said B'Tul disbelievingly.
"No," said N'Trol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast beds. "He enjoys the protection of the Covenant between the Confederation and the Imperial House."
"That grants immunity only to the direct descendants of the Imperial House," said S'Kal.
Hunching forward on the bed, N'Trol sipped the t'ata, holding the chipped cup in both hands. "Absent an Heir," he said, "H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, Margrave of U'Tria, Defender of the Galactic Marches, Hereditary Viceroy of the Blue and Red, is Pretender to Throne and Crown." He made a face. "This t'ata's awful, Gunney."
"Well, look who's here," said a sarcastic voice.
N'Trol looked up, then stood. "A'Tir," he said carefully.
The corsair stood at the foot of the bed, a red-bearded man beside her. "K'Lal," said
N'Trol. "I see your ugly selves are still alive."
The corsairs wore the same brown Fleet duty uniforms as Implacable's crew, but with all insignia gone—ripped off by Fleet Security.
"I thought we agreed," said B'Tul, stepping forward, "that you and your lot would stay at your end." He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been crudely drawn across the stone blocks.
"Special occasion, Gunney," said A'Tir. She was a slight-figured brunette, neither unattractive nor stunningly beautiful—the sort who'd have blended easily with any crowd of tech officers anywhere in the Fleet. Indeed, she'd begun her career as a Fleet officer.
"So you're going to rot here with the rest of us, N'Trol," said the corsair. "Reaping the rewards of loyalty."
"Perhaps," said N'Trol. "But my lover hasn't been brainstripped by a mindslaver —that is what happened to K'Tran, isn't it, A'Tir? Brain sucked out and popped in a jar, body on ice and all forever. A better sentence than a tribunal could have ..."
She went for his eyes, but N'Trol was faster, dashing the hot t'ata into her eyes. As A'Tir fell back, screaming in pain, K'Lal stepped toward N'Trol, only to be intercepted by B'Tul and two burly gunner's mates. "Take your lovely little commander back to your area, friend," said the gunner, hand twisting the other's shirt, "before there are any more accidents."
At A'Tir's scream, the rest of the corsairs had come on the run, only to be stopped by a line of Implacable's crew stretched out along the white line. There were only eight corsairs to eighteen Fleet regulars. The rush stopped at the line.
"Come on, Commander," said K'Lal, helping A'Tir to her feet and taking her elbow. She said nothing, merely held her hands over her eyes. "You're dead, N'Trol," she said as they moved away.
The engineer ignored her, watching until A'Tir and K'Lal had crossed to their side of the bay and the two groups had disassembled.
"Just the ten of them?" he asked, picking up the cup.
"In this bay, yes," said B'Tul, eyes still on the retreating corsairs. He turned to the engineer. "Another ten or so in another bay. I think they put us in here hoping we'd kill each other. Which we may do."
"Now what, Mr. N'Trol?" he said.
"Now," said N'Trol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, "now we wait, Gunney." He held out the cup. "Who'd like to get me more t'ata?"
A rough hand shook N'Trol awake. "Commander," whispered a voice.
N'Trol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night—the detention bay was in darkness. "B'Tul?" he whispered sleepily. "What ..."
"Listen," hissed the gunner.
The officer listened, then heard it, very faintly: the sound of blaster fire.
"Somewhere on the upper levels," said B'Tul. "And the guards are gone."
The thick gray door slid open and the lights came on. As N'Trol and B'Tul turned toward the door, squinting, a tall man in a torn, blood-splotched uniform stepped into the room. "Commander?" he called.
"Here, S'Lei," called A'Tir, leading her group toward the new corsair. A few of Implacable's crew started to block her.
"Let her by," said S'Lei, raising the
"No," said N'Trol, sitting on the edge of one of the hard duraplast beds. "He enjoys the protection of the Covenant between the Confederation and the Imperial House."
"That grants immunity only to the direct descendants of the Imperial House," said S'Kal.
Hunching forward on the bed, N'Trol sipped the t'ata, holding the chipped cup in both hands. "Absent an Heir," he said, "H'Nar L'Wrona, Hereditary Lord Captain of the Imperial Guard, Margrave of U'Tria, Defender of the Galactic Marches, Hereditary Viceroy of the Blue and Red, is Pretender to Throne and Crown." He made a face. "This t'ata's awful, Gunney."
"Well, look who's here," said a sarcastic voice.
N'Trol looked up, then stood. "A'Tir," he said carefully.
The corsair stood at the foot of the bed, a red-bearded man beside her. "K'Lal," said
N'Trol. "I see your ugly selves are still alive."
The corsairs wore the same brown Fleet duty uniforms as Implacable's crew, but with all insignia gone—ripped off by Fleet Security.
"I thought we agreed," said B'Tul, stepping forward, "that you and your lot would stay at your end." He nodded his head to the left, where a thin but clear line of white had been crudely drawn across the stone blocks.
"Special occasion, Gunney," said A'Tir. She was a slight-figured brunette, neither unattractive nor stunningly beautiful—the sort who'd have blended easily with any crowd of tech officers anywhere in the Fleet. Indeed, she'd begun her career as a Fleet officer.
"So you're going to rot here with the rest of us, N'Trol," said the corsair. "Reaping the rewards of loyalty."
"Perhaps," said N'Trol. "But my lover hasn't been brainstripped by a mindslaver —that is what happened to K'Tran, isn't it, A'Tir? Brain sucked out and popped in a jar, body on ice and all forever. A better sentence than a tribunal could have ..."
She went for his eyes, but N'Trol was faster, dashing the hot t'ata into her eyes. As A'Tir fell back, screaming in pain, K'Lal stepped toward N'Trol, only to be intercepted by B'Tul and two burly gunner's mates. "Take your lovely little commander back to your area, friend," said the gunner, hand twisting the other's shirt, "before there are any more accidents."
At A'Tir's scream, the rest of the corsairs had come on the run, only to be stopped by a line of Implacable's crew stretched out along the white line. There were only eight corsairs to eighteen Fleet regulars. The rush stopped at the line.
"Come on, Commander," said K'Lal, helping A'Tir to her feet and taking her elbow. She said nothing, merely held her hands over her eyes. "You're dead, N'Trol," she said as they moved away.
The engineer ignored her, watching until A'Tir and K'Lal had crossed to their side of the bay and the two groups had disassembled.
"Just the ten of them?" he asked, picking up the cup.
"In this bay, yes," said B'Tul, eyes still on the retreating corsairs. He turned to the engineer. "Another ten or so in another bay. I think they put us in here hoping we'd kill each other. Which we may do."
"Now what, Mr. N'Trol?" he said.
"Now," said N'Trol, settling back on the bunk, feet crossed, "now we wait, Gunney." He held out the cup. "Who'd like to get me more t'ata?"
A rough hand shook N'Trol awake. "Commander," whispered a voice.
N'Trol sat up, shaking his head. It was the middle of the night—the detention bay was in darkness. "B'Tul?" he whispered sleepily. "What ..."
"Listen," hissed the gunner.
The officer listened, then heard it, very faintly: the sound of blaster fire.
"Somewhere on the upper levels," said B'Tul. "And the guards are gone."
The thick gray door slid open and the lights came on. As N'Trol and B'Tul turned toward the door, squinting, a tall man in a torn, blood-splotched uniform stepped into the room. "Commander?" he called.
"Here, S'Lei," called A'Tir, leading her group toward the new corsair. A few of Implacable's crew started to block her.
"Let her by," said S'Lei, raising the
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