Command Decision (36 page)

When Cuthen had been taken away, Rafe looked at the information Emil gave him on the ISC fleet. On paper, it was formidable, even knowing what he knew about the poor maintenance, the lack of upgrades, the mediocre to poor training. He knew what
Vanguard
was like; he knew Ky had hired competent ex-mercs for her fighting crew. But he knew nothing about the other two ships in her fledgling fleet; he didn’t count the courier vessels worth much. And even if the other ships were larger than
Vanguard,
and even if the courier ships had weapons and could use them, that was six against fourteen…

He called Malaky again. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to send a priority message to that ansible, with urgent instructions not to attack Space Defense Force ships.”

“But why—”

The faint whine in Malaky’s voice sent Rafe over the edge. “You are relieved of duty,” Rafe said. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” He stood, unable to sit still, and called for Emil as he crossed the office.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going down to Enforcement. Tell my people to meet me at the elevator on that floor—” If anyone tried to kill him between here and there, he relished the thought of what he could do.

“Sir, do you want me to come along?”

Rafe looked at the earnest young face, and for a moment his rage receded. “No, Emil,” he said almost gently. “I need you here.”

His guards gave him a brief reproachful look when he came out of the elevator but said nothing, flanking him as he strode down the corridor to Enforcement’s warren of offices. “Malaky,” he said to the first person he saw. The woman paled and backed up a step, but pointed.

Malaky was standing in Enforcement’s communications suite; Rafe’s implant gave him the face, in its bland official-image expression. Now the man looked tense, worried, glancing around uneasily. The four on-shift communications operators ignored him, concentrating on their consoles. When the door to the com suite slid open, he looked up.

“Sir—Chairman, I’m sorry, I—”

“You’re relieved,” Rafe said.

“But sir, I—”

“I said, you’re relieved. Sit there.” Rafe pointed. His guards took a step forward; Malaky almost fell into the indicated chair. Now the operators looked from Malaky to Rafe. One started to stand, then sank back to his seat. “Who’s monitoring ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112?”

“Me, sir,” said one, raising her hand.

“Do you know who I am?” Rafe asked.

“Er…yes, sir. The chairman, sir. Ser Dunbarger.”

“Good. Then you know I have authority for this order.” He waited a moment for that to sink in. “You will immediately transmit this message, while I observe. ‘To the ISC fleet: Do not attack Space Defense Force vessels. Repeat: Do not attack Space Defense Force vessels under any circumstances’.” Rafe watched as the woman keyed in a series of identification and validation codes, and then the message he had ordered. He had seen a lot of ISC fleet orders in the past few days; he recognized many of the codes, and these looked legitimate.

“Sir…,” the woman said, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Sir, you should know they may not get those orders right away. Our system stats indicate that the jump point is many light-hours from the ansible, and there are no relays in that system. Considering downjump turbulence and communications lags, they could engage those ships before they receive it.”

“Put it on broadcast,” Rafe said.

She paled, with a quick glance at Malaky, but spoke. “Sir…that will put our classified codes out for anyone to pick up—and if I broadcast without them, the fleet commander may decide the broadcast is a hoax.”

He wanted to think that was nonsense, but she was right. They should not broadcast the codes, and a prudent commander would reasonably assume that orders without the codes were faked.

“Don’t they try to pick up messages when they come in?”

“Yes, sir, but…but not if there’s a hostile force. Or”—with another quick glance at Malaky and then at him—“what they think is a hostile force.”

“So what you’re telling me is that they may not get this message until it’s too late.”

She looked down at her hands, motionless now on the console. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but really—once we send a fleet, it’s pretty much out of our hands.”

“Very well,” Rafe said, trying for an even tone. It was not the operator’s fault. “Thank you for the explanation.” That came out in a rasp; he cleared his throat. When he glanced at Malaky, the man cowered visibly in his chair, but he had no time to savor that. Ky was still in danger of being destroyed by his own people.

He had to contact her directly; he had to warn her. His imagination raced: she would have known the first message, she would have known the second. She would think ISC had given up pursuit, maybe. When fourteen ships came through the jump point, would she even believe they were ISC? Would she think they were pirates? What would she do? Run, he hoped. He knew in his heart she wouldn’t run.

