No Honor in Death (26 page)

Weak! Jhar snorted as he remembered their last battle.  If only the luxury-loving toads in the capital knew the difference between their moon-dreams and reality.  As soon as he reached the bridge, Jhar confirmed the sentries' orders and set about to release the
Tol Vakash
from the stinking manure heap of the home world.

Brakal glanced at his timepiece and dropped the last printout with a satisfied grunt.  He rose and adjusted his uniform, running a callused hand through his crest of hair.  He touched his dagger, remembering Khrada's face on the security camera after Jhar taught him the reality of life aboard a Deep Space Fleet cruiser, and decided to take no chances with the
Tai Kan
spy.  Until Khrada's true agenda became known, he had to be treated with as much caution as a female
yatakan
during mating season.

The Commander opened a low, obsidian cabinet and drew out a black gun belt with a heavy, much used blaster in a
kroorath
-hide holster.  Brakal had killed the animal that had provided the leather himself.  He still remembered that hunt with great pleasure.  He fastened the belt around his waist, over the green sash, and checked the blaster's charge.  Satisfied, Brakal rammed the big weapon back into the holster and left his cabin.

The
Tol Vakash
's crew were already at their stations and saluted as the Commander strode by, a smile of joyous anticipation on his harsh features.  They were as happy as he to sail again and leave the Shrehari Prime in their wake.  Though none save Toralk were family retainers of the Makkar, any visitor would have mistaken them as such, so strong was the gleam of loyal devotion and pride in their eyes.  To most, Brakal represented the best of the Empire's old nobility: a Lord who upheld his honor in the old way, and who knew how to lead by example.  One of only a few.

The door to the bridge opened at his approach, its lights already dimmed in preparation.  Brakal's nostrils twitched with pleasure at the familiar scents of ozone, leather and hot metal.  His cruiser vibrated with energy, like a shackled running-beast waiting for the long anticipated release.

Jhar rose to face Brakal and saluted.  "The
Tol Vakash
is at your command."

Brakal grinned and nodded, then looked at each of his bridge crew in turn, reading joy at the imminent departure in their hard faces.  He took his chair behind the centre console, facing the navigation screen and basked in the tension which permeated the ship.  This was his way, his life: command of an Imperial warship.

"Stations,"  Brakal suddenly barked, his grin spreading.

Like hounds released from the pen, the bridge crew stirred into action.

"Dockyard control,  this is the Imperial cruiser
Tol Vakash
.  We will rejoin the Fleet now. Release moorings."  Jhar's voice was as harsh as it was formal.  He stood at Brakal's side, hands clasped in the small of his back.

"This is Dockyard control.  Stand-by."  Muffled thuds reverberated throughout the hull.  "
Tol Vakash
, you are free to join the hunt.   Make the Empire proud of your name."

"Navigator, position and running lights on."

"
Kha
."

"Commander, the
Tol Vakash
floats free."

"Helm, thrusters one half ahead,"  Brakal ordered, fingers gripping the arms of his chair with great strength, as if he wanted to merge with the metal and synthetics of his starship.

"
Kha
."

The quality of the vibrations changed minutely, but for Brakal, it made all the difference.  His ship was now under way.  On the screen, the forward view began to change as the confines of the yard slipped by.

Slowly, the matte grey hull of the large, sleek and deadly Imperial cruiser slipped out of the box-like structure of the dry-dock, its aft thrusters glowing orange as they poured out massive amounts of energy. The coiled red dragon of the Fleet blazed on either side of her hull, flanked by the cuneiform Imperial script identifying her as the
Tol Vakash
, the Fast Death.

She was barely a year old, of the latest design and Brakal had taken her out of the slipway when she was new, with a hand-picked crew transferred from his previous command.  She overpowered all other Imperial ships of the same class with her heavy guns and the powerful drives jutting out from the rear of her elongated, diamond-shaped hull.  Shrehari shipwrights normally built for function, not elegance, but in the
Tol Vakash
, both had combined to create a vessel more beautiful than any other.

