Chapter One
Captain James Drake paced the bridge while he waited for the aliens to respond to his offer. An hour had passed since he’d powered down his plasma engines and hailed the Hroom fleet. There had been no response since then, but the aliens had been busy.
Even as Blackbeard sat motionless in space, the two biggest Hroom ships—both sloops of war—aimed their long, pointed snouts directly at Blackbeard’s side, ready to ram her should she attempt to flee. The other five Hroom ships—small destroyer-like craft and midrange patrol boats—circled Blackbeard warily. Sensors detected Hroom pulse cannon and serpentines warming up. Drake’s computers picked up a flurry of encrypted subspace messages outbound from one of the sloops, which he took as the alien flagship.
“What the devil is taking them so long?” he asked, stopping in front of the viewscreen, as if staring at it would materialize the Hroom general.
“Is that a question, sir, or are you simply musing to yourself?” Nyb Pim asked.
Nyb Pim was a Hroom himself, and Drake’s pilot. He’d been the one to speak to the alien general when Blackbeard arrived in the system. Blackbeard was not hostile, Nyb Pim promised, was no longer even an Albion warship. She’d mutinied from the Royal Navy, had overhauled her systems in the San Pablo spaceyards, and had been on the run ever since. They had valuable cargo to share with the Hroom, something that might change the course of the war.
“I was musing,” Drake said. “But if you have an answer, go ahead and share it.”
“Humans are notoriously deceptive,” Nyb Pim said. “The Hroom naturally suspect that you are lying.”
“We’re only one ship, Pilot. We’re practically helpless.”
“That is why they suspect a trap. It seems an obvious ruse. That they cannot see how you would spring the trap is all the more alarming.”
“Sir,” Commander Tolvern said, looking up from her console. “The Hroom are hailing us.”
Drake let out his breath, relieved that the waiting was over. “Put them on.”
“The caller has identified himself as General Mose Dryz,” she said. “Would you like to take the call in the war room?”
Mose Dryz? That was not good news. The general had been leading empire forces during the battle of Kif Lagoon. His plodding maneuvers had allowed Drake to split his own fleet in two, sending Captain Rutherford through the asteroid belt and then pinning the general’s forces until Admiral Malthorne arrived on Dreadnought. Drake was surprised to hear that the Hroom general was not only still alive, but commanding a new fleet.
Drake looked around the bridge. His crew was jumpy, nervous, especially the subpilot, Henny Capp, who rubbed at the tattooed lions on her right forearm and muttered to herself. Capp was one of the former prisoners freed in the mutiny; she would know nothing about Mose Dryz or the Battle of Kif Lagoon. Maybe that was for the better. He didn’t need her any more anxious about the aliens.
But taking the call in the war room would send the wrong signal, indicating that he had something to hide from his crew. “I’ll take it here,” he said. “Put him on.”
Tolvern connected the call. The view of space and the lurking alien warships vanished, replaced by a glimpse of the bridge of a Hroom sloop of war. A tall Hroom looked back at him through his wide, liquid eyes. He wore a white, toga-style tunic, with a gold sunburst on the chest indicating his rank as general. A circlet of black iron ringed his smooth head, a coronet indicating blood kinship with the empress, if Drake remembered correctly.
Drake turned to his pilot. “Tell him again that we have peaceful intentions, that we have something to give him that might end the war.”
“You can tell me yourself, Captain Drake,” Mose Dryz said. “I speak and understand your language.”
His accent was thick, and “your” became stretched, elongated into “yooor.” But there was something else that caught Drake’s attention. The light was low and red on the alien bridge, and he hadn’t immediately taken note of the general’s skin color. He noticed it now, and he wasn’t the only one; Capp muttered a curse, and Tolvern frowned deeply and typed in a quick message that blinked on Drake’s console. He knew without glancing down what she was going to warn him about.
General Mose Dryz was a sugar eater. A Hroom’s natural skin tone was reddish violet, or, more rarely, a deep, bruised purple. But long exposure to sugar bleached out the natural pigments. The Hroom staring back from the alien bridge was so pale and pink he must have been eating sugar for years. What would the general say if he knew what Drake was carrying in his science lab?
“Where is the rest of your fleet?” Mose Dryz asked.
“I don’t have a fleet. This ship is alone. We do not fly the Albion Lions, we are renegades.”
“You have flown this deeply into the empire alone?”
“Not alone,” Drake confessed. He wasn’t sure how much the Hroom already knew, and thought it best not to lie. “I was traveling with a pirate frigate named Orient Tiger, smuggling tyrillium. And we came briefly to the aid of a Royal Navy cruiser that was under attack by an unknown alien race. Since then, we have traveled alone, yes.”
“I think you are lying. Either some or all of this is false.”
“It isn’t, I assure you.”
“You are wearing the uniform of the Royal Navy of the Kingdom of Albion. Yet you claim to be—what word did you use?—a renegade. This is an outlaw, yes? A traitor?”
“I am not a traitor to Albion, only an enemy of Lord Admiral Malthorne, who I believe has unjustly broken the treaty between our two nations.”
“It is unjust, you are correct in that,” Mose Dryz said. “You forced this treaty on us under unequal terms. But to break it so soon is no surprise. We have come to expect treachery from Albion. A false treaty, lies, while you position your forces for a new campaign. And this is why you have come, yes? To draw my attention while your navy attacks us elsewhere?”
“No,” Drake said. “I told you—”
“You claim to possess something that will end the war. What is it?”
Drake hesitated. He’d meant to explain what he had, and then gain assurances that he’d be allowed to depart in peace once he sent it over. A sugar antidote, to end the addiction crippling the Hroom Empire. Together with the antidote seized from Malthorne’s estate, Drake would send over Science Officer Brockett’s notes about how to replicate the formula. His duty would be done; let the Hroom make of the antidote what they wished.
But this Hroom was an eater. And most eaters did not want to be freed of their addiction. Mose Dryz would probably destroy the antidote, and that would be the end of it.
“Who is your commanding officer?” Drake asked.
The general blinked his large, wet eyes. “Why do you ask?”
“I want to speak with him before I hand over what I’ve brought. Who is he?”
“I will not tell you.”
That was typical for a Hroom. Rather than lie, they would refuse to answer when they didn’t want to share information. Drake respected that, since he preferred the truth himself.
“I can’t give this to you, General. We fought at Kif Lagoon.”
“Yes, I know. You were the Albion general.”
“More or less. I was the flag officer until Dreadnought arrived. Given our history, I would prefer to speak to another Hroom.”
“You do not respect me? Because we fought, and you defeated me? Do I understand you correctly?”
“No, that isn’t it at all,” Drake said. He thought the meaning had been clear enough. “But you might harbor certain thoughts—”
“Harbor? A spaceport? I do not understand.”
“No, ‘harbor’ is a metaphor, a comparison. You might be holding certain thoughts of revenge. That is all I mean. I would rather talk to someone I didn’t fight.”
Fight . . . and defeat. That went without saying. Drake wasn’t being entirely honest—this was mostly about the general’s sugar addiction—but there was some truth in it. A whiff, anyway.
“You mean that revenge is on my mind?” Mose Dryz sounded thoughtful, if Drake was interpreting his tone correctly. “The battle is over. My anger has . . .” He seemed to be searching for a word, then made a gesture with his long fingers like ‘poof.’ Vanished, dissipated.
“All the same, can you tell me how to contact your superior officer? I’d like to speak with him if I can.”
“I have no superior officer, Captain Drake. I am the military leader of all of the forces still commanded by the empress.”
“What do you mean, still commanded? Is it true there’s a civil war in the empire?”
Mose Dryz didn’t answer the question. “You claim you have brought me something. You will give it to me, or I will assume deception and attack. This is not a negotiation.”
“At least let me give it to you directly. Once you have it, its safekeeping will be in your hands, not mine. Come over to my ship. I’ll show you what I have and how it may be used.”
“I will not do that. I do not trust you, James Drake, and I do not trust my safety on board your ship.”
“I give you my word as an officer and a gentleman.”
“That does not mean anything to me. Your customs as to what is honest and what is not are so—”
Mose Dryz said something in Hroom, and Drake looked to his pilot. “What did he say?”
“There’s no exact translation,” Nyb Pim said, “but it means something like ‘arcane,’ or ‘inscrutable.’ An attempt to understand something that cannot be explained. And I do not believe the word of an officer or gentleman translates into Hroom, either. Not its direct meaning.”
“You tell him. Explain that I fully meant what I said.”
Nyb Pim unfolded his seven-foot height and came over to where Drake sat in the captain’s chair. He looked up at the screen and spoke in his strange tongue, with its whistles and hoots. The general responded in shorter phrases.
“He says I have been corrupted,” Nyb Pim told Drake. “He does not trust me, either.”
“No, I do not,” Mose Dryz said. “James Drake, you will give me this object, or you will not be allowed to leave.”
“I’ll give it to you,” Drake said. “But I must give it to you in person. If you won’t come here, I will travel to your ship with my pilot and my science officer if you can promise in turn that we won’t be harmed or detained.”
“I will not make such a promise.”
“Why not? Surely, you could agree to a parley, a truce.”
“What if you behave with treachery?” the general asked. “What if you are lying about bringing something, and it is some other trick or game?”
“Very well. So long as I behave honorably, will you promise not to harm or detain me, my ship, or any of my crew?”
General Mose Dryz stared back for several long seconds, as if puzzling through the offer and parsing it for potential lies. “Yes,” he said at last. “That is a condition I will agree to.”
They discussed the logistics of the meeting, then Drake ended the call. The general, with his pale, sugar-eating skin, disappeared, replaced by a view of the circling Hroom warships framed by a bright, unflickering mantle of stars. Out here in deep void, his safest option would be to turn around and run for his life. But he had traveled too far for that now.
“Smythe,” he said to the tech officer, whose job had been to watch his instruments for unusual Hroom activity during the meeting. “Call the lab, tell Brockett we’re leaving in fifteen minutes. Pilot,” he added to Nyb Pim. “You feel comfortable visiting the Hroom ship?”
Nyb Pim nodded solemnly. “Yes, sir.”
Drake now turned to Tolvern. “That leaves you with the bridge, Commander.”
“You don’t think the general will try anything while you’re away, do you?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t expect trouble, no. But if there is, I’m counting on you to handle it.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Drake put a hand to his sidearm. “I guess I’ll be leaving this behind.” His fingers touched the captain’s bars on his uniform, and he sighed. “And I suppose that wearing the red and black onto their ship is an unnecessary provocation.” He eyed Tolvern. “The general seemed agitated by the uniforms. It is an unnecessary provocation. Do you mind terribly if I ask you to change out of your uniform, in case we need to pull you up on the viewscreen while I’m over there?”
“No, sir. I figured as much. With your permission, I’ll go change my clothes now.”
Drake nodded. “Dismissed.”
He watched her go and sighed again. He and Tolvern were the only two left on the bridge who still wore their Royal Navy uniforms. Some of the mutineers had been freed prisoners and had never worn uniforms to begin with, while the rest had either swapped their uniforms for civilian dress in the mining colony where they’d put in for repairs, or even earlier, in the San Pablo yards. After San Pablo, their ship had been so altered that she was no longer a Punisher-class cruiser, and she no longer displayed the Albion lions. Instead, above the bridge, they’d welded plating taken from a pirate frigate, that boasted the ominous skull and crossed sabers. Drake had rechristened her Starship Blackbeard. Drake meant the name ironically, still bitter at the circumstances that had driven him from the navy. But it was no surprise when the name stuck. Half the crew were pirates to begin with. The other half had become pirates.
He told himself this as he retreated to his quarters to change out of his uniform, but when he was dressed in simple trousers with a gray pullover shirt, he stared in the bathroom mirror, feeling morose. He was about to meet his former enemy, a Hroom general and lord, and he wasn’t even in uniform.
Someone knocked on the door. It was Commander Tolvern. She held clothing.
“This is for you, Captain.”
She gave him a sleeveless vest—tan canvas with leather trim, brass buttons, and leather loops to hook them with. It reminded Drake of one of his father’s riding jackets, but with Old Earth maritime flair.
“Where did you get this?”
“I bought it when we put in for repairs. Grabbed your jacket from the laundry and had this vest tailored to fit.”
“But why?”
She took it back and started putting it on him. “I’ll show you.”
“I really don’t think—”
“James, enough of that. For once, don’t be so stubborn.”
He stopped at her use of his given name, and let her put it on him and button it up. She left the top two buttons unlooped, then led him into the bathroom where he could see himself in the mirror. He wasn’t entirely satisfied—it did not replace his smart, red, military jacket, trimmed with black—but it did make him look more dignified, like a sea captain, perhaps. Prosperous and of good breeding.
Tolvern had lingered behind while he studied himself in the mirror, and now she came into the bathroom holding his captain’s bars, which she pinned to his collar.
“Look at you now. Don’t you feel better?”
“Say it that way, and I sound vain.”
“I wouldn’t say vain. But you’re proud. You know your station in life, and you are determined to maintain it.”
“Such insight into my soul,” he said lightly.
Tolvern raised an eyebrow. “Give me a little bit of credit. You’ve been like this since you were a boy. I grew up on your father’s estate, remember? I watched you riding by with your hounds and your gun. My mother used to comment when you rode past that this was what a young man of good breeding looked like.” She straightened his jacket. “And now, you look a proper gentleman again.”
“How much did this cost? I should reimburse you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. It’s a gift. Anyway, I was spending some of my hard-won loot and thought I’d buy myself some new clothes. I’ve been waiting for the right moment to take off the uniform.” She shrugged. “I figured I may as well get you something, too. I knew it wouldn’t be easy for you, but a nice captain’s jacket would help.”
“Thank you, Jess,” he said. “That was very thoughtful of you.”
Drake looked her over, noticing now that she was wearing finely cut civilian trousers tucked into knee-high black boots, with a new belt around her slender waist. She had a short jacket over a trim long-sleeved shirt.
“Very nice,” he said. “That’s a becoming look for you.”
Tolvern blushed and looked away. She touched the com link at her ear. “Hey Brockett, are you ready? Yeah? Then get yourself to the pod. The captain will be there in two minutes.” She ended the call and looked back at Drake. “Ready, sir?”
He straightened his jacket, felt the empty spot where his sidearm should be. “As ready as can be. It’s time for me to meet these Hroom and give them the gift that will cement my position as a traitor.”
Chapter Two
Jane’s cool computer voice came into the pod. “Twenty seconds to launch. Prepare for rapid acceleration.”
The yellow light pulsed above the door, and Drake checked his restraints out of habit. Nyb Pim sat in his oversize chair, an extra belt across his chest, looking through the window and into the void. Brockett waited with his eyes closed, his lips moving as he counted down to himself.
“Ten seconds,” Jane said.
“King’s balls,” Brockett said. “A sloop of war. Wow.”
“Remain calm, this is no time to get agitated,” Drake told him.
“Five seconds.”
Drake closed his eyes. For a moment, he was back in orbit around Albion, ready to be launched toward the prison ship that would take him to the helium-3 mines, where he’d been sentenced to two years of hard labor. False charges, and a joke of a court martial. He now knew that Admiral Malthorne had framed him, and since then the villain had murdered Drake’s sister and imprisoned his parents. As soon as he was finished here, he was on his way back to Albion to free them.
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 jamming 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?”
“I can’t offer an alliance. I’m a renegade, a declared pirate, and Lord Malthorne is determined to start another war.”
“He has already started it.”
“I know. And I can’t stop him,” Drake said. “So I can’t offer you an alliance.”
“That is good, because I cannot offer an alliance, either. Neither can the empress, not at this time. And it is not the war with Albion that prevents it, though that is a part.”
“Because there’s another war, isn’t there? A Hroom civil war, that’s what I’ve heard. Is it true?”
“There is always a civil war,” Mose Dryz said. “Since humans arrived and gave us sugar, there is always some part or other of the empire in rebellion. But this time, it is different.”
“What is happening this time?” Drake asked.
Mose Dryz stood silently for a long moment, looking contemplative. When he finally spoke, he didn’t answer the question. “There is something else I can give you in trade.”
“I didn’t ask for trade, you understand that? This is a gift. Perhaps you will remember this down the road, but I give it to you freely.”
“So you have said.” The Hroom turned his deep, liquid gaze to Brockett. “You are clearly a skilled scientist, and perhaps you can make something more of this than we have. A tissue sample—can you . . . how do you say . . . ?” He said something to Nyb Pim.
“He wants to know if you can sequence a genetic code.” Nyb Pim said.
“Of course,” Brockett said. “I’m a geneticist by trade, and Blackbeard has a great lab, all the tools I need.”
“What kind of tissue sample?” Drake asked.
“How do you call them? Apex? Yes, two samples from enemies killed in battle. Our people are working on them, too, but so far we have made little progress. So if your scientist thinks he can make something of them, I will share.”
Brockett’s eyes lit up. “I’ll sure try. Yeah, this is great. Happy to tell you what I find, too, if the captain will let me.”
“We’ll make of it what we can,” Drake told the general. “If we find anything useful, we’ll let you know.”
“Very well. I will send you back with the samples. I suppose that is all. You may return to your pod now.”
Mose Dryz turned as if to go, then hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else.
“Yes, General?” Drake asked.
Again, silence. Brockett opened his mouth, as if something had just occurred to him about the tissue samples, but Drake lifted a hand to hush him. Let the general think, let him fill the silence himself.
“I should not tell you this,” Mose Dryz said at last. “But these people are my enemies, as well as yours.”
“Apex?” Drake asked.
“No, not Apex. A Hroom faction. They must not succeed, or their next step will be to destroy me and all Hroom who think as I do.”
“Succeed in what?”
“There is a death cult in the empire navy,” Mose Dryz said, “worshipers of the dark wanderer, the god of death.”
Drake thought back to the temple platform outside Malthorne’s estate on Hot Barsa. “Lyam Kar. Yes, I’ve heard of the god of death. This is his prayer room, right?”
“Yes? Then you know he is a jealous god. He preserves those who honor him and destroys those who do not. The Hroom people have dishonored their most important god—this is what the death cult says—and they wish to cleanse our worlds. They will put all of the sugar eaters to death, for a start. Do you know how many millions, how many billions would die? More than Albion has ever killed or could dream of killing.”
“You could kill all the eaters, but sugar would still exist,” Drake said. “Someone would smuggle more in, and it would start all over again.”
“That is why they will also destroy the sugar worlds. Hot Barsa, San Pablo, Antilles. And of course, the biggest sugar world of them all. It does not grow sugar itself, but it is the heart of the trade and the source of the cult’s anger.”
Drake stared. “You mean Albion.”
“Yes.” Mose Dryz held his gaze. “This is what I offer you in trade, Captain James Drake. A warning. The death cult means to destroy Albion. They have assembled a massive fleet of sloops of war and loaded them with fissile material. It is a one-way mission—they do not intend to return. They do not wish to fight your navy or battle your orbital forts, they will aim at your home world and bomb it.”
“Disseminate the antidote,” Drake said. “That will undercut this cult. They’ll have no reason to kill sugar eaters, and no cause to attack Albion with a suicide fleet.”
“It is too late for that. They have already left. They cannot be contacted or recalled. Nobody must know their course, because they must arrive via the most circuitous route possible to lessen the chance that they will be detected by your Royal Navy before they enter the Albion system. But when they arrive, they mean to turn Albion into a radioactive wasteland.”
Chapter Three
HMS Vigilant was only an hour from her last jump point and still accelerating when she drew the attention of a hungry star leviathan. Captain Nigel Rutherford had just gone down for his sleep cycle when they recalled him urgently to the bridge, and by the time he’d thrown on a uniform and rushed to the helm, the leviathan had homed in on the cruiser’s plasma engines and was giving chase.
Commander Pittsfield was in the captain’s chair, but he sprang to his feet with a look of relief and moved aside for Rutherford to take the helm. The leviathan stretched across the viewscreen, the body eight hundred yards long with ropy tentacles stretching several miles behind it. Violet plasma vented from its nozzle.
“How the devil did this happen?” Rutherford demanded, glaring at Tech Officer Norris, one of Malthorne’s loyalists. Sweeping a system for star leviathans was routine upon coming out of a jump.
“He says that he looked,” Pittsfield said dryly, “but he claims to not have found anything.”
“It was lurking in that gas giant,” Norris protested. “It must have been dormant. We can’t pick them up when they’re dormant, you know that.”
“Right, of course, it was dormant,” Rutherford said sarcastically. “So it popped out of its dormant state and fired up its nozzle. Just like that.” He narrowed his eyes and glared until Norris looked away. “This one was awake and lurking. You missed it.”
“Sorry, sir.”
“Scan its belly. Let’s see how hungry it is.”
Norris brought the viewscreen to a higher resolution. A closer inspection confirmed that it was in its feeding state. When dormant, a leviathan tucked in all its parts until it looked like a fat, bloated whale, but when it entered its feeding state, it uncoiled until it resembled a monstrous squid, like a kraken from ancient legends. Once, Rutherford had been on Dreadnought when Malthorne’s battleship fought off one of the monsters. A tentacle had pierced the tyrillium armor, plunged through two decks, and been hacked off by marines as it groped for fissile material. After the fight, Rutherford joined the crew in examining the severed tentacle. Six feet thick of oozing gelatinous flesh enveloped a core of wires and circuitry. Nobody knew what alien race had created the things, or to what purpose. Perhaps they’d evolved from some lower technology.
This particular leviathan was skinny, almost emaciated. No hope that it had fed recently and would make a half-hearted attempt to haul them in. It must have come in from deep space, traveling for decades or even centuries through the void. Leviathans digested metal and plastic, but fuel, explosives, and especially fissile materials were its primary targets, and the reason leviathans chased ships. Thank God they were so rare.
“Are there any other warships in the system?” Rutherford asked.
“Unfortunately—” Norris began.
Rutherford cut him off. “I was talking to the commander. I want you to communicate with engineering. Shunt power from the shields and ready countermeasures. Caites, get me the gunnery and see what we’ve got that might help.”
“No, sir, there aren’t any warships,” Commander Pittsfield said in answer to the question. “There are no Royal Navy vessels in this system except Vigilant.”
“Can we return to the previous jump point? It can’t follow us through.”
“No, sir,” Pittsfield said. “The leviathan has spit up plasma spores around the jump. A whole web of them. They’ll gum up our engines and trap us if we try to go through.”
“Sir, may I suggest something?” Norris said.
“No, Norris. You may not. Do what you were told.” Rutherford turned back to Pittsfield. “What is our fuel situation?”
“Low. Not critical, but we don’t have much to spare.”
“I don’t want to outrun it only to burn through so much fuel that we can’t make the next jump.” Rutherford glanced at Lieutenant Caites, who had been speaking quietly into her com link. “Any word from the gunnery?”
She looked up. “We have no fission weapons on board. They were expended in the bombardment of San Pablo. Nothing else is big enough to drive off the leviathan—that is the opinion of the gunnery, at least.”
Rutherford frowned. “I see.”
That brutal and possibly criminal bombardment of the Hroom continent, as ordered by the lord admiral, had not only precipitated a new war, but had left him bereft of the only weapon that could drive off the leviathan. But what could Rutherford have done, disobey a direct order?
“May I offer a suggestion, Captain?” Caites asked.
“Yes, of course.”
“Wait,” Norris said, looking up. “How come you’ll listen to her and not me?”
Because she is not an idiot.
And because Rutherford had promoted Catherine Caites himself, had brought her on board after the initiative she’d shown tracking down the mystery of Apex. Norris, on the other hand, was one of Malthorne’s toadies, foisted on Rutherford to assure his loyalty when he faced his old friend, James Drake. And Rutherford was now fairly certain that it was Malthorne who was the traitor to Albion, not Drake and his crew.
But Rutherford had no wish to become a tyrant. He needed to put aside his anger.
“One moment, Caites. Yes, Norris?”
“What about lasers? We have a fifty kilowatt, and we could use it to blind the leviathan’s sensors, maybe even burn off some of its tentacles.”
“No, that won’t work.” Rutherford glanced at Caites, then turned to Pittsfield. “Commander, how long until we fall in range of the leviathan’s spore cannons?”
“Ninety-seven minutes,” Pittsfield said.
“Why not?” Norris persisted. “It’s not like the thing has tyrillium armor or anything. Why wouldn’t it be susceptible to laser fire? We have an hour and a half, we could concentrate the laser on one spot. If we hurt it enough, it might leave us alone.”
Rutherford sighed. “Norris, a star leviathan can brush through the corona of a star, for God’s sake. A 50-kilowatt laser wouldn’t even tickle the thing.”
“Oh.”
Caites had waited while Norris rambled, but she’d been shifting from one foot to the other, leaning forward. She was steady, but still young, and Rutherford had learned to recognize when she was eager to share information. He made his way to her station.
“What is it, Lieutenant?” Rutherford asked.
“Look at this, Captain.”
Caites had apparently been running through scans of the system, perhaps looking for other ships that might be bribed or bullied into helping them if there were no Royal Navy vessels about. Unlikely, as the Hades Gulch system was unpopulated, except for a small mining colony. And since Hades Gulch was on the edge of the Omega Cluster, which had no jump points into it, few ships had cause to pass through. This one space lane led to the Gryphon Shoals, where Vigilant was supposed to rendezvous with Harbrake and the rest of the task force.
Rutherford leaned over her shoulder and amplified the map. It showed a small, rocky planetoid, unusually positioned between two gas giants. Perhaps an escaped moon, it had a small moon itself, nearly a third as large as the planetoid. Orbiting around them both was a strange double ring of tiny asteroids.
“That ring isn’t natural,” Caites said, “What you’re looking at is debris from a Hroom fleet.”
“Debris? There was no battle out here.”
“Not in the most recent fighting. This is from the Third Hroom War, Queen Ellen’s time.” Caites scrolled her finger across the screen, bringing up text. “An Albion fleet was chasing them, and several sloops smashed into that small moon while the Hroom were performing desperate evasive maneuvers.”
Rutherford eyed Caites with new appreciation. “How did you know where to look? I’ve never heard of this battle—couldn’t have been a pivotal one. Are you some kind of military historian?”
“No, not really. I’d heard of the Battle of Hades Gulch, but didn’t know much about it. But there are several ships out there—a salvage operation seems to have taken up position a couple of years ago. Mixed Ladino and New Dutch.”
“Do any of them have weapons?”
“Nothing big enough to tangle with a leviathan. Couple of frigates, some unarmed vessels the size of my old torpedo boat. The planetside base has a small cannon and two missile batteries, but still, nothing to speak of. What they do have is a pair of nukes on the surface. Reactors, I mean, the modular stuff. It powers their operations.”
“Oh,” Rutherford said. Then, with new appreciation. “Oh. Fissile material.”
“We’re three hours from the salvage operation,” she said, typing on her keypad. “We’ll need to accelerate to get there before we’re caught, and that means we’re back to the fuel problem.”
“Yes, but once the leviathan is feeding, it’s no longer our problem. We’ll have time to stretch the ram scoops for a couple of days. Send this to Pittsfield.”
“I just did, sir.”
Rutherford turned it over in his head as he returned to his chair. He imagined the panic in the salvagers as he tore past with a ravenous star leviathan in pursuit. Their panic might serve as an additional distraction, but that felt unnecessarily cruel. No sense being brutal about it.
“Commander Pittsfield,” he said, “contact the salvage operation. Strongly suggest that they run like the devil himself is after them. Warn them we’re about to drop a leviathan in their lap.”
#
A few hours later, the leviathan had closed to within a few thousand miles as Vigilant rushed toward the salvage operation. Small mining craft, scout vessels, and box-like asteroid scrapers had been fleeing in all directions like rats boiling out of the hold of a burning ship. One small vessel had been unable to detach itself from a Hroom hulk it had been salvaging, and its workers launched themselves out in an escape pod that was picked up by one of the larger mining ships before it fled.
By the time Vigilant tore past the planetoid and its small moon, every man and woman had either fled or hunkered in some deep hole to wait out the catastrophe. Rutherford couldn’t just tear through—the leviathan might not notice all the other juicy morsels to feed on—so he hooked his ship in a big arc, just out of reach of the monster’s tentacles—and swooped back toward the planetoid and its moon, shedding speed.
“It’s spitting spores,” Pittsfield warned, his voice tight and nervous.
“One more pass,” Rutherford told the pilot. “Take us right through that debris.” He got the gunnery on the com. “Drop some ordnance right next to those reactors. Make them light up.”
They came through again, and this time the gunnery let loose with a barrage of torpedoes and missiles, aimed not at the leviathan, but at the planetoid. Light flashed on the dusty, frozen surface, and giant columns of debris exploded, drifting up and up before slowly raining down under the world’s weak gravity. The leviathan was now so close that it was probing with its tentacles, trying to snag Vigilant, and spewing spore globules from its mouth, but now it hesitated. It swung one arm and looped it around the nose section of a drifting bit of Hroom wreckage, which it pulled toward a suddenly gaping maw. After munching the wreckage, it seemed to spot the undamaged nuclear reactors and dropped toward the surface.
This was Vigilant’s chance, and she tore off into space, accelerating again. Even as they fled, Rutherford kept a wary eye on the leviathan. It landed on the planetoid. Miles-long tentacles tore at the surface, throwing up boulders the size of small hills as the beast stuffed the reactors, the mining buildings, and any other ores, fuel, fissile material, or equipment it could find into its mouth. With both the debris of the Hroom fleet and the remnants of the salvage operation to feed on, Rutherford supposed it would be sated and shortly venture off into the void, never to be seen again by any living being.
#
With the time lost evading the leviathan and collecting enough fuel to limp through the jump point, Vigilant would be three days longer in leaving Hades Gulch than planned. Rutherford sent subspace messages to the Admiralty and to Captain Harbrake to explain. The Admiralty wouldn’t be happy to hear about the destroyed New Dutch operation; to keep the peace, Albion would no doubt feel compelled to offer compensation to the affected salvagers. The fleet counted on New Dutch and Ladino colonies and mining operations for refueling and emergency repair and couldn’t afford to aggravate them while trying to fight the Hroom Empire.
Rutherford was still ten hours from the final jump out of this cursed system when they spotted a Hroom fleet on the opposite side. Norris, duly chastened because of his failure to spot the leviathan, had been anxious to properly execute his duties, or it might have passed unnoticed altogether. The fleet comprised six sloops of war, entering through a jump point that led from the Fantalus system. The Hroom vessels quickly cloaked themselves and vanished from long-range scans, but not before Lieutenant Swasey—Rutherford’s pilot—was able to chart their course.
The Hroom were apparently crossing the system on their way to a jump point that would take them into the deep void, a region of space not on any of Rutherford’s charts. The jump points in that section of the deep void were constantly shifting and had not previously led anywhere useful. Presumably, the Hroom had a destination in mind, but without better data, Rutherford could only speculate.
The enemy was headed away from the empire worlds, that was one safe guess. Based on the general flow of jump points in these parts, the most likely course was toward one of Albion’s home worlds: Mercia, Saxony, or Albion herself.
But why? And with only six sloops? That was a strong force, but hardly overwhelming. Even if Albion were unprotected by the fleet, six ships wouldn’t be sufficient to fight the planet’s orbital fortresses long enough to bombard the surface. And away from the planets, HMS Dreadnought alone could fight six sloops to a standstill. Give the admiral’s battleship a few destroyers and corvettes, and it would be a slaughter.
Still, it was strange to see the empire on the offensive this far from their home worlds. Strange, and unsettling. Rutherford thought briefly about sending a subspace to Gryphon Shoals and ordering Harbrake to come through. Vigilant would move to intercept the enemy while waiting for Harbrake’s forces to arrive. But Rutherford was low on fuel, and he had disregarded orders for long enough already. Let him make the rendezvous first, find out what Malthorne was up to, and then worry about six stray sloops of war.
Chapter Four
As soon as he left the Hroom, Drake felt the stress and pressure lifting from his shoulders. Ever since seizing the sugar antidote from Lord Malthorne, he’d felt as though he’d been carrying sandbags on his shoulders. He’d been torn between the moral imperative of freeing the Hroom from their sugar enslavement and the need to protect Albion from a rejuvenated empire. Drake had made his choice, and now General Mose Dryz had the antidote.
Drake now had two things on his mind: freeing his parents from York Tower and punishing Malthorne for killing his sister Helen. Malthorne was a slaver, a warmonger, and a murderer, and somehow, Drake would bring him to justice. But first, free his parents, get them to safety.
He led Blackbeard carefully through the Hroom systems, wary of running into the death cult faction the general had warned him about, but when the ship reached the frontier systems, he stopped taking unusual precautions and made his way directly toward the New Dutch world of Leopold. Catarina Vargus had recommended Leopold, claiming that there were always freebooters, mercenaries, and other adventurers lurking about its spaceports, looking for work. Pirates and smugglers brought their ships to Leopold’s yards for repair and supplies.
By the time Blackbeard came into orbit around Leopold, nearly five weeks had passed since they’d left Catarina and Orient Tiger. The planet stretched dry and hazy below them, the surface cut by massive brown ranges and dotted with small, salty seas—more like large lakes, really. A few patches of green-and-gold vegetation stood out here and there, marking the limits of human settlement. Only a few million humans and Hroom lived on the whole planet.
It may have been a hot, dusty rock, but Drake’s crew was anxious for landfall, from Commander Tolvern down to the lowest deckhand. The enlisted sorts had blown through much of their earnings from the tyrillium barge before leaving the last port, and what money had remained seemed to have found its way into the hands of people like Carvalho and Lutz, who had an uncanny way of winning at cards and dice. The two men were willing to loan back their winnings, of course, so that the crew could enjoy shore leave. Drake didn’t care who owed what to whom, so long as the peace was held.
He had no need to land Blackbeard, and it was safer to keep her in orbit. Instead, a shuttle service carried people and goods back and forth to the surface. Tolvern organized a lottery to distribute the twenty-four-hour passes evenly over the four days the ship was to remain in orbit.
Drake ordered Tolvern to rig the lottery. He didn’t want Capp and Carvalho on the ship together when he and Tolvern were on the surface. He trusted them more than he used to, but not fully. Capp complained about this. Couldn’t she swap with someone else and go down at the same time as her lover?
“I need you with me,” Drake told her. “You’ve got an eye for recruiting—you can tell me who to trust and who not to trust.”
“That’s true, yeah. But Cap’n, me and Carvalho was thinking—”
“There’s a bonus in it for you.”
Her eyebrows went up. “Bonus?”
“Money. Fifty guineas, to be precise.”
That settled it.
#
There was a fuzzy line between pirate, smuggler, freebooter, and general adventurer here on the frontier, but as was usually the case, the ones who made a killing were the ones who kept their heads down and supplied the rowdier sorts. Most of the money on Leopold seemed to be flowing into two ports on opposite hemispheres, one high in the northern latitudes, and the other on a peninsular continent in the south, surrounded on three sides by a shallow, briny sea.
The northern hemisphere was cooking in the height of summer, so Drake went south. The shuttle carried him, Tolvern, and Capp to a small settlement named Brinetown. The buildings were red mud brick, and from the air, Brinetown looked like a low-slung tent city alongside a shallow bay. Dry berms divided the bay into squares, each one a mile or two across and shaded an unnatural color: red, purple, or sickly green. The shuttle driver said they were evaporation ponds to extract dissolved minerals from the sea. As the shuttle came down, a vast flock of pink birds lifted flapping from the water’s edge, and as one bumped off the windshield, Drake was surprised to see that they were Old Earth flamingos.
The shuttle landed at the spaceport on the edge of town. A motley collection of spacecraft stretched across the tarmac or sat in hangars, these latter visible through open bay doors. Many of the ships were no larger than torpedo boats—salvage vessels, cutters, asteroid scrapers, and the like—but there were several larger frigates and schooners. Armed men patrolled the perimeter of these ships, eyeing each other warily, and Drake was again glad that he hadn’t landed Blackbeard; he’d have needed to guard her at all times.
The air was so dry it seemed to suck the moisture from his lungs when the three of them stepped onto the tarmac. No wonder Nyb Pim had declined shore leave—the Hroom would have withered to a husk in this climate. At least it wasn’t overly hot, thanks to their arriving near the shortest day of the year. He paid the shuttle driver, who waved them back so he could lift off.
“Well,” Capp said, scratching at her lion tattoos as they shaded their eyes to watch the shuttle blasting skyward. “Here we are. Now how do we get to town?”
“What do we need in town?” Drake asked.
“Gotta find taverns and the like,” Capp said. “You know, where these blokes we need are hanging out. Like on San Pablo.”
“Seems like everything and everyone we need is right here,” Drake said.
“But—”
Tolvern patted Capp’s shoulder. “The captain isn’t one for bars and taverns. I told you, this isn’t shore leave. This is work, it’s why we’re putting gold in your pocket.”
“Don’t mean it can’t be fun, too.” Capp looked glum. “Look at me. What did I get dressed up for?” She wore tight pants and a leather vest unzipped enough to show cleavage. She wore polished, black, knee-high boots with silver buckles. Eye shadow gave her eyes a smoky look.
“I was wondering the same thing,” Tolvern said. “Were you hoping to meet someone? Wouldn’t Carvalho be jealous?”
“Of what?” Capp sounded baffled.
“Of, you know, giving it to someone else,” Tolvern said.
“Giving it? Listen to you, all prissy like. Why should he care? I ain’t gonna run out of it or nothing. King’s balls, Tolvern, where are you from, anyhow?”
“Civilization. You might have heard of it.”
Drake shook his head, mildly amused, and walked toward one of the larger hangars to his right. The others followed. As he walked, he took in the spaceships, the lorries shuttling workers and supplies around, the cranes moving pieces of decking and other heavy equipment. He’d been hoping to spot a familiar ship, but Orient Tiger was not in evidence. He’d known that, of course. He’d sent coded subspace messages upon entering the system, and Catarina had not responded. Still, one could hope. Catarina clearly knew the world, and it was as good a place to put in for repairs and resupply as any.
A lorry with six-foot-high tires rumbled out of one of the hangars, pulling a frigate on a wheeled trundle. The aft portion of the ship, from the side-mounted cannon to the engines, had the clean, sleek profile of a Royal Navy corvette, but the prow was the stubby nose of some other ship, painted to resemble a shark’s toothy snarl. Painted across the side in big block letters: OUTLAW.
“I wonder if that’s Robertson’s old ship,” Drake said.
“Who?” Capp asked.
“Edward Robertson,” Tolvern filled in. “Got rammed by a sloop a couple of years ago, and the crew abandoned ship. Captain sent around a salvage operation after we’d driven off the Hroom, but someone had already snagged the wreckage and made off with it. We always wondered if it was pirates.”
Capp grinned. “Good for them. Royal Navy don’t need it half so bad.”
“I could use a corvette,” Drake said. “Or a half-corvette. Let’s see who owns her.”
But when they approached, men with shotguns and hand cannons moved quickly to block them.
“Who is the captain of this ship?” Drake asked.
“What’s it to you?” one of the men asked. He was broad shouldered, with a square jaw and a mustache with waxed ends. He wore leather bracers on his arms and a saber in a sheath at his side instead of a firearm.
“I would rather speak to your captain. Is he available for inquiries?”
“Well listen to you, talking all posh like,” the man said, and his companions laughed. “Now get the hell out of here.”
“Shut your gob,” Capp said. She put a hand on her sidearm. “Nobody talks to the cap’n like that, you hear?”
The men tensed, and Drake pulled Capp back. There were six armed men guarding the frigate, and he hadn’t come to fight, anyway.
Capp removed her hand from her weapon, scowling. “Wouldn’t hurt him none to be civil, anyhow.”
“That goes for all of us,” Drake told her. He turned back to the fellow who seemed to be the leader of the guard detail. “I’m looking to hire a couple of ships, and I have ready money to spend.”
