Eleven Days

Walter H. Hunt

Author’s Note: A hundred and fifty years before the events of The Dark Wing, humanity has obtained faster-than-light technology from the alien rashk; several nations have expanded to the stars near Sol and established colonies, coming gradually into conflict. Ultimately this leads to the War of Accession, and the establishment of the Solar Empire. Its first emperor, Willem MacDowell, is still a naval officer in the European Union navy in this story: his greatest role ahead of him, and at this time out of sight.

~ ~ ~

Six European Union starships emerged from jump transition at Sherrard Zeta Alpha jump point, thirty degrees spinward from the A-B axis, their vector aimed directly for the center of A’s gravity well. The formation was nearly perfect—after four decades of development in jump technology, the transition point for a mass the size of an interstellar vessel was less than 100% certain, but the crews were well-trained and experienced.

Sherrard System consisted of two stars fifteen astronomical units apart—the distance from the home star to the orbit of the planet Uranus. One, Zeta Herculis A, was practically the double of Earth’s Sun: a bit brighter, a bit larger, and had a single habitable planet. The other, B, was a ruddy orange, and didn’t even have a gas giant. In the saddle area between the two stars’ solar systems there was an irregular asteroid field. It would have been an ideal place for a jump point other than that—but it was an ideal place for mining ships, manned and unmanned. Therefore, instead of arriving at the gravitational midpoint, ships jumping into Sherrard either arrived at the far edge of A’s gravity well or at the extremes of the asteroid field, where there was enough mass to create a reasonable Muir Limit but fewer navigational hazards to trouble transitioning ships.

Within two minutes, the six ships were moving in unison, keeping station in the outer system. On their pilot’s boards, all six commanders could see the four ships in orbit near the habitable world begin to alter course and speed; they noted the presence and readiness of static defenses around the system.

It was obvious that they were expected.

* * *

Commodore Willem MacDowell leaned back in the pilot’s seat of Warren, a cup of coffee in his hand. There was activity all over the bridge—not the frantic sort that accompanied gunnery exchanges, but the slow, deliberate kind that went with the several hours’ wait before any sort of engagement might occur. Things were going to happen, but there was ample time to prepare for them; and some time to examine Commander Valery Orlov as well.

The Naval Intelligence man was a few years his junior. Wiry, handsome in a spare, almost ascetic way—out of uniform he’d look very good in a tailored suit, MacDowell suspected.

“That’ll be Trent,” said Orlov, pointing to the Westphalia-class ship on the Warren’s pilot’s display. “The captain is Samuel Andreotti. Do you know him, sir?”

Orlov was always watching. He was ostensibly on board Warren to provide and evaluate intel for the commodore and his current command; but it was no secret that Orlov’s true presence was the same as every ONI officer assigned to every ship in the EU’s fleet: to watch for political orthodoxy in its commanders.

Well, MacDowell thought, not much to see here. Not much time for politics, especially these days.

During Orlov’s tour aboard Warren—a little over a year so far—he’d found little to comment about, and the commodore hadn’t allowed himself to be drawn in on political issues. He wasn’t being overcautious; he just hasn’t had much to say.

“Don’t be coy with me, Commander,” MacDowell said, smiling. “You’ve read the same reports that I have. I don’t think I can tell you anything you don’t know.”

“I know you haven’t served with him, Commodore. But have you met him off duty? Or any of the other rebel officers?”

“I’ve never met Andreotti or Hebert. Luisa Davis of Van Diemen was at a diplomatic reception at New Lisbon a year or two ago, but didn’t make much of an impression.”

“What about Rouchou?”

“The XO of Hector? Don’t know her either, except that she must be—must have been—a fine officer.”

“Fine enough to commit mutiny?” Orlov said, with something approaching a smirk. “According to Captain Hamadjiou’s report, she didn’t have any trouble taking control of Hector when the other three made their move. That doesn’t sound like a fine officer to me.”

“I mean as regards her skill. For Wallace MacEwan to have picked her as his exec, she has to have been highly qualified.”

Orlov snorted.

ONI didn’t look at things, or use words, as a naval line officer might: to MacDowell, though, Orlov wore a brand-new uniform, a civilian in costume rather than someone with twenty years on the deck of a starship.

MacDowell resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “We shouldn’t underestimate her.”

Orlov took his time to respond. He glanced at the pilot’s board, then gave Commodore MacDowell a good long look. “It’s been five days since Captain Hamadjiou arrived at New Paris with Lacerta, nine days since Andreotti, Hebert, Davis and … this fine officer decided to seize control of Sherrard System. We shouldn’t underestimate the amount of work they—and their fellow mutineers—could have managed in that amount of time.

“Do you think, sir, that MacEwan and the rest of the loyal personnel—assuming there are any—” this drew a sharp look from MacDowell. “I’m sorry,” Orlov said, not really meaning it from the tone of his voice. “Do you think they’re still alive?”

“There’s no way of knowing. But I’m guessing that they are.”

“Why do you think so?”

