it.
He also knew that other than their Star-Ripper—a small but heavily armed 300-ton ship less than half the size of the Stockwell —the Infiltrator was one of the Farosians’ best ships, courtesy of that late Stolorth prince. But the Farosians had owned the Stockwell for a short period of time and lost it, so Dalby had no standing—other than personal—to belittle his method of transportation.
“If we're so unworthy, then why are you dead-eyeing us?” he asked smoothly, leaning against the edge of the communications console because his leg was warning it wanted to collapse again.
“Leveling the score, Guthrie.”
That worried him, hinting that Dalby was here for revenge and could kill everyone on board to get to him. But he wouldn't let that happen. Death was final. Being taken prisoner by Blaine's Tos Faros-based Justice Wardens still left options. “Tage won't be interested in my dead body, if you want Blaine in exchange.”
Ellis was watching him closely, her green eyes narrowed. Not happy. Well, neither was he.
“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Dalby said, naming the remote, inhospitable world the Empire used as a prison planet. “Whether you're breathing air or sucking vacuum makes no difference to us.”
The first Philip judged to be true. The second he knew was a lie, based on what Carmallis had found out from the Farosian agents left alive. Which meant Dalby's personal vendetta notwithstanding, she still had her orders: to get Guthrie.
“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Philip said, repeating her assertion back to her, “because we're hampering him. You need to rethink your aggression toward the Alliance.”
Ellis jerked her chin to get his attention. He leaned away from the console and glanced at her screens. The two unknown bogies had just been identified as older R-3 thirty-ton Ratch fighters. First bit of good news. Their P-33s should be able to handle them defensively.
That left only the Infiltrator. One clean shot from the Gritter could handle that. But there was no way a captain like Dalby would allow a clean shot. Still, Philip felt marginally better about this encounter than he had five minutes before.
“Surrender your personnel, your ships, to us,” Dalby said with a smug tone in her voice. “And we just might do some rethinking.”
“Not an option, Dalby.” Especially because a new ident had just flashed on Ellis's screen. And Ellis's Takan navigator was grinning widely.
Not Seth's P-40 but a Takan armored freighter answering the shuttle's distress code, thirty minutes out and closing. That meant a few more banks of lasers and, yes, sweet God, a torpedo tube registering hot.
Dalby evidently saw the same information. She cut their comm link, the bridge's speakers going silent with a slight hiss. The Ratch fighters slowed.
“Ha!” Ellis barked out a laugh. “I was hoping Fregmar was out here somewhere. I also wasn't going to play this hand until I had to,” she continued, tapping a series of commands on her screen, “but I think now's the time to give those Farosians an even better reason to leave. Arming the Gritter,” she announced.
“Wait 'til the Infiltrator sees that port go hot on her scans,” the mustachioed copilot said.
Hell's fat ass. They just might make it. Philip angled around, looking through the bridge hatchlock for Martoni or Rya. They needed an update. He didn't see either. Martoni, he remembered, had been sent be-lowdecks to the life pods. Rya was likely with him.
“Things look better,” Philip told Ellis as Dalby's Infiltrator abruptly changed course, heading away from them. “I'm going to check in with Commander Martoni.”
He lumbered off the bridge, right hand flat against the bulkhead for support as his leg shot insistent jolts of pain with every step. People milled about in the wide center aisle, and many seats were empty. At least five would have been designated life-pod captains.
“Commander Martoni's below?”
He also knew that other than their Star-Ripper—a small but heavily armed 300-ton ship less than half the size of the Stockwell —the Infiltrator was one of the Farosians’ best ships, courtesy of that late Stolorth prince. But the Farosians had owned the Stockwell for a short period of time and lost it, so Dalby had no standing—other than personal—to belittle his method of transportation.
“If we're so unworthy, then why are you dead-eyeing us?” he asked smoothly, leaning against the edge of the communications console because his leg was warning it wanted to collapse again.
“Leveling the score, Guthrie.”
That worried him, hinting that Dalby was here for revenge and could kill everyone on board to get to him. But he wouldn't let that happen. Death was final. Being taken prisoner by Blaine's Tos Faros-based Justice Wardens still left options. “Tage won't be interested in my dead body, if you want Blaine in exchange.”
Ellis was watching him closely, her green eyes narrowed. Not happy. Well, neither was he.
“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Dalby said, naming the remote, inhospitable world the Empire used as a prison planet. “Whether you're breathing air or sucking vacuum makes no difference to us.”
The first Philip judged to be true. The second he knew was a lie, based on what Carmallis had found out from the Farosian agents left alive. Which meant Dalby's personal vendetta notwithstanding, she still had her orders: to get Guthrie.
“Tage is in no position to defend Moabar,” Philip said, repeating her assertion back to her, “because we're hampering him. You need to rethink your aggression toward the Alliance.”
Ellis jerked her chin to get his attention. He leaned away from the console and glanced at her screens. The two unknown bogies had just been identified as older R-3 thirty-ton Ratch fighters. First bit of good news. Their P-33s should be able to handle them defensively.
That left only the Infiltrator. One clean shot from the Gritter could handle that. But there was no way a captain like Dalby would allow a clean shot. Still, Philip felt marginally better about this encounter than he had five minutes before.
“Surrender your personnel, your ships, to us,” Dalby said with a smug tone in her voice. “And we just might do some rethinking.”
“Not an option, Dalby.” Especially because a new ident had just flashed on Ellis's screen. And Ellis's Takan navigator was grinning widely.
Not Seth's P-40 but a Takan armored freighter answering the shuttle's distress code, thirty minutes out and closing. That meant a few more banks of lasers and, yes, sweet God, a torpedo tube registering hot.
Dalby evidently saw the same information. She cut their comm link, the bridge's speakers going silent with a slight hiss. The Ratch fighters slowed.
“Ha!” Ellis barked out a laugh. “I was hoping Fregmar was out here somewhere. I also wasn't going to play this hand until I had to,” she continued, tapping a series of commands on her screen, “but I think now's the time to give those Farosians an even better reason to leave. Arming the Gritter,” she announced.
“Wait 'til the Infiltrator sees that port go hot on her scans,” the mustachioed copilot said.
Hell's fat ass. They just might make it. Philip angled around, looking through the bridge hatchlock for Martoni or Rya. They needed an update. He didn't see either. Martoni, he remembered, had been sent be-lowdecks to the life pods. Rya was likely with him.
“Things look better,” Philip told Ellis as Dalby's Infiltrator abruptly changed course, heading away from them. “I'm going to check in with Commander Martoni.”
He lumbered off the bridge, right hand flat against the bulkhead for support as his leg shot insistent jolts of pain with every step. People milled about in the wide center aisle, and many seats were empty. At least five would have been designated life-pod captains.
“Commander Martoni's below?”
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