by Eric Thomson
Dunmoore frowned in frustration.
“Without shields, she’ll be too easy a target and not much good as a Trojan drone, and we dare not delay too much. Tarrant will expect his wolf pack’s victorious return. The longer that takes, the more he’ll smell a rat.”
“No doubt. Renny is preparing an estimate of the time required to bring the forward shields back online. They should be enough for our purposes. He also suggested we reconfigure a flight of missiles as penetrators and load them aboard Bukavac. If they don't fit in the pirate’s own tubes, we can attach a pack to the hull.”
“Penetrators?” A faint smile replaced Dunmoore’s earlier frown. “Now there’s an idea. If even one or two make it through, Tarrant will find himself contending with improvised nuclear mines under our control embedded into the asteroid’s surface. His shields only cover the habitat cavern and its immediate surroundings, but our mines need not be anywhere near there to cause him sleepless nights.”
“Advantage Iolanthe, or rather Persephone.”
“It’s even better than my original idea of using Bukavac to degrade Kilia’s defenses ahead of our arrival. While I think about it, any luck finding the Shrehari’s black box? If he’s Imperial Fleet or Tai Kan, he might be equipped with one of the newer recording beacons, and I’d rather not leave an image of the Furious Faerie for his pals to find.”
“And avoid eroding Iolanthe’s mystique as the ghost that makes starships vanish. I couldn’t agree more. We’ve enjoyed an almost perfect run so far. Chief Yens is still looking, but I could send a Growler for a run through the debris field.”
The Growler, a shuttle configured for electronic warfare, was capable of intense short-range scanning and jamming.
“Launch one as soon as our prisoners clear the hangar deck.” She thought for a moment. “Then, once Chief Trane finishes processing them, have him bring Skelly Kursu to the conference room.”
**
The door chime pulled Dunmoore from her study of Bukavac’s image on the main display. Part of her thought it a shame the sleek, menacing starship would die in a day or two. Never mind HQ’s reaction to her sacrificing a potential undercover unit in a war ruse designed to recover seventy-odd civilians of no great importance.
“Come.”
Chief Petty Officer Third Class Marko Trane stepped in and came to attention. His first few weeks in Iolanthe were not happy ones, and he came with a lot of baggage, not least for his role in the Toboso affair. But he surprised everyone by asking to stay as part of the ship’s company when the Admiralty shifted her to the Shrehari front. And so Trane quickly became Bosun Dwyn’s invaluable right hand in addition to his duties as the Q-ship’s master-at-arms, responsible for the brig and prisoners of war.
“Skelly Kursu is in the conference room, Captain. I checked her for weapons, and she’s guarded by two E Company soldiers.”
“Thank you, Chief. You may return to your duties. I intend to let the prisoner stew for a while.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
Trane pivoted on his heels in a movement crisp enough to please Iolanthe’s coxswain and left her cabin.
Dunmoore switched her main display feed from Bukavac’s image to a view of the adjacent compartment. Skelly Kursu was indeed the dark, rangy woman she’d spotted from the hangar deck control room.
She sat in one of the chairs, arms crossed, a look of infinite patience on her sharp, angular face, though her deep-set eyes kept moving as she scanned the room without being obvious.
A lance corporal and a private from the Scandia Regiment, both carrying slung scatterguns, stood against the bulkhead behind her. The soldiers wore the Army’s rifle green battledress and brimmed field cap, but without their regiment’s loping timber wolf on a snowflake insignia. Iolanthe was still, as far as the prisoners were concerned, the privateer Persephone and they, members of the Varangian Company.
Dunmoore poured herself another cup of coffee, then zoomed in on her involuntary guest’s face. A network of small lines radiated out from the corners of Kursu’s eyes while deeper ones etched the skin around her nostrils and lips. Her features seemed roughened by years of hard life in hostile environments, but Siobhan guessed Kursu was about her age. Perhaps a few years older.
