And then, they all suddenly found themselves on the floor as the first explosion sounded.
12
"GODDAMMIT!" THE CAPTAIN ROARED, CURSING AS HE fell and hit the floor, and again as he scrambled back to his feet. When his officer had first approached the table, the captain had tried to minimize any panic that might ensue. Now, with the lights flickering and people screaming all about him, his only thought was to get down to tactics. His personal link in his hand before he was standing, he barked, "Swelver! Status—now!"
"We've got a single ship off the port. Distance . . . mark eighty-seven kilometers and closing."
As the captain began to cross the room, he noted a panicked knot of people in front of the door, banging frantically on it and clawing at its controls. Realizing what that had to mean, he stopped instantly, asking, "What the hell'd they hit us with? Flash pulse?"
"Yes, sir," Swelver's voice responded over the hand-link. "Planted it right in front of us. Precision spread. Caught our attention right off."
"Can we hit them back?"
"Sorry, sir. It was a right proper hit. External weapons have been shorted. Their pulse fried about a third of the electrical systems shipwide."
"At least," agreed the captain. Moving across the dining room to an unassuming console in the corner, he said, "People can't get out down here. Rather than waste any time on the door I'm going to plug in command from station D-four."
"Acknowledged, sir. We'll transfer all command control immediately."
While the captain moved off to the auxiliary post, Glenia Waters wailed, "Mr. Ambassador, what's happened? What was that explosion? What's going on?"
Hawkes debated whether he should tell the woman the truth, wondering if she could handle it. Not seeing any real option, he said, "Apparently, we've attracted visitors."
"Pirates?" The woman asked the question with fear measurably thick in her voice.
The ambassador merely moved his eyes to suggest that, yes, this was a possibility. Waters began to reach out to him for support, but Hawkes had other things on his mind. As Martel approached the pair, he pushed his aide to the task of comforting the woman, then moved off toward where the captain and his officers had grouped.
Hawkes knew better than to interrupt a commander at the beginning of a battle. Catching Pensaval's attention, he lowered his voice to ask, "What are we looking at here?"
"Depends on what they want, sir." The ambassador waited. Pensaval continued. "If they wanted this vessel, they should have tried to cripple us in a way that did minimal damage to the ship, but that would have killed all of us. If they were after cargo, any kind of plunder, really . . . same tack."
"Then what went wrong?" questioned Hawkes.
"Don't know, sir. They might have miscalculated."
"I doubt it, Mr. Pensaval," the captain interrupted. As Hawkes rotated his attention, the captain continued, saying, "My people have diagnosed their bow shot. Too neat to be anything but a prelude to boarding. Especially considering their present approach pattern."
"Boarding?" asked Hawkes, already knowing the answer to his next question. "And why do pirates bother to board a ship in space?"
"There are certain prizes they'll fight their way on board for," the captain replied. Trying to ease up to what they both knew he was about to say, he added, "Some cargo is too easily damaged in a killing attack. Deep space piracy also carries heavy penalties. Mass murder is something some of these sons of bitches try to avoid."
"And . . . ?" asked Hawkes.
"And," admitted the captain, "sometimes their goal is kidnapping . . . or target-specific murder. At this time, I would not rule out a direct threat to you. In fact, considering what we're carrying in the way of cargo . . . I would think it almost a certainty."
The captain turned and looked at his board again, reviewing the information being sent to him from the bridge. Bringing his attention back to his ship, he asked his people, "Where was our marine contingent when the lights went out?"
"Most of them were in their quarters, sir. I've already sent them to stations. I took the liberty of diverting one man from each squad down to the approaches to the dining room."
"Good," answered the captain. "Keep to the square. Try and get systems up and get a shot off at that son of a bitch. I assume the fighter bay is shorted out . . ."
"Dordman says it'll be at least fifteen minutes before he can get a ship out in the open, sir," came the thin voice over the hand-link. "And apparently that's going to involve him and his crew pushing one out into open space by hand."
Hawkes watched a thin smile curl one side of the captain's mouth. It told him instantly what kind of person the unseen Dordman must be.
"Relay my wishes for success to Mr. Dordman," ordered the captain. "And from here on, Mr. Swelver, our time being as fractured as it is, I'm giving you free rein to follow your own initiative."
"Thank you, sir," came the thin voice once more. Not bothering to answer, the captain asked,
"What's their ETA?"
"It looks like we have two minutes to contact, sir. Maybe less."
"Then—" But before the captain could continue, the main door to the dining room suddenly surged open. Instantly people began pouring out into the hall, even as the marines, who were assigned to their safety, tried to make their way inside.
Over the ensuing noise, the captain shouted, "Mr. Swelver, counsel Mr. Dordman that I'll be joining him down below. You keep the helm and do what you can about getting us out of this from your end."
"Yes, sir."
Communications were cut. The captain stood away from
