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CHAPTER SIX

Despite the admiral's assertion that the Invincible was ready to go, Raeder knew, and suspected that Smallwood did too, that you couldn't be too prepared for a mission like this one.

He strode along the dock, his mind racing with plans.

"These!" he shouted out, slapping a pile of boxes and moving rapidly towards the first cargo specialist to look up. Pointing he said, "These go to the Invincible."

"No, sir," the young woman said consulting her manifest. "These missiles are for the Amity."

"Not anymore," he said. He took the manifest from her hands. "I'll sign off for it. Invincible's got priority. Admiral Smallwood will confirm it. Meanwhile, please get your crew started with loading these. Now."

He marched off ignoring her cry of "Sir!"

As soon as he walked onto the Invincible he hit the com.

"Chief Casey, Chief arap Moi, Lieutenant Robbins, please meet me in the quartermaster's office." He couldn't remember the kid's name at the moment, but his office was closer, so this would save time.

"P—Commander," Sarah said, bustling up to him. "They're taking the captain and Ms. Ju off the ship. Have you heard anything? Doctor Goldberg's done everything he could but he says the order came from pretty high up."

"You'd better come with me," he said, taking her by the upper arm and leaning close. "I'm meeting Paddy and Robbins in the quartermaster's office. We don't have much time."

She looked at him questioningly; after a beat she whispered, "We're shipping out."

He nodded. "Wait," he said, "I'll explain."

They walked on in silence until they came to the quartermaster's office. Peter found the door open and the young temporary quartermaster seated behind his desk, his usual eager expression on his face.

"Welcome, Commander, won't you come in?"

"Bryany," Raeder said, relieved to finally remember the kid's name.

The young petty officer half rose. "Would you like my seat, Commander?"

"Thank you, no," Peter answered. "I'll stand, I think."

It was a tiny office, about the size of a broom closet. Were it not for the fact that the Invincible was a new ship and one of the best designed he'd ever served on Raeder would have assumed that it had been converted from just such a purpose. He wasn't entirely sure he could fit behind the desk. The young, temporary quartermaster was a very small, slender man.

How did Larkin ever manage it? he wondered. Then again, Larkin was a Mollie, he probably reveled in discomfort for the cause.

They waited a moment in silence, Bryany fairly thrumming with suppressed energy. Who needs antihydrogen? Peter thought wryly. When we run out we'll just hook up the engines to Bryany here and probably break speed records. 

"Paddy and Cynthia are on board, aren't they?" Raeder said to Sarah. "Have you seen them?"

"I saw them earlier on Main Deck with their heads together over Givens' engine, not since."

"We're still having trouble with Givens' engine?" Just as they had been when he'd first met the lieutenant. "Wait a minute, that was a different Speed."

"He caught some flack while he was chasing Fibians," Sarah said. She gave a wry smile. "But it does give one pause."

"Sorry to be so long, Commander," Paddy said from the doorway. "But we had ourselves fairly slathered with lubricants and all and had to clean up, so we did."

Raeder and Sarah looked at him blankly and Cynthia blinked.

Raeder cleared his throat. "You're hardly late, Chief. I'm just grateful you were both on board. Take a seat, won't you?" He turned to Bryany. "Could you close the door, please, Petty Officer?"

Bryany struck a key and the door snicked shut.

"O-kay," Peter said, seating himself on the edge of the quartermaster's desk. "We're shipping out in less than three hours, and I'll be in command for this mission," he told them. "We're down two Speeds and I am not leaving Come By Chance without filling those slots. So I'm going to need your help. Yours too, Lieutenant Commander James. Bryany," he said, turning to him. "I've commandeered a shipment of standard defensive and antiship missiles; they should be coming in any moment. Will you be able to handle it?"

"You bet, sir. We've got the room. The quartermaster here only allotted half the number we requested. But I did score some more mines." He sat back with a huge grin.

"Good for you," Raeder said, giving him a slap on the arm.

Paddy, Cynthia and Sarah grinned their approval. Since Knott's successful deployment of mines during Invincible's last mission the obsolete weapons had developed a certain popularity with fighting ships.

"Is there anything else we're in sore need of?" Raeder asked.

"Laser crystals, sir. You can never have enough," Bryany said seriously.

"Paddy?"

"I'm on it, Commander." The big New Hibernian grabbed the arms of his chair as if to rise.

