CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Nexus II,
ISC Headquarters

Rafe glanced at the windows of his office. A lowering gray sky, the warm, almost brownish, tone that meant more snow was on the way. Winter in Nexus City…not a favorite time of year at all. But he had vanquished Parmina and many of his stooges; he had the board’s acquiescence, if not their approval, for the licensing negotiations with Vatta Enterprises.

“Emil?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Check with Enforcement and make sure they’ve sent that message rescinding threats to…whatever that place is where…Space Defense Force is.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And get their chief up here. We need to have a serious talk.” Rafe looked at the sealed message from Termanian and turned it over and over. He could anticipate what it said, and reading it would only reinforce his own bias about the man. He didn’t need biases; he needed clear thinking. Had the man said anything, done anything, that had value he should recognize? He looked at the window again and saw the first flakes drifting past.

“Sir? They said they sent the message, but they couldn’t stop the ships…”

Rafe stared at his assistant. “Ships? What ships?”

“Uh…they said…it’s standard procedure. They sent ships to see if they could catch the wrongdoers—didn’t you know that?”

“No,” Rafe said. “I did not know that. No one mentioned it. What ships? How many?”

“I don’t know…should I ask?”

Rafe looked at him; Emil paled and disappeared from the doorway…to ask, Rafe hoped. Not that he’d wait. He made his own call to Enforcement.

“This is the CEO. Let me speak to your chief, now.”

“I—he’s on his way up to your office, sir.”

“Then let me speak to whoever’s left in charge.”

“That would be…Assistant Director Malaky…but he’s busy.”

“Now,” Rafe said.

“Er…yes, sir. Just a moment.”

“Yes, sir, Chairman.” Malaky’s tone, bored and annoyed, set Rafe’s teeth on edge.

“I understand your division dispatched ships to system ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112,” Rafe said. “Yet I gave the order to stop any further action against those people hours ago.”

“Well, yes, you did, but the ships were already en route—”

“In FTL flight? That was fast.”

“Well, no, they weren’t in FTL yet, but they were far enough out we didn’t think a message would reach them until they jumped—”

“So you didn’t even try?”

“Well, it would’ve been a waste of time, wouldn’t it? If they weren’t going to get the message before jump anyway? And we’re always being told to save expenses…”

Rafe clenched his teeth; the words that wanted to come out would not help the situation. He took a breath. “How many ships?”

“We had information from our agents in Adelaide that this so-called Space Defense Force had three warships of patrol and cruiser size and three fast courier ships, so we basically threw the whole sector force at them. We don’t want to lose any of our—”

“How many?”

“Uh…fourteen, sir. That should take care of them and not cost us anything.”

Rafe took another careful breath. “The point is, Malaky, that we don’t want to ‘take care of them’—that’s why I had you send that message rescinding the warning.”

“That’s not what it said.”

“What’s not what it said?”

“Well…you just said to tell them to disregard the previous messages. You said not to institute action against them. That’s not the same as rescinding the warning or telling us to quit what we were already doing. They’re still illegals, aren’t they? They still meddled with our equipment, didn’t they? And they can’t be allowed to get away with it. I figure you’d have sent the force along later, but sooner’s better if you want to catch them with their pants down.”

“Malaky, you will shortly realize that your reasoning is completely and utterly wrong,” Rafe said. He was aware that his voice had changed; he knew that if Malaky had stood in front of him, he’d have been hard-put to keep from strangling the idiot. “Tell me now exactly where those ships are, where they were, and what their ETA to that system is. And I’ll need their beacon IDs.”

“I don’t see what you’re so upset about,” Malaky said. “They’re the standard sector force; they left sector HQ when we first notified them, boosted hard to the jump point, and exited…seventy-nine minutes ago, local time. They’re in jumpspace now; they’ll arrive in two point three standard days.”

“Sir?” That was Emil at the door. “Chief of Enforcement Denny Cuthen is here, sir.”

“Ping my assistant with the beacon IDs,” Rafe said to Malaky. “Now.” He switched off, his mind racing. Fourteen ships, to Ky’s three? Even old, outmoded ships with less trained crews…at fourteen to three, and hers without a full load of munitions…he had to do something. And killing the chief of enforcement wouldn’t be the right something.

“Show him in,” Rafe said, settling himself squarely behind the vast desk.

