When the Guns Roar

by Eric Thomson

  “Of course. Every moment is seared into my memory. You stated the view that religion was awe at what we can’t explain.”

  “I still consider it a valid point. But what I remember as well is you saying words to the effect that a crew which doesn’t believe in itself or its ship cannot fight and survive for long.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Sounds like me.”

  “You need not wonder about my crew’s belief in itself. Ever.”

  Dunmoore reached out and grasped Pushkin’s upper arm.

  “I’ve known that for a long time, Gregor. Crews are a reflection of their captains. It’s one reason I chose Jan Sobieski to lead the group against Miqa.”

  Pushkin glanced away, clearly embarrassed by her praise.

  “I learned from the best of the best, Commodore.”

  She released his arm.

  “I’ll settle in and let you prepare your ship for departure.”

  “Yes, sir. I would be pleased if you’d join me in the CIC when we go FTL in ninety minutes.”

  “Certainly. I wouldn’t miss it.”

  Once she was alone, Dunmoore dropped into a chair and exhaled slowly while butterflies fluttered in her stomach. Her first combat mission as a flag officer was about to kick off in earnest, and it would be the most daring in this war to date. As the old proverb said, be careful what you wish for, you just might get it. And HQ gave Dunmoore her wish, with the implied message of put up or shut up. Or so it seemed.

  She glanced at the coffee urn but after a few moments decided against a cup of the black, heavily caffeinated stuff that kept the navy going as much as antimatter did. Her nerves didn’t need a booster shot. Dunmoore retrieved her reader and tried to focus on Kach’s treatise, yet she kept rereading the same passages over and over again.

  Eighty minutes passed in a fog of irritation and anxiety before she put the reader down and stood. Perhaps entering the CIC with one of Jan Sobieski’s mugs in hand might not just project the right image, but also keep her nerves under control.

  Gregor Pushkin already sat in his command chair when the CIC’s door slid aside to admit her. An empty copy of it waited to his right while officers and ratings, focused on their respective readouts, occupied the remaining stations.

  “Commodore on deck,” a petty officer sang out, though Dunmoore was relieved no one sprang to attention.

  “At ease,” she replied, nodding at Pushkin. “How are we doing?”

  “Luckner Group Miqa is synced and ready, sir. Iolanthe reports Luckner Group Hoqa is also ready and synced. The countdown timer is running. No noticeable enemy activity which might be aimed at us.”

  Dunmoore dropped into the jury-rigged command chair. Part of her noticed a certain hardness compared to her usual seat in Iolanthe’s CIC, but it would do.

  She studied the three-dimensional projection of the Shrehari home system dominating Jan Sobieski’s CIC. The target gas giants glowed with the red of marked targets, while the remaining planets gave off a more sedate hue. No wedge-shaped icons were pulsing to show Shrehari warships closing on their position, meaning they remained either undetected or still beyond the range of any enemy patrols closing in on them. So far, so good.

  Dunmoore turned her eyes on the countdown timer in the main display’s lower right corner. Five minutes before her task force jumped past the heliopause and entered the enemy’s home star system to make history. Or died trying.

  When the timer hit one minute to jump, a klaxon resonated throughout the frigate, followed by the first officer’s verbal warning. Precisely sixty seconds later, she felt her stomach turn inside out as the universe twisted, propelling Task Force Luckner into hyperspace.

  When her innards settled, Dunmoore heard the usual notice to set the ship at FTL cruising stations. She glanced at Pushkin who leaned forward and stood.

  “Could I interest you in a game of chess, Commodore, seeing as how we’re spending the next ten hours in hyperspace?”

  “With pleasure. I’ve become used to Zeke’s manners and know his weaknesses. Facing you again will be refreshing.”

  “Mister Jokkainen, you have the CIC.”

  Jan Sobieski’s combat systems officer, a dark-haired, youthful-looking lieutenant, stood in turn. “I have the CIC, Captain.”

  Once in Pushkin’s day cabin, he pointed at the samovar sitting on a sideboard.

