No Honor in Death (36 page)

"Scratch one consignment of arms and equipment that'll never reach the Imperial ground forces on Cimmeria," Siobhan commented coldly, aware of her crew's feelings.  She'd met the same attitude at the start of the war, when computer simulations that hurt no one turned into bleak and deadly reality.  She hadn't expected it in an experienced crew, though she should have.  Killing was a habit that had to be fed regularly, or human scruples gained ascendancy.  That, more than anything else, blunted a crew's edge in battle.  "It'll make re-taking the system that much easier for our Marine colleagues."

"That it will," Pushkin commented flatly.

Siobhan gave him a sharp look.  "This one was the easiest," she said.  "The next will be more of a challenge."

"Next, sir?"  Pushkin was surprised.  He'd never considered that Siobhan would want to hang around, now that their advantage of surprise was blown.  A quick kill and a quick run back to their side of the line seemed the sane course of action, and no one would fault them for it.  After all, a kill was a kill, and they had damaged engine components.

"Do the unexpected, Mister Pushkin."  Siobhan grinned cruelly.  Time to lay out the cold reality of war, and force them to acknowledge the true nature of their duties: to kill as many Shreharis as possible, before they killed more humans.  "I'm not finished with these bastards yet.  Every transport we get weakens the Empire's position here just that much more, and we haven't even hit a troopship yet."

The First Officer repressed a shudder at the thought of slaughtering a transport filled with hundreds, if not thousands of defenceless troops.  Siobhan read his thoughts as they flashed across his face.  Her voice hardened.

"Every Imperial trooper we kill here will mean one less to kill our Marines later.  They started this war.  We'll finish it.  Chief, range and bearing of the escort?"

"Same course as before.  Intercept in three minutes."

"Mister Shara.  Program a micro-jump of three seconds on bearing two-five-three mark seven-five.  Cox'n, the moment we emerge, take the ship around one-eighty degrees.  Let's try something more challenging."

"Course laid in."

"Engage."

Sub-Commander Yorganth of the
Ptar Korsh
watched the death of the
Hurgan
with rage, unable to accept his helplessness, knowing his life would be forfeit if the Fleet Commander chose to make an issue of his competence.  He offered a pro forma prayer for the transport's dead crew, although his beliefs had been sorely tested of late.

His only chance remained in taking the offending human frigate.  Yorganth recognized it as a Type 203, an old, outclassed model and he ordered his helmsman to push the corvette beyond the safe sub-light speed limits.  Then, to his even greater horror, the human jumped, escaping his still-born attempt at revenge.

"His course?"  He snapped at the Gun Master.

The younger officer glanced at his scanner and swore.  Before Yorganth could reprimand him for using offensive language, his Gun Master blurted out the horrible truth about his situation.

"Commander, the human is behind us and closing in at maximum sub-light!"

"Helm, emergency turn.  Gharl, prepare to engage."

"He has launched missiles, Commander."

"Argh!"  Yorganth slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair.  The human commander was an evil magician.  "Defensive fire on the missiles.  All spare power to shields."

"Birds away, Captain."

Dunmoore nodded, blood-lust dancing in her eyes.  She'd surprised not only the enemy but her own crew.  The sharp turn right after emergence had strained the ship, but after hearing a battleship's dying creaks, Siobhan could easily ignore the feeble protestations of an undamaged and far more agile frigate.  Not so her First Officer, but then, his duty in battle was the health and continued functioning of the ship.

Four anti-ship missiles streaked towards the corvette.  Though she doubted more than one would get through to damage the Shrehari's shields, the spread of birds kept his guns busy while she brought her frigate to optimum firing range.  She could have saturated his defences with another spread of missiles, but she needed them for later.  Siobhan had no intention of running for home even after she took care of this one.  Four transports still sailed to Cimmeria, and she intended to bag them all.

"Mister Devall, centrally controlled salvo from all guns at my order."

"Aye, aye, sir."  He touched his keyboard, slaving all weapons to his own fire control system. This was more to his liking: hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast and get 'em out of the way before another ship came within range.

