“T-minus thirty minutes until the next jump,” the ship’s AI informed them. It sounded quite a bit more lively than Hawke, and more chipper than when they’d first arrived on board, since part of it now occupied a small, domed robot also now on the bridge.
McGee found the little robot rather unnerving. He remembered all too well how the Brickhouse’s AI had suddenly gone rogue. Providing a ship’s AI with a mobile unit seemed just asking for trouble, in his opinion. Not to mention having the AI in two different places at the same time was just plain eerie.
“In the meantime,” the AI said, from the ship’s speakers and not the little robot, “we are continuing at full impulse speed deeper into Federation space. But I should warn you, the SS Bray is listed as a wanted ship in the Federation’s database. If we encounter any Federation forces … let’s just say I doubt they’ll be friendly.”
“That’s what we have him for,” Captain Cass said, nodding toward Hawke. “We’re banking on being found. In fact, Node, find the nearest reported location of any Federation ship and set a course.”
“Uh … very well.” There was a second’s pause. “There’s one close by, actually. We could get there on sublight speed easily enough.”
“Do it,” Cass ordered.
McGee sighed wistfully at her no-nonsense nature. If only he could have had a commander like her during his days with the Federation. Confident, competent, a true leader … he was beginning to get a good idea of why Eilhard the Blowhard had tried for so long to bring her back to the Federation.
The organization was, to put it lightly, severely lacking in such personalities.
“Changing to an intercept course with the Federation destroyer FFS Willpower,” the AI intoned.
“A destroyer?” the pirate who looked like a beaver squeaked. “Oh boy. This plan better work, Captain.”
“It will,” she said. Her dark, fierce eyes went to McGee, and he turned back to the front hastily, pretending to busy himself on his screen. “Our captors will cooperate. I’m sure of it.”
McGee swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, and nodded. “I told you,” he tried yet again, “I left the Federation! On my own.” He tossed a glance to Hawke and found the man frowning furiously. “If you’d just let me join your side, I could help you.”
“You are helping us,” Cass commented. “By doing everything I tell you to do in the next few hours.”
“Yeah, but … I mean I could help you for real. I could help in your fight against the Grand COG. And there’s no need for threats, either. The Federation already thinks I’m dead … the last thing I want is for them to realize I’m still alive.” He stopped messing with his screen and turned again to face her. “Captain, let me join you as a prisoner. Or better yet, let me hide somewhere until we reach the Vice Admiral so they think I’m still dead.”
She shook her head. “No. No way they’d believe Hawke captured all of us all by himself.”
Hawke’s frown deepened, and he turned then in his chair to regard them. He opened his mouth as if to protest, but the captain cut him off.
“You have to play his accomplice here. As for the rest of it, we’ll figure that out once this mission is done.”
“But, Captain—”
“Unless you want your fake death to become a very real one,” she snapped, “I suggest you close your mouth and do your job.”
McGee did close his mouth. He wanted to protest more, to make his case for the fifth time (maybe eventually they’d believe him), but then, that murderous look had come over Captain Cass’s face again, and he didn’t much like it being directed at him. So he stayed quiet, and only nodded, turning back to the viewscreen.
Maybe if he just played out this part, and supported the pirates in whatever other way he could during this mission, he could prove his loyalties were no longer with the Federation. Perhaps he could gain the trust of the pirates.
And then maybe they could protect him from the wrath of the Feds when it was discovered he’d deserted. After all, Bambi—Captain Cass!—was still very much alive and living her own life, and she’d deserted years ago.
Maybe he could be like her.
“I can’t believe you deserted your post,” Hawke muttered into the quiet, glaring across at McGee.
McGee glared back. Now that everyone’s secrets were out, he was done kissing the man’s arse. “Oh, stow it. You only invited me along on this ‘mission’ of yours because you wanted someone to do all the hard work for you! You wanted someone to order around! Out of the Federation less than one day and you just couldn’t handle having to take care of your own crap, could you? You used me!”
