"Off to save a world, Captain?" Barthan inquired, radiating sarcastic displeasure. "We want to have a word with you. We would like to know what you thought you were doing out there."
"My duty," Velmeran replied evenly. "And I would like to know what you thought you were doing while I was out there."
"That is beside the point…"
"Is it?" Velmeran demanded. "My pack and I did your duty as well as our own. If you believe that you are better than I am, then you tell me why you were not there when you were needed."
"So we made a mistake," Barthan snapped impatiently. "Well, you made a bigger one when you decided that you could give us orders."
"You are not a senior pack leader," Train added. "In fact, you are the most junior pack leader on this ship. Baressa was senior, and she was out there with you. Why was she not giving the orders?"
"Perhaps because Baressa is smart enough to recognize a superior leader when it counts," Baressa answered for herself, seeming to appear out of the very air behind the three disgruntled pack leaders. She walked around them to stand beside Velmeran, obviously casting her support with him. "All this talk about junior and senior pack leaders is foolish. A few extra years of sitting in a fighter or wearing a rank does not make you better than anyone else. A good leader comes that way, ready-made, and you know it because you listen when he or she gives an order. And from now on I listen to him."
Shayrn was so moved by that endorsement that she abandoned her previous group, edging around to stand close to Baressa. Even Train looked doubtful. Only Barthan remained unconvinced.
"You could be Commander-designate if we pushed it," he reminded her.
"I know that," she agreed. "But if Valthyrra says that he is the one, then I believe her. You will see. Or else you will find yourself another ship."
"I will not take orders from him," Barthan insisted.
"Yes, you will," she said with icy firmness. "If Valthyrra or the Commander indicates that he can, then you are going to listen. Refusing his orders under those circumstances is the same as refusing their own. You know that. You would lose your rank, and you might find yourself without a ship, if Valthyrra turns you out, because no one else will take you in. If you do not like the way things are, then get out while it is your idea."
"But things do not have to be that way," Barthan argued with equal force. "If we stand together on this…"
"You still do not understand," Baressa interrupted him, her tone cold enough to be intimidating. "Management wants it this way, and I agree. Too many of the senior pack leaders — which you are not — stand with him in this matter. You cannot gather enough support to have your own way, so you had better shut up before you get yourself in trouble."
"I believe that I have had enough of your game," Shayrn agreed.
"Train, you need to take your young friend aside and make a few matters clear to him," Baressa continued. "I thought that you, at least, were old enough to know better."
With that she took Velmeran by the arm and led him down the broad corridor toward the pilots' apartments. The younger pilot was too stunned to know what to think. He could only recall that Baressa had been his stern teacher only a few years before. For her to champion him so firmly left him speechless.
"Barthan is a fool and he always will be," she complained aloud, more to herself. "Rank and seniority are all-important to him, now that he has a measure of his own, and he would like to forget that the only pack leader he is senior to is you. I guess that means a lot to him, since he does not have a fourth of your talent or quick wits. You threaten him, you might say, not that I am offering that as an excuse. And I certainly do not want you worrying about trouble from him. Train is our other resident fool, but he just needed to have things spelled out for him. He will keep Barthan under control now."
She paused, noticing that Velmeran was staring at her, and smiled. "I would not have you intimidated by me, either. It was one thing for me to be a little strict with you when I was teaching you how to run a pack. The time for teaching is past, but there are still some things that I can do to help you. And if I am standing firmly behind you, the other pack leaders will too. Seven of them, at least. That seems like a good percentage to me, certainly at this point."
"Help me what?" Velmeran asked.
Baressa paused and regarded him closely. "You are no fool, Meran. And you are certainly no coward. Now you tell me what I am talking about."
"I think that you mean to make me Commander-designate," he answered cautiously, afraid that she would scorn him if he guessed wrong. Up until Consherra's very blatant bints, he had always thought of Baressa as filling that role, officially or not.
