Read The Gathering Flame Online
Authors: Debra Doyle,James D. Macdonald
The Gathering Flame (7 page)
ENTIBORAN REGNAL YEAR 38 VERATINA
I
N COMPANY with Tillijen the gunner, Perada went through the used clothing in
Warhammer’s
slop chest. The collection appeared to go back several decades at least. The overalls and work clothes hadn’t changed style much, but some of the port-liberty clothes reminded Perada of galactic fashions from her grandmother’s day. She tried on several of those, as much for the amusement of dressing up as for any other reason, but none of them fit—the original owners had all been either taller or heavier than she was, and some of them had possessed what she could only regard as eccentric taste.
N COMPANY with Tillijen the gunner, Perada went through the used clothing in
Warhammer’s
slop chest. The collection appeared to go back several decades at least. The overalls and work clothes hadn’t changed style much, but some of the port-liberty clothes reminded Perada of galactic fashions from her grandmother’s day. She tried on several of those, as much for the amusement of dressing up as for any other reason, but none of them fit—the original owners had all been either taller or heavier than she was, and some of them had possessed what she could only regard as eccentric taste.
Finally Tillijen pulled out a set of newer garments from the back of the locker. “It’ll have to be these,” she said. “Put them on, and let’s see how they do.”
Perada took the lacy white blouse and the ankle-length skirt of supple black leather and regarded them uneasily. This outfit was no leftover product of a bygone era. Whoever had left the garments behind had done so in the recent past—almost certainly since Jos Metadi had become the
’Hammer’s
captain. But they were, as Tillijen had said, the only clothes that fit.
’Hammer’s
captain. But they were, as Tillijen had said, the only clothes that fit.
“I’m afraid we don’t have a proper pair of boots for you,” the gunner said. “You’ll have to make do with sandals until we get to Pleyver. Now, about the blaster—”
Perada regarded the gunner dubiously. “Are you sure I need one?”
“Flatlands is a rough town,” said Tillijen. “And the
’Hammer’s
got a reputation to maintain.”
’Hammer’s
got a reputation to maintain.”
“What is it—‘armed and dangerous’?”
“Well-armed,” said the gunner. “And
exceedingly
dangerous.”
exceedingly
dangerous.”
Perada thought about the combination. “I can live with that,” she said finally. “You said you had something I could borrow—?”
“It’s in my locker,” Tillijen said. “Come along.”
Number-one crew berthing had bunks and acceleration couches for two occupants. Perada noted with interest, however, that only one of the bunks appeared to be in use. The other held an eclectic assortment of hats, holocubes, musical instruments, and stuffed plush animals, all held in place behind a net of zero-g webbing. Tillijen went to one of the bulkhead lockers and took out a small blaster.
“You’ll want a shoulder holster for this,” she said. “Nannla used to have … ah, here we go. What the well-dressed young lady wears to a gunfight.”
There was a full-length mirror bolted onto the inside of the locker door. Perada looked at herself and smiled. In the long skirt, with her hair in two plain braids hanging down past her belt, she looked both several inches taller and quite a bit older.
The hooting sound of a klaxon came over the cabin’s audio link, and a red light started flashing above the door.
“Ah,” said Tillijen. “Looks like Jos and Errec have found us a course. Time to strap in for the run-to-jump.”
The transition this time was smoother. Once the hazard light over the door had quit flashing, Tillijen said, “Well, let’s give the others a look at you,” and led the way back out into the common room.
Two of the
’Hammer’s
crew members were there already. Errec Ransome sat at the mess table, and Nannla lounged on one of the acceleration couches. The gunner regarded Perada’s costume with approval.
’Hammer’s
crew members were there already. Errec Ransome sat at the mess table, and Nannla lounged on one of the acceleration couches. The gunner regarded Perada’s costume with approval.
“Not bad,” she said. “Needs a hat, though.”
“I don’t like hats,” said Perada. “I keep taking them off and losing them.”
“Hatpins,” Nannla advised; and Tillijen said, “Practice. You don’t want to leave the Iron Crown behind you someplace and lose it, too.”
“No chance of
that,”
Perada said. She eyed Tillijen curiously. “You’re Entiboran, aren’t you?”
that,”
Perada said. She eyed Tillijen curiously. “You’re Entiboran, aren’t you?”
