No Honor in Death (5 page)

Siobhan nodded.  "I've started already.  Have you met Petty Officer Zavaleta?"  She went on to describe her encounter with the man in excruciating detail.  Guthren grunted.

"Zavaleta is a waste of rations from what I've seen and heard, skipper.  A bully who should never have gotten his stripes.  He must do his job somehow to survive, but for the rest..."

Dunmoore slumped back into her chair, massaging her temples again.  "I'd really like to know what's wrong with the people on this frigate.  I've seen garbage scows where the crew had more pride.  My predecessor obviously had a different way of doing things.  Different, hell!  If the non-commissioned officers can run around looking and acting like Zavaleta..."

"Like I said, skipper, the crew's either drunk or staring out at a black hole.  They'll need more'n a little shock treatment."

"Go ahead and do it.  Hit 'em hard, Chief and tell 'em how it is."

"Before the end of the watch, skipper," he nodded.  "Begging' your pardon, sir, but Zavaleta was bloody lucky this morning, I'm thinking.  Just let me sort 'em  out, skipper.  Like old times.  We'll put this ship under Navy discipline again."  He briefly studied her exhausted face.  "You just take care of yourself, sir."

"Aye, Chief.  And thank you."

Guthren rose, grinning.  "Old times, skipper.  The
Don Quixote
was a good ship, with a good skipper.  This one 'll be too, or I'm hanging up my starbursts."

"Ten-SHUN!"

Puskin's bark silenced the assembled officers of the
Stingray
as Dunmoore entered the wardroom.  The buzz of animated conversation that Siobhan had heard from the passage died down and seventeen pairs of eyes turned towards the Captain.  Many of them were bloodshot from lack of sleep or overindulgence of alcohol, or both.  A fine lot they were.  Most wore shipboard dress, rumpled in many cases, except for the engineers, who seemed to wear their worn-out coveralls with a moody defiance.  The eyes that met Dunmoore's showed a combination of wariness and fear, when they betrayed any emotion at all.  It was clear they had been discussing her.

They would be the usual mixture of average officers, incompetents and shining stars, with most falling into the first category.  She would have to figure out who was what soon, and without Pushkin's help.  If Devall's attitude was any indication of the wardroom's dislike for the First Officer, then she was sure those feelings were reciprocated.  Repressing an overwhelming urge to clear her throat, a sure sign of nervousness, she let the silence live on for a few more heartbeats.  Then, her voice cracked out loudly in the small room.

"At ease."

Like Lieutenant Devall had, earlier on the bridge, they assumed the more formal parade rest and did not stir.  So they knew already she was a very pissed-off woman.  Good.

"I am Commander Siobhan Dunmoore and as of eight bells in the morning watch, Captain of the
Stingray
.  Under the circumstances, I'll dispense with the customary bullshit speech a new skipper usually gives.  I am not at all sure I'm going to like being your Captain, nor do I even for a moment think this is a fine crew and a fine ship."  Her tone was hard, her words sharp and she saw several of the younger officers take a sudden interest in what she had to say.  "It is my considered opinion, after spending the forenoon watch aboard this ship, that the
Stingray
has more in common with a whorehouse than a Commonwealth warship."

The resentment was almost palpable, as were undercurrents of humiliation and fear.  But none made the fatal mistake of speaking out.  The look of disgust on Siobhan's face, made harsher by her barely repressed pain, was too much for anyone to challenge.

"I don't really give a damn, about what happened under my predecessor.  The state of the ship and crew speaks for itself.  The Navy and Admiral Nagira have given serious thought to dispersing this crew and starting from scratch.  You all know what that would mean to your careers.  Well, by the grace of God and the Grand Admiral, you've been given a chance to clean up your act, and I am the instrument of the Lord and the Admiralty.  This ship will sail in one week, repaired and re-supplied.  Once we are out in space, I will retrain this crew to bring it back up to Navy standards.  Ladies and Gentlemen, the Commonwealth is at war and cannot spare a single ship, no matter how old. If you cannot or will not perform your duties in accordance with the standards I will set, I will rid myself of your presence so fast, your lousy performance report will take
years
to catch up."

