Adele inset a red-outlined communications block in the upper left corner of Daniel’s display. The text read laser signal from Goldenfels.
“Vessel Princess Cecile,” an unfamiliar voice said. According to the icons, Adele was routing the signal only to Daniel and the Battle Center. “The Goldenfels has been allotted slip A-12. Don’t interfere or you’ll regret it.”
A ship was lifting from the harbor, circled in yellow by the display. Daniel had caught the puff of steam as the Princess Cecile passed over San Juan. It was one of the country craft, ships of five or six hundred tons. They towed bulk cargoes which they picked up in orbit, carrying only high-value items within their hulls. Without external loads they were ideal for smuggling and for piracy.
Daniel began to key in new course data; his face wore a smile. His fingertips hammered the virtual touchpad, but that was from the enthusiasm with which he always typed, not out of anger. He wasn’t angry. . . .
“Ship, battle stations,” he said over the general push. The sidebar which showed braking impulse blurred, then sharpened to reflect the course changes. “There’s an Alliance freighter which believes it can push us out of our landing site. The RCN is going to show them they’re wrong this time too. Initiating landing sequence . . . now!”
Over the roar of the thrusters on 80% flow he added, “Six out.”
Daniel was vaguely aware that he’d dropped back into naval parlance: in his mind, he was no longer the Captain but rather Ship Six. Very probably the crew had always thought of him that way.
As for the Klimovs, well, they hadn’t seemed like the sort who’d take to being pushed around either. If Daniel guessed wrong, he supposed it proved he hadn’t been cut out to command a civilian vessel.
“Todos Santos Control, this is Cinnabar registry vessel Princess Cecile,” Daniel said, cueing both the ground control satellites and the Goldenfels. He noticed from the icons that Adele was sending the transmission by tight-beam microwave not only to the Alliance freighter but also to both orbiting guardships. “We are proceeding as directed by Todos Santos Control to slip A-12, San Juan Harbor. Please acknowledge, over.”
His words slurred slightly from braking impulse and the thrusters’ vibration. Things were rattling adrift even on the bridge; God knew what was happening in the main compartments. The crew had expected to circle down at 1 g; instead they were dropping at twice that.
Daniel hoped the Klimovs were strapped into their couches, but he didn’t have time just now to check. An icon on the top of his display indicated they’d both have been talking to him if Adele hadn’t blocked the signals. That meant at least they hadn’t broken their necks.
“Control to Princess Cecile,” said a testy female voice. “You’re cleared to land. If you children have a problem up there, make sure you solve it before you reach the ground or I swear we’ll jug all of you! Control out.”
That was what Daniel’d expected and really the best he could hope for. The Sissie didn’t need the locals to sort out an Alliance ship for her, but if Todos Santos had gotten involved it would’ve complicated a situation that was already complicated by the fact Cinnabar and the Alliance were at peace. . . .
“Six, this is Six-two,” Chief Missileer Betts reported. “Target acquired, courses set for first four missiles. Over.”
Daniel switched to the Plot Position Indicator as his main display; the attack board, commo, gunnery, and realtime visuals appeared at reduced scale along the bottom. Sun had the pipper for the dorsal turret’s twin 4-inch plasma cannon centered on the Goldenfels, though at the present range the weapons would harm only the sails furled to the freighter’s spars. The ventral turret, offset toward the stern of D Deck, was still aligned fore-and-aft, but Sun had unlocked it.
“Cinnabar vessel, I’m warning you!” the voice from the Alliance freighter snarled. “We’re landing in slip A-12. If you’re underneath when we come down that’s just too damned bad for you! Goldenfels out!”
The fellow was still using a laser communicator, so the atmospheric buffeting and the haze of ions from his plasma thrusters interfered with reception aboard the Princess Cecile. Adele’s software smoothed off the burrs of static, but if the Alliance officer hadn’t been so angry he would’ve changed his mode of communication.