No Honor in Death (22 page)

Brakal stopped, struck by the sudden light that illuminated the events of the last few months.  He had been politically naive, and thereby missed too many chances to further the cause of the Empire in this endless war.  He grinned at the revelation and then realized his instincts had brought him deep into the slums of the capital, where the stench of shit mixed with that of thousands of unwashed people, living topsy-turvy in crumbling, ancient houses.  Still, this smell was better than the stench of dishonor in Trage's office.

The stream of lower town beggars, pimps, merchants, whores and petty criminals flowed around him, all careful to stay out of arm's reach of the tall, powerful officer with the wicked dagger stuck into his sash.  In the east, the red sun settled on the horizon, painting the rooftops of the city with great strokes of blood and illuminating the brooding Imperial palace on the hilltop with an eerie glow.

Brakal took his bearings and set off through a narrow alley on his left, dodging the piles of rotting refuse and waste.  His thoughts returned to the Council and their fears, and the Commander's attention to his surroundings wavered for an instant.  But that instant was enough.

A cloaked figure stepped out of the shadows and soundlessly barred his way, the gunmetal grey blade of a serrated knife flashing dully in the last rays of the sun.  Brakal instinctively fell into a fighting stance, drawing his own dagger as his eyes probed the assassin, searching for an opening. A single thought flashed through his mind: 
Tai Kan
.  Trage had decided to do away with him after all.

As the assassin came on, low and wary, like a professional, Brakal became aware of a second man behind him.  The bastards knew his habit of taking the lower town route, and had boxed him in.  Brakal whirled to the side, trying to get his back against a wall so he could see both assailants, but his boot stepped into a squelching mess of shit and he slipped backwards, falling to the ground.  The long, thin line of a weighted garrotte flashed by his cheek and Brakal briefly thanked the gods for the pile of excrement in his path, for if he had not slipped, the razor thin wire would have wrapped around his throat, and he would have died.

Though by how much that had prolonged his life was debatable because he was now as vulnerable as a child, sitting on his ass with two professional killers silently closing in.  Brakal had no hope of help from the slum dwellers.  They knew better than to interfere with an assassination.

The one with the serrated knife drew back his arm, preparing to throw the wicked blade at Brakal while the other had gathered his garrotte and swung its weighted end in an ever larger circle, ready to wrap it around the Commander's neck and decapitate him.  Brakal froze with indecision. He had but one knife, and one chance of killing one attacker.  As soon as he committed himself, the other would strike.

Brakal snarled in defiance and yelled the Makkar battle cry as he pushed himself up for a lunge at the garrotter, gambling that he could come under the spinning wire and dispatch the assassin before the other could react.  At that moment, a blaster flashed brightly from the other end of the alley and the garrotter's head exploded in a mess of blood, bone and brain tissue.  Surprised, Brakal turned on the other killer, but before either could move, the blaster spoke again, punching a smoking hole through the man's chest.

Brakal stood up straight, sheathed his knife and watched his rescuer approach.  He was a non-descript Shrehari without caste marks, a civilian whose face and eyes spoke of things no ordinary civilian should know.  The Commander's lips twisted in an ironic smile.

"Lower town is dangerous at night, Lord Commander," the man said, his blaster disappearing under his loose jacket.  "You should use the military transport service."

Brakal shrugged.  "Danger is the spice of existence.  My thanks for your timely intervention."

The man nodded once.  "You should not be troubled any more, Lord of the Makkar.  Enjoy the evening."  He turned away and vanished into the shadows.

Brakal's smile turned into a feral grin as he brushed the filth off his uniform and stepped over the ruined bodies of his would-be assassins.  His rescuer was
Tai Kan
, which could only mean the ambush was another of Trage's warnings, this one as clear and direct as possible: the Clan Lord of the Makkar could die the moment the Council decided his life was over.

Which meant they really did fear his power and influence within the Deep Space Fleet, and had begun to fear it even before the Brakal discovered it.  The irony tickled the warship Commander to the very core of his being.

