No Honor in Death (15 page)

"Mark."  Faint vibrations ran through the ship as the forward thrusters fired.  They lasted exactly ten seconds.  Pushkin's eyes narrowed as he studied the tactical display.

"Cox'n prepare to fire the aft starboard thrusters for three seconds on my mark."

"Standing-by."

"Mark."

Siobhan could see no immediate effect, but experience told her Pushkin was adjusting the course to pass as close to the buoys as safely possible.

"Port thrusters one second.  Mark."

His aim was as good as any Siobhan had seen.  She felt her shoulders relax, realizing only now how tense she had been in the last few minutes.

"Braking thrusters for five seconds."

"Standing-by."

The line of buoys grew on the screen, close enough to touch.  From the First Officer's console, Siobhan switched on the starboard secondary screen, to get a side view of their approach.

"Mark."

Slowly, majestically, the
Stingray
came to a full stop relative to the station, a bare four hundred metres from the first refuelling buoy, which sat on the end of a kilometre-long pylon connecting it to Thetis Alpha.  Siobhan nodded, eyebrows raised and lips pursed as she checked the readout on her console.  They were precisely level with the buoy, both horizontally and vertically, which would please the fuel pumpers to no end.  They liked a magnetic hose without kinks or curves.

"Excellent, Mister Pushkin," Siobhan said loudly as she stood up.  "That was one of the sweetest approaches I've seen in a long time.  You too, Mister Guthren.  Good handling."

And it had been.  No excess use of thrusters to correct over-corrections, no overt signs of tension.  Calm and professional, just the way she liked it.

Her compliments drew approving looks from the others.  Even Kowalski nodded.  Pushkin's stock had gone up in the last ten minutes, which was all to the good.  It was probably the first time in a long time that he'd been allowed to display his ship handling skills.  He even allowed himself the hint of a smile, and Siobhan knew she'd done the right thing.  Trust your instincts, Nagira had counselled.  The Admiral had been right.  Only Shara kept her eyes fixed on the screen, looking as sour as three week old milk.

"Let's hoist the anti-matter on board, Mister Pushkin."

"Aye, aye, sir," he replied crisply, pride gleaming in his dark, hooded eyes.  "Engineering, stand-by for refuelling."

"Standing-by," Tiner's voice sounded tinny over the intercom, "all systems green, magnetic integrity confirmed."

"Mister Kowalski, make to Thetis Alpha, '
Stingray
ready for refuelling.'  And put them on loudspeakers."

"Aye, aye, sir."

"Hello,
Stingray
," a cheerful voice boomed through the speakers, "my compliments for the approach.  First time in a long time we didn't have a heart attack watching a ship come in.  So, what'll it be?  Ordinary or Super-charged?"

"We'll take the ordinary, thank you," Pushkin replied, a small grin playing on his lips.  "Super-charged gums up the plasma tubes."

"Too true, too true," the controller replied with a mock sigh.  "Still, it's sad that nobody wants to ream out tubes anymore nowadays, to get that additional kick only Super-charged can give.  Are you guys ready?"

"Fuel port open and standing-by."

"Okay, folks, here she comes."

A round mating module, pushed by small thrusters, separated from the buoy and headed for the ship, trailing a black hose the diameter of a shuttlecraft, behind it.  Within moments, it attached itself to the
Stingray
's lower hull.

"We've got positive contact," the controller announced.

"Confirmed," Tiner replied, without waiting for Pushkin to ask.  "Ready to take the fuel on board."

The black tube glowed as the magnetic field lining its interior came to life.

"Comin' through."

"Magnetic bottles are filling," Tiner confirmed.

Five minutes later it was done and the mating module sailed back to its buoy, the huge black hose vanishing inside the smooth, shiny cylinder.  "Anythin' else Thetis Alpha can do for you folks?  Top up your oil, or wash your windscreen?"

Pushkin and Dunmoore looked at each other, uncertain what the controller meant by his last question.  Siobhan shrugged.

"No thanks," the First Officer replied.

"Okay.  That'll be five hundred thousand creds.  Cash or charge?"  The controller was clearly amused at his own wit, even if it was a bit obscure for the
Stingray
's bridge crew.

