by Eric Thomson
“You will chase him around the Black Hole of Qax, and round the Demon Star, and round the Undying Ion Storm, and through the fires of the Ninth Hell before you give him up,” Urag replied in a somber tone, quoting a famous line from one of Shrehari literature’s best known revenge stories.
“Hah!” Brakal’s lips curled back to reveal his fangs. “A literate flag captain. Will miracles never cease? So I am to be the accursed Captain Qahb and my ship is to become the Tol Ehqad is that it?”
“Consider yourself fortunate to command such an educated warrior.” Urag glowered at his superior. “Now, picking up the phantom’s trail — that will be a true miracle.”
“And the longer we wait, the harder it will be. Send one of the Ptars — I don’t care which one — to check on the refueling station. He can catch up with us. We leave for Atsang at best speed.”
“The course is set, and the patrol is synchronized, Lord,” Tuku, Tol Vehar’s navigator said, glancing over his shoulder at Brakal with his black within black eyes. “May I suggest Ptar Litk check on the refueling station? He has the best of the three Ptar navigators.”
Brakal made a sign of assent.
“So it shall be.”
“And your report to the admiralty?” Urag asked.
An irritated growl escaped Brakal’s throat.
“It will be ready to send before we reach the otherspace limit.”
— Four —
“Unkind people who shall remain nameless are speculating that Admiral Petras got lost after letting that convoy slip through his fingers,” Ezekiel Holt said the moment Dunmoore’s day cabin door slid shut behind them.
They’d been waiting at the rendezvous for almost four days. By now, she and her crew were feeling the strain of both forced inactivity and continuous silent running this deep inside enemy space.
“I hope your first officer’s basilisk stare stilled unwarranted speculation. We don’t need mutinous humor pervading the ship.”
Holt filled two coffee mugs from the urn and handed one to his captain.
“You were once in my shoes, so I’m sure you remember that stilling unkind rumors about unloved senior officers is an impossibility on the same level as controlled time travel.”
“True, but we can’t allow anyone aboard to think we might conceivably share their opinion of the senior officer in question.”
He dropped into one of the chairs facing her desk and raised his cup.
“Don’t worry. Anyone who disparages the admiral within my hearing never does so again. But you and I know it’s a losing proposition. The only thing my corrective words do is make sure miscreants watch their words in my or your presence. Our people aren’t easily fooled, Skipper. Sending us on a recon mission, even though it turned into a punitive expedition, instead of letting Iolanthe do what she does best — raid enemy shipping — sticks in your crew’s collective craw. And in mine.”
“Then everybody better unstick their craws, Zeke.” When she saw amusement in Holt’s eyes, she glared at him. “Special Operations Command issued orders assigning Iolanthe to Task Force Luckner. We will carry out the orders of the flag officer commanding said task force the best of our abilities, with no mental reservations whatsoever. Is that clear?”
“Perfectly, Captain. And that is precisely the message I’ve been conveying to the department heads. The cox’n is doing the same with the chiefs and petty officers. He and the divisional chiefs are jacking up any crew member who publicly disparages our current situation. But that doesn’t change the way people feel. You included.”
Dunmoore let out a heartfelt sigh.
“I know, Zeke.”
“How much longer do we wait here before we decide our friends aren’t coming to fetch us? Perhaps the admiral ran into something he couldn’t handle with three frigates, two destroyers, and a scout, even though one of the frigates could easily be rated as a light cruiser.”
She shrugged.
“A week. Ten days. The admiral might be chasing that convoy back to its homeport. Or at least the system’s heliopause. I doubt he’ll be so foolish as to put himself within reach of a major Shrehari base.”
“Unlike a certain frigate captain several years ago.” Holt winked at her.
“Yes, and I was damned lucky to bring Stingray home with only a handful of casualties. Petras will have read my after-action report and knows we almost perished. What I did then isn’t going to be taught in any naval tactics course.”
