"Below" him was instant chaos. The Neosho and the Commander/Escort's lead merchantman continued, unhearing—Sten guessed it must be a helluva party. Two freighters immediately took evasive action and almost collided. A third freighter sought an orbit directly away from the convoy. The container link began lumping like a giant inchworm, as if all of the tug skippers had suddenly decided to go their own way. The lagging merchantman suddenly and uselessly went to full power, and the two auxiliary cruisers began bleating questions.
Sten was too busy to worry about them.
"All tacships, this is Gamble. Switch to independent command. Acquire targets. Please monitor my attempts to communicate with unknown ships. Permission to fire at commander's discretion, over."
He made another switch to the sector's emergency band, which, in theory, every ship should be monitoring.
"Unknown ships... this is the Imperial Ship Gamble. Identify yourselves... alter trajectory... or prepare to be attacked."
The com screen stayed blank. Kilgour pointed at another screen, which showed violet haze from all three ships.
"First th' wee Baka... noo thae' clowns. Ah thinkit tha Tahn be playin't games."
Another screen had a computer projection of the three incoming raiders.
"Spitkits," Kilgour murmured. "Ah'll hazard tha' raiders be converted patrolcraft. Raiders wi' enough to blast a civilian an' a prize crew for boardin'."
Foss, at the control board, eyed Kilgour. Maybe the man from Edinburgh had been a pirate.
"Tacships," Sten ordered, "engage and destroy incoming ships!"
Kilgour had the Gamble on an intersection orbit, coming "down" on the incoming ships. Evidently they were intent on the merchantman. "Weapons selection, sir?"
"We won't waste a Kali. Give me firing prox on a Goblin."
Kilgour had the control helmet on. "And six... and five... and four... and three... and one. Goblin on th' way, mate."
The first raider never knew what happened. It simply vanished. The second and third split formation—one ship 180-ing on a return orbit at full power. Sten checked an indicator—the raider's top speed was less than two-thirds of that of any of the tacships.
The third ship, perhaps with a brighter skipper, tried another tactic. It launched two ship-to-ship missiles and, also at full power, tried an evasion orbit, one that would lead it within a few light-seconds of the lagging merchantman. Perhaps the raider thought he could lose himself in the clutter around the freighter.
" Clagget... Kelly... Richards," Sten ordered. "You want to nail the one that's homeward bound for me? I'll take the sneaky guy."
"Roger, Gamble," came the cultured voice of Sekka. "But you do appear to be allowing yourself all the fun."
"Negative, Kelly. While you're at it, maybe you could snag me a prisoner or two? And maybe try to get a back projection on where these guys came from?"
"We'll try. Kelly out."
While Sten was talking, Alex had already deployed three Fox countermissiles and produced two satisfactory explosions from the raider's own launch.
"Closing... closing... closing..." came the monotone from Foss.
"Unknown ship, this is the Imperial Ship Gamble. Cut power immediately!"
Nothing showed onscreen.
"Puir lad," Alex observed. "Puir stupid clot. Wha' he should'a don wha launch on yon freighter an' hopit we're soft-hearted enough to look for survivors... Goblin launched. Ah'll try't' takit just the wee idiot's drive tubes... closin't... hit... ah well." The raider became another expanding ball of gas.
" Gamble, this is Claggett. Raider exploded. No survivors observed."
"All tacships, this is Gamble. Resume previous orbit."
" Gamble, this is Neosho. What is going on, over?" The query was rather plaintive.
Foss correctly left the transmission unanswered while Sten and Kilgour figured out a response that wouldn't get them court-martialed when they returned to Cavite.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Sten cleared off the small surface that served as his desk, turned on the pinlight/magnifiers, and eased his chair closer. He had determined that this was going to be a perfect evening—one of the rare nights he had absolutely alone to pursue his hobby.
He had given the crews of his ships twelve-hour passes, leaving him relatively free of responsibility. He poured himself a tumbler of Stregg, swirled the crystal liquid around in the glass, and sipped. The fire lit down to his toes.
He sighed in anticipated pleasure, then lifted out the tiny black case and snapped it open. It contained a dozen or more tiny cards, each jammed with computer equations. Sten's passion was holographic models of ancient factories and scenes. One card, for instance, contained in its micro-circuits a complete early-twentieth-century Earth lumber mill, with working saws and gears and belts. Every machine in the mill was controlled by a miniature worker, who went about his individual tasks—as best as Sten could research them—exactly as he had many centuries ago. Sten had completed the mill during his last assignment on Prime World.
He had started his latest model during flight school. It was one of his more difficult moving holographic displays. He slid the card into its slot and palmed the computer on. Small figures working in a sprawling field leapt out onto the desk. What Sten was recreating was an ancient British hops field. From his research he knew that hops—used in the beer-brewing process—were grown on towering tripod poles. When harvest time came each year, men and women were recruited from all over the country. The plants were so tall, with the fruited vines at the very top, that the workers strode through the fields on stilts to pick them.
Thus far, Sten's display consisted of the fields of hops, most of the workers, and the ox-drawn carts used to haul out the harvest. Months of work lay ahead of him before he could complete the rest of the sprawling farm. He tickled a few keys on his computer to call up an incomplete ox cart. Then he got out his light pen to start sketching in a few more details.
There was a tentative scratching at his cabin door. Sten felt the anger rise. For clot's sake, he had given strict orders to be left alone. Ah, well. "In!" he called.
The door hissed open, revealing a badly frightened sentry. "Begging your pardon, sir, but..." The man started stumbling over his words. "But... uh, there's a lady."
"I don't care if it's the Queen of—oh, never mind. Who is it?"
"I think it's the admiral's daughter, sir."
Clot! That was just what he needed. A drunk for company. "Tell her I'm not here."
The sentry started to back out, hesitated, and then pushed something forward. It was a single rose and a small gift-wrapped package.
"She said to give you this, sir," the sentry plunged on. "Said it was to say she was sorry. Uh... uh... I think she'd know I was lying, sir, if I told her what you said."
Sten took pity on the man, accepted the gifts, and waved him out. "I'll be with her in a minute."
He placed the rose to one side, took a hefty snort of his Stregg for courage, and slit open the package. There was a small computer card inside—identical to the ones he used in holography. What in the world... He slid it into one of the drives. A three-dimensional model of a tower jumped out on his desk. It was a perfect replica of one of the barns used by the ancient hop farmers! How had she known?