No Honor in Death (12 page)

"What are they?"

"If memory serves, sir, three cases of VSOP cognac from Dordogne, a few crates of claret, also from Dordogne, and some other things of, ah, questionable interest..."

Siobhan grinned evilly.  "Now there's something that would interest people who have coffee to spare.  Not the questionable items mind you."  She could well imagine what those were.  "But the booze."

"Sir,"  Rossum suddenly looked distressed, "those are Captain Forenza's private stocks.  We can't just take them."

"Sure we can,"  Siobhan nodded, eyebrows raised.  "I think it's about time Commander Forenza did something nice for the crew, and what could be nicer than ensuring we have an adequate supply of coffee?"

"But what do I tell her when she asks for the cognac and wine?"

"You've searched the ship high and low, and regrettably, the booze has vanished without a trace.  Or if you don't want to do it yourself, I can tell her."  Judging by how she treated the crew, she'd probably believe that her stores had been pilfered the moment she left the ship.

"No, no, sir,"  he shook his head, fat cheeks shaking, "I'll do it.  No problem there."

Siobhan smiled crookedly.  She'd have never pegged the soft-looking Purser as having enough guts to tell Forenza her stash of booze, worth thousands of credits, was gone.  Then again, maybe he was a born liar and obfuscator, like many Pursers in the Fleet.  It seemed to be a requirement for the job.

"I'll leave you to it then, Mister Rossum.  There are enough ships in port for some serious trading, and I doubt
they
have any problems getting more from the commissariat.  If you can't get enough out of them, try the messes and clubs.  There isn't a mess manager born who'd pass up a chance to get cheap booze for the bar."

"Aye, aye, sir!"  The Purser's eyes seemed to shine at the prospect of hard haggling.

"Mind that you don't let on how much we have.  Barter bottle by bottle.  Otherwise we won't get a decent trade."

"Never you worry, sir,"  Rossum grinned, "I'll get enough coffee and still have some cognac left over to spike it with."

"Carry on, then, Mister Rossum."

The Purser was as good as his word, and Siobhan raised her opinion of him a few notches.  At first glance, he might look shifty, overfed and soft, but he produced results.

By the end of the first dog watch, he had not only managed to horse-trade for enough fresh coffee beans to last two whole months, but he had a case of cognac left to spare.  As he told Siobhan, he would keep it in reserve for future needs.

Dunmoore left her ready room in a good mood, but she should have realized it wasn't going to last on a ship loaded with enough ill-will to re-start the Thirty Years War.  She chose to pass through the bridge instead of using her private entrance, and came face-to-face with an incident that confirmed her fears about the true depth of her problems.   As she stepped through the hatch, the irritating, nasal voice of her Sailing Master assaulted her ears, setting her nerves on edge.

"Well, I'm so sorry, Mister Pushkin, but the Intelligence staff have told me the new star charts aren't available, and I'm not about to start questioning their word.  I don't see why we don't make do with the old charts.  There's no reason to get all huffy about it."

Siobhan felt her blood pressure rise at the insolence of Shara's tone and nearly stepped in, but then thought better of it.  Neither had noticed her, and though the other bridge crew were throwing furtive glances in her direction, they remained silent.  Which was interesting.  It proved that neither Pushkin nor the Sailing Master were liked.

"Lieutenant, you damn well know that space hazards appear and vanish all the time.  How do you expect to do your job properly without fresh charts?"

Anybody else would have backed off at Pushkin's obvious fury, but Shara seemed untouched, as if she felt immune to his authority.  Siobhan frowned.  Shara and Forenza came from the same planet and social background.  Had the Sailing Master been part of her predecessor's clique?  It would explain her arrogance.

"Well, I can't get them, Mister Pushkin, and that's that."  Shara wore a look of furtive satisfaction on her thin, sallow face.

"We shall see," the First Officer growled.  Then, he suddenly noticed Siobhan standing behind the rear railing, arms crossed.  "Captain on the bridge," he snapped, his black look spearing the ratings and petty officers who hadn't warned him of her presence.  His gaze bode ill for the defaulters, but the crew dutifully came to attention, several hiding snickers and sneers behind bland facades.

"Carry on," Siobhan said softly, when silence had fallen on the bridge.  "Report, Mister Pushkin."

