Blackbeard superbox, p.19
Blackbeard Superbox, page 19
“That’s all well and good,” Barker grumbled. “But it’s not token guards I’m worried about.”
The engineer reached out a hand and brought the focus of the map back out, first to the continental view, then to the entire planet. He set it into slow rotation.
“It’s these bad boys right here.”
Barker pointed to the six fortresses in orbit around the planet. A few decades ago, the Barsa system had been on the frontlines between the expanding Albion kingdom and the crumbling remains of the Hroom Empire. The closest systems had been neutral, either splinter Hroom or New Dutch and Ladino, and Albion had suffered from extended supply lines. The crown had built fortresses into the sides of two small moons, then hauled in four asteroids, converted them into forts, and set them in orbit as well.
The concept had worked. When the fortresses repelled an invasion force in the Third Hroom War, the crown had been so taken with their success that Queen Ellen had financed the construction of a similar network around Albion herself.
“They’re not what they used to be,” Tolvern said. “Barsa is no longer on the frontier.”
“Doesn’t mean they’re in ruins, either,” Barker said. “We put in at one of them for repairs a few years back, before your time.”
Tolvern scowled at this, apparently irritated by the reminder of her youth. “I still think we can take them.”
“Don’t be cocky,” Barker said. “The fort I saw may not have been on war footing, but it wasn’t a derelict, either. Plenty of wealth flows in and out of that world. Got to be able to throw off pirates and smugglers.” The chief engineer nodded. “Every one of those forts is still capable of delivering a punch.”
“So are we, right?” Tolvern said. “Isn’t that the point of all that time on San Pablo? If not, if you’re still incapable of battle, by all means, tell us so we can correct the deficiencies while we still have time.”
“You know that’s not what I’m saying,” Barker said. “I’ll take on Vigilant, if we have to, but slugging it out with an orbital fortress is another matter. We don’t have enough firepower to silence her guns, and we don’t have enough men to storm her fortifications, either.”
“Enough arguing,” Drake said, growing impatient. “We’re not going to knock down an orbital fortress. And we don’t actually have to do that. Those things were built to repel Hroom sloops of war. The sloops couldn’t land directly on the planet, they had to send down smaller craft. We don’t have that limitation.”
“You mean to run the forts?” Capp said. She’d been watching the argument between Tolvern and Barker with a smug expression, but now she turned serious.
“That’s right. We’ll find the softest position and hit it there. Any given fort can hammer us as we’re coming in, but the orbital guns are almost all outwardly facing. Once we’re in the atmosphere, we have only ground forces to worry about.”
“A few guards, some armed Hroom,” Carvalho said. “Shouldn’t be too much trouble.”
“As if we have any clue,” Barker grumbled. “We’re even more ignorant about ground forces. For all we know, there’s an entire regiment of royal marines guarding Malthorne’s estate.”
“Actually, no,” Smythe said. He looked up from his computer, where he’d been scrolling through data—or maybe just playing Romans vs. Soviets again. “I was on Malthorne’s estate once.”
“What?” Drake said, scowling. “When did that happen?”
“I was on Dreadnought for her inaugural tour. We took a pass through the colonies to test her engines and weapon systems before she went into battle.”
“And you didn’t think that was germane to the discussion?” Drake asked. “That you knew Malthorne’s estate personally?”
Smythe wrinkled his brow, then shook his head, as if it only now were occurring to him that the captain might want to know.
“But how did you end up on the surface?” Tolvern asked. “Dreadnought is like a sloop of war—it can’t enter the atmosphere, either.”
“The admiral sent shipments down. Security equipment for his estate. There had been a slave revolt or something. I can’t exactly remember.”
“You’re a font of forgotten knowledge, aren’t you?” Tolvern said.
“Go on,” Drake urged.
Only a few weeks ago, Drake would have been shocked to hear that Malthorne had been using the mightiest battleship in the navy as his personal delivery service, but almost nothing the admiral did would surprise him anymore.
