“All of us?” I asked, with understandable trepidation.
“Just you. Please make haste. I have asked LAI OB-59a to pick you up.”
My spirits perked up at once. I glanced over my shoulder at Jil and gave her a sign of triumph.
“I am on my way.”
CHAPTER 25
OB-59a turned out to be the intelligence aboard a covered personnel carrier, redolent with sweat and the faint odor of sleep gas.
“Many thanks for the lift, my friend,” I said, as I swung on board. The doors scissored closed behind me. I wriggled into one of the deep synthleather seats, recently vacated, I was certain, by a man approximately my height, but a great deal broader, and suffering from hyperhidrosis. I tried to ignore the dampness and smell. “I am Thomas.”
“It is no trouble, Lord Thomas,” the vehicle said in a resonant male voice. “I was free. Call me Obie. Angie and I have been corresponding since your arrival in this sector. She has given me your dossier. I just brought the entire security force to the scene. I will not be needed again until the siege is over.”
“Siege?” I asked, sitting forward eagerly, detaching my tunic from the seat back. “Tell me all! We have been mewed up without any news. What has happened? What of the naval vessel, the Rodrigo?”
“All information regarding the incident is on a need-to-know basis,” Obie said, severely.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” I said, putting on my most wheedling tone, “but as you are carrying me to the scene, may we assume that I need to know?”
“Of course, Lord Thomas. Allow me to post the official sitrep on the screen above you.”
I settled back into the seat. As the information was very recent, no narration was provided to the action video I beheld, but I thought I could pick up the thread of the story.
From one of the red-rimmed hatches, a large ship burst forth. Pieces of the iris exploded around it like an extreme close-up image of pollen bursting from a flower. Indecently close to the space station, yellow and orange oxygen-fed flames sprayed as the ship kicked on its impulse engines. It vanished from the outside video pickup. Some delay ensued until another hatch lensed open, in the ordinary fashion this time. From it issued the Rodrigo. When I beheld my precious ship, I felt my heart pounding with excitement. It, too, activated its sublight engines a little too soon, but I understood the need. It was a race! Because of the speed and distance involved, the station turned to scopes instead of video. I watched two blips retreating into the blackness, one steadily gaining upon the other.
I listened as if to a particularly exciting digitavid as I heard Plet’s voice calmly addressing the crew of the fugitive vessel, informing them of who she was and whom she represented, instructing them to explain their behavior and to surrender their ship.
The other crew did not respond in a verbal fashion. If I was directing this digitavid, I would have had them retort with defiant words that would make the audience breathe faster as it anticipated justice bearing down upon them at speeds approaching that of light.
Plet informed them that if they did not surrender and return to the station, they would be fired upon. I thought now there would be a grand and exciting chase, culminating in the destruction of the fugitive vessel.
Instead, approximately ten light-minutes out, the lead ship spun in its own length, a move that I would not have attempted in a skimmer, let alone a full-sized trading vessel. It sprayed a mass of sparkling particles, then arrowed back toward the station. Their full afterburners were on, causing them to dump velocity at a dangerous rate. I had done something similar in my racing ship. It required a sophisticated combination of forward and reverse thrust, along with wrenching the helm into a 180° change of heading. Both the turn and the deceleration were dangerous to the very structure of the ship.
“What are they doing? Why did they do that?” I demanded. “Are they trying to kill themselves?”
“No one knows, sir. Speculation is rife. I can show you a list of 3,206 guesses made by the LAIs aboard the station.”
I waved an impatient hand.
“No, thank you. I would rather make my own guesses. What are they doing there?”
By the time they reached the space station, the Moskowitz seemed to be creeping, though I knew that was an optical illusion. The ship was still moving at a tremendous rate. Out in the distance, Oskelev completed the bootlegger’s turn, then had to mimic the slowdown on approach. But minutes before the Rodrigo could catch up with it, the Moskowitz crashed into the side of Way Station 46. Its nose buried itself into a hatch, whose orange chase lights immediately turned red.