"We're having problems getting updated charts, sir," the First Officer replied, disgust visible on his hard features as he glanced at the insolent Sailing Master.

Out of the corner of her eye, Dunmoore saw Kowalski survey the scene with obvious interest.  She hadn't been able to peg the signals officer yet, but it was clear she didn't like either Pushkin or Shara.

"So I understand.  What excuse have the Intelligence staff given, Mister Shara?"

"They have no updated copy ready for distribution, sir."  Shara's voice grated on Siobhan's nerves like sandpaper.

"How old are our current charts?"

"Six months."

"I find it hard to believe, then, that there are no updates available.  Fleet procedure is to issue new charts every three months.  Why did you not update them three months ago?"

Shara's arrogance suddenly changed to uncertainty as Dunmoore challenged her.  She remained silent for a few moments, clearly searching for an acceptable answer.  Kowalski's expression shifted to amused malice as she too waited for a reply.

"There, ah, wasn't any occasion, sir," the Sailing Master finally replied, clearly realizing how lame her answer was.

"I shan't ask why not, Mister Shara.  Mister Pushkin, please join me in the ready room."

Shara looked relieved, thinking the First Officer was about to be taken to task for the charts, and her malicious arrogance returned.  Siobhan speared her with a glance that could have rivalled a battleship's guns in action and her expression changed so rapidly that more than one crewmember fought to hide a smile.

Once they were alone, Siobhan sat on the corner of her desk and looked at Pushkin in silence.  He, in turn, retreated into his parade-like formality.  Siobhan finally sighed.

"As if fighting the staff wasn't enough, I now find my officers arguing in public.  On my bridge."

Pushkin started, his eyes filling with anger, and Siobhan realized she'd said the wrong thing again.  He was a touchy bastard, and his bitterness at the universe was quickly becoming a nova-sized annoyance.

"What I mean," she quickly continued, before he hid behind his wounded pride, "is that I cannot understand why my Sailing Master has the temerity to gainsay my First Officer."

Her words did not visibly mollify Pushkin, but she felt, rather than saw him relax.

"Tell me if I'm wrong, Mister Pushkin," she softly continued, "but Lieutenant Shara was rather close to Commander Forenza."  When he didn't reply, she became blunter.  "In fact, I'd say she was Forenza's bum-licker.  Only that could explain why she has the nerve to argue with you.  Well, Mister Pushkin, you have my permission and my full support to discipline her.  I will not have anyone on this ship gainsaying you.  You are my executive officer, my right hand and my voice.  And it's about time this was made clear to all."

"Yes, sir," he replied, voice gruff but visibly surprised at her open gesture of support.  He was clearly not used to these words from his Captain.

"Just one note of caution, Mister Pushkin, before an argument starts, shut the offender up in no uncertain terms and take her, or him, to a private spot and
then
chew them another asshole.  Arguing in public does nothing for crew morale, or respect for their officers."

"Yes, sir."  His stance stiffened further, but not in anger at Dunmoore's mild rebuke.  He was genuinely annoyed at himself for having to be reminded of what he should know, but had forgotten.

On a hunch, Siobhan asked, "Commander Forenza had the habit of chastising her officers in public, didn't she?  Including you?"

"Aye, sir," he grudgingly acknowledged, but did not elaborate.  Siobhan felt her earlier frustration at not knowing what had gone on.  Before she could ask a question that would ruin the fragile understanding between them, she stood up.

"I'll let you get on, then.  Advise me of what you intend to do about getting fresh charts."

"Sir?"  He glanced at her, uncertain.

"You'll find a way, Mister Pushkin, I'm sure.  As you now know, there's more than one way to obtain what we need.  Dismissed."

Siobhan retreated to the desk, sat and steepled her fingers beneath her chin.  The incident on the bridge, while demonstrating a lack of proper leadership on both sides, had revealed some of the rifts among her officers and crew, the divisions Ezekiel had warned her about.

Pushkin, she had decided to trust for now.  His emotions were too close to the surface for any deeper scheming.  But Shara was definitely someone to watch.  Any friend or sycophant of Helen Forenza was a danger to her, and to her crew.  Especially one so stupid.  As for Kowalski?  Siobhan couldn't figure out where she stood.  According to her file, she was a colonist from Cascadia, and therefore a natural enemy of aristocrats like Shara or Forenza.  The chime of the intercom interrupted her thoughts.