Her words cracked over the silent officers like a bullwhip.

"The enlisted spacers aboard this frigate look to you, the officers, for leadership and example, and by God, you will give it to them or I will know the reason why.  I have seen too many good officers, petty officers and ratings die under the guns of the Shreharis to have any mercy for  slackers, incompetents and feather merchants.  My orders on how this ship will be run are simple: by the book, as per Navy discipline and without stinting any effort.  There will be no more liberty during this stay in port and you will be working back-to-back watches until I am satisfied that your individual departments and divisions are up to snuff.  The Cox'n will be informing the Chiefs and Petty Officers of what I expect, and you will reinforce that by making sure the crew understands what I want.  You will not get another warning, and I expect nothing less than exemplary discipline, conduct and work from this moment on.  Department heads' meeting in the conference room
now
."

"Ten-SHUN!"  Pushkin's order lashed out, carrying with it the full weight of his resentment. When Dunmoore had vanished down the hallway, he speared the assembled officers with his cold eyes.

"You heard the Captain," he growled, "and you will make damn sure her wishes are carried out, or I'll personally make your lives a living hell.  The next officer who crosses me or stabs me in the back,"  he stared significantly at Devall, "will regret the day he or she was born.

Where the officers had been wary of meeting the Captain's eyes or showing emotion, they had no such restraint for the First Officer.  Contempt, disgust and anger challenged Pushkin, and mocked his words.  His face twisted into a cruel grin.

"Yes, hate me all you want," he growled, "but do as you're told.  That woman," he pointed over his shoulder, "is no clown like the high and mighty Captain Forenza, and you'd do well to remember that."

He turned on his heels and escaped the wardroom for the bridge, leaving a low buzz of conversation in his wake.  Word of the Captain's tongue-lashing would be all around the ship before the end of the watch, no doubt feeding the hands' long-standing contempt for their officers.  It would make Dunmoore's job that much harder, but if that's what she wanted, so be it.  The contempt was richly deserved.

Siobhan looked around the table at the Department heads.  "To repeat what I told all officers in the wardroom, this ship will sail in one week, repaired and ready.  There will be no letup of work until all systems and all departments meet the Navy standards set-out in the applicable publications and orders.  And that, of course, includes individual discipline, dress and deportment, as well as general cleanliness of personal quarters and common areas.  I will not threaten you with reprisals for failure to meet the standards in the time allotted, nor will I accept excuses for such failure.  If your departments fail to meet standards in one week, I will beach you and you will never be employed aboard a ship again.  Period.  All of you know your jobs.  Do them, or find another line of work."

She paused and gauged their reactions, reading their body language.  Lieutenant Drex, the Second Officer, met her eyes openly, his expressionless face nevertheless hinting at approval.  Luttrell, unsurprisingly, met Siobhan's gaze with the same lack of concern or emotion as before. Lieutenant Kowalski's stare challenged the Captain while Devall's sardonic smile appeared to have become a permanent fixture since Siobhan had taken command of the
Stingray
. Rossum, the purser, and Tiner however avoided her eyes and looked down at the table.

"From now until we sail, no one will go ashore, unless it's on business.  All visits ashore will be in service dress, as will sentry duty at the entry port and the watch post on the station end of the gangway.  Personnel on board ship will wear properly pressed and cleaned shipboard dress at all times, unless their duties require wearing coveralls or other work uniforms.  Dress and deportment better be up to Mister Guthren's exacting standards, or he will know why, officers included. No civilian clothing will be worn.  No alcohol will be consumed aboard ship until further notice.  Anyone smelling of booze gets a ticket to the brig.  Those with stripes will lose them."

"Begging your pardon, Cap'n, but the crew won't like that.  It could spell trouble," Pushkin growled.

