The Jupiter Pirates (2 page)

2
TYCHO AT THE HELM

D
iocletia turned back to the main screen, leaving responsibility for the
Shadow Comet
in Tycho's hands. He swallowed nervously. The quarterdeck was cool, yet he could feel himself beginning to sweat.

“Seven thousand klicks,” Yana said. “You okay over there, Tyke?”

Carlo glanced back over his shoulder. Tycho glared at his sister.

“I'm fine,” he said. “You just keep reading off distance to target.”

Diocletia Hashoone had been captain of the
Shadow Comet
for eleven years, having taken over from her father, Huff Hashoone. One day, in turn, she would name one of her children to succeed her. So while Tycho, Carlo, and Yana were crewmates and had to work together, they were competitors, too—the
Comet
could have only one captain. And that meant all three were constantly being tested.

When Carlo or Yana was in command of the
Comet
, Tycho of course wanted them to succeed: every prize taken was more money for their family and helped the Jovian Union in its struggle against Earth. But he didn't want them to do
too
well and hurt his own chances at the captain's chair. Ideally, something would go wrong—something that wasn't bad enough to endanger the ship and their lives, but bad enough that their mother would notice and remember. But that was a dangerous game. In space, things that went wrong had a way of proving fatal.

Tycho shook the thought away. Now it was his turn at the helm, and Carlo and Yana's turn to hope he did well but still made a mistake or two.

“Engine status?” Tycho asked.

“Green across the board,” Carlo said, indicating that all systems were working normally.

“Detach tanks and take us out, Carlo—intercept course,” Tycho said. “Vesuvia, get me Mr. Grigsby.”

Carlo flipped switches on his console with practiced ease. Above them, the Hashoones heard a metallic clank, then felt a bump as the
Comet
separated from the bulky fuel tanks she used for interplanetary voyages. The tanks dwarfed the ship, which was a slightly elongated triangle about sixty meters long, widening from her narrow bow to the three maneuvering engines protruding from her stern.

Beneath his feet, Tycho felt the thrum of the
Comet
's thrusters rise in pitch as Carlo accelerated out from behind the jumble of rocks and dust that had hidden the ship.

“Grigsby here,” a harsh voice crackled over his speakers.

“Mr. Grigsby, this is the helm,” Tycho said. “Remind the gunnery crews they are not to fire unless fired upon.”

“Aye, Master Hashoone,” Grigsby said, recognizing Tycho's voice. “She's a prize, then, Captain?”

“Not sure yet,” Tycho said. “If she's Jovian, we'd better not put a hole in her. And if she
is
a prize, let's take her intact.”

Tycho hesitated, imagining the
Comet
's warrant officer standing at his communications unit in the wardroom belowdecks. “Better the condition, bigger the shares. Isn't that right, Mr. Grigsby?”

Out of the corner of his eye, Tycho saw his father smile.

“Right you are, Master Hashoone,” Grigsby said. “We'll be ready.”

Carlo fed extra power to the
Comet
's starboard engine and accelerated, banking the ship to port. Ahead, through the viewports, the approaching freighter grew into a brighter dot against the glittering stars.

“Five thousand klicks,” Yana said.

“Hail the freighter on all channels,” Tycho said.

“Channels open,” Mavry said. “Go ahead, Captain.”

Tycho hesitated. “You don't want to hail her, Dad? Mom?”

Diocletia turned in her chair, eyes narrowed.

“Your starship,” she said.

Carlo shook his head, amused, and Tycho felt his face flush. He nodded and fitted his headset over his ears, then checked to make sure that he was transmitting.

“Freighter, identify yourself,” Tycho said.

The communicator crackled with static.

“Four thousand klicks,” Yana said.

“We're lawful traders with a schedule to keep, unidentified ship,” a gruff voice finally responded. “Why don't you identify
yourself
?”

Tycho shut off the external microphone.

“Vesuvia, display colors,” he said.

“Acknowledged,” the ship's artificial intelligence said, activating the
Comet
's transponders so they broadcast her true identity and allegiance.

“This is the
Shadow Comet
, operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union,” Tycho said, reactivating his microphone and trying to make his voice as deep as possible. “I repeat, identify yourself.”

“Why didn't you say so in the first place?” the freighter's captain asked. “We're Jovian too—this is the
Cephalax II
out of Ganymede.”

“Transponders report Jovian Union allegiance,” Yana reported, one eyebrow arched skeptically.

“It's a trick,” Carlo said.

Tycho checked that his microphone was shut off. “Of course it's a trick,” he said, annoyed. “Just keep us warmed up for intercept.”

