No Honor in Death (13 page)

She touched the leather spine of one of the books, remembering.  It had been a gift from Admiral Nagira, a token of his respect and affection, and something to ease the pain of losing her first command.  Siobhan pulled out the five hundred year old copy of Miguel Cervante's masterpiece and opened it to the flyleaf.  There, Nagira had inscribed in green ink:

To "Dona Quixote" Dunmoore. Choose your windmills well and never, ever, lose the impossible dream.  Hoko Nagira

Siobhan cherished the book as much as the clock.  It reminded her of the good times, and of the young officer she had been not so long ago: full of fire and determination, ready to fight the entire Empire, assured of victory.  The flames were still there somewhere, as was the pig-headed determination she'd inherited from her father.  But the assurance of victory was gone, shattered by too many deaths.  What remained in its stead was a dogged insistence on seeing it out until the end, whatever it may be.

She replaced heavy tome and touched its neighbor unconsciously, a book of nineteenth century poetry given to her by a distant, but proud father on her graduation day.  Siobhan thought of him briefly, out there on his far-away pioneer world, safe from the Shreharis, working like a madman to forget the death of his wife, Siobhan's mother.

With a last glance at the graceful ships surrounding hers, Siobhan slipped between the cool sheets on her bed and switched off the lights.  The only sound in the quiet cabin was the soft, hypnotical ticking of the clock, shadowed by the knight of the sorrowful countenance.  Once the ship was underway, she would fall asleep to the low hum of the engines, the almost subliminal vibrations of the powerful reactors and would wake the instant anything went amiss, from a minor power surge in the flow tubes to a full scale battle stations alert.

For now, she enjoyed the unaccustomed peacefulness and let herself drift off, forgetting, for the first night since she came on board, to place a nerve inducer on the back of her neck, just below the skull.

"
Now,
Chief! All barrels," Siobhan yelled, her voice drowning out the groans of the dying battleship.  A chunk of ceiling crashed down, narrowly missing the helmsman, but with his eyes fixed on the screen, the Petty Officer didn't even notice.

Then, the shock waves of the discharging guns reverberated throughout the
Victoria Regina
's battered hull.  Almost immediately, bright flowers of pure energy blossomed on the
Tol Vakash
's upper shields.  The protective globe around the Shrehari cruiser crackled blue and green with the warring surges of power, like a giant energy sculpture.  Suddenly, the dancing lights vanished as the shields collapsed, overcome by the battleship's last broadside.

"Got her," Chief Sen exulted.  "Shields are down, direct hits amidships."

"Impact in twenty seconds, sir," Hernett's high pitched, young voice cut off the old sailor's growl.

"Another salvo, Chief."

"Damn!" The old man swore.  "No can do, Commander.  All conduits are down, probably burnt-out.  She's fired her last."

Siobhan nodded calmly, beyond caring.  "Brace for impact."

"Power surge on the Shrehari, sir.  His main drives."

"
What
?"  The information didn't immediately register through the wash of pain and resignation.

Then, before their astonished eyes, the
Tol Vakash
jumped to hyper space.  One instant, the Imperial cruiser was there, secondary explosions dotting its hull, then their view of space distorted and it was gone.

Shock waves from the precipitous jump buffeted the
Victoria Regina
.  Seconds later, she passed through the spot occupied a moment earlier by the Shrehari.  The bridge crew was silent, unable to grasp that the intended suicide run had failed, and the enemy withdrawn.

Sen broke the eerie stillness, his voice choked with tears of relief.  "You did it, Commander.  You scared the bastard into running.  You fucking outwitted the great Captain Brakal."

"Subspace communication, sir," the signals rating called out from the back of the bridge, disbelief filling her voice.  "It's from Brakal."

"Speak of the devil," Sen swore.  "What does that monster want?"

"Put him on screen."  Dunmoore's voice was flat.

A cruel face filled the front viewer.  Deep set, black eyes stared out at Siobhan from beneath an angular skull, bald except for a strip of bristly black hair, like a cock's crest.

