Jupiter's Glory Book 2: The Pirates and the Priests Read online

  JUPITER’S GLORY

  BOOK 2:

  THE PIRATES AND THE PRIESTS

  Adam Carter

  Copyright 2017, © Adam Carter. All rights reserved. No content may be reproduced without permission of the author.

  CHAPTER ONE

  When Bethany Hart was eight years old she took apart her father’s motorbike and put it back together again. When asked why she had chosen to do such a thing she had said it was because her father complained about a hum in the motor. After two days without her toys, her father relented on the punishment because of the fact his motorbike no longer had a hum in its motor.

  At aged eleven, Bethany Hart saved the entire school camping trip when the bus broke down in the middle of nowhere. She repaired the engine with nothing more than the contents of her classmates’ stationery boxes.

  Turning fifteen, she was accepted into the University of Flight – her home world’s most prominent resource for recruiting young talent to work on their space programmes. Before she was sixteen, she had retro-engineered the university’s top-secret flight project and coaxed an extra hundred miles per hour out of it.

  By eighteen, Bethany Hart was hosting lectures to visiting professors, to resounding standing ovations.

  When she was nineteen, Bethany was kidnapped by Europan pirates and spent two long years in their company. When she was not being forced to helm their vessels or work in their engine rooms, she was chained to her bed to prevent her escape. The rare times the pirates returned to Europa, she was locked away in a dark cell and forgotten about while the pirates caroused and drank so far from her dungeon she could barely even hear the echoes of their merriment.

  “Stop daydreaming and get back to work, runt.”

  The blow to the side of her head was powerful, but Bethany Hart had long since grown used to such violence. She had been with the pirate band for two years now and had suffered far worse than the occasional blow to the head. Broken from her reverie, Hart’s fingers danced across her board as she worked through a variety of problems. The command station of the pirate vessel was fairly large, but there were only three people stationed there. As such, Hart was not only tasked with piloting the vessel, but also with making immediate repairs to any damage they undertook in battle. The latter was made difficult by the fact her right wrist was handcuffed to the console.

  “Target vessel still taking evasive actions,” she reported, even though they could all see as much through the massive window before them. The pirate vessel was of an odd design, for the command station was contained within an immense transparent bubble. The bubble was not of course formed of glass and was stronger than any other part of the vessel. It afforded them a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree view of space around them; needless to say, it had taken Hart time to get used to the idea that her chair was sitting on an invisible deck and was effectively floating in space.

  “Jam their transmissions,” the captain said.

  Hart refrained from pointing out the other vessel was not sending any transmissions; nor did she mention there was no other craft out there to receive any such communications. She merely flipped a switch and said, “Transmissions blocked, ma’am.”

  The enemy vessel turned sharply and shot towards them, passing so tightly beneath the pirate ship that Hart held her breath.

  That earned her another slap about the head from the first mate.

  “Eyes on your job, runt.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mr Sturgeon,” the captain asked the first mate, “thoughts on how to proceed?”

  Hart was glad the first mate’s attention was at last focused elsewhere. She snuck a glance behind to where the two officers were debating the matter. Captain Eliza Danton was a grizzled woman in her mid-sixties. She wore an eyepatch as a tradition passed down through generations of Europan pirates. It was said a pirate captain had to remove his or her own eye with a spoon as a test of their resolve and a mark of their dedication to the crew. Hart had heard talk of some pirate captains even hacking off their own leg in order to wander around with a wooden one, but it seemed Captain Danton was not so stupid. Wooden legs, buried treasure and walking the plank may have all been creations of romantic fiction, but Europans had always been eccentric.

  First Mate Damian Sturgeon was a mountainous bear of a man, with oiled skin and a shaved head. He never wore a shirt, proudly displaying all the scars he had obtained through murder, while at his side there hung a thick cutlass. Hart was always surprised neither of them had a parrot.

  Hart needed no description herself. She was thin and plain, without ambition or access to mirrors. It simply did not matter what she looked like.

  “The vessel’s unarmed,” Sturgeon mused. “At the moment they’re running scared, but they have no plan. Given enough time they’ll simply run out of fuel, but I wouldn’t recommend hanging around that long. A shot to their engines would disable them for boarding.”

  “Agreed,” the captain said. “Hart, prepare missiles.”

  Hart had long since ceased asking why she was expected to do everything on board the ship. All the captain ever did was give orders and all Sturgeon ever did was voice his opinions or vent his aggressions on the only woman doing any work.

  “Missiles prepared, ma’am.”

  “Target engines.”

  Hart knew full well she was to target the engines, yet the captain always had to tell her precisely what to do as though she was an idiot. It was ironic they had kidnapped her because she was a genius. And now she was a murderer, readying herself to disable yet another innocent vessel so the pirate crew could board it and slaughter innocent people.

  “Engines targeted,” she said. Refusal would earn her a beating, or worse, and it had been a long time since she had refused anything.

  “Wait …” the captain said, leaning forward in her chair, “Wait … Wait … Fire!”