At the mention of money, the men looked less eager to fight and more intrigued. “When?” the leader asked.
“Immediately.”
“Ah, then nope, we’re already hired on for some business or other,” the man said. “Don’t know what, you’ll have to ask the captain.”
“May I speak with him?”
“Not now, you can’t. The officers went into town to buy provisions. Won’t be back until tomorrow, I figure. If you’re looking to hire someone, you could talk to Pete Paredes, I know he’s looking for work for his crew. Just got back off salvage, and his gear was wrecked up good. That business in Hades Gulch, you hear about it?”
“No,” Drake said. “We were beyond the frontier.”
“Bloody leviathan. Figure Paredes will tell you about it. That’s his ship over there.” The man hooked his thumb at a lanky schooner sitting on the tarmac, where two men were scraping barnacles while two others worked on deck plating with blow torches. The schooner was half the size of Outlaw, which in turn wasn’t as big as Catarina Vargus’s Orient Tiger. Twelve crew, max, not much larger than a navy torpedo boat. Drake would need twenty ships that size to do any good.
“I suppose we should talk to this Paredes fellow,” Drake told his companions, when the men had returned to guarding the frigate, still inching its way across the tarmac. “But let’s see if we can hire Outlaw first. Wouldn’t do us any good to land Paredes, only to find out the two captains are enemies and we’re stuck with the lesser ship.”
“I suppose we’ll have to go into town after all,” Tolvern said.
Capp rubbed her hands together. “Now we’re talking.”
“I forgot to get the name of Outlaw’s captain,” Drake said. “It will be easier to find out now, rather than ask around town like idiots.” He made to approach the frigate, but Tolvern put a hand on his forearm and stopped him.
“I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said. “Look.”
The rear of the frigate was now visible as the lorry turned toward a gaping hangar to the left. The name of the ship had been painted again above the plasma engines, but this time, below “OUTLAW” was a smaller word:
Vargus.
Chapter Five
Vargus, Jess Tolvern thought bitterly, as a jitney carried them toward town on a dusty, brush-lined road. Camels grazed the thorny bushes along the road. Others rested in the shade of an abandoned lorry, its tires hauled off, the windshield smashed, and the paint scoured by the blowing sand.
Why that name again? They’d fought the elder Captain Vargus twice: once, defeating his ship, Captain Kidd, and a second time, when the pirate captain attacked them in the San Pablo yards. And then Captain Drake had become entangled with the man’s daughter, Catarina Vargus. Tolvern had bumbled into Drake’s quarters thinking she’d seduce him, only to find him naked in the shower with Catarina.
The crappy thing about an embarrassing memory—the most shameful part of shame, so to speak—was how it could spring forth in full glory at any moment. It was hard to stay angry forever, or envious, or any other negative emotion. But recall an embarrassing incident, and there it was, leering, until you were blushing all over again.
Now she was remembering the look on Catarina Vargus’s face when the woman stepped out of the shower, naked and beautiful, to see Tolvern struggling to button up after having stripped down. What a nightmare. Thank God, Vargus had covered for her. If the captain had found out, she’d have never been able to face him again.
Catarina Vargus must be in Brinetown with a new ship, and from the anticipation on the Captain’s face as the jitney rumbled among the red mud brick buildings, he was anxious to see her again. Tolvern was not.
Capp sat in the back of the open jitney with Tolvern, while the captain sat up front with the driver. She studied Tolvern. “Something the matter?”
“No, nothing.”
“You ain’t happy to see Vargus again, are you?”
“I haven’t given her a moment’s thought,” Tolvern lied. She pulled the computer out of her hip pocket, and brought up an info sheet about Brinetown.
Drake glanced back. “Anyway, we don’t know that it’s her. Probably not, in fact. Catarina has other ships, and I don’t imagine she’d leave Orient Tiger unless she’d found something better. Outlaw is an inferior vessel.”
“That lady is a pirate,” Capp said. “And when you’re a pirate, sometimes you don’t got no choice in the matter. Coulda been the navy roughed her up, and she had to find something else.”
Tolvern scrolled through until she found something useful. “We’re looking for a place called The Apple Pie Trading Company.”
Capp snorted. “What the—? Did you say ‘apple pie’?”
“It’s just a name,” Tolvern said. “A place where people meet to do business. They’re not actually bartering baked goods.” She scrolled again. “They offer food and drink, though.”
Capp looked suspicious. “What kind of drink?”
“Don’t worry, Capp, it’s the usual libations, I’m sure—grog, hooch, fire water, demon rum, gin.”
“Whew, you had me worried there, for a minute. ‘Apple Pie Trading Company.’ King’s balls, what a name.”
Brinetown wasn’t a big place, maybe five or six thousand people from the looks of it, and the jitney driver dropped them in front of The Apple Pie Trading Company a few minutes later. The establishment was a restaurant on the edge of the sea, with most of the patrons sitting on a patio beneath a big sun awning, looking down at the bay. Outside and below, scrawny dogs trotted along the shoreline, fighting with crabs over dead fish that had washed up. The smell of brine and rotting seaweed wafted in.
The patrons were mostly disreputable sorts, as expected. They drank tankards of grog and cracked the claws of some strange, lobster-like crustacean, sucking out the meat and tossing the empty shells and the legs over the railing. Tolvern’s eyes were drawn to one table in particular. There she was, Catarina Vargus, her shoulder thrown back to show her neck, a drink in one hand. She’d cut her black curls to a bob, like Tolvern’s, but the curve of her chin was the same, the lines of her neck. A wiry, middle-aged Ladino sat with her, gesticulating as he spoke.
Capp nudged Tolvern. She stared in dismay, waiting for Drake to finish talking to the proprietor, who insisted on taking their drink order before allowing them to sit. As soon as Drake looked up, he’d spot her.
Why? Brinetown was small, no more than a few thousand people, and the whole planet only had a handful of ports. So it wasn’t that big of a coincidence on the surface, but if you considered all the other systems, all the other places Catarina might have gone, why here?
“Hey, Cap’n,” Capp said. “You see what we’re seeing?”
Henny Capp seemed to have one volume level—loud—and her voice drew the attention of Catarina Vargus and her companion. They looked up, and Tolvern did a double take. It was not Catarina Vargus after all, but some other woman.
This woman was a few years older than Catarina, perhaps in her early thirties, and had an ugly scar from her forehead to her cheek and across one eye. It looked like a saber slash, and she’d lost her left eye to it. In its place was an artificial eye whose pupil dilated and narrowed as the woman studied the newcomers. She was not Catarina, but she looked awfully similar.
“Now this is interesting,” Drake murmured. “Come on.”
The woman and her companion rose warily as the three officers from Blackbeard approached. Everyone was armed, but all parties kept their hands in the open.
“Are you the bloke who was asking about my ship at the yards?” the woman asked. “Yeah, they called to warn me—did you think they wouldn’t?”
“That’s right. I’m looking to hire a few ships.”
“What for?”
Tolvern stared. That voice. So similar. The face, too. And it had said ‘Vargus’ on the back of the frigate at the yards. This woman’s accent was rougher, and that scar and artificial eye had altered her appearance, but she had to be related to Catarina.
“Are you available for hire?” Drake asked.
“Matter of fact, I’m not.” She nodded toward her companion. “Just formed a partnership with this fellow here. We’re waiting for one more bloke, then we’re figuring on heading into orbit and hoofing it out of here. You got a ship of your own? You look like it. We could use a fourth, especially if you’ve got cannon and a couple of torpedo bays.”
“Oh, we have weapon systems,” Drake said. “That’s not what we’re lacking.”
The woman looked intrigued. “Let’s hear it, then.”
She gestured at her companion, who dragged over chairs from a nearby table. Drake nodded at Capp and Tolvern, and the three of them sat.
“I gotta know,” Capp burst in. “Are you sister of that lady what’s captain of Orient Tiger? Bloody hell, you look just like her, except for the . . . ” Capp tapped next to her eye, “you know.”
“Ensign, hold your tongue,” Tolvern said.
“It’s all right,” Drake said. “I’ve been wondering the same thing. You and Catarina Vargus must be related somehow.”
They stopped as the proprietor approached with a tray holding shot glasses. It smelled like tequila filtered through an old sock. Tolvern took a sip of hers and tried not to grimace.
Capp downed hers and smacked her lips. “That’ll do the trick.”
“Yes, I am,” the woman said at last. “I’m one of the Vargus girls. Isabel—the oldest. What do you know of me?”
“One of the Vargus girls?” Tolvern asked. Wonderful.
“There are four of us. The old man loved his daughters.” A note of sarcasm entered Isabel Vargus’s voice. “You know my father is dead, right? Shot in a fight in the San Pablo yards.”
“Yes, so they say,” Drake said smoothly. “Sorry to hear it.”
Isabel shrugged. “Didn’t get along with him much, so . . . ” She downed her drink.
Still, Tolvern thought it best not to offer details. She’d been the one to kill the pirate captain. Her own gun, a lucky shot as the elder Vargus ran for cover.
“You could say we have plenty of issues in the Vargus family,” Isabel said. “Catarina gave me this.” She indicated her artificial eye.
“I’m hoping to hire your sister, too,” Drake said. “So if that’s a problem . . . ”
“Yeah, back to that. No worries about little sis, we’ll work together if we have to. But I got another thing going now.” A gesture toward her companion. “Like I was saying earlier. Why don’t you join us?”
“Unfortunately, I am otherwise engaged,” Drake said. “I will have to decline your offer.”
“In that case, give me a month, and I’ll be free for your job, whatever that is. Assuming the pay is good.”
“It is,” Drake said.
“But we don’t have a month,” Tolvern added.
“Three weeks, maybe, if we push it.” Isabel sounded intrigued, and Tolvern could tell she was having a hard time not grabbing for both opportunities: Drake’s and the one offered by her Ladino companion.
“No,” Drake said. “I need to leave now. It’s a rescue mission, and every day counts. I’d rather not arrive to find them executed because I took my time.”
“A rescue mission?” Isabel asked. “How does that pay?”
“Well enough, I promise you,” Drake said. “We’ll pay you up front.”
“There might be loot, too,” Tolvern added.
“There might be,” Drake said. “I can’t guarantee the loot. But if there is, there could be a good deal of it.”
There absolutely would be, Tolvern thought, if they could get their hands on it. Drake’s parents were imprisoned in York Tower on the edge of King Bartholomew’s palace compound. The Royal Mint kept gold and silver bullion in the vaults attached to the tower. It was the kind of loot that would make a thousand pirate captains drool. Not easy to get to, of course. Not at all.
“All right then,” Isabel said. “You lay out your job, and I’ll lay out mine, and we’ll figure out which is the most lucrative.”
“I thought we had a deal?” the Ladino said, scowling. “You’re going to weasel out now?”
“I’m not weaseling anything,” Isabel said. “ We were still discussing matters. Besides, do you really need that gear back so bad?”
“It’s not just my gear, it’s all the other abandoned stuff.”
“Pete lost his shirt during that leviathan attack a couple of weeks ago,” Isabel said. “You hear about that? Out in Hades Gulch. We’re fixing to go back to the Gulch and get what’s left of his gear, and anything else we can find, too.”
“Sounds dangerous,” Drake said. “Even more dangerous than what I’m offering, in fact. You can’t fight a leviathan.”
“Don’t intend to. We’ll scan before we go in, make sure it’s not around. Only thing is, we’ve got to be the first ones back.” Isabel lifted out of her chair. “Where is Dunkley? He went to the crapper twenty minutes ago. That’s the third guy on our team. You can make it four, if you want, or you can throw down some gold and we’ll get your thing done instead. Pete, where is he?” she asked her companion.
“Want me to go look for him?” the Ladino asked.
“Nah.”
Tolvern had been putting a few things together, and now said, “Pete Paredes? You have that schooner they were scraping barnacles off at the yards?”
“Yeah,” the Ladino said warily. “That’s mine.”
“I thought you and Vargus were enemies,” Tolvern said. “That’s what her men told us.”
He shrugged and played with his empty shot glass, before waving for the bartender to bring another round.
“Well?” Tolvern asked. “Are you? Enemies, I mean?”
“What does that mean out here?” Isabel said. “My sister gave me this bad eye, and I just told your captain I’d work with her again. Bit of bad blood between me and Pete, but we’ll work through it. No, I have no permanent enemies. I’m not like my old man, bloody fool, who got himself killed trying to get his revenge. He was an idiot.”
“Are you sure you don’t have any permanent enemies?” Tolvern asked nervously.
Isabel had been playing with the strap of the holster at her side as she spoke, and it wasn’t hard to imagine her whipping out her gun when she heard that the people responsible for her father’s death were sitting across the table.
“Nope, none. You got someone hard to work with, I’m good with that, so long as you cross my palm with silver.”
“She may not have enemies,” Capp said suddenly. “But I do.” She rose to her feet. “Dunkley, you son of a—kings balls! I was wondering if that was you.”
A man had come strolling across the patio floor, cinching up his belt. He looked pale, like he’d eaten something strange, and had one hand on his belly. No wonder he’d been in the bathroom for so long.
He studied Capp, his eyes widening in recognition. “Capp, old buddy. What are you doing out here? Thought they sent your sorry butt to the mines.”
“Shut your gob!”
“I hope they at least gave you a good flogging.”
Capp’s nostrils flared. Before Tolvern and Drake could grab her, she lowered her head and barreled forward. Her head drove into Dunkley’s belly. The man fell with an “oof” with Capp on top of him. She came up swinging. He was bigger than she was, but couldn’t seem to get out from under her, and it would have gone very badly for him if Tolvern and Drake hadn’t reached the fight. They each took one of Capp’s arms and dragged her back. She struggled and cursed.
“Ensign!” Drake snapped. “In your seat!”
Capp settled down. She pulled free and sat down sullenly. Paredes looked alarmed, but Isabel Vargus was chuckling and shaking her head with amusement.
“Ah, it’s a funny universe that brings together two old mates.”
Capp shot Isabel a look. “Don’t seem funny to me.”
Dunkley rose to his feet and felt at his jaw. “What the hell is your problem, Capp?”
“You know my problem.”
“That’s your style, isn’t it? Don’t like what a bloke says, and you punch him. What did the captain call you that time? Remind me, why don’t you?”
Capp sprang to her feet again, but this time Tolvern and Drake were ready and pulled her back down.
“Keep your temper,” Tolvern warned her, “or you’ll be off the bridge in two seconds and scraping barnacles. You got that?”
“Yeah, I got it, Tolvern.” Capp glared at Dunkley as he came and slowly sat on the farthest side of the table, never taking his eyes off her. “You know what this tosser did? I’ll tell you. He got me arrested.”
“That was your own damn temper,” Dunkley said. He glanced around the table before settling his gaze on Tolvern. “Capp stormed onto the bridge and punched our captain in the nose.”
“Gave me thirty bloody months,” Capp grumbled. She grabbed another drink from a passing tray. Her anger seemed to be deflating.
“I thought you caught him cheating at cards,” Tolvern said. “That’s what you told me.”
Capp hooked her thumb at Dunkley. “That’s what he said. Found me when I was drinking and got me all wound up, saying how the captain was cheating. You did that on purpose, Dunkley, and don’t go and deny it.”
“How was I supposed to know you’d act like a blooming idiot?”
“Enough,” Drake said. Capp fell silent.
He studied Dunkley. “If you were Capp’s shipmate, what are you doing out here?”
“My enlistment ran out a couple months ago, so I came looking for work. You know I wasn’t trying to get you thrown in the brig, Capp. And I sure didn’t mean for you to get thirty months in the mines.”
“Yeah, well. I ain’t there, am I?”
Isabel Vargus leaned back with her hands behind her head. She had a wide, slightly inebriated smile on her face. “Dunkley only showed up six weeks ago, from what I heard. Broke and looking for work. Now he’s got his own schooner. Kinda suspicious, if you ask me.”
“It was legit,” Dunkley said.
Pete Paredes snorted and downed his liquor. “Sure, it was.”
“None of our business, either way.” Vargus eyed Drake. “Well, sir. Let’s get properly introduced. This one must be your first mate. Tolvern, right? And the feisty one is Capp. I got that. You know us all by now. Who would you be?”
Drake hesitated, and Tolvern saw him formulating a story. But Drake wasn’t much more of a liar than the Hroom general, and even before he spoke, she knew he’d tell some version of the truth.
“My name is Captain James Drake, formerly of the Royal Navy, now in business for myself.”
Isabel straightened and glanced at her companions. Dunkley stiffened, but Paredes looked confused until Isabel whispered something in his ear, and then his eyes widened and he appraised them with greater attention. Isabel took in Capp and Tolvern with a more cautious look, before returning her gaze to the captain.
“So you know my family already, it would seem,” Isabel said. Another look at Tolvern. “All of you do.”
“Yes,” Tolvern said. She kept her hand where it could get to her pistol. “No permanent enemies, you said?”
“These prisoners you’re looking for,” Isabel said, ignoring the question and speaking to the captain instead, “they wouldn’t happen to be on Albion, would they?”
“Let’s say maybe they are,” Drake answered.
“And you’ve got money?”
“Eight thousand to hire your frigate, three thousand apiece for the two schooners. I’m sure that’s more than the three of you hope to get from this leviathan thing.”
“You could say that. If you can pay.”
“And if you can contact Catarina,” Drake added, “I’ll offer her twelve to hire Orient Tiger. It’s a bigger ship, you understand, more crew to pay, more expensive to repair.”
“I can reach her. And for twelve thousand, she’ll be interested.” Isabel’s mechanical eye kept narrowing and dilating. “That’s twenty-six thousand pounds. How do I know you’re good for it?”
“Your sister can confirm that I have the money. She’s the one who helped me earn it.”
Tolvern studied him. He did have the money, but after paying the crew of Blackbeard, that would clear out his massive haul in the tyrillium barge operation. He’d be left with nothing.
“That makes two frigates, two schooners, and your own ship,” Isabel said. “You still flying the navy cruiser you stole, modified with all the crap you looted from my dad’s ship?”
“That’s right.”
“Hefty little armada you’ll have there. But we’ve got to rush Albion? That’s your mission?”
“That’s right,” he said again.
Isabel let out a low whistle. “I mean, that’s good money, but it’s not exactly life changing for someone in my boots. I could upgrade my ship, set a little aside, sure. Doesn’t help if I’m dead, though. Can’t speak for these blokes, but I’m not sure even eight thousand is worth it for me and my crew, not unless you can guarantee that we’ll all survive.”
“I can guarantee no such thing,” Drake said. “There’s an excellent chance someone will die. Maybe we’ll lose a whole ship, if we’re unlucky. But here’s what I’ll do. I’ll pay you half in orbit, and half when we go through the last jump point. Then, when we finish the mission, I’ll give you another eight.” He looked at Paredes and Dunkley. “Three more for each of you. A bonus. Share it with your crews or keep it for yourself, that’s up to you. And that’s on top of any loot we take, which we will divide according to standard practice.”
This time, Tolvern carefully did not look at the captain. He didn’t have the kind of money he was promising, she was sure of that. He’d just pledged over fifty thousand pounds, of which at least twenty was offered on pure swagger. He’d have to sell his father’s estate to get funds like that, and the barony was currently in the hands of Malthorne and his cronies.
A warm breeze blew in from the sea, carrying the smell of brine and decaying seaweed. Below the patio, two dogs started fighting, snarling and barking, until someone at one of the other tables fired his gun over their heads, and they raced off, howling.
“I’m in,” Dunkley said. “For six thousand, you bet I am. Buddies again, Capp?”
Capp grunted. “Sure, I guess. Mates, buddies, whatever. That’s what Cap’n wants, that’s what I’ll do.”
“I’m in, too,” Paredes said. “I’m flat broke, and me and my crew were already planning to go sniffing around where that star leviathan was. Can’t be more dangerous than that. Besides, we saw a Hroom fleet in Hades Gulch on our way out. That’s more than enough trouble for one godforsaken star system.”
A Hroom fleet. That was strange. Hades Gulch was on the edge of the Omega Cluster, which had no known jump points into it. Where would the empire have been sending those ships?
“Well, then, that’s settled,” Isabel said. She waved to the bartender to get his attention. “Hurry up, we’re thirsty! You people eaten yet? The apple pie is pretty good if you need something other than liquid refreshment.”
“Apple pie!” Capp said. “I knew it! You hear that, Tolvern?”
“Does that mean we have a deal?” Drake asked.
“We got a deal, yeah,” Isabel said. “Assuming my sister will have you.”
Oh, she’ll have him, all right, Tolvern thought gloomily.
“Yes, I believe she will,” Drake said, his measured tone giving away nothing. If Tolvern hadn’t seen him in the shower with Catarina, she’d have suspected nothing.
The bartender set a drink in front of Isabel, and she picked it up and held it out as if in a mock toast. “Then you have yourself a fleet, Captain Drake.”
Chapter Six
There was trouble getting out of orbit. Paredes owed the yards seven hundred pounds that he was unable to cover, and the welders and crane operators took his crew captive and refused to let the schooner out of impound until someone coughed up the money. Drake reluctantly paid out from Paredes’s three thousand—an advance. Good chance that money would vanish, along with Paredes, the first time they went through a jump point.
Then, while half the motley fleet was still planetside, another ship, a pirate frigate by the unlikely name of Pussycat, showed up from the outer worlds of the system demanding a piece of the action. The captain of Pussycat, a man named Aguilar, warned that he’d alert Albion if he weren’t allowed to join the flotilla. Some on Blackbeard, Capp and Barker chief among them, advocated blowing Pussycat out of space to serve as a lesson to the rest. But Isabel Vargus said that Pussycat and her crew could be reliable, if properly paid.
Drake wanted that ship. Pussycat looked like a deformed warthog, her squat profile banged up from numerous fights and her engines undersized. But she bristled with weapons. That would give Drake a cruiser, two frigates, and a pair of schooners, and if Isabel located her sister and Orient Tiger, he’d have a third frigate. But he couldn’t make the numbers work to pay them all.
He was in the war room, drumming his fingers on the table, a message to Pussycat half composed, when Tolvern came in.
“Got another message from Aguilar,” she said. “He has someone in the yards, someone who tipped him off in the first place, and he knows Vargus is fueling Outlaw and will be in orbit soon. We’ll be ready to go as soon as Outlaw is up, and Aguilar doesn’t want to be left behind. He’s threatening to send a subspace to Albion if we don’t agree to his terms by the time Vargus takes off. That’s twenty minutes.”
When Drake didn’t answer, she pulled up a chair. “Captain, you have to decide. It’s either knock him out of the sky or hire him on. I know you want that ship, so . . . ”
“Aguilar wants eight thousand,” Drake said. “I don’t have it.”
“You don’t have half of what you promised. So bluff. Agree to his terms and figure it out later.”
“The problem is, I’ve got to hand over the last of my money as soon as we’re in the Albion system. All the money I’ve legitimately got, that is. If we get there, and I pay out twenty-six to the pirates and six to my crew, then I literally have nothing. I can’t pay another eight to Aguilar, and when I don’t come up with the money, the rest will see I was bluffing about the final payoff. The bonus. They’ll know.”
Of course, Isabel Vargus and the rest would be mad as hell once they’d risked their lives to run the forts, attack York Town, and rescue Drake’s parents. If they all turned on him, he’d be dead. But he was pretty sure Catarina wouldn’t attack him, and maybe they’d take loot from York Tower, look at the damage they’d suffered in the assault, and count themselves good. Why risk another brawl with Blackbeard that would get more of them killed?
“Is it just Aguilar’s eight thousand holding you back?” Tolvern asked.
“Well, that and the fact that he’s already proven himself a treacherous snake before he’s even joined the fleet. A true pirate.”
“Good, then he fits right in.”
Drake smiled. “Yes, it’s just the eight thousand.”
Tolvern reached below her vest and pulled out a key on a chain. She set it on the table. “This opens my strongbox in the hold. My cut of the tyrillium haul was four thousand one hundred pounds. I’ve spent less than a hundred, and the rest is in the safe. It’s yours.”
“You can’t do that.”
“No, really. What would I do with all of that money? When I think that my father is the chief steward of Baron Drake’s estate and is only paid four hundred and fifty a year, that kind of money seems unreal to me.”
“Piracy pays well,” Drake said. “Until they hang you.”
“Malthorne attacked my home, too,” she said. “The Tolverns have been treated well by the Drakes for five generations, and you can bet my father wants Malthorne punished and his old master back on the estate.”
Drake picked up the key and rubbed it thoughtfully. “Thank you, Jess.”
She blushed at the use of her given name, but Drake knew she enjoyed the familiarity, the friendship beyond commanding officer and subordinate. This was friendship she was offering him, not mere loyalty. He’d find a way to pay her back somehow.
“That’s half of it,” he said. “What about the other four thousand?”
“Ask Vargus. The other sister, I mean. Offer Catarina eight instead of twelve. It’s what her sister is getting.”
“For a weaker ship. Orient Tiger is worth more than Outlaw and deserves more. And Catarina has more crew to pay. Plus, the Vargus clan doesn’t seem to always get along, if you haven’t noticed. What makes you think she’d agree to it?”
“Because you’ve worked together already. Catarina knows you and trusts you in a way Isabel doesn’t.”
“All the more reason not to cheat her. Can you imagine me talking her into accepting eight thousand, then cheating her out of the bonus on the other side, as well?”
“James,” she said, using his given name this time. “Let’s be frank with each other.”
“What do you mean?” he asked warily.
“I know—about you and Catarina, I mean. Please, you don’t need to deny it. I know, just trust me, I know. You were lovers, and you parted on good terms. You have every reason to expect she would take a lower cut in return for being reunited with you.”
Drake licked his lips. A twinge of guilt worked at his gut. Did the rest of the crew know, too? Did they think him a hypocrite for all the times he’d warned about fraternization or frowned at Capp and Carvalho for being lovers, even as he let himself get involved with Catarina Vargus?
“I feel like I should apologize,” he said.
“We don’t have time for that, Captain. Aguilar is expecting an answer. If you don’t have one, we need to warn the gunnery there will be a fight.”
Her words weren’t condemning, but there was no hiding the frown in her voice, with more than a hint of disapproval. Of course, Tolvern would never let herself be put in such a compromising position.
“We don’t even know if Isabel will be able to reach her sister. And if she does, then Catarina might decline the offer anyway. If she’d wanted to stay with me, she could have followed us into Hroom space. Maybe she’ll say no this time, too.”
“In that case, problem solved. You give her share to Aguilar, and I keep my four thousand pounds.”
“Very well. We’ll hire this villain and his crew of pirates. Offer him eight thousand, plus the so-called bonus on the other end.”
Tolvern touched her ear. “Jane, open a channel to Pussycat.” She glanced back at Drake with a raised eyebrow. “I’m going to get really tired of saying ‘pussycat’ before we’re done. Is this Aguilar? This is Commander Jess Tolvern, of Starship Blackbeard. Captain Drake would like to hire your services, subject to the following non-negotiable conditions.”
#
Drake was not surprised that Isabel Vargus made contact with her sister in short order once money was on the line. Catarina and the crew of Orient Tiger were on their way to Hades Gulch. Catarina had apparently got wind of the star leviathan attack, and, like her sister, had decided to pick over the carcass of the salvage operation. Drake agreed to take his fleet and rendezvous with Orient Tiger there.
It took eight days of travel to reach the system, and another two to reach the small, cold planetoid and its moon where Orient Tiger was hard at work scooping up the leviathan’s leftovers. Drake was wary of the deep-space monster, but they scanned carefully and didn’t spot it. It must have wandered off.
Isabel’s ship, Outlaw, pulled ahead of the others as they slowed for the rendezvous, and arrived first, flashing past Orient Tiger in a way that seemed to irritate the younger sister. Catarina showed her guns and torpedo bays, and for a moment, it looked like the Vargus sisters would mix it up. Drake sent urgent messages, but they ignored him. It was only when he retracted his own shields to expose his main cannons that they stopped feinting and threatening each other.
Drake was in the captain’s chair when he got Catarina on the viewscreen. He’d been irritated by the bickering between the two sisters, but that vanished when he saw her smiling back at him. She was as beautiful as ever, and played with the ruby pendant resting on the swell of her breasts.
“What was that about?” he asked.
“That business with my sister? You know, sibling love. She is the older one, always wants to lord it over me. Rather a shame that I have the bigger ship, isn’t it?”
There was something else in their history, he thought, hearing Catarina speak. She sounded refined, like a lady of Albion, whereas Isabel spoke with a rougher, flatter accent. Not lower class, like Capp or some of the others in Drake’s crew, but it wasn’t the sort of accent one developed in finishing school, either. He wondered if their father hadn’t favored his younger daughter, sent her to Albion to make something respectable out of her, but hadn’t given Isabel the same opportunity. Then there was the injury and artificial eye that marred the older sister’s appearance. What was the story of that?
“So,” Catarina said, “I got your message. Can you talk openly, or do you need a private channel?”
Drake glanced at the rest of the crew on board. Capp and Tolvern were off shift, and Manx was in the science facility with Brockett, which left Smythe at the tech console and Nyb Pim in the pilot’s chair. Smythe was a tech geek and semi-oblivious when it came to human interaction, and Nyb Pim was a Hroom.
“I can talk here. What is it?”
“Money,” Catarina said. “Do you have it?”
“I have the eight I promised you.”
“Right,” she said. “I’m not too happy about that. My ship completely outclasses my sister’s—you saw how easily I flanked her just now.”
“I was ignoring all of the posturing, to be honest.”
“And I’m twice as reliable and steady in battle. But that is not what I am talking about. I know what you took from the tyrillium haul. Even figuring you’ve held onto it since we last met, that’s going to leave you short.”
Drake thought about bluffing her, too, and claiming that the Hroom had paid him off for the sugar antidote. Instead, he shrugged.
Catarina peered back through the viewscreen. “You must have a very different relationship with your parents than I had with mine, if you’re willing to beggar yourself and risk the wrath of Isabel and the rest to save them.”
“Does that mean you’ll do it?”
“For eight thousand, no. I can get an easy two thousand on this salvage job before the competition shows up, and nobody will be shooting at me.”
“Catarina, listen to me. It is York Tower. Do you know what is in the vaults?”
“It’s not worth my life.”
“Who said anything about your life?”
“James, are you trying to tell me that we’ll skate past Albion’s forts unscathed? Or will some of us die, and the rest of us be well mauled by the time we come out the other side?”
“Not unscathed,” he admitted. “But the fleet is out fighting the Hroom—”
“Not Dreadnought. She’s still in orbit, finishing repairs.”
“Not anymore. From what Rutherford said—”
“Rutherford, hah! He’s a bigger scoundrel than Paredes and Dunkley put together.” Catarina had apparently not forgiven Rutherford for fighting her during the battle with the Apex hunting party. “You know what I want,” she added. “Give me that, and I’ll gladly come along.”
Drake glanced at Nyb Pim and Smythe. The former was running calculations, and the latter was on the com, speaking with engineering about a debris field they’d have to navigate as they left the orbit of the planetoid and its moon.
“Well, James? Surely, you’ve thought about what I was telling you last time.”
Yes, he had. They’d made love on her ship, then she’d showed him scans of the planet she’d discovered in the Omega Cluster.
The planet is beautiful, James. Fertile and untouched. I didn’t want to leave. Next time I pass through, I won’t. Neither will anyone else who comes with me.
“I can’t, Catarina,” he said. “It’s not just my parents, it’s Lord Malthorne.”
“The devil take him, why do you care?”
“Because I do. Malthorne has started a new war that may see Albion destroyed.”
“So you want to remove him to end the war, or what?”
“I don’t know. I need to see what Rutherford does, first.”
“Well, then. I guess I’ll wish you all the best and hope you come out the other side alive. Oh, and be careful around my sister. She’s a predator.” Catarina smiled. “Where do you think I learned my moves?”
“Catarina, please.”
“No!” Her eyes flashed. “What I’m offering, nobody else can give you. That’s more than enough. And if you don’t want it, if you won’t take it, then you know what I need instead. Money, and plenty of it. Until then, you get nothing from me.”
He looked at her sadly, wishing he could give her what she wanted. Could promise it, anyway. He shouldn’t have hired Aguilar. Without the money he’d committed to the captain and crew of Pussycat, he could have afforded the more powerful Orient Tiger. Tolvern had convinced him that he could have both. It was a bit of foolish sentiment from the commander, thinking that Catarina had any real feelings for Drake.
Catarina sighed. “But I suppose information is free. There’s something you should know. Are you planning to go back via Fantalus, then through the Gryphon Shoals?”
“That’s right.”
“Don’t. There’s a big navy fleet running between those two systems. I didn’t see Rutherford’s ship, but there were a fair number of other cruisers and destroyers and the like. You don’t want to tangle with them.”
“Very good, thank you.” The news worried him. The other routes were circuitous and would add at least a week to his journey, but he couldn’t risk a fight with the navy, and he couldn’t risk being detected approaching Albion.
“You have time. Don’t rush your approach.”
“I don’t know if I do. I have no idea what Malthorne is planning to do with my parents.”
“I do,” Catarina said enigmatically. She smiled, and much of her charm returned. “I picked up some news from the Albion press. Your parents have been declared traitors, and they are being tried by the Crown.”
“That is ridiculous.”
“It may be ridiculous,” she said, “but surely it’s time consuming to try a baron and his wife for treason. Am I right?”
“Yes. Maybe so. Could take weeks, even months.” Maybe he did have time, after all. “Thank you, this is helpful.”
“So, which route will you take, now that Fantalus and the Shoals are closed off?”
“I don’t know. And I probably shouldn’t say it in front of you and your crew if you’re not coming along. Unless you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, I am serious about that. I’m guessing you’ll cross the Gulch, then jump to the Jericho system. That’s the only way forward unless you want to either risk that navy fleet or backtrack to the frontier.”
“Maybe, maybe not. There are other ways.”
“Don’t be coy, James, I’m trying to help you. The thing is, we just came from Jericho. I stumbled into a Hroom fleet in the system. If they had wanted my hide, I’d be dead now, but they had other business to attend to. They seemed to be headed the same direction you are.”
Drake’s thoughts turned to what General Mose Dryz had told him. The Hroom death fleet. Of course, it couldn’t approach Albion directly, either, but would be plotting a similarly circuitous route.
“You should be all right, if you can avoid them,” Catarina said. “There were several sloops, but the Hroom weren’t powerful enough to defeat the Albion fleet I saw. Or mess with Dreadnought, for that matter.”
That’s because they don’t intend to defeat the fleet. They intend to destroy Albion.
“You’d better stay out of their way, though,” Catarina added. “If you and my sister fly in parallel, running your long-range scanners—”
“Isabel doesn’t have long-range scanners,” Drake interrupted. Blast, some of his previous decisions were coming back to haunt him. “The arrays were knocked out in a fight, and it’s one of the main reasons she was on Leopold. Looking for work to earn the money for new arrays before she sets off alone again.”
“Isn’t that just like Isabel, operating on a shoestring? What about the other ships? How about that ugly frigate, the one that looks like a floating tank?”
“Pussycat? Her instruments are rubbish,” Drake said. “She is a brawler, not a chaser. Good for close combat, but if she’s out in the void, unescorted, not so tough. That’s why Aguilar was so keen to join me. He’s in no position for solo operations, either.”
Tolvern walked onto the bridge. She glanced at the viewscreen, sighed audibly at the sight of Catarina Vargus, and made her way to her seat, shaking her head. Drake thought it was time to wrap up this conversation.
“Thank you for the information. I’ll keep my scanners going, and with any luck, we’ll spot them before they spot us.”
“I’m warning you, James. If you run into the sloops, they’ll give you a good thrashing. Stay clear.”
“What choice do I have?”
Catarina grunted. “Fine, I’ll see you to the last jump point, but no farther.”
Drake blinked. “You will?”
“Two thousand pounds.”
“Two thousand for an escort? Isn’t that rather steep for support duties? We’re already plenty strong without you.”
“Strong, but with a single eye. I can’t match Blackbeard’s firepower, but my instruments are more than a match. Two thousand, and another two if we come into combat. And only until the last jump point, then you’re on your own.”
“Piracy,” Tolvern said in a loud voice.
Drake considered the offer. Catarina was right; Drake couldn’t afford to mix it up with the Hroom. It wouldn’t do him any good to get to Albion if he’d already taken significant damage. And the transit time would give him opportunities to change Catarina’s mind.
He nodded. “It’s a deal.”
Chapter Seven
Within the first half hour after recovering from the jump into the Gryphon Shoals, Rutherford had received two urgent, conflicting messages. He went to the war room to consider them in privacy. The first was from the lord admiral, ordering him to collect his task force and cross the Shoals to the far side of the system, where he would rendezvous with a second force, led by Malthorne on Dreadnought herself and prepare to jump into San Pablo.
That would form a massive fleet encompassing nearly half the capital ships in the Royal Navy. Poised at San Pablo, overlooking the smoking ruins of Rutherford’s atomic bombardment, the lord admiral could only mean to make a deep thrust into the Hroom Empire, leaving behind a trail of wrecked planets. Why? Albion was still struggling to consolidate its gains from the last war, so there was no strategic value to gobbling up more hard-to-defend systems. It was as if Malthorne intended to deliver a death blow to the empire.
There was nothing in the message about Rutherford’s meeting with Drake. Malthorne must have been steaming that Rutherford had defied him, had fought next to Blackbeard, and then let Drake and his treasonous crew go. But Rutherford had sent back so much intelligence about Apex and the new alien race’s attack on the Hroom that he knew all would be forgiven if he quietly submitted to his role in the fleet. There was still a war to win, after all. With Drake gone, Rutherford was the best captain Malthorne had left.
The second message was from Drake. Rutherford had given his old friend information on how to send him a subspace if he had important news, and now Drake seemed to have it. It took a good deal of energy to send messages via subspace, and this one was especially long.
There is a Hroom fleet proceeding toward Albion. It contains at least six sloops and intends to attack the home planet itself. You must be prepared.
I am unable to give you its course, because I am following a similar route and cannot risk the navy detecting me. Forgive my lack of trust. But the Hroom were observed leaving Hades Gulch.
Rutherford stopped reading and turned over this initial part of the message in his head. That answered one mystery: the destination of the alien fleet Rutherford had spotted after the encounter with the star leviathan. He hadn’t been able to guess their intentions. The Hroom fleet wasn’t powerful enough to menace Albion’s home system—or so Rutherford had thought—and he hadn’t been strong enough to challenge them alone. He’d passed along the sighting to the Admiralty, but otherwise continued to his rendezvous with Harbrake. Now, he knew. The Hroom really did intend to attack Albion, the fools. They must be desperate.
A message flashed in from Harbrake’s ship, Nimitz. Rutherford glanced at it. Harbrake had detected Vigilant entering the system, and was sending updated information, which Rutherford scanned, even as his thoughts remained on what he’d read of Drake’s subspace.
Six sloops of war wouldn’t be enough to defeat Albion’s orbital fortresses. Hroom sloops could orbit, bombarding the surface, but they couldn’t enter a planet’s atmosphere and escape again. Albion’s forts would be sufficient defense. To be doubly sure, Rutherford could recommend that Malthorne leave a pair of destroyers and a few torpedo boats in place. He wouldn’t even have to tell the admiral what he’d heard, or from whom he’d heard it. A simple precautionary warning would suffice.
Rutherford moved back to finish Drake’s message.
This is not scaremongering when I say that you must stop them. This fleet belongs to a rebel faction that worships the Hroom god of death. It is a death fleet. A suicide force. They do not mean to return, they mean to lay waste to the entire planet. They left Hades Gulch 63.25 hours before the sending of this message.
If Malthorne will not listen, then you must face them alone, even if this means open rebellion against the fleet. In that case, send a subspace to the following systems, and I will join you in defeating this menace. I travel with allies.
