by Eric Thomson
At that moment, one of Tejko’s teams showed up and, after swallowing a surge of revulsion, Barca grabbed what had been Tanith’s captain by the shoulders while one of the Pathfinders took him by the feet. She gave the trooper a nod, then they lifted the remains and shuffled through the door, heading for the nearest airlock. Barca was damned if she would assign a dirty job like burial detail for decomposing corpses to her Marines and not do her share of the work.
**
“I wouldn’t open my helmet visor just yet,” Vietti said several hours later, “but the environmental systems are finally working properly, so the stench should subside. Tell your people well done from me.” The gunnery officer and temporary prize captain turned away from the engineering panel to glance around a bridge that no longer looked like a slaughterhouse. “A hell of a job. How many bodies did you toss out the airlocks?”
“Seventy-five in total. Forty-one crew, fifteen bulls, and nineteen prisoners. It wasn’t the most dignified set of burials in space, but our choices are limited and I made sure someone said a few words for each one before turning them into corpsicles. How’s the ship doing?”
Vietti nodded at the two senior petty officers manning bridge consoles since they brought their shuttles aboard. “We flipped her end for end, so at least our bow is pointing the right way even though we’re still moving in the wrong direction. Now it’s just a matter of killing that momentum without blowing out the inertial dampeners. If they fail, we turn into pink goo. Next up is closing the damned airlocks.”
“Sergeants Tejko and Leung are already working on the outer hatches. They found the engineering section’s tool locker, but whatever they end up doing might not be elegant or even Navy fashion.”
“So long as we restore hull integrity, I don’t care how it’s done or how it looks. This is a bloody prison scow, not a warship.”
Barca grinned at her. “Not so bloody anymore, thanks to your favorite neighborhood Marines. How long before Narwhal takes us into her tender embrace?”
“Not until we’ve reversed course and can match velocities with her, which will be few more hours, but she is closing the distance. So far the other ships are still under silent running, and no sign of any approaching bad guys. But the sensors Tanith carries aren’t naval grade, so we’ll be the last to know.”
“Speaking of naval grade, we found the galley and took an inventory. The Imperial Prison Service lives better than we Fleet pukes do. Once the air clears, we can sample a bit of the high life.”
“You still have an appetite after hauling stiffs?”
“A woman has to eat, Peg. Otherwise, she’s no good to man or beast.”
“I’m not even going to ask what that piece of jarhead weirdness is supposed to mean.”
Barca winked at Vietti. “Stick around, Squid. You might learn something.”
— 32 —
“CIC to the captain.”
Morane, half-dressed and sprawled out on the bed in his private quarters rolled to one side. He blinked several times, shaking off the strange dream that haunted his twilight state.
“Morane.”
“Creswell, sir. Sensors picked up hyperspace traces headed in this direction. If they’re aimed at Wormhole Parth Two, I estimate emergence will occur within thirty minutes.”
“What is Tanith’s status?”
“She’s almost done shedding reverse momentum. Narwhal is standing by, but estimates put them at least forty-five minutes apart.”
Vanquish’s commanding officer bit back choice words. Instead, he said, “All ships will go to battle stations, but Vanquish, Myrtale, and Dawn Trader are to remain under silent running. Inform Tanith of the reduced timeline and ask if she can finish decelerating sooner and still stay within acceptable risk limits. At this point, it doesn’t matter if she incurs structural stress by pushing the inertial dampeners into the red, provided she keeps hull integrity.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“I’m on my way. Morane, out.”
He sprang to his feet and pulled on the battledress tunic that lay crumpled on a nearby chair as the battle stations siren echoed throughout the fast attack cruiser.
“Ask me for anything but time,” Morane intoned. Then he paused, head tilted to one side and muttered. “Who said that again?”
No doubt DeCarde could dig the answer out of her vast historical repository. He made his way to the CIC with long strides, a confident expression pasted on his craggy features as he greeted crew members hurrying to their stations. The moment he entered, Creswell rose from the command chair and stepped aside.
“Peg Vietti says she is, and I quote, already flirting with the fine art of turning humans into jam. It will take the time it takes.”
