The Thirteenth Man

by J. L. Doty

  The Headsman was an ideal pirate ship. Of obvious Syndonese make, no one would ever associate her with Charlie. Her victims would probably assume that her Syndonese crew had, at some time in the past, mutinied against her officers—­Syndonese senior officers were reputed to be brutal disciplinarians—­then taken command of the ship and turned pirate. And while piracy was rare in the Realm, it was rumored to be an ever-­present problem in the Republic. In fact, Drakwin told Charlie that in the Republic it was also rare, but rumored to be a problem in the Realm. Such rumors would make a real act of piracy all the more believable, and would only work in their favor.

  Pelletier still had some sources among Theode’s servants. And Theode and Gaida were cut from that caste of arrogance where servants were truly invisible until needed. Apparently, Theode didn’t trust many of the crews on his own ships, fearing they still held some loyalty to Cesare’s memory, and to his rightful heir. And with only a few captains and crews that he did trust, he couldn’t afford to divert one of them for the entire run to Kobiyan. So he’d decided to transport Arthur first to Cathan aboard a de Maris light cruiser, then from there to Dumark by commercial passage aboard the liner Paradise, with the last leg to Kobiyan on a chartered merchantman. Arthur would travel drugged and incognito, his itinerary a highly kept secret, and always accompanied by a squad of ten heavily armed mercenaries handpicked by Theode and Gaida.

  Charlie scrambled the entire shadow fleet, sent Pelletier, in command of The Thirteenth Man, back to the vicinity of Traxis to keep his intelligence sources active, while the rest of them headed for Cathan and Dumark.

  Winston didn’t want Charlie to join the fake pirate crew on The Headsman. He thought Charlie should establish an alibi by making himself publicly visible elsewhere, but Charlie was adamant. “It’s Arthur, so I’m going,” he said, “and I won’t listen to any arguments to the contrary.”

  Roacka came to his defense. “They’ll see The Headsman is of Syndonese make, because we’ll make sure they do. And they all think Charlie doesn’t have access to that kind of firepower. So don’t get your panties in a twist.”

  Charlie carefully hid his smile at Winston’s reaction to that comment.

  Had they been facing a fully crewed man-­of-­war, there would have been nothing they could do. With Charlie’s five ships they might defeat a cruiser, but only after a pitched battle, and then all that would be left of the cruiser would be a cloud of radioactive vapor. But a commercial liner like Paradise was a different matter. Furthermore, Charlie had the twin advantages of multiple ships and that no one knew of the existence of hunter-­killers and their capabilities.

  Using the hunter-­killer tactics they’d developed, Turmoil, with Roger in command, had picked up Paradise as she transited out of Cathan nearspace, and was following close on her stern. Chaos, with Seth in command, lay about ten light-­years out from Dumark, with The Headsman stationary five light-­years farther along Paradise’s course. Their plan was that Chaos, sitting stationary in deep space, could accurately detect the transition wakes of Paradise and Turmoil as they passed by, then uplink navigational data to Turmoil and The Headsman. Roger would then correct his course to be right on Paradise’s tail, and The Headsman would move to intercept Paradise as she approached the outer reaches of the Dumark system.

  “Got ’em,” Darmczek said, breaking the tension on The Headsman’s bridge. “Chaos reports they’ve picked up the transition wakes and are in contact with Turmoil. And we’ve got Paradise’s vector now.”

  Charlie felt a general sense of relief wash through everyone on the bridge. His immediate reaction was to start issuing orders, but The Headsman was Darmczek’s command, so Charlie bit his tongue and sat without comment. Darmczek knew what he had to do, and they had about ten hours in which to do it.

  The tension on the bridge declined further as Darmczek barked out orders. They were a quarter of a light-­year to one side of Paradise’s course. They spent three hours driving hard to build sufficient sublight velocity, then up-­transited, pushed their transition drive to the limit for a half hour, down-­transited and spent another three hours killing their sublight velocity.

  “Two light-­years and closing, sir,” the navigator barked. “We’ve got a little over an hour and a half.”

