I shook my head. “Mistress Fjolking, I do not doubt your abilities as an Astrogator; your log book shows you to be very good. It’s your ability to fit into a crew that I doubt." The shoulders sagged minutely, but for the most part, she controlled her chagrin. I sighed.
I told myself I was an old softy and a fraud.
“All right, Mistress. Fjolking,” I began, “I’ll give you a single chance. I know that a woman as er . . . remarkable in appearance as you has to constantly fight off horny males; and I know that sometimes it isn’t easy. But I also know that anyone I sign onto a crew will take ‘no’ for an answer, or else.”
“But the fact that they pursue you is not a mark of inferiority. Rather, consider it a mark of excellent judgment. I will sign you on for the duration. For your part, I’ll expect you to try to fit into the crew, not isolate yourself. If you force yourself to deal with the others on a regular basis, I think you may find your prejudices hard to maintain.”
“During this military dustup, we’ll probably have up to several dozen extra crewmen aboard. I give you my word that I’ll protect you from them, if necessary. In exchange, you will force yourself to mingle with them, be friendly with them. I think you may find them worth knowing, despite their skin color.”
“If, after this coup thing is over, I’m satisfied with your relationships with the crew, I’ll sign you on permanently. If not, I’ll at least promise you a lift inward. Oh, by the way, the extra crew will be rimworlders. I’d watch those comments about getting back to civilization; you see, they consider the rim civilization.”
Her control broke, and tears coursed down those black velvet cheeks unheeded. It was all I could do to keep from taking her into my arms and wiping them off myself. She ignored them.
“Thank you, Captain,” she said with quiet dignity. “I’ll accept your offer. And I’ll do my best to become part of your crew. I hope you’ll be patient with me, and understand the difference between showing bias and fending off a pass."
I grinned. We were beginning to understand each other. “I understand the difference, Mistress Fjolking. I’ve been fended off by experts.”
Her answering smile was both genuine and blindingly beautiful. “I doubt that, Captain!” I was glad to see her sense of humor resurfacing.
I called Jax back into the office, introduced them, and told him to escort Suli out to the shipyard and turn her over to Hari. Jax barely heard a word. His eyes never left Suli. He tripped over his own feet three times before he could usher her out of the office. On her way out, she glanced at me with one of those blinding smiles and winked. I was going to have to have a talk with Jax.
It wasn’t easy to get back to my work. White-haired visions kept interfering. Finally, I walked over to the closet and opened the door. On the mirror mounted there, I tried to see what Suli had seen. 170 centimeters. Thinning hair. I’d always had a stocky build, but where had that paunch come from? Twenty kilos overweight. Funny I hadn’t noticed the grimness around the mouth before.
I visualized an ebon goddess standing next to me; then I dismissed the vision. It was just too ludicrous. “Val,” I told myself, “There's no fool like an old fool!” I closed up the office and went to get a drink. Several drinks.
In fact, it got pretty drunk out that night.
Though the transmitting and receiving equipment is no problem, the equipment to initiate a subspace connection is incredibly expensive; I’d heard figures approaching the annual gross domestic product of a reasonably developed planet. That’s why I was surprised to be informed that the Viceroy wanted to talk to me on subspace. I wasn’t aware that the capability existed here on the rim. I reminded myself I shouldn’t have been surprised. After all, Cord was an Imperial Viceroy. Come to think of it, there might even be an initiator at the Fleet base on Thaeron.
I hurried down to the com room. A life-sized image of Cord sat behind a nonexistent desk. “Good Morning, Commodore,” he began pleasantly.
“Uh, good evening, sir,” I replied. I was still trying to cope with the fact that Cord was on Haven, three jumps away, yet we were communicating instantly.
Cord seemed to read my mind. He smiled. “You’ll get used to it, Commodore. By the time we’ve finished here, you’ll be an old hand at subspace communication.”
I grinned. “Calling to see how much of your money I’m spending, Viceroy? Or to tell me I’m under arrest?”
