No Honor in Death (35 page)

The helmsman, as bored as the Sub-Gun Master, made a snide remark about the latter's yawn and was rewarded by the amused growls of the others, including the officer of the watch.  Grinning toothily, the Sub-Gun Master replied with a jab of his own, which also drew the expected laughter. It lightened the atmosphere on the small, dark bridge and raised, if only momentarily, the crew's spirits.

Unfortunately, the exchange of rough wit also distracted the Sub-Gun Master from his scanner and he failed to notice the minuscule wake that had appeared on the tail of the last transport.  The tracking computer might have reported it automatically, but other-space was full of strange signatures and the Sub-Gun Master had shut it off, preferring to rely on his own experience, which was considerable.  If only, he thought later, he had repressed the yawn as he usually did in the presence of others.

Petty Officer Lako's aim proved truer than she dared even hope.  The fish entered the broad area of turbulence created by the transport's drives and vanished from all screens. Its warhead, encountering the conditions specified by its program, armed itself and waited for the conditions to change again.

Back on the
Stingray
, the crew waited for signs of detonation, none more so than Lako.  She had a gut feeling about this one.  On the frigate's bridge, Chief Petty Officer Guthren waited tensely for Siobhan's order to emerge, his right hand hovering over the drive cut-out.  His job now demanded a split-second reaction, to ensure they didn't overshoot the target by more than a few hundred thousand kilometres when the torpedo forced it back into normal space.

Of course, the torpedo might be off by just a bit, enough to rattle the transport's crew, but not enough to collapse the hyper space bubble.  After that, they would have only a few seconds to attempt another shot before the enemy reacted, because a torpedo explosion would reveal their presence to the trailing escorts.  The energy surge of the anti-matter warhead would register on sensors, no matter in what universe.

Petty Officer Lako knew this and prayed.  She did not enjoy the idea of snap-firing the next fish because its chances of hitting were considerably less, while the pressure would be much greater, not least the pressure she would place on herself.

The dumb torpedo's simple warhead registered the fact that it no longer swam in an area of turbulence.  Had it possessed intelligence, it would have marvelled at the skill and luck of its erstwhile controller.  It entered the transport's bubble dead centre between the two engine nacelles, five hundred meters aft of the main hull.  Like clockwork, the detonator closed a simple circuit that collapsed the magnetic bottle holding the anti-matter fuel.  By the time the anti-matter reacted with the matter containing it, the fish was a mere two hundred metres from the hull.  It exploded with the force of several nuclear warheads and collapsed the jump bubble, sending a massive energy feedback through the drives' circuits.  They fried to a crisp.

The explosion registered on the screens of the
Stingray,
the
Ptar Korsh
and of course, the transport itself.  Only the frigate was ready to react and when the transport's wake vanished, Guthren cut out the hyper-drives before Siobhan even had time to complete her order.  The crew of the
Ptar Korsh
took several precious seconds to understand the situation and react appropriately, and by then, they had overshot both their wounded charge and the human ship by several million kilometres.  The officer of the watch had no orders on how to react, knowing only that if the humans worked with more than one ship, returning to aid the already lost transport would open the convoy to another strike, so he kept on course until the
Ptar Korsh
's commander appeared.  They lost precious time that they could never make up.

Sub-Commander Yorganth, master of the escort, correctly divining that the enemy ship worked alone, gave the order to emerge, come about and engage the human.  Only thus could he avoid the worst of the criticism which would befall him once the High Command analyzed this ambush.  If he could destroy the human, his career would be safe.  But Yorganth should not have worried so much about his future.  It was already decided.

"Guns, shields on.  Track the target.  Helm, come about one-eighty, emergency turn."  Siobhan sprang into action with a ferocity that belied her earlier, eerie calm.  "Mister Devall, this may the best occasion we get for some individual gunnery practice.  Mister Pushkin, give me a split-screen display."

