“So are we dead?” he asked Merripen.
“What?” Merripen asked. “No, of course we’re not dead.”
“Then shut up about it,” Grimm said. “We still pulling ahead of them?”
“Yeah. For the moment.”
“That’s all we need,” Grimm said. “Relax—we’re almost ready. Did you call up the Number One course package like I told you?”
“Yeah, it’s plugged in,” Merripen growled. “You do realize they’re outside the hyper limit, right? And that there’s no way in hell we can outrun them in this thing?”
“Trust me,” Grimm said with a tight smile. He made the last connection— “Ready,” he said, plugging the board into the interface and keying for a self-test. “Don’t touch anything—I’ll be right up.”
The self-test had finished by the time Grimm reached the bridge, with everything showing a satisfactory green. “I hope you’ve got a really good hole card on this one,” Merripen warned with a grunt as he moved away from the helm station. “Fairburn’s called twice with orders to surrender.”
“Why didn’t you pipe it down to me?” Grimm asked, keying up the board.
“’Cause you were busy,” Merripen said. “I didn’t think you had time to gloat.”
“There’s always time to gloat,” Grimm admonished him mildly. “Okay. Here goes…”
* * *
“There she goes!” Ravel snapped. “Bearing…we’ve got her vector, Sir.”
“Go!” Fairburn snapped, mentally crossing his fingers. If Salamander’s hyperdrive was in the same sorry shape as her telemetry system, this was going to be a very short trip.
Fortunately, it wasn’t. Without even a flicker of a problem, Salamander translated into the alpha band.
Only to find that Izbica had vanished.
“Where did she go?” Fairburn demanded, running his eyes back and forth over the sensor displays, as if he could will the freighter’s image into existence by sheer willpower. “There’s no way she could have gotten out of range that fast. Could she?”
“No,” Todd said grimly. “Best bet is that she did a microjump and got back to n-space just as we were leaving it.”
Fairburn clenched his teeth. Todd was right. It would take precise timing, but that had to be the answer.
“TO, calculate how far Izbica would have gotten if she’d translated down just as we translated up,” he ordered. “Helm, get us back to n-space as close to that spot as you can. CIC, I want a full-sensor scan as soon as we translate.”
“Got it,” Ravel reported. “Sending coordinates to the helm.”
“Ready to translate,” the helmsman reported.
“Go,” Fairburn ordered.
Izbica wasn’t there. Izbica was nowhere.
Salamander spent the next six hours not finding her.
* * *
Bettor lifted a glass of the wine Merripen had found in the late Captain Shresthra’s private stores.
“That,” he said flatly, “was about as crazy a trick as I’ve ever seen.”
“Not crazy at all,” Grimm said mildly, taking a sip from his own glass. Whatever else Shresthra had been, he’d had excellent taste in alcoholic beverages. “It’s all in the timing. Plus a certain degree of willingness to push the envelope when making one’s translations. Don’t forget, I spent a lot of time studying this ship during the voyage. I knew exactly what it could and couldn’t do.”
“I still think it was crazy,” Merripen said. “But I guess you can’t argue with success.”
“Especially when success pays so well,” Grimm said. “Speaking of which, I hope you were able to get all the data you needed, because we sure as hell aren’t going back.”
“I got enough,” Bettor assured him. “Another couple of hours would have been nice, but I should have enough to confirm the junction’s existence and give us a close approximation as to where it’s lurking.”
“Good enough,” Grimm said.
“And meanwhile,” Merripen rumbled, “the Manticorans now know there are pirates working the area.”
Gently, Grimm swirled the wine in his glass. Yes, that was indeed the downside of all this. In retrospect, he probably should have just ignored Izbica’s hails and let Fairburn come to the pirate/hijacker conclusion on his own. That was surely all the little man’s little brain was capable of. The problem was that, without Grimm’s declaration on record, a more clever brain might have started thinking outside the lines and wondering if there might be another reason behind the Izbica’s passengers’ visit.
