Winds of Marque Page 7

  “You conniving bastard,” Swift said, raising his glass in salute. “My lord executive officer.”

  Liam rose unsteadily to his feet and carried his drink down the table to sit across from Swift.

  “I couldn’t tell you beforehand,” he said. “We couldn’t risk anyone knowing our real mission until after we were safely in space.”

  “I know.” Swift sat back, folding his arms. “But prize money . . . Sir, you can’t imagine what that means to folks like me.”

  Liam nodded. It was hard to remember, spending so much time in uniform, the vast gulf that separated Swift’s circumstances from his own. What would be a useful sum of money to him would be life-changing for his propulsion officer’s entire family.

  “When word reaches the crew, I expect we’ll have a very motivated ship.”

  “The challenge,” Swift replied, “will be to direct that motivation toward useful ends. We can’t have our sailors thinking they can steal or pillage any ship we come across.”

  “We must maintain our purpose,” Liam agreed. “Otherwise we’re no better than the pirates.”

  Swift drained the last of his drink, staring thoughtfully upward. “Any idea where we start our search for the bastards?”

  “We’re going to sail in as a merchant and get a sense of the sector,” Liam replied. “With a bit of luck the pirates will come to us.”

  Swift shook his head with a sigh. “You and your bait setting. You know that’s going to get us into trouble one day.”

  “I expect it to. But if the trouble comes to us, we’re ready for it.”

  Swift gestured toward the empty seats around the table. “What do you think of the senior team, sir?”

  Liam frowned, considering. “I think they’re mostly a professional bunch, each bringing their own particular strengths. But as for that young cadet . . . time will tell.”

  “Isn’t he Silverhawk’s cousin?”

  “Yes. Foisted upon us by the good captain himself.”

  Swift rolled his eyes.

  “We didn’t have any choice,” Liam persisted. “And I’m sure the likes of you will keep the likes of him in line.”

  “Just once, I’d like to sail with a completely professional crew.”

  “Perhaps this is our chance to build that professionalism. It may just take a bit of extra effort.”

  “Then I’d better get some sleep while I can.” Swift rose from his chair, stretching.

  “Good night, Sails.”

  “Good night, sir.”

  The Imperial orders still lay on the top of the strongbox and Liam realized he needed to get them back to the captain’s cabin. She was probably off the bridge by now. Gathering himself, he left the wardroom and headed up two decks. The ship was rolling gently in the swell, pitching smoothly against a head wind as she sailed inward toward the Hub. Even with the external cargo pods, she seemed to slip through the solar winds like a yacht, and so far Liam was pleased with how the old frigate rode.

  The quarterdeck was the highest deck in the ship, and as Liam ascended the last, steep stairway he emerged into a dark, open space filled with damage-control equipment. Forward was the door to the bridge, and aft was the door leading to senior-officer country. It was a rather grandiose title, he thought as he stepped through into the short corridor with a single door on either side.

  To be fair, on a battleship, this would be the home of the captain and all the senior department heads, with space set aside for any visiting admirals and/or royals, as well as humble lodging for the army of attendant servants. But in an old frigate like Daring, there were precisely two cabins—one for the captain and one for the executive officer. Liam’s cabin was on the port side, and he chimed at the starboard door.

  “Captain, ma’am, XO,” he announced.

  “Enter,” came the reply.

  The captain’s receiving room was barely large enough to contain the briefing table with six chairs plus a personal workstation. Two portholes allowed narrow beams of starlight to add to the dim illumination provided by the single lamp on the table.

  In the pool of lamplight Commander Riverton sat over her dinner, uniform coat discarded on the chairback beside her. The collar of her white shirt was unbuttoned, the frill hanging loose, but her hair was still tucked up neatly. She sat back from her plate, crossing her arms as she looked up at him.

  “Good evening, Mr. Blackwood.”

  “Good evening, ma’am.” He stepped forward and placed the strongbox on the table in front of her. “The officers and senior hands have been briefed on the mission. I sense a great deal of enthusiasm from them.”

