Kozakowski had been CoDevCo’s master aboard (but not captain of) the Arbitrage when she was intercepted by a Russlavic Federation cruiser, so it was quite probable that he knew if spare fuel transfer umbilicals were in the ships’ stores. But still—
Piet Brackman jutted his prominent chin toward the ventral view monitor: the ever-approaching rim of the gas giant seemed to be fading away, being consumed by the blackness of space itself. “Approaching the terminator, Captain.”
“Ten minutes to loss of lascom and line of sight back to the fleet assets near planet two,” Tagawa added.
“Very well.” Protocol dictated Velho’s next orders. “Ms. Tagawa, initiate contact with provisional CINCSYS and advise them we are about to go dark. Attach the estimated time we shall emerge from planet four’s comm-shadow. Request immediate confirmation of receipt of our transmission, and pending day-codes. And—” Velho paused: Tagawa turned, obviously sensing how his tone veered toward hesitation rather than finality.
“And yes, Ms. Tagawa, we shall do as you suggest: call Kozakowski to the bridge.”
* * *
Ulpreln struggled to keep the Red Lurker’s bow steady. “Apologies, Srina Perekmeres.”
Nezdeh nodded, leaned over so she could read the helm instruments. “I read the wind speed in excess of eight hundred kilometers per hour. Imperfect control is not merely understandable; it is unavoidable. And as regards the formality of your address: we shall dispense with that until we once again have our own compounds and courts. Then, you may style me so nobly.”
Ulpreln half turned from his console, a small smile sending wrinkles into the crescent of his cheek. “As you wish…Nezdeh.”
The young Evolved’s voice was not insolent; it was appreciative. This was consistent with her greater plan: to bind the group’s loyalty to her. She wished Brenlor no ill, but dominion had to be split evenly between them, or she would not have enough power to govern his rash reactions and overly bold plans.
From his post at the sensor station, Sehtrek pointed to one of the secondary screens. “Our target, Nezdeh.”
In the overhead, or spaceside, view, there was a longish spindle of pristine white, distant through the misty atmosphere.
“Ulpreln, hold relative position. Sehtrek, maximum magnification.”
“Resolution will be poor, Nezdeh.”
“Let it be poor. Show me what is there.”
The indistinct spindle was replaced by a long, batonlike ship: a typical human design. The ship’s own fuel, engines, and power plants — and all their radioactivity — were clustered at the stern, behind two great disk-shaped shields. The habitation toruses and command section were located at the bow. In between, large fuel tanks and a few cargo modules followed the long thin keel, giving the impression of railway cars on a great length of track. Relatively close by, a fuel tender was returning to the ship, heading for one of two large docking cradles just forward of the skimmed fuel tankage. An identical craft was approaching at a leisurely pace from the opposite direction.
“Range to objective and predominant wind speed?” Nezdeh demanded.
“Range is just under eight kiloklicks. Wind speed averages three hundred forty kilometers per hour, plus or minus fifty.”
Nezdeh nodded and studied the improving image. The human ship’s rotational habitats confirmed her cost-cutting, megacorporate origins: the after-torus was a solid design, whereas the forward one was actually a hexagon. Each side was a framework cradling various modules, most of which were hab mods. Most importantly, neither the torus nor the gigantic hexagon were rotating — standard procedure when a ship was under thrust.
“Acceleration of target?”
“None. Its engines are in readiness, but thrust has been discontinued. I believe they are trying to facilitate an earlier retrieval of their tankers and skimmer ROVs.”
Could it get any better? “I make our intercept ETA approximately twenty minutes if we sustain three-point-three-gee constant and then counterboost at max.”
“Allowing for buffeting, and the gas giant’s decreasing gravitational pull, that is a reasonable estimate, Nezdeh.”
“Wait for the furthest tanker to be secured in its cradles. Then commence intercept as soon as you have a clear trough between the storm cells and with minimal particulate density. We want as direct and unimpeded a path as possible.”
“As you order, Nezdeh.”
She toggled the intercom to the EVA ready bay. “Brenlor.”
“Here. How long?”
“I would say twenty-five minutes. Are you prepared to strap in? We will be closing at three-point-five-gee sustained.”
“We are suited. Strapping in.”
She signed off, turned to Idrem at the weapons console. “Readiness?”
“UV laser warm and ready for full charge. All six directional blisters test green. Railgun same.” He met her eyes. “I should turn the weapons over to Tegrese.”
Tegrese moved toward the weapons station, but kept her eyes on Nezdeh for approval.
Nezdeh frowned. “I mean no slight, Tegrese, but Idrem, you are our best gunner.”
He nodded. “Yes. But I am needed more urgently on the EVA team.”
Which was, regrettably, true. Not because Idrem had excellent EVA and personal weapon skills — although he did — but because someone with sufficient authority had to be present to ensure that Brenlor’s actions in securing the Arbitrage did not become too destructive. Nezdeh looked away so that neither Idrem nor Tegrese would see her regret. “Go then, Idrem. Tegrese, stand to the weapons.”
“Yes, Nezdeh. Shall I ready missiles, as well?”
Nezdeh shook her head. “No. They are too imprecise.” She resumed poring over the intelligence and confidential files they had on the SS Arbitrage, courtesy of the many collaborators they had suborned within the ranks of the Colonial Development Combine. Where greed is great, corruption is simple, as the Progenitors’ axiom had it.
Ulpreln almost sounded excited. “Nezdeh, the second Aboriginal tanker is in contact with the shift-carrier, and I have an acceptable meteorological window.”
Without glancing away from the data that had been furnished by traitorous Aboriginals, she reached behind her command chair for the acceleration straps. At the same time, she began consciously adjusting her blood flow to aid her vacuum suit’s antipooling systems. “Sehtrek, pass the word: commence acceleration compensation protocols.”
She kept reading the human data and the target updates as the announcement went out over the intercom. When it was done, she glanced at Ulpreln. “Activate the navigational holosphere, close tactical scale.” He complied: a three-dimensional representation of the surrounding ten kiloklicks blinked into existence at the open center of the bridge. She assessed the conditions and smiled: perfect. At last, the axe of fate swings for, rather than against, the fortunes of House Perekmeres.
She elevated her chin slightly. “Commence intercept.”
And then, even though she was prepared for it, three point five gees of upward acceleration slammed half the air out of her lungs.