On screen, the corvette grew at an alarming rate, both ships now closing with each other head-on.  Guthren glanced back at Siobhan, a knowing look in his eyes.  "We're on a collision course, sir."

Dunmoore smiled.  "Excellent.  Remember the last time you and I played chicken, Cox'n?"

Guthren chuckled.  "It's graven in my memory forever, skipper," he replied, his attention divided between the enemy and his Captain.  He did not share the crew's misgivings.  After what he and Dunmoore had survived in the
Don Quixote
, none of her tactics would faze him.  He trusted her with his very existence.

Catching Pushkin's dubious stare, Dunmoore's smile turned into a vulpine grin.  "Ask Mister Guthren about his hair-raising experiences during the first battle of Cimmeria some day, Mister Pushkin."

"Engaging our missiles,"  Devall reported.  Streams of plasma tracked across the starlit background as the corvette's less able computer tried to nail the birds in mid-flight.  One exploded with a brief flash of light, but the other three kept coming.  The Gunnery Officer found himself holding his breath, as if the missiles were an extension of himself.

"Got another one,"  he reported, feeling his heart beating wildly.  The two remaining birds were getting closer to the target, and he mentally cheered them on, as if they were sprinters in an inter-Academy race.

The Imperial ship's gunner fired without cease, but it was in vain.  Both missiles struck the
Ptar Korsh
's bow shield and the five megaton nuclear warheads exploded simultaneously, bathing him in the glow of a thousand suns.  The
Stingray
's scanners blanked out momentarily under the assault of radiation, but she remained on her collision course, Devall's hand hovering over the firing button.

The flash of both missiles exploding a hundred metres from the
Ptar Korsh
's hull overloaded the ship's cruder electronics and burned out the heavily shielded visual pickups.  On the bridge, Yorganth and his officers were blinded by the flash in the fraction of a second before the screen went blank.

Genuine fear now possessed the Sub-Commander and panic threatened to choke him as his Gun Master reported the collapse of the bow shields.  Yorganth blinked several times, willing his eyes to see clearly again, and in that time, the human frigate came within firing range, but he could not know that.  He was blind until the backup systems came on line.

When the screen lit up again, Yorganth faced his greatest nightmare.  His entire bow was open to the enemy's guns, and these now winked brightly as they spewed round after round of destructive plasma.

"Helm, bring the ship to port.  Gun Master, open fire as you bear."  Yorganth was pleased his voice remained strong and steady, hiding the fear he felt.

The helmsman moved too slowly and the first salvo came through the hole created by the missiles, striking the
Ptar Korsh
's grey hull.  Yorganth's ship shuddered under the impact, groaning with pain.  A console flared as feedback from the plasma strike travelled down the shielded conduits and shorted out the bridge electronics.  The sickening smell of burnt polymers and plastics assailed Yorganth's nostrils.  He suddenly knew he would explain himself to his ancestors and not his Admiral.

"He's wide open," Devall's excited voice cut through the sounds of the straining ship.  "His front shields are gone."  The gunnery officer hit the firing button, releasing the full weight of the frigate's broadside again.

The
Ptar Korsh
's responding salvoes found fully charged and operational screens, and though the frigate shook under the impact, none punched through

Siobhan, working only on instinct now, saw the hole created by the first lucky missile strike slowly slip away.  "Guns, fire one missile down his throat.  NOW!"

Instinctively, Devall's hand found the controls and he released another bird at point blank range.  His mind caught up with him seconds later, but by then, Siobhan had already ordered the Cox'n to shear off to starboard, abandoning the game of chicken just as the Shrehari began his turn.  The two ships passed each other within spitting distance, each shuddering under the hammering of the other's guns.

Devall just had time to admire Dunmoore quick mind before the five megaton warhead exploded on the corvette's main hull.  The explosion, contained for the first second or so within the ship's remaining shields, cracked its armour hull as if it were an egg.

