Lieutenant Commander Phist, our S-4 Logistics officer, now had the authority to requisition the best equipment, thanks to this pressing mission, and he knew exactly what that was. Logistics can be the lifeblood of a mission, and now it showed.
As a commander I was entitled to a cruiser, but there was considerable leeway in the definition of that designation. The Copperhead was a reconditioned ship, originally commissioned in the year 2600—by a nice coincidence, the year I was born—and renovated in 2625. There was a general prejudice against reconditioned ships, as though they were damaged goods, but that was foolish. The fact was that an old ship was a proven ship, and renovation in no way damaged its reliability or performance. Phist assured me of this, and I soon saw that he was speaking from extremely solid information. The Copperhead had been assigned to me, a Hispanic officer, because as an old ship she was considered to be inferior, but she was in fact an excellent fighting vessel. We had then had to go through the inconvenience of the renovation, which had forced our unit to occupy other ships on a temporary basis, no fun; that was part of the covert harassment the Navy dealt to our ilk.
Under Phist's supervision, she became a better ship. She was rated at 3.2 gee acceleration for twenty-four hours, which was plenty of power for a ship of her class, but Phist requisitioned seemingly minor modifications that increased her actual performance to 3.7 gee. That's more significant than it might seem; it meant she could outrun most other cruisers, and in a battle situation that was important. She mounted nine eight-inch guns and twelve five-inch laser cannon, as was standard, but it turned out there was a difference in guns, too. Phist got them replaced by more accurate, higher-muzzle-velocity guns; these required better-trained crews, but we were quite ready to provide them. Now we could outshoot most cruisers, too. I was quick enough to appreciate the advantage; I had not before realized that it was possible to change the specs on things like acceleration and big guns. I was learning. Phist might well have saved the ship and all our lives from some future destruction, and he had done it through only quiet paperwork.
We also acquired three escort ships, each only half our length and one-sixth our mass of 17,000 tons, and two destroyers, smaller yet but faster. Spirit finagled that, finding authorization in an obscure naval directive about battle theaters. We were going out to do battle with pirates, and the Juclip was our theater, so we qualified. Phist made certain they were good vessels—he knew more about military specifications than I had dreamed there was to be known—and he conspired with Emerald to get sophisticated torpedoes for the destroyers. Mondy's information was that most of the pirates had devices to foil the guidance systems of standard Navy torpedoes; these were proof against that. And, of course, we had half a dozen tugs.
I should mention the song the group gave Lieutenant Commander Phist, as it certainly fitted him: "Old King Cole." In the song, King Cole calls for all manner of personnel, who have all manner of equipment, but generally settle for beer. It was funny, but "King Cole" Phist was also able to requisition the finest quality beer for the "fighting infantry."
As fleets went, what we had was minor, but it was enough to do the job. If I failed, I would be through, perhaps dead, for those pirates were no gentle creatures. But if I succeeded, I would rate another promotion—and I needed that, for this time it would be to Captain, O6, and mean command of a larger force, with attendant upgrading of many of my personnel. I wanted that power to pursue my personal mission properly: extirpation of all piracy in the Solar System.
We moved out. We had been drilling for this for some time, with our pugil stick and space-raider training; we were ready. We knew there was danger and that there would be bloodshed; this would be our blooding as a true fighting unit.
Mondy had done his homework, cooperating with Repro; he had the current information on the location of every private vessel known to the Jupiter Navy. That was only a fraction of the total, of course, but a large fraction. Many of the others would be part-time pirates, or pirates of opportunity: legitimate vessels preying on what they could get away with, whatever happened to be in their paths. My older sister Faith had been taken by such a ship, a merchanter whose men were simply on the prowl for sex. Merchant ships don't handle sex the way the Navy does, forthrightly, and so they have problems with it. The refugee-bubbles were considered fair game for sex by any males in the vicinity.
