Uncanny shook one final time, then leveled out. William allowed himself a moment of sheer relief as he glanced at the display, watching as the storm slowly started to fade back into the ether. There was no sign of either of the enemy ships. But that proved nothing. The enemy might have jumped back into realspace or turned and fled the moment their warhead detonated. There was no way to be sure.
“The storm is fading,” Gross reported. “But I’m picking up a great deal of additional distortion.”
William sucked in his breath. “Take us back to the convoy, then alter course to keep us as far from the storm as possible.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.
“No major damage reported, Captain,” Roach said when William glanced at him. “The shaking might have knocked a few components loose, though.”
“We’ll have to check,” William said. It could have been worse. It could have been a great deal worse. “Injuries?”
“None reported, as yet,” Roach said.
William nodded, studying the display as Uncanny caught up with the convoy. The storm would make life harder for the pirates if they wanted to keep tracking the convoy, although the bastards knew precisely where they were going. They’d have ample opportunity to stake out Potsdam before the convoy arrived, if they headed there directly. He considered, briefly, triggering another set of storms before dismissing the thought. Energy storms were dangerously unpredictable. Even the Theocracy hesitated before setting one off.
“Launch a shell of recon probes to watch the approaches,” he ordered. He keyed a vector into his console. “And then alter course as directed.”
“Aye, Captain,” Cecelia said.
William watched her work for a long moment, then ran through a set of calculations in his head. Assuming they didn’t run into any further trouble, the course change would add an extra couple of days to their flight time. He doubted the merchant skippers would be too unhappy, although he had a feeling that their superiors would bitch and moan about the delay. They weren’t the ones facing pirates and energy storms on a daily basis.
We never gave a guaranteed ETA, he told himself firmly. If they want to complain, they can take it to the local counsel.
“I have the final set of reports, Captain,” Roach said. “The chief engineer reports that there was a set of unusual power fluctuations in Fusion Two and Drive Nodes Three through Seven, probably caused by close proximity to the storm. He’d like to shut them down for a few hours to run inspections.”
William made a face. Losing one of the ship’s fusion plants would be bad enough, but losing a drive node would be worse. Replacing one in the middle of hyperspace would be an absolute nightmare. But shutting the nodes down long enough for an inspection would be problematic. If the pirates showed up again, Uncanny wouldn’t be able to go to full power until the drive nodes were restored.
“Tell him to hold off for twenty minutes,” he said finally. Power fluctuations weren’t uncommon. It was certainly possible that they were nothing more than random flickers within the drive field. But there was no point in taking chances. “If the enemy ships don’t reappear, we can take the nodes offline for inspection.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said. He sounded relieved. “A handful of bumps and bruises have been reported, but nothing serious. We survived the storm intact.”
“Thank God,” William said. “Tactical, do you have an analysis of the enemy ships?”
Thompson looked up. “Nothing conclusive, Captain,” he said. “Their drive fields were modern, but their missile was crude . . . nothing more than a containment field mounted on a primitive missile drive. We didn’t see any other systems during the brief engagement.”
Roach scowled. “They may have been trying for the destruction bounty,” he said. “They weren’t even planning to try to capture the ships.”
“It certainly looks that way,” William agreed. He couldn’t think of any other explanation for the whole affair. “Unless they just wanted to annoy us.”
He rose. “Continue on our current heading,” he ordered. “Mr. Roach, you have the conn. Inform me the moment you detect any other starships.”
“Aye, Captain,” Roach said.
William stepped through the hatch and headed down to the intership car. He hadn’t inspected Main Engineering in several weeks, even though Roach had been keeping a sharp eye on the chief engineer. And watching the engineers as they deactivated and inspected the drive nodes would tell him more about their skills than any number of reports.
It will help to make sure Goodrich is not falling back into bad habits, as well, he thought. The last thing we need is him crawling back into the bottle.
“That was quite an adventure,” Joel said cheerfully. “I trust you weren’t too badly hurt.”
Crewman Robin Selfridge scowled angrily. He’d somehow managed to sleep through the alarms, much to Joel’s amusement, only to roll out of his bunk and fall to the deck when the ship began to shake. He hadn’t been injured, thankfully. Selfridge’s bunkmates, once they’d reassured themselves that he wasn’t injured, had promptly begun pretending to treat him as an invalid. Being told, for the fifth time, that he wasn’t to exert himself had to be maddening.
“I wasn’t hurt at all, Chief,” Selfridge growled. His tone was thoroughly insubordinate, but Joel ignored it. “I just landed on my ass.”
Joel laughed. “I assure you that there are people who would pay good money for that,” he said. “And to think you got it for free!”
“Fuck it,” Selfridge said. “How long will it be before they shut up about it?”
“Not long,” Joel assured him. “Something else will happen, I’m sure. Until then, don’t rise to the bait. The more they think they’ve found a chink in your armor, the more they will exploit it to get a rise out of you.”
He paused, studying the younger man carefully. Selfridge was a newcomer to the crew, but he had reason to be resentful . . . didn’t he? He was a colonial . . . Chances were his dreams of becoming a mustang were so much hot air. Yet, Sir William had become an officer. His achievements made it harder to convince the newer crewmembers that they didn’t have hope of advancement if they stayed in the Navy.