Captain James Drake, Starship Blackbeard (HMS Ajax)
This was followed by a list of several systems where Rutherford was to send messages if he wanted to reach Drake. Presumably, one of them represented Blackbeard’s true location. Rutherford closed the message, encrypted it a second time, and filed it away.
A suicide fleet was another matter. Rutherford most certainly would need to go back to Albion and take ships with him. He needed to catch the Hroom in open space, before they entered the atmosphere on their final, deadly mission.
Wait, when did Drake say he’d spotted the fleet? Had he said 63.25 hours ago? Rutherford had assumed, at first glance, that Drake had seen the same Hroom fleet Rutherford had observed in Hades Gulch. It was the same size Drake described. But that was ten days ago, and the aliens had been jumping out of the system at the time. The Hroom wouldn’t have returned, would they?
There’s a second fleet.
It made sense. A large fleet would have a hard time passing through all those systems undetected. The Hroom must have divided their force in two. If one was caught, the other might still slip through.
At least two. What if there’s a third? Or a fourth?
What if there were thirty sloops approaching Albion? Was that likely? A number that large would represent most of what had survived the last war. If this so-called death cult had such a force, they were more than a faction, they were practically the entire Hroom navy.
Rutherford stepped out of the war room. “Caites, Pittsfield, you will join me in the war room at once.” Then, to distract the others, he said, “Norris, I just received a message from the Admiralty. I’ll need you to open a subspace channel to send a reply. But I don’t want you wasting power, so scan for a likely spot before you do. Swasey, plot a course across the system, but don’t send the data to the rest of the fleet just yet.”
Caites and Pittsfield eyed him curiously as they followed him into the war room and he shut the door. He shared Malthorne’s orders first. They were to proceed across the system to rendezvous with the admiral’s flagship, and from there, jump into San Pablo.
“No doubt Harbrake has received similar instructions,” Rutherford said when he’d finished, “and will be expecting me to lead the fleet.”
“And you don’t intend to obey them, sir?” Pittsfield asked.
Rutherford didn’t want to open Drake’s encrypted message and leave a further trail for network specialists to track down later, so he paraphrased. As he did, he studied Caites and Pittsfield for skepticism, but saw none.
“So you want to know if we should disobey Malthorne and join Drake in this side expedition?” Pittsfield asked.
“That is not exactly my concern. I’d like to, of course, although we’d have a devil of a time explaining our actions. But Drake is missing a key piece of information.”
Catherine Caites was quicker than the steady, but unimaginative Pittsfield, and recognition dawned on her face. “Did you say Drake spotted this fleet two and a half days ago? And he just sent the subspace?”
“Yes, now you see,” Drake said.
Confusion spread across Pittsfield’s face. “I don’t—wait, do you mean there are two Hroom fleets?”
“At least two,” Rutherford said. “Unless the one is pursuing the other—there’s a civil war in the empire, apparently—we have to assume they’re coordinating an attack on Albion.”
“Are we sure we trust Drake?” Caites asked. “Could he be lying?”
“Why wouldn’t we trust him? It has been established that Drake was framed for his crime, and he behaved honorably when he came to our aid during the Apex attack. Our allegiance is still to Albion, the Crown, and the navy, but I see no reason to question Drake’s integrity.”
“Yes, but these allies of his you mentioned,” she pressed. “They must be pirates he hired to help rescue his parents. Do we trust them? I don’t think we do, and I don’t think we trust anyone who would hire them, including James Drake.”
Under other circumstances, Rutherford might have seen her comments as insubordinate, but it was Caites’s initiative that had brought her to his attention, and he carefully considered her opinion.
He was sympathetic to Drake’s situation. Shortly after leaving his old friend, Rutherford had sent messages to a few trusted allies. One was his uncle, the Duke of West Mercia, who was the most powerful lord on Mercia, a cousin of the king, and by all accounts an honorable man. The duke, who was married to Rutherford’s mother’s sister, was eighth in line for the throne, not far behind Admiral Malthorne himself. Rutherford asked the duke to petition the king to pardon Baron and Lady Drake.
But Rutherford could only frown at the foolishness of hiring pirates. The frontier worlds were lawless enough without putting more money, more equipment, and worst of all, more grandiose ideas, into the heads of the rabble who lived there.
“Yes, I see,” Rutherford said at last. “Hire pirates, engage in piracy, and you become a pirate, no matter the difficult decisions that led you to that point. But I don’t believe that Drake is lying so as to gain an advantage. If he were doing that, he would send us as far from Albion as possible, not draw us home.”
“Assuming Drake is telling the truth,” Pittsfield said, “there are two Hroom death fleets, apparently on a suicide mission. It will take a good deal of firepower to stop them, with or without Drake and his pirates.”
“Our fleet is filled with dunderheads like Harbrake and Lindsell,” Caites said.
“Those dunderheads are superior officers of His Majesty’s Royal Navy. You will remember your place, Lieutenant.”
“My apologies, sir. I misspoke.”
“Yes, well, they do have their limitations, I will grant you that. I would take Drake over the lot of them, but if we can’t trust his allies, where does that leave us?”
“It leaves us unable to stop the Hroom before they attack Albion,” Pittsfield said. “We have no choice but to trust them. We need Drake’s ships. And if there’s a third fleet we haven’t detected yet . . . ”
Rutherford completed the thought. “That may still prove insufficient.”
“Unless—” Caites began. “May I speak frankly, sir?”
She rubbed at the brass buttons on her jacket with one hand and tapped at the table with the other. Rutherford regretted cutting her off earlier. He didn’t want to squelch her initiative—that initiative was why he had promoted her to be his second mate. Nevertheless, it wasn’t in his repertoire to apologize for speaking gruffly.
“You may always speak frankly, Lieutenant. I only ask that you be circumspect with your language. We must not abandon decorum in our enthusiasm.” It all sounded stiff coming out of his mouth, like something his father would have said, but he thought it proper.
“Yes, sir. With all due respect, we must face these enemies with our full might.”
“Go on,” he said.
“Dreadnought, sir. If you were to tell the lord admiral, he could recall all navy resources to Albion.”
“He would demand the source of our information,” Rutherford said.
“You could equivocate, sir,” Pittsfield said.
“Equivocate?” Rutherford looked at him with surprise. This was unexpected from his staid, rule-following commander.
“Yes, sir.”
“I suppose I could. It is not in my nature, of course.” Rutherford felt the need to add that. “But I could concoct a lie about how we captured a Hroom prisoner during this business with Apex, how he told me under duress that there was a suicidal fleet approaching, and how we have twice detected them since.”
“That would keep Malthorne from suspecting Drake,” Pittsfield said. “A lie, yes, but an honorable one, given the circumstances.”
“It would also pull the entire Royal Navy to Albion at just the moment when Drake is trying to rescue his parents,” Rutherford said.
Pittsfield stared at his hands.
“Commander?” Rutherford prodded.
Pittsfield looked up. “It is the best way to save Albion. We join Drake in battling the Hroom as soon as they jump into the system, while Malthorne sets up in orbit with his own forces to mop up whatever gets past us. That seems the obvious tactical solution. Morally, I am not so sure.”
“We can’t save Drake’s parents at the expense of the whole planet,” Caites said, “but we can look for a way to shield his escape, at least. I can imagine several scenarios by which that would be possible.”
“Can you?” Rutherford asked. “I confess that I am struggling to think of any.”
“Admittedly, anything that occurs to me would be a long shot.”
Rutherford turned it over for a long moment, but in the end, there seemed to be no way to do his duty to Albion and fully protect his old friend at the same time. Faced with that conundrum, there was only one possible choice.
He touched his ear. “Norris, is that subspace channel ready to open?”
“Almost. Give me five minutes, sir.”
“Good. I will have the message for you then. Lieutenant,” he said to Caites when he’d ended the call to Norris, “open your computer. I will dictate.”
She obeyed. “Ready, sir.”
Rutherford sighed. “One moment, I need to compose it in my head, first. It isn’t easy to gracefully betray a friend.”
And then he began. A sick feeling had settled into his gut by the time he finished.
Chapter Eight
Two jumps after Hades Gulch, Drake was running through the subspace frequencies, hoping for a message from Rutherford, when Blackbeard came under attack. The ship was at the lead of a long column, stretched at intervals of roughly two million miles, to better hide the signature of his fleet. They would only draw together during the final approach to the jump point. After Blackbeard, came Isabel Vargus on Outlaw, followed by Paredes’s and Dunkley’s sloops, Aguilar on Pussycat, and finally, Catarina guarding the rear with Orient Tiger.
The next jump point was only a few million miles beyond the uninhabited system’s star, and Blackbeard was cutting through the asteroid belt, midway there. Scans had come up clean; they appeared to be alone in the system. So it was a shock when two torpedoes corkscrewed out from a cluster of asteroids a few hundred thousand miles below them and to starboard. Warning lights flashed on the bridge.
Barker’s people were alert in the gunnery, and they launched countermeasures. Manx followed with two electromagnetic pulses from the defense grid. One of the torpedoes wandered off course, but the other barreled toward Blackbeard.
Jane helpfully chimed in to state the obvious. “Torpedo impact in four minutes and twenty seconds. Class two detonation expected.”
“It appears to be a Mark-IV, sir,” Tolvern said. “We can outrun it.”
Drake studied the data that Smythe was sending across. Mark-IVs were an obsolete design last used in the navy more than three decades ago. About fifteen years ago, the Admiralty had sold several thousand of them to Ladino colonies fighting a frontier brush war against the Hroom. As soon as that conflict cooled down, many of those missiles had made their way into private hands. This pair had been launched from an asteroid about two miles long and a mile wide. A rock big enough to hide a significant pirate base.
“Not today,” he told her. “Today, we teach these people a lesson before the rest of our fleet stumbles through. Capp, bring us around. Get behind the asteroid.”
Nyb Pim was off duty, leaving Capp in the pilot’s chair. “What about that torpedo?”
“You let me worry about suppressing enemy fire. Get us behind the asteroid.”
Tolvern sent a warning to the other ships in their fleet, while Drake told Smythe and Barker what he intended. They kept working at the final torpedo, even as Jane’s updates grew more frequent, and, it seemed, more urgent sounding. Twenty seconds out, Smythe disabled the torpedo by sending it a bogus command to disarm the warhead; there were benefits to facing old navy ordnance. The torpedo slammed into the side of the ship, but didn’t detonate. Jane reported minimal damage.
Blackbeard whipped around the asteroid from behind. It was shaped like a giant, elongated potato, covered in warty eyes, one end broken off, perhaps by one of the other asteroids bumping around nearby. Lights flashed along its surface as Blackbeard flew over. Kinetic weapons, but the enemy fired too late, and they missed. Meanwhile, the gunnery had readied the main battery. As Blackbeard passed, she rolled onto her side and fired. Explosions ripped up the surface. Blackbeard was safely into space again moments later.
“How do you like that, ya dumb tossers?” Capp said. “Bloody fools don’t know what they’re messing with.”
But Drake didn’t like what he saw from the aftermath. Gray plumes trailed high over the asteroid, with the larger debris settling slowly to the surface, while dust leaked into space to form a hazy halo around it. But there was no fire or debris venting out, and a scan from this distance showed nothing on the surface that would give away a base. If not for the attack, it would look no different from a million other hunks of rock floating out here.
The crew of the dug-in base, whoever they were, now sat silent and unresponsive as Drake tried to hail them. No more torpedoes or cannon fire. Drake lurked nearby, waiting as the rest of the ships in his fleet slowed down and encircled the asteroid at a safe distance.
“Why did they shoot at us?” Tolvern asked.
“This is a trade lane, and we were cloaked. Bad instruments—they must have thought we were a merchant vessel traveling without escort. I’ll wager they intended to disable us and then send a ship to haul us in.”
It was a common pirate tactic. The survivors from the captured merchant ships would swell the ranks of the pirates until a system was fully infested and merchants were forced to chart lengthy detours. When the situation grew intolerable, the navy would send a task force to root them out. Drake had been on pirate-hunting missions before the last Hroom war.
Whoever these particular brigands were, they’d apparently realized the magnitude of their error, for now they sat silently, refusing his attempts to hail them. Moments later, he had Catarina and Isabel on a joint call through the viewscreen. He gave them orders.
“Orient Tiger and Outlaw will cover me with suppressing fire while I go in. Isabel, have the schooners withdraw to catch anyone who makes a run for it. Is Aguilar ready to mix it up? He can bring Pussycat in for close fire support if things heat up.”
“These fools are dug in pretty good,” Catarina said. “You’ll need more than one broadside to hammer them into submission. Maybe it would be better if I go down while you give better suppressing fire.”
“I am not looking for their surrender,” Drake said. “I’m going to come in low and drop an atomic bomb on their head.”
“Where did you get that?” Catarina asked.
“We’ve been carrying five warheads since the mutiny.”
“And now is when you want to use them?” she asked.
“Waste of ammo, if you ask me,” Isabel said. Through the viewscreen, the older sister’s mechanical eye seemed to glow with a strange blue light. “And a waste of good gear, too, what we destroy. Besides, I’m not sure that what they did warrants you nuking them.”
“They’re pirates,” Drake said. “They attacked us unprovoked. Destroying their base would be a favor to anyone else passing this way.”
“A fine opportunity for loot,” Isabel said. “Dumb to pass it up.”
“I agree with my sister,” Catarina said.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but we don’t have time for it.”
“Oh, come on, James,” Catarina said. “Don’t play ignorant, it’s unbecoming. Who knows what we will find on that rock, and it’s all ill-gotten gains, so we don’t have to feel any guilt in liberating it.”
Drake chewed this over, glancing at Tolvern, who had been listening to the exchange. She shrugged. Drake looked back to the two sisters sharing the viewscreen. “How long would we need?”
“Twelve hours,” Catarina said.
“You think that’s enough?” Isabel said. “A couple of hours to knock out their defenses, a few more to send an assault team. Then the salvage after that.”
“I didn’t want to be greedy,” Catarina said. “But sure, if James thinks we can spare a full day, why not?”
“I’ll give you six hours,” he said. “Then we’re on our way.”
There was some grumbling about this, but in the end, they agreed. There were already agreed-upon terms for dividing loot, and it only fell on them to make sure the other ships had no objections. Given that the schooners were going to stay away from the fighting unless someone on the asteroid tried to flee, the two schooner captains readily agreed. Aguilar was even more eager to get his frigate, Pussycat, into the fight.
Drake needed his best pilot, so he woke Nyb Pim from his sleep cycle and ordered him to the bridge to take his place at the nav computer. Blackbeard flew above the surface of the asteroid at low elevation three times, searching for the entrance into the pirate base. It was well disguised, but on the third pass, someone on the asteroid lost his nerve and tried to fire a missile. Barker’s team was ready for it, and brought the missile down before it was off the launch pad.
Blackbeard retreated a few hundred miles and hammered the missile site with cannon fire, while the Vargus sisters brought their frigates in under his suppressing fire. Isabel was even more aggressive than her younger sister, scouring away the dust with her plasma engines while her guns tore chunks from the surface. Catarina found an exhaust port and dropped a pair of bombs down it. Once she had blown a hole into the fort, she landed the ship and charged in at the head of an assault team. There was a brief firefight in the tunnels, and the pirate fortress surrendered. One of Catarina’s men was killed, two were wounded, and a number of enemies had fallen. Drake was relieved when Catarina called and he heard that she was uninjured.
The whole fight had taken less than two hours, which left another four to snag whatever useful loot they could find. Drake checked again for a subspace from Rutherford (there was none), then prepared two away pods so he and an away team could supervise the looting. He brought his toughest people, led by Capp and Carvalho. They were all too eager, and came to the away pod loaded with grenade bandoleers, pistols, and hand cannons.
The asteroid was an old mining operation and riddled with tunnels. These tunnels were stuffed with looted goods, and the pirate crews were already tearing through boxes and drinking liquor by the time Drake arrived. A brawl broke out when someone discovered a crate of Old Earth brandy, and they were soon guzzling twenty-guinea bottles as if they were watered-down grog. Heaven help them if they found anything valuable.
His own people were staring, wide-eyed, with greed and surprise at the mayhem. Drake tapped Carvalho on the shoulder.
“If you can stage-manage this foolish behavior, there will be a nice bonus in it. Can you manage without bloodshed?”
Capp pushed her way in. “You bet we can! Me and Carvalho, we’ll crack some skulls, you watch us. Hey, you!” she bellowed. “This here is a respectable operation, you hear? Put that down!”
Carvalho and two other men from Blackbeard—Mora and Lutz—waded in, elbows swinging, grabbing men and separating them. Capp started after them, but Drake grabbed her arm.
“Not you, Ensign. I need you for the main business at hand.”
“But, Cap’n!”
“Do you really want to brawl with that rabble? There’s a bigger reward if we keep our wits about us.”
She stared after Carvalho and let out a wistful sigh. “Aye, Cap’n. Lead the way, and I’ll follow.”
They found Catarina in the command center of the base, a room built into the gray rock, lined with computers and equipment. It looked like a subterranean version of a starship’s bridge. A man sat in a chair, his hands cuffed behind him, staring straight ahead, expressionless. He had blond hair, turning dirty gray at the temples, with long sideburns in the fashion many New Dutch wore these days. Catarina stood with her hands on her hips, questioning him in sharp tones. Next to her stood Nix, the fellow with the Gatling gun for an arm who had once belonged to her father’s crew.
A dead man lay on his back a few feet away, his eyes staring at the flickering lights overhead, a small hole in his skull leaking blood. His hand still gripped a shotgun. Neither Catarina nor her companion paid the body any attention as they grilled the prisoner.
The grim expression disappeared from Catarina’s face as she spotted Drake. “There you are.” She stepped over the body and plunged her fingers into Drake’s hair. “Come to take your plunder?”
Drake glanced at Capp, whose eyebrows shot up as she seemed to recognize the innuendo. “What the—?” Capp said.
“Oh, never mind me,” Catarina said. “I am having my fun with your captain, is all. He seems a little stiff, don’t you think?”
“Yeah, better be careful about that, luv, or he’ll have you scraping barnacles.”
“Will he, now? It’s not his barnacles I want to scrape.” Catarina winked at Drake, and he felt his face go hot. She gestured at the man in the chair. “This is the fool who shot those missiles. He doesn’t seem to recognize the trouble he is in. Name is Van Gelder.”
“I don’t know who told you that,” Van Gelder said in a light Dutch accent, “but I am not responsible for this base.” He glanced sideways at the ugly fellow holding the Gatling gun to his skull. “I am just a technician.”
Catarina slapped him on the side of the face. “Shut up, we know who you are. Three different people fingered you as the leader of this operation.” She turned back to Drake. “My sister is shaking them down for more information, but I thought I would have more luck if I separated Van Gelder from the others. But he’s not cooperating, so I might have to shoot him and try someone else.”
Van Gelder paled. “I’m telling you—” He looked to Drake. “Please, you look reasonable. Tell her. I’m not in charge.”
“If not you, then who?” Drake asked.
Van Gelder hesitated. “A fellow named Jones. From Albion.”
“I don’t believe you,” Drake said, “but it doesn’t really matter. We’ll find what we’re looking for. Those who cooperate will be treated well. Those who don’t will suffer the consequences.”
Catarina turned suddenly to Capp. “Cut off his stones.”
“Huh, what?”
“You heard me. Take that knife at your side and hack off this bastard’s testicles. You’re not too dainty, are you? You don’t look like the squeamish sort.”
“Sure, I guess I could,” Capp said, drawing the long blade from the sheath. It had a wicked curve on one side and a brutal, serrated edge on the other.
Van Gelder sprang to his feet, taking the whole chair with him, as he was handcuffed to it. Catarina’s man knocked him on the head with his gun barrel, and he fell on his back with a groan. Drake lifted the chair up and waited for the man to stop wincing from the blow.
“Catarina, enough of that. Capp, put away the knife. We’re not going to emasculate you, Van Gelder. I don’t have any use for torture.”
“Thank you, sir,” the man said weakly.
“But I do not have much use for the uncooperative, either. If you don’t tell me what I need to know, I will set a fire on my way out and burn out all of the oxygen, and that will be the end of the lot of you.”
“How do I know you won’t anyway?”
“I am not that sort of man. Do I look like that sort, or sound like it? No, I am not. I keep the agreements that I make. Where is your ship?”
“Ship?”
“I am losing patience, Mr. Van Gelder,” Drake warned.
Van Gelder furrowed his brow and seemed to come to a decision. “There’s an underground launch pad on the other side of the asteroid. We have two short-range scrapers armed with five-inchers. We can’t jump—neither ship has a warp-point engine.”
“Then how are you resupplied?”
“We aren’t. We’ve been hiding here for fifteen months. No ships coming and going—that would have risked the whole thing. We have a pair of heavy freighters on retainer. Soon as things turned hot, we were going to call them in to haul us out, together with all our goods. That was the plan, anyway.”
“They got hot, all right,” Catarina said.
Nix chuckled, and grinned at Capp with his gold teeth gleaming. Capp winked at him.
Isabel Vargus entered the room. She was beaming with excitement. “We found the big payload. Dad would have been proud, Cat. We’re going to be rich.”
The older sister explained. Interrogations had turned up the motherload: seventy thousand tons of partly refined platinum ore stuffed into one of the tunnels. The pirates had captured a freighter from a different operation that had stolen the ore and was making off with it, before they in turn stole it for themselves. Isabel’s man was still assaying the haul, but the best guess was that the platinum, when refined, was worth fifty thousand or more.
“We cannot take it,” Drake said. “It’s too big, there’s no way to move it.”
“Speak for yourself,” Isabel said. “I’m sure as hell not leaving it behind.”
“You can come back for it if you want to, but we’re going to complete the mission as planned. We’re not hauling around a bunch of dirt, and we’re not waiting here while we try to locate a freighter to haul it away for us, either.”
“Does that mean you’ll kill the prisoners?” Isabel asked. She stared at him, her mechanical eye dilating. “Because otherwise, it will be gone by the time we get back, and I’m not giving it up.”
“What if I let you keep it?” Drake asked Van Gelder. He lifted a hand to stop Isabel’s angry protests. “You stole it, it’s yours fair and square.”
Isabel was still sputtering. “No way. That ore alone is worth more than your whole mission, and we didn’t have to face the bloody navy to get our hands on it.”
“Let’s say it’s worth fifty thousand pounds,” Drake told her. “For the sake of argument. That’s after it’s refined. It’s not worth a fraction of that now. It’s ore, you need to get it out of here and keep from getting robbed yourself. If you break our contract, you can bet that I’ll spread the word about what you’ve got. Then we’ll see if you can keep it.”
“You’re a bastard, Drake,” Isabel said. She turned to Catarina. “Is he always like this?”
“He may be a bastard, but he’s our bastard.” Catarina seemed amused by her sister’s anger. “Come on, James, tell us what you propose as an alternative. Look at your woman here. She’s no more happy about it than we are.”
Capp had taken on a greedy, scheming look when Isabel mentioned the ore, but now she was scowling.
“It’s worth fifteen thousand,” Drake said. “That’s what I figure we would have left after we paid to haul it out of here, refined it, and sold it. A nice payday for our fleet, but it won’t go very far once you start divvying it up. And if we get attacked while shipping it, repairs could easily eat that up.”
He’d pulled the fifteen thousand pounds figure out of thin air. He hadn’t even seen the hypothetical platinum ore, and he had no idea how much it might cost to get it shipped and refined. But his confident tone seemed to give the others pause.
“Van Gelder,” Drake said. “If you give me fifteen thousand worth of bullion, supplies, and weaponry, I’ll let you keep your ore, your base, and whichever of your people wish to stay behind.”
“You’ve done fifteen thousand pounds of damage already,” he grumbled, “and killed twenty people, at least. That’s half my crew.”
“And you fired the first shot.” Drake shrugged. “But bygones will be bygones. Give the word, and the looting stops now. We’ll make an assessment, and you can help us load our ship with what we select.”
He turned to Isabel and Catarina. “Does this sound reasonable? You keep our contract, you get your share of the fifteen thousand, and everybody leaves happy.”
Isabel was still grumpy, but Catarina reminded her that the whole operation had only worked because Blackbeard and Orient Tiger were there to pound the pirate redoubt. She’d have never done it alone.
As for Van Gelder, he was not in the best negotiating position. Compared to Drake setting the base on fire on his way out, he seemed to think it was a good offer.
“Good,” Drake said, once all parties were agreed. “We’re four hours into this operation. That leaves us two hours to get the loot and go.”
#
The agreement didn’t mean that Drake needed to offer the best rates to Van Gelder and the surly people under his command. The man’s surviving crew kept hauling out various stolen goods, which Van Gelder then placed an absurdly high value on. Drake nodded seriously, listened to Capp, Carvalho, and the Vargus sisters estimate its true worth, and then took a fifty percent discount on top of that.
“Don’t try to con me, Mr. Van Gelder,” Drake said, when the man grew angry and threatened to stop cooperating. “You would never be able to sell these goods for their full value anyway.”
“This is robbery.”
“No, it’s retribution. Robbery is what you attempted when you fired those torpedoes unprovoked. Time is running out, so get moving.”
During all of this, Catarina’s crew had located the fortress’s safe; her people seemed to have a nose for sniffing out bullion. Drake only took a ten percent discount on gold and silver coins against the fifteen thousand Van Gelder owed. That seemed fair.
They ended up with sixty-five hundred pounds worth of guineas, guilders, and doubloons, plus a bunch of goods. These included the easily transportable, like liquor and foodstuffs, to the bulky: torpedoes, a hundred-kilowatt laser (Drake was thinking of Apex and the aliens’ energy weapons), spare tyrillium plating, and a six-inch cannon that Paredes took as partial payment at Drake’s encouragement. Paredes’s schooner could use an upgrade to her weak offensive capabilities. Aguilar, whose ship was already bristling with weapons, took another cannon, although when and where he would install it, Drake couldn’t imagine.
They also took on a dozen new crew members, some of Van Gelder’s more reliable-seeming people, spread among the various ships. Eleven men and women stayed behind, including Van Gelder, gloomily settling in with what remained of their base and their diminished pile of loot.
Six hours. Minor damage, one dead, and two wounded. Fifteen thousand pounds worth of bullion and goods. The Vargus sisters had been right, after all. The little pirate fleet was in a jubilant mood as it approached the next jump point. Drake struggled to keep the ships in line, insisting that they go through in the proper order.
Four of the pirate ships obeyed him, but Dunkley raced ahead in his schooner, and rather than chase him and leave the slower ships behind, Drake let him go. Dunkley jumped first. Tolvern cursed and suggested they knock him around a bit with the deck gun when they got to the other side. Teach him a lesson.
Blackbeard came through next, with the other ships following closely behind. He emerged from the jump less confused than usual, already remembering who he was and what he was doing by the time Tolvern lifted her head and blinked groggily at him.
And a good thing, too. There, lurking on the other side, was a Hroom fleet, six mighty sloops of war, their serpentine batteries hot and already firing on Dunkley’s schooner.
Chapter Nine
HMS Dreadnought filled the port window of Captain Rutherford’s away pod, long and black and bristling with guns. The bridge on the foredeck was a blue light that looked like a single, unblinking eye. From this angle, Dreadnought looked more like a monster, some creature of the deep, than a battleship. And Rutherford was hurtling toward its mouth.
There were eight molded seats in the pod, but the only other occupant was Catherine Caites, who sat to one side, hands on the straps of her restraints, staring at the blinking instrument panel opposite, her jaw clenched. For a woman who had raced through the void in a little tin can of a torpedo boat, she’d seemed surprisingly anxious about climbing into the pod, and her anxiety had not abated since Vigilant launched her at Dreadnought.
She turned and seemed to notice Rutherford studying her. “It’s not claustrophobia, sir.”
“No?”
“No, sir. There’s no engine on this thing—that’s what scares me. I don’t like being fired off like we were a cannonball.”
“We have been launched on a preprogrammed trajectory. Dreadnought already has the net out for us.” He pointed to the schematic on the pod console showing the battleship’s space hook.
“Ninety seconds to docking,” the computer said.
It was the sophisticated male baritone chosen by Rutherford for Vigilant’s computer. The crew called him Simon. Rutherford found Simon’s voice calming at a time like this, but Caites didn’t unclench her jaw.
“What if we miss?” she asked.
“Impossible.”
“It’s not impossible, it happens. Someone isn’t paying attention, or there’s an emergency.”
“Yes, I understand. I spent seventeen hours in a misfired away pod only a few months ago.”
“Yes, sir. During the Ajax mutiny. Wearing nothing but your bathrobe, sir. Everybody knows that.”
Rutherford scowled at the thought of fleet gossips laughing over his humiliating capture at the hands of Jess Tolvern. Dragged naked from the shower, tossed a bathrobe, and shoved in an away pod with several other prisoners of the mutiny.
“Then you know what happened,” he said. “I sent a distress signal, and eventually someone tracked me down and rescued me. It was an annoyance, nothing more.”
“Yes, but imagine if you’d called for help and there had been a malfunction in the computer. The call doesn’t go out. You’re in a six-by-eight egg with no engines, no way for anyone to find you as you keep flying and flying until the heat death of the universe.”
Rutherford scoffed. “Has that ever happened in the history of the fleet? I don’t mean an escape pod of a fighter or a torpedo boat, but an actual away pod.”
“It has, sir. There were several pods lost in the Third Hroom War, including one carrying a destroyer captain after his ship was crippled and he had to eject. They never found him. Wherever he went, he’s still going. Long dead, of course, but that doesn’t make it any less horrifying.”
“Escape pods. In battle. This is not either of those things.” Rutherford gave her a sharp look. “I thought you said you weren’t a military historian. How do you know this?”
“I don’t like this feeling where I’m not in control. I want something with an engine, that’s all I’m saying.”
“Are you worried about the admiral? Don’t be. I will make the proposal, but if he doesn’t accept it, you’ll be back on my bridge, no harm done.”
“Ten seconds to docking,” Simon said.
The net caught them and hauled them in. But it was only when the two officers were welcomed through the airlocks by a pair of young ensigns that Caites seemed to relax. Rutherford glanced at her, and he could see her smoothing her face, calming herself like a woman about to enter battle. By the time they entered the lift and she turned to face the doors, all sign of her jitters was gone. Rutherford nodded to himself, satisfied, and turned toward the doors opening onto the upper deck.
Dreadnought’s enormous bridge could have held Caites’s old torpedo boat, and Rutherford caught her eyes widening in surprise. There were three subpilots to assist the master pilot, a separate science station with the bank of consoles and arrays for the tech officers, and six communications specialists. Then there were liaisons for the gunnery, engineering, and the hospital, plus a separate station for the Royal Marine commander.
The lord admiral had vacated the helm and sat at a small table with several adjutants. He dismissed them as Rutherford and Caites approached. The two officers from Vigilant remained standing while Malthorne scrolled through some report or memo, rubbing at his bushy sideburns with his free hand. At last, he gestured for them to sit.
He studied Caites, and to her credit, she didn’t flinch or look away, but met his gaze coolly. During that business on the away pod, Rutherford had begun to question his decision, but he had been regaining his confidence in her since arriving on the battleship.
“You have read my report, sir?” Rutherford asked.
Malthorne turned his lizard-like gaze in Rutherford’s direction. “Yes. You have sent a number of them. I must confess to being baffled by your behavior.”
“Sir?”
“Starting with your refusal to obey my orders to return to Gryphon Shoals to pursue the traitor. An act of insubordination.”
Rutherford bit back an angry retort. He had disobeyed orders because he had discovered a new and hostile alien race. And Drake had not been where the admiral thought he was, anyway. If Rutherford had raced back with Harbrake and the rest of the task force, he wouldn’t have found Blackbeard, as Malthorne well knew by now.
“With all due respect,” Rutherford began, though he felt no respect at the moment. “I had information to which the Admiralty was not yet privy.”
“And then you met Drake. In person. You didn’t capture or kill him, but let him go on his merry way.” A touch of anger clouded Malthorne’s voice.
“He had just saved my life, and there was a pirate frigate guarding his flank. I decided that gaining information was more important than bringing him to justice.”
“Did you make an attempt, at least?”
“No attempt was possible.”
“So you say.” Malthorne grabbed a file of papers and took out a sheet, which he slapped on the table. “Now you offer this claim. What am I to make of it?”
He’d thrown down the lengthy memo Rutherford had written in response to the subspace from Drake about the Hroom death fleet. Rutherford didn’t need to read it; he’d carefully composed it before sending and had studied the words for the past few days until he’d memorized them in preparation for this meeting.
“You have not yet shared your intentions for this fleet,” Rutherford began carefully, “but there are at least two suicide task forces from the Hroom navy approaching the home worlds. We must assume that they are going directly to Albion.”
“Why? Why must we assume any such thing? Maybe they are on a reconnaissance mission, or maybe Drake is lying. Maybe he met the Hroom and has thrown in with them. This could be a feint to force us to retreat from the frontier.”
Now why would Malthorne think Drake had met the Hroom? Rutherford hadn’t breathed a word about the sugar antidote that his old friend had liberated from Malthorne’s estate.
“I do not agree, Admiral,” Rutherford said. “Drake is a traitor, and of course we will eventually bring him to justice.”
Drake is not the traitor.
No, the traitor was right in front of Rutherford, wearing the crown-and-star insignia of Vice Admiral on his shoulder and a sneer on his face.
“But Drake is telling the truth about the death fleet,” Rutherford continued. “I saw a second fleet, which confirmed it. There is no other reason for them to be so far from their defensive positions.”
“You would stake your career on it?” Malthorne demanded.
“Yes, sir.”
“Very well. Then if you say it, it must be true. Let us suppose, for the moment, that you are correct. There are a pair of death fleets. Why target Albion, why not Saxony or Mercia? They are less well protected, they would be more easily destroyed.”
The answer was so obvious as to be self-evident, and Rutherford only just managed not to snarl the answer. He kept his tone measured. “There are twenty million people on Saxony, and less than thirty million on Mercia. Destroy them, and you destroy nothing. Destroy Albion, and the war is over.”
Malthorne removed a pipe from his coat pocket. He packed it with tobacco from a tin, lit it, and puffed in silence for several seconds, a thoughtful expression on his face. Rutherford took that to mean that the danger had passed, that the lord admiral was no longer going to crush him for insubordination.
“I do not like a defensive war,” the admiral said at last. “Do you know how we lost Wessex in the Third Hroom War?”
Rutherford didn’t, or rather, he had a vague knowledge that the Hroom had landed ground troops and burned the cities of the colony planet to the ground. The planet of Wessex was still there, waiting to be recolonized, but there were too many jump points into the system, making it difficult to defend, and since there were still millions of square miles of fertile land on Albion, Saxony, and Mercia to settle, the colonization effort would have to wait for a future, more peaceful time.
“Well?” Malthorne pressed. “Do you? Don’t tell me your education is that deficient.”
“Lieutenant Caites is a better historian,” Rutherford said. “Perhaps she understands what you are searching for.” He nodded at her.
Caites frowned, and for a brief moment, he thought he’d overplayed his hand. If she’d been telling the truth and really did know little of military history, both of them would be left dangling.
“During the Third Hroom War,” Caites began, “the Admiralty ordered a defensive cordon around the home worlds. An alien fleet slipped through and attacked Albion. While we were fighting them in the Albion system, a second fleet attacked Wessex and landed fifty thousand troops while their sloops bombarded the surface from orbit. Queen Ellen ordered the survivors to evacuate.”
“Very good,” the admiral said. “After we lost Wessex, the queen ordered the fleet on the offensive. After that, we never lost another significant battle in the war. Our mistake was being too timid from the first. Never fight a defensive war against the Hroom—that is what we learned. They can attack, but they have no mind for defense.”
The way he spoke, it was as if Malthorne had been leading the fleet himself. But the Third Hroom War had ended decades ago, when the admiral must have been a child.
“That is the purpose of my fleet, Rutherford,” Malthorne continued. “I won’t use it to huddle timidly in orbit around Albion and repeat the mistakes that lost us Wessex.”
“So we will penetrate Hroom space again?” Rutherford asked.
“Yes. We’ll bypass the frontier, ignore the outer Hroom systems and seize this.”
Malthorne pulled up a map of the sector on the table console. It showed the Albion systems in blue, the Hroom as a much larger swath of red, and the Ladino, New Dutch, and frontier systems as a tranche of yellow separating the two. There was a blue dot deep in Hroom territory, which the admiral pointed to now.
“Our spies say that the local government on this Hroom planet has collapsed,” Malthorne said, “but it still has a functioning space elevator and a relatively temperate climate for human occupation. We will seize the planet, Colonel Fitzgibbons will reinforce it with six hundred thousand marines, and we’ll hold it as a forward operating base until we win the war. Take the fight to the heart of the empire.”
It was a breathtakingly audacious plan, but Rutherford couldn’t see the point. Albion had plenty of land and resources already, and even under optimistic scenarios, it might be centuries before the kingdom needed the territorial gains Malthorne was talking about. The expedition must be about slaving and the sugar trade, but these were weak justifications for another brutal war.
“Look at my fleet,” Malthorne said. “Six cruisers, eighteen corvettes and destroyers, thirty-three torpedo boats and light frigates, plus troop transports. And Dreadnought, the mightiest war ship ever built. There’s no need to hide, no need to sneak through. Let them come. Nothing can resist us.”
Rutherford couldn’t hold his tongue any longer. “It is madness.”
“Explain yourself, Captain.”
“We will take this planet, all right. And while we do, the Hroom will turn Albion into a sea of radioactive glass. They are not trying to defeat our navy, Admiral, they are trying to annihilate the Albionish people. Take the fleet, go back and meet them.”
“And if you are wrong? If your traitor friend has lied to you?”
“Then I am wrong and suffer the consequences,” Rutherford said. “Your war is delayed a few months. Is there serious harm in that?”
“A good deal of harm. Do you know how many thousands of pounds have already been spent from the Exchequer to get this fleet assembled and in place?”
“A large sum, I imagine. But it would be rather more expensive to see the Exchequer destroyed by the Hroom.”
“You have made your point,” Malthorne said.
“Yes, sir.” Rutherford sensed an initial victory; he needed to discipline his tongue to see it secured.
“How long until the death fleets arrive in Albion space?” Malthorne asked.
“According to my calculations, at least a fortnight,” Rutherford said, “perhaps longer, depending on how circuitous a route they take. My pilot says that it will take us twelve days to return to Albion by the most direct route. We can beat the Hroom there, but only if we depart shortly.”
“That shouldn’t be a problem,” Malthorne said. “I’ve sent Harbrake to clean up the pirate nests in the Shoals while we’re here, but as soon as he returns, we can set off. Let Drake help us fight the Hroom, then deal with him on our own terms.”
Yes, there was that. By sharing so much information with the admiral, Rutherford was inadvertently leading his old friend into a trap. Time to rectify that error, if he could.
“Your fleet has offensive capabilities,” Rutherford began, “but you are lacking the leadership to execute your battle plan. This is your fatal flaw. Without better leadership on our side, the Hroom may still break through. That goes double for your proposed invasion.”
The pipe dangled from the admiral’s mouth. “Excuse me?”
“Not your leadership, Lord Admiral,” Rutherford said hastily. “But you lack captains with sufficient energy and understanding to prosecute the war. Most of them are no more imaginative than their Hroom counterparts.”
Left unspoken was that Malthorne had given most of those men their commissions. He had stacked his fleet with loyalists. He’d even replaced much of Vigilant’s own crew, and there was no doubt in Rutherford’s mind that the fleet was less battle-ready as a result.
Malthorne took a puff on his pipe, seeming to relax as he realized the slight had been unintentional. “What do you suggest?”