“I saw the security setup for myself,” Smythe continued. “There are minefields, some automatic guns, and a small garrison. Can’t even imagine where the admiral would station an entire regiment—the property isn’t like that.”
“What do you mean?” Drake asked.
“It may be the highlands, but it’s still bloody hot. Wet, swampy, with these mosquito things the size of a bird. I can still hear them buzzing behind me.” Smythe shuddered. “The estate is built on the ruins of an old Hroom fortress, and half of it has sunk into the ground. Malthorne built atop a giant, raised-stone platform in the middle of the fortress.”
“It’s a temple, not a fortress,” Nyb Pim said. “If it has a platform, it’s for Lyam Kar, the God of Death.”
“We don’t need to hear about your pagan death cults,” Barker said. “What about the weapon systems?”
“It’s not like that,” the Hroom said.
“The two of you can argue religion later,” Drake said. “As a matter of fact, let’s leave off the specifics of Malthorne’s estate. Smythe, write up a report. Send it around. Give us anything you can remember. Anything at all.”
“Send this bloke along with the team,” Capp said. “That’s my vote. Nothing like having a guy who has been there before.”
“Me?” Smythe squeaked.
“I’ll take that into consideration,” Drake said. “Whatever gives us the best chances.”
“Can we be clear about that part?” Tolvern asked. “Chances for what? What exactly are we going for here? The antidote and enough loot to pay our debts at the yard?”
Carvalho and Capp looked a little more alert at the mention of loot.
“More or less,” Drake said.
“And when you get the antidote, will you share it freely?” Nyb Pim asked.
“I don’t know,” Drake admitted. “This whole thing is rotten. Rutherford is in neutral territory, as if he’s trying to provoke another war. Malthorne is deep into slaving—he has enriched himself on the back of naval victories. Sugar, slaves, and war—seems there’s no way to separate them. It’s corrosive not only for the Hroom but for Albion as well.”
“Then, what?” Tolvern asked. “You’re going to flip a switch and free a billion sugar eaters, just like that? I don’t know about you, but that scares the hell out of me.”
“You’re not the only one,” Drake admitted. He glanced at Nyb Pim, who watched him with a clear, unblinking expression through his ink-colored eyes.
“You sure it’s only a billion?” Barker asked. “What about the empire? What do they do when they’re off the stuff.”
“I got no problem with Hroom,” Capp said, with a look at the pilot.
“Neither do any of us, when taken one at a time,” Tolvern said. “That isn’t the issue. We’re not talking about Nyb Pim.”
“Well, maybe we should,” Capp insisted. “This one here’s treated me good. And I knew a couple of Hroom in the Gryphon Shoals. They weren’t no trouble, either, so long as you kept ’em out of the sugar.”
“So what is your plan?” Nyb Pim asked Drake.
“I want to get hold of this antidote, see if it’s real,” Drake said. “Seize whatever documentation we can find about how it works, how to produce more, and so on.
“After that, I don’t know. I hope we get enough info from the labs to show Malthorne’s treason. I can present it to the king, perhaps find other allies in the navy. Get him removed. Maybe then we could make a new treaty with the Hroom in return for the antidote.” Drake was grasping now. “Create buffer worlds, control the supply of the antidote, I don’t know. Something to ensure peace.”
“Peace is hard enough to enforce when we’re strong and they’re weak,” Tolvern said. “Without sugar, what can we do to stop them? There are too many. Give it ten, twenty years. Eventually, they’ll be at our throats.”
Drake had no rebuttal to this. Because his commander was absolutely correct.
He rose. Tolvern sprang to her feet in response, followed by the others, one by one. Carvalho was the last to rise, and he crossed his arms, his expression pointlessly sullen, as if he still needed to show his independence.
“Everyone here had a chance to stay behind on San Pablo,” Drake said. “None of you did. Whatever loyalties you had before have been swept away. There is no more Royal Navy, only this ship and her captain. You all agreed to this, to submit to my authority.
