HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4)

by J. A. Sutherland

  Alexis ignored the sound. Villar might think her overly cautious, but even were the other ship entirely innocent, a bit of drill at going to quarters wouldn’t do the crew any harm.

  The helmsman changed their course and the ship eased onto a new tack, bound to intercept the strange sail ahead of them.

  The quarterdeck hatch chimed and Alexis turned from the plot to find Poulter. The surgeon raised his brow inquiringly.

  “If you don’t mind, captain, I’d rather like to observe the approach from the quarterdeck.”

  Alexis frowned, but couldn’t think of a reason to deny the request, other than her own discomfort with his presence. That might be enough for some captains, but refusing for that reason alone felt too much like acting the Tartar for her to be entirely comfortable with.

  “I suppose that will be all right, Mister Poulter,” she said, “but I’ll want you on the orlop if there’s any shooting done.”

  “Of course,” Poulter agreed. He took a place to the side, as unobtrusively as possible, given Nightingale’s small quarterdeck. “Do you suppose that will be necessary?”

  “I suppose, Mister Poulter, that will be up to those aboard our chase.”

  Poulter merely nodded and faded back against the quarterdeck bulkhead. From the corner of her eye, Alexis could see him working on his tablet and felt she could almost hear the tapping of his fingers as he took some sort of note. She forced down her irritation and turned her attention back to the plot and the ship they were pursuing, though not before wondering at Poulter and the similarity of his attitude to that of the lieutenant who’d questioned her after Giron. She wondered at the difference between those two and the other ship’s surgeons she’d encountered, and whether they might be some further evidence of some sort of split within Admiralty’s hierarchy — the “two Navies” she’d encountered aboard HMS Hermione.

  Isom appeared at her elbow with a tray containing a plate of eggs, rolls, and, Wileman being true to her orders, a full rasher of crisp bacon. Alexis ate and sipped the accompanying coffee until she thought they’d closed enough with the other ship to identify signals.

  “Put up our colors, Creasy,” Alexis said to the spacer on the signals console, “along with Heave-to and Inspection.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Alexis waited, giving time for the requested signals to begin lighting and flashing on Nightingale’s hull and mast. Then more time to allow for the other ship to sight those signals and respond.

  She expected the other ship to either douse her sails and return a signal with her name and purpose, if she were a legitimate craft, or turn and run from Nightingale, if she were a smuggler or pirate.

  What Alexis did not expect was to be ignored.

  Eleven

  24 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, darkspace, the Remada Straits

  “Anything at all?”

  Alexis could see well enough on the navigation plot that there’d been no change in the other ship’s course or signals during the time Nightingale had closed on it, but she asked anyway. Perhaps others on the quarterdeck had noticed something she hadn’t.

  “No signals, sir,” Creasy, on the signals console, said.

  “Course changes a bit as she goes, sir,” Dorsett, on the tactical console, informed her, “but it’s consistent with the winds. Not a soul out on her hull.”

  The image of the chase, not referred to as sail now that Nightingale had beat to quarters and prepared for a fight, remained unchanged. Remarkably unchanged. Suspiciously unchanged, in fact, for the other ship had altered neither course nor speed throughout the entire time Nightingale tracked it. There was a slight arc to its path represented on the navigation plot, but that was explained by its travels farther into the Greater Remada system where the winds shifted to blow straighter and stronger toward the system center.

  Alexis frowned and narrowed her eyes at the sight. They were close enough now that the features of the other ship were clear in the image. Not a barque at all, but a massive, four-masted ore carrier, though with only main and mizzen masts having sail bent on. That was what had led to the mistaken identity, as the lack of sail made the ship seem smaller at a distance.

  The spare use of sail was not the only oddity they noticed as they grew closer, though. Not only did the ship show no signs of life via signals, but there was no sign of a crew working those few sails. No spacers worked on its hull and the other ship hadn’t responded to any of Nightingale’s signals, which now included the demand Imperative along with Heave-to and Inspection.

