No Honor in Death (44 page)

Probably because Kaleri sold them off
,  Siobhan thought angrily. 
One more victim to her corruption and greed.  No, not just one more...
  "But we have both engines on line.  What about the starboard one."

"That was Able Spacer Bertram, sir.  Volunteered."

Siobhan felt like she'd been punched in the gut.  She had developed an affectionate respect for the weasel-faced engineer's mate.  "Nosey?"

"Yeah, Cap'n.  Nosey Bertram."  There was a catch in Weekes's throat.  The little guy was popular in engineering.  Had been popular.

"Thank you. Captain, out."  She sat back, a dull ache growing in her gut.

"Mister Kowalski, give me ship-wide."  The Signals Officer made a thumbs-up gesture.  "Stingrays, this is the Captain."  Siobhan was pleased that her voice remained firm.  "You'll be glad to know it's over for now.  We're on our way home with six kills to our credit.  We still have a lot to do before we can consider ourselves safe, but I don't think we'll be seeing the enemy again for a while.  I'm very proud of you, of what you've achieved.  No one in the Fleet can call this ship a jinx ever again, and that's thanks to you."

She wanted to say so much more, apologize to those who died or even now lay in sickbay with unspeakable injuries, but she found she couldn't.  The crew did not want to hear any of that anyway.  They wanted to hear they'd done well, were safe and on their way home.  The rest would just have been empty words, meaningless.

"Dunmoore, out.  You have the bridge, Mister Pushkin."

"Sir."  He saw the utter fatigue in her eyes.  Reckless and hot-headed, maybe, but also deeply feeling.

Instead of going to her ready room, Dunmoore headed out the main hatch and down a few decks to sickbay.  Pushkin could deal with the ship's needs.  She had a much harder task: face the men and women who whose suffering she had caused.  It was something the Captain could not delegate, ever.  No matter how she felt.

Brakal stood by a porthole, looking out at the nameless planetoid that had witnessed his defeat.  Behind him, the bodies of his friends, and of the
Tai Kan
spy cooled as the
Tol Vakash
waited for a tow from the Cimmeria squadron ships.  His cruiser was finished, he knew that.  The High Command would order its destruction.  But he did not want to die yet.

Brakal found he did not believe in his culture's notion of honorable death.  Not when the Empire was heading for disaster under the leadership of incompetents like Trage.  It was more honorable, and more difficult to live, face the charges of the Council, and fight back, if only to make the Empire's peril clear.  When a human captain, a female at that, could wipe out a convoy and a cruiser with an old, outdated frigate, general defeat was very near indeed.

More importantly, he refused to give Trage the satisfaction of an easy passing, one he could use to his own ends.  Oh, the wily old Admiral would certainly have made Brakal a martyr, to better control his followers in the Deep Space Fleet, but underneath it all, Trage would have consolidated his hold on the Empire.  And the Makkar family estates would have fallen into the hands of court sycophants who sucked up to the turds on the Council and leeched the Empire's lifeblood away.  Those events could still happen, but their passing was not assured.  Not while Brakal still breathed.  Khrada no longer lived to spread his poison, thank the ancestors, and his death could not be blamed on the Commander.  The spy had attacked him first.

And what dishonor was there in losing to a capable foe?  He had learned much from her this time again, and felt a faint glow of pleasure at using the same kind of deception on her as she had used on him.  The next time, if there was one, Brakal would know how to toy with his opponent and make him believe what he wanted.  As Dunmoore had done.  Never again would Brakal limit his thinking to the fixed parameters of so-called normality.  If it is even remotely possible, consider it.  And most of all, continue to study everything about your enemy so you know what she
really
can or cannot do.

"Commander."  Urag's voice broke Brakal from his thoughts.  The Gun Master was now First Officer of the
Tol Vakash
, a post he would not hold for long, but one he would honor by carrying out his duties to his utmost.  Jhar's memory demanded as much.  "The
Tol Hrakan
is ready to take us in tow."

"Come."

