Tripoint

Give thebastard the card, was the thought in his mind. Second chief's refuge at seven lights could just as well be a trap. Crew taken. Ship confiscated for military refit. Rumor held it still happened.

And Capella wanted to take them off into the dark, getting them clear of this faction of the Fleet, while the other faction, Capella's faction, was going to reward them with some damn secret port for protecting a key-card to a hulk that, if they got out of this, a freighter now knew for what it was?

Dammittobloody hell…

Not a chance, not a damn chance he'd heard all the truth from the second chief yet.

And the Hawkinsship?

Firing was still going on, periodic boomas ordnance left Corinthian.

Corinthianhad fired at Silver Dreaminitially from a high-energy point. Inertial-mass ca

Their inerts might equally well hit Sprite. The freighter had shed all relative v, and they were close enough to be in danger—he hadn't seen the fire-path calc'ed, but both Spriteand Silver Dreamhad dropped late, beyond them.

Silver Dreamhad likewise dumped hard, then spent time on an instant evasive maneuver, expecting those inerts to be traveling up their backside, no question: the ship was a survivor, to be this old in the game. Two seconds off from their informational wavefront. Patrick knew where they were, no question.

But even powered missiles weren't an option for Patrick to use, not from a retreating vector at two light-seconds remove—a single light-second or so past its target was worse luck for a starship than a light-hour: Silver Dream'sstardrive couldn't jump short enough to close the gap, Patrick's launch platform was negative vrelative to his target, and Patrick's only choice now was a hard realspace run up to meaningful speed, with Corinthianordnance coming right down his path.

He had to reposition for his run in.

Meanwhile a noisy damn Hawkins freighter was flooding its stupid Sprite-Sprite-SpriteID out into the EM ambient because Spritedidn't have a damn cut-off.

And Sprite, carrying a Pell-origin drift?

God, it was surreal. What wasn't Spritehauling, that it could have reached Pell and all but over-jumped them coming back toward Viking again, until their collective mass snagged it into system-drop with them? Low-mass cargo for sure.

Marie Hawkins' hate? Marie Hawkins' obsession?

He blinked, swallowed another metallic mouthful of liquid and a shudder raced through his gut, maybe the nutrient, maybe the realization of a ship full of fools and a handful of genuine i

Spritewas a registered ID, on the ship-lists. The spook could check her out in the flick of a key. Silver Dreamcould, maybe, if Marie was lucky, decide that Spritewas a legitimate freighter, just happening in, by some cosmic luck, and ignore it, like a good, quiet spook.

Or the spook could figure it was Corinthianfaking ID, or that it was something else faking ID, and factor them into its targeting decisions.

Ordnance from Corinthianshould go right past Sprite, out into the dark. The numbers showing now were a miss by an absolute hair. Inerts or not, Spritesensors should pick some thing up when that volley went past their bows. And Silver Dreammight not be sure which ship it came from.

Figure it, Mischa Hawkins. Figure we're not firing at you. Read the ambient. Look out at the dark, you damn fool, just once in your life, look out there and ask yourself the right question.

There's fire coming the other way. Move the damn ship.

Burst from the trim jets. He snatched after another nutri-pack.

Get the ship into mate with their supply dump, yeah. They'd always dropped close. Capella was good.

Always made it well inside an hour. Put the card in, that was one thing. Always put the card in. It credited them, when they used it again, at Viking—along with the cargo always waiting for them here.

Capella had never mentioned that the old hulk had a kill-function.

Not your friend, hell.

But enter a code called HAVOC in that hulk, on their Fleet navigator's say-so, a code of that nature, into what she now admitted was armed, and she didn't tell you specifically what it did or where its hostile action stopped?

Not unless they had no… bloody… choice.

—v—

THE EMERGENCY SIREN WAS WAILING through the ship, Duran was on com, ordering Sprite'skids' loft to take immediate emergency procedures, Paxton had been on a second ago saying they'd jumped short, nobody knew what the hell had happened, or why they'd dropped short of their intention, except a rough drop and then something going past them, so high-mass, meaning fast, that they couldn't figure what it was. "Satisfied?" Mischa spared breath to ask her. "Satisfied?"

"Change coordinates. " Marie pounded the counter above

Mischa's console softly with a clenched fist, tried to slow her breaths. A post-jump headache and an adrenaline overload didn't help. "Get us down, dammit. Get us up, get us out of the plane of fire."

"Somebody's back there," Paxton was saying, and Sully, helm, was yelling at Mischa, off-com,

"It was missiles, it's a heave-to order! It could be Military, one of them is bound to be the Military, chasing Corinthian—we can't go shooting at shadows, dammit!"

"Track point of origin," Marie said.

"We can't go firing—"

"Sully, just shut up!" Mischa, off-corn himself. "I heard you! Get a point of origin!" Mischa was sweating. "Shut that damn siren off! God!"

"Hindmost is Corinthian, "Marie said.

" Corinthian, Corinthian, I'm sick to death of Corinthian, I'm sick to death of Bowe, I'm sick to death of you and that damn kid! I don't want to hear about him, I don't want to hear any more of your damn ideas, Marie, just sit down and keep your mouth shut! You don't know anything about missiles, you don't know what you've stirred up, you got us into this mess, now, just get the hell back to your finagling damn deals and leave ops to people who know what they're doing."

"Mischa,—get us out of—"

Proximity klaxon went off. Marie looked up, stared at the screens, some of which flared red, winced, but it was less than the blink of an eye.

Whatever it was, second volley, had passed them into the dark.

"Where ishe? Damn him, where is he?"

"They're not targeting us," Marie said. "We're still alive."

"They're firing at the Military," Sully said.

"Sully, for God's sake,—Marie,—shut up!"

"Mischa. " Marie rapped the console, got a calm word in. "Take us out of plane. Now. Settle who and where later."

"Sit down! We're going on to Viking, we'll meet Bowe there, if that's what it takes. We'll do it where there's police."

"Viking's in the direction it's firing at, you damn fool!"

"I said sit down! We don't know where the hell we are. We've come down way out on the fringes, we have a navigational problem we have to solve before we complicate it with any—"