by David Drake
I suppose Guillermo was at the controls of the captured vessel, for she started to lift while Piet and the rest of us were still in the entry hold.
If the three remaining laser batteries had human crews, they might have shot us out of the sky. Molts didn't assume in a crisis that anything moving was an enemy.
Therefore we survived.
ST. LAWRENCE
Day 319
We watched the double line of prisoners dragging the thruster nozzle on a sledge from the captured freighter, the 17 Abraxis, to the gully where Salomon had landed the Oriflamme. The Molts—there were thirty-one of them—chanted a tuneless, rhythmic phrase.
Two of the freighter's human crew had been wounded during the capture. The remaining ten were silent, but they at least gave the impression of putting their weight against the ropes. Lightbody and Loomis, watching with shotguns, wouldn't have killed a captured Fed for slacking; but at least in Lightbody's case, that's because Piet had given strict orders about how to treat the prisoners.
Lightbody's perfect universe would contain no living idolaters; Jeude's death had made him even less tolerant than he was at the start of the voyage. The Fed captives were wise not to try his forbearance.
"Rakoscy says the communications officer is going to pull through," Piet remarked. "I was worried about that."
"That Fed worried me about other things than him taking a bullet through the chest," I said. I wasn't angry—or frightened, now. Neither had I forgotten driving across the spaceport under fire because the commo officer of 17 Abraxis had gotten off an alarm message before Dole shot him out of his console.
The gully contained vegetation and a little standing water, and the defilade location saved the Oriflamme from exhaust battering when Piet brought our prize in close by. Though the air was only warm, the sun was a huge red curtain on the eastern sky. That sight wouldn't change until the stellar corona engulfed St. Lawrence: the planet had stopped rotating on its axis millions of years before.
"He was doing his job," Stephen said mildly. "Pretty good at it, too. There aren't so many men like that around that I'd want to lose one more."
"Fortunately," Piet added with a smile, "the staff of the Yellowknife hadn't plotted the vessels on the ground at Corpus Christi, so they didn't have any idea which ship was under attack."
We were in the permanent shade of four stone pillars, the fossilized thighbones of a creature that must in life have weighed twenty tonnes if not twice that. The bones had weathered out of the softer matrix rock, but they too were beginning to crumble away from the top.
I turned my head to gaze at the tower of black stone. "Hard to imagine anything so big roaming this place," I said. Vegetation now grew only in low points like the arroyo, and we hadn't found any animal larger than a fingernail.
"A long time ago," Stephen said with emphasis. "Who knows? Maybe they developed space travel and emigrated ten million years back."
"Put your backs in it, you cocksucking whoresons," came the faint fury of Winger's voice from the underside of 17 Abraxis, "or as Christ is my witness, you'll still be here when your fucking beards are down to your knees!"
Piet frowned at the blasphemy (obscenity didn't bother him), but the men were far enough away that he must have decided he could overlook it. The job of removing thruster nozzles—without dockyard tools—after they'd been torqued into place by use was just as difficult as Winger had grumbled it would be when we were on Clapperton.
"They've got seven," Stephen said quietly. "This last one and we're out of here."
"If we don't take spares," I said, deliberately turning my head toward the Oriflamme to avoid Piet's eyes.
He glared at me anyway. "The prisoners can get back to Riel on four out of twelve thrusters," he said. "They can't get back on two. We aren't going to leave forty-three men here on the chance that somebody will come by before they all starve."
Twelve humans and thirty-one Molts. All of them "men" to Piet, and you'd best remember it when you spoke in his hearing.
"You could manage on two, Piet," Stephen said with a grin. "I'll bet you could take her home on one, though I guess we'd have to gut the hull to get her out of the gravity well to begin with."
I knew Stephen was joking to take the sting out of Piet's rebuke to me. I'd promised Winger that I'd try to get him a spare nozzle, though.
Piet chuckled and squeezed my hand. "All things are possible with the Lord, Stephen," he said, "but I wouldn't care to put him to that test. And, Jeremy—"
He sobered.
