“Watch for movement,” Chief Sky ordered the team. “Any ports opening, any trackers turning.”
Their boat was vulnerable as it crossed the gulf between vessels. Its hull was thick enough, but it carried no weapons itself. Daring’s crews were manning their firing stations, Amelia knew, but the last place she wanted to be was right between two ships blasting away at each other.
The boat approached Louise’s hull, maneuvering to hover as best it could over an airlock that appeared intact. Hunter extended the airlock tube, then crawled into it to manipulate its tiny jets and line up with the lock on the hull. It took no more than a few seconds, but to Amelia it felt like an hour. She could feel the growing knot of tension in her gut, and she focused on keeping her breathing slow and steady.
“We’re connected,” Sky suddenly announced. “Permission to board, sir?”
Amelia glanced at Hedge, who was staring at the airlock with aggressive anticipation. Next to her, Flatrock’s hand slid down to grip his pistol.
“Board the vessel,” Blackwood said with a nod.
Hunter reemerged and scrambled up to his position in the bow. Sky disappeared through the airlock, followed by individual team members until it was Amelia’s turn. She unhooked from her seat and floated into the tube, pulling herself along the flexible walls until she felt the consistent pull of gravity start to weigh her down. Her hands hit the deck of the ship and she heaved herself forward onto her hands and knees, fighting the burn in her muscles and struggling to her feet.
The airlock of Lightning Louise opened into a narrow corridor. Emergency lamps cast pools of light in either direction, revealing the waiting forms of the boarding party spread down the passageway. Their weapons were sheathed, but Amelia could sense the sudden increase in tension. The merchant ship was unnaturally quiet. No soft thuds of sailors moving along passageways, no distant shouts of command or bursts of laughter. Not even the hum of machinery or rush of environmentals. Only a single creak from one of the masts broke the silence.
Amelia focused on her breathing, adjusting to the new atmosphere. She didn’t smell anything unusual—just the typical odors of oil, metal, and wood found in any working ship.
“Sky,” Blackwood called, “environment?”
“Temperature and atmosphere both normal for Human habitation,” replied the assaulter. “Pressure is lower than normal, and with no ventilation working, I reckon we have limited oxygen.”
“Swift, check propulsion,” Blackwood said. “Sky, head forward and look for survivors. I’ll take the bridge.”
The shuffle of suited bodies echoed in the still air as the boarding party split into three teams. Amelia moved into position behind Blackwood, Hedge bringing up the rear. They followed the narrow corridor, passing cargo doors inboard and following the line of the outer hull. Eventually they reached a passageway moving into the ship, lit by the same emergency bulbs that gave only a shadowy suggestion of what lay ahead.
Amelia tensed, listening for any hint of an ambush. She reached down to snap open her holster.
“Keep your pistols away,” Blackwood whispered. “We don’t know how much pounding the outer hull’s taken yet, and I don’t want to risk a breach by a stray shot.”
Amelia shifted her grip to her sheathed cutlass. It was the unknown that was gnawing at her, she knew. She’d rather just advance and meet whatever awaited them than skulk forward on tiptoe. She stepped past Blackwood. “I’ll lead, sir.”
He nodded, and she went first down the passageway. Within twenty paces she reached a wider corridor moving fore and aft through the ship. The lighting was still muted, and there was still no sound except for their padded footfalls. The passageway was littered with the debris of broken equipment, indicating either a fight or sheer vandalism. The detritus barely slowed them, but Amelia checked her pace as the end of the corridor emerged from the gloom.
“XO, Assault,” Sky called over the radio. “Signs of weapons fire forward. Mix of Human and Sectoid design.”
Amelia examined a long spray pattern of corroded metal across one bulkhead, suggesting an acidic attack. A moment of fear was swallowed up by a rush of adrenaline, and she felt herself suddenly sweating in her space suit. She shined her light along the tortured, burned metal riddled with bullet holes, then up above their heads. Suddenly it seemed every shadow might hold a Sectoid warrior. Horror welled up within her as all those tavern tales suddenly loomed up before her. She tried to take another step, but her feet refused to move.