His political smile relaxed into one that was genuine. “I know how much you’ve been spending, Commodore. And what you’re spending it on. No, this is something urgent enough to require subspace.
“A ship has appeared in Haven’s system. A Destroyer. It claims to be the Predator. Jonas does, indeed, have a destroyer named Predator assigned to him. The ship is claiming to be manned by deserters from Thaeron. They’re asking for me, of course, but what I find especially interesting is that they’re also asking for you. Do you have any idea how they would know that you even exist? I was under the impression that we went to some pains to make sure you were a surprise.”
I flushed with embarrassment. “Uh, I may have told them, sir. Unintentionally. Did they mention what they wanted?”
An eyebrow rose. “Indeed? We may need to have a talk about security, Commodore.” The sardonic expression disappeared. “All that they said was that they had to warn me — and you. I led them to believe I’d been notified of their arrival by subspace. I ordered the Captain not to approach Haven, but to reverse course and report with all possible speed to you at Outback. I have been notified that they are obeying, and are driving at nearly 2g to the primary jump point for Outback.”
I thought for a moment. “With military jump engines and computers, they can make it in two jumps — say, three days. I’ll be ready for them, sir. If they’re sincere, a destroyer would make a welcome addition to our fleet.”
“If they’re not,” Cord replied, “your gunners may get some live fire practice. Take no unnecessary chances, Commodore. At the slightest suspicion of trouble, destroy that ship! I’m sending my yacht along to you, Commodore. It has the only other nonmilitary subspace initiator in the sector. My captain tells me it should arrive around the same time as the destroyer. It could be slightly before or slightly after. Please don’t let one of your trigger-happy warriors destroy it — it’s very valuable. The ship’s artificial intelligence will show you how to use the equipment. I will expect a report as soon as you know what’s going on.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” I replied in my crispest kaydet tones. “As soon as I know what’s going on, you will, sir.”
“I’d better!” His image disappeared. I hurried out of the comm room. I had work to do.
Valkyrie’s conversion was complete. She now fairly bristled with comm and sensor gear. In addition, we had six of the rim tramps converted and armed, and over sixty of the mining boats.
I called a briefing for all the ship captains and boat pilots. I began by telling them about Predator, that she appeared to have defected, and that she was on her way here.
“There are three major jump points from which Predator could emerge,” I continued. “We have two ships for each jump point, and nearly twenty mining boats for each point, if we can get them there.” I outlined the tactical situation. Valkyrie would have to hang back to at least a thousand kilometers to provide a safety margin against collisions.
“If the destroyer appears at your jump point,” I ordered, “Both tramps will drive toward it a max boost; but you will stop at 500 kilometers. The boats, meanwhile, will close to 50 kilometers, and hold at that point.”
I turned to the rowdy, undisciplined miners. “Boat pilots, when I say hold, I do not mean simply sit stationary relative to the ship. I want you to keep maneuvering. Avoid letting the gunners lock onto you.” I grinned. “Sheol, give ‘em a show!” Cheering broke out, and I had to wait until they calmed down. “Give ‘em a show,” I repeated, “But do not fire. I say again, do not fire unless fired upon! These people may be friends. Even so, this
will be an excellent opportunity to practice against real Fleet equipment, personnel, and weapons. I’ve seen you boys make those boats dance. Show the Fleet a nice fighter dance!” Cheering and whistling broke out again.
The miners weren’t trained and disciplined troops; they were a nonmilitary rabble who happened to be able to make a boat do incredible things. So, instead of orders, they needed pep talks. I hoped that none of them would get excited and take a shot at the destroyer. I repeated that hope many times in the next three days, as we prepared for the destroyer’s arrival. With such short warning, the ships and boats had to boost immediately to get to the jump points in time. It was no problem for the ships, but it meant that the boat pilots had to live in their suits and their tiny cockpits for a minimum of several days.