“Right now,” MacDowell answered, taking a sip of coffee, “what the mutineers have done is court-martial illegal, punishable by imprisonment. If they killed officers and crew of EU ships, then it becomes personal. As far as I’m concerned, if they’ve killed fellow soldiers and sailors, there’s nowhere they can hide—inside or outside the European Union—where I won’t find them. And God help them when I do.”

* * *

The rebellion at Sherrard was a clever attempt at a fait accompli. Rebels on five ships—Trent, Maurepas, Van Diemen, Hector and Lacerta—had looked to seize control of their vessels and the manufacturing facilities in the system. In four cases it was successful and popular; but aboard Lacerta, its skipper Theo Hamadjiou, had surprised the rebels by making for jump when the plot was hatched. The chief conspirator aboard Lacerta was its chief engineer, Ed Barbieri; Hamadjiou was uninvolved, and when it came down to it most of the crew sided with their skipper. Sam Andreotti of Trent, the rebel leader and self-styled admiral, had tried to talk him into joining them and then sent Maurepas after them when Theo had told him to go to hell—but neither cajoling nor threats were enough. Barbieri and a few confederates had found themselves at the business end of lasers, and by the time Lacerta made it into jump—damaged, but still spaceworthy—they were in the brig or, in Barbieri’s case, dead on the deck.

Lacerta made it to the EU naval base at New Paris by way of Schönberg System. Commodore MacDowell’s squadron, with Lacerta added, was cleared for action and was directed to return to Sherrard System with explicit orders: take Sherrard back from the mutineers and do it quickly, before anyone else got involved—specifically the North American Union and Greater China. Within twenty-four hours, the squadron was under way.

* * *

Orlov, who was certainly no tactician, was all for diving into the gravity well of Sherrard A and taking on the rebels directly. There were too many variables, however: MacDowell’s orders were different than Orlov’s—and the commodore wanted to know where things stood before he committed his forces.

Less than an hour after making transition, MacDowell’s squadron received the first communication from the mutineers. Neither Trent—Andreotti’s flagship—nor any of the other three ships had answered comm or responded to MacDowell’s official declaration of their recognized state of mutiny against the EU government; instead, Warren captured a broadcast comm from Sherrard Central:

“To all ships of the European Union in Sherrard System: Sherrard Central Starbase, Free Republic of Sherrard sends, Admiral Samuel Andreotti commanding.

“Be informed that your vessels are in violation of sovereign Sherrard space as of 6 February 2160. A comm squirt has been sent to the European Union Government, and representatives of the Free Republic have presented their credentials to the United Nations. Pending recognition of their plenipotentiary authority, it is requested that forces under the command of the European Union withdraw beyond the outermost orbital of Sherrard-A.

“The Free Republic of Sherrard has applied for protected status under the terms of the Second Treaty of São Paulo and, pending notification of the disposition of its claim by the United Nations General Assembly, is prepared to consider any incursion into its space by forces under the command of foreign nationals to be an unprovoked act of war, pursuant to which it disavows any responsibility for damage or casualty that may result from conflict arising therefrom.

“Message ends. Andreotti, Admiral, Sherrard FRN.”

“What crap,” Orlov said, when the proclamation—or whatever it was—had finished playing again on comp in MacDowell’s ready room. “He’s sure got balls to send out something like that.”

“He doesn’t really expect us to do what he says,” MacDowell said. He glanced at the pilot’s board display: the battle fleet, such as it was, of the Free Republic of Sherrard were three or four minutes from turnover. “It’s posturing for the record.”

Whatever MacDowell was going to do, the decision would have to be made now. It was his call—except that it really wasn’t: Orlov had something to say on the subject. Quite a bit, actually: Admiral Nason might be able to act unilaterally without a political officer weighing in—but a mere commodore didn’t have that latitude.

Especially these days, he thought.

“What does he expect us to do?”

“Blink.”

They watched the display slowly update. Finally Orlov said, “What are you going to do?”

“I’m not planning on blinking, if that’s what you’re asking. But until we start shooting, Andreotti and his people are still citizens of the European Union.”

“They’re traitors and mutineers, Commodore.”

“They’re—” MacDowell began, then checked his anger. “They’re going to get about three minutes to convince me not to shoot.” He turned away from Orlov and walked through the connecting door onto the bridge, his ONI officer following behind.

* * *

Settled in the pilot’s chair, MacDowell ordered comm to hail Trent. It didn’t take long for an image of Sam Andreotti to appear in the clear area starboard of the captain’s chair and pilot’s board. He was seated in his ready-room, not even on the bridge, as if he hadn’t a care that his little fleet was about to engage a larger force here to arrest him for mutiny.

“Commodore,” he said, smiling faintly.

“Captain,” MacDowell answered evenly. “Though I noticed that you signed your manifesto as ‘Admiral.’ Better to reign in hell, I guess.”

“Something like that. What can I do for you?”

“Easy answer?” MacDowell glanced sidelong at Orlov, who stood glowering with his arms crossed in front of him, out of vidcam range. “Surrender. Save the Union some ordnance and me some time.”

“You don’t really expect that.”

