“What did you say?” Houpiel snapped.
“That the captain is the bravest,” Xlitspee answered, frowning.
“No—you said we are ‘orphans of Khalia’!”
They were silent, letting the implications of the term sink in.
“If that is so,” said Pralit, “perhaps his taking of a new name is fitting.”
“Even if it is only a human name, translated to the Khalian tongue?”
“Of course.” Pralit managed a grin. “We understand the meaning of it, in all its sarcasm.”
“Not that there is not something of truth in it,” Houpiel temporized, “though more of irony.”
“Far more of irony,” Xlitspee said, suiting his tone to the word.
They looked up as Saulpeen, the first officer, came in. “What says he?” asked the second. The officers had so far been silent.
“That we, too, should take new names,” Saulpeen answered. “More, he wishes you each to take a name that is an aspect of his.”
The wardroom filled with shrill cries of consternation.
“Be still!” the second cried. “You have seen sense in his change of name; hear his sense in changing ours!”
“Why,” said Saulpeen, “the sense is that your names will show your allegiance to him—as will be needed, if your clan names are forgot.”
“Forgot!”
“Forgot,” Saulpeen said, his tone hardening, “for the captain means to gather in your fellow exiles—all they who are Khalia’s new orphans—and he does not wish that age-old clan feuds should arise to divide we outcasts, who need each other most. “
The wardroom was quiet as the crew looked at one another, then looked away. They were all men of one clan, and the thought of alliance with enemies was detestable—but Khalian enemies were better than human.
“And,” said the second, finishing the train of thought, “if there are no clan names, there can be no clan feuds. It is very wise, Saulpeen.”
“Very,” the first agreed, “but from this time forth, I am Saulpeen no longer. I shall henceforth be Throb.”
They were silent, letting the impact sink in.
Then the second nodded and said, “I shall be Tender.”
And, slowly at first, then in a rush, they began to choose names.
It wasn’t just a matter of manning a ship and going out to track down the pirate, of course. Sales had to earn that ship, by figuring out where Captain Goodheart would appear next. He set up a computer scan, having every shipping report routed through his office, and set a program to search for key words, such as “raid,” “lifeboat,” and “necktie.”
Reports began to come in, of a Khalian pirate who outgunned and outmaneuvered a merchantman, then matched orbits, clung to the ship’s side with magnetic grapples, and blew a hole through the ship’s skin. Then Weasels boarded—and the biggest one always wore a loud, garish necktie. He was unfailingly polite while his crew killed off the pilot and navigator, then stuffed the passengers into a lifeboat.
Soon, Captain Goodheart was notorious for his lightning strikes, his ruthlessness, and his neckties.
The ship shuddered, the section of hull fell inward, and the half-dozen men and women of the crew started firing. But Weasel faces ducked out, snapping off shots, and the crew fell. A large Khalian bounded in, and the women shrieked. The men struggled to their feet, pale and determined to die well. . . .
The Khalians swarmed all over them, and they were down and out cold in an instant.
“My husband!” a woman screamed, but the large Khalian said, in surprisingly good Terran and with amazing politeness, “I doubt not your husband is well, madame, though unconscious—unless he is a much better fighter than I expect. My crew does not kill civilians.”
“Your crew?” the woman gasped. “But—who are you?”
“You may call me Captain Goodheart—for, see, I leave you your lives. But only your lives.” The big Khalian held out a hand. “Your jewelry is forfeit. Give it to me, please.”
With trembling hands, the woman unfastened her necklace and placed it into his hairy paw, then added her bracelet. Behind, the Khalians rose, taking the men’s wallets and watches with them. All but one still breathed; most were unwounded.
Two women screamed at the sight of the others, and fell weeping over their bodies.
”The safe,” Goodheart said to First Mate Throb, and the first turned away, with a whistle of assent.
The last of the women was surrendering her jewelry to the Khalians. Then half the crewmen fell to untying the men’s neckties.
“But . . .” the first woman swallowed, plucked up her nerve, and asked again, “why are they taking our husbands’ neckties?”
“Their neckties?” Captain Goodheart touched the garish strip of cloth around his own neck. “As mementoes, madame. Surely you would not begrudge us souvenirs?”
”And even our neckties!” the civilian shouted, purple with rage. “What kind of Navy do you think you’re running, if these Khalians can just pop up wherever they want and play pirate with us?”
“Neckties?” The naval officer seemed suddenly more intent on the civilian’s report of the piracy. “Just yours? Or everybody’s?”
“All our neckties, dammit!” the civilian shouted. “What am I paying my taxes for, anyway?”
But Commander Sales only nodded as he stood and said, “Thank you for your information, Mr. Bagger. You’ve been a great help.” He started to turn away, then stopped at a thought and turned back. “By the way—what were you coming to Khalia for, anyway?”
“Why, to buy some of that bargain real estate the Khalia are selling, of course! And set up a department store! There are fortunes to be made there, man!”
As Commander Sales turned away, he was almost ashamed to admit that he could understand at least part of what drove Captain Goodheart.
Sales set up a holotank with Khalia’s sun represented by a glowing ruby at the center, then plotted the pirate’s ambushes in yellow dots, connecting them with traceries of faint yellow lines. Slowly, the pattern grew. Goodheart seemed to be everywhere and nowhere, in a sphere about three AUs out from Khalia. That was the point at which ships had to drop out of hyperspace into normal space, because they were getting too close to the gravity well of Khalia’s sun—and sometimes Goodheart was there to meet them, and sometimes he wasn’t. It didn’t seem to matter which side of Khalia’s sun they dropped out on—Goodheart ambushed ships from every direction.
Sales couldn’t patrol every inch of a sphere that size, of course—but he could outfit a cruiser and wait in ambush near the breakout point from Target, that being the most frequent traffic from and to Khalia. A cruiser that was nonmetallic, and black, and far enough away so that it wouldn’t be visible to the naked eye—but close enough so it could rendezvous with any inbound ship within fifteen minutes.
All he needed was permission.
“Sorry, Sales. We can’t risk you in combat now. You’re the only one who knows that Weasel, his mania, his patterns of raiding.”
”I’ve left complete notes, sir,” Sales said. “The locations of his raids, the times, the pattern—everything’s there, in the computer.”
The admiral just sat, frowning at him. Sales could almost hear him weighing the greater chances of eliminating the pirate, against the chance of losing the only man who had any feel for how Goodheart thought. Sales held his breath.