by Eric Thomson
“Dunmoore, out.”
Less than two minutes later, her door chime pealed, and at the invitation to enter, Lena Corto walked in, curiosity writ large on her narrow face.
“Do you know why both of us are reporting to Tyrel Mensall when we belong to a different command?” She asked without preamble or the usual courtesies. Dunmoore and Corto had kept out of each other’s way since leaving Shrehari space, and this was one of the few times they met in the course of duty.
“Not a clue, Lena. But I figure the orders from HQ might include bad news, hence the personal touch of a rear admiral.”
“It means they received our patrol report.”
“Yes. And perhaps something in it gave the brass cause to reassess what we’re doing.” Dunmoore shrugged. “At least Hawkwood is headed for dry dock with no pleading or arguing on our part, and someone drew up a plan to resupply us. They wouldn’t be so solicitous if Task Force Luckner were on SOCOM’s shit list.”
Corto dropped into the chair on the other side of Dunmoore’s desk.
“True.” The two women examined each other in silence, still visibly uncomfortable, but the tension evident during Corto’s first day in Iolanthe was no longer palpable. “What do you think is about to happen?”
Dunmoore’s lips twisted in a dismissive moue.
“Again, not a clue. The starbase could be resupplying our ships before they head off to other formations and we look for new work, just as it may be preparing us for another patrol deep inside enemy space.”
Corto scoffed.
“I might be looking for new work, but you’ll still have Iolanthe.”
“What do you mean?”
A mocking smile twisted her thin, pale lips.
“Line over staff, remember?”
“And you still bear a grudge against me for it.”
“Not so much anymore. I realized stoking the fires of resentment is exhausting and a week with little by way of real work allowed me to examine myself and consider my future. I spent a lot of time in the last few months wishing you were one of those privileged, protected officers promoted beyond her ability. You know, the sort who’ll eventually show a lack of fitness to command so obvious her next assignment is a remote scientific outpost on the other side of the Commonwealth. But you’re not. That realization pained me. Deeply.”
When she saw Dunmoore open her mouth to speak, Corto let out a bark of laughter as bleak as it was short.
“It doesn’t mean I hold you in any greater esteem than before, though it puts things into perspective. I’m envious of you having Iolanthe, I’m envious of your relationship with her crew, and I’m envious of your ability to disregard risk calculations and simply go with your instincts. But that envy is my problem, not yours.”
A long pause filled the air between them.
“I don’t know what to say.”
“There is nothing you can say, Siobhan. You and I are remarkably different. We enjoyed different career paths, different opportunities, and different patrons high up the food chain. Whether that’s fair, who cares? It’s a reality. My seeing you sit there as captain of the Fleet’s premier Q-ship makes me feel old and washed-up. Enjoy it while you can. In a few years, you could easily be me, looking back at what was and regretting what might have been. Serving in SOCOM isn’t a path to glory. You’ll be forever identified with Iolanthe and her covert missions, not as the captain of a heavy cruiser with an envious war record, one which, more importantly, will be publicly recognized and celebrated. Yes, I’m bitter, but that makes me no different from a lot of other post captains who realize their dreams of one day wearing an admiral’s stars are forever out of reach, war or no war.”
Corto stood.
“You and I may face the same future in due course. Let me know when I should join you by the main airlock. I assume Admiral Mensall won’t mind if we appear wearing our everyday battledress.”
“I doubt he will.”
The unexpected tirade left Dunmoore feeling deflated. She spent a long time staring at the map on the far bulkhead after Corto’s departure. But the stars offered no answers beyond the truism that human lives were nothing compared to theirs.
**
Dunmoore and Corto made their way down the docking arm that connected Iolanthe to Starbase 32 and up to the command deck in silence. Each wrestled with her private thoughts, aware neither could change what would happen next, both knowing they would accept their orders as the professional navy officers they’d been all their adult lives, no matter what.
A middle-aged lieutenant wearing the insignia of a rear admiral’s aide and the seamed face of a chief petty officer commissioned from the ranks rose from behind his desk as they entered the executive suite’s antechamber.