  “My preferred tea blend, but if you’d rather not, I can call the wardroom for coffee. Please sit. I’ll serve us.”

  “Tea is fine. In fact, it’ll make a change from the usual. With a coffee urn available twenty-four hours a day, either in my quarters or the wardroom, every cup has been remarkably consistent to the point where I can’t quite recall the taste anymore.”

  Pushkin chuckled as he pulled two mugs with Jan Sobieski’s emblem, a winged hussar, from the rack above the samovar.

  “A professional peril in the navy, I think. We run on antimatter and caffeine.”

  “So long as we remember which goes where.”

  She took the visitor’s chair by Pushkin’s desk.

  “I’m sure a starship’s engines can survive a bit of tea in her fuel feed. Humans and raw antimatter might be a little messier.” He handed her a steaming cup. “Not something I want to witness, let alone try.”

  Pushkin retrieved a mahogany box similar to the chess set she’d given Holt.

  “White or black?”

  “I always give Zeke white.”

  “Would it annoy you if I chose black?”

  He sat behind his desk, opened the box, and withdrew the carved pieces before flipping it over and setting up the board.

  “It’s your ship, Gregor.”

  With the chessmen in place, he spun the board.

  “Yours is the opening move, Commodore.”

  Three hard-fought bouts later, each of which ended in a draw, Pushkin glanced at the time.

  “We’re expected in the wardroom for the evening meal, sir. If you don’t mind, I suggest we call ourselves matched opponents.”

  “Agreed.”

  Pushkin returned the chessmen to their slots and stowed the box in one of his desk drawers.

  “Shall we?”

  Jan Sobieski’s officers received Dunmoore with the élan of polished hosts. But she thought their conviviality seemed a little forced, perhaps even overly bright, as if masking the tension they felt at jumping into the Shrehari home system without quite knowing what perils waited when their ship would come out of hyperspace.

  Perhaps the enemy had spotted them and deployed his ships to cover vulnerable points, such as the antimatter fueling station necklaces around the two inner gas giants, turning what Dunmoore intended as a fast, destructive raid into a pitched fight with a dozen Tol class cruisers.

  Yet they also exuded a quiet pride at being not only chosen for the most daring mission of the war but serving as flagship for Task Force Luckner’s Group Miqa. The latter would be a brief honor yet one which could cement the frigate’s place in naval history.

  This close to full battle stations, the drinks were non-alcoholic, though the meal itself was fresh and warm, not made from reconstituted rations or consisting of a self-serve cold food buffet. Trevane Devall, as befit the scion of a wealthy and politically connected family, was in his element at the head of the wardroom table, presiding over the meal and making brilliant conversation with his guests and fellow officers.

  A veteran of Stingray’s adventures under Dunmoore’s command, he appeared calmer than the rest, though she sensed he was repressing the same thoughts and worries as everyone else.

  At the end of the meal, Devall tapped his knife against his glass to call for silence. Once it fell, he turned to Dunmoore and said, “Commodore, we should never call upon guests of the wardroom to perform for their meal, but considering the circumstances, I wonder if you’d care to say a few words.”

  “It would be a pleasure.”

  She let her eyes roam around the table and smiled. The f
rigate’s officers stared back with the intense fascination of those convinced they were about to hear a flag officer produce words of ineffable wisdom. Or bore them to tears with platitudes.

  “As some of you might remember from your academy days, the greatest naval battle in the era of sailing ships on pre-diaspora Earth was fought off Cape Trafalgar on October 21, 1805. It will always be remembered as Admiral Horatio Nelson’s greatest and last victory — the Battle of Trafalgar. For centuries, Nelson’s service, the British Royal Navy observed the battle’s anniversary with ceremonies, dinners, and speeches. The Commonwealth Navy has other traditions, stemming from more recent wars and it’s been long since anyone commemorated Trafalgar Day. But since we are descended from Earth’s greatest naval forces, it still forms part of our history.”

  She paused and watched for eyes lighting up, hoping she wouldn’t see dull stares of incomprehension. None of Pushkin’s officers seemed to have forgotten their naval history, or at least not the names Nelson and Trafalgar.

