First Officer had put his head down into his hands, rubbing his forehead with a slow repetitive contemplative gesture. Wheatfields looked to ap Rhiannon, now; and after a moment — as if realizing his error, reminding himself that he was not in fact master in this room — Koscuisko did the same.
The personality interplay was fascinating.
Mere days on board, and Koscuisko was fitting himself in as though he’d never left. With occasional disconnects, yes, which would doubtless always be arising.
“If First Officer accepts your reasoning, Doctor, it shall be so,” ap Rhiannon said. She could safely rely on Koscuisko’s judgment; Jils knew that. Koscuisko would never have been as good as he was at what he did if he couldn’t judge how far a person could be pushed, and with what stimulus, and under what kinds and degrees of pressure.
If Koscuisko said that Lek Kerenko could pilot the thula against the Fleet in overt action against the Bench authority, then Kerenko could do it. Ap Rhiannon’s reservations appeared to have a slightly different focus. “If Fleet finds out you’re on the ship, though, your Excellency, they’re going to want to force you into Taisheki Station.”
Which attempt would logically require the diversion of at least some of the corvettes Taisheki might send after them, leaving the Ragnarok with a clear run at the vector. But what if they were to lose their Ship’s Surgeon?
“All the more motivation, your Excellency.” Koscuisko’s determination could not be shaken. “They would kill my Kerenko. They would take me hostage against my family and the Selection. She is a Kospodar thula, she belongs to the Malcontent. She will not betray us to Fleet.”
Running his fingers up through his black—and—silver hair, Mendez blinked at ap Rhiannon with owlish eyes, green and genial. “Never argue with the medic, or the paymaster, or stores—and—receipts, your Excellency. So. Lek on the hot seat. Ferinc will have to stay here, of course, he hasn’t declared war on Taisheki Station. Security 5.1 will take the rest of the flight tasks. They’ve had practice.”
So they had. Practice under pressure, running hard from Azanry to Taisheki Station, intercepting the Ragnarok en route. Impressive flying.
“That weaponer has never fired a main battle cannon, First Officer,” ap Rhiannon reminded him. Or at least seemed to remind him. Mendez nodded, lifting one finger of his knuckly right hand to mark his point.
“Avenham has, though, your Excellency. A few others, but she’s got the most experience. Wheatfields and I have picked out a few more to man the guns we’ve borrowed from the Wolnadis. Close your ears, Bench specialist.”
Too late. Jils sighed. “I’ll be in my quarters,” she decided, aloud. There was a Lieutenant’s berth empty that she was using; they were keeping Rukota in another, and so far as Jils could tell he was feeling right at home. “Not noticing.”
Ap Rhiannon nodded at her, so that she could take her leave and go without being rude. “I’ll send for you when we’re on vector, Bench specialist. You can contact Chilleau Judiciary at that time, if you wish.”
Not before. That went without saying. Bowing, Jils turned and walked away, out of the room, and left the Captain and the crew of the Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok to plot their mutiny in peace.
###
And now great Ragnarok stood steady — but too strong — for the Taisheki entry vector, and no one who had had any last—minute doubts could question her intentions any longer.
The mine field, the network of linked artillery stations that was to have denied the warship access to the vector, had yet to be completely fielded. Forward sensors clearly revealed the emplacement crews struggling with all of their might to throw the net at its full three—sixty orb around the near approach to the entry vector: but it would only take twelve, not more than sixteen, well—aimed shots to blow a hole in the unmanned portion of the fire wall and clear the Ragnarok’s route for the Taisheki vector, and Amberlin space.
Andrej Koscuisko stood in the thula’s wheelhouse, listening to the confused babble of common—feeds coming in from four and five plaits at once. Emplacement crews, working at fever pitch. Two’s comps talking to Engineering about the state of space ahead.
The gantry officer, talking Lek and Taller through their careful passage down past the lateral gap that had been left unhulled until the last so that the thula could go — and, of course, get back — before the final seal would be required preparatory to gaining the vector.