“You didn’t really expect me to withdraw my force from Sherrard System. I’m a reasonable man, Andreotti: if I weren’t, we’d be down your throat right now. You’re awfully calm for someone who’s outnumbered and clearly in the wrong—what haven’t you told me?”

Andreotti leaned forward and folded his hands in front of him on the table. “You know, Commodore, I’ve always liked and respected you, and I know you’re looking for a compromise here.”

“I’m not. But go on.”

“The new Sherrard government I have the honor to serve is very popular with most of the people of Sherrard, and most of the folks under my command were more than happy to have the opportunity for promotion.”

“To admiral, for instance.”

“To take one example. Not too many openings for admiral in the European Union, sir. Not too many captaincies either. But not everyone was so happy with it. Some of the… malcontents didn’t take it too kindly. I’m sure they’d be just as happy to be quit of Sherrard, and we’d be glad to accommodate them … except for one thing.”

MacDowell saw where he was going. “Except that I’m here to put a stop to the ‘new Sherrard government.’”

“That’s right,” Andreotti said. “It’d be a shame if anything were to happen to them.”

It wasn’t quite the same as innocent civilians in the line of fire, but it still bothered MacDowell. “That sounds like a threat, Andreotti. You can’t hold them hostage forever.”

“I don’t have to hold them forever, sir. Just long enough for Sherrard’s status to be resolved by the UN. If the General Assembly decides that we merit independent status, then you’d be committing an act of war against a sovereign power by attacking us after that.”

“That won’t happen.” But it might, MacDowell thought: the General Assembly consisted of a large number of small, bickering nations, most of whom didn’t have the resources or power to colonize human space.

Some of them had bought the rashk jump technology forty years ago and never built so much as an unmanned probe with it. A chance to stick it to a spacefaring nation like the EU would be delightful irony for the General Assembly.

“I’m betting it will,” Andreotti said, a satisfied smile on his face. “And soon. Our representative in Genève says that it will be brought up within the next week. So until then, your loyal troops stay where they are, and you’re well advised to stay where you are. Then you can take them aboard Warren and get the hell out of Sherrard space. Sir.”

“I can blow you to the next universe at any time,” MacDowell answered angrily. “Soldiers and sailors in the service of the European Union know very well that their lives are at risk whenever they’re on duty. I don’t think they’re waiting to be rescued, and I’m not ready to bargain with you. You’d better reconsider your position, Andreotti.”

“A hundred and fifty officers and crew dead because you can’t show a little prudent patience, Commodore MacDowell? Surely you’re not interested in betting your career on that.”

“You’ve got two hours,” MacDowell said and signaled to comm to cut the connection.

* * *

MacDowell knew that Orlov wasn’t happy about his decision. Off the bridge, in the tiny galley just aft, the commodore got an earful while he was refilling his coffee; Orlov was nowhere near subtle enough for it to seem anything like a chance encounter.

Orlov waited for MacDowell to finish preparing his coffee, leaning casually against the counter opposite the urn—as with most naval vessels, the place of coffee preparation was accorded its own place of honor—and then said, “You know, sir, giving them two hours isn’t likely to change the tactical situation. It probably won’t change their minds about anything.”

“You’d rather I rushed in there, guns blazing.”

“I didn’t say that. But you’ve given Captain Andreotti an opportunity to plan his strategy.”

“If he didn’t already have one, two hours won’t give him one. I’m trying to avoid casualties here—ours, theirs, and the loyal officers and crew he’s using as hostages. Don’t you think that’s a viable approach?”

“The idea that he’s using hostages doesn’t make your blood boil, Commodore?”

“No one ever won a war, or even conducted a successful campaign, with their blood boiling, Commander. Am I angry about it? Sure am. But that’s not what bothers me.”

“Oh?”

“Andreotti seemed pretty confident when he spoke with me, don’t you think? He’s got a declaration of independence, a representative at the UN, and some military hostages. He’s betting that I haven’t already given them up for dead, which I haven’t—and am willing to deal on that basis, which I’m not.

“But it’s not a high hand.” MacDowell drank his coffee and grimaced; it was admirably strong. “It’s not enough. There’s something missing and I haven’t figured it out yet.”

“Can you figure it out in two hours, sir?”

“Not sure.” He sipped the coffee again and sat the mug down next to the urn. “I’ve got scan section working to identify hot spots in the system, places where Andreotti may have tucked these guys away. There are two dozen likely ones. If we could discover at which one they were being held we’d have an enormous tactical advantage.”

“That’s true,” Orlov agreed. His face held the trace of a smile.

MacDowell thought a moment, then added, “The problem is that Andreotti must know that as well. If we get the hostages, he’s lost the biggest card he has showing. If we attack, and he kills them, it accomplishes nothing—if that’s all he’s got. There’s something else.”

“Perhaps we should start with locating the hostages.”

“I don’t know whether that’ll yield any results in time.”

“It might,” Orlov said.

“You have something to offer?”

