“Daniel!” Adele said. She’d rotated her seat to face her console again. “I’m cuing this to you!”
Vaughn’s mouth opened, probably to protest. He was suddenly between Hogg and Tovera, backing quickly to the hatchway. Woetjans and the riggers with her in the corridor watched in amusement, but they didn’t get involved where they would so clearly be superfluous.
“RCN, this is Kelburney,” said the Astrogator’s voice. “I left the cutters where the relay satellites used to be, just in case something came through that I’d like to know about. Ten minutes back, Strete outside Tanais Base picked up a transmission saying that Admiral Chastelaine was lifting for Strymon with his whole squadron. I guess you know more about what that means than we do, but we know it means we’re headed back home soonest. If you’re smart, boy, you’ll do the same. Kelburney out.”
Daniel glanced at the Plot Position Indicator. The pirate cutters were beginning to vanish like dewdrops in the sunlight. Captain Strete had brought word through the Matrix to his fellows, then fled only moments ahead of them. Daniel really couldn’t blame the Selmans; not that it would have mattered if he had.
He hit the alarm button. “Ship, general quarters,” he ordered. “All riggers topside. Riggers will remain on the hull during transitions until recalled. Captain out.”
The Winckelmann’s plasma thrusters covered the RF frequency with thunderous white noise, but the laser communicator should punch through the exhaust iridescence clearly enough to get the point across. Another hour would have been enough; but the RCN didn’t depend on luck or prayer, either one.
“Adele,” Daniel said. “Give me maximum emitter output and a tight focus to the flagship.”
He cleared his throat and continued, “Princess Cecile to Squadron. We have an emergency. . . .”
* * *
Somewhere behind Adele, Delos Vaughn squealed briefly. She’d guess that Hogg was trussing and gagging the president rather than cutting his throat. Hogg being Hogg, you couldn’t be sure; nor was it a question about which she could raise much concern.
Both Strymonian frigates were sending increasingly shrill questions toward the Princess Cecile as they watched the pirate cutters disappear into the Matrix. The Achilles’s captain sounded querulous also, but since the yacht was unarmed—Adele had looked up the registry description—that wasn’t a matter for present concern.
The patrol vessels were. Daniel and the officers in the Battle Direction Center were concerned with the ship and Commodore Pettin; but Adele was the signals officer, after all.
“Strymonian vessels Two-Oh-Four and One-Twenty-Seven,” she said, using microwave because Daniel was on the modulated laser. “This is RCN Flagship Princess Cecile. You have your orders. If you violate them, we will destroy you without compunction! Ah, out!”
Were you supposed to say “flagship” if you were claiming to be a flagship? She’d ask when there was leisure, so she’d know the next time the question arose. For now, the terrified babbling of the Strymonian officers was sufficient.
“—the Princess Cecile will therefore proceed to the neighborhood of Tanais,” Daniel was saying, “and screen the remainder of the squadron while your crews board. Leary over.”
The corvette shivered as hydraulic jacks extended the antennas and spread the sails. For a moment Adele heard clang-clang, clang-clang. Riggers on the hull were freeing a jammed tube with their mauls.
“Leary, this is Pettin,” a voice replied on a laser beam from the Winckelmann. Despite the initial tight focus and the voice sharpening provided by the Princess Cecile’s communications suite, static roared through the commodore’s words. “You are not, I repeat, not to engage the enemy. You will proceed with utmost dispatch to Cinnabar and warn the authorities there of the situation in the Sack.”
Adele glanced at the image of Daniel inset at the top of her screen. His fingers hammered at his virtual keyboard while his eyes flicked back and forth at the data appearing on the display before him. Daniel was a sure and reasonably fast typist, but he put as much effort into his keystrokes as he would in splitting logs.
“Leary, there’s nothing a corvette can do to affect a squadron of that weight,” Pettin continued. “You’ve shown how fast you can push your Princess Cecile. Get home, get help, and tell Anston to get back here before the Alliance has the Sack sewed up. Acknowledge and get moving! Pettin over.”