  “Let us have a shot across their bow, Mister Villar,” she said. “Perhaps that will engender a response.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  She waited a moment as the order was relayed and a bolt of laser shot lanced out from Nightingale’s bow chaser to pass far ahead of the other ship.

  There was still no reaction at all. The other ship maintained its course, oblivious to Nightingale’s shot and its masts and hull remained dark of any signal in return.

  The ship itself appeared ill-kept, even from the outside. Two loose lines trailed from the unused masts and the spars on those masts held the sagging rolls of hastily furled sails. The hull was pocked and scarred, dirty where that damage hadn’t cut through the grime to the raw thermoplastic beneath.

  “An ore carrier out of Dalthus, I’ll wager,” Villar said. “They pick up such dust in the space around the refineries and get knocked about by debris at the mines.”

  Alexis nodded absently, still studying the image.

  “Can you make out her name at all?” she asked.

  The ship’s bow and transom were so caked in grime that there was no trace of a painted name to be found.

  “Some of the carriers don’t’ bother,” Villar said, “as it’s so difficult to keep them clean.” He frowned. “The lack of any hands on the sails is disturbing.”

  Alexis nodded again.

  Some ruse? Or is there truly no one aboard?

  They’d be within a good range for the guns soon, and then the wait would be over. That was how chases always seemed to Alexis, long hours of the chase with the other ship out of range, then suddenly it was there and the distance closing too fast to even think as the shot flew.

  “Put us a point to port of their course,” she ordered, “and close slowly.”

  “Point to port o’ the chase’s course, aye,” the helmsman echoed.

  Now they were closely paralleling the other ship’s course, sailing toward it by only a few degrees. Nightingale was the faster ship, so she was also pulling ahead a bit. Alexis eyed the plot, judging the other ship’s speed.

  “Take in two reefs of the main courses and cut the particle projector by a third.”

  “Two reefs of the mains, aye,” Creasy echoed from the signals console as he relayed the order to those working the sails outside the hull. Their suit radios wouldn’t work in the radiations of the darkspace winds, the dark energy that permeated everything not enclosed in gallenium, so the order was sent via the ship’s fiber optics to a display panel at the bow. With the sails reefed, pulled up and tied so that they had less surface area to catch the dark energy flowing past the ship, and the particle charge to what sail area was left lessened as well, Nightingale should match the other ship’s speed more closely.

  “Another across their bow, sir?” Villar asked.

  Alexis shook her head. “I can’t see what good that will do. They can surely see us and know who we are. It’s as though no one is home at all over there.”

  “Bloody Dutchman,” Creasy muttered from the signals console.

  “Silence on the quarterdeck!” Villar snapped and Creasy hunched over his console.

  Alexis laid a hand on Villar’s arm and shook her head slightly when he looked at her. She wouldn’t be a captain who demanded silence from her crew and wanted Villar to know it, but she wouldn’t correct him in front of the hands either. Especially in something like this. Many of the hands were superstitious — the Dark seemed to be
made for fashioning legends and stories, after all. If the hands began to think this was a Dutchman, a ghost ship of some sort set to plying the shipping lanes and ensnaring the crews of other ships, then there could be trouble from them. She’d rather that thought was out in the open, rather than whispered in secret.

  “Oh, I doubt it’s that, Creasy,” Alexis said. “Aren’t a Dutchman’s sails said to glow green with eldritch energy? This ship’s are as blue as ours … though flickering a bit … it’s a poor spirit who can’t tune his projectors, don’t you think?”

  That drew a laugh from most of the quarterdeck crew, but Creasy still looked unnerved.

  “Still, it is very odd, and that’s enough to make me wary.” Alexis tapped the navigation plot, then turned to the tactical console. “Dorsett, when you first spotted him in the Straits, was this one coming through and then turned? Or was he sailing across from Lesser Remada?”