“Offer an olive branch to James Drake.”
“James Drake is a traitor.”
“He is misguided, I will concede that. And he is a proud man, like I am, Admiral. As is, I dare say, any commanding officer who is worth anything. But if you were to free his parents from York Tower, return their lands, and give Drake back his commission with a full pardon, wouldn’t he be likely to return to service, duly chastened and repentant?”
Malthorne looked for a moment as though he were considering the offer. “No, Rutherford. This I will not do. The only commission I will offer Drake is the commission to dangle from the end of a rope. Is this understood?”
“Yes, sir.” Rutherford’s heart sank, as he imagined Drake trying to rush Albion to free his parents, while Dreadnought and the bulk of the capital ships of the Royal Navy were lurking in the system.
There was still a hope that he could secure Drake a pardon from the king himself. But now, Rutherford had to concentrate on his main duty, saving Albion from the Hroom.
“In that case, I have another suggestion for improving leadership in the fleet.” Rutherford avoided looking at Caites, who had been waiting so quietly that the admiral may have forgotten she was present.
But before Rutherford could continue, Malthorne touched his ear and cocked his head. A scowl creased his forehead. “Well, put him on, then,” he snapped at whoever was on the other end of the call.
Captain Harbrake of Nimitz appeared on the big viewscreen above the bridge. Rutherford had just been thinking of the man and his ship; he was about to suggest that Malthorne put Caites at the helm of Nimitz and put Harbrake somewhere more suitable to his talents, or lack thereof.
Harbrake’s big hound-dog eyes seemed even more droopy than usual. His forehead was bandaged, and his arm was in a sling. The computer console behind the captain was a black, twisted piece of plastic and metal. There had apparently been a fire on his bridge.
“What the devil?” Malthorne demanded.
“They caught us unaware, sir.”
“How did they manage that?”
Harbrake licked his lips. “We came at the smuggler base, sir. The one that we caught scanning us. Calypso attacked from below, and I made a direct approach with Nimitz. But we didn’t see the second base. They fired missiles and knocked through the fore shield.”
“And where was your destroyer escort during all of this?”
“I didn’t think I’d need them, sir. I sent them chasing a Ladino craft that made a run for it. They caught it, sir, but alas, they were out of position when the fighting started. Without adequate firepower, I was forced to withdraw from combat.”
“Wait, you withdrew? You didn’t even destroy the pirate base?”
“I am afraid not, sir.”
Malthorne gaped. He sputtered for a moment and then snarled for someone to cut the connection. It vanished, Harbrake’s sorry visage replaced by a view of Nimitz and Calypso lying motionless a few dozen miles off port. Malthorne ordered the zoom brought in further. Nimitz’s scars were visible from a distance, with one of the rear engines leaking plasma. Black craters pitted Calypso’s surface from stern to bow.
Rutherford could scarcely believe Harbrake’s stupidity. The man could have called ahead to soften the blow, but he’d been so craven, so afraid to face the admiral’s wrath that he’d returned all the way to the fleet before giving the bad news, and now the magnitude of his failure was visible for all to see.
The bridge was in an uproar as the admiral leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling, shaking his head in disbelief and muttering curses.
Rutherford would have been amused at this display of Harbrake’s incompetence. But instead, two of the most powerful ships in the navy had been bloodied by a feisty snake pit of smugglers, illicit miners, and pirates. Calypso and Nimitz were older-model Aggressor-class cruisers, but they should have been more than enough to handle the mission. Now, they were wounded and weakened in advance of the critical fight with the Hroom death fleet.
Malthorne sprang up and slammed his hand down on the table. Rutherford and Caites scrambled to their feet. Malthorne jabbed a finger at Rutherford.
“You! You will be my fire support. Vigilant and Churchill will do what those destroyers failed to do. I will take this battleship and clear these vermin out myself.”
“But Admiral, we don’t have time for pirates and smugglers,” Rutherford said.
“You would leave them unchallenged? Allow them to attack our ships with impunity?”
“It will take us twelve days to reach Albion if we leave now. Returning to the pirate redoubt will burn two days, at least, and we’ll have no time to prepare for the Hroom.”
“You said as short as a fortnight, possibly longer.”
“An estimate! Admiral, listen to me.”
“No, we will launch a punitive expedition and crush them. Rutherford, you have your orders.” Malthorne turned, shouting for his officers to meet him in the war room.
What had been a simple raid to stay agile while gathering the fleet had now become cause for a major punitive expedition, and that seemed to have burned all sense from Malthorne’s thoughts. No wonder he had attacked the Drake estate so viciously. Malthorne’s mind was fully occupied with thoughts of revenge.
“Lord Admiral!” Rutherford called, but Malthorne stormed off without turning and disappeared into his war room. Rutherford muttered a low oath.
Every minute spent on Dreadnought increased the delay until the fleet jumped to Albion, so he collected Lieutenant Caites, and the two of them left the bridge on their way to the away pods.
“So close,” he said, as they got on the lift. “If I had spoken one moment earlier, it would have happened. Imagine if I’d told Malthorne that you deserve to be commanding officer of HMS Nimitz just before the viewscreen popped up with Harbrake’s stupid, gaping expression. Nobody could have planned better timing. Now, when I make the suggestion, it will look like opportunism. And Malthorne will have cooled down and remembered all the political reasons he put Harbrake at the helm.”
“It is all right, sir,” Caites said. “There will be other opportunities. I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”
Rutherford fixed her with a sharp look. “This was not on your behalf, let us be clear about that. You are an obviously superior officer to Harbrake, and I wanted you at the helm of a capital ship before we go into battle. Just in case there are misunderstandings about my motives.”
“Why would there be?”
He put his hand on the button to keep the lift doors closed. “Because you are a woman and very young. And because you are—” he swallowed this down, uncomfortable saying it “—because you are pretty, people will talk.”
“That is ridiculous,” she said.
“I don’t know if you’re scoffing at being called pretty or complaining because of the implication of fraternization with your superior officer, but both of these things are true. And they are holding you back from your rightful place as captain of a Royal Navy cruiser.”
“It won’t hold me back for long.”
Caites had hesitated when Rutherford first proposed the plan, claiming to be unready for such a promotion, but he saw no hesitation in her now as she thrust out her chin and flared her nostrils.
“Well said, Lieutenant. It speaks to your good breeding.” He took his hand off the button, and the doors opened. “Now, let us get this ridiculous punitive expedition out of the way so we can go home and protect Albion from destruction.”
Something that he’d said or what had happened on the lord admiral’s deck had set her thinking, and not in a good way, because Caites was fuming, muttering to herself, by the time they reached the away pods. She scarcely hesitated before climbing into the cylinder and strapping herself in with a loud click. Shortly, they were hurtling through space on their way back to Vigilant.
Chapter Ten
Drake blinked at the viewscreen. His thoughts were hazy, like he’d awakened from sleep, but he had no headache, and his mind was quickly recognizing the catastrophic scenario presenting itself. Six Hroom sloops sat arrayed in what was known as a “Hroom claw” but was more like a sideways bowl, with the mouth enveloping Dunkley’s schooner, and all the Hroom pointed in toward it.
Instruments showed Hroom serpentines warmed up, and pulse cannon began to thump at the schooner. Dunkley belatedly fired up his plasma engine and began to nose around to escape the claw, which was about to clamp down, and hard.
“Gunnery!” Drake said into the com. “Tubes three and four. Barker?”
“Here, sir,” came the man’s groggy voice. “Tubes three and four.”
“And belly cannon. Fire all guns on the lead sloop.”
“Aye, sir.”
Tolvern was alert now and giving instructions to engineering, while Smythe lifted from where he slumped over his console. He shook his head and groaned.
“Wake up, Smythe,” Tolvern said. “I need those specs, and I need them now.”
“Got it, Commander,” he slurred, and began to fumble at his console.
Capp was cursing and rubbing her temples, but Nyb Pim was still staring around him with his big Hroom eyes, looking not so different from an addict at the end of a long sugar swoon. Sometimes, the Hroom seemed to come out of the jumps more slowly than humans.
Isabel Vargus came through the jump with Outlaw, but the shark-nosed frigate sat dead and motionless at the moment. Isabel’s crew would be staggering about for some time before they could be useful. Meanwhile, the slow, natural movement of the jump point gradually moved her away from it, opening a position for the next ship in the fleet, which would be Paredes on another schooner, followed by Pussycat and her heavy armaments, and finally, Catarina on Orient Tiger. Somehow, Drake had to hold the Hroom off until they arrived.
All this passed through his head in a moment, even as pulse-cannon fire slammed into the schooner. Dunkley’s shields held, and he twisted away like a fish evading a spear gun. The first bomblets swarmed out from enemy serpentine batteries. In minutes, the entire bowl-like space between the sloops of war would be filled with them.
“Echelon formation,” Drake said. “Break the claw.”
This was directed to Tolvern. She had already opened a channel with Dunkley, and gave orders. Meanwhile, Outlaw was coming about, and Isabel seemed to understand exactly what he intended. Her systems were still warming up—it would be a moment before she could join the fight—but she swung in to join him in the echelon. Soon, they were arranged on the diagonal, ready to charge and hammer the Hroom formation until it broke apart.
“Torpedoes ready,” Barker said through the com.
“Fire.”
A pair of torpedoes raced ahead of the ship, even as Blackbeard and Outlaw thrust forward, accelerating, to puncture the back of the formation. Enemy sloops moved to evade. Blackbeard’s belly cannon opened up with kinetic fire. The range was still too great, but the cannon fire forced additional evasive action.
Paredes came through the jump. His schooner sat dead, but Blackbeard and Outlaw were now roaring into the fight to help Dunkley. All Dunkley had to do was straighten his bow and lead those torpedoes in clearing a path. Blackbeard and Outlaw would follow, and, in a massive wedge, would break the claw.
But Dunkley didn’t obey the commands Tolvern was shouting through to him. His schooner was agile and fleet of foot, and Dunkley seemed to think he could ignore orders and shake off the attack alone. Bomblets swirled around him, and incredibly, he slipped between them and emerged from the bowl nearly unscathed, with Hroom warships still shooting after him.
Dunkley attempted to circle behind the cruiser and the frigate, where he could be protected by their guns—or so Drake could only guess, as the fool was ignoring all orders from Blackbeard’s deck. But by now, the two ships were racing in tandem to puncture the back of the Hroom claw, and they blew past him. The end result was that Dunkley had eluded the closing claw, but he dangled, exposed.
Paredes was still trying to get his own schooner moving, and the heavily armed Pussycat had just popped through and sat motionless. They were easy prey for the approaching Hroom warships. But the sloops ignored them and chased after Dunkley, instead. One of the sloops trained her guns and pounded the rear of the schooner. She wriggled and squirmed, but a sloop flanked Dunkley on either side, with two more above, and one below.
Somehow, Dunkley managed to get turned around and headed back toward the other human ships. Hroom guns filled the sky with flashing light. He took a vicious blow to his engines. The rear of the schooner flared, and a huge jet of plasma vented off into space. He kept going on sheer momentum, flying straight toward Blackbeard.
One of the sloops darted in from the side. Its long, sharp nose stabbed into the side of the schooner. There was a flash of light and a dozen secondary explosions as the schooner broke apart. The bridge of Dunkley’s ship spiraled end over end, until Hroom warships tore this largest piece of wreckage apart with pulse-cannon fire.
Catarina Vargus had come through. With the arrival of Orient Tiger, Drake now had three frigates and the remaining schooner to back him up. It was a formidable force, even without Dunkley. But against six sloops, none of them injured, he’d be in trouble. He could handle a single sloop himself, maybe two or three with the other ships in support. If Rutherford had been with him at the helm of Vigilant, he’d have liked his odds. As it was, they looked grim.
Having wiped out Dunkley’s schooner, the enemy sloops were turning, fanning out to come at Blackbeard. The Royal Navy called this formation a “throwing star,” and Drake knew how to break that, as well. If only he’d had more firepower to back him. Time for some improvising.
Drake called his remaining ships. “Pull back to the jump point. Guard the—”
“What do you—” Isabel’s voice interrupted.
“Listen to me! Guard the jump point, as if we have a capital ship coming through that we need to protect. Catarina, move forward as if you’re going to spearhead another wedge.”
They got it now and moved to obey. Perhaps chastened by Dunkley’s demise, even Paredes and Aguilar obeyed without comment, and soon they were in a passable example of the throwing-star-breaking formation that Drake had been thinking of before, or at least the first two-thirds of it. If he’d been able to add another cruiser or two, he’d be ready to face the Hroom.
“Debris,” Jane warned. “Impact in three seconds.”
A bit of Dunkley’s wreckage spiraled across the viewscreen. They braced themselves, and the deck shuddered as the debris slammed into them.
“Thanks for the warning, Jane,” Tolvern said sarcastically. “Really helpful timing.”
Warnings came through about shield damage from the hit, but Drake could tell from the strength of the impact, and from how long it had taken Jane to identify the threat, that it hadn’t been serious. He kept his attention glued to the evolving position of the enemy fleet.
The sloops pulled up when they were still eighty thousand miles distant, and there they seemed to hesitate. A human commander surely would have known Drake was bluffing. With the possible exception of Blackbeard, these were obviously pirate ships and freebooters, not any official navy. Why should the Hroom expect another cruiser to come through and not a frigate, or nothing? They must suspect as much.
But if this were really a suicide fleet, the Hroom couldn’t risk mixing it up and losing some of their firepower. A victory here would be as good as a loss unless they emerged unscathed. Drake was sure he could take out at least one of the sloops before they got him, and if he really had been counting on more ships to emerge from the jump point, the Hroom would have left the encounter well bloodied.
The sloops kept their formation, but turned in a wide arc and flew away from Drake and the jump point. They came out of the formation to spread into a long line as they accelerated toward the inner system and the several jump points through which they might escape. Drake let them go. The only thing to do was chart their exit from the system and pass this information along to Rutherford while he proceeded on his own course toward Albion. No word yet from his friend in the fleet, but Drake assumed that Rutherford was taking his warnings seriously.
Drake got the other captains on the viewscreen and chewed them out. This was why. Why he was in command, and the others subordinate at all times. Why they were to obey his commands without question, whether they were in battle or not. Why they should never interrupt or contradict when he was giving orders under fire. And why he would blow a hole in the next ship who defied him. If Dunkley had obeyed orders, he and his crew would still be alive. They listened, duly chastened, but Drake wasn’t done.
“This is a military mission, and it will be treated as such. It is why I have paid for all this firepower, and why, if you think you know better than I do, you are undoubtedly wrong. I am a military commander, and none of you, for all of your skills, can say the same thing. In battle, my word is law. And so is Commander Tolvern’s. If you hear it from the mouth of my commander, it is as good as if you’ve heard it from my own. Is that clear?”
They said it was.
“Good. Stand by and await my orders.” He ended the call and settled into his chair, deflated. Numbers and memos flashed across his console as reports poured in from his ship and elsewhere in the fleet. They blurred past his vision. He could only think of the destroyed schooner. The image of it bursting apart was seared into his mind.
“A costly lesson, sir,” Tolvern said. “But perhaps necessary.”
“Perhaps.”
“Let us hope,” Nyb Pim said, “that future lessons do not require the destruction of one of our warships and the death of the sixteen crew members on board.”
Capp slumped in her chair and rubbed at her buzzed scalp. “Dunkley, you are a bloody fool. You threw your life away, mate.” Capp had tried to pummel the man when they encountered him on Leopold, but she didn’t sound like an enemy now.
It was hard to see a silver lining in the literal cloud of debris left by Dunkley’s obliterated ship, but one thing did occur to Drake. “How much did I promise the sloop captains?” he asked Tolvern.
“Three thousand, sir. We’d already paid him fifteen hundred of it.”
“Then I suppose that’s fifteen hundred more pounds with which to bribe Catarina Vargus.”
With Dunkley’s death and the destruction of his schooner, Drake needed Orient Tiger more than ever.
Chapter Eleven
The day after the brawl with the death fleet, the captain sent Tolvern and Capp to the lab, where Noah Brockett said he had something to share. Tolvern had nearly forgotten about the Apex tissue samples given them by what she’d begun to think of as the friendly Hroom faction. Not that General Mose Dryz wouldn’t happily thrash Albion in battle if he could. But he wasn’t trying to extirpate the human race from this sector, either. Not like the suicidal followers of the Hroom god of death.
Drake had seemed keen to personally follow up on Brockett’s findings. But he’d finally heard from Rutherford, and Smythe had intercepted a mass of fleet communications, and these things demanded the captain’s attention. Drake had also decided that the six sloops lurking outside the jump point had constituted a new death fleet, as there was no way the other one could have been in that exact spot at that time. That warranted additional thought, and he wanted to discuss it with Nyb Pim, who had a better knowledge of the jump points in the surrounding systems.
So he sent Capp and Tolvern to see Brockett.
“I been wondering something,” Capp said as the two women took the winding corridor that led to the labs. “Do you think this science bloke is good looking?”
Tolvern had grown used to Capp’s ribbing and learned that the best way to deal with it was to shrug it off. Still, with the former marine always on her about being ‘sweet on the captain,’ as Capp put it, this new angle was a fresh annoyance.
“No, not really. Anyway, I haven’t thought of it much. I never see Brockett outside the lab.”
“I didn’t neither, not at first. He’s the geeky sort, and I ain’t usually interested in them. Nose in books all the time, and he probably smells like them chemicals they use down there. You know that stuff they pump into dead bodies so they don’t stink or nothing before you’re done with ’em?”
“Formaldehyde?”
“Yeah.”
Tolvern stopped. They were almost to the lab. “Wait, you’re asking for yourself? Are you interested, Capp?” Tolvern grinned.
The other woman blushed and rubbed her arms, where she’d rolled up her sleeves to show off the lion tattoos she was so proud of. “I don’t know. He looked like a ponce when we took him on.”
“A ponce? You mean gay?”
“You know, not manly or nothing.”
“Manly?” Tolvern smiled. “You’re not an anti-intellectual, are you?”
“I ain’t anti-nothing. And I know he ain’t gay, ’cause I caught him checking me out in the mess the other day. You know the way blokes do when they fancy you? And that got me thinking maybe he weren’t so bad after all. And maybe he weren’t a ponce, neither.”
“Brockett would be a big change from Carvalho,” Tolvern said.
Carvalho was almost a caricature of masculinity, with pirate swagger thrown in for good measure. Tolvern had stumbled into Capp’s room once while Carvalho was lounging on the bed, barely covered, and she’d had to drag her eyes away from his muscular body. He had a smug look that was both maddening and sexy, and he and Capp could scarcely keep their hands off each other.
“Yeah, he ain’t happy with me at the moment.”
“He’s not?” Tolvern frowned. “I’m sorry, did something happen?”
“You know when we was in that pirate base, collecting loot? There was this fellow, see, real handsome. Dutch bloke. I told him I’d shoot his stones off if he didn’t show me where the treasure chest was. And he smirked at me like this.” Capp made a face. “And he said he’d show me the treasure all right. Well, what was I to do? Carvalho was all busy looting, and it had been three days! I was ready for some. What was I supposed to do?”
She sounded so earnest, but Tolvern couldn’t help the laugh that burst out. “Wait, so you’re down there looting, and you somehow end up sleeping with one of the people we’re supposed to be robbing?”
Capp looked glum. “Yeah, and Carvalho stumbled through while we was groping each other. He didn’t like that none. So now it has been a week since he’s come to my room, and I didn’t even get to finish with that Dutch bloke, neither.”
Brockett poked his head out the door of the science lab. “I thought I heard someone out here. Are you two coming in, or what?”
“’Course we are, luv,” Capp said. Give us a sec, will you?”
Tolvern waited until Brockett had retreated to his lab. “But when we were on Leopold, you told me Carvalho didn’t care, so long as you—how did you put it?—didn’t run out of it.”
“Yeah, but he ain’t too keen on catching me in the act, neither. Know what I mean? He’ll come around eventually, but now I’m wondering, what about Brockett?”
Tolvern laughed. “I won’t tell you no.”
“Unless you want him for yourself. I’ll step out of the way and let you have him.”
“No, not at all. Come on.”
Brockett was staring into a microscope when they entered and didn’t look up right away. His left hand fiddled with the diopter adjustment, while his right hand worked at a keypad, where he was typing notes by touch. Tolvern and Capp glanced at each other, then seemed to come to an agreement by mutual consent to wait until he was finished, not wanting to interrupt him. Whatever it was, Brockett was very intense about it. He removed a slide and clamped down another, all without looking away from his equipment.
At last, he looked up from the microscope, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and grabbed for his glasses. When he’d put them on, he turned around and blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry. Have you been there a while?”
“A few minutes,” Tolvern said. “It looked important, so we thought we’d wait.”
“What, this? No, I’m just looking at space barnacles.”
“You’re looking at space barnacles?” Tolvern asked. “What does this have to do with Apex?”
“Nothing whatsoever. It’s a side project of mine. Did you know there are eleven known varieties of space barnacle? Nine of them are related, and they seem to have a shared genetic code with the star leviathan—I think the same alien race must have created them both. Long ago—millions of years, in fact.”
“Wow,” Capp said, with no trace of irony. “That’s fascinating.”
Tolvern cleared her throat. “About your message to the captain . . . ”
“But the other two species are from an unrelated lineage,” Brockett continued, as if neither of them had spoken. “They are purely organic, like the mollusks you might find in a planetside ocean, except with adaptations for the void, of course. Where did they come from? How did they evolve for life in outer space?”
“Yes, anyway,” Tolvern said impatiently. “About your message to the captain . . . ”
“And here’s another thing. Humans have only been in this sector for a few centuries, but there are already small adaptations for our ships, a subspecies of barnacle that seems to be evolving to survive around our plasma engines. In another few hundred years, they could be a real problem, clogging up our engines and requiring costly repairs.”
“Fancy that!” Capp said. She sounded utterly sincere. Actually, a little more than sincere, and she was articulating her words with extra care. “I’d love to hear more sometime.”
“I didn’t know you were interested in genetics and biology,” Brockett said.
“It’s rather a surprise to me, too,” Tolvern said dryly.
Capp approached Brockett. “Can I look through your microscope? I want to see these space barnacles—they sound amazing.”
Brockett pulled up a chair, and Capp found a way to touch his hand as he adjusted the microscope for her. She glanced back at Tolvern. “We ain’t in no hurry, Tolvern. Gimme a chance to have a look, will you?”
Capp seemed terrible at this sort of flirting, and Tolvern didn’t know why she bothered. The ensign was more the type to grab a semi-interested man and drag him into a broom closet before he had a chance to think of all the reasons why it might be a bad idea. But Brockett was eating up the attention. Soon, the pair of them were whispering bad puns about barnacles, giggling at supposedly witty things that one or the other said.
Tolvern inspected the lab. It was a decent-size room, maybe eighty square feet, with stations for three scientists, although they only had one dedicated officer. The Punisher-class cruisers had long-range capabilities, and were built expecting that they would make deep-space expeditions during times of peace, exploring unknown regions of space. The ship had been outfitted with an array of expensive equipment. Of course, the last war had started almost the moment HMS Ajax slipped out of the spaceyards of York Town, and within two weeks of taking their new commissions, Drake and Tolvern had found themselves in the thick of the first major naval engagement of the war. Because of this, Ajax had never had a science officer. Brockett was the first to use the lab, and by the time they’d brought him on board, the ship had changed names, and its crew had turned to piracy.
Brockett seemed tidy compared to others of his type, and the drawers were all closed, the jars in their secured holders on the shelves neatly labeled. Charts hung from the refrigerator doors, with careful handwriting cataloging what could be found inside. Yet Brockett had an element of whimsy, apparent in many of the signs around the lab. One fridge was labeled “stinky stuff,” and the other “nasty stinky stuff.” Three gene splicers were labeled “maximus,” “minimus,” and “microscopius.”
A printed photograph of a woolly mammoth hung on the back side of the door, with “Stumpy” written in pen across the bottom. On closer inspection, Tolvern saw that the mammoth had an unusually short trunk. She’d seen mammoths at the zoo, and this one looked strange.
Brockett looked up from his conversation with Capp. “My favorite professor was part of the team that re-created the mammoth. That was his first attempt. You can see they didn’t quite get the trunk right.”
“Stumpy,” Tolvern said. “I get it. The ears look funny, too.”
“There were sequencing errors in the bit we extrapolated from elephant DNA.”
“Wow, you did that?” Capp said.
“Not me, exactly,” he said in a modest tone. “Most of this was twenty years ago, before my time. Although I was involved in the cold-weather tweaks. We used a snippet of musk ox DNA.”
“You can take that DNA stuff from one kinda creature and put it in another?” Capp asked. She looked suddenly more serious, as if she’d just had a bright idea, and Tolvern edged over, ready for some genuine amusement.
Brockett shrugged. “That’s what I was doing on Hot Barsa, manipulating sugarcane genetics by studying the local flora. On Albion, I spliced the genes from one kind of fish into another to make it cold water hardy. That’s what gave us the idea to try it with the mammoth.”
“That’s all neat and stuff, but what about when them animals are more different, ’cause I got a cool idea for when we discover a new planet, creatures I want to put on it and stuff.”
“How different?” Brockett asked.
“Um, you know what platypuses are, right? Platypii? Platy . . whatever. You know?”
“Duck-billed platypuses. Sure, from Old Earth Australia. They didn’t adapt well, so they’re confined to a few reserves on Albion. I think there’s a river on Mercia, too, but they’re endangered everywhere.”
“That’s exactly what I mean!” Capp said. “It’s a bleedin’ shame. With them bills and beaver tails, they should be more common. I always wanted a pet one when I was a kid, keep it in the bath tub. But maybe if you crossed one with something a little more fiercer, it could defend itself.”
“Like what?” Brockett asked.
“I don’t know, some water creature, but fiercer, you know.”
“Like a crocodile?” he said, chuckling.
“That’s ridiculous,” Capp said. “That’s a kind of lizard, and platypuses are mammals. Everyone knows that. I was thinking a hippopotamus, say, with them big mouths and teeth.”
Brockett brightened. “I like it.”
“You do?”
“We could call it a hippoplatypus.”
Tolvern groaned. She could no longer keep her mouth shut. “Enough of the puns.”
“Technically, that’s not a pun,” Brockett said. “That’s a neologism. Anyway, don’t tell me you wouldn’t pay good money to see a hippoplatypus if one existed.”
“Maybe,” Tolvern conceded. “Yeah, probably.”
“Hippoplatypus,” Capp said. “That’s fun to say. Try it, Tolvern. Go ahead.”
“Hippoplatypus,” Tolvern said. It was surprisingly satisfying. But the whole concept was nonsense. “Don’t platypuses lay eggs? Are you telling me that this two-ton monstrosity is going to lay a bunch of eggs and sit on a nest?”
“Technically—” Brockett began.
Tolvern shook her head. “Did you call us down here to show us what you found with the Apex tissue sample, or do you and Capp just need a chaperon?”
Capp brayed laughter, while Brockett looked aghast. He sputtered and pulled a computer from his hip pocket. He brought something up, then closed it again.
“I’m sorry. Commander Tolvern, please forgive me. It’s just that I work in isolation, locked in here all day, and nobody much cares what I’m doing. So when Ensign Capp asked questions, I . . . ” His voice trailed off. “I guess I got carried away.”
“You’re all right, both of you. I’m impatient and toward the end of my shift. If you had actually crossed a hippo with a duck-billed platypus, I’d be as keen to see it as the next person.” Tolvern nodded. “Show us what you’ve found.”
Brockett went to the fridge labeled “nasty stinky stuff” and removed a large plastic container. When he popped off the lid, a disgusting smell like bird feathers and rot wafted out. He pinched his nose and hit a button on the wall. The circulation fans whirred louder, sucking the bad air out of the room. It helped a little.
Brockett put on latex gloves and reached into the container. He pulled out a leathery, bird-like head, fringed with feathers. The beak was open, and the thing’s tongue dangled from one corner, stiff and black. The end of the head was a stump with dried blood and bone sticking out.
“This is it?” Tolvern said. “I thought it was a tissue sample.”
“What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know, a feather, or something on a slide for your microscope.”
“It’s a bloody vulture, is what it is,” Capp said. “Disgusting—put it away.”
“I thought you wanted to see,” Brockett said defensively.
Tolvern dropped her hand from her mouth and nose. “When I said ‘show us,’ I meant tell us, actually. We don’t need to look at the thing, to smell it.”
He lowered it back into the container. “I have a second head, if you—”
“No!” both women said at the same time.
“Okay, no worries.” He sealed the head and put it back into the fridge, then peeled off his gloves and dropped them in the bin. “But that’s where things get interesting. Let me show you a different way.”
He swiveled over a screen on an arm and brought up an image of two heads, side by side. Why he couldn’t have done that before was the first thought that came to Tolvern’s mind. One of the heads was the one she’d just looked at: gray, leathery skin stretched over a high, bald dome, with a fringe of drab feathers at the throat and ears. The second was covered with red feathers, had a less-prominent forehead, and the beak was more curved.
Tolvern leaned in for a closer look. “Is one male, and the other female?”
“Very good guess,” Brockett said. “Terran bird species can be sexually differentiated when it comes to their plumage, and plenty of other species exhibit divergence by sex. That’s what I assumed we had here, one of each gender of a highly differentiated species. But I managed to isolate their genetic structure a few days ago, a paired protein that behaves similarly to DNA. These two heads belong to different species.”
“Which one is Apex?” Tolvern asked.
“They both are, supposedly,” he said. “The notes the Hroom sent with the samples indicated they were taken from the wreckage of the same spacecraft. There were several of the red-feathered specimens on board, but they only found this one gray one.”
Tolvern turned this over. “And what does it mean?”
“I can only speculate. Maybe there were more of the gray variety in another section of the ship that didn’t survive the battle. Could be that the red ones are slaves of the grays, or vice versa. Could be that Apex is an alliance of two closely related species. Or the grays might be specialists, engineers or whatnot.”
Tolvern considered. “I suppose that if an alien race destroyed Blackbeard and salvaged the bridge knowing nothing of either human or Hroom, they could have the same discussion. What is this tall, purple-skinned alien doing among all of these upright apes?”
“Yes, but these two species are from the same lineage.” Brockett gestured at the bird-like heads on the screen. “You can see it at a glance. Not like Hroom and human, more like a chicken and a turkey.”
“They’re not chickens and turkeys, they are apex predators,” Tolvern reminded him. “Tigers and lions would be more apt.”
Capp leaned in and gave Tolvern a knowing look. “They got beaks. And feathers. Chickens and turkeys, only fiercer.”
“There’s one other strange thing,” Brockett said. “It may mean nothing, or it may be the key to the whole thing.”
“Go on,” Tolvern said.
“A sequential analysis of each specimen shows that both varieties of alien have been subject to heavy genetic manipulation. These two creatures are no more natural organisms than Stumpy, the mammoth.”
#
“That was disgusting!” Capp said, when they had left the lab.
“You don’t sound disgusted, you sound delighted,” Tolvern said. “All that stuff about barnacles—that was the disgusting part. You were all over Brockett. I thought you were going to tear his clothes off.”
“I wanted to. If you hadn’t been there, you bet I would have.” Capp punched the button to the lift.
“So, how will you get Brockett back to your room without Carvalho seeing it?”
Capp turned. “Huh?”
“Before you went in, you asked if I thought Brockett was handsome. Apparently, you have decided that he is, so I assume the next step is sneaking him into your room to have a go at him.”
“Nah,” Capp said. “No point to it now.”
“But you just said—”
“I mean, yeah, he is all right. That was fun talking to him and all. Bloke is kinda skinny though, and don’t seem to know what he’s doing with women. Bet he’s rubbish in the sack.”
“You never know until you try. Sometimes these geeky ones have it down to a science.”
Capp grinned. “Listen to you! Maybe it’s you what should make a move.” She nudged Tolvern. “Go on then, send him a note, ask him to meet you in the mess for drinks.”
“While you smirk at me from the other side of the room? No, thanks. Anyway, he smells like formaldehyde. If you don’t like the way a fellow smells, the relationship won’t go far.”
“That was the lab, not Brockett,” Capp said. “That smell washes off, you know. Could do it yourself with a nice, long shower, lots of soap.” Capp snapped her fingers. “I got it. Figured out how to get Carvalho to come back around.”
Tolvern laughed. “Soap and water?”
“Yeah, he’s working in hydraulics today, so he’ll come out all greasy, and that earns him a double hot-water credit. I’ll catch him in the stall when he’s naked.”
But that reminded Tolvern of the awkward moment when she’d stumbled into the captain’s bathroom, thinking she’d seduce him, only to find out that Catarina Vargus had gotten there first. Tolvern was no longer interested in banter about the science officer or anyone else as they exited the lift.
Instead, she was thinking about Apex. Two different species. She didn’t know what to make of it.
Chapter Twelve
Even while Drake was working with Nyb Pim to plot their new course, he couldn’t keep his mind off Rutherford’s message. Something about it was eating at him, but he couldn’t identify what while his pilot was going over numbers and charts.
Jump points were always roaming around space, continually moving on a difficult-to-chart path. They could be more or less stable, with some lasting a few years, while others had been in place for centuries. Some might only last a few months. This was what Catarina Vargus had identified with her secret jump point into the unexplored Omega Cluster, where she’d confided to Drake that she intended to lead a fleet of colonists.
The problem with Drake’s approach to Albion was that he needed to hook into the system through one of a handful of jump points. The system was famously short of them, which is what rendered Albion so defensible, like the Old Earth island of Britain itself, surrounded by a moat that had kept Hitler and Napoleon and all other invaders at bay from the days of William the Conqueror until the Great Anglosphere Migration.
Drake didn’t face the same restrictions as the Hroom death fleets, as pirates had the run of these frontier systems when they could stay out of the way of the Royal Navy, but he couldn’t simply waltz up to Albion without being challenged, either. The safest jump point was currently on the opposite side of the sun from Albion, but that would mean a long haul toward the planet.
Run the forts and rescue his parents from York Tower. Then, join Rutherford in defending Albion against suicidal attacks from multiple Hroom fleets, while avoiding Dreadnought and Admiral Malthorne.
Simple, right?
“Captain, did you hear what I asked?” Nyb Pim said. He stared with his big, liquid eyes.
Drake looked down at the charts that the Hroom pilot had printed and spread across the table of the war room. He tried to rewind the conversation. Nyb Pim had said something about the final approach before the Albion jump. Beyond that, he had nothing.
“I am sorry, Pilot. My mind had wandered. Please repeat yourself.”
“I said there are two jump points that will take us close to the final approach. Both in Fantalus. The first one will drop us eleven hours closer to the Albion jump. But it is also the course the Hroom fleets will most likely be taking.”
“In other words, we could find ourselves facing one of them again.”
“Yes, sir.”
Drake didn’t think the Hroom would be so close. By his calculations, he should arrive at Albion almost three days in advance of the first of the Hroom, and two days ahead of Rutherford, based on the most recent message from Vigilant.
“Changing course to avoid the Hroom fleet makes no sense. If they’re that far ahead of our calculations, then we may as well turn around now, because we won’t get to Albion in time. Either that, or we launch our own suicide mission to stop them before they jump.”
“So you want the shorter route, sir?”
“Is there an escape for Orient Tiger that direction?”
“Does Catarina Vargus still mean to abandon our fleet, sir?”
“I don’t know, Pilot. I don’t know. But I won’t trap her into joining us by leaving her no escape route, either.”
“Yes, there are two other jumps nearby, either one of which would provide an adequate departure point for Orient Tiger.”
“In that case, yes. We’ll take the shorter route.”
“Very good, sir.”
After that, Nyb Pim addressed minor issues: where Smythe had identified a rich patch of gas where they could use their ram scoops to collect hydrogen, the speed needed for the various jump points, and how that would impact fuel consumption. They needed enough juice to fight the battle and then blast out of Albion again when they’d finished.
But these were perfunctory details appended to the briefing, and Drake reconsidered Rutherford’s message while the pilot spoke. Rutherford’s subspace, when it had finally come, contained a good deal of information, but concealed a good deal, as well. Had Rutherford sent it with someone looking over his shoulder? Drake knew that most of Vigilant’s crew were Malthorne loyalists, and Rutherford must have faced additional scrutiny as he joined the admiral’s fleet. Drake decided yes.
Nyb Pim asked permission to interface his nav chip with the nav computer to recalculate some dead reckoning numbers. While he did that, Drake pulled up Rutherford’s message on his hand computer and reread it.
Malthorne has ordered a punitive expedition against a pirate redoubt. I am to provide support fire. The expedition is expected to last no more than forty-eight hours. After, we will divide into two task forces and attempt to intercept the enemy invasion fleets. Estimated engagement with the Hroom in one fortnight.
Captain Nigel Rutherford, HMS Vigilant
Drake finished with Nyb Pim and dismissed him, then called Tolvern into the war room. She briefly shared what she’d learned from the science officer about the Apex tissue specimens. It was interesting, but less critical than other, more pressing matters. He showed her Rutherford’s message.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
“Invasion fleets?” she said. “Plural? You told him about our fight?”
“No, not yet. I didn’t have his location to send a subspace.”
“So he must be aware of the second fleet some other way. How? Had those Hroom tangled with the navy already?”
“Maybe,” Drake said. “Or maybe there’s a third force. Maybe this death cult divided their forces several times to be sure that one of them would get through.”
Tolvern reread the message. A frown deepened on her face. “It’s thin on details. Not much else to it, is there?”
“Are you sure? Read it one more time.”
She shrugged. “All right.”
“I am not trying to test you,” he assured her. “I am seeing something here, but I don’t want to plant ideas that might be erroneous. I would like to see if you independently come to the same conclusions.”
“Rutherford must still be in Gryphon Shoals,” Tolvern said after a moment of deliberation. “Twelve days, plus two for an expedition against pirates, means he’s probably on the far side of the system, needs to cross once he’s finished, then jump to Albion.”
“Good,” Drake said. “That was my thinking, too. Go on.”
“There’s something else?”
“Rutherford says Vigilant is only providing fire support for the expedition. Why would he do that? It’s not Rutherford’s style at all. You know he wouldn’t put Harbrake or Lindsell at the vanguard. Could be that Vigilant got in another fight since we saw her and isn’t battle worthy, but I don’t think that’s it.”
“Because the lord admiral wants to lead the expedition himself,” she said, to which Drake nodded his agreement. “Which means that Dreadnought is leading the charge. That would also explain why the fleet will split in two upon its return to Albion. With that many capital ships, they have the firepower to fight two major battles at once.”
“Yes, exactly,” Drake said. “And if Admiral Malthorne is flag officer, it explains why they’d waste time on this punitive expedition. Who cares about pirates and smugglers? They can be dealt with at any time. Or never, for that matter. The Hroom, on the other hand, threaten us with annihilation. Malthorne must have got his nose bloodied, and now he wants revenge. Like what he did to my parents’ estate after Hot Barsa.”
“Or it could be Rutherford’s idea, sir. A way to buy us a couple of days before the fleet arrives. Goad the admiral into a side fight so we have a chance to slip in and free your parents before the battle with the Hroom.”
Drake hadn’t thought of that possibility. It was an intriguing idea, but it seemed too devious, too risky, for Rutherford. The man was aggressive in battle and not above making a gambit against an enemy, but risking the whole of Albion to give Drake a chance to escape? No, that was not in Rutherford’s nature. His nature was to sacrifice everything for the sake of expediency. He’d been that way as long as Drake had known him, which went all the way back to their friendship at the Naval Academy. In fact, there was one particular incident at the Academy that seemed an excellent guide for Rutherford’s behavior now.
