*
A reckless mix of alcohol and wounded pride glowed within him. So Arae strewed petty obstacles in his path. What of it? He would conquer them. She had won a fortune through sheer chance, and one single act of mere murder – most probably carried out when Sunderling had swilled himself into a state of swinish unconsciousness. What did that reckon, against the wits of a merchant prince such as he? Or if not a prince, then at least a noble, a duke or a landsgrave or a – a banneret? Or was that a type of flag? No matter: the point, the essential point, was that he, Captain Hesperus, master and commander of the Dubious Profit, could sell fish to the sea and stars to the sky and come out ahead. So she demanded payment in hard assets: he would run through her little rock like a laser through a lampshade, he would outsmart and out-trade her gaggle of tame peddlers and shopkeepers, run them cross-eyed and knot them up until they couldn’t tell their knees from their noses.
Here was a booth which merited closer inspection. The midnight-blue paintwork might have made it gloomy, but judicious spotlighting picked out trays of glittering gemstones, sending out sparks and spangles and giving the impression of a star-scattered sky. The finest jewels were safely ensconced at the back of the booth: Hesperus’s eye fell upon a nest of rubies there, uncut and deep blood-red. The owner, though, was obviously confident enough in local security to place a few attractive trifles – mostly tourmalines and peridots, with the occasional sliver of topaz or of citrine – on small flat pads on the countertop. Placing his hands behind his back, Hesperus gave grave consideration to these semi-precious chippings, and watched sidelong the actions of the stallholder, currently in conversation with another trader.
The gem merchant was Berienese. A blue-and-white chequered kilt was wrapped around his thick waist, and his chestnut pelt was glossy with scented oil. His sharp fox face poked out beneath a broad circular hat, from the brim of which rose a dozen thin and springy wires, each bearing a tiny copper silhouette of a flying bird. His customer was a human female, dark-skinned, egg-bald, wearing a tasselled crimson waistcoat and trews. A wide red stripe ran from the crown of her head down to her chin, marking her as a Prodromian devotee. A tray of four mid-sized opals – rather milky, Hesperus fancied – was open on the counter between them.
“Sixteen,” the woman said.
The stallholder smiled, bending forward. “Each? I am sure I—”
“Not each, not each!” the woman interrupted. “For the whole tray, of course. Do you take me for a fish, sir?”
“The whole tray? Sixteen?” The stallholder jerked upright, causing his flock of copper birds to bob and swoop above him. “I am generous, madam, but I have costs, I have overheads. I must purchase my stock, for example, I must pay rent upon my stall. My own needs are modest, my tastes inexpensive, but on Stranglehold I must even buy the air I breathe; and this one—” he stabbed a thumb backwards over his shoulder, indicating a pale gangling figure lost in the shadows at the back of the booth, “—this one eats and eats and does little work of any value. Come come, madam, all humour aside: make me an offer that at least allows me to maintain my business, if not my dignity.”
“Your dignity may be beyond the length of my purse … twenty, then.” She folded her arms.
The stallholder’s moist pink nose quivered in frustration, and he raised his eyes to the ceiling. “Madam, if I cannot appeal to your sympathy and sense of justice, I must seek the intervention of a higher power.” He reached beneath the counter, and drew out a narrow cylindrical cage containing a wrinkled, naked, squatting homunculus with an outsize head, large amber eyes and a mournful expression. “Behold!” exclaimed the stallholder, placing the cage on the countertop with delicate precision, rotating it so the little creature faced the customer. “The Great God Judred!”
The woman raised one eyebrow, glancing down at the caged figure with faint distaste. “The Great God … Judred? I am unfamiliar …”
“The Great God Judred is revered among my people for his unswerving righteousness and total commitment to fair and honest trade.”
“Indeed. And this, this manikin, this is he?”
“It is.”
“In this cage, in your booth, on this rock.”
“In one of his infinite manifestations, yes. I have been so blessed.” The stallholder laid one hand flat against his chest, and gave a fractional bow.
The woman sighed. “Very well, make all necessary obeisances to this, this …”
“Ah, no, madam, you misapprehend. I now disavow all interest in our deal. It is with Judred that you must bargain. Make your offers to him. He alone will judge their worth.” He took one long step back from the counter.
“I will not be mocked, sir!”
