Fleet of the Damned (17 page)

In another time, the Tahn Council would have been most closely compared to a politburo system of government. Each member represented key areas of society. The various viewpoints were discussed and whenever possible added to the political stewpot. All decisions were unanimous and final. There was never a vote, never any public dissension. Each matter was thoroughly discussed in private, compromises made whenever necessary, and the plan agreed upon. A meeting of the council itself was a mere formality for the record.

And so it was with no trepidation at all that Fehrle addressed his fellow lords and ladies.

"Then, I assume we are all agreed," he said. "We proceed with the attack on the Emperor as planned?"

There were nods all around—except one.

"I'm not sure," Pastour said. "I still wonder if maybe we ought to wait until we are at full readiness. In two years, we'll have the Empire in the palm of our hand."

There was an instant hush in the room. Everyone looked at Fehrle to see how he would react.

Fehrle did his best to keep the impatience out of his voice. "This has all been discussed before, my lord," he said. "The longer we wait, the longer the Emperor has to build more ships. We cannot win a manufacturing war with the Eternal Emperor. You of all people should know that."

"Yes, yes. But what if this operation doesn't succeed? We are risking our entire fleet! Where will we be if we lose that? Back under the Emperor's thumb, that's where, I tell you!"

Wichman instantly shot to his feet, his eyes bulging and his face scarlet with anger. "I will not stay in the same room with a coward!" he shouted.

The room erupted as Wichman began to stalk out. Fehrle slammed his hand down on the table. Wichman froze in midstep. Silence reigned again in the room.

"My lords! My ladies! Do you forget where you are?"

Fehrle glared around at each member. They all squirmed in their seats uncomfortably. Then he turned to Pastour and gave him a frosty smile.

"I'm sure the good colonel misspoke. We all know from his reputation that he is no coward." He glanced over at Wichman. "Don't you agree, my lord?"

Wichman's shoulders slumped, and he walked silently back to his seat. "I apologize for my rudeness," he said to Pastour.

"And I for mine. You must forgive me. I have a great deal more to learn about the workings of the council."

The tension crept away, and Lord Fehrle brought the meeting back to order.

"It's settled, then. We attack immediately!"

Everyone shouted in agreement. Pastour's voice was the loudest of all.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SK

"M
R. Kilgour," Foss said, wistfully looking at the display in front of him, "can I ask you something?"

"GA, lad." Kilgour checked the time. There was an hour and a half to go before the shift changed—and a little inconsequential conversation might help kill the boredom.

"Look at all those fat freighters down there. When you were young, did you ever want to be a pirate?"

Kilgour chuckled. "Lad, Ah hae input f' ye. When Ah was wee, Ah
was
a pirate. Come frae a long line a' rogues, Ah do."

Foss glanced at Kilgour. He was still not sure when his XO was extending his mandible. He turned back to the screen.

Sten's four ships had been assigned escort duty. Even though the increasing tension with the Tahn had reduced merchant traffic through the Fringe Worlds, there were still certain shipments that had to be routed through the area. The ships were now dispatched in convoys and given integral escort. In addition, during passage near the Tahn sector, Imperial ships were attached for support. Hanging "below" Sten's ships were five tubby merchants from Tanz Sullamora's fleet, one container link with four tugs, two hastily armed auxiliary cruisers, and one archaic destroyer, the
Neosho
, from van Doorman's fleet.

Sten couldn't figure out van Doorman's thinking—if, indeed, the admiral was ever guilty of that. He seemed more interested in keeping his ships on the ground than in space. Possibly, Sten hazarded, the admiral was worried that he would forget them if they weren't in plain sight. Van Doorman was, even though the term's origins were long-lost, a perfect bean counter.

