NASTRAGULL: Pirates (20 page)

The hovercraft came lightly to rest in front of an enormous place constructed of dark green marble veined with convoluted gold designs, next to a large fountain that sprayed water fifty meters into the air. As a wing door in the back of the car slid open, several servants standing next to the fountain hurried forward, only to stop as a curt voice bid them halt. A pair of black, shiny boots hit the marble of the entry court, and their owner stood with a poise that was almost feline in its elegance.

The boots belonged to Admiral Hadrian Cook, the commanding officer of the 11
th
Galactic Fleet of the Nastasturus Federation. Cook was in his early sixties, though his body was that of an athletic thirty-year-old; he paid plenty to keep it that way, too. The Admiral waved away the servants as he placed his forage hat on his shiny, bald head. His facial expression was carefully controlled, concealing any emotions he might have been feeling; and several battle scars stood out from his pale white skin, reminders that he was a survivor. He could have had them removed very easily, had he chosen to do so. But he wore them, as he wore his perfectly tailored, sharply pressed uniform, with the grace of a king.

Trailed by the servants, he strode briskly up the flagstone walk and climbed the wide stairway to the main entrance. As he reached it, two guards in old-fashioned colorful uniforms saluted him. They might have been ancient Colonial Marines, given their clothing and accoutrements, except for their thoroughly modern plasma rifles. Cook ignored them as he entered the palace, and was greeted by an old man wearing a servant's uniform with a distinctive patch on his chest, informing every one of his exalted station.

The Chamberlain bowed his head and said, "This way, Admiral," while gesturing cordially with one hand.

Admiral Cook followed his escort through the enormous palace, passing several guards and servants on the way. He ignored his magnificent surroundings, moving forward as if programmed. His frustration at having to leave his Fleet in this time of need was tightly reined in, and entirely concealed from any who didn't know him very well indeed.

His aplomb was shaken somewhat when they passed a large chamber, where several people were arguing vociferously. Hearing the upset voices, some of which he recognized, he paused in the entryway as the Chamberlain continued on a few steps. When the servant realized his charge had abandoned him, he stopped and fixed the Admiral with an irritated stare. "This way, Admiral," the Chamberlain repeated firmly.

Eyes narrowed to slits, Cook ignored his escort and strode purposefully into a vast, exquisitely-appointed drawing room. A cluster of Elites were gathered inside, some still shouting as others wept. The weepers were two elegantly dressed women, who sat on individual divans grouped strategically next to a fireplace, surrounded by a score of civilians. The older woman was about Cook's age; she was dressed in a lavish white dress with a décor of green and gold leaves, her gray-peppered dark hair coiled atop her head in a fashion a decade out of date. Her name was Lady Beala Hornet.

The younger woman, who sported loose, long curly blonde hair, was more up to date in the fashion department, but the expensive jewelry that dripped from her neck, wrists, and ankles failed to make her look like anything more than she was: a moderately pretty, very wealthy young woman. Cook recognized her as an Oranii, the daughter of a local Elite business baron and his nephew's most recent squeeze.

On closer inspection, Cook noted the occasional military uniform scattered among the clutter of ornate civilian dress. Elites, of course, of various ranks; along with the civilians, they were offering comfort and support to the ladies on the divans. A short, stocky man in pseudo-military civilian dress paced the floor nearby, cursing and punching the air with a clenched fist.

Several individuals in less-martial uniforms stood apart from the clot of Elites; it took him a moment to recognize them as the local constabulary. He scowled, puzzled, as a tremulous voice shouted, "Hadrian! Oh, Hadrian, thank heavens!"

Lady Hornet pushed her friends away and spread her arms wide, making no move to stand. Cook did his best to erase his frown as he removed his hat and walked over to give Beala an awkward hug; she was family, after all. As he stepped back, the lady fought to compose herself, drying her eyes with a small cloth provided by an attendant.