  “One custom for Trafalgar Night dinners was saying grace, or if you wish, praying to the Almighty for those of faith, before and after the meal. I still remember one after dinner prayer I read long ago — it dates back to wet navy days on Earth, in fact — and I think it might serve us with a few changes.”

  She paused for a few seconds, then,

  “To do what’s right, when others’ feet get cold

  We pray for courage strong to make us Bold

  To Faithf’lly serve our Spacers and Marines

  Our Captain, each other, and our species

  And so that we our hurting galaxy may bless

  To fight for Peace and Justice with Success.”

  After taking a breath, Dunmoore continued, “A few of you may recall Admiral Nelson’s signal just before his fleet engaged the enemy read ‘England expects that every man will do his duty.’ I need not make a similar signal when we drop out of FTL in a few hours, because I know you and everyone else in Task Force Luckner will do their utmost to claim coup against the enemy and leave him reeling.”

  She climbed to her feet.

  “Thank you for your warm hospitality and keep in mind that when we return home, you’ll be able to dine out on this mission for the rest of your lives. With luck, you’ll even tell your grandchildren about it.”

  “And mightily bored they’ll be,” Trevane Devall replied, grinning broadly as he gave the traditional reply, eliciting chuckles and smiles from the entire wardroom complement.

  For a second, Dunmoore could feel the tension, never far from the surface, ease just a bit. After one last smile and a wink at Devall, she turned on her heels and left with Pushkin in tow.

  When they were beyond earshot, the latter asked, “Tell me you prepared that story and prayer in case Trevane put you on the spot, and didn’t pull it out of thin air right there and then.”

  She glanced at him with amusement dancing in her eyes.

  “I was ready for your first officer’s polite ambush, Gregor. Although my memory is better than that of most people, even I can’t keep a million obscure details in my head. But I can share another amusing fact if you’d like. At Trafalgar, Nelson broke with doctrine and separated his fleet into two columns, a bit like I’ve done with Luckner, though we’ll be attacking orbital installations, not cutting across the enemy’s line.”

  They stopped outside their quarters, and Pushkin turned to face her.

  “I’m sure you realize that little speech will become part of Jan Sobieski’s history, right? I don’t think anyone present will ever forget it. They’re a little scared, though they hide it well, but they’re also proud and determined. Your words gave them just enough spirit to reinforce the latter. As you no doubt intended.”

  She met his eyes and said, “If it worked, I’ve done my duty. Goodnight, Gregor.”

  — Thirty-Two —

  Soldiers of the Imperial Ground Forces’ Fourth Assault Regiment wearing black combat armor did not try to pretend they were anything other than a protection detail surrounding the Jakrang ruins when Brakal passed through the weather-worn main gate. Though Vagh’s reassurances still rang in his ears, the paranoid living deep within Brakal’s mind could not help but wonder whether the stoic troopers would turn around and aim their weapons at the lords once they were assembled.

  Mishtak and his supporters had been suspiciously quiet of late, as had the Tai Kan, even Brakal’s newest friend Kroesh. Nor had Lady Kembri or anyone else from the imperial palace reached out to him. Still, Shredar felt as if it sat on top of a rapidly waking volcano. The capital’s entire population, from the highest officials to the lowest of beggars, seemed to hold its collective breath while waiting for the dramatic political explosion once the Kraal voted to oppose the governing council’s handling of the war effort.

  Would Lady Kembri accept a vote of non-confidence, as per tradition? Or would she anger the four hundred most powerful lords in the empire, Shrehari who commanded the loyalty and obedience of countless millions, including most of the Imperial Armed Forces, by refusing? And would such a refusal, in effect a violation of ancient custom, be deemed dishonorable by the empire’s ordinary citizens and see them revolt against the dynasty?

  The questions chased each other in ever-tightening circles as Toralk drove Brakal and Regar through the dun-colored sandstone ruins of what was once an intricate religious, political, and entertainment complex long before the first starships lifted from the planet’s surface.

