NASTRAGULL: Pirates (43 page)

His last words were met with cheers and applause from the entire crew, even Myra. Alec gestured with his arm for silence and stated grimly. "There is a catch. To receive the bonus, I expect your absolute loyalty and obedience in all things. If you can't give me that, leave right now."

Nobody so much as twitched.

Alec turned towards Captain Zlo and said sharply, "Prepare them for our departure." He saluted his crew and walked away.

Behl and Zlo looked at each other, shrugging, and then Captain Zlo started shouting out orders and instructions to his officers. They already knew what they needed to do, so his presence wasn't really needed; therefore, after a few moments of watching, he and Behl headed toward the bridge to take care of some administrative details. As the Grisamm split up to join their assigned crew groups, their leader, Frances, hurried after Behl and Zlo with a very confident expression. Alec watched them from his vantage point in a shadowy corner of the hold, as Tota joined him. Unsurprisingly, his were pants all wet. "Mr. Tota, have you started spreading rumors about our expedition?" Alec inquired softly as they ambled toward the nearest hatch.

"You need not worry, young master," the little fellow piped. "By now thousands, perhaps millions, of people in this outpost know about your treasure hunt...so you should have no problems running into your old friends."

"Let's hope you're right."

Tota nodded. "I have also spread the rumor that you are transporting a very large fortune to a secret destination, and I have thrown in a little evidence to support the story."

Alec stopped and peered at Tota with a puzzled expression. "And what evidence is that?"

"Oh, don't be concerned about it. Rest assured, my friend, you
will
find pirates waiting once you and your crew take off into space." Tota gave Alec a mischievous smile.

The rest of the crew returned to their respective training and work stations. Nina and her comrades had ended up in a fighter bay, where 20 swift and deadly little ships were fastened to docking positions on the deck and walls. The deck chief was scurrying around officiously, directing them on where to put the seemingly never-ending supply of munitions and stores that kept arriving from merchants all over the station. Any space available—and it was rapidly dwindling—was used for storage.

"They're beautiful," Tara breathed, cocking her head at a hovering fighter being driven into the bay by Pier, who had the cockpit open and was cursing loudly about the lack of room.

"You think they'll let us fly them?" Kirra asked brightly.

"We can only hope," Zicci called out. She was picking up one heavy box and putting it on top of another, her muscles bulging attractively.

"I like this," Nina told them.

That stopped them in their tracks. "What do you mean?" Tara asked.

"Becoming a civilian and working like this. Having a regular job and a chance for something better. Maybe I can even purchase a real citizenship on one of the colony worlds."

"Yeah, and grow fat and pregnant, too," Zicci laughed, and the others joined her. But Nina didn't hear. The dreamy expression in her eyes caught their attention, and for a long moment they fell silent, considering the possibilities for their own futures.

"That would be nice, maybe," Tara finally muttered, "but I'm not so sure about kids."

"I wouldn't worry about it if I were you. You ugly, you are," said Kirra, grinning.

The girls began laughing—all of them this time—and ignored Pier's shouts for them to move a crate.

They stopped laughing abruptly when one of the Grisamm, a robe-clad woman with ancient eyes, walked up to them and said quietly, "Keep laughing, sisters. It is good to spread positive karma into this dark universe."

Refusing to meet her eyes, their expressions upset, the former pirates returned to their work, much to Pier's satisfaction. The monk looked at them with sad eyes for a moment, then said loudly, "I want all six of you to meet me in Debriefing Room Two when you are done here."

The girls stopped what they were doing, and glanced at each other. Nina stammered, "Um, ah, w-we're supposed to report to Sergeant Wolf for training."

"We haven't done anything wrong...I think," Kirra protested.

"I'll take care of Wolf, and I'll see you in two hours. Or do you need more time with your chores?" the Grisamm woman asked in friendly tones.

"We should be able to finish up in an hour," Tara informed her, "and may I ask what you want from us?"

The woman inclined her head in a gentle nod. "My name is Nadia, and I will educate you."

"Educate us in what?" Nina demanded.

"I will educate you on freedom—how to be free, and how to live a life of joy and harmony."

"Planning to brainwash us to join your cult, are you?" Zicci shouted bravely.

The other woman stopped and turned back to look at them, her face serene. "No, nothing like that. I'm going to teach all of you how to deal with your freedom."

"I'll be there," Nina whispered, and soon all the others followed her example.

Nadia gave them a friendly smile, then turned and walked away gracefully.

Chapter 27

"Commander Korron Ezim reporting as commanded, sir!"  The young man stood sharply at attention and snapped off a perfect salute to Admiral Cook. After Cook returned the salute, just as precisely, Ezim began his report. "Admiral, we count over three hundred Florencian ships in sector Green Four. They are stationed very near Admiral Busch's column. The ships bear the markings of the 9
th
Galactic Fleet of Handover, and our Intelligence Section believes they are commanded either by Admiral Jonas Nass, a citizen of Handover, or by someone by the name of Rimez."

"And does IS have any idea why the Florencians showed up when they did?" Cook asked. When the commander seemed reluctant to reply, he growled, "Speak up, man, I don't shoot messengers."

"Aye aye, sir. IS attaches no particular significance to this, but they did note that last evening, Admiral Busch left his column after having been invited to New Frontier Station 16 by the Key Administrators there; it was shortly thereafter that the Florencian Fleet arrived. Our sensors indicate that a corvette-class vessel of the same type that picked up Admiral Busch also picked up someone from the 9
th
."

Cook nodded. "Standard procedure when they want to talk. They don't want either our 11
th
or the Fish Fuckers' 9
th
too close to their beloved money factory. Go on."

