nephew at comp.
“This is Sam Denton on Genevieve,” the voice returned.
“Sam, what’s my name?”
“Soldiers here,” Genevieve sputtered, and the voice went off very quickly. Elene
reached frantically after com as communications everywhere crackled orders to
stand or be fired on.
“Genevieve. Genevieve, this is Quen of Estelle. Answer.”
No one fired. On scan, ships, the hundreds of ships drifting within the null
point range, sat reoriented to embrace the intruder.
“This is Union Lt. Marn Oborsk,” a voice returned at last. “Aboard Genevieve.
This ship will destruct before capture. The Dentons are aboard. Confirm your
identity. The Quens are dead. Estelle is a dead ship. What ship are you?”
“Genevieve, you are not in a position to make demands. Put the Dentons off their
ship.”
Again a long pause. “I want to know who I’m talking to.”
She let the silence ride for a moment. About her there was frantic activity on
the bridge. Guns were being aimed, the relative positions calculated for speed,
drift, and the probable sly use of docking jets to increase it. “This is Quen
speaking. We demand you set the Dentons off that ship. We tell you this: that if
Union sets its hands on another merchanter, there’s going to be the devil let
loose. That the port of origin of any ship attacking or appropriating a
merchanter vessel will be subject to the full sanctions of our alliance. That’s
the name of what’s going on out here. Look your fill, Lt. Oborsk. We’re
spreading. We outnumber your warships. If you want a kilo of commerce moved
anywhere, from now on you deal with us.”
“What ship is speaking?”
They might have started shooting instead of talking. Calm them down; Keep them
steady. She wiped her face and rolled a glance at Neihart, who nodded: they had
them comped. “Quen is all you need to know, lieutenant. You’re far outnumbered.
How did you find this place? Did you get it out of the Dentons? Or did just the
wrong ship contact you? I’ll tell you this: the merchanter’s alliance will deal
as a unit. And if you want real trouble, sir, you go lay hands on another
merchanter vessel. You and Mazian’s Fleet can do what you like to each other.
We’re not Company and we’re not Union. We’re the third side in this triangle and
from now on we negotiate in our own name.”
“What is in progress here?”
“Are you able to negotiate or carry messages on your side?”
There was long delay.
“Lieutenant,” she pursued, “when authorized negotiators are willing to approach
us we are fully prepared to talk with you. In the meantime kindly put the
Dentons off. If you are willing to talk reasonably you’ll find us amiable; if on
the other hand… harm comes to any merchanter, reprisals will be made for it. And
that is a promise.”
There was the requisite silence. “This is Sam Denton,” another voice said
finally. “I’m instructed to tell you that this ship is going to put about and
that there is a destruct aboard. Got the whole family on here, Quen. That’s
truth too.”
Of a sudden there was breakup. She flashed a look at vid and telemetry, saw the
flare registered, suddenly grow, become a wash there was no mistaking even on
vid. Her stomach tightened and the baby moved… she put her hand on the spot and
stared at the screens in a moment of nausea, while static kept coming in.
A hand descended on her shoulder, Neihart’s.
“Who fired?” she asked.
“This is Pixy II,” a voice came back, rough and thick. “I did. They were nosing
zenith toward the gap; engines flared. They’d have carried out too much.”
“We cope, Pixy.”
“Going in,” another ship sent. “Going to search the area.”
There was at least the possibility of a capsule… that Union might have allowed
the Denton children to shelter there, for safety. There was not much chance that
a capsule could have survived that.
Like Estelle, at Mariner. Like that. They were not going to find anything.
Other blips were showing up, ghostly presences in the sunless dark of the point,
defined only as blips on scan, or by the sometime flick of runnings lights or a