Seven

The Shade Tree

“Coming in on the Avalon system now, Captain – normal space in five, four, three, two, one, mark.”

With a slight shudder, the Shade Tree dropped out of subspace. The blue-white globe of Avalon shone steadily in the near distance.

“Shall I call for a parking orbit assignment?” Kaelee Adams asked from the Signals panel.

“No. We’re tactical as of now, people. Total EMCON, I don’t want anyone to know we’re here. Navigation, get us a fix on that gas giant.”

“Scanning, Captain – got it. Recommend course one oh six by three.”

“New course, one oh six by three. Ahead full. Plot your jump to put us north of the planet, just out of easy visual range of anything in that ring system or in high orbit around the giant.”

“Plotted and engaged. We’ll be there in six minutes.”

Barrett stabbed a contact on the arm of her Bridge chair. “Gomp, get your people ready.”

“We’re cocked and locked, Cap’n,” the reply came back from the ship’s shuttle port.

“All right, as soon as we drop out of subspace, I want a global scan of the area. Look for any large stations, any habitable moons. I want a good map of what’s going on out here.”

The Shade Tree’s six-member boarding party was waiting at the port to the shuttle, making a last-minute check of weapons and armor, when Colonel Feller walked into the narrow compartment.

Gomp’s eyes opened wide. The Colonel was wearing battered old polymer armor, the ancient Mark VI armor used before the war, and carrying a carbine. It was not the armor and carbine but rather the Colonel’s face that drew Gomp’s attention; Feller wore his normal stern expression, and the inevitable cigar was clamped in a corner of his mouth, but his skin was pale, and sweat glistened on his forehead.

“Sir, are you all right?”

“Fine,” Feller snapped. “Haven’t worn this armor in a while. Heavy damn stuff.”

“Are your sure you want to do this? We may be boarding under fire.”

“How the hell do you think I earned a living for forty years?” Feller barked. “You want to try to take me hand-to-hand, Gomp?  I’m an old man, but I’m still a man.”

Gomp raised his hands. “No argument, sir. It’s just that the Captain will skin me if anything happens to a passenger.”

“Relax. I can handle myself as well as any of these juvenile delinquents on your boarding party.”

Gomp looked at his crew; most of them wore sternly repressed grins. “All right, sir,” he relented. “Glad to have you.”

Feller scowled around his cigar. “Goddamn slavers, anyway. Hope the Captain isn’t too hopeful about any prisoners.”

On the Bridge, the six-minute subspace run to the Belt was ticking down its last seconds:

“Four, three, two, one, normal space.” On the main screen, the rubble and boulders of Titan’s Belt sprang into view.

“All stop,” Barrett ordered. “Hold our position here. Scanning, get busy.”

“On it, Captain,” Scanning tech Anita Knapp replied. “I’ve got what looks like two big stations, one’s a pressure dome on that big asteroid at one-oh-one by six, the other’s a free-floater at oh-six by fifteen south. Dozens and dozens of tiny operations, some airless, some domed, but those two are the only ones of any size.  I’ve got a shuttle moving from the big pressure dome station towards a big solid moon at oh-six-five by three. That moon has an atmosphere, Captain; thin but breathable.”

“There may be a settlement there, then,” Barrett said. “Get me data on that shuttle.”

“Standard intersystem shuttle, no Gellar drive, just ion drive; probably a small cargo and personnel hauler working in the Belt. He’s just motoring along towards that moon; isn’t in any hurry, probably being careful with his maneuvering in all those rocks. Funny…”

“What?  What’s funny?” Barrett demanded.

“Some kind of digital signal coming from the shuttle. Very faint. It’s just one-zero, one-zero, one-zero, repeated over and over.”

“Not a navigation beacon?”

“No, they’re already running a standard nav beacon.”

Barrett’s space-tested instincts kicked into overdrive. “It’s them. The girls are on that shuttle. Plot intercept course, ahead two thirds. Arm particle beams.”

***

The Brookes

Jane Polston, the Brookes’ Executive Officer, was on the ship’s Bridge when her Scanning technician called out a contact report. “Miz Polston, I got a ship just popped out of subspace, about sixty thousand kilometers north of the station.  They’re reversing hard, slowing to a stop.”

“What are they doing?”

“They’ve stopped. Best guess is they’re scanning.”

“What kind of ship is it?”