"We are free of the station,"  the helmsman reported.

"Your orders, Commander?" Jhar formally asked.

"Change course to one-one-five-nine, at full sub light. Plot a jump to the Cimmeria sector by the most direct route.  Let us see if the humans still have the stomach to fight.  Let us hunt."

Gun Master Urag, at his station on Brakal's left, grinned and saluted.  "When we are finished with them, Commander, they will no longer have the stomach to live."

A low growl, like a pack of hungry
krooraths
on the prowl, filled the bridge with its primal potency, raising the small hairs on the back of Brakal's neck with excitement.

"You have a plan, Commander."  It was not a question but a statement of fact.  Jhar knew Brakal too well.  They were in his cabin, the ship sailing to the jump point under the control of the duty officer.

Brakal's eyes gleamed as he looked up from the naked blade of his finely-crafted dagger.  "I have, Jhar."  He glanced down at the blade again, then carefully sheathed it and stood up.  "Admiral Trage wanted to tie me to the apron-strings of an Assault Force, as a way of controlling me.  No Force Commander would cooperate.  They either fear I will show them for the fools they are, or they hate Trage as much as I, and want me to roam free.  Either way serves my plans.  But my orders limit me to patrols within our space.  Forays across the border are expressly forbidden, on pain of standing judgement before the Council."

"And Khrada is here to see you keep to your orders, or failing that, witness your disobedience."

"No doubt.  But there may be another reason.  Fool though Trage may be, his mind is twisted and filled with dark corners where he schemes endlessly.  The only thing I can safely assume is that the Council dearly wishes me to disappear.  It can no longer tolerate a Deep Space Fleet officer showing the Empire where the Admiralty has erred and taken us into this grinding war of attrition instead of taking us to victory."

"If victory was ever possible."

"It was, at one point, Jhar.  But we gave the humans time to re-group and learn, while we have not learned a single useful thing."

"So what will you do with Khrada?"

"At this time?  Nothing.  My imminent death is not wished by my enemies.  They know I have too much support.  Khrada will be watched of course, and kept out of the way, but his presence does not affect my plans."

"And they are?"  Jhar asked, returning to his initial question.

"Simple."  Brakal grinned.  "As all good plans.  If we cannot go to the enemy, we will let him come to us."  At Jhar's obvious incomprehension, Brakal's smile widened.  "Think, Jhar.  What have we learned from the humans?"

The First Officer thought for a moment, then slowly nodded.  "You intend to wait for humans to cross into our space on a search and destroy patrol, and hunt them down."

"Yes.  It may not be the best way, but until I am sure of things, I will observe the Council's strictures.  Here is what we shall do."  In short, spare sentences, Brakal outlined his plan, and when he was done, Jhar smiled, happy to see that his Commander had recovered his fierce good humour and shed the depression which had dogged him since returning to the home world.

If the
Tol Vakash
could not go out and hunt the humans on an equal footing, it could at least catch them at their own game, a game Brakal had taught his crew a long time ago.  And it would serve just as well to cement Brakal's reputation among the Deep Space Fleet as would a foray into the Commonwealth.  The only dark spot on the horizon remained Khrada.  Jhar asked the Commander for permission to kill him now, but Brakal refused, grinning cruelly.

"In good time, Jhar, in good time.  First, I want to know exactly why Trage thought he could put a highly visible spy on my ship and get away with it.  Where is the turd now, by the way?"

"Restrained in his quarters.  Under guard."

Brakal's thick eyebrows rose.  "Drastic acts, my normally careful Second."

Jhar grunted dismissively.  "He has no functions and was in the way when we prepared to sail.  It was a logical decision."

The Commander laughed.  "You see, Jhar, you are learning.  Soon, you shall be able to scheme and cause trouble with the worst of the bum-lickers at the Emperor's court."  He sobered abruptly.  "Let him roam free now.  But ensure he is watched at all times."

"If he wishes to communicate with his superiors?"

"Let him.  I care little for his gossip.  On second thought, record his transmissions, and set someone about finding the key to whatever code he uses.  Khrada will expect this, and I do not want to disappoint him.  Yet."

