HMS Nightingale (Alexis Carew Book 4) Page 9

  “Rigged like I’ve never seen, sir,” Corporal Brace said. He shook his head in amazement, sending drops of sweat from his face before he wiped at it again with a rag. His hair was matted to his head with sweat from the exertions of searching the other ship in a full vacsuit, as Alexis had ordered no one take their helmet off until they were certain there was no contagion responsible for the other ship’s silence. “A quick job, but thorough — all the exterior hatches had lines run to explosives around the fusion plant. Come in through one and the whole ship would have gone, and Nightingale as well.”

  “And no one aboard at all?” Alexis asked.

  “Not a soul,” Brace said. “Some signs of a scuffle, but no bodies. Only those booby-traps to show there ever was …” He paused and frowned. “Those and the helm, that is.”

  “The helm?”

  Brace nodded. “Odd, that, sir. The helm’s disassembled — looks as though someone was trying to repair it, then stopped in the midst.”

  Alexis frowned. “That is odd. Is the ship safe to board? I’d like to see this for myself. And one of the engineers, I think.”

  “Aye, sir,” Brace said. “We’ve found just the hatches rigged, and that’s all cleared.”

  Alexis sealed her helmet and made her way through the airlock onto Nightingale’s hull. The disparity in size between her ship and the much larger merchant vessel was quite clear when viewed from this perspective. The other ship’s masts towered nearly twice as high as Nightingale’s and the stern stretched well past even Nightingale’s rudder and planes. Though only two of the ship’s decks were for her crew, the hull housed a hold fully as deep as all of the little revenue cutter — possibly more so.

  Because they’d breached the hull on the upper deck, away from any hatches, there was no boarding tube rigged from Nightingale to the other ship’s side, only a series of lines strung between them.

  Alexis attached one of her safety lines and began pulling herself across. Even the short span between hulls gave her a bit of a chill, as she could look aft and see that there’d be nothing for her to catch onto if the line gave way. That both ships were at rest, sails uncharged, didn’t alleviate the feelings of dread at the thought of being left behind to the effects of darkspace.

  Once on the other ship’s hull, she made her way to the breach, into the breaching chamber, and then lowered herself through the hull into the ship’s interior. As her legs passed the edges of the hull, they came within the ship’s gravity field and she felt the pull increase the more of herself she lowered inside, until finally she hung by her fingertips before letting go and dropping to the deck.

  The breach was on an upper deck, into what was the captain’s pantry. Both hatches to the tiny space were kept closed so that any sudden damage to the breaching chamber outside wouldn’t cause the entire ship to de-air. It would also keep the radiations of darkspace from moving through the ship and rendering its electronics useless. Alexis moved aside so that Villar could lower himself into the ship, then they eased the aft hatch open and stepped into the ship’s main deck.

  “The quarterdeck’s just down this companionway, sir,” Villar said as they eased their vacsuit helmets off.

  Alexis looked around the abandoned compartment that would have been the living space of the ship’s crew. There were no signs of a struggle or disaster of any sort.

  The bunks were rigged, swung down from the compartment bulkheads. Some bedding trailed over the edge of bunks, as though the occupants had been hurriedly called from their sleep. Here and there a chest was left open. But, all in all, it looked like nothing so much as though the entire crew had been picked up and carried off somewhere without warning.

  “Yes,” Villar said, nodding in the direction of her gaze. “There was some more muttering of Dutchmen amongst those who first came aboard, but it mostly quieted down when we saw the traps rigged — the men generally accept that ghosts aren’t too involved in engineering.”

  “‘Generally?’”

  Villar shrugged. “There’s some, sir, who’ll take more convincing.” He opened the companionway hatch. “Quarterdeck’s this way, sir.”

  The scene on the quarterdeck was less surreal than the empty, abandoned berthing deck above. At least here there were some signs of a struggle. A splash of blood across the navigation plot and the air still held an acrid scent despite the ship’s ventilation systems.

  Alexis sniffed. “Neither do ghosts use firearms, I should hope has been pointed out to the crew.”