“Sirs. Admiral Mensall is expecting you.” He touched something on his desk, and an inner door behind him opened soundlessly. “Please go in.”
Dunmoore allowed Corto to go ahead of her but once inside both captains halted in unison a regulation three paces from Mensall’s desk and saluted.
“Captains Corto and Dunmoore reporting as ordered, sir,” Dunmoore announced.
Mensall returned the compliment, then waved at the pair of chairs facing him.
“At ease. Please sit.”
When they complied, he leaned forward, elbows on the metal desktop, hands joined.
“I realize being summoned by a flag officer not in your chain of command for orders must sound unusual. But since those orders involve next career steps for both of you, Armand personally asked me to pass them along in his stead once he heard Task Force Luckner would make for Starbase 32.”
When he saw surprise in Corto’s eyes at hearing him casually use the first name of the four-star admiral commanding SOCOM, Mensall smiled.
“Armand and I were Academy classmates back in the dark ages. This was more a favor between old friends than a formal request.”
Dunmoore nodded in acknowledgment.
“Understood, sir. I gather it means Admiral Xi received our patrol report.”
“That he did, and he sent me a suitably redacted copy. On Admiral Xi’s behalf and mine as well, congratulations to the both of you. Destroying Shrehari bases deep within the empire’s sphere will hopefully prove irritating enough to make them act rashly. You may not know this since you’ve been out for several months, but in the last few weeks, regular battle groups carried out fighting raids in almost all of the star systems occupied by the enemy. In some cases, where we knew of active resistance movements on the ground, the raids also covered resupply runs. Perhaps those operations, coupled with your actions behind their lines might make someone in Shredar’s Forbidden Quarter think we’re gaining the upper hand and look for a way they can end this without besmirching their precious honor.”
“We can only hope, sir,” Corto replied.
“Now, the reason you’re here. With Kell Petras out of action for the foreseeable future, Armand is downgrading the appointment of the flag officer commanding Task Force Luckner to commodore, which is more in line with the formation’s size and composition. Commodores, especially those who command in space rather than from a fixed installation, don’t rate a flag captain or even much of a staff. As a result, Captain Corto, you’re reassigned to the Joint Plans Division at Fleet HQ as Director, Naval Special Operations Capacity Development.”
“Yes, sir.”
Corto and Dunmoore kept their eyes on Mensall instead of exchanging glances, though both understood the appointment, important as it might be in the greater context, wouldn’t take Corto any closer to a commodore’s stars. It was the sort of job undertaken by post captains who would stay at that rank until they retired.
“My flag lieutenant reserved a VIP berth for you in Normandie,” he continued, naming one of the Fleet’s armed transports who spent their lives sailing from starbase to starbase on a regular schedule, moving people and cargo. “She’s inbound as we speak and should dock within the next four hours.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Mensall turned his gaze on Dunmoore.
“Congratulations. You’re Task Force Luckner’s new flag officer with promotion to commodore, although only acting — while so employed since the Fleet is well over its authorized permanent flag officer quota. But at least the promotion is backdated to the day you took temporary command when Kell entered a stasis pod.”
This time Dunmoore reflexively glanced at Corto and caught a brief flash of venom in her eyes before weary resignation replaced it.
“Congratulations, Siobhan. At least one of us made it.”
“What about Iolanthe, sir?”
“Your first officer is taking her, though his promotion to post captain is substantive as is the appointment.” Mensall glanced at the reader on his desk. “He, in turn, is replaced by your second officer, whose promotion and appointment are also substantive. However, your second officer will not be replaced for now, so Commander Cullop will carry out the duties of both positions.”
“And the rest of Admiral Petras’ staff?”
“Recalled to SOCOM HQ. Armand figures you’re not the type who needs much of a staff. I suppose you can always reach into the ranks of Task Force Luckner and grab a few warm bodies if required.” Mensall studied her for a reaction. After a moment he nodded, satisfied by what he saw. “You don’t seem unhappy with the situation. Good. I never had much use for flag officers who measured their importance by the size of the staff dancing attendance on them.”
