“I know about orders. I just want to know that you are devoted to this mission. ”
“And what if I say that I don’t want to volunteer?” she asked, but Lake was not inclined to humor her. She hurried on, “I’ll do it, of course. And you can trust me to do my best. That’s the only way to bring myself and my crew out of this alive.”
“I’ll have your drones standing by within the next twelve hours. I’ve already sent crews aboard your ship to repair her damage and make some necessary modifications. Is there anything special you expect to need?”
“Can I get Carthaginian painted before we go out?” “You’re likely to need it more when you get back.”
“Then paint it again,” Tarrel insisted. “I don’t want to present my ship to Starwolves looking like a tramp.”
Lake considered that briefly. “All right, you get your paint.
Who knows what might impress Starwolves? They eat prodigiously, and they seem to like furry little animals and other cute things. People who have talked to them say that they are never what you would expect, that they can be intelligent, gentle and in many ways rather innocent. Other than that, I really don’t know what I can tell you.”
“I’m really not worried about the Starwolves, as long as I can get their attention before they scorch my ship. It’s the things I can’t see that worry me more.”
Captain Tarrel returned to her ship a couple of hours later, having argued with the refitting crew about the installation of external missile racks on Carthaginian’s hull. Getting that had taken some persuasion on her part, since the battleship already carried four dozen missiles in internal bays, and also because the crew chief had been reluctant to give additional ordnance to a ship on a diplomatic mission, and possibly also from reluctance to give weapons to a ship that was likely doomed anyway. But Tarrel wanted weapons that she could use without betraying her intentions by opening bays or powering up a system. Any trick that she might have up her sleeve would be a great help, considering the disadvantage she was at already.
She found that her crew had shrunk considerably in one respect, and grown somewhat in others. She found herself with only three complete bridge crews, a basic maintenance crew and a handful of other necessary specialists. Lake, forever frugal, had left her with just enough to keep her ship running while risking the fewest lives possible. Her crew had expanded by one, a rather clever but harmless-looking young man, wearing the insignias of an executive officer, whom she found sitting in her chair. Since she already had a second-in-command, the rank of executive officer could mean just about anything from mission commander to special advisor or observer. She decided that he was going to be an observer, and he had better not observe anything from her chair ever again.
“And just who are you?” she asked sharply as she checked the progress reports on the ship’s refitting.
“Lieutenant Commander Walter Pesca, reporting as ordered,” he responded briskly, affording her a very snappy salute.
Oh, the bright and eager type. “Why are you on board my ship, Mister?”
“I was recommended as an advisor. I’m an alien contact specialist with extensive training in linguistics. If you find new aliens, I’m supposed to learn how to talk to them and try to guess whether they are telling the truth. If we end up talking to Starwolves, I’m supposed to try to figure out their language so that we can eavesdrop on them. Sector Commander Lake thought that you might find me useful.”
“You might be useful,” she agreed guardedly, “but you are not a command officer. And only command officers can sit in my chair.”
“I won’t forget, Captain.”
“Since you were sitting in my chair, do you know what happened to my first officer?” Tarrel asked.
“Right behind you, Captain,” Chagin said, coming up behind her at that moment. “I was just down checking the installation of the missile racks you wanted.”
“You know, those missile racks are not really a very good idea,” Pesca remarked brightly, pleased to be helpful.
Tarrel glanced at him. “I found this person in my chair.” Pesca looked very nervous. “There didn’t seem to be a senior officer on the bridge.”
“There doesn’t have to be a senior officer on the bridge when the ship is secure at station,” she told him. “And like I said, you’re not a command officer anyway. Have you ever been on board a ship before?”
“Yes, of course!” he insisted in injured tones. “I’ve traveled on the couriers many times.”
“Couriers? That’s like tourist class,” Tarrel exclaimed. “Did Commander Lake choose you for this mission personally?” “Yes, I believe so.”
Tarrel shook her head slowly. “You know, I’ve just become aware of a plot to assassinate the Sector Commander. Assuming that I survive to come back for him. Chagin, has anyone sent down word about where they expect us to find this monstrosity?” “Captain, that information was given to me to relay to you,” Pesca offered hopefully, seeming more sure of himself once he was discussing business. “The Dreadnought has been following a predictable path along projected patterns that have been shunted down to your computers. Given the anticipated travel time for the convoy, we should be able to intercept the Dreadnought in the Standon System in eight days. Orders have already been relayed ahead to have the local traffic cleared and the station abandoned.”
“Dreadnought?” Tarrel asked.
“It’s a very old word for the largest class of battleship.” “Yes, I know that. It just seems to suggest a very great certainty that the Starwolves are not behind this.”
“That does seem to be the suspicion, although I suppose that you know more about that than I do,” Pesca said. “The term Dreadnought is one that is not used for any of our ships and it also differentiates this ship from the known Starwolf carriers. Assuming, of course, that it isn’t a modified carrier.”
“That’s what they’re paying us to find out,” Tarrel commented. “Find yourself a cabin near the bridge where I can find you in a hurry.”
“Thank you, Captain,” Pesca said, and withdrew.
“Well, what do you think of Wally?” she asked.
“He seems competent enough, once his brain comes on-line,” Chagin remarked dubiously. “They have to paint portions of the hull before they can hang all the missile racks, but everything should be done in time.”
“Good. I want those missiles rigged to fire without going through the main weapons computer or targeting scanners. We should be able to do that ourselves without upsetting the station crews.”
“They find us strange enough already over the missile racks,” he agreed.
“Good. Then tell them that I want every drone in the convoy rigged to explode from full generator overload on a signal from here.”
Chagin looked vaguely impressed. “Would that really destroy this thing?”
“No, I doubt that,” Tarrel said. “I was just thinking about something. When I was very young, I believed that little monsters danced in my room at night. I thought that if I could turn on the light quickly enough, then I might catch them by surprise before they could hide. I was thinking about doing something like that with our Dreadnought.”
Chagin had to think about that for a moment before he realized what she had in mind.
2
Carthaginian led the convoy into the system, dropping abruptly out of starflight well out on the fringes and maintaining nearlight speed as they hurtled directly in. This was, as far as anyone could know, the best guess of where they could expect to find the Dreadnought. The Standon system, their original destination, had already been attacked while the convoy was in flight. The small commercial station and base for the System Fleet was gone, although every ship that could move or be moved had fled. They found this system in much the same condition, indicating that the mysterious enemy ship had been here, too. They could not know yet whether it had gone on again, seeking other prey.