The Rise of Earth (6 page)

But Tycho knew he wouldn't ask any of those questions. That he couldn't.

After all, Tycho had secrets of his own now. Like the fact that he'd conspired with a Securitat agent named
DeWise, who'd met him on Ceres and all but handed him the bulk freighter
Portia
as a prize. Or that Tycho had pocketed the data disk he'd discovered in the
Iris
cache and given it to DeWise in return for a clear title to the
Hydra—
an agreement the Securitat agent had broken.

Tycho hadn't spoken with DeWise since then, and had sworn he'd never cheat again in pursuing the captain's chair, no matter how the Securitat or anyone else tried to entice him. But he still worried that his family would discover what he'd done. If that happened, he knew, his pursuit of the captaincy would be over—you didn't lie to your crewmates or steal from them, because no starship could operate effectively if her crewers didn't trust each other.

And if those crewmates were also your family?

The family is the captain, and the captain is the ship, and the ship is the family.

He and Yana had first heard that in the cradle. The Hashoone retainers who'd taught him the spacer's trade belowdecks had recited it regularly. And his mother had quoted it whenever his disagreements with Carlo or Yana had become a problem on the quarterdeck. And yet he'd ignored it when it really mattered.

But then Tycho shook his head, glaring up at Johannes.

No
, he thought.
I've made mistakes and done things I'm not proud of. But I'm not a murderer. I would never do anything like what you did.

Tycho turned to his grandfather, but whatever he'd
been going to say died away. Huff looked shrunken and tired, like the weight of the metal half of his body was dragging the rest of him down.

“I've never been to 65 Cybele, Grandfather,” Tycho said, trying to think of something to dispel the gloom. “What's it like?”

Tycho saw his grandfather's shoulders lift.

“Arrr, it's as close as yeh can get these days to how things used to be. Plenty of prizes for a crew what keeps their ears open and their hands on their carbines.”

“Well, that's good,” Tycho said. “Still, I wonder if these new privateers are a bad idea—for the Jovian Union and for us.”

“Bah, 'tis long overdue, lad. Solar system's gotten too civilized—give me pirates o'er bureaucrats an' lawyers any day.”

Huff grinned at his grandson.

“Captured my first prize near 65 Cybele, y'know,” he said. “Just a little coaster out of Mars, name of the
Emerald
, but she had a full hold. I was on the quarterdeck for a middle watch.
Emerald
tried to run, so I beat to quarters, blasted off her sensor masts 'fore she could call for help, then led the boardin' party. 'Twas Grigsby's first boardin' party, come to think of it—we'd been belowdecks together. Crew of the
Emerald
raised a little ruckus when we came aboard. Lemme see if I can find the scar. . . .”

Huff looked down at his metal forearm and frowned. His blaster cannon twitched.

“Arrr, it was on me left hand—I forget what pieces
'ave gone missin'. I can still feel that hand, did yeh know that? Itches at night summat fierce.”

“You never told me that,” Tycho said. “I'm sorry, Grandfather. That must be awful.”

“It ain't no shindy,” Huff grumbled. “Strange, to 'ave a thing what's gone pain yeh. Ain't had that hand for fifteen years, but I'll wake up during the middle watch an' need to scratch it, an' I can't.”

T
here's another one of those poor dirtsiders,” Yana said.

The droopy-eyed man was walking back and forth beneath a display urging viewers to join the Jovian Defense Force, the weight of a hologram emitter and power pack causing him to slump. A virtual Jovian flag waved proudly above his head, rippling in an imaginary breeze.

“What's that make, three of them?” Tycho asked.

“Plus the guys with mediapads at the transportation hub,” Carlo said.

“We could enlist,” Tycho said with a grin. “Imagine Grandfather's face if we came back with crew cuts and JDF uniforms.”

Carlo didn't smile back.

“On the lower levels we might get pressed,” he said. “And if they're recruiting this heavily, you can bet there will be crimps about, too—filling their clients' crew rosters by force.”

“Any crimp so much as looks at me sideways, he'll regret it,” Yana said.

“Can we not have another incident like the one on Pallas?” Tycho asked.

“Why not?” Yana asked. “That turned out okay.”

“I think you're safe, sis,” Carlo said. “I doubt the JDF's desperate enough to press one-armed spacers quite yet.”

