The Jupiter Pirates (8 page)

Huff came to a sudden halt, the motors in his mechanical legs squealing in protest. He started to turn, the living half of his face bright red, but Tycho grabbed his arm.

“Grandfather,
don't
,” he warned.

Huff glowered at him, but then his face softened.

“Yer right, Tyke, yer right,” Huff muttered. “Let's find another glass of that fancy Ganymedan Reserve.”

With a glass of whiskey and another of fruit juice secured, Tycho led his grandfather to the window, where he figured any outburst would do the least damage. Huff stared out at the massive globe of Jupiter, still fuming.

“Pirates with papers, arrrr,” Huff scoffed. “As if it's our fault we're stuck with papers. What I wouldn't do to keelhaul that old bat. Yeh know how the count of the Galileo Regio met Countess Tiamat's mother, Tyke? She was a cocktail waitress on a luxury liner, that's how. As for Count Tiamat, his grandfather was a prospector who owed money to every merchant in Port Town. And for the record, Tyke, the gun crews on the
Copernican Pilgrimage
couldn't hit the surface of a moon if they fell out of orbit.”

Tycho laughed, but Huff was still angry.

“Count Tiamat's kin run the resources ministry, which decides what the Union pays companies for raw materials,” he said. “Last year they reduced the price to hurt the count's competitors. Meant lots of miners at those companies lost their jobs.”

Huff tossed back the rest of his whiskey and scowled, flexing his hand.

“That's the thing of it, lad,” Huff said. “Nowadays some folks think it's honorable to steal with words and computers, but they look down on us for doin' it with cannons. They think they're clean 'cause they don't know the people paid to do their dirty work.”

10
THE CYBELE ASTEROIDS

W
hen the Hashoones returned to Darklands, Carina told them to prepare for a family meeting. Fifteen minutes later everyone had found a place around the dining area's big table. It was actual wood from Earth, an heirloom some pirate ancestor had claimed in a long-forgotten exploit. Tycho loved to trace the lines and rings visible beneath the lacquered surface, marveling at the thought that he was touching something that had once been alive.

Most of the Hashoones had happily shucked off some fraction of the night's fancy clothes. Mavry was wearing a ratty T-shirt over his formal trousers, while Yana and Tycho had immediately shed every trace of their formal wear in favor of the loose-fitting jumpsuits they normally wore aboard the
Comet
. Only Carlo and Diocletia still looked ready to rub elbows with the elite—not counting Parsons, serving drinks with his usual quiet elegance.

“You've waited long enough to hear about our meeting with the Jovian Defense Ministry,” Diocletia said. “The basics are that the
Shadow Comet
has been given a mission—and after some discussion, we've accepted it. Sixteen Jovian merchant ships have disappeared in the Cybele asteroids over the last few months, and the JDF wants us to investigate.”

“The JDF has ships of its own,” Carlo said. “Why don't
they
investigate?”

“Because tensions are increasing again with Earth, and they're worried about sending forces that far from Jupiter,” Carina said. “And not many of the JDF captains know that part of the asteroid belt as well as we do.”

The Cybele asteroids were located on the outer perimeter of the belt, Tycho remembered, short of Jupiter's orbit. Most of the Cybeles were poor in minerals, water ice, and other valuable commodities, making them a little-explored part of the solar system with a reputation for lawlessness.

“Are the ransoms on the missing Jovian crews really high?” Tycho asked.

“That's the thing,” Carina said. “No ransoms have been asked for. The ships and their crews have simply disappeared.”

“If we go out there, we're likely to do the same,” Carlo said.

“Look at it as an opportunity,” Diocletia said. “Maybe we don't find the JDF's lost ships, but we do find something else. Mineral deposits, say, or water ice.”

“Arrr, we ain't no band of scurvy prospectors,” muttered Huff.

“Making a living in space is about opportunity, Dad,” Carina said. “You taught us that, remember? If you can find something valuable that you can take without someone shooting at you, that's a good thing.”

Huff grunted and dismissed her words with a wave.

“Aunt Carina?” Tycho asked. “Aren't there supposed to be slave camps out there?”

“How many times have I told you not to listen to tall tales while you're belowdecks?” Carlo scoffed.

“Tall tales?” demanded Huff. “What about 171 Ophelia? Or the Tumbles? Them tall tales turned out to be true, lad.”

