by Eric Thomson
As the car came to a halt on the inner courtyard’s flagstones, Anag appeared in one of the doorways and watched them climb out.
“Lord. A visitor awaits you.”
“I see no car.”
Anag pointed up. “Aircar. It sits on the pad.”
“Ah.”
Long before aircars were invented, wealthy families owned vertical takeoff aircraft, and one of his ancestors ordered a special pad built behind the main building. It saw infrequent use these days, primarily because aircar travel over the capital was restricted, though Anag used the estate’s to travel between the Shredar mansion and the clan’s properties in the hinterland.
“Did this visitor give a name? Or is he a phantom, known only by the marks he leaves behind?”
“She.”
Brakal ignored Regar’s smirk.
“Who?”
“She who asked no names be used.”
“And you let a nameless female into the house even though you knew I was making fresh enemies with every breath I took?”
Anag, clearly unrepentant, made a gesture of assent.
“Meet her, and everything will become clear, Lord. She is in the formal reception room. I offered her the clan lord’s hospitality, but she declined any refreshments.”
“Now that intrigues me.” Brakal glanced over his shoulder at Regar.
“Shall I accompany you?” The latter asked.
“Watch from the security room. Unnamed females rarely wish to speak with anyone but the lord.”
Regar noted from Brakal’s expression he had an idea, perhaps not of the visitor’s actual identity, but of who she represented and so he inclined his head, acknowledging the order.
When Brakal entered the reception room, an ornately furnished space overlooking the estate’s garden, a tall, slender figure in exquisitely tailored robes turned away from the window to face him. Though she wore gloves, a shimmering head cover, and a full-face veil, making it impossible to get even a glimpse of skin, her voice, although husky, was unmistakably female.
“Lord Brakal. Thank you for allowing me into your home.”
He raised both hands in a formal gesture of welcome.
“I am honored by your presence, Lady. How may I serve you?”
“First, please accept my thanks for respecting my anonymity. I commend your retainers for their courtesy.”
An amused smile twisted Brakal’s face.
“The Lords of Clan Makkar employ some of the finest specimens of our race. Many of them are retired from the Imperial Armed Forces and know how to conduct themselves.”
“Surely in large part because of the example you set, Lord Brakal.”
“You are much too gracious.”
He fought off a sudden surge of impatience. If this lady came from the court, she would expect him to observe the usual forms, replete with endless expressions of mutual admiration.
“I merely act the way any loyal admiral of the empire would.”
“As befits your reputation for upholding the honor of the Deep Space Fleet and Clan Makkar.”
Brakal acknowledged her compliment with a proper, courtly bow.
“Shall we sit?” He gestured at overstuffed leather chairs.
“Thank you, but since my time here will be brief, I shall remain standing.”
“In that case, I am listening. Please go ahead.”
“My mistress, who must stay as nameless as myself, understands you will convene the Kraal after many turns of dormancy so it may take the governing council to task over its handling of the war against the humans.”
“That is indeed my purpose. The Kraal has shirked its responsibilities for too long while military personnel of both the Shrehari and subject races are dying for no visible gains. In the meantime, our treasury is being drained with no end in sight, and our people groan under the ever-increasing weight of taxation. I fear the council does not know how to extricate itself from the mess it created by invading human space and will keep making the same mistakes until our suffering passes the point of no return. Should that dire event occur, it might make the last dynastic change, during which our current emperor’s lineage ascended the throne, resemble a peaceful, routine change of government.”
After a brief pause, she said, “Perhaps. However, my mistress fears the Kraal challenging Mishtak and the council will bring about grave political instability at a time when we must join together and focus on forcing the humans to submit.”
Bitter laughter rumbled up Brakal’s massive chest.
“Forcing the humans to submit? With the greatest of respect, your mistress must stop drinking from the same poisoned chalice as Mishtak. I come from the war, as do many of the Kraal lords. We not only will never force the humans to submit, but at the current rate of attrition in both ships and crews, we will submit to the humans on terms your mistress might find onerous.”