"Get anything else you think we'll need while you're at it, Chief. Lieutenant," Peter said to Cynthia, "batten down the hatches on Main Deck, prepare room for two more Speeds. S—Lieutenant Commander, find me a pilot whose discretion we can trust absolutely. Meet me at the door of the hangar for Marjorie Base, suited up and ready to fly. Let's go people, time's a-wasting."

They rose and hurried to their tasks without another word being said. Raeder thought about that as he strode down the corridor. He was proud to have the trust of such exceptional people.

* * *

Marjorie Base's hangar was at the top of the base complex just beneath the dome of the station. The whole massive structure could be retracted in segments to allow Speeds to fly out like a swarm of angry wasps. There were over a hundred Speeds serving this small base, and the place was awesome.

Though not an active post these pilots and their machines had responded like veterans to the Fibian attack. Now they licked their wounds. Easily thirty of the sleek machines had been severely damaged and were in various stages of being stripped down.

The pilots could be proud that they'd only lost eight of their Speeds in the conflict. They could be spending their time in bars, boasting of their prowess and impressing the opposite sex. Instead they hit the simulators and strove to put a finer edge on their already razor-sharp skills.

Good, Raeder thought, there isn't a pilot in sight. Not that the techs would be easy to fool, but they'd be a bit less fanatic about it. Unless Marjorie Base has somebody like Robbins on it. A thought to make a strong man shudder, especially under the circumstances.

The commander marched along, looking like someone who knew where he was going and who didn't have time for questions. His eyes took stock of his surroundings and he was relieved to see that there was a small door in the side of the dome for standard patrols to come and go. He'd been worried about that.

No way would they let me open the dome, he thought. He could put one over on small groups, but an operation like that would involve the permission of a superior officer. Who would tell me to go back to bed or stop dreaming. 

Then he saw them. Two perfect specimens, perhaps new, for their gleaming surfaces seemed unmarked. They sat sparkling in the overhead lights, nose to tail, like two shy colts in an unfamiliar pasture.

Raeder felt the lift in his chest that the prospect of flying always brought. Down, boy, he thought. Maybe someday. For now, taking them home with him would have to do. What I really like about them, he thought, is that they're adjacent to the doors.

He turned and trotted back to the main entrance of the hangar, arriving just as Sarah and Givens came in. Givens? he thought dubiously. The pilot officer was a bit young, in Raeder's opinion, and one of those people who always would be.

Then again, he had been with them on the asteroid and had acquitted himself well. Perhaps I've gotten into a habit of thought about Givens that doesn't match the real man anymore, Peter thought. That wouldn't do. And heaven knows I've reason to trust Sarah's judgement. Just look at our relationship. There was a touch of smugness in the thought.

"What I need for you to do," he said as he came up to them, "is to get into the Speeds I'm going to point out to you and fly them to—" he rattled off coordinates near one of Marjorie's Lagrange points. "Wait there for the Invincible."

Sarah raised one brow and Givens blinked, but otherwise there was no comment from either but, "Yes, sir."

"Follow me," Raeder said.

He led them to the two Speeds he'd selected and directed them to board and power them up. At the sound four techs came running.

"Hey!" a burly older man shouted, a chief petty officer. "What's going on here?"

Raeder turned and intercepted him smoothly.

"Sir?" the man said.

"I'm Commander Raeder," he said. "This is a surprise inspection. These pilots will be taking those two Speeds out for a run to evaluate the level of service the techs here are providing."

"What inspection?" one of the techs, a woman, demanded.

"Yeah," said the chief. "We haven't heard nothin' about any inspection."

Peter leaned in close to the chief. "Well, then it wouldn't be a surprise. Now would it?"

The chief and his techs didn't have an answer for that one. They looked at each other helplessly, eyes blinking slowly. Meanwhile Sarah and Givens were maneuvering their Speeds into position before the crash doors.

"Who authorized this?" the chief asked as he watched them go.

"Admiral Smallwood," Raeder answered. "Look," he said, taking the chief's arm and leading him away from the two Speeds, "I can sign off for them if this is making you nervous."

"Yes, sir, if you would," the chief said. "This isn't . . ."

"I know," Peter said sympathetically. "But you know the admiral, he gets these ideas. Personally, I think that after the way the squadron performed a few days ago any questions anyone might have had about your operation here should have been answered."

