Free The Gathering Flame by Debra Doyle, James D. MacDonald

man who had entered. “Morning, Tres. You’re up early.”
    A quick grin flashed underneath the newcomer’s dark mustache. “No earlier than you are.”
    As commander of the Parezulan Sector Squadron, Captain-of-Corvettes Trestig Brehant had authorization for the sensor area on the base. Out of courtesy, though, the squadron commander usually waited for Gala to pass along the reports. The fact that he’d come dirtside in person piqued her interest.
    “I’m not bunking up in high orbit,” she pointed out. “Unlike some people I could name. If something’s got you worried …”
    “Rumors,” he said. “Speculation that the Mages are gathering in force out by Monserath. Nothing definite, but persistent enough to make me want to take a look at the raw sensor data.”
    Gala regarded him thoughtfully. Tres had never been stupid; if he thought there was a reason for checking this morning’s reports, he was probably right. She turned to the nearest comp station and began punching up the intelligence reviews. Even the most recent one was already out of date, but it was better than guesswork.
    “Let’s see,” she said, running a finger down the screen. Her fingernails were blunt and neatly trimmed. In her youth she had bitten them, but she hadn’t given in to the impulse for almost twenty years. “This sector has been quiet. Unusual activities anywhere we have to worry about—none.”
    Brehant didn’t look satisfied. “Anything from Home Fleet?”
    “Nothing.”
    “I haven’t heard anything either. And frankly, I don’t know whether to feel worried or relieved.” The Captain-of-Corvettes glanced about uneasily, as if concerned that a spy had appeared by magic to listen over his shoulder. “Central is a snake pit all the time anyway, and right now it’s even worse.”
    “I know,” said Gala. Her agreement was more heartfelt than possibly Brehant realized—House Lachiel’s political standing was sufficiently high that one of her cousins had been a minor political casualty in the succession struggle a few years back. She’d cut her own braids when she joined the Fleet, and never regretted the choice. “But so far they’ve—”
    A beeping noises cut her off in midsentence, and the comm panel began to spit out a sheet of flimsy. Gala looked over at the message header—FROM: ENTIBOR CENTRAL; TO: COMMANDER FLEET UNITS PAREZUL; INFO: COMMANDER, OUTPLANETS COMMAND; REFERENCE: GENERAL ORDER 672; HANDLING—and grimaced.
    “They must have heard us talking,” she said. “Priority transmission. Eyes only.”
    “Do you want me to leave?” Brehant asked.
    “Don’t bother. Just let me have a look at it first.” She pulled the flimsy out of the printer and read it, frowning. “I wonder … this isn’t more than a couple of days old. Central must really be concerned.”
    “What is it?”
    Gala passed over the slip of flimsy. “Nothing that you’d think was worth a max-pri override—it’s a standard request-for-information on privateer activity.”
    “Privateers?” He shook his head. “Haven’t dealt with any. Central doesn’t trust them.”
    “Central doesn’t trust anybody. The Crown backs a few of them, though, or used to. Mostly to spite Central, I think.”
    “They’re a bunch of damned irregulars,” said Brehant, frowning. “Out for the money and unreliable as hell.”
    “Good fighters, all the same,” she said. “From the reports, it sounds like one or two of them have managed to run fleet actions against the raiders.”
    “Well, I’m glad somebody is.” Brehant handed back the slip of flimsy. “But it should be us, not them.”
    “You won’t get any argument from me on that,” Gala said. She took the flimsy and stowed it in her tunic pocket. “But those aren’t our orders, and these are. Can you put as lock-and-trace on ships operating out of Innish-Kyl?”
    “The ones who come into our patrol area, yes,” he said. “Which they generally don’t, thank fortune. Now, if