"Mister Pushkin, the day I run my ship according to the wishes of the crew isn't going to come in this eternity or the next," Siobhan replied, a dangerous edge to her tone.  "No booze or recreation for anyone until it's deserved, understood?"

The First Officer slowly nodded. "Aye, aye, sir."

"By the end of the first dog watch, each of you will provide a list of everything that needs to be done to get your department back up to Navy standards, and I mean everything.  I want your estimate on how long it will take, what resources you need, especially resources from outside the ship and how you intend to go about it.  In brief, I want your complete plan.  If this sounds like I'm teaching you to suck eggs and intend to breathe over your shoulder, you're right.  You will prove to me that you know what you're doing.  And once you've completed each step, I will personally inspect the work. This ship is not my first command.  I know all the tricks and dodges.  Try them and pack your bags." Siobhan met the dark looks with an arrogantly raised eyebrow.

"You may resent my orders and you may resent me," she said, "But if you wanted my trust, you should have made sure I found a proper warship when I signed on this morning, not a reject from the Fleet's junkyard.  Now, you'll have to earn that trust the hard way.  And believe me, I'm as hard as they come.  By the time this week is over, you'll be fantasizing about beating the living crap out of me.  Take your aggressions out in the gym.  A lot of people have tried to do away with me these last few years and none have succeeded.  Keep me happy, that's the best advice I can give you."

Siobhan could sense the ill-feeling in the room like a living presence.  But the words had to be spoken.

"If you've got a problem you can't solve, see the First Officer, but make sure you've got some options to give him.  And before you call in the station engineers, make sure it really is for something that can't be done with our own resources.  I don't want to hear of any problems unless it's something I
should
get involved in.  Learn to make the difference."

She breathed in and looked around the small room again.

"Any questions or things you disagree with?  This is the only opportunity I'll give you to speak your mind before we start.  Once this meeting breaks up, you will carry out my instructions as given."

Utter silence greeted her challenge.

"Very well then.  Just one last point.  On my ship, I expect everyone to lend a hand and get dirty, including the officers and Chiefs.  We sail in one week.  That's how much time you have to get your act together."

She rose as Pushkin called the officers to attention

Siobhan could feel another bout of nausea coming on and wanted to return to her cabin as fast as she could, before she got sick in front of everybody.  Leaving the room, she briefly caught Luttrell's eye and read a flash of concern, the first emotion the surgeon had shown.

The crewmembers she met quickly moved out of her way, but many stared at her with hostile or sullen eyes, when they didn't look down at the deck or carefully studied the bulkheads.  None snapped to attention, as was customary on better disciplined ships, but all conversation ceased.  Siobhan felt like she was emanating a dampening field.

The ratings and petty officers looked like any other bunch of spacers in the Navy, except for a certain seediness in their personal appearance.  It matched the feel of the ship and Siobhan wondered again how Helen Forenza had managed to screw-up a Starfleet frigate so thoroughly.

The moment the cabin hatch closed behind her, Siobhan sighed and rubbed her temples.  Now that her iron control was slipping, her vision began to blur and bile rose in her throat.  She spent an agonizing few minutes retching over the toilet, her empty stomach contracting painfully.  Then, she lay down on the bed and turned off the lights, grateful the initial ordeal was over.

Hopefully, she had managed to convince her officers that she would break their careers without remorse if they crossed her.  Instinct told Siobhan that it was the only approach that would get their complete attention.  They were too dispirited and suspicious of one another to respond to anything less than shock treatment.

FOUR

At two bells into the first dog watch her computer terminal beeped loudly.  Cursing, Siobhan reached up and acknowledged the message.  Then, slowly, she sat up, wincing.   She glanced at the terminal’s screen.

Ship’s surgeon reporting the sickbay ready?  This I have to see for myself
.