“Three thousand,” Yana said.

Tycho turned his microphone back on.

“Nice to see you out here,
Ceph-Two
,” he said. “Once you transmit the current Jovian recognition code, we'll accept your pass and see you on your way.”

There was a long pause. The Hashoones looked at one another.

“Our communications antenna suffered some damage on the voyage to Earth,
Comet
,” the captain said. “I'm afraid our codes aren't up-to-date.”

“Sorry to hear that,
Ceph-Two
,” Tycho said. “We'll also accept last month's code.”

“Two thousand klicks,” Yana said.

“
Comet
, our antenna problems short-circuited our transponders,” the captain said. “Afraid we can't transmit.”

“Wow, at least come up with a good story!” said Yana.

“Belay that,” Diocletia ordered, giving her daughter a sharp look.

Tycho had heard enough.

“
Cephalax II
, we claim your vessel under the articles of war governing interplanetary commerce,” he said. “Shut down your engines and prepare for boarding.”

“You sound barely old enough to shave,” the captain scoffed. “You want me to surrender my freighter to a kid?”

“A thousand klicks,” Yana said.

Tycho keyed his microphone again.

“No,
Ceph-Two
, I want you to surrender to the pair of twenty-gigajoule laser cannons this kid has locked on your vessel,” Tycho said, trying to make his voice sound cold and ruthless. “Heave to or we
will
fire.”

“Seven hundred fifty klicks,” Yana said.

“Mr. Grigsby, you may fire upon my mark,” Tycho said.

“Who in the name of space is Grigsby?” the freighter captain demanded. “That your dad?”

Startled, Tycho realized he hadn't switched his microphone to the channel used for communicating with the gunnery crews belowdecks. His last message had gone out into space instead.

“Mr. Grigsby is our warrant officer,
Ceph-Two
,” Tycho said, trying to recover his dignity. “He's the man who's going to start putting holes in your hull if you don't shut your engines down
now
.”

Tycho switched his microphone to the correct setting. “Mr. Grigsby, you may fire upon my mark—but
only
on my mark.”

“Aye-aye, Master Hashoone. Guns are hot,” Grigsby growled.

“Five hundred,” Yana said. They could see the approaching freighter now, a collection of boxy containers connected by thick steel struts. At her stern sat a quartet of giant spheres—long-range fuel tanks like the ones the
Comet
had temporarily left drifting back among the space rocks.

“Carlo, lock in a starboard intercept course,” Tycho said. His heart was thudding. “We'll destroy her sensor masts first. Maybe then she'll take us more seriously.”

“Four hundred,” Yana said.

“
Ceph-Two
, this is your final warning,” Tycho said.

He glanced quickly around the quarterdeck. Carlo had his hands on the yoke, flying with his usual confident ease. Yana was adjusting her instruments, scanning the freighter for any signals that might hint at hidden weapons. Diocletia and Mavry stared straight ahead, watching the freighter close the gap between them. All were ready—for battle, boarding, or whatever might come next.

“Hold your fire,
Comet
,” the freighter's captain said disgustedly. “We're powering down.”

“Good choice,
Ceph-Two
. Shut down all flight systems and prepare to be boarded.” Tycho shut off his microphone. “Yana, what are they doing?”

“Velocity dropping,” Yana said. “Ion emissions at trace levels. They're shutting down.”

“Mr. Grigsby,” Tycho said, again double-checking that he was hitting the right switch. “Keep your eyes open, but easy on the guns. Prepare the boarding party.”

“With pleasure, Master Hashoone.”

Clomping sounds came from the ladderwell, like the impact of hammers on the hull. But this sound was familiar to Tycho. He turned in time to see his grandfather, Huff Hashoone, skip the last three rungs and crash to the deck. As retired captain of the ship, Huff had no station of his own. That didn't bother him—he liked to stand between Yana's and Tycho's stations, his metal feet magnetized to hold him in place during difficult maneuvers.

Nearly half of Huff's body was metallic parts—reconnecting everything had made him the last to arrive. His right forearm was gleaming chrome, ending in a wicked-looking blaster cannon screwed into his artificial wrist, while his lower legs were dull black metal. His gray hair hung long over a face that was half scarred flesh and half a chrome skull in which an artificial eye blazed white. The skin he had left was covered with tattoos—mermaids and skulls, as well as names and symbols whose meaning none of the Hashoones knew. Huff no longer ate—a power cable plugged into a metal socket in his throat. Above the socket, a green light indicated his cybernetic systems were fully charged.