  Darmczek lined them up on a coarse parallel to Paradise’s and they started building up sublight vector. If they succeeded in knocking Paradise out of transition, she’d hold on to a lot of sublight velocity, so they needed to build up as much as they could to match her speed when the time came.

  “Point-­one light-­year and closing, sir. We’re at a velocity of point-­nine lights.”

  Darmczek pushed The Headsman’s sublight drive to the limit. They were a tenth of a light-­year in front of Paradise, both heading inward toward Dumark, but with the liner in transition she was overtaking them rapidly.

  “Com, signal Turmoil that we made it on point. They can stand down.”

  Turmoil’s primary purpose had been to help them be sure they were targeting Paradise, and not some other wake in the busy Cathan-­Dumark shipping lane. As a secondary purpose, Turmoil was there as backup should they be unable to position The Headsman properly in front of Paradise.

  “Fire control,” Darmczek ordered. “Arm a ten-­kilotonne warhead, target for detonation five kilometers in front of their bow. That should disrupt their transition field nicely. And tell all weapons stations to stand by.”

  “Sir, she’s closing rapidly.” Darmczek had positioned them so that Paradise would pass about one hundred thousand kilometers to one side of their own line.

  “Stand by with that warhead. You’ve got your targeting solution. Follow it.”

  The Headsman’s hull thrummed with the sound of a transition launch. “Missile away, sir.”

  The missile only took a fraction of a second to cross the intervening space, and all data from exterior sensors froze momentarily as the incandescent glare of the detonation overloaded them. The tension grew for several seconds as they waited to learn the fate of the liner. “We got her, sir. She’s in sublight.”

  As Charlie’s screens came back to life he could see that for himself. The data showed Paradise coasting in space, her automated distress systems broadcasting a call for help to Dumark. Turmoil had down-­transited nearby and was running silent; no sense in letting anyone know of the existence of such ships.

  “All forward main batteries,” Darmczek barked. “One shot, across her bow, fire.” The hull thrummed again to the beat of the transition batteries.

  Darmczek continued snapping out orders. “Helm, match their vector. Com, open a channel to Paradise and get Drakwin on it.”

  Roacka had outdone himself, staging the whole pirate thing like a prep-­school play. Since they were supposedly Syndonese outlaws, Drakwin, who stood almost two meters tall and spoke with a thick Syndonese accent, would be the infamous pirate Raul the Damned. “Where the hell did you come up with that?” Charlie asked Roacka.

  “Just my vivid imagination, lad. I think I should have been a vid writer. Bet I could have made a fortune.”

  “This is Raul the Damned,” Drakwin crowed over the com, sitting at a station near Charlie and hamming it up badly. “Heave to and prepare to be boarded. If you try to run we’ll fire on you, and no shot across the bow next time. Lives will be lost, possibly everyone on your ship. Heave to as ordered, and only money will be lost.”

  They cut the com link and waited for a reply.

  “Forward main batteries,” Darmczek barked. “Target on their drive and stand by in case they try to run.”

  Charlie leaned toward Drakwin and said, “Heave to and prepare to be boarded? You’ve got to be kidding.”

  Drakwin grinned like a schoolboy. “Saw it in a costume drama once, Your Grace. Always wanted to say it myself.”

  Paradise had popped out of transition at point-­eight lights and o
ne hundred thousand kilometers to one side of their line. The Headsman was still decelerating from point-­nine lights, which meant they were pulling away from her rapidly, though they were breaking hard to close the distance. They waited several minutes, then Drakwin repeated his message, and this time they got a reply almost immediately.

  Someone from Paradise, speaking in carefully articulated syllables, said, “Please identify yourself again.” They broadcast audio only, no video.

  Drakwin snarled, “I am Raul the Damned of the Mexak League. Prepare to be boarded.”

  The voice that came out of the com said, “A Syndonese pirate! You gotta be kidding.”

  “I’m not just any Syndonese pirate,” Drakwin said. “I’m Raul the Damned. And I answer to no man but the devil and the Mexak League.”

  Shit, Charlie thought. We’ve created a monster. It had been his idea that Raul should be part of an association of pirates, which they decided to call the Mexak League.

  “What do you want?” the fellow demanded, his voice cracking with tension.

