Redbeard blinked and took the small coin in two big fingers. “Uh. Thank ye.”
“The honor is ours,” Captain Cass said, taking her coin and giving the girl a salute. Then Cass tucked the coin away, and produced a handful of Galactic credits. “And here. This is for you and your father. For such excellent work.”
The girl’s grin grew impossibly wider, and she turned to beam at her father, who nodded with a small smile of his own, before whirling to accept Cass’s credits.
There were a few heartbeats of silence. Then the captain elbowed Red hard in the ribs.
He jumped. “Hey! Wha’ was that fer?”
Cass cleared her throat and nodded toward the girl.
Redbeard looked at the child again and saw her blue eyes staring up at him expectantly. Apparently he was supposed to give her credits, too. “Wha’? Really?”
Cass’s expression turned stern. “Go on, Red,” she muttered. “Tip her.”
Redbeard heaved a sigh and grumbled some more, but dug around in his own pockets till he found a few credits of his own.
And also an impressive collection of lint, a used toothpick, and one of those crinkly, shiny balls that Kitt liked to bat around sometimes. He separated the credits from the rest of the stuff and handed them over.
The girl took them eagerly. “Thank you, thank you, heroes of Haven!” she exclaimed, and then she turned to run back to her father and show him what she’d earned.
Redbeard rolled his eyes, and he and the captain turned to make their way back through the crowds once more, continuing on toward the Pirate Court of Justice.
“Did you hear that?” Cass asked over her shoulder, practically yelling above the noise of the market. “We’re the heroes of Haven!”
“Yeah, yeah,” Redbeard muttered. “Oof!” He pushed the pirate who had stumbled into him back out into the crowd. “Sure ain’t bein’ treated like no heroes! Don’t anyone know heroes need thar space!?”
Cass laughed lightly and took his arm. “Sure, sure. But we’d better go or we’re going to be late.”
Redbeard gulped and nodded. “Right. Yeah, let’s get on with sentencin’ that traitor!” He marched off again, Captain Cass striding beside him, arm in arm.
And he hadn’t had his shower yet.
4
Anasua
Vice Admiral Doyle was a man in a hurry, while Rear Admiral Hawke—Rear Admiral for how much longer, Anasua wondered—was uncharacteristically glum. No sooner had they disembarked from their ship than Doyle had them marching on to their meeting.
With none other than the Grand COG, Himself. The Center of the Galaxy.
Anasua had never met the man before, but by reputation knew more than she could ever possibly want to know about the Federation head-of-state. Certainly he had a hot temper, with an impulsive streak to match. While she’d very much envied Hawke his cozy job overseeing the fleet, she had less enthusiasm for the idea of interfacing with their grand leader on a regular (unpredictable) basis. Doyle was already the third Vice Admiral during the Grand COG’s ten-plus-year tenure.
Had Doyle always been the impatient sort, Anasua wondered, or did the ongoing prospect of being spaced for failing the Grand COG’s expectations play a part in his demeanor?
“I don’t suppose we could change first?” Hawke asked, their brisk steps pounding the metal flooring on their way down a long, heavily guarded corridor. Their uniforms still had the stink of the primitive ice-world where they’d been forced to steer their escape pods and camp out after losing their flagship. Unfathomable how that idiot, Hawke, had managed such a complete failure.
Still, Anasua wouldn’t have minded a chance to clear her head, herself, before an audience with the Grand COG. After all they’d been through, such a luxury seemed more than fair to her. If only life was fair, commented that voice deep within her psyche that constantly reminded her of how hard she’d had to work and fight to claw her way up to Commodore, in a Federation Navy that appeared to reward incompetence above merit.
She glared sideways at Hawke, but said nothing. She didn’t have to.
“Rear Admiral,” Doyle snapped, “you know full well that no one keeps the Grand COG waiting. He has very important matters to attend to, don’t you know.” Stated rhetorically, as he had a penchant to do.
Hawke shrugged, his eyes downcast. Then his shoulders resumed slumping.
One look at this miserable failure of a fleet commander and the Grand COG was sure to space the idiot.
