Changer of Worlds

display with a tiny shiver.

“Nine-point-three-one million klicks,” Hirake said, and if the Captain’s voice was crisp, hers was flat. “We don’t have the angle on them, either,” she went on in that same disappointed tone. “The bogey’s already gotten underway, and we’ll never be able to pull enough vector change to run him down.”

“Do you concur, Astro?”

“Aye, Sir,” Saunders said with equal unhappiness. “Our base vector is away from the merchie at almost eleven thousand KPS, Captain. It’ll take us forty-five minutes just to decelerate to relative rest to them, and according to my plot, the bogey is turning well over five hundred gravities.”

“They’re up to just over five-thirty,” Hirake confirmed from Tactical.

“Even at maximum military power, we’re twenty gravities slower than that, Sir,” Saunders said. “At normal max, they’ve got over one-point-two KPS squared on us, and they’re accelerating on a direct reciprocal of our heading.”

“I see.” Bachfisch said, and Honor understood the disappointment in his tone perfectly. The pirate ship had to be smaller than War Maiden to pull that sort of acceleration, which meant it was certainly more lightly armed, as well, but it didn’t matter. Their relative positions and base vectors had given the pirates the opportunity to run, and their higher acceleration curve meant the heavy cruiser could never bring them into even extreme missile range.

“Very well,” the Captain said after a moment. “Astro, put us on a course to intercept the merchie. And keep trying to raise them, Com.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.” Saunders’ quiet acknowledgment sounded much too loud against the bitter background silence of the bridge.

There was no response to Lieutenant Sauchuk’s repeated hails as War Maiden closed on the merchantship, and the taut silence on the heavy cruiser’s bridge grew darker and more bitter with each silent minute. It took over two hours for the warship to decelerate to zero relative to the merchantman and then overtake her. Gryphon’s Pride coasted onward at her base velocity, silent and uncaring, and the cruiser was less than a minnow as she swam toward a rendezvous with her, for the whale-like freighter out-massed War Maiden by a factor of almost thirty. But unlike the whale, the minnow was armed, and a platoon of her Marines climbed into their skinsuits and checked their weapons in her boat bay as Captain Bachfisch’s helmsman edged his ship into position with finicky precision.

Honor was no longer on the bridge to watch. Bachfisch’s eyes had passed over her with incurious impersonality while he punched up Major McKinley, the commander of War Maiden’s embarked Marine company, on the internal com and instructed her to prepare a boarding party. But then those eyes had tracked back to his assistant astrogator’s assistant.

“I’ll be attaching a couple of naval officers, as well,” he told McKinley, still looking at Honor.

“Yes, Sir,” the Marine’s reply came back, and Bachfisch released the com stud.

“Commander Hirake,” he said, “please lay below to the boat bay to join the boarding party. And take Ms. Harrington with you.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” the tac officer acknowledged and stood. “You have Tactical, Ms. Bradlaugh.”

“Aye, aye, Ma’am,” Audrey acknowledged, and darted a quick, envious glance at her cabin mate.

“Come along, Ms. Harrington,” Hirake said, and Honor stood quickly.

“Sir, I request relief,” she said to Saunders, and the lieutenant nodded.

“You stand relieved, Ms. Harrington,” he said with equal formality.

“Thank you, Sir.” Honor turned to follow Hirake through the bridge hatch, but Captain Bachfisch raised one hand in an admonishing gesture and halted them.

“Don’t forget your sidearm this time,” he told Hirake rather pointedly, and she nodded. “Good,” he said. “In that case, people, let’s be about it,” he added, and waved them off his bridge.