FOURTEEN

After Kowalski's caution, the Signals Officer had clammed up, making Siobhan understand that no member of her crew would speak the truth for fear of the unknown agent or agents.  If she had told the truth, it confirmed the recent past held more, much more than just a string of disconnected incidents. 

If Siobhan flushed out the SSB agent, her officers might be more inclined to speak, to tell her what had happened.  But who could it be?  Shara's pinched face flashed across her mind, but she discarded the thought almost immediately.    A good operative was inconspicuous, and the Sailing Master had been anything but, antagonizing just about everyone and sucking up to Forenza openly.  And that showed the magnitude of her problem.  With a crew of over two hundred, it could be anyone.

Stripping off the armour, Siobhan forced herself to think rationally.  Electronic surveillance throughout the ship, if it existed, had to be monitored by someone who had access to ship's systems on a routine basis.  She bit her lower lip in concentration.  That left out a lot of people, but included just as many.  Siobhan smiled grimly.  She could get paranoid very easily under these circumstances. The intercom buzzed and interrupted her thoughts.

"Dunmoore."

"Pushkin, sir.  Did you want to see the message from Battle-Group?"

Siobhan paused, puzzled for a moment.  "Which message?"

"The reply to our query on the
Mykonos
."

It could easily have waited until she was back on the bridge, and Siobhan was about to say so.  Then, she slowly nodded.  "Pipe it down to my terminal."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Pushkin's face disappeared, replaced by Admiral Kaleri's severe features.  Siobhan had never met the commander of 31st Battle-Group in person.   The Rear-Admiral had the fine, aristocratic features of a wealthy Earther, a scion of the great families who controlled the Commonwealth.  Her short hair had turned iron-grey and framed a lean, seamed face which made her appear older than her fifty years.  Kaleri's piercing blue eyes stared out from the small screen, frozen by the paused recording.  Siobhan touched a key.

"Captain Dunmoore,"  her accent was precise, clipped, but her voice flat.  "You will  cease interfering with the fast trader
Mykonos
, under command of Augustus Slayton, forthwith and release her to her business.  Nothing is to be removed from the ship, and all logs pertaining to the interception and inspection are to be purged.  The crew of the
Stingray
is ordered to forget this incident ever happened."  Pushkin had relayed Kaleri's words verbatim, but he hadn't mentioned what followed.  "I am disappointed that you failed to accept Captain Slayton' identification, which I am sure, he provided.  Try to avoid making an ass of yourself and this Battle-Group in the future.  You're already treading a fine line.  As you know you are not my first, or even my last choice to command the
Stingray
, and I will not tolerate any of your usual insubordinate or reckless acts.  You have already made the one mistake I was prepared to allow you.  Oh, and send me a full report explaining why you're not at your patrol station yet.  Kaleri, out."

Dunmoore stared at the blank screen in angry surprise.  Kaleri's orders were already hard to believe after what she'd seen on the
Mykonos
, but the insulting admonishment was way out of line. Flag officers, by custom, reprimanded the ship captains under their command in private and in person, not over an open frequency.  So that was why Pushkin felt she should see the message before returning to the bridge.  It was probably all over the ship by now.  Humiliation blazed a hot trail across her face and she cursed savagely until she had exhausted her inventory of swear words in several human and non-human languages.

She finished stripping off her armour, leaving the rigid shell pieces in a pile on her bed.  Kery would come by later and square it away.  Funny, Siobhan thought, how she'd come to depend on the self-effacing clerk for the mundane things in her life:  meals, cleaning her cabin, keeping the paperwork straight.  And despite her earlier fears, Kery had not been set on by any other crewmember.  In fact, she had become so inconspicuous as to have almost vanished from Dunmoore's perception.

She froze in her tracks.  Kery.  The clerk had access to just about anything on the ship, including the Captain's personal stuff.  No one questioned her right to be anywhere, and she had already acted out of character once, during her low-voiced argument with Shara, an officer who should know better than to take lip from a rating.  Was that the real reason for Guthren's suggestion Dunmoore transfer Kery off the
Stingray
?  The old Chief had an uncanny instinct for trouble.

