When the moons of the outer solar system seceded from Earth’s government and formed the Jovian Union, the dwarf planet Ceres and several of the more populous asteroids remained independent, refusing to take sides. Nearly a thousand kilometers in diameter, Ceres was the largest inhabited body in the asteroid belt, the vast field of debris located between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. Centuries before, it had been a jumping-off point for the human race’s exploration of the outer planets. Now it remained a hub frequented by traders and explorers, as well as neutral ground for the warships of Earth and the Jovian Union.
For the short trip down to the surface of Ceres, the Hashoones boarded the Shadow Comet’s gig. Tycho peered out the porthole as Carlo undocked the gig from the Comet. Everywhere he looked, he saw starships—needle-nosed scout ships, great slab-sided galleons, bat-winged warships, bulbous tankers, and even a gaudy passenger liner or two. Smaller ships buzzed around them—packets, tenders, avisos, and gigs like theirs, all taking crewers to and from the mottled orange-and-white globe below.
“Pirate’s dream, ain’t it, lad?” growled Huff in his ear. Tycho jumped and saw that his grandfather had leaned forward from the seat behind him to look out the porthole, no doubt calculating the wealth aboard all those ships out there.
Tycho nodded and pulled nervously at his tight collar. The Hashoones had traded their usual shipboard jumpsuits for tunics and button-down shirts, the dress code for admiralty court. Huff had dug up an old tie in a slightly terrifying shade of yellow. He had removed his forearm cannon, leaving a metal stump with an empty socket in it. The socket twitched and spun, trying to follow Huff’s thoughts and find something to shoot at.
“Yana, don’t scuff up your shoes,” Diocletia said from her seat in the front of the gig beside Carlo. She hadn’t turned around to deliver this warning—she had heard the little thuds and scrapes of her daughter kicking at the deck two rows behind her and identified what they were. Yana caught Tycho glancing her way and bugged her eyes out slightly. Each knew what the other one was thinking: How did their mother sense these things? Was that part of being a captain? If so, would they ever learn to do it?
“While we’re dirtside, pay attention—not just in admiralty court, but in the rest of the port as well,” Diocletia said, still looking forward to scout the ships surrounding them. “Don’t think you’re off duty because you’re not aboard the Comet. A lot of cruises succeed or fail because of something that happens in port, not space.”
The surface of Ceres was a maze of tunnels and pressure domes filled with merchant warehouses, provisioning yards, hydroponic greenhouses, repair shops, kips, eateries, and grog houses, advertising their wares with everything from 3D holographic displays to ancient neon tubes. Everywhere you looked there were people: gawking tourists, hurrying merchant spacers, watchful naval officers in Earth or Jovian uniforms, grimy miners, sharp-dressed officials, and hard-eyed men and women who looked like their professions might not be entirely legal.
The Hashoones shouldered their way through the crowds between their landing field and a pair of broad doors made out of actual wood, with brass fittings. Uniformed guards stood to each side. This was the Ceres Admiralty Court, where disputes about the laws of space were heard and decided upon.
Tycho had been to admiralty court before, and it always disappointed him that the inside was so little like the outside. After passing through those grand wooden doors, you found rows of metal benches and two plain tables reserved for the principal figures in each side of a dispute, facing the judge’s raised podium and a screen of fake potted plants.
Diocletia sat down behind one of the two tables at the front of the room and indicated that Tycho should sit beside her. Mavry patted his son’s shoulder as he took his own seat in the row behind them, next to Carlo and Yana. Huff scanned the room suspiciously before sitting beside Yana, a difficult operation that involved whining motors and clattering metal parts.
At the other table sat Soughton, crammed into an ill-fitting suit that was shiny at the elbows. Beside him sat a slim bald man in a much fancier-looking suit made of iridescent material. Captain Wofford and other members of the Cephalax II’s crew sat on the benches behind them, along with a bunch of men and women Tycho had never seen. He figured they were Earth bureaucrats who worked for GlobalRex, the massive corporation that owned the Ceph-Two and, it seemed, a good chunk of everything else on Earth.
A door opened behind the judge’s podium, and the Honorable Uribel Quence entered, followed by a uniformed bailiff. Quence was sweating profusely, as usual. Everyone in the courtroom rose and remained standing until the judge settled himself in his chair, grabbed his white wig before it could slide off in a slick of perspiration, and banged on his desk with a gavel. The Hashoones were familiar with the admiralty court judges: Quence was brisk and fair, and had little patience for fools.
Unfortunately, Tycho had no idea what “fair” would mean today. None of the Hashoones did.
“We’ve done nothing wrong, so just answer whatever questions the judge asks you,” Diocletia whispered. “But follow my lead—if I start talking, be quiet and wait.”
Tycho nodded. Judge Quence looked at the mediapad on his desk and frowned, the expression dragging wattles of loose flesh down below his jaw. Then he looked up, and his eyes fell on Tycho.
