The Jupiter Pirates (9 page)

The other Hashoones were already on the quarterdeck, except for Huff, who needed a few extra minutes to attach his prosthetic limbs and make sure his systems were operating properly. But to Tycho's relief, his mother and Carlo were still blinking away sleep and Mavry hadn't sat down yet. Tycho was late, but by less than a minute.

“What's going on?” Tycho asked, waiting irritably for his monitor to power up.

“Ion emissions,” Yana said. “Still faint, but levels are growing.”

“What heading?” Carlo asked, studying his own monitors.

“Coming from deeper in the asteroid belt,” Yana said. “Coming hard, if readings are accurate.”

“Whose starship?” Tycho asked.

“Mine,” Yana said instantly. “Carlo, you're pilot. Tycho, communications. Vesuvia, I need a sensor profile of the incoming craft.”

“Data still insufficient to assemble a profile,” Vesuvia said.

“Nothing to do but wait, then,” Mavry said.

Tense moments ticked by. Yana studied her monitor and frowned.

“Definitely ion emissions,” she said. “Whatever she is, she's coming in awfully hot.”

The main screen lit up, displaying the positions of the
Comet
and the mysterious ship.

“Calculating,” Vesuvia said. “Long-range sensors indicate length of seventy to eighty meters.”

“No freighter that small would be all the way out here,” Tycho said. “And she's too big to be a prospector.”

“My starship,” Diocletia said. “Carlo, there are asteroids to starboard. Take us behind them.”

“Mom!” Yana objected.

“Not now, Yana,” Diocletia said. “Carlo, behind the asteroids. Take it slow, but do it now. Yana, step up your sensor scans. Tycho, monitor transmissions on all wavelengths. I need eyes and ears open.”

Carlo pushed the control yoke to the right, and the
Comet
curved gracefully through space.

“Mr. Grigsby, we've got a bogey, moving fast,” Diocletia said into her microphone. “All guns charged, please, but easy on the triggers.”

“Aye, captain,” Grigsby replied. “The boys'll be gentle.”

They heard the bosun's pipe whistling out the order below, followed by a crash that announced Huff had arrived on the quarterback from above. His artificial eye gleamed white as he studied the main screen, his mind quickly calculating velocity and position.

“Preliminary sensor profile complete,” Vesuvia said. “Profile fits Leopard-class frigate, but confidence is limited. Fifty-nine point one percent match.”

“That can't be right,” Yana said. “Vesuvia, recalculate—”

“Belay that,” Diocletia said, peering at her own screen. “She's a heavily modified Leopard, not a standard template. The modifications are throwing the assessment off.”

“Arrr, a Leopard,” mused Huff. “I wonder—”

“Quiet on deck,” Diocletia said. “Vesuvia, is she attached to long-range fuel tanks?”

“Based on extrapolations from current scans, she is not,” Vesuvia said. “Confidence level ninety-four point two percent.”

“That there's a pirate,” growled Huff. “Local one, too. No long-range tanks, burning fuel like a meteor.”

“A pirate?” Diocletia asked. “Unlikely.”

“I would have picked up her tanks on a scan,” Yana said.

“They might still be drifting ahead of us,” Huff said. “Or ditched way above or below the ecliptic, out of sight. 'Tis an old trick, Dio—used to do it meself.”

“Go to silent running,” Diocletia said. “Carlo, kill the engines. Yana, passive sensor scans only. Tycho, double-check that we're flying black transponders. Mavry, shut down the air scrubbers.”

For a moment the only sounds were frantic typing and the flipping of switches. Then the lights dimmed on the quarterdeck, and even the rhythmic
shush-shush
of the life-support systems stopped. It was eerily quiet, the main screen glowing a dim red.

“Eight thousand klicks,” Yana said. “She's slowing.”

Seven bells sounded, the familiar clanging suddenly harsh and startling. The Hashoones leaned forward, peering at their screens.

“She knows we're out here,” Huff warned.

“She might at that,” Diocletia said. “Tycho, calculate the heading to our long-range tanks and key it in. We might have to leave in a hurry.”

“Aye-aye,” Tycho said as he typed. “But the calculations will take a few minutes.”

“Run away?” demanded Huff. “Avast! Blow her out of space!”