Hawke straightened in his chair. “No one made you come along on this mission! You made that choice yourself! And you kept acting like a sailor, didn’t you? What was I supposed to do? You clearly wanted to be ordered around!”
McGee threw out his arms. “I did not! I just wanted to be treated like a normal human being! You aren’t an officer in the Federation anymore … ever think that maybe you should stop acting like one?”
Hawke’s blue eyes narrowed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have pretended to be a loyal Federation man when in reality, you’re a deserter and a traitor!”
“Better a traitor to a narrow-minded, inefficient, bumbling bureaucracy like the Federation Navy than a complete disgrace of a human being like you!” It came out before McGee could think better of it, but then, he’d been wanting to say such a thing to Hawke for years.
The man recoiled at the words, blinking rapidly.
“Boys!” Captain Cass barked. “Don’t make me stop this spaceship!”
McGee and Hawke glared at each other across the narrow space that separated their chairs for a long moment, and then another alert sounded from the navigation computer.
The cargo hauler’s AI broke the silence. “Ahem. This is pretty entertaining and all, but unfortunately I must interrupt your argument to let you know that the FFS Willpower has spotted us on their sensors and are now hailing us. They are demanding we come to full stop, drop our shields, and surrender the vessel.”
“Come to full stop,” Captain Cass said. “Wait on the rest for now. Hawke, you know what to do. Don’t fuck it up or your life will get a lot more miserable, understand?”
Hawke’s angry features slowly softened, until they eventually smoothed into weary resignation. He sighed, sinking back into his chair. “Of course, Bamb—Cass. But really, there’s no reason to be so harsh. A polite request would have sufficed….”
“Just open a channel before they start firing,” Cass grumbled.
McGee swallowed hard and gripped the arms of his chair, unsure of what to expect from this exchange.
Hawke opened a channel to the destroyer and cleared his throat. “Hi there. Uh, don’t fire … I’ve received your message and will comply. This is Rear Admir—” He winced and began again. “This is former Rear Admiral Eilhard Hawke. I’ve managed to capture the SS Bray and some very high profile criminals that no one less than Vice Admiral Doyle will need to process, I think. By chance, could you tell me his current location so I can deliver them?”
There was a short pause.
McGee held his breath.
“Hawke?” a voice finally came back over the speakers. “Eilhard Hawke? The Eilhard Hawke who lost half the Federation fleet?”
Hawke’s shoulders slumped and he rubbed a hand over his face. “Yes.”
“They are requesting a video feed,” the Bray’s AI said.
“On screen,” Hawke ordered.
Their view of space changed to reflect the bridge of a Federation destroyer.
McGee tried to squish down into his chair, keeping his gaze mostly focused on the floor so that hopefully they wouldn’t get a good view of his face.
But no one seemed to be paying any attention to him. The bridge crew of the destroyer were all gathered close around the camera feed, their own faces looming large on the Bray’s viewscreen, all squinting toward Hawke and the rag-tag crew of misfit p
irates sitting behind him.
“Huh,” the commanding officer on the screen grunted. His nose was the largest, as he was the closest to the camera. “Well blow me down, it really is the Blowhard himself.”
Hawke reddened, but managed to keep his composure. “I have prisoners for transport,” he said stiffly. “As you can see.” He gestured toward the pirates. “Where is Vice Admiral Doyle?”
The XO of the destroyer stepped back from the lens, mercifully, and clasped his hands behind his back. “He’s gone with the Grand COG to the Full Moon Resort. Something about celebrating the destruction of all those filthy pirates.” His beady gaze switched to fall upon Captain Cass and her crew. “Though I see not all of them were destroyed.”
“Indeed,” Hawke said. “But I’ve rounded up some of the more dangerous stragglers.”
“Just so,” the man said, and McGee thought he might have even sounded a little impressed. “Very well, then. If you’d like to take them to the Vice Admiral, I’ll mark the SS Bray down as captured for the Federation, so you aren’t shot down on sight once you reach Tau Bootis.”
Hawke’s reddened face paled a bit at this news. “That would be greatly appreciated, sir. Thank you.”
