“Yes, I have.”
“My father is not so prosperous as my uncle, but he received a small inheritance from his maternal side that was sufficient for our needs. I enjoyed a proper education.”
“I thought so. Your good breeding is apparent. How old are you, Caites?”
“Twenty-eight, sir.”
“That old? With such initiative, I’d have expected you to be commanding more than an eight-man torpedo boat by now.”
“Generally, the accusation is that I have too much initiative, sir. I was first mate of an Alliance-class corvette, but I ran afoul of my captain.”
“Who was your captain?”
“Harbrake, sir.”
“Ah, yes. I’d forgotten he was on a corvette. Perhaps he didn’t fully appreciate your qualities, Lieutenant. Send me your data about the jump point. I will call you if I have questions.”
He ended the call. At first, his thoughts lingered on Catherine Caites, not so young as he had presumed. Old enough to be better positioned within the fleet, given her background and abilities. Never mind serving on Nimitz as Harbrake’s commander, she could be captaining the vessel instead of him. Rutherford had little use for the cautious, overbearing man, except that he was Admiral Malthorne’s pet. Better to have a woman of initiative like Catherine Caites.
But Rutherford’s thoughts quickly turned to the artificial jump point. What were the Hroom about, first destroying two of their own ships with a new weapon system and then showing off their ability to create a jump point out of pure vacuum? Did they mean to intimidate Albion into calling off the war?
What they didn’t expect, he guessed, was for anyone to follow them through. After all, what fool would stumble blindly through a temporary, rapidly decaying jump point? But if Caites was right, that jump wouldn’t lead to a black hole or the empty void of space, it would go somewhere useful. No doubt one of the planets at the heart of the Hroom Empire.
Rutherford thought briefly about sending a message to the Admiralty. But instinct told him to hold this close to his chest until he was sure of what he was facing.
He came back onto the bridge and eyed Commander Pittsfield. No sign of Lieutenant Billings, the second mate and one Malthorne’s loyalists, foisted off on Rutherford during the wholesale crew replacement on Albion a few weeks ago. Billings had been in the sick bay since coming out of the jump. Seemed he suffered the trips every single jump. Worthless fool.
Caites had sent the requested information by the time Rutherford took his seat. He looked it over and was shortly satisfied that she’d given him an accurate summation of the situation.
“Captain,” Pittsfield said. “We’ve got a subspace from HQ. There’s trouble in the Barsa system. We have new orders.”
“What kind of trouble?” Rutherford asked with a frown. “Empire forces?”
“It’s not the Hroom, sir. It’s Captain Drake. He’s fleeing the system, and the navy is rushing forces to intercept him. We’re ordered to join the hunt.”
Rutherford wanted nothing more than to race back and face his old friend in combat. Preferably one on one, Vigilant against Ajax, or whatever Drake’s old ship had become since her overhaul in the San Pablo yards. Attacking Drake with an entire task force would hardly be a fair fight.
But he had bigger worries now, worries the Admiralty knew nothing about. Finding out what was on the other side of that jump point was of far greater importance than hunting down a single rogue navy captain and his crew of pirates, freed prisoners, and mutineers. Drake was an annoyance, more of an affront to Malthorne’s ego than a threat.
Rutherford read the official order, which was rather strangely worded, as such things went.
Flag-Officer Rutherford,
At 0924 hours, November 27, 2630, the traitor James Drake attacked naval resources outside Hot Barsa and led a ground assault team that killed many civilians and destroyed much property. Drake escaped before he could be intercepted and is now fleeing the system.
He must be stopped at all cost. This will take priority over engagement with empire forces.
You will proceed to the Gryphon Shoals via the San Pablo, Fantalus route. Leave Calypso, two destroyers, and a missile frigate at San Pablo. Leave Richmond and three torpedo boats at Fantalus. Proceed with Nimitz to the Gryphon Shoals. You will receive new orders as information becomes available.
With resolution,
Vice Admiral Thomas Lord Malthorne
That explained the curious way the orders were worded. They seemed to come directly from the lord admiral himself, and not the staff officer normally tasked with such things. How odd. Then Rutherford remembered that Malthorne had extensive holdings on Hot Barsa. Was that what was behind Drake’s assault? A personal vendetta against the lord admiral for his role in stripping Drake of his commission and sentencing him to hard labor?
And was Malthorne’s response a similar act of vengeance? Because it beggared understanding that the navy would be rushing resources to track down the man when it had just initiated a new war with the Hroom Empire.
Pittsfield interrupted Rutherford’s musings. “I’ve relayed orders to prepare all ships for a return jump. I gave Harbrake thirty minutes to complete his investigation of the destroyed Hroom warship. Perhaps he can find something useful before we go.”
“Belay those orders. Pass this message in its place. Harbrake will leave at once. Nimitz will proceed through the jump as the flagship, with Harbrake in command of the task force.”
“Sir?”
“We are staying behind.”
Not staying behind so much as setting an immediate course for that temporary jump point, to squeeze through before it decayed further and broke apart. They would emerge God only knew where. It was dangerous, but Rutherford counted the secrets that lay on the other side as absolutely necessary to the prosecution of the war and perhaps even to Albion’s long-term survival against the empire.
