"How much did they know about this ship they were searching for?"
"Very little, evidently, except that she came through this area periodically, smuggling cargoes into and out of Aubaine."
"Aubaine?"
"Oh yes. And one other thing; they claimed her name was Ellen Arc. According to our records—which may be out of date—she was a far trader from Lancer, issued a transponder code for service in the Coalition."
"I see."
"I rather suspected someone in the space service should hear this," Garett said, "instead of a relief party that won't report to its base for months."
Coeur withheld comment on the noble's true motivations, "It may be valuable," Coeur agreed, "and I'll certainly see that the report is forwarded to the appropriate authorities."
"I'm glad to hear that. Captain, though I scarcely think this is an adequate compensation for the service you've rendered. Will you not consider accepting a small remuneration?"
"No, I'll just stick to the two items we agreed on."
"Information and a case of fresh fruit. Somehow, I find that less than appropriate."
"Hey," Coeur said, "after you've eaten pressed fish and algae for a week, it's a helluva lot more valuable than you'd think."
After Hornet was back in jump space again, bound for Kruyter, Snapshot and Gyro withdrew from their turrets to the central lounge, where they met Scissor by their new box of fruit. Though evening mess was a couple of hours away, both had an interest in targeting oranges and apples for early consumption.
"Fine looking fruit there," Gyro said.
"Indeed," Scissor said, "I am particularly impressed by these crushed, mildewed fruit on the bottom, which remind me of the fruit I sustained myself with during my year of pre-adolescence."
"Sounds swell," Snapshot said, with a wry glance at Gyro. "You mean you can actually remember that far back?"
"My memories are vague, for I was not fully sentient at that time However, the fallen, rotted fruit of the forest are a resonant memory."
"Well, these ones on top look all right," Snapshot said, picking up an apple and biting into it.
"Nevertheless, I have a concern about their safety," Scissor said, halting Snapshot in the midst of her chewing. "Since I have galley clean-up detail this evening, I felt it was my responsibility to ascertain the health fulness of this new food before I placed it in the autogalley refrigerator. Thus, I must report that my biosniffer has indicated a relatively high level of chloropicric acid in the fruit."
"Is that bad?" Cyro asked, "i cannot be certain," Scissor said, "but this same agent was used in higher concentrations as a nerve gas on Oriflamme, before the Collapse. Of course, in this smaller concentration, it may not be hazardous to humans."
"Um,..yeah," Snapshot said, spitting her apple-mush into the autogalley recycler bin. The rest of her uneaten apple followed a second later.
"Come to think of it," Cyro said, punching instructions into the autogalley, "I think a carbo-stick sounds pretty good right now. Care for one, Snapper?"
"No, just some water," Snapshot said, drawing a cup and rinsing her mouth out. After swigging it around, she spit that out as well.
"Very good, then," Scissor said, lifting the crate off the table with two of its arms, "I have made my determination. For the sake of all of our safety, I shall take these to my stateroom and examine them more closely."
Whereupon the Hiver balanced the crate on its back, holding it steady with its tail limb, and padded off toward the cargo hold hatch on four otherwise unused limbs.
"I think I'll just go and strip the autoloader," Snapshot said, drawing another cup of water. "That'll probably get my appetite back."
"Hold on," Cyro said, "I'll join you."
When, several hours later, the crew (less Crowbar and Deep Six on watch) congregated for dinner, Coeur was more than a little upset to find oniy three apples and an orange in the refrigerator.
"Guys, don't tell me you ate 25 kilograms of fruit already!"
"Hey, don't look at us," Drop Kick said, sitting down with his tray. "We were down in the hold working on the sled."
"Red Sun," Scissor said. "The fruit is my responsibility. The items in the refrigerator are those which I have determined to be relatively clear of chemical contamination."
"Chemical contamination?"
"Yeah," Snapshot said, tucking into her own tray. "I guess they use nerve gas on their crops."
"Yuck!" Mercy interjected.
"Well, hell," Coeur said, resigning herself to the autogalley's regular selection, and sitting down between Physic and Drop Kick.