  “Very good.”

  He waited for further comment, but she simply regarded him with a neutral, possibly expectant, gaze. She’d displayed skepticism at his idea of bringing the senior sailors into the wardroom but had granted him leave to try. No doubt she was curious as to the results. He decided to take the unspoken invitation, pulling back the nearest chair and sitting across from her. “I believe that the merging of the two senior messes will be successful, ma’am. The officers made our three senior hands feel very welcome.”

  “As long as proper discipline and decorum are observed at all times,” she replied coolly.

  “You’re always welcome to join us, ma’am.”

  “And I will, if I feel that my ship is not being run with the proper respect for authority.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “For example, I didn’t give you permission to sit, Mr. Blackwood.”

  Her voice hadn’t raised a decibel in volume, but her tone was like a smack across the face. He scrambled to his feet.

  “You hide it well,” she continued, “but I can tell you’re drunk. No doubt my entire senior staff is as well. That may be acceptable aboard a ship on a routine patrol, but I will not stand for it here. Exercise restraint, or I will exercise it for you.”

  He had to bite down his immediate retort, that a raucous first evening in space was tradition in any warship. A drunken dinner set good morale and gave him a chance to assess his senior staff. It was a time-honored tradition dating back generations, but apparently Lady Riverton had different ideas about how the Navy should be run. Her cold stare brooked no discussion on the matter, though.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  “I’m particularly concerned about fraternization,” she continued. “It’s bad enough among the officers on a regular ship, but mixing with the senior sailors like this is asking for trouble.”

  He doubted Butcher or Sky would be any trouble on that front. As for Virtue . . .

  “I’ll keep an eye on our new quartermaster, ma’am.”

  Riverton made to speak, then pursed her lips shut. The creak of the hull was the only sound in her cabin for a long moment.

  “And the cadet,” he added. “Young nobles like him are notorious for fraternizing.”

  “Subcommander Blackwood,” she said, her voice like steel, “you might think yourself better than the lordlings who get foisted upon you, but before you climb too high on your own pedestal, I suggest you take a good look at your own vices. I will certainly be watching.”

  He flushed. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Any afterglow from dinner had fled. He’d been upbraided by a captain more than once in the past, but never with such calm certainty. Riverton’s gaze felt like a blade skewering him against the bulkhead.

  She unfolded her arms and retrieved her cutlery. “Schedule an emergency exercise for the third hour of the middle watch,” she said. “I want to drive home to your senior mess the perils of excess while in space.”

  He kept his face stoic, but groaned inwardly. Setting up an exercise would take him several hours, right when he wanted to climb into his own bunk. And he doubted any of the senior personnel—or the crew, for that matter—would appreciate being roused in the middle of the first night out. And everyone knew who arranged these exercises: the executive officer.

  Liam suspected he would be a most unpopular fi
gure tomorrow.

  Riverton was eating again, and he assumed that he was dismissed. But then, he’d also assumed that he could sit down moments earlier.

  “Yes, ma’am. Permission to carry on?”

  “Carry on.”

  He retreated from her cabin, crossed the flats, and entered his own small living space. As he hung up his formal jacket and loosened his collar, he forced his wine-fogged mind to focus on the task of creating an emergency exercise. Probably a simulated fire, he figured, but with all those extra access tunnels to propulsion, he’d have to double-check the ship’s diagrams to ensure he didn’t create a bigger problem than he intended to.

  He glanced at his footlocker and considered the flask of rum sitting there. But Riverton’s glare still hung in his mind’s eye, and with a quiet curse he lifted the handset of his internal telephone and wound it up, calling the galley to order a pot of coffee. It was going to be a long night.

  Chapter 6

  Amelia read over the summary one last time, then found herself starting to read it again.

  “Stop it,” she said to herself. “It’s good.”