The Shrehari crewmen closest to the hull died first, flash fried inside their suits.  On the bridge, Yorganth's mouth opened to speak, but whether it was for an order or a prayer, no one ever found out.  The hull imploded under the pressure of the released energy, then exploded outwards as the pressure of the contained atmosphere pushed at the broken seams.  The magnetic bottles holding the corvette's anti-matter fuel collapsed simultaneously, adding the propellant's immense power to the chaos.

Everything seemed frozen by the violence of the
Ptar Korsh
' death throes, as if the Stingrays couldn't believe the rapid destruction they'd visited on the Imperial ship.  Siobhan, however, was in her element at last.  She had not forgotten the other oncoming ship.  The tactical display showed it emerging at the site of the
Hurgan
's death.  But the Captain had already planned one step further.

"Mister Shara, lay in a course three-one-five, mark zero."  To her credit, the Sailing Master responded as fast as she could.  "Done, sir."

"Engage."

With a nauseating lurch, the
Stingray
left the scene of the battle and vanished into hyper space.  The physical sensation jolted the others back to life and they glanced around, uncertain of what their eyes had seen.

Siobhan smiled at them, though it was a chilling smile.  "Scratch one corvette.  Mister Kowalski, give me ship-wide."

"Stingrays, this is the Captain.  In the last ten minutes, you chalked up an Imperial transport and a warship with barely a scratch on our hull.  Well done.  Well done, indeed.  As far as I'm concerned, we have now proved that the
Stingray
is far from being a jinx.  This ship is as good as any in the Fleet, and we're just starting.  Our raiding patrol is far from over and you'll have more chances to prove your worth to the Fleet.  For now, we will take a breather and let the Shreharis wonder about us.   I'm proud of you this day.  Keep it up.  Dunmoore, out."

Pushkin looked at her curiously, as if coming out of a dream.  "What now?"

"Now?  We shake that other Imperial warship, review the tapes, and take our next kill."

"Wouldn't it be more prudent to return to our patrol route?  We've got two of them."

"That's the predictable move, Mister Pushkin.  I don't like being predictable.  No, we can still take out one or two more transports.  Take a look at our course.  We're heading deeper into the Empire.  Our opponents would hardly expect that."

Her tone was utterly reasonable, matter-of-fact, but her eyes were very, very bright.  Pushkin repressed a shiver.  By his more sedate standards, Dunmoore was a madwoman, but one who could run circles around the opposition.  Judging by the pleased grins around the bridge, the crew had finally caught her madness and were willing to follow her wherever she took them.

Commander Brakal did not even feel the desire to curse as he looked at the expanding debris field which marked the graves of two Imperial ships.  He was too late, a first in his impressive career, and it was a feeling he did not like.  The crew felt his mood and remained silent.  Even the smirking Khrada held his peace before the deaths of over two hundred Imperial spacers.

Although he knew it to be futile he ordered a scan for survivors, on the off chance that one or two spacers had escaped in crew pods.  Then, he turned his attention to the tactical screen which showed the retreating convoy and the fast vanishing human raider.  He slowly stroked his jaw and thought hard about his next move, noting, as Jhar did, that the enemy did not head for home, but deeper into Imperial space.  He was clearly not through yet, and that, if nothing else, presented the opportunity for revenge.

It would be an interesting chase, and a long one too, if he judged his opponent right.

TWENTY

Siobhan rose and stretched, repressing a groan.  For the last three hours, the
Stingray
had run deeper into Imperial space, in the general direction of Cimmeria, and they finally completed the last of a series of quasi-random jumps to blur their trail.  Hopefully it would be enough to throw off the Imperial patrol ship.  Her crew needed a few hours rest, as did the ship. And she needed to think about a new plan to cut her next victim out of the convoy.

Dunmoore knew her First Officer disapproved and would rather they ran for the line, standing on the two kills they'd already chalked up.  But she would not let go.  Frigates were supposed to find and engage the enemy to the utmost of their abilities, and that's exactly what she would do: fight until she was forced to withdraw.  So far, the Shrehari response to her assaults had been less than forceful.  That would change, of course, but not quite yet.

