The Rise of Earth (2 page)

Y
our fuel-efficiency calculations for the simulated journey from Callisto to Neptune are incorrect . . . again,” Vesuvia said in her cool, dispassionate electronic voice.

It was the “again”—combined with the brief pause preceding it—that made Yana Hashoone angry.

The computer program that the
Shadow Comet
used to communicate with her crew was a stern taskmaster. Vesuvia had insisted it was an ideal time to test
sixteen-year-old Yana, despite the fact that it was only an hour into the morning watch, with the rest of the bridge crew asleep in their cabins on the top deck and most of the crewers snoring in their hammocks one deck below.

Yana was the only member of her family who actually enjoyed the solitude of the middle and morning watches. Her twin brother, Tycho, and their older brother, Carlo, spent that time doing homework, but Yana preferred to tackle her studies in her cabin after dinner. While everyone else was sleeping, she'd read old tales of Earth on her mediapad or run battle simulations in which she tried to turn famous commanders' historical defeats into successes. A silent quarterdeck was perfect for such pursuits, with no lights except those of her crew station and the main screen displaying a readout of anything the ship's sensors might scan.

“Let me point out—
again—
that doing these calculations by hand is pointless,” Yana said, tapping at her keyboard. “See my screen? That sensor indicator displays the fuel efficiency. It's currently ninety-four point one percent, resulting in a lovely shade of emerald green. Exercise successfully concluded. Now leave me alone.”

“Since you prefer a real-world exercise, the
Comet
is currently cruising in the Hildas, four days, nine hours, and eleven minutes out of Ceres on its way to Jupiter,” Vesuvia said. “Based on this—”

“Is it possible you think I've sustained a head injury? First you think I can't read a sensor indicator, and now you think I don't know where we are.”

“Please do not interrupt,” Vesuvia sniffed. “Since you indicate you are aware of the
Shadow Comet
's position, and are presumably also aware that the
Shadow Comet
has followed this course before, please tell me what level of fuel efficiency is the historical norm for this heading.”

Yana sighed and tapped at her keys, but Vesuvia wasn't finished. “You appear to be determining fuel efficiency for the current heading. The request was for the historical norm.”

“Which is why I was
querying the Log
,” Yana said, hastily switching over to that input screen. Some parts of the Log were captain's eyes only, but most of its records were available to any member of the bridge crew. They summarized thousands of voyages made over hundreds of years.

As Yana typed, the access prompt for the Log flickered and vanished, replaced by an error message.

“It seems the Log is unavailable,” Vesuvia said. “Perhaps battle damage has severed linkages somewhere.”

“That's a dirty trick, even for you.”

“Severed information linkages are a known hazard of combat situations,” Vesuvia said, sounding pleased with herself. “As are interrupted fuel lines, damage to engine baffles, and other perils. An officer faced with such a situation must be able to do more than read a sensor indicator—she must also be able to verify that a sensor indicator is providing accurate information.”

Yana sighed and folded her arms, glaring at the main screen.

“All right, have it your way,” she grumbled, then reached for her keyboard. “But first let me run a quick sensor scan.”

“Sensor scans run automatically every ninety seconds,” Vesuvia objected. “Anomalies are reported to the watch officer immediately.”

“And what if
you're
the one who isn't providing accurate information?” Yana asked. “Shouldn't an officer verify that you're performing those automatic scans correctly and communicating them properly?”

“Your stalling tactics are—” Vesuvia said, then stopped. “Sensor contact.”

“That isn't funny.”

“The sensor contact is not simulated. It has just entered the long-range sensor cone. Initial readings positive for metallic signature and ion emissions.”

Yana leaned forward to stare at her scopes. This wasn't an exercise—it was real.

“The heading is for Saturn,” Yana said. “Distance to sensor contact?”

“Eighteen thousand kilometers and closing.”

Not so long ago, a heading for Saturn wouldn't have meant anything special. The ringed planet's moons were officially members of the Jovian Union, whose government the Hashoones served as privateers. But two years ago, a group known as the Ice Wolves had proclaimed Saturn's independence, then backed up their claim by defeating a hastily assembled task force of Jovian warships—a task force that had included the
Comet
.

Some called the Ice Wolves revolutionaries, because they were seeking freedom from the Jovian Union just as the Jovian Union had once sought freedom from the government of Earth. Others called them pirates, and charged that they were part of a plot hatched by Earth to regain control of her former colonies.

Yana liked arguing about such things—it made family dinners more entertaining. But this wasn't the time for it. The ship out there could be loyal to Earth, registered with the Jovian Union, or pledging allegiance to the Ice Wolves.

If she was Earth's, the
Shadow Comet
could seize her as a prize, with the possibility of a big payday. If she was Jovian, Yana would have to let her pass—under the terms of the Hashoones' letter of marque, only enemy ships could be attacked.

And if the ship out there was loyal to the Ice Wolves? Well, that was the kind of question that led to arguments at dinner.

“Seventeen thousand kilometers,” Vesuvia said.

“Tactical readout on the main screen,” Yana said. “Sensor and communications data on my monitor. And shut off the autopilot—I'll take the sticks.”

“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said as lights began flashing on Yana's station.

A U-shaped control yoke whined and rose from beneath her console. Yana closed her hands around it and pressed her feet against the pedals below the console. The
Comet
could be steered from any of the five
stations on her quarterdeck. Normally, that job belonged to Carlo—just as communications was generally Tycho's job. But both of them were still asleep on the top deck.

Yana twitched the control yoke to port and the
Comet
rolled obediently in that direction.

“Controls green,” Yana said. “Charge up the communications mast. Don't display colors—black transponders.”

“Acknowledged.”