  Villar nodded. “Nor disassemble consoles, sir, at least in those fairy stories my grandmother read to me.”

  Alexis looked at the console in question, where an engineer from Nightingale was busy examining the exposed systems. All of the helm’s maintenance panels had been removed, exposing the inner circuits and wiring. Several circuit boards were hanging loose, and there appeared to be more than the usual number of jury-rigged components, as well.

  All ships made do with what components and repairs could be fabricated by their onboard printers when away from more sophisticated planetary resources, frequently resulting in a mishmash of technologies in their systems. Especially for merchantmen, where repair costs ate into a voyage’s profits, if a system, ugly as it might be, was still working, why spend the coin to repair it or replace it with something more modern?

  “Show the captain what you’ve found, Cottier,” Villar said.

  The engineer glanced up from his prone position on the deck, only half his face visible behind the tangle of cables and circuits.

  “Aye, sir, this —” He separated a circuit board from the others and swung it to the side. “— and this here —” He pointed to an oddly shaped chip on another. “— don’t belong at all, you see? And there’s wire runs I don’t understand.”

  “Is it some sort of additional sabotage?” Alexis asked. Though why someone would bother to sabotage the helm when they’d also rigged the ship to explode, she couldn’t fathom. Or … she recalled the encrypted navigation plot she’d encountered on the pirate ship Grapple during her first cruise. “Or something so only the pirates could pilot the ship?”

  The half of Cottier’s head she could see shook back and forth. “No, sir, at least not as makes any sense at all. The modifications are all on the transition controls — rest of the helm’s as normal and plain as can be.”

  Alexis pondered that. The transition controls were what detected when a ship was inside of a Lagrangian point, where the normal-space gravitational fields of two bodies canceled each other out enough for a ship to transition from normal-space to darkspace and back again. Outside of those points, moving between the two realms wasn’t possible.

  “What modifications?”

  “Can’t tell, sir — those aren’t circuits we generally modify, you understand? What’s the point, after all? You’re either in a Lagrangian point and able to transition or not.”

  Alexis ran her fingers over the navigation plot, but the system appeared to have been wiped clean, showing only the plot since just before Nightingale had spotted the ship and nothing of her course before that. She tried to bring up the ship’s log, but that was also empty.

  “We may be able to recover something, sir,” Villar said, “but it’s all been wiped. Captain’s personal files, as well.”

  “There’ll be a copy of the log in the ship owner’s core, they won’t have been able to wipe that, but it’ll also be encrypted so we can’t get at it.” Alexis sighed. “We’ll likely not know what happened aboard her until we can have that unlocked at Zariah and find out who owned her.”

  The quarterdeck hatch slid open and a Marine, out of breath and clearly excited, rushed in.

  “Corporal Brace’s compliments, sir, and he’d admire it did you join him in the hold!”

  Two other Marines blocked the open hatch to the aft companionway leading down to the hold. A dozen or more spacers, seemingly all who’d come aboard from Nightingale, surrounded them in a half circle, craning their necks and m
uttering.

  “Make a lane!” Villar bellowed, stepping ahead, clearing a path for Alexis, and stopping before the Marines.

  Alexis paused there as well and glanced at the assembled hands.

  “What’s this about, Angers?” she asked one of the Marines.

  “Don’t rightly know, sir. Corporal Brace went into the hold with Vibert, then come out and told us to secure the hatch and send for you — next we know, this lot showed up.”

  Alexis turned to the watching hands. “I’m certain you lads have tasks in securing the ship so we can sail her on to Dalthus with us, so what’s this about, then?”

  Some of the crew took a step back, looking down at the deck, but a few looked defiant. Defiant and no little afraid, she thought.

  “Some’ats not right on this ship, sir.”

  “Not right.”

  “Bloody Dutchman.”

  “Oh, for the love of —” Alexis caught herself and restrained her temper. “Look, you —” She singled out the hands who seemed most concerned. “Rhone, Dicker, Summersett — there’re no bloody Dutchmen, lads. This ship was taken by pirates, nothing more — what business would some spook have rigging the hatches like that or disassembling the helm?”

