Kristoff started slightly, then looked at Sydney over her shoulder. “Honestly, Captain, I can barely even find a singe on the hull,” the engineer said, puzzlement filling her voice. “If I didn’t know better I’d say they pinged us more than stung us. They had to have had their beam on dead low.”
“Huh.” The captain peered over Kristoff’s shoulder at the displays, confirming for herself that the pirates had indeed teased her into leaving more than attacked. “I still don’t take kindly to having my ship shot at.”
“No, Ma’am,” Kristoff agreed, “and as soon as we’re finished here I plan to head down to the damage control stations in Auxiliary Command for a more detailed look at all the systems. Once we’re in dock I’ll personally eyeball every inch of the hull to make sure the sensors didn’t miss anything. But overall I’d say we were lucky.”
Sydney shook her head again. “I don’t believe there was any luck involved,” she muttered. “Those pirates are playing some kind of game that I don’t understand yet.”
Kristoff swiveled away from her displays to turn a look of confusion to her superior. “A game, Captain?”
Sydney grimaced. “We were sent here to deal with reports of blood thirsty pirate raids,” she said, cocking her head slightly at the engineer. “Somehow, being slapped with a low-power ping doesn’t strike me as blood thirsty. Something is definitely off.”
“Ah....” Kristoff’s face scrunched into a look of deep thought. “When you put it like that, I see what you mean.” She was silent a moment, then ventured, “Is there something you want me to....”
“Do about this? Not directly, no,” Sydney told her, and added an encouraging smile for the woman’s willingness to offer help outside of her specialty. “Oh, by all means, go on down to Auxiliary Control and do those detailed checks you just mentioned. But when we get back to dock I want you to spend as much time as you need putting together those new toys the XO says you picked up the parts for. I don’t want to walk into any more pirate welcoming parties.”
Kristoff’s eyes sparked. “With pleasure, Captain!”
“Meanwhile, I intend to dig a lot deeper into where the heck a ‘genteel’ pirate came from.” Sydney shook her head as she turned to head for her office, then paused and swung back to the engineering station for a moment. “By the way, Ms. Kristoff, I’d prefer that you delegate that eyeballing of the hull to one of your people. Use the extra time to get us any advantage your little toys can bring.”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“Mr. Hellespont, ETA at B-3?”
The helmsman consulted his instruments. “We should hit orbit in ten minutes, Captain, and be fully docked in just over an hour.”
“Very good. Mr. Garvey!”
“Captain?”
“You have the bridge. I’ll be in my office. I want to see you there once we’re docked.”
“Yes, Ma’am,” the XO reported to his superior’s retreating back.
CHAPTER SIX
1
Seated in the command center of his flagship Blarney, Patrick O’Shaugnassey had watched the silent dance play out between his forces and the TSM Morrigan. At no point had his teeth unclenched or his muscles relaxed; he had remained on the edge of his seat until the last of the glow from Morrigan’s jump window had faded, leaving his seven ships alone in what had long been their inviolate haven of safety. Only when he could see the three undamaged pickets turn their attention to the rescue of their damaged fourth had he slowly relaxed his body and his nerves, sitting back in his chair and drawing a deep, cleansing breath.
“Not exactly a day to be writin’ home about,” he muttered. He glanced around at the half-dozen others manning the ship with him, assuring himself that none seemed to be paying him any particular attention before allowing his abused bloodstream to rid itself of excess adrenalin in a wave of shivering. “Not a great day for the home team at all.”
The only person who heard their boss’ mutterings was Tom Flannery, O’Shaugnassey’s first lieutenant. Tall, blue-eyed, sandy haired, and Irish — though not as overtly Irish as his boss — Flannery looked up in surprise at Patrick’s words, but waited for the man’s physical decompression to end before he ventured a comment.
“What do you mean?” He shook his head, causing his shaggy hair to flutter in the low gravity which was all the surplus cruiser’s systems could manage to generate, though he kept his voice low enough that no one else on the bridge would hear. “We drove the feds off without shedding any blood, just like you wanted — though I still don’t see why we didn’t just blast them out of the sky and get it over with.”