"Greetings, human.  This is Brakal, commanding the Imperial cruiser
Tol Vakash
.  Your Captain?"  His anglic was harsh, guttural, but understandable.

"Dead," Siobhan replied, wanting to hurl insults and more at the murderous barbarian, but unable to show anything other than cold dignity.  Adnan would have been proud of her rare restraint.

"A pity.  He fought well, and was an honorable adversary.  I am sorry.  You are?"  The damnest thing about it, Siobhan realized, was that the bastard
did
appear genuinely sorry.

"Siobhan Dunmoore, First Officer."

Brakal nodded, stroking his massive jaw.

"You made the last battle run."  It was not a question and Siobhan did not reply.

"Interesting," Brakal continued.  "Whenever I think I understand humans, I am always surprised.  You too fight well, Dunmoore.  Your Captain was a good teacher.  May I know his name, so I may honor his memory?"

"Adnan Prighte."  Siobhan felt detached from reality, as if someone else was having this calm conversation with the man who all but destroyed her ship and killed her best friend.

"
Harkash nedrin rakati
Adnan Prighte," Brakal pronounced solemnly, raising his fist in the Shrehari salute,  "your name shall be remembered and honored."

Siobhan was stunned.  She understood the Imperial tongue and if she wasn't mistaken, Brakal had just given her dead friend the highest honor a Shrehari Warrior can give.

"Why?"  Her voice was but a whisper.

"The corrupt and greedy direct this war, but men of honor, and women of honor, fight it.  I hold no hate for you humans, and were our Empires not at war, I would be honored to meet you as a friend.  Your ship is safe for now, Dunmoore.  No Imperial vessel will come to give you the death blow.  You have earned the right to fight once more.  Until we meet again, as honorable foes."

Brakal's face vanished, replaced by the eternal light of the distant stars.

"What was that all about, sir?"  Sen finally asked, his voice soft and filled with a kind of awe.  Though he didn't understand the Imperial tongue, he knew something extraordinary just happened.  He could read it on Commander Dunmoore's pale, smudged face and in her unnaturally bright eyes.

"Honor, Chief," she turned to look at him directly, and Sen, for the first time, saw the tears she was holding back.  "It appears that murderous bastard out there has a sense of honor after all.  He commended Captain Prighte to the care of his ancestors as a True Warrior, worthy of rebirth."

The old non-com shook his head.  "Like the bugger said, just when we thought we understood the bastards, they go and surprise us again.  Did he mean it when he said no Imp is going to come and destroy us for good?"

"I think so, Chief.  Somehow, I get the feeling Brakal will make sure of that.  Honor again."  She let that sink in for a few heartbeats, then, "Mister Hernett, plot the best course to Starbase 30.  Chief, get me a status report, critical damage first.  Let's get the
Victoria Regina
home."

Then, Siobhan glanced down at the broken body sprawled on the deck below the Captain's chair, and started to tremble as shock finally set in.

Siobhan woke, her body bathed in sweat, the sheets tangled around her long limbs.  As she fought to still her rapidly beating heart, the ancient ship's clock across the cabin struck two bells, its soft chimes sounding like death knells.  Tears ran down her cheeks, unnoticed, as she felt all the pent-up sorrow break free.

The clock chimed again, four bells, and Siobhan rose from her bed, her grief spent.  When she touched that tender spot on her soul, she was surprised to find the wound had begun to scab over.  It was as if the tears had removed a great weight.

In two hours, the
Stingray
would slip her moorings and head out to war, with Captain Dunmoore as sole master after God.  It behooved her to look the part.

Grinning at her disheveled appearance, Siobhan stepped into the shower, astonished to hear herself whistling a tuneless drinking song.  It was one she had sung often in the
Victoria Regina
's wardroom, and it pleased her to hear its refrain again.

