by Eric Thomson
“You won’t.”
— Three —
“Bridge to the captain.”
Siobhan Dunmoore, engrossed in a particularly well-crafted nineteenth-century mystery, looked up with a start. She put her book down on the day cabin’s desk, careful to avoid damaging the precious paper pages and frowned with displeasure. This was her first chance to relax since Iolanthe wiped out the Shrehari convoy after stalking it for days.
“Yes?”
“Officer of the watch, sir.” Dunmoore needn’t ask for a name. Astrid Drost, Iolanthe’s navigation officer, or as the traditionalists called it, sailing master, owned a distinctive, lilting voice. “We’re picking up a distress call on the emergency subspace channel, sir, from a freighter by the name Kattegat Maru. Pirates made off with everyone aboard save a single survivor. An apprentice ship’s officer by the name Carrie Fennon. I looked up Kattegat Maru in Lloyd’s Registry. She’s an old Skeid class freighter commanded by a Captain Aurelia Fennon. No adverse notations, no indications she’s a shady operator. Normal complement is twenty-five crew, and she can take up to sixty passengers. According to the distress signal she was carrying forty-five passengers at the time of the attack.”
“Distance?”
“According to the coordinates she’s transmitting, approximately zero point two parsecs. A little over thirty hours sailing time if we push the upper interstellar hyperspace bands. Rin is already working on the navigation plot.” Sub Lieutenant Rin Pashar was Iolanthe’s junior navigator and Lieutenant Drost’s understudy. “Do you want us to reply?”
“No.” Dunmoore shook her head even though she was alone in the day cabin. “If this isn’t on the up-and-up, I’d rather not give warning of our arrival. Make sure we drop out of FTL at a safe distance, just in case.”
“Already factored in, sir.”
Dunmoore could almost see Drost’s pleased smile.
“In that case, when you’re happy with the plot, take us FTL. Warn Commander Holt and Major Salminen we’ll need a boarding party and a prize crew ready to go. A lonesome apprentice ship’s officer won’t be taking something the size of a Skeid class freighter anywhere on her own.”
A few minutes later, Drost’s voice echoed through the ship.
“Now hear this. Iolanthe will go FTL in five, I repeat five minutes. That is all.”
Soon after that, a soft chime wafted through Dunmoore’s day cabin, announcing someone wished to enter.
“Come.”
The door slid aside with a sigh to admit a tall, good-looking blond officer in unadorned Navy battledress, wearing a piratical eye patch and an almost permanent sardonic smile. Commander Ezekiel Holt, Iolanthe’s first officer, was still resisting the notion of three months ashore to regrow the eye lost in battle years earlier when he was Dunmoore’s executive officer in the corvette Shenzen. But at least the leg lost at the same time was now as good as new.
“What’s this I hear?” He headed for the coffee urn almost out of reflex and picked up a cup. Part of the ship’s bespoke crockery, it featured an angry, sword-bearing faerie in full flight along with the ship’s hull number and name. He filled it with the rich black brew always on tap in Dunmoore’s day cabin and turned to face her. “A distress signal from an apprentice merchant officer, sole survivor of a pirate attack? Sounds a little loopy. Pirates wouldn’t leave a captured ship behind, let alone a witness.”
He dropped into a chair across from Dunmoore.
“Perhaps they damaged the freighter during their attack and it’s no longer spaceworthy. As for witnesses? I can think of several explanations why they might have missed someone, especially if they weren’t scanning for life signs.”
“Still.” Holt made a face. “I hope you intend to be cautious.”
“To a fault, Zeke.”
“What about HQ?”
“I’ll report once we know more about the situation. There’s no sense getting everyone worked up over something that might not actually be important. I’d rather avoid a protracted back and forth submitting report after report. I swear even Special Operations Command is being overrun by bureaucratic gnomes intent on stifling the efficient prosecuting of this damned war. And with a potential prize in play...”
“Ah, yes. That misbegotten idea of growing the Q-ship inventory with seized merchant vessels rather than slip custom builds such as Iolanthe into the shipbuilding cycle. It’s a wonder the Guild hasn’t raised holy hell with the Senate yet.”
