"Undercrewed... clottin' agent... converter leakin'... bonded freight... sealed destination... client I never heard of neither. Not good, Mister Mate. Not good at all."
Raschid, pretending to wipe the counter, came closer.
"The contract good?" the mate asked.
"Cashed it this morning," the rabbit said grudgingly.
"Then what'a you care? Damn few cargoes come wi' a fuel guarantee, Captain. What's to worry what we're carry in'?"
"I'd hate like hell to finish my career gettin' taken off as a smuggler."
The mate looked the little man up and down. "Career? Pattipong, more caff."
Pattipong, unsmiling, refilled the mugs.
"Where's the best place to sign on some casuals?" the mate asked.
"For you? For Pease Lines? Maybe try port jail."
"Thanks, Patty. I love you, too."
Raschid spoke. "What slots you got open?"
The mate evaluated Raschid carefully. "Greaser. Cook/com. Second engineer. If you got papers."
"What's your com rig?"
"World's oldest VX-314. Your grampa could'a known it. We call it Stutterin' Susie."
"What's the pay?"
"Standard. Three hundred a month. Found. Got a sealed destination. You can pay off there, or stay on when we pick up a cargo and transship to a new port."
"Three hundred's cherry-boy pay."
"That's the offer."
Pattipong was signaling from the kitchen.
"Sorry," Raschid said. For some reason he thought he was supposed to say yes.
The captain was about to bleat something. The mate stopped him.
"How good a cook are you?"
"Order something."
"What about the com?"
"Bet the check whoever your last idiot was didn't triple-ground the box," Raschid said. "That'll give a Vexie hiccups all the time." He went back into the kitchen.
"You drunk? Drugs? What wrong with job?" Pattipong asked him.
"Nothing, Dingiswayo. It's just... time to go."
"Look. I give you better pay. Give you... quarter business. No, eighth. You stay."
The two merchant officers were arguing inaudibly.
"Those two... Jarvis, Moran. Bad. He weak. Drinker. Moran... busted down from skipper. Killed men. Ship... Santana. Boneyard. Recycled. All Pease ships same. Junk. Certificates forged. Out of date. Line pick cargo where can. Not care where go. Not care kill crew, lose ship. Insurance always paid prompt."
"Sounds like an adventure."
"You full hop. Adventure someone else, in livie. You watch—adventure. You do—deep, deep drakh."
"You. Cook," Moran growled. "We'll go 450."
"And slops?" Raschid pressed. "M'gear got left aboard m'last."
"Happens when you jump ship. But yeah. We'll go it." The wait was over.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
All nightmares end. Eventually the last of the pirated AM2 was loaded onto the transports, and the 23rd Fleet could lift for Al-Sufi and then home base.
But even escaping, men died. A Honjo had positioned a booby trap, fused with a pressure-release device under one freighter. It went off when the freighter lifted, and the blast took out two more cargo ships and one of the destroyers providing overhead cover.
Just out-atmosphere an Imperial corvette was sniped. An offplanet Honjo lighter had mounted a single missile on its cargo deck, managed to infiltrate through the fleet cover, and waited. The missile killed the corvette, and one of Gregor's cruisers blew the lighter and crew into nothingness. But by that time killing Honjo—in greater or lesser quantities—was no longer thought a victory. It was merely a duty that might—but probably would not—stave off one's own death for a few hours.
Admiral Gregor ordered the fleet into a standard convoy formation. It was by-the-book but not tactically bad. It looked like a three-dimensional mushroom with a base. The mushroom's "stem" was the transport train, with light cover outside the main formation. The mushroom's "cap" was his heavies, with destroyers and cruisers screening to the front. The base was two heavy-cruiser squadrons with their screens, giving rear security. They should have been unnecessary—but they were potentially vital.
That was just part of the bad news Gregor gloomed over at his battle computer. The only data he had was bad, with one exception: fuel.
His fleet AM2 chambers were at full battle load—probably the only ships in space these days that were, Gregor thought. In theory that should have meant he could have ignored the council's economy dictum and ordered full battle speed toward Al-Sufi. Well, if not full battle, then at least to whatever max drivespeed the transports were capable of.
He could not. His fleet had taken too much damage in the Honjo's guerrilla raids. Damage ranged from hull integrity to warped drive chambers to blown tubes to almost anything the Honjo's ingenuity had come up with to destroy or cripple the Imperials. Two cruisers had even been slaved together and given external emergency drive from one of Gregor's tenders.
His fleet was limping—limping at many multiples of lightspeed, but still limping. Which meant that the 23rd Fleet was vulnerable to a stern attack. Gregor considered abandoning any units that could not hold top transport speed. Then he shuddered and decided against that course. He would face enough flak as it was.
He decided that the only salvation his career had was returning to Al-Sufi with the
AM2-all the AM2. That might keep him his flag. Maybe.
Scowling, he scrolled on. The siege-that-was-not had been incredibly expensive:
Crew casualties, all categories: twenty-seven percent.
Ship casualties, all categories: thirty-five percent.
That, factored into his already-dismal combat-readiness factor before invading...
Gregor did not want to run the figures.
A second admiral was no happier with the state of the universe.
Fleet Admiral Fraser sat grounded, along with her command, on three of the Al-Sufi worlds. Her orders were clear: Hold in place until the 23rd Fleet arrives.
Fuel from the AM2 transports. Combine forces with the 23rd, yourself to assume command as CINCCON. Continue mission to Prime World sector. Further orders will be given at that time.
She had a fairly good idea of what shape the 23rd was in. Gregor had tried to make his reports sound as favorable as possible. But since complete lies were not permissible, Fraser expected a ragtag collection of limpers.
Fraser, an aggressive leader, believed the Nelsonian dictum that no one can find himself in too much trouble if he steers toward the sound of the guns. She would have cheerfully modified her orders, lifted, and gone to immediate support of Gregor's wounded fleet.
But she could not. Combined AM2 available: not more than one half an E-day cruising range-for all her ships.
Fraser was not a happy admiral.
The 23rd was coming home. Gregor's navigational section had suggested a circuitous plot from the Honjo Sector to Al-Sufi. Gregor had rejected it.
He had some good reasons: the status of his ships, the poor skill-levels of too many nav-decks in following the proposed multiple-point plot, and finally his fear of inexperienced deck officers having to maintain convoy position. No, he thought. He did not need the added calumny that would come, for instance, if two of his battleships suddenly set collision courses.
Besides, Gregor was starting to regain some of his customary poise. He called it confidence; his staff preferred "arrogance."
Who, in these times, could challenge an Imperial fleet? Even in its present state of combat semireadiness? Almost no one. Who had the fuel to chance battle? It took power to steal power. The course would be linear-or as "linear" as navigational trajectories could be under AM2 drive.