EIGHT

The hatch to the bridge opened before Siobhan with a tired sigh.  A wave of loud voices, each overriding the other, assaulted her ears.  She frowned at the chaos on
her
bridge, one hour before sailing.  If the crew couldn't work with calm professionalism in space dock, they would be hopeless in battle.  Hopeless, and very quickly dead.  As she stepped across the threshold, Lieutenant-Commander Pushkin spotted her out of the corner of his eyes.  His voice cut through the babble like the roll of thunder.

"Captain on the bridge."

All noise ceased as officers, petty officers and ratings snapped to attention.  Only the muted sounds of the space dock's open frequency buzzed from the loudspeaker in the signals alcove.  Repressing her anger, Siobhan calmly walked over to her chair behind the helm console and sat down.

"Status report, Mister Pushkin."  Her voice was deceptively calm.

"Still some problems with the sensors, and one of the reactor control modules has just switched to amber."

"I assume Mister Tiner is giving the control module top priority?"

"Aye, sir."

"Feed a full system status report to my console, Mister Pushkin."

Siobhan scanned the report with one eye only.  From beneath half-closed lids, she watched the bridge officers as they prepared for departure.  The noise level had considerably diminished, but not the tension.  Instead of shouting, Pushkin now growled at any officer or petty officer who'd attracted his wrath.

It didn't generate the calm, controlled atmosphere Siobhan expected from her crew.  Instead of loud chaos, she had quiet chaos.  At least before, there had been some form of communication.  Now, there was little.  Nor was there any of the excitement that usually ran through a ship's company preparing to sail.  It was as if the momentous event had declined to a status lower than routine, an annoyance.

Alert to every nuance, Siobhan saw the lines of discord she'd noticed before begin to split open.  Her Sailing Master was at centre of much of the discord on the bridge.  She managed to offend almost everybody.

Chief Guthren, who would con the ship out of space dock, sat beside her, his massive shoulders almost touching the painfully thin woman.  But his body language showed that he wanted to be as far away as possible from her.  Preferably on another ship.

In the same glance, Siobhan saw why.  Shara leaned over and spoke softly to Guthren, a condescending smirk on her face.  Though she didn't hear what the Sailing Master said, Siobhan could guess, just by Guthren's cold, almost icy reaction.  Shara was playing dangerous games.  Chief Guthren didn't take kindly to arrogant or supercilious officers, and the Sailing Master was both, in spades.

From opposite corners of the bridge Lieutenants Trevane Devall and Kathryn Kowalski observed events with bland expressions on their faces, but with interest sparkling in their eyes.  Both looked from the Captain to Shara and back at the Captain, as if expecting Dunmoore to explode in a burst of righteous fury.  Siobhan ignored them, as she ignored everything else, preferring to see where the crew's interpersonal dynamics led.  It was already clear that she and Guthren were the outsiders, but even among old shipmates, there was little, if any ease.

She had pegged most of her senior officers already, but Devall and Kowalski were still mysteries.  The Gunnery officer's behavior didn't quite fit her prejudices about aristocratic younger sons, and he often surprised her with cool professionalism, even though he never lost his sardonic smile.

Kowalski was a different mystery altogether.  There was something strong and wilful bubbling just below the carefully studied words and gestures.  But whether it was an ambitious sort of professionalism, squashed under Forenza, or an insubordinate and potentially dangerous character, Siobhan couldn't tell.

What irked Dunmoore about both officers was their watchful reserve, as if they were evaluating and judging her.  Though she could accept the usual caution officers kept around a new Captain, Siobhan felt as if the two Lieutenants were hoarding a store of criticism just beyond her reach. The gods only knew what they, and their cronies discussed when she or Pushkin weren't around to listen.  One thing was sure though, the two were allies, even friends, and she suspected they were at the origin of her less than sterling reception the other day.  Who better to hide a message than the officer of the watch and the signals officer.

Siobhan heard the hail from space dock control over the muted loudspeakers before Kowalski, busy staring at Shara, could react.