And, of course, the communication he was most interested in, the loudest strongest feed, Jennet ap Rhiannon versus Taisheki Station. “Fleet Receiving, Taisheki Station. This is acting Captain Jennet ap Rhiannon, Jurisdiction Fleet Ship Ragnarok, commanding.”
The formal — lesser — rank sounded a little odd, to Andrej. It had been easier than he had expected to fall into the same habit that the other Ship’s Primes had apparently developed, and take her for his Captain in deed as well as in word.
Stand by the thula, he heard the gantry officer say, go for terce—tumble on mark. Two. Three. Four.
“Ragnarok, this is Taisheki Station Receiving. Welcome to Taisheki Station, your Excellency. Please direct your craft through to docking facilities on transmit, estimated transit time three hours Standard.”
There was a schematic displayed forward, beneath the primary spatial. Andrej could watch the thula make its move, sinking gently through the narrow gap remaining between the massive stalloy staves of the maintenance atmosphere’s hull. It was a delicate business; he knew it from Taller’s tension, Lek’s concentration, and the calm steady voice of the gantry officer as she spoke. Hold at five for now, we need to adjust. Good. Thula, make your drop.
The thula cleared the Ragnarok’s maintenance hull and pivoted to align to the ship’s axis. The gantry communication line went mute, to give the airspace over to the Engineer. On the public braid their Captain was not cooperating.
“Respectfully decline to enter Taisheki Station, Receiving Officer. We cannot comply with your request to submit to board and search, still less to surrender any troops assigned without presentation of a fully executed Bench warrant.”
Detachment of heavy Security is on alert, Two’s feed broke in. Due to clear ready—state in two eighths, Standard. Estimated transit time to maneuver field, five eighths. These indications are on balance positive. So far.
“Captain. Administrative procedures at Taisheki Station are at the discretion of the Fleet Audit Appeals Authority. Respectfully remind the Ragnarok that it has been administratively reassigned and directed to report.”
Thula, take your targets, you know the grid. Field on command. The Engineer’s voice was as calm as if he’d been discussing clearing a passage through a rock—cloud, rather than selectively attacking an orb of mechanized artillery platforms. At least Andrej hoped — knew they all hoped — that the platforms they were going to hit were mechanized. Because they were going to have to hit them one way or the other.
“Receiving Officer, an Appeal having been made in good form and formally accepted, the Ragnarok has been directed to Taisheki Station pending the initiation of an investigation. Recurrence of requirements previously protested indicates an investigation targeted against the Ragnarok, rather than of this ship’s duly logged and registered Appeal.”
The remote forward was beginning to pick up an onscreen trace. A set of eight blips, from the lower middle right octant, beginning to pulse and brighten on the screen. Those heavy Security, Andrej supposed. And the thula was to engage them as well, if it came to that; or at least stand between them and the Ragnarok, if they could not clear in time.
“Willing to stand by to negotiate entry into Taisheki Station after dismantling of mine field currently emplaced,” ap Rhiannon suggested helpfully.
If it came to engaging heavy Security, they would find out how intent Fleet was on preserving the thula — on preserving him — from destruction. Andrej was not unafraid: but all the same, Andrej knew for a fact that it was better to be here, in the thula, with his
people, even if he had to die. Better than to be alive with Fleet, if Ragnarok should be destroyed, whether quickly in battle or more slowly through the deliberate predations of a Fleet Interrogations Group.
“Ragnarok.” The voice of the Receiving Officer was beginning to show some signs of wear around the edges. “You are directed to proceed to docking facilities. Failure to comply with a direct lawful order is a violation of Fleet protocols and severely handicaps the investigation of your Appeal.”
Security 5.1 was here, with Chief Stildyne on one of the weapons ports. Another weaponer had been borrowed from one of Wheatfields’s teams; Wheatfields himself — Andrej noted, with a certain degree of detached amusement — seemed to be getting anxious about things, from the tone of his voice over braid.
Captain. Request vector initiate. With respect, we should start thinking about getting out of here.
