“You weren’t aboard then,” Ky said. “Someone we’d picked up off the docks at Prime—someone from home—went crazy and tried to fight with the mercs. They shot him.” The less said about that, the better. “So—anything more we can use to fix this beacon?”
“Let’s just see what this piece does—if it works, the beacon should work. If it doesn’t, we have some more bits to try, at least.”
Reassembling the beacon took another two hours, but even before they closed the case, Lee reported from the bridge that their passive scan showed the beacon on.
“Only problem is, it’s not our ID,” he said.
“What do you mean, not our ID?”
“It says we’re the Mist Harbor, serial number XWT–34–693, out of Broadman’s Station. I’d guess that scumsucker changed the ID so when he put the part back in, no one would find us.”
“And nobody will recognize us for who we are, unless we can change it back.” Ky looked at Sawvert and Corson. “Can you change it back?”
“What he probably did,” Corson said, “was change out the chip. That’s what he did on the other—” He stopped; Ky suspected that her own face had the same expression as Sawvert’s, a mix of horror and fury. “It’s not my fault; I didn’t want to do it,” he said in a rush. “It was Paison—he was the captain, I had to—”
“Did you know he’d changed out the chip on this one?” Ky asked.
“No—I swear I didn’t. I didn’t even know he had one with him; I wouldn’t have thought he could, with the mercs just about pushing us out of our ship and into their shuttle.” He swallowed. “Do you have a spare ship chip? I can change it back.”
“I don’t know,” Ky said. She’d not ever thought about it. Beacons came with ships, already sealed . . .
“There’s a chip,” Sawvert said, pointing to a little piece in the box. “Where’d you get this, anyway?”
“I don’t know if it’s ours,” Ky said, about the chip. But if it came from MacRobert, what would it be? Maybe a generic Vatta ID? Maybe Slotter Key spaceforce? “In the meantime, Corson, since you seem to know so much about how Paison operated, what would he have done to our insystem drive?”
“I don’t know anything about drives,” Corson said. “I really don’t.”
“Even a fake ID ought to get someone’s attention,” Sawvert said. “And if I can fix your transmitter—”
“That would certainly help,” Ky said. “I’m not at all sure what this chip is—it was in this box of model parts, as you can see—so I’m reluctant to put it in. At least this way someone can get us on scan. Give us a way to talk to them, and we’ll be a lot better off.”
“Who is Mist Harbor?”
The chief scan tech on ISC’s bulbous command ship turned to look at the watch officer. “Dunno. Just showed up, but there’s no downjump signature.”
“Anything running around with no beacon is probably part of the problem,” the watch officer said. “We have a missing ship, and now we have an extra ship—let’s get a distance, heading, and mass reading on that, and see if it answers us. And if we have one ship that’s been running silent, there may be more. How’s the system catalog coming?”
“We have the data from Prime’s orbital station; we’re using that as baseline and plotting against it. So far no anomalies, but we’re only thirty-two percent complete. We wouldn’t have found this ship for another two or three hours. At a rough guess, it’s four to six light-minutes away, judging by signal strength.”
“Commit another two units and speed it up. Do you want Ganges to site some additional spindles for it?”
“That would help,” the scan chief said. “Real-time scans like that would cut it by half, anyway.”
“I’ll talk to ’em,” the watch officer said.
The scan chief turned back to his board, allocated two more computing units to the system catalog, and then increased the power on the active scan beam.
Two hours later, he knew that the Mist Harbor was in the same mass range as the missing Glennys Jones, that she was 6.1 light-minutes away, not under power, and did not answer a hail. The ISC specialty ship Ganges, having dropped four spindle-ansibles in remote reaches of the system, was able to get real-time data from them.
“That’s interesting,” the scan chief said. “Not only is Mist Harbor the same general size as our missing Vatta ship, but there are two other ships out there lying doggo. One’s here”—he pointed, as the watch officer came up beside him—”and one there. I do like that fine-resolution scan we added.”
