3
THE PRIZE CREW’S TALE

The Jovian cruiser Sparrowhawk lurked above Callisto, bristling with weapons and surrounded by pinnaces. A hard-eyed lieutenant ordered the Comet to hold her position for half an hour while he pored over the frigate’s recent navigational records. The sound of fifes and horns bounced up the ladderwells to the quarterdeck, accompanying spacer songs that sounded more enthusiastic than melodic. Free of their duties, the Comets were turning the last hours of the cruise into a shindy.

“What’s the holdup?” Carlo demanded, peering down at the Comet’s unoccupied docking cradle. “They already checked our flight logs at Ganymede.”

Tycho gazed out at space beyond the viewports. Ferries were gathered around the docking cradle, their running lights blinking red and green, waiting for the privateer to muster out her crewers. Below, on the cracked beige surface of Callisto, a cluster of tunnels and domes marked Port Town, the moon’s largest settlement.

“Lot of ships out there,” Huff growled. “Bet some of ’em are Jovian Defense Force, lookin’ for spacers to press.”

“You’re probably right,” Diocletia said. “Yana, Tycho, write up exemptions for our crewers. The Defense Force will need to approve them, but they’ll still make a press gang think twice about taking one of our people.”

“And what if some of our crewers want to serve?” Tycho asked.

Huff snorted. “No self-respectin’ Comet would run from a privateer to a military ship. Spit-an’-polish uniforms and gettin’ told what to do all day? Arrrrr. That’s why press gangs carry truncheons—can’t win the argument without ’em.”

“I can’t believe some of the old hulks they’re recommissioning,” Mavry said, peering at his terminal. “That pocket cruiser we saw back at High Port was a modified Ocelot-class. Where’d the Defense Force get her, a museum? And remember those two corvettes at 617 Patroclus? Converted coasters, by the look of them.”

Diocletia nodded. “Remember the last time there was all this saber rattling, right before Yana and Tycho were born? If a hull would hold air, the Defense Force claimed it and painted a name and number on the side.”

“Which means they’ll pay good livres for any ship we can bring in as a prize,” Yana said.

“Hope that includes the cargo hauler we captured a couple of weeks back—the one Mr. Richards brought in,” Mavry said. “Though the prize paperwork for her hasn’t been filed with the admiralty court yet. That should have been taken care of when the prize crew reached Ganymede.”

“Mr. Richards wouldn’t overlook something like that,” Diocletia said.

“Maybe the Defense Force seized the hauler—like they’ve tried to do with the Hydra,” Yana said, her voice muffled and strange because of her still-swollen nose.

Tycho followed his sister’s eyes to the deadly-looking pirate ship moored in her docking cradle. The Hydra had once belonged to Thoadbone Mox, the unrepentant pirate who’d betrayed the Hashoones and his fellow Jupiter pirates at the Battle of 624 Hektor. The Hashoones had captured the Hydra from Mox four years earlier, though Huff had let the pirate go for reasons he’d never made clear to anyone’s satisfaction.

It had been a grave mistake—Mox had signed on with the Ice Wolves, and nearly destroyed the Comet at the Battle of Saturn. The Ice Wolves had expelled Mox from their ranks for disobeying orders, and no one had heard from him since, but Tycho was grimly certain he was still out there somewhere.

“At this point I almost wish the Defense Force would seize the Hydra,” Diocletia said with a sigh. “Better that than paying docking fees for a ship we can’t touch.”

“Incoming transmission,” Vesuvia said.

“Finally,” Mavry said.

“You may proceed, Shadow Comet,” said the lieutenant. “Sparrowhawk out.”

The Comets belowdecks let up a ragged cheer as Carlo grabbed the yoke and brought the privateer down to her docking cradle for the first time in five months. It took an hour for Yana and Tycho to muster out the hands, issuing their exemptions and warning them to beware of press gangs. But then the last crewer hoisted his chest and passed through the port airlock to a waiting ferry, and the Comet was empty of all but her bridge crew.

The Hashoones gathered their own gear and climbed down the aft ladderwell to the gig. Carlo unlatched the little craft from its socket in the Comet’s belly and let it plummet down Callisto’s weak gravity well, fast enough to make Tycho’s stomach turn flips.

“Easy on the sticks,” Diocletia complained. “We’re not shooting the Kirkwood Gap here.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Carlo said with a grin, easing up on the controls and tapping the gig’s retro rockets as it settled on the landing pad, so gently that Tycho barely felt the bump.

“Show-off,” Yana muttered, and Carlo offered her a mocking bow.

The Hashoones tramped down the corridor to Port Town’s transportation hub, where their grav-sled was waiting in its stall for the brief trip to Darklands. Tycho was so busy debating the legality of press gangs with Yana that he didn’t notice Mavry had come to a halt and collided with him.

Grigsby was standing in the corridor, his duffel bag at his feet and a grimmer-than-usual expression on his face. Behind him stood a knot of morose-looking spacers, hats in their hands. Tycho recognized them as the Comets who had been sent aboard the captured cargo hauler weeks earlier.

“I don’t suppose you’re here to welcome us home,” Diocletia said.

Richards stepped forward, eyes downcast. “’Fraid not, Captain. It’s my duty to tell yeh we lost the prize, ma’am.”

Tycho and Yana traded looks. The cargo hauler had been flying Earth’s flag, and while she wasn’t the stuff fortunes were made of, she’d been worth enough to make the Comet’s last cruise a moderately successful one. Without her . . .

“Lost the prize?” Diocletia asked. “How did this happen, Mr. Richards?”

“She was recaptured, ma’am. A rescue ship from Earth intercepted us a day out of 153 Hilda. Frigate by the name of the Gros-yoo.”

“Gesundheit,” Yana said, earning a stern look from her mother.

“We couldn’t outrun her, Captain,” Richards said. “Not much in the solar system could. She took back the prize and her captain made us give our parole. Then he hailed a liner heading for Jupiter and put us on it.”

“An Earth captain paroled you?” Diocletia asked.

Tycho understood his mother’s surprise. Earth regarded privateering as thinly disguised piracy. Many captains in His Majesty’s navy would have taken the Comet’s prize crew prisoner. But this one had allowed the Comets to return to Jupiter.

“I was surprised meself,” Richards said. “We thought we was bound for the brig, but this captain was a right decent cove, Earthman though he was. He turned us loose, and the Gros-yoo took the prize back to the asteroid belt.”

“I’ve never heard of an HMS Gros-yoo,” Mavry said. “Are you sure you’re pronouncing that correctly, Mr. Richards?”

“Maybe not, but it’s summat like that. ’Cept the Gros-yoo ain’t no navy ship, sir. She’s a privateer, she is. Carryin’ a letter of marque from Earth.”

“That’s impossible,” Huff said. “Earth ain’t issued letters of marque since the Third Trans-Jovian War.”

“Seen the papers meself, Captain Huff. Weren’t forgeries, neither—I know a Port Town special when I see one. These had a holo-seal and everything.”

“We believe you, Mr. Richards,” Diocletia said. “And you have my thanks for making your report in person. That was no enviable duty.”

Richards ducked his chin gratefully as Diocletia turned to the other Hashoones.

“Let’s get back to Darklands,” she said. “Sounds like there’s a lot to discuss.”