Dreadnought (Starship Blackbeard Book 3)

by Michael Wallace

  A hiss, a pop, and then pressure on his chest as they catapulted through space. Drake looked through the window, but saw only the stars, thousands of pinpricks of light in a vast curtain across the sky. Then, a pair of glittering green ships came into view, and soon the pod was hurtling toward one of them, which had put out a space hook—a net on the end of a long arm.

  How easy it would be for General Mose Dryz to retract the hook, to move it slightly and let the pod fly past? Destroy Blackbeard while Drake sailed away toward nothing. The oxygen would run out in a few hours, and then the pod would be a floating coffin, flying forever through the endless void.

  The net caught them, and the arm brought them in. A few minutes later, in the cargo bay, the airlock popped open and let them out. The light was dim and red, and the air hot and jungle-thick. It had to be ninety degrees. By the time he’d taken two breaths, the sweat was beading on his forehead and trickling down his ribs. Brockett panted as he lugged out a cooler containing the vials of antidote. He unzipped his jacket. Nyb Pim seemed comfortable enough. He took a deep breath through his narrow nostrils and let it out through his mouth.

  Three tall Hroom stood about ten paces away, next to a stack of what looked like live torpedoes, near a wall of crates stamped with the stylized Y of the York Company—what could only be sugar. There must be twenty tons of the stuff in the cargo bay. An empire warship, carrying the poison that had brought Hroom civilization to its knees. And to complete the irony, the torpedoes were unguarded, but two red-skinned Hroom with long, buzzing shock spears guarded the sugar.

  Drake ignored the guards and studied the three Hroom standing side by side. Two wore mottled green cloaks over their tunics that matched the exterior color of their warship. The third wore a white toga with a sunburst on the chest and an iron ring around his forehead. The general. With the toga and his proud, regal bearing, he seemed to Drake like a Hroom caesar. Yet of all the Hroom in the cargo bay, he was the only one with the pale skin of an eater. More curious, still.

  Drake approached cautiously, keeping his hands clasped as Nyb Pim had instructed. It was a Hroom sign of peaceful intent.

  “Captain James Drake?” Mose Dryz said. “Is that you? I am not very good at telling human faces apart. Let me hear your voice.”

  “Yes, it’s me, General. I meant what I said. I have a gift for you, and perhaps some information to share, as well.”

  Mose Dryz didn’t say anything. He and Drake stood eyeing each other until Brockett began to clear his throat and shift about nervously.

  “Where did you learn English?” Drake asked, to cut the silence.

  “I would rather not answer that.”

  “It is a friendly question. I’m just curious.”

  “Captain James Drake, we are enemies, and I do not wish to establish a . . .” He said something to Nyb Pim.

  “Rapport,” Nyb Pim told the general.

  “Yes, rapport,” Mose Dryz said, again to Drake. “We are enemies, and we should both remember that.”

  “I am not your foe,” Drake said. “My navy fought a war against your navy. We were both soldiers, following orders. That doesn’t make us enemies now.”

  “Did your orders include the atomic bombardment of Hroom cities on San Pablo?”

  “That wasn’t me. By the time that happened, I’d been declared a traitor and was fleeing for my life with my ship and crew. My last naval engagement was the battle at Ypis III, well before the current round of hostilities commenced.”

  “I see. Then you are merely responsible for the death of thousands, not hundreds of thousands, of my people. And the enslavement of millions. I see what you mean—how could we possibly be enemies?”

  The general might not understand lying and deception very well, but he had mastered sarcasm.

  “It’s the enslavement of your people that brings me here. I propose to free them. A gesture of peace from my people to yours.”

  “And how would you do that? Outlaw slavery in Albion territory? Are you king now, that you could do such a thing? And has your parliament been abolished?” Mose Dryz made a humming sound when Drake tried to interrupt. “Even if such a thing were possible, you understand that the problem is not slavery, yes? Some of our own worlds allow people to be sold into bondage, depending on local custom and religion.”