The convoy still registered on the
Stingray
's scanners, barely, but it sufficed.  Of the other ship, they found no trace.  Either they had outrun it, or its commander was lying doggo, waiting for her to reappear on his screens.  Two could play this game, and it would give them the rest period they all needed.  The convoy wasn't going anywhere other than Cimmeria, and this close, their options were limited enough.  They'd find them again when the time came.

"Mister Pushkin, dampen the reactors and go to electronic silence.  Let's make like a space mushroom while we take a break, and see what happens out there."  She smiled at the First Officer.  They were totally unlike each other, but in time, they could become a good team, his caution balancing her recklessness.  Too bad he still held back  Hopefully it was more out of habit by now, than out of genuine resentment.  She had done all she could to get him on-side.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"I'll be in my ready room."

Alone in her sanctuary, Siobhan slumped into the chair and sighed.  The tension of the chase and subsequent battle had taken a physical toll, and tired people make mistakes, as she'd proved to the Shreharis in a most devastating lesson.  It wouldn't do to fall in the same trap.  Sure, the rest period would screw up her crew's momentum, but it was more important to soothe overworked reflexes and adrenal glands.  To fully absorb the implications of what they had achieved.

Running silent, as it was commonly called, made the ship invisible to long range sensors and since space was one hell of a big place, the frigate should remain undetected.  There was no way the enemy patrol ship could have followed them through the wild course changes they'd made, and if she were in her opponent's boots, Siobhan would stick close to the convoy, because it was the biggest honey-pot in the sector.  If she was lucky, the enemy commander lacked the necessary imagination and initiative, and was now even trying to run her down.

She sat up and pulled the computer terminal towards her.  First, the damage reports.  They were mercifully light.  A few shorted-out systems and broken bones, as Pushkin had already told her.  Nothing to make Luttrell and Tiner complain loudly.  That too would change after the next engagement, which she knew would be much more difficult and probably deadly.

Then, while the memory of the fast battle remained fresh, Siobhan sketched a draft of her report to Battle-Group.  One Tuck-class transport and one Gecko-class corvette.  Not bad for an afternoon's work.  Not bad at all.  She smiled at the names Starfleet Intelligence had chosen for the ship types.  Their true Shrehari class-names were unpronounceable by human tongues.

Most important however, her crew had been blooded.  Many, like Pushkin, probably still harboured scruples about the swift and merciless death they'd dealt out to the Imperials, but their shells would harden with a few more engagements.  If they couldn't hack the dirty work, after all that, then she would replace them at the end of the cruise.  But the general atmosphere on the frigate was already a lot better as a result of the victories, easy as they had been.  Which was all to the better.  The next time would be much harder.  Inflexible though they were, the Shreharis were certainly no fools.

Down in the lower deck mess hall, over a quick meal, the ratings swapped stories about the battle, especially the gunners, who compared shots.  If Siobhan could have seen them, she would have smiled at their enthusiasm.  But part of that was due to the ease of the fight, as Banger Rownes well knew.  She took no pleasure in the kills, only quiet pride at a job well done.

"So whaddya think, Banger?  We gonna go for some more Imps?"  Nosey Bertram scratched his prominent proboscis, grinning slyly.  "Cap'n sure as shit knows wot she's doin', eh!"

Rownes shrugged.  "We surprised the buggers is all.  Chief Penzara says we're still deep in enemy space and the Cap'n looks like she's gonna try the convoy again.  But the next time it won't be so easy.  They know we're here now.  Hell, for all we know, we've got a bloody Imp cruiser on our tail.  This ain't over yet by a long run."

The big gun captain's tone cut through the high spirits like a bucket of cold water.  Confidence was a good thing, over-confidence wasn't.  And the swift destruction of two unprepared enemy ships sure as shit wouldn't mean squat when they met a pissed-off Imperial cruiser.  Which they would, sooner or later.