But ap Rhiannon was cooperating with Wheatfields to approximately the same degree as she was with Taisheki Station — hardly at all. She didn’t answer Wheatfields, not directly. She didn’t need to. “Any order to place my Command at the mercy of arbitrary and unjustified Inquiries is not lawful. It will not be possible for us to comply with an illegitimate instruction. Please advise.”
Target acquisition complete on fire—funnel, Taller was telling Engineering, over his board—plait. Require clearances for sweep, at your command, confirm.
Although the stress in the air was almost palpable Lek did not seem to be feeling any special pressure from his governor, at least not yet. Ap Rhiannon was being very clear: Taisheki Station’s insistence that they enter was not lawful. The harder part for Lek would come later, when they had to defend themselves by taking offensive action.
And if he had been wrong about Lek’s Safe and his personal authority, they were all as good as dead already, and the Ragnarok with them. At least in theory. Andrej was as certain as he had to be that they could do it, even with such a penalty for miscalculation staring him in the face from the grim shadows of the forward screens.
Taisheki Station had clearly reached the end of its patience. “As you wish, Ragnarok. Be advised that failure to comply with instructions will be interpreted as mutinous in intent and execution, and will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the Law. You are directed — for the last time — to break speed and alter course for docking facilities, there to be boarded and secured pending a full Fleet inquiry.”
That had cut it. Andrej scanned the back of Lek’s shoulders, the tilt of his head, for any sign of conflict or of hesitation; and found none.
“Taisheki Station. You are out of order, Receiving Officer. We are unable in justice to comply with your demands. You leave us with no choice but to protect the integrity of this Command pending a full and fair investigation of our Appeal. Engineering. Your action.”
Well, they were down to it, then, weren’t they?
“Thank you, your Excellency.” Now that ap Rhiannon had cut the braid to Taisheki Station, Wheatfields was coming over their line. “Thula, we need those artillery platforms taken out. We’ll do what we can to hold the heavy Security off your tail, if need should be. Go for it.”
“Confirm and comply,” Lek answered, as cheerfully as if it were a leave—detail he was to move forward, and not a warship. “Thula away. Weaponers. Confirm assignment targets. Excellency, if you would strap in, sir.”
It was almost the first indication that Lek even remembered that he was there. Andrej didn’t want to take the single step back to his observer’s station and strap in; he wanted to be as close to Lek as he could be, in case there should begin to be a problem. But he had no intention of arguing with Lek. He was far from his primary competencies — in command for legal purposes, but by no means in charge.
The thula leaped away from the underbelly of the Ragnarok, its transit showing on the forward screens as a sudden shift in orders of magnitude as it made for the artillery net. A good thing he was webbed in after all, Andrej told himself. There was no motion to be sensed on board the ship, no; but the rate of change on the forward display was enough to make him dizzy.
Five eighths to come to speed, six eighths after that to enter the artillery net’s kill—zone. It would take Ragnarok nearly six times as long to follow, what with size and rates of acceleration taken into account. That meant nearly four eights, once all the eighths were totaled, for the Ragnarok to transit the fields of fire, unless they cleared a hole in the net.
Four eights . . . the sixteenth part of a shift, the sixty—fourth part of a day. Too long, any way one looked at it. Even with the thula’s advantage of speed it seemed too long to Andrej, because there were detail screens up along the perimeter of the ship’s main forwards, and he could see the battery guns start to turn — taking aim at them.
Wasn’t it about time they shot at something?
A tone on Taller’s board from the chief weaponer, sounding clearly in the quiet of the wheelhouse. Taller turned in his seat and looked back over his shoulder, nodding in response to Andrej’s questioning look. Oh. Good. Time for his contribution, then.
Clearing his throat, Andrej toggled his braid to transmit. He’d rehearsed this, because it was critical that he got it right, and they would have only this one chance. The thula was gaining on an artillery platform at an astounding rate: but there were so many of them out there, and all turning slowly but surely to target the Ragnarok as she came —
“This is Andrej Ulexeievitch. Koscuisko.” He was thinking in Aznir, under pressure. There was no particular reason for Fleet to know who Andrej Ulexeievitch was, let alone why he might bear listening to.