“A prize! I can almost smell it!” Huff roared. He patted three carbines tucked into a cracked black harness that stretched across his chest, letting his organic hand linger lovingly on the wicked-looking pistols, then gripped the pommel of his sword.

Diocletia looked at her father and cocked an eyebrow.

“Are we invading Earth, Dad?” she asked.

“A pirate is always prepared!” Huff said. He tromped forward to stare at the main screen, now filled by the port side of the freighter.

“We're not pirates—we're privateers,” Diocletia said.

“Word games, Dio,” Huff said with a dismissive wave of his blaster cannon.

“Please do not use hand signals that involve swinging a fully charged weapon on the quarterdeck,” Vesuvia objected.

“Avast,” said Huff. “Belay that, you cursed chatty machine.”

“You're staying here,” Diocletia told her father. “Tycho has the helm and will lead the boarding party.”

“Tyke?” Huff whirled and stared at his grandson in surprise. His artificial eye whirred as it changed focus. “But he's only a lad!”

“We're twelve. How old were you when you led your first boarding party, Grandfather?” Yana asked.

“Arr, I was ten,” Huff muttered, pulling at his beard. “But the solar system was different then, girlie.”

“Quiet, both of you,” Diocletia said, turning to look at Tycho. “Tycho, everything will go fine if you show the crew you're confident,” she said. “And if everything doesn't go fine . . . stay behind them and let them do their jobs.”

“I will,” Tycho said, wishing his voice wasn't quavering.

“Good,” Diocletia said. She frowned and turned back to the main screen. “You'd better get going, then. Vesuvia, my starship.”

3
BOARDING PARTY

A
s he hurried to the lower decks of the
Comet
, Tycho's boots clattered on the rungs of the forward ladderwell. It was a different world down here: the air was thick with smoke and the smell of fuel, and red light dimly illuminated a maze of beams and girders. A few minutes earlier, most of the crewers had been asleep in hammocks strung from those beams. Now they were rushing to their stations, arms cradling weapons and gear.

A female crewer with a shaved, tattooed head and earrings up and down both ears caught sight of him and nearly dropped her wicked-looking laser rifle in her haste to salute.

“Master Hashoone on deck!” she yelled.

The crewers snapped to attention and saluted, their eyes fierce.

“As you were,” Tycho said. “Boarding party, assemble at the port airlock.”

A cluster of crewers yelled eagerly and rushed in that direction. Hurrying to keep pace with them, Tycho momentarily felt very small—they were big, tough men and women, with scars and artificial parts accumulated over years of fighting. Then he reminded himself that most of them had served his family for their entire lives, and some came from families that had done so for generations. He might be only twelve, but he was a Hashoone—and that meant the family retainers would follow his orders and give their lives for him.

The knot of crewers parted, and Mr. Grigsby stepped forward. The
Comet
's warrant officer was big enough that his head almost touched the security cameras hanging from the ceiling. Grigsby had dark brown skin, white dreadlocks, and tattoos that glowed green, orange, and blue. Strings of gold coins hung from his holsters and jangled as he walked.

“Boarding party of eight, Master Hashoone,” he said, then handed over two gleaming chrome laser musketoons. “And here are the ranking officer's weapons.”

“Thank you, Mr. Grigsby,” Tycho said, taking the heavy guns. They had broad, bell-like muzzles and felt deadly in his hands. He said a silent prayer that he wouldn't have to use them.

Grigsby and the crewers were looking intently at him, he realized.
Stop daydreaming!

“She's an Orion freighter, fully loaded,” Tycho said, his voice breaking on the final word.

Tycho caught a couple of the crewers trying not to smile and raised his voice, staring fiercely at each of the men and women in the circle around him.

“Her captain didn't much like being ordered to shut down,” Tycho said. “But that's his tough luck, isn't it? If he doesn't give us trouble, we won't bring him any. But if he starts something, we'll finish it. That clear?”

“Clear,” Grigsby said, showing a grin full of chrome teeth.

“Three cheers for Master Tycho!” a crewer yelled, and a moment later all the crewers were cheering, guns and swords raised.

“Dobbs! Richards!” Grigsby bellowed. “Take point!”

Two of the
Comet
's biggest, meanest crewers stepped forward. Both wore plates of armor across their chests. Dobbs, the
Comet
's skinny, ghostly pale master-at-arms, had an evil-smelling cheroot clutched in his teeth. Richards, a belowdecks veteran, stopped at the airlock door, eyes narrowed.

Tycho activated his headset. “Quarterdeck, we're ready.”

