No Honor in Death (10 page)

"Divided, Commander," Jhar growled.  "Those who were elevated to the Warrior caste stand behind you, though they do not, as yet, feel strong enough to challenge the ones who wish to remain uncommitted or those who wish to see you fail."

"My noble colleagues," Brakal spat dismissively, "enfeebled by generations of inbreeding and indolence."

During the long peace before the present war, Imperial officers had all been born into the Warrior caste.  Preferment, corruption, intrigue and nepotism had replaced merit and honor. Brakal however, born into the Warrior Clan Makkar, second son of the Clan Lord, had earned his advancement and owed nothing to anyone.  Which was why he remained a Commander and was not in Admiral's robes.

"Your noble colleagues who hate you for preferring those raised to the Warrior caste over those born to it," Jhar countered.

The war, initially successful thanks to the humans' fecklessness, had gone well despite the incompetence of most of the high command.  Brakal regretted that his father had died less than two turns before the Council contemplated the folly of attacking the Commonwealth.  As Lord and Admiral, he had a voice in the
Kraal
, the assembly of Lords that advised the Emperor, and a voice in the Admiralty.  But he died of a cowardly murder two days after the old Emperor passed on to join his ancestors.  Had he lived, he would have tried to dissuade the Emperor from authorising the war.  Failing that, he would have led the Fleet to victory.  Admiral Maranth, Lord of Clan Makkar had been a superb warlord, and old spacers still spoke of him with awe in their voices.

"Hate me they can, but they dare not touch a Clan Lord."

Less than one turn into the war, Brakal's elder brother Mharak, then Clan Lord, died in the battle of Ybarrina Prime.  A glorious death, which brought honor to the clan, but which also left Brakal as Clan Lord.  It was an empty honor.  The
Kraal
no longer sat because it contained too many Lords who were openly critical of the Council's handling of the war.  But it did embarrass the Fleet by employing a Clan Lord who was less than an Admiral.

"They touched your father."

"A cowardly murder, Jhar, for which payment has not yet been extracted in full."

"Trage?"

"He, and others.  Their day will come.  One day there will be more men in the Warrior caste raised there by merit than those who landed there, on their fat arses, due to an accident of birth."

Jhar grunted.  Of modest birth, he had distinguished himself early, and when the Imperial Fleet expanded, the ancient right of elevation was restored, by need, not choice.  He had been one of the first lower caste spacers to shave his head and receive the blessing of the infant Emperor. Many of the hereditary Warriors deeply resented those who were elevated, and hated with a passion those of noble blood who supported elevation.

The two officers passed the guard post at the entrance of the military spaceport, Brakal absently returning the crisp salute of the sentry.

"No," Brakal, said, returning to Jhar's earlier comment, "they dare not cut me down now. It would be too dangerous, too obvious.  Once Trage and the others retire, that will be the time of greatest peril.  For now, they pray to their ancestors that a human warship will do their dirty work for them."

"They nearly had their wishes granted, Commander."

"Hah," Brakal snorted, "the flame-haired she-wolf on the human battleship?  She surprised me, that is all.  I had always believed humans placed a premium on their own lives.  Their writings are full of it and other incomprehensible muck.  But it appears desperation gives some of them suicidal courage."

"Imagine, though, Commander, if you'd been killed by a female, a ship's Second at that."

"Do not," Brakal snarled back, "make the mistake of underestimating human females.  That one is more worthy than a dozen of my brother hereditary Warriors."

Jhar saved his reply for another time as they rounded the corner and came within sight of Brakal's shuttle.  Upon seeing them, Toralk, Brakal's bodyguard, standing by the open door to the cockpit, snapped to attention.  His right hand slapped the hilt of his dagger, re-affirming his oath to die for his Commander.

"To the ship, Lord?"

"To the ship, Toralk, and stop calling me Lord," Brakal replied irritably.