"Weil, that's one of the two things we got from that planet," Drop Kick said. "How about that top secret scoop from the regent? Anything important?"
"I don't know," Coeur said, sawing in to a ponifish fillet. "But it's not top secret. A ship called Ellen Arc failed to register its transponder code, but nobody knows if it was going rimward or coreward."
"A whole lotta nothing, huh?"
"It might be important; we'll inform the authorities at Kruyter Belt.'1
"What I want to know," Physic said to Scissor, "is what you're going to do with all that fruit if it is bad? Throw it in the recycler?"
"No," Scissor said, "that would be a needless risk, fortunately, I have discovered that the enzymes exuded within my cloaca are more than powerful enough to break down the offending contaminant. If necessary, I will consume the fruit myself."
"You know what I think?" Physic whispered later to Coeur. "I think we've been bamboozled,"
"Just eat your brownie, doctor."
One hundred and sixty-three hours later, Homer came out of jump in seemingly open space. That effect was negated by passive sensors, however, that unfolded as soon as the ship was secured from jump. Under powerfully amplified reflected radiation, Kruyter Belt came into view as a band of jagged asteroids—the closest a few thousand kilometers away—huddled close around the cold red star that had shattered their mother planet eons before.
"Registering Kreuzung Beacon at 22,000 kilometers," Deep Six reported.
"You are good," Coeur said. "Better send our ID quick, before they think we're a pirate and blast us."
"Already transmitting, sir. Delay will be nominal."
Indeed, an answer came back scant seconds later.
"Hornet, this is Kreuzung Control; your code is confirmed legitimate. Please stand by... another vessel is desiring communication with you."
Another vessel?
"What was that last item. Control? Another vessel?"
"Affirmative, RCS Marathon Victrix has requested communication with the first available government vessel. Please stand by while we establish maser communications link."
"That's Ripsaw's ship," Coeur told her navigator off- mike. "What do you suppose he wants?"
"Unknown. I am not familiar with the individual." "Yves Franchot, Class of '97," Coeur said, "one of the old-timers."
"Any trouble up there?" Crowbar sent, after noticing several minutes had gone by without demand for his thrusters.
"Negative, Crowbar. We're waiting on an incoming communication."
"Oh. Thought something might be broken up there."
"You'd be the first to know, Crowbar. Bridge out."
"Here it comes," Deep Six said- Alert to the communication lag from wherever Marathon Victrix was sending, he'd already double-checked the digital recorder system to make sure they got a good copy, and both he and Coeur listened closely through their headphones.
"RCS Hornet, this is Marathon Victrix at azimuth 247, range three-five point seven million kilometers your position. We request your assistance in enforcement of RC Interstellar Code five-one-five-C..."
Piracy, Coeur noted,
"...please respond with time to intercept at our position, over."
"Time-tag confirms their range," Deep Six said after the message was complete, manipulating control panels with his muzzle whiskers, "The coordinates place her at Sonnamen gas giant, abo
ut 33 hours out."
"We have enough fuel to make that," Coeur said, "but not enough to make it back very fast. Good thing that's a gas giant."
"We shall forego refueling, then?"
"Affirmative. Send we confirm and are under way."
Marathon Victrix, when she came into visual range, was a wickedly dangerous looking ship. Truncated delta wings issued from a hull that was studded with guns and full of high-performance drives and fuel—leaving room for very little else.
Aside from Balthasar Victrix, an Assembly transport, the Coalition's Victrix sloops were dedicated warships, and Coeur wasn't at all certain what aid her little Hornet would be to one. Nonetheless, she made her best possible speed for a rendezvous at Sonnamen and actually docked with the Victrix a few hours early, since her captain had orbited out from the gas giant to meet them.
Ripsaw, a wiry man not quite in his late-twenties, greeted Coeur at his air lock, "I thought you were at the Academy, Red Sun,"
"I got a better offer," Coeur replied. "But what are you doing in this system? Just passing through?"
