by Jason Fry
“You ever see so many rich prizes around one rock?” Canaan asked Huff as the doors closed.
“Not since the old days. There’s enough livres in orbit for the whole lot of us to spend the rest of our days sleepin’ soft an’ eatin’ dainty. Blasted shame we can’t scoop ’em up.”
“And who says we cain’t?” asked Baltazar Widderich from the back of the elevator.
“Yeah, who says we cain’t?” his brother, Karst, echoed.
“You boys ain’t too clear on what a letter of marque means, I’m guessin’,” Bickerstaff said with a grin.
“It’s clear enough,” Baltazar replied, sounding offended. “Jes’ ain’t never cared much about papers and lawyers. The pirate trade was a fair sight better without them.”
“Arrr, ain’t that the truth,” Huff said.
The doors opened and Tycho extracted himself, a bit woozily, from the sweaty privateer and then the elevator. They were above the rim of the Well, looking out at the starships surrounding Cybele, the bulk of Attis looming overhead, and the infinite stars.
“Now that’s a view,” Huff breathed appreciatively as they joined the end of a long line of privateers and officials. “But what’s this holdup, then?”
“I heard no weapons,” said Slack Robin, a cadaverous privateer who served with one of the Widderiches. “They’ll stow them for us, but you can’t take them into dinner.”
“Arrr, that’s why I don’t like formal affairs—too stuffy,” Huff said, tugging at his tie. “Yeh go ahead, lad—no sense waitin’ for me.”
“I’ll stay, Grandfather,” Tycho said, then hesitated. “Did you hear who we ran into beyond the Westwell?”
“No one tells me nothin’ no more,” Huff said, and then the living half of his face darkened. “Yeh better not mean crimps.”
“No. Well, yes. But that wasn’t what I meant. We ran the crimps off.”
Huff peered at him, curious.
“Elfrieda’s here on Cybele, Grandpa. Running a shop in a pressure dome called Bazaar.”
“Is she now? Wondered where she’d taken herself off to.”
Tycho tried to figure out what his grandfather was thinking. He couldn’t tell, but Huff didn’t seem upset.
“She said you should come by for a nip.”
“Arrr, p’raps I will. Thankee, lad. Be good to see yer grandmother again. Though I’d keep her an’ yer mother separated, for both their sakes.”
Ahead, four Cybelean constables flanked the double doors to the banquet hall, eyeing the readout on a weapons detector, while a young man and woman in black uniforms waited behind a table, handing the privateers tickets for their carbines and sidearms.
“Anything to declare, sir?” the young woman asked Huff, retreating a step as his forearm cannon squealed. “Oh my. We’ll definitely need to ask you to check that.”
“Yeh take good care of me persuader now,” Huff said, unstrapping the cannon and setting it on the table. “That baby’s let me end more’n a few unpleasant conversations.”
“We’ll keep it for you in a secure locker,” the woman promised, handing Huff a ticket and delicately hefting the cannon.
“Jes’ a minute, lassie,” Huff said, noticing the weapons detector. “There’s a couple more.”
He opened his coat and extracted the carbines he’d lent to Tycho and Yana, thumping them down on the table. Then he bent to unbuckle the sword on his hip.
“Uh, I’ll get some more claim checks,” the woman said.
Huff held up a finger, fumbling in his jacket. He extracted a small but deadly-looking pistol, then frowned and reached behind his back, his artificial hand emerging with a punch dagger of black ceramic.
“All right, this will take me a couple of trips,” the woman said.
“Hang fire a moment, girlie. Oh, that’s right.”
He touched the middle two fingers of his artificial hand to its thumb and twisted his wrist. A hidden hatch opened in his palm and a small baton slid out.
“What’s that one do, Huff?” said a privateer whose name Tycho remembered as al-Adabi.
“Sonic emitter,” Huff said with a grin. “Look here, Hasan—I touch that button three times and there wouldn’t be an intact eardrum within ten meters of here.”
“Wouldn’t that include you?”
“Arrr, ain’t had natural eardrums for near on forty years. Delicate little blighters—the Almighty weren’t thinkin’ on space battles when he created ’em.”