Ever since Mharak died, and Brakal became head of the Clan, Toralk had insisted on calling him Lord instead of Commander.  He was the only one aboard the cruiser who dared do so, but then, Toralk and Brakal had grown up together on the family estates.  Toralk's family had served Brakal's for more generations than either cared to remember, and when Brakal joined the Fleet, so did Toralk, the one as officer, the other as low caste spacer.  Toralk had been watching Brakal's back for over twenty turns, and neither could imagine living without the other.  Toralk slid into the right hand seat and strapped in.  When Brakal had joined him, taking the left hand seat, the bodyguard looked to his Commander.

"Do you wish to pilot, Lord?"

"I do, Toralk, but it would be unwise.  In my present state, I am liable to buzz Admiral Trage's residence at an altitude low enough to remove his putrid head from his weak shoulders."

"Treasonous talk, Lord," Toralk chided his master, and friend, a faint smile playing on his thin lips.  Behind them, Jhar burst out laughing at Toralk's impudence, because the old Chief Petty Officer was absolutely right, and Brakal would absolutely ignore the advice.

"What is treasonable," Brakal replied, in a mock angry voice, "is a ship's Second and a Commander's bodyguard daring to remonstrate their beloved leader."

"...and Lord," Toralk added, unwilling to let his master have the last word.

"Fly the machine, excrescence, and cease trying to prove your wit to all and sundry, or I will have you retired to the estate, to harvest tubers."

Toralk snorted softly,  "Yes, Lord," and gunned the shuttle's thrusters, taking them away from Shredar's unhealthy miasma of physical and moral pollution.

The
Tol Vakash
still bore gaping evidence of the human she-wolf's desperate battle run, but the cruiser retained her sleek beauty and dangerous aura.  Brakal loved his ship and crew, even though love was a concept he could not visualize.  The nearest the Imperial tongue came to love, was honor.  And that sentiment motivated Brakal in everything he did.

An quarter guard, as well turned out and as fierce-looking as any of the Emperor's household troops, greeted him on the pressurized shuttle deck.  Brakal inspected them with grim satisfaction.  They too were the best in the Fleet, veterans of more battles than any could remember, and they would cheerfully die for their Commander, if not for the Emperor.

But his interview with the Council never left his thoughts, and he felt the earlier anger return as he walked down the bare passageways, his eyes absently noting the irreproachable cleanliness of the ship.  He knew that all compartments would pass even the most rigorous inspection.  His crew's pride would not let it be otherwise.

When he passed the wardroom, he heard the faint rush of loud voices roaring at each other.  The doors suddenly opened on his Gun Master, Lieutenant Urag, who came to attention and grinned, showing a mouthful of yellowing, fang-like teeth.  His breath stank of strong ale and would have knocked down a charging
barloi
.

Behind Urag, most of the ship's officers were seated around the wardroom's single table, drinking and telling each other stories that brought on gales of raucous laughter and back-slapping strong enough to fell all but the strongest Warriors.

"Commander," Urag roared, to cover the voices of his friends, "I was about to come looking for you.  We received word you were back.  The ale is particularly fine tonight, as if brewed by the gods themselves.   Come join us."

Brakal grinned back, his earlier bad mood slipping away.  A night with his officers was always a fine occasion.  As he and Urag approached the table, the others made room for their Commander.  The Chief Engineer, an ugly, massive troll-like Warrior, handed him a brimming mug of foaming purple ale.  Brakal downed the spicy drink in a single draught, to the cheers of his officers, who immediately gave him a refill, to sip this time.

Soon, Brakal was laughing and shouting with the rest of them as officer after officer told tall tales, usually involving bawdiness, jokes at the expense of the Council, and feats of battle that couldn't possible be done by anyone short of the gods.

Life on the
Tol Vakash
was good, better than any reward of rank or position.

SIX

"We've got a serious problem, Captain," Pushkin, a face like thunder, was waiting for Siobhan at the entry port, his pad tucked under his arm.  "The base supply people claim they don't have the parts we need to fix the reactor flux regulators that blew this morning, and even if they did have some, they don't have the available personnel to swap them out."