Brown, mobile eyes beneath arched brows revealed nothing, not even curiosity, and her breathing appeared regular, relaxed, as if she was resigned to the change in her circumstances. Only a slight tightening of her full lips betrayed what might be annoyance.
After waiting for what she figured was an appropriate amount of time, Dunmoore drained her mug and tugged at the hem of her half-open black privateer’s jacket before running a gloved hand through short, copper-colored hair. A last glance in the mirror confirmed no one would mistake Shannon O’Donnell for a straight-laced Navy officer.
It was time to see if she could convince Skelly Kursu to break the law of omerta.
**
The pirate’s head pivoted toward Dunmoore when she entered the conference room through the door connecting it with her day cabin. Two cold, expressionless eyes examined Iolanthe’s captain in silence.
“Skelly Kursu, I presume? I’m Shannon O’Donnell, Persephone’s owner and by the same token president and chief executive officer of the Persephone Private Military Corporation.”
Kursu’s head dipped in a curt nod though her gaze never left Dunmoore as she walked around the oval table and took her accustomed seat.
“I trust my people treated you and your crew with due respect for the Aldebaran Conventions?”
“So far everyone has been suspiciously correct,” Kursu replied in her rough voice. “A girl might think your PMC is a front for the damned Navy.”
Dunmoore cocked an ironic eyebrow at the woman.
“I gather you’ve run across PMCs that weren’t quite as professionally run as mine. It’s a sad statement on our industry, but the sketchiest characters can get licensed and bonded by the Commonwealth government, and the only way that license can be revoked is if someone complains loudly enough. Which never happens because there’s usually no one left to complain. Fortunately, the government is more particular in issuing letters of marque. Officially recognized privateers are held to a higher standard. As you can see,” she waved an arm as if to encompass the entire ship, “that higher standard gets us backers with deeper pockets than your Enoc Tarrant. And deeper pockets means better ordnance, among other things.”
“Sounds fascinating. Where do I sign up?” But Kursu’s disdainful sneer fell flat under Dunmoore’s withering stare.
“I recruit by invitation only, and I prefer crew who aren’t bound by the rules of omerta. It keeps things honest, and contrary to your employer, I strive to stay in the good graces of our Commonwealth overlords since they can easily put me out of business.”
“Something they might find more difficult with Enoc Tarrant. He acknowledges no overlord.”
“That’ll work only until he does something stupid and attracts reprisals. Such as sponsoring acts of piracy which result in the kidnapping of Commonwealth citizens. Not to mention fraternizing with the enemy.”
“So we’re back to this Kattegat Maru, eh? I still have nothing to say.”
Dunmoore gave her a cruel smile.
“I said I’d drop you off at the next suitable port. Kilia is suitable, from my point of view.”
A look of alarm widened Kursu’s eyes.
“You wouldn’t. Tarrant will kill us for losing him a ship.”
“Not my problem.”
“I should have fought you until the end.” The pirate sneered.
“If you want to take a swim through the main airlock without a pressure suit, be my guest. It’ll be the same death as fighting me.”
“Weren’t you the one making a big deal about respecting the Aldebaran Conventions? And now we’re your prisoners, you want to see us die?”
“What I want is to recover Kattegat Maru’s crew and passengers. You were in on the kidnapping. Where are they?�
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Kursu stared at Dunmoore in silence for almost a minute, then the defiance in her eyes died away.
“I couldn’t tell you even if I wanted and that’s the truth. The only thing I know for sure is Tarrant will kill us. Both for failing to take your ship and for surrendering. I’d rather you toss me out the airlock than to subject myself to his tender mercies. It would be quicker and less painful. Rumor says he’s good at making a body suffer without letting you die.”
“Tell me what happened that day, and I’ll set you free far from Tarrant’s grasping hands. In fact, by the time I’m done, there might not be a Tarrant to grasp anything. Not if he’s behind the abduction.”
“You’ll never be able to prove his involvement, and since he’s operating outside the Commonwealth’s recognized sphere, good luck proving jurisdiction, let alone finding a willing prosecutor.”
