Rebel (7 page)

"We have nothing further to discuss?" said Cole.

"That's right."

"Good. Then I'll have that drink."

They got to their feet and walked to the kitchenette, which doubled as a bar.

"Should I pour one for Cleopatra, too?"

"Might as well," said Cole. "If you don't, she'll just take the bottle from you."

"Damned right!" Val chimed in.

"It's a pity," said the Octopus, pouring three Antarean brandies. "We could have been great friends."

"You show me why you're better for the worlds you control than the men who want to pay me to drive you away, and we can still be friends," said Cole.

"So you
have
had an offer?"

"Almost. I decided not to listen to it until we were closer to equal strength."

Val took her glass. "Anything for
him
?" she asked, jerking a thumb in her opposite number's direction.

"He doesn't drink," said the Octopus.

"Does he talk?"

"He used to. Then one day he was arrested and talked to the wrong people. When he got out his friends made sure it never happened again and he emigrated out to the Frontier." The Octopus shrugged. "That was a long time ago, and of course we all have to learn to live with the consequences of our actions."

"Even you?" she asked.

"Even me," the Octopus assured her. "Though in my case, I expect to be able to put those consequences off for another half century, and with any luck at all I'll be dead by then.

"Another optimist," muttered Cole.

They finished their drinks, Val had a refill, and then it was time to leave.

"It's been interesting," said Cole.

"That it has," agreed the Octopus. "You have many qualities, Captain Cole. I think under other circumstances we could have been wonderful allies."

"If we actually merged our fleets," replied Cole, "there's no one left out here to be allies
against"

Which just proved that Wilson Cole was as fallible as anyone else.

David Copperfield scurried into the mess hall, where Cole was nursing a beer.

"Any word from Forrice yet?" asked the little alien.

"David, it's only been four days. I gave him and Jacillios a week. Now go away and let me drink my beer in peace."

"But we may be going into combat soon," said Copperfield, "and we need our First Officer." He learned forward intently. "I've got the details."

"Take some antacid," said Cole. "Maybe they'll go away."

"This is very unbecoming of you, Steerforth," said Copperfield. "You were never this flippant when we were schoolmates."

Cole sighed deeply. "David, we were never schoolmates. I grew up on Pollux IV and Lord knows where the hell you grew up."

"We
were
schoolmates!" insisted Copperfield. "You must never lose touch with history!"

"I think you're losing touch with reality," said Cole wryly. "Okay, David, what details do you feel compelled to share with me?"

"Whatever the Octopus told you about his fleet, he exaggerated."

"We never spoke about his fleet."

"Of course you did," insisted Copperfield. "He was trying to scare you off, of course. He could have no other reason to meet with you. But the Platinum Duke has found out much more about him. I think we should take the commission."

"David, you never saw a commission you didn't want to take," said Cole wearily.

"Do you want to hear what we learned or not?" demanded Copperfield.

"If I listen politely, will you go away when you're done?"

"I don't understand this attitude, Steerforth," said the little alien. "But to get to the point, it is true that the Octopus has three hundred and sixty-two ships. However, at least three hundred of them are two-man and three-man jobs."

"That's still a lot of ships," said Cole.

"None of the small ships have anything stronger than a Level 1 pulse cannon or a Level 2 laser cannon."

"That leaves sixty-two ships, David. What have
they
got?"

Copperfield swallowed hard. "Nothing we haven't seen before."

"I'll just bet." Cole studied the dapper little alien for a moment. "Come on, David. Out with it."

"Seven of the ships have Level 4 pulse cannons, and it's possible— but not certain, not certain at all—that the Octopus's ship has a Level 5 laser cannon."

"And just where do you think we've seen that weaponry before, David?" said Cole.

"The
Pegasus
had a Level 5 laser cannon."

"The
Pegasus
was Val's original ship, the cannon was never installed, and the ship's in a junkyard," said Cole. "What about the Level 4 thumpers? Where do you think we've seen them?"

"Aboard the
Teddy R,"
said Copperfield with a sickly smile.

"How many have you seen here?"

"Two."

"And how many does the Octopus have?" persisted Cole.

"I don't have the exact number."

"That
many?"

"Why are you embarrassing me, Steerforth?" demanded the little alien.

"Would you rather be embarrassed or outnumbered, outgunned, and destroyed?" asked Cole.

