Throne of Stars (58 page)

“I don’t want you to
pilot
the ship,” Roger said carefully. “I want you to figure out if
Beach
is piloting it to Alphane space. Just that.”

“The ship determines its position in reference to a series of known stars every time it reenters normal-space between tunnel jumps,” Jin said. “I can find the readouts, but it’s a distance estimate to the stars based on something called magnitude—I’m not familiar with most of the terms—and it gives their angles and distance. From that, the astogrator determines where to go next. They tune the tunnel drive for a direction, charge it up, and they go. But without any better understanding of how they establish their starting position in the first place, I can’t begin to figure out where we are, or which direction we’re going. For that matter, I only vaguely know which direction Old Earth and the Alphane Alliance—or Saint space—
are
from here.”

“Turn right at the first star, and straight on till morning,” Dobrescu muttered, then shook his head. “I had a course in it—one one-hour course—in flight school, lo these many eons ago. I forgot it as fast as it was thrown at me. You just don’t need it for shuttle piloting. We did a little of it on that ballistic to Marduk, but I was given the figures by
DeGlopper
’s astrogator before we punched the shuttles. I don’t think I can figure it out. I’m sorry.”

“You look sorry,” Roger said, shaking his head, and gave another of those one-cheek grins. “Okay, go ask around. I know Julian and Kosutic don’t know any of it. Ask the rest of the Marines if any of them even have a clue. Check with
all
of them, because we really, really need a crosscheck on her navigation. I want to trust her, but
how far
is the question.”

“Well, until we get to the Alphanes, at least,” Julian said.

“Oh?” Roger lifted one eyebrow at the sergeant. “And who, pray tell, is going to pilot the ship from Althar Four to Old Earth?”

“Come!” Roger called, looking up from a hologram of ship’s stores with a pronounced sense of relief.

He hated paperwork, although he realized he had to get used to it. His “command” was now the size of a small regiment—or, at least, an outsized battalion—including shipboard personnel and noncombatants, and the administrative workload was one of some magnitude. Some of that, thankfully, could be handled by the computers. It was much easier now that they had all the automated systems up and running. But he still had to keep his finger on the pulse and make sure his subordinates were doing what
he
wanted them to do, not just what
they
wanted to do.

He hadn’t realized how much of that Captain Pahner had handled before his death, and eventually, he knew, he’d shuffle much of it off onto someone else. But before he could deputize and delegate any of it, he had to figure out what was important right now, in addition to wracking his brain for every detail of the Imperial Palace he could recall. He knew exactly how essential all of that was, but that didn’t make him enjoy it one bit more, and he tipped back his chair with alacrity as the cabin hatch opened.

Julian and Jin stepped through it, followed by Mark St. John, the surviving member of the St. John twins. Mark still shaved the left side of his head, Roger noted with a pang. By now, it was long-ingrained habit, but it had grown out of an early order from a first sergeant who’d been unable to tell the two of them apart.

The twins had been two of the more notable characters of the trek across the planet. They’d maintained a permanent, low-level sibling argument every step of the way—whether it was who Mom liked more, or who’d done what to whom in some bygone day, they’d always found something to argue about. They’d also covered each other’s backs, and made sure they got through each encounter alive. Right up until the assault on the ship, that was.

The two of them had had more experience with zero-G combat than anyone else in the company, and they’d found themselves detailed to take out the ship’s gun emplacements.

Mark St. John had come back, injured but alive. His brother John, had not.

John had been a sergeant, a hard-working, smart, capable, NCO. Mark had always been more than willing to let his brother do the thinking and mental heavy-lifting. He was a good fighter, and that, as far as he was concerned, was enough. Roger would take any of the surviving Marines at his back in any sort of firefight, or with swords or assegais, come to that. But he wasn’t sure he’d trust Mark’s brains on a bet. Which was why he was surprised to see him with the other two.

“Should I take it you found an astrogator?” Roger raised one eyebrow and waved at chairs.

“Sir, I’m not an astrogator, but I know stars,” St. John said, remaining at a position of parade rest as Jin and Julian sat down.

“Tell me,” Roger said, leaning further back.