  “I’m not talking about the laws,” Drake said. “Ladino and New Dutch colonies have slaves too, some of them human. I don’t know if you could ever stamp it out entirely. But it isn’t human law that has left millions of Hroom in bondage.”

  Mose Dryz glanced at the stacked crates with the York Company logo on them. To the sugar. His long tongue darted out and ran over his lips. It was such a human gesture that Drake could almost read his mind. He felt sorry for the Hroom. Even now, when he had the most reason to be angry, the general had looked to the crates of sugar, grown, harvested, and refined by slaves on vast estates like Lord Malthorne’s on Hot Barsa, the poisonous substance literally grown over the top of an ancient Hroom civilization. Here was the general, supreme military leader of the Hroom Empire, yet he was thinking about how long until he could eat sugar again.

  Now he looked to the cooler Brockett had brought over. It sat at the science officer’s feet. The general said something in Hroom.

  Nyb Pim stiffened. “Captain,” he warned.

  The guards with the shock spears rushed in. Drake reached for his sidearm, but of course, he wasn’t carrying it. One of the guards jabbed Nyb Pim and Brockett with the two-pronged spear, and they collapsed to the ground, groaning. Drake ducked away from the second Hroom, grabbed the spear by its shaft, and tried to wrench it free. His opponent kept his grip and swung his fist for Drake’s head, enjoying his longer reach. The blow caught Drake across the head, and he fell back.

  He was ducking another spear thrust when something jabbed him in the back. The other Hroom guard. A jolt of electricity stabbed through him. His legs collapsed, and he lay there twitching and unable to feel his body. When he’d recovered, he climbed shakily to his feet and helped up his two companions. More Hroom had materialized from the opposite side of the cargo bay, until there were six guards in all. They held snub-nosed hand cannons, joining the original two with their buzzing spears.

  “What are you doing?” Drake demanded. His skin tingled and burned, and his legs wobbled like they were made of jelly. Sweat poured down his temples from the heat and humidity.

  “What is in the box?” Mose Dryz demanded. He and his two adjutants in the green cloaks had not moved from their position.

  “A sugar antidote. Why did you attack us?”

  “What is that? What does that mean? I do not know this word. ‘Antidote.’ Tell me at once.”

  Nyb Pim translated. The general and his adjutants jabbered together in their high, hooting language. They seemed to grow more agitated by the moment.

  “It is a . . . cure?” Mose Dryz’s voice was higher, strained. “How do you mean? Tell me, tell me now.”

  “Not a cure. An antidote. Brockett, tell him how it works.”

  Brockett cleared his throat and sputtered, seemingly unable to get the words out. His face was slack, terrified, and his eyes darted to the guards with their shock spears, which were buzzing ominously.

  “Quit mumbling, Brockett,” Drake said. “Spit it out.”

  The science officer found his voice. “It alters your brain chemistry—in the Hroom brain, I mean—so that it releases molecules that bond with sugar and renders it inert. I mean, that is, sugar can’t interact with the pleasure center of your brain anymore. There’s a vestigial organ the Hroom have that—”

  “Be quiet,” the general said. “I have heard enough.”

  “But if you’ll let me explain—”

  “Brockett,” Drake warned. “That is enough.”

  The science officer fell silent.

  Drake touched a finger to his ear to turn on his com link, but all he heard was a beep indicating a failure to connect. The Hroom must be jammi
ng the signal.

  “Why did you attack us?” Drake asked the general.

  “What is in the box?”

  “I told you already—”

  “You are lying. Something is in the box, something treacherous. It is not an antidote to the sugar addiction. Do you think our scientists have not already attempted such a thing? That if it were possible, we would have discovered it already?”

  “I give you my word, I am not lying.”

  The Hroom said something to the guards, who approached with the shock spears. They were buzzing louder now, apparently turned to a higher power level. When they motioned for him to move, Drake had no choice but to comply. As he walked with his two companions across the cargo bay floor, he glanced back to see General Mose Dryz standing over Brockett’s cooler, staring down at it.

