Dreadnought (Starship Blackbeard Book 3) (3 page)

“What did the general say?” Drake asked. “Are we prisoners? Is this a Hroom prison cell?”

“I have never been on a Hroom ship,” Nyb Pim said. “I do not know what a prison cell looks like.”

“Yes, I forget. So you have no idea?”

“I am afraid I
do
have an idea.” There was something odd in Nyb Pim’s voice. “This is a prayer room. These seats are meditation stools, for praying.”

“A prayer room?” Drake said.

“I don’t get it,” Brockett said. “Are they trying to convert us to their religion or something?”

“No,” Nyb Pim said. “It is where you make your peace and pray to the god of death. Before they execute you.”

“What?” Brockett squeaked. “Captain, is that true?”

“He is a Hroom,” Drake said. “He doesn’t lie, as a general rule.”

“No, I do not,” Nyb Pim said.

“So we’re going to die?” Brockett said. “King’s balls, we are, aren’t we?”

“I hope not,” Drake said. “For now, let’s calm down until we have a better idea of what the Hroom are thinking.”

Nyb Pim closed his eyes. Praying? Drake hadn’t thought him particularly devout. In fact, hadn’t he been raised by human missionaries? Surely, he wouldn’t be praying to the Hroom god of death.

Brockett paced the room. “My dad owns a candy store.”

Drake looked away from studying the Hroom and blinked. “What?”

“A candy store. You know, the kind where you go as a kid, you put down a tuppence, and the candy man weighs out horehounds or lemon drops and puts them into a little bag. Or cinnamon bears. I love cinnamon bears.”

“I know what a candy store is. How is this relevant?”

“Dad wanted me to take over the store when he got too old to run it. Me, not my brother. My brother has no head for numbers, plus he’d eat up the profits. He’s got a sweet tooth that would put a Hroom to shame. Of course, I loved candy too. What kid doesn’t?”

“Brockett, for God’s sake, is this the time to reminisce about your misspent youth?”

“I wanted to be a scientist. Why? The store wasn’t so bad. And now, look at me. I’m going to be killed over sugar. Sugar! That’s ironic, don’t you think? I grew up helping my dad at a candy store. It must be bad karma for all the cavities we gave kids.”

“We’re not going to be killed over sugar,” Drake said.

“Didn’t you hear him?” Brockett asked, pointing at Nyb Pim. He sounded almost hysterical now. “This is a prayer room. You’re supposed to pray for your soul while they build the gallows.”

“Hroom don’t hang prisoners,” Drake said. “They prefer beheading.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better. It really doesn’t.”

Had Tolvern been here, she would have told Brockett to shut his mouth, but Drake was willing to grant the young man a little hysteria. He’d seemed brave enough when invited to join the crew after the attack on Lord Malthorne’s estate that put the sugar antidote in Drake’s hands. But Hot Barsa was a slave world, and Brockett had been working in Malthorne’s labs developing fast-growing strains of sugarcane.
That
was the karma that would be inflaming Brockett’s conscience, not that nonsense about his father’s candy store.

Drake climbed onto one of the seats while he waited for Brockett to calm down. It was too big, too high off the ground, and he couldn’t fold his legs the way Nyb Pim had. But the way it cupped him did provide a certain meditative space. Eventually, Brockett joined the other two. They sat without talking, with only the faint hum of the red lights overhead and their own breathing to cut the silence.

After about fifteen minutes, the door opened, and in stepped General Mose Dryz. He was alone. His eyes were milky, and his breathing quick, as if he’d recently eaten sugar. Drake rose respectfully to his feet, readying himself at the same time for a hostile move.

“I will never understand humans,” Mose Dryz said. “When I think they are telling the truth, they are sure to be lying. When I am certain they are lying, it turns out that they have honorable intentions.”

“You’ve inspected the antidote already?” Drake asked.

“Your commander says she will attack my fleet if I do not allow her to communicate with you. I do not know if she is bluffing or not, but I have stopped blocking your communications link. Please tell her that you are not a prisoner, and that I will allow you to leave when you are ready.”

“Is this true? We’ll be able to leave—all three of us?”

“Of course.” Mose Dryz said.