"And without those parts, we're not moving."  Siobhan's good humour at seeing Ezekiel evaporated like dew in the morning sun.  "Damn!"  She stopped and faced Pushkin, anger hardening her lean face.

"What do you think, Mister Pushkin?"

"The fuckers are lying, Captain," he replied with surprising candour.  "Flow regulators wear out regularly.  An engineering supply store that doesn't carry spares should be spaced."

Siobhan raised an ironic eyebrow as she locked eyes with her XO.  "It seems that you and I agree on something at last, Mister Pushkin.  Does Tiner think she can do the job without the starbase engineers if we get her the parts?"

Pushkin didn't reply for a moment, neither did he look away.  Then, he slowly said, "She's got experienced people in her department, Captain.  They'll manage the job, or I'll know the reason why."

Satisfied at his tone, she nodded.  "Then let's see about getting the parts.  Anything else critical while we're at it?"  They started walking towards the bridge again, absently returning the salutes of crewmembers as they went along.

"Critical, no.  Non-critical, plenty.  I sometimes think we'd get better service at an Imperial supply depot.  Hell, the Imps probably love the
Stingray
.  We're more of a hindrance to Starfleet than a threat to the Empire, and that's worth a full load of stores, especially Shrehari Ale."

Siobhan, surprised at Pushkin's remark, stopped again and looked at him, grinning mischievously.  "Why Mister Pushkin, gallows humour?  I'm both surprised and pleased.  I had you marked down for a puritan."

To her annoyance, the First Officer kept a dark expression his face, eyes remaining carefully neutral.  He did not return Siobhan's smile and the momentary crack in his shell, if it ever had been there, was gone, leaving the same angry, disillusioned man she'd met the day before.

Siobhan shrugged, fighting her own frustration.  "As you wish.  Join me in my ready room and we'll see if we can't shake those parts loose.  Someone's trying very hard to make us fail, and I don't like it one bit."

Pushkin grunted, but didn't challenge her.

Once in the privacy of her small office, she tossed her beret on the desk and sat down, motioning Pushkin to take the other seat.  He ignored the invitation and remained standing, hands clasped in the small of his back in a perfect parade rest, as if he were a cadet at the Academy waiting for his Tactical Officer to chew him out.  Siobhan stared at Pushkin for a few heartbeats, willing him to unbend, but to no visible effect.

"You spoke to Commander Sones?"

"Aye, sir.  All oiliness and sincere regrets.  He promised to look into it, but assured me that nothing could be done for six or seven days."

Siobhan snorted.  "And when I ask Admiral Kaleri for a delay in sailing, the parts will suddenly appear and we'll look like asses."

Pushkin eyes registered surprise at the notion that Battle-Group staff would conspire to make them fail and Siobhan suddenly realized that he'd probably been completely out of his depth with Forenza, who was born into a world of double-dealing and intrigue.  That would explain a lot of his simmering anger and bitterness.  Forenza probably kept it that way on purpose too, to preserve her authority.  No wonder Pushkin had a scowl permanently etched into his features.

"As they say, Mister Pushkin, one fights plasma best with plasma.  I think I have an idea to get around the staff's pettiness, even if it is deliberate obstruction ordered by someone higher on the totem pole.  Fortunately for us, I have an old friend in a good position to help."  She turned to her terminal.  "Bridge, get me the Battle-Group Personnel Officer."

A few seconds later, Ezekiel's craggy face filled the screen.  "Holt.  Oh, hi Captain.  What can the staff do for you?"

"Hello, Ezekiel.  Sorry to ask this again, but is there really nothing you can do about those replacements I asked for?  I know you told me at lunch that it was quite impossible..."

Holt hid his surprise well, but Siobhan knew he had realized this call was not about replacement personnel at all.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he slowly replied, his single blue eye watching Siobhan closely for clues, "but I can't accommodate you."

