Curse of the Iris (27 page)

“What makes you think Admiral Badawi is a fool?” Carlo asked.

“Ain't sayin' he is. But someone will see this here big parade an' shout the news clear to Saturn. Better to slip off from Jupiter separately and join up away from pryin' eyes.”

Tycho and Yana exchanged a concerned glance, but Carlo waved dismissively.

“I'm not worried about that,” Carlo said. “I'm looking forward to showing Admiral Badawi what I can do.”

“What
we
can do, you mean,” Yana said, rolling her eyes at Tycho.

Carlo, delighted by the chance to fly alongside pilots from the Jovian military, had spent their last night at Darklands holed up in the simulation room, practicing fleet maneuvers until he wound up slumped over his console, asleep while unguided virtual
Shadow Comet
s smashed into virtual obstacles.

A light blinked on Tycho's console.

“Ship-to-ship communication from the
Ironhawk
,” he said.

“Thank you, Tycho,” Diocletia said. “Put it onscreen.”

The handsome, red-haired Captain Garrett appeared.

“Diocletia,” he said, smiling broadly. “It's been a while, but what a pleasure to fly alongside you again.”

“Absalom,” Diocletia said politely. “Nice to fly with you again as well.”

Mavry, out of range of Vesuvia's camera, squashed his nose up against his face and began waggling his fingers at Garrett, tongue lolling out of one side of his mouth. Yana began to giggle. Diocletia gave her husband a venomous look.

“This is quite the task force they've assembled,” Garrett said. “We'll make Mox and his new Ice Wolf friends wish they'd never come calling.”

Mavry put his feet up on his console and pantomimed sticking his finger down his throat. By now Yana was red-faced with half-smothered laughter.

“Shh!” Tycho hissed at his sister.

Mavry turned and grinned at his children, which sent Yana diving under her console, sides heaving.

“We, um, have to check preflight, Captain Garrett,” Diocletia said. “We'll talk to you soon.
Comet
out.”

Garrett disappeared from the screen. Mavry was now pretending to be dead.

“Honestly,” Diocletia said, pink spots on her cheeks. “Is this the quarterdeck of a privateer or a traveling circus?”

“I think that nice young man wants to take you to the Midshipmen's Ball,” Mavry said.

“Maybe I'll let him. At least he conducts himself like an officer.”

“Mom's right,” Carlo said, frowning. “What if a member of Admiral Badawi's staff had seen that, Dad?”

Mavry raised an eyebrow. “And this would happen how? Is there an ensign hiding in the larder?”

“You know, I think I saw a guy in uniform behind the potatoes,” Tycho said, which set his sister off again.

Carlo just shook his head and muttered something.

“Another message,” Tycho said. “This one's from the flagship, to all ships in the task force.”

“Arrr, maybe they've hired a brass band,” Huff said.

“Onscreen, please, Tycho,” Diocletia said. “And for the next minute, let's see if we can impersonate an actual starship crew.”

Admiral Badawi himself stared down at them, the camera on the
Hippolyta
's bridge capturing him from a low, dramatic angle. He was a beefy, chestnut-skinned man with an impressive white mustache, dark eyes that seemed to bore through the viewscreen, and a crisp black uniform heavy with gold braid. Behind him, harried-looking officers were rushing back and forth.

“Captains, it is my honor to command this mission,” he said, hands clasped behind his back. “The right and proper authority of the Jovian Union has been challenged by a rabble—a mob bent on fomenting rebellion and disorder. When we arrive at Saturn, that rebellion will be at an end.”

Badawi smoothed his luxuriant mustache with one well-manicured hand, then jabbed a finger at the screen.

“We have assembled this task force to teach these so-called Ice Wolves a lesson they will never forget. Our target is Refueling Station Gamma, which the Securitat has identified as a rebel hotbed. I intend to drive off its defenders and destroy it. When this demonstration is complete, no one from Saturn or Earth will doubt the resolve of the Jovian Defense Force or our ability to mete out justice.”

The admiral nodded to someone out of camera range.