“I’m glad you finally have time to see me.” Enforcement’s director was a head taller than Rafe, his head shaved bald, his implants bulging on both sides. The access flaps had complex tattoos on them. “You’ve been upsetting my people, nosing around, and you didn’t even see me in person first—”

Rafe looked at him; the man glowered back. He probably thought he looked tough, Rafe thought, but Gary or any of his commandos could have taken him down in seconds. Telltale softness below the ears, the jaw, where muscle had gone to flab.

“You have made a mistake,” Rafe said, in his mildest voice.

“No, it’s you that made mistakes, sonny,” Cuthen said, leaning forward to put his hands on the desk. “You think just because your father ran this company and wanted you to sub for him for a while, that you’re the man he is. Well let me tell you something—” He stopped abruptly, his face paling.

Rafe smiled at him, the nose of the weapon he much preferred to a needler—noisy as it was—pointing steadily at the man’s face. “You need to sit down and be quiet,” Rafe said, in the same calm tone. His hand didn’t move. He really did like the feel…it was one of the things that had impressed him about Ky; she, too, carried a Rossi-Smith with bloodbeast-tusk grip. He needed not to think about her right now; he needed to think about this…person…whose face now gleamed with sweat.

“You wouldn’t—” Cuthen said, almost a whisper and definitely pleading.

“Waste a round on you?” Rafe said. “That depends. Sit down. Now.” He let his voice carry more bite on the last word, and the man sat as if that word had cut his hamstrings. Rafe rested his elbows on the desk and brought his other hand up to brace the first. “You must realize, Denny, that I’ve killed quite a few men—using the term loosely—and it doesn’t bother me. So in your position, you might wish to be careful to answer what I ask without any unnecessary delay or insults.”

Emil poked his head in the door. “Sir, there’s some data up from—” His eyes widened.

Without taking his gaze from Denny Cuthen, Rafe said, “Later, Emil. And close the door.” He felt a chuckle trying to emerge and stifled it. This was more fun than he’d expected, but he couldn’t afford fun. Not with fourteen ships aimed at Ky.

“You’re…crazy…,” Cuthen breathed.

“Now, you see, that’s the sort of thing you shouldn’t say to someone who’s holding a gun on you,” Rafe said. He took his left hand away from the other, shook his arm a little, and the hilt of his knife slid into his hand. He flicked it around. “Or a knife. You see, Denny, the first mistake you made was thinking I was some witless playboy pretending to be my father. I’m not a playboy, and I’m not like my father at all…in some ways.” He flipped the knife up, caught it, all without moving his other hand.

Cuthen’s mouth worked; his eyes had moved to the knife but were now fixed on the gun muzzle as if he could see through the barrel into Rafe’s intent. Rafe hoped he could.

“The second mistake you made was thinking that you could keep fooling the company forever, pocketing the money that should’ve gone to our fleet—”

“I didn’t! They kept cutting our budget; it’s not my fault—”

“Even a divisional director’s salary doesn’t cover your expenditures,” Rafe said. “Or did you think no one would ever think to look at your financials?”

“You spied on me? On a division director?” Indignation overcame fear, for a moment: a flush of color, but then he paled again.

“It was my assigned job, to learn all I could about the corporation, so I could make the best decisions,” Rafe said. “So yes, I followed the money trails where they led.” He paused. Cuthen squirmed in his chair. “And one of them led to you. Money came into your department; money left…but not all to the fleet. You paid Despardeaux Materials more than their going rate for spare parts, for instance. Ten percent more. That’s…over five hundred thousand a year, and you probably split it with them, didn’t you?” Rafe shook his head, waggled the point of the knife. “Naughty boy, Denny. Some men I’ve been around would carve their initials in your most intimate areas before they killed you, very slowly, for something like that.”

“You—you can’t. You won’t…”

“Oh, I don’t know. You fellows down in Enforcement have some nice quiet rooms, I understand…”

“Please—”

“Let’s go on to your next mistake. Once I was named CEO, and you figured I was a stupid playboy, you thought you didn’t have to follow orders…so when I told you—told you, specifically—to inform all those who had repaired ansibles that they need not worry about our response, you chose to interpret that…loosely.”

“I told my people to send messages—”

“How many places did you send ships?”

“Uh…I’m not sure…”

“Really. Are you in the habit of not knowing how you’re distributing our resources?”

“No, but…but this was a special case, see. Some of those places, systems we’ve done business with for years, I could see your point, maybe. They’re frustrated, and they’re friendly. We can let them go, maybe, though I still think that’s the wrong approach. At least they ought to pay a fine. But illegals, like that whatsit you were calling about—that’s ridiculous. We can’t authorize every privateer or renegade merc company to go meddling with our property.”