“Me and John,” St. John said, with a swallow. “We was raised on a mining platform. We were shuttling around near the time we started walking. Stars’re all you got to go by when you’re out in the beyond. And later, we had astrogation in school. Miners don’t always have beacon references to go by. I can pilot and steer by stellar location. Give me the basic astro files, and I can figure out where we are, at least. And which way we went to get there. I know the basics of tunnel navigation, and I can read angles.”

“We’re entering the first jump in—” Roger consulted his computer implant “toot” and frowned. “About thirty minutes. Did Jin show you what he has?”

“Yes, Your Highness. But I only had time to glance at it. I’m not saying I can tell you off the top of my head. But by the time we’re ready for the
next
jump, I’ll know if we’re headed in the right direction.”

“And if we’re not?” Roger asked.

“Well, I think then some of us should have a talk with Lieutenant Beach, Sir,” Julian said. “Hopefully, that talk will be unnecessary.”

“Preparing to engage tunnel drive,” Beach said. Normally, that announcement would have come from the Astrogator. Since she didn’t have one, she was conning the ship from the astrogation station so she could handle it herself.

“Engaging—now,” she said, and pressed a button.

The background thrum of the engines rose in key, climbing higher and higher as a rumble sounded through the ship. Roger knew it had to be his imagination, given the meters upon meters of bulkheads and hatches between him and the cargo hold, but he was almost certain he could hear a distant trumpeting.

“Somehow, I’m willing to bet Patty doesn’t much care for this bit,” he said softly, and Beach gave him a smile that looked slightly strained.

The engine sound rose and entered a period of prolonged high-pitched vibration. Then it passed.

“We’re in tunnel-space,” Beach said. The external viewscreens had gone blank.

“That didn’t sound right, though,” Roger observed.

“No, it didn’t,” Beach sighed. “We’ll just have to find out if we come out in the wrong spot. If we do, and if no major damage’s been done, we’ll be able to compensate on the next jump.”

“How many jumps?” Roger asked lightly.

“Eight to the edge of Alphane space,” Beach replied. “Two of them right on the edge of Saint territory.”

She didn’t look particularly happy about that, which didn’t surprise Roger a bit. Each of the jumps, which lasted six hours and took the ship eighteen light-years along its projected course, required a standard day and a half of charting and calibration—not to mention charging the superconductor capacitors. In
Emerald Dawn
’s case, just charging the capacitors took a full forty-eight hours, although ships with better power generation, like the huge carriers of the Imperial Navy, could recharge in as little as thirty-six hours. But they all had to recalibrate and chart between jumps, and Beach was the only qualified bridge officer they had to see to it that it was all done properly.

“Fourteen?” Roger repeated with a sour chuckle. “Well, let’s hope the drive holds together—especially through the ones close to the Saints. And that we’re in
deep
space.”

Ships, especially merchant ships on their lonely sojourns, tended to move directly from system to system, as much as possible. They couldn’t hyper into any star system inside its Tsukayama Limit, but as long as they popped back into normal-space no more than a few light-days out from their destination, someone would come out and tow them home in no more than a week or so if their TD failed.

Warships, which more often than not traveled in squadrons and fleets, tended to move from deep space point to deep space point. In the
Dawn
’s case, deciding exactly how to plan their course was an unpleasant balancing act. Too far out, and the failure of the tunnel drive—a real possibility, given the cobbled-together nature of their repairs—would maroon them, probably for all time, in the deeps of space. But too close in to a Saint star system, and there was the chance of a Saint cruiser’s wandering out to look over the unexpected, unscheduled, and—above all—
unauthorized
tunnel drive footprint which had suddenly appeared on its stellar doorstep.

“I’m in favor of deep space,” Beach said with a grimace. “And, yes, let’s hope it holds together.”

Despreaux stepped onto the bridge and made a crooking gesture at Roger with one finger. Her smile, he noticed, had a definitely malicious edge.

“My advisers tell me it’s time to get my game face on,” he said to Beach. “So you won’t have the pleasure of my company for a while.”

“We’ll try to manage,” Beach said, with a grin of her own.

Roger worked his jaw muscles and stared into the mirror. The face that stared back at him was utterly unfamiliar.