“Way Station 46, open the hatch next door to the Moskowitz,” Plet’s calm voice ordered. In a moment, the Rodrigo appeared in the video pickup, and smoothly sailed into the open lens like a bird returning to the nest.
“Well done, Oskelev,” I said, releasing the breath I had been holding.
“Would your pilot like a job?” Obie inquired. “I know a long-haul transport firm specializing in high-value goods that would pay top credit for a being who can handle a ship with that skill.”
“I doubt they could afford her,” I said. “But if she ever left the navy, I might ask my cousin to take her on.”
“Your cousin? Lady Jil? Why would she need a driver trained in evasive maneuvers?”
“No, my cousin the emperor,” I said. “Oskelev is the best pilot I have ever seen. I am proud to serve with her.”
The video switched to the inside of the damaged landing bay. No one emerged from the damaged ship. The still-active engines should have been howling in atmosphere, but there was no sound.
“What happened to the audio?” I asked.
“Negotiations under way, sir,” Obie explained. “It keeps anyone else from interfering on the airwaves. Anybody on the same circuit used to throw in their own two credits. It caused a mess a few times when kibitzers goaded the spacers under siege into a suicide attempt.”
“Sensible,” I agreed, though it was frustrating not to be able to tell what was going on. I sat back. I would know soon enough.
When we reached the scene of the crime, so to speak, Obie decanted me a meter from the door of Bay Delta 47m. I leaped out. With a thrill of terror, I realized the hatchway was open a hand’s breadth. I went to peer inside. At that moment, an enormous force hit me from the left, bringing me down to the deck of the corridor.
“My lord, you gotta watch it!” Nesbitt breathed in my ear. He had been the enormous force in question. He helped me to my feet and whisked debris and dust from my clothing. “They could shoot at you!”
“Have they started a firefight?” I asked, with intense interest.
“No, sir,” he said, his good-natured face drawn in concern. “Lieutenant Plet tried to talk with them, but they just babble back at her.”
“There you are, my lord,” Parsons said, appearing at my shoulder as closely as though he were a seam in the fabric of my tunic. Station Manager FitzGreen was with him, as was the rest of my crew. “I see you have been released.”
“And not a moment too soon!” I said. “We were crowded into a padded cell!”
“Was it that troublesome, sir?” Parsons asked, with little overt sympathy in his expression. I dismissed my fit of pique as being unnecessary under the circumstances. I was, after all, where all the interesting action was taking place.
“Well, not very, to be honest. It’s a nice room, if plain. And large enough, physically speaking. Psychologically I felt the walls closing in on me, but I put that down to the company I was keeping. The seats are fairly comfortable. I don’t see that it is used very often, which is a tribute to you, Director FitzGreen,” I added, with a nod to my host. “You must experience very few emergencies here. Well done.”
“Thanks, sir, uh, my lord,” the station manager said, looking pleased, if a little puzzled.
“What is the concern with this absconding crew?” I inquired. “What has been determined? I saw the video of the chase, and very exciting
it was, too.”
“It was weird, Thomas,” Oskelev said. “They couldn’t possibly beat us to the next jump point. I don’t know if they were trying to commit suicide-by-navy or what. Then they turned right around and came back.”
“I am very glad you are all intact,” I said. “And the ship?”
“Fine,” Oskelev said, with a wave of her big, furry hand. “Not a scratch. I could have done a barrel roll coming into the bay. The landing pads are huge. I could have parked beside the Moskowitz in the same berth. It was a snap.”
“But you went off on a jaunt without me! I am crushed.”
My friends expressed their sympathy, but Plet paid no attention to my emotional pyrotechnics. In fact, she paid no attention to the rest of us at all. She and Parsons pulled the station manager aside for a private confabulation. The rest of us attempted to listen, but with little success over the ambient noise. The Moskowitz’s engines were still whining, as though it would leap up and attempt another escape at any moment.