The public address system came on again, drowning out Dunmoore’s reply.
“Now hear this, FTL in one minute. That is all.”
Precisely thirty seconds later, a shrill klaxon sounded three times, and Holt placed his half-empty coffee mug on Dunmoore’s desk. Then both braced themselves for the inevitable transition nausea.
It surged and ebbed as quickly as always. Dunmoore stood and stretched, then ran a gloved hand through her silver-tinged red hair. Though not quite forty yet, her watchful gray eyes radiated the thousand parsec stare of a veteran twice her age. They and her lean, almost predatory features were a result of humanity’s exhausting war against the Shrehari Empire.
Of her three permanent and one acting commands before Iolanthe, only the latest, Stingray, was decommissioned with proper ceremony. The Shrehari were responsible for wrecking the others, with attendant loss of life. If she never faced the task of writing grieving families again, it wouldn’t be too soon.
“Chess?” Holt asked. “Emma will assemble a suitable prize crew since she knows merchant ships better than any of us, so I can afford to waste a bit of time.”
Lieutenant Commander Emma Cullop, Iolanthe’s second officer, was a civilian starship officer before the war and joined up for the duration, though Dunmoore suspected she would stay on afterward. The lifestyle suited her, and she displayed all the right attributes for a warship command at some point.
“Sure, why not?” Dunmoore reached over and retrieved a mahogany box. “Do you want to choose a color or see what chance gives you?”
“I’ll take white, thank you very much. Anyone facing an opponent who thinks chess is a blood sport needs every little advantage he can get.”
**
“That’s a Skeid class freighter all right,” Chief Petty Officer Marti Yens, Iolanthe’s sensor chief said once the first scans came back. “Looks to be in reasonable shape for a fifty-year-old tub. Though sailing it in these parts is just asking for trouble.”
Dunmoore, seated in the combat information center’s command chair, leaned forward and studied the video feed. Though Iolanthe, a battlecruiser disguised as a bulk freighter, boasted analytical systems so modern and advanced they would make most admirals salivate with envy, Dunmoore still took counsel from her tactical instincts. And so she let her mind reach out to pick up the subliminal clues that could mean the difference between reacting to a hidden threat in time and finding herself on the back foot.
Around her, the members of the duty watch worked silently and efficiently at their consoles, monitoring the ship’s ordnance, her systems, the sensors, and everything else that made Iolanthe a finely tuned weapon of war.
A three-dimensional holographic projection occupied the CIC’s center and currently showed two small icons, one blue, and one green, with the former closing in on the latter.
“Power emissions are consistent with the type,” Yens continued in her usual tone. “She appears undamaged and isn’t leaking radiation. Her gun ports are closed.”
“Life signs, Chief?”
“Though it’s hard to be sure at this distance, I’d say only one.” A pause. “And unless the assorted scum, boneheads included, who call this part of the galaxy home finally mastered the art of masking emissions, I’d say there’s no one else around. At least not close enough to try for an ambush.”
Between the Q-ship’s sensors and Chief Yens’ own instincts, it was as reliable a situational assessment as any captain could wish. Even her combat systems officer, Lieutenant Commander T
horin Sirico, found nothing to add.
Dunmoore settled back in her chair though her eyes never left Kattegat Maru’s image. Much smaller than the freighter Iolanthe mimicked, she was also sleeker and more rounded, befitting her ability to land on planets hospitable to human life. As Yens said, she seemed in good condition for something that was crossing the star lanes over ten years before Dunmoore’s birth.
If she had indeed fallen victim to pirates, there was scant evidence her crew fought back. Which begged the question why they didn’t take her. From here it was only a few jumps before vanishing into the galactic badlands, a sector of space that both the Commonwealth and Imperial navies stopped patrolling after the war’s onset years earlier. Who knew what mischief was brewing out there?
“Do we go as a privateer or a Fleet transport?” Ezekiel Holt asked from his station on the bridge where he controlled the helm and navigation.
