by Eric Thomson
“At ease.”
He stopped beside the rostrum and let his eyes roam over the assembled officers.
“I hope everyone in Commodore Dunmoore’s ships can see me.”
Harmel nodded once.
“Yes, sir. I spoke with each captain myself from this room moments ago.”
“Then let us go ahead.”
He held out his hand, took the tablet proffered by Lemmone and, after another look around the room, turned his eyes on its screen.
“Task Force Luckner, made up of the Commonwealth Starships Iolanthe, Jan Sobieski, Hawkwood, Tamurlane, Narses, Belisarius, Rooikat, Fennec, and Skua is cited for extraordinary courage and outstanding performance of combat duties in action against the Shrehari Empire by raiding the imperial home system on September 12th, 2471, shocking the enemy into suing for peace and ending our decade long war. The officers, non-commissioned officers, ratings, and soldiers serving in the above-named ships displayed daring, determination, and esprit de corps in accomplishing their mission under extremely hazardous conditions and by their achievements they brought distinguished credit on themselves, their ships, and the Commonwealth Armed Services.”
Polite applause greeted Shkadov’s reading of the actual citation as it had been gazetted before Terra left Earth.
“Commodore Dunmoore, front and center so you can accept the Commonwealth Unit Citation on behalf of Task Force Luckner.”
She snapped to attention.
“Yes, sir.”
As the assembly watched, Shkadov pinned the device, a small gold-edged metallic oblong bearing the colors of the three services, Navy blue, Marine Corps red, and Army green, on Dunmoore’s chest, above her name tag.
He offered her his hand.
“Please accept my congratulations and pass them on to your people. What you did was extraordinarily gutsy, especially since no one knew whether the raid would have any effect whatsoever on the war effort. Or how well the Shrehari home system was defended. Or even whether you would find targets you could attack without risking the lives of everyone in the task force. Fortune does indeed favor the bold. Come to think of it that would make a great motto for Task Force Luckner, don’t you think, Commodore? Audaces Fortuna Juvat. Since you don’t have a motto, consider it yours from now on.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
Another round of applause, this time a shade more enthusiastic, punctuated Shkadov’s statement.
“I’ve also taken the liberty of authorizing a formation crest to mark the occasion.”
He gestured toward the display at his back. It lit up, revealing a stylized black eagle on a white background surrounded by an equally black circle. Wings and legs outstretched, the eagle clutched an anti-ship missile in each claw. The name Task Force Luckner and the motto Audaces Fortuna Juvat were inscribed in white on the black circle, proving without a doubt Shkadov prepared his words well in advance. Just as Dunmoore did in Jan Sobieski for her supper with the frigate’s officers the evening before the raid.
“This is a representation, suitably updated, of the emblem at the center of the ensign hoisted by your task force’s namesake, Count Felix von Luckner moments before attacking enemy vessels with his commerce raider, Seeadler.”
“An inspired design, sir,” Dunmoore replied after a pause to search for the proper words. “I don’t quite know what to say.”
“You needn’t say anything. A formation which proved its worth deserves an emblem of its own. I expect to see you wear and display it by the time we reach Aquilonia.”
“We will, sir.”
“In fact, why don’t we start on that right away? Janya?”
Lemmone gave him two cloth disks the size of an adult’s palm embroidered with the eagle badge. Shkadov carefully placed one on Dunmoore’s right sleeve, just below the shoulder seam and activated its auto adhesive layer, then did the same to Holt, who wore the Furious Faerie emblem on his left sleeve.
“There.”
It finally dawned on Dunmoore that this ceremony had been well prepared and rehearsed for reasons beyond simply honoring her task force. Politics? Propaganda? To show the Shrehari who was boss? Probably that and more. She figured a visual record of the proceedings would find its way into the hands of the Fleet’s public relations branch before they even reached the Cimmeria system and made available to civilian news organizations.
“That,” Shkadov said with a clear air of satisfaction, “concludes the proceedings. Commodore Dunmoore, Captain Holt, I would be honored if you consented to dine with us before returning to your flagship.”
“It would be a great pleasure, sir.”
**
“Did the last few hours feel a tad surreal to you as well, Skipper, or is it just me?” Holt asked once the pinnace’s aft ramp closed and they settled into adjoining seats immediately behind the cockpit.
“No, it’s not just you. I felt as if we were props in a propaganda play, but we got our unit citation, a crest, and a motto out of the whole staged ceremony. And the flag officer’s mess serves a fine meal. Dining with the deputy service chiefs won’t harm our careers either, especially since neither of us overindulged on that fine Dordogne grand cru or showed bad table manners. But if I never again tell the tale of how Task Force Luckner won the war, it won’t be too soon.”
“The Fleet’s official historians will want their turn at some point, and the War College, the Academy and various HQ directorates concerned with planning the next war.”
“Thanks for cheering me up, Zeke.”
He grinned at her.
“That’s why we flag captains, official or unofficial, exist.”
Emma Cullop greeted the pinnace on Iolanthe’s hangar deck with an enthusiastic quarter guard from E Company and the bosun herself piping them aboard.
“That was spectacular, sir,” she said after saluting. “The grand admiral really put on a nice show. We fabricated the citation devices and Luckner crests already. The other ships should be doing so as well since Terra helpfully sent us the necessary specifications. Everyone is waiting to hear how you want them distributed.”
Dunmoore glanced at Holt.
“Zeke?”
“Since we should be on our way within the hour, how about virtually presenting the citation badges and the eagle crests to your captains and let them take care of their people? I’ll do my department heads and chiefs. They’ll take it from there.”
“Good plan.”
“I’ll set up the conference room and link them in.”