“In return, I pledge to rule with justice, to safeguard those under my protection. To act with thought and caution, and not from whim or a desire for personal glory. No officer’s life is worth more than the life of those beneath him. And the captain’s life is of no greater value than that of his crew.”
Some of this he had cribbed from the oath that kings, dukes, barons, and other lords took when they were invested in their hereditary positions. He couldn’t speak for the Hroom, but humans needed hierarchy, demanded it, in fact. In the absence of leadership, one man or woman would naturally assume it, often at the cost of strife and bloodshed. And it was the natural tendency of the ruler to despise and bully his subjects.
Hence, the obligations from master to servant were, if anything, more important than the obligations flowing in the other direction. He needed them to know that although he ruled the ship, he would never abuse that position, never become a tyrant.
“Yes, sir,” Tolvern said. The others added their affirmations.
“And part of my duty is not to withhold information arbitrarily,” Drake added. “But the truth is, I do not yet know. We’ll go to Hot Barsa and seize the antidote. But—” and here he cast a look at his Hroom pilot. “—I don’t know how we’ll put it to use. I only promise to speak with all of you before making any decision.”
He waited for argument. There was none. He wished he could read Nyb Pim’s expression as clearly as he could Tolvern’s or Capp’s, but he couldn’t. Meanwhile, Drake reminded himself that his pilot had enslaved himself, turned into an eater, just to get his hands on the antidote. Nyb Pim may be well-behaved now, but there seemed no limit to what he would risk.
“Now,” Drake said. “I’m off shift and desperately need rest before the jump. Next time I see you, we’ll be on the other side.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Vigilant was the first ship of the Royal Navy task force through the jump. Rutherford fought off the stunned, nauseated feeling as he came out the other side, then brought Vigilant out about ten thousand miles and waited as the other ships came through one at a time. Each ship would appear suddenly, motionless and helpless for several long seconds while the crews recovered. The plasma engines would restart, and the ship would limp away from the jump point like a drunk staggering out of a tavern.
The last ship through was Calypso, another cruiser. Her captain was Hugh Lindsell, third son of the Earl of New Tasmania. Lindsell’s father was Lord Admiral Malthorne’s first cousin, and Malthorne had secured him command of Calypso less than a year out of the Academy. Young and headstrong. Yet Captain Lindsell had fought bravely—some said recklessly—at Ypis III.
Lindsell came on the viewscreen a few minutes later. The man blinked through bleary, bloodshot eyes. “Are we clean, sir?”
“The enemy sloop didn’t follow us through, if that’s what you mean,” Rutherford said. “We’re still scanning the moons of the nearby gas giant for empire forces.”
“Doubtful they are violating the neutral system.”
“Which raises the question: Why are we?” Rutherford let that hang between them for a beat, baiting Lindsell to answer. Perhaps the man knew more than he did. Perhaps not.
An empire sloop of war had followed them about the Peruano system. As per the treaty, it was alone and its shields were down. At any time, Vigilant could have blown it to pieces with a single broadside. Or turned loose a few torpedo boats to chase it off. Instead, Rutherford ignored it for several days, until finally the Hroom commander had hailed him, asking why Albion had sent an armed task force to the frontier in defiance of the treaty.
Rutherford responded that he was looking for a rogue cruiser. As soon as he found Ajax and brought Drake and his crew to justice, he would retreat from the neutral systems. Except that the treaty didn’t provide any such loophole, the opposing commander helpfully pointed out. Rutherford closed the channel and ignored any further attempts at communication.
“I will presume that the sloop sent a subspace to its headquarters,” Rutherford said when it became clear that his counterpart on Calypso had no answer. “San Pablo is even closer to the Hroom systems than Peruano. Should we expect to encounter empire forces?”
“I wouldn’t presume to speculate. You are the flag officer of this expedition.”
“I’m asking your opinion. Give it to me.”
“They’ll have an observer. Armed, I would think.” Lindsell hesitated, and Rutherford suspected he was holding something back. “But will they risk war over San Pablo? I would think not.”