  Sitting among untended meadows and woods some distance from Shredar’s city limits, it still belonged to the imperial government but was rarely used anymore. The odd operatic production might play in the open-air amphitheater, and the odd religious rites were performed in temples so old they had been rededicated to different gods over the course of a thousand generations.

  Time had worn down most of the statues, fluted columns and wall-sized carvings, leaving little of what were once artistic masterpieces in stone. Anything that once gave the complex a bit of color was also gone, washed away by rain, wind, and harsh sunlight.

  Yet the Jakrang retained an eerie majesty that always left Brakal with a vague sense of awe. If his people were able to build something this beautiful with nothing more than muscle-powered tools, why could they not defeat a species younger than the imperial race, one deemed beneath a Shrehari’s contempt?

  To his surprise, uniformed Tai Kan troopers stood guard outside the amphitheater where the lords of the Kraal would shortly assemble to salvage the empire’s honor and ensure the dynasty’s continued existence.

  “What is this, Regar?” He gestured at the figures in white armor.

  “First Deputy Director Kroesh deployed a battalion loyal to him. They are under the control of the Fourth Assault Regiment’s commanding officer.”

  “Why?”

  “Kroesh decided the presence of uniformed Tai Kan loyal to him would help serve as a deterrent should Mishtak deploy his own Tai Kan battalions. There is no love lost between my service and the military, but never in the Tai Kan’s history has one uniformed unit fired on another.”

  “Why was I not informed of this change?”

  “A late decision, Lord.”

  “Yet you knew.”

  “I knew of the possibility, but thought it best not to say a word unless Kroesh acted on his decision.”

  Brakal let out an irritated grunt.

  “You did not wish a protracted argument with me, is that it? Miscreant. However, provided Kroesh’s troops are indeed here to help protect the Kraal and not arrest us the moment I declare it in session, the idea has merit.”

  “You will find soldiers of the Fourth Assault Regiment standing guard within the amphitheater’s walls. Kroesh’s troops will not pass them unscathed.”

  “Good. It would pain me if the next Tai Kan director proved false.”

  “Is the appointment confirmed?”

  Brakal’s lips curled back.

  “No. I am the only Kraal member
who knows. For now. One step at a time.”

  As the car entered the amphitheater’s outer gate, the two Tai Kan troopers standing guard on either side raised their gauntleted fists in salute upon recognizing the Clan Makkar emblem. Once through, they passed a pair of soldiers in black armor who did the same.

  “See,” Regar said. “Three cordons. Soldiers, Tai Kan and again, soldiers. Mishtak would be crazy to force the issue.”

  “Who designed the array?”

  This time, Regar curled back his lips in a smile.

  “Kroesh, the Fourth Regiment’s commander, and I.”

  “Well done. We will make something useful of you yet, my tame spy.”

  Toralk took them across a cobblestone plaza to where the theater’s south wall still stood. An underofficer indicated they should park closest to the entrance, in the place of honor, after saluting them.

  As planned, Brakal was first on the scene. Or at least the first of the lords. Chief Keeper of the Kraal’s Records Gvant and his aides would already be inside, preparing the place, though their vehicle would be parked elsewhere, out of sight. Perhaps alongside the Fourth Regiment’s transports. The plaza itself was reserved for the lords.

  As they climbed out of the car, Regar pointed upward.

  “The regiment put surveillance floaters aloft. Nothing will approach from the air without being seen, and if necessary, destroyed.”

  “Let us hope Mishtak and his minions know about these precautions and keep away. I would rather not shed blood on the first Kraal assembly in many turns.”

  “They know. Kroesh has made sure of it. As has General Vagh through his friends at the admiralty. Officially, the Fourth Imperial Assault Regiment is on an unplanned training exercise, but carrying live ammunition, and will answer if anything threatens one of the empire’s oldest and most venerated institutions. Mind you,” Regar gave Brakal a sly glance, “if Mishtak decides on the strongest of measures, there is little anyone can do to prevent the Jakrang’s destruction via a kinetic strike from orbit.”