“Let's see what she is before we shoot her full of holes,” Diocletia snapped.

As the mysterious ship continued to approach, moving more slowly now, Vesuvia was building a profile of her from what little information the sensors continued to return. The newcomer was slightly larger than the
Comet
, with a needle-nosed bow and arms radiating from thick brackets amidships.

“I know that ship,” muttered Huff, scratching his chin with the muzzle of his blaster cannon. That seemed like a terrible idea, and Tycho watched nervously.

Diocletia turned to say something to her father, but before she could, the main screen began flashing red.

“The target has launched several smaller ships,” Vesuvia said. “Velocity consistent with pinnaces, fighters, or gigs.”

“Yana, distance to target?” Diocletia asked.

“Holding at six thousand klicks,” Yana said.

“Arr, I got it,” Huff crowed. “She's the
Hydra,
she is.”

“Impossible,” Diocletia said. “The
Hydra
was destroyed during the Deimos Raid six years ago.”

“The target's transponders are active,” Vesuvia said. “No image transmitted.”

“Ho, a black transponder,” Huff murmured, his blaster cannon twitching.

“Incoming transmission,” Tycho said. “Audio and video.”

“Put it on screen,” Diocletia said. “Receiving only—send no transmissions.”

Tycho tapped at his keypad and the main screen flickered, revealing a burly man glaring out at them. He was bald, with strings of tears tattooed below the corners of his eyes. His long white mustache had been stiffened with wax until it stuck straight out past his ears. His right ear was studded with alternating diamonds and silver hoops, while his left was a frizzled lump, the center of a web of angry white scars that reached almost to his nose. His left eye was gone, replaced by a black telescoping lens that looked like it had been rammed into his skull.

Tycho had never seen the man before, but his parents' expressions turned grim.

“Thoadbone Mox,” Huff said, sounding oddly pleased. “Traitor, slaver, and the lowest, meanest murderin' dog ever to plague the solar system.”

“And black sheep of a good Io family, sad to say,” Mavry muttered. “Rude of him not to stay dead.”

“Unknown ship,” Mox said in a voice like gravel and broken glass. “I know you're out there. Show yourself or my hunters will open your hull to space.”

Yells of defiance bounced up from belowdecks. Diocletia activated her microphone.

“Mr. Grigsby,” she snapped. “Control your crewers!”

The yells were replaced by Grigsby's voice, roaring about scurvy dogs being put in irons. Then all was quiet again.

“Respond or I'll blow you to atoms,” Mox growled. Behind him on the quarterdeck sat several grim-faced men.

Yana gasped. Tycho looked at her questioningly, but her eyes were fixed on the screen.

Diocletia began flipping switches. “Carlo, give me a hand signal when you've got the route to our tanks from Tycho. I'm activating false transponders. Tycho, open a channel on my command. Audio and visual, but restrict the outgoing visual to Mavry's station.”

Tycho started to reply, then realized to his horror that he'd lost track of where he was in the navigational calculations.

“Tycho?” Diocletia asked.

“Give me communications,” Yana hissed. “I can handle it.”

“No, I've got it,” Tycho replied.

“You can't do two things at once,” Yana said. “And we need that route.”

She was right, Tycho realized—without a path to safety they might die, and nothing recorded in the Log would matter. He nodded, and Yana's fingers hammered at her own keys.

“I've got communications, Mom,” Yana said.

As brother and sister typed frantically, Mavry dug under his chair and emerged wearing a cracked spacer's cap of stained synthetic leather and oversized goggles that made his eyes look gigantic.

“Open that channel now, Yana,” Diocletia said.

Yana nodded and gave her mother a quick thumbs-up. Nobody on the quarterdeck needed to be told to be quiet, not even Huff.

Mavry leaned closer to the camera set in his workstation.

“Easy there, sir, we're receiving transmission,” he said in a high-pitched, wheedling voice, scowling and swiveling his head from side to side. “This is the . . .”

He shot Diocletia a quick glance. She held up three fingers.

“This is the
Kepler Wanderer
, out of Titania,” Mavry said, inserting one finger deep into his nose and rooting around. “We're on a prospecting cruise. Say, we can pay you for any chemical signatures you've recorded. Provided they pan out, of course. I won't pay for bad data, sir!”