  “Hard to say, sir.” Dorsett ran fingers over his console, bringing up several images. “More like he just … appeared like. He were far off when I sighted him, but not so far as I’d have missed him coming, if you understand.”

  “Dutchman,” Creasy muttered.

  Alexis ignored him and went to the tactical console.

  “Show me.”

  Dorsett played the recordings of his first sight of the chase for her, then again. A dark, featureless expanse of darkspace at first, then lit suddenly with the pinprick of light that would become the ship they now chased.

  “You see, sir? As though he were layin’ doggo there, then charged his sails all at once like.”

  “Yes, I see, very like he was lying there quiet. We’d not see a ship with uncharged sails and a darkened hull at that distance, and far better explanation for his sudden appearance than some ghost story,” she said loud enough for Creasy to hear. “The question is, why do that?”

  “Ambush, sir?” Villar asked. “Lie silent and invisible in the Straits until some fat merchantman’s in range, then pop up after her? But it’s us instead, so he takes off at a run?”

  Alexis raised an eyebrow and saw that Villar had the good grace to flush a bit. He might have scoffed at her calling the hands to quarters with no cause to think the sail an enemy, but could now see there was something decidedly odd about the other ship.

  “Perhaps,” Alexis allowed, “but a bulk hauler isn’t the sort of ship one thinks of when piracy’s the goal. Too slow and ill-armed.” She frowned. “Still … alert the guncrews to stay ready, Mister Villar, perhaps this chase isn’t as toothless as we’ve been thinking.”

  “Aye, sir.” Then after passing along the order, “Q-ship, do you think, sir?”

  “It’s possible,” Alexis nodded.

  A Q-ship, or a ship that ostensibly resembled a merchantman of some sort but was really a heavily armed warship, was a possibility. Either for piracy, as most pirate ships would have started as innocent merchantmen, or by Hanover if they’d chosen to attack this deep into New London space. The question was what to do about it and how to approach the other ship, which was still not deviating from its course or responding to any signals.

  If it were a trap or a Q-ship of some sort, then the smart thing to do would be to lay off and fire into it. On the other hand, the other ship could be an innocent, fallen to some calamity. Perhaps the crew was sick and unable to work the ship. If that were the case, then firing on the ship and opening the hull to vacuum could kill dozens of innocent men.

  Another three quarters of an hour passed, with Nightingale drawing ever closer and still no sign of life from the other ship. To Alexis’ mind the time had long passed for the other ship’s crew to take some action if their intents were nefarious.

  “We’ll close further with them. See that the guns are kept manned, Mister Villar, but assemble a boarding party. We’ll ease up on her starboard side and board. Once we’ve taken in her sails we’ll see what this is all about.” She paused. “I think if they intended us harm they’ve had ample opportunity to begin their game.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Creasy muttered something, but Alexis didn’t catch what it was.

  Odd, yes, but I think they’d have fired on us by now if she were secretly armed.

  “Dorsett, run that appearance for me again, will you?” She leaned over the spacer’s shoulder to better see his console. “Let’s see if we can find an answer to this.”

  Behind her there was a bustle of activity as her orders were carried out. Villar gave instructions to the helmsman to take Nightingale in beside the other ship until, with several false starts and the need to sheer away and begin again, the two hulls were almost touching. It was closer even than they should be, and Alexis noticed Villar tense, as she herself did, to wave the helmsman off again, but the man had made it work this time. All still with no sign of movement or life aboard, even with the extended time it took for her crew to carry out those orders and Nightingale giving all appearances of ramming the other ship at the end.

  No one can say we didn’t give them time to acknowledge us, at least.

  Spacers leaped across the small space, carrying lines to attach to the other ship, then tied them off tight and made for the masts. Sails on both ships were furled and with nothing to harness the dark energy winds of darkspace and overcome the pull of dark matter that permeated everything, the two ships slowed to a stop.