Hirake said nothing in the lift car. Despite War Maiden’s age and the idiosyncratic layout of her lift shafts, the trip from the bridge to the boat bay was relatively brief, but it lasted more than long enough for conflicting waves of anticipation and dread to wash through Honor. She had no idea why the Captain had picked her for this duty, but she’d heard more than enough grizzly stories from instructors and noncoms at the Academy to produce a stomach-clenching apprehension. Yet hunting down pirates—and cleaning up the wreckage in their wake—was part of the duty she’d signed on to perform, and not even the queasiness in her midsection could quench her sense of excitement finally confronting its reality.

Lieutenant Blackburn’s Second Platoon was waiting in the boat bay, but Honor was a bit surprised to see that Captain McKinley and Sergeant-Major Kutkin were also present. She’d assumed McKinley would send one of her junior officers, but she and Kutkin obviously intended to come along in person, for both of them were skinsuited, and the sergeant-major had a pulse rifle slung over his shoulder. Major McKinley didn’t carry a rifle, but the pulser holstered at her hip looked almost like a part of her, and its grip was well worn.

The Marine officer’s blue eyes examined the newcomers with clinical dispassion and just a hint of disapproval, and Hirake sighed.

“All right, Katingo,” she said resignedly. “The Skipper already peeled a strip off me, so give me a damned gun.”

“It’s nice to know someone aboard the ship knows Regs,” McKinley observed, and nodded to a noncom standing to one side. Honor hadn’t seen him at first, but she recognized Sergeant Tausig as he stepped forward and silently passed a regulation gun belt and pulser to the tac officer. Lieutenant Commander Hirake took them a bit gingerly and buckled the belt around her waist. It was obvious to Honor that the Navy officer felt uncomfortable with the sidearm, but Hirake drew the pulser and made a brief but thorough inspection of its safety and magazine indicators before she returned it to its holster.

“Here, Ma’am,” Tausig said, and Honor held out her hand for a matching belt. She felt both the major and the sergeant-major watching her, but she allowed herself to show no sign of her awareness as she buckled the belt and adjusted it comfortably. Then she turned slightly away, drew the pulser—keeping its muzzle pointed carefully away from anyone else—visually checked the safety and both magazine indicators and the power cell readout, then ejected the magazine and cleared the chamber to be certain it was unloaded. She replaced the magazine and reholstered the weapon. The military issue flapped holster was clumsy and bulky compared to the semi-custom civilian rig Honor had always carried in the Sphinx bush, but the pulser’s weight felt comfortingly familiar at her hip, and Sergeant Tausig’s eyes met hers with a brief flash of approval as she looked up once more.

“All right, people,” Major McKinley said, raising her voice as she turned to address Blackburn’s platoon. “You all know the drill. Remember, we do this by The Book, and I will personally have the ass of anyone who fucks up.”

She didn’t ask if her audience understood. She didn’t have to, Honor thought. Not when she’d made herself clear in that tone of voice. Of course, it would have been nice if someone had told Honor what “the drill” was, but it was an imperfect universe. She’d just have to keep her eyes on everyone else and take her cues from them. And at least, given the Captain’s parting injunction to Hirake and McKinley’s response to it, she might not be the only one who needed a keeper.

The pinnace was just like dozens of other pinnaces Honor had boarded during Academy training exercises, but it didn’t feel that way. Not with forty-six grim, hard-faced, armed-to-the-teeth Marines and their weapons packed into it. She sat next to Lieutenant Commander Hirake at the rear of the passenger compartment, and watched through the view port beside her as the pinnace crossed the last few hundred kilometers between War Maiden and Gryphon’s Pride. The big freighter grew rapidly as they came up on it from astern, and the pinnace’s pilot cut his wedge and went to reaction thrusters, then angled his flight to spiral up and around the huge hull.

Honor and Hirake were tied into the Marines’ com net. There was no chatter, and Honor sensed the intensity with which the Marines fortunate enough to have view port seats, veterans all, stared out at the freighter. Then the pilot spoke over the net.

“I have debris, Major,” he said in a flat, professional voice. “At your ten o’clock high position.” There were a few seconds of silence, then, “Looks like bodies, Ma’am.”