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in the family’s wealth for her to use as she pleased. Was hers large enough to afford a five-million-crown drone? It was unlikely she needed her monthly paycheck to live a life of reasonable luxury . . . He felt a flicker of envy. Growing up on Hebrides had been far from easy. If his brother hadn’t . . .
    He shook his head, forcing the thought to one side. Memories of his brother and what he’d done to feed the family still brought stabs of pain and guilt. Thirty years in the Royal Navy had never quite healed the scars.
    “We could also follow a more evasive course,” Lieutenant Robertson suggested. “If we went off the normal shipping lanes . . .”
    “Too great a risk of losing one of the freighters,” the captain said, so quickly that it was clear she’d already considered the possibility. “We couldn’t take the chance.”
    “They would have real problems picking up the navigational beacons,” William agreed. “Not every ship has a skilled navigator.”
    Robertson blushed, as he’d hoped she would, rather than looking crushed.
    The captain cleared her throat. “I will not shed any tears for a destroyed raider,” she said firmly. “However, I intend to capture a raider intact if possible, along with her crew. I have”—her face twisted in disgust—“authority to offer them life on a penal world if they surrender once we have them at gunpoint.”
    William shared her feelings. Pirates were the scum of the universe as far as any naval officer was concerned, and the Royal Navy had legal authority to simply execute captured pirates on the spot. In some ways, it was counterproductive—there was rarely any attempt to interrogate prisoners before shoving them out the airlock—but few pirates actually knew anything useful. Their senior officers, well aware of what fate awaited them, often fought to the death.
    “There has been a considerable upsurge in raider activity recently,” Captain Falcone continued before anyone could muster an objection. “We need to know if a foreign power”—there could be no doubt which one she meant—“has been supporting the raiders for reasons of their own. Prisoners may be the only way to obtain hard evidence.”
    There was a long silence. Roach finally broke it.
    “Captain,” he said, “what will happen to the prisoners if they’re not going to be spaced?”
    “They will be held in the brig, then transported to Nightmare,” the captain said flatly. “Once they’re on the surface, they can work or die.”
    Roach looked pleased, William noted. Nightmare was a marginally habitable planet, its original settlers fighting a losing battle to survive when they’d been rediscovered. The Commonwealth had transported most of the settlers to another world, then turned Nightmare into a penal colony. It was possible that the prisoners could master their new world, the government had argued at the time, eventually creating another member world for the Commonwealth. And if they killed each other there . . . well, they wouldn’t be hurting innocents. Everyone who was exiled to Nightmare thoroughly deserved it.
    The captain gave them a moment to assimilate what she’d said, then went on. “We will take tomorrow as downtime,” she said, “then prepare for departure. There’s no time for shore leave, I’m afraid, but there will be reduced duty hours for almost all of the crew. Please don’t overindulge in the still I’m not supposed to know about.”
    William concealed his amusement with an effort. There was always a semi-legal still on a naval vessel, producing alcohol that was barely suitable for human consumption. It was tolerated as long as the operators didn’t do anything stupid, but it was generally the XO’s responsibility to keep an eye on it. The captain was not meant to know anything—officially—about the still. But she’d been an XO herself not too long ago.
    Captain Falcone rose to her feet. “Dismissed,” she said as her officers rose.