything to offer, Captain.” He exhaled slowly, adding, “Sorry I gave you such a bad time, sir.”
Carrasco chuckled dryly. “Don’t tell me that now.” He stood and stretched, yawning deeply. “First Officer Arturian, I believe you have the comm. First Officer Bryana, go catch your beauty sleep. I suggest, however, that you get together as soon as you can to review the record. We made too many mistakes through fumbles and panic. I made some comments, but couldn’t by any means catch everything.”
He nodded soberly to them and walked off the bridge, the hatch whispering softly behind him.
The situation board had returned to normal. The bogeys still hovered at the edge of their detection cone.
“It ... was a ... drill?” Bryana knotted her hands to keep them from shaking.
“Affirmative,” Boaz intoned. “The Captain thought you might like to fight a real battle to see what it was like.”
Art slumped in his command chair. “Blessed Architect,” he groaned. “Thank God.”
CHAPTER XVII
Sol stopped before the hatch, oddly reluctant to call out. He steeled his resolve, finally forcing himself to fill his lungs and state, “Captain Solomon Carrasco to see the Speaker.”
“Come in, Captain.” The hatch slid back.
Sol strode purposefully in, finding to his surprise that only Constance sat there, a headset pressing against the wealth of her hair. He stopped short, dazzled—as always—by those incredible blue eyes. What was it about her? Not just those cobalt eyes—although they could be classed a sufficiency. No, something about her simply attracted him, some quality of strength and competence. Nor could he forget the way the light shone red-gold in her hair, or the set of her full mouth. Her translucent skin demanded to be caressed. He could imagine the curve of her hip under his hands. The fullness of her breasts, pressing so tightly against the fabric of her leisure suit, obsessed him to the point of irritation.
“Can I help you, Captain?”
“I ... I wished to see the Speaker.”
“I have full authority to answer any of your questions.” She pulled the headset off, placing it on the pile of data cubes. Leaning forward on her elbows, she interlaced slim fingers and studied him. “Father’s asleep. He didn’t sleep well ... up most of the night. If it’s important, I’ll wake him.”
Sol hesitated, trying not to drown in the blue of her eyes. “No, let him sleep. It wasn’t . . .” He smiled uncertainly. “I’ll catch him later. Have him give me a call when he wakes up.”
“And what should I say it’s about?” At his obvious discomfort, she cocked her head inquiringly. “Sure I can’t help you?”
Sol realized he’d started to grind his fist in his palm. He forced his nervous hands to his sides. “About Arpeggio. It’s been bothering me. I thought perhaps your father and I should clear the decks, is all. Then, perhaps . . . Well, maybe I’d sleep a little better, too.”
She nodded to herself, eyes narrowing as she studied him. Making a decision, she waved at the pile in front of her. “Listen, I’ve been at this for hours and I’m tired of it. Care to take a walk down to the observation blister?”
Sol felt a slight tingle of excitement. “We . . . uh, do seem to do our best talking there.”
She stifled a chuckle, looking up. “Comm, tell Father I can be reached through Captain Carrasco if he needs me.” She stood, arching her back to stretch, breasts expanding the ivory jumpsuit. Sol practically winced.
Cursed singularities, couldn’t she run around in a sack like that damned Elvina? Some masochistic urge, fueled by male hormones, made him offer his arm. Either she didn’t want to be rude by refusing—or progesterone and estrogen had a maliciousness all their own: she took it, twining her arm comfortably around his. Together they passed through the hatch into the long white corridor.
“Arpeggio, huh?” She shook her head. “I’m not sure Father would ‘clear the decks’ as you so aptly put it. He has a lot of pain invested in Arpeggio.”
“He’s not the only one.” Their eyes locked for a moment, and he almost shivered. She understood.
“Yes, well, in my father’s case, I’m not sure he can sort it all out. He wanted to sit down immediately and i dissect it all, explain everything. We ... I argued against it, and, fortunately or not, my father generally listens to me if I insist adamantly enough. It didn’t ... I mean, I was afraid it might become an emotional exchange between the two of you—and, God knows, we can’t afford anything but clear heads right now.”
“It hurts a little to admit, but you’re right.” He smiled shyly and grinned. “I’m not sure I was sane when I first came aboard.”
“And now?”
He laughed outright. “As sane as I ever get, I guess. I suppose there’s a sort of quantum risk in that. Expected observation determines reality. So? Do you see me being sane?”
Laughter’s ghost briefly animated her lips. “I guess I’ll take my chances that the cat’s alive. Looking inside the box isn’t always conducive to peace of mind. Ignorance— or perception, for that matter—can be bliss.”
That was when Fan Jordan walked around the corner, stopped, flushed redly, and turned back the way he’d come, walking rapidly, back stiff, heels clicking angrily on the plating.
“Now what got into him?”
“You, I’m afraid,” Connie lifted her chin defiantly. “He’s already proposed a liaison. Being typically Fan, he did it most arrogantly and bluntly. Offered his power and prestige as collateral. I’d like to be flattered, but I get the feeling his motives are mercenary at best.”
“You’re kidding?”
Her laughter sounded dry as dust. “Jordan does have a certain . . . well, conceit. In essence, he said he liked my spunk.”