“A year ago we wouldn’t have spotted them,” the watch officer agreed. “Nice work. I’ll pass the word up . . . wonder if that is the Glennys Jones and she was captured by the bad guys. Doesn’t look good for Vatta if that’s true.”
“Sir!” One of the junior techs waved for the chief’s attention. “Mist Harbor’s beacon has gone—no, there it is—look at it—”
The beacon icon blinked on and off, in a rhythm not quite regular.
“Power failure? Fuel expended?”
“No, sir. I’d bet my next raise it’s a signal code of some kind. There are dozens of those blinker codes on various planets. This one’s from—what did the registration say?”
“Assume it’s the Vatta ship, from Slotter Key. Can we translate it?”
“Without translating it, it’s got to mean that their transmission capability is gone, and they’re trying to signal . . . which still doesn’t tell us who’s in control.”
“At least whoever’s looking knows a ship is here,” Ky said. “They may not care about the Mist Harbor, but they’re bound to care that a ship appeared out of nowhere with no downjump turbulence. Someone will come investigate.”
“In time?” asked Corson. He looked pale.
“We may be very hungry, but we’ll be alive, I’m sure,” Ky said with more certainty than she felt. Her stomach growled.
“What if one of Paison’s ships gets to us first?” he asked.
“Why would they? ISC is here in force; their best move is to lie low or go away quickly.”
“They think Paison’s on this ship; he’s their commander. He’d be trying to rendezvous. When they don’t hear from him, they will come looking.”
“Honor among thieves, eh?” Ky shook her head. “I don’t believe it; I think they’ll run off or stay hidden.”
“You don’t understand how they work,” Corson said.
Ky cocked her head at him. “Are you going to explain, or just complain? Either get busy helping Sawvert fix the transmitter, or I’ll have you escorted back to the others.”
He looked scared, and bent to his work. But a half hour later, he shook his head. “Can’t be done,” he said.
“He’s right,” Sawvert said. “The problem here is mechanical as well as parts missing. Things have been bent, ripped—”
“So he didn’t plan on using our transmitter,” Ky said. “He was more interested in preventing any of us from calling for help. He did plan on using the beacon. How was he going to signal his other ships?” The answer came to her almost as she asked. “The ship chip change. The signal to his allies is the change in the beacon. They would figure that only he could get it back on, and changed to that ID. So basically—we’ve just been telling them to come and get us.”
“That’s what I meant,” Corson said. “They could be out there right now—”
“We’d see them on scan,” Ky said. “Wouldn’t we?”
“Not if their beacons are off,” Sawvert said. “Though if they’re close enough, we might get them on active. He probably left active scan working, for close maneuvering, and he probably also had a small transmitter on him, for the same purpose. Something that would work within a kilometer or so.”
Ky scrubbed at her head. “We need to let the ISC know who and where we are, and what’s happened. What if we switched the beacon on and off . . . they’d pay attention to that, surely?”
“So would Paison’s people,” Sawvert said.
>
“Yes. That’s a risk. But the way I see it, they’re going to be after us anyway. Quincy—”
“Yes, Captain.”
“How well do you know that old code they used in the war? And do you think anyone in the ISC knows it?”
“Probably,” Quincy said sourly. “ISC has a database and a half. But I don’t. Best thing is to just count out letters. They’ve got the processing power to decode something that simple.”
“Again, maybe too late for us. But at least someone will have the facts as we know them. And I can tell Dad to send someone to Belinta with our cargo.”
“Cargo! You’re worried about cargo at a time like this?” Corson looked shocked.
“It’s a contract,” Ky said. “Vatta honors contracts.” She could tell by his face that he had no comprehension at all, but her own crew nodded.