No, that would be foolish. The system was as good as lost to the Hroom already, with a growing Ladino colony on one continent and an impoverished, collapsing Hroom province on the other. But the next system over held a thriving Hroom world. That must be protected at all cost.
“We’ll proceed cautiously,” Rutherford said. “As soon as the scans are finished, we’ll approach San Pablo in double crescent formation. You will lead the van. Shields up, weapon systems down.”
“Yes, sir.”
Rutherford shut down the viewscreen to find Pittsfield standing behind his shoulder, nervously rubbing his hands.
“Sir, a secure communication packet came in from the fleet.”
“What does it say?”
“For your eyes only. You are to take it alone in the war room.”
Frowning, Rutherford picked his way across the bridge. The others watched him as he went. A knot of worry settled into his gut. They were strangers to him, except for Pittsfield. Admiral Malthorne had sent Rutherford to bring in the mutinied Ajax, but apparently fearing that Rutherford would also go rogue, had changed out familiar faces for strangers. The irony was that if Rutherford did encounter Drake in combat, his green crew would put him at a disadvantage.
Drake is one man. He has one ship. You have fourteen.
Back in the war room, he shut the door and pulled up the secure subspace channel. The message was text only:
Ajax has left San Pablo and jumped from the system. Destination unknown. Proceed to San Pablo and set up a blockade around the planet. Allow human shipping through, but turn away or seize any Hroom vessels.
The Hroom gave aid and comfort to the traitor, and you will make an example of them. Destroy the two Hroom spaceyards and the spaceport. Do so from orbit. Do not land on the planet or send any forces to the surface.
Should any empire military forces attempt to break the blockade, you will engage them with all available firepower. Aid shall be sent to you at once.
Press “accept” when you have read this message.
Rutherford leaned back in his chair, stunned. The message was unsigned, but it had come from the Admiralty, which meant that only a handful of people could have sent it, unless the system had been hacked. He had to allow for that possibility.
But if authentic? Good God.
Only a few weeks had passed since the last battle of the previous war; the ink was barely dry on the treaty. But this? This would mean another war. Even if it were true that Ajax had been repaired in Hroom yards, would Albion go to war over the slight?
After a few seconds, the last part of the message began to flash yellow, then red. He pressed his thumb against the screen where it said “accept.” The message deleted itself.
He sent a reply.
Please confirm your orders as per the naval task force’s posture re: San Pablo.
When it was off, he thought for a moment, then deleted the record of his own message. Better to be cautious in case they had been hacked.
This far out, it might take a couple of days to receive a response. Until then, what choice did he have? He would proceed to San Pablo as if he intended to blockade the planet. That would kill some time, and he could set up cautiously in orbit instead of arriving at once and dropping atomic weapons onto the surface to wipe out the Hroom yards and port.
Why would the aliens do it? Their actions with regard to Ajax made no sense. Word of Drake’s journey had been passing through to Rutherford, and he presumed information had been flowing outward to other interested parties as well. For that matter, why would Drake ask for Hroom help? The rogue captain had attacked and defeated the pirate ship that had given Richmond so much trouble. Then he’d jumped to San Pablo, where he’d landed at some undisclosed location. Why not the human settlements? They had yards, men willing to work for coin, even if that meant aiding the enemies of Albion. No need to consult the Hroom at all.
A darker thought entered Rutherford’s mind. The lord admiral, or maybe even the crown itself, was using Drake’s mutiny as a pretext for agitating the Hroom Empire. Malthorne wanted another war. The empire was a huge realm, with dozens of systems and billions of people. A big, indigestible chunk. But cut off pieces, like a man slicing salami, and it could be consumed piecemeal. Of course it meant a never-ending series of wars, but in the past there had always been a good reason: unprovoked attacks on Albion shipping, disruption of the sugar trade, or a denial of Albion trade privileges. Not this time. This war would be Albion’s fault, and Albion’s alone.
