Curse of the Iris (2 page)

Tycho jumped as someone else crashed to the deck behind him. His father had descended in the same reckless manner as Yana. Tycho turned back, heart still thudding, to find his mother's mouth set in a thin line.

“What?” Mavry asked with a grin. Diocletia just shook her head and sighed. Giggles leaked out from the hand Yana had clamped over her mouth. Tycho felt laughter threatening to rise up in his own throat and hastily looked away.

“Whose starship?” he asked. He wasn't talking about the unknown object out there among the tumbling rocks of the Hildas, either; he was asking who was in charge of the
Comet
.

“Mine,” Carlo said. “If you're done gawking like a tourist, why don't you sit down and run communications?”

Tycho bit back an angry reply—he was indeed still standing beside his station while the rest of his family finished strapping in. He sank into his chair and brought his console to life with practiced keystrokes. He settled his headset over his dark-brown hair and shrugged into the harnesses, buckling them across his chest.

“My boards are green, Vesuvia,” Tycho said. “Taking over communications and navigation.”

“And I'm up on sensors,” Yana said, all business now. “Bogey's eighteen thousand klicks out. Let's try a full-spectrum scan.”

“I'll keep navigation, Tyke,” Carlo said. “I've already got an intercept course keyed in if we need it.”

“Understood,” Tycho said. “Vesuvia, open all audio channels. Black transponders.”

“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said coolly. “Transmitting no recognition code.”

Under normal operations, every starship transmitted a signal indicating its name and allegiance. But in deep space, few freighters or civilian craft broadcast such information unless interrogated by another ship—at which point they could hide behind a false identity in an attempt to avoid trouble. Privateers did the same thing, but for the opposite reason, hoping to draw close to unwary vessels before revealing their true allegiances and intentions.

“Unknown ship, we have you on our scopes,” Tycho said, trying to make his voice sound deep and confident. “Identify yourself.”

There was no response. Tycho raised the volume as far as it would go but heard nothing beyond a hiss of static.

“Unknown ship, I repeat, identify yourself,” he said. “We have you on our scopes and are preparing to intercept you.”

“Scans show no emissions whatever,” Yana said. “And no temperature signature. If that's a ship, she's as cold as space.”

“Vesuvia, scan visual channels,” Tycho said. “Maybe her audio transmitters are down.”

“No transmissions detected,” Vesuvia said.

Tycho studied his control board, determined not to miss anything. He and his siblings cooperated as a crew, but they were also competing to succeed their mother as captain of the
Comet
, and she noted every decision they made—good and bad—in the electronic record known as the Log.

Carlo drummed his fingers on his console.

“Vesuvia, lock in that intercept course,” he said. “Let's take a closer look, shall we?”

“And hope this time we make some money,” Yana said with a sigh.

“Belay that,” barked Diocletia without turning around, her shoulders rigid.

Yana looked at Tycho and shrugged—she hadn't said anything they hadn't all been thinking. Two years before, the Hashoones had captured Thoadbone Mox's pirate ship, the
Hydra
, and been paid handsomely for rescuing Jovian citizens from one of Earth's corporate factories. The windfall had been enough for the
Comet
's crewers to indulge in an epic shindy of a shore leave that had ended with six in the infirmary and three more in jail, to the lasting pride of all involved.

But since then, little had gone right. The Jovian Union had claimed the
Hydra
for its own, leading to a bitter battle in the courts that still hadn't been resolved. And for much of the last year, the Hashoones' luck had been stubbornly bad: most of the vessels that strayed into the
Comet
's path turned out to be Jovian. Those that did fly the flag of Earth were escorted by warships, or they carried cargos that weren't worth the time and effort to seize.

Maybe the ship out there would change their luck.

If it
was
a ship.

“Detach tanks,” Carlo said.

“Acknowledged,” Vesuvia said. Above their heads, they heard a metallic clank as the
Comet
shook slightly and separated from the cluster of spherical fuel tanks she used for long voyages.