Sol shocked himself when he blurted, “So do I.”
“And you’ll offer me your ship?”
“Don’t have to.”
“No?”
“No. According to my orders from Kraal, you’ve already got it if you want it. Leaves me in pretty poor standing for bargaining.”
“And how does that make you feel?”
“You are spunky. And nosy, too.”
“Uh-huh, and if Jordan—and maybe you—thought about it, that might end up being a bit disconcerting. Most men, despite what they say, like their women docile, compliant. Me, on the other hand, I’m my father’s daughter, bitchy, headstrong, and not about to take second place to anyone. It often makes my life difficult.”
“So?”
“So, Jordan can drool all he wants. He’s . . . well, been too sheltered from galactic reality. Lived behind the fortress walls of New Maine Royalty all his life. I asked Nikita Malakova about him. Seems that all the medals he’s got are mostly ceremonial. He’s even got one for being wounded in combat. Tirns out he was tagged by shrapnel when a deacon bomb evaded their massive security precautions and blasted Royal headquarters during a peasant revolt on New Maine. Sixteen security personnel were executed for malfeasance after the subsequent investigations.”
Sol nodded, tryin
g to keep from smiling.
She locked her hands behind her back, chin tilted up to spill a red fire cascade of hair down her back. “Fan’s going to be trouble. I can’t give him the cold shoulder since he represents a major power bloc I can’t afford to alienate. At the same time, he wants to seduce me as a prerequisite for domination.” She cocked her head, frowning. “You know, I’d be quite a conquest. He could completely redefine his sense of male self-identity.”
“And me? You think I’m trying to conquer you, too?”
The frown deepened. “I’m unsure of you. Perplexed at who you really are . . . and what you’ll do. Furthermore, you’ve consistently—and I must admit, dexterously—avoided answering questions. So we’ll try again: How does it make you feel to know I can control your ship if I get the desire?”
“I’ll have a better idea when you tell me what Arpeggio has to do with all this.”
She sighed as they walked into the observation blister, the myriads of stars sweeping into the majesty of infinity. “More expert evasion. Never answering honestly and to the point. No wonder I’m suspicious of you.”
“Very well, one straight answer in turn for another. You first. What’s the real purpose for this jump?”
She disentangled herself from his arm, walking over to stare out the transparency, arms crossed tightly across her breasts. “You know, you’re a most capable man.”
“You’re a most capable woman . . . and damned attractive to boot. There, the pleasantries are out of the way. Shall we get down to business?”
She turned, one long leg tracing a semicircle with the tips of her toes, as she studied the deck pensively. “All right. I’ll tell you everything I think is prudent at this stage of the game.
“You’re here because of my brother.”
Sol stopped short. “Your brother?”
“His name was Rodger.” She nodded, settling herself in behind the spectrometer. “It’s a long story, but to make it brief, we weren’t exactly raised in a normal family. You know my father’s history; he was a privateer, a mercenary. Can’t afford to keep a full-time military? Rent one when you need it ... or cut a deal. Keep the star lanes open and you get to keep all the pirate vessels you take to augment your resources. That sort of thing.
“The life of a privateer isn’t all adventure and romance. Security plays a large play in it. A warrior who leaves a family behind surrenders a liability that can be used against him. Rodger and I grew up in the fleet, traveling wherever the contracts took us.”
She smiled. “Perhaps there was too much of my father in Rodger. They never got along. You know, that rubbing of personalities—two dominants who had to butt heads all the time to see who could be the most stubborn. During the period we’d hired on with Sirius, it all came to a head.
“Physiologically, Rodger was five years older than I was—ten by the Arcturian standard calendar. He’d been given a ship of his own. Sort of a proving for him. He disobeyed a direct order during an operation because he thought he knew a better way. Fortunately, nothing came of the action, so no one got killed as a result. Nevertheless, it weakened the command structure. Destabilized the whole fleet. Father let him take the ship and any who’d space with him—and kicked him out on his own.”
She stopped, head lowered, a deep frown incising her forehead. “Santa del Cielo really began to boom about ten years ago. Any world or station skyrocketing in prosperity that way draws predators. We were hired to escort freighters and provide outlying Cielan colonies with protection from depredation. Rodger didn’t know we’d taken the contract. We didn’t know he’d been raiding Cielan tankers and fencing to the Arpeggians. He’d set himself up quite well, had a fleet of three Mark VII Star hulls with Sirian Polaris 4G reactors.
“You can imagine our surprise when we trapped him off Plataea Seros. Claude destroyed one of his ships and Vartan crippled a second. Father blasted his flagship out of space, and we picked up survivors to haul back to Santa del Cielo for execution. Guess who survived?”
“Must have been hard on your father.”
“Hard on all of us,” she agreed, eyebrows raising. “Poor Mother. She’d always covered for Rodger. Used to practically tear her in two to stand between the man she loved and the son she’d borne. Anyhow, I’m losing the thread. Suffice it to say, Father couldn’t stand the thought of turning his son over to be executed. We covered, said he’d ‘died under interrogation.’ The Cielans, of course, tried and executed the lot of them for piracy and the matter was closed. Our people never said a word.“
“We must be getting close to Arpeggio from the time line.”