The mysterious visitor seemed taken aback.
“You should be careful with your words, Lord Brakal. Some might call you a defeatist, and then where will the Kraal be with one of its leading members surrounded by the stench of treason?”
“Is seeing clearly and speaking truthfully considered treason when my goal is ending madness before it destroys the dynasty and perhaps even the empire? Surely your mistress can appreciate the risks of succumbing to political unrest if the emperor’s subjects feel he and his regent did not uphold our race’s honor against an alien foe.”
“The emperor is but a child.”
“Nevertheless, he embodies the empire. The Shrehari entrust him with the preservation of their collective honor as a people, even though it is the council under Mishtak’s misrule who is at fault. Perhaps your mistress should speak with admirals freshly back from the war zone. They would easily refute the council’s propaganda. We cannot win the war. But the empire can still lose it.”
Another prolonged pause, then, “Be that as it may. My mistress would rather not witness the Kraal acting against Mishtak and the council. Assemble it by all means. That is your ancient right. Deliberate and vote. But for the empire’s sake align Kraal and council, so they present a common front. Do not start a civil war among the noblest branches of our government.”
“And if I disregard your mistress’ wishes?”
“Then she cannot answer for your continued standing as a Lord of the Empire.”
Brakal tilted his head to one side as he tried to stare through his visitor’s veil.
“She plays a dangerous game. Perhaps you might encourage her to stay above politics and let events unfold as they must. For the good of the empire. Dynasties were overthrown for lesser reasons than the crisis we will face if we do not end this war.”
“Threats, Lord Brakal?” Her voice took on a menacing edge.
“Truth. The enemy is pressing his forces into our sphere and what does Mishtak’s tame kroorath Trage do? He replaces battle-tested leaders with political sycophants who do not even understand the humans are a species more cunning and adaptable than we ever expected. Another turn, perhaps two, and they will feel bold enough for raids against the homeworld itself. Your mistress surely understands the political consequences of such a development. Tell her from me I will support the dynasty and do everything to keep its rule intact. But she must stay aloof and let Mishtak face the consequences of his fecklessness. If she openly takes the council’s side, I cannot guarantee the child emperor will ascend the throne upon his majority.
“And if your mistress or those in her entourage think my death will stop the Kraal from challenging Mishtak, rest assured the events I put in motion can only be stopped by killing every single one of the four hundred. And that would mean the end of the dynasty, in an orgy of fire and blood not seen on the homeworld in more generations than the historical records remember.”
“I can see your beliefs are indeed passionately held, Lord Brakal. So be it. I have said my piece and heard your response.”
“In that case, Lady, unless there was something else,
perhaps I can accompany you back to the landing pad. Consider my words and do your mistress a favor by repeating them to her without alterations.”
When the visitor vanished into the unmarked aircar, Regar came through the mansion’s rear door and joined Brakal. They watched in silence as it lifted off and disappeared over the main building’s steep roof, headed toward Shredar and, as Brakal suspected, the Forbidden Quarter.
“Could we be facing problems, Lord?” The Tai Kan officer asked.
Brakal made a dismissive gesture.
“Us? No. But I think I gave given our regent something to ponder.”
“Regent?” A look of surprise came over Regar’s angular features. “You mean—”
“No, it was not she, but one of her handmaidens. Probably the principal companion, Adjur of Clan Ruktah. She would hide her face since she accompanies her lady to formal events and is well known. The other handmaidens are rarely seen and could pass as anything they wish beyond the gates of the palace.”
“Indeed. Let us hope Adjur whispers your exact words into her mistress’ ear.”
“I worry not so much about her skills as a messenger, but that Lady Kembri understands her position. And what siding publicly with Mishtak and the council might mean for Tumek’s chances of ascending the imperial throne when he comes of age.”
— Sixteen —
“Captain Dunmoore.” Rear Admiral Kell Petras inclined his head in greeting when the laser link between Iolanthe and Hawkwood stabilized. Dunmoore sat behind the desk in her day cabin, while Holt occupied a chair beyond the video pickup’s range.