“This is not ‘every privateer,’” Rafe said. His finger wanted to twitch just that few millimeters; he forced it to hold still. He could feel it, the darkness rising to a primeval shape of fury that delighted in Cuthen’s fear and would gladly delight in his blood, given the chance. “In point of fact, that is another mistake of yours. The Space Defense Force is new, yes, and small, yes, but it is a legitimate attempt to combine system resources to resist and eventually destroy the menace that attacked and captured Bissonet System.”

“How?” Cuthen had moved past that first fear to defiance; Rafe read his physical signs as easily as if they were printed on his face. He was going to try something; Rafe hoped it would be enough to justify serious violence.

“That is my business,” he said, knowing it would infuriate Cuthen more. “On my father’s orders, I did a lot of undercover work for ISC, offplanet. I have sources you lack, and I know these people are reliable. Now: your deputy tells me that you have sent an entire sector’s resources—fourteen of our ships—to attack them. Your life, Denny, depends on what happens. Your physical life, I mean. Your life with this company—your job, your income, and whatever assets we can retrieve from what you embezzled from us—is gone.”

The shock on Cuthen’s face was almost worth it. Rafe pressed a button on his desk, and Emil opened the door. Rafe was impressed: he not only opened the door, but also remembered which way Rafe’s firearm was pointed and positioned himself out of the direct line of fire.

“Emil, have Security escort Cuthen to a secure room; he is not to have any communications device available to him.”

“Yes, sir. I have Security standing by…uh…do you have a preference?”

Emil definitely had potential. “Yes,” Rafe said. “My personal bodyguards.” He was still sifting through ISC’s Security personnel records, and another two problems had been found only a few days before. Emil nodded, and two of Gary’s finest came in. Rafe didn’t mention their names in front of Cuthen. “This is Denny Cuthen,” Rafe said. “He has embezzled from this company and he has acted counter to my direct orders in matters that will affect the company adversely. I want him held in a secure location in this building, and I don’t want him communicating with anyone.”

“Very well, sir,” the man Rafe knew as Stan said. He had drawn his own weapon. “Limits, sir?”

“Keep him alive, for the time being,” Rafe said. “I suspect he may have concealed communications equipment on his person. Search him carefully.” He lowered his weapon to the desk, and slid the knife back up his sleeve, pressing the sheath clip when it was in place.

“You can’t—you can’t do this!” Cuthen said, his gaze shifting from Rafe to the two guards.

“I think you will find I can,” Rafe said. “It would be advisable to go quietly with these gentlemen and cooperate with them.”

“If you please, sir,” Stan said. “Stand up now, put your hands behind your head, and turn to face the windows.” Slowly, Cuthen did as he was told. Rafe, alert to the physical signs, saw the moment when he realized he’d lost everything. It wasn’t as satisfying as if he’d beaten the man to a pulp himself, but it was a start.

When Cuthen had been taken away, Rafe looked at the information Emil gave him on the ISC fleet. On paper, it was formidable, even knowing what he knew about the poor maintenance, the lack of upgrades, the mediocre to poor training. He knew what Vanguard was like; he knew Ky had hired competent ex-mercs for her fighting crew. But he knew nothing about the other two ships in her fledgling fleet; he didn’t count the courier vessels worth much. And even if the other ships were larger than Vanguard, and even if the courier ships had weapons and could use them, that was six against fourteen…

He called Malaky again. “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to send a priority message to that ansible, with urgent instructions not to attack Space Defense Force ships.”

“But why—”

The faint whine in Malaky’s voice sent Rafe over the edge. “You are relieved of duty,” Rafe said. “Stay where you are. I’m on my way.” He stood, unable to sit still, and called for Emil as he crossed the office.

“Yes, sir?”

“I’m going down to Enforcement. Tell my people to meet me at the elevator on that floor—” If anyone tried to kill him between here and there, he relished the thought of what he could do.

“Sir, do you want me to come along?”

Rafe looked at the earnest young face, and for a moment his rage receded. “No, Emil,” he said almost gently. “I need you here.”

His guards gave him a brief reproachful look when he came out of the elevator but said nothing, flanking him as he strode down the corridor to Enforcement’s warren of offices. “Malaky,” he said to the first person he saw. The woman paled and backed up a step, but pointed.