O’Shaugnassey slapped an open palm against the armrest of his command chair, causing a sharp report to echo through the cabin. “Because it wouldn’t be the end of the matter, don’t you see? It would be only the start of it!”
“But —”
“Are you daft enough to think the TSM has but the one ship to send here to Cygni? That they wouldn’t be sendin’ a dozen or more big bruisers to replace this one, if we break it?”
“Ah....” Flannery picked his words carefully. “They’ve got a lot more ships, yeah.”
“Which is why it’s such a blessin’ that, for the moment, the TSM doesn’t give a lovin’ crap about what’s goin’ on out here in the boondocks.” Patrick grimaced. “Despite all the whinin’ and pleadin’ that the Corp rats have done, the feds have only sent the one ship for us to deal with. They sent one ship — one old ship — and a captain sources are tellin’ me is on her first tour as captain.”
Flannery’s eyes began to sparkle as understanding began to dawn on him. “Only one ship,” he repeated. “And a ship we can deal with, at that.”
“Or even avoid, should the Saints be generous.” Patrick glanced back at his display, frowned, then changed the subject. “Is there any word on the damaged picket, Tom?”
Flannery turned to his own panel for a quick check. “Looks like the military gunner did a nice job of junking our ship, boss, but Brid reports that she wasn’t hurt.”
“So ’twas Bridget took the shot, was it?” Patrick tsked softly. “That woman has a death wish, she does. Shootin’ at a TSM ship, with the wee bit of power those picket guns have.” He shook his head. “I suspect I’ll be needin’ to have a talk with the lass. Still. What about the boat itself?”
“No good,” the lieutenant said, unhappiness filling his voice. “We’ll be able to salvage parts from what’s left, but that’s about it.”
Patrick grimaced. “There’ll be the devil’s own time replacin’ the thing, to be sure,” he said. “Even if we scrape together the money, smugglin’ in more surplus ships will be hard, what with the TSM now on alert.”
“But it does mean we can give more resources to the three that are left.”
Patrick merely shrugged. “Speakin’ of resources, ’tis about time we got back to scroungin’ up some more,” he said, a smile slowly returning to his eyes. “You think that freighter we was about to visit might still be where we can find it?”
2
It wasn’t the same freighter that they found, but an even richer prize: the Mists of Shenandoah, newly transited from the A system and bound for the refineries on Arega. Richer, because like most recent consignments from Shenandoah, the lade included a consignment of gem ores; a prize, because the Master of the Mists was one Timothy O’Toole, distantly related to the O’Shaugnassey clan and a long-time acquaintance, though with no family still resident on Aerieland. Patrick had been trying for years to convince Timothy to “come over to the dark side,” to stop shilling for the Companies and throw his lot in with the Jolly Roger. The two of them laughed over the offer each time Patrick and his crew hauled the Mists down for pillaging. Patrick always renewed his offer; Timothy always turned it down, but always managed to have something special on board for either Aerieland or the pirates themselves.
The special of the day was both tempting ... and treacherous.
“An offer of support from Vatt
ermann?” Patrick stared at the Mists’ captain as though he had somehow grown a second head. “Why in the name of the Saints would I be takin’ support from that slimy dog?”
“Now, I’m not sayin’ that you should be takin’ it,” O’Toole reassured his distant cousin, only tiny hints of his ancestral brogue still floating through his speech. While Timothy locked down his crew in the Mists’ bolt hole — sensors would report to Company auditors if he didn’t, and they would want to know why he hadn’t — he always exercised a captain’s prerogative to remain free when Patrick was among the group to board. Now his icy blue eyes sparkled with mischief as he floated in the microgravity left by the engine shut-down, but his face was all seriousness as he watched Patrick’s crew unload those items small enough for them to carry but with enough value to be of use. “I’m only telling you that the slimy dog wants to make you an offer. His man wasn’t all that much for givin’ particulars, but he made it clear that ‘no’ wasn’t an answer he was lookin’ to see.”