"—I appreciate what you've tried to do. I know the motor crew is concerned about the wear we'll get from tungsten, and they have a right to be. But if these nozzles don't last us, we'll find further replacements along the way. We won't leave men to die."
I nodded. I looked up at the femur of a creature more ancient than mankind and just possibly more ancient than Earth. Black stone, waiting for the sun to devour it.
A tiny, intense spark shone in the sky where the thigh pointed. I jumped to my feet.
"There's a—"
"Incoming vessel!" Piet bellowed as he rose from a seated position to a dead run in a single fluid motion. "Don't shoot! Don't shoot! If she crashes, it could be anywhere!"
Stephen and I followed at our best speed, but Piet was aboard the Oriflamme while we were still meters from the cockpit steps.
* * *
"This is close enough," Stephen ordered, dropping into a squat a hundred meters from the strange vessel's starboard side. "This swale doesn't look like much, but it'll deflect their exhaust if they try to fry us. Can't imagine anything else we need to worry about, but don't get cocky."
Piet and the rest of us knelt beside him. Stephen, commander of his county's militia before he ever set foot on a starship, was giving the orders for the moment.
Dole's ten men were still jogging to where they'd have an angle on the stranger's bow. Fifty-tonne freighters built like this one on the Back Worlds weren't likely to have hatches both port and starboard, but we weren't taking the risk.
Stampfer was half a kilometer behind us, aligning the 4-cm plasma weapon 17 Abraxis carried for use against Chay raiders. The Oriflamme's guns were useless while she was in the gully. Salomon, Winger, and the bulk of the crew weren't going to be ready her to lift for an hour or more despite desperate measures.
"You'd think," I said, "that they'd have signaled they were coming in."
Stephen shrugged. "Maybe they don't have commo," he said. "The Feds'd leave the air tanks off to save money if they could get away with it."
"Southerns, sir," Lightbody said unexpectedly.
Stephen and I looked at him; Piet grinned and continued to watch the strange vessel. "This one's Southern Cross construction, sir," Lightbody amplified. "Not Fed. The pairs of thrusters are too far apart for Feds."
The vessel's hatch clanged twice as those inside jerked it sideways by hand rather than hydraulic pressure. Six figures got out. They jumped as far as they could to clear the patch of thruster-heated ground.
One of the newcomers was a woman; common enough for a Terran crew, though I heard Lightbody growl. None of the strangers was armed, and their assorted clothing was entirely civilian.
Piet got up and strode to meet them.
"Guide a little left, Piet," Stephen said as he trotted to Piet's right side. Stephen's left index finger indicated a 30° angle. I moved over to give Piet room but he ignored the direction.
"Piet," Stephen said calmly, "Stampfer will have that plasma cannon trained on the open hatchway. I trust Stampfer, but I don't much trust junk he crabbed out of a Federation freighter. I'd really rather you didn't take the chance of something unlikely happening."
From the tone of Stephen's voice, he could have been asking where to place a piece of furniture.
Piet clicked his tongue, but he bore to the left as directed. "Where would you be without me to fuss over, Stephen?" he murmured.
Possible answers to that falsely light question ran
g through my head like hammerblows.
"Sirs?" the leader of the newcomers asked. "Are you from the North American Federation?"
He spoke Trade English with a distinct Southern accent. A good dozen additional people, including a few more women, climbed from the vessel behind him. They moved with greater circumspection than the initial party.
The ten of us spread slightly as we bore down on the strangers. We weren't being deliberately threatening, but a group of grim, armed men must have looked as dangerous as an avalanche.
"We are not," Piet said in a proud, ringing voice. "We are citizens of the Free State of Venus."
"Oh, thank God!" cried the woman at the leader's side. She knelt and kissed a crucifix folded in both her hands.
I grabbed Lightbody by the front collar and jerked him around to face me. "No!" I shouted.
I held the spacer till the light eased back into his eyes and he began to breathe normally again. "Sorry, sir," he muttered, bobbing his head in contrition.
Everyone was staring at us. I flushed and lowered the cutting bar in my right hand. Lightbody hadn't done anything overt.
I think Piet understood. I know Stephen did, because he gave me a slow smile and said, "If you ever change sides, friend, I'm not going to let you get in arm's length alive. Hey?"