The odds that someone was searching for wormholes in their system were extremely low, of course. But low odds were not zero odds; and if the Manticorans even suspected what it was they were sitting on, there would be a mad scramble to get all those mothballed ships back into service to defend themselves and their incredible asset.
But pirates weren’t nearly such a serious threat, certainly not to a system with this many warships already in service. The most likely response to Izbica’s hijacking would be a beefing-up of their customs personnel and procedures, and maybe more escort runs.
Of course, the best-case scenario would have been to continue on to Minorca without causing any ripples whatsoever, leave the Izbica peaceably, and catch the Axelrod freighter that would be arriving on carefully unrelated business. That would have left everyone blissfully unaware of what had happened, and given no one any reason to look at this ship, her passengers, or her cargo ever again.
But what was done was done.
And really, the repercussions were unlikely to be anything serious.
“Not a problem,” he assured Merripen. “They’ll probably tighten up scrutiny on incoming passengers, but that’ll be the end of it.”
“You don’t think they’ll beef up their Navy?”
“Against the vague threat of some pirates?” Grimm shook his head. “Not a chance. I mean, come on—they already have all the hardware they need for that.”
“The Navy will want more anyway,” Merripen said. “Navies always do.”
Grimm snorted. After spending a week in Manticore orbit reading the newsfeeds, skimming the recent history, and generally getting a feel for the Star Kingdom, he could answer that one with complete confidence. “Of course they’ll want more,” he said. “But they won’t get it. Not here.”
“You sure?” Merripen persisted.
Grimm lifted his glass in salute, the transcript of Chancellor of the Exchequer Earl Breakwater’s last speech in Parliament floating before his eyes. “I guarantee it.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
They weren’t the words Captain Fairburn wanted to hear, Osterman knew. For that matter, they weren’t the words she wanted to say.
But she had no choice but to say them.
“No, Sir,” she said, feeling the pain in her throat. “In all good conscience, I can’t place the blame on Ensign Locatelli.”
“You can’t?” Fairburn demanded. “Excuse me, Senior Chief, but didn’t you just testify that he ordered his crew to find replacement parts for his tracking systems in any way they could?”
“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said. “But unless Ensign Locatelli specifically said to take the components from other systems—and I have no evidence that he used any such language—then he’s personally not liable for the, uh, overenthusiasm of his crew.”
“Isn’t he responsible for knowing what his crew is doing?” Commander Todd put in.
“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said. “But only within reason. In this case, with Salamander having gone to Readiness Two, the bulk of everyone’s attention was on bringing systems to full operational status, not on wondering where replacement parts had come from.”
“Then at the very least a charge of negligence should be put on his record,” Fairburn pressed.
Osterman felt a stirring of annoyance. That wasn’t in any way what she’d just said. Was he even listening to her?
Probably not. Fairburn had spent an expensive missile for nothing, and
he was clearly desperate to share the blame for that fiasco with someone. And if that someone was well-connected, so much the better.
Osterman could sympathize. She could also agree that Locatelli was a pain in the butt.
But there were lines she wasn’t ready to cross. This was one of them.
“Ensign Locatelli was occupied with the preparation of his equipment for combat, Sir,” she said. “As, I daresay, was everyone aboard Salamander.” She hesitated; but this, too, had to be said. “Furthermore, the action of Spacer Carpenter in swapping out the hex is not what caused the telemetry system to fail. That was the fault of whoever subsequently swapped out the telemetry hex for the unreliable one Spacer Carpenter had put into the temperature sensor.”
Fairburn frowned. “There was another component switch made?”
As if such switches weren’t the norm aboard his ship. “Yes, Sir, as near as I can tell,” Osterman said. “I did a check on the serial numbers, and while some of that data is…foggy…it supports my conclusion.”
“Then it was whoever did that swap who’s responsible,” Fairburn said.
“Except that he or she would have no way of knowing the hex in the temp sensor was used,” Todd murmured reluctantly. “As far as they would have known, it was the original temperature sensor component.”