“Blast.” Patrick’s face clouded as he considered. “I’ve been spendin’ all too much of my time tryin’ to keep a good distance ’twixt us and that one’s curs. It turns my stomach to be welcomin’ such an idea. Still and all, you got one thing right, Cousin. Tellin’ that man ‘no,’ isn’t an easy thing to be doin’.”
“Talk binds you to nothin’, Patrick,” O’Toole pressed. “And the other side of the matter is, Vattermann has collected a pot full of loot, make no mistake about it. Even if all you get is a few extra credits, would it be so bad to be talkin’ to him about it?”
“Aye, it would.” Patrick scowled. “The one time I met the bugger, I came away feelin’ like I was needin’ a bath. But....”
“Something wrong?”
The pirate sighed. “We lost a picket. Bloody hothead took a shot at the new TSM lassie and got her tail paddled but good for the effort.”
Timothy swallowed hard. “Was she....”
“No, the hot-dog of a pilot survived — TSM’s got sharp shooters, I’ll be givin’ them that. Her ship was not so lucky.” Patrick gave his cousin a sad smile. “Down to three pickets is what we are now, and I’ve no idea where to be findin’ new ones.”
Both men went silent. A minute or so later, Tom Flannery swam over to his leader.
“We’ve loaded everything we came for, boss,” the pirate lieutenant said. “A lot more food and meds than we’d expected to pull from that first freighter. TSM actually did us a favor.”
“The TSM giveth,” Patrick misquoted in soft, ironic tones, “and the TSM taketh away. Did you get our share of the gem stuff as well?”
“As much as you told me to,” Flannery told him. “Should be enough to help, but I don’t think the Company will miss it unless they’re toting those by weight.”
“They’re not,” O’Toole assured Patrick when the latter glanced at him for an update, “though there is talk that might be comin’.”
“Saints preserve us,” Patrick groaned, then looked back at his lieutenant. “Get everyone settled in the Blarney, Tom,” he told the man. “I’ll be along in a bit.”
“Got it,” Flannery said, and shoved off to corral the rest of the pirates.
“So,” O’Toole began, “I’m to tell Vattermann’s man when he comes askin’....”
Patrick sighed again. “Tell him I’ll be meetin’ with his boss, but only in the most neutral space we can name. Tell him....” He broke off, thinking for a moment. “Tell him, far, far out in the outlies of C. We can link a pair of shuttles and call it a parley.”
O’Toole grinned. “So you’re both at home, but both of you away from it as well. Good call, Patrick. I’d not have thought of that.”
“Aye. Disgustin’ but doable.” He quirked a smile at his cousin, “Are you sure I can’t be talkin’ you into comin’ along this time, Timmy me lad?”
The company captain grinned. “I thank you for the offer, as usual, Cousin,” he said, “but I got to be takin’ my wife that new coat I got her on Shenandoah. A lovely thing for my lovely woman, don’t you know.”
“Aye, I do know,” Patrick said with a laugh. “Do be givin’ the lass my regards, Tim.”
“That I will, Cousin. That I will.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
1
The Arega System Pride had no sooner transited into the normal space of Cyg-A than alarm klaxons began their deafening sounds. Captain Elton Ridgeway, already on edge from the mere prospect of entering the home system of Hans Vattermann’s pirate band, jerked to his feet and took a step closer to the scan screen Blaine Griswell was already peeled to.
“Goddamn it,” the captain said. “Again. And what do you think the odds are of another rescue by the TSM?”
“Zilch,” Griswell answered, his voice flat. “No sign of movement in the system but those two pirate vessels.”
Ridgeway sighed. “Yeah,” he groaned, “I figured as much. Standard protocol, Mr. Griswell.” Shaking his head with a mixture of disgust and defeat the captain turned back to his command chair and, with barely restrained anger, activated ship-wide communications.
