Rebellion of Stars (Starship Blackbeard Book 4) (3 page)

“When did you say?” came Barker’s gruff voice over the com. The chief of engineering sounded grumpy.

“22:30,” Drake said. “We’ve got time.”

A grunt. “Check again.”

Drake looked down at his console and blinked. The time read 22:14. He’d been looking at it moments earlier, and it had read 19:18. He’d have sworn it. “What the devil?”

“We lost Jane in the fight with that torpedo boat,” Barker said. “She only just came back online and updated the time. You’ve been operating on pre-dilation. Now, it’s correct.”

Time dilation was minimal at ten percent the speed of light—
Blackbeard
’s top speed. At ten percent, you lost about fourteen minutes per day. Normally, the AI recalculated and adjusted the shipboard clocks automatically, so they didn’t fall behind real time. But they’d spent ten days galloping across the solar system, and all that time, Jane had been down. Drake had been operating on pre-dilation time and never realized it.

He uttered an oath and told Barker to get to it, then snapped new orders at Smythe and Manx, who set about their work with fresh urgency. Capp was in the pilot’s chair, but he wanted Nyb Pim on deck in case they entered combat. So he recalled the Hroom pilot from his sleep cycle.

“I’ve got
Vigilant
, sir,” Smythe said from the scanners as Nyb Pim came onto the bridge, blinking away the sleep and rubbing his long, thin fingers over his smooth scalp.

“Is she alone?” Drake asked.

Smythe frowned and studied his console. Drake’s throat was dry, and there was the buzz in his head that he felt before battle, when all his nerves were tingling, his senses heightened. Untold millennia of evolution, carried by his genes from Old Earth, readied him for this life-and-death struggle.

“Yes,” Smythe said at last. “She’s alone.”

Drake felt as though an electric current had been turned off. Nyb Pim had sat down, moving Capp to the subpilot’s chair. Nyb Pim’s fingers flew over his console. Capp rubbed at the lion tattoos on her forearm, staring hard at the viewscreen, which had just captured
Vigilant
’s shadow and was further resolving the image with every scan.

Capp let out her breath in a long blow. “Bloody hell, Smythe. Don’t make us wait like that.”

“The scanners hadn’t . . . ” Smythe started to protest, then stopped. “Wait . . . yes, there she is. Another ship. It’s
Melbourne
, sir.”

“King’s balls,” Capp said. “And three bloody Harpoons. Look at ’em.”

HMS
Melbourne
was an Aggressor-class cruiser, not quite as powerful as either
Blackbeard
or
Vigilant
, but strong enough. And she was traveling with three Harpoon-class destroyers. Who was captaining
Melbourne
? Was it still McGreggor? He was an able commander. It would be a fight.

The viewscreen changed over. On came Nigel Rutherford’s grim visage. “Drake,” he said in that cold, almost arrogant tone. “I’ve brought you a small gift.”

“I see that,” Drake said. “But a cruiser and three destroyers is awfully generous of you.”

“You are welcome.” A shrug. “I forgot to acknowledge your birthday. Let this be recompense.”

“Why, thank you.”

“Keep your location hidden—I don’t think you’ve been spotted. I’ll come down as if trying to shield myself behind all those moons, and you can spring an ambush. Here’s what you should do—”

“Captain Rutherford,” Drake interrupted, his tone firm.

Rutherford stared back, and the muscles tightened on his jaw. It was a challenge. What better plan was there?

Drake’s forces were a motley collection of paid mercenaries—pirates, really—and rebellious elements of the Royal Navy like Nigel Rutherford. Drake and Rutherford had spent a year as enemies after Drake’s mutiny, and though they were now on the same side after Malthorne’s treacherous grab for the throne, there was still friction between them. In principle, Drake was the head of the fleet. In practice, Drake and Rutherford were often vying for control.

Tolvern had urged Drake to declare himself admiral. That would settle command once and for all. Drake resisted. These things must be done properly. He wouldn’t have a civil war within a civil war.

Drake waited, and at last, Rutherford nodded. “Yes, sir. Your command?”

That was all Drake had needed, and he was willing to concede everything else. “It is an excellent plan, Captain. We will follow your suggestion.”