“If I were a terrified apprentice ship’s officer, I dare say a Navy unit would reassure me more than some scummy privateer, even if she carries a letter of marque from the Secretary-General of the Commonwealth. We’ll put up rank insignia and switch on our naval beacon. But unless hostile starships show up unannounced, we won’t turn Iolanthe into the Furious Faerie.”
“I agree, Captain.”
Dunmoore swiveled her chair to face the signals console.
“Open a link on the standard emergency band, please. Identify us as the Commonwealth Starship Iolanthe, naval transport.”
— Four —
The unexpected sound of a male voice, business-like, neither kind nor unkind, erupted from the bridge speakers. It yanked Carrie Fennon out of her funk-induced trance. The young woman’s head whipped up while her eyes darted everywhere, looking for the source of the unexpected interruption. Then, Carrie’s brain caught up with her reflexes. The Navy. Thank God — the Navy.
“Kattegat Maru, this is the Commonwealth Starship Iolanthe. We received your distress signal. Please respond.” The same words rang in her ears two more times before she reached out and touched the controls embedded in the command chair’s arm. Her mother’s command chair.
“This is Kattegat Maru.” No other response came to mind. Nothing about her condition, how relieved she was to no longer be alone in interstellar space close to Shrehari patrol routes. Only ‘this is Kattegat Maru.’ A tiny part of Carrie Fennon, the part that desperately wanted to slash the word apprentice from her official designation blushed with embarrassment.
The rest of her simply wanted someone, a grownup with a merchant spacer’s watch-keeping ticket, to come aboard and take over so she could sleep. Thirty hours awake, gripped by an equal measure of terror and despondency took a toll.
“Stand by.”
A pause, then a woman’s vibrant alto, only slightly marred by the rough edge of abused vocal chords, filled her ears.
“Apprentice Officer Carrie Fennon, I’m Captain Siobhan Dunmoore, commanding officer of the Navy transport Iolanthe. We are approximately one million kilometers aft of your position and closing. What is your status?”
Alone, scared, with no idea what to do next. “My systems are functioning. I have hull integrity and apparently no battle damage. But I’m by myself, and Katie isn’t exactly a single hander.”
“Are you perchance related to Captain Aurelia Fennon whom the Lloyd’s Registry lists as master and owner?”
“She’s my mother. Kattegat Maru is our family’s ship. Most of the crew are either Fennons or related to the Fennons.”
“I see.”
Carrie tried to imagine what this Captain Dunmoore looked like, but her mind’s eye kept conjuring the image of another captain, the one in whose command chair she sat.
“Here is what I propose to do, Apprentice Officer Fennon. I will approach your ship, match velocities, and send over a boarding party along with a prize crew.”
“No!” The word escaped Carrie’s throat before she could think. “You will not send a prize crew. Kattegat Maru is not a derelict, nor did you capture her in battle. I am a Fennon and will not relinquish ownership.”
Dunmoore’s chuckle sounded amused rather than mocking though it still raised Carrie’s hackles.
“Of course, Apprentice Officer Fennon. My apologies. I misspoke. The Navy has no intention of challenging your right to Kattegat Maru. As you are a member of the owner’s family and still in control, she’s not a derelict and therefore not salvageable under the law. Let me rephrase what I said. I will send a relief crew under one of my officers, Lieutenant Commander Emma Cullop, to help you sail your ship. She served in merchant vessels before the war and is familiar with civilian protocols. But I insist on a detachment of Marines accompanying them to provide security.”
Carrie swallowed her reflexive outrage at the thought of turning Katie over to the Navy and said, “In that case, thank you, Captain.” She was aware her reply sounded stilted and grudging and hated herself for it. For the way it made her sound callow.
“Would you be amenable to opening a video link, Apprentice Officer? It will be a while before we match velocities so I can send the relief crew over and I’m interested to know what happened.”
“I would.” Carrie touched the command chair’s control screen, accepting an enhanced connection.
The woman whose face swam into focus on the main bridge display did not resemble the picture in her mind. Dunmoore’s rich voice seemed at odds with her lean and prematurely aged features. Even the thin white scar running along her jawline looked out of place.