“I am in receipt of direct orders from my superior commanding officer to clear the transit lane for my parent ship. I have therefore issued orders in turn that the artillery platforms capable of impacting the transit lane be removed from operation. If there are any crew on any platforms — ”
One of the side–screens went white as phosphorus; they had been fired upon, though not hit. It was nothing personal. The artillery platforms that comprised the mine field would have been given pre–coded instructions to fire automatically on whomever came within range without prior clearances. Andrej finished his assigned speech as smoothly as he could, surprised at his emotional reaction — anger. They were shooting at him. Were they, indeed?
“ — within the defined transit lane you are cautioned to identify and evacuate. Firing will commence in three eighths. You have three eighths to identify and initiate evacuation. Koscuisko away, the thula.”
The Malcontent’s ship moved more quickly than the artillery batteries could efficiently track; the arti–plats were designed to stop larger ships — and few ships as small as a Kospodar thula carried sufficient firepower to seriously endanger one of them. Would Fleet be expecting a threat from the thula? Taisheki Station surely knew from Admiral Brecinn that the Ragnarok had acquired a main battle cannon from Silboomie Station.
“Coming up on t–minus one, mark. Shani, Alpert. Go.”
The intership braid had cleared to all–ship access, now; Andrej could hear the weaponers exchange information. They needed to hear what was happening: because Taller and Lek were responsible for getting the thula to precisely where the weaponers needed it to be, and they could, only spare the three weaponers to watch for rounds directed at the ship itself.
There was a flare, off to the side of the main screen. A voice Andrej didn’t think he recognized. “Successful intercept, Chief. Confirm.”
They were still within target overlap, the kill–zone. Surely almost clear by now, past the barrier that the overlapping fields of fire represented, through to the other side of the mine field, where only the closest arti–plat would threaten the thula — because the ranges between them had been calculated carefully, each platform just less than twice the linear range of anyone of them. Unfortunately the thula had to close, to kill. “Successful intercept, Alport, confirmed. Stildyne, mark on target.”
One eighth left to the first platfo
rm, then. The first of sixteen. They had to take out sixteen of them to clear a space through the mine field that was big enough for a ship the size of the Ragnarok to traverse, and still be sufficiently removed from the remaining platforms that any residual rounds could be absorbed by the plasma sheath without damage to the hull.
“Mark on target, Chief, confirmed.” Stildyne’s voice, yes. It was a little odd, to Andrej, to hear Stildyne addressed without rank, and hear him return his own rank in address to the speaker. The chief weaponer for this mission was a junior weapons systems analyst from Engineering; but on a mission flight like this, ability took absolute precedence. Avenham was the best chief weaponer on board of the Ragnarok.
It was the same in his own area, Andrej reminded himself — he might have rank, and he unquestionably had the best qualifications for some surgeries, but that did not mean that he had any business controverting with Infectious Disease or Psychiatric. Quite the contrary.
Suddenly the braid from their parent plaited in again, an urgent message for Taller and Lek alike. “Thula, this is Ragnarok. We have an evacuation party on target six. Can you adjust?”
Target six. They had a preprogrammed kill–sequence laid in, and a set of alternates ready to load; all designed to prevent the intelligence that controlled the arti–plats from predicting where the ship would strike next, and moving to target them accordingly. Andrej had no idea where “target six” actually came in their list of targets. Lek took a moment to find out; but when he answered, it was a relief.
“Convert to sequence nine. Weaponer Avenham. Re–sequence after target four, advise preferred response.”
Advise him of what Avenham’s preferred response was to be, Lek meant — whether he was going to want a different approach. These people understood the language they were speaking. It was only confusing to him because he had no place within the tight group dynamic of this crew, and couldn’t share the most part of their communications.
The Devil and Deep Space Page 37