The Rise of Earth (22 page)

“Flying Jovian colors,” Vesuvia said.

“Tyke, I'll hail the bogey,” Carlo said. “Mr. Grigsby, we're going in hot.”

“The comm is yours,” Tycho said. “You've earned it, after all.”

Carlo gave Tycho a puzzled glance, then activated his headset. “Unknown ship, this is the
Shadow Comet
operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union. We are on an intercept course. Activate transponders and identify yourself immediately.”

Seven bells rang out.

“Ninety percent confidence that she's a Minke,” Yana said.

“Target craft has activated transponders,” Vesuvia said. “Cybelean colors.”

“Incoming transmission,” Tycho said. “All channels.”

“
Shadow Comet
, this is the
Blue Heron
, finishing our run from Ceres,” a polite, cultured voice said over the bridge's speakers. “You've seen our colors. We're on a tight schedule for a rendezvous with our coasters to unload cargo, so I'll need to ask you to stand down. And the same goes for whoever that is coming up behind you.”

“Negative,
Heron
,” Carlo said. “Sorry to hold you up, but we're going to need an in-person inspection.”

“If you disrupt our operations, my board of directors will take the additional cost out of your performance bond,” the
Blue Heron
's captain said. “I have to warn you that the cost will be considerable.”

“We'll take that risk,
Heron
. We invoke our right to inspect your vessel under the articles of war governing
interplanetary commerce. Heave to and prepare for boarding.”

They could see the freighter now, a point of brilliant light moving against the backdrop of stars.

“Yana, how far away are the Widderiches?” Carlo asked.

“Eight thousand klicks.”

“This interference is outrageous,
Comet
!” the
Blue Heron
's captain said.

“I won't say it again, Captain—heave to immediately,” Carlo said. “Mr. Grigsby, send a shot near their main mast.”

“Be a pleasure, Master Carlo,” Grigsby said with a purr of satisfaction.

The
Comet
shook and a line of brilliant green fire streaked between one of her bow chasers and the freighter.

“The next one won't miss,
Heron
,” Carlo said. “Now heave to.”

“Hold your fire,
Comet
,” the
Blue Heron
's captain said disgustedly.

“They're stopping—ion emissions dropping to zero,” Yana said. “But the Widderiches are fifteen hundred klicks off and closing.”

“We can dock before they get here,” Carlo said, his head swiveling to his parents. “If we're docked, does that count as a capture under pirate rules?”

“No, lad—it's when they strike the colors,” Huff said.

“Then perhaps Mr. Grigsby can encourage them to do
that,” Carlo said, reaching for his headset.

“Carlo, give the Widderiches their snack,” Diocletia said.

“No way!” Yana sputtered.

“Those two lowlifes didn't do anything for this prize,” Carlo protested, and Tycho gritted his teeth.

Neither did you
, he thought, but another thought came right on the heels of that one:
And neither did I, back when we captured the
Portia
.

“Baltazar and Karst are dangerous men,” Diocletia said. “They've never been too clear about the difference between friends and enemies. We're trying to change the conversation, remember? If the Cybeleans hear we wound up trading shots with our own countrymen during an intercept . . .”

“Are you giving me an order, Captain?” asked Carlo.

“No—your starship. But consider it highly expert advice.”

Carlo said a bad word, then nodded. “Fine. They can have their snack. But it better be a small bite. Mr. Grigsby, prepare the boarding party—I'll meet you at the starboard lock.”

Once his vessel was boarded, the
Blue Heron
's captain admitted his true allegiance was to Earth and cooperated with Carlo and Huff—after all, he said with a shrug, it wasn't as if GlobalRex's insurance adjusters were willing to die for him. Mindful that Earth's ships might arrive and attempt a rescue, Mavry hastily recruited a prize
crew from belowdecks, while Yana kept scanning the area and Tycho plotted a course that would take the
Blue Heron
back toward Ceres before turning and running to Ganymede for condemnation.

Throughout the capture, the Widderiches' frigates, the
Romulus
and
Remus
, hung in space a few hundred meters away from the
Comet
and her prey, with Diocletia assuring each brother in turn that he would get a share of the prize money and sternly insisting that he keep his distance.

“It's Baltazar again,” Tycho said wearily, hands on his headset.

“Why is it always Baltazar?” Yana asked.

“Oh, Karst probably forgot how to work his comm board,” Diocletia said. “There's a few genius pirates, and then most of us, and then a bunch of idiots, and
then
there's Karst. Put it through, Tycho.”

