possible and destroy it without warning.”
“Despicable orders, but orders nevertheless!” pleaded Moline.
Matt continued relentlessly. “Orders you did not question? Commodore Jenks assures me that even masters of Company vessels are free… are required to question orders they consider criminal or immoral-it’s in your charter!”
“Much of what is in the charter has no meaning now,” Moline moaned. “Questioning orders is no longer encouraged or even allowed!”
“The charter reflects Imperial law. It does not supersede it!” Jenks accused. “Neither do the orders of rogue Company officials! Regardless of what the Company might or might not encourage or allow, you are still subject to Imperial law!”
Moline looked at Jenks and his eyes grew dull. “You have been gone a long time, Commodore. Who are you to say what supersedes what?”
Jenks jumped to his feet. “Honor supersedes treachery!” he practically shouted. “Duty to the Governor- Emperor supersedes any conceivable ‘duty’ to a Company… creature… in the office of the Prime Proprietor!” With a visible force of will, he composed himself. When he continued, his voice was dry and emotionless.
“If your ‘Mr. Brown’ had not been so conveniently killed in the exchange of shot with this ship, perhaps some of what you say might be verified and your own guilt mitigated to a slight degree, but not enough to save you from a rope.” He glanced at his own notes. “You testified that these ‘sealed orders’ were destroyed as soon as you were acquainted with them, so clearly even ‘Mr. Brown’ recognized their criminal nature. It has been established by numerous witnesses that Ensign Parr, whom I dispatched aboard Agamemnon, duly reported to the first authorities he met-Company officials!-the survival and rescue of the princess, as well as her intention to take passage on this ship. Numerous witnesses-virtually Agamemnon ’s entire original crew!-also report that they were transferred and sequestered aboard Icarus, a less powerful and capable ship, before they could report to any naval or Imperial authorities. Finally, both Icarus and Agamemnon were pressed into Company service! Imperial Navy ships and crews were illegally seized by, and placed into the service of, Company pirates bent on committing high treason! Regardless of any ‘sealed orders,’ these acts were no secret to you. That you continued in command of Ulysses is abundant proof that you made no objection to these other crimes at least, and obviously made no attempt to thwart them! Even if you are as utterly stupid as you would have us believe, you are at the very least guilty of being an accessory to a blatant act of piracy!”
Jenks paused, catching himself. His voice had begun to rise again and his fury toward not only Captain Moline but the HNBC itself threatened to overwhelm him. Matt suspected Jenks’s emotions were stirred by terror as well: not physical terror-he knew Jenks was no coward-but a growing terror of what they might discover his precious Empire had become in his absence. Matt could identify with that kind of terror: he felt it at the edge of his consciousness every moment of every day. He somehow managed to function and perform his duties-he had no choice-but he was genuinely terrified for the safety of one Nurse Lieutenant Sandra Tucker, who even now was still in the maniacal hands of the Company minion, Walter Billingsley… as far as they knew.
Matt cleared his throat. “Further demonstrations, protestations, or even admonitions are pointless at this stage. As previously stated, Captain Moline, you’ve been found guilty of the crimes described by Commodore Jenks. It is therefore the order of this court that you be taken from this place to the deck of the pirate prize Ulysses, where, according to the customs of your service, you will be bound hand and foot and hanged by the neck until you’re dead.” Matt glanced from the frozen form of the prisoner to the two Marines. “Get this bastard out of my sight.”
Brad “Spanky” McFarlane scrutinized the toil underway in the crew’s forward berthing space with a critical but generally satisfied eye. Standing in the steamy compartment where hardly anyone ever actually slept, he struck his trademark pose-hands on his skinny hips, his absolute authority over everything in his domain radiating from his diminutive but powerfully wiry frame. Before him, a party of’Cats adjusted shoring timbers while two men held torches against a warped steel plate, heating it to a dull reddish orange. Radiant heat from the torches and the steel they played against only added to the stifling temperature of the berthing space, even with the portholes open. Absently, Spanky wondered again what kind of idiot designed this ship and so many like her with the portholes in the forward berthing space so close to the waterline that they could almost never be opened-at least not in any kind of sea, or while the ship was underway. If it hadn’t been for the meager light they provided in daytime, he probably would’ve plated over them during the reconstruction.