The gunner didn’t answer.
“Time for another of Auntie Nannla’s Etiquette Lectures,” Tillijen’s partner said after several seconds had gone past. “Never ask a spacer where she’s from. She’ll tell you if she wants, but you mustn’t ask.”
Perada felt herself blushing. “Sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Errec Ransome said. “Everybody’s new once.”
She glanced over at the
’Hammer’s
copilot, who had answered without hesitation when she’d asked him about his own origins a short time before.
Is the difference because Tillijen and Nannla think they have something to hide
, she wondered
, or because Errec doesn’t think of himself as a spacer? And if he isn’t a spacer, then what is he?
’Hammer’s
copilot, who had answered without hesitation when she’d asked him about his own origins a short time before.
Is the difference because Tillijen and Nannla think they have something to hide
, she wondered
, or because Errec doesn’t think of himself as a spacer? And if he isn’t a spacer, then what is he?
She remembered how she had thought, for a few seconds in the alley back on Innish-Kyl, that the metal bar he’d used as a weapon was an Adept’s staff. And the way Captain Metadi had spoken to him about the diversion to Pleyver, as if expecting that Ransome might have knowledge that others didn’t … but why would an Adept give up the staff and the name and the respect of the galaxy, to sign on as a privateer?
To kill Mages, she realized at once. I don’t know about Tillijen or Nannla or Ferrdacorr, but Errec is one member of the ’Hammer’s crew who came to Captain Metadi for the same reason that I did—because nobody else is fighting the enemy the way the enemy needs to be fought.
At the Entiboran Fleet Base on Parezul, true dawn was almost an hour off, but the working day had already started. Base Commander Frigate-Captain Galaret Lachiel was not a young woman—her short black hair was liberally streaked with grey—but she was still a handsome one, and she wore her dark red uniform with undeniable panache. She also prided herself on working harder, and keeping longer hours, than any of the junior officers under her command.
Gala had almost finished her usual early-morning scan of the sensors in the OutPlanet Review Sector when she heard the swish-snick of the door behind her. Turning, she nodded at the stocky, brown-skinned man who had entered. “Morning, Tres. You’re up early.”
A quick grin flashed underneath the newcomer’s dark mustache. “No earlier than you are.”
As commander of the Parezulan Sector Squadron, Captain-of-Corvettes Trestig Brehant had authorization for the sensor area on the base. Out of courtesy, though, the squadron commander usually waited for Gala to pass along the reports. The fact that he’d come dirtside in person piqued her interest.
“I’m
not bunking up in high orbit,” she pointed out. “Unlike some people I could name. If something’s got you worried …”
not bunking up in high orbit,” she pointed out. “Unlike some people I could name. If something’s got you worried …”
“Rumors,” he said. “Speculation that the Mages are gathering in force out by Monserath. Nothing definite, but persistent enough to make me want to take a look at the raw sensor data.”
Gala regarded him thoughtfully. Tres had never been stupid; if he thought there was a reason for checking this morning’s reports, he was probably right. She turned to the nearest comp station and began punching up the intelligence reviews. Even the most recent one was already out of date, but it was better than guesswork.
“Let’s see,” she said, running a finger down the screen. Her fingernails were blunt and neatly trimmed. In her youth she had bitten them, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse for almost twenty years. “This sector has been quiet. Unusual activities anywhere we have to worry about—none.”
Brehant didn’t look satisfied. “Anything from Home Fleet?”
“Nothing.”
“I haven’t heard anything either. And frankly, I don’t know whether to feel worried or relieved.” The Captain-of-Corvettes glanced about uneasily, as if concerned that a spy had appeared by magic to listen over his shoulder. “Central is a snake pit all the time anyway, and right now it’s even worse.”
“I know,” said Gala. Her agreement was more heartfelt than possibly Brehant realized—House Lachiel’s political standing was sufficiently high that one of her cousins had been a minor political casualty in the succession struggle a few years back. She’d cut her own braids when she joined the Fleet, and never regretted the choice. “But so far they’ve—”
A beeping noises cut her off in midsentence, and the comm panel began to spit out a sheet of flimsy. Gala looked over at the message header—FROM: ENTIBOR CENTRAL; TO: COMMANDER FLEET UNITS PAREZUL; INFO: COMMANDER, OUTPLANETS COMMAND; REFERENCE: GENERAL ORDER 672; HANDLING—and grimaced.