  The stores office swallowed the sound of her voice, shelves of wooden crates muffling the echoes so common in a steel-encased ship. There were two chairs squeezed into the space, and a pair of terminals, but because of the watch rotations in space, she rarely had the company of her storesmen. This little room was her own private kingdom, and if she wanted to talk to herself, she thought with a smile, that was her royal prerogative.

  But the summary was good, she knew, and the report that followed it was detailed, integrated, and easy to read. She clutched the tablet in her hand and took a deep breath: time to head for the bridge.

  As she locked the stores office behind her, she heard the usual noises of a busy ship. Voices carried down the passageway and there was the thump of a hatch shutting. The creak of one of the masts matched a sudden lift of the deck as Daring caught a solar gust. Amelia grabbed the bulkhead to steady herself, then proceeded aft.

  She paused when she reached the ladder, as it was crowded with a line of gunners descending. Immediately she spotted a familiar, dirty-blond head and couldn’t hold back her grin.

  “Hey, Hedgie.”

  Able Rating Hedge glanced up as she reached the deck, her scowling face streaked with dust and sweat. When she saw it was Amelia, her tired face brightened. “Hey, Virts. I mean, PO.”

  It was still odd, being addressed by her new rank. Amelia had been delighted when both Hedge and Flatrock signed up to sail with Daring, but it had made the transition both easier and more difficult at the same time.

  “You look like you’ve been cleaning the cannon from the inside,” she said with sympathy.

  “Might as well have.” Hedge sighed, wiping her forearm across her face. “We’ve been reorganizing the ammo stores to make them more accessible.”

  “Oh . . . did we not do a good job when we loaded from the jetty?”

  “As well as we could, considering the deadline.” Hedge glanced around at her fellow gunners. “If those idiots had given us the time we needed then, we wouldn’t be using our off-watch hours now to sort everything out.”

  “We were under orders to sail,” Amelia explained. “We couldn’t miss that window.”

  “No, no,” Flatrock boomed, stepping down off the ladder. “The officers can’t look bad. And they have us sailors to fix the problem later.”

  That certainly wasn’t Amelia’s impression of Daring’s officers, but she knew better than to disagree with a group of sailors in the middle of a healthy round of complaining.

  “At least it’s done now,” she offered. “And I heard in the senior mess that the captain is very pleased with how our recent drills have been going.”

  “Well, you should know”—Flatrock smirked—“chatting over dinner with Her Ladyship as you do.”

  Amelia couldn’t suppress her laughter at that. She hadn’t heard Commander Riverton speak more than five words at a stretch. The idea of dinner conversation with her painted a painfully awkward picture.

  Hedge jerked her chin at Amelia’s tablet.

  “Whatcha got there?”

  “A stores report. I’m just heading up to the bridge to deliver it.”

  “Well, enjoy the cocktails and chatter, PO. I have to catch some sleep before my watch.”

  Amelia squeezed her friend’s shoulder, then punched Flatrock in the arm. Leaving them, she climbed up past the gun deck and up to the quarterdeck. This highest deck of the ship wasn’t officially off-limits to the crew, but no one ever ventured here unless on specific business. In all her time in Renaissance Amelia had never once made it this high, and even in Daring she still felt odd climbing that last set of stairs.

  Although the rest of the ship’s interior mimicked the changing light of day and night, Daring’s command center was always dark. Here on the bridge, the crew was always on alert and needed to be able to scan the blackness of space beyond the clear canopy overhead. The blackness had significantly diminished even in the past week as Daring sailed inward from the Halo. Light from thousands of distant suns brightened the bridge enough for Amelia to see with only a momentary blinking of adjustment.

  A pair of sailors manned the helm and propulsion controls to port, the sailing table—identical to the one in propulsion control with which she’d become very familiar—revealing moderate solar wind force against all four of the masts. Another pair of sailors sat at the tactical station to starboard, ready to direct Daring’s various weapons systems in battle. Two lookouts wandered back and forth around the outer ring of the bridge, peering out with their handheld telescopes. Pacing the center of the bridge, the officer of the watch monitored the central console and those around it.