“I think I know where they are,” Orlov said. He gestured at his comp. A holo of Sherrard System appeared over the small galley table: Zeta Herculis A, a star as Sol-like as almost any in human space, surrounded by six orbitals: two tiny planets orbiting close to the primary; in the third orbital a crowded, dusty asteroid belt about half an AU out; the fourth, an Earthlike planet, Sherrard Prime, almost exactly one AU out but a bit colder overall; then a medium-sized gas giant; and finally the large, rocky asteroid belt that loosely defined the area between A and B, eight and a half AUs away from star A.

Icons marked the positions of the four rebel ships and the six EU vessels at the edge of the system. He touched the comp again and three green points appeared: one in the asteroid belt, one in the ring that surrounded the tiny second planet, and one more on the surface of the largest of the gas giant’s dozen moons.

“I’ve narrowed scan section’s choices to three, as you see. Based on what intel I’ve obtained, I believe that the ring station is most likely.”

“Intel?”

“We have an asset,” Orlov added, which was about as much answer as MacDowell was going to get: there was someone from ONI in among the rebels.

“You received a comm squirt?”

“On a private frequency, yes. We should have the location shortly.”

MacDowell clenched his fists, then slowly relaxed them. “That’s a violation of protocol at the least, Commander. Don’t you think you should have informed me—”

“I’ve given you options, Commodore MacDowell. You’ve given the rebels two hours to plan, and in the meanwhile I’ve found the key to your problem. They can’t use hostages that they don’t have.”

“Commander, if you received a comm message from a mole at that base, don’t you think Andreotti might have picked it up as well?”

“It was on an ONI frequency,” Orlov answered blandly.

“Suppose an ONI officer is part of their little cabal,” MacDowell answered at once.

“That possibility exists,” Orlov said. “It’s a calculated risk. Intel operatives know that their lives are in danger—”

“It’s not just his life. If he’s discovered, I have no way of knowing what Andreotti will do. Maybe he blows the whole station and all of our people with it. My point—”

“You said he was unlikely to do that,” the intel officer interrupted. “You suggested that it was hardly in his interest to kill the hostages. Why would he do it now?”

“My point is,” MacDowell continued, trying to check his anger, “that if I’m trying to defuse this situation with as little damage as possible, it would be helpful if this sort of intrigue wasn’t happening behind my back. It’s not your risk to take, Commander, and I resent not having been consulted.”

“Is that all, sir?”

“When will you know for sure that this—” he gestured at the display “—is where the hostages are being held?”

“Within the hour.”

“Within forty-five minutes?” They both looked at the chrono above the coffee urn, which indicated that the two-hour deadline was forty-seven minutes from expiring.

“I suppose so, yes.”

“I want that information in my hands in thirty minutes, Commander. And don’t doubt that this little … breach of protocol will be in my report.”

Orlov didn’t say anything; he didn’t even look affected by the implied threat. After a moment, he offered MacDowell a salute and the commodore waved him out of the room.

MacDowell turned to the display, with its three points of possibility. If Orlov’s intel was at all accurate, one of them marked the place where Wallace MacEwan and the rest of the navy personnel were being held … along with one spy.

Above the display, the chrono continued to tick down the seconds.

* * *

Orlov looked worried.

MacDowell ordered comm contact with Trent, but Andreotti beat him to it. Instead of the rebel “admiral’s” image, a scene appeared near his pilot’s board.

It was gruesome: a decompressed chamber, part of a station of some sort. There were five or six bodies there, already coated in reddish-brown ice crystals. Most of them looked as though they’d been trying to cover a hole half a meter across that gave out on black space. One other was lying sprawled nearby; part of his head and one shoulder looked as if it had been burned away by laser fire.

“We caught your spy,” Andreotti’s voice said. “Wouldn’t want him to go off to the next world alone, so we gave him some company. Those deaths are on your head, Commodore. This is your last warning—withdraw from Sherrard System and no one else has to die.”

The comm message ended, but the image remained. MacDowell didn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Chess players give away pieces if it gives them an advantage,” the commodore finally said, not looking directly at Orlov. “Not for no reason at all.

“System display,” he said to comp, and the grisly scene disappeared to be replaced with the solar system, with its planets and moons, friendly and enemy ships, and six points of green light.

“You still don’t know where they are,” he said. “And we don’t know what Andreotti will do now.”

Orlov didn’t answer: he seemed to be taken aback, almost stunned. MacDowell’s anger was obvious but he looked composed.

“Your little pawn sacrifice has taught us one thing, though,” he added to Orlov. “We know just how ruthless Andreotti is.”

“Orders, sir?” Linus Soren, his XO, said.

“Still not blinking,” MacDowell answered. “I don’t know if he thought that little demonstration would scare me. Beat to Quarters, Commander. Course as indicated. Warren sends.” He named a heading that took them into the gravity well. “All right, everyone,” he added, looking back at Orlov once more. “Let’s get this done.”

* * *

Even at maximum accel, the inner system was a few hours away. Warren, best-armed and equipped, was at the head of a formation that was flanked by Guienne and Edward VII to its port and Calais and Corvus to its starboard; one ship was zulu-positive relative to Warren’s plane of travel, one ship zulu-negative. Lacerta, the sixth ship in formation, was coplanar with Warren and a dozen ship-lengths aft in case something emerged from the asteroid belt or appeared at the saddle jump points.