“My navigator is transmitting course data now. Lock in your courses and accelerate to cruising speed on her mark. It's two weeks to Saturn, ladies and gentlemen—and it's not going to be a pleasure cruise. When we arrive, it will be as an instrument of the Jovian Union's will. Whether you are hearing this on the bridge of a warship or aboard one of our . . . auxiliary units, I expect you to carry out my orders with discipline and resolve, and to make our Union proud.”

Badawi's heels clicked together, and he lifted his chin.

“That is all.
Hippolyta
out.”

The screen went blank.

“Auxiliary units?” demanded Yana. “Is that what that pompous old walrus just called us?”

“Belay that,” Diocletia said. “For now, Admiral Badawi is our commanding officer.”

“An' more's the pity,” Huff said. “Now I'll say it—that man's a fool. An' a dangerous one too.”

In addition to good grooming, Admiral Badawi believed in drills—within the hour, he had a list of simulations prepared and special channels reserved for communications among all nine crews. The Hashoones spent a full shift advancing on defensive lines of imaginary Ice Wolves alongside avatars of the other Jovian warships, virtual cannons spitting brilliant energy, then chasing down the stragglers with the rings of Saturn as a backdrop.

The fourth drill ended with Carlo heading off an Ice Wolf frigate before it could make a suicide run on the
Antiope
, then driving her back into the sights of the
Ingolfur
, whose volleys reduced the frigate to glowing fragments.

“Excellent flying,
Comet
,” Badawi said. “Good thing the rebels couldn't see this latest drill unfold—they'd have laid down their arms and made our little expedition unnecessary. And where's the glory in that, eh?”

Carlo grinned at his family as Badawi announced a fifteen-minute break and signed off the shared channel.

“Did you see the way we broke that enemy formation?” he asked, leaning back in his seat with his hands behind his head.

“I did,” Diocletia said. “You did well, Carlo.”

“Then why are you looking like that?” Carlo asked.

Diocletia and Mavry exchanged a glance, but it was Huff who spoke up.

“Because these puppet shows ain't got no connexion with reality,” he growled. “Them Ice Wolves is experienced spacers, but in that old fool's sims, they line up to take their licks like malingerin' apprentices.”

Diocletia started to say something, then folded her arms over her chest, looking unhappy.

“I'm right an' you know it,” Huff muttered.

“Perhaps the admiral's working on basic tactics before introducing some more realistic scenarios.”

“An' perhaps if I flap my arms, I'll fly to the Oort cloud. Badawi's brain ain't equipped for realistic scenarios, Dio. He's spoilin' for a fight and fixin' to get his people killed—and us, too, if we ain't careful.”

The next two days of drills were much the same—in Admiral Badawi's relentless simulations, the Ice Wolves assembled to protect Refueling Station Gamma, forming a neat line outside the perimeter of Saturn's rings, then concentrated their fire on the
Hippolyta
. Each time, Badawi countered this attack by sending the privateers—or “auxiliary units,” as he invariably termed them—to execute pincer movements, driving the Ice Wolves into the warships' overlapping zones of fire to be destroyed.

The drills were impressive displays of coordinated fire and precision tactics—but only Carlo still believed they would bear any resemblance to the actual fight awaiting them.

When Yana questioned what Badawi was doing, Carlo had an answer.

“The admiral thinks
how
we fight is as important as the results of that fight,” he said. “Saturn fell to insurgents because the Jovian Union failed to enforce the rule of law. The way to restore order is to show Saturnians a demonstration of coordinated military action—not to fight insurgents with their own tactics.”

“I don't know what's scarier—that you just said that or that you might actually believe it,” Yana said.

“If we maintain formation and fire support, the Ice Wolves can't stand against us, Yana. This is a military operation, not a slugging match between pirates.”

“Arrr, but there's the rub,” Huff said. “Both fighters have a say in how things turn out. If I were this Lazander, I'd duck into the rings an' launch hit-and-fades against our forces from there, evenin' up the odds. Or jes' turn tail an' run.”

“Then we win,” Carlo said. “We destroy Refueling Station Gamma, making the Saturnians rethink the consequences of letting the Ice Wolves take over. Mission accomplished, and we go home.”

“That's not winning,” Diocletia said.

