by Eric Thomson
Toralk’s gruff voice broke through his brooding thoughts.
“The estate car is almost here, Lord.”
“Hmm?”
Brakal’s eyes turned to the serpentine slash in the dense vegetation which surrounded the spaceport like a broad, living wall, one that offered better protection from intruders than any perimeter fence. He quickly picked up what Toralk saw from a greater distance. One of Clan Makkar’s ground vehicles, a black, boxy, slightly menacing armored car adorned with the clan’s double dragon crest floating on an antigrav cushion.
Brakal would have preferred to fly home from the spaceport, but a council grown fearful of its enemies banned private aircraft in and around the capital. That the decree insulted clan lords loyal to the empire escaped their timid souls.
“We should go, Lord,” Toralk said. “Cold ale and roasted meat await us at the manor.”
Brakal turned to his chief retainer and curled up a lip.
“And so they do. I suppose I should thank the gods Clan Makkar’s estates are within reasonable ground travel distance. Your belly will howl in surrender soon enough.”
“Seniority among those who sit in the Kraal has its privileges,” Regar murmured. “Not that I would dare complain. After the insipid rations served aboard that cursed courier, I too long for real food.”
“Always thinking with your stomachs — when it isn’t your loins,” Brakal grumbled. He gestured at the lift doors behind them. “Come and follow your sworn liege...”
“Instantly and without reservations, even if your orders take us to the Ninth Hell.”
Brakal clapped Regar on the shoulder.
“Only the sons of whores wallowing in their own filth at the heart of the Forbidden Quarter are destined for the Ninth Hell, my Tai Kan spy.”
When they climbed into the roomy car, Brakal felt surprise at seeing Anag, the Clan Makkar estate manager at the controls. The family of the grizzled former Imperial Ground Forces underofficer had served the clan for generations in the same way as the faithful Toralk and his family.
Brakal reached out and grasped the man’s arm in greeting.
“You honor me, Anag.”
“I honor and protect you, Lord, mostly from yourself.” Anag gave Toralk a knowing look. “Better I bring you home than a hapless youngling who has not yet felt the full fury of your bad moods.”
“Hah! You think I return full of rage at my dismissal from active duty? Nothing could be further from the truth.”
“He has a plan,” Toralk said in a somber tone conveying dread.
“Anag, this is Regar. Though he might look as if he was a shifty, treacherous Tai Kan insect, Regar served in the Deep Space Fleet before he became a spy. Now he serves me as a sworn retainer, though he still holds his appointment in the Tai Kan. Regar, my friend Anag has been taking care of the Clan Makkar estates here in Shredar and out in the countryside since before the war.”
The two warriors eyed each other for a few moments, then Regar inclined his head.
“Well met, Anag. Am I right in thinking you once wore the Imperial Armed Forces uniform?”
“Imperial Assault Troops. Thirty turns.”
“That is what I thought.”
Brakal gestured at Anag.
“Take us home, but cut through the city. I want to bask in its mood.”
“Then you might feel the urge to bathe afterward. The city’s mood is dark, if not downright filthy,” the estate manager replied once they were in motion. “Though the council and its Tai Kan minions do their best to suppress the truth, news of our losses against a foe gaining in strength invariably escapes. It would astonish you to know how many in Shredar wonder whether time has come to negotiate a peace with honor rather than continue hemorrhaging lives and ships for no gain.”
Anag glanced over his shoulder only to see a ferocious smile twisting Brakal’s features.
“A plan you said, Toralk? Why am I suddenly fearful our lord wishes to swim in the muck of imperial politics?”
“Your lord wishes to cleanse imperial politics of its muck, you miscreant,” Brakal growled.
A sound of dismay escaped Anag’s barrel chest.
“It is even worse than I feared after receiving word of your involuntary return.”
“When did the Kraal last meet?”
“You know as well as I. It has been many turns. The military lords have been absent. Or most of them were until they lost their commands. Many of the civilian lords have so far not felt enough pain from this endless war to challenge the council. That, or they do not want to attract undue Tai Kan attention. We know Council Leader Mishtak uses those infernal spies as his personal enforcers.”
