Fortunes of the Imperium (30 page)

CHAPTER 25

OB-59a turned out to be the intelligence aboard a covered personnel carrier, redolent with sweat and the faint odor of sleep gas.

“Many thanks for the lift, my friend,” I said, as I swung on board. The doors scissored closed behind me. I wriggled into one of the deep synthleather seats, recently vacated, I was certain, by a man approximately my height, but a great deal broader, and suffering from hyperhidrosis. I tried to ignore the dampness and smell. “I am Thomas.”

“It is no trouble, Lord Thomas,” the vehicle said in a resonant male voice. “I was free. Call me Obie. Angie and I have been corresponding since your arrival in this sector. She has given me your dossier. I just brought the entire security force to the scene. I will not be needed again until the siege is over.”

“Siege?” I asked, sitting forward eagerly, detaching my tunic from the seat back. “Tell me all! We have been mewed up without any news. What has happened? What of the naval vessel, the
Rodrigo
?”

“All information regarding the incident is on a need-to-know basis,” Obie said, severely.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” I said, putting on my most wheedling tone, “but as you are carrying me to the scene, may we assume that I need to know?”

“Of course, Lord Thomas. Allow me to post the official sitrep on the screen above you.”

I settled back into the seat. As the information was very recent, no narration was provided to the action video I beheld, but I thought I could pick up the thread of the story.

From one of the red-rimmed hatches, a large ship burst forth. Pieces of the iris exploded around it like an extreme close-up image of pollen bursting from a flower. Indecently close to the space station, yellow and orange oxygen-fed flames sprayed as the ship kicked on its impulse engines. It vanished from the outside video pickup. Some delay ensued until another hatch lensed open, in the ordinary fashion this time. From it issued the
Rodrigo
. When I beheld my precious ship, I felt my heart pounding with excitement. It, too, activated its sublight engines a little too soon, but I understood the need. It was a race! Because of the speed and distance involved, the station turned to scopes instead of video. I watched two blips retreating into the blackness, one steadily gaining upon the other.

I listened as if to a particularly exciting digitavid as I heard Plet’s voice calmly addressing the crew of the fugitive vessel, informing them of who she was and whom she represented, instructing them to explain their behavior and to surrender their ship.

The other crew did not respond in a verbal fashion. If I was directing this digitavid, I would have had them retort with defiant words that would make the audience breathe faster as it anticipated justice bearing down upon them at speeds approaching that of light.

Plet informed them that if they did not surrender and return to the station, they would be fired upon. I thought now there would be a grand and exciting chase, culminating in the destruction of the fugitive vessel.

Instead, approximately ten light-minutes out, the lead ship spun in its own length, a move that I would not have attempted in a skimmer, let alone a full-sized trading vessel. It sprayed a mass of sparkling particles, then arrowed back toward the station. Their full afterburners were on, causing them to dump velocity at a dangerous rate. I had done something similar in my racing ship. It required a sophisticated combination of forward and reverse thrust, along with wrenching the helm into a 180° change of heading. Both the turn and the deceleration were dangerous to the very structure of the ship.

“What are they doing? Why did they do that?” I demanded. “Are they trying to kill themselves?”

“No one knows, sir. Speculation is rife. I can show you a list of 3,206 guesses made by the LAIs aboard the station.”

I waved an impatient hand.

“No, thank you. I would rather make my own guesses. What
are
they doing there?”

By the time they reached the space station, the
Moskowitz
seemed to be creeping, though I knew that was an optical illusion. The ship was still moving at a tremendous rate. Out in the distance, Oskelev completed the bootlegger’s turn, then had to mimic the slowdown on approach. But minutes before the
Rodrigo
could catch up with it, the
Moskowitz
crashed into the side of Way Station 46. Its nose buried itself into a hatch, whose orange chase lights immediately turned red.

“Way Station 46, open the hatch next door to the
Moskowitz
,” Plet’s calm voice ordered. In a moment, the
Rodrigo
appeared in the video pickup, and smoothly sailed into the open lens like a bird returning to the nest.

“Well done, Oskelev,” I said, releasing the breath I had been holding.

“Would your pilot like a job?” Obie inquired. “I know a long-haul transport firm specializing in high-value goods that would pay top credit for a being who can handle a ship with that skill.”

“I doubt they could afford her,” I said. “But if she ever left the navy, I might ask my cousin to take her on.”

“Your cousin? Lady Jil? Why would she need a driver trained in evasive maneuvers?”

“No, my cousin the emperor,” I said. “Oskelev is the best pilot I have ever seen. I am proud to serve with her.”

The video switched to the inside of the damaged landing bay. No one emerged from the damaged ship. The still-active engines should have been howling in atmosphere, but there was no sound.

“What happened to the audio?” I asked.

“Negotiations under way, sir,” Obie explained. “It keeps anyone else from interfering on the airwaves. Anybody on the same circuit used to throw in their own two credits. It caused a mess a few times when kibitzers goaded the spacers under siege into a suicide attempt.”

“Sensible,” I agreed, though it was frustrating not to be able to tell what was going on. I sat back. I would know soon enough.

When we reached the scene of the crime, so to speak, Obie decanted me a meter from the door of Bay Delta 47m. I leaped out. With a thrill of terror, I realized the hatchway was open a hand’s breadth. I went to peer inside. At that moment, an enormous force hit me from the left, bringing me down to the deck of the corridor.