So be it then.  If Brakal had a power base to build on, then build he would, for the Empire, and for the survival of the Clan Makkar. 
Kho'sahra
Brakal.  It had the ring of destiny.  But first, he had to get his ship back to the line, where his supporters overwhelmed the carrion eaters of the Council.

TWELVE

"Secure from general quarters, Mister Pushkin,"  Siobhan rose from the captain's chair and suppressed a yawn.  "I think we've finally got all the drills straight."

"Aye, sir,"  Pushkin cracked a small grin. "By now, they can man all their stations sleepwalking."

Siobhan smiled wryly at her First Officer.  "I'd rather they did it wide awake, but you're right."

She had drilled the crew hard during the past week, and they had responded well.  A strong hand at the helm, and an end to the bullying had gone far in restoring the ship's efficiency.  As the crippled steward at Starbase 31 said in what seemed a lifetime ago, the
Stingray
had a decent crew beneath the lousy reputation.

"We shall see when we meet our first Shrehari," she continued.  "There's no substitute for real-time experience."

"Aye,"  Pushkin nodded, the grin disappearing.  "Anything else, Captain?"

"No.  Go rest."

Alone in her cabin, Siobhan sighed wearily and dropped into the padded chair behind the desk.  Drilling a crew to a fine pitch was hard work, and she hadn't slept more than four hours in a row since Zavaleta's trial.  But as she had said, their first space battle would tell whether the training had stuck.

Morale was improving along with the hard work, and she could sense the growing respect of the officers and crew for their new skipper, but as yet, the invisible barrier between her and the others remained as solid as before.  The officers had not yet invited her to dine in the wardroom, nor did she feel confident enough to invite a few of them to join her in her quarters for a quiet meal.  She lived in splendid isolation, and that seemed to suit the others just fine.

It all came down to trust, a concept the Stingrays had forgotten and did not appear inclined to re-learn along with their duties.  Too many unanswered questions remained to poison the atmosphere.  The undercurrent of fear she had felt the first day still remained although its presence dimmed under the crew's better spirits.

Dunmoore didn't have the time or energy to pursue the things that troubled her, but that did not stop them from bothering her during her precious few resting hours.  As much as she wanted to ignore the past, it hung so heavily over the frigate that she knew she had to confront it sooner rather than later.  If the present atmosphere did not change, the crew would never become a match for the best Shrehari crews, like Brakal's.

More than once, she had come close to confronting Pushkin, but always something held her back.  And now that the First Officer started showing signs of thawing, she didn't want to destroy the precious rapport between them.

Shrugging, Dunmoore got a mug of coffee from the small urn behind her desk and opened her personal log for the daily entry.  In a sense, Nosey Bertram had been right: the Captain's main concern was to turn this into an efficient ship with an equally efficient crew.  The family feeling would come after, if it ever did.

However, after a hard week of deep space manoeuvres and drills, she was as confident as she could be that the
Stingray
wouldn't succumb to the first Shrehari raider they met.  It didn't mean it was in any way a capable ship, only one ready to react to unpleasant surprises.  Should they meet Brakal, or another commander of his calibre, it was a good bet that they wouldn't even have the chance to bring a limping wreck home.  Fortunately, there was only one Brakal.  For now.

Dunmoore stared absently at the old ship's clock, ticking away softly. A Captain's personal log was anything but.  If something went wrong, it along with the ship's logs, would end up before a board of inquiry.  Some things had to remain in the privacy of her thoughts.

"Bridge to Captain."

She frowned at the interruption.  The ship's clock had just rung seven bells in the evening watch, and it was high time for bed.

"Dunmoore."

"Sir, Lieutenant Kowalski.  Sensors have picked-up a contact travelling on a course parallel to the border.  It doesn't read like a military vessel.  The energy curves are too low.  But if it's a legitimate civilian, he's awfully far from the patrolled star lanes."

"Has he picked us up yet?"