“Indeed,” Regar said. “Tai Kan Director Yatron resides in Mishtak’s pocket. When the great cleansing starts, Yatron must be on or near the top of the arrest list. First Deputy Director Kroesh will be happy to take over and work for whoever replaces Mishtak.”
When Anag gave Regar an incredulous glance, Brakal roared with laughter.
“And now you understand why I accepted an infernal spy’s oath of fealty to Clan Makkar. Surely enough lords are on Shrehari Prime so the Kraal may meet as per the Rules.”
“No doubt,” Anag replied. “And those who are offworld can be summoned. The question is, how many can we rouse from their torpor and assemble in the Forbidden Quarter.”
“Or set free from their fear of retribution,” Regar added. “Troops under admiralty control, which is the same as saying under Mishtak’s control, guard the Quarter, backed by a regiment of Tai Kan.”
“Not anymore.” Anag glanced over his shoulder again. “The Forbidden Quarter is now entirely guarded by uniformed Tai Kan troops.”
“Then it is worse than I thought.”
“Bah.” Brakal made a rude gesture. “Bugger the lot of them. We lords of the empire need not meet in the Forbidden Quarter. The Rules specify no particular location. In fact, historical lore claims the lords met in the Jakrang before there was such a thing as a Forbidden Quarter.”
“The Jakrang is nothing but ruins,” Anag said.
“They still use it for operatic performances. I saw a brilliant staging of Akuh and Mylota there before the war. It even featured live animals. Sitting on stone benches polished by millions of Shrehari rear ends over the last five thousand turns and under a sunny sky should cheer up even the most morose of my peers.”
Brakal glanced through the polarized window and lost his good mood as they entered the worst of the capital’s slums.
“If you want true ruins with no use to anyone, then I would say this qualifies. Am I dreaming, or are there more beggars than ever?”
Downtrodden, disheveled Shrehari males and females — the poorest of the poor in a city never short of those disfavored, unemployed, or wretched, watched the ground car glide over the ancient cobblestones through eyes shining with deprivation, envy, and anger.
“You are not dreaming, Lord,” Anag replied. “The war has been hardest on the lower castes. Tax increases to build more ships drove many small farmers and manufacturers into bankruptcy. And the council does not seem to care. Another turn or two and we may face a critical mass of dispossessed ready for a bloody revolution. It is the same everywhere on the homeworld. Even your noble peers are feeling pinched by Mishtak’s taxes, though he has been careful to avoid alienating them so far. Of course, the usual rumors of tax money vanishing into various pockets instead of paying for the war effort run rampant.”
“And that is why the Kraal must reassert its control over the empire’s affairs. Before Mishtak turns us all into beggars, hoping we will be easier to please.”
Anag signified his agreement with a mournful grunt.
“Preferably before human banners gently wave in the breeze atop the Forbidden Quarter’s palaces.”
They left the slum behind as the car took them into a more prosperous section of Shredar, nearer to the seat of government and the imperial palace. Though its inhabitants seemed less depr
ived, Brakal saw a not dissimilar gleam of envy and anger in the black within black eyes watching a clan lord’s car waft by.
When they entered the Field of Honor, a broad plaza paved in pink granite fronting the ornate ceremonial entrance to the Forbidden Quarter, Brakal let out a derisive snort.
“Mishtak may be craven, but he is no fool. The Field of Honor seems guarded by at least twice as many troops as before.”
“Three times,” Regar said, “and if I am not mistaken, those uniformed Tai Kan are wearing armor and carrying functional power weapons. Director Yatron must have ordered a recruitment drive. I do not recall the Shredar regiment being strong enough to field so many sentries day and night. The Great Demons only know how many patrol within the Quarter’s walls. Could it be the council no longer trusts our glorious Imperial Ground Forces?”
“Will you visit the admiralty?” Anag asked when he spied the red-tiled roof of the military headquarters above the walls.