Malaky was standing in Enforcement’s communications suite; Rafe’s implant gave him the face, in its bland official-image expression. Now the man looked tense, worried, glancing around uneasily. The four on-shift communications operators ignored him, concentrating on their consoles. When the door to the com suite slid open, he looked up.

“Sir—Chairman, I’m sorry, I—”

“You’re relieved,” Rafe said.

“But sir, I—”

“I said, you’re relieved. Sit there.” Rafe pointed. His guards took a step forward; Malaky almost fell into the indicated chair. Now the operators looked from Malaky to Rafe. One started to stand, then sank back to his seat. “Who’s monitoring ansible Boxtop-zip-figaro-112?”

“Me, sir,” said one, raising her hand.

“Do you know who I am?” Rafe asked.

“Er…yes, sir. The chairman, sir. Ser Dunbarger.”

“Good. Then you know I have authority for this order.” He waited a moment for that to sink in. “You will immediately transmit this message, while I observe. ‘To the ISC fleet: Do not attack Space Defense Force vessels. Repeat: Do not attack Space Defense Force vessels under any circumstances’.” Rafe watched as the woman keyed in a series of identification and validation codes, and then the message he had ordered. He had seen a lot of ISC fleet orders in the past few days; he recognized many of the codes, and these looked legitimate.

“Sir…,” the woman said, glancing back over her shoulder.

“Yes?”

“Sir, you should know they may not get those orders right away. Our system stats indicate that the jump point is many light-hours from the ansible, and there are no relays in that system. Considering downjump turbulence and communications lags, they could engage those ships before they receive it.”

“Put it on broadcast,” Rafe said.

She paled, with a quick glance at Malaky, but spoke. “Sir…that will put our classified codes out for anyone to pick up—and if I broadcast without them, the fleet commander may decide the broadcast is a hoax.”

He wanted to think that was nonsense, but she was right. They should not broadcast the codes, and a prudent commander would reasonably assume that orders without the codes were faked.

“Don’t they try to pick up messages when they come in?”

“Yes, sir, but…but not if there’s a hostile force. Or”—with another quick glance at Malaky and then at him—“what they think is a hostile force.”

“So what you’re telling me is that they may not get this message until it’s too late.”

She looked down at her hands, motionless now on the console. “Yes, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but really—once we send a fleet, it’s pretty much out of our hands.”

“Very well,” Rafe said, trying for an even tone. It was not the operator’s fault. “Thank you for the explanation.” That came out in a rasp; he cleared his throat. When he glanced at Malaky, the man cowered visibly in his chair, but he had no time to savor that. Ky was still in danger of being destroyed by his own people.

He had to contact her directly; he had to warn her. His imagination raced: she would have known the first message, she would have known the second. She would think ISC had given up pursuit, maybe. When fourteen ships came through the jump point, would she even believe they were ISC? Would she think they were pirates? What would she do? Run, he hoped. He knew in his heart she wouldn’t run.

Aboard Vanguard

Sleep, as Hugh had said, was a duty for ship officers. Ky thought about activating her implant’s sleep function again; her thoughts raced, and she felt as relaxed as a steel bar. Instead, she tried visualizing the color pattern she’d been taught as a child, struggling to find the harmony again. That didn’t work, either. She tried inventorying every ship component she could think of, but found herself concentrating too hard on that, worrying when she couldn’t remember them all.

Good news, then: that could put people to sleep. Stella seemed to be doing well, and Toby. She grinned, thinking of Toby and Rascal. Quincy had said Toby was ferociously bright; she remembered that he had helped install the defensive suite, and then had figured out that it was defective and how to fix it. Thinking of Toby brought up the memory of Rafe, and Rafe was definitely not a soporific thought. Her implant provided a crisper image of that rakehell face than memory could provide. Where was he now? Had he made it safely to his family? Had they rejected him again? Their last conversation—his story about what made him what he was, that attempted abduction, his defense of himself and his sister, the consequences—ran through her mind, word for word. What a thing to have in common with the man you…well, not loved. Were intrigued by, maybe. Felt more alive around, maybe.

“Captain?”

Sighing, Ky fumbled around the head of the bed for the com button. “Yes,” she said. “What is it?” She’d been lying in bed for three solid hours, the chronometer told her, and she hadn’t slept yet.

“Signal that Bassoon relayed to us. ISC sent another message and said to disregard the previous ones.”

“Did they say why?”

“No. Just that.”