Soon enough, Rutherford was slowing
Vigilant
as he approached the planet. The enemy cruiser and the three escorting destroyers slowed, too, but only to launch an initial barrage of missiles. Too far out; those missiles would do little good.

Drake hid behind one of the larger moon fragments. HMS
Melbourne
got greedy and chased after
Vigilant
without waiting for her destroyers to get into position. At that moment, Drake brought
Blackbeard
into the open. It took a moment to drop the cloaks and get the batteries hot, but
Melbourne
didn’t spot them until it was too late.

The enemy cruiser was blasting at
Vigilant
, now within range. She swung wide to show her main guns, and that exposed her to
Blackbeard
.

Drake fired two torpedoes. They whipped past hastily launched countermeasures and slammed into
Melbourne
’s rear. The enemy cruiser snapped off missiles in response, which
Blackbeard
swatted away. Drake ordered the main cannon readied as they came to. By now,
Blackbeard
was only a few hundred miles distant.

“Fire!” Drake ordered.

Blackbeard
let loose with a broadside. The shot tore into
Melbourne
’s shields. Another torpedo disabled the engines.

Drake expected
Vigilant
to wheel on
Melbourne
. With the enemy vessel wounded, the two rebel cruisers would shortly finish her off. But Rutherford continued, accelerating now as he skimmed above the atmosphere of the planet. He came at one of the destroyers, now isolated and vulnerable. The destroyer fled.

Melbourne
fired her own guns, and she and
Blackbeard
exchanged fire for several minutes, but
Blackbeard
had gained the upper hand in the initial engagement, and pressed her advantage. Drake’s crew was readying another broadside when Captain McGreggor surrendered.

Capp pumped her fist. “Got you, ya bastards.”

Nyb Pim gave a pleased hoot, and Smythe, Manx, and Oglethorpe slapped each other on the backs, grinning. Even wounded,
Melbourne
was a terrific prize. Repaired and with a new crew, she’d be a powerful addition to the rebel navy.

By now, the three enemy destroyers had regrouped. But not to fight. Instead, they fled toward Hot Barsa. There, they no doubt figured, they could be protected by the guns of the orbital fortresses while they awaited orders. Drake watched their flight with dismay. That was all wrong. Clearing the region around the planet of Hot Barsa itself was the reason for all of these fights across the system. To pin down Lord Malthorne’s forces tens of millions of miles from where they’d be needed.

Having scattered the destroyers, Rutherford brought
Vigilant
into position to guard
Blackbeard
’s rear should the remaining vessels mount one last bid to free
Melbourne
. When the threat faded,
Vigilant
swung around to take possession of the prize.

“Smythe, send Tolvern a subspace,” Drake said, still worried about those destroyers.

“Yes, sir. Should I tell her the gig’s up?”

Drake hesitated. He touched the console. “Jane. I need numbers. Estimate Tolvern’s arrival time at Hot Barsa.”

“Unknown ship,” came the cool voice of the computer. She sounded almost petulant, as if she knew what he was asking, but meant him to spell it out.

“Don’t be so blasted literal minded,” he said. “HMS
Philistine
. According to her last known course. Give me an arrival time.”

It took several long moments before the response came back. Drake knew this was because Jane had only just come back online and was no doubt expending much of her computation power running diagnostics and repair, but it seemed like pure stubbornness.

She was slow enough that Capp and Nyb Pim had already calculated the similar data for the three destroyers by running it through the nav computer, although admittedly, this was much less precise. Tolvern had a window. A very, very tight window. Drake’s instincts said no, but they might not get another chance. This was their opportunity to fatally weaken Lord Malthorne. They had to take it.

“Sir, do you still want that subspace?” Smythe asked, his hands poised above his console.

“Cap’n,” Capp protested. “You can’t let Tolvern stand against them destroyers. They’ll eat her alive. We’ll go after ’em. Us and
Vigilant
. We’ll settle their hash.”

No, because there was still a powerful task force nearby, three cruisers and support craft.
Blackbeard
and
Vigilant
needed to harass these ships out in the space lanes to keep them from either crushing the mercenaries and their diversion or joining the protective cordon around Hot Barsa.

“Subspace channel is open, sir,” Smythe said. “It’s eating power. If you want to send a message . . . ”

Drake decided. “Tell Tolvern what’s coming and when. But she is to proceed as planned.”