“Ach, Captain Hashoone, been reviewing your boy's course,” Baltazar grumbled. “Some rescue ship will scoop up our prize before she makes the Kirkwood Gap. Smarter by far to divide the cargo now.”

Diocletia said nothing for a moment, and Tycho knew she was trying to calm herself. A Hashoone who could see the way her shoulders were set would have stopped arguing immediately—but then Baltazar was neither present nor a Hashoone.

“Give him both barrels, Mom,” Yana muttered.

“Silence on the bridge. Captain Widderich, the boy you're referring to is a veteran midshipman. And if
you're worried about an Earth ship making a rescue, the best thing for all of us to do is get out of here as soon as possible.”

“But Captain Hashoone—” Baltazar said, then stopped. They could hear the low buzz of conversation on the
Romulus
's quarterdeck.

“Two new sensor contacts,” Vesuvia said. “Inbound from Cybele.”

“Get me a scan,” Diocletia said. “Tycho, inform our boarding party. Baltazar, do you see them?”

“Hailing 'em now,” Baltazar said, his voice turning gleeful. “Since you'll be too busy to assist with this next capture, Diocletia, my brother and I will intercept.”

“The incoming craft are flying Cybelean colors,” Vesuvia said. “Transponders identify them as the
Townsend
and the
Northwind
.”

“Must be the coasters they hired to unload the freighter,” Diocletia said. “Captain Widderich, those are the Cybelean merchant craft that the
Heron
was due to meet.”

“So?” growled Baltazar.

“So our letters of marque allow us to intercept only Earth craft and Saturnian vessels.”

“Lawyer talk,” Baltazar growled as the
Romulus
activated her trio of engines and began to turn in the direction of the coasters. “They's prey, and we's predators. Karst, get that wreck of yours in gear! Don't just sit there like a grog-addled sloth in a gravity well!”

“Captain Widderich, listen to me,” Diocletia said. “An
inspection will find those coasters' papers in orders. That means any damage you do to cargo or craft will come out of your performance bond, and could result in revocation of your letter of marque. And any harm to the crew will be treated as an act of piracy.”

“And who's gonna know? Lot of room for ships to get lost out here.”

“The court of inquest will know. Based on my testimony and that of my crew.”

Tycho risked a glance at Yana, who was watching their mother intently.

“You'd turn on yer own like that?” Baltazar asked. “You ain't no Jupiter pirate.”

“No, I'm not. None of us are anymore. And that includes you, Captain.”

B
y the time the
Comet
returned to Cybele, Tycho was in a foul mood—one made worse by Kate's message that she was stuck at some official Earth function and didn't know when she'd be able to get away.

Tycho stewed as the ferries collected the boisterous Comets, and sulked on the short ride down to the landing field in the gig. Carlo piloted the little craft like the
sixty-second jaunt was a journey through Saturn's rings, and Diocletia never said a word. Tycho fell behind the others in the endless tunnel on the far side of customs, and barely looked up when his sister dropped back to walk alongside him.

“What's eating you this time?” Yana asked.

“Nothing.”

“Come on—you've barely said a word since the intercept.”

Tycho shrugged, but his sister was peering at him in a way that reminded him of their mother.

“This wouldn't be about Carlo getting credit for taking a prize, would it?” she asked.

Tycho kicked at the grimy decking. That wasn't it
exactly
, but it was close enough—particularly since he couldn't tell Yana the real reason.

“It all goes in the Log, doesn't it?” he grumbled.

“I don't think taking a freighter quite makes up for losing a dromond.”

Yana's mediapad beeped and she glanced at it, which reminded him once again that he wouldn't even get to see Kate.

“Well, at least it's good for the Jovian Union,” he said, trying to sound dutiful.

Yana smiled at something on her mediapad, then shut the device's cover with a snap.

“I'm glad none of this bothers you,” Tycho said peevishly.

“Why should it bother me? I'm not going to be captain of the
Comet
. I figured that out a while ago.”

Tycho looked at her inquiringly. There had been no bitterness in Yana's voice, no hint that she wanted him to disagree with her. She'd simply said what she meant.

“I mean, I'm going to be captain,” Yana said. “Just not of the
Comet
.”

“We've talked about this. It's against every rule—”

“Oh, there you go again,” Yana said, smiling sweetly at him. “You know what's funny, Tyke? I'm your twin sister, and yet it's like you don't know me at all.”

Tycho knew it was a bad idea, but he couldn't help himself. After checking his mediapad yet again for a message from Kate, he typed in the password that unlocked the secret folder inside the device's memory. There were DeWise's messages—the ones that, if ever discovered, would reveal his involvement with the Securitat.