With an angry shrug, she adjusted her battledress and headed for the bridge, where Pushkin waited for further orders.  Wordlessly, she slid into the Captain's seat and stared at the viewscreen, the humiliation of Kaleri's message still all too vivid.

Pushkin must have noticed her stiffness, because he leaned over and, in a low voice said, "I'm the only one who saw the message unscrambled sir.  I took the liberty of using your ready room."

Siobhan looked up at Pushkin in grateful surprise.  Her angry features softened at the unexpected support from a man who had shown nothing but resentment since she came aboard.

"Thank you, Mister Pushkin," she replied softly.  "That means a lot to me."

He shrugged, as if embarrassed and straightened up.  "Your orders, Captain?"

"Set a course to the Cimmeria sector," Siobhan replied, the weight of her anger diminished by Pushkin's surprising show of loyalty.  "I want to see if we can track down an Imperial supply convoy and ruin its week.  A bit of hit and run should get this ship back into the swing of things, eh, Mister Pushkin?"

"Aye, sir," the First Officer nodded, a crack of a smile softening his severe expression.  "But the convoys travel deep in Shrehari territory, even to re-supply the Cimmeria outposts.  Picking them up on sensors will be tricky."

"Correct, Mister Pushkin."  Siobhan now smiled openly.  "For that reason, we won't restrain ourselves to the safe side of the line until we have a target." The others now listened to Dunmoore and the First Officer with interest, and Siobhan met Kowalski's dark eyes.  "Playing it safe doesn't yield results.  Risks, calculated risks do.  Just as long as you do it right.  Don't you think so, Mister Kowalski?"

After a moment's hesitation, during which the Signals Officer tried to decipher Dunmoore's words for any hidden meanings, Kowalski nodded.  "Aye, Captain."

"Tell me, Mister Kowalski,"  Siobhan continued, her smile widening as her eyes narrowed, "as an electronics whiz, what do you know about electronic counter-measures?"

Again, she paused and Siobhan could literally see the little gears turning in her head.

"Some, sir.  Anything special in mind?"

"Let's discuss it some time when we're both off watch."  Siobhan turned to Pushkin.  "I think a few light-years this side of the Cimmeria system ought to do for now.  Somewhere near the spot the
Victoria Regina
got plastered by Captain Brakal."

Did she see his face muscles tighten for a fraction of a second, or was it just her overheated imagination?

Pushkin nodded.  "Aye, sir."  He leaned over his console and tapped a few keys.  "Navigation, plot course bearing one-four-five mark fifteen, emerging at grid Alpha Pictoris five-four-four-seven by eight-eight-one-zero by six-nine-two-two."

Shara repeated the figures in her nasal tone.  "Course locked-in."

"Helm, engage."

Three days passed without Siobhan becoming any wiser to the ship's recent history.  It frustrated her to no end, and she had developed half a dozen theories, each of them sounding like something out of a cheap novel.  Fortunately, she had other things to occupy her mind.  Matters of more immediate import, like the life and death jokes the gods played on sailors in a war zone.

The ship had reached the coordinates near where Brakal had ambushed the
Victoria Regina
, and had assumed up a patrol route which took it deep into the war zone.  So far, all was quiet on the Shrehari front.

To keep herself from going nuts at the thought of SSB spies, far-fetched conspiracies and the nearness of an enemy who could spell death for the inexperienced
Stingray
, she had begun to contemplate tactical simulations of various convoy raiding scenarios.

Dunmoore found the intellectual stimulation relaxing, even though she usually fought her battles by instinct, not according to some set of formalized rules or in slavish adherence to doctrine.  What she found even more stimulating were her discussions and war-gaming with Pushkin.  The First Officer had a solid, if conventional grasp of frigate tactics.  It bode well for their patrol.