But he didn’t say this part aloud. Let the crew digest one bit of difficult information at a time. He waited for Pittsfield to finish passing along his orders.
“One more thing, Commander. There’s a lieutenant on a torpedo boat who has provided some valuable intelligence and showed initiative and energy. I want her brought on board before the fleet departs. Her name is Caites, and her boat is attached to Nimitz.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And I need that groggy fool in the sick bay sent over to Nimitz. Billings. He has important intelligence for Captain Harbrake.”
“What kind of intelligence, Captain?”
“The intelligence that Billings’s worthless hide has been replaced as second mate of HMS Vigilant by Lieutenant Catherine Caites.”
Chapter Eleven
Commander Tolvern was surprised to receive an invitation from Captain Drake to dine with him in his cabin. Were it to become known, the mere existence of such an invitation would set tongues wagging—Capp’s and Carvalho’s at the very least—so she determined not to mention it to anyone.
Why would Drake allow such a rumor to be started, unless he were oblivious that bringing her to dine would suggest something improper? And then it occurred to her that maybe he really did mean something improper, that he’d invited her to his room with the intention of . . .
That’s ridiculous. Put it out of your head.
Nevertheless, Tolvern took extra care with her appearance before going to his room. She showered, slicked back her short hair, even put on a bit of lipstick (a very small bit), and changed into a freshly laundered uniform. She had a bottle of perfume she’d been keeping since her last shore leave on Albion, and she opened it and took a whiff. Hmm, that was strong. On second thought, she returned it to the shelf. The smell of soap and clean skin would have to suffice.
Drake was out of uniform when he greeted her at the door, wearing comfortable trousers with a drawstring and a white linen shirt open at the cuffs and throat. He looked her over.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “aren’t you off duty? If th
is is a bad time . . . ”
“It’s a great time,” she said hastily. “I wasn’t sure if you wanted to talk operations, what with the jump coming and all.”
“No, it’s just dinner. The less we talk about military business, the better.”
“I’ll go back and change.” Tolvern was thinking again about the perfume. Wouldn’t hurt to put on a dab when she was in her room. “Give me five minutes.”
Drake took her arm before she could turn away. “Come on in, you’re fine dressed as you are.”
Inside, a delicious smell hung in the air, like beef and mushrooms and frying onions, and her stomach rumbled. She forgot her embarrassment and followed Drake to the kitchen, where he stirred something delicious and creamy on the stove. He pulled a loaf of bread from the oven and set it steaming on a cutting board.
“When did you learn all this?” she asked. “Doesn’t Drake Manor have an army of cooks?”
“Why do you think I learned?” he said with a smile. “The food in the navy was so bad in comparison that I knew I’d be forced to cook my own food if I ever wanted a decent meal again. Here, make yourself useful, and put together this salad. Assuming you know how to cook, that is.”
“Please. My father is your father’s steward. Our entire staff consisted of one maid and one deaf old man who used to come around to help in the garden. We prepared our own meals. I learned to cook before I could ride a bicycle.”
Tolvern reached for the knife to cut the tomatoes as she said this, and wasn’t paying attention. The knife slipped from her grasp and clattered to the ground, making Drake dance back to avoid the falling blade. She bent for it, blushing furiously.
Drake raised an eyebrow. “And are toes one of the things you learned to cook?”
“Sorry, sir. Sorry.”
“It’s fine. No, wash it off, first.”
Another blush. “Sorry, Captain. I got flustered.”
“Would you mind very much calling me James?”
Her heart fluttered. “No, sir. I mean . . . James, sir.” She winced. What an idiot.
He laughed. “I know it’s improper. Your father started calling me Mr. James Drake from an early age, and I suppose Mr. Drake would be fine if we were still back home. But after so long as your captain, that would sound even stranger to my ears. I don’t mean you to start calling me by my given name all the time, but I need this pressure off my shoulders, and you’re the only one I can count on as a friend. So, just for tonight?”
“Of course. And you can call me Jess.” She hesitated. “Just for tonight, naturally.”
“Jess. Certainly.”
“Or Jessica. That’s my full name, that’s what my family still calls me. No, wait. Jess is fine. Now I’m babbling like an idiot.”
He smiled. “Tell me something interesting about yourself, Jess.”
“Like what?”
“The usual stuff people talk about in situations like this. Are you reading anything at the moment? What was your favorite subject at the academy? What are your sisters and your brother doing these days?”
With such a ridiculous prompt as that, she didn’t think there was any way she’d be able to talk to him, but after a tentative start, she was off and running. As she helped him set the table, it occurred to her that she was still babbling, that he was saying very little in return, so she asked him a couple of polite questions. He answered briefly, and then she found herself jumping into the silence and chattering on again.
As soon as she realized this, it was like someone had glued her mouth shut. She could no longer think of a single thing to say that he might find interesting.
Dammit, can’t you act normal?
“How is your family?” she asked, then forced herself to stay quiet long enough for him to answer.
“I wish I knew, but I don’t dare contact them. I imagine my parents are worried sick, if not my sisters, too. I imagine your family is worried, too.”