"Thank you, sir," the chief said. He handed Raeder a notecomp and Peter signed off with a flourish. "I appreciate this, sir."

"Not a problem," Raeder said. "Uh, except that those doors aren't open." He turned and grinned at the techs around him. "Can you do something about that?"

For a moment the chief's face fell, as though he now understood that he'd been conned. Raeder stepped into the gap before he could become angry.

"That's the other downside of surprise inspections," he said with a grin, "you're not always a hundred percent prepared yourself."

The chief nodded slowly. He couldn't help but be suspicious. At the moment he wasn't sure if this was a security check or the inspection test the commander said it was.

"Chief," Raeder said, letting a snap of command slip into his voice. "The lieutenant commander, the pilot officer and I are waiting."

The chief went to his console and tapped in a sequence. Warning lights flashed and klaxons sounded, while around the door blue lights showed the implementation of a force curtain that prevented the escape of atmosphere as the crash door rose.

Sarah and Givens rolled the Speeds forward and made a vertical takeoff as soon as they were outside.

There was a chirp from the console and an irritated voice with a strong Hindi accent demanded: "Chief Powers, what the hell is going on? We have two Speeds, not cleared for takeoff, who haven't submitted a flight plan, who aren't listed on our schedule, haring off into the wild unknown at this moment. Could you explain that to me, please?"

"Let me," Peter said and leaned into range of the pickup. "Who is this?" he asked.

"Who am I? This is base flight control, Ensign Rao Singh speaking," the man answered. "Who are you? Where is Chief Powers?"

"I'm right here, Ensign," Powers said.

There was a pause. "So, what's going on?" the ensign asked, his voice betraying puzzled caution.

"I'm Commander Raeder; this is a surprise inspection authorized by Admiral Smallwood."

"Sir . . ." Again there was a pause and when his voice returned it was tight with controlled anger. "This un . . ." He couldn't say unauthorized because a commander had just told him that it was, and by an admiral no less. Nor could he call it unbelievably stupid for the same reason.

"Someone, such as those two pilots, might have been hurt," he said finally. "They have yet to check in with flight control and their trajectory has caused us to do several very hasty emergency reroutings. Besides overriding automatic defense batteries which are still on red alert. Sir."

"I understand," Raeder said, his voice managing to be both crisp and sympathetic. "But as I was saying to the chief, if surprise inspections were expected we wouldn't learn much from them. Good work, all of you," he said.

He saluted the chief, who saluted back, still obviously uncertain he'd done the right thing. Peter walked off without looking back. He checked his watch once, then picked up his pace.

There are eyes boring into my back, he thought. I can feel them. But if I turn around I'll turn into a pillar of salt. Feet, keep moving.

He kept expecting a senior officer to call him to a halt, to demand an explanation, followed by a call to the admiral's office, followed by something close to a flogging by the admiral's notoriously acid tongue.

Then he was through the hangar doors and he moved out at a jog.

God, I hope Paddy is back with those crystals. He also hoped flight control had been warned of Invincible's departure. He didn't think two surprises like that in one shift would pass unnoticed. Once we've got those two Speeds aboard and are headed for the jump point calling us back is unlikely. But he knew Admiral Smallwood would have a few choice words to say to him when, if, he got back.

As he approached the Invincible's docking tube he saw a tall, slender, but broad-shouldered man with a shock of curly dark hair arguing with the guard.

"What's going on?" Peter asked.

"Sir, this man wants to come aboard."

"I'm . . ." the man began to say.

"What is your profession?" Raeder said.

"I am a linguist," he answered. He held out his hand. "My name is . . ."

Before he could continue Raeder tapped at his noteboard and called up a picture of a Fibian. He handed it to the linguist, saying, "What do you think of this?"

The man recoiled, visibly paler.

"He's expected," Raeder said, withdrawing his noteboard.

"Don't do that to me!" the man snapped, hand over his heart.

"I'll vouch for him," Raeder said to the guard.

"Yes, sir," the guard said and stood aside.

"I have this baggage." The linguist gestured to a pile of belongings.

Raeder picked up one of the bags. "Pick out the ones you most need to have with you. I'll have someone deliver the rest to your quarters."

"Thank you. I'm Sirgay Ticknor, incidently—LL.A., Victoria City University department of xenolinguistics." He held out his hand again and waited while Peter tucked his noteboard under one arm to take it.