  “Crew could’ve done it!” Rhone exclaimed. “T’at other ship bein’ the Dutchman and this un’s crew rigged her all up afore she’s took! To protect ‘emselves, like!”

  Dicker and Summersett, along with one or two of the others muttered, “Aye.”

  “Lads, this ship was taken by pirates, nothing more. There’s blood on the quarterdeck and the smell of gunfire — it’s an odd sort of spirit who shoots his victim, isn’t it?”

  Some of the crew frowned, but others looked stubborn. Alexis could understand their feelings — this ship made her uneasy as well — and the Dark itself lent itself to odd tales, with so much about it not understood.

  “Who’s to say who shot, eh?”

  “Aye, crew shoots at the Dutchman spirits come aboard, then get all tore apart and there’s your blood, right?”

  “An’ where’s the bodies, then?” Rhone asked. “Pirates don’t take no crew what don’t join ‘em! Never heard a whole merchant’s crew join up — most’re either offed or left to drift!”

  And Alexis had to concede that was true. With the pirates interrupted by Nightingale’s arrival, the absence of any bodies or the merchant’s crew itself was, indeed, quite odd. Most pirates wouldn’t kill a crew outright if the merchant surrendered quickly, else why would the next not fight harder? Instead, they’d dump the crew on some colony world without much in the way of air vehicles, or leave them aboard a ship’s boat near a major shipping lane. That these had apparently taken all of this ship’s crew with them in their flight from Nightingale was worth questioning — but not the questions running through her crew’s heads now.

  “Et ‘em!” a voice called. “Dutchman spirits et ‘em whole!”

  “Ghosts and spirits do not eat people,” Alexis said firmly.

  “Ghoulies do, me mam said!”

  Alexis clenched her jaw and cast a stern look at Villar who was hiding a grin behind one hand. Of all the times for the stiff-necked man to show a sense of humor, it had to be when what was needed was calming the crew.

  “As I recall,” she said, forcing calm into her voice, “the ghoulies come to eat small children who misbehave or won’t eat their vegetables. Are you placing yourself in that company, Rhone?”

  “Well, me mam dint say when the ghoulies’d come, an’ I were a right bloody —”

  “Lads, there’re any number of explanations. Perhaps the crew was already aboard the pirate ship, under guard, before we arrived and there was neither time nor inclination to put them back with Nightingale approaching. We’ll likely be finding them drifting in a ship’s boat along with the crew of the pirate’s next victim.”

  “What’s so secret in the hold, then?” Dicker demanded.

  Alexis felt as though she were losing control of things — the situation, this conversation, to name only two. She understood the crew was disturbed by the state of this ship, no doubt it was out of the ordinary, but that was no excuse for this degree of questioning their officers. The first thing that needed dealing with, though, was the tone.

  She stepped away from the Marines to face Dicker.

  “Who is it you think you’re addressing in that manner, Dicker?” she asked, keeping her voice level and calm.

  “I —” He looked away, glanced at the others, then down at the deck. “Sorry, sir … it’s just this ship — it’s all over willyfying.”

  Alexis nodded, then ran her eyes over the others, meeting each man’s eye until he looked away and at least muttered something she could take for an apology and appropriate recognition of her rank.

  “I understand we’ve found this ship in odd circumstances, lads, but there’s nothing more than common piracy here.” She raised her eyebrows and smiled. “And now we have her, that’s prize money, right?”

  The men brightened at that. With no crew aboard, the ship was theirs. It wouldn’t be bought into the Navy, like an enemy warship might be, and the Prize Court would likely award the crew a fraction of its value after selling it back to its owners, but Nightingale had such a small crew that any amount would make for a nice windfall.

  “Aye,” Alexis said, “too busy cringing at every creak and rattle aboard to think of that, weren’t you.” She nodded to them. “So back to work, lads, and let’s get this tub spaceworthy and underway. Sail her back to Zariah and see what she’ll bring us.”