“My lord, you gotta watch it!” Nesbitt breathed in my ear. He had been the enormous force in question. He helped me to my feet and whisked debris and dust from my clothing. “They could shoot at you!”

“Have they started a firefight?” I asked, with intense interest.

“No, sir,” he said, his good-natured face drawn in concern. “Lieutenant Plet tried to talk with them, but they just babble back at her.”

“There you are, my lord,” Parsons said, appearing at my shoulder as closely as though he were a seam in the fabric of my tunic. Station Manager FitzGreen was with him, as was the rest of my crew. “I see you have been released.”

“And not a moment too soon!” I said. “We were crowded into a padded cell!”

“Was it that troublesome, sir?” Parsons asked, with little overt sympathy in his expression. I dismissed my fit of pique as being unnecessary under the circumstances. I was, after all, where all the interesting action was taking place.

“Well, not very, to be honest. It’s a nice room, if plain. And large enough, physically speaking. Psychologically I felt the walls closing in on me, but I put that down to the company I was keeping. The seats are fairly comfortable. I don’t see that it is used very often, which is a tribute to you, Director FitzGreen,” I added, with a nod to my host. “You must experience very few emergencies here. Well done.”

“Thanks, sir, uh, my lord,” the station manager said, looking pleased, if a little puzzled.

“What is the concern with this absconding crew?” I inquired. “What has been determined? I saw the video of the chase, and very exciting it was, too.”

“It was weird, Thomas,” Oskelev said. “They couldn’t possibly beat us to the next jump point. I don’t know if they were trying to commit suicide-by-navy or what. Then they turned right around and came back.”

“I am very glad you are all intact,” I said. “And the ship?”

“Fine,” Oskelev said, with a wave of her big, furry hand. “Not a scratch. I could have done a barrel roll coming into the bay. The landing pads are huge. I could have parked beside the
Moskowitz
in the same berth. It was a snap.”

“But you went off on a jaunt without me! I am crushed.”

My friends expressed their sympathy, but Plet paid no attention to my emotional pyrotechnics. In fact, she paid no attention to the rest of us at all. She and Parsons pulled the station manager aside for a private confabulation. The rest of us attempted to listen, but with little success over the ambient noise. The
Moskowitz
’s engines were still whining, as though it would leap up and attempt another escape at any moment.

“Of course, of course,” the big man said heartily. “Anything to help the Emperor, naturally.”

Never one to take anything for granted, Plet determined to cross all T’s and dot all I’s, plus other archaic marks of typography.

“You will grant us full access to the computer systems, all records dating back at least six months before the incident that resulted in the arrest of the pilots and their crews in the Autocracy?”

The big man all but bowed and scraped to her easy authority.

“Yes, ma’am, of course, ma’am.”

My ears perked up at once. I saw a chance to do something for the Copper family.

“May I help with the search?” I asked, striding over to them. Parsons headed me off and steered me away from Plet. “I am very good at detail work, and I have sorting programs that will pick up even a trace of discontinuity. I downloaded it to keep up with the vendors for my last party.”

“I am afraid not, my lord. You are needed in a different capacity.” Behind him, Plet beckoned to Nesbitt, Redius and Anstruther. I attempted to sidestep Parsons to join them, but he proved nimbler than I. “The crew is capable of undertaking this search.”

“But you are talking about the people I have sworn to assist! I would be remiss if I did not give all my energy to setting them free.”

“You shall assist them, my lord, in good time. But now, please, focus upon the other problem at hand.”

I regarded him with impatience.

“And that is?”

“Negotiation of surrender, my lord,” Parsons said. “We have been speaking to the crew aboard the
Moskowitz
. Some of the crew are concerned that our arrival meant that they were to be arrested for outstanding warrants.”

“Warrants?” I asked. “For what offenses?”

“I have perused the Infogrid files for the crew members in question. They are wanted for varying degrees of disturbing the peace on five to eight different ports of call apiece throughout the Imperium.”

“Really?” I asked. “But these are non-extraditable offenses. Ask me how I know. Go ahead, ask.”

“I am aware of your antics on Rumdisa, sir,” Parsons said.

I was dumbstruck. I felt my mouth drop open. I hastened to rescue my lower jaw.

“Curse it, Parsons, they were stricken from the record after I paid the magistrate’s fine! Post-departure, as it happens, but that is not important. Have I
no
secrets from you?”

Parsons’s face was a sheet of blank paper, uninscribed with any descriptive phrases to mention.

“I am not at liberty to discuss the matter, sir. May we return to the problem at hand?”

“What is the problem? Just show them the statutes. They are safe if they get in touch with the magistrates’ offices in each port and pay up. It may sting a bit—the fines did get larger the longer I waited—but that’s all they wanted. Apart from promising I would behave myself in future,” I added.

“They do not believe us when we assure them that they are safe from prosecution or arrest. They are returning from the Autocracy, not going in. They are threatening to blow up their ship if we do not withdraw. They already owe substantial damages to the space station. To destroy a larger portion would only cause more dismay, and possibly several unnecessary deaths.”

“So why me? I have no talent in hostile negotiations.”

Parsons raised his eyebrows. “But you have a natural ability to get along with others,” he said.