“Tanks detached,” Vesuvia said.

“Beginning intercept,” Carlo said. “Tyke, Yana, eyes and ears open. Tell me anything I need to know.”

Sudden acceleration pushed the Hashoones back into their seats.

“Mind the fuel economy, son,” Mavry said mildly. “That stuff you're burning isn't cheap.”

Carlo apologized, but he was smiling—and Tycho found himself smiling too. His brother was a naturally gifted pilot, and it had been too long since he'd had a chance to demonstrate his talents.

The
Comet
descended in a smooth arc, her tanks shrinking behind her until they were just another point of light among the stars. Freed of her long-range tanks, the
Comet
was an elongated triangle about sixty meters long, with a trio of maneuvering engines protruding from her stern.

Carlo wiggled his fingers on the yoke and rolled slightly to port to avoid a drift of loose rock and ice, leaving just a few pebbles to rattle against the forward viewports.

“Display colors,” Carlo said.

“Displaying,” Vesuvia said, switching on the
Comet
's transponders so they broadcast her true Jovian allegiance.

The
Comet
's bells clang-clanged four times—it was 1400 hours, the midpoint of the afternoon watch.

“Unknown ship, this is the
Shadow Comet
, operating under letter of marque of the Jovian Union,” Tycho said. “Heave to and prepare for boarding.”

“Building a sensor profile,” Yana said. “Mass and configuration match commercial fuel tanks. Analyzing what's attached to them. Still no detectable levels of emissions.”

“Well, at least she's a ship,” Carlo said, then activated his own microphone. “Mr. Grigsby, this is the helm.”

“Aye, Master Carlo,” Grigsby said from his station in the wardroom.

“We are inbound on a bogey—eight thousand klicks to intercept,” Carlo said. “We read no ion emissions or transmissions. Tell the gunnery crews to be gentle with the triggers. Right now we're just taking a look.”

“Light fingers it is, Master Carlo,” Grigsby rumbled.

“Seven thousand klicks,” Yana said. “She's about forty meters long. Mass profile is consistent with tanks being half full.”

“She's not trying to evade, and she knows we're out here. So why the silence?” Carlo asked.

“Maybe she can't respond,” Tycho said.

“The solar system is full of mysteries,” Mavry said. “Let's get some facts.”

“The solar system is also full of dangers,” Diocletia said. “Yana, keep scanning the area. Remember all the pirate attacks we've heard about in recent months. I don't want any surprises.”

“Aye-aye,” Yana said. Unlike privateers, pirates obeyed no law, preying on any ship they thought they could capture. Sometimes they held crews for ransom. Other times they sold them into slavery—or killed them.

Impacts like hammerblows emerged from the ladderwell, followed by grunts and a series of inventively awful oaths. The Hashoones didn't even turn—they were familiar with the sounds of Huff Hashoone ascending from belowdecks.

“Initial scanner profile complete,” Yana said. “She's a Jennet-class transport. Profile match eighty-five percent. Probably an ore boat.”

Huff, still grumbling, stepped onto the quarterdeck with a clank of metal feet, clamping one hand onto a rung and standing behind Tycho and Yana.

“Arrr, a Jennet,” Huff rumbled. “Is she full?”

“She's too small to get a good estimate, Grandpa,” Yana said. “I'd just be guessing.”

“Piratin' is half guessin', missy,” Huff said. “Whose flag she flyin'?”

“No transmissions,” Tycho said. “Best as we can tell, she's dead in space.”

“I'm going to circle,” Carlo said.

As they approached, the unknown ship grew from a bright dot into a tiny cluster of bulbous tanks. Carlo swung the
Comet
wide of the transport, which was a boxy, unlovely craft. Then Carlo wheeled the ship around to approach from above and behind, careful to keep the Jennet's fuel tanks between the
Comet
and any guns that might be pointed at her.

“Any ideas?” Carlo asked.