Her friends fell silent and concentrated on eating the emergency rations served up by gloomy purser's mates.  Electronic silence meant all unnecessary gear was shut down, including the galley.  The food wasn't great, but they'd all developed a healthy appetite during the last few hours.

Vincenzo, unable to stand the silence any longer, switched to that favourite of all spacers, gossip.  "I guess you have all heard," he said around a mouthful of soyburger, "Kery is in the brig."

"Yeah.  Scuttlebutt says she's really an SSB spy."  Banger was unmoved by the news.

Vince nodded vigorously.  "She is an officer, a Major called Elidia Cayne.  The Captain asked her before we jumped the convoy.  I saw them in her office, with the Captain pointing an ugly blaster at the little
creatura
."

"No shit?  I can just picture Dunmoore as a gunslinger, starin' down the filth."  Nosey grinned.  "A Major, eh? She's more like a major pain in the ass, is Kery.  What's the Cap'n gonna do?"

"No idea, my friend.  Regulations say we cannot interrogate her.  I guess we hand her over to Naval Security when we reach the base.  Mister Drex is keeping a close eye on her."

Nosey shuddered theatrically.  "Be enough to spook me inta talkin'.  With his dead eyes and zombie stare.  He's a queer one, your Mister Drex."

Vincenzo reflected on his friend's comment, and decided not to tell how queer Drex's behavior really had become in the last few days.  The Second Officer frightened him enough, especially since they found Hartalas' body down on deck fifteen.  Too much death on the
Stingray
, and all of it made up to look like accidents.

As if by telepathy, Nosey Bertram homed in on his thoughts.  "Hey Vince, maybe now the Cap'n can find out about the shit the ol' bitch Forenza was doin'.  With the stoolie gone, no more danger to us."

"And what do we have?"  Rownes scowled.  "Gossip, rumours and crap like that.  If Cap'n Dunmoore wants to dig up old bones, then bully for her. We got a good ship now, with a good skipper and we got two kills to paint on our hull.  Kery ain't alone in her business, and her sittin' in the brig don't make me feel much safer.  What if there's another slag on board?  What then?"

"What's with you, Banger?"  Bertram looked at her with exaggerated astonishment.  "You normally ain't like this."

She shrugged.  "Listen, I told the Cap'n about how the bitch ran this tub, that's all.  It's enough to make her realize where we're coming from.  The rest we can wipe from our memories, especially now that Kery's on her way out.  That shit is over.  We got a good thing going, let's not spoil it."

"Yeah, maybe you're right, Banger."  Nosey sighed.  "I still think them big crooks shouldn't get away with it."

"Only 'cause you're jealous, Nosey, 'cause you got caught.  But what if we're right, and they get caught?  Judge can't make 'em join the Navy like he did with you."

Banger's quip drew the expected round of laughter, and the mood lightened as the conversation steered towards safer waters.  The gun captain didn't like lying to her buddies.  Well, it wasn't exactly a lie, but she knew things weren't quite over yet, and it was best to remain quiet until the Captain finished sweeping out the filth.  She would have been surprised to know the quiet, thoughtful Vincenzo felt the same way, if not exactly for the same reasons.

"You do not pursue, Commander?"  Khrada's tone was silken, menacing in a manner Brakal could not call insubordinate, or implying cowardice.  Not quite.  The
Tai Kan
officer knew how to skirt the limits of acceptable behavior with the flair of a consummate professional. But Brakal too was a consummate professional, and he would not have his judgement called into question on his own bridge.

"To what aim, Lieutenant?" He asked, a malicious smile on his lips, as he pointed at the tactical display.  "He is jumping around like a mad
loorak
.  If I begin to follow, he will simply vanish from view and bide his time.  This one knows his craft.  Sniffing up his arse like a filthy dog would be useless.  Of course," he added, "
Tai Kan
training does emphasize sniffing, so your abysmal ignorance is natural.  I excuse you."

