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CHAPTER THREE

Admiral Einar Grettirson walked into the Board of Inquiry the next morning looking as though he'd spent the night tippling pure vinegar.

Or just eating his heart out, Peter thought wryly. Which would amount to the same thing. 

The admiral sat silently, his hands folded in front of him, looking as though he were praying as fiercely as he had ever fought.

The moment lengthened until some of the members of the board began to stir restlessly. Grettirson's head rose slowly; pale furrows traced a path from his thin nose to the downturned corners of his mouth; his ice blue eyes flashed coldly. The Admiral's thin lips twisted for a moment, then his expression became as stiff as wood.

"In the matter of the conduct of the captain and crew of the Dauntless," he said at last in a dry, bitter voice, "the board finds that their behavior was in full accord with the highest traditions of the service. The board directs that it should be so noted in the permanent records of each one of them."

His eyes narrowed to slits and flashed in Raeder's direction, resting on him like an accusation.

"In the matter of the conduct of Commander Peter Ernst Raeder . . ." The words slowed to a stop, as though Grettirson could barely force them out. He took a deep breath and continued. "Due to the demands of the service . . . this board is to be indefinitely adjourned . . . and will reconvene at some future date to consider the matter."

He slammed the gavel down and rose, rushing from the courtroom before anyone could react properly.

Confusion and pleasure were equally mixed among the spectators, who had risen raggedly on the admiral's departure and remained on their feet uncertainly.

He did it, by God! Raeder thought in wonder and relief. He did it! 

Vice Admiral Paula Anderson leaned forward and said, "I would like to offer my personal congratulations to the captain and crew of the Dauntless. Well done, ladies, gentlemen."

"Hear, hear," the other board members said, smiling, tapping their academy rings on the table in approbation.

"This Board of Inquiry is adjourned," the vice admiral said and struck with the gavel again. And with a smile she turned and led the others from the room.

At the door Scaragoglu turned and, with a wicked smile, crooked a finger at Peter. "My office, twenty minutes," he mouthed, and followed the others.

Knott's head snapped round to glare at Peter.

He did it, Raeder thought gleefully, trying to look innocent. Then his heart sank with the thought: And now I'm in his debt. Peter wondered how it would be to owe his career to one of the most ruthless men in existence. Like selling your soul to the devil? They didn't call General Scaragolu the Spider for nothing . . .

Knott had made his way to Raeder's side.

"I'll see you in my office at eighteen hundred, Commander. That should give you plenty of time to finish your business with the Spid . . . with the general."

"Yes, sir," Raeder said and saluted. The captain stared at him, and then shook his head—it was a fatherly gesture, somehow. It certainly makes me feel like a small boy on the carpet. Knott snapped off a salute and left the courtroom, leaving Raeder to dread both of his appointments.

Flying a Speed was different. The pilot half reclined, fingers planted in cups lined with sensors that responded to every tiny movement. That response moved the sleek fighters through their deadly acrobatic, and, with the aid of an eye-tracking mechanism built into the face shield, fired their considerable weaponry with deadly accuracy.

The face shield also showed the pilot a one hundred and eighty degree sweep of the field of stars around her as well as a heads-up display which overlaid the view. With a precise series of blinks an object could be brought up to intense magnification. Useful at the speeds and distances the fighter craft could travel.

Sarah James blinked the asteroid she'd spotted back down to size. It glinted as it tumbled, which was what had first attracted her eye. She was assigned to a routine convoy escort and was just skirting the edges of boredom.

Not that escorting convoys had been all that routine of late. Especially as they approached the jump point. Still, things had gotten somewhat better now that the powers that be had begun to allocate real weapons and the trained crews to use them to the merchant ships. At the very least they'd succeeded in thinning the ranks of the pirates.

On the other hand, like natural selection, sometimes the results were not what had been intended. Humanity was now left with only the most deadly pirates, and cockroaches that could breathe vacuum and eat insecticides.

She looked down at the convoy of freighters. Her Speed looked like a sparrow beside a crocodile in comparison to the smallest of her charges. But she was the dangerous one despite her relative size. The ships below were reasonably armed now, but they lacked her Speed's agility.