“Why not?”

“If the Ice Wolves don't fight, destroying one of our own facilities will just turn more Saturnians against the Union. Dad's right. If Lazander's smart, he won't give this task force anything to fight. He'll disperse his forces and wait for us to go home—or to do something stupid.”

Carlo looked doubtful.

“We haven't simmed that scenario,” he said.

“That's 'cause there ain't no glory in it,” Huff said. “The only sims Badawi runs are the ones he can win.”

Everyone sat silently for a minute.

“There's another problem,” Yana said.

“Oh, good,” Tycho said.

“The jamming. We haven't run a single simulation in which the Ice Wolves use Mox's jammer—which we know they still have. The Defense Force knows what happened to us at P/2, right?”

Diocletia nodded.

“They do—I had Carina give them the data. You're right—I don't know why Badawi hasn't accounted for that.”

“So what do we do?” Tycho asked.

“Is there anything we
can
do?” Yana asked.

“Arr, of course there is,” Huff said. “We can go home, leavin' this fool mission 'fore it becomes our epitaph. We've plenty of livres, thanks to young Tyke here.”

“And forfeit our honor?” Carlo demanded.

“Honor's cold comfort in the shroud, boy.”

“I'm less concerned about our honor than I am about our letter of marque,” Diocletia said. “It's still more than a week to Saturn. All we can do is wait and see what happens.”

Before the next day's final drill, Badawi warned his captains that he'd prepared a simulation that was a little different. Which was true, sort of: this time, the Jovian warships were swarmed by pinnaces determined to bloody the
Hippolyta
's nose.

“Very good,” Badawi said as the virtual wreckage disappeared from their computer screens. “You handled that well. Now, any questions about what we just faced?”

Diocletia thumbed her headset controls. “Admiral, this is Captain Hashoone. A related question for you?”

“Go ahead, Captain Hashoone.”

“We've tangled with Thoadbone Mox multiple times, Admiral,” Diocletia said. “The last time, he was in command of three ships and deployed a powerful jammer that overwhelmed our systems until my sensors officer was able to disrupt the interference.”

“She means me,” Yana pointed out to Tycho while covering her microphone. In return, he offered his sister pretend applause.

“How is that question related to the scenario we just explored, Captain Hashoone?” Badawi asked.

“It concerns unorthodox tactics typically used by, um, insurgents—like the ones we've now started simulating, Admiral. I can resend the data from our most recent encounter with Mox in case it's been overlooked.”

“It has not been overlooked, Captain,” Badawi growled. “Mox didn't use jammers in his raid at Europa, remember.”

“But he might in a defensive situation against a superior force, Admiral. Particularly when the ships of that force are trying to coordinate offensive operations, as you've been teaching us to do.”

“I wouldn't put anything past a known traitor and renegade. But let me assure you, Captain Hashoone, that our countermeasures teams are more than prepared for your scenario. If Mox uses his little toy, we'll have it analyzed and neutralized within seconds. Unless we just blast Mox and his ship to atoms—I've found that the simplest defenses are often the most effective. Does that address your concerns, Captain?”

“It clarifies things admirably, Admiral,” Diocletia said, then plunked her headset down on her console in disgust.

“Yana, when we reach Saturn, have details of the procedure you used to break the jamming at P/2 ready to send to the other ships,” she said. “Admiral Badawi may not think it's important, but I do.”

“For the record, Captain Hashoone, you were very diplomatic,” Mavry said.

“Great. These days, that and a letter of a marque will buy you a one-way trip to Saturn.”

Tycho slept fitfully and started awake at five bells. He stared at the darkened ceiling above him, listening to the reassuring
shush-shush
of the
Comet
's air scrubbers and the thrum of her engines. Normally the combination of those familiar sounds would nudge him back to sleep within a few minutes, but not tonight. With a groan, he abandoned his bunk and descended the ladderwell to the quarterdeck.

Diocletia was sitting in the captain's chair, staring at her monitor while absently twisting her ponytail behind her head with one finger. She turned at the sound of his feet on the ladder's rungs, and the alarm on her face was replaced by a smile and a nod.