Neither Tycho nor Carlo had grumbled when Diocletia ordered them to accompany Yana to the treatment center. The wait for Carina to finish negotiating the terms of their commissions in the Cybeles had left everyone at Darklands stir-crazy and snappish.

The treatment center was on one of Port Town's upper levels, which were clean, brightly lit and well patrolled. It wasn't like that farther down—the deeper precincts were a dim, frigid labyrinth prowled by gangs that preyed on the poor and broken residents. Tycho wondered how many able spacers a press gang would find down there—the upper levels seemed like a much
richer hunting ground, their tunnels thronged with men and women whose plentiful tattoos and rolling gait indicated they made a living aboard starships.

The Hashoones reached the treatment center without incident, and the doctor inspected Yana's shoulder, which remained blistered and an angry red. She peered at the burn through a full-spectrum monocle, then nodded with satisfaction.

“My compliments to your ship's surgeon, Mistress Hashoone,” she said. “A couple hours of platelet regeneration should restore full mobility. I'm afraid it will scar, though.”

“Occupational hazard,” Yana said with a shrug, and the doctor's eyes jumped to Carlo's right cheek, creased by a laser beam aboard the
Hydra
four years earlier. Tycho felt a twinge of regret that he had no scars of his own.

The doctor wrapped Yana's shoulder in a cuff connected by tubes to a humming machine. Yana grimaced as the cuff tightened and the machine began to whine.

“The discomfort will fade in a few minutes,” the doctor said, then excused herself, leaving the siblings alone.

All three of their mediapads chimed. Tycho managed to dig his out before Carlo. He eyed the screen, then pumped his fist.

“Mom wants engines lit at 0930 tomorrow. I can't wait to get out of here.”

Carlo made a face.

“What?” Yana asked. “I know you're as ready to get
out of here as we are—you didn't even run piloting sims this morning.”

“Oh, I want to get out of here. It's what we're getting into that worries me.”

“Yeah, I sure hate privateering,” Yana drawled as the machine continued its work. “Too much excitement for me. If only I could sit on my butt in an old mine, flying a pretend ship and ringing Parsons for more tea.”

“Very funny,” Carlo said. “Obviously the situation in the Cybeles is unstable. Here's my question: Will our sending a bunch of unreformed pirates there make it better or worse?”

“We're not the ones who created the instability,” Tycho said. “Earth did that, with its provocations.”

“Provocations responding to provocations, as it's been for centuries.”

“You've always been great at explaining why we're wrong, Carlo,” Yana said. “You ever think about why that is?”

“Because you two give me so many opportunities to practice?”

“Ha. Cute, but no. It's because criticizing is all you can do—you never bother coming up with answers of your own.”

“Of course I do,” Carlo said. “I just don't feel like sharing them with you.”

“I don't think that's it,” Yana said. She leaned forward, eyes narrowed. “Quit playing games, Carlo. We all
know the solar system's a mess. If you're so smart, how would you fix it?”

To Tycho's surprise, their brother smiled.

“By making peace with Earth. A real peace. One that takes everything into account—our interests, Earth's, and those of the outer planets.”

“Does that include the Ice Wolves' interests?” Tycho asked.

“The Ice Wolves are part of everything, yes.”

“At the moment I'm against making peace with them,” Yana snapped.

“I thought you were all about freedom and self-determination,” Tycho said.

“I was until they tried to kill me.”

Tycho shrugged. “Well, if you're going to take it personally . . .”

Yana glared at her twin brother, then turned back to Carlo. “So your answer is we surrender.”

“Of course not,” Carlo said. “But Earth
is
the dominant power of the solar system. It's crazy not to acknowledge that.”

“Then why doesn't His Majesty actually act like the solar system's leader, instead of its biggest bully?” Tycho asked.

“Good question. Perhaps if we abandoned our provocations, we could have that conversation with him.”

“Provocations like what?” Yana asked. “Like privateering?”

“Yes, like privateering.”

The three of them were silent for a moment while the machine whined and worked.

“This isn't about what's happening in the Cybeles,” Yana said quietly. “You want to abandon the family business.”

Carlo crossed his arms over his chest.