"But—"

"Go back to the Platinum Duke and tell him we'll pass on this one."

"But they're paying—"

"I don't give a damn what they're paying," interrupted Cole. "You have to survive to be able to spend it."

"I can't believe we're going to turn tail and run!" said Copperfield.

"We don't have a tail and we're not running," answered Cole. "We're just not accepting the assignment. Besides," he added, "I've got a sneaking fondness for the Octopus."

"How can you like someone like that?"

"I like you, and you've probably broken at least as many laws as he has."

"Nevertheless, I am sorely disappointed in you, Steerforth."

"I'm desolate," said Cole. "Perhaps you should leave me to drink my beer in miserable isolation."

"Bah! You're impossible when you're like this!" said the little alien, heading off to an airlift. "I'm off to report to the Duke, and drown my disappointment in an Antarean brandy."

Cole resisted the urge to point out that his system couldn't metabolize alcohol. He knew Copperfield wouldn't drink it, but merely order it for show—though after two years he still had no idea who the alien thought he was posturing for.

"Did you hear all that?" said Cole when he was alone in the mess hall.

"Of course," said Sharon as her image popped into view. "Your old school chum can't understand why you won't face Billy the Kid and Doc Holliday armed only with a flyswattcr."

"I have no intention of fating him, period, he outnumbers us seven to one, and more to the point, he's probably no worse than the governments that were running his little empire before he got there." Cole took a final swallow of his beer. "I've been thinking . . ."

"Just when things were so peaceful," she replied.

"I'm being serious," said Cole. "I think the reason the Duke has been having trouble getting us assignments lately is that we usually outnumber the enemy almost as much as the Octopus outnumbers us, and clients don't want to pay for ten times the necessary firepower."

"So?"

"So maybe we'd do better breaking into smaller units. Put ten or twelve ships each under Jacovic, Perez, and maybe Sokolov or Domak, and keep about fifteen or twenty under the
Teddy R.
There are probably a lot more assignments to be had that way. Right now the Duke is trying to get commissions that cover the expenses of close to fifty ships. We didn't have this kind of trouble getting work when we were a smaller fleet."

"It seems logical," she agreed. "There's not really much sense having this big a fleet if you're not going up against the Octopus."

"I think I'll talk to the Duke about it next time I go over to the casino." He paused. "By the way, how's Braxite doing?"

"He's still in sick bay. The medic says he's got cartilage damage, but he's no expert in Molarian physiology. Because of that he can't do arthroscopic surgery, and if he opens the leg up it could mean a four-month recovery and a permanent limp, so he's just prescribing bed rest and some anti-inflammatory medication until we can find a Molarian doctor."

"Too bad," said Cole. "Still, we can't have a different medic for every race aboard the ship. Is Braxite in much pain?"

"Mostly psychic pain," replied Sharon with a grin. "He's thinking of all the fun Forrice and Jacillios are having."

"Speaking of Four Eyes, has he contacted us yet about when he plans to return?"

"He's probably too exhausted."

"What the hell," said Cole. "He deserves it. And think of the fun we'll have teasing him when he gets back." He stood up and stretched. "Another dull day in port. I think I'll take a nap."

"I'll wake you in a few hours for dinner."

"Sounds good," he said, heading off for the airlift as her image flickered out of existence.

It felt like he'd only been asleep a few minutes when he heard an insistent female voice.

"Captain Cole? Are you there, sir? Captain Cole?"

He sat up groggily. "Is it dinnertime already?"

"This is Christine Mboya, sir. I'm on the bridge."

He opened his eyes and found himself looking at her holograph. "What's up?"

"We're getting a transmission I think you'd better see, sir."

"From who?"

"It's from the Braccio system, sir."

"Four Eyes?" said Cole. "When's he due back?"

"No, it's not from Forrice, sir," said Christine. "Take a moment to wake up and gather your wits about you, sir."

"I'm dressed. I'll be right up to the bridge. By the time I get there, I should be reasonably alert."

Cole got to his feet, rinsed his face off, left his cabin, took an airlift to the bridge, and stopped cold.

A life-size holographic transmission filled the far end of the bridge. Forrice was strapped to a chair. His face was a bloody mess, one of his four eyes clearly gouged out. It was obvious that two of his legs and one of his arms had been broken, the fingers of one hand mutilated. His torso looked like a piece of raw hamburger.