“I sent a message—not from the ship, of course,” she added hastily. “From San Pablo.”
“Be careful. Someone still might intercept it.”
“It was just before we left. I wouldn’t have put us at risk, you know that.”
“I’m more worried about the risk to your family. You don’t want them associated with your actions, not now.”
“You don’t think they’d hurt our families, do you?” Tolvern asked.
“Probably not, but I’d rather not put it to the test. My sister Madeline married just last year, and her husband is a lieutenant in the Third Fleet. They seemed to be hoping my name would help his career. They’re disabused of that notion by now, I’m sure.”
Tolvern had pleasant memories of the older of the two Drake girls, who was about her own age. Madeline had been a cheerful, friendly girl and never looked down on the steward or his family. A good friend. She had taught Tolvern how to ride and kept a roan mare just for her friend to use. Tolvern didn’t know the younger sister, Helen, nearly so well, but had the impression that she was bright and pretty and beloved by the rest of the family.
“What is Helen doing?” she asked. “Is she going to the academy? She seemed clever enough.”
“More than clever. She’s the brightest of any of us.”
“She plays chess, doesn’t she? My father was telling me she’s really good.”
“A little too good. I was the one who taught her, but by the time she was fourteen, I could no longer defeat her.” He smiled, as if thinking of some specific memory. “But I don’t think Helen will go to the academy. Her ambitions are more limited, like my mother’s.”
“Don’t tell me she wants to stay on Aukland,” Tolvern said. “There’s a big universe beyond that little rock.”
“I don’t know. Helen is curious enough about the outside world—she practically lives in my father’s library—but she has no real desire to travel. I think she’d be satisfied marrying a gentleman of intellect and good humor who possesses some means, and then raising a dozen children with him.”
“Seems a waste, but I suppose Albion needs women like that, too.”
“So says the crown, anyway,” Drake said. “If we’re to fulfill our so-called destiny, we can’t be taking all of the clever women and sending them to the academy. The king calls it skimming the cream.”
It seemed unfair to Tolvern that this should be the case. Nothing stopped a man from having a family and a navy career at the same time, but put a woman in the navy and suddenly the paths to domestic happiness closed off for her. She couldn’t fraternize with her fellow officers, and unlike what a male officer enjoyed, when she returned planetside to Albion, there would be no balls set up to introduce her to handsome single men.
So what should Tolvern have done? Stay in her father’s house, waiting to be courted by some young bachelor with prospects? Such men did not always materialize; she had two unmarried aunts who seemed reasonably attractive and well spoken. One had moved to Cardiff to make her own way in life, while the other had waited and waited and waited to be courted. Neither had married, but one woman’s life seemed particularly circumscribed, as if she were still waiting, now in her forties, for that suitor to arrive.
Not that Helen Drake ran any risk of that sort of outcome. The captain’s sister was young, pretty, and the daughter of a baron—any man would find her a prize worth pursuing. The privilege of class and rank, Tolvern supposed.
The food was ready, and they ate. It was quite good. Maybe not like a fine restaurant in York Town, but better than navy slop, that was for sure. Of course, it helped that the captain had access to higher-quality ingredients than they stocked in the ship’s kitchen.
“Thank you for that,” Drake said when they’d finished. “I hope it wasn’t improper to ask you to dinner. I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.” He rose, and she rose with him.
“Not at all,” she said, thinking he was on the verge of dismissing her.
“Would you care for some dessert?”
She quickly sat
back down. “I’d love some. What did you make?”
“Fruit tartlets. I got frozen blackberries on San Pablo—cost me a fortune, as you can imagine—and I didn’t want to just eat them plain.” He hesitated. “I’m not sure how they turned out, since I substituted honey for the sugar.”
“I’m sure they’ll be great, James.”
Drake brought out two individual pastries, together with a bottle of port, which he used to refill their wine glasses. The tart blackberries reminded her of scouring the bushes that grew on the edge of the estate, where pasture became forest. Tolvern and her sister would go foraging, filling their buckets and their bellies at the same time. They’d come home with stained fingers and scratches on the back of their hands. Eating blackberries so many light years from home brought a twinge of nostalgia.
“Could have turned out worse, I suppose,” he said. “But that honey flavor adds a strange element.”
“It’s delicious.”
The port was combining with the wine already in her belly to make her lightheaded and less tightly wound than earlier. Also, perhaps a little reckless. A calm, rational voice deep in her head told her to shut her trap, that she was borderline drunk and would regret that reckless feeling later, perhaps deeply.
She ignored the voice.
“It must be hard being captain,” she said. “Feeling apart from everyone else.”
“Sometimes.” He seemed to look past her shoulder, eyes growing unfocused. “Yes, you could say that.”
“You look like you’re remembering something.”
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” A wry smile. “An old girlfriend.”
“You had girlfriends?”
“You sound shocked. Yes, I had one girlfriend, anyway. We met the summer before I went into the academy.”
“I don’t suppose it was anyone I know. Some earl’s daughter, no doubt.”
“Actually, no. That’s why we aren’t together. I think you might know her. Marianne Elliot.”
Lords of Space (Starship Blackbeard Book 2) Page 9