"Charge it to my account," Siobhan said, looking at Pushkin with a raised eyebrow, "care of Admiral Kaleri."

"Will do.  Have a good time on the line.  Cheerio, folks."

Siobhan returned to her seat.  "Lay in a course for jump point Gamma, Mister Shara.  Then calculate a jump to-"  she rattled off a series of coordinates.

Shara half-turned in surprise at Siobhan's directions.  "Those coordinates are nowhere near the border, sir."

"I know that, Mister Shara."  A small smile briefly passed over the Sailing Master's thin, bloodless lips, then she turned back to her console.

"Course laid-in."

No doubt Admiral Kaleri would find out about Siobhan's disregard for her orders, probably as soon as Shara could find a way to send a message without anyone else knowing.

"Engage, Mister Guthren."

NINE

Dunmoore finished her log entry and saved it.  The ship pulsed with power, her FTL drives pushing the
Stingray
across the light years.  The subliminal vibrations were soothing and she could almost believe the worst of her problems had been left behind.  Almost.

Shortly after jumping, the intermix controllers had developed a malfunction, and they'd had to re-emerge.  It had taken Tiner the better part of three hours to track down the cause of the problem and replace the defective part.  That made it forty-eight end-of-life malfunctions or impending failures since they left port.

The parts in question had been routine consumables, carried by every ship, and regular maintenance should have seen them replaced by the time they reached ninety per cent of their predicted life span.  She could understand a dozen or so failures.  War had sharply reduced the time a warship spent in dry-dock, and no ship's engineering crew could do everything.  But forty-eight?

Without the old logs, she had no way of tracking down the under-way maintenance schedule or the frequency with which the frigate had been re-supplied with spare parts.  Neither Tiner nor Pushkin were talking.

When she had pressed the Engineer, she'd become agitated and had given her disjointed and wholly unbelievable explanations.  Even Dunmoore's comment that the
Stingray
's end-of-life failure rate was well beyond average failed to get a straight answer.

Her old ship's clock chimed six bells.  One hour before midnight, and watch change.  Feeling stiffness in every muscle, Siobhan stretched her arms above her head, wrinkling her nose at the aroma from her armpits.  She looked longingly at her shower and bed, but there was one more thing she wanted to do before turning in.  Siobhan called up the watch list on her computer and nodded.  Soon, she wouldn't have to look, to know who was on deck and she would know their strengths, weaknesses, ambitions and fears.  She called the bridge.

"OOW, Lieutenant Devall, sir."  The elegant Gunnery Officer's face appeared on the small screen, looking as fresh as if he'd just gone on watch.

"Mister Devall, the
Stingray
's sensors have just picked up a suspicious reading.  It looks very much like that of a Shrehari cruiser."

He looked at her uncomprehending for a few heartbeats, then understanding lit up his blue eyes and he smiled.

"Aye, aye, sir."  His head turned away from the pick-up.  "PO of the watch, cut-out FTL drives; Mister Sanghvi, sound battle stations."  Devall looked back at the Captain.  He opened his mouth to ask if she had any other orders, when the ship emerged from hyper space, wrenching Siobhan's stomach in the familiar and inevitable nausea.  Before the momentary sickness dissipated, the siren sounded throughout the ship.  Lights dimmed as the computer re-routed all available power to the weapon capacitors and the shields.  Behind Devall, the bridge glowed red and Dunmoore briefly had a vision of the hell on the
Victoria Regina
's bridge near the end.

She shook off the feeling.  "Advise me when the ship is ready.  Dunmoore, out."

Calmly, Siobhan shrugged on her uniform tunic.  Then, she stepped out into the corridor.  Half-dressed crewmembers were running to their stations, spurred on by the shouts of their Petty Officers.  She flattened herself against the bulkhead to avoid being run down.

Any warship going to battle stations looked like complete chaos to a layman, but in this case, it also looked like complete chaos to an experienced naval officer and three-time ship captain.  Dunmoore compressed her lips into a thin line and quickly made her way to the bridge.

Most of the primary bridge crew had already arrived, with one glaring exception.  When Shara arrived, face flushed and out of breath, Pushkin stared at her and pointed to the navigation console.  He didn't have to speak.  His expression said it all.

"Ship is at battle stations, sir, " the First Officer announced a few minutes later.

