There was no answer. "K'da/Shontine refugee fleet, this is Jack Morgan aboard the Essenay," Jack tried again. "I have someone here who needs to speak to you." He gestured Draycos toward the microphone. "Draycos?"
Draycos let loose with a torrent of alien speech. Jack listened in fascination at the flow of the words, regretting the fact that he wouldn't be able to understand and therefore fully appreciate the astonishment that would undoubtedly be part of the fleet's response.
But there was no response, astonished or otherwise. "Uncle Virge?" he asked.
"Radio's working perfectly, Jack lad," Uncle Virge assured him. "Neverlin must be jamming or bubbling the signal."
"Of course he is," Jack said, disgusted with himself for not having realized that sooner. "That's why those five Djinn-90s are flying wide—they're adding their own jamming to the mix."
"What method of jamming is he using?" Draycos asked.
"Either a blank bubble or a jamming static field," Uncle Virge said. "I can't tell which from this distance. A bubble absorbs or scatters all radio signals passing through it, while a static field simply broadcasts noise on all frequencies so as to drown out everything else."
"It's probably a bubble," Jack said. "It's classier and a lot more subtle. It's also easier to keep your own communications open with a bubble than it is with static."
"If the Advocatus Diaboli is able to signal through the bubble, does that mean we can do the same if we use its frequency and pattern?" Draycos asked.
"In theory, yes," Jack said. "In practice, we'll never find the pattern in time."
"Then what do we do?"
Jack gazed out the canopy at the drive glows ahead in the distance. "We get past the bubble," he said, getting a grip on the control yoke and firing up the main drive. "And since those Djinn-90s were kind enough to pull way out to the sides out of the way, it looks like our best bet will be to go straight up the middle."
"Up the middle?" Uncle Virge echoed. "Jack, you don't mean—?"
"I sure do," Jack confirmed as he ran the drive to full power. "We're taking this crate right up the Advocatus Diaboli's tailpipe."
The Advocatus Diaboli's living areas were deserted as Alison made her way aft from the bridge.
Not surprising, really. All of the crew were at their emergency stations, and all the Malison Ring mercenaries still on board were guarding the bridge, the Death, and other vital areas.
One of those areas was Neverlin's office, she saw as she rounded the final corner and came within sight of the office door. There were three men on duty: two flanking the door, the third holding station down the corridor halfway between the office and Alison.
There was no way she could take out all three of them, positioned as they were, at once, not even with Taneem to help. Alison would have to play it another way.
"I need to get into Mr. Neverlin's office," she announced as she strode forward.
The nearest of the guards stirred, as if preparing to move into her path. Alison gave him a brief, lofty look, and he seemed to think better of it. "It's a thumbprint lock, Ms. Davi," he said instead.
"I know," Alison said. "He's already programmed me in."
The other's lip twitched. "Colonel Frost left orders that no one was to be allowed near the office."
"Colonel Frost isn't in charge of Mr. Neverlin's office," Alison countered as she strode past him. "You can check with Mr. Neverlin if you want."
She got two more steps before the sergeant at the door worked through his own hesitation and nodded to the man now behind Alison. "Give him a call, Halberd," he said.
Alison glanced back over her shoulder as the mercenary tapped his comm clip. "Halberd for Mr. Neverlin," he called.
Alison kept going, forcing herself to maintain a calm, even pace. Neverlin hadn't been wearing a comm clip, which meant Halberd's call would have to go through one of the Advocatus Diaboli's crew, all of whom were rather busy right now. With luck, that would give her the time she needed.
She reached the door and stepped between the two guards, "A minute, please, Ms. Davi," the sergeant said, holding his hand out to block her as she lifted her right thumb toward the waist-high reader.
"Fine," Alison said with an annoyed sigh. Turning around, she leaned her back against the door.
And as she did, she pressed her left thumb against the base of her left forefinger and slid her implanted lockpick out from beneath the fingernail. Keeping the hand behind her back, she eased the pick into the programming notch beneath the reader.
Private ship locks, which were usually only accessible by trusted friends and employees, were seldom very well defended. This one was no exception. Within a few seconds she felt the gentle snick that signaled that the lockpick had done its electronic magic. The lock was open to receive new data.
She looked down the corridor. Halberd was still talking quietly on his comm clip, but his forehead was starting to crease into a frown. Sliding the lockpick back beneath her nail, Alison reached her left hand a little higher behind her back and pressed her thumb to the reader.
Behind her, the door slid open. "Hey!" Halberd shouted, pointing toward her.
The other two turned to look. Their eyes widened as Alison took a long step backward into the office and slapped the lock control.
One of the guards lunged sideways, making a last-second grab for her. But the door was faster, sliding into his arms and batting them aside and back out into the corridor.
"That was close," Taneem murmured as Alison circled Neverlin's desk and headed for the door to the communications nook. The K'da lifted her head from Alison's shoulder, then bounded out through her collar. "What do you want me to do?"
"Right now, just stay out of the way," Alison said. She opened the door to the nook and sat down at the console. Keying for long-range radio, she hit the switch. "Attention, K'da/Shontine refugee fleet," she said into the microphone. "Attention. You're in danger. The ships coming toward you are not, repeat not, friends or allies. They're enemies attempting to get behind your defenses—"
"Identify yourself," a voice demanded in heavily accented English.
Not a human voice, Alison decided, or Valahguan or Brummgan, or even K'da. Shontine? "My name is Alison Kayna," she said. "I'm a friend of Draycos, poet-warrior of the K'da, who arrived six months ago aboard the Havenseeker."
"Let me speak with Draycos."
"He's not here with me," Alison said. "He's in another ship, whose communications have been cut off."
"Which other ship? Can you prove you are friend of Draycos?"
"He has golden scales, each with a red edge—"
"Not description," the other cut her off. "Can you prove you are friend of Draycos?"
Alison felt her stomach tighten. It had never occurred to her that the refugee fleet might not believe her story. From the way Draycos had talked, she'd assumed they would be coming in alert and suspicious and not trusting anybody or anything.
But of course, the Lordover on the Foxwolf had gotten to them first. In fact, he was probably talking to the fleet right now, feeding them his version of who and what Alison was. "No, I can't prove it," she gritted. "But you have to—"
And then, to her surprise, Taneem leaned over her shoulder, her gray-scaled snout pointed toward the microphone. " 'The sky was fair,' " she said. " 'The evil's lair
" 'Was scattered on the hill's black side.
" 'The warriors grim, in light so dim
" 'Were gathered like the ocean's tide.