Scan section on each of MacDowell’s six vessels worked together to try and identify the place where the hostages were being held—but the commodore wasn’t sanguine about the loyalists’ chances.

It was a ruse, he thought to himself. It always was. Andreotti showed no hesitation in killing those he held—and at the first provocation. Maybe it was something to do with refreshing the tree of liberty; but more likely, he decided, the mutinous commander had just been trying to distract him.

Thirty-two minutes into Sherrard System space, MacDowell found out that he was right.

* * *

The pilot’s board was suddenly alive with a cloud of icons, all registering hostile, all emerging from the asteroid belt at high relative speed.

“Missiles,” said Brian Dominguez, watch navigator. Dominguez was twenty-three: this was his first deep-space exercise. He was obviously trying to keep his voice level.

“All ships, begin evade,” MacDowell said. “Comm, get me Lacerta on the double. Theo, do you read? Flag sends.”

A second, then two. “I read you five-by-five, sir,” came Hamadjiou’s voice. “We’ve got company, pouring on the delta-v.”

“We all read that. Close it up, Captain, I don’t want you hanging out there as the first strike target.”

“More fun that way, Commodore. But I’m throwing out enough flak that the enviro police will be coming after me, and I’ll be on my way soon.”

“You and Edward VII are to make for the second orbital—it’s at conjunction, on the other side of the sun. Try not to get yourself killed.”

“Aye aye, sir. No argument there.”

“Comm to all ships. Disperse and deploy anti-missile weaponry. Flag sends. Linus,” he added to his exec, who was bringing up analysis graphs on the incoming ordnance, “ID those things on the double.”

“Already on it, sir.” He didn’t look away from the displays. “They’re Big-5s from the look of them, or something built to look like them.”

“Where’d they get so damn many Big-5s?” It was the standard nickname in the EU and elsewhere: generation 5 of the Great Wall missile, called Big-5 after the Western encoding scheme for Chinese ideograms—it was a model that was difficult to jam, scuttlebutt said, because they ‘only spoke Chinese.’

Big-5s weren’t the top of the line in Greater China’s arsenal, but were damn close. Mass-radar showed dozens of them—all coming from the asteroids.

“They got them from Greater China, sir, I imagine,” Soren said. “All ships report ECM and flak deployed. We’re on primary evade course. Trent and the others are moving toward intercept now.”

“What’s the relative velocity on the Big-5s?”

Soren read him the figure. Warren and the others were piling on velocity, headed for turnover: the point at which they’d have to decelerate to avoid flying past the oncoming rebels. The Big-5s were moving considerably faster.

MacDowell looked at the pilot’s board. Lacerta and Edward VII had already changed course; the other four had spread out as ordered. Their wake was filled with flak, and comm circuits were busy with ECM trying to spoof the missiles’ hardware.

“Not very original,” MacDowell said. “We slow down to stay engaged with the rebels and we get missiles up the chute; we keep ahead of them and we don’t stay in range for enough time to do the rebel ships any damage. Meanwhile, Andreotti’s ships can speak Chinese to keep the Big-5s from hitting …”

Soren and Dominguez both turned around after a moment when MacDowell didn’t finish his sentence. Dominguez was green and unwilling to interrupt a commodore deep in thought, but Soren had been with his skipper for almost four years and recognized the facial expression.

“They speak Chinese,” Soren said quietly.

“Three possibilities,” MacDowell said. “First, the missiles are programmed to exclude Trent and the others. I doubt that: all we’d have to do is make our ID beacons show as Trent’s sig and they’d ignore us, too.

“Second, they’re actively comming the missiles to aim at us. We’re not showing any comm squirts, so they’d have to do it on normal frequencies, which means speed-of-light comm. As we got closer the delay would be lower, but it’s still a delay.”

“There could be a controller in the asteroid belt.”

“We have no way of checking with those guys coming at us,” MacDowell said, pointing at the board. “I still doubt it. Easiest thing to do is to launch them—from robot or manned mining ships, I’d guess—and let ’em do their job. A Big-5 is a smart little bastard. That leaves option three, which is also the easiest thing: close-range comm signals to the missiles to keep them off any rebel ships in the area. That could be passive, but would still be a broadcast signal. We slow to engage, the missiles tackle us and avoid hitting Trent and her sisters.”

“You have an idea, sir,” Soren said.

“Warren outguns anything on their side, even Trent. We can take a few hits at long range. Normal ship-to-ship tactics are to shoot for weapons and maneuver. I think we should be shooting for comm and let the missiles do our work for us. We slow to engage, knock out whatever’s comming those missiles, and shear off as best we can.”

“They’ll do the same, sir,” Dominguez said quietly, glancing at the XO and then the commander. “I mean to say, Commodore, won’t they know enough to get out of the way?”