“Thank you, Chief,” Selfridge said. “I won’t let it get to me.”
Joel concealed his irritation as he dismissed Selfridge from his workspace. Approaching him—even while maintaining deniability—was too risky. The younger man was too enthusiastic, too new at his job to have any real resentments Joel could exploit. And he probably admired Sir William, just like so many of the other crewmembers. He might not be too loyal to the Navy, but he’d be loyal to his commanding officer.
It was frustrating, Joel admitted to himself. His plans had assumed an incompetent commander and a bunch of senior officers who didn’t give a damn, save for the one he’d already subverted. Now he had a competent commanding officer with a dedicated command team, a CO who was impressing his crewmen . . . it was truly frustrating.
In addition, if someone works out what happened to Captain Abraham or Henderson, he thought, I’m dead.
Desertion was a possibility, he had to admit. He was no naive innocent. It wouldn’t be hard to jump ship on Vangelis or even Potsdam. But he was damned if he was giving up so quickly. He had a dream . . .
. . . Nonetheless, without the ship, his dream would never come true.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
“It’s morning,” a voice whispered in Kat’s ear.
She shivered with anticipation as she felt warm lips kissing the back of her neck. Kat shifted automatically as the kisses grew more passionate, opening her legs to allow him to slip into her. His hands reached underneath her back and stroked her breasts as he began to move inside, pumping faster as their passion grew. And then she gasped in pleasure as they came together . . .
Afterwards, Kat allowed herself to enjoy the stillness before remembering her duty. “What time is it?
“You should have been on the bridge ten
minutes ago,” Davidson said.
Kat swore, sitting upright and reaching desperately for her wristcom. She was the captain—she could remove herself from the watch roster if necessary—but not showing up for duty would make her look bad. Crenshaw would probably find a way to use her tardiness against her. She glanced at the wristcom, then gave Davidson an evil look. She wasn’t due on the bridge for another full hour.
“Gotcha,” Davidson said.
“You bastard,” Kat said. She picked up the pillow and clobbered him with it. “You . . .”
She shook her head as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “I really need to learn some new swearwords. I don’t know anything vile enough for you.”
“Me neither,” Davidson said. He aimed a slap at her rump, which she dodged with ease. “It did get you out of bed.”
“I hope that’s not the way you get your marines out of their bunks,” Kat said severely. “I’d bet good money you’d have a mutiny on your hands if you tried.”
“Probably,” Davidson said. “But my first drill instructor was fond of bellowing for us to get out of our bunks and threatening push-ups for the last ten recruits to stagger onto the field.”
“He made a man out of you,” Kat said dryly. Her academy instructors had been marginally politer. “Coming into the shower?”
“Just a moment,” Davidson said.
Kat stepped into the compartment and turned on the running water. One definite advantage of being captain was having a compartment large enough for two—although, after spending years as a cadet and then a midshipwoman, she was quite happy merely to have a private compartment of her own. Bracing herself, she stepped under the water and washed the sweat and grime from her body. Davidson might not be too concerned about being unclean—he’d spent weeks on deployment where even body wipes were a luxury—but she was. She’d always hated feeling dirty.
She considered her ship’s current status as she washed herself. She’d expected the convoy to come under attack as it made its slow way to Aston Villa, but nothing had materialized. No other starships had been detected, not even in passing. She’d instead run inspections and put the crew through countless exercises, but it wasn’t quite the same. She felt almost frustrated.
Be grateful, she told herself as Davidson slipped into the shower. The objective is to get the convoy to its destination, not merely to kill pirates.
“I put the coffee on,” Davidson said. “It’ll be ready when we come out.”
“Thanks,” Kat said. She had always felt a little embarrassed asking for java from her steward when Davidson was sharing the cabin. “I think we both need it.”
“I need to be down in Marine Country in thirty minutes,” Davidson added as he took the shower head and washed himself. “We’re running through yet another boarding exercise.”
“Good luck,” Kat said. “Have you cracked it yet?”
“Getting onto the cloudscoop is easy,” Davidson said ruefully. “But they’ll still have plenty of time to blow the installation before we kill them all and take possession.”
Kat had watched the exercises, then read the postmortems. There were just too many variables for her to feel comfortable gambling with the lives of Davidson and his men. And it wasn’t just the marines who were at risk. According to the files, the cloudscoop was owned by a large family, including a number of young children. All of them might be killed in the crossfire, even if the pirates didn’t manage to destroy the station.
“You can’t guarantee saving the hostages,” she queried.
“No, we can’t,” Davidson agreed. “We were always taught to expect a certain number of civilian casualties if we had to rescue hostages.”
“I know,” Kat said.
She gave him a tight hug, suddenly wishing that they were back on shore leave. Neither of them had a high threshold for boredom, but sharing her bedroom on Tyre had allowed them to relax and spend the entire morning in bed if they wished.
Duty called.