"Commander Peter Ernst Raeder. I'll be in charge of this expedition. Follow me, please." Raeder led him onto the Invincible, away from the interested eyes and ears of the guard on duty. "Have you ever traveled on a Star Command vessel?" he asked.

"No, I haven't had that privilege," Ticknor said. "I suppose there'll be restrictions and bad food and so forth?"

Peter laughed. "Some restrictions, yes. But they'll be for your own safety most likely." He led him into the elevator. No sense in making the civilian walk, he excused himself. I need to get him settled, then I've got a million things to do. That was what real ship's captains had XOs to do.

"Well, most likely I'll be in my quarters working on my translations. I don't know if the admiral mentioned this to you," he said in the manner of a man who is certain that this important fact must have been mentioned, "but there's something of a cutthroat competition under way to see who will be first to crack the Fibian language." Ticknor looked around him happily. "And with this . . . opportunity I'm certain to be the one! You have no idea how delighted I am to be coming with you."

"Excuse me?" Raeder said. "You're telling me that you do not, in fact, speak Fibian." There was an edge to his voice and he was feeling far less guilty about using the admiral's name as he had.

The elevator halted and he led Ticknor down the corridor at a fast clip, forcing the linguist to jog a few paces to catch up.

"No one does," the linguist explained. "Humans can only approximate the language; the vocal apparatus is entirely different. It's amazing they can speak ours as well as they do. But from my studies I've deduced that human language, by comparison, is quite crude."

Raeder halted and turned to face the man beside him.

"I'm asking you," he said with exaggerated patience, "do—you—understand—Fibian?"

Ticknor avoided Raeder's eyes, looking down at their shoes, or off to the side.

"Well, as well as anyone in the Commonwealth does," he admitted with a little laugh.

"I'm from the Commonwealth," Peter said tightly. "I don't understand Fibian at all. Can you do better than that?"

"Oh, yes! Now I see what you mean. Yes. In a brute sort of way, certainly I can understand Fibian. But the subtleties of the language . . ."

"So," Raeder said, moving off rapidly, "if we run into a Fibian patrol you'd be able to say, `We come in peace'?"

"Er, yes." Ticknor trotted to catch up to him, his eyes on Raeder's profile. "Is that what we're going to say to them?" the linguist asked.

"Apparently not," Raeder said. "Since you don't speak their language."

"I have a device which I am programming to speak their language." Ticknor's voice was tart, his manner offended.

"Here we are," Raeder said.

He showed the linguist into Larkin's quarters. The traitor's cabin had yet to be reassigned and Peter knew Ticknor would require room and privacy in which to work.

"This?" the linguist asked, allowing his bags to drop from his hands in his astonishment. He stood openmouthed, incredulous. "This is a closet! How can you possibly expect me to work in there?"

"Mr. Ticknor, this is an officer's cabin. I am right next door to you and these are the best accommodations on the ship. It's tight, I grant you, but perfectly adequate." He gave the linguist a sidelong look. "You're not claustrophobic, are you?"

"No! Having one phobia does not mean that I have all of them! I can't believe you live in a hole like this." He rubbed the back of his neck and shook his head, giving Raeder a dark-eyed glare.

Raeder stepped to the door next to Ticknor's and keyed entry. He stepped aside and gestured welcome to the man beside him.

"Hmmph," was all Ticknor said.

"The food is really quite good, and there's plenty of it. But space is at a premium. You'll get used to it," Raeder said reassuringly.

Ticknor frowned."You're having the rest of my baggage sent to me here?"

"Yes."

"Well," the linguist gestured helplessly, "it won't fit! What am I supposed to do about that?"

"Is everything you've brought directly related to your work?" Raeder asked. Because I've got to get going, buddy, I've got things to do. 

"Yes! The translation device, the special equipment needed to construct it, my library," he said holding up one of the cases.

"Then I'll assign you some lab space, Mr. Ticknor. For now, however, if you don't mind we'll just store your baggage in here. When we've left the station and passed the jump point we'll get you settled."

Before Ticknor could raise the objections Raeder was certain he was marshalling Peter spun on his heel and walked off.

Command is playing merry hell with my manners, he thought. Mom would be very disappointed in me. But then, he'd been under command for years now, and he'd yet to run into someone at the top who wasn't preemptory and rude.