“Madam, I assure you, I do not mock. This is a religious act we perform here, and one of the utmost seriousness. Please,” he gestured towards the narrow cage. “Make Judred an offer for the stones.”
She peered at the stallholder for several seconds, but he maintained a grave and sober mien. Frowning, she stooped towards the imprisoned creature, examining it closely. It gazed back at her, dainty fingers plucking at the bars. She made a hissing sound through her teeth, then spoke in a loud, clear voice: “Twenty. For all four stones together. Twen-ty.”
Immediately the creature arched its back and rolled its head from side to side. Its little mouth opened and closed, emitting a thin and piteous piping. The woman stepped back a pace.
“The Great God Judred, it would appear, is made sorrowful by your offer,” said the stallholder, copper birds dipping above his head. “Perhaps … but I should not interfere.”
“Hum,” said the woman, her scalp twitching. “Twenty – twenty-eight.”
“Oh-oh-oh,” said the creature in a tiny griefstruck voice, fat soft tears welling from its lambent eyes. “Oh-oh-oh, oh-oh-oh.”
“Bah! Oh!” said the woman, clapping her hands in vexation. “Thirty – no, no, forty, then! Forty for all four, or drop them in the sun!”
The Great God Judred gave a high and happy sigh. Its tears forgotten, it gazed up at the woman, a wet, loose-lipped smile creasing its little squashed face. “Judred approves the price?” said the stallholder, stepping forwards. “Ah well, ah well … I had hoped for more, for stones of such fine quality. Well, well, but we must all bow before the workings of divine judgement. Forty it shall be.” He swept the opals into a small velvet pouch and proffered them to his customer, who stood now with hands on hips, her eyes narrow. Finally she expelled a snort, plucked out her wallet and thumbed over the money. She nodded once, took the pouch, and stalked off.
The stallholder bestowed a fond look upon the Great God Judred, and gave its cage a gentle pat, before directing his attention towards the figure at the back of the booth. “Borobo! Stop lurking back there. Come and attend to Judred, who does more work than you. Feed him, give him a drop or two of tincture … check too his cage for any soiling. I must attend to other matters: in my absence, attempt no sales of anything better than the fourth-class stones. On my return, you will go to bay six in the stockroom: there are four new loads of quartz gravels to be graded, and you must shovel these into the assay bins for me.”
The merchant strode away, and Borobo, a thin and pallid youth of uncertain species, shuffled out from the shadows to attend to the little caged god. Hesperus glanced up, and smiled, before resuming his perusals of the cheaper stock. Borobo let out a deep sigh, and rummaged beneath the counter. He emerged holding a small wooden box, containing a few vials and a jar of some gritty yellow paste. He poked around in the box, and sighed again.
“You work for a hard taskmaster!” said Hesperus, shaking his head and smiling. “Ah, but it reminds me of my own apprenticeship … it seems to be a universal law that one’s labours must always go unappreciated by one’s superiors!”
Borobo looked up, as if seeing Hesperus for the first time. “Hm? Who? Oh, old Hystrich is not so bad to work for, not so very bad I suppose. But, love and death, if you’ll pardon me for saying
so sir, there should be more to life than this grey drudgery! It pains me that he displays such little faith in my abilities as a merchant … I see you are interested in these peridots here, for example: you are a trader yourself, sir? Have you journeyed far?”
“Your eyes are keen! I confess I have a fondness for such baubles; and you are correct again, I am far indeed from home! Such acuity will stand you in good stead, I am certain. Yes, the wanderlust took me when I was scarcely older than yourself … I don’t doubt but I have outraced my own home starlight. If I could even find the spark of it in the sky, it would only be an image from centuries before my birth around it. A strange thought, and not in all respects a happy one! Still though, there are always new people to meet, and new things to see. This little impling here, for instance.” Hesperus gestured towards the Great God Judred, hunched over in its cage. “Your master reveres it, seemingly. What is its story?”
“Aha. The Great God Judred. Well, Hystrich values it, undoubtedly. It has proven its worth in many a difficult negotiation, especially with customers of a more spiritual bent. The little beast can prove quite intransigent on price, and none can name Hystrich as a chiseller or profiteer.”
“So? The creature is sapient, then?”