When she looked up at Cook at last, her face was bleak. In a trembling voice, she stated, "They took him...they took my son." Then her face twisted in fury and she screamed out her frustration: "Those bloody pirates took
my only child
! Hadrian! I want them dead, dead, dead! Do you hear me?"

He nodded graciously. "I hear and understand, milady," he said, careful not to promise anything.

Those words were followed by an explosion of comments and shouts from everyone surrounding Lady Hornet. Meanwhile, Lady Oranii apparently concluded that she was being left too much alone, and that she required more attention than the old hag next to her. She screamed theatrically and cried louder, her face glistening with tears.

At that moment, Cook was reminded of why he had chosen to become a soldier, and wished that he was on some calm battlefield very, very far away from all this civilian commotion. He could make no sense of anything that was said amidst all the shouts and screams. He embraced Beala again, and was just about to say something comforting to her when he heard a cough from behind. He saw his opportunity to regroup and took it. He gently but firmly disengaged himself from milady's arms and, without a word, turned around and placed his cap back in its proper place, on his head.

The Chamberlain was pointing in the direction of the hallway, a tight little small smirk on his face. Cook stepped forward and gave the jumped-up servant a glare that quickly made him spin around and scuttle forward, with Cook following in his wake. The Admiral manfully ignored the cries from the weeping ladies as he left the drawing room and continued his tour through the palace. His mind was a welter of thoughts, most of them personal; he had to force himself to ignore them and focus on his mission, which currently was to report to the Supreme Military Commander of the Nastasturus Federation.

He shouldn't have taken the detour in the first place, dammit.

Five minutes later the Chamberlain paused in front of two huge doors, which slid open at his gesture. Cook swept off his cover, handed it to the Chamberlain, and entered.

"...and that is the last report we have received," a nervous police inspector was saying as he approached. The officer was addressing a huge man's back. Said man stood before a large window, gazing at a floral clock that dominated the park outside. Currently it stood at half past three, the Admiral noted absently. He approached the big man's dais and stopped, waiting until he was noticed.

It didn't take long. The man by the window turned abruptly, his eyes locking briefly with Cook's. Like Cook, he wore a tailored, light-blue uniform with white trousers and shiny black boots. He too was bald; but unlike Cook, he retained a fringe of gray hair. He was in his early seventies.

Marshal Guss Villette von Hornet, the Supreme Commander of the armed forces of the Nastasturus Federation—and Lady Beala's husband—looked as calm as he ever did, as if nothing untoward had happened.

Cook stood at perfect attention, clicking the heels of his spotless boots together. "Admiral Hadrian Cook reporting as ordered, sir!"

"Stand easy, Admiral." Pushing past the police inspector, the Marshal made his way toward the seat of his battered granitewood desk, nodding for Cook to take the visitor's chair. The policeman remained standing.

Hornet said crisply to Cook, "Admiral, are you aware of the fate of the civilian cruiser
Bright Star
, late of the Federated Merchants?"

"I was made aware of it this morning, sir. It was logged as lost more than three weeks ago."

"You may not be aware that my son was aboard. Along with the rest of his cadet squad."

Cook regarded Marshal Hornet with a cool expression and replied, "That is most unfortunate, sir, but what does that have to do with me?"

At first, Hornet looked stunned; and then, slowly, his face suffused with anger and he growled, "Nothing,
Admiral
, except that Alec is your nephew, and
I
need your help."

Cook scowled and snapped, more sharply than perhaps he should have, "Sir, this is a civilian police matter. It shouldn't be, but it
is
. It's all laid out in the Constitution, and if you'll recall your history it's something that the police themselves fought very hard for. I don't like it any better than you do, but the separation of powers is considered inviolable." 

"That's exactly what I have been explaining, sir," the police inspector said anxiously. "We are handling this, and we will..."

Marshal Hornet stood up abruptly and smashed a ham-sized fist down on the scarred black surface of the desk. "Silence, the both of you!" He took a long moment to calm down before he eased back down into his chair, and looked at them each in turn. "What you fail to understand is that it is
my son
in danger...and neither of you is married to his mother."