In context, that was high praise.
The newcomer's leader embraced Piet. "Sir," he said, "I am Nicolas Rodrigo and these are my people, twenty of us."
I eyed the group quickly. If there were only twenty, then they were all in plain sight by now. There were no Molts in the group, surprisingly.
"Until forty days ago, we maintained the colony on Santos," Rodrigo said. "Then two Federation warships, the Yellowknife and Keys to the Kingdom, arrived under a beast named Prothero. He—"
The woman had risen again. At Prothero's name, she spat. Our eyes meshed, then slid sideways. Quite an attractive little thing in a plump, dark-haired fashion. Young; 18 or 20 at the outside, as compared with Rodrigo's 35 or so.
"—told us that the Southern Cross had been placed under President Pleyal's protection, and that he was taking control of Santos on behalf of the Federation. He—"
"What do you have aboard your ship?" Stephen interjected abruptly.
"What?" Rodrigo said. "Nothing, only food. Ah—we took back the Hercules, this ship, on Corpus Christi. There was confusion when a freighter crashed into the Yellowknife."
Kiley chuckled. "I wonder if them poor bastards'll ever figure out quite what happened," he said.
"Come along back to our ships, then," Piet said. "We'll be more comfortable there, and I don't want my men I've left there to be concerned."
The bosun's party was moving toward us, slowed by their weight of weapons and, for a few of them, armor. "Mister Dole?" Piet called. "Set five of your men to secure the ship, if you will."
Stampfer must have realized the situation was peaceful; he tilted the muzzle of the light cannon up like an exclamation point above the hasty barricade of crates across the hold of 17 Abraxis. Maybe the gesture helped the others relax.
Me, I was still trembling in reaction to a few minutes before, when I stopped Lightbody from blowing a pretty woman's head off.
* * *
"Prothero put his own men on Santos as overseers," Rodrigo explained, drinking a thimble glass of slash cut three to one with water. "The plantations are worked by Molts, of course. We don't—we didn't export, we just supplied convoys in the Back Worlds trade stopping over."
The Southerns mixed freely with the Oriflamme's crew. A joint party had gone back to the Hercules, for supplies including Santos wine. The Federation prisoners watched sullenly as they resumed hauling heavy thruster nozzles.
Piet, Stephen, Lacaille, and I sat with the Southern leaders at a trestle table on the shaded side of the gully. Rodrigo's wife, Carmen, was at his side across the table, occasionally eyeing me as she raised the glass to her lips. She wasn't actually drinking.
"I know Prothero," Lacaille said. "I don't know anybody who likes or trusts him, but he's . . . able enough. In his way."
The Southerns watched the Fed castaway sidelong, uncertain about his status. I guess we all were uncertain, Lacaille himself included.
"The Hercules was on Santos when the Federation ships arrived," Rodrigo continued. "Captain Cinpeda commanded."
A short, dark Southern nodded. He'd drunk his slash neat. His eyes never left the carafe I'd deliberately slid out of his reach.
"Prothero filled the Hercules with food and put his own crew aboard," Rodrigo said. "It was no more than piracy. But how could we fight with no warships of our own?"
Stephen's lips smiled; his eyes did not. Ships don't fight: men do. And Rodrigo wasn't that sort of man.
"Prothero took us with him on the Yellowknife" Rodrigo said. "The Keys to the Kingdom was his flagship, but she needed repairs. He left her on Santos while he went ahead to Riel."
"She's a great, cranky tub of eight hundred tonnes, the Keys," Lacaille said. "I'm not surprised she broke down. Her water pumps again?"
Cinpeda nodded to Lacaille with respect.
"They can't be depopulating all the Southern colonies," I said. "Can they?"
"I think," Carmen Rodrigo said with her eyes lowered, "that the decision was Commander Prothero's. I believe his intentions toward me were . . . not proper. Though he already has a mistress!"
"Prothero's always operated as though the Middle Ways were his own kingdom," Lacaille said. "I doubt he was acting completely on orders."