A glance in the mirror to adjust her uniform stopped her momentarily and she groaned.  Her pale, tired face now had startling black smudges beneath shiny, bloodshot eyes, but it was the state of her service uniform which gave her pause.  She'd napped on and off all afternoon wearing the high-collared tunic, and it showed.

Quickly, Siobhan unpacked her bags and changed into shipboard dress of black trousers tucked into calf-high boots and short blue jacket, cinched at the waist, over a white, high-collared sweater.  The three stripes of her rank gleamed dully on the tunic's shoulder boards, as did the gold fighter pilot's wings on her left breast.

On the short walk to the sickbay, two decks down, she was grimly satisfied to see frantic activity spiced by loud curses from angry Petty Officers.  Those crewmembers not occupied with some delicate task straightened to attention as she passed, and the POs in charge of work details saluted, their expressions carefully guarded.  But their movements had an awkwardness which spoke of a long lack of practice. Guthren's efforts to restore discipline were beginning to show, and activity, no matter how chaotic, was better than the dead calm she'd seen when she came aboard.

The hatch to the sickbay whooshed open as she neared.  Lieutenant Luttrell, who was discussing something with a medic Petty Officer, broke off the conversation and snapped to something like attention.  Siobhan's face must have shown her relief when the doors closed, shutting off the noise from the passageways, because Luttrell suddenly looked at her with professional concern.

"Welcome to sickbay, Captain."  The older woman, having experienced a brief touch of Dunmoore's steel, was determined to tread carefully.  After lying low for so long under Forenza, it would be easy to continue keeping her own counsel under Dunmoore.  And probably just as appropriate.  This one could be as much trouble as the other, only of a worse kind.  The legal kind.

"You reported your department ready in record time, Doctor.  I'm here to inspect."  Siobhan deliberately sounded skeptical and saw her tone rattle Luttrell.  Professional pride?

"Aye, sir.  We didn't have much to do to bring it up to Fleet standards, sir."  Luttrell’s expression verged on what used to be called ‘silent insolence’.  They used to flog sailors for less than that – in the old days of sailing ships.

But the surgeon had a right to feel resentful this time, as she proved to her new captain. The operating theatre, recovery room and ward were spotlessly clean, and had obviously been so before Dunmoore's arrival.

Luttrell demonstrated that all her gear was serviceable  The sickbay staff, while not exactly the image of naval discipline, were nonetheless no different in appearance from any other group of medics.  Sure, their hair was a tad too long, their uniforms a tad rumpled and their attitude leaned towards the relaxed end of the spectrum, but their medical smocks were spotless and their answers were professional when Siobhan questioned them.

Only the long list of patients in the medical log disturbed Siobhan.  In her experience, the number of sickbay visits rose as morale dropped.  Judging by the size of Luttrell's practice prior to Forenza's relief, there was no morale to speak of aboard the ship.  And too many 'accidents' which left marks strangely similar to those inflicted by human feet and fists.  Luttrell shrugged, clearly unwilling to discuss her cases and Siobhan did not have the energy to fish for information.

After the tour, Luttrell invited Dunmoore into her small office. When the door closed behind them, Siobhan sat on a corner of the doctor's desk and looked at her speculatively.  The look was returned with defiance.

"Well, Doctor, I must say I'm impressed.  My initial opinion of you was lousy.  But I can’t fault your sickbay and medical staff, even if they don't have that perfect Navy look."

Luttrell, momentarily checked by Siobhan's mild tone and words, looked away again. "I've got my faults, Captain, but where doctoring is concerned, I don't screw around."  The rueful tone briefly softened Siobhan's face, and she suddenly felt that she could learn to like the hard-faced surgeon.  "As for the Navy look," Luttrell continued, this time with a small smile, "most of us medical people are draftees, and we try to keep some shred of our civilian identity."

Siobhan's eyebrows rose and she was about to ask a question when Luttrell spoke again, cutting her off.  Whether Dunmoore would react badly or not, the doctor had her duty and her oath to uphold.  And it would end the questions before they became too personal and pointed.  She raised her strong chin at Siobhan.