“Master Hashoone,” he said. “I didn’t expect to find you in my courtroom quite so soon. You’re a precocious lad. So this is your prize, then?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Tycho managed, aware of how many eyes were upon him.
“And have you brought me a copy of your letter of marque, interrogatories from the intercept, and your condemnation order?” Judge Quence asked.
“I have, Your Honor,” Tycho said, getting to his feet and hearing his chair scrape across the floor. He brought the sheaf of papers to the judge’s desk and stood there, staring awkwardly at Quence’s powdered wig while he waited.
“The bailiff will take those, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said after a moment, without looking up.
Tycho heard people laugh behind him. He turned and saw the bailiff waiting with his hand extended, face impassive. Tycho gave the man the papers and scurried back to his chair.
“Thank you, Master Hashoone,” Judge Quence said. “You may now transmit electronic versions for the record.”
Diocletia turned to Mavry, who nodded and punched commands into his mediapad. Judge Quence stared down at his own device for a time, then looked up and pursed his lips.
“Master Hashoone, am I reading this correctly?” he asked. “You intercepted a freighter in the outer asteroid belt, discovered she was carrying an accredited Earth diplomat, and brought her to Ceres as a prize anyway?”
Before Tycho could speak, the bald man in the expensive suit was on his feet, turning first one way and then the other to survey the courtroom.
“That’s exactly right, Your Honor. This is a most distressing case.” The man’s voice was bright and friendly, carrying easily from one end of the courtroom to the other. “As you’ll find from our own documents entered into the record, the Shadow Comet has violated the terms of her letter of marque by ignoring a clear case of diplomatic immunity, a deliberate and extraordinary event that must be swiftly and severely punished. On behalf of Captain Hans Wofford, the GlobalRex Corporation, and His Majesty’s Sovereign Government of Earth, I ask Your Honor to impose penalties against her performance bond for piracy and interference with commerce, and to recommend charges against her crew of kidnapping and multiple counts of illegal operation of a starship.”
Judge Quence peered out at the man, who was standing confidently before the table with his hands behind his back.
“Are you Master Hashoone?” Judge Quence asked.
“No, Your Honor,” the man said. “Allow me to—”
“If you’re not Master Hashoone, then why are you speaking?” Judge Quence asked.
Huff brayed laughter.
“That there is the biggest stuffed shirt this side o’ Neptune,” he growled to Carlo, loud enough for Tycho to hear. Judge Quence gaveled him into silence as Diocletia spun and gave her father a poisonous look.
“Now, Master Hashoone, what’s the meaning of all this?” Judge Quence asked.
“Well, Your Honor—” Tycho began, but then his mother laid her hand on his.
“If I may, Your Honor?” Diocletia asked.
Judge Quence nodded, and Diocletia pointed over at Soughton, who sat smiling behind the other table.
“That man does indeed have diplomatic credentials,” she said. “But we don’t believe he’s a diplomat.”
“Your Honor, if I may—” exclaimed the man in the fancy suit, springing back to his feet.
BAM! went the gavel. Judge Quence’s wig slid a couple of inches to the right.
“You may not, sir,” Judge Quence said. “Captain Hashoone, if a man has diplomatic credentials, does that not make him a diplomat? I’m aware the question borders on the philosophical, but . . . you do have credentials, correct, Mr. Soughton?”
Soughton got to his feet, a folder in his hand, and walked slowly to the front of the courtroom, where Quence indicated he should hand the folder to the bailiff. Judge Quence then reached for it, flipped it open, and began to read.
“What’s going on?” Tycho asked his mother in a whisper, but she put her finger to her lips.
“Your Honor,” the man in the fancy suit tried again.
“You seem determined to speak, sir,” Judge Quence said. “Very well. Who are you, exactly, and what are you doing in my courtroom?”
“My name, Your Honor, is Threece Suud,” he said in that smooth voice. “Allow me to present my own credentials, which you will find as proper as those of my colleague, Mr. Soughton. It is my pleasure to be newly posted to Earth’s consulate on Ceres as His Majesty’s Secretary for Economic, Diplomatic, and Legal Affairs. I will be representing both Captain Wofford and Mr. Soughton here today.”
Tycho looked questioningly at Diocletia, who shrugged.
“He’s an Earthman, all right,” Huff growled. “Lots of fancy talk when plain speech would do.”
Judge Quence gaveled for order once again, sending his wig sliding left and back into its original position. Tycho peeked back to see Huff muttering and tugging at his yellow tie.
Threece Suud was talking again, marching back and forth at the front of the courtroom, waving his hands with each point he made.
“I have rarely seen such a flagrant violation of the laws of space,” he said. “When the illegal interception was made, the Shadow Comet was commanded by a twelve-year-old boy—a minor who should have been in school, not behind the guns of a pirate ship.”
Tycho felt his face grow hot.