“Ha. Well. Now we must grow philosophical. The animal itself is of small intelligence: wild, it matches wits with caterpillars and other crawling things. However, according to doctrine, correctly fed and treated it can become a vessel, a conduit for the Great God Judred – a powerful deity and a stickler for buying low and selling high.”
“Mm. Mm,” said Hesperus, stroking his chin. “Judred did seem to participate in that last transaction, with some emotion and to no small effect. In all my travels I have seen many strange things, and make it my custom to respect all gods, spirits, demiurges and suchlike, yet I have never previously encountered a divinity which acts so … blatantly within the tangible world. Except of course where one can trace an intimate connection to, say, a member of the priesthood behind a nearby screen, or perhaps concealed within a hollow statue. Or to the cunning use of magnets, or other similar contrivances.”
Borobo nodded sagely. “Here too, metaphysics acts in concert with physics of the more humble variety. Observe!” He stepped back from the counter to where Hystrich had previously stood, and pressed down all his weight onto his right foot. Judred let out a mewling gasp, and raised its hands up to its head, a dolorous expression crumpling its small ugly face. Borobo shifted to his left, and Judred gave a happy sigh, winking one eye shut contentedly. Borobo raised one finger. “Now,” he said, stepping forward. He slid Judred’s cage a hand-span to one side, then stepped back and repeated his previous manoeuvre. Hesperus watched with interest as, when Borobo leaned again to his right, a short, blunt prong thrust up from the countertop. He also discerned a faint circular groove, the exact diameter of Judred’s cage, centred upon the prong.
“Aha!” he said. “I begin to see … I assume the Great God Judred’s cage is pierced from beneath? So when your master leans just so …”
“The prong passes through the hole to connect with Judred’s hindquarters, which naturally makes him unhappy.”
“Naturally! And the withdrawal of the prong, we must assume, is an event which the creature welcomes, to say the least. So Judred’s fluctuations of emotion are purely linked to your master’s opinions of the offered deal.”
“Ah, so it may appear to the secular eye,” said Borobo, shaking his head. “I once thought the same myself. But one should not dismiss the immanent presence of the Great God Judred from the equation so lightly! It is old Hystrich’s weight which drives the prong, to be sure, but who can say what forces compel Hystrich to lean left or right, as prices change? The theology is subtle, and complex.”
“I do not doubt it,” replied Hesperus. “Thank you, sir, for your consideration.” He raised his cap and turned away.
“Oh! My pleasure, sir – but the um, the ah, the peridots …?”
Hesperus looked over his shoulder. “I am sorely tempted, I admit … alas, I have a pressing engagement. Perhaps another time. But be assured, across the galaxy, on many worlds and under many suns, the greatest treasure one can find is good, intelligent conversation with a sophisticated individual. It has been a joy speaking with you, sir.”
Borobo beamed. Hesperus touched a finger to the peak of his cap and walked away, deep in thought.
Further down the aisle, towards the far wall, the goods displayed became cheaper and coarser: bales of metal foil, drums of unprocessed hydrocarbons, and the like. Near the end, Hesperus spied a small kiosk, almost a lean-to, where a dimly luminous sign advertised the services of a luck-changer. By way of some brief and purely formulaic haggling, Hesperus exchanged two slightly clipped silver sequins for a large brass medallion – guaranteed proof against all known forms of devil, bogey or sprite of misfortune – which he placed around his neck. He also took the opportunity, in the gloom outside the luck-changer’s stall, to remove one small crumb of red wango from his wallet and secrete it carefully beneath the claw of his left index finger. Hands folded behind his back, he strolled around the floor until once again he found himself at the booth of the jewel-merchant Hystrich.
Hystrich himself fussed over some small stones, the tip of a pointed purple tongue protruding from one corner of his mouth. Borobo was nowhere to be seen. Hesperus stepped forward and rapped twice on the counter. Hystrich gave a small start: his copper birds soared and plunged. “Oh! Ah. Ahem. Your pardon, ah, sir, I was distracted … how may I be of service?” Hystrich’s darting glance took in Hesperus’s hat and jacket; perhaps the medallion caught his eye for just a moment.
“Ah,” said Hesperus. “Thank you, yes. That arrangement of red spinels, there, now: I find they speak to me. They look a little wan, to be sure, but perhaps with the right setting they may prove adequate to my needs.”