A grim silence settled over the bridge as Smythe moved to comply. Tolvern had served as
Blackbeard
’s commander and Drake’s second until a few months ago. She’d been given her own ship after the Battle of Albion, and Lieutenant Oglethorpe had taken her place. They all knew her, and worried.

Drake stared hard at the console and the fading signature of those three destroyers, still accelerating toward Hot Barsa. Three orbital fortresses and now a trio of destroyers.

Jess Tolvern would have to face them all. Only two months at the helm of her first command. It might be her last.

Chapter Four

Two days after receiving the subspace warning from Captain Drake, Jess Tolvern stood in the engineering bay, watching two muscular corporals load the away pod with supplies. The pod was made to hold eight, but would only carry four on this mission. The rest of the space would be stuffed from floor to ceiling with supplies to keep the away team alive while it completed its mission.

Science Officer Noah Brockett stood next to her, rubbing at his stubble. More peach fuzz than stubble, really, a little tuft growing on the edge of his chin. He had bags under his eyes from working so hard the last few days, making him look, for the first time since she’d met him, like an adult and not a brainy teenager. In reality, he was twenty-five, not much younger than herself.

“Glad it’s not me going out in that tin can,” Brockett said.

“It’s not so bad,” she said. “Assuming you don’t die in transit.”

“That’s what I’m talking about. I saw what nearly happened to you at Albion.”

During the attack on Albion, Drake had used two away pods to assemble a rescue team on a small sloop. In calm circumstances, precision equipment and precise computation rendered such ship-to-ship transfers routine. A slingshot flung you toward another ship, and a hook and net brought you in.

But under fire, it was hell. The little sloop had rolled to avoid incoming fire, and one of the pods missed the transfer and fell into the atmosphere. It burned as it went down. The other—Tolvern’s—had nearly suffered the same fate. She’d been inches from death.

“This is safer,” she said. “It’s shielded, so it won’t be destroyed in the atmosphere. It has a parachute. Even if it’s off course, it’s got to land somewhere.”

“That somewhere could be the ocean,” Brockett said. “Or it smashes into the side of a mountain. Or it lands, and the first people to step out are carried off by lurkers. I lived on Hot Barsa. I know what’s down there.”

And Brockett had lived in the highlands, at Malthorne’s laboratories, where he’d been synthesizing the sugar antidote. Even there, it was sweltering, with plenty of nasty creatures hanging about: lurkers, pouncers, mosquitoes the size of birds, carnivorous eels. The lowlands would be a special sort of hell for humans. Only Sal Ypis, the Hroom translator for the mission, would feel comfortable in those conditions. Though she hadn’t seemed overly pleased about her assignment, now that Tolvern thought about it.

One of the corporals drove a forklift containing a flat of refrigerator-size coolers across the cargo bay. Brockett walked alongside, his hand against the coolers to steady them.

“Careful,” he said. “That’s a lot of work in there.”

“Keep back, kid, unless you want your toes mashed,” the driver said.

The corporal had a deep, masculine voice, and the stubble on his face was thick and dark, the kind that seemed poised to bloom into a full-size beard if it weren’t shaved day and night. The contrast with the science officer’s peach fuzz was telling.

But Brockett wouldn’t be dissuaded. “You didn’t tie this down properly,” he said as the forklift stopped and the man jumped down to help his partner load the coolers onto the pod. “Next load, use the straps.”

“Listen, kid, I been doing this since you were in diapers. And I don’t mean two weeks ago. So before you go telling me how to do my job—”

“Do what he says, Corporal,” Tolvern interrupted.

The corporal blinked and stared at her. “Aye, sir. Sorry, sir.” The man returned to his work.

“I don’t know,” Brockett confided to Tolvern. “Maybe I should go down instead of Henry. He’s awfully young.”

Henry Jukes was Brockett’s new lab assistant and even younger than his boss. Nineteen, was that right? Looked about twelve, to be honest. Henry had been a math whiz studying at the Naval Academy in Juneau, but he’d been home on Saxony for semester break when civil war broke out. He’d quickly enlisted to join the rebellion. She didn’t think Henry was overly political, but throw him in a lab full of cool computers and machines that whirred and beeped, and he’d do anything for the cause.