She nodded. “After the Cielan contract, the Confederacy had gone quiet. The Patrol had integrated a lot of Brotherhood technology into their vessels and had begun to control piracy. The Pathos thing exploded with Dart’s rescue and the Enesco affair. People everywhere were so appalled by the slavery on Pathos the hue and cry was raised to destroy the pirates once and for all. For the time being, doing so occupied governments and merchants. The number of contracts dried up and we were left high and dry. Rodger’s connections took us to Arpeggio.
“Oh, they welcomed us with open arms. Because of the piracy crackdown, Arpeggio had virtually no political support within the Confederacy. The Great Houses knew my father’s reputation, of course. Evidently they thought this would be a way to bring him into the fold. His fleet, having one of the best records in space, would be a great asset. Rumors spread about the possibility of a Great House of our own. Rodger devoured it all, fore to aft. Before we knew it, he was a special friend of Admiral Sabot Sellers—”
“The Hound. ” Sol stiffened. “I know him.”
“From the disgust in your voice, I’d say you do.”
“I can imagine how he used your—”
“No, you can’t.” Revulsion caused her to shiver. “Imagination pales. Father didn’t like Sellers. Too much of the egotistical commander in him, I guess. It’s something about getting two brilliant warriors together, the drive to compete, to win, keeps them wary. Like righting dogs walking stiff-legged, always wondering who’s the best. Rodger, on the other hand, used that against Father, manipulating Mother, turning her against him. Rodger got her to planet, talking her into taking up a splendid house provided by Sellers. Rodger had come home to stay. Further, he’d provided a place for Mother . . . and me if I wanted it.”
“And Archon?”
She filled her lungs, staring wistfully out at the stars. “Oh, he refused. Stayed on Dancer trying to keep the crew loyal to him despite Sellers’ manipulations. For a while I wavered myself. Let myself get involved in Rodger’s plans and schemes. Must have almost broken Father’s heart. Then, after Sellers . . . Well, I learned just what a. . .”
She closed her eyes, shaking her head violently. “Excuse me. After a rude awakening, I managed to get up to Dancer and then took command of Bad Boy. In the meantime, Sirius had begun to buckle under Confederate pressure to cut their ties to piracy. Sellers spaced Hunter and most of the House ships to ... well, strengthen Sirian resolve. That’s when Alhar learned Sword had been mapping the Van Mappe gas clouds.”
“That’s when they initiated the plague distress call?”
She nodded. “That’s right. Four weeks later, you came dropping down. Alhar was beaming the whole thing to you on directional. We didn’t have the slightest idea what was happening since we only heard your side of the transmissions. All the talk about medicines didn’t make much sense, but Alhar had us standing on alert.
“Alhar gave us our orders. Told us where to position our ships. We knew it was a combat formation, but then, privateers are expected to do that sort of thing. We knew it was a trap. One of the Houses—Thylassa, I think— tried to block Alhar, wanting to wait for Sellers and the rest of the fleet. Alhar had to move. He knew if he waited, you’d find no plague despite his carefully produced broadcasts.
“We got the order to take your ship. After all, Garth had taken Enesco. Couldn’t Arpeggio at l
east equal that feat?”
Sol closed his eyes, remembering. Fearing a trap—but his worry somewhat allayed by the presence of so many non-Arpeggian vessels—he’d established parking orbit as directed, most of his people busy crating what few medical supplies they had aboard for down-shipment. Had the Arpeggian fleet been waiting, he’d have taken other measures. Alhar’s story had been that Sellers and the Houses had sent their ships for relief supplies.
“Father refused.”
“What?” Sol leaned forward, bracing himself on locked arms.
“He refused.” She looked up, expression pinched. “Look, we’d never dodged a fight. Sure, my father might have been a privateer, but he’d always served political causes. Can you see the difference? Alhar asked him to take a peaceful ship! Your Sword had come in according to the rules. Damn it, we weren’t pirates!”
“Then why did you shoot?”
“Because Alhar took my mother hostage. Understand, Captain? He gave us an ultimatum. What the hell else could we do? Watch her die? Rodger acted immediately, moving before orders to box you. That first shot was his. Father was committed then, and I scrambled to cut off your retreat. We thought even then that we had you. Father was already planning on keeping Sword as a bargaining chip. Until Sellers brought the bulk of the fleet back, we were the power. Alhar might have had Mother-but we’d have Sword and your crew. A bargain could have been struck.
“Only you fought back . . . against the odds and—”
“Damn right! What the hell else—”
“Surrender! We might have—”
“To Arpeggians? What the hell do you mean? Surrender to that bunch of—”
“Yes, damn it! And maybe we could have come to terms that would have—”
“Not in the half-life of hydrogen, you wouldn’t. Not with my Sword! Damn your schemes and—”
“Shut up! We’re yelling at each other!”
Sol stopped in mid shout. “I ... Yes, I suppose we are. Maybe Sword ... all my people . . . Too close. Even now.” Weary, he turned away, staring hollow-eyed at the stars, their light blueing with Boaz’s velocity.
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