"We took our chance when the emergency siren sounded," Rodrigo said. "We thought it was a Chay raid. The prize crew had left the Hercules, so we went aboard and lifted as soon as the computer gave us a course."
"To home," Carmen said. "We're going back to Rio. Better Pleyal a continent away than Prothero in the next cabin."
There was an edge in her tone that I thought I understood. Carmen Rodrigo might or might not be a virtuous wife; I had my doubts. But she certainly intended to make any decisions of that sort on her own.
"Why this course, to St. Lawrence?" Piet asked suddenly. "It's a week's transit in the wrong direction if you intend to return to the Solar System."
"Reaction mass," Cinpeda grunted. "I wonder, master, could you . . ."
He extended his tiny glass. I filled it from the carafe.
"Ah, thank you, thank you indeed, master," the Southern captain said. He shuddered as he tossed the shot down, but his eyes gained a focus that had been missing a moment before.
"Reaction mass," Cinpeda repeated. "Prothero's crew, they'd refilled the air tanks when they landed on Riel, but they hadn't hooked up to the water yet. Food we had, air we had, but there wasn't water for ten days under power."
"There is water here, isn't there?" Rodrigo asked in sudden concern as he gazed around him. The planet must have looked like a desert from orbit, and the slight greenery of this arroyo wasn't much more inviting.
"We've bored a well," Piet said. "You can draw from it, now that we've topped off."
"If you were trying to escape," Stephen asked, "why did you land by us—and without signaling?"
"Fucking collimator's out," Cinpeda said with a scowl. "On the laser communicator. Fucking thing drifts. And the VHF transmitter, it's been wonky since they installed it."
He looked as though he was going to ask for another drink. I shook my head minutely.
"We thought you'd done the same thing we did," Rodrigo said, answering the first part of the question. "Come here to get away from Prothero. We knew other ships escaped when we did."
"Didn't even notice this one before we landed," Cinpeda said with a nod toward the Oriflamme. "What is it—don't you reflect radar?"
I shrugged. Ceramic hulls did reflect radar, but not as strongly as a similar expanse of metal. The Oriflamme was an outcrop in the gully to a radar operator unless the fellow was actively looking for a Venerian ship here.
"And there was no reason to come to this place," Carmen
added, "except to avoid being on Riel. So we thought you might be from the Southern Cross too, until we saw your guns."
"Does your vessel carry guns?" Stephen said. There was no challenge in his tone, only the certainty of a man who will be answered.
"A small cannon," Rodrigo said. "For the Chay, and perhaps not much use against them. We can't defend ourselves against you, sirs."
Piet stood up with a nod. "Nor do you need to," he said. "We have our own needs and can be of little help to you, but we certainly won't hinder."
"How long will you remain on this planet?" Carmen asked without looking—pointedly without looking—at me.
"No longer than it takes to mount two more thruster nozzles, madam," Piet said with a wry grin. "Which is some hours longer than I wish it would be, now that you've arrived."
"Are we so terrible?" Carmen said in surprise.
"The people who may follow you are," I explained gently. "The Feds know how much reaction mass they left on your ship, and they've got the same pilotry data as you do to pick the possible landfalls."
"But we'll deal with them, if it comes to that," Stephen said, hefting his flashgun. His eyes had no life and no color, and his voice was as dry as the wind.
No Federation force would be half so terrible as we ourselves were.
"Piet?" I said as I stood up. "The Abraxis has a first-rate commo suite. If you'll let Guillermo help me, I can swap it into the Hercules in less time than it takes Winger to fit the nozzles."
"That leaves the Abraxis without . . ." Piet said. He smiled. "Ah. One ship or the other."
"And the choice to the men with the guns," Stephen said. He was smiling also, though his expression and Piet's had little in common. "As usual."
"Yes," Piet said. "Go ahead."
"Guillermo!" I shouted as I ran for the forward hatch and my tool kit. "We've got a job!"
* * *
The Oriflamme's siren shut off as Guillermo and I clambered aboard the 17 Abraxis. Piet had held the switch down for thirty seconds to call the crew aboard. Men were scattered from here to the Hercules. Hell, some had probably wandered off in the other direction for reasons best known to themselves.