The Academy was located in Juneau, on the coastal range abutting the North Sea, the continent of Canada. Distant and isolated. The winters were long and hard, and it was far from the intrigues of York Town or the soft living of the country estates. The primary sports were skiing and hockey in the winter and rowing on Juneau Fjord after the ice melted in summer.
Adventurous sorts took to hunting big game in the vast northern wilderness, which was right on Juneau’s doorstep. At the time, Drake had preferred more civilized prey: grouse, rabbit, duck, and wild turkey. Animals to hunt with a hound and a fowling piece. Hunt in the day and sup on your game that same evening.
Rutherford, on the other hand, preferred the dangerous beasts: brown bears, snow leopards, and wolves. Especially wolves, the big, hungry brutes that had been living unchecked and unchallenged since the settlement six hundred years earlier. One summer, during a week of leave, Rutherford talked Drake into joining him on a wolf hunt, armed only with bows and several cans of bear spray. They rode horses along a rough logging road, accompanied by Rutherford’s big wolfhound, who loped next to them.
The two men were very young at the time— Drake was twenty-one, and Rutherford only twenty—but they set off with supreme confidence. Their fathers were barons, and they were of good breeding and education. As future officers of the Royal Navy, they would soon be fighting Hroom and pirates on the frontier systems; surely they had nothing to fear from the unsettled Albion wilderness.
On the second day, Rutherford spotted wolf spoor and tracks along the banks of a shallow, muddy river, and decided it was a good place to make camp. He shot a caribou, and the two men dragged it to the riverbank, then returned to their camp on the opposite bank, where they watched the other side through binoculars. The plan was to wait until the carcass attracted a pack of wolves, then cross with the dog and horses and shoot the biggest wolf they could find. Drake wasn’t much one for trophy hunting, but Rutherford insisted that hunting wolves with bows would be sporting. Certainly more so than picking them off through the scope of a high-powered rifle, Drake agreed.
They waited all day, emerging from their blind only to feed the horses and let the wolfhound stretch his legs. The dog was a big, gray animal named Oxnard that Rutherford had bought two years ago in Juneau, when he was only a pup, and Rutherford was freshly arrived from the islands. Oxnard had a missing chunk in his right ear from a tussle with a snow leopard the previous fall, and Rutherford insisted he was fearless against wild animals, but he seemed a big, dopey goof to Drake. It was hard to imagine him brawling with wolves.
The wolves arrived near dusk, first a pair of smaller black ones, and then three larger gray wolves. Drake asked if they would set out right away to get the hunt over with. He was tired of the waiting and the relentless mosquitoes, and had been thinking all day how he’d rather have been hunting rabbits, or even risking bears to venture downstream and fish the larger river they’d forded the previous day. Then he’d be eating fresh game or fish right now, instead of cold food from a can. The devil take Rutherford’s wolf hunt.
Rutherford lowered his binoculars. “The alpha hasn’t arrived yet. That’s the one I want.”
“How can you tell?” Drake took the binoculars. “They all look pretty big to me.”
“You’ll spot him by how the others react when he’s around.”
It was soon dark, and the possibility of hunting wolves ended, for the day, at least. No matter, Rutherford insisted. The wolves would be lurking around the caribou carcass for days—eating, fighting, and breeding—until they’d eaten it all. The longer the wolves remained, the more complacent they’d be when the two men crossed the river, and the less likely to attack out of hunger. Fat, complacent wolves—where was the sport in that, Drake wondered?
The young men sprayed down the horses against bugs and secured them in a makeshift pen between two boulders, with a gate of lashed-together branches sawed from a nearby copse of spruce. Then they retreated to their tent behind good mosquito netting. It smelled of wet wolfhound inside. Oxnard seemed unperturbed by the howling wolves on the other side of the river and was soon snoring and farting in his sleep.
Drake didn’t think he’d ever be able to fall asleep, and if the howling, snoring, and farting weren’t enough, a high-pitched whine warned him that at least one mosquito had found its way inside. He buried himself in his bag to wait out the aerial assault, and soon found the toils of the long day carrying him off to sleep.
Oxnard’s low rumbling growl brought him to consciousness. The dog was next to him in the tent, his head by Drake’s ear. Drake groped for the dog and pushed his slobbery mouth to clear it away. Oxnard kept growling.
“Come on, you big oaf. Move over there.”
“What’s the matter?” Rutherford asked groggily from the darkness.
“Your dog is growling in my ear.”
A quick movement from Rutherford’s side of the tent. Silence. Then, a low curse.
Oxnard moved closer to the zipped tent door, and Drake could hear the wolves again. They filled the air with ghostly howls. From across the river to the east came snarls and fighting. From downriver, to the south, two wolves howling. A growl from nearer to camp, what sounded like this side of the river. One of the horses let out a frightened whinny. A third wolf howled from the south, the sound mixing with more snarls and fighting from that direction.
Drake didn’t know much about wolves, but that was either a huge wolf pack, or there was more than one pack out there. He joined Rutherford in groping in the darkness for his pants and boots, even while the wolfhound paced the tent as if anxious to get outside.
“Where’s the lamp?” Drake asked.
“I don’t know, I might have left it with the saddlebags.”
But then Drake’s groping fingers found it next to the tent flap, and he turned it on. A cool LED light illuminated the interior of the tent. They got dressed quickly and slid out through the partially opened tent flap, the lamp in Drake’s left hand, a can of bear spray in the right. Oxnard tried to muscle his way past them to get outside.
“No!” Rutherford said sharply. He shoved the dog’s nose back into the tent and zipped the flap. It was a clear night, with a vast swath of stars overhead. The planet Thor had just risen above the mountains, a glittering emerald of light. Framing it was the constellation of the Great Celtic Cross, with Orion to the southwest, the most famous of the so-called Terran Constellations, those Old Earth formations of stars known by the Greeks and Romans and still visible from Albion. The crescent moon hung above the eastern horizon, a cool yellow glow, and the northern horizon glowed with streaks of blue and green from the aurora borealis.
Drake had grown up on a small estate on a small, civilized island. He’d always known the universe was vast, but now he felt it. That impression began with the huge continent of Canada, itself only one part of this as-yet underpopulated planet. He felt the empty miles of surrounding plains, sitting beneath a vast bowl of stars, themselves only a tiny part of the known universe, which stretched endlessly in all directions. Albion was hurtling around the sun, and the sun was rotating around the outer edge of the Milky Way.
The beauty of the night sky almost took his breath away. But then, the howls started again to his right and left, and the hairs stood up on his arms and the back of his neck. A low shape slunk by on his left, and he whirled. Rutherford cursed, and Drake turned to see another wolf staring at them from that direction, tongue lolling. Drake picked up a stone and pitched it at the wolf, and the animal retreated into the darkness.
“Why aren’t they eating the caribou?” Drake asked. “What do they want with us when there’s all that meat over there?”
“The first pack must be defending it against this one. They can’t get to the carcass, but they’ve smelled us and our animals.”
Oxnard whined from inside.
“Let him out,” Drake urged.
“He will attack the wolves if he gets out,” Rutherford said. “And there are too many of them. It will be the end of him.”
“We can’t just sit here, doing nothing.”
“We need the bows. That will even the odds.”
“Bows?” It was one thing to hunt wolves by daylight, stalking them, shooting them from a distance on the back of a horse, but another thing entirely to attempt it at night.
“Any better ideas?” Rutherford asked.
“No, I guess not. All right then, on my mark.” Drake checked to make sure the path was clear. “Go!”
The two men broke for the saddlebags. Drake put down the lantern when they arrived, and he and Rutherford groped for their bows. Drake still had the can of bear spray from the tent, and now grabbed a second from his saddlebag and shoved it into Rutherford’s hands. A snarling shape launched itself from the shadows, and Drake dropped his bow and aimed the bear spray. The can hissed as it launched the peppery liquid.
He gave the wolf a snootful of it, blasting until the animal fell back snarling and howling. Another wolf came at Drake, and he hit this one, too. Rutherford fired an arrow, and a wolf yowled in pain.
“Got you!” Rutherford said. He notched another arrow. This time, he missed, cursing his bad aim.
Drake didn’t have time to watch Rutherford—he was too busy with the bear spray. He hit a third wolf, then a fourth, but the can was already sputtering and spuming. Rutherford tossed him the other can. He turned on the nozzle just in time to hit a huge wolf in the mouth and eyes.
Rutherford had shot at least one of them with an arrow, and Drake had now blasted five different wolves with the bear spray. The whole pack should have been retreating in disarray and confusion. Instead, they circled the two men, snarling, feinting, staying moving and hidden in the darkness. The horses behind the two men snorted and stamped in their protected enclave. A wolf darted forward, and Drake expended more bear spray driving it off.
“We’ve got to get out of here,” he said. “We’re almost out of spray.”
“What about the horse paddock?” Rutherford asked. “Get inside, shut the gate, and wait it out.”
“What’s to keep them from climbing the rocks and jumping down on us?”
“You’re right. Dammit.” Rutherford’s voice was tight and nervous, which in turn filled Drake with alarm.
“Can you ride bareback?” Drake asked. “We’ll make a run for it. God knows, there’s enough light to see.”
“And leave all our gear?” Rutherford said.
“We’ve got to get out of here. We’ll be killed if we don’t.” There were more wolves than ever, what seemed like fifteen, twenty of them moving, snarling, and howling in the shadows.
“They’ll chase us,” Rutherford said. “The horses will panic and throw us off in the darkness. We need a diversion. Cover me!”
Before Drake could contemplate what Rutherford meant by this, the man had thrown down his bow and was racing back toward the tent. Drake ran after him. A wolf sprang out of the darkness, and he gave it a taste of bear spray. It fell back, snarling.
Rutherford unzipped the tent. Oxnard burst out with a roar. Another wolf had come slinking in from the right, and Drake turned to see it crouching to spring at him. But the wolfhound slammed into it and drove it to the ground, his huge jaws clamping on the wolf’s throat. Other wolves poured out of the darkness to attack the dog.
Rutherford made a run for it, and Drake followed. A wolf attacked them while they were opening the paddock, and Drake used the last of the bear spray on it. Another wolf jumped for him as he scrambled onto the panicky horse’s back, but he kicked its ribs and sent it flying. Most of the pack was fighting Oxnard, who was still baying and snarling.
Rutherford and Drake rode toward the fighting dog and wolves and scattered them as they made for the caribou trail they’d followed to get into the river valley. Drake looked back, hoping to see Oxnard shake off the wolves and run after them, but the dog couldn’t get free of the pack. Rutherford rode relentlessly forward through the night, trying to put distance between them and their attackers, and Drake had no choice but to follow.
Behind them, the wolfhound kept fighting until the men had ridden out of earshot.
#
Dawn found the two young men cold, hungry, and sore several miles along the road back toward Juneau. Drake mentioned the dog, a comment he meant to be sympathetic, how Oxnard had died defending them, but Rutherford told him to shut up, he didn’t want to talk about it. Anyway, it was done. It was obvious that Rutherford was upset to have lost his wolfhound, but he seemed to have no question in his mind that the sacrifice had been necessary and expedient.
Now, years later and facing both the orbital forts and the Hroom death fleets, Drake was aware that he might have to fight Malthorne, too. Rutherford needed to stop the Hroom, and it didn’t matter if it left Drake and his ship exposed to the guns of HMS Dreadnought.
You are the wolfhound. Rutherford is going to sacrifice you to save Albion.
Chapter Thirteen
The assault on the pirate settlements of the Gryphon Shoals proceeded as soon as Rutherford was back at the helm of Vigilant. The bulk of the admiral’s fleet, barring Nimitz, Calypso, and a handful of destroyers and corvettes to protect the damaged cruisers, raced toward the innermost of the system’s three asteroid belts. Rutherford led Vigilant, Churchill, and nine destroyers in setting a blockade around the asteroid cluster protecting the pirates. Malthorne approached at the helm of Dreadnought and laid down a punishing fire on the main port and colony. When the pirates tried the same trick that had damaged Nimitz and Calypso, Rutherford’s forces swooped in and blasted the rear fortifications to rubble.
Three pirate frigates appeared and attempted to break the siege, but HMS Lancelot, a corvette, held them at bay until she could be supported by a pair of nearby navy missile frigates. Lancelot sustained several hits, but destroyed one of the enemy ships and drove the other two into Rutherford’s destroyer screen, where they were shortly finished off.
Soon, ships were fleeing the pirate redoubt like rats from a sinking ship. Navy torpedo boats obliterated a frigate and two schooners, while Vigilant came alongside a pair of merchant galleons making a run for it. They immediately tried to negotiate, offering up holds stuffed with bullion and loot as payment. Rutherford ignored the request. Now the galleons tried to surrender unconditionally. Rutherford didn’t have time to take prisoners, and called the admiral for instructions.
Destroy them.
Rutherford took on the faster of the two galleons first. He needed to preserve his long-range arsenal for the fight against the Hroom, so he pulled along starboard and presented his cannon. The first broadside left the galleon crippled and venting gasses. The second blew her apart.
The slower galleon sent off escape pods, but Rutherford ignored these and focused on the ship herself. The galleon held Vigilant at bay for nearly an hour with a powerful deck gun and two rear torpedo tubes, but as soon as she seemed to exhaust her defenses, Vigilant swooped in, took out her engines, and then circled back around to punish her with cannon fire. The first broadside ignited ammunition stores on the quarter deck, and a terrific blast tore the galleon in two. One piece spun away, end over end, while the other drifted a few hundred miles and then detonated in a final explosion.
Vigilant returned to the fleet to find Dreadnought silencing her guns, the pirate operation demolished. Rutherford gathered the rest of the fleet and withdrew cautiously, alert for counterattack until they were safely clear of the asteroid belt and in open space again.
The entire operation was textbook for how to deal with rebellious elements on the frontier. This untidy nest of piracy and smuggling had been a thorn in Albion’s side for years, taking advantage of the Hroom wars to prey on shipping, harass legitimate mining operations, and raid refueling and resupply stations. York Company shipping had been taking costly detours through the fringes of the Shoals to avoid it, which had added nearly three days to their voyage every time they traversed the system.
Now, the main pirate base was routed, its fortress obliterated, its spaceport in ruins, and some twenty pirate ships destroyed. Explosions continued deep underground on the hollowed-out asteroid as they departed. This victory came at the cost of one lost torpedo boat, minor damage to two destroyers, and a total of eleven lives lost. Malthorne’s communication to the fleet was jubilant, boastful, promising a return expedition in the near future to finish the job against the other pirate outfits in the system. If not for more pressing business, the admiral said, they’d do it now. Another few weeks, and the Gryphon Shoals would be cleaned up for good.
Unfortunately, by the time they made it back to where the rest of the task force waited, performing emergency repairs on Nimitz and Calypso to get them battle ready, forty-three hours had passed since Malthorne’s tantrum. That was nearly two days that could have been spent racing toward Albion to establish a defensive cordon against the Hroom assault.
A few hours later, Rutherford left Pittsfield at the helm and retreated to his quarters. He had only slept fourteen hours in the past three days and desperately needed rest. But he was angry, furious even. He got up and paced the room.
“Forty-three hours,” he muttered. “Wasted, thrown away.”
He punched up the viewscreen above his entertainment nook and looked at the long, empty space until the jump point that would take them to Albion. From Vigilant at the vanguard to Dreadnought and her screen of destroyers in the rear, the fleet stretched eleven million miles, but as Rutherford drew the map out to the scale needed to see the entire distance they needed to traverse, those eleven million miles could not be differentiated from a single point on a map. A pinprick in space.
The fleet was on the wrong side of the sun and had to reach the far outer fringes of the system, a few billion miles away. They’d be forty-three hours closer if Malthorne hadn’t insisted on this revenge mission. Meanwhile, suicidal alien forces were converging on Albion. Damn Malthorne. Damn stubborn, vainglorious Lord Malthorne.
But Rutherford’s rage couldn’t burn forever, and soon enough, he found himself crawling into bed, the lights out, as exhaustion took hold. He fell asleep and dreamed that Malthorne was king. In the dream, Rutherford was at the coronation ceremony in the royal palace at York Town, while the admiral smugly approached the archbishop of York, who held aloft the crown. Rutherford stood next to Drake in a long line of fleet officers in red and black. He was trying to tell Drake that this wasn’t right, that the admiral was only the king’s cousin, only sixth in line for the throne. Together, they had to stop Malthorne before the archbishop placed the crown on his head.
Rutherford woke with the sense that something was wrong. The smooth hum of the ship through the walls and floor was unchanged, there were no warning lights, and nobody had awakened him. He checked the clock, but it had only been nine hours. A long, long sleep by his standards. He had showered and was drinking his coffee before he recognized what was off. Pittsfield’s early-shift memo was missing. It was normally a green, blinking light on Rutherford’s handheld computer, greeting him the moment he awakened. Pittsfield always sent a brief, bullet-pointed status report for Rutherford to read while he drank another scalding cup of coffee. Where was it?
Rutherford came warily onto the bridge, convinced that his commander would be gone, and possibly Catherine Caites, too. In their place, more Malthorne loyalists. More incompetent loyalists.
But both officers were there. Pittsfield sprang from the captain’s seat and stepped aside to let Rutherford take his place. The commander’s lips were pressed tightly together in the way that indicated worry.
Rutherford frowned as he sat down, still wondering what was wrong. “What happened to my memo?”
“Apologies, sir. The situation could not be easily summarized, and as there is no urgency, I thought it best to explain to you in person.”
“Well, then,” Rutherford said impatiently. “Explain it already.”
He glanced up as he said this, and noticed the viewscreen for the first time. A long, spear-nosed Hroom sloop of war filled it.
Rutherford jumped to his feet. “What is this?”
Pittsfield quickly filled him in on the developments of the past nine hours. The fleet had been hauling across the system at close to maximum speeds. Admiral Malthorne had apparently repented of his unnecessary attack on the pirates and decided that they should arrive at Albion as soon as possible, even if that meant leaving some of the slower ships behind. So he’d ordered the swifter cruisers to lead Dreadnought to the jump point, while allowing the destroyers, corvettes, and support craft to form a second flotilla that would jump through a few days after the initial force.
Under other circumstances, Rutherford would have argued to maintain the proper fleet arrangement, with destroyer screens protecting the larger capital ships. But it was hard to imagine an enemy fleet strong enough to challenge Dreadnought and six cruisers, even with Calypso and Nimitz damaged. The second force had eighteen destroyers and corvettes, and thirty-three frigates and torpedo boats. Surely, either force could defend themselves long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Rutherford agreed with the decision. Get Dreadnought and the cruisers into the home system. Defeat the Hroom if possible, but otherwise hold them off until the rest of the Royal Navy warships arrived.
Unbeknownst to Malthorne, Rutherford, or anyone else in the fleet, there had been another force traveling through the Gryphon Shoals. They were well cloaked, and nearly on the edge of the system, passing through the outermost of the three asteroid belts, where they would be especially hard to detect.
If there hadn’t been such a large naval force, the enemy might have made it through undetected. But Malthorne had so many ships looking in every direction for threats that was almost inevitable that one tech officer noted an anomaly in a long-range scan, and then the hunt was on. Soon, they had identified six sloops of war. It was the same size as the other known Hroom fleets. But given its location, this had to be a different force.
How many fleets were there? Several, apparently. Even combined, the Hroom ships wouldn’t be powerful enough to defeat the Royal Navy, but they didn’t have to be. Send enough, each sneaking into the Albion system via a different route, and it would be impossible to intercept them all. Get one fleet past, any fleet, and they could fly into the atmosphere on their one-way mission to vaporize Albion with atomic weapons.
Rutherford looked at the warship on the screen, which shimmered oddly, a composite image of long-range scans from numerous ships. Together, they gave a fairly accurate representation.
“Has anyone tried to hail the Hroom?” Rutherford asked.
“Not that I’m aware of, sir. But there doesn’t seem to be much ambiguity to their intentions. Norris, show him.”
The Hroom warship vanished, and the viewscreen showed a schematic of the system, with its rocky inner worlds and three vast asteroid belts—the so-called Shoals, being so difficult to navigate—stretching all the way to an outer ring of icy comets. A line curved from the Hroom fleet toward the same jump point the navy meant to take.
“They’re going straight to Albion, sir,” Pittsfield said.
“Will they beat us to the jump point?”
“Yes, and no.”
Pittsfield explained. At the Hroom’s current course and speed, the enemy would arrive at the jump midway between Dreadnought’s arrival and the destroyer-and-corvette-led second wave.
Thankfully, the admiral had sent the capital ships ahead. Dreadnought and the cruisers would arrive first, could prevent the Hroom from leaving the Shoals.
Rutherford called the flagship and suggested to the admiral that they hail the Hroom. Warn them they’d been detected. Force the Hroom to seek another route to Albion. That would buy time to get the whole fleet home before they were forced to fight.
Malthorne said no. They would intercept the Hroom at the earliest possible moment and destroy them. That mean fighting here, in the Gryphon Shoals. When the call ended, Rutherford could no longer contain his anger and cursed the lord admiral for his idiocy. Norris and Swasey—Malthorne loyalists—were watching Rutherford carefully, but he didn’t care.
“Sir,” Pittsfield warned, his tone nervous. “Have you eaten yet? Perhaps if you—” He stopped and said to the rest of the bridge, as if explaining, “The captain just woke up, and the situation caught him by surprise. Sir, perhaps if you had breakfast, drank some coffee, met with us in the war room—”
“Rubbish,” Rutherford cut in. “I don’t need coffee, and I am not hungry, either, by God. I’m furious. Malthorne’s plan is beyond asinine. We will be here, fighting over a bunch of asteroids, while half a dozen death fleets incinerate Albion.”
“Sir,” Pittsfield said quietly. “We have no choice in the matter.”
The other man’s voice was so calm and reasonable that it deflated Rutherford’s anger. He had stomped away from his chair during his rant, but now he stopped and looked at his commander for a long moment and realized that Pittsfield was right. Certainly, Rutherford could break from the fleet and make a run for it, mutiny like Drake had. Go through the jump point and join whatever defenses remained in the home system. But alone, what good would he do?
He may, however, assist Dreadnought and the other cruisers in crushing this particular enemy force as quickly as possible. The faster they ended the battle, the faster he’d be able to get them through to the other side.
Meanwhile, Norris and Swasey were staring, alarmed. Rutherford could only imagine the private communications they would send to the lord admiral. After what had happened on HMS Ajax, there was no question that Rutherford would be removed from command the moment it looked as though he might go rogue. For that matter, Caites looked aggravated, too, and he could see the conflicted loyalty in her face. Pittsfield’s, too. Neither of them wanted this fight.
Rutherford formed an apology, though the words tasted like ash in his mouth. “The commander is correct. I misspoke in my eagerness to defend Albion. We will follow the lord admiral and obliterate these enemies first.”
Pittsfield let out a long, relieved sigh. Caites, Norris, and Swasey turned back to their consoles.
My God, Rutherford thought, as his emotions settled. I almost did it. I almost mutinied against the fleet.
Chapter Fourteen
Drake called the pirate captains to meet with him on Blackbeard before the final jump into the Albion system. He brought over Catarina first, greeting her personally in the engineering bay when she stepped out of her away pod. She stretched, yawned, and glanced at the crew moving torpedoes with forklifts and hauling belts of ten-inch projectiles for the deck gun.
Other men and women stayed busy making minor repairs to equipment damaged in the fight with the pirate fortress, and the smell of ozone from arc welders and the hiss of blow torches filled the engineering bay. Anything that could be brought into the engineering bay instead of repaired in space could be found here. Carvalho walked past, his face streaked with grease, while Barker drove a forklift with a damaged belly gun. That wasn’t a good sign; that gun should be installed and ready to go, not dismounted so close to the jump. Several techs jumped into action as soon as Barker lowered the gun to the floor.
“So organized,” Catarina said, as she joined Drake in crossing the bay toward the lift. “Half of my people would be smoking, playing cards, or getting drunk behind a pallet of crates.”
“We will be facing professional soldiers,” Drake said. “I don’t want to go into battle leading a bunch of undisciplined amateurs.”
“Where are the other captains?”
“They’ll be here in an hour. I wanted to see you first.”
Catarina raised an eyebrow. “Looking to seduce me, or are you making a final attempt to coerce me into joining your fleet? Or maybe you’ll try the first thing to make the second thing happen.”
“Believe me, if I thought seducing you would help, I would do it.”
Her eyes flashed. “What about doing it for pleasure? Does there have to be an ulterior motive?”
Drake lifted his hands. “Please, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. It’s just—I am worried about my parents, about the Hroom, about facing Dreadnought. There is too much pressure to think of anything else.”
“I understand. You are a man of duty. That is why I want you for my own fleet.”
“Your colonization scheme? How is it coming?”
“You know the haul we took from the tyrillium barge?” Catarina said. “I’ve spent every guinea, plus some.”
“That was a lot of gold. I hope you got your money’s worth.”
“I hope so, too. I’m mostly stockpiling gear at this point—lorries, fuel, a couple of mini nuclear reactors, transport ships with stasis chambers. Plus there’s equipment for refining ore, manufacturing chemicals—everything from plastics to pharmaceuticals. It’s a one-way trip. I don’t want to get into the Omega Cluster, watch the jump point collapse behind me, and then realize I forgot my toothbrush.”
Drake laughed.
“I still need ships,” Catarina continued, “and I need good men and women to lead them. The colonists themselves can wait until the last moment. I don’t want Albion or anyone else to get wind of my plan until it’s too late to stop.”
They’d come onto the lift, and now they entered the bridge. Tolvern frowned after them as Drake and Catarina made their way across to the war room. Once inside, Catarina grabbed the chair at the head of the table, leaned back, and propped her boots up. An insouciant grin stretched across her face as she studied him.
“No boots on the table?” she said. “I don’t see a sign.”
Drake sighed and sat down opposite her. “What will it take to keep Orient Tiger in the fight?”
“If you want my ship and crew, you can have it. Twelve thousand now, twelve thousand when we finish. Twenty-four thousand pounds.”
“You know I don’t have it.”
“How much do you have?”
“About five.”
“That’s what I figured,” she said. “Not enough.”
“There’s treasure in York Tower. Bullion for the mint. Could be a haul for the ages.”
“Could be. Sure. And gold doubloons might start spewing out of your engines, too.”
“How about this? I will promise you the next sum of money that comes into my hands, whenever that happens.”
“An I.O.U.?” she said suspiciously. “Is that what you mean?”
“More or less. For now, I’ll give you the money I won’t have to pay Dunkley, since he got himself killed. A down payment. After that, you can have the next twenty-five thousand pounds that comes into my hands.”
A calculating look crossed Catarina’s face. “If I weigh the odds that you don’t survive this mission, that I don’t survive it, plus the likelihood that you wouldn’t be able to deliver because I am pressed for time or you are unable to keep your crew or ship—all the possible ways this scheme can fail—then I would say that twenty-five thousand, paid in the future, looks more like fifty thousand pounds.”
“Fifty?” he said, disbelieving. “You want fifty thousand pounds to rent the services of your pirate frigate? At those prices, what is Blackbeard worth, a hundred?” He laughed. “Maybe Malthorne would rent me Dreadnought for a million guineas. Is that a good price?”
Catarina sprang to her feet, glaring. “I’m giving you a bargain you don’t deserve. You already lost one ship, and I’d wager Orient Tiger at two-to-one odds that you’ll lose at least one more ship before you come out the other side. Hell, at five-to-one, I’d wager that you lose your whole blasted fleet. But instead, I’m offering you my services at fifty thousand pounds, backed only by your wishful thinking and my misguided sentiment.”
“Misguided sentiment? Oh, sure. You care so much that you will only charge fifty thousand pounds. How generous of you.”
“If you’re going to insult me, I won’t stay another moment.”
“Fine,” he spat. “You can have your fifty thousand. Once we’re done, I’ll go steal some money for you.”
“And what will you pledge in collateral to assure your debt?”
“So now you want collateral. Of course you do.” Drake couldn’t keep the bitterness out of his voice. “I am so pleased that my parents’ lives depend on your mercenary whims.”
“Go to hell.”
Catarina stormed toward the door. Drake caught her wrist, and she spun on him, her other fist cocked, as if she would crush him one on the nose. He let go and stepped back, blinking.
For a moment, she stood staring at him, her nostrils flaring, fury on her face. He said nothing until she began to calm. It gave him a chance to reconsider.
“I am sorry,” he said, and meant it. “You are right. Please forgive me.”
“That is the second time you’ve apologized. I will accept the apology, but this is the last time. Do you understand that, James?”
“Yes.”
Catarina sat back down. “Very good. Now that you’re willing to be reasonable, you may go on.”
“I do not have the money to pay you what you’re worth. And you are right, future promises are worth little. What I want to know is if there is anything I can do, say, or promise that will keep Orient Tiger in the fleet.”
Catarina was quiet for a long moment, as if seriously considering this. “I have never met your parents, I have no loyalty to Albion. You understand, I’m not callous, or indifferent, but this is my starting point. You hired my services as a professional, and you have offered me nothing to make it personal. Since that hasn’t happened, the only thing we can do is treat this as a professional transaction.”
“You are right, of course. I shouldn’t have made it personal.”
Still, Drake found himself disappointed. He’d half expected her to ask that he commit to her colonization scheme as the price for her cooperation. Join her in piracy to raise the necessary funds to build her fleet of pioneer ships. Join her on a one-way voyage to the Omega Cluster. Lords of space—Catarina as the first sovereign of the world, with Drake as her prince consort. He didn’t know what he’d have said to that demand, but he knew, in his heart, that he’d wanted her to ask.
He returned slowly to his seat.
“I want your ship,” she said. “Not you, not your crew—they can do what they’d like—but Starship Blackbeard. I want it.”
Drake blinked. “Are you serious?”
“Quite. Once you have paid Paredes, Aguilar, and my sister, your ship will be your only remaining asset. I figure it is worth fifty thousand pounds.”
“A hundred, at least.”
“Sure, if you wanted to build it from scratch, but if you needed to sell it in the yards of San Pablo or Leopold, you could get about fifty.”
“And you want it for what?” he asked, unable to commit to this demand.
“For my flagship, of course. I’ll bribe my sister with Orient Tiger so she’ll help me raise the rest of the money I need, and then put one of my people at the helm of Outlaw in turn. Probably da Silva—he’s ready.” Catarina smiled. “Or, if you think you can raise fifty thousand pounds or find some equivalent ship to give me, then you may keep Blackbeard.”
Drake stared at her as the implications sank in. It was the same thing she’d asked a moment earlier, except now she’d clarified her demands. Blackbeard would be collateral. What Catarina had done, and cleverly, was walk back from their fight. It all sounded reasonable when she put it this way; he would pay her off and promise something as collateral if he couldn’t deliver. His earlier anger now felt self-righteous and hypocritical.
“Yes,” he said quietly. “That is a fair offer on your part.”
She reached across the table and put a hand on his arm. “Are we good, James?”
“We are good.”
“I don’t regret what we did, becoming lovers. It was pleasant, and I am glad we spent those moments in each other’s arms. I will always recall them happily no matter what happens in the future.”
“I don’t regret it, either,” he said truthfully. The only part he regretted was how she spoke of it in the past tense.
“Good. Well, you have my ship and crew. They are at your full disposal. I hope you will put us to good use.”
#
The older sister, Isabel Vargus, was next to arrive on Blackbeard. The entire fleet was hurtling through space at several thousand miles a second, and there was nearly a mistake in the calculations of the slingshot-type system that would get her from one ship to the next. Had that happened, the older Vargus sister would have sailed off never to be seen again. But some alert person in engineering noted that the numbers didn’t sound right, and they corrected the error before the pod launched.
Isabel arrived in the war room already looking put out. She studied Drake with her artificial eye focusing and refocusing, and then turned to her sister.
“So, you’ve decided to stick around and help your lover after all.”
Catarina snorted. “What do you know?”
“I know the two of you have been together,” Isabel said with a grin. “People talk. And I know that you’re after money in a big way.”
“Of course I am,” Catarina said. “I’m a pirate. Treasure and loot is what I live for. Like good looks and brains, you can never have too much gold.”
“So you’re hoarding doubloons, and you’re going to bury a chest on some deserted asteroid with a pirate map and an X-marks-the-spot? Sure, of course. Well, I assume something good is involved if you’re willing to throw in with us.”
Paredes and Aguilar joined them moments later, led in by Tolvern and Capp, who shut the door and then settled at the table with the five captains. It was the first time Drake had met Aguilar in person, and the man was taller than expected. He had a bushy black mustache and wore crossed bandoleers on his chest. He was a youngish man—perhaps midthirties—but his skin had the look of someone who had taken a lot of sun, not like some of these spacefarers from the frontier worlds, many of whom hadn’t seen natural light in years, if ever.
Aguilar had a cunning look about him that made Drake wary. He had a thick Ladino accent, but it almost seemed affected, so as to make him sound less clever and cause others to drop their guards. Although Drake hadn’t sought Aguilar out, and resented the way he’d insinuated himself into the fleet, the captain was now counting on Pussycat’s powerful armaments to support the mission, and had no choice but to trust the man.
“Well, here we are,” Isabel Vargus said, after they were all seated. “We’re inside of three hours to the final jump, so I suggest you get to the point.”
“I don’t know what we’ll find on the other side of the jump,” Drake said, “but we can all imagine, and we know it won’t be pretty. There will be a hard fight. Maybe more than one hard fight.”
“So long as there’s treasure,” Paredes said. “I will do all the maiming and killing you want, if you put enough gold in my pocket.”
“As little maiming and killing as possible,” Drake said. “But we will go for the gold all the same.”
“I like the way you think,” Paredes said.
“Yes, well. There will be blood enough. Let us hope that most of it is not our own.”
He’d run over his plan several times and discussed it with Tolvern to incorporate her thoughts. There had been an alternate scheme—nearly suicidal—that had assumed that Catarina would take Orient Tiger and go, and he was relieved to be able to incorporate her powerful frigate into his strategy. Still, it would be exceptionally risky.
The others sat in silence as Drake laid out his plan of attack. Eager faces turned serious, and then dour. Tolvern looked worried when Drake explained why she would need to lead the away team while he stayed on Blackbeard to fight the orbital fortresses, but she didn’t argue with his reasoning.
“Now,” he said, “let me tell you the enemies we’re likely to face.”
He started with the Royal Navy, her warship and orbital fortresses, and he finished by sharing his thoughts about the Hroom death fleets. By the time he concluded, their expressions were very grim indeed.
Chapter Fifteen
The Hroom fleet ignored the battleship and six cruisers and kept a straight course toward the jump point. Even after Malthorne ordered the cloaking lowered, so weapon system diagnostics could be properly run, the Hroom sloops paid them no attention. If there had been any doubt in Rutherford’s mind that this was a suicide fleet, that settled it. Otherwise, why not flee? There was another jump point not too far off that would take them deeper into the frontier and away from Albion. The Hroom must know that if they jumped into the Albion system with the Royal Navy in hot pursuit, there would be no escape.
Meanwhile, Rutherford counted the lost time with every hour spent in deviation from their prior course. More time lost, more time where other Hroom forces could be attacking Albion with minimal opposition. Because he was now certain that Dreadnought, Vigilant, and the rest would arrive after some of the alien forces.
Malthorne seemed confident in this particular battle. If the Hroom attacked in one of their well-known formations, the six cruisers would flank Dreadnought on all sides, above and below, as if they were extra-powerful destroyers. The battleship herself would thrash the alien sloops as they approached.
But if the Hroom fled or failed to deviate from their course, the cruisers would race in and pound them with missiles from the rear. Break apart the formation, then let Dreadnought devour the wounded as they fell behind.
As it turned out, the Hroom did neither of these things.
As the human fleet closed in, the sloops came about as if to attack, but rather than keeping one of the tight formations for which they were known, the six ships peeled off and scattered, as if they were fleeing in different directions. Malthorne shouted instructions across the com. He wanted the force divided.
Six sloops, six cruisers. Each cruiser would attack and destroy one weaker sloop, with Dreadnought coming in to mop up.
Rutherford was skeptical. None of the alien warships were fleeing toward a jump point, and they could not hope to outrun a cruiser, especially not the newer, swifter Punisher-class ships, Vigilant and Churchill. This was not improvisation—Hroom were not known for that—this was some unknown maneuver the Hroom had planned and rehearsed. Better to divide into three task forces, with the two wounded cruisers sticking with Dreadnought.
But the heat of battle was not the time to argue with one’s commanding officer, so Rutherford obeyed the order. Soon,Vigilant had veered away from the rest of the task force to hunt down her assigned sloop. But no sooner had the cruisers all separated from Malthorne’s flagship, then the Hroom sloops of war angled in toward each other once more. Before Rutherford knew it, they had gathered into a formation that he knew well, though he’d never seen it in battle: the legendary “tip of the spear.”
One sloop in the lead, three in a wedge behind it, and two at the rear. It was designed to stab into a gathered formation of warships, with the lead ship taking all of the abuse of incoming fire, a sacrifice. The others would use their long points to ram enemy craft.
“Ramming formation!” Pittsfield cried. Like Rutherford, he seemed excited to see the legendary tactic in play, what they’d all learned about in the Academy, but never faced.
They’d never seen it before, because the Hroom had abandoned the formation when it no longer worked. Newer Albion warships had strengthened shields, and older vessels had been retrofitted with modified bulkheads and airlocks. With these modifications, Hroom sloops would impale themselves and the ram-tip would break off and vent out the sloop’s atmosphere. The Albion ship might limp away, injured, but the sloop would be destroyed. So why were they using the formation now?
Because it was a suicide fleet. Loaded with fissile material. And the ships were aimed at Dreadnought.
“Bring us around!” Rutherford cried. To the gunnery: “Main missile battery. Hit those side ships!”
Missiles squirted out from Vigilant. They would take several minutes to close the distance. Hugh Lindsell, captain of the wounded Calypso, was the next ship to respond, as he swung in with a broadside of cannon fire.
Harbrake had been the most sluggish to react to Admiral Malthorne’s initial orders, and Nimitz was directly in the path of the oncoming Hroom spear point. She was an older Aggressor-class cruiser and also injured from the battle with the pirates, but there was nothing wrong with her main cannon battery. If Harbrake swung wide and let loose, he could get off two broadsides before the sloops closed. With steady nerves, he might still turn aside the enemy.
But Harbrake seemed frozen with indecision. He presented his main cannon, even as he kept swinging past the position of a broadside and dipped his nose down. His plasma engines flared, as he moved to accelerate out of danger.
“Harbrake, you coward!” Rutherford said. “Hold your ground, you idiot.”
The com channels were screaming with orders and information, and Rutherford was sure that if he looked down, he’d see that Malthorne was raging the same instructions. Something seemed to get through, since Nimitz hesitated again and began once more to turn her main guns toward the enemy.
Too late. The tip of the spear point reached him before he could bring Nimitz into position to fire. The lead sloop slammed into the cruiser.
Nimitz was still damaged from the ambush she and Calypso had suffered at the hands of the pirates, and her shields gave way. The sloop thrust in up to the nose. Debris and gas blew off, and a secondary explosion shuddered on the main deck. The two ships—Hroom and human—went spinning away, entwined.
Even then, there was a long moment where it was unclear whether or not the sloop would break free, and, if it did, whether Captain Harbrake would be able to take his ship and crawl from the battle, or be dead in the water until the fight was over. Somehow, Nimitz had survived the initial impact.
Then the two ships exploded. There was a flash of light that blinded all sensors. When the instrument panels recovered, there was no sign of either ship, only an expanding shock wave from a massive nuclear blast.
The crew on the bridge stared, gaping. The Hroom ship had apparently been loaded with atomic warheads and had self-destructed, vaporizing Harbrake and the 103 other people on board. The radioactive blast rolled over Vigilant, and instruments struggled to stay online.