* * *

The paint locker was cramped, but not nearly as small as Paddy's cabin. Which was why he'd brought the three techs he'd smuggled aboard for this high-stakes game here. It came with a table already installed. True, he'd had to snatch some stools from the labs to make it comfortable to play at that table, but he felt that the effort would be worth it. Music played softly in the background from a player at the chief's elbow.

"Two," said Simba. She was a slender, tawny woman with tightly braided rows of jet-black hair. Had there been no Cynthia Robbins then Paddy might have enjoyed a closer association with the weapons specialist.

Colvin dealt her the cards and sat back, his eyes hooded. He was the oldest of the four of them. A quiet man, with the solidity of a heavy-worlder. He was one of the best engine techs Paddy had ever met.

Tony Wu said nothing, just arranged and then rearranged his cards. His specialty was battle computers. Poker was not. For though he loved to play he consistently lost.

"It's a bit dry in here, innut?" Paddy asked. He brought out his flask and four glasses and poured them all a shot. "To the Commonwealth," he said, lifting his glass. "Long may she wave."

The others picked up their glasses in answer to his toast and only Simba gave him a slightly questioning look.

"And here," Paddy said. He took a packet of crisps—they never did tell you anymore just what it was they were crisping—down from a shelf and tore it open. "Help yourselves," he said with an expansive gesture.

Even Colvin and Wu looked surprised at that.

"My sweetheart gave 'em to me," Paddy explained. "She said it would make things nice."

"You thinking of getting married, Chief?" Simba asked.

He gave them a lopsided grin. "Time'll tell," he said. "If I ever do get married, me wife will have to understand that a serious game doesn't come with treats."

"I think it's nice," Simba said. She bit into one of the crisps in a way that seemed almost an invitation. "Everybody needs a wife." She winked.

They laughed and through it Paddy heard the beginning of a tone. A sound he'd been listening for.

"I love this bit," he said and turned the music to its highest volume. The sound boomed off the walls and his companions held their ears, or bellowed for him to turn it down or threw chips at him, depending on their pain tolerance. "What?" Paddy shouted back, laughing. "I can't hear you."

Finally he acquiesced and turned it down.

"That wasn't funny," Colvin said, frowning.

Wu said nothing. He picked out a card in his hand and placed it two cards further down.

Simba simply glared. "Call," she said. She had a feeling it was time to get going.

Paddy frowned. He'd rather they'd played a bit longer to take their minds off what might be going on around them. But the choice was no longer his. The worst of it was, there was nothing in his hand.

Ah, well, he thought. The game doesn't matter. Nor did it. The game was just an excuse to get them aboard the Invincible. The truth was he'd brought them all here with the full intention of kidnapping them.

Three of the Invincible's techs had been on liberty on the surface of CBC. They had all been severely burned and would be hospitalized for another two weeks at least. And Paddy had no intention of seeing Main Deck face the Fibians with less than a full compliment of technicians.

He paid his debt with bad grace and demanded another hand of them.

They're going to hear the ship decoupling, he thought. Maybe they won't kill me if they think I was caught as flat-footed as they were. After all, how would a lowly engineering chief know when the ship was about to leave port with emergency speed?

The ship lurched and clo-onged with the release of the grapples and air lock.

"What was that?" Simba demanded, looking up at the ceiling.

"I don't know," Paddy said, rising. "But I'm going to go find out." He rushed out, closing the hatch behind him. I'll just leave 'em to simmer for an hour or so, he thought as he walked, whistling, down the corridor. It was already too late, anyway. But if I tell them I was caught by an officer and didn't want to get them in trouble for gambling, then they might not kill me. 

* * *

Raeder sat in the captain's place in the briefing room, feeling somewhat uncomfortable beneath the startled and, in Booth's case, hostile, stares of his fellow officers. They had pulled away from the moon without a hitch but with some few of their people still on the base and one or two of the base's personnel still on the Invincible. Now, at last, he was about to tell them of their mission.

"The first part of the mission Admiral Smallwood has assigned us is fairly straightforward," Peter said. "We're to find the Fibian raiders that struck Come By Chance."

"If that's the straightforward part of our mission," Squadron Leader Sutton chimed in, "then I shudder to think what a blow to our collective sanity the less straightforward portion of our mission will be."

"One thing at a time, Squadron Leader," Raeder said with a smile. "After we've captured the Fibians then we'll discuss the rest of it."