“I do not wish to speak with anyone there and will not pollute my ears with whatever those puss-filled pimples wish to say. Since I no longer hold a military appointment, my sole status is that of clan lord and member of the Kraal. It means I will only consider accepting an invitation issued by an admiral of the first rank.”
A sly smile appeared on Regar’s face.
“In other words, you will not report to Admiral of the Second Rank Zakit upon arrival in Shredar.”
“Certainly not.” Brakal’s lip curled up in a snarl. “An insect such as Zakit cannot issue orders to a clan lord. Those idiots should have thought twice about placing me in the reserve of officers before I arrived on Shrehari Prime.”
A deep, rumbling guffaw erupted from Anag’s throat.
“For a reason that escapes me at the moment, I think you will make an excellent politician, Lord Brakal.”
— Nine —
The intercom’s gentle peal pulled Dunmoore from her contemplation of early First Migration War naval tactics. She placed her reader on the desk and touched the controls.
“Captain here.”
“Kremm, sir. I have the watch. We intercepted a message from Fennec to the flag. They picked up a convoy leaving Atsang orbit on visual and are tracking it to the hyperlimit so they can determine its course. At Fennec’s current distance from the planet, the visuals are twelve hours old, so it’s a given the boneheads are FTL by now.”
Dunmoore called up the intelligence they’d accumulated on Atsang, silently cursing Lena Corto. She’d convinced Petras that sending FTL recon drones to the planet’s hyperlimit so they could obtain almost real-time data on enemy movements would be an unacceptable risk. It left them looking at an FTL capable enemy with equipment limited by light speed physics.
“I’ll wager they’re almost at the heliopause, ready to drop out of FTL for the transition to interstellar space. But where?”
Dunmoore tapped the desktop with gloved fingers. Task Force Luckner had been loitering on the edge of the Atsang system for the last five days, each wolf pack element sailing astride potential shipping lanes to outlying Shrehari bases.
“I acknowledged receipt of Fennec’s transmission and alerted the CIC to be on the lookout.”
“Thank you, Theo. Was there anything else?”
“No, sir.”
“Dunmoore, out.”
She sat back in her chair and stared at the star map covering part of one bulkhead. Her wolf pack proposal based on wet navy tactics from five hundred years ago was about to face the only valid test of ideas — cold, harsh reality — and suddenly, she didn’t quite know how to feel. Hunting alone was a vastly different proposition, one with no need for coordination.
Find prey and chase it unto death. Dunmoore would be happy to nip at that convoy by herself, taking a ship or three every time it dropped out of FTL and chase the survivors until she found herself within a few thousand kilometers of an orbital base’s guns.
Sharing the chase and the kill with other starships whose captains and crews, through no fault of their own, didn’t have a predatory mindset, still seemed unnatural. Yet, a part of her knew the only way for a hunting formation of Task Force Luckner’s sort to succeed was transforming each frigate, each destroyer, and each scout into smaller versions of Iolanthe. Gregor Pushkin had discovered his inner cut-throat long ago and now commanded a ship built to punish the enemy. But his colleagues hadn’t lived through Stingray’s wild adventures, far from an admiral’s gaze or a battle group’s support.
With nothing else to do while Iolanthe ran silent, she picked up her reader and immersed herself again in the violence of humanity’s diaspora among the stars, as much to find nuggets of wisdom as to pass the time. Almost precisely three hours later, the intercom pulled her back to the present.
“Yes?”
“Sirico, sir. Fennec sent a confirmed FTL vector for the convoy. Jan Sobieski and Rooikat are closest to where it should drop out of hyperspace at the heliopause, which would be on the general heading to a suspected outpost in the Lorgh system, just over four light-years from our current location. We confirmed receipt to the flag.”
She heard a muffled voice over the link, stilling Sirico’s next words. After a few moments, he said, “Jan Sobieski and Rooikat spotted the convoy dropping out of FTL. They’re too distant for an ambush. Captain Pushkin figures by the time they get there, it’ll have spooled up and jumped again. He’ll calculate their course, then send Rooikat to sniff out and follow their hyperspace bubble while waiting for orders from the flag.”
