Persephone

by Blaze Ward

  “Sir, is this a good idea?” Leomiti’s voice joined them like a ghost. “Speaking as senior non-comm present.”

  And he was. Technically, Persephone’s Boatswain, at least until they got a bigger crew and everybody wasn’t wearing three hats.

  “No,” Granville agreed. “It is a terrible idea, but it’s the best I’ve got right now, because we need to put the fear of God into those people immediately, and not in three hours when help arrives. Too much option for mischief.”

  “And if they capture you, sir?” the young man continued.

  “They have struck their colors, Sailor,” Granville growled. “If they resist at this point, Imperial regulations allow me to order the vessel annihilated without mercy. Try to kill their bridge, if you have to fire into the vessel. We’ll want the engines intact, because we can always use the hull as a troop transport later, even if we have to kill every man and woman aboard. Do I make myself clear?”

  Spier and Isiah gulped. Leomiti fell silent. Granville guessed that this was one of those places where Imperial Law differed from Republic, but they were flying an Imperial flag today. And he’d be fine killing everyone over there if push truly came to shove.

  This was Buran. They did indeed have it coming.

  “What about me, sir?” Spier asked in a tiny voice.

  “Take the other seat, next to Olshefski,” he ordered. “You’ll be accompanying me aboard the other vessel, so we’ll get personal weapons shortly. For now, just look fierce.”

  Six minutes had passed since the hospital ship called his bluff by surrendering.

  “PWMGT-6357181, this is RAN Persephone,” he opened the line to them again. “We will dock shortly and I will board your vessel to take command. I will remind you that you have surrendered on honorable terms. You will be treated well. If you resist, I have ordered my vessel to stand off and destroy you. Do you understand and accept these terms?”

  Blunt, and rather ugly.

  Audacity. Six people capturing a civilian vessel with a possible crew of over seven hundred, from the notes he had seen. Walking into the lion’s den.

  Piece of cake.

  “Understood, pirate ship Persephone,” a man’s voice came back. “The Eldest will be informed of your behavior and respond accordingly.”

  Granville highly doubted that, but he wasn’t going to say anything out loud. That would be too much like poking a sleeping bear at this point, and he wanted to live through this.

  And his hands were only shaking in his mind.

  He would have sent Bardeen to open the arms locker, since she was the one not needed right now, but he was the only crew member coded for the lock. It made sense, with a small vessel, that only the Captain and Master of Marines could get to the guns, while on station.

  Still it was a pain in his ass, as he felt like he was juggling chainsaws today.

  Granville sat and began to plot his approach. The hospital ship wasn’t moving, or rather, they were at relative rest, so it was just a case of side-slipping over until he could line up the airlock just aft of the bridge and establish a seal to the other side.

  That was when things would get interesting.

  His two bridge crew members watched with fascination as he maneuvered in slowly. The Type-3 could still fire while they were docked, but it would be a long, slanted shot if he did. The sort of thing that would damage five or eight chambers to space by slicing the outer hull, like a razor blade opening an orange.

  Morgan’s gun, on the other hand, would be almost touching their hull when he docked. The splash from firing that close would probably foul the weapon, but the shot might emerge from the other side of the vessel, depending on the chambers and frames it crossed, if he fired it.

  Massive damage inflicted, either way. Hopefully, it would never come to that.

  The hull rang like a bell as the computer took over for the last ten meters and slid them together, two Lanternfish mating. Hopefully, he could escape his fate later.

  Soft seal indicated. Hard seal locked.

  Granville was up and racing aft to the arms locker, just this side of the airlock. Spier had followed close behind, which was good. He thumbprinted the lock and handed her a short pulse rifle, while he took a holster and attached it to his thigh, adding a stun pistol a moment later.

  She would be using lethal force, but if Able-Spacer Spier had to shoot anything, she would probably be fighting for her life. He could knock down opinionated shits and throw them in the drunk tank until they woke up.

  Into the airlock and into a softsuit. They didn’t need to attach all the plumbing, as they would only need them in an emergency. Same for not needing the heavier suits that came with some degree of armor.

  Police customs inspection, he kept reminding himself.

  You’re a cop, and they are merchants you only suspect of being smugglers. Keep them occupied until Stunt Dude and all his raiders got here.

  You can do that.

  Granville left the helmet attached to his hip, rather than wearing it. Spier mirrored him. Ten seconds to lock it, if it was an emergency. And there would be no need to do that, right?

  Deep breath.

  “Isiah, you have the deck until I return or one of the other commanders relieves you,” he said aloud. “Cycling the airlock now.”

  A green light from the bridge indicated that Persephone’s second captain had taken command, hopefully temporarily, and was hopefully ready for whatever the next flavor of craziness turned out to be.

  Inner side closed and locked. Keypad override so that not even an emergency code could open it. Police vessels were extra paranoid, as he had found.

  Granville positioned Spier to his left and back, like a proper escort or bodyguard, and pressed the button on the far side that would open the airlock and let him board the Buran vessel.

  Another deep breath as the hatch slowly ground its way out into a large chamber.