"How long?"

Pushkin grimaced.  "Six minutes, sir."

"Lousy."

"Aye, sir."  Pushkin nearly shrugged, but thought better of it.

"Mister Kowalski, give me ship-wide."  Kowalski nodded, then gave her a thumbs-up signal.

"All hands, this is the Captain.  You'll no doubt be interested to know that the time it took to get to battle stations was six minutes.  Against an experienced Shrehari Captain, that means you've been dead for three."  Her harsh voice echoed throughout the ship.  "On my previous ship, the battleship
Victoria Regina,
we managed to reduce it down to three minutes. 
On a battleship
!  And this is a frigate, less than half the size and a third of the crew.  When the Shreharis ambushed us, our speed at changing from cruising to battle stations was the only thing that saved the ship.  Even then, over two hundred crew died."

Siobhan glanced around the bridge and found that no one would meet her eyes.  It had to be more than just shame at a lousy performance.  Maybe Ezekiel was right.

"For the next week or so, until I'm satisfied, this ship will do battle station drills, damage control drills and any other drills I can think of until we've got it right and fast.  Because if we don't, we will never touch port again.  The Shreharis don't fuck around, and neither do I.  All hands stand fast."  Siobhan made a cutting motion and Kowalski switched off the public address system.  "Mister Pushkin, Cox'n, it's time we inspect the crew at their stations."  Her tone bode ill for everyone.

Alone in the corridor, she stopped and looked at the two men in turn.  "I can see why this ship hasn't fired a shot in anger for so long.  Maybe Commander Forenza was smart enough to know that she'd never have survived, even if she wasn't smart enough to command this ship properly."  The First Officer and Cox'n had instinctively come to attention and returned Siobhan's angry gaze with impassive stares.  It was the first time Siobhan had openly criticized her predecessor, but Pushkin didn't so much as twitch, let alone came to Forenza's defence.  "Make no mistake.  I intend to find and engage the enemy.  And touch port again with kill marks on our hull."

"Aye, aye, sir," they replied, almost in unison.  Guthren's lips twisted in disgust.  "I'm afraid you won't like what you'll find on your inspection, Cap'n.  This is the first battle stations drill they've had in three months, and spacers will go slack if you don't get at 'em daily."

"Then let's make sure this is the last time they'll be slack."

Guthren was right.  Half of the crew weren't even wearing battledress or carrying their emergency breathing gear, which meant they'd die messily if the hull in their section was holed.  Many of the ratings were clumsy or unfamiliar with the weapons or damage control gear.  Only the Petty Officers and Officers were anywhere near ready, and that was more out of long habit than anything else.

As they inspected each division, Guthren and Pushkin took copious notes.  Judging by their scowls, there would be the devil to pay later.  Originally, Dunmoore wanted to give the department heads a thorough dressing down, but decided to let Pushkin handle it instead.  Ensuring the ship was ready for her orders was his responsibility.  She said as much when they returned to the bridge.

"All right, Mister Pushkin.  It's your show.  Stand the ship down and resume original course and speed.  I'll be in my quarters."

"Sir."

It was past four bells in the night watch by the time Siobhan slipped into bed.  When she finally fell asleep, the nightmares returned.  But this time, the faces on the ruined bridge were those of her present crew, a bad omen if there ever was one.

Siobhan woke four hours later with a low grade headache, and a mood to match.  She checked the logs of the night watch and saw that Pushkin had talked to the officers already.  Guthren had done the same with the Chiefs and Petty Officers.  Siobhan grunted, scratching her tousled hair.  At least there was some positive action. Whether it would make a difference, she didn't know.

There was more to the problem of the
Stingray
than just lousy training, no drills and bad blood.  The fear that had permeated the ship when she came aboard was still there, even though performance had improved.

Siobhan was sure it had something to do with the accidental deaths, and probably more.  If those two men had been murdered, it had to be for a damn good reason, more than just Forenza's peccadilloes, repulsive as they were.  Could it be related to the ship's poor state of maintenance?

Dammit!  Her officers knew a lot more than they were willing to say.   Trust.  Trust was the key.  And their trust had already been horribly abused by he predecessor.  On further thought, she couldn't blame them from treating her with caution.  What if Siobhan Dunmoore turned out to be another Helen Forenza.  The two had been classmates at the Academy.  Thankfully that was where the resemblance stopped.