“Sure you ain’t got a bow chaser tucked somewhere in that metal carcass of yours, Huff?” asked Dmitra Barnacus with a grin.
“Not yet. Arrr, if a body’s still kickin’ after that lot, I reckon I can chomp ’em.”
He clacked his jaws together a couple of times and departed, a sheaf of tickets jammed in his metal fist.
They passed through the weapons detector without incident and into the banquet hall, where waiters were rushing about with trays of drinks and finger food.
“Arrr, first place I’ve been on this miserable rock what’s warm,” Huff muttered.
In the center of the room was a small stage where four musicians were playing—Tycho spotted what he thought were three violins and a larger instrument he’d never seen before. No one was seated yet; Tycho saw naval uniforms of both Earth and the Jovian Union next to the formal black suits of ministers and functionaries and the cheerful riot of clothes worn by privateers.
The Cybeleans were easy to spot. They wore luxuriant-looking furs or velvet in deep, rich colors. Their fingers and ears glittered and sparkled with rings, and a number of them wore gravity-defying hats. And they were beaming and gesturing grandly.
It’s their party and they want to impress all of us, Tycho thought.
“Now don’t let the Earthfolk intimidate yeh, Tyke,” Huff said in his ear as they scanned the front table for their place cards. “Ain’t no shame growin’ up under a dome instead of breathin’ air. Can’t nobody pick where they’re born or who they’re born to—it’s what yeh do with the life yer given that counts.”
“I know, Grandpa,” Tycho said with a smile, reaching for what he thought was his place card. His name was written with so many flourishes and curlicues that he had to look twice to make sure it was his.
“Are you Huff Hashoone, from Callisto?” a gruff voice behind them asked as the musicians began to play.
The empty socket of Huff’s forearm cannon squealed and twitched. Tycho and his grandfather turned and saw an older man standing behind them, wearing a dark-blue tunic, red vest, and a ruffled orange shirt.
“That’s me, sure enough,” Huff said. “An’ whom am I addressin’?”
“Ripton Ferdinando Zombro, captain of the Argent Raptor,” the man said stiffly. “Operating under letter of marque granted by His Majesty, the emperor of Earth.”
“I’ve heard of ’im,” Huff said, eyeing the Earthman. “This here is my grandson Tycho Hashoone, midshipman aboard the Shadow Comet.”
Captain Zombro nodded at Tycho and offered him a small bow.
“Your grandfather doesn’t remember my name, but he ought to remember my old command in His Majesty’s navy. Back in the seventies I was captain of the HMS Perseus. We fought an engagement once, above—”
“—above 43 Ariadne, in the Floras,” Huff said. “That was seventy-four—I remember it well. We’d boarded a bulk freighter through the starboard docking ring. An’ yer crew—”
“—boarded through the port ring,” Zombro said with a grin. “We met in the middle. I recall it was warm work, Captain Hashoone.”
“Warm work indeed,” Huff said, hitching up his right sleeve. “See this scar, the one starting below the elbow? One of yer marines gave me that, with a bayonet. Ruined a nice mermaid tattoo I’d had done on Ceres.”
“I have my own souvenirs from the encounter,” Zombro said, parting his hair above the ear. “See that scar? A centimeter to the left and I’d have been in a shroud. You did that, Captain Hashoone.”
“I di
d? Thought I was a better shot back then. But wait, Captain Zombro—look here.”
Huff opened his jacket and tugged at his shirt, sending buttons flying.
“See that burn mark? The one right above the heart? Breastplate kept the bolt from going through, but blistered me something fierce.”
Zombro peered at the rippled scar.
“Lucky thing, that,” he said, then turned partially around. “My right buttock? Entirely artificial. Blast damage as your crewers were retreating. Say, I hear they’ve imported genuine Earth brandy for tonight. How about a snifter before it’s all gone to waste?”
“Capital idea,” Huff said, clapping Zombro on the back with his artificial hand. “Yeh don’t mind, do yeh, Tyke?”
Tycho shook his head, though he would have been happy to hear more of the old combatants’ war stories. But Huff and Zombro had already set course for the bar.