It was easier, this time, to crack the cover on the beacon unit, and this time Ky knew exactly which piece to jiggle to disable and enable the beacon. Unfortunately, that still meant wriggling into the cramped compartment in an awkward position that she knew would make her neck and back hurt: she wanted the beacon connected to its running power system. She tested it, sending the ages-old triple-three distress signal, which Lee easily picked up on their own scan equipment. In the meantime, Quincy had written down a simple letter-number list.
“It works in principle,” Ky said. “Now for a message.” She scribbled down the simplest thing she could: the ship’s name, her name, the number of personnel aboard. “Read that to me one letter at a time,” she said to Quincy. “Have Lee check that that’s what I actually send.”
It seemed to take a long time to work through that first simple message, and Ky realized that she should have had someone else do that while she composed a longer one with more details. She wriggled back out, and turned to Sawvert.
“Repeat that message, and I’ll be working on more.”
Back on the bridge, she glanced at the scan. An ISC beacon was closer now, but she had no way to tell how close. No odd beacons, so if Paison did have stealth ships in the system, they weren’t revealing themselves yet. Could ISC pick them up? She shook her head. She had a lot to tell the ISC or whoever got her message, and it needed to be concise and clear.
“Glennys Jones, Captain K. Vatta, boarded by members of the Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation, contracted with MMAC to care for passengers . . .” No, strike passengers. “. . . captains and senior officers of other civilian ships interned by MMAC.” What was most important? “Arly Paison, captain of Marie, mutinied, destroyed transmitter, damaged beacon, accused as pirate by former crew, stealth ships in system, involved in ansible attack. Jake Kristoffson, captain of Empress Rose, with Paison. One crew dead, three mutineers dead. Rations low. Insystem drive inoperable.”
She handed that to Quincy for Sawvert to transmit. Minutes passed; she watched as the outgoing message came up, letter by letter, on her desk. While it was still in progress, the first response came in.
“Ship with beacon Mist Harbor now claiming identity Glennys Jones: explain discrepancy in ship ID, passenger totals. Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation reported total personnel aboard plus three to your number.”
“I just answered that,” Ky said to the bridge crew. “What’s that put us, about six lights away?”
“Yup. But I think they’re closing. They’ve got something that can microjump.” Lee grinned back at her. “I think we might make it after all.”
“I wish I knew where Paison’s ships were,” Ky said. Then she went on with more information. A list of personnel aboard, and their original ship assignment. A brief statement of her own contracts with Belinta and the Mackensee Military Assistance Corporation. The course they’d been on when they dumped cargo; the beacon ID of that cargo. A more detailed accounting of events aboard, starting with their departure from Prime’s orbital station. She was uncomfortably aware that Paison’s ships could be listening in, and might choose to avenge the death of their boss. If Corson was telling the truth, something she wasn’t sure about.
More responses came in from the ISC ship, as they received the messages. Questions, mostly, many of them she could not answer. Who had Paison’s local system contacts been? She had no idea. How long had Paison been in the system? She didn’t know. How long had he and Kristoffson been connected? She didn’t know that, either. Did she know if the Imperial Spacelines was implicated in that connection? Of course she didn’t. Had she questioned everyone concerned? Had she had autopsies performed on the deceased crew and passengers?
“They’ll be asking if I filled out some form in quadruplicate next,” Ky said. “They should have a list from the mercenaries of who was put aboard, and already know that forensic pathologist is not one of the specialties listed. Of course we didn’t do autopsies. We know exactly what killed them. I killed them.”
That question didn’t show up for another hour, during which they asked a host of other questions Ky couldn’t answer. She hoped they’d start offering her some useful information soon, such as when they planned to intercept and remove her passengers, something like that.
“Wonder who that is,” Lee said. Ky looked at the longscan display, where two new beacons had lit up.
“That’s an odd place to downjump into,” Ky said. “What’s the downjump turbulence give us?”
“No downjump turbulence. It’s like he was running quiet, beacon off, and then turned it on.”
“Like us, in fact. And we know who else in the system can manipulate beacons.”