“They might, Lieutenant,” MacDowell said. The young man appeared relieved that the commodore hadn’t bitten his head off for speaking up. “Except that if our tactic works they’re going to be surprised as hell—and with their vector of acceleration in the opposite direction, right into the teeth of the missiles, they’ll have less time to get out of the way. Of course, if the ECM and flak does its job, there won’t be any missiles to worry about.”

Soren nodded and turned back to his console. Dominguez didn’t say anything further.

* * *

Lacerta was a light cruiser, fast and maneuverable but more lightly armed than the bigger boys in MacDowell’s squadron. But Theodore Hamadjiou, its skipper, had a score to settle. He wasn’t alone: the officers and crew of his ship—other than the ones that had been arrested or killed as a result of the attempted mutiny—wanted to erase that stain as well.

When Andreotti’s plot had been hatched, the point person aboard Lacerta had been Ed Barbieri, Theo’s chief engineer. He and Ed went way back: they’d served together as middies almost twenty years ago, fought in the little colonial skirmishes between the EU and Greater China as it expanded into the space between Sol System and Rashk-Home, and their careers had tracked pretty well. Ed had only one real fault, and he had it in abundance: a temper that went out of bounds too often. In an engineer, there was room for that; as a commanding officer, there wasn’t—and it had kept him from getting on to the captains’ list.

It was the wedge that Sam Andreotti had used to get him involved. It had worked for Giselle Rouchou of Hector as well, and evidently she’d planned better than poor old Ed had done.

“We should’ve seen this coming, Simmie,” Theo said, watching the pilot’s board, incoming missiles trailing behind and Hector changing course to try and intercept Lacerta.

“No use second-guessing now, Skip,” Simeon Ewing said. He was a tall, olive-skinned Punjabi, naturalized to the EU twenty years ago; he still retained the clipped accents of the subcontinent, though his English could have come from the cricket fields of Eton or the board-rooms of Canary Wharf. “I really don’t see the merit in it.”

“We saw and heard things. Andreotti stepped up the launching of mining ‘bots in the intrasystem belt—and they turned out to be platforms for those damn missiles.”

“We can outrun them.”

“Yeah, we and Eddie can, but Warren and Pas de Calais can’t. They’d better hope their flak and ECM works.”

“If this is the best that they can manage, Captain,” Ewing answered, “then it’s not much of a rebellion at all.”

“I don’t know that this is their best shot. But the commodore is right—it’s a weak hand, even with the missiles. Does this mean they’re now a client of Greater China?”

“Greater China doesn’t use clients, Skip,” Ewing said laconically. “It isn’t that sort of system. You either join the collective or you line yourself up to be disassembled and rebuilt in their image. Premier Xiang Che may not be Wei Kwan or Mao, but he does believe he’s got a historical mission. If it includes Sherrard …”

“What can the Sherrardi hope to gain?”

“For the naval officers, promotion at least.”

“And for the civilians?”

“Maybe they’ve decided that the EU is a sinking ship.” His accent put the emphasis on the word ‘sinking,’ making it the most important word in the sentence.

“We’re still expanding.”

“That doesn’t mean we’re not sinking. It’s been happening for a while: we may be isolated from the worst of it, but you know what’s going on, Skip: the colonies that don’t want to be colonies, countries bumping up against each other even though space is huge …”

“It’s been like this for forty years, ever since the rashk gave us faster than light tech.”

“It has,” Ewing agreed. “And there might have been a time when the EU might have made a go of this—but now I’m not sure. I’m not sure what we do.”

Hamadjiou shifted in his seat, watching the main formation disperse as the missiles crept closer and MacDowell’s ships closed on the rebels.

Lacerta piled on the accel, outrunning the missiles sent after it. Far away from the main formation that continued to close with the rebel ships, they had a fairly small share of chasers: all they had coming for them was Hector.

That suited Theo Hamadjiou just fine. Lacerta and Hector were of slightly different classes: Lacerta was more maneuverable, while Hector was better armed and armored. The lighter Edward VII was intended to make the difference. Theo hoped so, and expected that it figured into the commodore’s calculations as well.

Great, he thought. Here comes Gisele Rouchou, with murder on her mind.

“For the moment,” Theo said, “we’re going to do our duty.”

* * *

“How long will they have us in range?”

“Two, maybe three minutes,” Simmie answered. “They’ve put on so many Gs they won’t have more than a passing shot.”

Theo squinted at the pilot’s board. “You can do a hell of a lot of damage in three minutes, Sim.”

“Granted,” his XO said.

“But … if we’re being detached to rescue Wallace MacEwan and the others, don’t you’d think Hector would be moving toward the objective rather than trying to intercept us at—” Hamadjiou stared at the board. “A half-million kilometers outside the fifth orbital? Hell, the gas giant isn’t even at this spot in the orbit—it’s a quarter of the way around from here.”

“Rouchou’s looking for the killing shot, Skip.”

“As much as that sounds like Gisele Rouchou, it still doesn’t scan. She could put us in a world of hurt, but we could as easily put Hector out. It’s got to be something else.”