"Damn!"  Siobhan swore, screwing up her face in mock disgust.  "It seems I can't get anything out of the staff these days.  No personnel, no stores, not even critical spare parts.  Well, thank you anyway, Mister Holt."

"Sorry, Captain."  Ezekiel shrugged, but Siobhan had seen understanding light up his face. "Maybe after my watch ends, I can come by and show you why I can't get those replacements.  It might put your mind at rest that the staff is doing all it can."

"Oh, all right, Mister Holt.  I'll even buy you a cup of coffee for your troubles.  Dunmoore, out."

Pushkin looked at her uncomprehending when she sat back in the padded chair.  "I fail to see..." He started.

"Ah," Siobhan raised her hand, smiling, "wait until Lieutenant-Commander Holt visits us.  If he's successful, you'll understand.  Ezekiel was my First Officer in the
Shenzen
and is pretty quick on the uptake."

Pushkin didn't exactly shrug, but it was clear he still didn't understand.  Siobhan was tempted to leave it until Ezekiel showed up, but remembered just in time that Forenza had probably treated the First Officer in such a manner.  If she was ever going to develop a decent working relationship, she had to break him away from the past.

Patiently, Siobhan explained what she had in mind, and the nuances of deception that flowed around every hierarchy.  When the First Officer finally left the ready room, he understood, but she caught him shaking his head just before the hatch closed on his retreating back.

Alone in the corridor, the First Officer brooded as he made his way to his cabin.  He didn't know what to make of Captain Dunmoore and the ambivalence gnawed away at his insides. On the one hand, Pushkin hated her for taking the job that he considered his alone, the only chance he might have had for promotion.  At thirty-eight, he was long in the tooth for a Lieutenant-Commander, and had never been given the chance to prove himself.  The war was five years old, and most of his classmates were either dead, or had commands of their own.  When Forenza was relieved, he had desperately hoped to take the step and replace her.  He felt he'd earned it, believing, not incorrectly, that he had kept the ship from plunging into a worse state.  But the hope had been naive, and he hated himself for that.

On the other hand, Dunmoore had been right to come down on him for the
Stingray
's condition when she came aboard.  He was enough of a realist to know that he had failed in his duty.  But his bitterness, when he learned he'd been passed over again, had gotten the better of his judgement.  By then, he didn't give a damn anymore.  Yet Pushkin had to admit that Dunmoore had been more lenient than she could have been, and seemed prepared to give him a chance to wipe away the initial bad impression.

No, he didn't know what to make of her, and did not really want to like her either.  But keeping his bitterness and anger stoked twenty-four hours a day was taking its toll, and it was not getting him anywhere.  Though he wanted to tell her to go to hell and get the ship back into shape on her own, somehow, he could not deviate from the duty he had carried out for many years.  Then, there was the unspoken hope that if she got what she wanted from the crew and the officers, Dunmoore would not delve too deeply into a recent past Pushkin would rather remained buried.

"Captain, there's a Lieutenant-Commander Holt at the entry port, asking to see you."

Siobhan turned towards the intercom.  "Have him brought up to my ready room, and ask the First Officer to join us."

Maybe Pushkin would learn something in the art of deviousness.  And maybe he would lose some of that bitterness by being included in the discussion, though sometimes she was ready to give up and let events take their course.

Pushkin was there a few moments before Ezekiel arrived.  He stood silently in the parade rest position in front of her desk, waiting.  When Ezekiel stepped into her office grinning, she introduced them.

"Mister Pushkin, this is Lieutenant-Commander Ezekiel Holt, Battle-Group staff.  He and I were in the
Shenzen
together.  Ezekiel, my First Officer, Gregor Pushkin."

The two men sized each other up as they shook hands perfunctorily.  From Ezekiel's expression, Siobhan could see that he didn't think much of Pushkin.  She hoped her First Officer didn't realize this.  A vain hope, judging by Pushkin's expression.

"Sit down, Ezekiel, Mister Pushkin.  Let's see what you've got."