The tech bent over the slave ship’s tiny scanning console. “I’m not getting much. No navigation or ID beacons. It’s a small ship, hard to pick up visually, almost no radar return.” He looked up. “Armed privateer ship, Miz Polston, I’d bet on it. I saw enough of them during the war.”

“Cast loose all moorings. Maneuvering thrusters back one-third.”

“She just goosed her drive,” the Scanning tech called. “Heading this way. She’s after the shuttle. She’s after Mister Dotsero.”

“Warm up the main drive and get a Weapons tech up here. Signal the shuttle, tell them they’re being followed.”

“If that’s a privateer ship,” the helmsman pointed out, “we won’t stand much of a chance. A converted freighter against a warship?”

“We’ll just have to hit first,” Polston said.

“Hit first? How?  We’ve got two old war surplus missiles. They’ll detect them the moment we launch.”

“Shut up and do what I told you!” Polston barked.

“Yes’m,” the helmsman replied.

“We’re between them and the shuttle,” Polston explained. “They’ll run right past us; we can drop in behind them and launch before they know we’re here.”

***

The Shade Tree

Captain Barrett felt a moment’s déjà vu as the ship’s Gellar drive rumbled under her feet; for a moment, she flashed back to the war as she felt her ship diving once more to the attack.

“Target particle beams,” she ordered, “When we close to ten klicks, put a shot across their bow.”

“Targeting,” crewman Stanley Thomas replied from the Weapons station. “Forty-eight seconds to firing point.”

“Kaelee, get ready with a hailing call. As soon as we fire, call them. Tell them to heave to and prepare to be boarded.”

“Ready with hailing call.”

Barrett’s wartime instincts were kicking in; another lesson learned from hard experience came to the fore. “Knapp,” she said, “Watch our six. I don’t want anyone dropping in behind us in this rock yard.”

***

The shuttle

“Mister Dotsero,” Avery Hopp called from where he sat at the tiny control station, piloting the shuttle. “Got a call from the Brookes – we got company.”

Dotsero came forward. “Where?”

“Scanning now – there they are, on our six, about twenty-two klicks out, gaining on us fast. The Brookes is moving to intercept.”

“Who is it?” Dotsero leaned in and looked at the shuttle’s tiny scanner display. “That’s a privateer ship. Full power, Hopp, get us into some cover.”

“We can’t outrun them,” Hopp pointed out.

“Don’t have to – just get us lost in that inner ring. Once we get in all those rocks and icebergs, they won’t be able to track us very easily.  Polston has the ship fired up, she is going to try to launch on them as they pass the station.”

“On the way,” Hopp said, his voice doubtful.

***

The Brookes

“Come about to one oh six by nine. Ahead two-thirds. As soon as they pass the station, bring us up behind them.”

The old converted freighter handled like a pig, but the Helmsman managed to swing the bulky, underpowered ship onto the ordered course.

Jane Polston looked up when the hatch to the cramped Bridge crashed open and the ship’s only qualified weapons tech rushed in. “Get to your station, get those missiles warmed up.”

“They just passed the station, accelerating after the shuttle – bearing to target is now one-oh-one by nine.”

“Adjust course to follow. Ahead full. Weapons?”

“Firing solution set and checked, weapons are active and ready.”

“Match programmed solution and launch.”

A moment later, the freighter shuddered as two antique Hawk missiles leaped from converted docking ports on the underside of the cargo section and streaked after the accelerating privateer.

***

The Shade Tree

“Missile launch astern!” Anita Knapp’s shout brought Barrett to her feet. “Captain, I’m tracking two missiles, launched from only about twenty kilometers astern, tracking us.”

“Ahead full,” Barrett ordered. The sense of déjà vu was almost overwhelming now. “Keep a lock on that shuttle if you can. Get me data on those missiles.”

“Mark II ion drives,” Knapp said. “Old Navy Hawks, best guess.”

Barrett thought rapidly: Mark II Hawk, best speed about .65 C; we’re accelerating straight away from launch point, twenty klicks – they can’t catch us.

“Come to new course zero-one-zero by ninety. Anita, where did those missiles launch from?  The station?”

“Don’t think so, Captain; there’s a ship just cast off from there, looks like an old Rorqual­-class freighter. They turned in after us, but we’re accelerating away from them.”