This didn't apply to Sten's tiny flotilla. Van Doorman proved true to his word. He wanted Sten's butt on toast. He evidently thought the best way to crucify Sten was to keep him busy. The
Claggett, Gamble, Kelly
, and
Richards
were used as everything from dispatch runners to chartmakers to the present duty—high escort on this merchant run. Sten didn't think much of van Doorman's plot—if Sten had wanted to ruin someone's career, he would have kept the person underfoot at all times. Sten was also not upset that his ships were kept on the run—he was still shaking his somewhat motley crew down.

The only problem was the wear and tear factor on the delicate engines. If it weren't for Sutton's brilliance in conniving far more parts and even spare engines than authorized, all four tacships would have been redlined by now.

And so the four ships dozed on high escort. The skipper of the
Neosho
had cheerfully agreed with Sten's plan to keep his flotilla above the convoy proper, enabling the Bulkeley-class's superior electronics to umbrella the convoy. He had promptly stuck the
Neosho
at proud point and, as far as Sten could tell from intership transmissions, was spending most of his time on the lead merchantman.

Sten was slightly envious—rumor had it that Sullamora's ships were most plush, and their crews didn't believe in Spartan thinking—but not very.

Sten kept his crews on minimal watch—with one exception. The electronics suite was fully manned and watching. There had been entirely too many nonreports from ships passing through this sector. There were many possible explanations: Merchant ships were notoriously sloppy for transmitting sector-exit reports; accidents did happen; pirates; or Question Mark.

Pirates made no sense. In spite of the livie fantasies, it was impossible for a private individual, given the Imperial control of AM2, to operate a raider for very long. It was the Question Mark that intrigued Sten and Alex.

Four days into the assignment, their question was answered.

General quarters clanged Sten from his cubicle, where he was filling out another of van Doorman's interminable status reports, to the command deck.

The convoy was below and ahead of his ships—Sten noticed that, as always, one freighter was lagging to the rear of the formation. But on the monitor three unknown ships were coming in from "low rear." Sten checked the prediction screen. Their path would intersect that rear freighter in minutes.

Electronics does not necessarily simplify command: Sten, nearly simultaneously, ordered all weapons systems on the
Gamble
to standby; alerted his other three ships; cut to the supposedly open command link between ComEscort and ComConvoy, though he got no answer; braced himself and cut onto the assigned transmission band to all convoy ships; and turned away from the convoy screen.

"Below" him was instant chaos. The
Neosho
and the Commander/Escort's lead merchantman continued, unhearing—Sten guessed it must be a helluva party. Two freighters immediately took evasive action and almost collided. A third freighter sought an orbit directly away from the convoy. The container link began lumping like a giant inchworm, as if all of the tug skippers had suddenly decided to go their own way. The lagging merchantman suddenly and uselessly went to full power, and the two auxiliary cruisers began bleating questions.

Sten was too busy to worry about them.

"All tacships, this is
Gamble
. Switch to independent command. Acquire targets. Please monitor my attempts to communicate with unknown ships. Permission to fire at commander's discretion, over."

He made another switch to the sector's emergency band, which, in theory, every ship should be monitoring.

"Unknown ships… this is the Imperial Ship
Gamble
. Identify yourselves… alter trajectory… or prepare to be attacked."

The com screen stayed blank. Kilgour pointed at another screen, which showed violet haze from all three ships.

"First th' wee
Baka
… noo thae' clowns. Ah thinkit tha Tahn be playin't games."

Another screen had a computer projection of the three incoming raiders.

"Spitkits," Kilgour murmured. "Ah'll hazard tha' raiders be converted patrolcraft. Raiders wi' enough to blast a civilian an' a prize crew for boardin'."

Foss, at the control board, eyed Kilgour. Maybe the man from Edinburgh
had
been a pirate.

"Tacships," Sten ordered, "engage and destroy incoming ships!"

Kilgour had the
Gamble
on an intersection orbit, coming "down" on the incoming ships. Evidently they were intent on the merchantman. "Weapons selection, sir?"

"We won't waste a Kali. Give me firing prox on a Goblin."

Kilgour had the control helmet on. "And six… and five… and four… and three… and one. Goblin on th' way, mate."