Simon spoke in his mature, stern voice, giving the computer’s assessment. “Negligible damage to sensitive systems. Crew with exterior exposure have absorbed an estimated twenty-seven millirems of radiation. To mitigate the effects, it is suggested—”
It was a minimal amount, and Rutherford had no need for more, so he cut Simon off.
Vigilant’s missiles had disappeared into the explosion, which had not slowed the remaining five sloops of war. They raced at Dreadnought, their rams pointed straight forward. Serpentine batteries fired, and swarms of bomblets went racing toward the battleship. Rutherford ordered his ship to pursue. Other cruisers slowly came around, but only Calypso, Vigilant, and Richmond would be able to join the battle in time.
Malthorne didn’t turn Dreadnought away from the approaching suicide fleet, didn’t try to run. He seemed to give no thought to buying time so his cruisers could engage the enemy. Instead, he turned the battleship, and her shields slowly retracted above the main batteries. The first Hroom bomblets slammed into Dreadnought. Explosions rippled along her side.
Rutherford was coming in right after the sloops and couldn’t use his missiles for fear of hitting Dreadnought instead. So he ordered the forward torpedo bays readied, prepared the main guns, and as they entered the battle, he slid Vigilant wide so she’d show a broadside to the enemy fleet, which was now diving toward Dreadnought. At the last moment, two of the remaining five sloops peeled away, targeting the rapidly approaching Richmond and Calypso instead.
Richmond was out of position for this unexpected move and turned in a panic to flee, which brought curses from Rutherford and the other officers on Vigilant’s bridge. Calypso, on the other hand, fired missiles and cannon.
Dreadnought opened her guns on the final three sloops of war. Fire rolled along her side, spewing thousands of tons of hot, explosive metal at the enemy. The first shot caught the lead Hroom warship and ripped apart its shielding. It lost control and slid harmlessly past Dreadnought a few miles off the stern, then continued on into empty space, unable to change her trajectory, her engines smashed.
At last, Rutherford had Vigilant in position. Caites was calling for torpedoes, even as Rutherford gave the order to fire the main guns. They blasted at the rear sloop heading toward Dreadnought. Torpedoes followed.
Like a bellowing dragon roaring fire, Dreadnought opened another broadside, even as the three hard-charging sloops continued to hit the flagship with serpentines and pulse cannon. Cannon fire tore into them. The lead ship broke in two and drifted away, bleeding plasma and shuddering with explosions. Rutherford’s torpedoes found another and took out her engines, which detonated in a cloud of green plasma. Dreadnought finished the third off with missiles down the gullet. It exploded in a terrible flash, and Rutherford waited, breathless, for the screens to clear, afraid that when they did, Dreadnought would be no more. But when the viewscreen cleared, there she was, unvanquished, the mighty battleship enveloped in a cloud of smoke and debris.
Meanwhile, the last two sloops were hammering at the cruisers they’d targeted.
Richmond was still fleeing, while being pounded on the aft shields with pulse fire. By the time she turned around to make it a fight, Richmond was two hundred thousand miles from the main battlefield, her shields crippled. Serpentine missiles tore into her side, even as she launched missiles and fired her cannons in defense. The Hroom sloop tried to ram her, but failed. It ended in a bloody standstill, with both Richmond and the enemy sloop drifting away, dead in the water, unable to fight or flee.
HMS Calypso gave a better accounting of herself. Rutherford had never thought much of Captain Lindsell’s abilities—his father was Malthorne’s cousin, and Lindsell had obviously risen through that connection—but there was no questioning his willingness to fight. Like Nimitz, Calypso’s shields were damaged and vulnerable to ramming, but before the sloop could hit her, Calypso laid down a devastating broadside, supported by missiles and torpedoes. The sloop detonated. Unfortunately, the Hroom warship had fired several volleys with her serpentine batteries, and Calypso took heavy damage fore and aft.
Rutherford had been unable to intervene in either of these fights, so he pursued the second sloop knocked out by Dreadnought, which now looked as though it would recover and come back around for another suicide charge. The sloop spotted Vigilant and fired more serpentines. Bomblets crashed into them above the bridge, and Simon warned of damage to the shields. But the enemy was sluggish and struggling to maneuver after having taken a beating from Dreadnought, and so Rutherford stood off a pace, pinpointed her with missiles, and pounded the sloop until it blew apart.
With its destruction, the battle was over. Let the licking of wounds commence.
They’d defeated six sloops of war. But Nimitz had been incinerated, with all hands lost. Captain Harbrake had died with them. Of the other Aggressor-class cruisers, half of Richmond’s crew had been killed, and the ship was so crippled she had to be abandoned. On Calypso, seventeen crew had been killed, her remaining shields destroyed, and her warp-point engine lost. She would not leave the system with the fleet, but could only hope to hide in the outer belt, protected by a pair of torpedo boats, until she could be rescued and repaired.
The biggest loss of life came on Dreadnought herself. One of the bomblets had penetrated the belly shields and detonated inside one of the marine transport chambers, killing nearly two hundred Royal Marines in stasis. Six other crew had died. But the admiral’s flagship was largely unharmed, and still battleworthy.
When the rest of the fleet arrived, Malthorne tried to seize one of the crippled sloops, but the Hroom detonated it, destroying a torpedo boat and killing its eight crew members. The admiral did capture several Hroom from another piece of floating wreckage. None were sugar addicts, but all were fanatics of the Hroom god of death and initially refused to cooperate. As the fleet continued toward the jump point, Admiral Malthorne ordered them tortured to death to extract information. It was shameful, cowardly, an action unbecoming of the lord admiral of the Royal Navy. All the same, Rutherford eagerly awaited the information gleaned from the interrogations.
What Malthorne passed to Rutherford confirmed his fears. There had been six death fleets sent out. Their goal was to penetrate Albion’s defenses and circumnavigate the planet within the atmosphere. From there, they would maintain an atomic bombardment of Albion until they were either stopped or had turned the planet’s cities into radioactive glass.
Six fleets. They’d destroyed one. The other five would be reaching the Albion system now. Meanwhile, Malthorne’s latest expedition had cost three cruisers and twenty-nine more hours.
Chapter Sixteen
Blackbeard was the first ship of the pirate fleet to enter the Albion system. This particular jump point had migrated until it was a few million miles from the planet Thor, the outermost of the rocky inner worlds before the gas giants. Drake staggered out of his jump concussion expecting to find the ship under attack, but was relieved to see that they had not yet been detected. Paredes’s schooner came through next, followed by the three frigates: Outlaw, Orient Tiger, and Pussycat.
By the time the small fleet had gathered itself and set off toward the inner worlds, Blackbeard’s sensors had collected so much data and movement in the system that Drake could barely make sense of it. Coming through the noise were two critical facts. First, while there were a few navy vessels in the system, the bulk of the fleet was absent. Even if Malthorne’s forces popped in now, the other jump points were far enough from Albion that Drake thought he could rush in and rescue his parents before he could be stopped. Assuming they could run the forts, of course.
The second salient detail was that a Hroom fleet had entered the system. The navy seemed to be on high alert for their arrival and was rushing ships to engage them. Included in this intercepting force were two destroyers and several smaller support craft. This movement had cleared out the inner system, leaving the way open for Drake to mount his expedition against Albion, but at the same time, these Hroom would need to be dealt with if the makeshift naval task force couldn’t stop them. And he knew there were at least two other death fleets on their way to the system.
Unfortunately, the space lanes approaching Thor were busy with a veritable rush hour of mining ships, trading galleons, and all manner of other craft, and it wasn’t long before Drake was detected. A six-man patrol boat, armed only with rail guns, came swinging around the smaller of Thor’s two moons and spotted them. It took one look and fled for its life. Paredes wanted to hunt it down with his schooner, but Drake ordered him to stand down. Instead, he chased off the patrol boat with a single long-range missile, but otherwise ignored it. The small navy vessel evaded the missile, swung out about two million miles, and started to circle back toward Thor. Drake considered it warily, sure that the patrol boat wouldn’t be coming back around unless it had friends in the neighborhood. Meanwhile, he had a minefield to navigate.
“Smythe,” he said. “Have you found that field yet?”
“Yes, sir,” Smythe said from the tech console. “Just sent the data to Capp.”
“And did you steal the codes?”
“Negative, sir. The fleet has closed my back door into the network since Hot Barsa. I can’t shut the mines down.”
“What do you think, Ensign?” Drake asked Capp.
She studied the data Smythe had sent, her lips moving as she read, one hand rubbing the stubble on her head. “More of them Youd mines, Cap’n. King’s balls, there’s a lot of ’em.”
Nyb Pim was interfaced with the nav computer, plotting the current location of the system’s jump points. Drake needed to know where both Malthorne’s forces and the Hroom were likely to enter, and that left the subpilot to do short-term navigating.
“I need you to get us through. Smythe couldn’t disable them, so they’ll identify us as hostile and give chase. Can you manage? We can take her slow, if we need to.”
“Aye, Cap’n. I can manage.”
“Good. Plot a course and send it to the other ships so they can follow. Not Orient Tiger, though.”
Drake had a critical side mission for his most powerful frigate. Tolvern was giving instructions to the gunnery, and he waited for her to finish.
“Get Catarina,” he told Tolvern. “I want to talk to her.”
Catarina appeared on his viewscreen moments later. “Too hot for you already? You let that patrol craft go without much of a fight.”
“It’s coming back, you saw that?”
“Yes, what do you suppose it means?”
“It means they’re expecting an assault on Thor, and that they have the firepower to turn us back. Or think they do, anyway. How do you feel about a solo run at the planet?”
“At Thor?” Catarina’s eyebrows raised, but she didn’t look overly surprised. “That’s . . . challenging.”
During their final meeting aboard Blackbeard before the jump, he’d told Catarina he intended to use Orient Tiger for a side mission, that her guns and maneuverability would be best used to distract naval resources. Any ship she engaged out here was one fewer he’d face at Albion.
“Don’t do anything crazy,” he told her. “This is a diversion only.”
“Define crazy.”
“No landing on the surface, no harpooning merchant vessels, and no slugging it out with starships. You face something bigger than that patrol boat, you keep your distance.”
“I get it. Dance around, feint, jab a few punches. But no big battles.”
“Precisely,” Drake said. “You won’t do me any good if you get yourself killed.”
“I’m not too fond of dying, myself.”
Drake glanced at his console. The patrol boat had disappeared around the outer moon again and was lurking out of sight. Smythe was trying to ping his sensors off the planet of Thor to see if he could get an echo of what was on the far side of that moon, but so far to little effect. Something was hiding there, Drake was sure of it.
“But at the same time, you need to draw attention,” Drake said. “Thor has an orbital fort protecting the helium mines near the equator, but that thick atmosphere will hide you if you get below it. Drop down, leave them a gift, and come back out. Be agile, like when you hunted the tyrillium barge.”
Catarina nodded. Her customary smirk was gone, and her mouth was pulled together, her brow knitted. She was very pretty, and at that moment, she had a vulnerability to her expression that made him want to protect her.
“Off we go, then,” she said. “Give them hell, James.” A final, saucy grin. “And bring back my share of the loot!”
#
For the first half hour after Orient Tiger peeled away from Blackbeard, Drake wondered if he was wrong about what was on the other side of Thor’s moon. There was still no sign of the patrol boat, nor any other warships. All navy vessels seemed to be rushing out to engage the approaching Hroom fleet.
Catarina uncloaked and circled Thor like a buzzing hornet looking for a chance to sting. She dodged and evaded inexpertly launched ordnance from the single fortress orbiting the green planet. Orient Tiger ducked in once to drop some flashy bit of explosive toward the surface. It made a big bang where it hit, but didn’t seem to have much effect otherwise. The helium-3 mines on the surface were valuable, but the mines were about as easy to loot as a giant wheat field, and no doubt the naval forces in the system were confused about the pirate frigate’s intentions. Maybe the patrol boat had sent a warning, only to be told to stand down, that they were facing bigger threats.
Meanwhile, Capp was leading Blackbeard and the other three ships toward the minefield, all of them cloaked. They hadn’t entered the field yet, hadn’t passed the point of no return. There was still time to recall Catarina and use her to better effect closer to Albion. Drake had just resolved to hail Orient Tiger with new orders, when they’d finally passed far enough beyond Thor to catch a glimpse of the back side of the planet’s outer moon.
A destroyer was lurking there, together with the patrol boat they’d spotted. There was a small navy refueling station on the moon, and a missile frigate had been on the surface and was now lifting off, her plasma engines straining. Within a few minutes, she’d be up and flanking the destroyer, and the three ships would be ready to come out and challenge Catarina’s pirate frigate.
Drake called her. “You’ve got company. A destroyer and two support vessels.”
They were 1.5 million miles apart by now, and there was a long delay before her response came back. “I can handle a destroyer. One of the old models?”
“Negative, she’s a Harpoon-class. As agile as you are and nearly as fast. Missile frigate on her flank.”
Another long delay. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.” Yet there was tension in her voice. “Have to keep them occupied, have to earn my keep.”
“I appreciate that, but remember what I said. No slugging it out with starships.”
Drake ended the call, as every moment with an open channel risked exposing Blackbeard and the other cloaked ships. But he watched anxiously as Catarina continued circling the planet, occasionally launching a shot at the fortress or the surface. The lean, hungry-looking destroyer and her support vessels came around the moon.
Smythe had identified the destroyer as HMS Philistine, commanded by Captain Phillip Potterman, an older man, but plenty capable. Steady, perhaps without a good deal of creativity, but not the type you wanted to face when he commanded superior forces.
The navy vessels lingered back at first, not coming in to attack, but waiting, as if trying to determine the pirate ship’s intentions. It didn’t seem like Potterman’s style; Malthorne must have pushed him to an early retirement and replaced him with one of his cronies. The Royal Navy was full of timid commanders, and it seemed as though Catarina was lucky enough to be facing one of them. She was overmatched.
But the destroyer captain—whether it was Potterman or someone else—had only been biding his time. About ten minutes later, a second Royal Navy destroyer uncloaked several hundred thousand miles beyond Thor, her torpedo tubes opening. Potterman’s ships now came in to engage the pirate frigate.
“Looks like your plan worked,” Tolvern said from the bridge of Blackbeard. “That’s two destroyers and a frigate that won’t be chasing us to Albion.”
“Yes, that was my hope,” Drake said, but he couldn’t take his eyes off the data scrolling in from the developing fight at Thor, now three million miles distant from Blackbeard. He was too far away now to return, and too close to the minefield for Catarina to follow him in.
Smythe brought down the long-range sensors to further hush their profile entering the minefield. Drake lost all sight of Catarina’s ship just as Orient Tiger came around the planet to face the first attack.
The minefield was a vast, movable field of self-propelled Youd mines that could migrate about the system to choke off entry points. Its current positioning suggested that the navy had recently moved the minefield into place to guard against possible Hroom advances toward Albion, but Blackbeard, as a former navy cruiser, had the sensors to detect the mines, and Drake’s pilots had the skill to thread the needle where mine coverage didn’t overlap.
Amazingly, they emerged from the other side of the minefield several hours later without having triggered a single one. That meant they were still undetected, and now only a few hours from entering the near space of Albion herself. He turned the long-range sensors back on long enough to scan for developments since they’d gone black.
Catarina was still alive, thank God. She was too distant to determine if her frigate had suffered damage in the fighting, but her engines were still functioning well enough. She was fleeing Thor toward the outer systems, with a good lead on the two destroyers and their escorts. Unfortunately, a third vessel, this one a larger corvette, was racing to join the chase. Catarina was flying toward one of the gas giants, perhaps hoping to lose her pursuit among the moons or the ring of dust and rock that circled it.
Catarina had successfully distracted two destroyers and a corvette, as well as a pair of support craft. Unfortunately, she’d also drawn naval forces away from the bigger threat now developing in the system.
There was a battle raging between the Hroom death fleet and the navy ships that had gone to intercept it. Two of the six sloops of war had been destroyed, left as floating wreckage far behind the evolving battlefield, but both of the human destroyers were missing from the fight. They had simply vanished. The only thing that Drake could surmise was that pulse cannons or rams had torn apart the tyrillium armor, and the Hroom had finished the job with atomic warheads. Two missile frigates were pursuing the four remaining sloops of war, but they were scarcely delaying the Hroom movement toward the inner system.
Meanwhile, a second Hroom fleet had jumped in and was barreling toward Albion. No Royal Navy forces moved to engage it. The action with the other Hroom sloops was taking place on the opposite side of the system. From Drake’s vantage, it looked as though the Hroom had a clear line straight to Albion and would arrive only a few hours after he did.
“Someone run the numbers,” Drake said. “Can anyone intercept them?”
Smythe spoke up a moment later. “HMS Philistine can, if she turns around now. The corvette and the second destroyer are already out of range.”
“Send a subspace to Philistine,” Drake told Tolvern. “Tell Potterman—if it is Potterman—the situation. Orient Tiger was a feint—she’s not his enemy here. He must engage the Hroom. Catarina will come back around to help him.”
“If we send a subspace this close to Albion,” Tolvern said, “we’re likely to give away our position. And Potterman will have plenty of time to send his own subspace to the Admiralty to warn them that Blackbeard is on its way to Albion.”
“Smythe, send the message.” Drake gripped the edges of his chair, but didn’t let the worry show on his face or in his voice. “Potterman is a gentleman, and no fool. Surely, he will understand the stakes.”
“And if it’s not Potterman on that destroyer?” she asked.
“We’ll take our chances. Smythe, send it. And send a subspace to Catarina, too.”
An hour later, accelerating rapidly, Drake made the call to the other ships of his flotilla: drop cloaking, assemble the away team, and begin the final approach to Albion. It was time to assault York Tower and free his parents.
Chapter Seventeen
“Three minutes to launch,” Jane said. The computer sounded so soothing, so calm, considering the utter chaos of the situation, all of the dozens of variables that could lead to the death of every person in the away pod.
Tolvern eyed the others in her pod: Capp, Carvalho, Lutz, Oglethorpe, and Thatcher. Lutz sat in the seat opposite and flashed a big, gold-toothed grin, his white scar seeming to wink at her.
He patted one of his weapons, which was lying right across his lap. “Don’t you worry none, Commander, I got a big ol’ cannon here to serve you.”
“Shut yer gob,” Capp said good-naturedly. “Commander don’t want to see your cannon, so don’t you be whipping it out in public.”
The others laughed. It was nervous, strained laughter. The pod was vibrating from outgoing fire from Blackbeard’s torpedo bays and cannon batteries. Shortly, they’d be taking shots of the incoming variety, too. She wished the captain was in here with her, but all of his skills were needed on the bridge, which had left Tolvern in charge of the assault company. She understood it, but she didn’t like it. Instead of Drake’s company, she was left with this lot.
I am trusting my life to these people. Wonderful.
Apart from Oglethorpe, they were all pirates and ex-prisoners. Oglethorpe was a former special forces guy, but he had a messed-up shoulder and was mostly there for tactical support. The other away pod was similarly constituted, filled by the newer, rougher crew. The two pods from Blackbeard would be joining similar sorts on Paredes’s schooner, and Tolvern would be expected to lead them all against the royal guards at York Tower. Good luck with that.
“Ninety seconds to launch,” Jane said. A yellow light began to flash on the airlock door.
Tolvern had been avoiding looking out the port window, but now she couldn’t help herself. Aguilar’s frigate, Pussycat, sat several miles distant, her heavy guns turned against the nearest orbital fortress, which was also the target of the guns of Blackbeard and Outlaw, although Tolvern couldn’t see the older Vargus sister’s frigate from this vantage. The fortress returned fire with a punishing array of weapons, starting with missiles and torpedoes, but they would shortly be in range of its cannon, as well.
Appearing to float quietly between Blackbeard and Pussycat (if you could call racing at thirty miles per second floating), was Paredes’s slender schooner. Swiftly moving capsules glinted with reflected light from detonating missiles as they soared from Pussycat to the schooner, where they were snared and hauled in. Paredes was quiet, hiding even, because his was the vessel that would take the assault team into the atmosphere. His shields also couldn’t take much abuse. The schooner swung her hook around, ready to snare the pods coming from the other direction. All looked normal, and Tolvern took a deep, steady breath to calm herself.
“Twenty seconds to launch,” Jane said. “Prepare for rapid acceleration.” The yellow warning light flashed faster now.
No more banter; the others gripped their harnesses. Some closed their eyes. Lutz, of all people, began to chant the Lord’s Prayer in Old Earth English as Jane began the final countdown. What the absolute hell? Was that heathen a member of the church?
Tolvern didn’t have a chance to finish this thought. A hand slammed into her chest as Blackbeard launched them. The pod spun a lazy rotation before it stabilized, and she got her first glimpse of Albion. It glowed blue and green and beautiful below them. They were passing over Canada now, on the far side of the planet from their target on the continent of Britain, and she spotted the Zealand Islands stretching into the ocean, achingly beautiful, like green gemstones laid in a row.
There was Auckland! Her home island. An aching nostalgia wrenched something deep in her chest. There, only a few thousand miles away, lay the Drake estate. Home. Her parents, her brothers. Her dogs, were they still alive? Even old Rufus? He’d be almost thirteen now.
Colonel Fitzgibbons is master of the Drake estate now, she thought, and her heart hardened with anger at him and Admiral Malthorne.
“Pod two launched,” Jane said. “Life support readings normal. Docking with schooner in twenty-seven seconds.”
The other pod had launched first and was midway to the schooner already. The navy fortress loomed, the asteroid into which it was built squatting in orbit like a giant, warty toad, bristling with guns. The fort was firing full volleys now, and Drake’s fleet was also taking fire from a second fortress, this one in an orbit closer to the equator, to the southeast.
Something detonated nearby, and the pod shuddered violently. It spun end over end, the crew inside shouting and cursing. By the time it stabilized, the schooner seemed in a different position above the planet, and Tolvern watched with horror as the first away pod sailed toward the schooner, out of position. The hook moved, trying to snare the pod in its net, but it missed. The pod zipped past, on its way toward the atmosphere. Out of reach. Tolvern’s pod followed in what seemed to be the same trajectory.
Jane’s voice came on. “Pod two stabilized. Docking with schooner in . . . recalculating . . . recalculating. Unable to calculate.”
For a moment, there was horrified silence in the pod. Tolvern’s heart hammered in her chest, and she felt lightheaded, like she would pass out.
“Unable to bloody calculate!” Capp said in a low, horrified voice. “We’ve been knocked off course. We’re going to die!”
#
Captain Rutherford jumped Vigilant into the Albion system. As he shook his head to clear it, he thought that they were safe, that they’d arrived in time. The instruments were dark, nobody was shouting instructions. Nothing alarming was coming through from the rest of the fleet, and Malthorne wasn’t screaming orders in a dozen directions.
And then he realized that not only was Vigilant the first ship of the fleet through, but he was apparently the first person on the deck to come to his senses. The jump had been looser than expected, which meant that it took less energy to get through, but it also left people disoriented longer. But such effects were unpredictable, and he’d pulled out of the jump concussion sooner than anyone else. He got to work.
Rutherford had the nav computer and the defense grid computer online before Pittsfield, Caites, and Norris could so much as stammer a confirmation that they were conscious. HMS Lancelot was next through, and, following the corvette, two destroyers and a handful of torpedo boats. By this time, Rutherford had seen enough to understand the dire situation into which he’d stumbled. There were battles raging across the home system, and although he didn’t yet have enough information to fully understand the ramifications, it was clear that the situation would call for energy and initiative.
“Call Lancelot,” he told Pittsfield. The corvette was the second-strongest ship on this side of the jump. “She will join us in the vanguard. Everyone else who is already through will follow us. Anyone coming after will wait for Dreadnought. Malthorne can give further instructions when he arrives.”
“But sir,” Norris said, as Pittsfield moved to obey. The tech officer still sounded groggy, and his eyes were bleary like a man who was hungover from a long night of drinking gin. “The lord admiral said to wait until the entire fleet was assembled.”
“That will take several hours,” Rutherford said, “and we don’t have a moment to spare.”
“We can’t go against the Hroom with a cruiser, a corvette, and a pair of destroyers. We need Dreadnought’s guns.”
Heat rose in Rutherford’s face. “I want a full scan and report from you in ten minutes, Norris. Is that understood? And if you insist on being insubordinate—”
“It’s not me who is being insubordinate,” Norris interrupted sullenly.
“Lieutenant Caites,” Rutherford snapped, “if this man says another word outside of his duties, you will remove him from my bridge at gunpoint and see him to the brig.”
“Yes, sir,” Caites said.
Rutherford had had enough of Malthorne’s spineless sycophants. A cell was too good for Norris. If he didn’t shut his mouth and do what he was told, he deserved to be shot for battlefield cowardice.
By the time Rutherford received Norris’s report, he had his cruiser, a corvette, two destroyers, and five patrol boats in motion. If he’d had a missile frigate or two, he’d have called it a full task force, but he didn’t have time to wait, and those slower craft would only bog him down, anyway.
As for Norris’s report, there was a force of several ships rapidly approaching Albion on the far side of the system, only a few hours out. That had better be James Drake and Blackbeard. If it was one of the death fleets, heaven help them, because there was nothing defending the planet except for the orbital fortresses.
Farther out from the home world, pirate ships appeared to have attacked the York Company mining colonies on Thor, to be chased off by a couple of destroyers and support vessels. That must be Drake, too, but what the devil was he doing attacking Thor? It was nowhere near Albion, and he had only succeeded in distracting warships that otherwise could have been engaging the Hroom.
At least the naval forces had disengaged from the fight with the pirates. These ships, led by Captain Potterman on HMS Philistine, were now racing to engage one of three Hroom death fleets now in the system. Even so, this task force was nowhere near strong enough to fight off several sloops of war.
That observation was supported by the results of a battle that had been fought with another Hroom fleet. The enemy had obliterated two destroyers at the cost of two of their sloops and were flying toward Albion with four ships, hassled, but not slowed, by two navy missile frigates. Potterman’s task force was of similar size to the one already defeated, and Rutherford expected a similar result.
Worse still was the third Hroom fleet. Eight ships, uncontested. It had been in the system for several hours, according to panicked messages coming out of fleet headquarters. There were no available naval resources to oppose it. At the moment, it had a clear path straight to Albion. Shortly, the wisdom of Rutherford’s decision to leave the jump point without waiting for Malthorne and Dreadnought became apparent. Rutherford would arrive at Albion at almost the same time as these eight ships.
There were six death fleets, according to the tortured prisoners. One destroyed in the Gryphon Shoals. Three here in the system. That left two more fleets unaccounted for.
Rutherford had been racing toward Albion for two hours before Dreadnought came through the jump point. Malthorne snapped off several angry messages from the bridge of the battleship, but the two forces were so distant that by the time Rutherford had a chance to respond, the admiral had apparently reassessed the situation and realized the trouble they were in. A fourth Hroom fleet had been spotted near the gas giants, this one nine sloops of war. Also unopposed.
Malthorne didn’t retract his furious missives, but to his credit, he did adjust his battle plan. He sent a second task force to chase after Vigilant and Lancelot. Rutherford’s battle would likely be over by the time it arrived, but these new ships could bolster the planetary defenses. The admiral then took Dreadnought and the bulk of his forces to intercept the force out by the gas giants. He sent his two fastest cruisers to engage the final enemy fleet that was being chased by the missile frigates. They could not hope to defeat the sloops, but could possibly delay them.
Rutherford called Pittsfield and Caites into the war room to discuss how to position their limited forces in the upcoming battle.
“There will be hell to pay,” Pittsfield warned. “Regardless of how the battle turns out, the lord admiral will want our blood.”
Caites looked bewildered. “Why?”
“Because I disobeyed a direct order,” Rutherford said. “We were told to hold at the jump point until the entire fleet had come through. It wasn’t a bad order—we had no way to know that the Hroom would already be in the system.”
Left unspoken, but surely obvious to Caites and Pittsfield, was that Malthorne had burned three full days fighting pirates and then diverting to battle the Hroom fleet outside the home system. Had they not taken that costly detour, the entire fleet would be orbiting Albion by now. From there, Malthorne could have maintained an overwhelming defensive cordon.
“But sir, the Hroom arrived early,” she protested. “What were we to do? Let them attack Albion unchallenged?”
“You have a lot to learn, Lieutenant,” Rutherford said. “The lord admiral is absolutely correct. This fleet is built on obedience and discipline. It is the foundation of navy power.”
“With all due respect, sir . . . no, I apologize. Never mind.”
“Go ahead,” Rutherford urged.
“It is obedience, discipline, and initiative. That is why we win.”
“And I have taken initiative in this case. But there will be a heavy cost to pay. So long as Admiral Malthorne leads this fleet, the kind of insubordination I displayed cannot be tolerated.”
Caites opened her mouth, then closed it again. She leaned forward. There was something else she desperately wanted to say, that much was obvious. In less-trusted company, Rutherford would have cut her off to save her from her own impudent words. But he wanted to hear what she was thinking, and so he nodded his encouragement.
“Sometimes, I wonder,” she said at last, “if Admiral Malthorne isn’t a bigger threat to the kingdom than James Drake, the Hroom, or any number of other enemies.”
It was a dangerous statement. It hinted at more than mutiny or insubordination, but at outright treason. The words hung in the air for a long moment, before Pittsfield cleared his throat and brought up a schematic of the system.
They ran through the data, and what it showed was grim. Every scenario had Vigilant and her support vessels tackling eight sloops of war alone. He’d catch them a few million miles out from Albion, where he hoped to charge in with the cruiser and corvette and take out at least two of the enemy ships. Supported by the destroyers and the torpedo boats, he thought he could disable or destroy two, maybe three more before the superior Hroom forces knocked him out of the fight. That would leave three or four sloops to rush Albion unopposed. Unsupported by warships, Rutherford didn’t think the orbital fortresses could repel them all before the sloops of war had entered the atmosphere on their final suicidal mission.
How many atomic warheads did four sloops carry? Too many.
Caites ran her fingers through her short, blond hair. “I’d like our chances a lot better if we could reach Albion and hide behind the guns of Fort William or Fort Ellen. For that matter, the forts need us, too.”
“Put that hope out of your mind, Lieutenant,” Rutherford said. “There is no way to arrive before the Hroom. We can only hope to come up shooting from behind and force them to turn and give us a fight.”
“But eight sloops,” she said.
“We may not come out of it alive,” Rutherford admitted. “Indeed, our best case scenario is to land our blows and be knocked out of the fight. We float away, disabled, while the Hroom ignore us and continue their mission.”
“That isn’t much of a hope, sir,” she said.
“No, it is not. In fact, an even better case would have them chasing after us to finish the job since it would delay them even more.”
“But then we would all die.”
“We may all die anyway,” Rutherford said. “If we do, it will be for the glory of Albion. Small consolation, I know.”
Caites sighed. “Very small. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
“Maybe we will.” Rutherford had faced terrible odds before and was somehow confident in his ability to emerge from this struggle alive, as well. “There is always a hope, Lieutenant. Any of a million things may happen—always do happen, actually—to change the course of battle in unexpected ways. We may yet pull out of this.”
And when you do? When the battle is won, thanks to your initiative and sacrifice? When Admiral Malthorne rewards you with a court martial and a demotion? What, then?
Rutherford took a deep breath and turned to Pittsfield, who was tracing his fingers over the console, moving around various pieces as if searching for some way out of the predicament. “Commander? Any thoughts? Solutions?”
Pittsfield shook his head. “No, sir. I am sorry. I’ve been looking for alternatives, but I can find none.”
“Very well. Let us discuss the order of battle. We have few forces—it will be simple.”
He had just started on possibilities, when Norris called over the com. “Sir, look at the viewscreen!”
Rutherford brought up the image on one of the war room consoles. The relative motion of both Vigilant and Albion now gave them a view of the far side of the planet, and a fresher picture of the situation rapidly came into focus.
Blackbeard was in orbit around Albion, with three other vessels in support. Two were frigates roughly on par with a corvette, and the third was a small schooner. Drake was slugging it out with a pair of orbital fortresses. The attack on Thor must have been a feint, designed to lure the navy from Albion and distract attention while he sneaked in. It had worked.
The hope Rutherford had been feeling, more wishful thinking, actually, than anything backed by evidence, now bloomed. James Drake was between Albion and the Hroom death fleet.
“Thank you, Norris,” Rutherford said, and ended the call from the bridge. Better not to let Norris know what he was planning.
“Send a message to Blackbeard,” he told Pittsfield. “Give her full access to our data. Tell Drake we are on our way and make sure he knows about those Hroom sloops. I’ll see about getting the forts to stand down, but Drake needs to hold his ground for the good of Albion.”
That eliminated the need for Rutherford to go after the Hroom alone. He could follow close behind, count on Drake to support the forts and delay the attack, and then hammer the Hroom from behind.
“Will he help us, sir?” Caites asked, as Pittsfield began to compose a message. “What about rescuing his parents? What about his mutinous crew? What about the fact that Malthorne murdered his sister and will still kill Drake no matter what happens today?”
“You met Captain Drake,” Rutherford said. “You saw what kind of a man he is.”
She shifted in her seat and looked uneasy. “Yes, but—”
“James Drake,” Rutherford said confidently, “is, and always will be, a citizen of Albion. He will sacrifice to save our planet, I am sure of it.”
Even as Pittsfield sent the message, a new communication came from Dreadnought. Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne had spotted James Drake and his pirate fleet and had orders on the subject. The forces were far enough apart that the orders came as a subspace message.
Captain Nigel Rutherford, HMS Vigilant
You must stop Drake. If our orbital defenses cannot hold, you must block him from escaping the system. Drake is behind this Hroom attack, he is the one who led the enemy here and allowed them to attack our home system. His treason has reached the point of genocide against his own race, and for the sake of peace, safety, and vengeance on behalf of the Crown, the navy, and the Albionish people, you must kill him and his crew.
If you complete this mission, your insubordination will be forgiven. You will be elevated to the Admiralty and granted an estate on Albion as recompense for your heroism.
If you fail to obey, you will be arrested, tried for treason, and hung from the end of a rope until dead.
With resolution,
Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne
Rutherford stared at the message for a long time. It was infested with lies, cowardice, and evil. Yes, evil. Rutherford had never read a more wicked order, and he loathed every word of it.
“What is it?” Pittsfield asked. “Are you unwell?”
Erase it. Hit ‘delete’ and pretend you never received the message. Anything can happen in battle. You may be killed. The admiral may be killed. You may emerge as a hero who cannot be touched. Anything.
But that was the coward’s way. He slid his computer across to Pittsfield, who drew in his breath as he read it. Then, he showed Caites. Her brow furrowed, and she chewed her lip.
“You know what I intend to do, I presume?” Rutherford asked. “There is only one option, as ugly as that is.”
They looked at him for a long moment, and then both of them nodded.
“And are you with me?” he continued.
Again, nods, more resolutely this time.
“Good. Then let us proceed. Ever forward, never looking back.”
Chapter Eighteen
Tolvern stared in horror at the first away pod as it sailed beyond the schooner and disappeared into Albion’s upper atmosphere. An explosion from the orbital fortress had knocked both pods off course, and the schooner’s outstretched hook and net had missed. Had missed! The pod had no heat shields—it would burn up in the atmosphere.
She knew those people. She’d been talking to Mora not five minutes ago as they approached the two away pods. Tolvern and Capp were teasing him about the silly pencil mustache Mora was growing, the sort of good-natured banter to ease nerves before combat. Now, Mora and the rest were soaring to their deaths.
And Tolvern’s pod was following the same path, a few seconds behind it. They were close enough now, only a few hundred yards from the groping hook and net, so close that Tolvern could eyeball it. They would miss. She knew it.
Docking with schooner in . . . recalculating. Unable to calculate.
Jane couldn’t calculate, because it wasn’t going to happen. There wasn’t going to be a docking, now or ever. The others in Tolvern’s pods were crying out, struggling with their restraints (what good would that do?), closing their eyes, or even praying. But Tolvern could only stare out the port window. She felt pale and lightheaded.
Then, at the moment when her hope was gone, the schooner rolled. Only a fraction—she was still approaching the forts at a rapid clip—but that movement swung the arm wide, closer to them. Was it enough? The pod slammed into the outer metal ring of the net, and they jerked against their restraining belts. Like an idiot, Lutz had unstrapped himself, and he came flying at Tolvern like a meat missile. She ducked, and he flew over her shoulder and slammed into the weapons rack behind her.
As the pod came to rest in the net, there was a good deal of cursing, mixed with cheers and shouts of relief. Lutz’s nose looked like a mashed banana, and his blood was splattered all over her combat jumpsuit. He groaned and clutched at his nose, blood streaming between his fingers. Moments later, the airlock opened, and they stepped into the cramped hold of the schooner. Tolvern was so relieved to feel solid ground beneath her feet that she didn’t care about Lutz’s blood all over her.
Capp grabbed Tolvern’s arm. “All them people. They just . . . they missed. How did they miss? We was right behind ’em. Coulda been us. But it wasn’t. We’re alive, and they’re dead.”
“There’s nothing we can do about that now,” Tolvern said.
“They was my mates, you know. Fonseca, Peters, Arends, Mora.” Capp’s eyes were haunted. “I don’t—I can’t . . . ”
Carvalho came over and rested a hand on Capp’s shoulder. His look was sympathetic, and she threw her arms around him and buried her face against his chest.
“Mora’s gone,” she said. “Can you believe it? Me and Tolvern was just talking to him.”
“I know, Capp,” Carvalho said. “Sorry.”
Tolvern stared. She hadn’t thought them capable. A pair of smugglers and pirates, yet here they were, sharing a tender moment. Tolvern wanted to leave them be, but things were happening in the schooner hold, while outside the ship, the fortresses would be turning their guns to hammer them. It was quiet, with no outgoing fire, and nothing had hit them yet, but that could change in an instant, and then all would be chaos and death.
“There’s nothing we can do for them now,” Tolvern said. “We have to carry on.”
There were about twenty men and women inside the schooner hold already: a couple of men from Paredes’s crew, plus men and women sent over from Pussycat. In addition, Catarina Vargus had left her sister several of her own crew before flying off with Orient Tiger, and one of these was the cyborg-like fellow with the Gatling gun for his left arm. His name was Nix, and Tolvern still found his appearance menacing even though he was her subordinate for the current mission.
Nevertheless, it was a surprisingly organized collection of men and women, hard-bitten, of course, but not fighting and squabbling as pirates often did. They tightened bandoleers, checked shotguns and assault rifles, and then moved to strap themselves into the harnesses on the side of the hold. There were even three Hroom in the crew, pale-skinned sugar eaters, which made Tolvern question their trustworthiness, but they were neither swooning nor suffering withdrawals at the moment, so far as she could see. Poor bastards. If they survived, Tolvern would talk to Brockett about getting them the sugar antidote.
Her crew still seemed stunned, were still congratulating themselves on having survived. But the first of two pods had just arrived from Outlaw, and the way these people emerged—organized and efficiently checking their weapons—jolted Tolvern from her stupor. Capp passed Tolvern weapons from the pod, which she distributed.
Someone cut strips of rag for Lutz, and he shoved them up his nose until they formed bloody plugs. More blood smeared across his face, and he had a dazed expression. A concussion, she thought, as she handed him a shotgun. She briefly considered leaving him behind, but she’d already lost the six from the other pod, and needed all available manpower.
Tolvern and Capp waited until they were all strapped in before addressing the assault team. There were thirty-one in all, and six empty harnesses.
“Listen up!” Tolvern said. “I don’t know most of you, and most of you don’t know me, but here is how it is going to go. I am the commander of this mission, and Ensign Capp is my first officer. Capp is a former marine.”