And good riddance, Anasua thought, smug as she reined in her rage and gave it a singular place to focus. His loss shall be my gain. Surely the job of Rear Admiral shall be mine before the day is done.
She smoothed at her borrowed uniform in anticipation of such a promotion. It didn’t fit as crisply as she would have liked, having not been tailored specifically to her form like all her other uniforms. But all her other uniforms were still closeted back on her own ship, or had been vaporized along with the rest of the Brickhouse, so she’d had to make due with one they’d found stashed away in the emergency reserves of one of the escape pods.
It might have been last year’s fashion, but it was still a vast, vast improvement over that blasted gown Hawke had made her wear to his ill-fated dinner party … or over any of those stinking animal hides that had been plentiful clothing choices in the tribal buildings they’d had to occupy to avoid freezing to death.
As satisfied as she could be with her present appearance, Anasua straightened her shoulders and matched Doyle’s determined pace, leaving Hawke a half-step behind.
They found their way to the end of the corridor, which led to a private dock for their grand leader. An honor guard of stoic-faced marines in golden armor stood unmoving, blocking the entryway to whatever lay beyond. Anasua couldn’t help but notice their weapons looked state-of-the-art compared to the standard-issue gear provided to her troops. Suddenly, she understood where the funds from the year-over-year Navy operating budgets were going.
Vice Admiral Doyle cleared his throat. “Ahem. We’re here to see the Grand Center-of-the-Galaxy.”
The marines continued staring ahead, doing a good job of ignoring the presence of the newcomers.
“I said—”
One of the marines stepped forward. A man, of course. Short, stocky. And literally a chip on his shoulder, etched into his armor. The mark of command. “State your business. Our Beloved Leader is very busy.”
Beloved Leader? Did the Grand COG pay them extra to blow smoke up his ass? No one in the Federation could claim to love the man, but he was virtually untouchable. Technically, the position was open to challenge once every four years, but no one had been able to approach the candidate-registration kiosk in centuries. At first because it kept getting moved around the galaxy and interested parties couldn’t find it. And then, later, after it had been ensconced as a centerpiece at a hellish pleasure resort called Full Moon, because anyone who tried to approach the kiosk got vaporized into dust.
If anyone had ever known who had enacted such countermeasures, the knowledge was lost to time. But Anasua was willing to bet it was probably one of the greedy, self-indulgent predecessors to the current Grand COG. Of course, any knowledge about how to counteract the countermeasures had been lost to time as well. To get around this limitation, the Council of Concerned Citizens had conveniently modified the constitution to allow themselves to appoint a Grand COG, much like the Chinese Communist Party had used to appoint leaders back in the Unenlightened Years.
Left unchanged? The position was granted unlimited terms. The only way to force a vote to replace a Grand COG was for someone to register themselves as a challenger. And who was foolish enough to even try anymore?
Doyle’s shoulders were peeled back, his clenched buttcheeks rigid as duranium. He was definitely pissed, but what could he do about it? This golden-armored commander was going to make him beg for the right to an audience. “We are here by the grace of Our Beloved Leader. The Grand COG Himself has reques
ted our immediate presence.”
The marine commander smirked, readying a retort.
“Let them in!” came a booming voice over the intercom.
The commander closed his mouth, shrugged, then gave a small nod to his men. The doors to the chamber opened inward, revealing a room of similar scale to the grand ballroom back on the now-destroyed flagship. Except this room was plated in gold … and something resembling two glittery disco balls dangled from the ceiling in the center of the room, which had the effect of making the entire chamber sparkle.
Appalling, thought Anasua. If she ever had the chance to become Grand COG, she’d be sure to redecorate.
“Well, don’t just stand there,” said the same booming voice, only now in-person instead of over the intercom. “Come in!”
Standing at the far end of the chamber was a man who could have once been handsome. Tall and broad-shouldered, he wore a creamy tunic that no doubt cost more than her annual salary, beset by a golden robe with thick, fluffy animal fur at the neckline. But none of it could hide the fact of his rapidly expanding paunch and thinning amber hair. Only ten years prior, who could have questioned that he had the look for the job? Now … he just looked like another fat despot.