Fairburn opened his mouth, probably preparing to point out that the spacer should have done a complete system check once the new hex was in place.
He closed it again, the words remaining unspoken. Of course there hadn’t been time for anything but the most cursory check before Salamander went to Readiness One and launched the missile.
There was plenty of liability here, Osterman knew. More than enough to go around. But it was so evenly shared among so many people that there was no way Fairburn would ever be able to gather enough to tar any one person.
She could understand his desire to find a scapegoat. But it wasn’t going to happen.
More than that, Fairburn was Salamander’s captain. That was the bottom line. He was her captain, and the ultimate responsibility for what happened aboard her rested with him.
Fairburn took a deep breath. “I see,” he said. And with that, Osterman knew, the witch-hunt was over. “Commander, close the record.”
Todd keyed off the recorder, a frown creasing his forehead. Apparently, this wasn’t part of the usual interrogation procedure. “Record closed, Captain.”
Fairburn’s eyes locked onto Osterman’s. “This stays between the three of us, Senior Chief,” he said. “I will be ending this investigation, and will reluctantly be leaving the records of those involved intact. But I’m not putting up with him and his posturing anymore. I’ve done my time, and I want him off my ship.”
Osterman glanced at Todd, saw her surprise mirrored there. Clearly, this was news to him, too. “Ensign Locatelli, Sir?” she asked.
“Who else?” Fairburn countered. “I’ve spoken with Admiral Locatelli, and Captain Castillo’s agreed to take him. He can be Phoenix’s problem for a while.”
“Yes, Sir,” Osterman said, breathing a little easier.
“There’s just one catch,” Fairburn continued sourly. “Admiral Locatelli insists that if his nephew goes, you go with him.”
Osterman stared at him. “Excuse me, Sir?” she asked carefully.
“You and Ensign Locatelli are being transferred to Phoenix, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “Effective immediately upon our return to Manticore.”
“For how long, Sir?” Osterman asked. “I mean—”
“I know what you mean, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “And the answer is, God only knows. Until Ensign Locatelli is transferred again, I suppose. Or until he grows up. Your guess is as good as mine.”
“I see, Sir,” Osterman said, her voice going automatically into Petty Officer Neutral mode. Until Locatelli the Younger grew up.
Right.
“That’s all, Senior Chief,” Fairburn said. “Dismissed.” He hesitated as Osterman stood up. “And,” he added, “may God have mercy on your soul.”
Osterman suppressed a sigh. “Yes, Sir,” she said. “Thank you, Sir.”
* * *
Carefully, Breakwater set his tablet on the table. “Extraordinary,” he said. “I trust I don’t have to tell anyone at this table how much that missile cost the Star Kingdom?”
It was, Winterfall decided, about as rhetorical a question as it was possible to ask. Across from him and Breakwater were Prime Minister Burgundy, Defense Minister Dapplelake, and Admiral Locatelli. At the head of the table was King Edward, himself a former captain in the Royal Manticoran Navy. All four of them would know precisely how much a missile cost.
Not just in Manticoran dollars, but also in Solarian credits, Havenite francs, and number of years’ worth of a captain’s salary. They knew how much the missile had cost, all right.
“We’re quite familiar with the numbers, My Lord,” Dapplelake said evenly. “If you don’t mind, let’s move on to the extra pound of flesh you’re hoping to extract.”
“Please, My Lord,” Breakwater said, in that reproachful tone that managed to be injured and condescending at the same time. “This isn’t about penalties or punishment. On the contrary: given Captain Fairburn’s incident report, I’m ready to concede that you’ve been right about pirate activity in the region.”
“Really,” Locatelli said. “I haven’t heard any mention of that in your speeches.”
“Nor has there been any such in Parliamentary or committee meetings,” Burgundy murmured.