The gray-haired man on the viewscreen shook his head. “Don’t thank me yet, Eilhard. Rumor has it that both the Vice Admiral and the Grand COG are done with the likes of you. They might still decide to shoot on-sight when they learn it’s you at the helm.”
Hawke slumped further. “I see.”
The admiral made a few taps to something off-screen. “Anyway, there. I’ve made the notation in Federation records. Keep an eye on those prisoners, Hawke. I’ve heard they’re a dangerous, slippery bunch.”
Hawke nodded and straightened his shoulders. “I have them under control, don’t worry.”
The big red-headed pirate gave a snort, but no one acknowledged him.
“I hope so, for your sake,” the officer said. “Good luck, Eilhard. Willpower out.” The image winked off the viewscreen.
There was a collective exhale of breath on the bridge of the SS Bray.
“The destroyer is changing course,” the AI announced. “It’s heading away from us. Nice show, Eilhard the Blowhard. Bravo!”
Hawke stiffened, but made no retort. Instead, he swiveled his chair to face the pirates and offered a strained smile. “There, see? Not so hard. I did just ask you asked. Now, why don’t we make a nice pot of tea and…”
He made as if to stand from the chair, but Captain Cass moved like lightning. She was on her feet in a flash, unlocked manacles dangling from one wrist and her pistol in the other hand, pointing at Hawke.
He paused halfway between sitting and standing.
McGee squeaked in alarm and drew his knees up into his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. Maybe she wouldn’t notice him….
“I don’t think so,” she said. “No tea. No talking. You’re both going back into cuffs and back into the hold until we figure out what to do with you.”
Hawke slowly lowered himself back down into his chair. “Not even a quick nibble? A snack? Maybe a biscuit or a—”
“No,” Captain Cass reiterated. Her eyes went to McGee and he froze.
Crap. She noticed me!
“Come on, up,” she ordered. “Both of you. And hold out your wrists.”
McGee released a massive, theatrical sigh and leveraged himself up out of the XO’s chair to do as she said. This deal keeps getting worse all the time….
31
Anasua
“Imaginary friends,” Anasua scoffed under her breath as she read the glowing sign above the entrance to the balmy resort lounge. Outside, it was more than comfortably warm—it was excruciatingly hot and humid, like stepping into a sauna. Who built a resort on a moon tidally-locked to an F-type constellation—especially on the side facing the yellow-white Tau Bootis?
Rich people had funny ideas about paradise, apparently. Anasua wasn’t rich, and she was most decidedly not in her version of paradise. Was there anything worse than dripping sweat? Oh yes, there was.
“What’s that, my dear?” asked Vice Admiral Doyle. As he accepted a pair of champagne flutes from an underdressed servant in body paint, he waved one beneath her nose, besieging her senses with floral overtones. “Relax, already. You’re among friends. Have a drink.”
She was under no illusions about that … she had no friends. And that was okay with her. Accepting the proffered beverage, she sniffed mistrustfully, trying not to wrinkle her nose. “What is this awful sh—”
Doyle’s eyebrows shot up, the ghost of a reprimand already on his lips.
But Anasua was spared that annoyance as a much grander source of agitation stepped into her personal space.
“Ah, my dear friends!” The Grand Center-of-the-Galaxy was beet-faced, hairline beading with sweat, grinning like a madman—which she supposed he might well have been. Among the many Federation guests in the room—officers, sailors, honor guards, and elderly (mostly) male patricians—only the Grand COG was appropriately underdressed for the conditions on the resort. But of course he’d be right at home here on Full Moon. It was his purported base of operations for much of the Galactic calendar. Meanwhile, he was leering at her in a most distasteful fashion.
Had he overheard her? Did she actually care?
Doyle swallowed whatever he’d been about to say and plastered on a pleasant smile for their Beleaguered Idiot. “Beloved Leader,” he purred.
“Please,” replied the Grand COG with an airy wave of his free hand, the other occupied with a golden goblet. Not a champagne flute, Anasua noted. “Do drink up.”
