The Serrano Connection (53 page)

"Good. How many of them did the trap miss?"

The external vidscans, hastily rigged a few hours before to cover areas not usually monitored, showed several clusters of Bloodhorde invaders around the outer edges of the repair bays.

"Perhaps fifty—a hundred—"

"Let's keep them occupied." The sprayers lifted much faster than they'd come down, the beaked nozzles rotating inward. Other machinery shifted up and down, back and forth, in an elaborate dance intended to look vaguely menacing. Would that keep the attention of the Bloodhorde from what was happening behind them? One enterprising operator detached one of the sprayers from its usual mounting, and sent it toward the repair bay opening, as if in search of more troops to spray. He ran it out on a boom, its nozzle swinging threateningly from side to side, and watched on the vidscan as the Bloodhorde troops shifted uneasily on their lines. One of them raised a weapon . . . and let off a triumphant screech of Bloodhorde when his shot holed the paint reservoir.

He hadn't thought what would happen if he succeeded: the bursting reservoir meant a cloud of dispersing paint, still tacky enough to cloud several more faceplates. More screamed curses came over the radio; the other troops lost the last remnants of discipline, and rushed into the repair bay.

Esmay pulled herself into the ship. Both outer and inner hatches were open, which argued that anyone aboard would be in an EVA suit. She edged across to the inner hatch, noting the slightly greasy feel of a substandard artificial gravity generator, and peered around. She was looking into a large open compartment with rows of upright stanchions, each fitted with a top crossbar and several loops. It looked nothing like anything she'd seen in a Fleet vessel. Then she realized how handy that apparatus would be for someone getting into an EVA suit without help. This was where the Bloodhorde troops prepared for boarding.

Where was their bridge? Was anyone there? She waved two of her people forward, and two aft. She herself went forward, behind the other two. She saw the leader's arm lift, and held her breath . . . they and Bowry's team had the only five needlers available, weapons that were safe to use in the confines of a warship's bridge.

His hand jerked twice, and then he moved forward. Esmay followed, alert for movement from any direction. There was none. On the bridge, the Bloodhorde had left two—she had no idea what their duties had been—and both were dead.

"Let's get this ship going," she said. Someone dragged the bodies back to the big compartment near the locks; the specialists moved to their areas.

The controls looked familiar enough, despite the odd lettering on the labels.

"This'll do, Captain," said Petty-Major Simkins. Esmay started to say she wasn't the captain, when she remembered that she was . . . at least for the moment. A captain, if not the captain. Simkins was her engineering section, ordinarily in Drives and Maneuver. "It's just a basic small freighter perked up with some weaponry . . . shields aren't more than civ level. If the others' shields are no better, it'll only take a few hits." That it would take only a few enemy hits to destroy them was understood.

"Weapons?" she asked. That was Chief Arramanche, who held up a finger for a moment's more grace.

"We've got . . . almost a full arsenal of missiles, Captain" she said then. "Ample for the mission. But this thing has no beam weapons." Which meant they'd have to come close to be sure of a kill.

"Scan?" Esmay asked.

"Power . . . on . . . Captain, we're operational." Lucien Patel had a light, almost breathy voice, but it sounded confident enough. "And we have . . . there's
Kos
's signal . . . the three other Bloodhorde ships. One's probably a pirated superfreighter, and the other's about this size."

Vokrais eyed the empty curved passage uneasily. Something was different, and he couldn't be sure what.

"Which deck is this?" he asked.

"Four."

"I'm going to check the air," he said. He pulled down the mask, and lifted the helmet. The lights . . . had they or hadn't they told that bitch to cut the lights below Deck 8? He couldn't remember. The smell . . . it seemed fresher than he remembered, but that might be breathing through that mask for hours. He couldn't see or hear or smell anything definite, but he could not relax. Every since he'd found that Bjerling was commanding, he'd had the feeling that things were going wrong.

"Trouble, packleader?"

"Nothing I can taste," he said. "But—" His team was shorthanded now—they were so few, and Bjerling hated him, he was sure. If Bjerling's people killed them all, it could be blamed on the Familias troops. Who would ever know?

"We need a hostage," he said finally. "Someone Bjerling would want . . . maybe those admirals if any of them are still alive."

"The Serrano cub?" Hoch asked.

"No—if he's still alive, he's still just a cub. Bjerling will have to talk to us if we have important prisoners, and enough of his people will hear to bear witness. Otherwise . . ."

"The bridge?" Hoch asked.

"I suppose." He was in the trough of the waves now, the sky far away and the sea cold and near . . . the space between waves of battle joy, where he could feel exhaustion and hunger and realize that it wasn't over yet. "Yes. The bridge."

Running up the stairs ahead of the rest, his rage came back and the energy with it. Bjerling's sons should all have shriveled balls; his daughters should all whore for prisoners in the arena. The Antberd Comity should fall to quarrels and jealousy, its last survivor dying poor and crippled—

He saw the little pile of trash an instant too late to stop and had just long enough to recognize what it might be instead, and extend his curses to the entire Familias Regnant when the stairwell erupted in flame and smoke and he died, unrepentant.

The question they couldn't answer ahead of time was what the other Bloodhorde ships would do. Now, as they powered up
Antberd's Axe
, Esmay kept mental fingers crossed.

"Think we ought to trust their life support?" asked one of her techs.

"No," Esmay said. "Lift off when ready, maximum acceleration—ours, not theirs."

Antberd's Axe
bounded off the drive test cradle like a bucking horse; its gravity generator compensated only a little, and Esmay's knees buckled.

"Wow!" said Simkins, sitting helm. "I guess they moved the red line over . . ."

