Lost Star (17 page)
Captain Sear flopped onto the plush black leather couch and set his booted feet on the smoked glass table before him. Starlight from the broad window behind him showing open space sparkled on his mirror-shined boots. “So, now that you’re a respectable captain—”
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Ravnos snorted. “Since when is a pirate
respectable
?”
Captain Sear waved his gloved hand. “You’re a privateer, a mercenary for legitimate hire, not a pirate out for his own gain.”
Captain Melchior lifted the long skirts of her royal blue captain’s coat and dropped into the matching recliner by the couch. “I’d say that’s debatable.” She grinned, and the dim golden light burnished her dark skin with copper highlights. Her pitch-black lion’s mane of hair gleamed blue with only the slightest touch of silver. One dark brow lifted. “I think Ravnos gains plenty, every time Moribund loses another base to our guns.”
From his seat on the opposite recliner, Ravnos nodded solemnly. “I gain one more peaceful night of sleep.”
Captain Sear rolled his eyes. “Don’t we all?”
Their shared laughter was quiet and subdued.
“Anyway…” Captain Sear sat up and slapped his black-clad knees. “So, Captain Ravnos, how do you feel about a diplomatic mission?”
Ravnos blinked. “Diplomatic?”
Captain Sear nodded. “I have a highly sensitive document that needs to be delivered to Barbados Prime, just past Imperial borders.”
Ravnos’s brows lifted. Barbados Prime was the capital of the Republic of the Caribbean Stars, one of the richest and best defended star-based nations in the known universe. They were infamous for being the original safe haven for the first spaceflight privateers and merchant marine corps and had named their worlds for their most lucrative profession: interstellar piracy.
Over a century ago, the Republic had chosen to join the Imperial League of Interstellar Nations as a legitimate government and had supposedly stopped their plundering. Officially, they maintained their current level of wealth by training and deploying private armies that flew to engagements in demon-class mercenary warships.
The small Republic was treated with sincere respect in the Empire, as not one Imperial house wanted the Republic’s warships aimed at them.
Ravnos shook his head. “Do I want to know what this…document…entails?”
Captain Sear shrugged. “They are your ship’s articles declaring your fealty to President William Ayden Cyrus Kidd of the Republic of Caribbean Stars. As they are a free government, you and your ship will be outside of Imperial jurisdiction.”
Ravnos’s smile tightened. “And beyond the reach of Moribund’s extremely high-placed patron, I assume?”
Captain Sear’s pale lips stretched into a broad smile, baring his teeth. It wasn’t exactly a pretty sight. “President Kidd utterly loathes the Moribund Company.”
Captain Melchior rolled her expressive black eyes. “Oh, great, you’re cutting him loose in the rum and gambling capital of the known universe?”
Ravnos grinned. “You know, I always wanted to have my home port in paradise.”
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Captain Melchior narrowed her gaze on Ravnos. “Don’t go marrying any professional courtesans.”
Ravnos blinked. “Are you saying I should marry an amateur?”
“Oh!” Sear lifted one black-gloved finger and grinned. “That reminds me.” He leaned to one side to reach into his coat pocket. “I have a gift for you.” He pulled out a flat white paper box the size of his hand. He flicked his wrist and sent the box spinning toward Ravnos.
Ravnos reached out and snagged the flying box. “A gift?”
Sear’s smile widened to show his teeth. “Open it.”
Ravnos opened the box and lifted out a gold bangle as thick as his pinky. “A bracelet?” His augmented vision focused on the shimmering iridescence moving along the metal. The band was covered…no, made of titanium nanites. “This is…mimetic?”
Sear chuckled. “Key word, anchor thirteen.”
Ravnos frowned at the band in his palm. “Anchor thirteen.” The band promptly shrank down to a width of three fingers, the perfect size for a… Ravnos looked over at Sear. “A cockring?”
Sear shrugged. “Well, you
are
going to be stationed in the rum and gambling capital of the known universe.” He lifted his glass of champagne. “Wouldn’t want you to lose control right away.”
Captain Melchior threw back her head and released a peal of laughter. “Perfect!”