  Hart activated the firing mechanism and a single missile streaked from the pirate vessel, slamming into the side of the other craft. A silent explosion tore through the vessel, twisted metal shearing off into space even as the vacuum fought valiantly to starve the fire of oxygen. The vessel continued to turn, which could have simply been momentum, but Hart cringed at the truth.

  “You missed,” Sturgeon said. “You missed their engine.”

  “There are a lot of bulkheads between us and their engine, sir. I hit the target – the missile didn’t punch all the way through.”

  Sturgeon struck her about the head, this time hard enough for Hart to taste blood. Her temple pounded with the beginnings of a headache and her heart raced at the thought of what punishments she would be subjected to should the enemy craft get away. She still felt a thrill every time one of their targets escaped, although the feeling was not as strong as it had been two years earlier. Sturgeon’s happiest pastime was beating her and he had spent long hours thrashing out of her any sympathy for their victims. Hart retained something, however, a secret desire to see life continue, for the innocent to survive. She had long ago given up on herself but was still determined that nothing would be able to destroy her very soul.

  “What is that?” the captain asked.

  Hart and Sturgeon both looked out through the bubble. A third vessel had appeared and Hart’s eyes widened. The new vessel was long and dark, tapering to a fine point at its forward end. Towards the rear, there were protrusions from either side, beyond which the vessel continued for a short way. Hart had never before seen a spacecraft which looked like a sword and had no idea what it could have meant.

  “Carpoan sword-ship,” Sturgeon said, the first trace of fear to his voice that Hart had ev
er heard.

  “What would they be doing out here?” the captain asked.

  “Hart, stop gawping and get us out of here.”

  Hart knew almost nothing of Carpo. It was an irregular satellite of Jupiter, with a diameter of around two miles, but that was about it. She had not even realised the world had been settled.

  “Hart,” the captain barked.

  “Moving, ma’am.” Hart’s fingers flew over the console as she steered the vessel about. “Who are they?”

  “Carpoans are the one people you never tangle with,” Sturgeon said, his anxiety making him not even notice he was talking to her civilly. Hart noted his eyes never left the sword-ship. “They’re a people constantly at war. It’s kill or die there, runt.”

  “You mean kill or be killed?”

  “Kill or run out of oxygen. Carpo’s so small, everyone’s at one another’s throats.”

  “Have you ever been there, sir?”

  “God, no.” He shuddered at the very thought.

  Hart hastened her steering, bringing the vessel around as quickly as she could. As soon as they had a clear run ahead of them she intended to push the engines for all they were worth.

  A light flashed on her console and her heart froze. “They’re trying to contact us.”

  “Ignore them,” Sturgeon said quickly.

  The flashing intensified, spreading across the entire console. Communications were a strange thing. To contact someone directly one had to know one’s phone number, yet, when space travel became commonplace several hundred years earlier, a system had to be devised by which craft could communicate with one another. Radio frequencies were experimented with, and each world adopted its own frequency. As such, it made communication between vessels simple, but it also meant any vessel monitoring that frequency could hear whatever message was being relayed.

  Over the years, the system had been tinkered with, but the basics remained the same. The fact Hart’s entire board was now flashing indicated the sword-ship did not know the origins of the pirate vessel, or that they wanted to make an aggressive display.

  “They’re not going to let us leave,” Sturgeon said. “We’ll have to talk to them.”

  “We don’t need to talk to them,” Captain Danton said. “Ready missiles. If you’re saying we can’t escape, we’ll fight.”

  “Fight?” Sturgeon said, rounding on his captain in horror. “Fight a Carpoan sword-ship? Are you mad?”

  Hart cringed, keeping herself as low as she possibly could. The captain stared at him in shock more than anything and silence filled the entire room, illuminated by the steady pulsing of the communications console.

  “Answer it,” the captain said in a small voice.

  Sturgeon flicked a switch and said, “Carpoan sword-ship, this is the Buccaneer. We respectfully request confirmation of your business in this area.”

  His words had been diplomatic, even confident, but Hart had never heard the man more afraid.

  The console stopped flashing but there came no response from the sword-ship. Hart and Sturgeon continued to stare out the window as the craft sat there in space. Hart could imagine the vessel was manned by a thousand crewmembers or more, all of them rushing to their stations as they prepared themselves for the extermination of the pirate vessel.

  Hart jumped as a voice at last came through.

  “Buccaneer, this is Jupiter’s Glory,” the voice spoke in clipped militaristic tones. “We’re glad you answered because we were about to blow you out of the sky. Seeing as though you’re talking to us now, could you please explain why you’re attacking this Themistonian craft?”

  Hart had never heard of Jupiter’s Glory, but since she knew nothing of Carpo that was understandable. She looked to Sturgeon for advice and could see the bald man was sweating all across his naked chest.

  “We are far from Carpo,” Sturgeon said carefully, “and do not recognise Carpoan jurisdiction in this matter. The Buccaneer claimed salvage rights on the Themistonian vessel. Can you please state your authority to intervene in this matter?”

  They waited in tense silence. Sturgeon was obviously afraid, but immediately bowing to their wishes would see them slaughtered, so he was attempting to show strength that they might be able to slink away intact. Hart had seen him use the strategy before, when faced with heavy opposition, but always in those other times he had been the one in control of the situation. Now he was the mouse and the sword-ship the very fat and imperious cat.