  Sublieutenant Brown had the watch at the moment, her role immediately recognizable by the pistol and saber she wore on her belt. Amelia felt a strange source of pride as she watched the young woman’s quiet self-assuredness. The fact that Brown, a commoner, was an Academy graduate would be enough to make her entire hometown boast—and while Amelia had no personal connection to the officer, it still gave her a boost to see someone from a similar background having achieved so much.

  Cadet Highcastle was Brown’s second. Standing tall, his uniform impeccable, he cut quite a dashing young figure, she had to admit. His sandy hair was longer than a typical sailor’s, but styled back in a way that highlighted his high cheekbones and elegant jaw. The resemblance to Captain Silverhawk was obvious, and Amelia could only hope that the similarities were only skin-deep. After several weeks of intermittent interactions with him in the wardroom, she still didn’t know what to make of him.

  And, at the raised command chair on the port side of the bridge, sat Commander Riverton, her eyes forward, her expression intent. Subcommander Blackwood stood just to the side. Amelia admired him for a moment, loving his easy charisma that could instantly command a room. He and the captain were conversing quietly, his easy smile and large gestures quite in contrast to her statuesque serenity.

  Blackwood suddenly noticed Amelia, and she realized with a start she’d been staring. He gestured her over with a friendly wave.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” Amelia said, knuckling her forehead to both of them as she stepped up next to Blackwood. “Captain.”

  Riverton glanced down quickly, almost dismissively, from the pair of screens before her. “Quartermaster.”

  Her sharp features were set in a casually neutral expression—polite and collected, but hardly welcoming. Amelia suppressed a shiver and turned her attention to Blackwood.

  “Sir, I’ve completed the underway inventory and reckoning.”

  He smiled down at her, taking the tablet and scanning it.

  “Everything is in order,” she said, taking a deep breath, “and I’m happy to brief you on it.”

  He glanced around the bridge, then gave her his full attention. “Go ahead.”

  Liam listened as Petty Officer Virtue launched into
an efficient briefing of the status of the ship’s stores. She guided him through the data on the screen and brought up additional charts with historical information for comparison. It was an impressive briefing, and surprisingly easy to follow.

  But so, so, so boring. His attention was already drifting back to the tactical situation outside. She was no fool, and she relieved him of the tablet.

  “Trouble, sir?”

  He glanced at Riverton, then gestured for Virtue to follow him a few steps away from the command chair.

  “There’s a Sectoid ship out there,” he said thoughtfully, pointing out through the clear canopy into the starry blackness.

  “What?” Her bright eyes widened, and she immediately leaned in and lowered her voice. “In Human space?”

  “Silica is one of those disputed sectors.” He sighed. “We claim it and so do they, but there aren’t any major worlds from which either side can assert dominance.”

  “So we both grab what we can before the other side does?” she asked, peering vainly into the starry sky.

  He handed her his telescope and pointed down the bearing he knew the ship to be on. She lifted it to her eye with the basic competence of any space-farer, but she scanned too quickly to see anything. He placed one hand on her shoulder and the other on her own hand, which reached out to support the telescope. Steadying her grip, he eased her toward the correct bearing.

  “Do you see it?” he asked.

  “Um . . . not yet . . . Yes!”

  Her sudden delight genuinely pleased him. He left his hands in place a moment longer. She didn’t seem to mind his closeness, even leaning up against him slightly as she continued to peer down the telescope.

  “She’s been slowly overtaking us throughout the day,” he explained. “We haven’t altered course, or acknowledged them.”

  “We’re just another merchant ship plying the lanes, aren’t we, sir?”

  “With the cargo bays strapped to us, our profile doesn’t match any Navy ship, and all our military sensors are on standby.” He gestured ahead to where a couple of distant vessels were silhouetted against the bright background of the Cluster. “The other merchants in the neighborhood haven’t responded to the hails either.”