Free The Fleet Book 2: Counter Attack by David Drake (ed), Bill Fawcett (ed)

metallic taint in the musty, re-circulated air. Jensen made his way cautiously. Ducking a trailing power cable, and wary of stepping into the path of the squat, radio-controlled light-loaders, he noticed the stares prompted by his black-fringed Freer robe. He adjusted his hood, careful to carry himself with the right degree of arrogance. His mimicry seemed effective. A dockworker stumbled clear of his way, and behind the periphery of the hood, someone else muttered, “Pardon, Freerlander.”
    Jensen buried his hands in red-banded cuffs and kept his steps light, as if he had grown up walking icy, wind-carved sands; nothing less than perfection would deceive MacKenzie James. As Marity’s spidery bulk loomed closer, the time for second thoughts narrowed. Now, Jensen no longer regretted that necessity had forced him to include Ensign Shields in his plan. That she drifted just beyond Point’s grav field perimeters in the dispatch courier Fleet Command had assigned to the pair of them now offered great reassurance. Though technically his senior, and compelled to collusion by a veiled threat of blackmail, she would not let him down. The moment her courier had altered course for Point Station, the Ensign was committed.
    Jensen managed not to trip on any cables as he crossed the apron that separated Marity from the adjacent berth. Eyes narrowed beneath the fringe of his hood, he promised that overcoming Shields’s reluctance would be the last time he traded upon his father’s influence for his own gain. The man who arranged MacKenzie James’s arrest could write any ticket he wished and with this in mind, Jensen studied the slots that recessed the studs of Marity’s entry lock. The young Fleet officer repressed a whistle of admiration at the evident strength of her seals. No Freer ever uttered anything that resembled music outside of ritual. Such attention to detail was not misplaced, for a moment later he found himself noted by the ferret-quick gaze of the individual who served Marity as skip-runner’s mate.
    The man was typical of the type signed on by MacKenzie James. Young, athletic, and guaranteed to have no ties, he turned from wheeling a cargo capsule that had overlapping layers of customs stamps to mark a conspicuously legal course across Alliance space. The Freer robe drew his attention. An instant later, Jensen found his path blocked, and his hooded features under scrutiny by a pair of worldly eyes.
    “You’re here to see Mac James,” said the mate.
    He placed slight emphasis on James, the Mac more a prefix than first name. Jensen considered this idiosyncrasy while returning a nod of appropriate Freer restraint.
    The man smiled, suddenly older than his years. His thinsul suit hung loosely over his frame, no doubt concealing weapons. “Godfrey, wherever we alight, and no matter how unexpectedly, you people seem to find us.” But his easy manner was belied by the tension in his stance.
    Yet skip-runners could be expected to treat strangers with caution. Careful to pronounce the name precisely as Marity’s mate had, Jensen said, “Then Mac James is available?”
    “Mac’s topside.” His appraisal abruptly complete, the mate jerked his head for the young officer to follow, then gestured toward the open jaws of the lock.
    Jensen took a slow breath, readjusted his Freer hood, and ducked under Marity’s forward strut. He set foot on the loading ramp, and quashed, a panicky urge to retreat. The burning ambition which held him sleepless each night drove him forward as the mate disappeared into shadow.
    Jensen passed the lock. Marity’s interior seemed dim after the arc lamps that illuminated Station’s docks. His spacer’s soles clung lightly to metal grating, the sort that adjusted on tracks to vary storage according to the demands of different cargos. But as Jensen blinked to adjust his vision, he heard the clang of an inner lock; a cool draft infused the outer hold and by that he guessed that on the far side of