  Alexis spared a thought to note again that Villar was, indeed, a quite competent ship handler. His orders were crisp and timely. It was the first time she’d truly had someone as her second when commanding a ship, and she found that she quite liked it. She could give an order and move on to the next decision, confident in the knowledge that Villar would see it carried out properly, despite his sometimes sullen attitude and the crew’s difficulties.

  “Boarding team’s ready to breach the hatch, sir,” Villar said.

  “Have them wait a moment. Arrange the boarding tube so that Nightingale’s sealed. If there is a crew aboard that ship and the cause of all this is some sickness, we’ll not want to bring it back aboard.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Go back, Dorsett,” she said suddenly. There was something odd in the images – just a bit of a flash, as though the other ship’s sails had received a sudden surge of power after they were initially charged. It was different than an increase in the particle charge, though.

  Dorsett repeated the recording from the first appearance of the other ship’s sails.

  “That flash, just there,” she said, “what is that?”

  On the screen, the other ship’s sails started dim, then brightened and stayed that way for some time, but finally began to dim more as Nightingale drew nearer.

  “Projector acting up?” Dorsett suggested. “Sails brighten for a time, then go dimmer.”

  Alexis caught her lower lip between her teeth. The other ship’s sails did brighten, but not the whole of them, only part. There was a shape there, it seemed, but at the distance they’d first spotted the other ship the image was blurry and indistinct.

  “Mister Villar, you’ve fresh eyes. See what you can make of this.”

  Villar leaned over Dorsett’s other shoulder. He frowned.

  “Looks like sails,” he said.

  “Well, yes, Mister Villar, that is what we’re looking at, after all.”

  “No, sir,” Villar said, pointing to the brighter portion. “Other sails, behind these.”

  Alexis looked again and now that he’d said it the pattern was unmistakable.

  “A second ship?” She glanced over and met Villar’s eyes.

  He nodded. “Smaller, and behind this one. Dorsett, play it forward at high speed.”

  At the higher speed, Alexis could make out what hadn’t been clear before. The brighter spot, another ship’s sails, grew smaller and smaller over time until only the first ship’s remained.

  “Kept that ship between us and them until they were well away,” Alexis said. “Fancy bit of ship-handling, that.”

  �
��I think Dorsett had the way of it — lying doggo in ambush, only it wasn’t our chase here that was doing it.”

  Alexis thought it through. “Some pirate lying in wait, here in the Straits where merchant shipping funnels through a relatively small area. They take this fat prize, but aren’t away with it before we come on the scene.”

  “So they send the prize off toward Greater Remada as a decoy and escape out of sight behind it.” Villar straightened.

  Alexis did as well and nodded Villar toward the navigation plot.

  “They’re well away, whoever they were.” Alexis started to order the locks on the other ship breached in case the merchant crew was still aboard, but paused. “Decoy. Do you suppose that’s all?”

  “All?”

  “I’ve had some dealings with pirates, Mister Villar, most are straight-forward brutes, but some —” She thought of Avrel Dansby, the “former” pirate in whose ship she’d sailed into Hanover space to find Commodore Balestra and the Berry March fleet. “Some are quite clever.” She paused. “We’ll have to enter that ship, but I think it might be wise if we were to avoid using the airlocks to do so.”

  “You fear a trap of some kind?”

  “An abundance of caution, let’s call it.”

  Twelve

  24 September, aboard HMS Nightingale, darkspace, the Remada Straits

  It took only a short time for the crew to rig a boarding shelter over a blank portion of the other ship’s hull, clamber inside the shelter, and set off a breaching charge. Air rushed out, filling the mostly deflated shelter, and debris forced out by the escaping air was caught by the shelter’s tough fabric. The crew surged through the breach, weapons ready, but soon reported that there appeared to be no one aboard, not even bodies.

  This news caused another muttering of “Dutchman” from the quarterdeck crew and Alexis replayed the images she believed were a second ship leaving this one in an attempt to calm the crew.

  Talk of spectral Dutchmen-ships ended, though, when further reports were brought back.