Eighteen decks of T-3 flashed past, and a howl of Bloodhorde that Esmay assumed was invective crackled from the speakers around the bridge.

"They're annoyed," said the pivot-major sitting the communications board. She was supposed to know some Bloodhorde. "They think their captain got bored and went off to play. But I now know our name:
Antberd's Axe
."

"Where's the other one?" Esmay asked. She couldn't interpret the blurry scan she saw. "Scan—?"

Bowry's voice came over her headset, scratchy but recognizable. "We're off. I'm taking the big one," he said.

"Scan—"

"There!" The scan image steadied, still grainy but now she could interpret what she saw. Bowry's Bloodhorde ship, that must be, veering from hers toward the biggest blip on the screen. The Bloodhorde flagship, if they had flagships. Esmay looked for her own target, which had been parked, as it were, some thousand kilometers on the far side of
Koskiusko
, where it had a clear shot down the throat of anyone coming through the jump point.

Had it mined the jump point? She suspected not. Setting minefields wasn't a Bloodhorde sort of thing to do, even if they had put that mine on
Wraith
. It didn't matter . . . she was going there anyway. The third Bloodhorde ship, positioned insystem of the DSR from the jump point, would require a separate attack run. From where it was, missile attack would risk blowing
Koskiusko
; she hoped it was like this one in having no beam weapons.

Arramanche said, "Got it. Ready on your order, Captain."

"That ship wants to know what you think you're doing," communications said. "They're saying this is no time for dancing with the bear, whatever that means."

Wait, or shoot now? Her mind grappled with the geometry of it, their motion relative to
Koskiusko
, to the Bloodhorde ship, to the other Bloodhorde ship, the distance, the velocity of the weapons, the probable quality of the other ship's shields, its maneuvering ability. "Hold it," she said. "We're going closer."

Going closer was like riding a polo pony;
Antberd's Axe
, whatever its shortcomings by Fleet standards, bounced happily from heading to heading with no resistance. She had been right to close; the other ship could dodge as well . . . instead, it held its position, as if certain she was no threat.

"The big one's moving," Lucien said. "Putting out quite a plume, but Bowry should have it . . ."

"Range in, Captain," Arramanche said.

"Go ahead," she said. Arramanche hit the controls; the whole ship shuddered, with every departing missile.

"It's no wonder they don't mount beams on this thing—it'd fall apart," said Simkins.

"On track!" yelled the scan tech on Kos. "You've got—"

The screen flared, and their target disappeared.

"Good shot," Esmay said. "Now—let's go after that third one."

"Two down," said the
Koskiusko
contact. That must have been Bowry, in the other Bloodhorde ship. Surely they hadn't gotten
Wraith
out that fast.

"Lovely shot," Lucien said. Esmay glanced at his screen, and saw that it was now much crisper than before. Maybe he was a genius.

Their ship's artificial gravity wobbled as Simkins tried to maneuver sharply enough to get a good angle on the third Bloodhorde ship. It had boosted toward
Koskiusko
, then veered as both Esmay and Bowry went after it.

"It's launched missiles," Lucien said, just as
Koskiusko
's scan tech told them the same thing. "Tracking . . . one flight at
Kos
and one each at us and Bowry. Lousy aim . . . you'd think with a target the size of
Kos
—"

Esmay ignored that, and told Simkins to get the last bit of acceleration out of the ship.

"We're not going to make it," Arramanche said. "It—"

Wraith
's position lighted up on Lucien's scan.

"All hot," Lucien said. "I didn't know they had that much left—"

"Got him," said Seska calmly in Esmay's headset. And the entire portside array of beam weapons focussed on the fleeing Bloodhorde ship, overwhelming its shields . . . the screen flared again, a final time.

"Captain to Captain," Bowry said. "I'd say there'll be no rank-pulling on this raid, eh? One each, that's pretty fair shooting. Even if two of them were sitting ducks."

"Not our fault," Seska said. "Besides, you two had to get 'em with their own guns—that brings the challenge up to an acceptable level."

"Thank you," Bowry said.

Esmay grinned at her crew. "All right, let's get this thing back to
Kos
before someone else takes a potshot at us."

"There's nobody in this system who'd dare," Arramanche said.

Esmay brought
Antberd's Axe
back to the test cradle with no flourishes; a
Koskiusko
crew waited to talk them into the docking pad and tie the little ship down with "appropriate care." She supervised the powerdown, the locking of weapons; she made sure the two Bloodhorde corpses were bagged and turned over to the deck crew. Simkins handed her the little red key—an actual key, she was startled to note, completely unlike the command wands that Fleet used to unlock controls—and she tucked it into the holdall of her suit. Then she followed the others out of the ship, and closed the hatches herself.

When they got back to
Koskiusko
, back into aired space and out of suits that had acquired a stench all their own, Esmay thought she wanted only three things: a shower, a bunk, and word about Barin Serrano. Instead, she found herself the center of a shouting, laughing, crying, dancing mass of people. Her crew,
Wraith
's crew, Bowry's crew, coming at a dead run through the tunnel, and at least half the people who'd been left in T-3. She was hugged, pummeled, cheered. She and the other two captains were lifted shoulder high, carried through the passages toward the core . . .

Where she saw Admiral Dossignal, standing a little lopsided, near the lift tube cluster. Seveche and Major Pitak were beside him, watching her.

The crowd slowed, still exuberant but aware of stars and their implication. Esmay managed to wriggle down, and then make her way out of the crush.

"Sir—"

"Good work, Lieutenant! Congratulations to all of you."

"Is there any word . . . ?"

"Of Ensign Serrano?" That was Major Pitak, sober-faced; Esmay braced herself for the worst. "Yes . . . he was found; he's alive, but badly hurt."