“Indeed.” A mischievous smile tugged at Holt’s lips. “Much better to blow up enemy FOBs on a whim.”
“All right, Mister First Officer. That remark just earned you the right to a drubbing at chess.” She reached for the mahogany box.
Holt grimaced in dismay.
“Me and my big mouth.”
**
Dunmoore’s eyes snapped open before the intercom in her quarters chimed a second time. Instantly awake, she reached out and stabbed the screen.
“Captain here.”
“Lieutenant Kremm, sir. I have the watch. Sensors picked up several hyperspace disturbances headed in our direction. Their course is roughly opposite to the one taken by Task Force Luckner.”
“Meaning it could be the admiral returning from his pursuit.”
“Yes, sir. But it could equally be a Shrehari formation. Word of our destroying the FOB would have reached higher headquarters by now, if only because it stopped reporting.”
“If they drop out of hyperspace on top of us, how long do we have?”
“Fifteen to twenty minutes. Should I call battle stations?”
“Yes, but don’t go up systems. I’ll be in the CIC shortly. Warn Fennec.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Captain, out.”
The battle stations klaxon sounded moments later, tearing Iolanthe’s off-duty crew members from their sleep or recreational activities. Dunmoore dressed, stepped into her boots, and ran splayed fingers through her graying copper-colored hair.
By the time she entered the CIC, it was fully staffed, with Lieutenant Commander Sirico occupying her chair. He stood the moment one of the watchkeeping petty officers whose station faced the door said, “Captain on deck.”
“The hyperspace bubbles are still nearing on an almost perfect intercept course, sir. We make out seven distinct signatures.”
“Then it has to be the task force. The chances of it being a Shrehari strike group with the same number of ships as Luckner, headed in our precise direction in interstellar space are infinitesimal.” She sat and stared at the tactical projection. “We will, however, stay at battle stations and under silent running.”
“Out of precaution, or to show the others how we Q-ship pros make a hole in space, Skipper?” Holt’s hologram by her elbow asked. “And yes, the Furious Faerie is at battle stations.”
She made a face.
“Both, I suppose.”
Dunmoore settled back and called up the ship’s log to see if anything noteworthy happened while she was sleeping. Then, she busied herself with the never-ending stream of administrative matters until, almost precisely fifteen minutes after Lieutenant Kremm warned her, Chief Yens raised a hand.
“Seven emergence signatures three hundred thousand kilometers ahead and slightly to starboard.” A pause. “The signatures confirm it is Task Force Luckner. One of the ships seems to be leaking more emissions than it did when we last saw them.”
Sirico glanced at the passive sensor readout. “Battle damage, perhaps?”
“It’s Tamurlane,” Yens replied, naming one of Luckner’s two destroyers. “They’re actively scanning.”
“The flagship is calling,” Kremm announced from the bridge. “On the reserved Luckner subspace frequency and in code.”
“Did they see us?” Holt asked no one in particular.
“Not a chance,” Sirico replied. “We’re as tight as a tick on shore leave after two years in space.”
Dunmoore exchanged a glance with her first officer’
s hologram.
“I suppose we should go up systems and cancel battle stations.”
“On it, Skipper. I’d love to be a holographic fly in Hawkwood’s CIC as we suddenly appear on their sensors, big as life and twice as mean.”
“Open a comlink with the flagship and pipe it to my day cabin. Mister Sirico, you have the CIC.”
A few minutes later, Dunmoore sat behind her desk, face composed as the primary display came to life with Rear Admiral Kell Petras’ square, bulldog face. In his mid-fifties, bald, with a hooked nose and cauliflower ears, he reminded Dunmoore of nothing so much as an aging colonial prizefighter. Dark eyes beneath beetling brows examined her in silence.
“Sir. I trust you gave that convoy last rites.”
He dipped his head in greeting.
“Captain Dunmoore. Showing us how to hide, were you?”
