Galactic Courier: The John Grimes Saga III (93 page)

“A
man
, Captain. She despises all men, aristocratic or otherwise. Even so, she has her needs.”

“I thought that the other bitch, the green-skinned one, was satisfying them.”

“So did I. I have been refraining from prying into their sweaty amours. I’m not a prude, sir, but I am fastidious. And, I suppose, something of a snob. I could not bring myself to make love to a woman who was not, like me, a telepath. And, very unfortunately, such women are usually either very plain or very unintelligent. Or both.”

Grimes poured more gin for both of them.

He said, “It’s dear Wally’s love life that I’m concerned about, not yours. As long as she’s getting her odd form of satisfaction she’s a little less of a bitch than she would be normally. That goes for the Green Hornet, too.”

“That’s the odd thing, Captain. The pair of them are passing through a heterosexual phase. Not all the time, but for a lot of the time. Bestowing their favors upon the junior engineers. I don’t suppose you want to know the details . . .”

“I don’t.”

“That’s just as well, Captain. I’d hate to have to find them out for you.”

“Ours is a nice ship, ours is,” said Grimes glumly.

Chapter 49

THE NEXT CAPTURE WAS EFFECTED
without incident and Captain Prinn was ordered to escort the merchantman to port. Her farewell was a cold one. She did not even wish Grimes the usual good luck and good hunting when she and the prize were detached. Alone in the warped immensities
Sister Sue
cruised the space lanes, maintaining her listening watch, waiting for the Terran ship that was to be the next victim, that was to be the excuse the Survey Service needed to put a stop to the El Doradan privateering operations.

Grimes’ officers sensed that something was wrong.

Vessels, within easy range, were picked up by the mass proximity indicator. Some of those ships, identifiable by their routine Carlotti radio transmissions, were of Hallicheki registry, bound for New Maine with their rich cargoes. Yet Grimes ignored them. There were mutterings. Soon, everybody knew,
Spaceways Princess
and
Agatha’s Ark
would be allocated their shares of prize money—and
Sister Sue
had yet to earn a more or less honest cent.

There was one ship, passing quite close, that, like
Sister Sue
herself, was maintaining radio silence. Grimes knew who she was—after Mayhew had told him. She was the FSS destroyer
Denebola
. She had among her people a Psionic Communications Officer. Through the telepaths her captain sent a message to Grimes. It was: “Continue cruising until you fall in with
Epsilon Draconis
, New Maine to Carinthia with valuable transshipment cargo. Her master has been instructed to surrender without a real struggle. Her PCO, on articles as assistant purser, is a Survey Service officer. All other officers hold Reserve Commissions and know what is expected of them.”

“Long-winded bastard,” commented Grimes. “Commander Cummings, isn’t it? Never uses one word when three will do.”

“It shouldn’t be much longer now,” said Mayhew. “That’s just as well, sir. The natives are getting restless. I quote, ‘When is the old bastard going to take his finger out and find us a prize?’ According to Sparks he’s missed at least four good chances since Aggie left us . . . And, ‘He’s scared, that’s why. He needs at least one other ship to hold his hand when he makes like a bold, bad pirate . . .’”

“Mphm!” grunted Grimes indignantly around the stem of his pipe.

At last a spark of light that could only be the Epsilon Class tramp appeared on the MPI screen. Mr. Stewart monitored her routine transmissions. Mayhew established telepathic contact with her PCO. Trajectories converged.

“But, sir,” expostulated Williams, “she’s a Terran ship!”

“Carrying the Hegemony’s cargo,” said Grimes. “That makes her a legal prize, a blockade runner.”

“Are you
sure
, Skipper?”

“Of course I’m sure. Our Letters of Marque empower us to seize Hallicheki cargoes, no matter by whom carried.”

“Even transshipment cargoes?” asked Williams.

“Yes,” said Grimes firmly.

(He would have to check that point later, he thought. Probably what he was about to do was piracy—and that was what Damien wanted, anyhow.)

***

The interception and the capture went as planned.

Epsilon Draconis
went through the motions of attempting to escape from the precession synchronization field. Captain Mulligan, his fat, florid face filling the screen of the NST transceiver, raved and ranted convincingly, shouting, “You’ll swing for this, you bloody pirate!” Mr. Venner went into his act with the quickfirer, raking the struggling prey from stem to stern. “Accidentally,” there was one round in the drum that did not have a reduced charge and that did carry a high explosive warhead. This blew a large hole in one of the stern vanes.