"Sickbay to Captain."

"Dunmoore."

"Doctor Luttrell, sir.  Your medical files have arrived.  I would like to give you a complete physical as soon as you can spare me some time.  Now if possible."

"Any reason to hurry," Siobhan asked, irritated at the interruption.  Before Luttrell could reply, the Captain caught herself and softened her tone.  "I'll be right there, doctor."

"Good.  Luttrell, out."

Siobhan shook her head as she rose.  It wouldn't do to alienate the doctor out of sheer churlishness.  She would have to watch her temper more closely.

Then, she smiled.

The physical would be a good occasion to ask Luttrell some questions.  Maybe the draftee doctor had less reasons for avoiding the past than others, career officers, had.  It was worth a try.

SEVEN

When Siobhan entered sickbay, Luttrell gave her a welcoming grin and shooed out all of her assistants, so that she and Dunmoore were alone in the examining room.

"How's the migraine been behaving, Captain?"

"Fine.  No more nightmares either."  Siobhan smiled, struck again by how much she felt she could like her ship's surgeon.

"I'm going to have to ask you to strip, Captain.  But it's purely a professional request," Luttrell added with a wry grin.  "Oh, and the deck is warmed so you don't have to worry about cold feet.  I try to keep my customers as comfortable as possible."

"I guess you're the kind of doctor who takes the hands-on approach when examining patients," Siobhan commented, pulling off her gloves.

"Strangely enough, sir, I've got this urge to determine a person's condition with my own senses, not through fancy machinery.  A leftover from my days as a colonial sawbones, when I didn't have all these nice toys.  It allows me to see why my patients hide their otherwise functional hands behind stylish gloves."  The doctor nodded at Siobhan's left hand.  "Reactor coolant burns look nastier than they are, but I can understand your wanting to keep them hidden.  Tends to distract anyone you're talking to.  Just like a big pair of breasts."

Siobhan laughed at Luttrell's wry, but true comment, releasing the tension she'd felt earlier and gaining a new appreciation for the doctor's bed-side manner.  Luttrell tsked and clucked when Siobhan finally stood buck naked in front of her.  Dunmoore's body was covered with a network of fine white scars.

"You've led a hard life, Captain."

Siobhan, feeling embarrassed, shrugged.  "Just unlucky, I guess.  Or maybe not.  At least I'm alive," she added.  "It's all stuff that can wait until the war is over."

"Please lie down on the diagnostic bed, Captain,"  Luttrell replied, all business again.

Dunmoore complied.  "I understand three crewmembers had more bad luck lately than I've had, doctor."

"Yeah."  The surgeon seemed uneasy all of a sudden.

"I wonder what kind of disease put Leading Spacer Savarin on the beach.  Was it VD?"

Luttrell glanced up from her scanner and grinned at Siobhan, though the look in her eyes was less amused.  "You could say that.  Halterian Syphilitic Leprosy.  I managed to catch it before his genitals literally dropped off, but there's no real known cure.  Although he's been beached, he continues to serve the Commonwealth by puzzling medical researchers at Wyvern Fleet Hospital to no end.  He's only the tenth human to come down with the bug, and scientists from all over are probably fighting each other for a chance at his tissue samples."

"How did you know it was this disease?"

Luttrell shrugged.  "I'm insatiably curious and read everything I can get my hands on.  The symptoms are pretty characteristic, and I remembered seeing their description in the Commonwealth Medical Journal last summer.  Relax, Captain."

The Doctor began her hands-on examination, feeling and squeezing Siobhan's limbs, abdomen and breasts.  She winced when Luttrell manipulated her left arm.

"Not quite healed yet, eh?"

"There were worse cases ahead of me.  The
Victoria Regina
's surgeon did a good job under the circumstances.  We had hundreds of casualties after the fight."  Siobhan studied Luttrell's face, but saw no reaction to the name of the ill-fated battleship.  "I guess Savarin can be happy that you've made a virtue out of curiosity.  Men have this curious attachment to the things between their legs.  What about Vasser and Melchor.  Accident, I understand?"

The surgeon busied herself with the medical scanner again and didn't reply for a few moments.  Then, she looked up, a guarded expression on her hard face.  Her earlier good humour was gone.