“That was forty years ago, Grandfather,” Carlo said. “Sure, there are corporate factories in the asteroids. We all know that, and I wouldn't want to live in one. But the people who work there do so by choice. Slave camps are totally different—and they were all shut down long ago.”

“Maybe they were and maybe they weren't, boy. It's a big solar system,” Huff said. “But even if there ain't slave camps anymore, folks on Earth and Mars spend their lives working for the same corporations that ran things back then—GlobalRex, Amalgamated Social Graph, the United Collective, the whole lot. Which ain't much better than slavery. And if some on Earth get their way, that'll be our lives too.”

Carina held up her hand for calm.

“We don't know what you'll find,” she said. “Personally, Carlo, I also doubt there are slave camps anymore—that would bring Earth and the Union perilously close to shooting at each other again. But Father's right—it's a big solar system. You might find factory owners who aren't picky about where their workers come from, or pirates who'd rather dump their captives on some rock than arrange ransoms—I keep hearing about an uptick in pirate activity around Saturn and beyond. Or maybe it's a coincidence, and you won't find anything.”

“This is all interesting, but what's in it for us?” Yana asked. “We're not a rescue ship.”

“I asked the same question, though a little more politely,” Carina said. “The ministry is promising us a stipend while we search, a share of anything we recover—”

“They'll give us a share of anything
we
recover?” Yana asked. “How generous!”

“—and a quick resolution to any problems that might come up with the renewal of our letter of marque,” Carina finished, smiling slightly.

All the Hashoones went silent. The only sounds were the hum of water pipes and air pumps and the quiet footsteps of Parsons at work in the kitchen.

“It's blackmail, in other words,” Carlo said.

“Blackmail is such an
ugly
word,” Mavry said with a grin. “Let's just say the defense minister made a trip into the Cybeles seem like an excellent use of our time.”

Carlo started to say something else, but Diocletia held up her hand.

“That's enough. Whatever the circumstances, we serve the Jovian Union and we've agreed to help,” Diocletia said. “I've told Grigsby to assemble the crew in Port Town by 0900 hours tomorrow. I want articles signed by all hands by 1100 and engines lit by 1200. Busy day tomorrow—get some sleep.”

 

It was strange, thought Tycho. Unless you were very close to a planet, moon, or asteroid, the solar system mostly looked the same—empty space as far as you could see. This far out, the sun was simply a more intense point of light than the other stars, the planets little bright dots slowly following their courses against the backdrop of the galaxy.

And yet the outer reaches of the Cybeles felt different, Tycho thought. He knew it was crazy, but this area of space felt desolate and abandoned, as if the scattered chunks of rock somehow knew they were slowly tumbling through a portion of the solar system nobody cared about.

Or at least this area of space was
supposed
to be deserted. Somewhere out here they might find secret work camps run by slavers. Or pirates' nests. Or the hulks of abandoned freighters left adrift by their captors for retrieval months or years later.

But they hadn't found any of those things yet—not in a week of slow searching among the asteroids, sensors probing for a hint of engine emissions, a fragment of communications, or an unexpected heat source. As far as the crew of the
Shadow Comet
could tell, they were alone.

They were all tired of it, but Huff had really had enough.

He'd been outraged by Countess Tiamat's insult even before finding out they'd been blackmailed into a rescue mission. He'd taken to standing by the ladderwell with his arms folded, muttering about the foolishness of this trip, when he wasn't arguing with Vesuvia about unsafe operation of his forearm cannon. The rest of the Hashoones felt relieved whenever Huff's power indicators turned red and he had to recharge his cybernetic body in his own cabin.

At the moment, though, Huff's indicators were green and he was mad.

“Arr, ain't nothin' out here but space dust,” he growled. “This ain't even lookin' for a needle in a haystack, because there ain't no haystack.”

“Belay that talk,” Diocletia said wearily. “Yana, target that clump of rocks at thirty degrees. Make sure you scan it for chemical signatures, too.”

“Thirty degrees, aye-aye,” Yana mumbled, hands moving automatically over her instruments. “Vesuvia, run a diagnostic check on the chemical sniffers.”

“All instruments are functioning normally,” said Vesuvia, the only member of the crew who didn't sound exhausted, annoyed, or both.