"Actually, no. Director Serene of Kruytercorp expressed a concern to the Assembly about smugglers, and that's why we're here."
"So you must've cornered one, huh?"
"We think so. Come up to the bridge with me and I'll show you what we've got."
The sloop's bridge was vast beside Hornets, taking up much of the bow with its nine workstations, but it was hardly a ballroom. Coeur was forced to scrunch in behind a sensor tech's chair to get a good view of the holographic map table Ripsaw was leading them toward. Projected was the oblate gas giant, its myriad rings and moons, and a pattern of six remote sensor drones drifting above those rings.
"A couple of days back, we were on patrol with the two system SDBs when we intercepted a pair of vessels coming together on the far side of Sonnamen: a fat trader named Ellen Arc and a liner named Nimble Dancer. We might have hailed them too early, though, because they ran for it after we told them to stand to, The SDBs vaporized Nimble Dancer— against my orders—so I ordered them back to Kreuzung after I cornered the other ship here."
'The SDBs are private, I take it."
"Raw recruits, yeah. Employees of Kruytercorp. That's why I sent them back and told Control to flag me if a government vessel came through."
"I think you should've stuck with the SDBs," Coeur said. "We're not a warship."
"I don't need a warship," Ripsaw replied, "just another captain with a cool head to watch the far side of the planet. Sooner or later he's going to try to sneak out of the rings where he's hiding, and another pair of eyes'll help me nab him before he makes jump point,"
"We can probably do that," Coeur said, "though we are on a schedule. I'd really rather not delay anywhere more than a week."
"No problem."
"You said you hailed them. Did they have transponder codes?"
"Good almighty Gaia, that's what gets me! They had legal codes, but they still ran!"
"Were they out of Coalition ports?"
"Negative. Out of Lancer."
"Probably won't make it back there," Coeur mused.
"No. They probably won't."
"You got a minute, Scissor?" "Affirmative. Please come in, Captain,"
Folding her hands behind her back, Coeur waited for Scissor's door to slide open, then stepped through into Hornet's farthest forward port compartment, Scissor's stateroom was red-lit, like the rest of the ship at alert status, but the red-orange crescent limb of Sonnamen illuminated everything inside in stark contrast—the racks of electronic parts, the diagnostic computers, a basket of apples, and Scissor soldering computer chips at its desk.
"Is there a problem, sir?" Scissor asked, removing its six-lensed goggles and spinning around on its toadstool chair, "Not really. It's just that we've taken up station above the ring, and I wanted to be clear about the danger we're in."
"Co on."
"I'm sure you know this better than any of us, but this isn't a battleship. If we get in a firefight, just about any ship's laser'll cut through this hull like a knife through those apples over there. The only reason we're here is because it's our duty."
"I understand and agree completely."
"Hm. Somehow! thought you'd be more concerned."
"On the contrary. If this class of vessel is to be a success, it must prove itself under adverse conditions."
"Well, good. I'll leave you to your work then."
"Would you care for an apple, Captain? They are safe for human consumption in limited quantities."
"Ah...no thanks,"
Thirty-two hours later, an inspiration came to Snapshot.
It hit her in her stateroom in the loft, where she lay awake waiting to relieve Whiz Bang at the missile turret. Only a vaguely formed idea at first, but she was sure enough it would work that she went to the galley 30 minutes early so she could intercept Coeur on her way to her own shift on the bridge.
"Skipper," she said, when Coeur greeted her, "I've got an idea."
'What's that?" Coeur asked, drawing a cup of coffee from the autogaifey.
"Well, get this: The sensor drones have seen motion on our side of the rings, but they can't pin it down. My guess is the bogie's got a good sensor operator, and they cut short a run for it when they spotted our drive emissions."
"Makes sense."
"Right. They're quiet, we're quiet, and we can't see a thing. So suppose we fired off a missile—rigged to mimic our emissions—and sent it off around the far side of the planet. Our friend out there might bite and give us a target on passive EMS."
Coeur nodded. "I like it. How soon can you do it?"
