"Admiral," the Emperor interrupted. "This may be what I'm expecting."
Ledoh palmed the door to open.
The watch comofficer didn't know whether to salute or bow to the Emperor, so he compromised ridiculously.
The Emperor didn't notice—he was hoping that the signal was from Sten, announcing that he had the conspirators nailed, on toast, and ready for delivery to the Tahn.
"Uh... sir," the officer said, finding it easier to deliver his message to Admiral Ledoh. "This signal isn't from the source we expected. It's a distress signal. Standard sweep-band broadcast. Our satellite just happened to pick it up."
"Clot," Ledoh swore, and took the printout. "We didn't need this. No response."
"Hang on. Let me look at it." Ledoh passed the sheet to the Emperor. According to the burst-broadcast signal, the merchant ship Montebello was in a desperate situation, number of light-years, estimated, off the radio pulsar NG 467H. Fuel explosion on-board ship, all officers injured, most crewmembers severely burned, request immediate assistance from any receiving ship.
"Jerks!" the Emperor said. "Cheapjack shippers, trying some kind of econo slingshot orbit, and they're not capable of finding their way out of a closet with a torch."
"Your Highness," Sullamora said. "Admiral Ledoh is correct. There are far more important things happening than a few dozen burnt spacebums."
The Emperor would probably have made the same decision. But, characteristically, Sullamora put it wrong, and the Emperor flashed back more than a thousand years to when he himself hadn't been much more than a space-bum.
"Lieutenant," he said to the com officer. "Transfer this message to the ComDesRon. Order him to dispatch one destroyer immediately."
The officer only saluted this time, then scurried out of the Imperial presence.
The Emperor turned back to business. "Now, Admiral, would you please put all of our common-sense into the appropriate diplomatic drakh, so Lord Kirghiz won't think that we've gone insane?"
CHAPTER FIFTY
"Thank you, Mr. Jenkins. I have the con."
The hell I do, Commander Lavonne considered as his deck officer saluted and stepped back. That lousy game machine we're using to keep us off the BUCs is telling me what to do.
He rechecked the computer-prob screen that was giving him his course. "Nav-point zeroed?"
"Zeroed, sir," his executive officer said.
"From zero... course left thirty-five degrees, down fourteen degrees."
"Course left thirty-five, down fourteen."
"Secondary drive... quarter-speed."
"Secondary drive at quarter-speed."
Lavonne mentally crossed his fingers and hoped the next few seconds didn't produce anything unusual, such as an intersection orbit with another destroyer. "Engage drive."
"Drive engaged." The Imperial Destroyer San Jacinto hummed slightly as the ship's gyro clutched in, turning the ship into the correct direction, and Yukawa drive shoved the San Jacinto away from the thronged fleet.
Lavonne let thirty seconds elapse. "Increase secondary drive to half-speed."
"Secondary drive at half-speed," came the toneless echo from his quartermaster.
"Mr. Collins... from the count... now! Five minutes to main drive."
"Five minutes until main drive, Captain, and counting."
Five minutes gave the skipper of the San Jacinto brooding time. He considered slumping into his command chair, then brought himself up. We are all getting a little sloppy out here, he reminded himself. He then concentrated on his brooding.
Under normal circumstances Commander Lavonne would have been biting handrails in half when he'd gotten his assignment. He had spent entirely too many years pulling tramp steamers' tubes out of cracks to enjoy another rescue. As far as he was concerned all merchant fleets should be under military control. Lavonne was not at all a fascist—he'd just seen too many freighters permitted to offplanet with out-of-date or nonexistent safety sections, red-lined emergency gear, and officers who weren't competent to command a gravsled.
But the new assignment would give the commander and the men and women of the San Jacinto something to do.
Basically Commander Lavonne was ticked. Originally he and his ship had been pulled from their DesRon and ordered to rendezvous and escort a liner to its destination.
Initially Lavonne felt very proud. Somebody Up There—Up There with Stars—felt that the San Jacinto was as good a ship as the commander and his crew knew it to be. Lavonne, in his few selfish moments, also recognized that the whole enterprise, whatever it was, would probably look very good in his record jacket when it came time for promotion.
Ship's scuttlebutt soared when they reached the destination—off NG 467H—and then peaked when the incoming Tahn ships were identified. Lavonne figured out that he and his men were participating in something Terribly Significant and Probably Historic. The question was, what? Lavonne had a mental image of himself as a frizzly old admiral taping his memoirs and saying: "And then I was permitted to participate in the Empire-shaking (whatsit) located off a distant radio star, in which (nobody ever told me) happened."
What made it worse was the radiation from NG 467H.
Since all vid-ports and com-screens were sealed, the sailors felt even more than usual like sardines in a tin.
Orders from the squadron commander arrived in the messenger torps but were less than helpfuclass="underline" Patrol from such a point to such a point, then return exactly on orbit.
It's a sailor's right to piss and moan, but not within earshot of his division commander. Sailors went on report. Several paired sailors requested permission to join the general mess decks, breaking up long-standing relationships. Lavonne's most trusted bosun's mate, who only got busted when the San Jacinto berthed in a liberty port, was reduced to the ranks after he modified one of the ship's water purifiers to produce something that, when drunk, hit with the potency of AM2 fuel.
The San Jacinto was not a happy ship, so Lavonne was actually grateful when he got the orders to break from the fleet, operate under independent command, and relieve the disaster-stricken MS Montebello.
"Four minutes, thirty seconds."
Lavonne brought himself back to the ship's bridge. "At fifteen, give me a tick count."
"At fifteen, aye, sir. Coming to fifteen... fifteen, mark! Twelve... eleven... ten... nine... eight... seven... six..."
"On order, engage main drive."
"Standing by."
"Two... one..."
"Mark!"
And the San Jacinto shimmered as the AM2 drive smashed the ship into the orbit that would arc it very close "over" the pulsar toward the nearest intersection point with the Montebello.
"Ah, lad," Alex mused. "Th' remind me ae m' ancestor."
Though it appeared to be a tramp steamer that had far more owners than semiannual, the ship was really a Mantis Q-ship, an intelligence ship mounting as much power as an Imperial destroyer and far better electronics. In addition to the normal four-men crew, Sten, Alex, and forty Gurkhas were crammed into it.
Before he punched the panic button that had alerted the fleet, Sten had prepositioned several remote satellites outside NG 467H, satellites that hopefully would report the drive-flare of any ship headed in his general direction. Then he'd sent the distress signal, knowing that the satellite originally intended to field the tight beam from the palace would respond and communicate with the fleet itself, even though the ships were inside NG 467H's interference blanket.