  The fellow sounded nervous and tense, but not afraid. A crewman on a ship being attacked by bloodthirsty pirates should be just plain scared, and his lack of fear raised Charlie’s suspicions.

  Drakwin demanded, “I ask the questions here. Identify yourself.”

  “I’m Captain Chambers, CO, Paradise, Dumark registry.”

  “Well, Captain Chambers, as I said before, heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

  “You can’t do this. We’re law-­abiding ­people here.”

  Charlie switched his com feed to The Headsman’s command channel. “Darmczek, he’s stalling, probably got his crew rushing to prepare an up-­transit. Stand by to put another shot across his bow.”

  “Aye, Your Grace.”

  Charlie leaned over to Drakwin and whispered the same message in his ear.

  Drakwin spoke over the com link. “Chambers, I’m beginning to think you’re not hearing what I say.”

  Charlie had to crane his neck to see Darmczek amidst the instrument clusters and duty stations in the cramped confines of The Headsman’s bridge. Charlie nodded, and a second later heard the thrum of her main transition batteries as they fired another shot across Paradise’s bow.

  “Okay, okay,” Chambers shouted. “Okay. What are you going to do with us?”

  “That’s better,” Drakwin said. “We’re going to board you. We’re interested in valuables, not ­people. If there’s any resistance, you’ll pay a heavy price in lives.”

  The Headsman had two small gunboats in a hangar bay below decks. Charlie and Drakwin joined Roacka there along with a selected group of spacers who knew how to fight in close quarters. Roacka had chosen to dress Drakwin and a few of his lieutenants in something similar to trampsie attire, loud, flamboyant, and colorful. “Can you swagger?” Roacka asked the Syndonese.

  Drakwin rolled his eyes. “I’m Syndonese. What do you think?”

  For the rest of them they’d dug up shipboard fatigues in as many different colors as possible, spotted them up with a splash of machine oil here and there, tore a few small holes in them, and sewed patches elsewhere. And for the finishing touch, none of them had shaved for the past three or four days. They made for a rather scruffy looking bunch.

  Charlie would play the role of one of Drakwin’s lieutenants, and since he might be recognized, he, like most of the boarding party, wore light combat armor, with a helmet and face shield that would hide all but mouth and chin. And as an intimidation tactic, just to ensure that no one on Paradise decided to play the hero, Charlie added to the boarding party four marines in heavy, powered combat armor, each carrying large-­caliber grav rifles.

  It took Darmczek two hours to match Paradise’s vector and close the distance between them to a few kilometers. They managed to cram the forty heavily armed members of the boarding party into the two boats without serious crowding.

  Once on board Paradise they herded all passengers and crew into the main dining salon. Drakwin ordered Chambers to give Charlie a copy of the passenger manifest. He strutted back and forth in front of the crowd while the rest of the boarding party searched them carefully, taking jewelry and any kind of valuables they found; they had to keep up appearances.

  The mercenaries guarding Arthur were Charlie’s main concern, but as with all mercenaries, their primary loyalty lay with themselves, and when it became clear no one would be harmed as long as no one resisted, they surrendered their weapons peacefully. As they searched each passenger Charlie checked them off the passenger manifest, and, of course, when they were done one name remained.

  Charlie and Drakwin played out a little drama they’d rehearsed. Charlie stuck the passenger manifest in front of Drakwin’s nose. Charlie spoke Syndonese; Drakwin had carefully tutored him to ensure his accent was accurate.

  “Captain,” he said, pointing to the one remaining name on the manifest. “This one ain’t here.”

  Drakwin looked at the list, narrowed his eyes dramatically, and turned to Chambers. “Where is this Philip Smithson? He isn’t here with the rest of the passengers.”

  Chambers sputtered. “He’s . . . in his cabin.”

  “And why is he not here? I told you all passengers and crew.”

  “He’s ill, and too weak to stand on his own.”

  Drakwin pointed at Charlie. “Take my man here to his cabin.”

  Charlie grabbed two of the armed spacers from The Headsman to accompany them, and followed Chambers, who led them to Philip Smithson. Chambers clearly had no idea that Smithson was actually Arthur.