“Come on, Quartermaster,” Blackwood whispered, nudging her forward.
She forced her legs into action, her hand reaching down to grip the pommel of her heavy sword. Her breathing quickened, her eyes darting left and right, up and down. Up ahead, the passageway terminated.
The airlock to the bridge was a shredded mess of twisted metal and shards. It didn’t take much imagination to see how the pirates had used a combination of acid and explosives to force their way in. The hole was large enough for her to walk through without snagging her space suit against the shattered metal framework. There were no lights—just the distant glow of the Cluster shining through the transparent deckhead. As everywhere in Louise, there was no movement, no sound.
But Amelia sensed something else. There was a smell in the air.
It was salty, almost metallic, amplified by the close confines of the space and the lack of ventilation. She immediately slipped her blade from its scabbard.
“Sir, I smell blood.”
Her torch cast a bright beam across the consoles of the merchant bridge. She panned it carefully across the space, revealing the control panels and seating typical of a civilian merchant. The light continued toward the port bulkhead.
“XO, Sails,” came Swift’s crackling voice over the circuit. “We’ve found multiple dead in propulsion control. Looks like murder, not combat.”
Amelia’s torch paused, frozen on a gruesome sight on the bridge’s port side. She moved closer, her heart hardening even as her stomach churned.
“XO acknowledges,” Blackwood said beside her. “We have the same here on the bridge.”
The bodies of the merchant crew had been tossed in a hideous pile, cleared out of the way while the pirates ransacked the bridge systems. Most of the bodies were clean kills, but the one heaped on the top was hacked with multiple wounds. Shallow wounds, designed to cause pain rather than kill outright. This one man had clearly been made to suffer before he was killed. The deck leading to the pile was sticky with blood, with even a few grisly footprints tracking through.
Booted, Human footprints, she noted immediately. Not bug pads or brute triangles. There may have been Sectoid weapons involved outside, but not in here. Amelia looked around for any evidence, willing this atrocity to have been committed by one of the other races. But the pirates, it seemed, were of her own kind.
Swallowing back an uprush of bile, she glanced at Blackwood. He was gingerly inspecting the top body, his own saber tracking the multiple wounds that had mutilated the poor merchant. His expression, she saw in the dim light, was incandescent with rage. His lips were pursed shut, eyes staring down at the carnage.
Those eyes suddenly shifted to Amelia, pinning her where she stood.
“Our enemy has revealed himself,” he said with deathly calm.
“I’ll start gathering evidence,” Amelia said, fumbling for her recorder. “We’ll need it for when we bring these villains to the Imperial court.”
“These bastards will be lucky if they even get to see the inside of a court,” he muttered.
Amelia couldn’t help but agree.
Chapter 8
“Can’t find a thing to wear, sir?”
Liam glanced over his shoulder at Swift, who leaned against the cabin door, arms folded, one eyebrow slightly raised. The propulsor was dressed in shabby civilian clothes, a long brown coat hiding the various equipment hidden on his person.
Through the cabin porthole, Liam could see the nearest spar of the orbital
station stretching away from Daring’s berth. It was time to go ashore and start creating a reputation as a civilian merchant.
“It’s not that I haven’t an outfit, Sails,” Liam said, turning back to his tiny closet. “It’s that I have to make sure I clash.”
“Clash with whom?”
“Myself.”
He was already wearing a riding outfit that was suitably rugged-looking, but that hinted that he was a man of means. The obvious completion to the ensemble would be a short-coat, perhaps with tails, but he knew that would both make him stand out like a toff and make it difficult to hide his weapons. Glancing again at Swift, Liam grabbed a dark blue long-coat. It was a mixing of fashions that would have drawn derision back home but would pass for vaguely successful out here in the cultural wilderness.
He turned to Swift with a slight bow. “Will I pass for a master of this vessel?”
“Yes, sir, in a shabby sort of way.” He paused. “I like the stubble.”