The first raider never knew what happened. It simply vanished. The second and third split formation—one ship 180-ing on a return orbit at full power. Sten checked an indicator—the raider's top speed was less than two-thirds of that of any of the tacships.

The third ship, perhaps with a brighter skipper, tried another tactic. It launched two ship-to-ship missiles and, also at full power, tried an evasion orbit, one that would lead it within a few light-seconds of the lagging merchantman. Perhaps the raider thought he could lose himself in the clutter around the freighter.

"
Clagget… Kelly… Richards
," Sten ordered. "You want to nail the one that's homeward bound for me? I'll take the sneaky guy."

"Roger,
Gamble
," came the cultured voice of Sekka. "But you do appear to be allowing yourself all the fun."

"Negative,
Kelly
. While you're at it, maybe you could snag me a prisoner or two? And maybe try to get a back projection on where these guys came from?"

"We'll try.
Kelly
out."

While Sten was talking, Alex had already deployed three Fox countermissiles and produced two satisfactory explosions from the raider's own launch.

"Closing… closing… closing…" came the monotone from Foss.

"Unknown ship, this is the Imperial Ship
Gamble
. Cut power immediately!"

Nothing showed onscreen.

"Puir lad," Alex observed. "Puir stupid clot. Wha' he should'a don wha launch on yon freighter an' hopit we're soft-hearted enough to look for survivors… Goblin launched. Ah'll try't' takit just the wee idiot's drive tubes… closin't… hit… ah well." The raider became another expanding ball of gas.

"
Gamble
, this is
Claggett
. Raider exploded. No survivors observed."

"All tacships, this is
Gamble
. Resume previous orbit."

"
Gamble
, this is
Neosho
. What is going on, over?" The query was rather plaintive.

Foss correctly left the transmission unanswered while Sten and Kilgour figured out a response that wouldn't get them court-martialed when they returned to Cavite.

CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

S
ten cleared off the small surface that served as his desk, turned on the pinlight/magnifiers, and eased his chair closer. He had determined that this was going to be a perfect evening—one of the rare nights he had absolutely alone to pursue his hobby.

He had given the crews of his ships twelve-hour passes, leaving him relatively free of responsibility. He poured himself a tumbler of Stregg, swirled the crystal liquid around in the glass, and sipped. The fire lit down to his toes.

He sighed in anticipated pleasure, then lifted out the tiny black case and snapped it open. It contained a dozen or more tiny cards, each jammed with computer equations. Sten's passion was holographic models of ancient factories and scenes. One card, for instance, contained in its micro-circuits a complete early-twentieth-century Earth lumber mill, with working saws and gears and belts. Every machine in the mill was controlled by a miniature worker, who went about his individual tasks—as best as Sten could research them—exactly as he had many centuries ago. Sten had completed the mill during his last assignment on Prime World.

He had started his latest model during flight school. It was one of his more difficult moving holographic displays. He slid the card into its slot and palmed the computer on. Small figures working in a sprawling field leapt out onto the desk. What Sten was recreating was an ancient British hops field. From his research he knew that hops—used in the beer-brewing process—were grown on towering tripod poles. When harvest time came each year, men and women were recruited from all over the country. The plants were so tall, with the fruited vines at the very top, that the workers strode through the fields on stilts to pick them.

Thus far, Sten's display consisted of the fields of hops, most of the workers, and the ox-drawn carts used to haul out the harvest. Months of work lay ahead of him before he could complete the rest of the sprawling farm. He tickled a few keys on his computer to call up an incomplete ox cart. Then he got out his light pen to start sketching in a few more details.

There was a tentative scratching at his cabin door. Sten felt the anger rise. For clot's sake, he had given strict orders to be left alone. Ah, well. "In!" he called.

The door hissed open, revealing a badly frightened sentry. "Begging your pardon, sir, but…" The man started stumbling over his words. "But… uh, there's a lady."

"I don't care if it's the Queen of—oh, never mind. Who is it?"