“There’s a time for public pronouncements, My Lords, and a time for private discussion,” Breakwater replied smoothly. “This is one of the latter.” He turned to King Edward. “Your Majesty, I submit that Captain Fairburn’s encounter proves beyond a doubt that there are indeed outside dangers that need to be addressed. Accordingly, I would like to again submit my request that the five remaining corvettes be transferred to MPARS.”
“And?” the King prompted.
“And that they retain their full armament,” Breakwater said. “Future pirate activity can only be dealt with if there is a strong, armed presence throughout the Star Kingdom.”
“Welcome to our side of the argument, My Lord,” Dapplelake said dryly. “Unfortunately, you seem to have forgotten that the problem of crewing those armed ships still remains.”
“A problem which would have been eliminated long ago if more slots had been opened up for MPARS personnel at the Academy and Casey-Rosewood,” Breakwater countered.
“You have as many slots as we can afford to give you, My Lord,” Dapplelake said. “But there may be another way.”
Breakwater tilted his head to the side. “I’m listening.”
“MPARS already has Aries and Taurus,” Dapplelake said. “Since Baron Winterfall’s rescue modules haven’t proved all that useful—” he inclined his head at Winterfall, as if apologizing for that assessment “—I suggest we go ahead and reinstall the box launchers. The Navy will supply you with petty officers and gunnery crews to handle them, and we’ll try to squeeze a few more slots in those rating tracks for your people.”
“That sounds acceptable,” Breakwater said. “And the other five ships?”
“Again, we can reassign their current missile crews to MPARS,” Dapplelake said. “Unfortunately, we can’t spare the rest of the crews, so you’ll have to supply those yourselves. At current enlistment and graduation rates, I imagine you can get all of them up and running within the next three to four years. Does that work for you?”
“Not entirely,” Breakwater said, a frown creasing his forehead. “You say you can’t spare the rest of the crews. Why not? The corvettes already have full crews you could transfer to us. After all, those are men and women you don’t need elsewhere.”
“Hardly, My Lord,” Dapplelake said. “Most of the Navy’s ships are badly undercrewed, including the corvettes themselves. Even at Casey-Rosewood’s current graduation rate we’re only slowly filling those sl
ots. More significantly, we’re going to need all the personnel we can get—” he paused, overly dramatically in Winterfall’s opinion “—since we’re about to bring the battlecruisers Swiftsure and Victory out of mothballs and back to full operational status.”
Winterfall felt his eyes widen, a small part of his mind noting in retrospect that Dapplelake’s pause hadn’t been overly anything. If anything, he’d underplayed the drama.
“That is, of course, ridiculous,” Breakwater said. The verbal bombshell had clearly caught him as much by surprise as it had Winterfall, but he was quickly recovering his balance. “We’ve been through this, My Lord, many times. Those ships aren’t needed, and the Star Kingdom simply doesn’t have the money or manpower to operate them.”
“I think we do,” Dapplelake said. “More importantly, so does the King.”
Breakwater’s eyes turned to Edward…and in the Chancellor’s face was something Winterfall hadn’t seen in a long time. Something that was almost as stunning as Dapplelake’s own pronouncement.
Uncertainty.
“Your Majesty?” Breakwater asked carefully.
“You heard correctly, My Lord,” Edward said. “If there are indeed pirates working this part of space—and you yourself have just conceded that point—then they must have a base nearby. We can’t simply wait for them to come after us and our neighbors. We have to go find them and deal with them.”
“And that requires more large ships than we have available,” Dapplelake added. “Hence, the reactivation.”
For a long moment Breakwater’s eyes flicked back and forth between the Defense Minister and the King. Then, he drew himself up. “I’m sorry, Your Majesty; My Lord,” he said. “But I cannot in good conscience support such an action. My responsibility—your responsibility—is to defend and protect our three worlds, not to send our men and women charging off on some grand adventure to right all wrongs in the galaxy. We’re not the region’s police force, and I have no intention of letting us become one.”
“You intend to stand against us, then, My Lord?” Burgundy asked. “Because if you do, I tell you right now that you will lose.”