* * * * *
Hellsbreath’s
extremely posh captain’s gig, Ravnos looked down on the sprawling capital city of the Republic of the Caribbean Stars. The vast collection of pillared whitewashed palazzos was perched on the very edge of the rugged cliffs overlooking the sea coast. The gold-, silver-, and copper-plated domes sparkled under iridescent energy-deflection domes. The surrounding ocean was a perfect turquoise blue, and the sandy coast a snowy white under the planet’s double sun. Imported Terran palm trees waved their broad fronds in the near-constant sea breeze.
It was the very picture of paradise.
The barque veered toward the broad cone of the space dock.
Ravnos settled back into his seat. He had wanted to spend his entire two weeks of shore leave in the city, but that simply wasn’t possible. It seemed that he wasn’t the only one with an appointment with President Kidd. According to his intelligence, there were several visiting dignitaries, including an Imperial admiral and a royal delegation from Skeldhor.
Seht…
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Ravnos pressed a hand over his pounding heart. He took a deep, slow breath and reached for calm. There was no way in hell that Seht would be there.
But if he was…?
He shook his head firmly. He had no intention of being anywhere close enough to them to find out. He would not endanger his dream of annihilating the Moribund Company with even the remote possibility that he might be recognized for what he was. Not even for the chance to catch a glimpse of the one person who still haunted his dreams.
The
Hellsbreath’s
gig eased over the mile-wide mouth of the cone-shaped spaceport sliding into the Meissner anti-grav inertial-dampening field. Bells sounded, warning all other ships that the gigantic superconductors miles below under the floor of the pit were in use. The ship drifted downward.
Eyes closed, Ravnos monitored everything through his residual link to the gig’s sentience. His nav-pilot and the small craft worked in perfect sync, the organic mind blending seamlessly with the machine’s sentience. He nodded in approval.
Synchronization didn’t always happen. More than a few pilots treated the ships they flew as dead, unthinking objects. Not a good idea when, more often than not, the ship was far more intelligent and in the case of the larger, older ships, salient or self-aware. Salient ships were more than capable of point-blank refusing to fly for a pilot.
God help the pilot who succeeded in pissing their ship off. Snowfall in their private quarters was the least an annoyed ship was capable of.
At the appropriate level, the gig’s descent stopped and the small craft’s electro-turbines kicked in to nudge the gig to the side and into its assigned dock. The gig settled gently into its birth. Behind them, the gigantic ramp that led into the pit lifted and closed, cutting off the influence of the gravity field. His men scrambled to prepare for debarking.
Ravnos rose from his seat, straightened his coat, and headed for the pressure door a yeoman held open.
His lieutenant and four of his six-man crew preceded him down the short flight of stairs and assembled at the foot.
He stepped down to the bottom of the staircase. The air was warm and fragrant with flowers, even as deep as they were in the space dock.
As one, his men’s hands rose to the polished bills of their caps in salute. Their black and silver uniforms were pressed to crisp perfection, and their spit-shined knee-boots gleamed under the dock lights. Each carried a live-steel saber at his side, but no sidearm. No soldier walked without a weapon at his side, but in the vacuum of space, where a single pinhole through a ship’s hull could be enough to kill everyone on board, projectile and energy weapons were too dangerous to allow on any ship.
An elegant and crushingly expensive silver anti-grav limousine floated into the dock propelled by nearly silent electro-turbines. It settled only ten paces from the gig’s staircase.
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Ravnos contemplated the sleek vehicle with a frown. “Nav-pilot.” The receiver sensor fastened to his collar vibrated a tiny amount.
The nav-pilot’s voice crackled from his earcom. “Yes, Captain?”
Ravnos folded his hands behind him. “There’s a…vehicle in our berth.”
“Yes, Captain, transportation courtesy of the president.”
Ravnos’s brows lifted.
The president?
He was only a ship captain, not a royal dignitary. He shook his head. “Thank you, nav-pilot.”
“Aye, aye, Captain.”
Crap…
Ravnos signaled his men to begin loading his belongings and the crate of gifts intended for the president. He didn’t want to chance that he might insult the president by refusing. However, he wasn’t about to leave his escort behind either, not with both an Imperial admiral and a Skeldhi delegation in residence.