There was quite a disparity of character among the freighters. Some were glitteringly new from the factory space-yard, some old but well tended, some barely spaceworthy, if that.

Sarah dipped her head and sucked on her water tube. Instruments pinged and automatically checked on the spaceborne bodies they located. So far, all asteroids. The lieutenant commander frowned. Rather a lot of asteroids.

"Computer, is there usually this much clutter in this corridor?" she asked.

"Checking. It varies, Lt. Commander," the AI responded. "However, I have no previous reports of an asteroid field containing such large specimens in this area before now."

Interesting, Sarah thought.

Asteroid fields didn't just happen. Bodies large and small did drift through space, true, but it was vanishingly unlikely that a conglomeration of pieces this large would appear without anyone noticing them. The computer showed they averaged no less than fifty meters long and, depending on the angle, thirty wide.

They're a navigation hazard for one thing, so they should have been one of the top items in my briefing. Sarah frowned. There was also a distinct lack of smaller pieces accompanying them. I think my life just got more exciting, she thought with dawning suspicion.

Had to be more than was meeting the eye here, had to be.

"Escort to convoy," she said, then spoke the coded phrase that would bring the merchants to red alert. "You are drifting. Adjust your course on the leader by ten degrees."

"Escort," said a surprisingly young voice, "this is Murphy's Queen. What are you talkin' about? My instruments say we're all perfectly aligned."

Sarah's eyes widened. What the hell . . . ? 

"If you will check your briefing papers, Murphy's Queen, you will find that I am in charge out here. And if I tell you to adjust your alignment by ten degrees, you will adjust your alignment by ten degrees," she said loudly and with heavy emphasis, hoping that someone within hearing distance of this kid had in fact read the briefing papers.

"La-dy! If I adjust our course by ten degrees we're gonna be a big silver splat on one of these rocks out here."

Give me strength, Sarah prayed to whoever might be listening.

After a long pause she snapped, "Let me speak to your captain."

The youngster left the com open and she heard him call out, "Da-ad."

Good grief! she thought. Sarah was aware that merchanters trained their children by letting them help out on the ship. But surely, even the most raggedy-assed ship knew better than to leave what sounded like a twelve-year-old in charge of the bridge during the most dangerous period of their crossing!

Captain Dad came on with a gruff, "What'shappening?"

"Sir," Sarah said, biting off each word. "If, as indicated in your briefing papers, you would please adjust your course alignment by ten degrees, I would appreciate it."

"Whaddayoutalkin'about? We're in perfect alignment."

AAARRRGGHH!!! 

"Did you read your briefing paper?" Sarah demanded.

"No-o."

"Go read it now," she insisted. "I'll wait." And if there are pirates out there and they're listening to all this briefing papers, ten degrees, wink, wink, nudge, nudge stuff, they should be powering up any second now. If I get my hands on this guy, assuming I live through the next twenty minutes, I'm going to clean his clock! 

"Ooooh," said Murphy's Queen's captain with elephantine obviousness. "Adjust my course by ten degrees. Yes, ma-am!" And he was gone without signing off.

"Neutrino output detected," the computer said calmly. Flashing lights indicated four of the larger asteroids. "Signal is commensurate with ship power plants activating."

Nooo kidding, Sarah thought sarcastically. She brought her weapons online automatically.

"Designate which came first, second and so on," she ordered the computer. The blinking lights flashed red, yellow, blue and green in sequence. Next came the part she hated most. "Unknown ships, please identify yourselves immediately or be fired upon."

Nothing like warning the enemy. But it couldn't be helped. People did stupid things, like hiding in the bushes, then shaking them and growling when their well-armed hunting buddies came back to camp. Similarly, this might be a cluster of tramp merchants hoping to join the convoy rather than a group of pirates. It was never wise to be too trigger-happy. She forced herself to count to ten. Okay, long enough, she thought.

Sarah fired on the asteroid marked in red just as a ship burst free of its cover. Fusion-driven particle beam met carbonaceous chondrite rock and turned it into small but high-velocity shrapnel, slashing into the raider before it could build up enough delta-v to escape. The front part of the fuselage spun off out of control and crashed into the massive side of one of the freighters, in a mist of frozen air and volatiles from both craft.