Obviously trying not to smile at the Admiral's use of the derogatory term for the Florencian Federation, Ezim continued, "Sir, we've also detected two rather large columns of ships approaching NF16. Each is several hundred kilometers long, and consists of between two and three hundred ships each. They appear to be civilian cargo convoys, and are expected to reach the station within 36 standard hours. Neither our sensors nor our scouts have picked up anything else, except of course for the dozens of private ships coming and going from all directions."

Cook fell silent while thinking of his next move.
It appears that the 9
th
hasn't picked us up yet, which will give us an advantage in case this escalates into something more than a rescue-and-recovery mission,
Cook mused, then noted that the commander was still shifting from foot to foot, looking ill at ease. "Something wrong, son?"

"May I speak freely, Admiral?"

"You may."

"Isn't it unusual to see this much traffic this far from any major system?"

"Yes and no. Were we to draw attention to ourselves or the Florencian 9
th
, that would discourage traffic, certainly. If you're referring to the convoys, that could be anything from supplies to ships in need of dry dock, in case they're about to make a long trip elsewhere, say out to the Fringe Worlds. Maybe they just want to trade with the New Frontier stations. There are many different possibilities—we'll just need to keep on our toes, and make sure we follow all traffic closely and find out as much as possible. Got that?"

"Aye aye, sir!"

"Now inform the captain that we will remain here on standby, in case Admiral Busch needs us. As I'm sure he will." As soon as he uttered them, he realized that those last few words should have remained unsaid.

Ezim looked puzzled. "What was that, Admiral...?"

"Nothing important, Commander. Return to your station." They saluted, and Ezim went on his way.

Scowling, Cook spun his command chair to face several monitors, on which were presented bright, colorful representations of the local space traffic. The colors of the various dots indicated their ship classifications, and cryptic alphanumeric codes provided, to the practiced eye, each ship's name and planet of registration. Local astronomical bodies, mostly bleak, airless rocks belonging to the brown dwarf around which New Frontier orbited, were rendered and labeled in dull gray. He stared at the screen, his mind far away as he thought, until he realized that his eyes
had registered something anomalous. Squinting, he zoomed in on a large asteroid cluster in the far distance, and had the computer clean up the screen. There were several more blips there representing ships, but they weren't color-coded or labeled. He pursed his lips in thought and then shook his head, his thoughts returning to Busch's meeting with the Key Administrators.

He smiled faintly, thinking of his old friend's past. Busch's qualifications as a diplomat were precisely zero— or less than that, if possible. That had slowed down his career somewhat, needless to say. By rights, he should have been commanding his own Galactic fleet by now, except for an incident that had occurred during his last civilian mission, just before he received his fleet commission. He had been appointed as a deputy ambassador on one of the new colony worlds that Nastasturus, which was hurting for resources, hoped to bring into their empire. During his third week at his new post, a war broke out.

By the end of the three-year long conflict, the Reltuban system was under the military control of the Nastasturus Federation, at the cost of fifteen million Nastasturan and three hundred million Reltuban casualties. A joint report by the Nastasturan Intelligence Department and the Intergalactic Police Organization indicated that the war had been triggered by something that the then-Plenipotentiary Busch had said to the planet's leader at a dinner function. That wasn't enough to cause a global conflict, of course, but the subsequent bungling of the Diplomatic Corps and the Nastasturan military had escalated that minor diplomatic breach into a bloodbath. The Nastasturan officials and officers whose malfeasance had caused the conflict to spiral out of control were tried for war crimes and executed.

Busch's error had been an innocent one, so he was spared; but the event had sealed Busch's fate as a fleet commander, and ever since then, or so he claimed, he had developed an exceptional dislike for any or all civilians. Admiral Cook, however, was aware that this was not true. Busch had always disliked civilians; Cook liked to joke that he'd probably cursed his mother for putting him in civilian diapers instead of camouflage ones.

Busch's only hope of advancement was to find civilian investors willing to help him expand his fleet, since the military certainly wasn't going to do it. But for the past fifteen years, investors had been impossible to come by. Busch was a close family friend, so the Hornets had come to his rescue and taken him under their collective wing. That wasn't enough, however, to scrub the stain entirely from his escutcheon, so to this day Busch's advance was limited. At the moment, his entire fleet consisted of the twenty-five cruisers that were acting point for Cook's main battle group. If Cook hadn't signed him up for the 11
th
, he would most likely be unemployed.

While Busch was ordinarily the last person Cook would ever send out as an emissary, he did make one exception to his rule: whenever they had to deal with Merchants or Traders. Both groups were unforgivably corrupt, and they deserved Busch's bluntness and scorn. And there was always the chance that, corrupt though they were, Busch could squeeze an investment out of the bastards so he could expand the fleet.

Nearly a thousand people representing hundreds of species had gathered inside the enormous grand ballroom. Alec peered around the vast chamber. It reminded him of the ballroom on the
Bright Star
: the décor was simple, but ostentatiously expensive. The conservative look, accented in pale pearl and gold—real pearl and real gold—left a lasting impression; the tall snow-white walls gave way to scores of crystalline ports, which offered an outstanding view of the universe beyond. The ballroom was poised at the very top of the station, and the ceiling was a huge glass dome that sparkled slightly; possibly it was nothing more than an electromagnetic shield. For anyone who entered here, the ballroom said one thing, and it said it very well:
Power.

Alec hooked a finger under his tight collar and tugged. He was outfitted in his new dress uniform, which matched his eyes in color; the trousers folded into his new boots. His boots were made of an odd black leather, most unusually ornamented: there was a thin strip running up the outer side of each boot that appeared to be decorated with coarse, braided black fur. Around his waist was a black belt with similar decoration. The belt buckle was silver, bearing a sigil he had designed himself: a large triangle with an eye in the center. The eye was made of a blue pearl he
had purchased for several million credits. To the left of the eye were two black lines, and to the right a single black line.