“Sir. I’m pleased to announce we put paid to ten of the convoy’s fifteen ships. Three Ptars and seven freighters. The surviving five jumped into hyperspace without fully cycling their drives, which means they could be anywhere, or even nowhere, depending on how badly tuned the drives were.”
“I see. And if you’d waited until we arrived?”
“The convoy would be halfway to the FOB by now. We struck them five hours and forty minutes ago, shortly after they dropped out of FTL. If we’d waited for the rest of the task force, those fifteen enemy ships would have jumped out three-quarters of an hour after arriving. No matter how hard we might have pushed our pursuit, they’d have been sitting under the orbital bases’ guns by the time we caught up. Granted, if the FOB is of the same build as the one we destroyed in the Khorsan system, we would probably have been able to take it and the entire convoy out. But we don’t know what’s waiting for us over there. Yet.”
“Yet?” Petras’ thick eyebrows crept up.
“I dispatched Rooikat to reconnoiter the FOB. We should know more about it in a few hours.”
Petras didn’t immediately reply, though his eyes slid to one side as if he were glancing at Lena Corto sitting in a corner beyond his day cabin’s video pickup range.
“Why?”
“Perhaps it will be similar to the one in the Khorsan system, sir. A wartime construct with no more ordnance than that carried by a pair of Tol class cruisers.”
“Let me ask you a hypothetical question, Captain. If Rooikat sends back evidence the Tyva FOB and its situation are a match for what you found in the Khorsan system, and I wasn’t here yet with the rest of the task force, what would you have done?”
She replied without a moment’s hesitation.
“Waited for your arrival and your decision whether or not we attack it.”
Petras studied her in silence for what seemed like a long time.
“Really?”
“Sir, Iolanthe was on detached duty in the Khorsan system. Today, we’re part of the Task Force Luckner wolf pack, and that means conforming to your plans.”
Another pause.
“I do believe you meant what you just said. Good.”
“Sir, if the Tyva FOB presents a target of opportunity, may I suggest we attack it? Losing two bases on top of finding their supply convoys mauled will hit Shrehari pride in the gut. And a wounded enemy will make mistakes we can exploit.”
“We will discuss the matter once Rooikat tells us what we face. I assume you and Captain Pushkin prepared the usual after-action reports.”
“Yes, sir. And ammunition expenditure reports. You should receive them momentarily. Both of us can handle two more heavy engagements before our missile magazines run dry. Or perhaps one attack on that FOB, if we opt for a saturation strike.”
Petras rubbed his chin, eyes sliding to one side again.
“Which would mean heading for the nearest base to resupply. I’d hoped we might stay out longer than this.”
“Perhaps Iolanthe and Jan Sobieski could hang back and let the others deal with the FOB’s shields. Once they’re down, our guns can give it the mercy stroke.”
“As I said, let’s wait until we know more. The resident strike group might be in orbit, which would shift the odds against us. We’re commerce raiders, not a battle group which can seek out the enemy’s combat forces and destroy them.”
“Of course, sir. But Iolanthe is a battlecruiser under the disguise, and we can take on two Tol class cruisers simultaneously.”
“I know. However, let’s not try and prove it unless necessary. The Shrehari can churn out Tols at will, but there is only one Q-ship such as yours in the entire known galaxy. I’d rather let Tol class cruisers go than risk losing Iolanthe to battle damage.”
“Understood. For what it’s worth, sir, I agree with your sentiment. I’ve become rather fond of the Furious Faerie, and I’d rather not sacrifice her in a forlorn hope. If the Tyva FOB is too tough a nut to crack, I’ll be the first who says so.”
Petras dipped his head in acknowledgment.
“We will speak again soon. In the meantime, I’ll digest your and Captain Pushkin’s reports. Flag, out.”
“That went better than expected,” Holt said, stretching as he stood. “Though I wonder whether the poor admiral is getting an earful from Lena right now. Judging by his shifty eyes, she wasn’t giving him signs of eternal happiness. Truth is, some days I wonder who’s running this task force. Good old Kell or our beloved Lena Corto.”