Hystrich straightened his back, and regarded Hesperus askance. “Spinels? Spinels? You are mistaken, sir: these are rubies, pure and true. You called them ‘wan’, too, unless my ears deceived me … this cluster of six precious jewels here, each one a flawless crystal, red as heart’s blood? Can these really be the gems to which you refer, sir?”
Hesperus nodded easily. “Indeed yes, those pink stones there. I imagine you would hope for, what, five credits apiece? I am not one to haggle: shall we say twenty-five for the lot, to include a discount for payment in bullion? That seems a fair deal all round.”
Hystrich’s nose twitched first left, then right, and his lips parted in a wide and mirthless grin. “Sirrah, I admire your boundless optimism, but I fear I must disappoint you: despite all rumours to the contrary I have not yet grown addled in my wits.” He plucked the smallest ruby – the size of the final joint of Hesperus’s little finger – from the display, and placed it reverently on the counter. “This alone I would not sell to my own litter-mate for twenty-five. See. Look. Witness here the limpid clarity, the deep, dark, rich and royal hue.” He bent low over the counter, the tip of his snout nearly touching the stone. His round black eyes peered at Hesperus from beneath the brim of his hat. “The jewel breathes, sir. One can almost feel the heat of the fire that burns forever within its depths. For this single stone I would not take less than fifty.”
Hesperus pursed his lips, and scratched at his right eyebrow. “Hm. You are a poet, sir,” he said. “But I am a businessman. Let us eschew hyperbole, and deal in concrete facts. Fifty is a large sum – one might almost say an outrageous sum – for such a meagre chipping. Perhaps though my initial offer was a trifle ambitious: I could be persuaded to stretch to thirty, even thirty-five, for the six together.”
Hystrich stood up again, and lifted the single ruby between his thumb and forefinger. Red light flashed within the gem. “Sir, in all candour: such an offer verges on the insulting.”
“Come come, sir,” said Hesperus, slapping the counter. “We are practical men, are we not? You sell, I buy; then I must sell again. You, I do not doub
t, purchased those stones from some dusty miner for a trivial sum; I, however, must hope to wring my prices from wily middlemen, hostile to the independent trader. All down the line each of us seek sufficient leeway to make our profits; but I cannot survive if all my margin is swallowed up by you. It is hardly fair, sir, hardly fair at all. I am vexed, I confess it, but I will make yet another adjustment, to please you: thirty-eight for the set.”
“‘Fair’, now, he cries, ‘fair’!” Hystrich shook his head. He placed the ruby gently back with the other stones. “‘Fair’ is a mighty word, sir. Like ‘truth’ and ‘justice’, it has a cosmic resonance. I see only one solution to your intransigence. Would you accept the valuation of a disinterested third party? One whose judgement is acknowledged across all of time and space?”
“Why, certainly,” replied Hesperus. “But where shall we find such a miraculous sage?”
“Behold!” cried Hystrich, bringing forth the caged homunculus once more. “The Great God Judred!”
Hesperus leaned forward, an expression of great interest on his face. “A god!” he gasped, fingering his medallion. “You possess a veritable living god? Your fortune astounds me.”
“The Great God Judred,” said Hystrich, “is revered among my people for his unswerving righteousness and total commitment to fair and honest trade. This is his true avatar. If you are willing, he will make judgement of your offers for these jewels. If he is pleased with your price, I will cleave to it willingly.”
“Well,” said Hesperus, “I am sure of the justice of my cause. By the virtue of this holy symbol—” he removed his medallion and held it high “—I will accept the wisdom of Judred, gladly.”
“Excellent,” said Hystrich, siting the cage carefully on the countertop, and stepping back into the booth. “Speak to him when you are ready.”
Hesperus bowed, eyeing Judred closely. With an elaborate flourish he placed his medallion next to the Great God’s cage. At the same time he dug beneath his left forefinger claw to crush the crumb of red wango hidden there, surreptitiously flicking a few grains of the euphoriant into Judred’s gnarled visage. “Thirty-eight, oh Great God Judred!” he called. “Thirty-eight for all six rubies!”
Hystrich swayed fractionally to his right.
“Hzzzzz!” said Judred. “Hzzzzzaaii … dz!” The scrunched face grew purple, the tiny hands grasped at the bars and heaved. Judred’s lips peeled back, and orange drool spilled from the creature’s gaping mouth.