  There were more mutters as the men left and returned to their work, but these were more cheerful and expectant than fearful.

  Alexis took a deep breath, shared a look with Villar, and started down the companionway.

  In the hold she found Corporal Brace and the engineer who’d assisted him in opening the hold. Hopkins, the engineer, was standing near the hatch, eyes wide, while Brace was farther into the hold near a sealed crate. The hold was mostly empty except for those stores one would expect for a long journey and perhaps two dozen crates. The crates were clearly the merchantman’s primary cargo, but there were far fewer of them than could fill the hold and they were evenly spaced fore and aft. Each was nearly a meter on each side and sealed with digital locks.

  “Well, Brace, what is it you wanted me to see?”

  Brace swallowed. “You asked me to secure the hold and see what the cargo was, sir …”

  “I did,” Alexis prompted as Brace trailed off. She eyed the crate next to him — its lock was cut through with the plasma torch the engineer carried. She shared a glance with Villar, who seemed no more knowledgeable than she about why the two men might seem so nervous, nor what this ship might be carrying. “What’s this all about, Brace? There’ll be no trouble for opening the crate, lock or no — we have to know what’s aboard, after all.”

  Brace nodded, but swallowed again. He gestured to the crate. “Yes, sir, but … well …”

  Villar stepped forward and grasped the crate’s lid.

  “Move aside, man, there’re but a dozen of these from what I see. What could —” Villar broke off as he lifted the lid and stared inside, eyes wide. “Sweet mother —”

  Alexis stepped up to the crate and found herself as shocked as Villar seemed. As speechless as Brace and Hopkins.

  Inside the crate were bars of metal. Dull grey for the most part, but with flecks of azure here and there.

  “Gallenium,” Villar whispered. He glanced at Alexis. “This ship must be out of Dalthus and the new mines there, bound for processing.”

  Alexis nodded, still staring at the bars filling the crate.

  Gallenium was certainly the most valuable substance there was, gram for gram. It was the only thing that could insulate a ship from the ravages of darkspace radiation. It offset the pull of the dark matter that permeated darkspace, allowing ships to slide through it, and it made up the sails which harnessed that energy to propel ships from system
to system. It, quite literally, made trade and expansion amongst the stars possible.

  Rare and valuable though it was, only a little was truly necessary for those purposes. A ship’s hull was primarily a tough thermoplastic with just enough gallenium powder infused throughout to keep the darkspace radiations at bay. The sails and nets for the gunports were all alloyed with other metals. Only the shot casings contained more than was strictly necessary, being over engineered so as not to fail to fire in action.

  “How much?” Villar whispered.

  Alexis was already figuring that. The top layer of the meter cubed crate held fifteen rows of four long bars. Tentatively she reached out and lifted one from its place, needing both hands and surprised at how heavy it was.

  “Each is different, sir,” Brace said. “Weight’s stamped on the side, just there.”

  Alexis examined the side of the brick.

  “One thousand four grams,” she said. “It can’t be pure, can it?”

  Villar shook his head. “No, the gallenium’s the blue bits mostly, but the refining’s difficult.” He reached into the crate and tilted another brick to view its side. “Twenty-five percent. Still …”

  Alexis stared at the crate. The bar in her hand was perhaps half its width, which would mean …

  Eighteen hundred bars, nearly two tonnes per crate.

  “Does anyone know the market price of gallenium?” she asked, voice sounding a bit shaky to her ears.

  Brace cleared his throat. “I … may have looked that up on my tablet while waiting for you to arrive, sir.”

  Alexis raised an eyebrow.

  Brace flushed. “Just curious, you understand, sir.”

  “As am I, corporal — what did you find?”

  “As of we left Zariah, sir, it was five shillings the gram, fully refined.”

  “And this has further to go for that.” Alexis returned her gaze to the open crate, then stared at each of the others in turn. “Did your curiosity take you so far as the maths, Brace?”

  Brace cleared his throat. “Well, sir, figuring at all the bars being twenty-five percent purity, then it seems like a bit over a hundred thousand pounds per crate. Twelve of them that I can see.”