Drake touched his ear, and shortly, Tolvern was on the com, demanding answers. He assured her that he was safe and unharmed, and that she should maintain a neutral posture with
Blackbeard
while he completed the negotiations.

“We have only begun to analyze this so-called cure you’ve offered,” the general said when Drake had ended the call. “But my scientists have read enough of your notes that they do not believe it is a trap or a trick. I am searching for a volunteer to test it. Nearly a third of my crew are sugar eaters—no doubt someone will step forward. Many will resist, of course. They will not give up sugar willingly.”

“There are several doses,” Brockett said quickly. “And my notes should be self-explanatory. You should be able to replicate it.”

Drake chose his words carefully. “When it proves effective, General, will you take it yourself?”

Mose Dryz licked his lips. He seemed as though he would answer the question, but he didn’t. Instead, he said, “Your scientists are clearly superior to ours. Hroom have searched for generations to find this cure.”

“They weren’t my scientists,” Drake said. “I only discovered the antidote by accident and made the choice to share it with the Hroom once I’d got my hands on it. I don’t know who developed it, or why. Could have been Hroom involved—I suspect as much.”

“Yet still human in origin,” Mose Dryz said. “Your scientists, your engineers, even your military thinkers, possess a creativity that ours do not. No doubt we did once—our civilization was vast and complex, and it did not spring from nothing. But now we are emulators, we copy what has been done before.”

The Hroom paused, his eyes blinking. Some of the cloudiness had begun to fade, and Drake thought the general must have taken a mild dose of sugar, as he didn’t seem to be swooning from its effects.

“Why did you give it to me?” Mose Dryz asked. “You must certainly understand what this means, how it will change the future relations between our peoples.”

“I don’t think anyone understands the implications,” Drake said. “Not fully. But yes, it will change things, perhaps with great damage to human civilization in this sector. If the Hroom recover their strength, and they prove vengeful . . .”

“You did not answer the question,” Mose Dryz said. “Why? You defeated my fleet, you destroyed my strongest warships, and now you are giving me this. It is a weapon—yes, a weapon.”

“I don’t know why. Conscience. Or perhaps it’s our shared enemy. I know Hroom, I understand Hroom. They are civilized people, they can be reasoned with, even befriended and trusted as individuals.” Drake nodded in the direction of his pilot, then turned back to the general. “But I don’t know Apex, and I fear them.”

“What is that?” Mose Dryz said. “Apex?”

Nyb Pim said something in Hroom, and the general stiffened.

“You know, don’t you?” Drake said, studying his reaction. “You’ve heard they’ve returned, that they’ve attacked Hroom ships. But did you know that they attacked human vessels, too?”

Mose Dryz didn’t answer.

“I don’t know if your silence means yes or no,” Drake said, “but it’s true. We fought two of their ships, destroying one and chasing off the other.”

“How did you do that?”

Drake smiled. “You’re not the only one who hears questions he does not wish to answer.”

“So you are offering this as a trade. This is what you want in return, human and Hroom against Apex, against the predator hunting us both? An alliance?”

“I can’t offer an alliance. I’m a renegade, a declared pirate, and Lord Malthorne is determined to start another war.”

“He has already started it.”

“I know. And I can’t stop him,” Drake said. “So I can’t offer you an alliance.”

“That is good, because I cannot offer an alliance, either. Neither can the empress, not at this time. And it is not the war with Albion that prevents it, though that is a part.”

“Because there’s another war, isn’t there? A Hroom civil war, that’s what I’ve heard. Is it true?”

“There is always a civil war,” Mose Dryz said. “Since humans arrived and gave us sugar, there is always some part or other of the empire in rebellion. But this time, it is different.”

“What is happening this time?” Drake asked.

Mose Dryz stood silently for a long moment, looking contemplative. When he finally spoke, he didn’t answer the question. “There is something else I can give you in trade.”

“I didn’t ask for trade, you understand that? This is a gift. Perhaps you will remember this down the road, but I give it to you freely.”

“So you have said.” The Hroom turned his deep, liquid gaze to Brockett. “You are clearly a skilled scientist, and perhaps you can make something more of this than we have. A tissue sample—can you . . . how do you say . . . ?” He said something to Nyb Pim.

“He wants to know if you can sequence a genetic code.” Nyb Pim said.

