Ruler of Naught by Sherwood Smith, Dave Trowbridge Page A

a battlecruiser’s sensor platform. Not that
any jacker would be insane enough to do so. In any case, there was no
danger to Grozniy , now that its shields were powered up sufficiently.
They were still tracking the standard scenario: nothing Rom-Sanchez couldn’t
handle, if he didn’t over-think things.
    The brassy tones of the alert pealed out, followed by the
hiss of the tianqi increasing the airflow into the bridge. Ng breathed in,
aware of the faint bergamot scent fading, replaced by a complex of pine,
jasmine, and less familiar scents, calculated to promote alertness, balanced
with rose and jumari, for relief of stress. She knew, but could not sense, that
the conditioners were also raising the ionization level slightly, and cycling
faint subsonics at irregular intervals in a pattern that reached deep into the
human thalamus with the age-old message: thunderstorm coming, be alert!
    The aft hatch whispered open. Commander Krajno slipped into
the pod on her left side, giving her a glance of muted surprise as he brought
up his console.
    “Dead again, eh?” Krajno’s gravelly voice perfectly matched
his craggy, amiable face, like that of a boxer whose guard had been less than
perfect during his career. It was a deceptive facade—Ng considered him one of
the sharpest officers in the Fleet.
    Wychyrski sang out, “Debris detected. Crystalline stress
patterns of debris consonant with skipmissile impact. Dispersion indicates
destruction about one hour ago, plus or minus ten minutes.”
    Skipmissile, and only an hour past—that’s like a
front-row seat.
    Ng grinned at Krajno. His answering grin was feral,
anticipating action after months of tedious patrol and training; Perthes was
too scrupulous an executive officer not to get out of the rack when his captain
ran drills at all hours, even if he didn’t have to.
    Rom-Sanchez glanced their way. Ng kept her manner neutral,
and knew Perthes was doing the same. Show time. Her fingers tingled,
longing for the feel of the command console, but taking control now would teach
entirely the wrong lesson, possibly even destroy a budding career. She had to
demonstrate her confidence in him.
    Ng watched him take a deep breath as he pitched his voice
for firmness. “General quarters. Engineering, rig engines for tactical
maneuvers. Fire Control, ready all ruptors. Charge skipmissile.”
    As the general-quarters klaxon rang out—a sound Ng knew
dated back to the oceanic navies of Lost Earth—excitement and purpose showed in
straightened spines and a quick exchange of grins. She could read them so
easily—general quarters, no question whether it was real or a drill, and they
were on alpha! On Grozniy , alpha crew stayed on through general
quarters, which was why that status was both feared and sought after.
    “Navigation, SigInt, coordinate a light-cone convergence on
the beacon’s destruction and position us for observation. Start one light-hour
out, normal to the ecliptic. Communications, full-scan record, give me a
visual.”
    The Grozniy leapt briefly into fivespace and as
quickly out. The transitions were rougher this time: the lower frequency skip
required for fine tactical movements was hard on the engines. A faint whisper
of datacode commenced.
    “Beacon acquired,” said Wychyrski. They had skipped to a
point outside the expanding wavefront marking the beacon’s destruction.
    Another set of transitions, the fiveskip burping so briefly
that an eyeblink would have missed it. The whisper ceased.
    “No beacon.” Inside the wavefront.
    Ng noted sweat on Mzinga’s brow, and his massive arms bulged
against his trim uniform as he jumped the battlecruiser back and forth,
struggling to get it to the desired position as quickly as possible. The
countdown ticked off fifteen seconds more as the big ship continued its series
of skips, which seemed on the edge of divergence.
    “Navigation,” said Rom-Sanchez. “Try—” He stopped abruptly,
and Ng knew that this time he had seen