“You're a long way from home,
Kepler
,” Mox growled. “What are you prospecting for?”

“Why, anything that'll fit in the hold, man!” Mavry said, chuckling. He extracted his finger from his nose, studied it, and flicked it away. “Ain't found nothing but bulk sulfides, though.”

Mavry peered into the lens of his camera, getting so close that Tycho knew his face must be wildly distorted on the
Hydra
's screens.

“Say, you wouldn't be interested in some bulk sulfides, would ya?” Mavry asked. “Find the right buyer on Vesta, you can make a little money.”

He rubbed his fingers together, then began scratching at his face, leaving angry red marks. On the screen, the Hashoones saw the dots of the
Hydra
's pinnaces searching the area. They were small craft, little more than ship's boats, but agile and outfitted with laser cannons and sensors.

“Sorry there, captain,” Mavry said, coughing. “The old
Wanderer
's got mites and fleas and other bugs. We don't mind them, though. Think of them as friends. But next time you stay on Vesta, sir, don't pick the Travelers' Rest. No no no. Oh, what thieves they are at the Travelers' Rest! Why, do you know what they—”

“Shut up, you flea-bitten idiot!” Mox growled. “So you're a rock hunter, are you? I'm quite the enthusiast myself—
gem collector
, you might say. I'm going to send my men aboard your ship to inspect your specimens.”

Mavry coughed deeply, then hawked up something and spat it on the deck, leaving a trail of spittle down his chin.

Carlo turned to give Tycho a questioning look. He held up two fingers and kept typing frantically, still calculating the fastest route to the
Comet
's long-range tanks.

“Are you deaf, sir?” Mavry asked. “Told you, ain't found nothing but bulk sulfides. Terrible stuff, sulfides. Get into the ventilation systems, then into your lungs.”

He coughed again, then waved at the camera, wheezing. “You're only welcome if you plan to buy the complete stock, sir. Otherwise, the
Wanderer
's not taking visitors. We aren't a tourist ship, you know!”

One pinnace had headed to port, the other to starboard, both trying to find the
Comet
.

“Enough jabber,” Mox said. “Show yourself and prepare for boarding—or die.”

Tycho pumped his fist at Carlo, who whirled back around to his console as their mother nodded.

“Go,” she mouthed.

“Die?” demanded Mavry, scraping his tongue with his fingers. “How rude of you. If you have no interest in buying sulfides, sir, this conversation is at an end.”

Carlo yanked back on the control yoke and stomped on the throttle, pressing the Hashoones back into their seats as Yana cut the transmission to the
Hydra
. Alarms blared as the
Hydra
's gunners began firing, sending lances of energy arrowing across space.

“Pinnaces pursuing,” Vesuvia said with her usual eerie calm.

“Grigsby, tell the crews to hold fire,” Diocletia ordered.

“What?” demanded Huff. The magnets in his metal feet kept him fixed to the deck, motionless, as the ship accelerated. “Mox won't respond to harsh language, Dio!”

“Don't call me that!” barked Diocletia. “I don't want Mox to know we're a privateer, Dad!”

“Mox has his own scanners—and he knows the
Comet
sure as I know the
Hydra
!” Huff said.

“Belay that!” Diocletia said. “Carlo, how long to docking with the tanks?”

“Estimate two minutes on full burn,” Carlo said.

“Do it,” Diocletia said. “We're not worrying about fuel efficiency today.”

“Have a care, Yana,” Huff said. “Mox may try to jam our systems.”

“No sign of that, Grandfather,” Yana replied. “But I'll keep my eyes open.”

The
Comet
continued to shake under the onslaught of the
Hydra
's guns. When a target vessel fled an intercept, every ship involved in the chase burned fuel at an alarming rate, so pursuits tended to be short. If the
Comet
could reach her fuel tanks before the
Hydra
or her pinnaces drew close enough to do real damage, she'd be able to activate the long-range tanks' maneuvering engines and outrun her pursuers.

But if she couldn't . . .

“Are we going to make it?” Yana asked Tycho in a low voice.

“I was just doing the calculations in my head,” Tycho replied, then grinned. “Gives you a new appreciation for math!”