His mother was on her feet, a bright rose of color in each cheek.
“Your Honor, my family has operated the Shadow Comet for two hundred and thirty-eight years. On top of everything else, I’m supposed to listen to this man tell me how to run a starship?” she demanded. “Besides, the Comet is no pirate ship, as he knows perfectly well. We are privateers operating legally on behalf of the Jovian Union, in accordance with—”
“I withdraw the characterization,” Suud said airily. “But changing one word does nothing to change the facts of the case, Your Honor. Which are that—”
BANG! went the gavel.
“Your views are quite clear, Secretary Suud,” Judge Quence said. “You should know, however, that in this region of space it’s not uncommon to find young boys—and girls, too—serving aboard starships.”
“Point taken, Your Honor, however unfortunate the practice may be,” Suud said. “It grieves me to see a child’s formative years thrown away as some sort of apprentice criminal.”
“Criminal?” demanded Huff, getting to his feet with a roar and ignoring both Diocletia’s hisses for him to quiet down and the sharp reports of Judge Quence’s gavel. “Tyke here is a far finer boy than any of you pampered, pretty Earthfolks! Why, if I had my laser cannon, I’d show this insolent pup what ‘criminal’ means!”
“Grandfather, be quiet!” yelped Yana. “You’re going to get us into trouble!”
Huff subsided, muttering.
Threece Suud smiled a rather oily smile.
“Your Honor, it seems appropriate to add menacing to the long list of charges pending against the Hashoone family,” he said.
“Denied,” Judge Quence said. “It was so noisy in here I couldn’t hear exactly what was said. But I’ll have no further outbursts in this courtroom. Is that understood, Huff?”
Huff muttered something that Judge Quence chose to interpret as a yes.
“Mr. Soughton, stand up, please,” the judge said.
Soughton got to his feet, arms folded.
“Your Honor, I will speak on behalf of—” began Suud.
WHAM!
“Secretary Suud, first you speak when I am addressing Master Hashoone, and now you speak when I am talking to Mr. Soughton,” Judge Quence said. “Please get control of whatever identity crisis it is that you are having. Now then, Mr. Soughton, how many years have you been with Earth’s diplomatic service?”
Suud tugged at the larger man’s jacket and whispered something in his ear.
“About three weeks, sir,” Soughton said.
“You may address me as Your Honor,” Judge Quence said. “Before your three weeks of service, Mr. Soughton, how long was your diplomatic training?”
“Your Honor, let me say that—” Suud said.
BANG!
“What has happened to this courtroom today?” Judge Quence asked in exasperation. “You will speak only when spoken to, Secretary Suud. Mr. Soughton, please answer my question.”
“Got no such training, sir,” Soughton said. “I mean, Your Honor.”
Threece Suud started to get up, then thought better of it and sat back down.
“I see,” Judge Quence said. “And what was your occupation, Mr. Soughton, before you joined the diplomatic service?”
Soughton shrugged. “This and that, Your Honor.”
“This and that?” Judge Quence asked, incredulous. “What was your most recent place of employment?”
Soughton glanced at Secretary Suud, who nodded.
“Working for Carnegie-Frick Ventures, Your Honor,” Soughton said.
Tycho had never heard of that. He looked at his mother, but her face was impassive.
“Thank you, Mr. Soughton,” Judge Quence said. He looked down at the papers on his desk, then peered out at the courtroom and saw that Suud had his hand in the air.
“Yes, Secretary Suud?” Judge Quence asked.
“Your Honor, Mr. Soughton’s length of service with the diplomatic corps is not at issue here,” Suud said. “Nor is the nature of his prior employment. His credentials show him to be a legally accredited diplomat of Earth, and those credentials entitle him and any starship transporting him to diplomatic immunity.”
“I understand that, Secretary,” Judge Quence said. “What I don’t understand is why people who have done ‘this and that’ are suddenly becoming diplomats. Is a diplomatic career so little valued on Earth that it’s being taken up as a hobby? No, don’t answer, Secretary Suud. I’ve heard quite enough for one day.”
Judge Quence scanned the papers on his desk again and rubbed his eyes.
“It’s all very curious,” he said. “I need to think about it. Mr. Soughton, you are released, as is Captain Wofford and the crew of the Cephalax II. Captain Wofford, you are ordered to transfer your cargo to an orbital warehouse. It will be held in escrow pending a resolution of this case.”
Wofford looked at Judge Quence in horror.
“But Your Honor, that’s all my profits for this voyage!”
“I’m aware of that, Hans,” Judge Quence said. “Just as you are aware that Earth and the Jovian Union remain technically at war, and privateering is a legal part of that conflict, whatever Secretary Suud’s opinion of the matter.”
Judge Quence thumbed through his mediapad for a moment, then nodded and looked up.
“Principals in this case are ordered to return three weeks from today,” he said, then banged his gavel a final time. “Court dismissed.”