“Was that necessary?” roared Mulligan.

This time he was not play-acting.

“Are you coming quietly?” asked Grimes.

“Yes, damn you. But somebody is going to get the bill for repairs—and I hope it’s you!”

“He’s very annoyed with you, sir,” said Mayhew when, after the setting of a new trajectory for privateer and prize, he and Grimes were discussing matters in the commodore’s day cabin.

“That’s his privilege,” said Grimes. “I just wanted my act of piracy to look realistic.”

“You did just that. Well, sir, I’ve been in touch with
Denebola
. She’s making all speed to intercept. She has one of the new Mark XX Mannschenns so she’ll be showing up in the MPI screen at any time now. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go down to the wardroom to mingle with the peasantry. Venner, Malleson and Magda want me to make up a four at bridge.”

“Do you play for money?” asked Grimes.

“Of course, sir. It discourages wild bidding.”

“Isn’t it cheating, as far as you’re concerned?”

“It would be, if I used my talent. But I don’t. When I sit down at the card table I . . . switch off. If—
if
!—I win it’s just due to luck and skill, nothing more.”

“Mphm.” Grimes grunted, then laughed. “I remember that Rear Admiral Damien warned me against playing cards with Venner, but he didn’t mention you.”

“In ships where I am known for what I am,” said Mayhew, “I don’t play cards. For obvious reasons. And I do enjoy a game now and again . . .”

He got to his feet and drifted out of the cabin.

Chapter 50

FROM:
Kenneth Mayhew,
Lieutenant Commander (PC) FSS

TO:
Rear Admiral Damien FSS, OIC Operation Jolly Roger

Sir,

I have to report as follows on the circumstances of the death, in the line of duty, of Lieutenant Commander Victor Venner FSS.

As planned by yourself and others the Interstellar Transport Commission’s ship
Epsilon Draconis
, Captain Mulligan FSSR, was intercepted and seized by
Sister Sue
, Captain Grimes FSSR. After the capture normal deep space routine—or deep space routine as normal as possible in the circumstances—was resumed. After discussing various matters with Captain Grimes I went down to the wardroom for a game of bridge with Mr. Malleson, the Mannschenn Drive chief engineer, Ms. Magda Granadu, the ship’s purser and Lieutenant Commander Venner. Rather unusually no other off-duty personnel were in the compartment.

I freely admit that I should have used my telepathic powers to make a check. I did not do so for two reasons. Firstly, when I play cards with non-telepaths I deliberately “close down” the portion of my brain that acts as psionic transceiver. Secondly, I had become increasingly disgusted by the glimpses I had caught of the off-duty activities of various officers, these being Ms. Kath Connellan, second mate, Ms. Walshingham (the Countess of Walshingham), fourth mate and El Doradan liaison officer, Messrs. Denning, Paulus and Singh, junior inertial drive engineers, and Messrs. Trantor and Giddings, Mannschenn Drive juniors.

I did not foresee that my prudishness would have such disastrous consequences and accept, without reservation, whatever punishment you may consider called for.

We were, as I have said, playing bridge. I was partnered with Ms. Granadu; Lieutenant Commander Venner with Mr. Malleson. I had opened the bidding with one no trump. Mr. Malleson bid two hearts. Ms. Granadu bid two no trumps. We were waiting, it seemed a long time, for Lieutenant Commander Venner to make his bid. I realized that he was staring at the door into the alleyway. I turned to look at what had attracted his attention. It was Ms. Connellan. She was holding a heavy pistol—later identified as a Bendon-Smith scattergun, El Doradan Navy issue—and pointing it straight at us. Behind her were Denning and Paulus, both of them armed with wrenches, and Trantor, with a big screwdriver.

She said, “Freeze, all of you! We’re taking the ship. Grimesy isn’t the only bastard around here who can play at pirates!”

I “switched on” then. What I received was garbled, the outpourings of minds that were vicious, greedy and—insofar as the men were concerned—not a little scared. The women—the Green Hornet (as she was nicknamed) and the Countess—were the ringleaders. Later I was to learn that the intention had been to seize
Sister Sue
and to take her and the prize to one of the planets of the Duchy of Waldegren. The immediate attention, however, was to capture and restrain the captain and all loyal officers.