Faith—I had not thought about her much. Spirit was really my closest sibling, the one I cared about. Faith, my senior by three years, had always been somewhat aloof, too mature and too pretty, and her humiliation too savage. It was as if she had died, in my mind; psychologically I could no more bring her back than I could my parents. I believed she was alive but did not act on it. I can't justify this attitude, for surely I loved my big sister; I merely say that is the way it was. I hoped she was well, somewhere out of space; perhaps she had managed to marry a merchant captain and settle on Jupiter before her beauty faded.
Our strategy was simple: We plotted a route to intercept the nearest pirate vessel on our chart, and proceeded at gee. We could accelerate at more than triple that, of course, but sustained multiple-gee is uncomfortable and wasteful of CT fuel; we saved that for direct pursuit when the time came.
Perhaps I should qualify that. Theoretically it is just as efficient to reach a given velocity at two-gee acceleration as at one gee, if the drive is geared for it. There is, after all, no significant friction in space. At the velocities normally used for travel between moons or planets, loss of efficiency owing to relativistic factors is too small to be noted. So we could accelerate for half a day at two gee, instead of for one day at one gee, and use the same fuel. But what would be the point? We would not arrive soon enough to justify the awful burden of sustained double weight, since acceleration is only part of the trip, with inertial drifting being the major part. Only if it was urgent to travel faster would we use more than one gee. If we sustained high-gee to cut our total travel time, that would use more fuel, which we might need later.
Actually, distances within the Juclip are such that a few hours of gee suffice for any travel needed, and our plotted route to the nearest pirate ships cut that down in some cases to mere minutes. We had no problem there. Accordingly I am skipping most reference to periods of acceleration and free-fall. We spun ship while coasting, so we had gee at hull diameter most of the time, keeping our men in shape. We also continued exercises and drills; it was our intent to capture ships whenever feasible, not depending on the pirates' choice of surrender or flight. We did not want to depend on the pirates for anything.
We also worked hard to enhance the spirit of unity. Every day, sometimes every shift, we sang our songs, and when we were singing there were no ranks, either enlisted or officer; we were all worthwhile people in our own rights. Elsewhere in the Navy this singing was ridiculed, but now there were more petitions to transfer in than we could accommodate, and very few transferred out. I can't say the songs were responsible, but I am sure they helped. We had the feeling of togetherness, of family.
It had taken some time for the group to complete the selection of songs, but in most cases they were apt, and a person could indeed be judged by his song. Emerald, the strategist, had "The Rising of the Moon," a ballad of organization and battle; Mondy, locked in his prison of the soul, had "Peat Bog Soldiers," deriving from inmates of a concentration camp in an ancient war; Sergeant Smith had "Stout Hearted Men," since he was deeply involved in the often-difficult training exercises. My secretary, Sergeant Moreno, whom I always think of as Juana, had "Early One Morning," a song of a maiden mourning the lover who has deserted her; I have never been quite certain I comprehend the relevance. Perhaps I simply do not wish to. And my sister Spirit—hers was "I Know Where I'm Going," whose key line seems to be "I know who I love, but the dear knows who I'll marry." That implies that she did not marry the one she would have liked to, but I know that she never had an interest in any man other than Commander Phist, her husband. Yet the group agreed that this song
fitted her, and she agreed. It continues to perplex me.
We zeroed in on our first target: the Caprine Isle. The pirate ships generally retained their prepirate designations, since theoretically they were law-abiding traders; this led to anomalous nomenclature. This one was notorious for gunrunning to guerrilla groups on the Hispanic moons. The pirates had no special sympathy for revolution; they merely went for money, and it seemed weapons brought excellent money. Caprine Isle was also a prime suspect in the abduction case that had triggered this mission. We expected her to be tough, to try to fight or flee, and we expected to make an example of her. In fact, we were primed for it; I intended to give the destruct order personally. Many people are naturally squeamish about killing, and that is a thing I understand and respect, but when it came to pirates I was ready to do it. The image of my father, cut down treacherously by a pirate sword, was before me; the red of his brutally spilled blood threatened to blot out all else, as I viewed the pirate vessel on the screen. Vengeance was to be mine, and I reveled in it.