She nodded firmly. "So you do understand. I know that it was understood that I was the only candidate for that position. And I would have taken it for the same reason that your mother did, because I was needed. But I do not want it."
"And you think I do?" Velmeran asked.
"No, but you will take it. You are better than I am," she replied as she turned to leave.
"But I am not ready to command this ship!" he protested.
Baressa paused to glance back at him. "You will be."
5
In Donalt Trace's experience there was nothing so boring and pointless as a formal dinner party. These were the battles that young Richart Lake had been brought up to fight; in his opinion, he could do more good for trade and commerce by fighting Starwolves, subduing unaffiliated fringe worlds and chastising the colonies. He had to admit that the old Councilor and his grandson did fight and win major battles armed with only hors d'oeuvres and wineglasses, hammering out sweet deals for Farstell Trade or alliances between the allegedly unified sectors. The only thing he failed to understand was why he was expected to have any part of it.
Tonight he had retreated into a dark corner. Councilor Lake's suite was spacious, occupying two-thirds of an entire level of the Sector Residence. He preferred the cavernous halls and chambers of the Lake Mansion, some distance down the coast from Vannkarn, where it was easy to lose one's self without committing the social felony of simply disappearing. Quarters were too close in this apartment, but for the moment he was left alone, a glass of warm, flat wine in his hand, as he watched young Richart, seemingly a boyish figure surrounded by the old fools he was deftly maneuvering into trade agreements that were not to their best advantage.
Just then he saw the Councilor's personal servant approaching in a very purposeful manner and used that as an excuse to remove himself, suspecting that there must be some message. Only an attack of Starwolves would get him out of this entirely, and he knew that he would never be so lucky, but any respite would be welcome.
"A courier is in," Javarns explained. "There is a messenger who wishes to speak with you, sir."
"Here?"
The older man nodded. "He is waiting in the hall, sir."
"Thank you, Javarns," Trace said, handing him the half-empty glass. "I will speak with him outside."
The messenger was indeed waiting for him in the hallway just outside the suite's double doors, shifting nervously as he eyed the armed guard who had escorted him up. He was a young officer, no doubt captain and crew of the courier that had brought him (couriers were really stingships, their sophisticated attack systems removed to make room for a pocket-sized cabin and a tiny hold). One of Trace's greatest regrets was that the Union lacked an effective long-range achronic transceiver such as the Starwolves possessed, their own being barely good enough for in-system use.
"So?" he asked impatiently. "Are you out of Tallin?"
"Yes, sir!" The young officer snapped to attention and presented him the locked metal folder bearing the report. The Sector Commander only stared at it and shrugged.
"I have no time right now. You were there?" he asked, and the messenger nodded. "So you tell me, quick and simple, what happened. Did it work?"
"No, sir," the officer explained. "Apparently there was some malfunction in the decoy ship. It evaded but did not resp
ond to contact from the station. It certainly did not explode."
Trace shrugged again. "Doesn't sound like my ship, if it evaded. The one we sent out wasn't that smart. I suppose we got whipped in the process?"
"Yes, sir. We lost all the system fleet," the messenger reported in a quiet voice, then brightened. "We did take a prisoner."
"A prisoner?" the Sector Commander asked himself, and glanced up. "Did you say a prisoner?"
"Yes, sir. A Starwolf rammed a carrier and became trapped inside, alive and well. Being empty, she was quick enough to whip around and break from the battle, and we covered her escape. Her pursuit gave up just as she was heading out of system."
"At least her captain had sense enough to take her out of system," Trace mused. "Do you know where they were bound?"
"No, sir. They refused to say over com, for fear it would be overheard. They did promise another courier as soon as they arrived."
"That was all they could do, I suppose," he told himself, then glanced down at the messenger. "Put that report on my desk and leave the key with me now. Then wait in port until I dismiss you. I might have a message for you to take back."