“Of course,” Brockett said. “I’m a geneticist by trade, and
Blackbeard
has a great lab, all the tools I need.”

“What kind of tissue sample?” Drake asked.

“How do you call them? Apex? Yes, two samples from enemies killed in battle. Our people are working on them, too, but so far we have made little progress. So if your scientist thinks he can make something of them, I will share.”

Brockett’s eyes lit up. “I’ll sure try. Yeah, this is great. Happy to tell you what I find, too, if the captain will let me.”

“We’ll make of it what we can,” Drake told the general. “If we find anything useful, we’ll let you know.”

“Very well. I will send you back with the samples. I suppose that is all. You may return to your pod now.”

Mose Dryz turned as if to go, then hesitated, as if he wanted to say something else.

“Yes, General?” Drake asked.

Again, silence. Brockett opened his mouth, as if something had just occurred to him about the tissue samples, but Drake lifted a hand to hush him. Let the general think, let him fill the silence himself.

“I should not tell you this,” Mose Dryz said at last. “But these people are my enemies, as well as yours.”

“Apex?” Drake asked.

“No, not Apex. A Hroom faction. They must not succeed, or their next step will be to destroy me and all Hroom who think as I do.”

“Succeed in what?”

“There is a death cult in the empire navy,” Mose Dryz said, “worshipers of the dark wanderer, the god of death.”

Drake thought back to the temple platform outside Malthorne’s estate on Hot Barsa. “Lyam Kar. Yes, I’ve heard of the god of death. This is his prayer room, right?”

“Yes? Then you know he is a jealous god. He preserves those who honor him and destroys those who do not. The Hroom people have dishonored their most important god—this is what the death cult says—and they wish to cleanse our worlds. They will put all of the sugar eaters to death, for a start. Do you know how many millions, how many
billions
would die? More than Albion has ever killed or could dream of killing.”

“You could kill all the eaters, but sugar would still exist,” Drake said. “Someone would smuggle more in, and it would start all over again.”

“That is why they will also destroy the sugar worlds. Hot Barsa, San Pablo, Antilles. And of course, the biggest sugar world of them all. It does not grow sugar itself, but it is the heart of the trade and the source of the cult’s anger.”

Drake stared. “You mean Albion.”

“Yes.” Mose Dryz held his gaze. “This is what I offer you in trade, Captain James Drake. A warning. The death cult means to destroy Albion. They have assembled a massive fleet of sloops of war and loaded them with fissile material. It is a one-way mission—they do not intend to return. They do not wish to fight your navy or battle your orbital forts, they will aim at your home world and bomb it.”

“Disseminate the antidote,” Drake said. “That will undercut this cult. They’ll have no reason to kill sugar eaters, and no cause to attack Albion with a suicide fleet.”

“It is too late for that. They have already left. They cannot be contacted or recalled. Nobody must know their course, because they must arrive via the most circuitous route possible to lessen the chance that they will be detected by your Royal Navy before they enter the Albion system. But when they arrive, they mean to turn Albion into a radioactive wasteland.”

Chapter Three

HMS
Vigilant
was only an hour from her last jump point and still accelerating when she drew the attention of a hungry star leviathan. Captain Nigel Rutherford had just gone down for his sleep cycle when they recalled him urgently to the bridge, and by the time he’d thrown on a uniform and rushed to the helm, the leviathan had homed in on the cruiser’s plasma engines and was giving chase.

Commander Pittsfield was in the captain’s chair, but he sprang to his feet with a look of relief and moved aside for Rutherford to take the helm. The leviathan stretched across the viewscreen, the body eight hundred yards long with ropy tentacles stretching several miles behind it. Violet plasma vented from its nozzle.

“How the devil did this happen?” Rutherford demanded, glaring at Tech Officer Norris, one of Malthorne’s loyalists. Sweeping a system for star leviathans was routine upon coming out of a jump.

“He says that he looked,” Pittsfield said dryly, “but he claims to not have found anything.”

“It was lurking in that gas giant,” Norris protested. “It must have been dormant. We can’t pick them up when they’re dormant, you know that.”

“Right, of course, it was dormant,” Rutherford said sarcastically. “So it popped out of its dormant state and fired up its nozzle. Just like that.” He narrowed his eyes and glared until Norris looked away. “This one was awake and lurking. You missed it.”