We had made rudimentary plans to use Valkyrie as a sort of mother ship for the boats: a place where the pilots could load aboard, climb out of that cramped cockpit and get a hot meal or even a shower. Now, those plans had to be implemented with no notice and no preparation. I thanked all the odd gods of the galaxy for Valkyrie’s huge cargo hatches.
Valkyrie was designed to set down in the middle of a battle to resupply troops. DIN-class cargo carriers were the largest ships that could routinely ground. Anything larger was strictly orbit–to — orbit.
To give the haulers at least a minimal chance of survival, and more importantly, to make sure that the troops got their supplies before the ship was destroyed, the DIN-class ships had a specially strengthened frame. The hull plates over the holds actually formed huge doors, hinged at the bottom. When opened, these formed ramps that permitted the loading and unloading of heavy cargo such as tanks without special handling equipment. We’d never used them. The normal cargo hatches were better suited to the handling equipment used by all ground-based and orbital ports than the orange-segment hatches.
Now, they could work. Oh, not the way they were envisioned, but there was a way we could use them. As we drove for the jump points, boats pulled up, we opened the hull, and they settled into the holds, a dozen at a time. Close the doors, pressurize the holds, and the pilots got their breaks, and more important, could refuel. We used very strict rotations, and by the time we reached the jump points near the edge of the system, Valkyrie was the most popular ship on the rim.
Valkyrie's crew now numbered twenty, but we still weren’t cramped; a full military crew had been fifty-four. I’d had a crew meeting aboard, and had warned all male personnel that ‘no’ meant ‘no’, and that no female crewmember owed them anything. I’d carried on at some length until I realized that I was sounding like the demented parent of some teenager.
Suli had been as good as her word. Of course, she wasn’t the only female crewmember aboard, which took a bit of pressure off her, but she screwed up her courage and actually approached crewmen to introduce herself. Most of the men, of course, had been dumbfounded to be approached by such a spectacular woman, and had fumbled for words. Only one idiot mistook her approach for a pass, and she was gentle about rebuffing him — well, relatively gentle. The arm wasn't broken.
I happened to be in the mess deck when Suli and Jax came in, already deep in conversation. Jax was babbling enthusiastically, and Suli was patiently tolerating his interest.
Jax had never encountered anyone as different as Suli, and he was asking her questions that were much too personal. I began to interrupt, but Suli didn’t seem offended, and I decided to see how she was dealing with the other crewpeople.
Her blinding grin preceded her answer to one of his questions. “Yes, Jax, I’m pretty much the same color all over; well, except for my palms and the soles of my feet.” She saw his eyes drop to her hands, and continued, “I know. But on my planet, it’s customary to use makeup to darken the palms a bit to match the rest of our complexions.”
“I’d like to visit your planet, someday,” Jax gushed. “Imagine, a whole planet full of beautiful black people!”
Her smile faded. “I . . . uh . . . I don’t think you’d enjoy it much, Jax. You’d have to be very careful about exposure to the sun, and . . . well . . . not all of the people would be very friendly.” Her face turned grim for a moment before she changed the subject, asking him about Pascua.
I must admit to a guilty pleasure in her discomfort. At the same time, however, I was pleased she was adapting so well. Reports I’d received from other crewpeople confirmed that she was honestly trying to overcome her prejudices.
My own relations with her were a bit strained. Since she was bridge crew, we were frequently on the bridge together, often alone. I found myself tongue-tied and sweating on these occasions and more than once had fled red-faced when I’d made a particular fool of myself.
Men my age shouldn't have such raw and vivid fantasies!
We arrived at the jump points with an estimated three hours, plus or minus two, before the destroyer was due. Actually, of course, there was no way we could calculate her arrival that exactly; in fact the three-day time limit was just an estimate. Nevertheless, I had to keep my rabble of fighters focused on the mission, and the possibility that the target might arrive at any moment helped do that.
As it happened, I was incredibly lucky. The destroyer arrived at the main jump point almost exactly three hours after we arrived. This gave an amazing boost to my reputation, which amused Suli, who knew better, tremendously.