He drummed his fingers on the desk and then said, "Admiral Cook. I need you because of all the senior officers in service, either within the military or the police ranks, you have the best track record when it comes to tracking down pirates. You started out with the Federal Police and spent more than ten years as a Commissioned Pirate Hunter, as I recall."

"Sir! I switched services more than thirty years ago!"

"Protest noted. However, you were the best, and I believe that your knowledge can be of great use to both the FPs and the CPH Authority." The Marshal leaned forward, his eyes blazing. "Moreover, you have a singular qualification that places you at the head of my rather short list of candidates: you are family. It was, in fact, you more than I who inspired my son to join the military."

The Marshal leaned back in his chair and steepled his fingers, allowing a taut silence to grow between them. When he spoke again, his voice was devoid of emotion. "Admiral Cook, you will deploy the Eleventh Fleet to the last known coordinates of the
Bright Star
. You will track down the pirates who took the liner, engage them, and rescue the surviving passengers, including my son. You will not return until your orders are countermanded by an officer with the appropriate authority, or until you are successful."

"The entire fleet, sir?" Cook was stunned. "You want me to take the entire Eleventh, several thousand vessels carrying more than two million crew members, to look for one person?"

"I do not. There were thousands of people aboard the
Bright Star
. Repatriate as many as you can." He took a deep breath and looked down at the desk, his eyes haunted. "I will admit that, yes, my thoughts are primarily with Alec and his squad mates."

Cook nodded. "Well, how many of them are they?" He looked at the police officer.

"Fourteen, sir, including the Marshal's son."

"Fourteen lost cadets?" Admiral Cook repeated.

"Most of them are from very important families, sir, and..."

Cook interrupted the inspector: "And one Dealer has a better chance of finding them than ten galactic fleets will ever have."

The policeman nodded eagerly. "Yessir, that's what I've been saying to the Marshal, sir. Our investigators have already appointed several Dealers to this particular task."

"Are the two of you finished?" Marshal Hornet looked up at the policeman and Admiral Cook with tired eyes. "Admiral, it's not just that I want you to find my son and his mates. Your orders go beyond even finding the thousands of other people the pirates took off the
Bright Star
. I want you to do nothing less than obliterate the pirate clan responsible, to wipe them from the face of the universe. I want to send the pirates in all the inhabited galaxies a very clear message. I also mean to send a severe warning to the Merchants and Traders, making it clear that I will not allow these depredations to continue on their watch without severe repercussions."

Cook's eyes widened. "You cannot mean for me to bring military force to bear on the Merchants and Traders, sir. That might spark a civil war."

"I doubt it will come to that, but I'll do what's necessary to excise this cancer of piracy before it destroys us all."

"At the expense of the rule of law, sir?" Cook asked stiffly, his outrage obvious. "Your orders as they stand would be illegal without the Government's consent. It would be tantamount to a coup d'etat."

Marshal Hornet looked at him calmly. "I will get the Government's permission, Admiral. Even if I do not, I will activate the override clause in the Military Compact so that my order stands for one full year. In any case, the consequences will be upon my head. You cannot legally ignore a lawful order I give you, and I order you to do this."

"And what if I construe it as an unlawful order, which it obviously is?"

"In that case, I would have you removed, broken in rank, and replaced with a more willing officer, Admiral. You would be exonerated at court martial, but almost certainly retired from service, while I most certainly would be hanged."

"I see." The admiral fiddled with his gig line, an uncharacteristic gesture that shouted out his inner turmoil to any who knew him well. He looked up suddenly. "Marshal, even if the Merchants and Traders accede without a fight, this could turn very ugly if we use the military instead of the CPH Authority. It might force a constitutional challenge that could tear our Federation apart, sir. Please reconsider. Allow me exclusive use of the CPH in this, not the military. I can plan the mission and even take temporary leave of absence so that I can lead this expedition. I ask you—no, I beg you—to reconsider."