“All hands,” he announced, vaguely proud that his voice held steady, “we’re living in the chosen land again, people. Pirates are closing. ETA is —” He broke off to glance at Griswell.
“Looks like about six minutes, Captain,” the scan tech told him.
“ETA is six minutes,” he said, resuming the ship-wide call. “No big rush, folks, but let’s not dawdle, either. Get your systems locked down and get yourselves into the hole. This time it’s going to happen. There’s no sign of TSM support in-system.”
Allowing himself a moment of anger, the captain slapped the comm unit into lockdown then quickly moved to the Pride’s command console, joining his scan tech in entering the series of commands which would both lock the ship down and open it to the approaching plunderers. Within ninety seconds the two were double-timing it from the now locked-down bridge toward the vessel’s secure bolt-hole to ride out what would likely be a tense few hours, alongside their crew mates.
Captain Gunnar Schultz rubbed his hands together in unconscious glee. Watching the prize he had snared grow in the main display of the Hans Vattermann I, he couldn’t keep his face from breaking into a huge grin.
“So it’s the Arega System Pride, is it?” His voice oozed with the thick venom of revenge. “The same prize we were about to net when that TSM bitch got in the way. Well, Arega System Pride, you won’t get off so easily this time. I hereby make it my personal mission to show you just how much the Kommandant resented our last little encounter.”
“Contact in three minutes, Captain,” the man handling scans reported. Schultz had no idea what the man’s name was and didn’t care to know, but allowed his grin to grow feral at the man’s words. In two steps he had moved to the Vattermann’s weapons station where he peered over the shoulder of another nameless underling.
“I want that hull holed,” he told the gunner in a low growl. “Be ready. As soon as our boarders make off with the booty I want a shot through the engines and another through the bridge. Let those bastards cower in their lock-down hole and know just what Hans Vattermann could have done to them.”
The nameless crewman looked up at his captain with a face that reflected his superior’s snarling grin. “More than happy to oblige, Cap’n,” he drawled in his best pirate intonation. “You want explosions, or....”
“No, I want nice clean holes,” Schultz ordered, his grin fading to a satisfied sneer. “Just make sure that they aren’t going anywhere. Blowing things up might make it end to quickly. I want them to suffer. I want them to know who and what hit them before they die.”
“Can do, Cap’n,” the gunner acknowledged, then turned his attention to the task of fine-tuning the ship’s laser cannons for exactly what Schultz had ordered.
2
Eight Years Before
Hans Vattermann stared across the court room at the lying snake who had been his subordinate. N
o, he decided after some reflection, calling her a snake was too good for her. Snakes had dignity … had power. Sydney Chambers was nothing more than a worm, wriggling in the dirt, mindlessly attempting to do what her makers had set her to do: Destroy the brilliant career of Hans Vattermann. Just look at her, he thought — squirming, sweating, refusing to make eye contact with him — refusing to make eye contact even with the snake who was his attorney.
Yes, Hans decided, despite being a mere lieutenant, his attorney was a snake, in the best, most powerful, sense of the word.
Hans decided to enjoy the spectacle unfolding before him despite the circumstances that had put him on trial in the first place. Decided to enjoy watching Sydney Chambers be demolished, piece by piece by piece. He would not enjoy the result if, by some miscarriage of justice, he lost the trial. But even in that unlikely instance he would have the sweet memory to cherish for all time, of watching as Chambers was thoroughly, if metaphorically, dismembered.
Hans kept a most evil smile plastered on his face as he settled in to listen while his lawyer began cross-examining the prosecution’s star witness.
“So, Lieutenant Chambers,” began Lieutenant Orrin Wilson, the JAG officer assigned as Vattermann’s defense counsel. “You were essentially acting as a spy for the Auditor General.”
“A spy?” Chambers squirmed as she said the word. “I, ah, never thought of myself that way, no. I was merely doing the job that had been assigned to me.”
“Assigned to you by the Auditor General,” Wilson snapped.
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