"They . . . they want us to capture the Fibians?" Truon Le, the tactical officer said. The expression on his face said, I didn't hear that correctly, right? 

Every face at the table showed astonishment and general agreement with that sentiment.

"Get a grip, people. We've done the impossible before." They continued staring. Oh, all right, he thought. "It's what I want. I'd at least like to take one of their ships. There's no telling what Star Command could learn from one of them. So I want our people to operate under the principle of capture if possible."

They looked at one another. After a moment William Booth, the security officer, and not one of Raeder's favorite people, spoke up.

"Are you aware, Commander, that no one has ever successfully captured any Fibians? As for Mollies," he waved his thick hands, "once you get one they're impossible to keep around. At least without a twenty-four-hour guard on 'em, which is more trouble than they deserve."

It was obvious from their faces that though it made them uncomfortable to be agreeing with the incompetent and bilious Booth, they did.

"Have you any ideas on how we should go about it?" Sutton asked. You could almost hear a drawled "dear boy" in the subtext.

"They're sure to destroy all their records," the communications officer, Havash Hartkopf said lugubriously. "I know we would."

"So what's the point?" Ashly Lurhman, the astrogator asked. "Probably no prisoners, definitely no records. Why bother?"

"I vote we just blast the suckers," Booth said, sitting back in his chair, a slight, contemptuous smile on his broad face.

"I am in command of this ship and this mission," Raeder said firmly. "That is a fact. When I give an order, you will obey it because I am your acting captain." He looked directly at Booth as he spoke. "You do not get a vote on whether you will follow those orders or not. How you feel about these facts is not an issue, because this is not a democracy. And if you don't like that," his cold blue gaze raked the table, "then you have no business being an officer in Star Command."

He paused and looked into the eyes of each of his fellow officers in turn.

"What we would gain," he said at last, addressing Lurhman, "even if there are no prisoners, even if their records are wiped beyond any hope of recall, is a concrete idea of their level of technology. And from their bodies, invaluable forensic information; from their living arrangements some idea, perhaps, of how their society works. All of that would be a gold mine to Intelligence. I would like to get that information for the Commonwealth. I am requiring you to help me do it. So stop thinking we're going to automatically do this the easy way and start planning how we're going to do this." His gaze flicked around the table. "As of now the carnival of negativity is over."

They looked at one another silently. Booth with continuing hostility, the rest with blank or thoughtful faces.

"Fair enough," Sutton said, tapping his stylus on the table before him. "If we think we can't do it, we certainly won't be able to. My question now, and please don't think I'm being negative, is how do we find them?"

"We're going to guess," Peter said, calling up a star map. "Based on the best intelligence we have."

He told them what the admiral had said about the bought or stolen identification signals and the destroyed pickets. They looked grimly back at him.

"They've been finding their way deeper and deeper into Commonwealth territory, it's true," he said. "But Come By Chance is hardly on the beaten path. So, there's a psychological effect in these attacks, and the media will have a field day talking about deep penetration enemy infiltration, yadda yadda yadda. But they're picking their targets carefully, no doubt with safety in mind."

Nodding, Truon Le said, "The safer they stay the more damage they can do in the long term."

His fellow officers nodded and Raeder grinned.

"Exactly!" he said.

He turned his attention to the console before him and a star map floated into existence in the center of the table. He highlighted three solar systems. The computer brought them forward, and their vital statistics appeared below their names and on the notepads before each officer.

"My guess is that they'll continue to choose similar targets for maximum safety for them, maximum psychological damage to us. Then they'll fade away into the night."

He tapped his console and one of the three planets came to the fore.

"This one's my bet. It's close, it's underpopulated, sparely protected and it has a fissile-metals refinery. Warhead triggers—not crucial, but losing it would hurt us." He raised his hands and shook them once in invitation. "Discussion?"

* * *

Bella Vista was well named—the planet was lovely. It appeared to have much in common with Earth, displaying a limpid blue atmosphere and great, colorful land masses touched with green. It was a lie. The atmosphere was mostly methane and hydrogen, and the green was ammonia; the atmosphere was thick and crushing, and composed of complex volatiles which were mined by ramscoop and refined for shipment to manufacturing complexes throughout the system.