  #

  The Hroom guards pushed them into a holding cell lit with dim red lights. One of the guards hit a button, and three chairs shaped like wide, flat saucers rose from the floor. The guards shut the door as they retreated to the corridor, leaving Drake and his two companions inside.

  To Drake’s surprise, it was significantly cooler inside and not so humid, and he wiped the sweat away with his sleeve and took a deep breath. He touched his com link again. A beep, followed by static.

  Nyb Pim climbed onto one of the seats and crossed his long, slender legs. He looked resigned.

  “At least I can breathe again,” Brockett said glumly. “Although I suspect that we’ll soon be shivering. It has to be about sixty degrees in here, wouldn’t you think?”

  “The temperature is meant to sedate us,” Nyb Pim said.

  Drake remembered the slave galleon from which he’d rescued Nyb Pim. The slavers had kept the Hroom in a single berth, cooled to keep their cargo placid between sugar feedings.

  “What did the general say?” Drake asked. “Are we prisoners? Is this a Hroom prison cell?”

  “I have never been on a Hroom ship,” Nyb Pim said. “I do not know what a prison cell looks like.”

  “Yes, I forget. So you have no idea?”

  “I am afraid I do have an idea.” There was something odd in Nyb Pim’s voice. “This is a prayer room. These seats are meditation stools, for praying.”

  “A prayer room?” Drake said.

  “I don’t get it,” Brockett said. “Are they trying to convert us to their religion or something?”

  “No,” Nyb Pim said. “It is where you make your peace and pray to the god of death. Before they execute you.”

  “What?” Brockett squeaked. “Captain, is that true?”

  “He is a Hroom,” Drake said. “He doesn’t lie, as a general rule.”

  “No, I do not,” Nyb Pim said.

  “So we’re going to die?” Brockett said. “King’s balls, we are, aren’t we?”

  “I hope not,” Drake said. “For now, let’s calm down until we have a better idea of what the Hroom are thinking.”

  Nyb Pim closed his eyes. Praying? Drake hadn’t thought him particularly devout. In fact, hadn’t he been raised by human missionaries? Surely, he wouldn’t be praying to the Hroom god of death.

  Brockett paced the room. “My dad owns a candy store.”

  Drake looked away from studying the Hroom and blinked. “What?”

  “A candy store. You know, the kind where you go as a kid, you put down a tuppence, and the candy man weighs out horehounds or lemon drops and puts them into a little bag. Or cinnamon bears. I love cinnamon bears.”

  “I know what a candy store is. How is this relevant?”

  “Dad wanted me to take over the store when he got too old to run it. Me, not my brother. My brother has no head for numbers, plus he’d eat up the profits. He’s got a sweet tooth that would put a Hroom to shame. Of course, I loved candy too. What kid doesn’t?”

  “Brockett, for God’s sake, is this the time to reminisce about your misspent youth?”

  “I wanted to be a scientist. Why? The store wasn’t so bad. And now, look at me. I’m going to be killed over sugar. Sugar! That’s ironic, don’t you think? I grew up helping my dad at a candy store. It must be bad karma for all the cavities we gave kids.”

  “We’re not going to be killed over sugar,” Drake said.

  “Didn’t you hear him?” Brockett asked, pointing at Nyb Pim. He sounded almost hysterical now. “This is a prayer room. You’re supposed to pray for your soul while they build the gallows.”

  “Hroom don’t hang prisoners,” Drake said. “They prefer beheading.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel better. It really doesn’t.”

  Had Tolvern been here, she would have told Brockett to shut his mouth, but Drake was willing to grant the young man a little hysteria. He’d seemed brave enough when invited to join the crew after the attack on Lord Malthorne’s estate that put the sugar antidote in Drake’s hands. But Hot Barsa was a slave world, and Brockett had been working in Malthorne’s labs developing fast-growing strains of sugarcane. That was the karma that would be inflaming Brockett’s conscience, not that nonsense about his father’s candy store.