  “Buccanneer,” the voice returned, “please stand by while we discuss this over a cup of tea.”

  The transmission cut off and Sturgeon blinked in astonishment. Hart was still not breathing but was glad she was not the only one confused by the sword-ship’s message.

  “It’s an old trick,” the captain said, trying not to sound unsettled but failing miserably. “They’re trying to confuse us, that’s all. We’ll wait to see what they have to say. Make no aggressive moves and no attempt to escape, but continue our drift so it appears natural. If we get into a position where we have open space ahead of us we can get out of here while they’re still dunking digestives.”

  As plans went, Hart thought it was a terrible one, but it was not her place to say so.

  “Just look at that Themistonian craft,” the captain said whimsically. “All that lovely religious booty just waiting to be seized.”

  “Treasure is nothing if we die,” Sturgeon said. “No one goes up against a Carpoan sword-ship and survives.”

  “No one?”

  Sturgeon seemed to realise the mistake he had made. “Uh, I wasn’t suggesting we …”

  “Imagine,” the captain said, ignoring him, “the reputation we’d gain if we took down a Carpoan sword-ship.”

  “We could talk it over when we moved in with Davy Jones,” Sturgeon said. “We could ask him where to store our dead man’s chest.”

  The captain’s face fell. “Sarcasm does not become you, Sturgeon.”

  Hart followed the exchange with fascination. Her heart had begun to beat again and by this time it was pounding. Perhaps this was her opportunity, her way out of the pirate’s life. If they attacked the sword-ship, they would die. After all the horrific things she had been forced to do as a pirate, perhaps this was her only means of escape. At the same time she might even atone a little for her crimes.

  Licking dry lips, she tried to phrase her words in the best possible way. “We’d be legends,” she said. “Edward Teach, Captain Kidd, Blackguard … You’d be remembered with the best of them. Captain Eliza Danton of the Buccaneer.” She mimicked a chill running down her spine. “They’d remember you for centuries to come, Captain.”

  Sturgeon glowered at her, but dared not even cuff her about the head. Hart resisted the temptation to shoot him a smirk. The silence now came not only from Jupiter’s Glory but from the captain as well. Danton’s next words would decide their future and could well kill them all.

  “To be remembered in legend,” Captain Danton said with a sigh. “First Mate Sturgeon?”

  “Aye, Captain?”

  “Hit her for me.”

  Sturgeon’s iron fist cracked the side of Hart’s head with such force it knocked her from her chair. Hart’s wrist screamed in agony as the metal cuff tore into her, while her face pulsed with agony. Sturgeon grabbed her by the shoulder, sending lancing pain through her, and dropped her back into her seat.

  Hart’s head swam with dizziness and bile rose in her throat. She could not believe she had been stupid enough to bait the captain like that. Watching the Carpoan sword-ship, her only hope now was that they would attack regardless of what Captain Danton did.

  A light flashed again and Hart put the communication through without being asked. “Buccaneer,” the voice returned, “this is Jupiter’s Glory. Just wanted to clarify that, in case you thought you were talking to Killer Death Machine – Die, Neighbour Scum!” There was a pause. “Sorry, that’s not really the name of the Themistonian vessel. It would have been, though,
if it was Carpoan. We Carpoans do have rather fanciful names for our vessels.”

  “Then where’s Jupiter’s Glory come from?” Hart asked.

  “Long story, don’t fancy telling it. You don’t want to ask why I thought you might have thought the transmission was from the Themistonian vessel?”

  Sturgeon looked to the captain, who nodded slightly. “Why,” Sturgeon asked slowly, “did you think we might think the transmission was from the Themistonian vessel?”

  “Because during our tea break we did what you seem to have failed to do. We contacted them. You see, you can only claim salvage rights on dead craft, and this one has a live crew. They say you shot at them. Please be a dear and confirm.”

  “Who is this guy?” Sturgeon asked.

  The captain leaned forward. “He wants us to think he’s insane. He wants us to be afraid of his cheery disposition.”

  “He also has the law on his side now. Those Themistonians will tell him we’re pirates.”

  “He’s not stupid,” Hart said. “He already knows we’re pirates.”

  Sturgeon backhanded her across the face and Hart slammed into the console. She could feel a cut throbbing above her eye, and seeping blood obscured her vision. She narrowed her eyes, desperately wanting to strike back at him, but she would not even make it to her feet before he cut her down.

  The light flashed again and Sturgeon flicked the switch in annoyance.

  “Pardon me,” another voice said, this one female and with venom dripping from her words, “but if you strike that girl one more time I’m going to board your craft and ram my fist so far down your throat I’ll rip out your heart. We understand one another?”

  Sturgeon paled. Hart looked out at the sword-ship and realised how having a transparent bubble for a control deck could have been a bad move.

  “Waiting for an answer,” the woman said.

  Sturgeon’s lips moved, but no sound came out. He coughed and then said, “Understood,” but it came out as a squeak. Annoyed with himself, he swore and automatically raised his hand to strike Hart, but stopped, turned away and scratched the back of his head.