“We probably shouldn’t speculate, Zeke. Ours not to reason why and whatnot.”
“True. The real test will be if Rooikat comes back with images of a forlorn FOB ready for the picking. But instead of pouncing, we receive orders taking us back to Atsang and another attempt at making the wolf pack work in space as well as it did in Earth’s Atlantic Ocean. But once again without hoisting in the actual lessons from history.”
“Don’t be so harsh. I’d say this last attempt was an unqualified success. Did you bother checking the statistics from those days? Wolf packs never sunk an entire convoy. A good percentage of merchant ships and escorts always made it to port. Yet they successfully interfered with their opponents’ war effort for years, which prolonged the conflict.”
“Sure but at what cost, considering how many of those submersible crews never saw home again?”
She smirked at him.
“One which I won’t pay, whether we’re on detached duty or under the admiral’s keen eye. If Rooikat’s scans show Tyva well defended, I’ll gladly vote we choose another target.”
“Last time I checked, the navy wasn’t a democracy. The only person who gets a vote around here wears two stars on his collar.”
“Also true.” Dunmoore climbed to her feet. “And since we won’t know for a few hours what that vote will be, I’ll grab a plate of something hot in the wardroom, then hit the gym. I’ve spent entirely too much time in the CIC command chair lately.”
**
“Rooikat is cruising along the Tyva hyperlimit under silent running right now and transmitting in real-time,” Captain Lena Corto announced when Petras gave her the nod.
As usual, apart from Petras and Corto, only Hawkwood’s captain was sitting at the conference table in person. The other starship commanders took part via hologram over laser comlinks. The main display across from Petras showed the image of an artif
icial construct orbiting a reddish, dusty-looking planet.
“No different from the other one,” Dunmoore said. “Modular, seemingly thrown together without care for esthetics, and judging by its apparent size, probably no better armed.”
Corto turned her icy stare on Dunmoore’s hologram.
“Indeed. Its emissions signature is congruent with the signature you and Fennec picked up from the Khorsan system FOB. Unfortunately...” She let her words die away as a pair of warships came into view. “At least part of the local strike group is home. A Tol class cruiser and a Ptar class corvette. There may be more running silent elsewhere in the system, but Rooikat picked up only those two in Tyva’s immediate vicinity. She paid particular attention to the planet’s Lagrangian points and those of its three moons since Captain Dunmoore believes they may have adopted our trick of ambushing any would-be intruders.”
Dunmoore successfully stopped herself from uttering a scornful reply to the effect there was no ‘may’ about it, though she met Corto gaze with eyes that spoke volumes.
“There are no signs as yet of the surviving ships from the convoy,” Corto continued. “Though they may be inbound to Tyva as we speak, which would give the local commander two more corvettes, at least until they leave for Atsang.”
In other words, Dunmoore thought, Lena isn’t keen on entering the star system, let alone destroying FOB Tyva. No doubt she and Petras had a frank discussion behind closed doors shortly after Rooikat opened a subspace channel and sent back images and readings of the Shrehari orbital station.
“One Tol and one Ptar aren’t much against the full strength of our task force,” Commander Farren Vento of the Type 330 frigate Narses said. “Not if that FOB is a near copy of the one Iolanthe destroyed. Especially if we can sneak in and catch them napping. The multiplier effect of forcing the enemy further back into his own space for resupply by taking out these FOBs is worth the price of admission.”
“And hitting the boneheads where it really hurts — their damnable pride and sense of honor,” Commander Chandra Clar captain of the task force’s other Type 330 frigate, Belisarius, added. “The admiral based out of Khorsan probably found himself on his boss’ shit list, as will the one who owns this FOB if we pull an Iolanthe on it. Maybe even removed from command. And whoever’s in charge of this sector could find himself under fire from the imperial high command to boot. Anything we can do to cause trouble for their higher ranks will only help the war effort.”