Sarah winced, hoping there wouldn't be many casualties. But she was only aware of the disaster peripherally. She'd already fired on the yellow asteroid, and apparently destroyed the ship lurking behind it. But now blue and green were out of cover and swooping down on her.

All right, roughly corvette-sized. Pirate ships weren't built to order, but they usually had fairly massive power plants for their mass. Pirates were in business to intimidate and loot, not fight—and they liked to be able to run away, too.

Blue came on aggressively, while green hung back. Sarah's fingers twitched in the sensor gloves, and a small light strobed in the corner of her vision—the missile's sensors locking on to green.

"Away," the AI said passionlessly, and the Speed shuddered briefly as the weapon streaked away. She put her Speed into a roll and snapped off a barrage of energy-beam fire at Mr. Blue. . . .

Care-ful, she thought calmly, don't lose control. She came out of it to find her opponents doing just fine. Well, hell. There was a fading nimbus of plasma where a close-in defense weapon had intercepted her missile.

And they were both approaching her with a bit more respect. But they were still willing to fight.

"Following trajectory," she told her AI, and traced a curve that would put the pirates between her and the merchanters . . . and their newly formidable armaments. Even then, some part of her consciousness was aware of the backdrop, stars innumerable and burning with the clear bright colors of vacuum.

Let's distract Mr. Blue, she thought, and took the Speed looping over in a dive almost as abrupt as a winged craft in atmosphere. She faked a drive towards blue, then fired on green. The Speed bucked slightly as the particle beam slashed out, invisible to human eyes, marked on her vision by the fighter craft's systems . . .

Woah. That was visible to the naked eye, a corona of light expanding around the green marker that the sensor system had painted on her vision. Nobody who'd seen combat in space could mistake what it meant; a containment vessel had failed, and matter and antimatter had come into contact . . . and the rest of the pirate craft was now an expanding ball of ionized gas.

Blue flashed past at an angled vector and took off for the tall timber, or at least for the hyper limit. Sarah killed her velocity and boosted in the ship's wake; it was a stern chase, but she had a lot more normal-space boost than a craft burdened with interstellar capacity, even a compact and powerful one like the pirate corvette.

You took them down or you took them in, but you never left this scum to run free.

Firing solution, she thought. Too much in the way of fields and energetic particles for a beam attack, crawling up their butts like this, but a missile . . .

"Bogie on your tail," the computer announced with obscene calm.

With a gasp and a sharp stab of adrenaline Sarah's hands moved in the gloves, wrenching acceleration slamming the Speed into a random course. But she felt a hard impact and the craft was shaken like an old sock in a Doberman's mouth. The lights flared, went from green to red to overload as systems failed, lethal secondary radiation sleeted through all shielding . . .

And her board blanked and the power went offline with a descending whine, leaving only a "YOU'RE DEAD" signal blinking at her.

Sarah sat in the darkness and pouted.

Where the hell did that bogie come from? she wondered. Why didn't the computer tell me that there were fresh neutrino signals in that neighborhood? 

"Simulation over," the computer announced in a prim little voice. "Pilot and Speed both total casualties. Probable outcome of exercise, loss of one merchant ship."

Sarah winced, already assessing where her errors had lain. For one, I didn't make sure that every merchant bridge crew was familiar with the plan. 

Wearily, Sarah pushed up her helmet and unclasped her harness. The door to the simulator opened and a tech peeked in with a waft of cool, sterile station-side air. Sarah rose from her pilot's couch and stepped out, bracing herself for the inevitable techie good humor.

"You did really well in there, sir," he said, smiling, but respectful. "Only person who's ever had a higher score on this run is Commander Raeder."

Sarah's brows went up. "Raeder's run this sim?"

"Yes, sir. He's here most every day. That new prosthesis that Lieutenant Robbins made up for him works like a charm. He could fly rings around just about anybody on board. If they'd let him fly," the tech finished with a shrug.