Pushkin poked his head through the hatch, to a background of relieved cheers and backslapping.  "We've just passed back into Commonwealth space, sir."

Siobhan paused her log recorder and smiled.  "You may place the crew at cruising stations, Number One, and have the Purser break-out a double tot for everyone.  I think it's time we spliced the main brace.  They've earned it."

"Aye, sir."  Pushkin grinned.  "I'd say they've earned several double tots, but we wouldn't want to be charged with sailing a starship under the influence."

"Indeed not, Gregor."  The First Officer winked and disappeared.

Siobhan looked at her terminal again and sighed.  Her official reports were already in Admiral Nagira's hands, along with the depositions of her officers, the casualty lists and an advisory that the
Stingray
was holding together with baling wire and duct tape.  They'd received a laconic reply ordering them to head for Starbase 31 at best speed commensurate with the safety of the ship.  No word on the other business, nor a peep of congratulations.  The frigate could be returning from a milk run to Earth for all the reaction from 3rd Fleet HQ.  Except it was a trip made with only one jump drive, creating a dangerously unbalanced bubble.  But there was no helping that.  The new Acting Chief Engineer and his crew had performed miracles in getting even one drive up to snuff.  Whether it was in spite of Tiner's death or because of it, Siobhan didn't know.  She thought she had the woman pegged for one thing, then Tiner went and did something utterly heroic to save the ship.   Siobhan touched the record button.

"I've put Lieutenant-Commander Tiner and Able Spacer Bertram up for a posthumous Commonwealth Medal of Honor, though I suspect they'll get the Distinguished Service Cross instead, which is no less than they deserve, the bloody brave fools.  We're sailing short-handed now.  Casualties were heavy, especially fatalities, and I'll be expanding the commendations list over the next few days."  
As I write the letters to the next of kin.  Again.

Siobhan paused the recorder and let her eyes lose focus as she thought of the rows of coffins down in cargo hold five.  Twenty-nine dead, not counting those killed before the battle, like Drex, Cayne or Hartalas.  At least they were beyond pain.  Even worse were the injured, overflowing the ship's sickbay.  She had visited them daily since escaping from the Cimmeria system, not only out of a sense of duty as Captain, but to remind herself of the horrors her orders had put those spacers through.

A few, those she knew personally, gave her especially strong pangs of guilt and compassion, like Ordinary Spacer Demianova, who got badly burned when a Shrehari plasma shot ate through the armour of her gun turret.  She was lucky to be alive, mainly thanks to Rownes' quick actions, but she would need months in a naval hospital for a full recovery.  And even then, Demianova would forever bear the heavy scars of Dunmoore's grab for glory.

The wounded shamed Siobhan with their cheerful pride, and it was obvious none of them bore her a grudge or blamed her.  Somehow, in a twisted way, Siobhan would have been able to handle their reproach better than their lack of it.

"It is a totally different crew I bring back than the one I left with.  The old steward at Starbase 31 was right.  They're good 'uns.  Damn good 'uns.  I'm proud as hell to claim them as
my
crew.  They've come together marvellously with the shared experience of battle, and as we've found out, with the shared experience of losing a week of our lives in the mad, near-light-speed dash for the line.  It's sad, therefore, that we won't be together for much longer.  I can't see Command willing to sink millions into refitting a frigate slated for the knackers' yard.  My engineers and technicians are doing amazing work repairing everything they can.  But it won't change the fact the
Stingray
is obsolete.  One thing she isn't, and nobody will be allowed to say it ever again, is that she's a jinx.  Which, I guess, means I'm not a jinx skipper either, especially since I'm actually bringing her home and will see her de-commissioned.  A first for me."  Siobhan smiled ironically at her reflection in the computer screen.

"As for Admiral Kaleri, Commander Forenza and everybody else involved in the SSB  scheme, I'll just have to see what Admiral Nagira makes of my reports and my officers' depositions.  We still don't know every detail and what we don't know can be used against any accusations.  It is possible that this could still come to naught, and damage us personally. Lord knows what kind of protection Kaleri can call on, or whether Nagira will even believe my accusations against a Rear-Admiral.  I hope our success on the battlefield will lend us more credibility than we would have had prior to sailing."