Theo stood up and walked slowly around the bridge, one eye on the pilot’s board. Warren was almost in range of Trent and all alone: the others were in among the gas giant system where Maurepas and Van Diemen had deployed to protect the installations there.

Pacing was Theo’s preferred way to think. Many captains kept their butts planted firmly in the pilot’s seat: there was a captain named Anderson who was famous for it—not even a call of nature could get him off the chair. By comparison, Theo knew that he could command from port gunnery station if that was where he happened to be standing when stuff hit the aerator.

“Simmie,” he said finally, “after she sideswipes us, where is Hector headed?”

His XO was standing right near port gunnery, in fact, and issued commands to his console. A cone appeared on the pilot’s board, spreading out from Hector’s present position. The projection became more uncertain and hazy the further away it became: it had changed course to intercept Lacerta and Eddie so comp couldn’t simply predict a straight-line course. It was clear though that most of the possible paths took Hector directly to the asteroid belt between Sherrard A and Sherrard B.

“Isn’t that interesting.”

“What’s so interesting in the belt?” Simeon Ewing asked. “Other than missiles?”

“Which they’ve already launched.”

“There may be another volley.”

“They didn’t need to have any of the four ships in the belt to launch the first volley.” Hamadjiou walked down to the center of the bridge and took his seat aft of the pilot’s board. Hector’s trajectory continued to update as the rebel ship continued to accelerate. “What they’re headed for—that’s a damn good question. A damn good question.” He turned toward comm. “Send this holo out to Edward VII and also to the flag, my compliments to the Commodore. She’s up to something—what the hell is it?”

* * *

With Hector detached to intercept Hamadjiou, it looked like Andreotti wasn’t going to let Lacerta and Edward VII get close to the hostages without a fight. That left Trent, Van Diemen and Maurepas to face the four remaining ships.

More than twenty missiles were still following as they entered fire range.

“All ships, engage as ordered,” MacDowell said.

Guienne and Corvus had Van Diemen, a Jersey-class second-generation ship built here at Sherrard less than three years ago. Maurepas was less well-armed and less maneuverable: Pas de Calais was about the same in throw-weight with a little more maneuverability—but like Luisa Davis of Van Diemen, Gustav Hebert was an excellent tactician. Both Hebert and Davis could fight a battle like this in their sleep.

He was left with Trent—but he had a personal score to settle with Andreotti.

Orlov was on the bridge as the two squadrons met, en passant, just outside the fifth orbital. They wouldn’t be in range for long—two or three minutes at the most. The missiles would make the difference.

MacDowell resisted the urge to ask him, Any other surprises? Somehow he doubted the intel officer would reply.

Trent’s profile was growing on visual as the pilot’s board continued to track it. Four missiles were aft of Warren, closing as the flagship dumped velocity.

“Hit,” reported Lane Hudson, his Gunnery first, “forward of midsection. Not sure if we got comm, sir.”

“Any change to the missiles’ path, Linus?”

“Not yet, sir. Their straight line trajectory to Trent would still take them near our position.”

A series of indicators went to red on the engineering board. Internal gravity compensated, but MacDowell could almost feel it as Warren took the hit. “Hudson, did we get their comm or not?”

“Stand by,” he said, touching his console. “No way of telling, sir. There’s enough chatter between the rebels I can’t quite make out whether Trent’s involved—we haven’t picked out their message encoding yet.”

“Our four missiles are about sixty seconds aft, Commodore,” Linus Soren said.

“Steady,” MacDowell said to Dominguez. “Hold your course.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

“Report on Pas de Calais,” MacDowell said, turning to comm. “I show them at sixty percent power.”

“I’ve got a message from Pas, sir,” comm said. “They’ve still got incoming missiles they’re trying to shirk near the gas giant.”

Maurepas had moved to protect the installations there as MacDowell’s fleet approached. It was almost at opposition with the saddle asteroid belt, about twenty million kilometers downrange of Warren’s position. Pas de Calais’ maneuverability would help them with dust and moons to hide in.

“Have they been hit?”

“Twice, sir. They haven’t hit Maurepas’ comm yet, but one of the missiles went awry and took out a refueling platform.”

MacDowell frowned. “Casualties?”

“Unoccupied, as far as Pas’ skipper can tell.”

“Thirty seconds, Commodore,” Linus said.

“Prepare for course change. Hudson, you’d better be a good shot.”

“Hope so, sir.”

“Twenty seconds.”

“Now,” MacDowell said. “Hard to starboard. Maximum accel, close on Pas de Calais’ position.”

The star field in the forward screen swerved. Another rank of indicators went on: Trent had scored another hit. MacDowell watched the missiles streak toward him on the pilot’s board—

—And streak past, unable to match the sudden course change. He breathed a sigh of relief. The gas giant was in view now, half in profile, a largish moon hanging between it and Warren’s present position.

Linus Soren looked from the pilot’s board to his commander and back. The missiles continued to track in a straight line, all four of them—heading for Trent’s position.

“I don’t think they can talk to it anymore,” Linus Soren said.