"With the gear in Scissor's workshop, not long. Maybe eight hours."
"Oo it. One of the Marines can cover your watch."
"Yes, sir."
Six hours after Coeur had heard about the decoy project, Snapshot and Scissor had a rebuilt drone in a launch tube. Snapshot then relieved Whiz Bang in her turret and fired the noisy missile dead astern.
Two hours later, it flushed its target.
"Bogie running, azimuth 182, range 48,000 kilometers,"
"I see it," Coeur said. "Sound battle stations."
Within minutes, everyone aboard Hornet was in a sealed vac suit—even Deep Six and Scissor, in suits laid in for their unique anatomies—and the ship's atmosphere was drained to defend against explosive decompression. Yet, even under these conditions. Crowbar soon had the power plant thrumming back to life.
"Send target course and speed to Marathon," Coeur said.
"Marathon is farther away from the bogie than we expected Deep Six said, after bouncing the message off a drone toward the sloop on the far side of the planet. "It may be several minutes before her sensors will bear on the target."
"We've got guns, too," Coeur said, tilting her right- hand joystick hard to the left as power to maneuver returned "I'm commencing evasive thrust. Hail that ship and demand her surrender."
The effort was fruitless, and—as it happened—dangerous. The 400-ton fat trader, clearly surprised to have company only 50,000 kilometers astern, shot back with two laser volleys across the turning Hornet's bow.
"All right, friend, we'll play it your way. Gunnery, fire at will/
That was what Snapshot was waiting for. Over a day earlier, she'd deployed two missiles that afterward floated unpowered alongside Hornet. Now, ordered to fire their thrusters just as the gunner launched a second salvo, these gave Snapshot four missiles to direct onto the target.
"Thanks for the MFD," Snapshot called across to Gyro.
"My pleasure' Gyro said, knowing she wouldn't need an MFD to aim her laser at this range, But the fat trader was clearly panicked, and spit out a noisemaker that spoiled Gyro's targeting lock. Snapshot's fast-running missiles dodged around the noisemaker, however, and closed to optimum range while extending their clusters of X-ray laser rods. Minutes later, their nuclear warheads—pumping blossoms of laser fire— flashed in a triple detonation,
proof that the target's gunners had caught only one of the missiles. More than likely, the gunners were blinded by their own noise- maker.
"Got him!"
"Nice shot," Gyro seconded, "All right, people," Coeur broke in, "calm down. See anything, Sixer?"
"Negative, interference."
But in time the interference subsided, and Deep Six found the target as Coeur switched from evasive to forward thrust.
"Negative emissions," Deep Six said.
"Could be dead," Gyro said, "or playin' 'possum."
"Better have the MFD back then," Snapshot said, "so you can keep an eye on her."
It was not until an hour later that Hornet could learn much more, having closed to 100 kilometers with Gyro's laser on the target all the way. Attempts to raise survivors on the radio met only the same silence that had prefaced the battle.
"Good Lord," Coeur said. "Snapper, I think you got her."
On the up side, the fat trader they'd met still retained its original shape, and the recognizable name Ellen Arc on her upper hull, but her hull in general was a burned and mangled mess. All four of her cargo hatches stood open to space, and a trail of floating cargo confirmed that gravity was certainly out.
"I'll take us in closer. Deep Six, sweep with neutrino and neural scanners."
"Scanning. Negative power readings, but...positive NAS contact. Four readings, human nominal."
"Survivors."
"Affirmative."
"Signal the Marines. Stand by to board."
Although Drop Kick's team members were cavalry troopers, they were also Marines, and that was all Coeur needed to know about their proficiency at boarding operations; they would do the job, and they would do it right the first time.
Along with their sled, Detachment A had brought four suits of light battle dress, the vac suits they wore as Hornet went to battle stations. Presently, in that armor, the four Marines assembled a formidable mix of weapons—one plasma, one laser, and two gauss rifles, together with concussion grenades and shaped demo charges—before converging at the port air lock, just ahead of Gyro's turret.
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