  Arthur wasn’t ill, just drugged up so heavily he couldn’t stand, couldn’t even focus on anything, with a stream of drool running down his chin. To complete their little charade, Charlie turned to Chambers and tried to imitate a thick Syndonese accent. “This one, he looks familiar. Did I see him in the vids?”

  Charlie keyed his helmet com and spoke for Chambers’s benefit. “Captain, we got some sort of celebrity here. Not sure who, but somebody important, maybe worth money.”

  Drakwin came to Arthur’s cabin, took one look at Arthur, and like Charlie, spoke for Chambers’s benefit. “I know him, some sort of duke’s kid. We’re taking him with us.”

  “No,” Chambers said, lunging at Drakwin and grabbing at his arm. “You can’t.”

  One of the spacers put the muzzle of his handgun against the side of Chambers’s head. “Yes,” Charlie said, “we can. We can do it with you dead, or we can do it with you alive.”

  Chambers’s shoulders slumped; he let go of Drakwin’s arm and stepped away. The spacer didn’t lower his gun. Drakwin took Chambers back to his crew.

  With Arthur supported between the two spacers they got him aboard one of the gunboats. Charlie waited there with Arthur while Drakwin and the rest finished out the pretense of thieving pirates. He hated to do it, but they did need to keep up appearances.

  Besides, he could use the money.

  CHAPTER 20

  COCONSPIRATORS

  Charlie didn’t have a physician on staff yet, but he did have several experienced medics among his combat troops, a few of which were capable of doing almost as much as any physician, including some delicate surgeries. He asked one of them to give Arthur a thorough exam.

  “He’s just stoned,” the medic said, “though I’ll add that he was close to an overdose. A little more and he might have died. He’s also suffering from mild malnutrition, though not as bad as what we went through in the prison camps. I’m going to guess the malnutrition is just a side effect of loading him up so heavily on sedatives he doesn’t really eat. It’ll take a ­couple days to sweat the tranqs out of his system. Then we make sure he eats well and he’ll be back to normal.”

  Though Arthur was oblivious to any sound, Charlie quietly promised him he’d give Theode some payback for this.

  As the medic
predicted, Arthur wallowed in the drug-­induced haze for two more days, and even then it took another two before he had his wits fully about him again. Charlie found him in the officer’s mess in The Headsman devouring a meal. “Was Theode responsible for Cesare’s death?” Charlie asked as he sat down.

  Arthur shook his head sadly. “I have my suspicions, but I can’t prove anything. Cesare never fully recovered from the injuries he took in the Almsburg Palace, though he should have. But he wasn’t dying, just seemed to have aged a lot, became a bit frailer, just slowly withered away. And then one morning he didn’t get up.”

  “Gaida?” Charlie asked.

  “Ya, that’s what I’m thinking.” Arthur stared blankly at the steam rising from a bowl of soup in front of him. “I missed it, Charlie, didn’t see it coming. And then the morning father died, Farlight filled with mercenaries taking orders from Gaida, and she accused father’s physician, Stallas, of murdering him at my orders. I think Gaida was fucking Stallas.”

  “Do you remember anything else?”

  Again Arthur shook his head. “From then on I was kept in a drugged-­out haze.”

  Charlie felt a knot of cold anger form in his gut. “Let’s take this before the rest of the Ten.”

  Arthur grimaced and pushed the soup away. “Theode was an acknowledged and proper son of Cesare, legitimately in line to inherit the ducal seat. So the rest of the Ten consider this a squabble internal to House de Maris. By custom, they dared not intervene. That would set a precedent for others to intervene in their own internal issues.”

  Charlie stood and shouted, “Damn it!” He slammed his fist down on the table. “Then why don’t I just go strangle Twerp’s scrawny little neck.”

  “Because you’re no longer of House de Maris. You are House de Lunis, and that would be outside intervention, which would force the other ducal houses to support Theode.”

  “Fuck that bitch,” Charlie shouted and stormed across the room. He wanted to hit something, but then he had a sudden thought that helped a little. “But if you had the wherewithal to take the ducal seat back . . .”