She dressed and briefly considered ordering a breakfast tray to her cabin, then thought better of it.  Her anger was still simmering and her appetite suffered as a result.  Unable to get Vasser's and Melchor's so-called accident out of her mind, she decided to visit the hold in which they were killed, if only to get a better picture of the site. She tapped the intercom.

"Captain to Second Officer."

"Drex here, sir," the older Lieutenant replied after a few moments.

"I'd like to visit the hold where those two crewmembers died in February.  Preferably now."

"Aye, sir, I'll meet you at the security office if you like."  Was there a hint of reticence in his voice?  Siobhan couldn't be sure.

"That'll be fine.  Dunmoore, out."

She stepped out of her cabin into a quiet passageway.  It turned out to be not so quiet when her ears picked-up harsh whispers around the bend.  Curious, she rounded the corner silently and came face-to-face with Kery and Shara having a subdued, but vicious argument.  The clerk carried a food tray clearly meant for Siobhan, and had probably been intercepted by the Sailing Master as she crossed into officers' territory.  They stopped the moment they became aware of her presence, and snapped to attention.

Kery mumbled a good morning, while Shara simply nodded, her expression verging on open insolence.  "A problem, Mister Shara?"

"No, sir," she drawled, her voice grating on Siobhan's  nerves.  "Just some administrative business."

Dunmoore frowned, clearly showing disbelief.  But there was nothing she could do, short of interrogating them.  She was in no mood for it, even if there was something about the incident gnawing at the back of her mind but until she found out what it was, she decided to place the incident on the back burner.  She had more important things to worry about.

"I'll be having that breakfast later, Kery.  Carry on."  She turned on her heel and walked away.  They watched her in silence until she was out of their sight.

Siobhan met Lieutenant Drex by the door to his office.  He snapped to attention and saluted, a guarded look in his dark eyes.

"Good morning, sir."

"Mister Drex," Siobhan nodded.  "Shall we?"

"Aye, sir.  Starboard hold three.  If you'll follow me."

"Tell me, Mister Drex," she asked, as they made their way to the lower deck, "why didn't you do the investigation?  Why an Engineering Subbie, instead of an experienced Second Officer?"

Drex shrugged without glancing back at his Captain.  "Commander Forenza's orders, sir.  It might have something to do with the fact that Vasser was in my department.  Kept it at arms length."

Siobhan grunted, unconvinced. "Strange even so.  You've had what?  Ten, fifteen years experience as a bosun's mate and bosun, before becoming Cox'n, most of that time in the security division.  Seems to me that kind of experience shouldn't go to waste."

The Second Officer shrugged again.  "Lots of waste on this ship, sir.  We learned not to question Commander Forenza's orders.  We're here, sir."

Ah ha! Dunmoore thought, eyebrows going up.  The first cracks in Drex's shell of utter propriety.

"What I find strange, Mister Drex, is that the investigating officer found himself removed from the ship by the Battle-Group CID detachment and charged with black marketeering soon after submitting his report."  Drex made to shrug again, but Siobhan added, with a hard edge in her voice, "And he died shortly after that, killed when the ship on which he was travelling was destroyed by an unknown raider, seventy-five light-years inside our borders."

Though his face remained impassive, she had the satisfaction of seeing that her words had some effect on the stoic Second Officer.

Siobhan smiled coldly.  "From your point of view, it's just as well that you didn't do the investigation.  Who knows?  Maybe the CID would have found some peccadillo you'd rather have kept hidden.  From there it's a small step to an ill-fated courier."  Her smile vanished.  "I don't believe in more than two coincidences in a row, Mister Drex.  When I see a third on the horizon, I either come about and run, or clear for action.  Let us visit the hold now." 
And let's see you stew in that
, she added to herself.

It proved to be both an educational and a disappointing visit.  The starboard hold, as she knew from her study of the
Stingray
's blueprints, was both long and narrow, with wide doors on either end, and a heavy gantry suspended from the ceiling.  It contained stacks of standardized containers, piled three or four high, on either side of a narrow inspection passage, like a foot path at the bottom of a small canyon.