We matched velocities and course with the Caprine Isle, and set our destroyers before and after her, torpedoes ready. She could not escape; in fact, she made no attempt to flee. Perhaps she assumed this was a routine challenge, a harmless posturing to demonstrate that the Jupiter Navy still controlled this place of space. We would quickly disabuse her of that!
We radioed her, and I sent a beam to HQ at Leda, putting the complete proceedings on irretrievable record. The Navy wanted to show that it was taking firm action; I would oblige. Repro, as Public Relations officer, had suggested this aspect. Mondy endorsed it for a different reason: He wanted there to be no possible recrimination against us when we did what we expected to do, should public reaction be adverse. We were not playing with rubber knives this time.
Our operator made contact with hers, establishing the identities of both ships. Then I spoke directly to the Caprine's captain, who was indeed a goatlike man, bearded and shaggy, named Billy. Billy the Kid. Pirates tended to use professional pseudonyms, for obvious reason, and seemed to prefer the names of animals. There was a certain crude art to this, showing some humor, but probably the roots were deeper. Migrant laborers had identifying songs; probably the pirates needed similar marks of distinction in an undistinguished profession.
"Billy, we are cleaning up the Juclip," I announced. "You have one hour to consult your crew and surrender your ship and personnel to us for impoundment and trial according to Jupiter law."
"Yeah, spic?" he demanded in the screen. "What if I don't?"
"Then we shall give you final warning and blast you out of space." I hit the sound broadcast cutoff so that the cheer that rose from my eavesdropping men was not transmitted. They got an almost sexual thrill from speaking this way directly to a real, live pirate. It was the feel of vengeance. We wanted to blast that ship! But we didn't want to appear bloodthirsty.
Billy considered. He knew we had the firepower to do it. No doubt he now regretted addressing me by epithet. "What if I do?"
"My men will board you, disarm the ship, confine your personnel, and pilot the Caprine Isle to the Navy base at Leda where you will be interned and put on trial for piracy."
"But that's death!"
"For those found guilty in court," I agreed. "You will, of course, be adequately represented by counsel. For those who demonstrate extenuating circumstance there will be variable terms at hard labor."
He laughed. "You're crazy, spic! You ain't taking us in!"
I believe I speak dispassionately: He had sealed his fate with those words. It is not that I am intolerant of the colloquialisms; Emerald and I had in the time of our marriage exchanged words like spic and nig as ironic endearments. It was that this pirate evinced open contempt for us and had announced his intention not to cooperate with the law. Now the status of the Jupiter Navy was in question. Discrimination might be covertly tolerated in the Service; no non-Saxon ever made admiral. But this was public insult to a ranking Naval officer, and defiance of a legitimate Naval thrust. Jupiter was watching, literally, via my re-broadcast. Billy had talked himself and his ship into deep trouble.
"I am obliged to advise you," I said formally, "that if you have not professed surrender under the terms defined, by the expiration of this hour's grace period, and do not do so upon my re-challenge, I shall order my torpedoes launched. I strongly recommend that you reconsider. Surrender, and you will be treated fairly, now and at your trial."
"Stuff it up your drive-jet, immigrant!" he snapped. He went on to describe my supposed racial and cultural status in unkind detail, concluding with some rather imaginative sexual preferences involving mutilated animals. I listened impassively, and we rebroadcast it all. At last he shut off transmission, and we relaxed. His foul mouth had damned him in Jupiter's eyes. Even the Bleeding Heart faction would not rise to this one's defense.
Emerald glanced up at me from her seat before her own vision screen. Her eyes virtually glowed with the joy of battle. "I think we have our example, sir." She had planned for this: to make a public example of the first pirate, so that the remaining pirates would heed. She was probably correct; it was a language pirates should understand. But it was more than that. For her it was the beginning of her vindication as a strategist. She had the training, aptitude, and motivation to be the best, and now she was at last implementing her ambition. For me it was the beginning of the execution of a vow. For others—
We waited out the hour, pacing the pirate, the two destroyers keeping the Caprine Isle targeted. We were in no danger; Mondy had researched the armament of all the local pirate ships and assured us they had no cannon capable of penetrating our guard. We were a military vessel; they were civilian. This is somewhat like the distinction between a fourteen-year-old girl and a hardened gladiator in full battle dress. Only through avoidance or trickery could she hope to prevail, and it was an anemic hope. In a David and Goliath situation; the smart money is generally on Goliath.