Dunmoore silently shook her head. That was another of Corto’s so-called improvements on the wolf pack plan. Task Force Luckner, minus the tracking ship would come together before the chase, instead of letting each pair of ships join in as fast as it could, allowing the pack to form organically.
How she talked Petras into it, Dunmoore couldn’t fathom. They should receive those orders in just about forty-five minutes, once Jan Sobieski confirmed the convoy’s heading. But since Iolanthe was furthest from her former first officer’s ship, the situation called for a brief jump. It would put them in a better position to join the others once Petras called the pack together.
“Thank you, Thorin. Bridge, this is the captain.”
“Officer of the watch, sir.”
“Execute FTL jump Sobieski.”
As a precaution, Lieutenant Drost had prepared contingency navigation plots leading to whichever packet was closest to an enemy convoy crossing the heliopause. Naturally, she named the plans after the senior ship in each pair.
“Aye, aye, sir.”
A few seconds later, the jump klaxon blared throughout the ship, warning everyone aboard to sit or grab hold of a bulkhead, so the disorientation from crossing into hyperspace didn’t knock them on their rear ends. Thirty seconds after that, Dunmoore felt the familiar but thankfully brief jump nausea twist her innards before they settled again.
The door chime rang, and Holt poked his head through when it opened.
“I understand Gregor has first dibs. Or would if we were doing this right.”
“I’m sure he’s as annoyed as anyone at waiting for orders from the flag instead of putting that magnificent pocket cruiser of his to good use right away. At least Rooikat is on the loose.”
Holt stepped in.
“If I didn’t know any better, I’d say that sounded a tad bitter.”
She sighed.
“If I actually cared about making Task Force Luckner the most successful commerce raiding formation in human history, I suppose it might be worthwhile proposing Lena and I swap places so she doesn’t whisper stupidities in the admiral’s ear.”
A horrified expression replaced Holt’s earlier good humor.
“No. Don’t even joke about it. She hasn’t driven a starship in what? Eight years? And her last command was pretty small compared to the Furious Faerie. Corto couldn’t fight Iolanthe properly, let alone competently lead the Fleet’s quirkiest crew. It would be a complete waste of potential.”
<
br /> “All true, but if the admiral still won’t let his newest, most powerful ships run at full capacity because he can’t stop listening to his flag captain, what’s the point of us being here? Both Gregor and I could do more on our own.”
“Wow. First a hint of bitterness, now a shadow of disloyalty. You are off your feed.” When he saw her eyes harden, Holt raised both hands in surrender. “It was a joke, Skipper. I realize you’d never be disloyal, but please don’t make your feelings about the task force’s success or lack thereof known to anyone other than yours truly.”
“No worries. I’m just afraid this might turn into a clusterfuck. Half measures generally do. They’re one of the reasons the First Migration War ran up casualties in the hundreds of millions. If it weren’t for this Lena-inspired nonsense, Astrid would be standing by her plotter, ready to send us on a pursuit the moment either Jan Sobieski or Rooikat confirm the enemy’s vector. Instead, we’re waiting for the flag to collect us in an orderly gaggle.”
A pained expression crossed Holt’s face.
“You aren’t just off your feed. You’re royally pissed off, aren’t you? Orderly gaggle? That would be hilarious if it weren’t for the class five ion storm I see stirring in your eyes.”
“Gregor should be hard on that convoy’s tail now, not later. Considering what I managed with Stingray and the fact Jan Sobieski is essentially twice as powerful as the old girl was, not letting him slip his leash is almost criminal.”
**
“The flag is asking why we went FTL without waiting for orders, Captain.”
Dunmoore bit back the first question that came to mind. The flag, or the flag captain?
“Let them know we did so to speed up the wolf pack’s formation.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” If Chief Day noticed his captain’s mood, he showed no sign.