“Me neither, sir.”
“Armand asked that I formally present your star, so if you’ll bear with me.” He touched unseen controls on his desk. “Glendan, I’m about to promote Commodore Dunmoore.”
“Sir.”
Moments later, the aide entered carrying a small box in one hand. A floating silver sphere the size of a baby’s fist trailed him at shoulder height. Mensall nodded at the shiny orb.
“I’ll send a copy of the recording to Armand, and you’ll receive one as well.” He rose to his feet, imitated by Dunmoore and Corto, and gestured toward the stand of flags dominating one of the office’s paneled bulkheads. “Over there will be a good place. You’re welcome to join us, Lena.”
“I would rather not. This is Siobhan’s moment. Best I stay out of the picture.”
“As you wish.” Once he and Dunmoore were in position, Mensall took the small box from his aide’s hand and pulled out a gold alloy star the size of an adult’s thumbnail. “Attention to orders. I hereby promote Captain Siobhan Alaina Dunmoore to the rank of commodore and appoint her flag officer commanding Task Force Luckner.”
Mensall reached for Dunmoore’s tunic collar and removed the four gold bars of a post captain.
“Hold out your hand.” When she obeyed, he dropped the insignia into her palm. “Perhaps you might pass this on to Captain Holt.”
“I most certainly will, sir. Zeke and I go way back. This wasn’t his first tour as my second in command.”
“Good.” Mensall reached for her tunic collar again, this time to affix a commodore’s five-pointed star. “There. Congratulations.”
After they shook hands and posed for the video drone, Mensall invited them to sit and enjoy a cup of coffee with him, however, Corto politely refused.
“Thank you, sir, but I think it would be best if I returned to the ship and packed, so I’m well away before Commodore Dunmoore returns.”
“As you wish. Enjoy your trip, and good luck with your future endeavors.”
Corto came to attention and saluted.
“With your permission, Admiral?”
“Dismissed, Captain.”
When she made to salute Dunmoore, the latter held out her hand instead.
“Fair winds and following seas, Lena.”
“You too, sir.” Her tone held a slight edge, but she gave the appearance of someone who’d made her peace with the universe. Whether it was feigned, Dunmoore didn’t care to find out.
Once Corto was gone, Mensall retrieved a memory chip from his desk and held it out.
“Encrypted orders for your eyes only. I don’t know what they say, except you’re not to issue them until Task Force Luckner is beyond the Torrinos heliopause, outbound for enemy space.”
“That sounds ominous, sir.”
He gave her an amused look.
“Based on Luckner’s purpose and your reputation, I’d be surprised if the orders weren’t. Ominous, I mean.” He waved at the settee group. “If you can spare me a bit of your time, I’m interested in hearing more about how you rampaged through the Shrehari Empire.”
“Certainly, sir. It would be a pleasure.”
She spent an enjoyable half-hour with Mensall, answering his question about Luckner’s patrol behind enemy lines. In return, he gave her nuggets of wisdom on the hidden perils of being a flag officer. When he finally saw her out into the executive suite antechamber, the aide rose from behind his desk and said, “I’ve informed Iolanthe of Commodore Dunmoore’s appointment, sir, though I didn’t mention who her new captain was.”
“Excellent!” Mensall beamed at her. “I’m sure the flagship will receive Task Force Luckner’s new commander in style. It’ll be the perfect moment to pin those four stripes on your successor’s collar.”
Dunmoore swallowed a theatrical groan.
“Knowing Captain Holt, I’m afraid he’ll overdo things, Admiral.”
“Perhaps, but try to enjoy it. Getting piped aboard your flagship for the first time is an experience you’ll never forget.” He stuck out his hand. “We’ll do our best to prepare you for the hunt, but your damaged destroyer might not make it out of dry dock before you leave.”
“Thank you for everything, sir.”