"Mister Kowalski," Dunmoore's eyes opened to spear the sardonic young officer, "I'll trouble you to pay attention to your duties.  Space dock control has just signalled that the tugs are on their way.  Please acknowledge the message."  Though the Captain's voice had remained mild, there was no doubting the steel behind it, this time.  It cut through the whispered conversation like phase cannon.

Kowalski had the grace to blush as she tore her eyes from the navigation console to carry out her orders.  The others pretended to busy themselves, but Siobhan caught a few subdued snickers.  Shara was smirking openly at Kowalski's back, happy to see her reprimanded by the Captain.

"Stations!"  Dunmoore's voice whipped across the bridge, stiffening spines and halting even the softest whispers.

"Ship ready for undocking, sir."  The First Officer announced a few seconds later.  Siobhan glanced at him approvingly.  Pushkin was learning.

"Release mechanical moorings, stand-by to release energy moorings."

"Release mechanical moorings, aye,"  Pushkin replied.  "Signals, make to space dock, 'Release mechanical moorings.'"

Soon after, dull thunks reverberated through the ship as the great magnetic grappling arms broke free.  Now Siobhan felt the first tendrils of excitement course through her body, and her mood improved considerably.

"Space dock confirms that the tugs have positive tractor beam lock," Kowalski said, her left hand cupped to her ear as she listened to the stream of radio traffic over a small earpiece.

"Release energy moorings."

"Released.  We are under the guidance of the tugs."

"Stand-by thrusters."

"Thrusters standing-by, aye sir."  Guthren's deep voice boomed over the helm console.

"From Space dock control, sir." Kowalski again.  "The
Stingray
is cleared for departure.  They wish us good hunting."

"Acknowledged," Siobhan replied, eyes fixed on the front screen.

Her pulse increased as she felt the blood course through her whip-cord body like a stream of supercharged particles.  She glanced at Pushkin out of the corner of her eyes, but the dour First Officer showed none of the emotions she felt.  For Siobhan, hands-on control of a massive warship was as exciting, and even more rewarding than sex.  She could feel the throbbing of the massive reactors through her seat and wallowed in the sensation of power, the rush of command.

Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the view changed as the tugs, one on either beam, pushed and manoeuvred the frigate's great mass towards the gaping space doors.  Though it had none of the majesty of a nineteenth century warship leaving harbour under full sail, the
Stingray
's graceful glide thrilled Siobhan nonetheless.

"Rear view, Mister Guthren."

"Aye, sir."

The screen changed to show the immense opening of the space doors.  Siobhan relaxed.  Her ship was aimed dead centre, proof that the tugs were doing their job.  But as she glanced at the crew, she found them stiff, almost holding their breaths.  It was as if they were afraid of a collision, as if they'd had a bad departure in the recent past.  Then, the screen showed nothing but stars nestled in the velvety black of the universe and they were through.

"Flip view to the front."

Starbase 31's spindle-shape receded as the tugs pushed them out to the regulation safety limit.

"From Space dock, prepare to come under our own power."  Kowalski's voice was matter-of-fact, untouched by any sense of awe or joy.  In her heightened state, Siobhan was almost angry at the Signals Officer's routine blandness.

"Thrusters ready, sub-light drive standing by."  Guthren sounded as confident as she'd ever heard him.

"From Space dock, tugs will release the ship in ten seconds."

Normally, Siobhan would have ordered the thrusters to engage with split-second precision the moment they were free of the tugs' embrace.  It gave watchers a show of competent ship handling, and was just the kind of cocky action for which frigate captains were renown.  But she was uncertain of her crew, and couldn't afford a mistake in what was a relatively crowded orbit.

"The ship is at a relative to from the Starbase, sir," Shara's nasal voice interrupted her thoughts.

"We are floating free."

"Thank you, Mister Pushkin.  The undocking process was satisfactory."  But Siobhan could see that the First Officer knew 'satisfactory' just wasn't good enough for her.  He nodded curtly, his scowl deepening.

"Helm, pivot the ship one hundred and eighty degrees horizontal."