The messenger saluted smartly and turned to leave. Trace returned to the apartment, closing the door quietly. A prisoner? A live Starwolf? He had never heard of such a thing happening before. As soon as he entered the dining room, he found that Councilor Lake, with his uncanny talent for sensing trouble, was already moving to intercept him. Richart, the well-trained apprentice, appeared a moment later from another direction. Trace turned abruptly to the bar, seizing that as their excuse for a few quiet words.
"Courier from Tallin?" the elder Lake inquired quietly as he inspected the stock of wine on hand. "So how did it go?"
"They took the bait, but the conversion device failed to detonate for some reason. We lost the system fleet as a result," he reported quickly, then grinned. "We did take a prisoner."
The Councilor stared at him, wide-eyed. "A what?"
Donalt quickly explained all that he had been told. The elder Lake obviously did not know what to make of it, seeming to weigh whether it was good news or not. Richart, however, had no such trouble deciding, his boyish face uncharacteristically solemn. Since Trace expected only some advantage to come of it, he was somewhat dismayed by their cautious reactions.
"Have you ever heard of our taking a Starwolf prisoner before?" he asked.
"No, I haven't," Lake admitted, still distracted by his own thoughts. "We have managed to acquire a body from time to time, which is how we know as much about them as we do. But we've never had a live body before."
"Why not?"
"Mostly because the Starwolves would rip this sector apart to find him."
"But what can they do about it, if they have no idea where we have him?" the Sector Commander demanded. "That is the trick, isn't it? We just need to keep him in hiding until we're finished with him. We did it before, with the Vardon's memory cell. We kept it hidden for thousands of years."
"That is a completely different case," Lake replied, brushing that impatiently aside. "For one thing, they weren't even aware it existed until we finally put it on public display here in Vannkarn. And the memory cell is also an imperishable good; you can bet that they plan to come for it in their own good time. But a prisoner is altogether something else. They know that we have him, where we got him, and they are going to do whatever they must to get him back."
"You think they can trace him?" Richart asked.
"I am willing to bet on it," the Councilor said firmly. "They have technology we can only dream about. For all we know, their scanners can track a ship across stellar distances. And just as likely, they can follow its trail of energy-emission residue. How should I know?"
"Here comes trouble," Richart said suddenly, having spied one of their distinguished guests approaching. "Let me distract him for a moment."
With that he shot off like a missile to intercept his intended target. Trace stared after him for a moment, surprised at such a magnanimous gesture on his part. Trace had always held the younger Lake in mild contempt. He was small for one of old Terran stock, hardly any taller than most modern humans, stocky and plump. His boyish looks had now followed him into his thirties; he was cherub-cheeked, with curly brown hair and the eternally amused look in his eyes that he had inherited from his grandfather. But Donalt did not let personal dislike interfere with his judgment. Richart was an administrative genius exceeding even his formidable grandfather.
"You want this prisoner, don't you?" Lake asked.
"Of course I do."
"Why?" the Councilor asked, eyeing him shrewdly. "Prestige?"
"Hardly!" Trace declared, somewhat indignant. "It has occurred to me that, with a live subject to study, we might finally discover how Starwolves were made. So that we can make our own."
"Ah, I see," Lake said thoughtfully. "The ultimate weapon to use against a Starwolf is another Starwolf."
"Of course," Trace agreed. "That is the premise behind our Tracer missiles. But we already know that anything mechanical we build would never equal the real thing. Therefore we need the real thing."
The Councilor nodded thoughtfully. "All right, then. If you can keep him, and I emphasize the 'if,' then you will have all the help we can muster in probing their secrets. But that is sort of out of your hands right now, I'm afraid. They would have to get their prisoner situated somewhere long enough for you to issue some orders on his handling. Right now we don't even know where he is."
* * * *
Boulder was essentially just that, a big rock in the middle of open space, not large enough to be a real planet, barely large enough to have served some planet for a moon, and with no sun to warm it. How such a piece of basalt had ever happened to end up in the middle of nowhere was uncertain, so it must have been drifting about for quite some time. To the Starwolves, however, it was a valuable piece of property indeed. It was just big enough to have the gravity to hold a carrier in stationary orbit twenty kilometers out. It had a hole in it just large enough for a damaged carrier to back into, the guns of its forward battery facing out, and, best of all, the Union had no idea it existed.