"Yes, Captain, an accident.  That's what the inquiry established."

Something in Luttrell's tone and choice of words hinted that she had doubts about the cause of death, but wasn't prepared to discuss them.

"How did the accident happen?  I can't find a copy of the inquiry on file, and the logs have all been impounded."

"I'm not sure I remember, Captain."  Luttrell looked away, but not before Siobhan decided that the doctor was lying.

"You conducted the autopsy?"

"Yes.  Not a pretty sight."

"Why?"

Luttrell's green eyes met Siobhan's again, this time revealing nothing.

"They were crushed by a container weighing more than a ton."

Siobhan nodded.  Melchor had been the Purser's Petty Officer, and part of his job would have been to check the stores periodically.  Vasser, a bosun's mate and therefore jack of all trades, was a natural choice to help him conduct an inventory check.

"Any idea how it came to fall on them?"

Every container in a warship's narrow holds was securely clamped down by three different systems, to ensure it didn't shift during battle maneuvers.  For all three systems to fail at once, while an inspection detail was directly in the container's path, stretched the laws of probability to the breaking point.

"Like I said, Captain, I don't really remember the details.  Person who'd best know is Sub-Lieutenant Byrn.  He was the investigating officer."

"I'm afraid Byrn is in no position to tell anyone about the accident anymore."  Dunmoore's voice was harsh.  "He died when the courier taking him to Wyvern was blown to bits by an unidentified raider."

Luttrell turned her head towards the far bulkhead.  "I didn't know," she softly replied.  "I'm sorry.  He was a good sort.  Better than many aboard this ship."

"Then why was he dismissed?"

The doctor shrugged.  "Some bullshit about selling parts on the black market.  Forenza supposedly got word from 31st Battle-Group CID and put him ashore the last time we touched port."

"You don't believe it, do you, Doctor?"

"After a while on this ship, I'll believe anything.  You can get dressed now.  I'm done."

"You didn't answer my question, Doctor."

"Yes dammit, Captain, I think Byrn was framed,"  Luttrell turned towards Siobhan, sudden fury lighting up her green eyes.  "Don't ask me why.  I don't know.  But Forenza was willing to ruin anybody just for refusing her, so it could be anything."

Siobhan met the Doctor's defiant stare, convinced Luttrell was lying again.  Not about Forenza's vengefulness, that was true enough, but about the reasons behind Byrn's dismissal.  Lieutenant Luttrell believed the Third Engineering Officer's dismissal and the death of two crewmembers a few weeks earlier were linked.  And she was frightened of revealing what she really knew.

"So how's my health?" Dunmoore asked as she stood up and started to get dressed.

"I'd say that apart from a lack of proper nourishment and rest, you're in excellent shape," Luttrell replied, a gruff edge to her deep voice.  "Not that I expect your general state to improve very fast on this ship.  Just make sure you don't overdo the tough Captain act.  Get your rest regularly, and your recent injuries should heal normally."

Siobhan felt tempted to use the opening for a few probing questions about Ezekiel's story that the
Stingray
refused to render assistance to the beleaguered
Victoria Regina
, but thought better of it.  She had already poked at enough unhealed scabs in one sitting.  Luttrell's change in mood had been swift and sudden enough to remind Siobhan that she was still an intruder on the
Stingray
, even if she was the sole master on board after God.

"Captain..."

"Yes Doctor,"  Siobhan glanced up at Luttrell's mischievous grin.  The surgeon's mood  had apparently swung back, now that the questions had stopped.

"I like the gloves.  They give you a dark, sexy kind of look.  Very appealing."

Dunmoore couldn't help but laugh at the comment.  Yet though the atmosphere seemed back to where it had been when the examination started, it wasn't quite the same anymore.  The good humour seemed forced.

"As long as you don't fall for me, Doctor."

"Have no fear, Captain.  I stay strictly with the under-thirty crowd.  More vigor.  Have a nice day."

"Good bye."

Luttrell stared at the doors for a long time after they closed behind Dunmoore's retreating back.  She suddenly, irrationally, wished she could have been more honest with the Captain.  Siobhan Dunmoore had a compelling quality that had been absent from Forenza's character.  And she was likeable.  Very likeable.  A quicksilver character and a mind to match.