Liam absently rubbed his unshaven chin.
“Do you know if Sky was able to coach Virtue on what to wear?” Swift asked.
“I think of us all, the good quartermaster will fit in most naturally.”
“You’re probably right.” Swift was still staring at him, but Liam recognized the unspoken question in the propulsor’s eyes. “What?”
“You have a lot of faith in our quartermaster, to bring her along on the first clandestine mission, sir.”
Liam fastened his long-coat. “You saw her that evening on Passagia—she’s more than capable of taking care of herself.”
“Agreed. But can she play the role?”
Liam motioned Swift aside so he could leave the cabin, patting the man on the shoulder as he did so. “I think she’s full of surprises, Sails.”
“Hmm.” He heard Swift fall in behind him. “Well, I’m certainly impressed by any woman who can hold your attention quite this much.”
He spun suddenly, then glanced down at the deck, embarrassed at how easily Swift had baited him. When he raised his eyes, Swift was staring at him in amusement, eyebrow cocked and arms folded. It was easier to fool himself than his propulsor, it seemed.
“Shut up, Mason,” he said finally, fighting down his own smile. He turned back and headed for the ladder.
Just as he reached the first step down, the bridge door opened and Commander Riverton appeared. “Ah, Subcommander Blackwood. A moment, if you please.”
“Head down to the brow and ensure Sky and Virtue are ready,” Liam said to Swift. “I’ll join you shortly.”
He turned expectant eyes to his captain as Swift vanished. She folded her arms and stared back at him. There was silence on the quarterdeck for a long moment. Finally, Liam cleared his throat, wondering if she was waiting for him to speak. “My ashore team is fully briefed and ready, ma’am. We’re just about to depart.”
“I see you’ve chosen to play the part of a man with no fashion sense,” she said, eyeing him up and down. “Won’t that draw attention?”
“Doubtful,” he said, smoothing his long-coat. “Most likely no one in this system cares a jot for noble fashion. And if there actually is anyone who recognizes my mismatches, they’ll dismiss me for a fool.”
“Exactly,” she said, lips pursed.
“And that too can be very useful, ma’am.”
“In my experience it’s best to blend in with the locals and not draw any attention at all.”
“What experience is that, ma’am?” The question was mild, but Liam immediately regretted it.
Riverton’s eyebrow raised slightly. “I served five years in the Imperial diplomatic corps.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Liam didn’t dare comment further on the subject. “Will you be dispatching a message of our Sectoid sighting to Lord Grandview?”
“No. At a station this small there would be no way to send such a message without risk of interception. Our mission is to remain hidden, Mr. Blackwood.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He paused, still uncertain how open Riverton was to suggestions from her executive officer. “But I think this might constitute one of the reasons for breaking our silence: evidence of a Sectoid attack on a Human ship.”
“That is puzzling,” she admitted after a surpringly long moment. “Evidence of acid weapons, but you say that the merchant crew were clearly killed by Human weapons.”
“Yes, but—”
“Then we don’t actually have evidence of Sectoids killing Humans.”
Liam might have scoffed, but the focused intelligence of her gaze gave him pause. He considered what he’d seen.
“Perhaps a force of multiple races,” he offered. “We know the Theropods sometimes engage in piracy.”
“But never Sectoids,” she insisted, “to our knowledge.”
“True . . .” He studied her, frustrated at his complete inability to read her. “But, ma’am, with war looming, I feel that merely spotting that Sectoid ship still gives us a good reason to break silence: to report a sighting of the enemy.”
“And if war is declared then the Sectoids will be our enemy,” she replied, frustration hissing behind her words. “But until then we remain silent.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She had a point, he conceded. And if things got worse and she still refused to break silence, then Liam could always just contact Grandview himself—it certainly wouldn’t be the first time he’d gone behind a captain’s back for their own good. But Riverton didn’t seem like Silverhawk and the others, and for now he was willing to follow her lead.