Standing next to him, staring into the camera, was a human male wearing the outfit and insignia of a captain in the Republic's Navy.

"How long as this been going on?" asked Cole.

"The transmission just reached us about three minutes ago, sir," said Christine. "It's being sent all over the Frontier on the broadest possible wavelength. I'd say fully a third of the Frontier worlds possessing subspace receivers can receive it."

"So this is the notorious Commander Forrice of the outlaw ship the
Theodore Roosevelt,"
said the officer. "The Republic has posted a three-million-credit reward on his head, which I will be happy to deliver after I have severed it from his body. The fee will be split with the establishment that thoughtfully and patriotically informed me of his presence here."

Forrice had been gasping for breath when Cole arrived, but now his breathing was becoming so shallow Cole could hardly notice it.

"Nothing will free this traitor, but one thing can keep him alive. I have asked him to give me the location of the mutineer Wilson Cole and the
Theodore Roosevelt.
As you can see, he proved less than communicative, as did his companion." The camera panned to the lifeless body of Jacillios, so badly beaten as to be almost unrecognizable. "I will ask him one more time. If he refuses again, you will all get to see what the Republic does to criminals and traitors." A pause. "If Wilson Cole is monitoring this transmission, you can save your friend by contacting me in the next Standard minute and giving me your coordinates. After that, we'll just have to find you ourselves."

Christine turned to Cole. "Sir?"

Cole stared at the transmission, his face an emotionless mask.

"Sir?" she repeated. "Should I make contact?"

Cole shook his head. "He's dead already."

"No, sir," said Christine. "He's still breathing."

"Even if they don't touch him again, he's gone in two minutes, three tops."

"Sir," said Briggs from his console, "I've pinpointed their ship."

"Call all the crew members back from the Station. They've got fifteen minutes. If they're not back by then, we're leaving them behind. Then coordinate with Pilot," said Cole. "That ship doesn't leave the Frontier before we reach it. I don't care what it takes."

"Yes, sir."

Cole continued staring at the holograph of his friend.

"Captain Cole," announced the officer, "your time is up." He placed a screecher next to the Molarian's head. "Commander Forrice, so is yours."

He fired the sonic weapon. Forrice managed a single grunt of pain. Blood poured out of his ears, his body convulsed once, and then he was still.

"That's it," said Cole. "Kill the picture."

"Yes, sir," said Christine, breaking the connection.

"Pilot," he said to Wxakgini, "we take off in fifteen minutes. I don't care how much fuel you use, how much strain you put on the engines, what kind of wormholes we have to traverse, just get us within range of that ship before it's back in the Republic."

"It doesn't look like it's going anywhere, sir," said Briggs.

"You heard me." He turned back to Wxakgini. "Give me an ETA."

"If it remains in the vicinity of Braccio, and the Mishwalter Wormhole remains stationary, ninety-seven minutes from takeoff. But it will put an enormous strain on the engines."

"Just do it," said Cole. He looked around. "Where's Val?"

"Probably sleeping," said Christine. "This is red shift."

"Wake her and tell her to get down to Gunnery. Same with bull Pampas, wherever he's at."

"Yes, sir."

"Now I want to talk to Mr. Odom."

Mustapha Odom's image instantly appeared a few feet away from Cole.

"Yes, sir?" said the engineer.

"We're going to put a lot of stress on the engines," said Cole. "Your job is to keep them working for the next two hours and not to warn me about the long-term damage it might do. And on my command, I'll want all power diverted from our screens and shields to our weaponry. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," said Odom. "But—"

"No buts," said Cole harshly. "Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir."

Cole broke the transmission, then turned to Briggs. "Mr. Briggs, you've got one hour to identify the ship in question, and hunt up the name of her captain. Christine, alert the crew and have them take up battle stations one hour from now." He turned and headed to an airlift.

"Where will you be, sir?" she asked.

"In my cabin. I'll be back before we're out of the wormhole."

When he reached the cabin, he found Sharon waiting for him.

"I'm so sorry, Wilson," she said.

"I know."

"It was just a fluke," she continued. "The Navy was never going to waste time hunting for us, we've proved that over the past two years. Some bastard spotted him and thought he could get a piece of the reward."

"Some bastard is going to regret it," said Cole grimly. "He was an ugly four-eyed Molarian, but he's been my closest friend since I entered the service."