“Either there's nobody at the helm or controls are unresponsive,” Diocletia said. “Otherwise they'd blink the running lights, or roll the craft, or something.”

“So we can salvage her then?” Yana asked.

“Depends how long she's been out here,” Mavry said. “And if anyone's looking for her. And how much money we're willing to spend in court.”

“And if anybody on board is alive,” Tycho said.

“Arrr, that one's easily solved,” Huff said. “Put a ventilation hole in 'er, wait a few bells, an' then finders keepers.”

“That's piracy, Grandfather,” Carlo said. “It would mean the hangman.”

“Ain't never been afraid of the noose.” Huff snorted.

Diocletia turned to regard her father, one eyebrow cocked.

“And if it turns out she's Jovian, Dad?” she asked. “Or registered on Mars or Ceres and overdue in port? If I ever forfeit our letter of marque, it won't be for a rusty ore boat adrift in the Hildas.”

Huff subsided into muttering.

“But Mom, what if that rusty ore boat's full of platinum from the New Potosi asteroid?” Carlo asked with a grin.

“Like that would happen,” Tycho said. “What if it's full of flesh-eating viruses?”

The Hashoones considered those possibilities in silence as Carlo came around for another pass, easing off on the throttle and matching the slow drift of the crippled ship. Vesuvia activated the
Comet
's portside cameras, which revealed nothing to indicate how long the ship had been out here. It could have been a day, a decade, or a century.

“Begin docking procedure,” Diocletia decided. “And prepare a boarding party. Follow biohazard procedures—wear full spacesuits and take environmental samples before you go aboard. Carlo, it's your starship, so you'll take lead. Tycho, go with your brother. Platinum or viruses—let's see who was closer.”

2
DEATH SHIP

T
ycho hated spacesuits. It was hard to see out of them, and no matter how often you cleaned them they still smelled like feet. He asked Yana to check his suit seals, ignoring her complaints about being left behind, then clambered down the ladderwell, his breath loud in the enclosed bowl of his helmet.

Carlo was waiting at the portside airlock with a trio of
Comet
crewers—Grigsby, Richards, and Porco. All were veterans, their spacesuits adorned with swirls of glowing paint, stickers, and scrawled prayers for safety in the void. Carlo had two chrome musketoons—the weapons traditionally wielded by a starship's ranking officer during a boarding action—tucked into his belt.

Carlo nodded at Tycho, then peered through the narrow viewport in the inner airlock door. Joining him, Tycho glimpsed an environmental sampler balanced on a trio of legs, a fan of sensors protruding from its top. Beyond the sampler, a pitch-black corridor led into the derelict ship.

“We wired up the transport's airlock and opened it remotely,” Carlo told his brother over his suit radio. “No reaction when we did that.”

A beep sounded in their ears. Carlo peered at a small monitor strapped to his wrist.

“Environmental sampling complete,” he said. “Temperature a few ticks above absolute zero; carbon dioxide's off the charts. Artificial gravity's out, of course. But there's no sign of Tycho's flesh-eating viruses, or any other abnormal readings at all.”

“Did you say
flesh-eatin'
, Master Carlo?” asked a wide-eyed Richards.

“Go ahead and open her up,” Diocletia's voice said in their ears. “But I want our airlock sealed while you're aboard.”

“Aye-aye,” Carlo said. “Mr. Grigsby?”

Grigsby stepped forward and thumbed the airlock controls, closing the
Comet
's outer airlock and letting the air inside the enclosed lock bleed out into space—along with any dangerous contaminants. He then resealed the lock and opened the inner door. Wind rippled loose stickers on the crewers' suits as air from the
Comet
rushed in to fill the vacuum.

Six bells rang out aboard the
Comet
. Carlo stepped forward, with Grigsby right behind him. Richards and Porco hesitated, turning uneasily toward each other. Grigsby gave them a steely look, and they tramped reluctantly into the lock, with Tycho having to squeeze in behind them so Carlo could close the inner door.