“Of course, of course,” the big man said heartily. “Anything to help the Emperor, naturally.”
Never one to take anything for granted, Plet determined to cross all T’s and dot all I’s, plus other archaic marks of typography.
“You will grant us full access to the computer systems, all records dating back at least six months before the incident that resulted in the arrest of the pilots and their crews in the Autocracy?”
The big man all but bowed and scraped to her easy authority.
“Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am.”
My ears perked up at once. I saw a chance to do something for the Copper family.
“May I help with the search?” I asked, striding over to them. Parsons headed me off and steered me away from Plet. “I am very good at detail work, and I have sorting programs that will pick up even a trace of discontinuity. I downloaded it to keep up with the vendors for my last party.”
“I am afraid not, my lord. You are needed in a different capacity.” Behind him, Plet beckoned to Nesbitt, Redius and Anstruther. I attempted to sidestep Parsons to join them, but he proved nimbler than I. “The crew is capable of undertaking this search.”
“But you are talking about the people I have sworn to assist! I would be remiss if I did not give all my energy to setting them free.”
“You shall assist them, my lord, in good time. But now, please, focus upon the other problem at hand.”
I regarded him with impatience.
“And that is?”
“Negotiation of surrender, my lord,” Parsons said. “We have been speaking to the crew aboard the Moskowitz. Some of the crew are concerned that our arrival meant that they were to be arrested for outstanding warrants.”
“Warrants?” I asked. “For what offenses?”
“I have perused the Infogrid files for the crew members in question. They are wanted for varying degrees of disturbing the peace on five to eight different ports of call apiece throughout the Imperium.”
“Really?” I asked. “But these are non-extraditable offenses. Ask me how I know. Go ahead, ask.”
“I am aware of your antics on Rumdisa, sir,” Parsons said.
I was dumbstruck. I felt my mouth drop open. I hastened to rescue my lower jaw.
“Curse it, Parsons, they were stricken from the record after I paid the magistrate’s fine! Post-departure, as it happens, but that is not important. Have I no secrets from you?”
Parsons’s face was a sheet of blank paper, uninscribed with any descriptive phrases to mention.
“I am not at liberty to discuss the matter, sir. May we return to the problem at hand?”
“What is the problem? Just show them the statutes. They are safe if they get in touch with the magistrates’ offices in each port and pay up. It may sting a bit—the fines did get larger the longer I waited—but that’s all they wanted. Apart from promising I would behave myself in future,” I added.
“They do not believe us when we assure them that they are safe from prosecution or arrest. They are returning from the Autocracy, not going in. They are threatening to blow up their ship if we do not withdraw. They already owe substantial damages to the space station. To destroy a larger portion would only cause more dismay, and possibly several unnecessary deaths.”
“So why me? I have no talent in hostile negotiations.”
Parsons raised his eyebrows. “But you have a natural ability to get along with others,” he said.
I understood. A thrilling little frisson ran up and down my spine.
“You want me to get to know them?” I asked, making the second to last word redolent with delightful secrecy. “To reveal myself to their eyes?”
“That is the intention, sir,” Parsons said. “It is not without its dangers. The ship has defensive capabilities. You will be in harm’s way. An accidental bolt or slug could damage or kill you.”
“That’s so unlikely, Parsons,” I said, indicating my visage with a careless hand. “One look at these honest and handsome features, and they will throw open their doors to me.”
Plet pushed away from where she and the others were conferring with FitzGreen. By their actions, my crew was swapping files among their viewpads with the station manager. She homed in on Parsons like an angry missile.
“Commander, I told you I was against this. I recommend using sleep gas in the air intakes. That is what the manual suggests.”
“It does not work in forty percent of cases, Lieutenant,” Parsons said. “The newest generation of air filtration systems captures all particulate matter, even as small as the aerosolized chemical. That would leave enough of the crew conscious to activate defenses.”