Trent’s commander had evidently reached the same conclusion; it was possible that Maurepas or Van Diemen could redirect them, but it was also possible that they were out of range or similarly disabled. Trent, moving in the opposite direction out of the gravity well, had already changed course itself to head for an intercept near the gas giant. A broadside from the rebel flag took out one of the missiles; but as they watched on the pilot’s board, the remaining three reached Trent’s position and struck.

After a moment, the icons for the missiles and the rebel flag vanished from the board. Eleven seconds later—light being a slower medium than mass-radar, which used the same principle as the jump drive—there was a massive, blinding explosion in the forward screen, sixty degrees to port.

* * *

Hector never stopped accelerating as it came within range of Lacerta and Edward VII. Rouchou took her shots and they were fairly good ones for the two and a half minutes they were in range. But even though Hector managed to disable Edward VII’s engines, there wasn’t any truly serious attempt to stop the two ships’ descent into the gravity well. Hector’s projected course continued to update on the pilot’s board, taking it into—and through—the asteroid belt.

The damage to Eddie posed a bit of a problem for Theo. He couldn’t make for planet two with all possible speed without leaving the other ship behind. On the other hand, the departure of Hector from the inner system left nothing mobile to attack it.

When they recorded Trent’s destruction on the pilot’s board a few minutes later, Theo commed Warren for new orders.

* * *

“It’s about damn time you got here.”

Wallace MacEwan was standing with his hands on his hips in Ring Station’s C-in-C when Theo came on deck. The Marines had given condition green almost as soon as they’d boarded the station: either the loss of Trent and the subsequent disabling of Maurepas and Van Diemen at the gas giant had made the rebels holding the hostages unwilling to carry on, or MacEwan had made some kind of prison break—but there were no more dead bodies lying around, the rebels were in the brig—“better treatment than they were ready to give us,” MacEwan had told the Marine major who had led the detachment—and Hector’s lawful captain and the others left at the station were acting as if they were out on R&R rather than just out of mortal danger.

Theo wasn’t sure whether it was bravado or just a brave face and MacEwan wasn’t telling.

“Your XO’s a pretty good shot,” Theo said. “She disabled Edward VII.”

“Where is my ship, by the way?”

“Sherrard B.”

“What the hell is it doing there?”

“The commodore’s trying to find out. If Gisele doesn’t strike her colors, you may have no ship to go back to.”

“Damn.” Wallace MacEwan ran his hand through his hair. “It’s not like there are a lot of ships just floating around waiting for someone to command them.”

“It’s not like Commodore MacDowell is looking to take her out. But if she tries to go outsystem, there may not be any alternative.”

“It was the Chinese, wasn’t it?”

“Sam Andreotti must have gotten Big-5s from somewhere,” Theo said. “But there aren’t any GC ships insystem. Maybe they’re going to jump in to Sherrard-B.”

“Then what?”

“Depends what they do. But it looks like the Free Republic of Sherrard lasted … oh, about eleven days.”

* * *

Gisele Rouchou had made turnover right at the asteroid belt. Hector had decelerated as it crossed through the outer system of Sherrard-B. Warren was in pursuit by then: MacDowell had half again the firepower and at least twice the accel capability; he wasn’t in the mood for any more negotiation.

A scan of the system showed a number of possible alternatives, but escape probably wasn’t one of them. A certain amount of dodging around would keep Hector out from in front of Warren’s guns for a while, but eventually there’d be an issue of fuel. Sherrard-B had no gas giant; Warren wasn’t going to let Hector anywhere near Sherrard-A.

It took six hours. Finally Rouchou commed MacDowell’s flag; MacDowell took the call in his ready-room.

“No rescue in sight, Commander,” MacDowell said. “I don’t know who you’re expecting, though I have my suspicions.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir,” the pro tem commander of Hector answered.

“Right. I’m sure Sam Andreotti didn’t just go down to the Big-5 store and buy those damn missiles at discount. It doesn’t matter: they left you high and dry. It’s over, Commander. You can save some lives, or you can destroy some EU property. Your choice.”

Rouchou didn’t look happy with the two alternatives. MacDowell half expected her to tell him to go straight to hell, but after several moments of thought—moments that some commanders in the Union probably wouldn’t have given a rebel officer in charge of a mutinous ship—she nodded.

“Prepare to receive a prize crew,” MacDowell said. “This wasn’t a good idea, Commander. It never was. I told Sam Andreotti that, and I’m telling you as well. I could’ve blown you out of the sky—I suppose you know that.”

“I’m surprised you didn’t, sir.” Hector had changed course and begun to decelerate.

“I can’t see as it would have done any good.”

Rouchou considered this for a moment. “The Union is coming apart, sir,” she said, with a candor that seemed to spring from nowhere. “There won’t be too many more chances for you to show restraint, I’m thinking.”

“I hope you’re wrong.”

“I’m not wrong, sir. My career is over—for now.”

“For good, Rouchou. The EU is going to put you away for a long time, but I’ll do what I can to speak up for you.”

“Hector will be ready to receive your prize crew, sir,” she said, and ended the comm.