“You seem remarkably well versed in legal matters. But I don’t intend to haul him or anyone else before a judge. Not while I command the most powerful warship in this part of space.”
Kursu’s eyes widened.
“You intend to attack Kilia?”
“Using Bukavac as a Trojan starship, yes. And once I do, Tarrant’s fascination with the ancient rules of omerta will be irrelevant. Now tell me what happened that day.”
“You know how many people live in Kilia? Thousands. You don’t strike me as the type who’d murder that many just to kill one unpleasant mob boss, and I doubt you have the troops for a successful seizure. If you even make it close enough. Those guns of his are an order of magnitude bigger than yours.”
“How I do it is my business. Now tell me what happened. Tell me, and I’ll make sure you live long enough to find a new and hopefully more honest employer.”
“I suppose you’ll keep being this fucking annoying until I do.” When Dunmoore nodded, Kursu sighed. “It was just another job for us. Tarrant, as he sometimes does, ordered his goons to plant a tracker on Kattegat Maru’s shuttle, exactly like they did on yours. He sent us to wait for her in interstellar space, on the course she would take to her next destination. Us being Bukavac, Baba Yaga, and the bonehead corsair, Chorlak.”
“Tarrant sent you ahead of time?”
Kursu nodded.
“Yeah. You were a last minute job. The Kattegat Maru business was planned in advance. Why Tarrant made us do what we did, no one knows. But that’s how he operates. He compartmentalizes information. Anyway, Kattegat Maru dropped out of FTL some distance from the Kilia system’s outer edge, we picked up the subspace tracker’s signal and made a quick jump from where we were waiting.
“Under the guns of three ships, her captain surrendered and allowed us to board. The boneheads did the job, shackled everyone, and brought them over to Baba Yaga. Our orders were to abandon Kattegat Maru and make sure no one would find a trace of what happened or figure out she carried passengers. You know, leave a mystery. The boneheads were to wipe the logs and everything, but since you tracked her back to Kilia, I guess they missed a spot. Bastards are better at cutting throats than sanitizing databases. Then, Baba Yaga left for an unknown destination while we and the corsair returned to Kilia.”
“Baba Yaga and Chorlak were the ships we destroyed a few hours ago?”
“Chorlak, yes. But the other one was Chernobog. Baba Yaga hasn’t returned to Kilia yet.”
“You don’t know where she went?”
The pirate shook her head.
“Not a clue. We were ordered to forget the attack on Kattegat Maru ever happened on pain of punishment. That’s all I can tell you.”
“A last question, then. We saw evidence one of the cargo holds was plundered. Why?”
Kursu raised her shoulders in a weary shrug. “Damn boneheads enjoy taking their payment in kind, no matter what Tarrant says.”
— Twenty-Two —
“Life would be too easy if Kursu knew anything concrete,” Holt said in a philosophical tone after Dunmoore showed him a recording of her conversation with their captive. “And Lord knows we should only encounter almost insurmountable challenges, lest we prove ourselves unworthy of crewing the Furious Faerie. We’d better hope the plan to blackmail Tarrant by threatening Kilia’s atmospheric integrity works. Otherwise, we’re not only fresh out of leads, but the local crime syndicate will be seeking revenge. And that could interfere with our real job.”
Dunmoore made a dismissive hand gesture.
“They can try to seek us all they want. Touching us is another thing altogether.”
“Speaking of which, what do you want to do with the subspace tracker?”
“It’ll stay as is until we go FTL and head back. Once we’re in hyperspace, off and into the metal crusher it goes. No sense in advertising our return if we intend to screw Tarrant. How’s Renny doing with Bukavac?”
“A few more hours until she’s ready. That includes getting the forward shields up again. The missiles turned burrowing mines are good to go. A full dozen, their targets pre-programmed based on our scans of Kilia’s defenses. The only thing left is mounting the launch pack onto Bukavac’s hull. The bosun is going out with a crew and a shuttle as soon as Renny clears them. I figure we can be on our way in under twelve hours.”