“That’s odd,” Ky said. “A relief, but odd. I wonder what’s going on with them.” Suddenly she felt sleepy; she must have been more concerned about ISC’s possible intervention than she’d admitted to anyone, even herself. “Thanks for letting me know,” she said. “I’m going back to sleep.”

Next shift, she woke feeling much less anxious about the days until the Mackensee relief convoy arrived. If the pirates had been planning to move in after a successful attack, ambush the returning Mackensee convoy, either they had changed their minds or…she didn’t think they would attack now. Not that she planned to let down her guard.

After breakfast, she visited Master Sergeant Pitt in the quarters assigned to the Mackensee refugees. “I’m going to visit the wounded; I thought you’d like to come along,” she said.

“Thank you, Captain,” Pitt said.

As they walked, Ky asked, “How are your people doing? Anything I should know?”

“My best card player won some money off some of yours; if that’s a problem—”

“No,” Ky said. “Unless they end up owning the ship.”

“I don’t have much else for them to do, you see,” Pitt said. “If you have any lengthy chores—I’m sure there are things you don’t want our people to see or touch, but we’ve cleaned the spaces assigned to us beyond our own standards—not that they were dirty…”

“We have a gym, you know,” Ky said. “There’s plenty of room for them to exercise; I wouldn’t want to expend our ammunition on the firing range, but you could use those facilities in rotation with my people.”

“That would be a help, Captain,” Pitt said. “They’re good people, but just sitting around is not what they do best.”

Ky paused and tapped into the ship’s internal com. “Hugh,” she said. “Would you check the schedule for the gym, and put the Mackensee troops on the rotation? Master Sergeant, how many would you want to send at a time?”

“Half of them,” Pitt said.

“Two groups,” Ky said to Hugh.

“Will do,” he said. “Do you want me to contact you about this, or Master Sergeant Pitt?”

“Me—she’s with me now; we’re going to visit their wounded.”

“A few minutes, Captain,” Hugh said. “I’ll have a list of what machines are available and all that. Firing range, too?”

“No, not that. But everything else.”

In the sick bay, two of the wounded were now in bed, wired and tubed extensively. One was conscious, only lightly sedated. Ky let Pitt approach him while she spoke to the medical staff.

“He’s in the best shape,” the surgeon reported. “He needs some tank time, and I expect they’ll want to revise some of the emergency repairs, but he’ll be out of bed in another twenty-four hours. The other one—” He glanced over at the bed where soft snores indicated the inhabitant was asleep. “—had some implant damage and he hasn’t come back to full consciousness. The medbox can sustain him, but we think he’s just aware enough to start physical therapy. The others—the chest injury’s in fast-heal mode; he’ll be in the box another three days, and of course he’s kept sedated there. The one with the pulped legs—we’ve been in contact with the Mackensee medical team on Metaire, and they want us to try to save as much as we can for direct tissue transfer after implanting limb-buds. We’re doing our best, but I’m concerned that one of the legs is developing anoxia. See here—” He put up a visual that meant nothing to Ky, bands of color on an outlined leg shape. “I’m going to tell Doctor Santino on Metaire this morning that I think amputation is necessary. He may want a transfer back to their facility, now that things have settled down. I presume that won’t be a problem?”

Only a matter of microjumping a couple of light-hours and then easing into position near enough for Metaire’s shuttles to make the transfer quickly…but that wasn’t the medical team’s problem. The communications lag might be. “You know we’ve moved away from Metaire,” she said. “Will his condition be stable long enough for them to reply, or do we need to reposition the ship now?”

“I need an answer within an hour,” the surgeon said. “Or it may be too late to do anything but amputate.”

“We’ll move the ship, then,” Ky said. She turned to Pitt. “We’re going to move closer to Metaire,” she said. “Our surgeon needs to talk to your surgeons about some of your people. You can stay here if you like; I need to get to the bridge.”

The precision microjump was no problem, with all the practice Ky had insisted on, and Ky reassured Metaire the moment they reappeared nearby that the move was not in response to an enemy threat. When she explained the circumstances, one of Metaire’s surgeons and his medical team boarded a shuttle; as Ky had Vanguard ease toward Metaire, the shuttle approached.

Ky went down to the lock to meet them, wondering if there were any way a shuttle bay could be retrofitted to Vanguard’s hull. This business of having to transfer personnel by tube made it obvious that Vanguard was just a converted cargo ship. The big cargo bay hatches would admit a shuttle…but that’s where her missile batteries and missile storage were. What she needed was a purpose-built warship, designed from the start for war. What she really needed was a government or two to fund such a purchase.