Doyle led the way across the floor and beneath the dangling orbs, more than one sparkle dancing across his powder-blue uniform. Anasua followed close behind, eager to get a step on Hawke. As they got closer, she noticed that the Grand COG stood alongside a long table set with assorted snacks … most of it sugary junk-food. In fact, there was a giant pile of powdered donuts on the far end, where he was currently stationed.
“Beloved Leader, we have come as requested,” said Doyle.
Anasua snapped rigid to attention, ready to be inspected.
Instead, the Grand COG raised a hand to his mouth and painstakingly licked powder off of each finger. “Mmm,” he mumbled, then reached down and snagged a gaudy goblet from the table, spilling some of its contents in the process.
Anasua and Doyle exchanged looks, his seeming to convey, “Patience.” If such a thought were possible from the Vice Admiral. Still, he had to have had a sense of self-preservation to have climbed all the way to the top of the Federation Navy ranks.
And so, Anasua remained patient.
The Grand COG slurped at his drink, then finally turned his attention to the trio. And where did his eyes wander to first? Anasua, of course.
Of course. I am, after all, the most competent of this bunch. Surely he’ll see me for my talents. Just wait until I tell him—
“My, my, Vice Admiral Doyle,” started the Grand COG. “Why didn’t you warn me that I’d be in the presence of … a woman.” The way the corpulent man’s eyes traced their way up and down her tightly uniformed body gave her the sudden, burning urge to do great physical harm to her Beloved Leader.
And yet, like Doyle, she, too, had a sense of self-preservation. Out of the corners of her eyes, she couldn’t help but notice the honor guard had followed them into the chamber. She wasn’t the only one ready to do violence.
“Ahem, yes,” replied Doyle. “This is the Commodore Corvus I was telling you about earlier.”
“Oh, the Commodore, was it? Well, then...” the Grand COG trailed off, slurped at his goblet again. “And why were you here again? Oh, yes ... the flagship! The Brickhouse.” He turned and leveled a curious gaze at Hawke that slowly melted into a frown. “Do you have any idea what a headache you’ve caused me, uh…”
“Rear Admiral Hawke,” Doyle supplied.
“Yes.” The Grand COG’s brow drooped. “Yes, I’ve been reading up on you, Rear Admiral Eilhard Hawke. What kind of stupid name is that?”
Something hard glinted for a moment in Hawke’s eyes, then was gone. “That would be my stupid name, Beloved Leader.”
Anasua almost felt a twinge of regret at the note of surrender in his voice.
“Right, anyway. Why are you here? I’d have figured Doyle would have spaced you by now for failing the Federation, yada yada yada.” The Grand COG looked almost bored. Or drunk. Probably drunk.
Hawke’s face went ashen gray at the mention of being spaced.
Doyle’s hands fidgeted behind his back. “I thought you’d want to hear their briefing first-hand, before I had the Rear Admiral spaced. After all, it’s still as yet unclear what exactly happened to lead to the Brickhouse’s destruction.”
“Is it?” The Grand COG straightened, almost for a moment appearing regal.
“Indeed,” replied Doyle. “But both of these officers were there.”
“So? What happened then?” Their Beloved Leader shoved another powdered donut into his mouth, not bothering to chew with his mouth closed. Powdered sugar dusted the front of his expensive tunic.
Anasua swallowed back a surge of disgust and instead focused an accusatory gaze on Hawke.
The Rear Admiral appeared ready to defer to Doyle, but Doyle stared him down until he relented. “The FFS Brickhouse self-destructed,” he said miserably.
“What?” roared the Grand COG, mouth still full of donut. Another plume of powdered sugar erupted from his mouth like ash from a volcano. “Why?”
“I—I don’t know, Beloved Leader.”
The Grand COG rounded on Doyle and finally, mercifully, swallowed his mouthful of food. “What kind of briefing is this?”
“Beloved Leader, if I may?” Anasua interrupted. This was, after all, the moment she’d been waiting for.
