"Punishing me isn't going to stop the Feds from blasting the hell out of us as we lift, Mostert!" Fedders said. "What we need to do is take over their ships right now and put every damned soul of them off the island before it's too late!"
"He's right, Admiral," Piet Ricimer said, careful to stay a non-threatening distance from Mostert.
"Christ bugger you both for fools!" Mostert bellowed. He tugged at the tunic, unable to tear the fabric but pulling it all out of shape or the possibility of wearing. "Both of you! To your ships! Now, or God blind me if I don't have you shot for treason!"
Galliard, the Tolliver's navigator, was a friend of Fedders'. He took the Rose's captain by the elbows and half guided, half pushed him toward the companionway.
"Sir," said Ricimer, "blasphemy now is-"
"You canting preacher!" Mostert said. "I've enough chaplains aboard already. Get to your ship-and see if you can find some courage along the way!"
Ricimer's face went white.
Gregg set his flashgun down to balance on its broad muzzle. He stepped deliberately between his friend and Mostert. "Admiral Mostert," he said in a voice pared to the bone by anger. "If a man were to address me in that fashion, I would demand that he meet me in the field so that I might recover my honor."
The cold fury in the gentleman's voice slapped Mostert out of his own state. The admiral wasn't afraid of Gregg, but neither was he a mere spacer with money. There was no profit in making Gregg of Weyston's nephew an enemy.
"I assure you, Mr. Gregg," he said, "that no part of my comments were directed at you."
"Come away, Stephen," Ricimer said, drawing Gregg around to break his eye contact with Admiral Mostert.
"The Tolliver will lift last of the argosy," Mostert said in a gruffly reasonable voice. "We'll have our guns run out. At the least hint of trouble we'll clear the island!"
Ricimer picked up the flashgun by its butt. Gregg reached for it numbly but his friend twitched the weapon to his side.
"We've gotten this far without having trouble that the Governor, that Governor Halys can't forgive," Mostert said. He sounded wistful, almost desperate. "We're not going to start a war now!"
"You'll need to change for the banquet," Ricimer said as he directed Gregg down the companionway ahead of him. "The Peaches should have some representative there, after all."
24
Biruta
"To the further expansion of trade across the universe!" Alexi Mostert called from the head table. He raised the glass in his right hand. That was the only part of the admiral which Gregg could see from where he sat, a third of the way around the curve of the deck.
"Expansion of trade," murmured the gathered officers and gentlemen in a slurred attempt at unison. The night's heavy drinking hadn't begun. A combination of relief at going home and fear of another series of transits like the set which had devoured the Grandcamp had given some of those present a head start on the festivities, however.
The banquet was served on rectangular tables, each of which cut an arc of the circular deck space. The sixty or so diners sat on the hull side, while stewards served them from the inner curve. The Tolliver's galley was on Level Three, and the two companionways were built into the vessel's central core.
The hostages were spaced out among the Venerians. The older man beside Mostert, supposedly the deputy commander of a Fed warship but probably a clerk of some sort, looked gloomy. The female Gregg could see on almost the opposite side of Level Four was terrified and slobberingly drunk. To Gregg's immediate left sat a man named Tilbury, younger than Gregg himself. He was keyed to such a bright-eyed pitch that Gregg wondered if he was using some drug other than alcohol.
Well, perhaps the hostages thought they would be slaughtered when the argosy left-or as bad from their viewpoint, carried off to the sulphurous caves of Venus.
"Sir," said a steward. "Sir." To get Gregg's attention, the fellow leaned across the remains of a savory prepared from canned fruit. "There's an urgent call for you on the bridge. From your ship."
Walking would feel good. Gregg was muzzy from the meal, more drink than normal, and reaction to the scene on the bridge two hours before. He still trembled when he thought about that. .
"All right," he muttered, and slid his chair back. The breech of a 20-cm plasma cannon blocked his path to the right. Even run out, the heavy weapons took up a great deal of space. He could go to his left and maybe creep between the corners of two tables, but that would be tight. Tilbury looked ready to explode if awakened from his glittering dreamworld to move.
Gregg ducked under the table. He knocked his head by rising too quickly and found himself on the other side with something greasy smeared on the knees of his dress trousers. They were gray-green silk shot with silver filaments, and they'd be the very devil to clean.
Cursing his stupidity, not the call that summoned him, Gregg strode to the companionway and climbed the helical stairs three treads at a time.
The bridge felt shockingly comfortable. The petty officer and two crewmen on watch had opened the horizontal gunports. The mild cross-breeze made Gregg realize how hot and crowded Level Four was.
"Here you go, sir," the petty officer said as he gave Gregg the handset. It would have been nice if they could have stripped the Federation communications system out of the port buildings. . but this was a trading voyage.
"Go ahead," Gregg said into the handset. At least it was a dual frequency unit, so the two carrier waves didn't step on one another if the parties spoke simultaneously.
"Stephen," said Piet Ricimer's crackling voice, "I don't think the Feds are going to wait till tomorrow. Their three warships are clearing their gunports, and airboats have been ferrying more men onto the island all night."
Gregg moved to an open gunport within the five-meter length of the handset's flex. He peered out. The circular port looked south. He couldn't see the Peaches, but the Federation convoy bulked across the night sky like a herd of sleeping monsters.
"What do you. ." Gregg said. He shook his head, wishing that he could think more clearly. The bridge watch watched him covertly.". . want me to do?"
Biruta's moon was a jagged chunk of rock. Even full, as now, it did little to illuminate the landscape. The silhouettes of Federation ships were speckled by light. The Feds were opening, then closing their gunports to be sure that the shutters wouldn't jam when the order came to run the guns out for use.
"Stephen," Ricimer said tautly, "you've got to convince Mostert to take some action immediately. I know what I'm asking, but there's no choice."
"Right," said Gregg. He put down the handset and glanced around for the petty officer.
He didn't know the man's name. "You," he said, pointing. "Sound the general alarm now. Now!"
"What?" said the petty officer. One of the crewmen threw a large knife-switch attached to a stanchion. The flagship's siren began slowly to wind.
A plasma cannon fired from one of the Federation vessels.
Gregg was fully alert and alive. "Get those guns slewed!" he cried as he jumped into the companionway. With his right hand on the rail, he took the fifteen steps in three huge, spiraling jumps and burst out onto the banquet room again.
Men were looking up, alarmed by the siren and drawn to the electric crashTHUMP of the plasma discharge.