''They didn't shoot. They don't have anything to shoot. King Ray Longknife has spent too much time at masquerade balls if he thinks he can fool us with a few masks, some fancy feathers. Well, Longknife, sooner or later, the masks have to come off, the feathers, too, and then you're just left naked.''
The Admiral stabbed a finger at the blips of the ships hurrying back out of range. ''Those are nothing but feathers and glitter. The destroyers should have taken their chance to get in a shot when they had it. Cowards all,'' he spat.
''Lieutenant, order the ships to shoot down the last of the incoming missiles, then set a course for High Wardhaven. We will arrive right on schedule. Oh, and order all ships to stream their radiators. Let's get this heat off my ships. I want to be fully cooled when we make orbit. We are going to make things very hot on Wardhaven, and I don't want anything on my ships to delay us serving it up steaming and fast.''
''Yes, sir.''
The Admiral grinned at his Chief of Staff. It was good to know he could do the job he had promised his political masters he would do.
18
''PF-109, this is Tug 1040. Hold steady, now; I'll match with you.''
''We have to hold steady, Tug 1040. Our tanks are dry.'' Tom admitted with a rueful shake of his head. They'd put whatever vector and energy on the boat it took to fight their way past the battleships. Only after they were out of laser range did they even start trying to reach for orbit. And it had taken all they had to get them close enough for a salvage tug to match.
But the tanks weren't all that was dry. Around Kris the crew sat at their stations in exhausted funks. They'd thrown everything in them at those battleships…and the battleships had thrown it back in their face.
Except for Heather and Chandra. They'd gotten their battlewagon. And they'd paid the full price.
Kris surveyed the 109's bridge crew; they were spent. They'd poured everything they had into that last charge. Their shipsuits were dripping, their faces were drawn from being slammed around at three times their normal weight. Kris saw eyes dull with fatigue. Shoulders slumped. Did they have anything more to give?
Sometime during the reach for orbit, Tom had switched off the battle net and gone local, one loaded with a medley of traditional Irish tunes. They were quiet, kind of like Kris felt. One, about a minstrel boy, she liked. She was listening to it for the third time before she realized he died in the war. It wasn't just the rest of the crew. Her brain was mush!
''PF-109, Tug 1040 is matched to you. I've got salvage specialists, courtesy of Johanson Brothers Salvagers, ready to run a power line to you, so hold real steady now.''
''We're holding steady, Tug 1040. Like we said, we couldn't change course if we had to.''
''Understand, 109. We have reaction mass to transfer to you along with antimatter. We also picked up some more Foxers and, in case you're running low, twelve more of those 944 missiles you were tossing around back there.''
Kris perked up. ''Where'd you get those?''
''The factory's been running them up the beanstalk as fast as they could. This last batch arrived just as we were locking the hatches. We put twelve aboard each boat.''
''How many boats?''
''Twelve,'' the tug skipper said softly.
''So two of your boats don't have a rendezvous.''
''Turns out that way.''
''But they have 944s and Foxers. Tom, you want them?''
''Aren't the 104 and 111 boats the lowest? They were closest to Heather and Chandra and did an awful lot of shooting.''
''You'd have to be next.''
''Give them first call,'' Tom said.
''I'll call and see who they can match orbits with,'' the tug skipper said. ''Now my board says we have a good hookup for power. What's your board say?'' Tom agreed. And a minute later they agreed that they had a good hookup for reaction mass as well. That left them looking at opening up the quarterdeck to space so the tug crew could start dropping off goodies.
''I'm thirsty,'' Chief Stan said, unbelting himself. ''Anybody else here could use a drink?''
''Make mine Scotch, neat,'' Tom ordered.
''I'd kill for a Margarita,'' Penny said.
''I'll take a beer,'' Moose muttered.
''Me, too,'' Fintch put in through a shadow of her usually sunny smile.
''You're underage,'' the Chief growled.
''And didn't all of us age ten years this last week,'' she answered back in a perfect imitation of Tom's brogue.
Ignoring her performance, the Chief sailed aft. A few moments later, he popped back up from the mess area below the bridge and started throwing drink bulbs at the bridge crew. ''Have a cold one,'' he ordered Fintch.
''Yes, Mother,'' the helmswoman answered, but she drank.
Kris took a sip of the fortified water… and then drained the whole liter bulb and called for a second. She hadn't realized she was so dehydrated until she got some water into her. Then again, a glance at her shipsuit showed it soaked through. That water had to come from somewhere.
''We drink this, and we're gonna have'ta pee,'' Penny warned.
''And in zero g.'' Fintch sighed. ''You'd think in three, four hundred years some guy would have invented a decent zero-g toilet for a gal.''
''Or a gal would have,'' Tom said.
''Quit changing the subject, Husband,'' Penny said.
''Warning, young man,'' Moose said, ''when women are exercising their God-given right to complain about men, don't interrupt.''
''Kris, what do we do now?'' Tom asked.
''He interrupted you,'' Kris said to Penny.
''Worse, he brought up business. Think spacing him's too extreme?''
Fintch and Kris shook their heads.
''May I point out, I am the Captain of this boat, and unlike some ships the princess here has stolen, this one is an honest-to-God man-o'-war duly commissioned by a sovereign planet.''
''I thought we were a pirate ship. Didn't you think we were a pirate ship?'' Penny said, turning to Moose.
''Don't ask me, ma'am. I was just an innocent civilian, walking down the street, minding my own business, when I got shanghaied into something I know nothing about.''
Penny patted his arm. ''For someone knowing nothing about what you were doing, I was glad to have you doing it.''
''You're welcome, ma'am.''
Tom had that beautiful grin of his as he relaxed back into the captain's chair, watching the love of his life. Kris wished she could let this go on forever, let the crew crack jokes for at least another hour or three, but the clock on her board was counting down the time until they swung out from behind Wardhaven. They'd have to be ready for something by then. As much as she wanted to crawl under her bed, say it was time for someone else to step up and take their turn, she knew there was no one else in a position to do anything.
It was either her and her tiny band or no one.
Well, not exactly. This time, there was no use trying to fake anything. The hostiles had to have figured out that there were no battleships hounding their flanks. Next attack would be all-out. There was no tomorrow.
''Tom, could you switch us back to the main battle net? Put me through to everyone. We need to talk.''
He pried his eyes away from Penny, took in a deep sigh and let it out, then tapped his board. The refrain of ''How Many of Them Can We Make Die!'' shot across the bridge. Below them, there was the clank of missiles being attached to the quarterdeck, courtesy of volunteers from the Milna Spelunking and Scavenger Hunt Club. Kris took a deep breath and mashed her commlink.
''Horatio, Custer, say your status.''
''Horatio, here,'' came in Sandy's matter-of-fact voice. ''I got about a dozen skippers champing at the bit and threatening mutiny if you go charging off again and leave them behind.''