“Let's be honest about what the family business is. We're
pirates
. Nobody will say it, but it's true—and giving these new letters of marque to a bunch of rogues just proves it. After 624 Hektor they came up with a new name for what we do, but it's the same profession.”

“That isn't true and you know it,” Tycho said. “We follow the rules of our letter of marque and abide by the laws of interplanetary commerce. Pirates don't do that.”

“That's a little speech we've all memorized,” Carlo said. “But we're the only ones who interpret the laws that way. Unless you want to count the Ice Wolves, which isn't the company I want to keep.”

“What about Earth, since they have privateers of their own now?” Yana asked. “Here's what I don't get, Carlo—you want to be captain, but you think we shouldn't be privateers anymore. So what's the point?”

“How much longer do you think there will be privateers?” Carlo asked.

Yana and Tycho glanced at each other, puzzled.

“As long as there are Hashoones,” Yana said, and after a moment Tycho nodded in agreement.

“I don't think so,” Carlo said. “The current situation can't continue.”

“And why not?” Tycho asked. “Have you noticed there are a lot more privateers now than there were a month ago?”

“That's just another sign of how unstable everything is. We need to think about what happens the day privateering ends, because it'll be here soon. And we need to be ready.”

“So what do
you
think comes after privateering?” Tycho asked his brother.

“Nothing,” Yana said. “If privateering ends, we have nothing.”

“Why should that be true?” Carlo asked, his voice rising. “We've got a fast ship that's tough in a fight, a highly skilled crew, and a long service record.”

“And that gets us what?”

Carlo hesitated, and Tycho knew he was debating how much to share with them.

“A place in the Jovian Defense Force.
If
we play our cards right. After privateering ends, the JDF will bring the best privateer bridge crews into the military as officers. The question is, will we be able to take advantage of it?”

Yana leaned forward, causing the machine strapped to her shoulder to squall a warning as the tubes began to stretch too far. She scooched back on the examining table and glared at Carlo.

“You know, you could have just joined the JDF in the first place,” she said. “That would have saved us all a lot of trouble. I just don't get how you can still be so in
love with them. Don't you remember what happened at Saturn?”

“Of course I remember what happened at Saturn.”

“Then you remember that to the JDF, we're
auxiliary
units. Expendable.”

“That was the opinion of one commander who was unfit for duty.”

“Please,” Yana said. “Admiral Badawi never had an original thought in his life. They all think that way. If privateering is coming to an end, there's
nothing
waiting for us. We're useful tools of the Defense Force, that's all. If a day comes when they no longer need us, we'll be thrown away.”

“Now you're being paranoid,” Carlo said.

“Am I? Speaking of paranoid, why haven't you shared this opinion with Mom and Dad? Or with Aunt Carina, since you think she knows better than them?”

“There's no point talking about it with Mom and Dad. They're from another time—one they can't admit is going away.”

“I don't think that's it. I think it's because you're scared.”

Carlo snorted. “Scared? Of what?”

“Of not becoming captain, of course.”

“Really? And who am I going to lose to? You?”

“No, not me,” Yana said, then inclined her head at Tycho. “Him.”

Carlo flipped his hand dismissively, but he wouldn't look at his brother and sister. His eyes jumped everywhere
in the medical chamber—from the hissing equipment to the doctor's computer console to the humming lights—but they avoided his siblings' faces.

“The crewers like Tycho,” Yana said. “He listens to them, while you can't be bothered. And he sees things. He makes connections. You don't. All you do is fly.”

“I fly a lot better than either of you do,” Carlo snarled. To Tycho's surprise, he sounded more hurt than angry.

Yana heard it too.

“You
are
scared,” she said. “Because you know Tycho's catching up with you.”

“Tyke's had some lucky breaks. But it won't be enough. I'm twenty, and the two of you are just sixteen.”

“That doesn't matter and you know it.”

Now Carlo turned to look at them.

“That's where you're wrong, Yana. Mom's getting old.”

“Mom's what, forty-five?” Tycho asked. “That's not exactly ancient.”

“It is in our profession. You know what they say, there's regular years and then there's captain's years. She's not going to be captain forever—I don't think she
wants
to be captain forever. If there's no more privateering, and she steps down, who would she pick as her replacement? It wouldn't be you, Yana, and it wouldn't be Tyke either. It'd be me. For the good of the family, you both need to accept that.”