Sarah just said, "Huh!" and walked away to write her report on this simulation. It gave her a little lift though, to know that Peter wasn't giving up. Speed pilots as a group were hard to get down. But taking their wings away was one of the few things that could do it. Raeder's determination to get his back pleased her.

Though why it should, she thought with a shake of her head, is beyond me. Then she stopped, cocked her head and turned back to the tech.

"So I've got the second-highest Speed test rating on board?" she asked.

"Yes, sir." The tech grinned. "Unofficially, of course, since the captain is the one that's s'posed to tell you."

Sarah returned his grin and gave him a thumbs up. I'm in! she thought happily, as she walked away. Now all I have to do is keep from overdosing on testosterone. 

Peter walked jauntily, returning the occasional salute; the corridors of the station felt a lot less drab and confining, now that he knew he wasn't staying here long. Even the recycled and carefully "scented" air felt better. . . .

On the other hand, he thought, I'm on my way to see His Arachnidness Marine General Scaragoglu. Even that wasn't quite enough to dampen his mood . . . but then he turned a corner to find Admiral Grettirson coming towards him. When Grettirson noticed him the admiral's lips jerked back from his teeth like a man stabbed in the backside by poisoned mandibles.

Peter's step slowed, but he continued walking. As they came closer to one another, he snapped off a salute and stepped to the side.

The admiral slowed, then stopped, standing very close to Raeder. He did not return the salute. Raeder kept his eyes stubbornly downcast, rightly afraid of the nervous laughter he knew would betray him. This was exactly the sort of situation that brought it out in him.

How do you explain to a man this serious about himself that you're not laughing at him? I'm not laughing at you, sir, I'm laughing at the situation. I am the situation, Raeder. But I'm not laughing at you, sir. Then why, Raeder? I'm laughing because, because . . . Because, sir, just because. Oh he'd had that conversation many, many times. But not with this man, he warned himself. You don't ever want this man to think you're laughing at him. 

Grettirson leaned closer, until Peter could feel the admiral's breath on his face.

"You lit-tle pissant!" the admiral said softly.

Raeder's eyes snapped up in surprise and met the full force of Grettirson's ice blue glare.

"You think you've put one over on me, don't you?" the admiral asked him. He leaned closer. "You're probably laughing at me right now, aren't you?"

No, sir! No laughing here, sir! But Peter could feel it tickling his ribs. He shook his head, trying to look sincere. Oh, God, oh, God. Don't smile, don't smile. Sweat popped out on his forehead as he struggled manfully.

"Well let me tell you, boy," the admiral's teeth were clenched and muscles in his cheeks danced with the stress, "you may think you're getting away with something here, but you are in for a big surprise. I know my duty. No one interferes with the performance of my duty. And my duty is to put glory-hungry loose cannons like you where you can't get good men killed."

Grettirson paused, breathing heavily through his nose, his thin lips pressed tight, the color draining from his cheeks. Peter sensed the tension in the older man's muscles, as though the admiral would attack physically if Raeder made a move. After what seemed an eternity Grettirson seemed to get himself under control once more.

"If you survive whatever party he has planned for you . . ." The Admiral smiled and nodded. "I'm going to issue you an invitation you can't refuse."

Huh? Raeder thought, frantically trying to figure out exactly what the admiral meant. Does he mean he's going to court martial me, or he's got an assignment that's more of a killer than even Scaragoglu can come up with? There's a cheerful thought. Either choice would keep him up nights.

Grettirson poked the commander in the chest, hard.

"You just made yourself an enemy you can't afford, boy."

I haven't got any enemies in my budget, sir, Raeder thought. Especially not admirals. 

The admiral leaned in again. "Watch your back, Commander." He hesitated and then snapped off a salute.

Raeder lowered his arm and watched Grettirson walk away. He shuddered.

There's a guy who's right on the edge. Even so, another part of him noted, the admiral couldn't bring himself not to salute. But it cost him. Raeder knew it wouldn't be welcome, but he felt sorry for the guy. Losing your kid must be the worst thing that can happen to anybody. Which did not mean he had any intention of taking it in the neck as someone's revenge against an uncaring universe.