Hesperus stood up smartly, and stepped back a pace. “Ah … Judred accepts!” he cried.
“What? What what?” Hystrich honked, his copper birds bobbing. He moved to step forward, then stopped, unwilling to shift his right foot. “No, sir, you are mistaken! He mourns, he weeps, he—”
“Feeee!” Judred squealed, spraying foam from its nostrils. “Feeeefeeee!” With a shuddering wrench it rammed its head against the top of the cage, crashing back down again before repeating the manoeuvre. “Faaii-ch-ch-ch … tk!” The cage rattled and jerked on the countertop; somehow the creature managed to invert itself. A livid froth poured out between the bars. Judred issued three piercing shrieks, gave one last contorted spasm, and collapsed into a tangle of twisted spindly limbs.
“Alas, alas!” said Hystrich, distraught. “Oh, misfortune!” He rushed forward and snatched up the little cage, cradling it to his breast.
“Ah … sir?” called Hesperus, straightening his cap, which had become somewhat askew. “My offer? Our deal? Might I enquire …?”
“You!” boomed Hystrich, flinging out a hand in Hesperus’s direction. “You ill-starred wretch, you night-shadow of tribulation; you—you—”
“The Great God Judred did seem, ah, positively animated,” said Hesperus. “I interpret this as an affirmation of my suggested price.”
“No!” bellowed Hystrich, glaring across the counter. “No, no, and never, never, never!” He glanced around him with a wild expression, then fumbled beneath the counter and pulled out a thick stave, studded with iron and surmounted by a long barbed hook. Nostrils flaring, he brought it crashing down upon the countertop. His eyes gleamed.
Hesperus backed away rapidly. He raised his cap. “My commiserations on your sad loss,” he called. “A better place … another time … appropriate.” He spun around and moved off at a brisk pace. Behind him, Hystrich let out a deep roar of anger. There was a series of bangs and rattles, suggestive of a large body clambering over an obstacle strewn with small objects. Hesperus bolted around the corner, then squeezed between two stalls, weaving through knots of traders and piles of merchandise. Hystrich’s bellowings alternated between a keening nasal wail and thick clots of guttural curses. A crowd was beginning to gather, and heads turned this way and that.
A chill wave washed down Hesperus’s spine, extinguishing the last embers of Old Dreadful and leaving a sick, slack sensation in his bowels instead. “Any disruption, any action you may commit which disturbs the smooth operation of my station,” Arae had said: he pictured himself pitched into the raw vacuum, glimpsing the grey, pitted shell of Stranglehold for one brief final instant as his eyeballs froze and his blood boiled and his last breath gouted out of his lungs in a sparkling spray of ice … She would do it. She would absolutely do it. The slightest excuse, and she would send him, and Rus, and Stepan and all his crew, including those demented crustacean imbeciles in the ventilation ducts, she would send them all out to gasp and choke and freeze and die. He saw Hystrich wave the limp form of the Great God Judred high in the air, pushing and struggling with the crowd around him.
Hesperus swallowed, his mouth dry. This would be enough for Arae to make good her threat, he thought; this would be more than enough. He snatched off his twixtear cap and thrust it into his jacket, ducked across the aisle and hastened towards the stockroom.
He had recovered his pressure suit from its locker and was pulling it on when he saw the dockmaster waving at him. Quickly he clapped his helmet over his head, flicked the neck seal and darted into the airlock as the dockmaster advanced. The door hissed shut and the lock began to cycle. Hesperus took a great gasp of the thinning atmosphere as he pawed at his suit seals, fumbling them shut just as the exterior door opened. The Dubious Profit hung there in the docking bay, its outer airlock still open. Hesperus sprang weightless through the intervening vacuum and thudded against the hull, one hand snagging the edge of the airlock. He dragged himself inside the ship and slapped at the controls. The exterior door slid ponderously across: through the closing gap, silhouetted against the docking bay windows, Hesperus could just make out small knots of purposeful motion among Stranglehold’s crew.