The not-so-subtle insult flowed over Khrada like water over a snake, though Brakal thought he could detect a chink in his admirable patience.  He briefly toyed with the idea of provoking
Tai Kan
into an open violation of discipline, something to give him cause for an arrest and formal charges, or a summary execution.  But such behavior was not encompassed by his concept of personal honor and he dropped the thought, pleasing as it appeared.  Obviously, the spy's cooperation would have been required in such a scheme, but there were always ways to push a man beyond the limits of his restraint.

"Jhar, take us near the convoy with short, random jumps.  Maybe we can tempt the human to move and thereby reappear on our screens.  He will wish to take more victories, this one, and the glory that flows from success."

That had been four hours earlier.  Now, the
Tol Vakash
sailed in normal space a short jump behind the convoy.  Brakal had alerted its commander to his presence, and though the man had not expressed his true feelings, the relief in his eyes had been plain for all to see.

Yet even with all the random jumps, Brakal was unable to lure the human commander from his hiding place.  His signature, after slowly fading from view, was non-existent.  He ran silent, a human tactic Brakal knew only too well.  Imperial ships did not have the same uncanny ability to disappear in plain sight, their electronic shielding inadequate in the face of excellent human scanners.  But he was there, somewhere, watching them.  And his window of opportunity shrunk by the minute, as the convoy neared the Cimmeria system.

Soon, they would be in short jump range of the system's assault force, or rather would be, if the senile idiot in command at Cimmeria would recall his ships from their flag-waving patrol, as Brakal had urged.  However news of his uncertain status had reached even this far out, and Admiral Kokurag refused to chance Trage's displeasure.  It was just as well that the human did not know this, and would act as if the assault force was an immediate threat.

Or would he?

Lieutenant-Commander Pushkin drew a mug of coffee from the heavy thermos in the conference room, now set aside as rest area for the bridge crew.  He added a packet of sugar and turned towards Chief Guthren, who was sprawled lazily on the padded bench hard up against the outer bulkhead.

The big non-com raised his cup in a salute.  "Nothin' like a hot one, eh, Mister Pushkin?  Too bad we can't add a splash.  But then, the skipper needs my magic touch at the helm."

He grinned, pleased with his early performance on the bridge, but his eyes remained wary, searching Pushkin's face for signs of weakness.  The First Officer had cleaned-up his act well enough since the skipper had taken over, but could he handle the stress of Cap'n Dunmoore's  - unusual - tactics.  He had looked worried enough at the time.

Pushkin sipped his coffee, a thoughtful frown on his face, eyes staring past the cox'n.  Finally, he sat at the far end of the table and looked squarely at Guthren.  "So what's the story, Chief?"

"You mean playing chicken, sir?"  Guthren's grin widened.  When Pushkin nodded, the cox'n straightened, drained his mug and took on a conspirator's guarded expression.  Dunmoore would have recognized his look and groaned out loud.  Guthren was a good story-teller, but he derived all too much enjoyment from the sound of his own voice.

"Picture this then, if you will, Mister Pushkin.  It was the year 2460.  The present war was all but a few months old, though Cimmeria, Mission and El-Kébir were already under the Imperial thumb.  The small auxiliary scout ship
Don Quixote
, all of two thousand tons of it and a thirty-strong crew, was leading Task Force Three-Alpha towards a clash of titans with an Imperial Fleet.  Now the
Don Quixote
was a fast, well-armed ex-smuggler, bought into the Fleet before the war and given to one Lieutenant Siobhan Dunmoore, skipper.  Her cox'n, then a petty officer first class, was yours truly.  In the months before the battle, the
Don Quixote
and its skipper had made quite a name for themselves in one crazy stunt after another.  For instance, and I'll save that story for another day, our esteemed captain took personal control of the helm and weapons, and flew the scout ship like an attack fighter right through the Imperial beachhead on Cimmeria, under the astonished eyes of the 2nd Battalion, 18th Marines, then fighting for their lives.  But as I said, that's for another time.  We were discussing games of chicken, weren't we, Mister Pushkin."  Guthren gave the First Officer his most avuncular smile.