"Range to target four hundred thousand,"  Shara reported, grudging respect in her voice.  It was as good a distance as any ship could hope to achieve and Guthren grinned with satisfaction.

"Well done, Cox'n," Siobhan replied with a nod in his direction.  Guthren wasn't surprised that she took the time for praise when she had the situation to think about.  Captain Dunmoore was one hell of a skipper.  She had fire in her guts, a temper to match, yet she cared about the people who served under her, a rare combination.

On screen, a small bright dot grew, transforming into the shape of a large, heavy cargo hauler, boxy and inelegant.  Its hyper-drives crackled with blue energy, sparking and blackening where the highly-charged circuits burned out, overloaded by the torpedo's kick.  A shimmer of green wavered visibly in an elongated sphere around the hull as the ship's shields tried and failed to create a seamless defensive bubble.

"What a shot,"  Pushkin commented, shaking his head in disbelief.  "The torpedo nearly did our jobs for us."

"Aye." Siobhan tapped the comms unit in her chair's padded arm.  "Torpedo room, this is the Captain.  Judging by what I'm seeing, you've come as close to a first shot kill as I've ever seen with a fish.  Well done."

"Thank you, sir," Lako's uncertain voice came back.  She was still staring in awe at her small screen, not quite believing her aim had been so good.  She gave a small prayer to her ancestors and tried to fix the moment in her mind's eye, knowing that such a lovely shot would likely never come her way again.

"You've just earned yourself a double tot, Spacer.  Dunmoore, out."

Lako glanced at her assistant, who pumped his gloved fist in the air, a grin of exultation transforming his normally dour face into a mask of pure pride.  When she turned back to her screen, the Petty Officer realized her whole body was shaking with the release of tension.  Her job was over, for now.

"Re-load Tube One."

On the bridge of the transport
Hurgan
, Lieutenant Verkont faced the worst nightmare of his admittedly dead-end career.  Like a demon, the human frigate had appeared from nowhere to fire an other-space missile that had nearly disabled his ship.  Their Gun Master must be an evil magician.  The
Hurgan
had lost all jump capability, so badly had the feedback damaged its engines, and its stern was all but gone.  The elderly Lieutenant's crew of subject race levies performed well enough, but they were not fighters, and could not hide the terror they now felt at the sight of death on the main viewscreen.  For death it would be.  Though armed, the
Hurgan
could not, in his wildest fantasies, stand up to a human frigate.  And his long-range scanners showed the escort too far away to reach him in time.  He briefly cursed the slackness of the escort's Gun Master, but that changed nothing.

"Commander,"  the shaggy, ursine navigator turned around, eyes wide with fear, though he strived to perform like a true servant of the Empire,  "our shields will not stand-up to their fire."  His growling voice held a note of finality.  As it should.

Verkont nodded, features composed and serene.  His life may not have been glorious, but in death, at least, he would prove himself worthy of his ancestors.  "Thank you, Trank.  You have done well. All of you have done well.  May your forefathers greet you with honor."

The shaggy Gardal nodded back, baring his teeth.  Though his culture did not practice ancestor worship like the Overlords, preferring the gods of their natural world, he appreciated the regard implied by Verkont's words.  The Lieutenant was a respectful and honorable officer, better than many Overlords who openly despised the subject races.

"Tvant,"  Verkont turned to his Gardal First Officer, "prepare to return fire.  We will show the humans this ship serves the Emperor."  His guns would be like pin-pricks on a dragon, but the humans would know that even the Empire's lowliest ships had honor and spirit.

"Mister Guthren, we'll pass the transport on the starboard side, at a range of one hundred kilometres, then come about on the port side, same range.  Mister Devall, individual fire under control of the gun captains.  No missiles."

"A bit close, if he chooses to self-destruct."  Pushkin seemed dubious.