Her time with Pushkin also gave her another insight into the man.  He obviously had all the grounding and abilities to fight a starship, and as he had proven over the last few weeks, knew how to administer and sail one.  Yet he was older than Dunmoore and still had not taken the step to command his own vessel.  These things happened in a large Fleet.  Often, the difference between one officer taking the step and another, of equal ability remaining second fiddle was a matter of being at the right place at the right time, and catching an Admiral's eye.  Siobhan had gotten her first command thanks to Admiral Nagira.  He had been impressed by her sharp mind while she worked on his staff before the war.  When the position of captain of an auxiliary scout opened up shortly before the Shrehari invasion, he had given her the chance.

The
Don Quixote
had been a dream for a young and somewhat wild Lieutenant with glory in her eyes.  It did not last long.  Within eight months, she lost the yearning for glory when the Imperial forces all but destroyed her small command at the first battle of Cimmeria, killing or injuring half the crew.  Siobhan learned the hard way that wildness and dash had to be tempered by thoughtfulness and experience.  Still, she emerged from the subsequent inquest with Lieutenant-Commander's stripes on her shoulders because she had not sacrificed the
Don Quixote
in vain.  But she did not get another command immediately.  Nagira decided that she had to do some penance, if only to hammer in the lessons she had learned.  He appointed Siobhan to the
Sala-Ad-Din
as Second Officer to gain some more seasoning under experienced superiors.  Adnan Prighte had been First Officer, and had fast become her close friend.

The thought of Prighte distracted her from the simulation, and she turned off the terminal with a sigh.  Something perverse in her nature had pushed Siobhan to make the Cimmeria sector her prime patrolling area, even though as an independent frigate, she had orders to roam a large slice of the line.  The Shrehari-occupied system had much to commend it to enterprising captains.  It was the Empire's principal outpost in occupied space and received a steady stream of convoys to re-supply the garrison and build-up a forward support base for future thrusts, although Siobhan doubted the Empire could regain enough momentum for another push into the Commonwealth against a ready, if thinly stretched human Fleet.

She suspected her motives for choosing Cimmeria were more personal, the kind of motives responsible ship captains did not enjoy acknowledging.

The door chime sounded its muted call and, on Dunmoore's word, Kery trotted in carrying a supper tray.  Its delicious aroma tickled Siobhan's nose and her stomach rumbled loudly in response.  Kery gave her a sly glance and Siobhan smiled back, embarrassed at her body's primitive reactions.  But when the clerk turned away to leave, the smile vanished, replaced by a hard, speculative look as Siobhan stared at her retreating back.  Just as the door closed, the clerk turned her head.  Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, but it was enough.  Siobhan knew that Kery had seen her expression and come to the correct conclusion.  An unpleasant metallic taste filled Siobhan's dry mouth while blood pounded loudly in her ears.  If Kery was a spy, she now knew that Siobhan suspected her.  Suddenly, the hot meal in front of her seemed a lot less appetising.

As she ate, Siobhan felt the bulkheads close in on her.  Tension made her neck ache and she knew she had to move, get her mind on mundane things, otherwise she would become too jumpy and nervous to give even a mediocre Shrehari commander a decent fight.  An impromptu and informal inspection of the ship would do nicely.

Rising to adjust her uniform and slip on her gloves, Siobhan had an idea which made her smile.  She would start with a visit to the number two portside one-oh-five gun turret, Banger Rownes' little world.  She instinctively liked the burly ex-merchant spacer.   Rownes projected an innate honesty and integrity that Siobhan found refreshing.  And she was not afraid to speak her mind.

When Dunmoore reached the thick bulkhead protecting the ship's environmental integrity from the cold vacuum of space, the armoured door to portside number two gun opened with a soft groan and a sucking noise, proving the turret had been depressurized moments before.  She stopped near the hatch and waited.   A few moments later, a pair of pressure-suited feet appeared on the ladder leading down from the turret housing proper.  The gunner skipped the last few rungs and landed on the bare metal deck with a dull thud.  The polarized helmet visor turned towards Captain Dunmoore and the suit's occupant snapped to attention.