Van-Lyn shook his head. “I doubt it. Oh, I thought it would. Once my grandson was out of trouble I thought it would be nice to have a nest egg when I retired next year, and it didn’t look as though anyone would be hurt. I was wrong. People have been hurt, and more will be hurt. I think I’d almost welcome that blaster bolt.” He rose and shuffled out.
Micah stared at the door. Something would have to be done about Van-Lyn, and soon. The man was coming apart.
Micah sighed. There was no time. He’d just have to keep cajoling the old man until this was over. Until he no longer needed him, he amended. When this was over, well, even dreadnought captains could have accidents.
He dismissed Van-Lyn with a shrug, and returned to his planning. He controlled Van-Lyn and thus Nemesis, of course, and two of the three cruisers.
None of the five destroyer captains in his flotilla was part of Micah's organization, but he thought he could control or bully three of them, and perhaps a fourth. Jamro, of the Harpy, admired and emulated Fearless ' Captain, Rence Vidsen. If he could remove Vidsen from the picture, he should be able to control Jamro. Micah wasn't very impressed with Jamro anyway. He was a typical outerworlder. Coarse, no polish, and no respect for the finer things. A bumpkin. Jamro’s crew seemed to like him, though.
That damned Bendo. Running off to Cord with one of his destroyers! Micah sighed. It was too bad. The lad had potential. He was quick-witted, and his apple-cheeked boy appearance made him easy to underestimate. Micah could have used a man like Bendo, if he hadn’t bought all that Fleet propaganda.
Part of the trouble was he'd been hanging around with that damned Marine… what was the name… something odd… Oh, yes, Tor. Major Wil Tor. Ridiculous name. Outerworld, of course. He shook his head. Typical Marine.
He might be an officer, but Tor was certainly no gentleman. A barbarian who didn’t belong in civilized society. No wonder he'd been sent to the rim.
If Bendo hadn’t been hanging around with Tor, Micah might have tried recruiting him. However, there’d been no way he could trust someone who’d associate with a ruffian like Tor.
He shook his head. Marines! They were a constant irritation. He'd never really understood any of them. All that rah-rah esprit de corps nonsense and that ridiculous honor they were so proud of. He’d never understand it.
He shrugged. Well, now that he thought about it, he guessed they needed something to get men to obey orders they knew to be suicidal. But he still didn’t understand people who’d volunteer to let unfriendly strangers shoot at them. He shook his head again. Oh, well, for the most part they had their uses. But their hardheaded pride and honor could be damned inconvenient.
Then, of course, they also had no polish. Oh, the more senior officers could at least be trained to wipe their muddy boots before entering a building, but their manners were never better than the bare minimum required by fleet regulations. They couldn't be made truly civilized. They always managed to convey the impression that a wild animal lurked just beneath their surface.
Ever since he’d attained senior rank, he’d had to learn to tolerate Marine orderlies. However, he'd never been comfortable with an escort of killers.
He shook himself. He shouldn’t be daydreaming. He had too much to do.
All right, he’d have to arrange an accident for Captain Vidsen of Fearless. Preferably a fatal one, despite what he’d told Van-Lyn. Only a fool left live enemies and witnesses behind him, and Micah was no fool.
Van-Lyn would be upset, of course, but Micah could simply tell him the killing was accidental. With Vidsen dead, Van-Lyn would have no choice but to accept Micah's version of events. And if he didn’t, well, Micah still needed the old man, but only because Nemesis ’ Executive Officer wasn’t part of Micah’s organization. If Van-Lyn became too much of a liability, though, Micah was sure he could think of something.
With Vidsen out of the way, Micah could make an emergency appointment of one of “his” officers, bypassing Vidsen’s Exec. That wasn’t exactly routine, but was within Micah’s discretionary authority.
Vidsen’s death would also give Micah a chance to gain control of that Jamro boy commanding Harpy. The boy had a serious case of hero-worship for Vidsen. Vidsen’s death would be a shock. Jamro’s defenses would be down, and Micah could move in with a mixture of sympathy, understanding, and authority. In a month or so, he could probably replace Vidsen in the boy’s eyes. After all, the kid couldn’t be very bright if he could have such exaggerated respect for someone Micah considered an unoriginal, by-the-book officer.
He really didn’t like having people killed. It offended his sensibilities. But better that than to take a blaster bolt to the back of the head. He shuddered again.
Chapter VI
The woman who entered my office was indeed striking, in every sense of the word. Her delicate features were black as space, and framed by fine, loose hair that was as white as her skin was black. As Jax ushered her in, it was obvious he was smitten; she tolerated his solicitude good-naturedly.
“No purple fur, Commodore, and only two legs, but I’m a damned good Astrogator!” She said with a smile that was a flare of white teeth
I flushed. “Sorry,” I muttered, “I didn’t know you were within earshot.” I was relieved to note that she had a sense of humor.
I was having a bit of trouble concentrating on business. Nearly two meters tall, slim, and full-breasted, she was female perfection personified.
I placed her immediately. She was a native of Freja, a planet that was an anomaly. Scientists figured the planet had been a wandering rogue that had been captured by a blue giant. The planet orbited more than four A.U. from its primary, and had somehow given birth to life. The original colonists had nearly been wiped out by the sun’s actinic light. A significant percentage of every generation still died of skin cancers.
I read something once that said man had originally come in a variety of skin colors. They called them tribes, or races, or something like that. Evidently, these physical characteristics were the cause of a great deal of suffering early in man’s history.
Now, of course, we are for the most part a light brown. Over a period of time, the groups had interbred until this ‘tribe’ thing was little more than a legend.
There are exceptions, though. Frejans are black as space. On the other hand, Twilighters are an almost ethereal white. In both cases, the skin color was due to their physical environment. It isn’t just skin color, either. Heavyworlders tend to be small and compact, and heavily muscled. On Otarn though, a gravity of only 1/3 G has resulted in people who are unusually tall, thin, and lightly muscled.
I knew about Freja only because I’d been there. It was one of the few places in the Empire where the color of one’s skin mattered. Over time, the colonists’ bodies had adapted by producing large amounts of melanin, while the actinic glare bleached all color from their hair.
This woman’s space-black skin and white hair identified her as a “firster,” one of the planet’s elite, a descendant of the original colonists. On Freja, to have a light skin means taking extreme precautions against the sun, and is a mark of inferiority. Frejans are known empire-wide as bigots, and it was rare to see one of them off their planet.
I realized the silence was becoming oppressive and flushed again. I rose, and ushered her to a seat. We introduced ourselves. Her name was Ursulas Fjolking, but she asked me to call her “Suli.” Her handshake was firm. “I find myself in an unusual position,” I began. “I’m a trader, Captain of the Valkyrie. She’s a military surplus DIN- class Combat Resupply ship. My Astrogator chose to sign off here on the rim, and as you know, out here Astrogators qualified to conn a ship larger than a rim tramp are rare. So, I need an Astrogator that I can sign on for shares aboard a freelance trader.
“On the other hand,” I continued, “The Viceroy has recruited my ship and crew to help him resist a coup d'etat. Therefore, for the moment, I’m a Commodore looking for an Astrogator to conn a Command and Control ship that might see combat. If I’m satisfied with your qualifications and credentials, I’ll be able to offer any of several arrangements.
“First, I can sign you on for the duration of the emergency, and offer you generous wages and a free trip to