He looked around the banquet, feeling ill at ease, then caught sight of the rest of his family and hurried to join them. Diocletia and Carlo looked miserable, but Mavry was studying a waiter’s tray of snacks appreciatively, and Yana had talked someone into fetching an orange jump-pop.
“Some party, huh, kid?” Mavry asked, popping a piece of fish into his mouth and gawking at the musicians. “Never seen a real live fiddler before, let alone four. Gotta hand it to the Cybeleans—they spent plenty on this shindy.”
“I’m surprised they don’t just throw livres into the air,” Carlo muttered. “What a vulgar display.”
“Oh, it’s definitely that,” Mavry said, looking for another waiter to ambush. “But most vulgar displays don’t fill your belly.”
A burst of laughter came from the bar, lost to sight behind a mob of privateers.
“At least Grandfather’s having fun,” Yana said.
“Well, of course he is,” Mavry said, a bit wistfully. “This is like how it used to be—the pirate life, I mean.”
“Oh, please,” Diocletia said, eyes flashing. “I don’t remember going to a lot of parties with the captains of the Earth warships that were trying to kill us. In fact, I don’t remember a single one. Carlo’s right—this a game played by the Cybeleans. To test us, and to amuse themselves. And I don’t like it.”
Mavry had learned when it was wise to let a subject drop.
“And what table are you at, Tycho?” he asked brightly.
Tycho peered at his place card. “Six.”
“That’s the kids’ table,” said Yana, looking disgusted. “I’m there too. Carlo, on the other hand, is considered a grown-up.”
“Someone has to be,” Carlo said.
“Which means he gets to listen to old people rattle on about the past,” Mavry said. “Lucky Carlo.”
Heads had turned to the banquet hall’s entrance. Tycho looked over, curious, and saw a beefy, florid man with a bald head and a long red mustache, standing in the middle of a circle of people that included Garibalda Marta Andrade.
“Who’s that?” Tycho asked.
Diocletia’s eyes narrowed. “Unless I’m mistaken, that is Captain Cromer of the Nestor Leviathan. They must have already exchanged the Actaeon’s prize crew for the Leviathans. We have to pay our respects.”
“We do?” Carlo asked.
“We most certainly do,” Diocletia said, walking that way. The rest of the Hashoones hurried after her, joining the circle around Cromer, who was standing next to a silver-haired man in a suit of navy-blue velvet and a crimson cloak.
“Your ordeal has been a source of dismay for us all, Captain Cromer,” Diocletia said after the introductions, bowing slightly. “It’s a relief to see you safely returned to your countrymen.”
Cromer bowed his head in response.
“I beg you not to be too heavily burdened by today’s misfortunes, Captain Hashoone,” he said. “If it hadn’t been for your family’s heroic action, my crewers and I might still be prisoners. Fortunately Captain Allamand here is a man of honor—he even remembered the banquet and insisted I take my formal clothes from the Leviathan before our departure.”
The Hashoones’ eyes leaped to the man in the red cloak. He smiled.
“Any honorable captain would have done the same. Captain Jean-Christophe Allamand, of the Gracieux, at your service. I am humbled to meet such worthy adversaries.”
“Captain Allamand,” Diocletia said stiffly. “I’m—”
“Captain Hashoone, of the Shadow Comet, of course,” Allamand said, taking her outstretched hand and bowing low over it. “And this would be your first mate, Mr. Malone, and Masters Carlo, Tycho, and Yana. It is a distinct pleasure to meet you all, at long last.”
Tycho murmured something he hoped was appropriate.
“I must thank you, Captain Hashoone, for your treatment of my prize crew. Mr. Haines kicked up quite a fuss, but he’s always been a bit excitable. Still convinced he’s in the navy, I’m afraid.”
“And I must thank you for the treatment of our own prize crew,” Diocletia said. “Mr. Richards told us of your kindness in offering parole.”
Allamand smiled. “It’s an unpleasant business, this conflict we find ourselves in. But let the politicians hurl barbs and vitriol—there’s no reason we cannot conduct ourselves in a more agreeable fashion.”
