“No. I’d bet either Rev or Keltyr. Kelts would still like to make us pay, and the Revs want Scandya system.”
“The Argentis are heading home to spread the word? Or bailing out before they get embroiled?”
“Both,” she replied.
Van nodded.
“I’d estimate another thirty minutes to switchover. Not enough to get any sleep.”
“No. Not much.”
Thirty-seven minutes passed before the Fergus neared the restricted area off Gotland. By then, Lieutenant Moran had taken her place in the second couch, since two pilots were required prior to and after translation and when nearing restricted spaces.
“Switchover checklist,” Van ordered.
“Nets and collectors to ten percent,” Moran stated.
“Stet.”
“Detectors to full sensitivity…”
Once the checklist was complete, Van swept the area in-system before the Fergus, one last time, because once the Fergus shut down her nets in so close to Scandya’s sun, he’d be limited to the power in the accumulators. He was also limited to the fractional gee power of the unaugmented ionjets. The detectors only showed the Scandyan ships, the Rev battle cruiser, still in stand-down, and the RSF courier.
Van checked the ship systems again. The starboard converter was still only at eighty-five, a trace better than after the encounter out-system, but not good enough for another fight or sustained high-speed in-system operations. The port rear quadrant shield was out of the amber, but by so little that it might as well have been amber. Any significant strain—even a small chunk of space debris—would probably blow the shield.
“Switching over,” Van announced.
The Fergus continued to creep—or so it seemed—toward Gotland orbit control.
“Gotland orbit control, this is RSFS Fergus, inbound from Galway. Request orbit clearance.”
“Stet, Fergus. Request duration of orbit.”
Van thought for a moment. That was hard to say, but he’d never been parked anywhere for more than a standard week. On the other hand, he didn’t know how long it would take Sub-major Driscoll to repair the damaged converter and shield generator—if he and his techs even could.
“Orbit control, estimate three weeks. Maintenance required.”
“Fergus, request purpose of visit, and payment method for services.”
“Orbit control, purpose is maintenance, port call, and message pickup. Payment method is intersystem credit transfer, Taran military subset.”
“Stet, Fergus.” The slightest pause followed. “Interrogative excessive EMP in outer system.”
“Orbit control…source of excessive EMP noted, but Fergus was unable to determine source.” That much was true.
“Fergus…Scandyan System Defense Force requests any additional data you have on source. At your convenience.”
“Stet, orbit control. If we have any data, will send.” He wasn’t about to give the Scandyans the data and report he’d dispatched to RSF HQ. “Request lock assignment.”
“Fergus, your lock is Orange three.”
“Orbit control, understand Orange three. We have the beacon.”
It was almost an hour later when the Fergus slipped into the dampers.
“Orbit control, Fergus is secure. Request power changeover.”
“Lock crew has it, Fergus. Welcome to Gotland.”
“Orbit control, thank you.” Van wasn’t so certain he’d be welcome. He took the fusactors off-line. The cockpit lights dimmed, then brightened as station power—and full one-gee gravity—filled the Fergus. Van eased out of the command couch. The back of his shipsuit was damp, as it always was. And now, he’d have to deny having any data. The Scandyans couldn’t force it from him, and RSF certainly didn’t want him to provide it to anyone.
Chapter 5
After the Fergus had locked in to Gotland orbit station, Van had undertaken a thorough postflight and systems check. That had taken hours. After that, he’d approved the crew rotation for both maintenance duties and release time aboard the orbit control station. Then, back in his cabin, he’d written up his notes on maintenance requirements.
With those in hand, he and Major Driscoll had met and decided on what actually could be done—such as repairing the converter and the ailing shield generator—while they were at Gotland orbit control, and as they waited for whatever orders might be headed their way. No such orders had arrived during the next day, but it had taken them almost the entire day to track down the contract maintenance chief of the orbit station, and another half day to work out the arrangements.
Then, once those details had been settled, he and Driscoll had returned to the Fergus, and Van had begun writing the maintenance request report that he was required to dispatch back to RSF HQ. HQ would be less than pleased with the projected costs of the repairs, but they’d have no choice but to approve them, since, if anything happened to the Fergus, no one would want to explain that maintenance had been denied.
He’d worked on that less than an hour when he was interrupted again.
Commander, there’s a Commander Baile here to see you, ser. RSF commander, I mean, ser, came from Shennen, the female head comm tech, standing quarterdeck watch.
I’ll be right there. Van closed off the small console in the corner of the cubicle that served as cabin and office and stood, moving toward the midships lock.
I’ll tell him, ser. Shennen’s net presence seemed melodic, unlike that of Parnell, who always seemed nasal, or Driscoll, who rumbled.
Thanks. What did the commander want? Van wasn’t even aware that there was an RSF commander in Scandya system, unless he happened to be the military attaché to the Taran embassy. He certainly couldn’t be the commanding officer of the RSFS Aherne—the courier that had just locked at the station, presumably with orders for the Fergus. Courier pilots were always either senior lieutenants or sub-majors, usually women, because couriers were two-person ships, pilot and tech, with cramped space for no more than two passengers. They were ships built around beefed-up propulsion systems for high acceleration in-system and precision jump translations. Compact female pilots generally handled the acceleration and the cramped quarters better than men.
Van slipped from his cabin and dropped back along the ten meters of the main fore and aft passageway past the mess and galley to the two-meter-square quarterdeck—essentially the space inboard of the crew docking lock.
The commander who waited with Shennen