The permanent residents were those who had been brought here by the Consortium. In fact their residence was really anything but permanent. They'd been awarded the planet by the Commonwealth in reparation for their sufferings. Since that time they'd grown rich on minerals and now hired others to mine for them. They usually spent their time enjoying planets with more amenities, but maintained the fiction of a Bella Vista address.

"I hope we haven't guessed wrong," Truon Le said at Peter's side. He was acting executive officer.

Raeder grunted in reply, chin resting on his fist as he viewed the planet and its orbiting habitats, rings, and almost-moons from the captain's screen. I do like that we, though, he thought with gallows humor. And he hoped they hadn't guessed wrong, too. Not that I'm ill-wishing the Bella Vistans. But we can't be in three places at once and I feel in my bones that I'm right.

His bones, unfortunately, were as fallible as the next person's. Which frankly worried him.

"Perhaps this isn't a good time to mention it," Truon said, "but those three techs that Chief Casey shanghaied . . ."

"Shanghaied!" Peter exclaimed. "That's pretty strong, Executive Officer."

"How about pressed, sir?"

Raeder pursed his lips. "Pressed is good. But it's inaccurate. They came aboard under their own power; nobody drugged them or forced them to stay."

Truon leaned close. "Sir, they came aboard to play a hand of poker with the chief. They didn't plan to stay."

"It's not our fault that they didn't make it back to the station. What are we supposed to do, stop the war so they can shuffle to the exit?"

The XO grinned. "I guess not, sir. But they're claiming they intend to make a complaint."

Raeder leaned back with a smug grin. Assuming any of us live to get back to Commonwealth space. "I don't know why, but there's something about optimists that I find really admirable. Don't you?"

"Sir," Hartkopf, the communication officer, said. "The base commander has invited the officers to dinner."

Peter could understand that. There were only about four thousand people in the whole of the Bella Vista system at any time, and those were scattered. A new face showing up during your two-year contract had to be something of a treat.

"Let's invite him up to see us," Raeder countered. "Offer a change of scene."

"Mrs. Hong says she'd be delighted, Commander," Hartkopf came back. "She'd like to bring her family, if she may. She has two husbands and three teenage sons."

"Wow," Raeder said, sotto voce. You didn't meet that many polygamists. Most people thought it too much trouble. But in an empty place like this I guess the more the merrier. "By all means," he said. "I'm looking forward to meeting them." Actually I'm a little unnerved by the two husbands thing. What if they're really peculiar?

Well, then he supposed he could take refuge in being the remote, aloof captain figure. Assuming they weren't the type of social limpets who attached themselves unshakably to the highest-ranking individual in the room.

"Sir," Ensign Gunderson said from tactical. "We have some activity from the jump point."

They'd sent the picket away and replaced it with some whiz-bang spy devices. They'd also deployed a very obvious buoy, lest the absence of the picket warn their prey away.

"They're sending a commercial signal," Gunderson said.

"Feed to my screen," Raeder said. "And cancel dinner. Ask them not to send further communication to us until we tell them it's all right."

"Aye, sir."

Raeder's view was from behind the buoy and at the moment showed nothing but a rather boring view of space. He heard the buoy respond to the commercial hail with a set piece welcoming the unscheduled ship to Bella Vista. As he watched the jump point expressed an eye-hurting moment of dissonance and a ship began to come through.

"That is certainly not a Commonwealth commercial vessel of any kind," Raeder said with satisfaction.

It was a flattened swelling disc, like a Mechanist version of a tortoise shell, with two spiky structures curving forward as if it were an insect with mandibles. Eight heavy pods on fairings ringed its stern, and the surface bristled with sensor arrays, launch tubes, focusing mirrors and beam guides for plasma weapons. Heavy missiles nestled against it.

"Destroyer class," Gunderson said, communing with the instruments. "A little more mass than ours or the Mollies. Pretty heavy neutrino flux—impressive power plant. That sucker can probably shift damned fast."

They waited; nothing else came through.

"They had friends with them at Come By Chance," Truon said over Raeder's shoulder.

"Yeah, they did," he agreed. "But there was somebody there to meet them. Here . . ." He raised his hands and let them drop.

"True," the temporary XO said.

After a moment, Raeder said, "I don't think anyone else is coming through. We'll let them get a little further in, then we'll power up and go after them. Our people are in position?"

"Yes, sir," Gunderson answered.

They waited as the Fibian cautiously shaped its vector down into the blue sun's gravity well, aiming for Bella Vista's space.

 

 

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