Finally, the Profit’s airlock completed its own cycle. Hesperus dashed for the cockpit, flung himself into the command couch, and slammed the ship’s systems into life. The dockmaster, he saw, had been true to his promise: the Dubious Profit was fully fuelled. With one single twist and heave on the control yoke, Hesperus arced the Profit’s nose around, flipping the ship’s cumbrous bulk end over end. A short series of thuds and jerks, more felt than heard, indicated that this manoeuvre, in the crowded docking bay, had been perhaps less than optimal: however, given the circumstances, it had probably gone as well as could be expected. The comms were flashing urgently: but Hesperus was still wearing his helmet, and felt no burning desire to take it off and hold a conversation. He curbed the ship’s rotation and ramped up the engines, driving the Profit towards the exit and the stars beyond.
There was a loud, insistent knocking on the top of his helmet, and then suddenly it was twisted off. Hesperus drew a cloying lungful of the ship’s fetid air, and Rus loomed into view.
“Are we in a tearing hurry to reach the drydock, or were you just trying to shake the little buggers out of the ducts with that lunatic stunt back there? Are you mad, or drunk, or both?” The engineer pointed at the wildly flashing comms. “Are you going to answer that?”
Hesperus opened his mouth, then closed it again. He pointed to the scanner: one, two, three blip
s slid onto the scope, flicking from yellow to red as the ships they represented locked their weapons systems onto the Dubious Profit.
Rus groaned. “Wonderful. Just wonderful. Did your old friend not remember you? Or did he remember you too well? Maybe if I just throttled you myself, here … auach!” He clutched at the back of the command couch, his long black claws digging fresh holes in the patched laminate. “What’s the use? So it’s yet another hasty farewell for the Profit, then. Stepan!” he bellowed, causing the ship’s navigator – who had been trying to squeeze into the cockpit – to fall over in fright. Rus grabbed Stepan and slung him bodily into the copilot’s chair. “Go on, plot us a course out of here. Do it fast. Our Captain Charming has offended the locals again. I’ll have to go spin up the engines. What foul star was I born under, that I am cursed to life aboard this drifting disaster?” He stamped out of the cockpit, shouting imprecations at the universe.
Hesperus had accelerated the Profit to full speed, seeking to put distance between himself and the pursuing ships. An authoritative voice barked from the comms, ordering him to heave to, to surrender his ship in the name of Queen Arae.
“Queen Arae?” said Stepan. “Fantastic! I mean,” he continued, as Hesperus let out a sibilant hiss, “um, we’re a bit short of destinations here, Captain …”
The Profit’s rear shield dipped as incoming laser fire splashed across her stern. Hesperus hauled at the yoke, feathering the ship’s drive and flinging her into a tight spiral. “Pick one!” he yelled. “The closest one!”
“Eronona?” said Stepan, doubtfully.
Eronona was the system where Hesperus had bought the wango, and where he had neglected even to attempt to acquire the requisite export permits. A joyless world, a grim agrarian collective with little sympathy for the individual entrepreneur. They would impound his ship and cargo and sentence him and his crew to years of penal servitude, to scratch and scrabble at their planet’s heavy clay, trapped beneath its thick dull skies. He groaned, and sent the ship into a plunging roll. “No, not Eronona! What else have you got?”
“There’s Isusle, there’s Lasoce …”
“Blood and bile, no! Not if we can help it!” Both worlds were known pirate nests; no doubt they swarmed with Arae’s suppliers. Warning signals lit up the Dubious Profit’s cockpit as red beams stitched down one flank. The ship shuddered, her engines pounding as they pumped more power to the depleted shields.
“Then it’s Issoar, or nothing. But—”
“Issoar!” cried Hesperus, damping the engines and flipping the Profit end over end. The pursuing ships – two Mamba-class escorts and a Krait fighter – flashed by, caught unawares by the manoeuvre. “Fortune’s favour!” Issoar was a stable, democratic system, whose easygoing inhabitants held an enlightened attitude towards transgressors, and whose legal system emphasised reform rather than punishment. If he handed over the cargo to the authorities on Issoar – presented himself as an honest trader whose stock of white bakha root had fallen victim to an unfortunate infestation – there was an excellent chance that the outstanding charges against the Dubious Profit would be dropped. It was even remotely possible that the Issorvans might pay him some token good-citizen reward. It would only be a pitiful fraction of what the wango was truly worth, of course … Hesperus pictured the huge potential profits he would have to abandon, and whimpered: but what choice did he have? He cursed, once, and turned to Stepan. “Issoar it is. Punch it in!”