Morane sat and scowled at the tactical projection, now showing the hyperspace traces in pale red.
“I was hoping to make my way across to Wormhole Four unseen, but if those ships emerge nearby before we can go FTL, they can’t fail to spot us and realize we’re taking Tanith. Should they be the same people who destroyed the 12th and freed Grand Duke Custis, I don’t doubt they’ll come about and try to cut us off from our escape route. Or chase us through the wormhole network. And with Narwhal hauling twice her mass, we won’t be able to push past the in-system FTL limits and gain an edge over a strike force that’ll probably be long on heavy cruisers, if the remains of the 12th Battle Group are any indication.”
“We could always recover our boarding party and bugger off without Tanith,” Mikkel, present once more via hologram from her normal station on the bridge, suggested in an arch tone. When she saw her jest fall flat, Mikkel shrugged. “Or not.”
Morane ran a hand across his chin, lost in thought. Then an air of determination replaced his earlier scowl. “I doubt they’ll chase us through Wormhole Parth Five.”
“I’m not sure I like the way you said that, Skipper.”
A wicked grin briefly creased Morane’s face. “Look it up in the catalog, Iona.”
Mikkel fell silent, and during that pause, Colonel DeCarde took her station in the CIC, wondering about the discussion she’d just interrupted.
“Surely you jest, sir,” the first officer finally said.
“Not in the least. Few commanders would follow us through Wormhole Five. At least not for the pleasure of destroying Tanith and the unknown starships that salvaged her.”
“No sane commander would go down Wormhole Five, period.”
“Which is a good reason to do it.” Morane caught DeCarde’s quizzical look out of the corner of his eyes and turned to face her. “Iona thinks making a transit to a quadruple star system is a dangerous idea.”
“I’m not sure I understand, Captain.”
“Stable wormholes are tied to stars, or so the theory goes — the astrophysicists could never prove it conclusively, let alone figure out why. Most seem to exist within ten to twenty-five light hours from a star’s core. Rogue wormholes, on the other hand, come and go in interstellar space, seemingly without the anchor of a primary, and they’re the ones theorized to connect different points in time as well. However, most believe what we call stable wormholes are only stable over a limited time span. Since wormhole travel only began two centuries ago, we’ve not seen many mapped termini vanish. Or at least not in star systems we occupy or use as junctions. With one exception.”
“Multiple star systems — binaries, triples and so forth. The more stars, the greater the exception,” Mikkel interjected. “Like the one at the other end of Wormhole Parth Five, which is a quadruple. If that’s where the terminus lies.”
“Indeed. Wormholes hooked into systems with more than one star appear to have an unfortunate tendency to shift position unexpectedly, vanish or go rogue by connecting to a different system from the one previously mapped. Something about the stars interfering with each other’s tied-in wormholes. We’re taught to avoid any junctions in systems with more than two stars except in case of absolute emergency. But that’s mostly by way of ensuring a ship
won’t spend months, if not years finding its way home if a previously mapped route disappears or has shifted and now leads to an unmapped star system. In my opinion, the fear of passing through multiples stems from apocryphal stories about starships wandering through the galaxy for ages because wormholes went rogue and cut off the way back. And since modern starships no longer carry enough antimatter fuel to travel FTL for long interstellar crossings, getting lost in the network has become a bogeyman.”
“In your opinion, Skipper.”
“Name me one ship that was lost due to using a multiple star junction. Sure, we hear tales of misadventures, but every ship made it back.”
Mikkel snorted. “You know I can’t because we never find out what happened to ships that vanished.”
“ISC37800-24 was last mapped ten years ago. Only three of its twenty-four wormhole termini had changed since the previous survey fifteen years earlier.”
“So the Navy does send ships into multiples?” DeCarde asked.
“Aye.” Morane nodded. “Survey cruisers. But they carry enough fuel to cross several hundred light years through interstellar space in case they have wormhole misadventures.”
“Survey cruisers don’t leave the vicinity of the terminus they emerged from either,” Mikkel pointed out. “They send probes to verify that the other termini still connect to the previously mapped systems.”