“A ship that old won’t have the newest technology! We have access to their maintenance records. We know what they’ve installed.”
“We have the official records,” Parsons reminded her. “This crew is accustomed to making running repairs under difficult circumstances. Nor can we state with certainty that they did not upgrade their equipment by bartering with another merchant vessel beyond planetary communications satellites. Can you guarantee any of that did not take place?”
Plet aimed the full force of her gaze on him.
“It’s dangerous, sir! We can’t risk his life. There are other ways to gain access to the vessel.”
“They will take too long,” Parsons said. “We need the crew to surrender as swiftly as possible.”
“Why?” Plet’s normal ivory complexion had taken on hues of red and purple.
“Because now is when they are the most vulnerable,” Parsons said. “Did you hear their voices? They are temporarily chemically impaired. Lord Thomas’s natural charisma should be all that is needed to negotiate their surrender.”
“That’s absurd.”
I smiled.
“They won’t hurt me, Plet. I represent the Emperor.”
She turned to face me. I saw the worry in her usually icy blue eyes. I didn’t realize she cared so deeply for my safety. I puffed up my chest and raised my chin heroically to look as confident as possible.
“Oh, very well,” she said. “I just don’t want to have to report to the First Space Lord that her son was injured under my care.”
“You won’t have to make such a call,” I said. “And if you do, I will inform the maternal unit it was all my own fault. She is accustomed to hearing that.”
But I did not feel so confident as Oskelev and two of the station employees took me aside to prepare me for the confrontation. A large Croctoid in a protective suit with full breathing apparatus on his back sprayed me with a reflectant that would turn back laser bolts. It was the only protection that I could be afforded. Plet could not wrap me in armor against slugthrowers or edged weapons. I must appear as natural as possible, from my face to the shape of my body. My only contact with the outside was a small bone-conduction communicator inserted into the flesh behind my left ear. Parsons tested it to make certain I could hear them and they could hear me, though the s
tation had other means of eavesdropping in each bay.
Once prepared, I stood at the hatch of Bay Delta 47m, breathing the flame-retardant-filled air. I surrendered my naval-issue sidearm to Oskelev. Once within the landing bay, I would be outnumbered by the enemy. My weapon would be a danger chiefly to myself. While I was skilled at martial arts, I doubted whether an entire crew of desperate merchants would take it in turns to attack me, as they did in the digitavids. I took several deep breaths, steeling myself up to take the last step into the chamber. I had the authority of the Emperor on my side. Parsons was counting on me. I refused to fail him. I was beginning to dread the moment. Parsons believed I could negotiate an end to the standoff. Could I? I was no diplomat, as so many had reminded me in the past. My hands quivered slightly as I touched the lucky circuit inside my viewpad’s pouch.
“You don’t have to do this,” Plet said. It was the closest to panic I had ever seen her.
My fears fled in the face of her concern. I could not back away now.
“I do,” I said. “If Parsons said that it must be done, I trust him to know that.”
I drew two more deep breaths, then, as if I were a star performer about to step onto the stage, I nodded to the jumpsuited station employee who stood at the controls. She palmed the glowing panel. The doors parted. I stepped through.
CHAPTER 26
I had devised a mantra for myself from the luckiest words in my guidebooks’ varied lexicons. To the uninitiated, it would sound nonsensical, but I admit it gave me comfort. “Nin ran ya om.”
The wounded ship hunkered before me like a pet dog that was all too aware that it had soiled the carpet. Its nose was dented, revealing the edges of several of its protective ceramic panels. Debris of all kinds, including shards of shielding, tools, drinks containers and scraps of cartons lay in eddies on the floor. The protective black iris that contained the bay’s atmosphere had a number of vanes missing, but an even darker substance, the station’s emergency sealant, had flowed into place and formed a temporary wall. Fans pumped warm air into the chamber, but I could still see my breath.
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