Every starship had transponders that identified her allegiance to other ships. But unless on a heavily patrolled spacelane or near port, starships rarely broadcast that allegiance openly, for fear of attracting enemy privateers—or, worse, pirates who'd attack any vessel, without regard for the law. So civilian starships typically hid their true loyalties, showing no allegiance or claiming a false one.

“Query the bogey's transponders,” Yana said. “And do you have a sensor profile yet?”

“No response to transponder query. Still building sensor profile. Shall I beat to quarters?”

“I'm thinking.”

If that was a hostile ship out there, the
Comet
would need all hands, including crewers manning the gun emplacements below and a full complement on the quarterdeck. Beating to quarters now would ensure everyone was decently awake if the
Comet
had to fight. On the other hand, it would be humiliating to rouse the entire ship just to make small talk with a Jovian freighter. Tycho
would yawn theatrically all day, while Carlo would mock her mercilessly until they reached Jupiter.

“Fifteen thousand kilometers,” Vesuvia asked. “Have you reached a decision?”

“I have. Detach from the long-range tanks, plot an intercept course, and open communications channels. But that will do for now. I want to take a look first.”

“Acknowledged. Disconnecting fuel lines. Stabilizers disengaged.”

Yana felt a bump, and then the
Comet
shook slightly as Vesuvia broke the connection between the sixty-meter frigate and the massive, bulbous fuel tanks she used for long-distance travel. With the
Comet
now free to maneuver, Yana pushed down on the control yoke and the privateer dipped her nose and accelerated away from her tanks.

“This is the
Shadow Comet
, operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union,” Yana announced, the sensor masts broadcasting her message into space. “Unidentified craft, activate transponders and respond at once.”

There was no response but the hiss of static.

“Fourteen thousand kilometers,” Vesuvia said. “Sensor calculations complete. Profile fits modified Galicia-class caravel, confidence eighty-four point three three percent.”

A caravel was a small freighter, perhaps thirty or forty meters larger than the
Comet
and relatively speedy. But the Hashoones' ship was faster, Yana thought with a grin.

“Unidentified caravel, we are on an intercept course,” she said. “Activate transponders immediately.”

The
Comet
's bells rang out—a
clang-clang
, followed by a brief pause and a single
clang
. Three bells meant it was 0530. The bells struck every half hour, whether the privateer was sitting peaceably in port or trading broadsides with an enemy in deep space.

As the bells died away, Yana heard footsteps behind her. She turned and saw Diocletia Hashoone—her mother and the
Comet
's captain—descending the forward ladderwell. Her eyes were puffy with sleep. Right behind her came Yana's father, Mavry Malone.

Yana started to ask what her parents were doing on the quarterdeck, then stopped herself—no self-respecting officer could sleep through the familiar rattle and bump of a starship detaching from her long-range tanks.

“Modified Galicia-class—she's ignoring my hails,” Yana said as Diocletia studied the tactical screen with a practiced eye.

“Well that's rude,” Mavry said, flopping into his chair at the first mate's station, then putting one foot on the console and yawning.

“She's heading for Saturn?” Diocletia asked.

Yana nodded, automatically rechecking her sensor scans.

“That could mean anything these days,” Mavry said as they heard new footsteps behind them.

“Hang on—transmission's coming through,” Yana said. “She's flying Jovian colors.”

“Of course she is,” said twenty-year-old Carlo, peering over his sister's shoulder. “Ask for the current Jovian recognition code.”

“
Thank you
, Carlo,” Yana said. “I've handled an intercept before, you know. Would you also like to remind me about the difference between port and starboard?”

“Well, Yana, take your left hand—”

“Behave yourselves,” Diocletia said as Carlo settled into his chair and began buckling his harness. “Where's Tycho?”

“Right here,” Tycho said sleepily, his footsteps a bit tentative on the ladder.

“Nice of you to join us, little brother,” Carlo said, his grin causing the pale scar on his right cheek to flex.

Tycho grunted, refusing to be baited, but Yana saw spots flare in his cheeks, beneath his haystack of dark hair. Tycho was frequently the last to the quarterdeck except for their grandfather, Huff. And Huff had an excuse—he needed to attach his cybernetic limbs and power up his systems.

“Vesuvia, I'll take the controls,” Carlo said.

“Belay that,” Yana snapped. “My starship.”

“Don't be ridiculous—”

“Members of the bridge crew will obey the officer of the watch or return to quarters,” Diocletia said without taking her eyes off the tactical screen.

“Twelve thousand kilometers,” Vesuvia said.

“Tyke, monitor communications—let me know if she tries to call for help,” Yana said. “Unidentified caravel,
acknowledge transmissions before I start knocking pieces off of you.”

“Hold yer fire,
Comet
,” a voice grumbled over the speakers. “Our commo board's slow to warm up. This be the
Lampos
out of Ganymede, runnin' freight from Ceres. We're bound fer Titan—an' we're on a tight schedule.”

“We won't keep you,
Lampos
,” Yana said. “Transmit the current Jovian recognition code and we'll be on our way.”

Silence.

“Eleven thousand kilometers,” Vesuvia said.

Yana looked at Tycho, who shook his head.

“
Lampos
, transmit the recognition code,” Yana said.

“We just did, missy,” the caravel's captain growled.

Yana covered her microphone as Huff Hashoone descended the ladderwell, his metal feet clanging as they struck the rungs. Nearly half of Huff's body was metal—the rest of him had been blasted away in a terrible battle when Yana and Tycho were babies. One side of his face was a mass of scarred flesh, while the other side was a bare skull of gleaming chrome. The old pirate's artificial eye blazed white as he stared at the screen, and the wicked-looking blaster cannon screwed into his metal forearm twitched in response to its master's thoughts.