Whatever he was drinking, Anasua imagined she’d much prefer that to the awful floral beverage currently in her own flute. She took an experimental sniff, even as Doyle slugged his down. “What is this?”
The sides of the Grand COG’s mouth twisted into a boyish grin. “The only friend you’ll ever need.”
“You don’t say,” Anasua replied, still holding the beverage just out of drinking range. “But, what’s the drink called?”
Doyle shook his head, a frown warring for purchase as he presumably watched the Grand COG for any sign of agitation. “Acting Rear Admiral—“
The golden idiot chortled and clapped Doyle on the shoulder. “It’s fine, it’s fine!” Running his eyes up and down Anasua’s figure as if she weren’t wearing a form-minimizing Federation Naval uniform, his grin only grew wider. “My dear, that is the name of the drink. Bottoms up, eh!”
His eyebrows literally bounced at the suggestion, and his gaze moved from her beverage to her bottom. Then, before she could consider a lethal act of treason, he wobbled on his heels and bee-lined toward another cluster of guests—all the while sloshing whatever it was from his own goblet onto the floor. Servants were already en-route, ready to intercept with towels.
A mumble broke her reverie as she watched him go. She blinked and turned back to the Vice Admiral. “What?”
“You’re glaring,” said Doyle, his lips pressed together. “Don’t make me repeat myself again.”
Doyle might have been notorious for his lack of patience, but he wasn’t the only one who had a quick trigger. She just masked hers better. At least she liked to think she did. Get it together, she chided herself, then focused her attention on the drink. The only friend she’d ever need, huh? I don’t think so. Best get this over with. Maybe then they’d leave her alone.
She braced herself and threw back the drink.
“That’s better,” remarked Doyle, his face relaxing. “Mingle. Have a good time. We’re celebrating, remember?”
“Right.”
Doyle leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper. “You know, Corvus, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be here.”
“We wouldn’t?” she asked, suddenly imagining a simpler lifestyle. One without leaders and orders. One where she was in charge. Then she remembered the fiery ball of the Haven space station exploding in the depths of s
pace. That’s right. They were here to celebrate that ‘victory’ … though it didn’t feel like much of a victory to her. Not only had she not gotten to lead the assault sitting pretty in Bambi’s own corvette like she’d imagined, but far too many pirates had been allowed to escape oblivion thanks to the Grand COG’s fragile ego. “Oh, yes, I suppose not,” she murmured.
“The Federation owes you a debt of gratitude, I suppose,” Doyle added. Though his expression suggested that no payments were pending. “The biggest threat to our way of life has been removed, and it’s all thanks to your initiative.”
“I suppose so,” Anasua mumbled, staring down at her empty flute. How strange to hear the Vice Admiral giving her a compliment. Maybe he was drunk. It had been her initiative that had led them straight to the pirates, yet he’d said little to give her credit. Said little as the Golden COG had stripped her of any opportunity to lead the assault. Said even less when the golden bozo had given a speech to the entire Navy afterward—and made absolutely zero mention of her contributions. All of this and more was on the tip of her tongue, ready to spill out. Dangerous, Anasua, get a grip!
“What is this?” she asked instead, opting for a much safer conversation.
Whatever it was, the alcohol hit her system fast. She felt a momentary flash of heat down her spine, and then the room spun for a brief moment—just long enough for her to feel the impulse to reach out and steady herself. But that would mean touching Doyle, so she merely grimaced.
If Doyle had answered, she hadn’t heard. She was too busy focusing on not touching Doyle, but also not pitching onto the floor face-first. That would have been highly embarrassing, especially considering she was quite certain she was the most competent individual here.
As she recovered from her precarious wobble, her gaze was drawn out through the open doors of the lounge, across the reception area, and to the open-air patio exit, which looked out over the spacious, almost-tastefully designed courtyard.
But it wasn’t the landscaping that was catching her eye. In fact, she had no patience for such mundane things. No, what had her attention was the wide, cylindrical golden structure at the courtyard’s center. Standing no taller than the average human, but wide enough for a crowd to comfortably gather around, the Candidate Registration Kiosk appeared harmless enough.
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