Aboard Vanguard

Sleep, as Hugh had said, was a duty for ship officers. Ky thought about activating her implant’s sleep function again; her thoughts raced, and she felt as relaxed as a steel bar. Instead, she tried visualizing the color pattern she’d been taught as a child, struggling to find the harmony again. That didn’t work, either. She tried inventorying every ship component she could think of, but found herself concentrating too hard on that, worrying when she couldn’t remember them all.

Good news, then: that could put people to sleep. Stella seemed to be doing well, and Toby. She grinned, thinking of Toby and Rascal. Quincy had said Toby was ferociously bright; she remembered that he had helped install the defensive suite, and then had figured out that it was defective and how to fix it. Thinking of Toby brought up the memory of Rafe, and Rafe was definitely not a soporific thought. Her implant provided a crisper image of that rakehell face than memory could provide. Where was he now? Had he made it safely to his family? Had they rejected him again? Their last conversation—his story about what made him what he was, that attempted abduction, his defense of himself and his sister, the consequences—ran through her mind, word for word. What a thing to have in common with the man you…well, not loved. Were intrigued by, maybe. Felt more alive around, maybe.

“Captain?”

Sighing, Ky fumbled around the head of the bed for the com button. “Yes,” she said. “What is it?” She’d been lying in bed for three solid hours, the chronometer told her, and she hadn’t slept yet.

“Signal that
Bassoon
relayed to us. ISC sent another message and said to disregard the previous ones.”

“Did they say why?”

“No. Just that.”

“That’s odd,” Ky said. “A relief, but odd. I wonder what’s going on with them.” Suddenly she felt sleepy; she must have been more concerned about ISC’s possible intervention than she’d admitted to anyone, even herself. “Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Next shift, she woke feeling much less anxious about the days until the Mackensee relief convoy arrived. If the pirates had been planning to move in after a successful attack, ambush the returning Mackensee convoy, either they had changed their minds or…she didn’t think they would attack now. Not that she planned to let down her guard.

After breakfast, she visited Master Sergeant Pitt in the quarters assigned to the Mackensee refugees. “I’m going to visit the wounded; I thought you’d like to come along,” she said.

“Thank you, Captain,” Pitt said.

As they walked, Ky asked, “How are your people doing? Anything I should know?”

“My best card player won some money off some of yours; if that’s a problem—”

“No,” Ky said. “Unless they end up owning the ship.”

“I don’t have much else for them to do, you see,” Pitt said. “If you have any lengthy chores—I’m sure there are things you don’t want our people to see or touch, but we’ve cleaned the spaces assigned to us beyond our own standards—not that they were dirty…”

“We have a gym, you know,” Ky said. “There’s plenty of room for them to exercise; I wouldn’t want to expend our ammunition on the firing range, but you could use those facilities in rotation with my people.”

“That would be a help, Captain,” Pitt said. “They’re good people, but just sitting around is not what they do best.”

Ky paused and tapped into the ship’s internal com. “Hugh,” she said. “Would you check the schedule for the gym, and put the Mackensee troops on the rotation? Master Sergeant, how many would you want to send at a time?”

“Half of them,” Pitt said.

“Two groups,” Ky said to Hugh.

“Will do,” he said. “Do you want me to contact you about this, or Master Sergeant Pitt?”

“Me—she’s with me now; we’re going to visit their wounded.”

“A few minutes, Captain,” Hugh said. “I’ll have a list of what machines are available and all that. Firing range, too?”

“No, not that. But everything else.”

In the sick bay, two of the wounded were now in bed, wired and tubed extensively. One was conscious, only lightly sedated. Ky let Pitt approach him while she spoke to the medical staff.