Of course it would be trickery. Mondy had even advised me what type it would be. Emerald had planned our strategy accordingly.
We heard singing elsewhere in the ship. This was theoretically bad form in a battle alert, but song was part of us.
The hour expired. I signaled the Caprine Isle again, on the common channel, and resumed our live broadcast to Leda. "The moment of decision is at hand," I said, enunciating clearly. "We shall have your surrender within one minute, or we shall launch our torpedoes."
Billy came on. He looked nervous. "We surrender," he said. "Hold your fire!"
I glanced at Mondy, then at Emerald. Both nodded, concurring with my own diagnosis. The pirate was lying.
"Very well," I said. "We are sending a tug to pick up your officers. When they are in custody, we shall provide replacement officers to guide your ship to our base. Instruct your crew accordingly, and be ready to board the tug in five minutes."
"Yeah, sure," Billy said ungraciously.
The tug accelerated toward the Caprine Isle. Tugs were small, squat ships with enormous propulsion, capable of moving far larger vessels. They were useful for minor chores like this. This particular tug was special, however; it went unmanned, controlled by a pilot aboard the Copperhead. It also contained some rather special equipment. My staff had planned for this moment carefully.
The tug docked at the Caprine Isle. I gave them five minutes, then spoke again on the radio. "Have your officers boarded?" I inquired.
A pirate technician answered. "Yes, sir. They're all there, and the tug's sealed. You can call it in."
"I must advise you of one other thing," I said. "Aboard that tug is a general-purpose detonator. Its range is limited to the interior of the tug, but it is controlled from this ship. The detonator field is harmless to living personnel, but it will set off any explosive aboard. Have you loaded any explosives aboard the tug?"
"No, sir, of course not," the technician said. "Just our officers."
"Then you will not object if we activate the detonator."
The technician swallowed but tried to bluff through. "It's okay, sir."
"You are sure?"
"Yes, sir."
I turned to our remote-control technician. "Detonate."
He touched the button.
The pirate ship exploded. It flew apart, its air puffing out through the suddenly gaping hole in its side. Pieces of it radiated out into space to disappear in the distance. Some passed close to the Copperhead shrapnel, but our magnetic shield deflected them.
We all watched silently. Mondy had predicted they would plant a powerful bomb on the tug, in an attempt to get it adjacent to our cruiser and blow a hole in our hull. He even knew what type of bomb. We had been ready, and had turned the pirates' treachery against them. We had dealt honestly with them, and had even advised them of the detonator; had they honored their agreement to surrender, they would not have been hurt. It was all on holo-tape, transmitted live to Leda for all to see. I was sure the major news programs of Jupiter would carry suitable excerpts. We had made our demonstration.
But even so, my mouth tasted of something like ashes. There had been, according to our information, seventy-two people aboard that ship. Now all of them were dead. The responsibility was mine.
"Captain off the bridge." I heard the announcement and realized that I had indeed left the bridge. I did not feel well, but it was not a malaise of the body. I retreated to my cabin and fell into my hammock and closed my eyes, but the bursting ship remained in my mind's eye. Seventy-two living people—and I had killed them. I had thought I was prepared for this, but the reality showed me that I had deceived myself. What I had done as a refugee I had done in desperation and paid a hideous price; this time I had done it deliberately, with no threat to myself. Now I was truly a mass murderer!
I became aware of a presence. A hand was on my shoulder. I knew immediately the touch of my sister Spirit. I reached up and caught her four-fingered hand in mine, finding special solace in it. I brought it to my face and kissed it and found it wet—wet from my tears.
Anthony, Piers - Tyrant 2 - Mercenary Page 21