“And I got the lions to prove it,” Capp said, holding out her forearm to show her tattoos. People snickered and jeered, but Capp grinned back at them. “Oh, yeah? I know you lot are jealous, and make no mistake. We get some gold, and maybe you can afford a bit of ink yourself, if you don’t drink and whore it away first.”
The sloop shuddered. Was that the sloop entering the atmosphere, or had they taken a hit? The small ship was agile, but poorly armed and armored. The guns of Blackbeard and the two frigates needed to give them cover, or this mission would end before it ever reached York Town.
“Gold, yes,” Tolvern said. “There’s a vault at the bottom of York Tower, containing the monetary reserves of the Crown, what the Royal Mint uses to make their coinage. Get that bullion, and every one of us will be richer than Solomon.”
“Who’s that?” someone asked.
Tolvern ignored the comment. “But we have more important considerations.”
“More important than gold?”
“Will you shut up?” Capp said. “Commander’s trying to keep you lot from getting killed, yeah?”
“First, we rescue Baron and Lady Drake. They’re at the top of the tower, where royal prisoners are held. We fight our way up, get them out, then haul them to the schooner, which will be parked in the courtyard, probably under fire. The royal guard will be there, of course, and before long, York Town will send forces. They’re militia—I figure we can handle them with what we’ve got.
“But there’s a big military base outside York Town, and once it’s obvious that the city is under attack, they can legally enter it. That means Royal Marines with assault helicopters. Might take them a half-hour, an hour, and then they’ll be on us. I’d say longer, but they’re no doubt already on high alert given everything going on out there with the Hroom.”
“Half-hour ain’t long,” Lutz said.
Tolvern glared at him. She shouldn’t be getting arguments from her own people, who had been warned against that sort of thing. It was only with the cooperation of Blackbeard’s crew that she hoped to keep these pirates organized, and she’d already lost half her force in the missing pod.
“No, it’s not,” Tolvern said. “But here’s our second objective. Avoid getting killed. There’s plenty of gold at the end of this mission from Captain Drake. We don’t need to throw away our lives to go after whatever is down in the vaults. As soon as the marines show up, the schooner is going to yank us out of there. Those who stay are done for, so it doesn’t matter if they’re sitting on a million gold coins, they’ll still be dead. Those who survive get their bonus from Drake.”
Not really, of course. Drake had already forked over everything he’d taken from the capture of the tyrillium barge, and the rest was pure bluff. He hoped to get enough loot from York Tower to pay his debts, but it was anyone’s guess if that would happen.
Tolvern’s words seemed to have the desired effect. The away team was now thinking of gold, yes, but also of the cost of being greedy. Someone, she thought, was dismissing her in his mind. That person probably wouldn’t survive the mission.
Her speech also had the effect of taking the edge off their nerves by distracting them. That went for herself, too. A warning light flashed inside the hold, which meant they were already in the thermosphere and dropping deeper into the atmosphere. Soon, they would be racing toward York Town. The ship shuddered again, and Tolvern smelled smoke, the sharp tang of burning plastic. There was no mistaking it this time; the schooner had taken damage. Unlike the jungles and sugar plantations of Hot Barsa, Albion had plenty of surface defenses, and missile and other anti-aircraft defenses would be chasing them around. Paredes and his ship had better be as good as advertised.
Tolvern had avoided calling his bridge, not wanting to distract him with idle questions while he and his small crew, rendered sparse by the number of them currently strapped into harnesses for the away team, tried to keep them all alive. She could call Blackbeard, but the same situation was in play there. Drake was flying without his commander or his subpilot. The last thing she wanted was to bother Smythe or Manx while they were desperately trying to jam enemy missiles.
So Tolvern stared at the opposite wall of the hold. It was ten feet away, cloaked in shadows, stuffed with crates and barrels all lashed in together. It was claustrophobic in here, and she had no idea of what was happening outside. The schooner shuddered again, and her stomach turned over as the ship dropped. Her heart thumped. But they shortly stabilized. It felt like anti-grav was off, which meant they were close to the surface.
The ship banked, and Tolvern found herself looking up at the away pods bulging from the airlock. Crates groaned and leaned against their harnesses. After so long in deep space, where you might be upside-down relative to your earlier position and never know it, thanks to artificial gravity, the slanted perspective was jarring, alarming.
Someone came through on the com, a young man, his voice high and frightened. Sounded like a kid, a teenager. “Captain told me to give you an update. We’re taking anti-aircraft fire, but shields are holding. For now. Ten minutes until we land.”
Tolvern touched her ear to activate her own link. “Is the marine base on alert?”
No answer. The kid, whoever he was, was apparently not listening.
The schooner was shuddering now, bucking and pitching as they descended. Periodically, they hit an air pocket, and her stomach dropped. At last, she was leaning forward in her tether. They must be decelerating.
And then they came to a stop. Buckles unclasped, and men, women, and Hroom checked their weapons. The rear cargo doors opened on the hold, and a ramp fell to the ground. The slanted light of late afternoon entered the ship. Tolvern jumped out, and her boots touched the surface of Albion for the first time in nearly two years. As a warm breeze blew away the tang of plasma from the air, it brought the smell of grass and trees and flowers. They were in a walled courtyard, with an open gate directly in front of her that led to the lush, green palace gardens.
Behind her, the schooner stretched at an angle across the scorched flagstones, with no more than twenty feet between the rear of the ship and the stone walls on either side. It was a tight fit, but Paredes had brought them down perfectly. A gatehouse stood to Tolvern’s left. To the right stood the granite keep and tower known as York Tower. Placed at the heart of the king’s palace, itself in the center of York Town, it was law that no building on the west bank of the St. Lawrence could be taller than one hundred and forty two feet, the height of the crenelations atop the tower. It was nearly dusk, and the massive stone tower made a silhouette against the sky.
Tolvern ordered them to run to the heavy oak doors of the tower. Gunfire flashed from a nearby building as they crossed the courtyard. By the time they reached the doors, they were taking fire from several directions.
Chapter Nineteen
Drake’s heart had gone into his throat when the blast knocked Paredes’s small schooner to one side and the first away pod sailed past the outstretched hook and net. It soared down toward the atmosphere and vanished. Tolvern was on the second pod, following the same trajectory, only twenty seconds behind. Capp was on that pod, too. Drake was going to lose them both.
He watched, terrified, as Tolvern’s pod approached the hook, soaring wide.
No, Jess. No.
Paredes flared plasma, the schooner rolled slightly to starboard, and the hook snared the second pod. But Drake didn’t let out his breath until the pod had been brought inside the hold. Pussycat had already sent her pods over, and now Outlaw finished the transfer. Paredes pulled away, diving into the cloudy atmosphere west of Britain.
New concerns took hold. Drake wished he were on that ship. They were his parents imprisoned in York Tower, and if something went wrong in the rescue attempt, he’d struggle to forgive himself for not leading the assault team. But as dangerous as it would be down on the surface, it was in space, fighting these orbital fortresses, where he was truly needed. Specifically, he needed to keep Fort Ellen occupied. Ellen orbited at the same latitude as York Town, and unlike the fortresses on Hot Barsa, was more than capable of hitting the schooner on the surface every time the fort passed over.
Blackbeard stood off a pace during the fort’s first pass, trading missiles, far enough back that Drake’s crew could take Ellen’s missiles out with countermeasures. Blackbeard absorbed a blow to the belly shield, but it was not serious. While Blackbeard provided fire support, Drake sent in Outlaw and Pussycat. The fort seemed to have expected the heavier cruiser to do the close combat, and struggled to respond to the two frigates racing above the hollowed-out asteroid, dropping bombs and lighting up its gun emplacements with cannon fire.
It was a better result than Drake had expected, but he couldn’t let Ellen’s commander get a bead on his tactics, and so the next time through, he brought all three ships. Unfortunately, during this run, they fell within range of the guns of Fort William, in a slower orbit at a lower latitude, and Drake’s flotilla faced several seconds of devastating crossfire from the two forts. Pussycat’s heavy armaments now became her downfall, as they came at the expense of maneuverability and acceleration. Cannon fire raked her stern, and she limped out of the bombing run with her engines damaged and moving slower than ever.
Paredes shortly landed his schooner outside York Tower and sent a message. They’d taken fire coming in, but no serious damage. Unfortunately, the military base outside York was scrambling and would shortly have forces in the fight. Tolvern was out of the ship, assaulting the tower, but doing so under heavy fire from the royal guard. No word on the York Town militia, but Paredes expected them to shortly make an appearance.
On Blackbeard, Manx was filling in for Tolvern as first mate. “Get Aguilar,” Drake told him. “If Pussycat can’t strafe the fort, she can at least provide support fire.”
This time, they were only facing Fort Ellen, and Blackbeard led Outlaw in the attack run as soon as the fort came above York Town again. Drake couldn’t let Ellen’s guns crush the schooner while it was still on the ground.
He needn’t have concerned himself. Fort Ellen had all her guns aimed into space this time, and soon Blackbeard was shuddering from incoming fire. Outlaw took a nasty blow above the bridge that blew off a piece of armor and left her trailing smoke and debris. Drake sent an anxious query and was relieved when Isabel Vargus responded. Her bridge was intact.
Almost two hours had passed since they’d arrived at Albion, and the next time around, Drake would be facing both orbital fortresses again. With his two frigates already damaged, he’d have to make a solo pass. He had no idea how he’d survive the crossfire.
“Captain,” Manx said, “we have a subspace from the fleet. From Vigilant, sir.”
Drake brought up the message.
I am six hours from Albion. Unfortunately, the Hroom are closer. Keep them from running the forts. I’ll join you as soon as I am able. I have told the forts to stand down. Unfortunately, Malthorne has remanded my orders. I do not know how they will respond.
Captain Nigel Rutherford, HMS Vigilant
Most of Smythe’s scans had been directed toward Albion and her environs, as Drake didn’t want to be surprised by navy destroyers, but they’d looked outward often enough to know that the first Hroom sloops were approaching in a hurry. Drake had already planned to ask the fort commanders for a truce as soon as the rescue mission returned, so they could unite to fight off the death fleet.
Fort Ellen rounded the planet again. The planet was rotating into darkness, and Ellen was a black lump above it, orbiting in blackout conditions. Soon, it would be within range, and Drake didn’t know if it would light up with outgoing cannon and missile fire. Drake ordered the other two ships to hold their fire and their position, then waited.
Isabel Vargus called through, anxious, wanting to know why they weren’t making a run. “We’ve got to keep those guns off the schooner.”
“The forts have been ordered to stand down so we can face the Hroom together. Make no threatening movements, and we’ll see if the truce holds.”
Isabel regarded him slowly, her artificial eye an unblinking stare. “You’d better be right, Drake.” She ended the call.
Aguilar was still licking his wounds, performing emergency repairs to stem an oxygen leak and trying to fix two dismounted cannons, and he took little convincing not to renew the battle.
Drake and his crew watched through the viewscreen as the orbital fort swung toward them. He readied countermeasures, presented their strongest shields to the fort, and braced for attack. Fort Ellen held its fire. Nyb Pim let out a hooting sound of relief, and Manx and Smythe gave each other high fives. Neither was looking at the defense grid computer, but Drake had pulled up an extra console, since they were short-handed, and was the first to spot the flashing lights.
It was the second fortress, Fort William. The same fort, in fact, that Drake had battled during the initial mutiny several months ago. The commander, having received contradictory orders from Rutherford and Malthorne, must have decided to take the path of revenge.
“Six class-two detonations expected,” Jane said. The computer’s voice sounded strained. No doubt, that was Drake’s imagination, but he would not have been surprised had she added, “The ship is not expected to survive the encounter.”
#
Gunfire killed two of Tolvern’s people in the run across the courtyard to the protective shelter of the tower doors. Another woman was grazed across her thigh and had to be dragged to safety. Half the team couldn’t cross, but remained pinned down behind the schooner’s landing struts.
The schooner was taking fire, too, but it was all small arms so far, and the bullets pinged harmlessly off the ship’s armor. Meanwhile, Paredes had someone in the deck turret, which was only a .50-caliber machine gun. But it was enough to tear through the windows of the building overlooking the wall on the opposite side, and it soon had the incoming fire suppressed. The rest of Tolvern’s team ran across.
Tolvern had tried the heavy oak doors on the off chance some idiot had left them unlocked. They hadn’t. Now Capp stuck a shaped charge to the locks. They risked the open courtyard again, hiding around the side of the tower, while she triggered the charge. Tolvern covered her ears. The charge detonated with a boom, and shards of wood, iron, and stone exploded into the courtyard.
Capp and Carvalho tossed a pair of grenades through the blasted-out doors to be sure. Tolvern led them in, and immediately stumbled over three bodies sprawled across the floor, armed men in the garb of the royal guard.
Tolvern had been in the tower years ago, when she was a cadet at the Academy. Every year, during the week surrounding the Settlement Day holidays, the king opened the palace grounds for public tours. York Tower itself was normally off-limits, as it contained the treasury vault and cells for high-profile prisoners, but a contingent of cadets had been allowed to enter and had been led to the mint, where they’d stared greedily into the vault. Gold ingots had filled the room, to be used to stamp guineas and half crowns.
Now, pounding boots sounded down the corridor leading to the vaults. That was off to the right of a stone staircase that spiraled into the tower heights. Tolvern ordered two of her men to take up position at the mouth of the corridor. Others, she positioned at the shattered tower doors and at the base of the staircase. She collected the rest to climb to the higher levels.
“I say we take the vaults first,” Nix said. He was Catarina’s man, the fellow with the Gatling-gun arm. “Ain’t they down this hall right here?”
“Yeah, Commander,” Capp said. “We got enough here to do the job and still hold the tower. Me and Carvalho’ll lead a team and have it secured by the time you’re back.”
“No,” Tolvern said. “First, the baron and the lady, then the vault. We don’t know how many guards are down there, and I want this room secured until I’m back with the prisoners.”
Capp looked disgruntled, but when Nix and several of the others voiced protests, she took Tolvern’s side. “You heard the commander. We ain’t gonna throw away our lives over what’s in them vaults.”
Outside, the gunfire was building in intensity, and Tolvern had no more time to argue. She left Capp in command of the dozen people remaining below, including Carvalho, Nix, and two of the Hroom, while she led the rest up the stairs. At each new landing, they stopped to hurl grenades ahead of them, then cleared the adjacent rooms. Tolvern couldn’t risk leaving enemies to ambush them from the rear.
The upper levels held servants, palace guards, and jailers, who either surrendered, or were killed when they resisted. The jailers confirmed that Baron and Lady Drake were being held on the uppermost floor of the tower. Tolvern left men and women on each level, both to secure the captives and to take position at the windows, where they could snipe at enemies rushing the tower. By the time Tolvern had cleared the lowest three levels, she was down to eight companions, with Oglethorpe the only remaining crew member from Blackbeard.
It all went smoothly until they approached the top level, where royal guards held the landing and kept steady fire blasting down the spiral staircase. Tolvern returned fire, but she and her forces were soon driven back. It sounded like there were no more than three enemies, but it may as well have been a battalion up there.
Another call came from the schooner. This time it was Paredes himself, not the frightened-sounding kid. Tolvern could barely hear him above the gunfire. He said something about a helicopter.
Tolvern set down her weapon and flattened her palms against her ears to block the sound of gunfire. “What? Did you say there’s a helicopter?”
“Three helicopters. Already left the base. A company of York Town militia has entered the palace grounds, too, but we’re holding them off for now. Once those helicopters show up, we’re in trouble. My guns can’t reach them from the courtyard, and my shields won’t take the kind of abuse they can dish out.”
This was bad. It was too soon; she needed more time. “How long?”
“Five minutes, then we should leave.”
“Are you kidding?” That was barely enough time to race back down the stairs, gather her people, and run to the schooner. “Give me ten.”
An explosion echoed from somewhere below, followed by gunfire. What the devil was going on down there?
A brief pause from Paredes’s side. “Eight minutes. Then I leave, whether you’re with me or not.”
Tolvern grabbed her computer from her hip pocket and noted the time. Then she leaned around the corner with her assault rifle turned on full auto. She emptied the gun. The instant she stopped firing, two of her men pushed past and charged up, shooting. Tolvern and the others rushed after them. Moments later, one of her men came tumbling down, bloody and riddled with bullets. The other had vanished.
Tolvern caught a glimpse of a man’s face, grim and determined, as he slammed another clip into his rifle. Another man raised his gun over the first man’s shoulder and pointed it down at her. She flinched backward as he fired. Bullets slammed into the wall behind where she’d been standing. Tolvern and the others crouched around the corner of the staircase as the gunfire continued.
“It’s no good,” Oglethorpe said, when there was a lull. “We can’t make it.”
Tolvern had no good response. The enemy had the superior vantage point and apparently unlimited ammo with which to hold it. The gun battle seemed to have gone on forever already, but it couldn’t have been more than a minute or two.
All too soon, the com chimed. Paredes again. He said something, and though she couldn’t catch it, she knew he must be telling her that her time was almost up. Return to the ship or stay behind forever.
“I need a few more minutes!” Tolvern protested.
“Listen to me!” he said. “It’s over.”
“Huh?”
“I said it’s over. Don’t keep shooting. There’s a truce.”
A truce? She could hardly dare hope. “Tell that to these guys above us.”
And yet, there was no shooting at the moment. Had the palace guards taken new orders, or were they waiting for Tolvern to pop around the corner again before they blasted her?
“Because of the Hroom?” she asked Paredes.
“Something like that. Guess they’d rather have Drake’s ship on their side than against them. It was his buddy in the navy who did it, got through to the king or something. The king himself has ordered a cease-fire, and the royal guards are standing by—they’re not attacking us. Same with the militia. The helicopters are circling, but they aren’t firing.”
Tolvern ended the call. “Hey!” she yelled up the stairs. “You know why we’re here. Put down the guns, we’ll get who we came for, and then we’ll leave. Sooner we get out of here, the sooner we can fight the Hroom.”
Footsteps sounded on the stairs. Tolvern kept her gun at the ready, wary, but not wanting to shoot a guard because she got jumpy.
But it was Baron Drake who came around the corner. He wore a fine coat and trousers, and his steel-gray hair was slicked and parted down the middle. He was nearly sixty, if Tolvern remembered correctly, but still a handsome man, proud and aristocratic in bearing, and with the same piercing gaze as his son.
“Miss Tolvern,” the baron said in his crisp, aristocratic accent. He was smiling. “I should have known it would be you.”
Chapter Twenty
Smythe and Barker worked their countermeasures and brought down two of the missiles from Fort William. Nyb Pim’s clever evasive maneuvers shook off two more. Unfortunately, attempts to get clear of the missiles brought them within torpedo range, and now they had three Hunter-II torpedoes to deal with. Jane’s warnings in Drake’s ear grew increasingly dire. The first missile slammed into the rear shields, doing considerable damage.
Outlaw and Pussycat tried to run in to confuse the incoming weaponry. All this did was expose them to cannon fire from the fort. They were soon fleeing toward the moon, pursued by missiles.
“Twenty-five seconds to impact,” Jane warned as the second missile raced in.
Blackbeard gave a final, futile shimmy to shake it off, and then Drake ordered Nyb Pim to show the heavier port shield. The ship shuddered. Lights blinked on Drake’s console.
“Jane, status of shields?”
“Estimating . . . rear shields, seventy-eight percent. Port shield . . . fifty-three percent. Deck shield—”
He cut her off. Fifty-three percent? Blast it, that second missile had struck hard. With the weakened shields, the three incoming torpedoes would tear them apart.
Jane was shortly back on. “First torpedo impact in ninety seconds. Class-three detonation expected.”
“Someone give me countermeasures,” he called.
“I’m trying!” Smythe protested.
“Try harder, or we’re going to die.”
The torpedo was only thirty seconds out when it suddenly veered away. The other two torpedoes corkscrewed and fizzled out.
“Well done, Smythe! Very well done.”
“That wasn’t me, Captain.”
Drake was about to call Barker, thinking that someone in the gunnery must have been responsible, but then he noticed that Fort William was no longer shooting and appeared to have stood down entirely. Why? Because of the Hroom fleet, still barreling toward them, unopposed? But why the change of heart now?
“Sir,” Manx said from Tolvern’s seat. His voice quivered. “There’s a call for you. It’s . . . I think it is the King.”
Drake’s eyes widened. He looked down at the console. There it was, the authenticated signature from the royal palace, indicating the king was on the other line.
“Put him on the viewscreen.”
There was no mistaking the face that appeared in front of him. King Bartholomew’s visage was stamped on every coin in every pocket in Albion. He had the nose of a Roman emperor, but other than that, his bearing was not particularly regal, being too long of face, with a high, balding forehead, and a pointy chin. His older brother had cut a much more imposing figure, but after the crown prince was killed in a riding accident, Bartholomew had stepped in. He had been king since the death of his father eight years ago.
He didn’t wear that crown now, of course, but a smoking jacket and a simple linen shirt. He stood in front of a towering shelf of books, and a fire burned on a massive hearth to his right, a pair of sleeping dogs sprawled in front of it.
“Your Majesty,” Drake said. “Was it you who ordered the forts to stand down?”
“Be quiet and listen, Drake.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Why have you attacked my palace?”
“To free my parents, Your Majesty.”
“You are aware, of course, that there is a suicidal fleet on its way to attack Albion, and nobody is opposing it. Yet you are attacking our forts and distracting my commanders while they should be preparing to save Albion from annihilation.”
“Only until I rescue my parents. Then I will join the Royal Navy in battling the Hroom.”
“Yes, so Captain Rutherford has told me. That is why I ordered Fort William to stand down, contrary to Lord Admiral Malthorne’s instructions.”
Drake itched to tell the king of Malthorne’s perfidy, to complain that the court-martial that had driven his ship to mutiny had been a farce. He wanted to explain about the sugar antidote Malthorne had hidden on his Hot Barsa estate. But he remained quiet.
“There is something you should know,” the king said. “Fort St. George refuses to stand down, its commander proclaiming obedience to the Admiralty until the battle is finished. St. George has engines and is moving into a geosynchronous orbit over York Town, where it intends to destroy your schooner. They are trying to convince me to evacuate the palace for my own safety.”
“You are not in any danger from us, Your Majesty, I promise you. And surely St. George won’t fire on the schooner or the palace while you are still in it.”
“Be quiet, Drake. I have orders for you.”
“Your Majesty?”
“When this battle is over—if, by the grace of God, we should survive as a people—you will present yourself to the palace for a new trial. It will be a fair one, I guarantee you. Your commander, your pilot, Captain Rutherford, and anyone else you choose will be allowed to testify on your behalf. If you are found innocent, you will be fully restored.” The king stopped, and his face turned even more grave. “Or, you can flee and return to a life of piracy. Those are your choices.”
Elation rose in Drake’s chest. This was it, his chance to prove his innocence, to clear his name. It was all he had ever wanted.
“I will come, Your Majesty.”
#
“You look more like your mother every time I see you,” Baron Drake said. “She was a very pretty young woman, you know.” The baron studied Tolvern with a smile as she gaped back at him. “But all the same, I’d rather not have your gun pointed at my chest.”
Tolvern hastily lowered the weapon. “I am sorry, Your Lordship.”
And then she blushed at the compliment, suddenly feeling like the shy child who had hidden behind her mother’s skirts and gawked at the tall, proud lord who had come to see her father, the steward of the estate.
The baron gestured behind him, and his wife came around the corner. She, too, looked none the worse for wear, dressed in a fine gown with velvet sleeves and a cinched waist. Like her husband, she was still attractive for her age. Captain Drake was of good breeding, as evidenced by his parents.
“Have you been mistreated?” Tolvern asked.
The baron shook his head. “Not yet. But they meant to hang us, so I suppose the mistreatment was coming. Is my son . . . ?”
“Is he alive and well? He was last time I saw him. We’d better get out of here and make sure he stays that way.”
Tolvern collected the rest of her people on the way down, and when she reached the bottom level, she found Capp by herself, pacing the entryway to the tower with a strange mixture of elation and fear on her face.
“Where are the rest?” Tolvern asked, frowning. She remembered the explosion and gunshots she’d heard from below. “Where did they go?”
“I couldn’t control those blokes. Tried to, but they wouldn’t leave it be, so we went down to the treasury.”
“What is this?” the baron asked. He studied Tolvern’s companions. “They said you had turned pirate, but I cannot believe my son would do such a thing.”
Tolvern had no time for this, either the nonsense in the vaults or explaining the whole mess to the baron. “Oglethorpe, the rest of you, escort Baron and Lady Drake to the ship. Capp, you stay with me.”
While Oglethorpe and the rest led the baron and his wife out of the tower, Capp and Tolvern hurried down the hallway toward the vaults. They passed several dead guards and crew members, cut down by gunfire. They rounded a corner and found another dead guard and two more dead crew. This had better be worth it; it had been a costly battle.
The vault entrance was a ruin of twisted bars with a mangled metal door blown off its hinges. Capp and Tolvern passed through it and into a concrete chamber with no windows and no exit, about twenty feet by twenty feet in dimension and a dozen feet high. This was the vault Tolvern had glimpsed during her visit as a cadet, only now she was inside, and her people had captured it. Shouts, cheers, and toasts echoed across the room. Men and women were slapping each other on the back, sharing flasks of whiskey, and dancing around. Someone handed a paper sack of sugar to the Hroom, who poured it into their mouths, hooting with excitement. There were about twenty people crammed into the room, and not one of them was holding his weapon at the ready.
All in all, their behavior displayed a disgusting lack of discipline, but when Tolvern saw what had them so worked up, she didn’t think there would have been any way to prevent the celebration. There was no gold bullion in the room, but what the pirates had discovered was nearly as good.
A huge pile of silver ingots, each one roughly a foot across and two feet long, lay stacked on one side of the room. They were stamped with the lions rampant of Albion and marked H.M. Mint – Sidney - .999 – 1,000 lbs. One thousand pounds! Each was a half-ton of silver. Formed in ingots in the Sidney mint and brought here to stamp out silver shillings.
She did some quick counting of the stack of silver. It was fifteen ingots wide, fifteen deep, and ten high. Each one a thousand pounds. There was more than a thousand tons of silver in the room. A fortune.
But how big a fortune? Tolvern closed her eyes to do the math, since all those gleaming ingots were an impossible distraction. An ounce of gold was worth fifty ounces of silver, which meant that each ingot would be worth 320 ounces of gold. The entire pile was worth more than 600,000 Albion pounds. No wonder they were dancing around like idiots. Even Tolvern’s fraction of a fraction would make her rich.
Capp spotted Carvalho and let out a whoop of delight. He caught her in his arms and swept her in a circle, and then they were dancing around, hollering like fools. Someone handed Capp a hip flask, and she took a long, sputtering chug.
The com link sounded. It was Drake. “I understand you have rescued my parents.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well done. Very well done, indeed. I knew I could count on you.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Now grab your people and get out of there.”
“Sir, we’re in the vault. We’ll need time to get the goods out.”
“How much is there?”
“A thousand tons of silver. I figure it’s worth six hundred thousand pounds, more or less.”
Drake let out a low whistle, then stopped. “Silver, you say?” There was something in his voice.
Tolvern eyed the pile of ingots, and a twinge of worry settled in her gut. They should probably get a forklift. Where would that come from?
“It’s going to take some time, sir.”
“We don’t have time.”
“I thought there was a truce.”
“That doesn’t mean they’re going to let us loot the royal treasury. Fort William has sent messages wondering what you’re still doing down there. What’s more, Fort St. George is refusing to obey the king’s command. It has engines and is moving itself into geosynch over York Town. Once that happens, we’re in trouble. And the Royal Marines are growing restless. The king himself sent a message to warn me they’d be moving soon.”
“But, sir. It’s a fortune. We need time to move it.”
“Grab what you can and get airborne. I told Paredes already. Ten minutes, and you’re in the air. If not, you will be destroyed by Fort St. George. It’s that simple.”
Tolvern checked the time and ended the call. She didn’t relish sharing the bad news. It was the situation with the platinum ore all over again. They were sitting on a fortune, with no way to move it.
“Ten minutes,” she told the company. “That’s all we have. Then we’re dead. One of the forts will start shooting at us.”
This provoked angry cries and arguments among the various crews. Fists flew, and knives came out. Tolvern took her gun and fired it into the air. The shot was deafening in the enclosed vault.
“Knock it off!” she said angrily. “You’re wasting time. Let’s get what we can and get out.”
Some of the crew were already working at it, multiple hands grabbing the topmost of the ingots and struggling to lift it. They weren’t going to be able to get it all, not even close, but if ten people could manage an ingot a piece, they might get twenty or thirty out of here. That was something.
But that was easier said than done. The ingots were hard to grip, and it proved impossible to get ten people around any single bar. The best they managed was to knock two of them on the floor. The second ingot landed on someone’s foot and crushed it. He lay screaming, foot still pinned, while his companions worked at the silver, trying to wrestle it up.
Someone said there was a wheeled handcart on the schooner and ran to get it. Others went with him, and they came back with the cart and bunch of blankets. Paredes was suiting up two men in powersuits, the kind with clamp hands for manipulating large, heavy objects, but that would take a few minutes. They managed to get one ingot into the wheelbarrow and another onto each of the blankets, which they dragged, grunting and cursing, toward the ship.
By the time the two men from the schooner came clanking down the hallway in their powersuits, Tolvern had three minutes to get them to the ship and airborne. All in all, they managed to haul out eleven ingots, less than 10,000 pounds worth of the massive fortune. Tolvern was the last into the hold of the ship, and its engines began to rumble the instant the doors came up. She checked her computer as she strapped herself in. It had been ten minutes and forty-seven seconds since Drake’s call.
The other members of the assault team were looking forlornly at the handful of silver ingots dumped into the hold. There were mutters and groans, and more than a few sniffles. Tolvern turned with disbelief to see tears welled up in Carvalho’s eyes.
“After all this time, this was my chance,” he said. “All that treasure, right in front of me. And we left it behind.”
“You know what?” Capp said from Tolvern’s other side. “Maybe we should strap those things down better, know what I mean?”
Tolvern eyed the silver blocks. They seemed solid and immovable at the moment, but wait until the schooner started jumping around to avoid incoming fire.
“Are you listening to me, Commander?” Carvalho said. The plasma engines roared. “Why? It isn’t fair.”
The ship lifted out of the courtyard. The silver ingots slid to the end, where they piled against the cargo doors and stayed there. And then they came under fire, and Tolvern had other things to worry about.
Chapter Twenty-one
Paredes’s schooner came racing out of the atmosphere of Albion at escape velocity. The baron and his wife were on board. Even so, Drake didn’t allow himself to relax as he studied it on the viewscreen. The schooner still had to get clear of Fort St. George, now maneuvering itself into place. The fort readied torpedo tubes, prepared to blast the small ship apart. Drake could only hope that Paredes discovered his best evasive moves, because he was going to need them.
Meanwhile, Blackbeard, Outlaw, and Pussycat came charging in, but the fort had enough weaponry to hold them off with cannon and missiles while hunting the schooner with torpedoes.
Things were looking grim until Fort William and Fort Ellen entered the fray. Apparently deciding that St. George was in rebellion against the Crown, they fired on it as they came in range. St. George was smaller, but able to maneuver under her own power, and she was forced to move out of geosynchronous orbit. Paredes’s schooner slid past unscathed, and Drake led his task force beyond the moon while the forts settled their conflict.
The schooner came into range of Blackbeard and flung across away pods. They carried Tolvern and the surviving members of the away team, plus Drake’s parents. While he waited, he considered the developments of the past few hours.
Five Hroom fleets were now in the system. The pair of navy frigates pursuing the remaining sloops of the first fleet had managed to disable another Hroom warship, but the last three ships had turned on them and destroyed one and crippled the other, then returned to their suicide mission.
Malthorne had divided his forces a second time. One portion of this latest split was locked in a struggle with the larger of the Hroom fleets. The navy had already lost a corvette, two destroyers, and several torpedo boats, but had wiped out four of the nine sloops, and were fully engaged with the other five. Even better, the four navy cruisers in the fight had suffered little damage and had pinned the enemy ninety million miles from Albion.
Dreadnought led a smaller force to engage the newest fleet to enter the system. Malthorne would catch it several hours from Albion. That would be another fierce battle, but no doubt Dreadnought would prevail.
But then there were the two remaining alien fleets. The first of these was eight sloops of war, untouched by combat. Rutherford was pursuing them with a small flotilla, led by HMS Vigilant, but he could only harass them from a distance. It would fall to Drake and the orbital forts to hold them at bay until Rutherford arrived.
The final Hroom fleet had fought off Potterman’s small force, destroying a corvette and destroyer. HMS Philistine maintained pursuit, together with Catarina on Orient Tiger. One destroyer and one pirate frigate were no match for six Hroom sloops of war. They could only follow and nip at their heels. This force of Hroom would arrive an hour or two behind the one Rutherford was pursuing.
The away pods arrived on Blackbeard. Tolvern and Capp came onto the bridge moments later, grinning. They shook hands all around.
“My parents?” Drake asked.
“They’re looking good,” Tolvern said. “I sent them to your quarters and told them you’d come down. Shall I take the helm, sir?”
“In a few minutes. I’ve got to organize things here before we are in battle again. What did you loot from the treasury?”
She sighed. “Not much.”
Capp’s cheer vanished into a scowl, and she flopped into her seat. “Don’t know why they bothered with a safe. Just put them silver bricks on the floor and dare people to take ’em.”
Tolvern explained about the huge silver ingots, and how they’d only managed to haul away a handful before they’d been forced to run for it. It was probably for the best. The situation was fluid, and emerging from this battle with Drake’s honor restored might be easier without a thousand tons of royal bullion stuffed into his cargo bay.
Manx moved back to the defense grid station, leaving Tolvern to settle into her seat. The commander seemed mostly relieved, the disappointment fading quickly from her features.
“We’re getting messages from the other three ships,” she said. “They want their money. They aren’t so keen to stay on and fight the Hroom.”
“That ain’t the half of it,” Capp said. “Some of them blokes will be drinking a toast to the Hroom Empire after today. Them kind don’t care much for Albion.”
“I would not blame them for running,” Drake said. “They are probably seeing the same reports we are, and know that it will be an ugly fight. But I don’t intend to let them go, all the same.”
“Sir?” Tolvern said.
“Tell them to hold still. The silver should keep them quiet for a few minutes, at least. Then they’ll get their payment.”
Drake studied the green and blue sphere of Albion on the viewscreen. The Zealand Islands lay below them, and a deep longing stirred in his bones. He stood.
“You’re going to see your parents now, sir?” Tolvern asked.
“Not yet.”
“Sorry, you stood, and I thought—”
“One should always stand before one’s king. Call the palace. I need to speak to him.”
Tolvern’s eyes widened. “To King Bartholomew, sir?”
“Yes, Commander. To the king. I would call fleet headquarters, but you know their position on this ship and her captain. His Majesty spoke with me earlier, and I hope he will hear me out a second time.”
It wasn’t easy getting through, but after a few minutes, the viewscreen blanked out Albion, and King Bartholomew appeared. He was still in his library, and although there were two armed palace guards visible behind him, the same fire was crackling on the hearth, the same dogs sleeping there.
“Your Majesty,” Drake said, “shouldn’t you be on your way to the countryside to wait out the battle?”
There was a several-second delay as Drake’s message traveled to Albion and the response returned to where Drake hovered near the orbit of the moon.
“To what purpose, Captain? If the Hroom break through, there will be no kingdom left to rule. No, I will stay in York Town and share the fate of my people.”
“As you wish, sire. For my part, I am prepared to show my loyalty by defending Albion against the Hroom as if I were still an officer of the Royal Navy. I will work with Captain Rutherford and the orbital fortresses to drive them off. But I have two conditions for my support.”
The king’s bushy eyebrows raised. “You would set conditions on me? Haven’t I as good as promised a pardon should you help us?”
“There can be only one flag officer in this battle. That will be me. I must be allowed to organize the defenses and command all forces. You know my qualities, sire. You understand why I ask this.”
The king nodded. “Very well. And the second condition?”
“I have three ships with me, plus another frigate fighting alongside Captain Potterman. They are not loyal to me, they are hired guns. Pirates and smugglers. I hired them to help rescue my parents, and now that we have finished that task, they are anxious to collect their payments and be off. We need them in the fight, and I don’t have the money to pay them.”
“And you want Albion to pay their fee?”
“I do not have the necessary funds, your majesty.”
“Very well. How much?”
“Given the circumstances, the cost of hired guns is rather dear. Their aid will cost the royal treasury.” Drake didn’t wait for the king to point out that they’d already stolen a hefty deposit from said treasury. “And what’s more, I am afraid that my credibility with these people is rather strained—or will be, once they realize I am unable to pay what I already owe. It would be better if you could make the offer yourself.”
Drake hadn’t thought the king’s eyebrows capable of climbing higher, but now they did. “You want me to speak directly to pirates?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“And how much should I offer them?”
Drake named an obscene sum. The royal eyebrows now reached their maximum altitude. But it was, indeed, a seller’s market, and the king agreed.
#
Drake entered his quarters to find his parents staring in wonder through the viewscreen, which showed the cool blue sphere of Albion. The planet was growing larger on the screen by the moment. The king had made an offer to the pirates, and it had been accepted. Blackbeard and the others were moving into position around the forts to offer support fire.
Fort William came glittering around in orbit, her lights on. Blackbeard was above Britain now, where it was still night, and York Town was a glowing yellow metropolis almost directly beneath them.
His parents didn’t seem to have heard him enter, and he watched them quietly for several seconds. His father, still proud and erect, and his mother, upright, her face and form so familiar he was transported back to his childhood just looking at her. How he had admired them, how he had thought them so wise and all-powerful. And how strange to look at them now, staring at the viewscreen, and realize they’d never been in space before. They must be frightened, almost terrified, as they considered the vast empty spaces, the void only inches away.
“Father, Mother,” he said awkwardly.
They turned. Relief and sorrow flashed across his mother’s face. His father looked stern, yet there was a burning pride in his expression as he took in his son.
They were not the hugging sort in the Drake family, and so they didn’t embrace. But his father gave him a powerful handshake that lingered for several seconds, and his mother clasped his hands in hers, tears in her eyes.
“You heard about Helen?” Baron Drake asked in a low voice, near the breaking point.
“Yes, Father. I am so sorry.”
“They shot her like an animal,” he said. Anguish showed on his face. “Left her where she fell and burned down the house around her.”
Drake worried about his other sister. “What about Madeline? Is she . . . ?”
“She is fine, thank heavens,” his mother said. “Her husband is stationed on Mercia, and they were away when it happened.” Her eyes flashed with sudden anger. “Make them pay for it, James. Make them pay.”
He was taken aback by this hard edge. “Yes. Admiral Malthorne will answer for his crimes. I promise you.”
“Colonel Fitzgibbons, too,” she said. “His men assaulted the estate, Fitzgibbons pulled the trigger that killed Helen. The lord admiral has given him our property as a reward.”
“And the colonel, too,” Drake agreed. He glanced back at the door, anxious to leave and return to the bridge. “Are you comfortable here? Can I get you anything? I’d send you somewhere safer, but at the moment, there is nowhere to go.”
“We will be fine here,” his father said. “Go, do your duty.”
Drake left them in his room, troubled to see them in this condition. Even should he get them back to the estate, the manor house was in ruins, and his father didn’t have the funds to rebuild it. Drake could have given them money for the rebuilding effort—the estate would some day be his, anyway—but he’d already surrendered everything he had to the other pirate captains. None of that mattered in the slightest if he didn’t stop the Hroom assault. If they got through, there would be nothing left of Albion civilization to rebuild.