A ship was already waiting, not the carrier Delvon but one of the immense Starwolf freighters. Although the size and general shape was the same, the freighters had less than half the mass. They were not fighting ships, being only lightly armored, and more than half their main hull was devoted to several cavernous holds. The Union knew nothing of these ships, for they never showed themselves.
"Hello, who is there?" Valthyrra called out as she approached. There were, of course, official rules and procedures for recognition, but the Starwolf ships tended to be more informal, since they were all old friends.
"This is Fyrdenna Lesdryn," the freighter responded. "Hello, Valthyrra. Long time, no see."
"Hello, Feery. You look well. But what are you doing here, if I may ask the obvious?"
"Thenderra transferred your call to me, and I was closer to Boulder at the time than any of you. I'm on my way home, in fact, but I have plenty of room for all the junk you have to give."
"You may have it with my gratitude, and especially Thenderra's," Valthyrra said. "She did not sound at all happy to have to take it off my hands."
"I should say not! My bridge crew is still laughing at the sight of you popping out of starflight with your transports and capture ships following you like a brood!" Fyrdenna exclaimed, then became serious. "Still, you do have more than Lyerrana Vyesden gave me."
"Lyerrana?" Valthyrra prompted, unsure whether she should have heard this. The entire bridge crew paused to listen, since she was putting this over audio.
"You were too far to one side to have caught the news on achronic," the freighter continued. "Lyerrana was making her usual rounds of the outer fringe when she came upon a Union invasion of a nonaffiliated world. Balgan by name. It seems that they were just starting to make a profit, and the Union decided that it wanted that profit for its
own trade companies."
"The old story."
"Yes, and Lyerrana said that she has been expecting it for the past twenty years. But this was strange. It was only a small invasion force, a battleship, three carriers and four troop transports. A force like that usually just runs when they see Starwolves coming, but instead they turned and fought like they had never heard of us. She caught the battleship and two of the carriers — I have them in my hold right now — and sent the survivors heading for home in the transports. Then she sent for me to haul home the spoils so that she could stay and watch the system. I almost believe that she would indeed have another load by the time I get this home."
"I heard that there is a new Sector Commander in my haunts," Valthyrra mused. "But that is not even an adjoining sector."
"I can understand an invasion," Fyrdenna continued. "But what happened to you defies explanation."
"Oh, it did turn out to be a trap," Valthyrra said, and quickly explained the details. Then she had to pause, since the channel was echoing with the laughter of the Lesdryn's entire bridge crew.
Fyrdenna was laughing with the rest. "Wonderful! It was your good fortune to spring the trap in halves."
"Oh, there was no mistaking that ship," Valthyrra insisted. "They had it phasing so hard that it would have burned itself out in twenty minutes of hard running. I got control of it and sent it on with my compliments. I popped it right over their heads, just to give them a good scare."
"The Union is getting mean, and I fear that we have some hard battles yet ahead of us," Fyrdenna said. "I am beginning to wish that I had been built a fighting ship. I would envy you, if I were not so thoroughly pleased with myself. Now park yourself and start off-loading. Thenderra cannot be four hours behind me."
The two ships met far enough out from Boulder to avoid the bother of its feeble gravity. They drifted together bellies facing, upside down in respect to each other, with just enough room between them for the Lesdryn's handlers to shift the load. The Methryn opened every hold and bay she had, and her own capture ships came in to haul away the intact ships as they were freed from her holding bays. These were set in a row between the two larger vessels, for the Lesdryn's handlers to look at and decide how best to pack them in her own vast bays. Her largest bay had folding racks for transporting a large number of ships, but this constituted a respectable fleet by Union standards. Some of the destroyers might have to be secured in other bays.
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