“You are green for boarding,” his mother said coolly in his ears as the bells began to clang, signaling 0300 hours. Tycho waited for the sound of the sixth and final bell to die away, then nodded to Grigsby.

“Open her up,” he said.

Alarms sounded and lights flashed as the
Comet
's inner airlock doors began to grind open, followed by the outer airlock doors a few meters away. Beyond them, the hatch of the
Cephalax II
waited. The chill of deep space filled the vestibule, and the vapor of the crewers' breath wreathed their bodies like smoke.

Richards stabbed a finger at the control, using his other hand to hold his carbine at shoulder height, and pointed at the hatch. Tycho held his breath. This was the most dangerous moment of any boarding, when no one knew what waited on the other side of the hatch. If the freighter's crew had decided to resist, the air would soon be filled with laser blasts, smoke, and screams.

“Easy!” Tycho warned, even as he switched off the safeties on his pistols.

The
Cephalax II
's hatch opened with a groan of metal, and wind fluttered through the airlock as the atmospheres of the two ships began to mix. No shots came their way. The freighter's inner airlock doors were already open, and two unhappy-looking men in dirty uniforms waited on the other side, hands held carefully above their heads.

Dobbs and Richards patted the men down for weapons as the
Comet
's other crewers rushed forward, guns at the ready. They glanced quickly down passageways, on guard against an ambush, but for now there was no resistance.

“
Comet
, we're aboard,” Tycho said into his headset, then nodded to the
Cephalax II
's crewers. “Take me to the bridge.”

The
Cephalax II
was a pretty typical freighter—neither her passageways nor her crew were particularly clean or neat, but she struck Tycho as being in good working order. The thrum of her power plant was low and steady, and the air smelled stale but clean, indicating her recycling systems were functioning. While the
Comet
's crewers fanned out through the freighter in pairs, Tycho and Grigsby followed the
Ceph-Two
's crewers to her bridge. There they found four men sitting at their stations, hands held still and in plain sight, while another man stood beside the captain's chair, staring out the viewport.

“Captain Wofford of the
Cephalax II
, registered on Earth to the GlobalRex Corporation,” the man beside the chair said without turning.

Tycho strode across the bridge to the captain's chair. Grateful to know that the imposing Grigsby was right behind him, he took a deep breath and prayed he wouldn't stumble over the lengthy speech the law now required him to deliver.

“Tycho Hashoone, acting as captain of the
Shadow Comet
. According to the laws of war and abiding by Article 23c of the interplanetary accords on space-borne commerce, I claim this craft on behalf of the Jovian Union. She and her contents will be apportioned according to the laws of space as adjudicated by the Ceres Admiralty Court. By the dictates of our letter of marque, I swear no harm will come to craft or crew.”

With this speech complete, he placed his hand upon the captain's chair. Wofford knew what those words and that gesture meant, and Tycho waited for him to accept them and acknowledge that the freighter was now Jovian property.

But instead, Wofford shook his head.

“Afraid you can't do that, kid,” he said.

Tycho realized Wofford was looking behind him. He turned and saw one of the freighter's other crewers stand up at his station. He was bearded and thick chested, with hard eyes and a nasty smirk.

“Well, go ahead, Mr. Soughton,” Wofford said with a frown. “Present your credentials.”

“Right.” Soughton lifted a hand to the breast pocket of his uniform shirt. Grigsby raised his carbine, and a dot of red light glowed ominously on Soughton's temple.

“Go slow, matey,” Grigsby growled. “Less yer tired of havin' a head.”

“Don't get excited,” Soughton said. He dug in his pocket and extracted a rumpled document.

“Allow me to present my, uh, credentials as a registered diplomat, acting on behalf of the elected government of Earth,” Soughton said, then paused and frowned. “Based on the . . . I mean, according to the laws of war, this craft, her crew, and her contents are protected against seizure by diplomatic immunity.”

The corner of Soughton's mouth jerked upward. Grigsby snatched the papers from the man's hand, keeping the red dot fixed on his temple, and handed them to Tycho, who studied them briefly. Soughton crossed his burly arms, smiling.

“You don't look much like a diplomat,” Tycho said doubtfully, looking at the muscles bulging under Soughton's greasy uniform.

“And you don't look much like a pirate, kid,” Soughton replied with a sneer.

“Privateer,” Tycho muttered. He looked helplessly around the bridge, then activated his headset.

“
Comet
, it's Tycho.”

“Have you secured the bridge?” his mother asked.

“Yes. Well, sort of. I'm not sure.”

“What does that mean?” Diocletia demanded. “Have you secured the bridge or not?”

“We've got a problem,” Tycho said.