So should I mention this . . . encounter to the Scaragoglu? No. It was doubtful that the Marine general would appreciate something that smacked of whining. By the same token, he'd expect to be informed. Guess I'd better have another drink with Sjarhir then. 

Raeder continued thoughtfully on his way, feeling a great deal less jaunty than he had.

To Peter's surprise, when Scaragoglu's secretary let him into the inner office, Captain Knott was seated before the Marine general's desk, sipping whiskey, looking as though he'd been there for some time. There was a slight smell of fine tobacco and single-malt liquor tinging the inevitable Navy smell of recycled air and metal and synthetics.

Reader saluted and his seniors answered it. He could feel their eyes on him now, disconcertingly sharp, like the targeting lasers of a seeker missile. He had the feeling that they were expecting him to do something clever.

Like . . . ?

"Sit down, Commander." Scaragoglu leaned back in his chair and watched Peter seat himself, then he leaned forward and pulled the chair up to his desk, leaning his elbows upon it. "I've been outlining the bare bones of the plan to Captain Knott here," he said, indicating the Captain with a gesture. "Now that you're here, we can get down to some of the specifics.

"We're planning this as a thirty-day mission. The Invincible will enter Mollie space on what is apparently a raid-scouting mission. We've got some good information that should bring you in on the skirts of a pirate we've been tracking." He passed a chip over to the captain. "That's her dossier. She's got three genuine Speeds, four Mollie-built copies and one jury-rigged critter that still manages to do a lot of damage. The main ship is an old Earth-built bulk freighter with souped-up engines. Our information says that the Mollies are so eager for the goods she's carrying that they're sending an escort." He smiled grimly and nodded at Knott. "That should give your people a little something to sharpen their teeth on. Whatever else happens though, let at least one Mollie ship go crying home to the Interpreters. When you've chased them far enough that you're sure they won't double back on you, call back your Speeds and proceed to this location."

He called up the holo of the asteroid field he'd shown Peter the night before.

"I'll give you both a chip on this before you go, gentlemen." Scaragoglu gave Knott a nod. "It's an obvious job for a light carrier," he said. "The Invincible is fast, she's small, but she packs a wallop when she needs to, and best of all she can carry a whole lot of Speeds. More than we'd originally planned, in fact. Your last mission proved that."

"How many more?" Knott asked.

"Six. We couldn't hide more than that in our projected base." He touched the miner's hutch with a laser pointer and enlarged the view. Scaragoglu turned to Peter. "There's no gravity there, can't be helped. Any change in that area will draw attention and we can't risk that. So you'll just have to live with it. But it might be a factor in choosing your crew."

Raeder nodded. Space adjustment sickness was a factor, if a minor one. Most Speed pilots were only affected by SAS in a minor way, but someone inclined to vomit when it struck was a definite disadvantage. Especially in a place that probably had lousy air filtration.

"Your Speeds will be specially equipped with unusually heavy weaponry." Scaragoglu grinned. "That should make you equal to about anything you run into. If you encounter pirates, engage them," he said. "If you can take them, imprison them in their own ship. Disable their engines, weapons and communications. Then lock them away from anything more vital than the kitchen and the head." He took a thoughtful sip of whiskey. "It would probably be best to drain their fuel and then destroy any pirate ships you take after the first one. One ship should suffice to contain all your prisoners; I don't especially care if they get along together. With the weaponry you'll be assigned you should only leave a few atoms floating around. Any ship too big to destroy completely, get it deep into the asteroid field and break it up there." The general's sharp brown eyes met Raeder's. "While I don't want these people abused the fact is that you won't have enough people to nursemaid them. They'll have air, water, and food, the rest will be their responsibility.

"If, however, you encounter Commonwealth freighters shipping to the Mollies, you will take them with the least loss of life possible. Lock them in their own ships and hide them in the asteroid field until they can be escorted home by the Invincible. Intelligence, needless to say, will be very interested in any records of transactions you might obtain."

"What about Mollie patrols, or freighters, sir?" Raeder asked.

The Marine general pursed his lips.