“On that note,” she continued, “keep your local queries focused on the pirate activity—not the Sectoids.”
Liam hadn’t planned on specifically asking the locals about a lurking alien spaceship, but he hadn’t thought it was off-limits.
“Yes, ma’am. Any reason in particular to avoid the Sectoid topic?”
“In my five years in the diplomatic corps, I learned just how unreasonable our people can be concerning the other races. It will inevitably cause rumors and unease in the population, and it will draw unnecessary attention to you.”
Fair enough, Liam conceded, nodding blandly to hide his surprise. Her appreciation for the common folk was quite unlike Silverhawk and the others. His estimation of her quietly rose. “Very good, ma’am.”
“And no booze,” she suddenly said, luminous eyes boring into him.
He froze, fighting down sudden frustration. Did she really think he was incapable of doing his job sober?
“Captain,” he said, choosing his words carefully. “I’ve done this sort of intelligence gathering many times before. More times, I daresay, than you have. Please trust me.”
Another moment passed, then Riverton took a deep breath and lifted her chin in what Liam recognized as a court-trained gesture of reluctant submission. It was so natural that he doubted Riverton even realized she’d done it, for when she spoke her voice was as commanding as ever.
“Very well. Good luck, and report to me immediately upon your return.” She strode aft toward her cabin.
Liam descended through the decks, shaking off Riverton’s insult to his professionalism. He could tell by now that she was smarter than most noble commanders, and genuinely seemed to take her duties seriously—but she sometimes gave the strangest orders.
Not to mention that even after years of service, it was proving impossible to shake the mental images of the slaughter in Lightning Louise. Every time he thought about it, he felt a new surge of rage toward Riverton’s decision not to intervene. He knew that Daring probably wouldn’t have been able to save those poor people, even at full sail and thrusters, but at least she could have tried.
He strode forward into one of the airlock spaces where a connector tube now linked the ship to the station. Swift, Sky, and Virtue were all waiting for him, each dressed in the dull, practical civilian clothes of merchant space-farers.
He absently rubbed again at the unfamiliar stubble on his chin as he sized up their appearances. The chief prop
ulsor had shaved, but with his completely bald head his look was more menacing than military. Sky’s usual scowl was in place, but at least she’d let her hair down, hanging in a straight column to her collar. Virtue’s own loose hair hung about her shoulders much more naturally; as expected, she easily looked the most civilian of any of them.
“We’re heading ashore,” Liam said simply. “Swift and Sky, keep your mouths shut and your eyes open. Virtue, you’re up front with me.”
She stared at him in surprise. “Me, sir?”
“Yes. Our primary mission is to obtain a set of charts, but we also need to pick up a few things, and you can talk supplies with the best of them. Feel free to haggle. Just remember that you’re not in the Navy—Amelia.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I hate to say it, but you’d do better to call me ‘milord’ if anything.”
“Yes . . . milord.”
“And the rest of you are all using first names. Your real first names, just so it’s easy to remember.”
Virtue’s gaze shifted between Swift and Sky, a flicker of concern giving way to quiet embarrassment. He guessed the source of her sudden concern and leaned in to whisper in her ear.
“That’s Mason”—he pointed at Swift before gesturing at Sky—“and that’s Harper.”
It was cute when she blushed, he thought.
“Mason,” he said at regular volume, “you’re watching for any unusual equipment and, Harper, you’re keeping us safe. I’m the noble in exile who’s trying to rebuild my fortune and you, Amelia, are the cargo master who’s going to do that for me. You and I are going to be the only ones drawing attention.”
She nodded, a flash of anticipation in her eyes.
“And remember that our ship’s name,” he said with a smile, “is Sophia’s Fancy.”
Sky led the way through the hard connector tube, hands lingering near the pistols she had strapped to each hip beneath her coat. As she opened the airlock to the station’s interior, the connector was flooded with the stale air of an overworked environmental system, laced with an unpleasant mix of organics and machinery. Virtue coughed in front of him, and he wiped his own eyes to clear their sudden sting.
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