“If you come up with a better alternative to give our approaching friends the slip within the next hour, I’ll consider it. In the meantime, please ask Tupo Hak to plot a jump for Wormhole Parth Five and share it with the rest of the battle group.”
“Will do, Skipper. But be prepared to hear an earful from the others.”
“In fact, I won’t wait. Signals, set up a conference link with Myrtale, Narwhal and Dawn Trader.”
**
“You appear remarkably sanguine about my plan, Captain Rinne.” In contrast to Commanders Ryzkov and Sirak, who voiced pointed objections against traveling through a quadruple star system, the Friar of the Void seemed eerily serene thanks to a mysterious smile creasing his weathered features.
“I crossed many strange star systems in my forty years as a spacefarer, including quadruples such as your ISC37800-24. The Almighty provided for me then and I’m sure he’ll provide for us now, especially since we’re risking ourselves to save those unfortunate souls in stasis aboard Tanith.”
Morane could see Lori Ryzkov restraining an eye-roll at the friar’s words, but with limited success. Whether it was because he casually dismissed risks drummed into a Navy officer’s head from the first day of astrogation training or because he insisted on trusting a deity for their safety remained open to question.
Rinne smiled. “You may not believe in a Supreme Being, Captain Ryzkov, but the evidence of his existence is around us.”
To Ryzkov’s credit, she inclined her head in silent acknowledgment of their differing views.
Sirak’s dark-complexioned face took on a thoughtful mien. “I suppose it’s immaterial whether we end up taking a more circuitous route to our destination thanks to a wormhole or two going rogue, so long as they don’t shift us in time as well as space. For all intents and purposes, we are fugitives — deserters from the Imperial Armed Services who are fleeing every rebel force we meet. Being able to go home again is no longer necessary because our eyes are firmly fixed on the road ahead. And even if we get lost, evidence so far shows wormholes cover limited distances. I doubt we’ll suddenly find ourselves on the other side of the galaxy.”
Rinne nodded sagely. “Well spoken, Captain Sirak.”
“I guess I’m outvoted,” Ryzkov said with a wry grimace. “If there was nothing else, sir, I must prepare to take Tanith under Narwhal’s wing. After what happened in the last few hours, it would be a shame if we screwed up the rescue that’ll see us traipse through one of the wormhole network’s more adventurous sections.”
— 33 —
“Captain, the sensors just picked up seven emergence signatures approximately three hundred thousand kilometers ahead.”
“Almost exactly thirty minutes since you detected the hyperspace trails. Excellent estimate, Chief.”
Lettis dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, sir. I make four heavy cruisers and three frigates. No transponders, no other broadcasts.”
“They should only see Narwhal and Tanith, even at that range,” Creswell said. “Since we, Myrtale and Dawn Trader are still under tight emissions control. And may I say once more that I’m impressed by Dawn Trader’s emcon. It makes me wonder what else the Order of the Void can do just as well as the Navy. And why they should be so proficient.”
“Best not to dwell on it, Annalise.”
The signals petty officer raised his hand. “The unknowns are hailing Narwhal, though she’s being called unknown vessel, ironically enough. It’s a warning to stay clear of Tanith and prepare for inspection.”
“Put it on speakers.”
“I repeat, unknown vessel approaching the Imperial Prison Ship Tanith, stay clear, heave to, and prepare for boarding. You are not authorized to engage in salvage operations in this star system.”
“Since I don’t know who the fuck you are,” Ryzkov’s tone came across as an aggressive growl, “tell me why I should give a damn. I claim this wreck under imperial salvage laws, and if you try to interfere, I will make you kiss your ancestor’s rancid ass in whatever hell they send terminally brain-damaged morons. Now sod off and let me work in peace.”
The usually staid Chief Petty Officer Third Class Karlo Lettis barely repressed a guffaw, and even Morane cracked a smile at Ryzkov’s impudence.
“I had no idea Lori could be so — pungent,” Mikkel said.
“I am Rear Admiral Sir Rayder Ostrow, of Viceroy the Grand Duke Devy Custis’ naval forces, and you are conducting salvage in the Coalsack Vice-royalty without a permit.”