“I prefer running silent in enemy space when I’m in a holding pattern, sir. Did Tamurlane suffer a hit? My sensor chief says her emissions signature is stronger than when we parted ways.”
“Minor damage. The Shrehari fought back harder than we expected. Two of the freighters and one Ptar escaped.”
Dunmoore was pleased her expression didn’t change at hearing the news. With three frigates and two destroyers under his command, Petras should have wiped out the convoy in the time it took them to cycle their hyperdrives between jumps.
“Still, three freighters and two Ptars can no longer serve our enemy’s war effort. Congratulations, sir.”
“Did you and Fennec get a good look at the enemy installation in that star system?”
“Yes, sir. A temporary, wartime forward operations base. It, and the system’s automated refueling station also no longer serve the empire.”
Petras’ right eyebrow shot up as he gave her a hard glare.
“I beg your pardon?”
“My report on the action is ready for your perusal, sir. It came over with the rest of the reports and returns the moment we established a comlink.”
“I want to hear an explanation of why you overstepped your orders, Captain. That was supposed to be a recon mission only.”
“I deemed the FOB a target of opportunity, sir. Our scans showed no enemy ships in the area, and the base itself was lightly armed compared to our standards. At best, its ordnance equated that of two Tol class cruisers. Fennec stayed well out of enemy weapons range while Iolanthe closed in. We suffered no damage beyond stressing one of our shield emitters, but it was already approaching end of life. Once we fried the FOB’s shields, we either scored a direct hit on its reactor or on its anti-ship missile stocks. It exploded, causing one hundred percent casualties and destroying everything the convoy dropped off a few days earlier. I doubt any of the supplies reached the resident strike group’s ships before we arrived. On our way out of the system, Fennec destroyed the fueling station.”
“I see.”
Based on the expression in his eyes, Dunmoore figured Petras couldn’t quite bring himself to congratulate her nor issue a reprimand for overstepping his orders.
“Sir, losing that FOB will limit enemy activities in this sector by forcing them further back into the empire for resupply. It will also hurt their morale to know we can strike at them far beyond our sphere and cause real damage. Whoever commands the strike group based at that FOB will have some explaining to do, and since intelligence reports more and more senior officers are getting fired for perceived failures, he’ll no doubt face the Shrehari admiralty’s wrath. It’s a winning situation all around for us.”
“Perhaps. But what would have happened if the FOB was more heavily armed than you believed? Iolanthe is my most powerful ship. Losing her to battle damage would be intolerable.”
Dunmoore was again pleased with her ability to keep a bland expression, even though she desperately wanted to ask Petras why he didn’t take Iolanthe on the convoy hunt if he considered her his most powerful ship. Perhaps none of the enemy vessels would have escaped if the Furious Faerie had been present.
“Sir, Fennec’s sensors gave us a good view of the target. It wasn’t as big a risk as you might think. We approached unseen until we were within optimum firing range. From start to finish, the fight lasted only a few minutes. We literally overwhelmed them with gun and missile fire.”
“And how much of your ammunition stocks did you expend?”
“The number expended and amount remaining is in my report, sir. We still carry more than enough to complete this patrol. In fact, I daresay the frigates and destroyers will run out before we do.”
A frown creased Petras’ high forehead.
“Did you not think I might count on your capacious ammunition lockers to replenish the rest of the task force so we can stay on station longer?”
“The idea occurred to me, sir. But considering what the loss of that FOB will do to the enemy, especially his morale, I think it was worth every missile we fired.”
“You might find me disagreeing once I read your report.”
“Understood, sir. What are your orders?”
“We will hold a collective after-action review in three hours via comlink. You’re welcome to join in as an observer.” He paused and a thoughtful expression crossed his eyes. “In fact, I want you to observe, but please keep any comments for a private discussion between you, me, and Lena.”
“Certainly, sir. Thank you.”
“We will talk again about that target of opportunity once I read your report. Petras, out.”