He glanced at the doorway to his room. He could hear Mr. Speirdyke clattering pans as he prepared dinner, and the thuds and gasps of Yana pushing herself through another unarmed-combat sim.

He entered DeWise's recognition code, then began to type.

SO I GUESS YOU HAVE A NEW RECRUIT. YOU NEED TO TEACH HIM TO LIE MORE CONVINCINGLY. BUT WHO BETTER TO LEARN FROM THAN YOU?

He sent the message, making sure to hide it in the folder. He checked to see if Kate had made contact, saw she hadn't, checked again, and tossed his mediapad onto his bunk with a sigh.

Mr. Speirdyke finished the cooking, said his farewells, and hobbled off to his own quarters with the other Comets. Tycho maintained a cautious silence during dinner, worried that any conversation would cause him to lose his temper. That could only make things worse—criticizing his brother would either come off as sour grapes or lead to disaster for both of them.

But there wasn't much conversation to be had. Carlo seemed oddly subdued, eating mechanically and staring off into space. Yana was silent too, probably tired after her unarmed-combat session, and Huff had gone off to carouse with the Jovian privateers.

It made for a quiet table—until Mavry looked quizzically around at the rest of his family.

“Does anyone remember that we took a prize today?” he asked. “It feels like we're gathered for a funeral.”

“I seem to recall taking a prize today, now that you mention it,” Diocletia said.

Carlo smiled quickly and nodded, but barely looked up from his food.

“She's not a prize until she's safe and sound at Ganymede,” Tycho said. “And with all the Earth ships prowling out here, that's no guarantee.”

“True,” Diocletia said. “But remember, our mission here is to complicate Earth's plans—to make the Cybeleans think twice about an alliance. Even if the
Heron
's retaken, we've shown the Cybeleans that Earth isn't untouchable. Which is exactly what your father meant when he talked about changing the conversation.”

Carlo looked off across the room. Tycho picked morosely at his stew.

A mediapad chimed somewhere in their suite of rooms. Tycho turned his head hopefully, but Yana was already out of her seat, recognizing her personalized tone pattern. A minute later she reappeared wearing a fur-lined coat, with her color-changing scarf around her neck.

“And just where are you going?” Diocletia said.

“The combat-sim rig I ordered from Ceres just came in.”

Diocletia and Mavry looked at each other.

“The shop's in the Well,” Yana said, then patted her coat below the armpit. “And I'm armed.”

“All right,” Diocletia said. “Be careful.”

“Worry about whoever gets in my way,” Yana said as she departed.

Carlo stopped staring off into space and shook his head.

“I'm just glad what I overheard turned out to be true,” he said quietly. “I was afraid it wouldn't be.”

Unable to help himself, Tycho darted a poisonous look his brother's way. Carlo saw it and drew back
slightly, looking surprised. And guilty, Tycho thought.

“It was a good tip,” Diocletia said. “All three of you performed admirably out there today. Even with the Widderiches doing their best to interfere.”

“I gather they almost turned pirate on us,” Mavry said.

Diocletia nodded. “I don't think Baltazar and I will be celebrating this capture together.”

“The Widderiches
are
pirates, plain and simple,” Carlo said. “The Jovian Union never should have issued them letters of marque.”

“I know,” Diocletia said. “It's a sign of how desperate the Union is. They didn't let the Widderiches become privateers fifteen years ago, and no one's wanted to inquire too carefully about how they've made a living since then.”

“You could say the same about Dmitra,” Mavry pointed out. “And a few others besides.”

“Too many others,” Carlo said.

Tycho heard his mediapad chiming in the other room and pushed back his chair.

“Really?” Diocletia asked.

“Sorry!”

He hurried into his room and picked up the device, hoping it was Kate. But there was no message showing in the queue. It took him a moment to remember his earlier message and open the hidden folder where his exchanges with DeWise were kept.

I'M SURE I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT, TYCHO. YOU HAVE FRIENDS HERE, DESPITE YOUR BEST EFFORTS. IF WE HAVE SOMETHING TO DISCUSS, THAT CAN BE ARRANGED.

Tycho snorted—DeWise had immediately contradicted his own halfhearted denial—and flipped back to his mediapad's main screen, hoping a message from Kate might have arrived in the last couple of seconds.

Which actually had happened.

FREE—COME TO OUR FONDACO AS SOON AS YOU GET THIS! KA

All at once the disturbing day seemed full of promise. He grabbed his jacket, put an arm into the wrong sleeve, tried again, and made a doomed attempt to slick down his hair. Should he shave? He decided he should, thought about how long that would take, changed his mind, and rushed out of the room.