“Commodore—” Doyle began, but the Grand COG waved him off.
“No, no, it’s all right. I’d like to hear what this woman has to say.”
Anasua struggled to ignore the man’s leering expression. She supposed some women had made it to the top by sleeping their way there. But early on she’d decided she would fight her way there, instead. The way of the warrior wasn’t always about physical strength, it was also about being prepared. Bringing the right weapons to the fight. And she had just the right weapon for this fight.
She began. “Rear Admiral Hawke saw fit to invite several rogues, and possibly more than a few spies, including several pirates, onto our flagship.”
“I did not!” Hawke objected. “Well, I did, but I had—”
“Silence!” roared the Grand COG. “Let her speak.”
Hawke gave Anasua an almost pleading look, then averted his gaze.
No quarter, she thought. Not now. Not after everything he’d done. “He was on a hare-brained quest to uncover the Outliers. He even had a genetically-modified dog, of all things, designed to sniff them out.”
Doyle’s neck was turning purple, even though she’d already briefed him days before.
The Grand COG, on the other hand, looked placid. “And? Did it? Sniff them out, that is?”
“Well, no,” started Hawke, “but—”
“I told you to shut up,” the Grand COG snapped.
“Rear Admiral.” Doyle stepped into Hawke’s personal space. “You mind who you’re talking to. This is our Beloved Leader.”
“Of course.” Hawke bowed his head.
“Continue,” the Grand COG said with a wave of his hand.
Anasua did so, with pleasure. “Rear Admiral Hawke never had a chance to test out his pet dog. You see, while our guests were aboard, the ship initiated a self-destruct sequence, seemingly all on its own. Which should be impossible, but it happened. On this man’s watch.” She pointed at Hawke. “And I am convinced the flagship’s self-destruction was somehow caused by the ruffians this idiot so willingly invited aboard.”
Hawke stared sullenly at his boots.
“Unacceptable,” muttered Doyle.
“Am I to understand,” began the Grand COG, “that there were known associates of Tone E Robbins on board the flagship at the time?”
“That is correct,” Anasua said. See, this is a man who gets it, no matter how … distasteful he might be.
“And did they die in the explosion?”
“I am confident that they escaped,” she said, resisting
the maniacal urge to grin. At last, the ace up her sleeve. Her big moment. The tracker she’d planted on that sleazy slimeball of an informant might have been deactivated not too long ago, but she’d also known the Blowhard would have put a tracker on his beloved secret weapon. And so he had.
The Grand COG tsk’d. “That is most unfortunate. As you know, I reward handsomely for any captured pirates, or leads as to the whereabouts of their leader. The pirates of Haven, and Tone E Robbins, himself, pose a great risk to our Federation, indeed.”
That was taking it a bit far, in Anasua’s opinion. The pirates were pesky, annoying fleas at best, who resorted to besetting cargo ships and supply haulers. Hardly a galactic powerhouse. But she was already aware of the COG’s obsession with Tone E Robbins. He had been, after all—
The Grand COG interrupted her musings. “I am most disappointed in you. All of you. Perhaps it is time for a change in leadership…?” His dull blue eyes shifted to Vice Admiral Doyle.
“Beloved Leader,” started Doyle.
“Shh! I won’t stand for whining in my chambers!”
Anasua’s heart thudded in her chest. She simply must play her card, before they all got thrown out of the chamber and possibly spaced. She cleared her throat. “Beloved Leader, if I may?”
If she’d been a man, would he have allowed her to continue? Anasua could never know. But if the cost of playing her cards was to get ogled, she’d do what she must.
“Go on,” he prompted.
This time, Anasua couldn’t stop the grin from plastering across her face. By the time the words had spilled out, they’d all be grinning. Well, except for Hawke….
“I know where Haven is,” she blurted.
5
Tone E Robbins
Tone E Robbins, the leader of all the pirates of Haven, stood at the front of the room generally used for doling out pirate justice—not that that had to be done all that often these days—and felt his chest swell with pride as he looked out over the slowly filling room.
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