“We want to evaluate him ourselves,” the surgeon said after Ky greeted them.

“Of course,” she said, leading the way to sick bay. “This is Doctor Moshalla—” The doctors eyed each other a moment, then dove into medical jargon where Ky could not follow. She returned to the bridge and checked in with the other ships.

“We haven’t found any other stealthed ships,” Ransome reported. “We’re fairly sure there aren’t any, as I’ve had one of our people monitoring the channels the pirates used, and they’ve been silent.”

“Excellent,” Ky said. “Though that doesn’t prove no one’s here, it does indicate that if someone is, whatever they know isn’t going to the enemy.” Or that they knew the enemy was somewhere in FTL flight, on the way. “Keep monitoring, just in case. You have a crew aboard that stealthed ship you boarded, right?”

“Yes, I do, but if you could give us a relief crew—it’s pretty unpleasant over there, they say. A bit of a hovel, actually. They cleaned it up as best they could, but it’s not up to the standards of my ships.”

Ky considered. Mackensee were the ones with spare people, but she didn’t want to give them possession of a ship she felt entitled to. But if she let Pitt’s people do some of the work aboard Vanguard, she could send a prize crew to…whatever its name was. She’d want to have Pettygrew’s tech Lattin along, too, to modify the ansible and see what kinds of scan the pirates had been using.

“We’re about to do a medical transfer,” she said. “When that’s done, I’ll come out and put my people aboard her with thanks for your efforts in the meantime.”

“That’s fine, Captain Vatta. We’re honored to be associated with you, and we will keep the ship secure until you arrive.”

Before she could contact Pettygrew to ask for the loan of Dozi Lattin, a message came up from sick bay that the surgeons had decided to transfer two of the Mackensee casualties back to Metaire. Preparing them for transport took over an hour; Ky called Pettygrew and Argelos both, and each agreed to lend her one or two people. Argelos recommended his Slotter Key military adviser for temporary captain.

“Will he do what I tell him?” Ky asked. She had still not met the man who had been so negative about her in the beginning.

“Oh, yes,” Argelos said. “He’s admitted he misjudged you, based on biased reports after you…left the Academy. He was there only one term before being yanked away to be an adviser to privateers. His name’s Yamini.”

The name meant nothing to Ky. “I’d still like to meet him—at least see his face on the screen.”

“Of course,” Argelos said. “Bistaf, come over here. Captain Vatta wants to talk to you face-to-face.”

The face on the screen was only vaguely familiar. Ky’s father’s implant had no catalog of Spaceforce Academy’s faculty; she finally remembered that he had been a new tactics instructor her last term. No wonder he’d had a negative view of her. “I’m Major Yamini,” he said. “You won’t remember me—I didn’t have you in class.”

“You taught junior tactics, didn’t you?” Ky asked. “You were in the catalog…”

“Yes. I need to apologize for my attitude, Captain Vatta. When Captain Argelos first told me you were trying to get an organization of privateers together, I thought—well, I thought you were as wild and irresponsible as they’d said when you were asked to resign.”

“My question now is whether you feel able to follow my orders, if you are chosen to captain the stealthed ship we found,” Ky said.

“Absolutely, Captain Vatta. I have no qualms at all now. And I do have skills you might find useful: that ship’s computer may well contain information about the pirates’ tactical capacity. I know that so far we have seen them use only fairly simple—but effective—attacks, but if they have something else in their arsenal, I might be able to find and analyze it.”

“Very well,” Ky said. She was glad not to have to give up any of her own bridge personnel except a pilot. “When we’ve completed this medical transfer, Vanguard will jump to your position; we’ll pick you up. Then we’ll go get Lattin, Pettygrew’s talented communications tech, and the environmental tech he’s offered me, and we’ll take you all out to the ship. I expect to be making your transfer within the hour; I look forward to meeting you in person.”

“And I you, Captain Vatta,” he said.

Ky went on to set up the transfer time with Captain Pettygrew; he offered instead to jump out to the stealthed ship and transfer Lattin directly.

“I worry about clustering our ships like that,” Ky said. “But if you want to do it now, that’s a good idea. Just be sure to tell Ransome that you’re coming in, so he can alert his skeleton crew.”

“I’ll do that,” Pettygrew said. “Then you want me back on station, I presume?”

“Yes,” Ky said. “I know nothing seems to be happening, but that’s when things do.”