“Okay, Captain,” said Stepan, jabbing at the astrogation console. “It’s just, it’s—”
Hesperus rammed the Profit into a thundering charge, aiming the ship’s nose straight back towards Stranglehold.“I don’t care, Stepan! Punch it!”
Stepan rolled one horrified eye at the looming grey rock and cowered over his instruments, bleating a jumble of prayers and calculations. On the scanner Hesperus could see the hostile craft looping around, trying to bring the Dubious Profit under their guns once more. He shoved the control yoke hard over, sending the Profit skimming low across the asteroid’s scarred, ancient surface.
“… and eight and the power of eight and I’ll never do it again and six point eight … done!” Stepan lifted his head, wincing as Hesperus forced the ship into another corkscrew turn. Stranglehold’s massive bulk bulged and swung overhead. “It’s all set,” he said, as the lights on the astrogation console flicked one by one from red to green. “We’re good to go!”
Jumping into witchspace, it has been remarked, is a lot like dusting crops: you need to fly long, straight, and level if you’re going to do it right. One’s entry vector should be uniform in both speed and direction: the ship should not pitch, roll, or yaw as the wormhole forms. Which is all well and good for those fortunate enough to be making their jumps within the safe and ordered volume of space around a Co-operative main station; but long, straight and level flight is not appropriate behaviour in the middle of a firefight. Consequently, some starship commanders have set out three requirements for making successful witchjumps under combat conditions. These are: one, an absolute clarity of mind; two, an unerring sense of timing; and three, having very little left to lose. Hesperus was working on this list, albeit in reverse order.
Hesperus flipped open the plastic cover of the witchjump actuator, and glanced at Stepan. The navigator grimaced, nodded, gulped, shrugged, and screwed his eyes shut. Hesperus let out a long hissing breath and slammed his palm against the control. The first indicator light glowed more brightly, and began to pulse. From deep within the ship there came a low throb, rising steadily in pitch and tone as the witchdrive began to spin up to speed.
Behind the Dubious Profit, the two Mamba escorts swung around, spitting fire. Hesperus sent the Profit weaving as Stranglehold’s close, curved horizon rushed nearer. Then in front, rising from behind the asteroid, came the Krait, its engines glowing in the near ultraviolet. Black shadows rushed and danced across the dust beneath. The Krait’s laser flashed, smashing into the Profit’s forward shield. Hesperus cursed, spinning the ship through the incoming barrage, jerking at the control yoke to bring the Krait into his sights and mashing down the trigger. The Profit’s heavy military-grade laser lashed out, punching through the fighter’s shield and gouging a glowing trench in its hull. The Krait twirled and spun away.
On the astrogation console, the second, then the third indicator lights brightened, pulsing in sequence with the first. The noise from the witchdrive rose to an insectile hum, high and angry. The Dubious Profit shook, the deckplates vibrating as coolant pumps fought to control her laser’s surging temperature. The rear shields wailed as the pursuing Mambas pounded at them.
Hesperus rammed the ship’s nose up and around, muttering numbers to himself: nine, eight, seven …
Keep her straight …
Incoming fire slammed against the ship.
A little longer …
… six, five, four …
The attack alarm sounded: another ship, emerging from out of Stranglehold’s shadow, had joined the hunt.
Just a little longer!
… three …
The Krait, spinning, plasma spewing from its fractured engines, lurched in front of them.
… two …
Hesperus shrieked as the stricken vessel filled the screen, and clutched at the trigger. The Profit’s laser blazed out again, tearing into the Krait. The fighter vanished in a colossal flare of energy.
… one …
The Dubious Profit’s laser cut out as its internal temperature hit its operational ceiling. Simultaneously her front shield, catching the full effect of the Krait’s explosive demise, redlined and collapsed. The ship screamed.
… zero.
A radiant light, cool and blue and brilliant, washed across the screen. The final indicator glowed, pulsing in harmony with the others. The Dubious Profit was inside a wormhole, safe from all outside harm. There was, now, no “outside” at all: riding the witch, a ship was a universe to itself. The Profit now constituted an entire t
otality of existence, one hundred and thirty metres long by eighty metres wide by forty metres high, containing a knot of physical laws, a consensual timeframe, a small crew, and a dwindling supply of already bad air.