Periodically, the smoking timbers were pounded against the plate, pushing it a little closer to where it had been before the large roundshot bent it inward. It was the last one; all the others that had been displaced nearby had already been reformed. The racket of the sledges against the timbers in the confined space was terrific.
“Almost there, Lieuten-aant McFaar-lane,” cried a ’Cat between blows. Spanky nodded. He was far more than a mere lieutenant now, he was “Minister of Naval Engineering,” or something like that, but he didn’t care. Usually he couldn’t even remember whether his “official” Navy rank was lieutenant commander or commander, but it couldn’t have mattered less to him. Nobody would try to tell him what to do when it came to his area of expertise, and right now, aboard USS Walker, doing what he was doing, he was the ship’s engineering lieutenant, and that was it. As far as he could recollect, he and the Skipper were the only officers currently on the ship still performing their “old jobs.”
Spanky and Chief Bosun’s Mate Carl Bashear were inspecting the final touches on the repairs to Walker ’s hull. They’d already fixed several similar perforations acquired during the sharp action with the Company traitors. The hole that opened up the forward engine room had been the worst, not only puncturing the hull-right at a frame-but also knocking a double hole through one of the saddle bunkers. They’d salvaged most of the fuel, pumping it into bunkers they’d already run dry. They even saved most of what leaked into the bilge, just in case, but fixing that damage had been their most critical and difficult repair. They had found the roundshot that made the holes-and nearly took Brian Aubrey’s head off-rolling around in the bilge. Jenks identified it as a thirty-pounder. This struck everyone odd, since the Grand Alliance had sort of based its shot sizes on the old British system, and its closest equivalent was a thirty-two-pounder. The Brits themselves seemed to have abandoned the very system they brought with them-or adopted another. Oh, well, that wasn’t Spanky’s concern beyond the proof it provided concerning who’d shot it into them. Ulysses carried thirty-pounders. Even now, unless he missed his guess, her skipper was swinging for it.
“Nice to be able to fix something right for a change,” Bashear rumbled. It was a positive statement, but still came out with a tone of complaint.
“Yeah. Havin’ enough guys for a job makes a difference-not to mention havin’ somethin’ to do it with.”
Their labor pool and equipment list were far better than they’d ever been when they’d attempted similar repairs in the past; they had spare plate steel, rivets, and plenty of acetylene-even if it popped and sputtered-and Walker ’s crew was actually somewhat over complement for a change too. Almost two-thirds of that crew was Lemurian now, but they took up less space and more would fit. Many were Chack’s Marines, who had shipboard duties as well. Spanky was generally satisfied with the growing professionalism and competency of all their “new” ’Cats, and he’d long been pleased with the “old hands,” who’d signed on as cadets when Walker first dropped anchor in Baalkpan Bay, but there was just no way he’d ever get used to certain aspects of this new navy they’d created.
He sneezed. Lemurians sweated more like horses than men, kind of “lathering up.” They also panted. Bradford said they’d developed this somewhat unique method of heat exchange due to their environment. They also shed like crazy, and Spanky was allergic to the downy filaments that floated everywhere belowdecks when they were hard at work.
“C’mon, Carl,” he said. “These apes and snipes are working together so well it turns my stomach.” There were grins at that. “I don’t think we need to keep starin’ at them to keep them away from each other’s throats.”
“I just don’t understand it,” Bashear commiserated. “Whatever happened to tradition? Where’s the pride? You’d almost think they like each other, to look at ’em get on so. Ain’t natural.”
Spanky chuckled. The old rivalry between the deck (apes) and engineering (snipes) divisions still existed, but it had been “tamed down” a little without the caustic presence of Dean Laney aboard. He’d been of the “old school,” in which duties were strictly defined in an almost labor union-like fashion. The Bosun wasn’t much different, but he’d adjusted to the new imperatives. Laney hadn’t. It hadn’t been so bad when Chief Donaghey had ridden herd on