  Four people awaited him. Two were obviously the equivalent of naval marines, but looked like rent-a-cops, considering how fat one was and how slovenly the other appeared. They were there to lend weight to the situation. Neither was armed, which was good.

  The important man, on the right, was older, with gray hair buzzed too short, until he looked like a white peach. The wispy mustache trailing down his chin looked comical rather than intimidating. Otherwise, he had the typical Mongolian features of Buran, possibly with some Russian thrown in for the ancient Siberian look so many of the higher classes cultivated. He appeared frail, but that was just skinniness on his part, as he was standing starkly erect, with an impressive look of distinguished disapproval on his face.

  The man also wore classical court robes, rather than something useful on a cattle ranch. Four kimonos were visible, black on the outermost fading to a medium gray closest to his skin.

  His Obi was knotted with such precision that Granville figured he must starch it into place each morning after tying it.

  The woman next to him was younger. Perhaps forty from the way her long hair was pulled back and showed off salt and pepper stripes. She had green eyes, which was a rarity in a Mongolian face, and a polite smile. Not friendly, but not grinding her teeth in disdain, either. Unlike the man, she was dressed more comfortably, in what might be surgical scrubs, baggy but covering everything.

  “Centurion Veitengruber,” he announced simply in Mongolian, foregoing the usual ritual of sharing all names from clan to personal. “Commander of RAN Persephone. You are now prisoners under the Recognized Rules of Warfare.”

  The older man’s mouth went sour. The woman continued to observe with a relaxed face. Granville took a deliberate, measured stride across the line in the airlock door to stand before them.

  Onto their deck.

  The man was tall, but still shorter than Granville was, and the woman was almost petite as he got closer.

  “I will see you punished for this criminality,” the man snapped.

  It would have been a snarl, if there had been
any force behind the words, but he appeared to be speaking just to register his disdain for the entire circumstance.

  Granville fixed the man with a bored eye and turned to his assistant.

  “Seal the airlock, Spier,” he ordered in a bureaucratic voice.

  She nodded and pressed the obvious button. The door began to beep and then moved a little faster than a glacier. He nodded to her and turned back to the locals.

  “Who was formerly in command of this vessel?” Granville asked with his own angry disdain.

  Too many years on a cattle ranch came bubbling to the surface. He would not meet them with meekness, but anger. Polite, but unyielding.

  “I am the Director of this vessel,” the charming man looked down his nose, which was impressive, being shorter than either of the Imperials.

  “Were,” Granville corrected him. “There will be a new commander shortly, and you will follow his orders or be subject to Imperial justice.”

  He gave the man a hard, challenging look as he spoke, hoping the man would do something stupid. Granville had disliked him at first sight and didn’t see that changing as they got to know one another. There was always a brig somewhere, probably aboard CS-405, if the fool pressed his luck while standing on thin ice.

  To add insult to injury, Granville ignored the man now, concentrating his attention on the woman. He gave her a polite, formal, half-bow, as one might when encountering a stranger of unknown station. If one had spent seven years in The Holding learning such things.

  Even on a cattle ranch.

  The tiny gasp that escaped her mouth told him that he had done it correctly.

  “And you would be?” Granville’s tones became polite and almost endearing.

  Bad cop, good cop.

  “Au Aqal Corven Sam,” she replied with her own correct bow. “Chief Medical Officer aboard PWMGT-6357181.”

  Her voice had a lovely lilt, somewhere in the high alto range, and she knew how to use it as an instrument. Granville suspected she had received vocal music training at some point. He had known many Imperial women with similar skills.

  Granville nodded and smiled.

  “Why was this act necessary?” she continued, dancing precisely and lightly around the possible edges of correctness in such a situation.

  Not challenging his fait accompli, nor his force majeure, but wishing merely to receive enlightenment. Obviously, the woman was a Scholar, which would help. The man struck Granville as a Warrior who had retired from active naval service and taken up civilian tasks.

  Granville stared once around the room, but the six of them were the only people present. It was a white room, painted recently, from the hints of the smell still in the air. The floor showed a few scuffs, but nothing like regular traffic to dull the shine of the metal.

  Even the walls had been cleaned up, with all the suits he would have normally expected having been moved somewhere else. Probably stashed in a storage closet when company arrived unexpectedly. The pegs and frames on the walls where they would have hung looked bare.

  At least the air was sweeter here. He had to agree with Isiah about adding a greenhouse room to the hydroponics. Too many years around cattle had apparently dulled his smell, but the sudden tang made it clear.

  He made a mental note to address that when he got home, while seeking the words for Doctor Sam Au’s question.

  Why was this act necessary?

  When in doubt, audacity.

  “We are on a mercy mission, madam,” he said simply. “My squadron’s next mission is to raid one of The Holding’s prison planets and rescue as many Imperial citizens as we can, in order to take them home.”

  The man wanted to snarl something into the conversation at this point. Granville scowled at him. From behind, Spier had apparently stepped back and to one side, possibly pointing the carbine suddenly.

  Dr. Sam Au put a hand on the older man’s wrist and directed her own interruption.