Barrett looked at Sean Weaver at the Helm. “Take us north thirty klicks, then cut over and run back on a reverse course. We’re faster and can turn tighter than they can – get us in behind them.”

“You bet, Captain,” Weaver said. “Three minutes, tops.”

“Warm up the pee-beam emitters.”  Barrett stabbed the contact on her chair’s arm again. “Gomp, change of plan – we’re going to be coming up on a Rorqual class freighter.  Stand by to board.”

“We’ll be ready, Cap’n,” Gomp’s surprised voice came back.

***

The Brookes

“They jinked on us,” the slaver ship’s Weapons tech reported. “Missiles have lost lock. Hope Mister Dotsero didn’t pay too much for those damn old things.”

“What are those pirates doing?” Polston demanded.

“Pulling hard north,” the helmsman said. “I’ve seen it before. They’ll pull north, then reverse course quick and drop in behind us.”

“Can you shake them off?”

“Are you kidding? In this big hog? Not a chance. That’s an armed privateer out there, probably combat veterans from the war. We’re screwed, Miz Polston, there ain’t no way we can lose them.”

“We’ve got to try to draw them away from the shuttle. Ahead full, come to new course oh-two-two by south ninety.”

***

The Shade Tree

“Oh, bad move,” Anita Knapp said. “Captain, they’ve turned south, accelerating hard. They turned right away from us.”

“Pursuit course,” Barrett said. “Bring us up behind them.” She walked across the Bridge to the Weapons station. “When we get five klicks from their stern, target the upper forward pee-beam emitter on the last conversion ring in their drive tunnel.  Shut their drive down.”

“You got it, Captain.”

“Continuing their turn,” Knapp called. “They’re coming up a bit, turning to port.”

“Stay on them,” Barrett said.

***

The Brookes

“How long until we jump?”

“At least four minutes, Miz Polston.”

Polston looked at the main scanner tank. “They’re going to catch us.”

“Sure as hell,” the helmsman agreed.

“We need to buy some more time for the shuttle. All stop.”

“All stop,” the surprised helmsman agreed.

“Make signal to the privateer; tell them we give up.”

“They’ll board us,” someone said.

“Either we let them board us, or we let them shoot holes in us,” Polston snapped. “Take your pick.”

***

The Shade Tree

“They said what?”

“The Brookes, Captain, they’re signaling their surrender.”

“They’ve reversed their drive,” Anita Knapp agreed. “Coming to a stop.”

“Bring us up alongside. Keep the upper forward pee-beam on their drive, and lock lower forward on anything that looks like a missile bay.”

“Pee-beams targeted,” Stanley Thomas said.

Barrett tapped her comm panel again. “Gomp, are your people ready?”

“Ready here, Captain – I hear the drive slowing, I take it we’re stopping?”

“Yes, stand by, we’ll be alongside in a few minutes.”

“Standing by here,” Gomp answered.

“Where has that shuttle gone?”

“They pulled north into the thickest part of the Belt, but they practically advertised their course; they were headed for that big moon, the one with some atmosphere,” Knapp said. “That moon’s damn near the size of Mars, some plant life and a few small rivers and lakes; dry but habitable. Smart money says there’s a station there, maybe even a colony.”

“You got a fix on the shuttle’s drive signature?”

“Yes, Captain – got it recorded.”

Beneath the deck, the familiar rumble of the Gellar drive faded and stopped. “We’re alongside,” Weaver reported from the helm.

Barrett stabbed the comm panel again. “Away boarders!”

***

The shuttle

Charles Dotsero had spent the last few minutes watching the brief, uneven contest between his ship and the armed privateer.

“Smart move, Jane,” he said at last.

“Mister D?” Dotsero looked at the voice; the shuttle pilot was staring.

“She drew them off of us, and managed to keep them from shooting up the ship. They’ll probably board, but we’ve already got the ‘cargo’ with us.”

“They saw where we were headed,” Hopp said. “No great trick to figure where we were going, not with that big moon shining away out there.”

Dotsero grinned a humorless, skull-like grin. “Let them. If they want to come down to the surface and pick a fight, they’re in for one hell of a surprise.”

The shuttle pilot wasn’t convinced, but one didn’t voice such doubts to Mister Dotsero; instead, he held his tongue and concentrated on getting the shuttle through the rings to the moon that grew slowly on the main view screen.

***

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