"Now that you've inspected me, Captain, it's my turn to inspect you.  Migraine?"  Luttrell whipped out a medical sensor and pointed it at Dunmoore.  When she saw the read-out, she grimaced.  "Bad, eh?  Since when have you had it."

"Since I reported aboard," Siobhan replied, fascinated by Luttrell's sudden transformation from a closed and sullen officer into a concerned and professional doctor.

"And you didn't come and see me," the surgeon tsked, shaking her head, unsure whether to be angry or amused at the Captain's stubbornness.  "Mind you, I can understand why.  I wouldn't want to see the ship's surgeon if my first impression was the one you had.  I'm surprised you're still functioning."  She shut the sensor off and dropped it on her desk.  "But I can understand that too, strangely enough."

Luttrell opened a small cabinet behind her desk and took a thumbnail-sized grey patch from a box.  Then, she walked up to Siobhan, and without asking, pushed up the hair lying over the nape of her neck and slapped the patch on her skin.  Almost immediately, the pounding and migraine receded as the nerve inducer took effect.  Siobhan sighed.

"Feels better, doesn't it, Captain?"  Luttrell asked, with a pleasant bed-side smile.

"It does."  Siobhan smiled back.

"Next time, don't wait as long."

"I won't, doctor."

"When you have a spare half-hour, I'd like to run a full physical on you.  You've got more problems than just the migraine.  I'd say you’re courting a burn-out, on top of suffering from border-line malnutrition and unhealed wounds."

Siobhan looked at Luttrell in surprise.  Her assessment was more accurate than she'd expected a surgeon to learn from a brief sensor scan.

"How can you tell?"

"Good, old-fashioned frontier medicine, Captain.  I practiced on the outer colonies before the war, before getting drafted into the Service.  You learn to make your diagnostics on instinct and observation.  Few colonies have a full medical suite like we have here."

Siobhan nodded, eyebrows raised.  "I'm impressed. And you're right.  I still haven't fully recovered from the wounds I took when my previous ship was all but wrecked.  And the aftermath, decommissioning her, writing to the next of kin, making sure the wounded get the best treatment, and now getting a problem ship..."

"That'd do it, sir.  Guess your sleep's not too good either.  Nightmares and such," the doctor shrugged.  "I'd tell you to take it easy, and take a few days leave, but I'd be whistling in an ion storm.  What I will tell you is to try and get at least eight uninterrupted hours of sleep a night, see me whenever you feel a migraine or some other problem start, and get some decent food."

Siobhan shrugged.  "I'll try, but under the circumstances..."

"Tell you what,"  Luttrell held up her hand and returned to the cabinet.  She pulled out a carton of nerve inducers.  "Take the whole box.  Slap one of these on your neck before going to bed, and the nightmares will be manageable.  It's not something you'll find in medical texts, but believe me, it helps."

"Personal experience?"

"Yeah.  Long time ago.  And don't worry, it's not addictive."

Siobhan took the box.   At that moment, her stomach rumbled loudly.  Luttrell gave her a mock surprised look.

"See," she said accusingly, "I was right.  You are undernourished.  Now that the migraine's gone, your body wants some food.  When's the last time you ate?"

"Breakfast, but I upchucked it a few hours later."

Luttrell turned on her intercom.  "Sickbay to Captain's clerk."

"Kery here," the clerk's voice replied a few moments later.

"The Captain has asked me to order her some grub.  Get a tray from the galley to her ready room in fifteen minutes.  And make sure it's heaped high."  Luttrell briefly glanced at Siobhan, muting the transmission.  "Anything in particular, skipper?"

"Yes.  She stared at the surgeon, eyes narrowed in thought.  "I want the food to come from the lower deck galley, not the wardroom."

The doctor looked at her for a moment, then nodded her understanding.  "Kery, make sure the food comes from the main galley, not the wardroom."

