Throb himself longed to be suited and jetting, but it was two lesser crewmen who drifted in space, waiting as the silvery pod approached them. It swam beneath them slowly; they dropped down to it and attached the grapple. “Haul in!”
The winch sang, and the mile-long cable began to pull in, bringing the pod with it.
“It is not a lifeboat,” the crewman reported. “Can it be a coffin?”
“Perhaps; the Fleet honor their . . .”
“Ship appears!”
Throb spun about. On the display a spot of light moved where none had been before. “Battle stations! It cannot be a friend!”
It was not. It approached rapidly, dot swelling to a discernible oblong. Magnification showed them a foreshortened view of ...
“The same silhouette as the murderer of our captain! Attack!”
“The cable will snap, Captain. We will lose the pod.”
Throb cursed, then said, “We must wait for him–but fire as soon as he is within range.”
Fire blossomed from the Merchantman’s nose.
“Shields up!” Throb shrilled. “Can you crank that winch no faster?”
“It comes at top speed, Lieutenant.”
“So does the Merchant! Forward batteries! Fire!”
The screen went lurid as their own shields drank up the attacker’s energy bolt. It cleared, to show the enemy adazzle as their bolt struck his defenses–but the next bolt did not strike at them, but a little to the side.
“He shoots at the pod!” Throb screamed. “It must be of vast importance! Toward it, maximum thrust!”
Their ship surged to the side; the screen went scarlet as Throb shielded the pod with his own ship. Then he felt a slight shudder, and a crewman shouted, “Pod aboard! Expedition recovered!”
The sensor op howled, “Two more ships appear! They accelerate toward us!”
“The coward has called for help!” Throb spat. “But we shall not leave without wounding him, at the least! Evasive action! All batteries fire when clear! Torpedoes away–fire one! Fire two! Fire three!”
The ship rocked, shot forward, dived, rolled, shot on again, leaving a trail of energy bolts speeding toward the Merchantman. His screens glowed red, then orange, yellow, white ...
A new star lit the night.
“He is dead!” Throb crowed. “My captain, savor this first sip of the draft of vengeance!”
“We must live to bear him a full cup,” the helmsman snapped.
“Jump!” Throb shouted. “Set course for Barataria!”
The whole ship seemed to turn itself inside out, then right side in. The crew sagged in their seats, the pitch of battle ebbing.
Then Throb loosed his webbing and rose, turning toward the aft hatch. “Let us see what fish we have caught.”
The medic stood by, hypos ready, as the mechanics cracked the seal. Air hissed into vacuum, and they lifted the top half of the pod. Motors hummed as hidden machinery began to revive the occupant.
“A human!” Throb spat.
“With the uniform of the Fleet,” the doctor reminded him. “He is badly wounded.”
“Heal him then! He must talk!”
The medic bent over the pod, striving to recall what little he knew of human medicine.
Throb waited, the minutes dragging, cursing the slowness of revival.
Finally, the human’s eyelids fluttered, then opened. He looked around him, frowning, not understanding ...
Then his eyes widened in recognition, and he screamed.
The doctor jammed the hypo bulb against the inside of his elbow and squeezed. The sedative shot into his bloodstream, and his eyes closed, returning to sleep.
“When he wakes,” Throb hissed, “assure him he is among friends. Nay, we will even swear to return him to his own kind–for he is a survivor of the ship that fought against our captain’s enemy. And call me–I shall want to ask him questions. With warmth, with respect–but with insistence.”
“Globin.”
The voice pulled him up from the depths of nonexistence; a strong grip hauled him out of the dear darkness he longed for. “The Council has need of your knowledge. You must meet with them, Globin.”
“”Why?” he muttered through a mouth that felt as though it were made of cotton. “Why should I?”
“For Goodheart’s sake.”
The lieutenants looked up, six of them, as Globin came in, ashen-faced, glary-eyed, leaning on a cane and the doctor’s arm. They were six.
Globin made seven.
“What need have we of this intruder?” Hemo said with a contemptuous twist of his head.
“Well asked,” Globin croaked, glowering. “What need? Why pull me out of the death I crave?”
Even Hemo stared, shocked.
It was Throb, strangely, who spoke to him gently. “Our captain is dead, Globin. You must help us find the slime-sheet who slew him.”
“To what purpose?” Globin looked up, almost indignant. “Why must I? For what?”
“Why,” said Hemo contemptuously, “to slay them, of course.”
“Revenge?” Globin sat bolt-still, eyes widening. “Do you speak of revenge?”
“Of course!” Hemo spat. “Is your species so bovine that I must speak it aloud for you? Certainly, revenge!”
And the cause burst white-hot within Globin, bringing him upright in his chair, returning a beat to his heart and heat to his blood. He would not die, but live–for revenge!
They told him the way of it–their signalmen had broken Sales’s code, and Throb had been wrong–the Alliance had broadcast the entire event, even as it had happened, as much of it as they had seen. Still, Throb had not believed. He had demanded Goodheart’s last known course, had saturated that sector with calls to his captain–encoded, of course, and relayed through the network of satellite repeaters that Globin had designed to prevent any Fleet ship from tracing Barataria by its emissions. Failing to receive answer, he had dredged the vector of Sales’s transmission from the signal records and filled space with calls to his captain–but there had been no answer. Even then, unsatisfied, he had taken a ship and gone to search–
“No answer?” Globin exclaimed. “To so much effort? How long have I been unconscious then?”
“Two days, Globin,” Throb said softly.
“Two days!” Globin bowed his head. “Two days I lazed in that soft darkness while my captain’s killers escaped!”
“Two days while I wasted time proving the signal’s truth,” Throb corrected. “But I found a medical pod, with a crewman of the Fleet who had been wounded, and frozen till he could come to hospital. We could not save him, but he lived long enough to tell us the truth of what he saw. I am convinced. The captain is dead, Globin.”
Globin bowed his head, grief upwelling again.
“He is dead.” Then Throb hissed his indictment: “But you are alive. Globin, find me his killers.”
“You must come, Globin.”
Globin didn’t even take his eyes from the display. “Leave me. I have almost determined where the captain met his ... his last enemy.”
The crewman was silent a moment out of respect, then pressed, “I greatly dislike to intrude on so vital a moment–but if you do not come, there may be another death. Many.”
Globin sat still, eyes on the display.
Then, slowly, he turned. “Whose ship is at hazard?”
“Hemo’s,” said the courier. “Come quickly, Lieutenant.”
Globin came into the central communications hall one pace behind the courier. He saw Throb, Serum, and the other three gathered around the main display screen, gazing up at the image of Hemo.
“I will not!” the giant face raged. “If his killers will come anywhere, they will come here!”
“The captain would not have wished . . .”