He turned to his lieutenant. “Follow me in the
Imp
. Once we disembark, keep it manned, and within a one-minute range of my signal at all times. Tell the men to stay on alert and in contact with each other through the secure frequency.” He seriously considered telling them to strap on their body armor, but he didn’t think that would make a good impression on his high-ranking host. This called for subtlety. Ravnos lifted his chin. “And have the men wear a deflection scarab.”
When activated, the small oval device projected a nearly invisible energy field around the wearer. It wouldn’t stop a bolt at point-blank range, but it would deflect sword slashes, knife thrusts, and anything fired from beyond two body-lengths away. It was commonly worn by security personnel and street constables, so it shouldn’t be too offensive.
The lieutenant’s brows lifted. “Expecting trouble?”
Ravnos smiled grimly. “Merely a precaution.”
The lieutenant tugged on the polished brim of his hat and bowed briefly. “Aye, aye, Captain.” He turned and hurried back to the gig. The rest of the crew followed on his heels.
Only moments later, a flat black, deflection-plate-armored transporter with heavily tinted, narrow windows along the sides eased out from the rear dock of the gig.
Ravnos lowered himself into the plush backseat of the limousine. The automatic door closed behind him.
The limousine’s spinning turbines powered up, lifting the sleek, expensive vehicle from the pavement. Emitting only a soft hum, it eased from the dock and turned onto the broad, curving roadway that circled the inertial shield wall holding the powerful Meissner field within the central pit. Within minutes, the limousine, followed by the black transport with his crew, sped from the cone-shaped space dock and down the broad roadway that ran along the spectacular coastline.
Ravnos settled back into the seat and sighed. He’d assumed that his rank as a mere ship’s captain meant he’d be granted a short office visit to deliver his papers and 104
Morgan Hawke
perhaps a private word or two. The limousine was an ominous sign. He rubbed his brow.
I hope this doesn’t mean I’m going to have to attend some kind of state dinner or other
silly, formal function
. His table manners were okay, but chefs tended to get upset when they realized he wouldn’t touch any dish with even a hint of green vegetables.
The gleaming silver limousine rose from the coastline roadway, turned landward, and soared toward the gleaming domes at the heart of the capital city. The plain black transport followed close behind. With smooth precision, they eased into the stream of flight-traffic heading into the city, accompanied by a vast array of streamlined civilian vehicles and bulky utilitarian commercial transports.
Sunlight shimmered in rainbow hues on the plasti-steel windows and gleamed on the metallic domes and marbled pillars of the old-world, classical-style buildings. The windows, balconies, walkways, and arches of every home and shop were overrun with climbing flowers in every conceivable color. The people who walked the winding streets were tanned a golden brown and wore layered robes in as many colors as the flowers that grew everywhere. It made an interesting contrast against ultramodern chrome and smoked-glass corporate districts.
On the far edge of the island, they approached a sprawling palatial complex of domes overrun with trees and flowers. At the very center rose a sleek tower, which appeared to be made of glass. Balconies swathed with flowers and plants dotted the entire structure. As they drew closer, he suddenly realized that what he had taken for balconies were in fact broad landing platforms nearly forested with huge flowering trees. The tower was monstrous at nearly two meters wide.
The limousine and the transporter passed through a shimmering energy field and drifted toward the mid- to lower levels, then settled down onto one of the smaller landing platforms, the size of four city blocks. The limousine door opened.
Ravnos stepped out into bright sunshine and a warm sea breeze. The view was spectacular. From where he stood, he was able to see the coastline for almost the entire island.
A young gentleman in a bright blue frockcoat and knee breeches approached from the glass double doors. His feathered tricorn hat sat atop curling black hair that was tied back at his nape with a broad blue bow. His entire ensemble was practically dripping with frothy white lace. He bowed. “Welcome to Barbados Prime, Captain Ravnos. I am Toggs, chamberlain to the president.” He turned to the side and waved a hand toward the open doors beyond. “The president is waiting for you.”
Ravnos, his lieutenant, and four of his crew followed Toggs through the double doors and along curving carpeted hallways with floor-to-ceiling windows along one side. Ravnos couldn’t help but stare at the panoramic view.