“He’s in the best shape,” the surgeon reported. “He needs some tank time, and I expect they’ll want to revise some of the emergency repairs, but he’ll be out of bed in another twenty-four hours. The other one—” He glanced over at the bed where soft snores indicated the inhabitant was asleep. “—had some implant damage and he hasn’t come back to full consciousness. The medbox can sustain him, but we think he’s just aware enough to start physical therapy. The others—the chest injury’s in fast-heal mode; he’ll be in the box another three days, and of course he’s kept sedated there. The one with the pulped legs—we’ve been in contact with the Mackensee medical team on
Metaire,
and they want us to try to save as much as we can for direct tissue transfer after implanting limb-buds. We’re doing our best, but I’m concerned that one of the legs is developing anoxia. See here—” He put up a visual that meant nothing to Ky, bands of color on an outlined leg shape. “I’m going to tell Doctor Santino on
Metaire
this morning that I think amputation is necessary. He may want a transfer back to their facility, now that things have settled down. I presume that won’t be a problem?”

Only a matter of microjumping a couple of light-hours and then easing into position near enough for
Metaire
’s shuttles to make the transfer quickly…but that wasn’t the medical team’s problem. The communications lag might be. “You know we’ve moved away from
Metaire,
” she said. “Will his condition be stable long enough for them to reply, or do we need to reposition the ship now?”

“I need an answer within an hour,” the surgeon said. “Or it may be too late to do anything but amputate.”

“We’ll move the ship, then,” Ky said. She turned to Pitt. “We’re going to move closer to
Metaire,
” she said. “Our surgeon needs to talk to your surgeons about some of your people. You can stay here if you like; I need to get to the bridge.”

The precision microjump was no problem, with all the practice Ky had insisted on, and Ky reassured
Metaire
the moment they reappeared nearby that the move was not in response to an enemy threat. When she explained the circumstances, one of
Metaire
’s surgeons and his medical team boarded a shuttle; as Ky had
Vanguard
ease toward
Metaire,
the shuttle approached.

Ky went down to the lock to meet them, wondering if there were any way a shuttle bay could be retrofitted to
Vanguard
’s hull. This business of having to transfer personnel by tube made it obvious that
Vanguard
was just a converted cargo ship. The big cargo bay hatches would admit a shuttle…but that’s where her missile batteries and missile storage were. What she needed was a purpose-built warship, designed from the start for war. What she really needed was a government or two to fund such a purchase.

“We want to evaluate him ourselves,” the surgeon said after Ky greeted them.

“Of course,” she said, leading the way to sick bay. “This is Doctor Moshalla—” The doctors eyed each other a moment, then dove into medical jargon where Ky could not follow. She returned to the bridge and checked in with the other ships.

“We haven’t found any other stealthed ships,” Ransome reported. “We’re fairly sure there aren’t any, as I’ve had one of our people monitoring the channels the pirates used, and they’ve been silent.”

“Excellent,” Ky said. “Though that doesn’t prove no one’s here, it does indicate that if someone is, whatever they know isn’t going to the enemy.” Or that they knew the enemy was somewhere in FTL flight, on the way. “Keep monitoring, just in case. You have a crew aboard that stealthed ship you boarded, right?”

“Yes, I do, but if you could give us a relief crew—it’s pretty unpleasant over there, they say. A bit of a hovel, actually. They cleaned it up as best they could, but it’s not up to the standards of
my
ships.”

Ky considered. Mackensee were the ones with spare people, but she didn’t want to give them possession of a ship she felt entitled to. But if she let Pitt’s people do some of the work aboard
Vanguard,
she could send a prize crew to…whatever its name was. She’d want to have Pettygrew’s tech Lattin along, too, to modify the ansible and see what kinds of scan the pirates had been using.

“We’re about to do a medical transfer,” she said. “When that’s done, I’ll come out and put my people aboard her with thanks for your efforts in the meantime.”

“That’s fine, Captain Vatta. We’re honored to be associated with you, and we will keep the ship secure until you arrive.”

Before she could contact Pettygrew to ask for the loan of Dozi Lattin, a message came up from sick bay that the surgeons had decided to transfer two of the Mackensee casualties back to
Metaire
. Preparing them for transport took over an hour; Ky called Pettygrew and Argelos both, and each agreed to lend her one or two people. Argelos recommended his Slotter Key military adviser for temporary captain.