"Piers Anthony - Bio of a Space Tyrant 05 - Statesman" - читать интересную книгу автора (Anthony Piers)

"No, they did not inform-"

"I am the Tyrant of Jupiter, deposed."

He made a gasp of surprise. Then Spirit's voice came: "Chamber secured, sir. Orders?"

I had of course been distracting the inexperienced captain while Spirit made her way to his office. Now she had her pistol on him. She could not speak Russian, but the weapon was surely persuasive enough.

"Captain," I repeated. "I am assuming command. I do this because of the need to save this ship from destruction by the pirate, and will return control to you when the crisis abates. Acknowledge."

This time there was a laser pointed at his eye. "Acknowledged," the captain said.

"Direct your crew."

He obeyed, ordering the crew to obey my orders. I had taken over the ship illegally, but the authority was mine for the duration.

"Observation," I said, addressing the officer I knew would be present. "What is the nature of the enemy?"

"Destroyer-class vessel, sir," he answered promptly. "Now showing pirate colors."

That meant that the attempt to communicate with the ship had resulted in a skull-and-crossbones picture on the screen, the universal signal of piracy. The fact that it was of the destroyer class told me all I needed to know about its capabilities, which was why the observation officer had not said more. He was obviously experienced, perhaps retired to this ship after long service.

"Armament," I said. "What are our resources?"

"Five cases stungas grenades, sir," he said. "Hand weapons, laser."

It was my turn to be stunned. "Hand weapons? What of the space cannon?"

"Dismantled, sir, in favor of the drive. This is not a combat vessel."

Obviously not! "Propulsion," I said. "What is our maximum acceleration?"

"Five point two gee, sir."

"Five point . . . !" I exclaimed. The fastest ship in my fleet in the old days had been the destroyer The Discovered Check, upgraded to a capacity of 4.5 gee. This little escort ship supposedly could leave that ship rapidly behind. Perhaps they had figured to outrun any trouble along the way.

But no ship could outrun shells or drones, let alone lasers. The pirate had gotten too close, and now it was way too late to flee. But we couldn't fight either-not with hand grenades.

"Spirit," I said.

"Have to try chicken," she said in Spanish. If any of the Saturn personnel knew that language, they might still miss the implication. That was the intent. If they caught on, there would be a counterrevolution aboard ship.

Chicken. When two foolish kids got into transport bubbles and headed straight for each other. Collision course- and the first to swerve was "chicken." The game had been played in one form or another for centuries, and had accounted for its share of injuries and deaths.

I nodded. The pirate was matching our velocity, or trying to, so as to have a steady target for another shot. It had made no effort to communicate; there had been no demand for surrender. It simply intended to hole us; then its personnel would board in space suits and take the spoils. It was the way of the more vicious pirates, and it was evident that they had not been rousted out of this region of space. But they were bold indeed to tackle a marked Saturn ship; that would bring a fleet out here to extirpate every pirate ship.

I oriented the ship, then jammed up the drive. Suddenly we were accelerating, in the relative framework of the two moving ships, toward the pirate.

It took a moment for the pirate to realize what was happening, for this was completely unexpected. It was like a wounded rabbit charging the pursuing hound.