The door chime buzzed, interrupting Siobhan's train of thought.  "Come."

Able Spacer Vincenzo stepped in from the corridor, carrying a tray of food.  Siobhan smiled and cleared her desk top for her supper.  "Thanks Vincenzo.  I hadn't realized how hungry I was."

"So I figured,
Capitano
.  You do not take good care of yourself."  He sounded reproachful, like a fussing mother.

"How's Demianova?"

He shrugged.  "So-so.  She does not like spending her days in bed and complains incessantly. But it is a brave face.  She hurts much.  Here you go,
Capitano
.  A good fresh linguini with clams and wine sauce.  All you need is a good bottle of Valpollicella.  Bon appetit."

Vincenzo left her to the delicious smelling meal.  The bosun's mate had inexplicably, after the battle, turned up as her personal steward, clerk and all-round aide.  Siobhan hadn't dared ask whether he had volunteered or been assigned.  She certainly didn't request a replacement for Kery, knowing the spacer she took for her own business would be sorely missed in his division.  Apparently, Vincenzo worked for her on top of his regular, if somewhat lightened duties.  One thing was for sure.  The menu had been very Italian since then, and tasty. At least the cooks had re-learned their trade along with everybody else.

Later that evening, Pushkin appeared at her door, looking as tired as Siobhan felt.  Everybody looked that way, with the strain of getting home on one drive, keeping the ship together and coping with the battle's injuries.

"You said you had a special task once we emerged for a course check before the final jump."

"Right."  She had nearly forgotten.  Thank God she had Pushkin around to keep things on an even keel.  He was proving to be one hell of a First Officer, almost Ezekiel Holt's equal, except he lacked the quirky spirit that made Ezekiel unique.  But he had his own qualities, which Siobhan was learning to appreciate.  "We have to paint six red dragons on the superstructure, to make sure everybody knows we bagged six Imperial ships on this patrol.  I hope we have red paint aboard."

Pushkin grinned.  "I believe we do, skipper.  Too bad we can't also tie a broom to the commo array."

Siobhan shrugged.  "Wouldn't mean all that much.  Any idiot who meets two or three small enemy ships on his cruise and kills them can tie a 'clean-sweep' broom to the array.  Six kills and an escape from the better part of an Imperial squadron, now that's noteworthy."

"Aye."  Pushkin became thoughtful.  "What do you think will happen when we dock, skipper?"

"Dunno, Gregor."  She let her eyes drift to the holoprint across from her desk. "It all depends on Admiral Nagira.  Either he sweeps everything under the table, or has me taken into custody as a nut case or brings Kaleri and the others up on charges.  I thought I knew Nagira, but right now, I don't know how he'll move.  This is just too big, too dirty for any predictions."

"It sucks, doesn't it, skipper?"

"Big time, Number One.  I could sure use a beer right now."

"That's what I came for, sir.  Since you ordered the tot, I figure we're no longer dry?"

"I suppose."  She smiled wryly, remembering the crew's reaction when she declared the ship dry even before they left port.

"Good.  On behalf of the wardroom, I'd like to invite you for a drink and some snacks with your officers."

Siobhan's sudden smile of delight was dazzling, wiping away all of the accumulated fatigue.  "I'd be honored, Number One, honored indeed.  When?"

"How about now?"  His eyes twinkled.  "They're waiting for you with a couple of cold ones.  Maybe you could tell us about the time you taught Brakal how to bluff."

"With pleasure, Gregor.  Lead on."

"We're in parking orbit, Captain."

"On my way, Number One."  Siobhan rose and straightened her tunic.  It was over.  Starbase 31 hung a kilometre off the starboard bow, holding their futures within its shiny white hull.  She would once again be a captain without a ship.  And her crew?  It didn't seem fair to disperse them to new postings just after they had proven their worth.  But the ship and its crew had suffered almost too much to carry on.