  Drake climbed onto one of the seats while he waited for Brockett to calm down. It was too big, too high off the ground, and he couldn’t fold his legs the way Nyb Pim had. But the way it cupped him did provide a certain meditative space. Eventually, Brockett joined the other two. They sat without talking, with only the faint hum of the red lights overhead and their own breathing to cut the silence.

  After about fifteen minutes, the door opened, and in stepped General Mose Dryz. He was alone. His eyes were milky, and his breathing quick, as if he’d recently eaten sugar. Drake rose respectfully to his feet, readying himself at the same time for a hostile move.

  “I will never understand humans,” Mose Dryz said. “When I think they are telling the truth, they are sure to be lying. When I am certain they are lying, it turns out that they have honorable intentions.”

  “You’ve inspected the antidote already?” Drake asked.

  “Your commander says she will attack my fleet if I do not allow her to communicate with you. I do not know if she is bluffing or not, but I have stopped blocking your communications link. Please tell her that you are not a prisoner, and that I will allow you to leave when you are ready.”

  “Is this true? We’ll be able to leave—all three of us?”

  “Of course.” Mose Dryz said.

  Drake touched his ear, and shortly, Tolvern was on the com, demanding answers. He assured her that he was safe and unharmed, and that she should maintain a neutral posture with Blackbeard while he completed the negotiations.

  “We have only begun to analyze this so-called cure you’ve offered,” the general said when Drake had ended the call. “But my scientists have read enough of your notes that they do not believe it is a trap or a trick. I am searching for a volunteer to test it. Nearly a third of my crew are sugar eaters—no doubt someone will step forward. Many will resist, of course. They will not give up sugar willingly.”

  “There are several doses,” Brockett said quickly. “And my notes should be self-explanatory. You should be able to replicate it.”

  Drake chose his words carefully. “When it proves effective, General, will you take it yourself?”

  Mose Dryz licked his lips. He seemed as though he would answer the question, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Your scientists are clearly superior to ours. Hroom have searched for generations to find this cure.”

  “They weren’t my scientists,” Drake said. “I only discovered the antidote by accident and made the choice to share it with the Hroom once I’d got my hands on it. I don’t know who developed it, or why. Could have been Hroom involved—I suspect as much.”

  “Yet still human in origin,” Mose Dryz said. “Your scientists, your engineers, even your military thinkers, possess a creativity that ours do not. No doubt we did once—our civilization was vast and complex, and it did not spring from nothing. But now we are emulators, we copy what has been done before.”


  The Hroom paused, his eyes blinking. Some of the cloudiness had begun to fade, and Drake thought the general must have taken a mild dose of sugar, as he didn’t seem to be swooning from its effects.

  “Why did you give it to me?” Mose Dryz asked. “You must certainly understand what this means, how it will change the future relations between our peoples.”

  “I don’t think anyone understands the implications,” Drake said. “Not fully. But yes, it will change things, perhaps with great damage to human civilization in this sector. If the Hroom recover their strength, and they prove vengeful . . .”

  “You did not answer the question,” Mose Dryz said. “Why? You defeated my fleet, you destroyed my strongest warships, and now you are giving me this. It is a weapon—yes, a weapon.”

  “I don’t know why. Conscience. Or perhaps it’s our shared enemy. I know Hroom, I understand Hroom. They are civilized people, they can be reasoned with, even befriended and trusted as individuals.” Drake nodded in the direction of his pilot, then turned back to the general. “But I don’t know Apex, and I fear them.”

  “What is that?” Mose Dryz said. “Apex?”

  Nyb Pim said something in Hroom, and the general stiffened.

  “You know, don’t you?” Drake said, studying his reaction. “You’ve heard they’ve returned, that they’ve attacked Hroom ships. But did you know that they attacked human vessels, too?”

  Mose Dryz didn’t answer.

  “I don’t know if your silence means yes or no,” Drake said, “but it’s true. We fought two of their ships, destroying one and chasing off the other.”

  “How did you do that?”

  Drake smiled. “You’re not the only one who hears questions he does not wish to answer.”

  “So you are offering this as a trade. This is what you want in return, human and Hroom against Apex, against the predator hunting us both? An alliance?”