“They must have heard us talking,” she said. “Priority transmission. Eyes only.”
“Do you want me to leave?” Brehant asked.
“Don’t bother. Just let me have a look at it first.” She pulled the flimsy out of the printer and read it, frowning. “I wonder … this isn’t more than a couple of days old. Central must really be concerned.”
“What is it?”
Gala passed over the slip of flimsy. “Nothing that you’d think was worth a max-pri override—it’s a standard request-for-information on privateer activity.”
“Privateers?” He shook his head. “Haven’t dealt with any. Central doesn’t trust them.”
“Central doesn’t trust anybody. The Crown backs a few of them, though, or used to. Mostly to spite Central, I think.”
“They’re a bunch of damned irregulars,” said Brehant, frowning. “Out for the money and unreliable as hell.”
“Good fighters, all the same,” she said. “From the reports, it sounds like one or two of them have managed to run fleet actions against the raiders.”
“Well, I’m glad somebody is.” Brehant handed back the slip of flimsy. “But it should be us, not them.”
“You won’t get any argument from me on that,” Gala said. She took the flimsy and stowed it in her tunic pocket. “But those aren’t our orders, and these are. Can you put as lock-and-trace on ships operating out of Innish-Kyl?”
“The ones who come into our patrol area, yes,” he said. “Which they generally don’t, thank fortune. Now, if they wanted reports of Mage activity … anything from the probes?”
Gala laughed. “Back to that, are we?” She waved a hand at the row of monitor screens. “What you see. All quiet in Parezulan space.”
“Which is why you’re up every morning before daybreak checking the sensors?” Brehant shook his head. “You don’t believe that, Gala, any more than I do. You’re tracking something. Give.”
No, Gala reflected, Tres Brehant had never been stupid. She smiled in spite of herself, but only for a few seconds. She had other things on her mind.
“All right,” she said. “I don’t know if this is significant, but it worries me: when I chart where things are moving, and where the last raids were, all the lines of transit go right through this sector.”
“Parezul’s on the arc to a lot of places. It’s why we’re sitting here.” Brehant moved over to the comp station and called up more of the intelligence reports. “Let’s see what else we’ve got in the civilized galaxy this week.”
Brehant scanned the material for several minutes in silence. Then his eyebrows—dark and bushy, and always mobile—went up toward his hairline. “Here’s an odd one—from Innish-Kyl, no less. A movement report from a Crown courier. In port for under twelve hours, heading to Entibor, in passage from Galcen with a stopover. Do you know how far Innish-Kyl is from being the most efficient course from Galcen to Entibor?”
“Of course I do. But when I run across items like that, I try not to speculate. The Crown doesn’t like snooping.”
Brehant cast a sharp glance in her direction. “So you saw it, then.”
“Of course.”
“Anything else in the traffic?”
She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“Then let’s go have a cup of cha’a. Your galley ought to have the morning supply ready by now.”
“The truth comes out,” said Gala. “You only love us because the cha’a brews up better with natural groundwater.”
Brehant laughed. Over on the communications panel, a message light blinked on and started beeping.
“Courier coming in,” Gala said. “With news.”
A few minutes later, the comm panel beeped and chittered and extruded another curling slip of printout. This time Gala beckoned for Tres to come up and look at it along with her. They read it together in silence. Finally the squadron commander sighed and stepped back.
“That’s it, then,” he said. “What we were both watching for. Mage raid on Tanpaleyn.”
Gala crumpled up the scrap of flimsy, then reflexively smoothed it out again. “Damned poor report. Nothing on strength or type of units. With no more information than that, all we can do is detach a scouting and security force.”
“I can handle that,” Brehant offered. “The squadron hasn’t had enough work lately anyhow. We could use the exercise.”
“Thanks, Tres.” Gala punched the comm button for the duty officer. “Get Lieutenant Verris out of bed and tell him to come in here. I want nearspace monitoring stations up and active.”
“So we watch and wait. Do you think that’s enough?”
“It’ll have to be,” she said. “The Mages’ll be gone from Tanpaleyn by the time anyone gets there anyway. They know what our reaction time is better than we do.”
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