The Saint mod-pods were liquid-filled capsules into which a patient was loaded for body sculpting. They doubled as autodocs, and two of the four
Dawn
carried were still filled with Marine casualties from the assault. Roger had slipped into one of the other two and been hooked to a breathing apparatus. Then, as far as he was concerned, he’d simply gone to sleep . . . until he’d been reawakened in recovery by an unhappy-looking Despreaux.

Her expression hadn’t been because of anything wrong with the ship—they’d made the first two tunnel transfers while he was out, and everything was still functioning. It was because of his looks.

The face looking back at him was wider than his “real” face, with high, broad cheekbones and far more pronounced epicanthic folds around eyes which had been transformed into a dark brown. He also had long, black hair, and his hands seemed shorter. They weren’t, but they’d become broader in proportion, and he was markedly heavier in the body than he ought to have been. It felt wrong, like in ill-fitting suit.

“Hello, Mr. Chung,” he said in someone else’s voice. “I see we’re going to need a new tailor, as well.”

Augustus Chung was a citizen of the United Outer Worlds. The UOW was even older than the Empire of Man, having been a brief competitor for stellar dominance against the old Solarian Union. It still maintained “ownership” of Mars, some of the more habitable of the Sol System’s moons, and several outworlds in Sol’s vicinity—enough to retain its independence from the Empire and be officially considered the sixth interstellar polity. Its territory, however, was entirely surrounded by Imperial star systems.

The UOW survived mainly because of its value as an area where deals which weren’t strictly legal among Imperial worlds could be transacted. And citizens of the UOW did not fall under normal Imperial law. Furthermore, it would be difficult for the Imperials to look up much data on Augustus Chung, because UOW personal data was not readily available to Imperial investigators. In fact, it would take a formal finding of guilt in an Imperial court to pry any information about him out of the UOW. And if things got that far, it wouldn’t matter.

Augustus Chung was a businessman. That was what his documents said, anyway—founder, president, and CEO of “Chung Interstellar Exotic Imports Brokerage, LLC.” He’d been a purser on various small merchant vessels before going into the “import/export brokerage” business. His sole fixed business address was a post office box on Mars, and Roger wondered what was in it. Probably stuffed with ads for herbal remedies.

Chung was, in other words, a covert agent identity which had been “stockpiled” by the Saints. In fact, over a hundred such identities were available on the ship, which must’ve taken considerable work to set up. Given the logistics involved, Chung probably had just enough “reality” to survive a light scrutiny. It was a very nice cover . . . and one the Imperial Bureau of Investigation would recognize as such the instant anything attracted its attention and it ran a real check.

“A
tailor
?
Is that all you can say?” Despreaux demanded, looking into the mirror beside him.

“Well, that . . . and that I’m looking forward to seeing what Doc comes up with for
you
,” he said. He smiled at her in the mirror, and, after a moment, she smiled back and shrugged.

“All he told me is that I’m going to be a blonde.”

“Well, we’ll make a pretty pair,” Roger replied, turning and feeling his footing, carefully. Chung’s body was just as muscular as his normal one and, if anything, a tad more powerful. Higher weight, mostly muscle. Broad chest, heavy pectorals, massive shoulders, flat abdominals. He looked like an underweight sumo wrestler. “Assuming I can find a good tent-maker,” he added.

“It looks . . . good.” Despreaux shrugged again. “Not you, but . . . good. I can get used to it. He’s not as pretty as you are, but he’s not exactly ugly.”

“Darling, with all due respect,
you’re
not the girl I’m worried about.”

Roger smiled broadly. It felt strange these days, but Chung was a smiler.

“What?” Despreaux sounded confused.

“Patty is
not
going to like this.”

Neither did Dogzard.

The Mardukan dog-lizard was defending the middle of Roger’s stateroom, hissing and spitting at the intruder into her master’s territory.

“Dogzard, it’s me,” Roger said, pitching his voice as close to normal as he could.

“Not to her, you’re not,” Julian said, watching carefully. He’d seen Dogzard rip a full-grown Mardukan to shreds in battle, and he was not at all happy about seeing Roger down on one knee with the dog-lizard in its present state. “You don’t even
smell
the same, Boss; entirely different genetic basis on your skin.”