"Probably not, sir.  He's in hyper space - his sensor is next to useless.  We've got him at the outer limits of our range, which means he wouldn't be able to see us with civvie-grade stuff even if he was sub-light."

"Any transponder signal?"

"No.  But that's not unusual this close to the enemy."

"Agreed.  Lay in an intercept course.  When he emerges, we'll order him to heave-to.  It'll be a good occasion to practice boarding party procedures."

"Aye, aye, sir.  What if he refuses to stop?"

"Then, in accordance with standing orders, we open fire."  All civilian spacers had been warned by Starfleet years ago to cooperate or suffer the consequences.  If he was legitimate, he would content himself with some irritated grumbling.  If he wasn't...

Dunmoore suppressed her desire to return to the bridge and take over.  Kowalski needed the seasoning, and if she got into the habit of rushing up whenever something unusual happened, she would never get a moment of peace.  More importantly, by letting Kowalski keep the con, it showed she trusted her officers.  Maybe the example would inspire them to show some trust in their Captain.

"Call me when we've intercepted him.  Dunmoore, out."

For a fraction of a second, Siobhan saw Kowalski's surprised and delighted expression.  Then, the screen turned to black, returning Captain Dunmoore to her splendid isolation.  Seconds later, she felt the wrenching nausea of the jump as the frigate went FTL to intercept the other ship.  Ten, then fifteen minutes passed without word, and the Captain fretted, wondering whether Kowalski would botch the action.  This was the first operation the
Stingray
's crew executed in real-time conditions under Dunmoore's command, and she wanted it to work well, if only to raise the crew's self-confidence.

Then, unexpectedly, the battle stations siren broke a silence underscored only by the soft thrumming of the jump drives.  Siobhan grinned with pleasure.  Kowalski hadn't forgotten her standing orders.  Normal wartime procedures required warships to go to general quarters when approaching an unidentified ship, but on the
Stingray
, Forenza's incompetence had let the crew slip into laziness.  As a consequence, Siobhan had to drum in her exacting standards.  That at least had taken hold.

Quickly, Siobhan grabbed her emergency kit and left her cabin.  Just as she stepped through the hatch, the nausea of emergence twisted her gut. She quickly went up to the bridge, satisfied at seeing the controlled rush of a crew that knew what it was doing.  On the screen, a tactical display showed the other vessel had emerged five hundred thousand kilometres ahead of the frigate.

Kowalski yielded the Captain's chair and reported in a clipped voice.  "They've identified themselves as the fast trader
Mykonos
out of Wyvern and claim their transponder is out of order." The Signals Officer's tone showed a healthy disbelief.  "They've agreed to comply with our orders."

"Thank you.  Helm, close the distance to one kilometre.  Guns, keep 'em loaded and on the
Mykonos
at all times.  Scan for any signs of weaponry or unusual energy readings.  Mister Kowalski, check this guy's registration in the data base."

"Already done, sir.  The hull number, name and home port match.  He's legit."

Dunmoore felt disappointment.  No excuse to board the trader and do a good search, unless the sensors revealed something strange.  Though she had the right to board any non-military vessel she met in the war zone, civilian captains were quick to yell harassment when a search was unjustified, and Admirals were unwilling to take too much heat from the media or politically connected shipping firms.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Lieutenant Shara enter the bridge and head for the navigation console.  When she saw the ship on the screen and the name displayed by the tactical readout, her step faltered for a moment and something indefinable flashed through her eyes.  Then she took her station and busied herself.  Shara's reaction had come and gone in a flash, and Dunmoore was sure no one else had seen it, but she knew, instinctively, that the Sailing Master recognized the trader.

"Mister Shara," she asked mildly, "does the
Mykonos
, per chance, seem familiar to you?"

Shara's shoulders stiffened, but she shook her head.  Without turning around, she replied, in her irritating voice, "No, sir.  Never seen it before."

Quickly, the Captain scanned the bridge, looking for some reaction from the others, but all were busy at their stations and gave no sign of having heard anything.  She was aware that Pushkin had taken his place, waiting for orders.