Penetrating eyes beneath arched copper brows studied Carrie, and she knew instinctively this was not someone with whom you trifled. This was a professional spacer like her mother, capable of detecting bullshit from a hundred parsecs. What Dunmoore saw in return wasn’t obvious. Her expression gave nothing away.
“Pray tell me, Apprentice Officer Carrie Fennon, what the hell happened to your crew and passengers?”
“I don’t know, sir.” She took a deep, calming breath and exhaled. “About thirty minutes after we dropped out of FTL to check our position, tune the drives and calculate the next jump, three ships appeared out of nowhere almost on top of us. I was working a shift in engineering as part of my training cycle when it happened. One of the ships fired a warning salvo and ordered us to prepare for boarding. We couldn’t go FTL since the hyperdrives were still cycling, and shaking them off at sub-light speeds was impossible. As for fighting? Kattegat Maru’s shield generators and guns are ancient. One pirate ship, perhaps. Three? Never.
“My mother figured it would be best to let them plunder our cargo in the hopes they’d let us go afterward. My uncle Steph, he’s the chief engineer, wasn’t as optimistic. He shoved me into a shielded cubbyhole beneath the main engineering deck and told me to stay there until he gave the all-clear.”
“But he never did.”
“No.” Carrie shook her head. An anguished expression twisted her youthful features. “Once I no longer felt any strange vibrations run through the ship, I poked my head out of the cubbyhole only to find myself the last person aboard. Everyone else is gone. Some probably didn’t go voluntarily. I saw blood stains, but no bodies.”
“And your cargo?”
“That’s what’s strange, Captain. Cargo hold C is empty. That’s where we put the high value, small volume stuff. They didn’t touch the others. Our shuttles are gone as well. And it appears the passengers left with their personal stuff, but the crew didn’t.”
Dunmoore slowly nodded, her face taking on a thoughtful cast.
“That is bizarre. Why didn’t they simply take Kattegat Maru? You said she was spaceworthy, but could you have missed something that might prevent her from traveling FTL? Perhaps your mother sabotaged her ship to frustrate the pirates.”
“Maybe. I didn’t run a full survey, or any sort of survey, other than seeing if anyone remained aboard.” Carrie felt herself blush with embarrassment. She should have checked Katie’s hull, frames, and systems from stem to stern instead
of sinking into a funk.
If Dunmoore noticed Carrie’s discomfiture, she thankfully didn’t remark on it.
“Understandable. Kattegat Maru is a big ship, and you’re alone. And an apprentice at that. I’ll ask Lieutenant Commander Cullop and the relief crew do so. Did your mother log anything about the pirates? Imagery, telemetry, sensor readings? If we’re to find them, we must know what we’re hunting.”
“You intend to chase the pirates?”
“Of course. They took seventy humans, presumably to sell them into slavery or hold them for ransom. Either way, it’s my duty to find your crew and passengers.”
Carrie couldn’t hide her incredulity.
“But you’re a transport, not a frigate, or a cruiser.”
“True, yet Iolanthe is also the only Navy ship close enough to do something useful. If we know what we’re chasing. Did you check the logs?”
Another surge of embarrassment set her cheeks on fire.
“No.”
“Could you please do so now, Apprentice Officer?” Her tone was kind but uncompromising.
“Yes, sir.” Carrie called up the relevant files, then bit back a curse that might make Captain Dunmoore frown. “They wiped the logs. Not everything, just from when we dropped out of FTL onward. There’s nothing about the pirates.”
“Sometimes, we can recover these erasures with the right tools.” Dunmoore studied Carrie again. “Do you need medical care?”
Carrie shook her head.
“No, sir. I’m fine. I can stay at my post.”
Another amused chuckle.
“That wasn’t a ploy to get you off your ship. The Navy will not claim it, mainly because we wouldn’t find much use for a fifty-year-old Skeid class transport, and frankly, they’re not worth much on the used starship market. Certainly not enough to warrant the effort. But you’ve been through a traumatic experience.”
“I’ll be fine, sir.” Her reply held more than a hint of petulance.