“Get away from the table,” ordered Ms. Connellan. “Get down onto the deck, on your faces, with your hands behind you!” She made a jerking motion with her gun as she said this. For a second, for less than a second, we were no longer in the field of its fire.

The first card that Lieutenant Commander Venner flipped from his hand caught Ms. Connellan in the throat. The sharp plastic sliced through skin and flesh, severed a major blood vessel. I remember being surprised to see that her blood was red and not green. She fired her pistol before she dropped it to put her hand up to the spurting wound. The pellets tore a wide, ragged gash in the carpet but did no other damage.

Before she had fallen, before she had even started to fall, Lieutenant Commander Venner’s second card caught Mr. Denning just above the eyes. He screamed and threw his arms out violently, letting go of the heavy wrench that he had been holding. I think that if Lieutenant Commander Venner had not been concentrating on his third shot, the one that sliced off Mr. Trantor’s right ear, he would have seen the clumsy missile coming and dodged it. As it was, it struck him on the left forehead, killing him instantly.

Ms. Granadu picked up the pistol and covered Mr. Trantor and Mr. Denning, both of whom were bleeding profusely, and Mr. Paulus. They were cowed and allowed themselves to be driven into one of her storerooms, which she locked. Mr. Malleson and I tried to do something for Lieutenant Commander Venner but he was beyond aid. As a telepath I knew that the spark of life had been extinguished. Ms. Connellan expired while we were kneeling by our dead shipmate . . .

Scrawled comment, signed Damien.

Vivid writing. The man’s wasted in the Survey Service; he should be a novelist. If we weren’t so short of trained telepaths I would encourage him to forsake space to enter the literary profession.

Chapter 51

THE COUNTESS ENTERED
Grimes’ day cabin without knocking. The big, evil cat stalked behind her.

He looked up from the papers on his desk.

“Yes?” he demanded sharply. Then he saw that she was holding a pistol, a stungun, and that it was pointing at him. She pressed the trigger. Grimes was paralyzed but not unconscious. Perhaps she had used the weapon on lower power only or, possibly, the metal desk had acted as a partial shield.

He heard, from somewhere on a lower deck, the sound of an explosion.

She smiled viciously and remarked, “I let Katy have the heavy artillery. It sounds as though she’s used it.”

He said nothing. He could not. But he thought,
Billy will have heard the shot. He’ll investigate.

She said, “Don’t expect the mate to come to hold your hand. I’ve already dealt with him. I hope that Katy soon finishes what she’s doing. There should be somebody more or less conscious in the control room . . .”

She strolled around the day cabin, the cat at her heels.

“Not bad, not bad . . . This accommodation will do for me as soon as I’ve had you . . . removed. I might even keep your . . . ornaments. Old girl friends, are they? As you may have guessed, my tastes run more to the female form divine than to the hairy-arsed male version . . . That one on the bicycle . . . she’s rather butch, isn’t she?”

With an effort Grimes was able to turn his head. (The paralysis was wearing off.) He saw the Countess lift the tiny golden woman on her little gleaming steed down from the shelf, set the models down on the deck.

“How do you make this thing work?” she asked. “I’d like to see it in action.”

As though in obedience to her words the slim, golden legs, with feet on the pedals, began to move. The bicycle and rider made one circuit of the cabin and then, as though demonstrating her skill as a cyclist, the miniature Una released her grip of the handlebars—which turned so that the handles were pointing forward. From each of them projected a blade. Grimes remembered having seen this sort of thing once before. That time he had been the subject of attack by a murderous bicycle.

The Countess aimed her pistol and fired, again and again. Against the tiny robot it was quite useless. The cat pounced, but it was too slow. One of the blades caught the girl on her vulnerable right heel. It came away red. She screamed and fell to the deck. The bicycle dashed in for the kill. The blades drove into her right temple, piercing the skull, penetrating the brain.

And now,
thought Grimes dully,
for the Big Bang.
Its mistress dead, the cat would self-destruct. How powerful was the bomb hidden in its body? Powerful enough to devastate the day cabin and all its occupants, living and dead. Powerful enough, probably, to blow the nose off the ship.

But the Countess was still living—after a fashion. Her long legs were twitching. The fingers of her outstretched hands were opening and closing, scrabbling at the deck. She was moaning softly and wordlessly.