“Not you too,” Mavry said.

“Sorry Dad, I've got—”

“Go ahead, Tycho,” Diocletia said. “But tomorrow night, all mediapads are getting shut off before dinner.”

To Tycho's surprise, Kate was waiting just inside the gates of Earth's fondaco, peering out of an oversized coat of synthetic fur and looking furious. When she saw him, she turned her head to speak sharply to someone, then
marched out into the Northwell past the pair of Cybelean constables.

“What is it?” Tycho asked. “And why did you bring a coat?”

“They won't let you in. I'm sorry, Tycho.”

“Who won't let me in?” he asked, and peered suspiciously at the Cybelean constables. They stood stock-still, pretending to be unaware of the conversation happening in front of them.

“No, not them—our people,” Kate said. “No Jovians are to be given access to the compound. Not even for diplomatic meetings. Something about a captured freighter.”

“Ah. Well, never mind then. Let's take a walk around the Well.”

He reached for her hand and she entangled her fingers with his. She was wearing the earrings he'd given her, he saw with a smile. But a moment later she glanced over at him and frowned.

“Wait a minute. You know something about this. I can tell.”

Tycho sighed. “Yeah, I do. Um, it was my ship that captured the freighter.”

Kate pulled her hand away and looked at him, disbelief and anger and embarrassment chasing each other across her face.

“It's what my family
does
—we're privateers,” Tycho said, embarrassed at how defensive he sounded. “It's what we
all
do. The first time I ever heard of your father, it was because he'd stolen a prize back from
us
.”

Kate lowered her eyes.

“You're right. I guess I didn't want to think about it. It's just . . . it's so
complicated
.”

“I know,” Tycho said, then reached for her hand again. “But
this
doesn't have to be.”

She offered him a small smile and made no objection when he put his arm around her shoulders. The smell of her made him slightly dizzy. He tried to identify the components of that intoxicating scent—soap, definitely, and perhaps a hint of perfume.

“The garden would have been nice,” he said. “But there are other places to go on Cybele.”

“I know,” she said. “But . . . well, my father's away. And I was so excited to see you.”

Tycho must have looked surprised, because Kate blushed.

“I just meant that we could have a little privacy. Away from all these eyes.”

“So let's go find some,” Tycho said. “I think we've created scandal enough here.”

She smiled and nodded, and they walked away from the gate, into the hubbub of the Well.

“What about that top level?” Kate asked. “Where we met? It's beautiful up there. I felt like I was surrounded by stars.”

Tycho shook his head sadly. “The Cybeleans'll never let us in. That was one night only, for their entertainment.”

“What about the Jovian fondaco, then?”

Tycho raised his jacket's fur-lined collar against the cold. “It's . . . not as nice as Earth's. You'd be disappointed.”

“You don't really think I care about that, do you?”

“No. Of course not. But . . . look, our people are even more paranoid than yours are. If your side didn't let me in—”

“Oh, let's not talk about sides. It's awful. All right then, the Well it is.”

She extended one hand into the air, letting it hang there like she was a queen. “Lead on, good sir.”

“I've never been so honored,” Tycho said, bowing over her hand and kissing it, and then lingering to do so repeatedly. She pulled her arm away and swatted at him, but she was smiling.

The Well was quieter now, with most of its offices and banks dark and silent behind blank shutters. Tycho and Kate took an elevator to the lower levels, which were filled with a mix of cafés, restaurants, and high-end shops and stalls. Tycho saw few spacers—this level was the domain of wealthy Cybeleans, with a sprinkling of foreigners in formal clothes and not a privateer or crimp to be seen. The café tables were softly lit and heated, surrounded by a buzz of low conversation, with Cybelean constables keeping a discreet but watchful eye on things.

A dim passageway sloped down into a tunnel beneath a sign that read “Guild Offices.” Planters filled with dark-green vegetation lined the corridor. Kate's fingers trailed over the plants and she shook her head.

“Plastic,” she said.

Tycho smiled, trying to imagine living in a place where you assumed plants were real.

He raised his eyebrows and inclined his head down the corridor.

“Are you sure it's safe?” Kate asked.

“It's the Well,” Tycho said, then patted his side beneath his armpit. “And I've got a carbine. It'll be fine.”

They were halfway down the corridor when Tycho heard a small sound and saw a flash of blue and green. Two figures were ahead of them in the gloom, separating hastily. He slowed his pace, stepping forward to block Kate's body with his own, and the fingers of his free hand crept toward his shoulder holster.