Tycho smiled back, but he was certain his expression looked fake. Just hours before, this regal-looking captain had stolen countless livres from the Jovian Union, an embarrassment that had been broadcast all over the solar system by now. Ships under his command had exchanged fire with ones commanded by the people he was now making small talk with, and crewers on both sides had died.
Now their conversation was polite and almost pleasant—and Tycho found he didn’t like that any more than his mother and brother did.
“But where are my manners?” Allamand asked, turning and beckoning to someone behind him. “This is my daughter—Kate, as she insists on being called.”
Allamand ushered forward a slim young woman about the same age as Tycho and Yana, wearing a dress of deep burgundy with a silver necklace that set off her long neck and pale skin. She had a mop of black hair and dark eyes.
Kate Allamand smiled and curtsied to the Hashoones. Yana elbowed Tycho in the ribs and he bowed hastily, feeling himself flush.
Captain Allamand’s daughter was the most beautiful girl he’d ever seen.
14
THE CAPTAIN’S DAUGHTER
The next few minutes of small talk barely registered with Tycho, who alternated sneaking looks at Kate Allamand with telling himself not to look at her at all. He tried to imagine that a few hours earlier she’d been on a starship he’d been pursuing. It seemed impossible. What if Carlo had caught the Gracieux and they’d fired on each other?
Soft chimes pealed out five times, prompting a privateer to bark that “someone’s gettin’ keelhauled—it ain’t 2230!” Then a waiter paused at the periphery of the Hashoones’ group and asked everyone to take their seats.
Captain Allamand headed in one direction with Diocletia, Mavry, Carlo, and the other Jovian privateers, chatting amiably, while Tycho stumbled after Yana in search of table six, taking a last look over his shoulder at Allamand’s daughter.
“What’s wrong with you?” Yana hissed. “Have you been struck in the head? Or did you get into the grog?”
“What? Neither.”
“Well, quit acting like a spacesick dirtsider,” Yana said, eyes scanning the tables. “If we keep our ears open, maybe we can learn something we can use. Remember what Mom always says about cruises succeeding or failing because of what happens in port.”
“I remember,” Tycho said. “Do you remember any of that stuff they said about forks and soup?”
Yana scoffed as they reached table six. “I wasn’t listening in the first place. Here’s my place card.”
Tycho walked around to the other side of the table, where a snow-white card bore his name, written in the same elaborate script he’d encountered earlier. Their table held eight, and the other chairs w
ere filling up with young people in formal clothes. Yana was already chatting with a young woman in a navy-blue and red dress when Tycho found his hand vanishing into the paw of a massive youth with a patchy beard and a luxuriant silk doublet. He was sitting to Tycho’s left, his rich furs flung over the back of his chair.
The young man introduced himself as Thaddeus Sewickley and immediately began explaining his work as an apprentice analyst in his father’s investment house here on Cybele. Tycho nodded and tried to keep up with the bewildering stream of terminology coming out of Sewickley’s mouth, glancing repeatedly at the empty seat next to him.
Kate Allamand was standing a few steps behind Yana, nodding politely at something said by an old man with a walrus mustache who was holding her hand and patting it. Tycho glanced once more to his right, but that place card was turned slightly away from him, and he couldn’t see what it said.
He looked around the room, murmuring assent to something Sewickley said. A rotund young man and a sharp-faced woman, both teenagers, were finishing a conversation and starting to walk in Tycho’s direction.
Go away, Tycho thought. Go away go away go away.
Kate finally extracted her hand from the grip of the man with the walrus mustache. She glanced at a place card in her other hand as the two teenagers passed behind Tycho’s table.
“I mean, have you ever seen a more favorable interest-rate environment?” asked Thaddeus Sewickley.
“Huh? No, never. Amazing!”
“That’s what I say!” Sewickley exclaimed, and began to talk again. Tycho peered past him and saw the sharp-faced teenaged girl walking by herself. Kate was across the table, peeking over Yana’s shoulder with her brows knit. Waiters surrounded their table and began setting down salads festooned with nuts and fruits in unlikely colors.
“Excuse me,” a voice said in clipped tones behind Tycho. He turned and saw the rotund boy looking at him in puzzlement.