"One-eighty horizontal, aye," Guthren stared intently at the screen as his hands manipulated the controls.  There was no real need to pivot the ship towards their departure vector, apart from a minor concern for traffic security, but it gave Guthren a chance to demonstrate his handling of the big frigate.  Yet when she looked at Pushkin again, the First Officer's expression clearly showed that he believed her order was a useless waste of time.

Glancing at the attitude readout on her console, Siobhan saw the display slowly rotate through a half-circle.  As she was about to warn Guthren to fire the opposite thrusters and stop the rotation, he did just that.  The
Stingray
came to rest exactly one-hundred and eighty-one degrees from her initial heading.  Which was about as good as any ship handling she'd seen.

"Heading changed one-hundred and eighty-one degrees, Captain," Guthren announced, not even bothering to fudge that extra degree.

"Very well, Mister Guthren.  Sailing Master, quickest course to refuelling station Thetis Alpha at half-speed."

"Laid in, sir," Shara glanced at the Cox'n with distaste.

"Engage, Mister Guthren."

The ion drive exhausts glowed deep orange as they pushed the frigate out of orbit and into interplanetary space.

"Ship sailing at half-speed, on course, Captain.  Arrival in three hours, forty-five minutes."  Guthren announced, ten minutes later.  Even though she was old, the frigate still had a good rate of acceleration.  Siobhan nodded with satisfaction.  They hadn't even felt the increased thrust.

"Very well, Cox'n.  Mister Pushkin, bring her to cruising stations and join me in my ready room."  Without a glance back, Siobhan left the bridge.

"Sir!" Pushkin barked  He turned to the Sailing Master, a look of distaste on his angular face.  "Mister Shara, I believe you have the watch.  Place the ship at cruising stations."

The Sailing Master slaved her console to the one embedded in the Captain's chair and rose from her seat.  Under Pushkin's watchful eyes, she slipped into Dunmoore's still warm chair.

"I relieve you, sir."  Shara avoided Pushkin's eyes.

"I stand relieved.  You have the con."

There was no hint of respect or friendliness in the brief exchange, only the guarded tones of officers who hated each other but were going through the required motions because it was expected of them.  The First Officer swung around the railing at the rear of the bridge and entered the Captain's ready room, all too aware of the covert glances on his receding back.  Pushkin wasn't popular, and few officers or enlisted spacers felt any sympathy at the thought of him getting chewed out by the new Captain.  It only served to increase his bitterness and his sense of being at war with the universe.  He hated the constant reproach in their eyes.  But if it hadn't been for him, things would have been much worse.

"Sit down, Mister Pushkin.  Coffee?"  Siobhan spoke loud enough so that her question floated through the closing hatch and reached the ears of the bridge crew.  Devall and Kowalski exchanged looks of surprised interest.

In the ready room, Pushkin, expecting another rebuke from Dunmoore for the way the bridge crew worked, or rather didn't, had already braced himself, and didn't immediately react to Siobhan's question.

"Ah, sure, Cap'n," he finally replied, relaxing just a fraction.

"Kery," Siobhan called, "two cups of java, black, no sugar."  She cocked an eyebrow at Pushkin.  He nodded.

A few moments later, the other hatch opened and the mousy clerk came in, a mug in each hand.  She deposited them on Dunmoore's desk and vanished without saying a word.  Siobhan took a sip of the scalding liquid and stared at Pushkin over the rim of her cup.

"I sincerely hope I will never again see the sight that greeted me when I entered the bridge this morning.  A bridge crew that can't work smoothly together and communicate in tones that don't blow out the decibel-meter won't survive a battle.  Cool, calm professionalism was the only thing that kept the
Victoria Regina
from becoming space debris."  Pushkin's hard expression didn't change at the mention of the ill-fated battleship.  But was there a trace of uneasiness in his posture?  "When the Imperial broadside punched through her starboard shields and destroyed the CIC, nearly tearing us apart, the bridge crew kept functioning because they'd been trained to never, ever loose their cool, and concentrate on their duties.  Only because of that were we able to return effective fire and drive Brakal away."