Siobhan smiled.  "Imperial transports have no self-destruct mechanism.  The High Command doesn't want to risk some glory seeking ship captain committing suicide and utterly destroying the precious cargo.  They count on recovering some of it, if something like us happens." 
Know thine enemy, Gregor
.

"Captain,"  the Gunnery Chief raised his arm to attract her attention.  He had taken over surveillance duties, to leave Devall free for the engagement.  "One contact at sub-light heading towards us at zero-seven-three mark one-five.  I make it a Gecko-class corvette."

"One of the escorts."  She nodded, as if she had expected this.  Which she did.  Gecko-class corvettes did not pose a great threat to a well-handled frigate, unless commanded by an officer with Brakal's abilities.  Fortunately, the Empire had managed to produce only one of those, and he commanded the Gorgon-class cruiser
Tol Vakash
.  "Time to intercept?"

"Ten minutes."  But Chief Penzara wasn't finished yet.  "Another contact FTL on a heading two-nine-five mark four-five."

This caught Siobhan's attention, though she took care to remain as unconcerned as before. A new player, not part of the convoy.  A shadow?  Unexpected, but of no immediate danger.

"Time to intercept?"

"Approximately fifteen minutes."

Pushkin and Devall looked at Dunmoore, expecting her to change tactics and destroy the transport as quickly as possible from a stand-off position, the better to slip away before enemy warships arrived.  But she simply nodded, cool and composed.  One target at a time.

"Put the contacts on tactical.  When the guns bear, Mister Devall, your gun captains may open fire."

The First Officer turned back to his console, worried.  He knew she was giving the gunners a chance to draw first blood personally.  It was good for morale and confidence, but she cut it close, too close for his comfort, and it broke all the rules of proper raiding: fast in, fast kill, fast out.  Was Dunmoore succumbing to bravado?  Pushkin realized he still knew very little about the Captain.  And what he knew didn't seem to apply now that her blood was up.

Slowly, too slowly for the First Officer, the
Stingray
pulled abreast of the wounded transport and the main as well as the starboard guns opened fire in a measured and steady cadence.  The transport replied feebly, its shots splashing on the frigate's energy shields like bugs on a windscreen.  At first, the
Hurgan
's dying shields dispersed the
Stingray
's shots, but each round hit the target precisely, and the weakened force field collapsed.  The next rounds hit the hull with devastating effect, punching black holes through the armour.  A salvo from the main two-oh-three millimetre turret destroyed the starboard hyper-drive in a shower of sparks and crackling energy, then the frigate was past.

Guthren brought her around the
Hurgan
's stern, giving the humans a clear view of the torpedo's damage.  Devall whistled softly.  "That was damned good shooting indeed, Captain.  I didn't know Lako had it in her."

Their view of the transport flipped one-eighty degrees as Guthren turned the ship on its axis to give the portside guns a chance to engage on the undamaged side.  Then, with the same slow precision, the frigate raked the transport again. 

They would never know which shot finally ended the target practice.  Suffice to say a heavy plasma round found its way through a hole burned into the main hull moments before, and hit the now unprotected fusion reactor sitting atop the immense cargo holds.  Lieutenant Verkont and his Gardal bridge crew never felt the final explosion that tore apart their ship.  A direct hit from the frigate's main gun had already sent them to oblivion.

The crew of the
Stingray
watched the
Hurgan
die in silence, aware that they'd just condemned thirty-odd sentient beings to death.  A chain of linked explosions ripped apart the transport's hull, spewing frozen atmospheric gases into space.  Then, a bright flower of pure energy blotted out the ship as the anti-matter fuel tanks blew.  When the light faded, what had been a large, ungainly but serviceable transport was gone, replaced by an expanding cloud of wreckage.

The Stingrays felt none of the triumph they'd expected from their first victory in over a year. They were no longer used to dealing out violent death and the whole business had an unpleasant taste to it.  Simply put, it had been too easy, like clubbing a baby seal to death.  But it had been a kill, and it had value to the Commonwealth's war effort.