  “This is a civilian hospital vessel, Centurion,” Sam Au said carefully.

  “And some of those men may have been there for forty years, Doctor,” he replied. “The Eldest has never returned a single prisoner taken by your fleets, in a war that has lasted several decades.”

  He caught the faintest blush on her face, but Au’s attention was focused on the Director, keeping him from saying something that would probably get him shot right now.

  The two security men looked nervously alert, but not like they were preparing for action. In his mind, Granville downgraded them to movie theater ushers, missing only the tacky fringe on their shoulder boards to complete the costume.

  Just to be extra intimidating, Granville scowled at the two of them as well and made a show of unhooking the little strap of leather holding the pistol in his holster. The fat one blanched.

  “And if we were to refuse to assist?” she asked in an oblique, intellectual way that contained not a single gram of threat or emotion.

  “The man who has been tasked with taking over as Director of this vessel is a trained nurse from Aquitaine,” Granville gave her a frigid smile. “He is also a naval officer with very well developed opinions on the ancient Hippocratic Oath all of our physicians take in order to practice medicine and its bearing to this situation. Do you still take that Oath?”

  “Something very similar, if my studies were correct, Centurion,” the woman said.

  “Then I might reconsider approaching the topic with any negativity on your part.”

  “Or else what?” the former Director’s temper finally got the better of him.

  “Personally, I would just dump you onto the planet below us in lifepods,” Granville sneered. “We have no interest in taking slaves, unlike The Holding.”

  “Slaves?” he raged, still carefully not moving even a millimeter that might be interpreted as provocation. “How dare you?”

  “I was captured at Samara, seven years ago,” Granville felt his face and voice harden in equal increments. “My life since then was chattel slavery on a cattle ranch on a planet you’ve probably never heard of, not all that far from here, and just like the one below you. You can help us, or become a problem that must be resolved. I look forward to solving it.”

  His tone left no doubts as to what his vote would be.

  “I just want the hull, so we can get all of our people home,” Granville continued to grind out the words harshly. “You can fulfill your oath and help, or forget what it means to be human, and become friction. Hopefully, Admiral Kosnett will take an even harsher view of you than I might.”

  Granville fell silent and watched. The two ushers looked like they wanted to turn invisible and flee. The man subsided when the woman touched his arm again, just a gentle reminder that looked like she was in charge here, and he was just the pilot.

  Doctor Au studied Granville’s face closely for a second.

  “Understand that the ship’s permanent crew is differentiated from the medical staff aboard?” she asked carefully, still a Scholar looking for a simple answer, rather than a Warrior set to apply violence to all actions.

  Granville had been raised and trained as the equivalent of a Warrior, before he knew who these people were, but he was also an officer and a gentleman, By Order of His Sovereign Majesty Karl VII, Emperor of Fribourg by Grace of God.

  “So noted,” Granville responded.

  “I command both sides of the equation,” she continued. “But the responses will be different.”

  “I am happy to send your troublemakers down to the planet right now,” Granville smiled frostily at her. “And while I cannot speak for the Admiral himself, I am aware of other prisoners who have been taken by our squadron, who have been treated well, and who will be released without restrictions once the current operation is completed.”

  “The Fribourg Empire is not known for its honor, Centurion,” Sam Au said carefully, almost testing his resolve.

  “That is because you people are fools, Doctor.”

  Among the educated classes,
such language was just about as insulting as one could manage. Her eyes widened and her cheeks blushed furiously. The man beside her flinched, but remained perfectly still as Granville’s hand fell to the holster again.

  Rather than let things get further out of hand, Granville squared his shoulders and stood tall.

  “Take me to the bridge,” he ordered. “Let us begin the process of organizing things so that when the rest of my people arrive, we look professional.”

  She nodded. The man almost growled, but held his peace.

  She dismissed the two goons to their quarters with strict instructions and threats of punishment, so Granville let them go. The man led, with her following and Granville and Spier trailing.

  The bridge of the hospital ship was forward, rather than aft like on Packmule, but the interior was very similar. One Director’s station on his raised dais facing the rest. Half a dozen stations for lesser beings to sit while worshipping the man. Ugly, white walls, too bright for normal operations or sanity.

  Hushed voices and six people scurrying to their feet as their former Director entered. Four female, two male, reminding him that this was also not Fribourg.

  Granville strode to the center of the room and turned in place once to frame everyone’s attention.

  “I will not be your new Director,” he said simply. “I will not be the head of the security team that will take possession of this vessel and its crew shortly. You may think of me as the avenging angel who will come for your very souls if anything happens to one of my people.”

  He paused and scanned faces. Not much outright hostility. Mostly utter shock, and that wasn’t going to wear off all that quickly.

  “I was a prisoner on a Holding world until very recently,” he continued. “My mission today is to rescue more slaves and get them home. You can decide you don’t wish to help us, and I will vote to deliver you to the planet below. Those that stay will be treated like crew until they give me a reason to think otherwise. At the end of the mission, I expect the Director in charge to send all of you home, quite possibly aboard this very ship, if that is an option. Who is in charge of security?”