— Twenty-Two —
Dunmoore thought herself prepared for the welcome aboard after her promotion and appointment became public. But the trill of eleven bosun’s whistles and the stamp of thirty booted feet on the metal deck caught her by surprise as she left the docking arm and stepped into Iolanthe’s main airlock.
“Luckner arriving. To the flag, present ARMS.”
A cramped space at the best of times, it seemed impossibly full with a platoon from E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment to her left and Chief Petty Officer Second Class Anita Dwyn and ten of her mates on the right. A broad pennant, the symbol of a commodore commanding ships in space unfurled from a short, makeshift mast at the airlock’s far end.
Ezekiel Holt came up the middle, stomped to attention, and when the bosun’s whistles fell silent, saluted.
“Welcome aboard your flagship, Commodore. If we weren’t docked, we would give you a bigger welcome on the hangar deck, but I hope this suffices.”
Dunmoore returned the compliment. When the soldiers shouldered arms, she said, “It’s more than I expected, Captain.”
“Sir?” Holt’s single eye lit up with an unvoiced question.
“Shall we do this here, or call our Scandians and the ship’s company together on the hangar deck?” Dunmoore pulled her former rank insignia from her tunic pocket and held it up for Holt to see. “I wore this until an hour ago. If you accept, I’d be happy for you to wear it.”
“No kidding? Of course, I accept. Those stripes of yours are blessed with some sort of magic.”
“Iolanthe belongs to you, Zeke. My appointment may be acting — while so employed because of the peacetime cap on flag officers, but your promotion is substantive and Emma is your first officer. You won’t receive a new second officer for now, but I’m sure she can take care of both her old and new responsibilities.”
“And more. I don’t know what to say, Commodore.”
“Attention to orders,” Dunmoore said in a loud voice. “Ezekiel Holt, I now promote you to the rank of post captain and appoint you as commanding officer of the Commonwealth Starship Iolanthe. Hold out your hand.”
When he complied, Dunmoore reached up, removed his commander’s rank insignia, and dropped it into the palm of his hand. “You may want to see Emma wearing your old stripes. Appa
rently, they’re also blessed with magic.”
“Absolutely, sir.” Unexpected wonderment and delight tinged his voice. “I’m sure she’ll be thrilled.”
She pinned her old captain’s rank insignia on his collar and took one step back.
“Congratulations. I couldn’t hand the Furious Faerie over to a finer commanding officer.”
“And the Furious Faerie couldn’t hope to serve as the flagship for a better commodore, sir.”
“Remember our discussions about building a makeshift flag bridge for Task Force Luckner’s new commander?”
“Sure.”
“Put a second command chair in the CIC, and we’ll call it a day. I think between us we can run both Iolanthe and the task force with the same crew.”
“What about Lena and Admiral Petras’ staff?”
“Lena is off to Fleet HQ and the rest recalled by SOCOM. If I want staff, I’m welcome to recruit within Task Force Luckner. And you know me.”
“No staff? I’m sure Thorin and his crew will happily serve both of us. But not even an aide?”
“What good would a poor flag lieutenant do me while we raid deep inside enemy space?”
“Point taken, Commodore.”
Dunmoore gestured toward the Scandia Regiment soldiers.
“Why don’t we dismiss the honor guard and continue this discussion in my — pardon, your day cabin?”
“It will stay yours for as long as you wish.”
“No. The only thing I’ll keep are my quarters. You can take the VIP suite across the passageway once Lena leaves and give Emma the first officer’s cabin. Now clear the airlock, will you?”
When the soldiers and Chief Dwyn’s party were gone, Holt said, “Lena couldn’t run ashore fast enough. I never saw such a thunderous face on a captain before. She barely said a word to anyone. But a flag officer needs her day cabin, surely.”
Dunmoore shook her head.
“The sitting room in my suite will do just fine. This is your ship, Zeke. I’m merely a guest using your facilities to coordinate Task Force Luckner’s actions.”
“If that’s what you want. We could still build a flag bridge...”