“I noticed that myself,” Bachfisch replied to Hirake with a small smile. “May I assume that your latest report is a tactful effort to draw to my attention the fact that the contact seems to be an awfully large and powerful ‘pirate’?”

“Something of the sort, Sir,” Hirake said with an answering smile, but there was a hint of genuine concern in her expression. “According to CIC, she outmasses us by at least sixty thousand tons.”

“So she does,” Bachfisch agreed. “But she obviously doesn’t know that we aren’t just another freighter waiting for her to snap us up. Besides, if she were a Peep or an Andy, I’d be worried by her tonnage advantage. But no regular man-of-war would be closing in on a merchie this way, so that means whoever we have out there is a raider. That makes her either a straight pirate or a privateer, and neither of them is likely to have a crew that can match our people. Don’t worry, Janice. I won’t get cocky or take anything for granted, but I’m not scared of anything short of an Andy that size—certainly not of anything armed with the kind of crap available from the tech base here in the Confederacy! Anyway, pirates and privateers are what we’re out here to deal with, so let’s be about it.”

“As you say, Sir,” Hirake replied, and Honor hid a smile as she gazed down at her own plot. The lieutenant commander had done her job by reminding her captain (however tactfully) of the enemy’s size and potential firepower, but the confidence in her voice matched that of the Captain perfectly. And rightly so, Honor concluded. The contact closing so confidently upon them obviously didn’t have a clue of what it was actually pursuing, or it would have come in far more cautiously.

“Captain, I have a hail from the contact,” Lieutenant Sauchuk reported suddenly.

“Oh?” Bachfisch arched one eyebrow. “Put it on the main screen and let’s hear what he has to say, Yuri.”

“Aye, aye, Sir.”

All eyes on War Maiden’s bridge flipped to the main com screen as a man in the uniform of the Silesian Confederacy’s navy appeared on it.

“Sylvan Grove,” he said,addressing them by the name of the Hauptman Cartel freighter whose transponder ID codes they had borrowed for their deception, “this is Captain Denby of the Confederate Navy. Please maintain your present course and attitude while my ship makes rendezvous with you.”

“Oh, of course you are,” Honor heard Senior Chief Del Conte murmur all but inaudibly behind her.

“I think we owe the good captain a reply, Yuri,” Bachfisch said after a moment. “Double-check your filters, and then give me a live pickup.”

“Aye, aye, Sir,” Sauchuk replied. He checked the settings on his panel carefully, then nodded. “You’re live, Skipper,” he said.

“Captain Denby, I’m Captain Bullard,” Bachfisch said, and Honor knew that War Maiden’s computers were altering his image to put him into a merchant officer’s uniform, rather than the black and gold of the RMN, just as the raider’s computers had put him into Confed naval uniform. “I hope you won’t take this the wrong way,” Bachfisch went on, “but this isn’t exactly the safest neighborhood around. It’s not that I don’t believe you’re who you say you are, but could I ask just why it is that you want to rendezvous with us?”

“Of course, Captain Bullard,” the face on his com screen replied in the slightly stiff tone of an officer who didn’t particularly like to be reminded by a mere merchant skipper of how pathetic his navy’s record for maintaining order within its own borders was. “I have aboard seventeen of your nationals, the survivors from the crews of two Manticoran freighters. We took out the ‘privateer’ who captured their ships last week, and it seemed to me that the fastest way to repatriate them would be to turn them over to the Dillingham manager here in Melchor.”

“I see,” Bachfisch replied in a much warmer and less wary voice. He felt a brief flicker of something almost like admiration for “Captain Denby’s” smoothness, for the other man had come up with what was actually a plausible reason for a merchantman here in Silesia to allow a warship to close with it. And “Denby” had delivered his lines perfectly, with just the right note of offended dignity coupled with a “see there” sort of flourish. “In that case, Captain,” he went on, “of course we’ll maintain heading and deceleration for rendezvous.”

“Thank you, Captain Bullard,” the man on his com screen said. “Denby out.”

“Considerate of them to let us maintain course,” Janice Hirake observed to Abner Layson.

“He doesn’t have much choice if he’s going to keep us dumb and happy,” Layson pointed out, and Hirake nodded. Warships could pull far higher accelerations than any huge whale of a merchantman, and it was traditional for them to be the ones who maneuvered to match heading and velocity in the case of a deep space rendezvous.

“Still, it’s handy that he came in so far above the plane of the ecliptic. Keeps him well above us and on the wrong side of our wedge.”

“Somehow I doubt that they arranged things that way just to oblige us,” Layson said dryly. “On the other hand, sneaking up on somebody can sometimes put you in a less than optimal position yourself, can’t it?”

“Indeed it can,” Hirake said with a small, wicked smile.

* * *

“I wish we had a little better sensor angle on them, Sir,” Lieutenant Quinn muttered from one side of his mouth, and Lieutenant Commander Acedo glanced at him. Acedo was Annika’s tactical officer, and Quinn was the most junior commissioned member of his department. But the younger man had a nose for trouble which Acedo had learned to trust, or at least listen very carefully to.

“I’d like to have a better look at them myself,” the lieutenant commander replied. “But thanks to Javelin, we’ve already got a pretty good notion of what we’re up against. At this point, I have to agree with the Commodore—it’s more important to keep him guessing about us by avoiding the deeper parts of his sensor well. Besides, the fact that he’s got his wedge between him and our sensors should help keep him confident that we don’t know that he’s a warship, too.”

“I can’t argue with that, Sir,” Quinn acknowledged. “I guess I just want the best of both worlds, and sometimes you just can’t have that.”

“No, you can’t,” Acedo agreed. “But sometimes you can come pretty close, and the way the Old Man’s set this one up qualifies for that.”

Two cruisers slid inexorably together, each convinced that she knew precisely what the other one was and that the other one didn’t know what she was… and both of them wrong. The distance between them fell steadily, and Annika’s deceleration reduced the velocity differential with matching steadiness.

“Zero-zero interception in five minutes, Sir,” Honor announced. Her soprano sounded much calmer in her own ears than it felt from behind her eyes, and she raised her head to look across the bridge at the Captain. “Current range is two-one-six k-klicks and present overtake is one-three-three-one KPS squared. Deceleration is holding steady at four-five-zero gravities.”

“Thank you, Tactical,” Bachfisch replied, and his calm, composed tone did more than she would have believed possible to still the excitement jittering down her nerves. The fact that their sensors still had not had a single clear look at the contact made her nervous, but she took herself firmly to task. This, too, she thought was a part of the art of command. For all of his calm, the Captain actually knew no more about the contact than Honor herself, but it was his job to exude the sort of confidence his people needed from him at this moment. Captain Courvoisier had stressed more than once that even if she was wrong—or perhaps especially if she was wrong—a commanding officer must never forget her “command face.” Nothing could destroy a crew’s cohesion faster than panic, and nothing produced panic better than the suggestion that the CO had lost her own confidence. But it had to be harder than usual, this time. The raider was well within effective energy range already, and just as War Maiden’s own crew, her people must be ready to open fire in a heartbeat. At such short range, an energy weapon duel would be deadly, which would be good… for whoever fired first.