"Right.  Mister Kowalski, open a hailing frequency.  I want to talk to the captain of the
Mykonos
.  Put it on screen."

A few seconds later, the bland, clean-shaved face of a man whose age could be anywhere between thirty and sixty appeared on the main screen.  His dark hair was shot with grey and he had the lines and wrinkles of a life-time spacer etched on his tanned face.

"I am Captain Augustus Slayton of the
Mykonos
."  The man's eyes watched her intently, but his expression remained neutral, emotionless.  His voice was deep and rich.

"Dunmoore, Commonwealth Star Ship
Stingray
, 31st Battle-Group."

"A bit out of your area,"  he replied, his voice deep and smooth.

Siobhan raised an eyebrow in question.  A Trader who keeps track of warship assignments?

Slayton saw her reaction and smiled.  "I gather Captain Forenza has gone on to bigger and better things,"  he said matter-of-factly before she could respond.

Siobhan suddenly understood that Slayton was indulging in some gallows humour, that he knew of Helen Forenza's disgrace.  Even more unusual.

"You are acquainted with my predecessor?"

"Out here, near the border, we traders get to know those who protect us.  It's good policy for all concerned."

Siobhan grunted in reply, making it clear she didn't care for his explanation, though she didn't know what he was getting at.  "What are you doing so far from the patrolled star lanes?"

"A short-cut, Captain," he shrugged, as if it were unimportant.  "Our cargoes tend to be time sensitive, and the less time in transit, the better the profit."

Siobhan pursed her lips.  "Dangerous, Captain Slayton.  I could just as well have been a Shrehari on a deep raiding mission."

"But you're not."

Dunmoore didn't care for his smile.  She looked at Slayton in silence and decided she didn't like him. 
The devil take normal procedure
, she thought. 
I'll deal with the fallout later
.  "Captain Slayton, you won't object to my sending a boarding party to inspect your ship?"

"Is that really necessary, Captain."  He looked and sounded disappointed.  "You and I have better things to do.  I'll send you a copy of our cargo manifest, bill of lading, certification and anything else you want, and we can both be on our separate ways."

"I'll certainly require a copy of all your paperwork Captain, but I will insist on inspecting your ship."

Slayton' eyes hardened and his voice took on a hard edge.  "Captain Dunmoore, I have given you no reason for this kind of treatment.  I'm sure Admiral Kaleri would not approve of your disrupting honest trade."

Again, his words seemed to convey a deeper meaning.  The crew watched in silence waiting for the outcome of what was turning into a battle of wills.  She restrained an impulse to glance around and gauge the reaction of her officers.

"And equally, Admiral Kaleri would not wish me to pass lightly over my duties.  Stand-by to be boarded and inspected in accordance with applicable Commonwealth Naval Orders. You may, at your leisure, complain to the nearest Fleet authorities,
after
you have complied."  Siobhan's voice carried a finality that dared him to argue.  Slayton' face hardened and he nodded.

"All right, Captain.  Your game.  We're standing by to receive your boarding party."

"
Stingray
, out."  Kowalski cut the transmission on cue.

Pushkin looked expectantly at Siobhan, eyes narrowed.  "Sir?"

"Assemble a boarding party, armed and armoured.  I'll be leading them personally."

The First Officer's eyes widened in surprise and disapproval.  Captains did not conduct their own boarding parties.  But Pushkin held his peace in front of the others.  He had learned that much by now.

"As to the composition," she continued, "I'll want one Chief, make it the bosun herself, and experienced ratings from gunnery, engineering, security and supply."

Pushkin seemed to consider her order for a moment, then nodded as he understood why Dunmoore wanted specialists along with the normal group of bosun's mates.  The specialists would be better able to notice any unusual details pertaining to their areas of expertise.  It was something Siobhan had learned from Captain Prighte.  The war had spawned much illegal space travel and smugglers were learning from each encounter with patrolling warships.