When he got to the bridge, Drake began to organize the defenses of Albion. All the orbital fortresses were his to command. Even St. George had acquiesced to the king’s demand that it aid Drake’s defense. Of the pirates, only Paredes and his schooner had declined the king’s offer. They’d taken the looted silver as full payment and fled for parts unknown. But Drake still had Pussycat and Outlaw, and together with Blackbeard, they could provide powerful support for the orbital fortresses. He positioned them between Fort William and Fort Ellen, while he took Blackbeard back beyond the orbit of the moon to wait.
A few hours later, the first death fleet arrived for its suicide mission.
Chapter Twenty-two
Blackbeard engaged the enemy fleet while it was still a million miles out from the planet and decelerating for its final run. Drake ordered a barrage of missiles and torpedoes sent directly into the path of the oncoming fleet, which forced them to change course. Only one of the missiles hit, doing minimal damage, but the sloops swung wide of Albion, even as they continued to slow, and the maneuver cost them significant time. By the time they came back around, Rutherford’s forces were forty minutes closer to joining the fight. Drake counted that an important victory.
Drake took a slingshot around the moon and moved to cut the Hroom off again. He didn’t dare engage eight sloops at close range, but this long-range harassment was nearly as effective.
He called the gunnery. “I want a pair of Hunter-IIs laid down on these coordinates.” He nodded to Capp to send over the data she’d charted with the nav computer.
“Don’t have them, sir,” Barker said over the com.
“What do you mean?” How could they be running low on torpedoes already?
“We’ve been in a whole lot of battles since the mutiny, and most of what we’ve got left we picked up on San Pablo and Leopold. And they aren’t exactly selling Hunter-II torpedoes out there, if you know what I mean.”
Drake had known of some of the improvisation required in the gunnery, but he hadn’t realized they were running so short on the high-tech navy stuff. He should have tried to get ordnance from the forts while he still had the chance. But no, that would have taken too much time, and he wouldn’t have been in position to fight that initial engagement.
“What do we have?”
“Eight Mark-IVs and plenty of Mark-IIIs. Still want me to lay them down?”
“Belay that order.”
“Aye, sir.”
The older torpedoes didn’t have the range, speed, or maneuverability to do what he was asking. He had missiles, but they didn’t pack the same punch as a two-stage torpedo, which made them easier to ignore.
“Sir,” Tolvern said. “We have to do something.”
“Get me Fort William. They’ve got the firepower.”
It was risky letting the Hroom get in so close so soon, but he couldn’t face their pulse cannons alone, and he needed a way to hit them. To start doing real damage.
As the Hroom came in for an assault on the planet, three different orbital fortresses launched a barrage of torpedoes. They were too slow and distant to hit the enemy, but they forced the Hroom to take evasive maneuvers, and while they did, Pussycat and Outlaw lunged in from either flank. It was an attempt to box the Hroom in where all those torpedoes could get at them. The Hroom veered to starboard, straight at Outlaw, which forced Isabel Vargus to flee for her life.
Meanwhile, Blackbeard came up behind, using the Hroom fleet to shield herself from the torpedoes, which were zipping around looking for targets. Drake blasted away with his belly cannon and nearly disabled one sloop’s rear armor before he was forced to screen Outlaw’s escape toward the moon. The Hroom fleet withdrew to a safe distance and prepared another run at the forts. They hesitated at about a million miles out. Drake soon realized why.
New forces were arriving on the battlefield. First to appear were the six sloops of war pursued by Orient Tiger and HMS Philistine. Catarina and Potterman had been harassing them halfway across the system by now and had left the six sloops battered, but the two pursuing vessels had suffered significant damage. The difference was the six sloops didn’t need to stand and fight, they only needed to penetrate the planet’s defenses and reach the atmosphere.
Rutherford arrived at almost the same time, pursuing the first fleet. In addition to Vigilant, he had the corvette HMS Lancelot, plus two destroyers and several torpedo boats. There was another task force a few hours behind that Malthorne had sent, but Drake and Rutherford would have a terrific fight on their hands before that arrived.
Drake hailed his old friend. Rutherford appeared, looking sharp in his red-and-black uniform. Drake felt shabby in the tan canvas vest Tolvern had bought for him, with its loops and brass buttons. Rutherford looked him over.
“So, you’re in command,” Rutherford said. “Mutiny, turn to piracy, and the king still makes you flag officer.” He said it lightly, but there was a hint of irony in his tone, as well.
“Are you asking me to step down so you can lead?”
“No time for that now. Tell me what to do.”
“Pull into orbit as soon as you are able. Once we string our forces between those forts, we should be able to hold off the enemy a few more hours. Get those incoming cruisers, Potterman’s destroyer, and the final pirate frigate into the fight, and we can defend the planet indefinitely. Once Admiral Malthorne arrives, we’ll finish them off.”
“There is something you should know about Malthorne,” Rutherford said.
Drake glanced at his console, which was screaming with information flying in from all quarters. The Hroom had joined forces into a massive flotilla of fourteen warships and were coming in for another run.
“Tell me after this fight,” Drake said.
“No. There might not be an after. If I die, you must know.”
“Quickly, then.”
“Malthorne has ordered me to kill you. In spite of everything, in spite of your defense of Albion, I’m to look for the right opportunity and destroy Blackbeard. Of course, I will do no such thing.” Left unspoken was that disobeying the order would leave his own career in tatters.
“Thank you.”
“But you can bet that Malthorne will do it himself. If not when he arrives, then the instant the Hroom are finished. Stay away from Dreadnought. You can’t stand five minutes against her guns.”
“Forewarned is forearmed. Again, thank you.”
“Good luck, James. You’ll need it—we’re in for a devil of a fight.”
“You too, Nigel.”
#
The sloops targeted Pussycat in the first main skirmish, trying to run her down and break past the forts. She clawed back with her heavy armaments, but serpentines knocked out her gun carriages, and pulse cannon obliterated what was left of her shields. For a moment, it looked like Pussycat was doomed; a sloop was right behind her, firing its pulse cannon. But curiously, the Hroom warship didn’t use its serpentine batteries, and the frigate managed to limp from the fight, bleeding plasma, her top speed barely reaching fifty miles per second. The Hroom warship let her go and turned back toward the planet.
Rutherford lost a destroyer in a similar fight, and two of his torpedo boats were wiped out completely. The second of these went down in a blaze of glory, knocking out the engines of a sloop, which was then caught in a devastating crossfire between Fort William and Fort St. George. A final torpedo tore into the sloop’s midsection and it detonated in a fiery atomic blast that knocked out the north face of Fort William.
The Hroom were driven off momentarily, harassed by Catarina and Captain Potterman as they retreated, and by the time they formed ranks again, the second Royal Navy task force had arrived. Drake’s forces were bolstered by two additional cruisers, a missile frigate, and a trio of destroyers. The Hroom were reorganizing, waiting for reinforcements of their own, and there was a delay of a few hours while the two opposing sides jostled for position. Drake rushed the new forces in to guard the damaged side of Fort William.
Further out, Dreadnought and her support vessels had crushed one of the Hroom fleets at the cost of a single corvette and one frigate. A sloop had nearly rammed the battleship, but she had emerged from the fight unscathed. Now, Malthorne was turning toward Albion to join the larger battle. His separate task force had finished off yet another Hroom fleet, but had been so badly mauled in the struggle that it was unable to join the battle outside Albion.
Hroom reinforcements were arriving in the form of the three surviving sloops pursued by a pair of frigates and two more cruisers, and then, shockingly, a new, uncounted fleet materialized. That made six Hroom fleets that had entered the system, and seven in total, counting the one Malthorne and Rutherford had destroyed in the Shoals. And this final fleet was big: nine sloops of war. They appeared to have come in from the far side of the sun and had evaded detection until they were less than two hours from Albion.
That left Drake facing twenty-five Hroom warships, a force even bigger than the massive fleet he and Rutherford had defeated at Kif Lagoon. Drake sent Vigilant and two more cruisers to harass this new force from a distance, but he recalled them as soon as the main enemy fleet started to move again. Soon, the Hroom were inside the orbit of the moon and rushing at the planet.
The next few hours must have provided a fireworks display without parallel over the night sky of the eastern hemisphere, as well as for Drake’s parents, who must have been watching from the viewscreen in Drake’s rooms. The Hroom charged again and again trying to break through. The space above the planet filled with explosions: missiles, pulse cannons, serpentine batteries, detonating torpedoes, and broadsides from the two heavy cruisers. A Hroom sloop, broken, venting gas and plasma, tried to ram Blackbeard. The cruiser just ducked out of the way. The enemy warship raced past, still being pounded by Blackbeard’s guns and the cannon of Fort William. They caught it in the upper atmosphere, where it detonated in a final, fiery death. For a moment, the night sky was as bright as day, illuminating the narrow Irish Sea and the coasts of Britain and Australia on either side.
Minutes later, the battle turned grim for Albion. Two sloops broke past Rutherford and dove at Fort St. George. The corvette Lancelot swept in from an angle to provide a final layer of fire support. She hammered at the sloops with her cannon, but the enemies caught her in their pulse cannons, tearing through armor and into the upper deck. Lancelot went spinning away, hit the atmosphere and burst into flames as Albion’s gravity well dragged her down.
Drake was still staring at this catastrophe when a sloop broke through St. George’s guns and slammed into the fort itself. Her atomic payload detonated as she hit. Two torpedo boats that had been racing at the sloop in a desperate attempt to stop her vanished in the blast.
Fort St. George’s asteroid was the smallest of any in orbit around Albion, which was why it had been able to maneuver with its own engines. Now, that smaller size became a liability. The blast tore the asteroid in two and shoved it out of orbit. The two pieces hit the atmosphere and went down after HMS Lancelot. They detonated in the upper atmosphere. In an instant, twelve hundred lives had been lost, and a gaping hole opened in Albion’s defenses.
Blackbeard rushed to plug the breach, and Drake ordered three more cruisers—Vigilant, Churchill, and Melbourne—as well as Catarina’s Orient Tiger, to join him. Fortunately, the Hroom assault was almost spent, with most of the sloops out of position, driven off, or destroyed. Whoever was commanding the death fleet ordered a retreat, which brought a reprieve. An Albion commander bent on a suicide mission, Drake thought, would have rushed that gap and gotten at least one ship through.
Drake was still assessing fleet damage when Tolvern turned to him, wide-eyed. “Captain, Admiral Malthorne is calling.”
Malthorne was only a few hours out. Based on the posture of the Hroom fleet, the enemy would have one more run at the planet and its weakened defenses before Dreadnought arrived. The Hroom still boasted a score of functional warships, and would no doubt mount their assault on the gap vacated by Fort St. George.
“Put Malthorne on,” Drake said.
The lord admiral appeared on the viewscreen. He wore the red and black with his admiral’s crown-and-star insignia on the upper arms. He appeared well rested.
Drake had always thought the admiral smug and overconfident, but the smugness now looked like wickedness, and the overconfidence had become malevolent scheming. Malthorne had betrayed Drake, killed his sister, arrested his parents, and destroyed the family manor house, yet if there was a cosmic scale of justice, these would weigh as the lord admiral’s lesser crimes. Malthorne had also enslaved countless Hroom and hidden the sugar antidote that could have freed hundreds of millions from their addiction. Under his command, the Royal Navy had started a war of aggression and bombarded an entire continent on San Pablo with atomic warheads. His actions had led directly to this Hroom death cult, bent on annihilating Albion.
“So,” Malthorne said, “the prodigal returns.”
Drake was exhausted. He’d not slept more than an hour or two at a stretch for the past three days. His crew was in much the same condition, with people spared when they could be, but mostly at their stations around the clock. He’d comforted himself knowing that Hroom needed to sleep, too. Nyb Pim needed as much time off shift, if not more, as any human. The generals of the death fleet would face the same limitations. But staring at the bright, dangerous gaze of Malthorne, who seemed fresh and alert, Drake felt dull, sluggish.
“In the story to which you refer, the prodigal son left his family to spend his inheritance on debauchery,” Drake countered. “Whereas I was driven from my family by a treacherous enemy.”
Malthorne waved his hand dismissively. “You and I both know that is a lie.”
“I agree that there are lies being told in this conversation, yes. And that one of us is a liar with no known equal.”
“And so the king has promised you clemency if you will stay and fight,” Malthorne said. “Somehow, you have even put yourself in charge of navy resources in your quest for personal glory. But remember this, Drake, at the end of the day, it will be my plans, my fleet, and my tactics that carry the day. Rest assured that the king and all of Albion will know the truth as the story of this battle is written.”
“I’m not interested in your boasting,” Drake said. “I want to hear how you plan to use Dreadnought to help me defeat the Hroom.”
“The first thing I will do is take command of the whole fleet. From this point, you will obey my orders, as will all of the other captains and commanders.”
“Funny, I was going to say the same thing.”
Malthorne stared back with a poisonous look. “You do not seriously suggest that I serve under your command? What kind of fool do you take me for?”
“Again, I was going to say the same thing,” Drake said, letting a smile touch his lips. “But since neither of us is likely to take commands from the other, and since I know you will attempt to kill me once this fight is over, if, God willing, we defeat the death cult, let me suggest this. You stay outside the range of the orbital fortresses. The Hroom will make a run, we will drive them off, and you will finish them as they retreat and regroup.”
Malthorne said nothing, just stared.
Drake continued. “Let me remind you, Admiral, that the forts are under my command at the order of His Majesty, King Bartholomew, and not even Dreadnought can slug it out with gun emplacements buried into the side of an asteroid. When the battle is won, I will withdraw and communicate directly with the Crown as I arrange to be reinstated into the Royal Navy. If you don’t like that, you can argue with the king. Now, I believe this conversation is at an end. You have your duties, and I have mine.”
Drake ended the call. For a long moment, he stood trembling with barely suppressed rage, hating Malthorne with all of his heart. When he looked around, the others on the deck were staring at him. Tolvern’s mouth hung open, and Capp was gaping as she rubbed her hand over her buzzed scalp. Nyb Pim blinked, and Manx and Smythe shook their heads in what was either admiration or fear, or perhaps a little of both.
He checked the status of his fleet and estimated he had ninety minutes before the battle recommenced.
Drake went into the war room, sat down, folded his arms, and lowered his head to sleep.
Chapter Twenty-three
The next phase of the battle began in a promising way. Drake had feared that the remaining sloops of the death fleet would come through en masse. He didn’t think he had enough forces between Fort Ellen and Fort William to keep them from breaking through. But the Hroom commander, perhaps not recognizing the huge advantage gained with St. George’s destruction, split his force in two, with ten ships to run at the gap, and an equal number to come up over the southern polar region.
This pole was poorly defended from orbit, but the surface was an icy sea dotted with uninhabited islands. If the sloops broke through, they’d be exposed for an hour or more within the atmosphere, where they were poorly designed to travel, before they could reach inhabited land masses. Drake sent a destroyer and four torpedo boats to chase them should they break through. Meanwhile, he’d take his chances in the south for the opportunity to face a smaller fleet over the Northern Hemisphere.
Drake spent a few minutes positioning his defensive cordon as the Hroom warships charged him. He filled the surrounding space with torpedoes and missiles. During the break in fighting, Blackbeard had pulled up warily to Fort William, prepared to be boarded, but in desperate need of the torpedoes and missiles that the fort commander was offering. The offer proved genuine, and now Barker had an embarrassing wealth of ordnance to fire, and was spending it with all the reserve of a drunk pirate in a whorehouse.
The Hroom crashed into his defenses. Missiles and torpedoes ripped apart one sloop, and Fort Ellen’s guns forced another to withdraw, its engines dead. Drake moved Churchill, supported by a destroyer, to catch two sloops threatening to break through, and the four opposing warships slugged it out with little effect for several minutes. Meanwhile, Blackbeard and Vigilant stood against four more sloops, dancing through pulse cannon and absorbing serpentine bomblets as they forced the sloops toward Fort William.
In the south, three of the sloops had broken through, while the rest stood back to lend them fire support. Torpedo boats caught one of the sloops while it was still in the stratosphere, and sent it crippled and burning to the icy sea below. The other two fled north, pursued by torpedo boats.
Dreadnought arrived. She lumbered around from the dark side of the moon, leading several cruisers, corvettes, destroyers, and missile frigates. Final victory was close at hand. Drake waited for Malthorne to push into position to form a bulwark against which the faltering death fleet would be dashed. But to Drake’s anger and dismay, Dreadnought continued forward. Her cannon came out, and missile and torpedo bays activated all along her side. She meant to enter the fray close to Albion. There was too much firepower at work already; it would only confuse the issue and make it easier for a sloop or two to break through.
Drake sent an angry message. Malthorne did not reply.
“Sweet heavens,” Tolvern whispered.
The viewscreen was split now, showing the green sloops of war on one side, still twisting and dancing to break through Albion’s defenses. On the other, Dreadnought, the black, monstrous battleship, like something out of legend. She was firing the first broadside, a bellow of dragon fire longer than the entire length of Blackbeard.
But then warning lights flashed everywhere, and Jane’s voice sounded her calm concern. Dreadnought was ignoring the Hroom fleet and firing at Blackbeard.
#
Malthorne’s treachery hadn’t caught Blackbeard by complete surprise. Drake had never supposed that the admiral would ignore the Hroom to attack him exclusively, but he had fully expected a torpedo or two, a side shot when Malthorne thought he could catch the renegade cruiser off guard. And so Blackbeard was already launching countermeasures and performing evasive maneuvers.
Cannon fire raked Blackbeard along the stern as the ship fled. To evade the missiles, Drake ordered them behind Fort Ellen. Two missiles slammed into the unprepared fort, and a torpedo hit the gray rocky protuberance that formed the underside of the hollowed-out asteroid. The fort returned fire at Dreadnought, seemingly surprised, but responding with hostility at the unexpected assault.
“Bring her around,” Drake said grimly. Into the com, he added, “Barker. Full broadside. Target Dreadnought’s main battery.”
“We can’t fight Dreadnought,” Tolvern said. “She’ll eat us alive.”
“We had better hope we are not alone, then.”
Fort Ellen’s response had surprised him and given him hope. And as Blackbeard swung into action again, Rutherford came swooping in on HMS Vigilant, her guns blazing at the battleship. Potterman’s destroyer swung around and fired a torpedo at Dreadnought, and all three of the pirate frigates joined a navy frigate in launching a barrage of missiles. Explosions tore along Dreadnought’s side, her belly, and her upper decks.
Many of the other ships, however, rushed to defend the admiral’s flagship. In an instant, the battlefield had descended into chaos. Cruisers shooting at cruisers and firing on Hroom sloops. Fort Ellen firing on Dreadnought, while taking fire from Fort William. Dreadnought shooting at Fort Ellen, at navy ships, at the Hroom. And the sloops attacking anything and everything, even as they continued trying to break through. Debris and explosions filled the sky, with flaming ships knocked into space or spiraling from orbit.
Orient Tiger pulled away, as if Catarina had decided to flee. Drake couldn’t blame her; she had never agreed to battle the might of the Royal Navy. He was only surprised that the three pirate frigates had fought as long as they had.
“Captain!” Smythe cried. “The sloops are breaking through.”
The Hroom fleet had been weakening, but Malthorne’s eagerness to punish Drake had breathed new life into their assault. Many of the sloops were destroyed, knocked out of the battle, or crippled and bleeding plasma, but a small, determined knot kept trying to force its way through. Three of them charged Fort William, drawing its fire. The last two squirmed through the gap. They dropped into the atmosphere.
Drake’s heart leaped. “Follow them!”
Blackbeard dove into the atmosphere. Jane warned of pending explosions as Dreadnought chased Blackbeard down with a final missile barrage, but by the time Drake’s pilots had them below a hundred thousand feet, they’d shaken off the missiles.
And now Orient Tiger appeared a few hundred yards off starboard, following Blackbeard down. Drake hailed Catarina, voice only. The sloops were about a hundred and fifty miles ahead of him, and almost to the surface.
“It looked like you were going to run,” he said.
“I thought about it, believe me,” Catarina said. “But if I run now, how can I be sure I’ll get my payoff? Also, I’ve grown fond of you lot. Would hate to see you killed down here. So, what’s the plan?”
“Do we need a plan?” Drake asked. “Get close enough and blast them. That’s about as much as I’ve got.”
“Good enough. For Albion and the king, or whatever rubbish I’m suppose to say here. See you on the other side.”
They were above Britain, flying east at eighty thousand feet over the Welsh Mountains, a massive, snow-capped range that bisected the continent. It was dawn, and the sun glared from across the fertile York Plain. But Blackbeard’s instruments could stare right through a star and see what was hiding on the other side, and Smythe got it filtered out and the enemy back on visual.
The two sloops of war were flying in a line. The rear Hroom warship was smoking from a fire on the rear deck. Tolvern, studying her console, said the fire looked terminal. But how soon? At these supersonic speeds, they were only seventy minutes from the outer villages, towns, and ring roads of the York Town metropolis.
Drake waited until they were within a hundred miles of the enemy before he ordered missiles. Blackbeard had better capabilities in the atmosphere than a Hroom sloop, but her ordnance was calibrated for fighting in the void, not in an atmosphere. Indeed, the missiles struggled to lock on the sloops, and rudimentary countermeasures from the enemy sent them corkscrewing to the surface, where they hit the rolling green hills and detonated.
He kept closing. Now, they were over the plains, mixed pasture and mile after mile of golden wheat, ready for the harvest. At twenty miles, he opened with his deck guns. This had little effect at first, but he kept probing as they drew closer, and Orient Tiger on his flank soon scored the first hits. Both ships kept pounding away, opening a gaping hole in the rear shields of the wounded enemy sloop. Suddenly, she dove toward the ground.
“Captain!” Tolvern warned. “The fissiles!”
Dear God, no.
The sloop was loaded with atomic warheads. If it detonated while they were flying over . . .
Drake shouted a command across to Catarina, and then Blackbeard and Orient Tiger veered sharply away. The sloop hit the ground and exploded. A giant mushroom cloud rose into the sky. The cruiser and the frigate were racing away from the explosion and managed to evade the blast wave.
“Jane,” Drake said to the computer, “how big was that blast?”
“Estimating . . . twenty-two megatons.”
There was silence on the bridge. Finally, Capp said, “What the devil does that mean? That’s bloody huge, right?”
“Hundreds of square miles in diameter, it would seem,” Drake said.
Even in the lightly populated farmland of the York Plain, that blast must have vaporized several villages and estates and killed thousands of people. If the other sloop reached the dense settlements along the St. Lawrence River with that kind of payload, where a fifth of Albion’s population lived, the atomic bombs within its belly would put a hundred million lives at risk.
Evading the bomb blast had left them far behind the final sloop, which had continued east toward the St. Lawrence and York Town. Blackbeard and Orient Tiger corrected course and raced in pursuit. Drake tried again with the missiles, but with no success. Someone in orbit fired down a few shots of their own, and one of these hit the sloop, doing moderate damage, but the three-way fight was still raging up above, and Drake had little fire support.
They were soon flying over more settled regions. The Hroom ship detoured slightly and came over the top of Adelaide, a provincial capital of sixty or eighty thousand along the shores of Loch Foyle. Drake caught his breath, knowing there was only one reason the sloop would make a detour. He was still too far out to use his cannon.
The sloop dropped a warhead. There was silence on the bridge as it fell. A flash, and a second mushroom cloud. It was a fraction the size of the massive explosion over the plains, but big enough when dropped in the middle of a small city.
“Jane,” Drake said. His voice sounded hollow. “Estimate the yield.”
“Estimating . . . twenty kilotons.”
Or roughly a thousandth the size of the explosion caused by the detonating Hroom sloop. The warship must be stuffed with atomic warheads. Now he understood why some of the sloops hadn’t used their serpentines; they didn’t have space for extra ordnance. There must be defender ships and atomic attack ships. Malthorne’s treachery had allowed two of the latter to slip through.
The detour to vaporize Adelaide had allowed Blackbeard and Orient Tiger to close some of the distance to the enemy ship, and they were still twenty miles from the outskirts of York Town when the sloop fell within range of their guns. Drake ordered all available firepower brought to bear, and everything from cannon to torpedoes and missiles flew at the enemy ship. Its shields took hits, and it began to smoke.
There was no chatter on Drake’s deck, no side conversations, only anxious, highly focused orders and responses. The gunnery was furiously working to bring that ship down, while Nyb Pim and Capp took advantage of every enemy maneuver to close the distance a few more yards and bring the sloop further into the range of Blackbeard’s guns. Off starboard, Orient Tiger matched their pace.
Another bomb dropped as the sloop passed over Shelby, then a third at Haw’s Bay. These two towns on the outskirts of York Town went up in clouds of fire and ash. Drake could only imagine the panic on the densely populated banks of the St. Lawrence as old air raid sirens went off. An alien assault had always been a hypothetical possibility, but the Hroom Empire had never once penetrated Albion’s defenses to attack the surface. Already, three cities had been annihilated, and dozens, even hundreds more faced the same fate if Drake couldn’t destroy the enemy ship in time.
“She’s going down!” Tolvern shouted.
Yes, it was true. The Hroom sloop was on fire, its engines sputtering, spilling plasma that tumbled in great globules fifty thousand feet to ignite towns and forests in raging infernos. All three ships were at fifty thousand feet, but the sloop was losing altitude in a hurry.
Only not fast enough. Someone tracked the ship’s trajectory and where it would come down. The result was disaster.
The blue, curving ribbon of the St. Lawrence lay dead ahead. On its banks and beyond stretched the city of York Town, five million people. The green, bucolic west bank of the city was already visible from here: the palace, the king’s gardens, and the Royal Forest. A spire of stone rose at the edge of the palace, York Tower, the tallest building on the west bank of the river. It was the very place Drake’s parents had been held prisoner. On the east bank were the Kingdom Tower skyscrapers in the heart of the city. Near that lay the houses of parliament, the offices of the Royal Exchequer, the headquarters of the Bank of Albion, the fleet headquarters of the Royal Navy, and practically every other symbol of royal and government power.
Both human ships were firing constantly, launching every conceivable weapon in an attempt to bring down the Hroom ship. Plenty of shots were hitting, and the whole back end of the sloop was breaking apart. But at these speeds, not fast enough. The sloop had no control, could only fall as it continued its forward momentum. It was at five thousand feet, then two thousand, and then Drake had no choice but to pull up. Blackbeard and Orient Tiger climbed away.
The sloop had long overshot the city center, and was nearly six miles east and several miles south of the heart of York Town when it hit. It didn’t matter, not really, not with that kind of payload. A flash, a blackened viewscreen, and a rumble that caught Blackbeard and tossed it like a rowboat on an angry sea.
When the viewscreen cleared again, a massive mushroom cloud was rising above the city, together with a rolling shock wave that obliterated the land for miles around. The whole of York Town was caught in the explosion. The king, the palace, parliament, every major building of the Albion government, gone in an instant.
Chapter Twenty-four
Drake led Blackbeard and Orient Tiger back into orbit to discover one battle won and the other lost. The last of the Hroom suicide ships had been defeated. Two sloops had broken past and into the atmosphere, but they’d been heavily damaged already and were hunted down by a torpedo boat and Potterman’s destroyer and finished off. The human ships chasing the sloops that had entered the atmosphere in the southern hemisphere had destroyed those enemies as well before they could reach inhabited land. Nothing remained of the suicidal fleets. The cult of the Hroom god of death, Lyam Kar, had been vanquished.
This victory had come at a terrible cost. York Town was destroyed, and several million people presumed dead The capital city, the very heart of Albion was no more. The king himself must have been killed in the initial blast.
Meanwhile, Dreadnought had taken a terrible beating, but had in turn mauled Fort Ellen into submission, cowed Fort William and the other orbital forts into joining him, and destroyed several mutinying vessels.
Vigilant, Pussycat, Outlaw, and several navy destroyers, corvettes, frigates, and torpedo boats continued the struggle long enough to allow Blackbeard and Orient Tiger to escape Albion’s gravity well, and then this battered flotilla of pirates and Royal Navy ships fled toward outer space.
For the next hour, Malthorne gave chase with Dreadnought and several cruisers and corvettes, but he seemed to have darker plans in store. Returning to Albion’s orbit, he brought his marines out of stasis and sent them to the surface to take command of the Royal Marine bases. By the time Blackbeard and the others reached the nearest jump point a day later, Malthorne had declared himself the sole head of the Admiralty, elevated Colonel Fitzgibbons to major-general of the Royal Marines, and placed the planet under martial law. Some of the dukes, earls, and other aristocrats voiced opposition, but the outcry was muted.
And then Drake brought his fleet through the jump point, and they lost the thread of news for a stretch.
#
It was three weeks after the battle when Tolvern once again stood on the surface of a planet. After the escape from York Tower, she hadn’t expected to have her feet on solid ground again so soon. Today, she relaxed in a pleasant little inn, enjoying the warmth and earthy smell of a peat fire on the hearth. Rain pattered on the roof and streaked the windows. She nursed a mug of dark beer, and waited for her meal to arrive. At the moment, she was the only one of Blackbeard’s crew in the tavern, and the others in the room—fishermen, shepherds, and peat diggers—watched her curiously.
They’d planted themselves in Aberdeen. It was the fourth-largest town on Saxony, but it was more like an overgrown village, not much larger than the provincial towns of her home island of Auckland. Only twenty million people lived on the cold, damp world of Saxony, the majority near the equator, where they scratched a living on the rainy moors, the heath-covered plains, and the marginal farmlands stretching in a belt of several million square miles in what they called the temperate zone.
She supposed it was temperate, if by that you meant that it didn’t snow much. Of course, it was currently the middle of summer, and just walking from her quarters to the tavern had left her soaked with a chilling rain. Saxony’s climate had apparently been warmer during the initial years of settlement, when the planet had seemed even more promising to the Anglosphere refugees from Earth than Albion itself, but that had been deceptive. Unbeknownst to the early settlers, Saxony had been enjoying an interglacial period in an ice age, and the ice sheets had already started to advance when humans arrived. Several hundred years later, ice entombed the northern and southern latitudes, leaving only a thin habitable region near the equator.
Drake pushed open the door. He kicked water from his boots and took off his hat and jacket to shake them dry. Tolvern had wondered if he would come in wearing a navy uniform, as he’d just emerged from a meeting with Captain Rutherford at headquarters, but he still wore the tan canvas vest with the loops and brass buttons that she’d given him.
He must have caught her appraising him as he approached. “I would wear my old uniform, but I have been told I look good in this thing.”
“By Catarina?”
“By you!”
Tolvern felt herself blushing. “Oh, yeah.”
He gave her a friendly smile that set her at ease. “Others have said so, too. Apparently, I cut quite a figure.”
“Aye, that you do, luv,” the barmaid said, approaching with a tankard of the dark beer that was the only thing on tap.
She smiled at the captain coquettishly and set the beer in front of him. The barmaid was an attractive young woman with red hair and freckles who had been flirting with every officer in the fleet, men, women, and Hroom alike.
“Thank you, miss,” Drake said, somewhat formally. The barmaid winked and returned to the kitchen.
“I understand that we’re enlisted in the navy again,” Tolvern said. “Is that the gist of it, sir?”
“Yes, I suppose we are. Those who are up for it, anyway.”
“What about Catarina Vargus?” Tolvern asked. “You aren’t tempted to follow her?” She kept her tone careful, neutral, not wanting to suggest anything one way or the other.
“A little bit, yes. Catarina has a vision, and I admit that I find it enticing.”
“A vision of piracy?”
“A vision. We’ll leave it at that.” Drake took a long drink of his beer. “But if you’re asking if we’re lovers, the answer is no. Not anymore. I won’t follow her, and she won’t follow me. How could we? It would be a fleet of two, and without a clear leader. That is untenable. So I’m afraid we’re finished.”
Tolvern didn’t allow herself to hope. Since that awkward moment when she had spotted the two of them together, she’d always suspected Catarina Vargus and the captain would part ways sooner or later. And Tolvern was no longer afraid to admit to herself that she would happily take Catarina’s place, and do so permanently. But Drake, as much as he seemed to value her friendship, would never offer such a thing—of that, she was sure.
“Besides,” Drake continued, “there is more than enough excitement right here. Fighting Malthorne and freeing Albion, for one. Then there is the matter of what General Mose Dryz and the Hroom Empire will do with the sugar antidote. Will they keep fighting us, or are they embroiled in their own civil war with the death cult? And will we make common cause against Apex?”
At the moment, Apex and the Hroom were too much to worry about. It was Malthorne that held Tolvern’s attention, and how to muster the forces to defeat him.
“So Catarina is leaving for good?” she asked. “There’s nothing you can promise to keep Orient Tiger in the fight?”
“Apparently not. Catarina is only in orbit until we can scrape up her bounty from this bleak rock, then she will be gone. But her sister Isabel is staying.” He sighed. “Assuming we can pay her debts, of course. With what the king promised her, it might take a while.”
Drake spent a few minutes laying out the situation as it stood. Malthorne had not declared himself king, but it was assumed that this was only a matter of forming a new parliament and having the House of Lords beg him to take the crown. Malthorne would make a great show of reluctance, then take it.
To counter this move, Rutherford had sent a message to his uncle, the Duke of West Mercia, offering him the crown. The duke had been eighth in line to the throne before the attack, and a respected figure both on Albion and in the colonies. He was said to be mulling the offer, but the planet of Mercia was currently neutral in the struggle. Even with Mercia’s aid, the anti-Malthorne forces would be outnumbered and outgunned. Without Mercia, they would be doomed.
Meanwhile, Drake and Rutherford were cobbling together a fleet to form the heart of the rebellion. Or rather, the loyalists, as Drake called them. They’d augmented their fleet with two disabled warships captured in the Gryphon Shoals—Richmond and Calypso, cruisers left drifting and crippled after battling a Hroom fleet. The two ships were currently undergoing repairs in Saxony’s orbit. Most of the rest of Drake’s forces were also damaged, and some had been sent to San Pablo for repair, as skilled manpower was in short supply on Saxony. Hubert Rodriguez, who had worked on Blackbeard after her fights with Vigilant and Captain Kidd, was overseeing the work.
As soon as Richmond was repaired, Catherine Caites would be given command. She’d been named the third-ranking officer in Drake’s fleet, which surprised Tolvern. How old was Caites? Twenty-eight? Potterman, older and steadier, but with his best years behind him, would take command of Calypso.
“We’re pretty thin on leadership,” Tolvern said. “Is there any hope?”
“I certainly think so. Of course, I would like our chances better if we had a hundred thousand marines to guard this planet, and not a ragtag militia. And if I didn’t think Malthorne would do to Mercia what he did to San Pablo.”
“Surely not,” she said, horrified. “Dropping atomic weapons on Hroom is one thing, but Albion citizens?”
“He as good as destroyed York Town when he let those sloops through. If he had attacked the aliens instead of Blackbeard, five million Albionish would still be alive.”
Tolvern fell silent, because of course he was right, although such a monstrous thing could scarcely be imagined. She finished her tankard and waved to the barmaid for another, not because she needed any more of the strong beer, but because she didn’t know what else to say.
“You have a choice, you know,” Drake added. “Catarina likes you. She would happily give you a position on her bridge.”
“Working with pirates like that fellow with a Gatling gun for an arm? No, thanks.”
“You already work with pirates.” Drake lifted his drink in a mock toast. “Cheers to that, me hearty.”
Tolvern laughed. “If it’s all the same, I’ll stay with you.”
“I never thanked you properly for rescuing my parents. I want to do that now. Thank you from the bottom of my heart.”
“I was just—it was only my duty, sir.”
“And I wanted to tell you how worried I was when I saw Paredes knocked out of position. As soon as the first away pod missed the hook, I could scarcely breathe. I was sure you were going down after it. I thought I’d lost you. Did you know, did you see that you might miss the transfer?”
“I did, and I was terrified,” she admitted.
“So was I.” Drake put a hand on her arm, and her heart skipped. “I was more relieved than you know, Jess.”
“Me, too.” It was a weak response, but she found herself tongue-tied. They stared at each other, and she thought he might say something else.
But then Drake cleared his throat. “Anyway. What do you know of HMS Philistine?”
“Huh? Potterman’s destroyer? Well, I suppose that once she’s patched up again, she’ll—wait. Why are you asking?”
“Potterman will be taking command of Calypso. That leaves an opening at the helm of his destroyer. As you said, we’re thin on leadership.”
“But I don’t want to leave Ajax. I mean, Blackbeard,” she corrected. She’d already begun to think of herself as a commander in the Royal Navy again, on the bridge of a Punisher-class cruiser.
“This is a promotion,” Drake said, smiling. “You know that, right? Rank of captain, with all the free Saxony beer and haggis you can buy with the salary that entails.”
I want to be with you. By your side.
“I am pretty young.”
“So is Catherine Caites, and we’ve given her a heavy cruiser. Surely you can manage a wee destroyer and its crew of twenty-six.” Again, he was smiling, his tone light and teasing, but she knew he was serious and that this wasn’t an offer so much as a command.
“Of course, I will do it if that’s what you want.”
“I will miss you on my bridge, but yes. It’s more than what I want, it’s what I need.”
“Captain Tolvern,” she said, trying it out. “That does have a ring to it. Does this mean you’re now Admiral Drake?”
He chuckled. “No, just Captain. I will not choose for myself any title that hasn’t been granted by my superiors. But perhaps if the Duke of West Mercia accepts the crown.” He finished his beer and shrugged. “We will see.”
The door opened, and a young woman entered. She had short, blond hair, a bright, intelligent expression, and a military bearing. She handed her cloak to the barmaid and approached their table.
“Ah, here’s Caites now,” Drake said.
“May I join you two?”
“Please,” Tolvern said.
“Thank you.” Caites eyed Drake briefly before turning back to Tolvern. “The rest will be here shortly, but I thought I’d introduce myself before Rutherford arrives. He’s a little stiff, you know, and it will be all formal once he arrives. My name is Catherine Caites.”
Caites had a West Canadian accent, not so different from Tolvern’s own, and that set her at ease. A young woman of good breeding, but without an impossibly arid upper-class accent and all that implied. She looked warm and friendly. Tolvern found herself instinctively liking the woman.
“I am Jess Tolvern, second in command on Blackbeard.” The women exchanged a firm handshake. “Nice to make your acquaintance.”
“I know all about you. When they said I’d be sent to Richmond, I assumed I’d be your commander and was pretty excited. I had no idea they meant to make me captain.”
“It could have gone that way,” Drake said. “Rutherford and I certainly discussed the possibility.”
“Please, no,” Tolvern said. “That would have been far too much responsibility for my first command.”
“That’s exactly what I said,” Caites said with a laugh.
Rutherford came in shortly, together with Potterman, the older man’s arm in a cast and sling from an injury taken in the battle. Isabel Vargus joined them after the second round, adding a rougher edge to the company. By the time the barmaid brought out bowls of mutton stew and hunks of rye bread for supper, the workers had all left, and the tavern was rapidly filling up with officers.
Capp came, after drinking hard with the enlisted types in one of the ale houses in town suddenly doing booming business. She coaxed the barmaid into teaching them one of the local drinking songs and dragged Tolvern up to dance with her. Capp winked and flirted with the younger officers, taunting them until they joined the song and dance. The barmaid produced a penny whistle, which added accompaniment. Soon, Capp and Tolvern had half the room dancing. Even Drake and Rutherford, while they were not dancing, lent their strong baritones to the song.
By now, Tolvern was more than a little drunk. The room was warm and filled with food, drink, and good cheer. Several light years away, Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne was plotting their destruction, but for tonight, those troubles seemed a universe away.
-end-
From the Author
Thank you for reading Dreadnought. The series continues with book #4, Rebellion of Stars. Buy it right here! If you enjoyed the book, please consider leaving a review on Amazon.
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The Starship Blackbeard Series
Book #1 – Starship Blackbeard
Book #2 – Lords of Space
Book #3 – Dreadnought
Book #4 – Rebellion of Stars (coming August, 2015)
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four