“Going to warn them?” Corson asked.
Ky considered. “The ISC will have figured it out on their own. Still, we can tell them what we suspect.” She scribbled out another message and sent it down for the others to transmit. Her stomach growled again. With the ISC in the system, she was reasonably sure they wouldn’t be left to starve, but she still had a shipful of passengers and not enough food.
“Another arrival, if it is an arrival.” That one was clearly a down-jump transition, the scan blurry and finally steadying to show the now-familiar Mackensee beacons.
He was in the shower when his skullphone went off. Gerard Vatta turned off the water and answered; it had to be high priority.
“Gerry, we located your daughter Ky, and she’s alive.”
He almost fainted, leaned on the shower wall, and blinked hard to steady his vision.
“She’s had some problems; we don’t know the whole story yet, but she’s fine and the ship’s still whole. I’m sure you’ll want to send someone—have you already ordered a ship in?”
“Yes . . . Furman with Katrine Lamont is closest. He’ll be there in a day or so, if I’ve got the jump span right. Are the ansibles back up?”
“No, and won’t be for days. Whoever blew them did a thorough job. We’ll put in narrow-channel emergencies, but only for official use—at least we’ve got more bandwidth than pinbeams now, but not much. Look, it’s irregular, but will you accept a credit line for her until your ship gets there? We’ve frozen monetary transfers in and out of the system, and between planets for the present. We can have our lawyers talk to yours tomorrow, but I thought you’d want to know now.”
“Thanks, yes, I will accept it. Whatever she needs, Vatta will stand for it.”
He had to tell the rest of the family. He turned the water back on, finished his shower, and came light-footed out to dress. Myris, sipping breakfast tea, turned at his footsteps. “You heard something? Something about Ky?”
“She’s alive. All I know for now, but it’s enough.”
“Stavros?”
“Doesn’t know yet. I’m about to call.” Normally he hated using the skullphone for calls out; he swore it made his sinuses buzz. But this was special.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Ky knew that the rescue operation would be neither simple nor quick, but she had not expected to spend another three days nibbling minimal rations. A ship had to match course with theirs; they had to contrive a wa
y to move people and equipment between the ships. And worst of all was the slow, inefficient spelling out of every communication with the beacon. She had the crew taking turns at the improvised transmitter, but they all had painful backs and shoulders by now.
“Send one person with transmitter,” she spelled out, after being told that the chase ship was only nine hours away.
“Not top priority,” she was told. “What’s the condition of your passengers?”
Hungry, weak, cranky. What did they expect?
“Capable of half hour EVA in pressure suit?”
No, of course not. They’d been too hungry for too long. She sent No and wished she had a code for an exclamation point. Finally she had the message they were all longing for. Prepare to receive relief party with medical assistance and rations . . .
This whole thing of standing around waiting for boarding parties was getting old. Ky knew she should be grateful for the rescue, but what she felt was not gratitude. She tried to tell herself it was just the natural effect of fatigue and hunger, perfectly ordinary physical causes for irritability, but she knew it went deeper than that. She had set off on what could have been a boring routine trip or a grand adventure, and here she was being rescued like some twit in a story who hadn’t had the sense to stay out of trouble. She snarled mentally at the little voice that said, Well, did you? Conscience was a wonderful thing except at times like this.
When the knock came on the outer hull, she operated the exterior hatch—by now it worked smoothly—and was surprised to see that the pressure indicator dropped only slightly. The two people who came into the chamber wore only light pressure suits, hoods pushed back. One of them was Master Sergeant Pitt. She opened the inner hatch at Pitt’s signal. The mercenaries? Why the mercenaries? She’d expected a civilian rescue team.
“We’ve got a transfer launch tubed to your hatch, Captain Vatta,” Pitt said without preamble. “Should make it easier. Permission to come aboard?”
Ky did not point out that they already were aboard, and nodded. Pitt came into the little antechamber.