"The Mollies are the enemy, Commander. Treat them as such. When attacking the Mollies you will do your best to appear to be pirates. Mollie patrols are fair game," he continued, "defeat them if you can. The freighters present a more delicate problem. By our lights they'd be civilians. But by Mollie standards they're as much soldiers as anybody in a fighting craft."

He shrugged. Uh-oh, Peter thought. That was the shrug of a superior officer saying: Use your own judgement. That generally translated: If you're right, I get the credit; if you screw up, you're the goat. The Commonwealth had a long traditon of gentlemanly treatment of noncombatants; on the other hand, the Commonwealth didn'thave a long tradition of fighting for its life against opponents of comparable strength.

"If we'd consider them civilians, sir, then I'll treat them as such," Raeder said.

Scaragoglu smiled.

"I knew you'd say that, Commander." He shook a finger at Peter. "Just remember, they will fight like soldiers and consider themselves to be soldiers. So treat them with appropriate caution. Allow the odd one to escape, towards the end of your stay, naturally, to tell the Interpreters all about this pirate activity they've encountered. If you do it right, they should never suspect it's us. The aim of this operation isn't simply to destroy enemy shipping; it's disinformation."

He raised his brows and looked at Peter until the commander nodded.

"Excellent." The Marine general passed out a set of chips to both Peter and Knott. "These are the particulars on the location and the base, the mission brief and your orders. These," he looked at Peter, "are the dossiers of those Marines I mentioned to you. And a couple of technical people I'd like you to consider." He handed them over. "If you have any further questions on this material contact my liaison." He nodded at Sjarhir, quietly seated in his corner.

"The pirate ship the Invincible is going after, the Bastard's Bait, appropriately enough, will be coming through the jump point in three weeks." Scaragoglu grimaced. "Unless they all get drunk and forget about it completely."

Raeder and Knott smiled politely.

"It's tight, I know. But I've given orders that your resupply needs are a top priority, so I don't imagine you'll be given the usual runaround by the quartermaster." This time he smiled, and it wasn't polite.

Uh-oh, Peter thought again. There weren't very many people who'd care to talk procedure with Scaragoglu when he had a mission priority statement from the High Command. The problem was that the Marine knew that and savored it.

This guy knows what he's doing. Trouble is, he enjoys having that sort of clout. Which made you just a bit nervous about working for him. I'd trust Knott to back me up whatever happened. Hell, he has backed me up when it put his ass in a crack too. Scaragoglu . . . all I know about Scaragoglu is rumors and the fact that he's called the Spider. 

Scaragoglu leaned back, the chair creaking slightly under his massive shoulders.

"Questions?" he asked.

"None immediately spring to mind, sir," Knott answered. "I may have a few once I've reviewed this material."

The Marine general nodded affably and turned to Peter.

"I have my pick of personnel, sir?" he asked.

Scaragoglu nodded.

"With only seven days I'll have to get my candidates from Ontario Base and the Invincible," Raeder said. "Will I be allowed access to service records?"

"Virtually unlimited access," the general said expansively. "Your way is cleared and the rails are greased." He gave Raeder a smile. "Don't get used to it."

"No, sir," Peter answered, with a small smile of his own.

"If there's nothing else, gentlemen . . ." The Marine general rose and they rose with him. He extended his hand to Knott, then to Raeder. "Good luck, good hunting, and may God and His Prophet go with you."

"Thank you, sir," they both murmured and left the office together.

They'd walked a long way through the myriad corridors of Ontario Base, each lost in his own thoughts as they made their way back to the Invincible.

At last, Peter cleared his throat and asked, "Did you still want to see me, sir?"

Knott gave him a sidelong glance and shook his head.

"No point," he said with a rueful smile. "I've been snookered by the old bastard myself. Who am I to give you dire warnings?"

Then the older man grinned. "Besides, this isexactly the sort of thing the Invincible was designed for, and I did request the command."

"In other words, sir, you're exactly the sort of glory hound you were about to chew me out for being?"

For a moment Raeder thought he'd gone too far, and then the captain's shoulders rose and fell in a shrug. "That's one way to put it, son. The other is that I'm extremely focused . . . which is what you call the same behaviors once the hormonal storm of youth has passed. Let's go; we've both got a Hell-load of work to do."

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