"Aye, aye, doctor."

"Sickbay, out."

"I think this ship's in for quite a change," Luttrell softly said, looking at Siobhan, "more than I expected."

"It is, doctor, you can bank on it," Siobhan replied, in the same tone.  Then she turned to leave, saying over her shoulder, "thanks for the doctoring."

"Don't mention it, sir.  It’s my job – something I’m damned good at.”  As Siobhan crossed the threshold, Luttrell added, "There's still a lot of good on this ship too, Captain.  They just need the right hand at the wheel."

Dunmoore didn't reply.  She simply nodded, without looking back, and let the hatch close behind her.  Just then, Pushkin walked down the passage, face dark with anger.  Upon seeing the Captain, he stopped and came to attention.

"I'm sorry, sir, I wasn't aware you'd be inspecting sickbay now.  I just read Lieutenant Luttrell's report." His voice was tense, his words clipped.

Siobhan repressed a curse and a sigh, realizing she'd accidentally snubbed her First Officer again. 
Behind every silver lining, there's a cloud
. 

By custom, the First Officer always accompanied the Captain on an inspection. 
After
making sure everything was ship-shape.

"I'm sorry, Mister Pushkin," she replied, trying to sound contrite, though she doubted that he was in any mood to be mollified.  "I wasn't thinking when I decided to come down and inspect sickbay.  I'm afraid I not only left you out, but also surprised Lieutenant Luttrell."

Hopefully, her last comment would prevent Pushkin from taking out his frustration and humiliation on the doctor.  Paranoia was an ugly thing, but she wasn't exactly helping her First Officer.

"However, be that as it may, the sickbay passed muster."

"Very well, Captain," Pushkin replied, angrily entering her comments into his personal computer, for the ship's logs.  "I'll return to engineering then."

"Problems?"

"Nothing that can't be fixed, sir," he replied, a touch savagely.

"I'll be in my ready room.  Please advise me when the next department is ready for inspection."

For a moment, Pushkin looked at her, as if gauging the sincerity behind her peace offering.  Then he replied, in a slightly calmer tone, "Aye, sir.  I will."

A tray of hot food was waiting when she got to her ready room.  She took a sip of the scalding hot coffee and grimaced.  It was bitter and burnt, very different from what the shiny urns on the
Victoria Regina
had chugged out watch after watch.

The food, when she took her first bite, wasn't much better.  Siobhan had eaten worse, but never aboard a warship.  She was pleased with her decision to sample the lower deck galley’s food.  Now she knew she had another problem to deal with, one which had a direct impact on the crew's day to day morale.  All she needed to bring the food question to its inglorious but all too logical conclusion, was to discover that the grub in the petty officers mess and the wardroom was better than this.  Somehow, it would fit with Helen Forenza's instinctive snobbery. But hunger was strong enough to make Siobhan eat every bit.

She slumped back in the chair and closed her eyes, relishing the freedom from pain and hunger.  Her enjoyment lasted but a few minutes, until the ship demanded her undivided attention again. 
No wonder I’m starting to look like the Crone of Chronos. No rest for the wicked.

"First Officer to Captain."

Siobhan sighed and sat up, touching the intercom pad.

"Go ahead, Mister Pushkin."

"Second Officer reports the security division ready for inspection, sir."

"Good," Siobhan nodded.  She'd been wondering whether her initial impression of Lieutenant Drex would bear out.  Now she would see.  "I'll meet you down there."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Pushkin was waiting by the hatch leading to the ship's small brig and security office.  He still wore his dark scowl, but was beginning to look frazzled.  Dunmoore was ironically pleased by his overworked appearance.  It made a satisfying contrast to his bitter demeanour when they first met.  As she approached, Pushkin touched the door's keypad and came to attention.  Siobhan nodded at him and stepped through.  Drex, in immaculate shipboard uniform, like the four bosun's mates standing behind him, called his spacers to attention.