“And another ten to Kilia’s hyperlimit.” Dunmoore frowned. “Tarrant might wonder if his wolf pack hit a snag by then. Oh well, there’s no helping that now. We’ll have to rely on him being human and seeing what he wants to see — a ship coming back to announce success, with the rest a few hours behind her.”
“One whose crew won’t answer.”
“By the time Tarrant works up the nerve to open fire on his own ship, it’ll be in perfect range to launch our nuclear mines.”
“So long as his sensors don’t pick them up during their acceleration phase.”
Dunmoore smiled cruelly.
“Hence the Trojan starship to keep everyone’s attention occupied while Iolanthe skulks in the background and makes sure our little gifts land where they will cause Tarrant the most heartache.”
“Let’s hope it works.” Holt stood and tugged his tunic into place. “By the way, I’m making Carrie Fennon shadow the officer of the watch since we stood down from battle stations. I thought we might continue her education when she’s not confined to the CIC under your gimlet eye and treat her as if she was an Academy cadet on a familiarization cruise.”
“Except we don’t take cadets into an active war zone, but an excellent idea nonetheless. Perhaps also let her shadow one of Renny’s people, so she gets an idea of how engineering on a man-o-war compares to Kattegat Maru.”
“In fact, Renny volunteered to take Carrie himself the moment he’s done with Bukavac. Believe or not, the old grouch told me this morning she reminds him of a favorite niece who’s an ensign in one of the new Voivode class frigates.” Holt paused and grinned. “Jan Sobieski.”
A look of pure pleasure lit up Dunmoore’s face.
“For its vast wartime size, I suppose our Navy is still something of an extended family. The niece of my chief engineer serving under my former first officer. What are the odds?”
“Last Renny heard, his niece considered Gregor Pushkin an exacting but fair taskmaster, well respected. And apparently, he has a certain tactical flair that makes him a frequent winner against the Shrehari. I wonder where Pushkin learned that.”
“She’d hardly say anything critical about her captain to a man of Renny’s integrity, but that sounds like Gregor.”
Holt’s communicator buzzed softly. He glanced at it and nodded.
“Speak of the devil. Renny just cleared the bosun to bring her missile pack over. We may be able to leave a lot sooner than in twelve hours.”
“Good.” She stood as well. “My subconscious is trying to sell me on the idea that time is of the essence.”
“Dwyn and her crew are boarding the shuttle. Care to watch the maneuver on a bigger screen than the one in your day cabin?”
Dunmoore nodded.
“S
ure, but let’s use the conference room instead of the bridge or the CIC. That way we can let our folks bask in the notion we’re allowing them to work without supervision.”
“While spying on them.”
Holt went to the urn and held up two mugs inscribed with the image of the Q-ship’s namesake.
“Sure.”
Once seated at one end of the oval table, Holt switched on the main display and called up an outside view of Iolanthe, fed by a camera forward of her hangar deck doors. They were in time to see one of the large unmarked transport shuttles, used to ferry supplies, cut through the force field keeping the deck pressurized. The moment it was clear, the space doors closed, reinstating hull integrity.
Their view changed to one of the lower cameras as the shuttle carefully dropped beneath Iolanthe, its pilot aiming for the missile launcher loading hatch. The shuttle flipped one hundred and eighty degrees on its long axis, presenting its belly to the Q-ship’s keel and hovered a few meters over the broad, square opening. A flat, rectangular container, also unmarked, slowly emerged from the hatch and mated with the shuttle’s underside. The craft then gently increased its distance from the Q-ship’s hull before veering off toward Bukavac.
“Nicely done. Who’s at the controls?”
“Petty Officer Knowles, Skipper. Who else has that sort of touch?”
Holt tapped the controls embedded in the conference table, and their view shifted to Bukavac. It, along with Iolanthe and Kattegat Maru, was now aimed back at Kilia’s sun, a small, faint dot, almost indistinguishable from the background stars at this distance.
“I certainly don’t.”
“And you a former fighter pilot.”