But the surgeon knew she didn't have the courage.  All she wanted was for this war to end so she could go back to frontier doctoring, far from the bullshit of the Fleet.

With a sigh, Luttrell returned to her office and wrote the required medical report on the health of one Commander Dunmoore, Siobhan.  If only she'd had the guts to write an honest medical report on Dunmoore's predecessor.  It would have saved a lot of grief.  And maybe young Byrn would still be alive.

"Well, that's it then, the rest will have to wait until we're under way."  Siobhan suppressed a yawn.  "If you're happy with the watch keeping bill, I say we call it a day and get some sleep for tomorrow."

"Aye," Pushkin nodded, pushing his big shoulders back to relieve tense muscles.  "At least we'll be leaving as ordered, no thanks to the staff.  The tugs are confirmed for eight bells in the morning watch, and the refueling stop at Thetis Alpha four hours after that."

"Good.  Oh yes, I forgot to ask.  What about fresh charts, Mister Pushkin?"

"Sorry, Captain.  I meant to tell you but with all the crap flying about..."

Siobhan waved his apology aside.  "I understand.  So you solved the problem."

"Aye, sir.  In fact, it was Kowalski who found the solution."

"Kowalski?"  Siobhan's eyebrow shot up in surprise.  Help from an unlikely source.  "How so, Mister Pushkin?"

"She's something of a computer whiz, I've discovered.  A hidden talent, as it turns out."  There was a hint of criticism in his voice.  "Anyways, she came up with an idea to use the open tap into the base's library to hack a path into the navigational data banks.  Seems the security on those isn't that great.  We've got the new charts downloaded, and it'll be a long time before the Intelligence staff figure out what happened."

"Excellent.  Pass my thanks to Lieutenant Kowalski."

"Sir."  He nodded once.

"Any last points?  I'm about ready to crash."

"Yes, Captain.  I understand Mister Rossum found an unexpected source of coffee."

"Several sources, I suspect."  Siobhan smiled.  "One of these days, I'm going to thank Commander Forenza for her generous gesture in donating her private stock of booze as barter material."

"Sir?"

"When Commander Forenza left the
Stingray
, she forgot several cases of cognac and claret," the Captain explained, "which were in the hands of the Purser.  Since she won't need them planetside, I suggested to Mister Rossum that he put them to good use as barter material.  He showed commendable diligence in flogging the stock.  We still have a case of cognac left for future needs."

"Commander Forenza knows about this?"

Siobhan grinned broadly.  "No.  But I'm sure she'll be delighted to have left such a fine gift to a crew she obviously loved.  If she ever finds out."

Expressionless as always, Pushkin nodded and rose, oblivious to the ironic tone in his Captain's voice.  "Good night, then, sir."

"Good night, Mister Pushkin."

Out in the passage, Pushkin shook his head.  Siobhan would have been amused to see the pleased glint in his eyes.  Though he wouldn't admit it, the First Officer liked her solution to the coffee problem.  It was a subtle and satisfying revenge.

He still wasn't sure how to take the new Captain, but one thing was clear by now.  Dunmoore was as different from Forenza as a nova from a black hole.  And for the latter at least, the comparison was apt, though Dunmoore did show all the flash and ebullience of a burning star.   All that remained to see was whether Dunmoore would burn them.  Not that most of them didn't deserve to get singed.  But where was the line between self-interest and loyalty?

Stripped down to her underwear, Siobhan stretched her tall frame, groaning with relief.  The
Stingray
would sail on the morning tide, even if she wasn't completely repaired.  Kaleri's attempt to discredit her, if that's what it was, had failed.

Absently rubbing her left forearm, she glanced around the bare cabin, thinking that she hadn't even had time to replace the personal effects lost on the
Victoria Regina
.  Her quarters weren't particularly inviting, but she would get used to them, in time.  At least Forenza's presence had faded as her own asserted itself.

She yawned loudly, relishing the simple act, and padded over to the porthole near her bed.  The cavernous docks looked unchanged, even during the Starbase 31's notional night.

The ancient ship's clock sitting alone on the bare shelves across the cabin chimed softly, ringing eight bells in the evening watch.  Midnight.  She stared at the outline of the old knight on the clock's face. 
Don Quixote
.  The clock and half a dozen ancient, leather-bound books printed on real paper were the only things that had survived five years of war and four wrecked ships.