Surprisingly, the operation went just as outlined. While Valkyrie hung back at a thousand kilometers, the two armed tramps dove for the destroyer. At the same time, the boats swarmed toward her. I held my breath as they approached the destroyer, but they really did stop at fifty kilometers. Then they began an intricate ballet. For a few moments, I was entranced. They were taking seriously my invitation to make their boats dance. They darted and whirled, avoiding certain collisions at the last split second, resembling nothing so much as bees swarming about an intruder.
Suli broke the spell. “Commodore, hadn’t you better talk to the destroyer?” she prompted. Cursing, I spun and ran to the bridge com console. We were already being hailed.
“Empire destroyer Predator to unknown vessels. Please identify. Predator to unknown vessels, please respond.”
I keyed the panel, and the screen lit to show a Fleet lieutenant starting to repeat his call. He broke off as I appeared on his screen.
“Predator, this is Commodore Val Kedron aboard the command ship Valkyrie . . .”
The lieutenant spun from his seat while I was still talking. “It’s him, sir!” he yelled, “It’s the Commodore!”
I was about to shout at his back when he was brushed aside and a familiar form took his place. “Shar!” I shouted happily. He grinned. “H’lo Val . . . or, should I say Commodore?” Sharlo Tan-Li hadn’t changed much. A little grayer, perhaps, but still slim and aristocratic-looking. He was wearing the uniform of a Fleet Commander, the same rank as when I’d last seen him ten years ago.
I was delighted. “Don’t tell me they let you get your hands on a ship again,” I said. “You never could drive worth a damn — look what you did to the last ship you tried to fly!” His last ship had been damaged so severely that she’d had to be scrapped in the operation that earned him a well-deserved Empire Star, and incidentally saved my life and those of 650 of my men.
His answering grin was broad. “I heard you were running around out here without a keeper, so I grabbed a few friends and we came to bail you out!” The grin faded. “So, do you come to us, or do we come to you?”
I shook my head. “I’d better come to you. If your gig left your ship, one of my yahoos might get excited and trigger a fight.”
Shar chuckled. “Yeah. Say, what are those things, anyway? Our gunners are going crazy trying to lock onto them.”
I promised to tell him when I arrived, and signed off. I passed the word to tell all ships and boats that the ship appeared to be a friend, and to not get trigger-happy, but to stay watchful. Then I took Valkyrie's boat and crossed to Predator. As I approached, I noticed s
he’d suffered battle damage. I began to suspect that Shar would have an interesting story to tell.
Shar entered the boat deck as soon as it was pressurized. Two younger men accompanied him. One was in the uniform of a Fleet Lieutenant Commander. I assumed him to be Predator’s Captain. The other wore a marine Major’s uniform.
Shar introduced the Lieutenant Commander as Captain Sri Bendo of Predator. Regardless of rank, the commanding officer of a ship is the one and only Captain aboard. Officers holding the military rank of Captain who board are temporarily referred to as “Commodore” (Fleet) or “Major” (Marines). This tradition is so ancient that it is said that it may even be pre-spaceflight.
Captain Bendo was a husky young man in his late twenties or early thirties. The fact that he commanded a destroyer at his age spoke volumes. This young man was on his way to a flag; but his boyish looks and perpetual grin made him easy to underestimate. A young man to watch. In the normal course of things, after two years commanding Predator, Bendo would be expecting orders to the Empire War College for Strategy and Tactics and several other courses before being temporarily transferred to the Marines, probably to command a company or regiment.
Bendo’s regiment would be sent to any trouble spots that erupted in violence — he couldn’t be promoted to flag rank until he’d commanded troops on the ground in combat. Therefore, Captain Bendo had risked everything by fleeing Jonas’ forces on the chance that Jonas had lied to him. Smart and gutsy; a redoubtable young man.
Wil Tor, the marine Major, on the other hand, was obviously a career marine. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed to less than 2 centimeters. Most experienced marines cut their hair short — long hair has many drawbacks in the field. Something about his eyes and grim lines about his mouth told me that this man was a veteran.
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