The engines throbbed momentarily as Carlo tapped the throttle, sending the
Comet
closer to the asteroids with a little puff of exhaust. Somewhere above them, their long-range fuel tanks were drifting slowly through space. Searching each section of the asteroids without them saved fuel and made the
Comet
more maneuverable.

“No chemical signatures detected,” Vesuvia said.

“Ion emissions?” asked Yana with a sigh.

“Negative.”

“Communications bands?” Yana said.

“Nothing detected,” Vesuvia said.

Yana groaned.

“I take it back,” snarled Huff. “Ain't even space dust out here. Right now a few grams of dust would seem like the Lost Treasure of the
Maria Abelia
.”

The bells tolled three times—it was 1730, nearing the end of the first dog watch.

“Carlo, take us to the next target in this sector—the one at two hundred sixty-five degrees,” Diocletia said, conspicuously ignoring her father. “There are some bigger asteroids in that one, plus that anomalous chemical signature we detected yesterday.”

“On rescan, that anomaly registered as a miscalibrated sensor,” Vesuvia reminded her.

“Of course it did,” said Diocletia, rubbing at her tired eyes. “I forgot. Let's check it out anyway.”

Mavry took off his headset and stretched, the bones in his shoulders creaking and popping. He looked back at the three kids and grinned.

“If only our fancy hosts back at Ganymede could witness the romance of privateering,” he said, half yawning.

Diocletia shot him an annoyed look, and he stifled his yawn.

“Still, kids, don't get sloppy,” Mavry said. “Besides, you never know when good fortune will strike. Remember the
Panaclops
, the prospector that found the Diamond Comet of 2855?”

“Every Jovian spacer knows that story,” Carlo grumbled.

“Suddenly you're every Jovian spacer?” Tycho asked, glaring at his brother. “I wouldn't mind hearing it again, Dad.”

“You only want to hear it because I don't want to,” Carlo said.

“Would you rather sit around and wait for Vesuvia to tell us nothing's happening?” Tycho asked.

“That's enough, you two,” Mavry said. “The
Panaclops
was on a thousand-day cruise, one of those brutal tours of duty the old-time prospectors used to pull. Five hundred days out on one parabola, five hundred days back on another. Through Day 495, she'd found nothing. Her crew was near mutiny and demanding the captain scrap the second half of the loop and return to Jupiter straightaway. On Day 496, they found a little whisper of a chemical signature, and a couple of hours later they were on the communicator transmitting the claim for the Diamond Comet.”

“Day 496, huh?” asked Carlo, smiling in spite of himself. “All right then, let's see what we find.”

“Yer forgettin' summat, though, Mavry, my lad,” said Huff.

“What's that?” Mavry asked.

“The
Panaclops
's next cruise,” Huff said. “'Twas another thousand-day tour. She had a new captain and crew—the old swabs had all retired to spend their diamond money. They neared the halfway point of that cruise without finding anything either.”

Everybody was listening in spite of themselves, Tycho realized. Even Vesuvia was quiet.

“The new crew knew what had happened last time, so there warn't much argument,” Huff said. “On Day 471, her throttle control system failed, and she shot off into deep space with her course and speed locked in. She's halfway through the Oort cloud now, with empty fuel tanks and a crew of mummies.”

“That's horrible,” Yana murmured.

“That it is, missy,” Huff said. “Point is, yeh never know which kind of cruise yer gonna get.”

 

Tycho woke with a start. He was supposed to be on watch, but he'd forgotten. Carlo had gone to bed without waiting to be relieved, and Vesuvia must have malfunctioned. He hurled himself out of his berth and ran from his cabin to the forward ladderwell, descending to the quarterdeck in shorts and a stained old T-shirt.

It was too late, he saw at once: the
Shadow Comet
was surrounded by pirate ships. They were so close he could see down the muzzles of their blaster cannons. Before he could yell or move, they opened fire. The temperature of the quarterdeck shot upward, became unbearably hot, and he opened his mouth to scream—

—and woke up, for real this time.

A dream,
Tycho thought.
You were dreaming.
He twisted around in his berth to look at the clock affixed to the bulkhead in his cabin. It was just after 0300, the depths of the middle watch.

Except he was awake, and the alarms really were screaming.

“Bridge crew to quarterdeck,” Vesuvia said over the
Comet
's internal speakers. “All hands to stations. Repeating. Bridge crew to quarterdeck. All hands to stations.”