She kissed him on the lips, then stepped out of the shower and hastily dressed. Davidson followed her a moment later, dressing so rapidly that his hands seemed to blur. But then he’d been taught to get dressed in less than a minute.
“Don’t forget your coffee,” Davidson said.
Kat drank the warm brew while she glanced at the status report, then her inbox. Crenshaw would have called her directly if there was anything urgent, she was sure, but it never hurt to double-check. There was nothing, save for a brief report of an odd hyperspatial power surge several hundred thousand kilometers off the port bow. The surge hadn’t posed any immediate threat—Crenshaw hadn’t needed to order a course change—but the navigation department was keeping an eye on it anyway. Hyperspace in the Jorlem Sector wasn’t as closely monitored as hyperspace back home.
We need to get them sharing weather reports out here, Kat thought, as she finished her coffee. It would do wonders for interplanetary cooperation.
“I’ll see you afterwards,” Davidson promised. He winked at her. “Let me know if you’re going down to the surface.”
“I will,” Kat said. She had no idea if the planetary government would request a meeting after she sent them her papers, but she’d make sure to take him with her if they did. “Good luck.”
Davidson gave her a warning look. “Don’t count on the simulations, Kat,” he said. “You know the dangers.”
Kat pursed her lips in acknowledgment. She’d run through countless simulations from the day she’d joined the Navy, going through them again and again until she was perfect. Real life didn’t come with a reset switch, though. There would only be one chance to liberate the cloudscoop . . . and a single mistake, something as simple as a bulkhead being out of place, would be enough to doom the entire mission. They had copies of the cloudscoop’s original plans—a standard design, one dating all the way back to the Breakaway Wars—but the whole structure was designed to be altered to fit local requirements. There was no way to know what the interior was like until the marines crashed through the airlocks . . .
. . . By then, it might be too late.
She watched him go, wondering idly what his junior officers thought of the whole affair. Pat had no way to hide that he wasn’t sleeping in Marine Country, not when he wasn’t on watch; she would have been very surprised if they didn’t know he was sleeping with her. Marines had few secrets from one another. But they wouldn’t care as long as the romance didn’t affect Pat’s duties. Marines were also remorselessly practical. She would have joined if she hadn’t disliked the idea of crawling through mud. Besides, she knew how to fight, but she didn’t like it.
Kat took one last look at her terminal and then headed for the hatch, walking up through Officer Country to the bridge. The marine on duty outside the bridge hatch saluted smartly, then stepped aside as Kat entered the compartment. Crenshaw, sitting in her command chair, rose at once, nodding toward the status display. It was clear.
“I have the bridge,” Kat said, sitting down.
“You have the bridge,” Crenshaw confirmed. “We are due to emerge from hyperspace at Aston Villa in two hours, thirty-seven minutes.”
“Very good,” Kat said. “I’ll see you on the bridge when we arrive.”
Crenshaw left the bridge. He seemed to have been doing a good job over the last ten days, or at least Kat hadn’t heard any complaints. She ruefully admitted that he was improving as an XO. But she still worried that she was missing something. Did people really change that rapidly?
Maybe, she thought. Or maybe the penny is just waiting to drop.
She read her way through a number of reports as the hours passed slowly and the convoy made its way towards Aston Villa. The merchant skippers didn’t seem to have any complaints either, although that wasn’t a surprise. Being escorted, even for part of their trip, had to be better than traveling alone. She reminded herself, once again, that getting the freighters to their destination was more important than anything else. Keeping i
nterstellar trade alive was a priority.
“Captain,” Wheeler said, “we are approaching the designated emergence point.”
“Stand by to return to realspace,” Kat ordered. She heard the hatch hiss open behind her and knew that Crenshaw had returned to the bridge. “And take us out when we arrive.”
“Aye, Captain,” Wheeler said.
“Go to yellow alert,” Kat added sharply. A low drumbeat began to echo through the ship. “If there’s anything waiting for us, I want to be ready.”
She braced herself as the gateway blossomed to life in front of her ship, the entire hull shuddering slightly as Lightning led the way back into normal space. The tactical display began to update itself at once, reporting a handful of interplanetary transports and a couple of installations scattered across the star system. It felt oddly disappointing, but she hadn’t expected much more. Aston Villa was a stage-three colony, barely beginning the long process of exploiting the resources of an entire system. Compared to Jorlem or Vangelis, the planet wasn’t remotely developed.
“All freighters have returned to normal space,” Lieutenant Ross reported. “I’m picking up a challenge from the planetary defenses.”
“Such as they are,” Crenshaw commented.
Kat was tempted to agree. There were seven automated weapons platforms and a couple of primitive gunboats holding station over Aston Villa, barely enough to stand off a pirate attack. A destroyer from the Breakaway Wars could have trashed everything in orbit within ten minutes, perhaps less; Glory of God could simply ignore the defenses while she hammered the planet below into submission. Aston Villa was caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, wealthy enough to offer rich pickings for anyone willing to simply take them, too poor to afford the sort of planetary defenses they needed. Kat wondered if Jorlem might be considering a little local imperialism if the Theocracy ever supplied the warships they promised. A vest-pocket empire would give President Alexis a great deal more clout.
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