When the Furious Faerie emblem replaced his face on the main display, Dunmoore sat back and exhaled. Moments later, the door chime pealed.
“Enter.”
Holt stuck his head through the open door and grinned.
“Are you still my captain?”
“For now.” She waved him in and pointed at a chair. “I know you want a verbatim account and I need to vent just a little.”
— Five —
When Dunmoore’s face faded from the day cabin’s main display, Rear Admiral Kell Petras turned to his flag captain, Lena Corto, who had silently witnessed the exchange from beyond the video pickup’s range. Described by many as the archetype of the icy blond, her pale, shoulder-length hair framed a narrow face that was mostly sharp angles. Intense blue eyes beneath brows that seemed almost white stared back at Petras. The calculating wariness that seemed to surround her like a palpable aura struck him again.
“Any comments, Lena?”
“Her reputation as a loose cannon when she’s not under a battle group commander’s watchful eye holds true, sir. We could have lost both Iolanthe and Fennec in that ill-considered attack, seeing as how we know so little about Shrehari orbital stations. Dunmoore was lucky it didn’t carry heavy guns and multiple missile launchers capable of overwhelming her shields. Iolanthe is powerful but hardly invincible.”
Corto shook her head.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I still can’t understand why Dunmoore was given the Fleet’s newest Q-ship and allowed to act with almost no oversight — Admiral Nagira’s patronage notwithstanding. Also, she didn’t seem pleased when you told her she could listen in on the after-action review but not comment.”
“I noticed nothing.”
“Dunmoore kept a straight face, sir, but the eyes rarely lie. I figure she considers our inability to take the entire convoy a failure rather than admit Stingray’s success in doing so was a fluke brought on by a combination of fatal enemy mistakes and recklessness on her part.”
Petras’ smile was devoid of warmth.
“You really don’t hold her in high regard, do you, Lena?”
“My feelings toward her aren’t particularly relevant, sir. I’m simply not comfortable with patronage appointments. Dunmoore’s record shows a pattern of behavior some might consider irresponsible. As you’ll recall, many in SOCOM weren’t happy with her taking Iolanthe. If the attack on the FOB had turned to disaster, it would have reflected on your competence as the task force commander, and we can’t allow rash sta
rship captains to jeopardize your command or even worse, your career.”
Petras studied Corto in silence. He’d always known she was ambitious, seeking her first star by riding on his coattails. And in truth, she was an intelligent, competent, and hard-working officer, though she wasn’t the sort to inspire loyalty, let alone devotion in her subordinates, or a sense of comradeship in her peers. But Corto was nursing a deep-seated grievance ever since the Fleet gave Iolanthe to Siobhan Dunmoore.
Corto was convinced she’d been cheated out of her turn to command as a post captain, one of the unwritten prerequisites for promotion to flag rank for officers in the combatant occupational specialties. Yet after spending more than half the war in various staff assignments, including three years as SOCOM’s top operational planner, her chances of returning to starship duty were fading, and she knew it. Soon after word came down from Fleet Operations that SOCOM would get Iolanthe, Corto had lobbied to become her first commanding officer, but in vain.
“I’m not quite as uncomfortable as you are, Lena. Yes, Dunmoore takes risks, but they seem to pay off more often than not. Besides, if we gloss over the fact she exceeded her orders, Dunmoore is right when she says destroying that FOB will mess with the enemy’s morale. She showed them we were willing to sail deep into their sphere and hit them behind the lines, so to speak. Considering how proud the Shrehari are supposed to be, that’s a bit of a dent in the old ego.”
“Perhaps,” Corto replied in a grudging tone after a momentary pause. “May I ask why you forbade Dunmoore from speaking during the after-action review?”
“Because I wish to hear her thoughts privately once she’s processed the discussion. Whether or not we agree with her methods, Dunmoore has been doing this longer than the rest of us. If we need to make adjustments, it is better done through properly formulated orders from me than interventions during a hot wash.”
Corto nodded once.
“Understood, sir.”