“How d’you know I don’t hold a fucking permit from her fucking Imperial Majesty Dendera, poxed be her name. And other parts of her body.”
Silence ensued while those in Vanquish’s CIC watched Narwhal swoop toward Tanith, ready to take the prison ship into her embrace.
“I’m afraid Dendera the usurper no longer has authority to issue salvage permits in the Coalsack Sector. And now that I’ve identified myself, who are you, pray tell?”
“Me? I’m the Dread Pirate Lori, come to scavenge pod people for the Trans-Coalsack slave markets. Imperial dandies fetch a good price, enough to make shooting my entire load at you worthwhile. I’d offer a profit-sharing scheme, but where I’m headed, you ain’t about to follow. So like I said before, sod off, you little twit. Everyone will be happier that way, and you won’t be meeting the Lord of the Underworld before your time.”
DeCarde chuckled under her breath. “Impressive. I didn’t know Lori Ryzkov was such an accomplished loudmouth.”
“Neither did I. Just think of her bridge crew trying hard not to die laughing right now, in the middle of what’s probably the most delicate maneuver they’ve ever tried.”
“Perhaps we should light up and enjoy a glimpse of your ability to distract the rebel commander with salty language.”
“That’s not a bad idea. Give them something else to worry about while Narwhal snags Tanith and goes FTL ahead of us.”
DeCarde laughed. “And here I thought you Imperial Navy stiffs didn’t know humor from a black hole.”
“Wait a minute,” Rear Admiral Ostrow said, “you’re a damned Monokeros class naval transport, aren’t you?”
“Excellent starship identification skills, Rayder. That ought to help with the next promotion boards. But so what?”
“It means you’re Navy. To whom do you pledge allegiance? Dendera or Viceroy Custis?”
Ryzkov didn’t immediately answer, and for an excellent reason. Morane and everyone else in Vanquish’s CIC held their breath as they watched Narwhal close the last few hundred meters separating her from Tanith. Then, Ryzkov’s voice sounded again, but
on the battle group frequency this time.
“Tanith, this is your ride, I’m about to grapple you with my tractor beams. Please do not, repeat, do not fire any thrusters, drives or toss any garbage through the airlock. The next few minutes will decide whether we become best buddies or rebel fodder.”
“Roger,” Vietti replied. “We’re almost afraid to breathe over here.”
“Don’t worry, we’ll be gentle.”
“Unknown vessel, you still didn’t answer my question.” The rebel admiral seemed both impatient and more than a bit vexed. “To whom do you pledge allegiance?”
“To Admiral the Viceroy Hedwig Wafflegab, Knight of the Black Nova. Now fuck off, Rayder. I’m busy.” Then, on the battle group channel. “My tractor beams are on you, Tanith. Stand by for grappling arms.”
“Standing by.”
A pregnant pause enveloped the CIC before Vanquish’s captain said, “Time to go up systems, Iona. Signals, as soon as we show up on their sensors, I’d like a link. Myrtale and Dawn Trader to stay silent for a little longer.”
“Aye, aye, Skipper.”
Morane’s eyes returned to the primary display, where the distance between Narwhal’s keel and Tanith’s upper hull was now measured in single meters.
“Grappling arms away,” a rough male voice said. Morane presumed it was that of Narwhal’s coxswain, the man with experience hauling pods slung beneath Monokeros class transports. “And locked. Wait while we confirm mating integrity.”
“What the...” Rear Admiral Rayder Ostrow’s voice trailed off into stunned silence.
“I guess we just popped up on their sensor screens.” A wry grin twisted Morane’s lips. “Let me speak with him, audio only.”
“You’re good to go, sir.”
“Ah, rebel force threatening my transport, this is Admiral the Viceroy Hedwig Wafflegab, Knight of the Black Nova. Stand off, and nobody gets hurt. You took your turn at getting folks off Tanith since it seems that congenital idiot Custis has decided he was the Coalsack Sector’s ruler. By the way, is Admiral Zahar aware? A courtier with more ambition than ability might not impress him by usurping the vice-royalty he usurped with such butchery.”