To her relief, this time Pushkin consented to take a seat, though he remained stiff and unyielding.

"Well, Skipper," Ezekiel started, taking off his beret, "from your message, I gathered the Supply Officer wasn't giving you what you needed, and I did some quiet checking.  What I found was that Kaleri apparently made it known that no one was to go out of his way to help you.  If you're made to look incompetent by not sailing on time, there'll be a lot of happy people around."

Siobhan glanced at Pushkin and noted with satisfaction the sudden interest in his eyes

"I found your requests in the files, which makes me suspect that you'll get the stuff when it'll be too late to meet your sailing date.  Sones has ordered that all supply or engineering requirements from the
Stingray
go to him personally, which means his staff don't know what's going on.  But he's got the parts you need, and in plentiful supply too."

Siobhan smiled.  "All that's left then, is to find a way to get them out of his grasp."

"I've got something for you, Skipper, and it's right up your alley."  Ezekiel grinned evilly, looking more piratical than ever.  "Sones's gone off duty for the day, and when he's off, he doesn't like to be disturbed short of a Shrehari assault force emerging within gun range.  His staff don't like him much, except for a few bum-lickers, and won't incur his wrath by calling him while he's busy between the thighs of some desperate or rank-climbing junior officer.  If you show up at the engineering depot with a work-party, I'm sure you can charm the duty Chief into giving you the parts.  Sones'll find out in the morning, but by then, you'll have the stuff and he's just going to look foolish by making a big thing out of it.  Anyway, neither Kaleri nor Sones want too much attention from 3rd Fleet right now.  As for the duty Chief, he'll take the lumps, but either he's one of the bum-lickers, in which case so-fucking-what, or he hates Sones and will be all too happy to shaft him."

"Sounds like a plan, Ezekiel," Siobhan smiled.  She looked at Pushkin again and saw that he was looking distinctly uncomfortable.  Whether it was because of Holt's easy way with Siobhan, because he hadn't come up with the plan himself, like any good First Officer should, or because he lacked the courage to raid the supply stores, she couldn't tell.  "What do you think, Mister Pushkin?"

The First Officer shrugged.  "It might work, sir.  But..."  He left his doubts hanging, unwilling to appear churlish in front of Holt.  Siobhan saw her friend's eye flash with contempt.

"Thanks, Ezekiel," she smiled at him again, ignoring Pushkin's distinct lack of enthusiasm.  "Your snooping won't get you in trouble, will it?"

"Nothing I can't handle, Skipper.  Oh, and before you think I'm also in the obstructing game, what with denying you replacements, that's genuine.  Unless the empty position is critical, no ship in the Battle-Group is getting anyone for now.  The training system isn't producing enough and the fleet's launching new ships every day."

Siobhan nodded.  "I never doubted you, Ezekiel.  What do you think the best time for the heist would be?"

"Near eight bells in the evening watch.  The duty Chief'll be looking for the end of his shift, and most day-time personnel will be in bed.  Anything else I can do for you, Skipper?"

"You've already done more than enough, Ezekiel.  Any more, and I'll really get you in trouble."

Holt shrugged dismissively.  "I can't just sit by and watch you get shafted.  That being said, I've got to get going.  No rest for the wicked."

"Or the devious.  Thanks, Ezekiel."

"Don't mention it."  He rose and put his beret on.  "Mister Pushkin," he nodded at the First Officer, who had also risen to his feet.  Neither offered to shake hands with the other.  Holt saluted and left.

When Ezekiel was gone, Pushkin, back into his irritatingly stiff parade rest position said, "I'm not sure I like this, Captain.  It could backfire badly."

"That's why I'll be leading the raiding party, Mister Pushkin."

His disapproving frown deepened, but he didn't object, clearly unwilling to put his ass on the line, although this kind of operation was clearly not the captain's job.  It annoyed Siobhan just as much as his artificial stiffness did, and she felt tempted to provoke him with a pointed comment, but that would not have helped.