By the time the armistice delegation and its commerce raiding escort went FTL, Grand Admiral Shkadov’s orders had been carried out. Every last member of Task Force Luckner sported a Commonwealth Unit Citation and an eagle crest on his or her uniform tunic.
Whether they would mean anything to the Shrehari remained doubtful, but Dunmoore felt more than ever that the grand admiral’s mise-en-scène was mainly for propaganda purposes.
— Forty-Three —
“All ships had a successful transit,” Chief Day reported shortly after the armistice delegation and its escort dropped out of FTL at Thule’s hyperlimit, “and are standing by for navigation orders.”
“There are twelve Shrehari ships in orbit, all Tol class cruisers,” Chief Yens said. “Their shields are down, and I’m not picking up any signs that their weapons are up and ready. We’re being scanned at low power, but there’s no targeting component to their sensor beams. I’d say they’re more peaceful than any imperial ships we’ve seen in over ten years.”
Dunmoore nodded.
“Good. Let’s make sure we’re equally peaceful. Pass the word to stand down from battle stations.”
“Sir?”
Something in Day’s voice caught her attention, and she turned to the communications chief.
“Yes?”
“The Shrehari are broadcasting at us, text only, in Anglic. It is addressed to the human admiral commanding the escort strike group.”
“Well then, it�
�s obviously not for you, Commodore,” Holt said in a droll tone.
“Nice try, but you know my equivalent in their fleet is an admiral of the fifth rank, so yes, it is for me. Put it on screen.”
Human commander, welcome to your star system.
A guffaw escaped Sirico’s valiant attempt to stay quiet. “Damn right it’s our star system.”
We are here in peace to discuss peace. Kho’sahra Brakal is aboard his flagship Tol Radaq, which sends this message. Admiral of the Third Rank Kaalak commands his escort. We bid you enter into orbit around the moon you call Aquilonia at an altitude above ours as proof of our peaceful intentions. We evacuated the moon’s colony and left it in the care of its human owners who await your arrival. Please take possession and do with it what you will. Chief Imperial Negotiator Surgh wishes to communicate with your chief negotiator and discuss preparations for the meeting between Kho’sahra Brakal and Secretary-General Lauzier as soon as possible. We beg acknowledgment of this message.
“Not a bad effort at Anglic, if a bit comical,” Holt remarked.
“Too bad my Shrehari isn’t as good. Otherwise, I’d reply in their language and give their flagship’s combat systems officer a little laugh. Chief Day, send the following via text. Shrehari commander, on behalf of the commander, Task Force Luckner, aboard Iolanthe, I acknowledge your message. We will enter orbit around Aquilonia fifty of our kilometers above your ships. I will notify Ambassador Januzaj, the head of the Commonwealth Armistice Commission that Chief Imperial Negotiator Surgh wishes to communicate at the earliest opportunity.”
Day read back her words.
“Perfect. Transmit.” She turned to Holt. “Although every ship has read their message and is now reading our reply, I think we should still contact Equinox Nova and let them know the ambassador can start his thing the moment we arrive.”
He nodded.
“Good idea. Some of the civilian top brass might get snooty if we unwashed spacers don’t respect the proper forms. Let me do it for you. And I’ll ask Astrid to draw up the orbital parking assignments.”
While Holt busied himself, Dunmoore studied Thule’s image on the main display. The next planet out from Cimmeria, which was home to almost every human in this star system, it boasted a breathable oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere but was stuck in an interminable ice age which left it as nothing more than a white ball hanging in space. Yet the pure surface she remembered seeing when she passed through before the war was liberally covered in black smudges. What had the Shrehari done? Used it as a firing range? Tried to kick-start terraforming with nuclear or kinetic strikes from orbit? There was no way those massive volcanic eruptions dotting the planet occurred naturally in only the last ten years.
“Show me Aquilonia please, Chief.”
The visual sensors shifted aim and zeroed in on a small gray ball outlined against its brilliantly white primary. Once the image grew and sharpened, Yens helpfully marked the dozen Shrehari ships in Aquilonia orbit with blurry red dots.
As Dunmoore knew from the mission briefing, a mining colony called the moon home before the war, established in part to help the Cimmerians terraform Thule. The habitat dug into the moon’s crust was still relatively crude. But in keeping with every station built on an airless world, it was solid enough to resist direct meteor strikes.
And as a mine, had plenty of airtight spaces suitable for large groups, such as a few infantry battalions in parade formation facing each other across a floor polished by mining lasers.
If the Shrehari suggested Aquilonia in good faith as a meeting place, it meant someone had maintained the habitat during the war. Perhaps even its human owners. A squadron-sized security detail from the Marine Corps’ 1st Special Forces Regiment traveling aboard Terra would confirm everything in due course before anyone else landed.
And since they were responsible for the Secretary General’s physical security as well as that of the Armistice Commission members, the grand admiral, and the deputy service chiefs, they were neither under Dunmoore’s command, nor her responsibility. The major in charge answered directly to the SecGen’s principal assistant and would declare Aquilonia ready after a thorough inspection.
“Equinox Nova acknowledges, Commodore,” Holt said, cutting through Dunmoore’s study of the moon, “and advises future communications not of a strictly military nature concerning relations between both naval escorts should be referred to Ambassador Januzaj and his delegation. Why is it once we military folks clean up the diplomats’ mistakes, they push us aside without as much as a by your leave and go right back to messing things up?”
Dunmoore shrugged.
“It’s been the same since our primitive ancestors stopped throwing stones at each other when their arms got tired. The war is over — dogs and uniformed humans, keep off the grass.”
“Sorry, sir,” Sirico said. “But I think the expression was dogs and soldiers, keep off the grass.”
He gave Major Tatiana Salminen a significant look as he spoke.
Holt shook his head in despair.
“Has anyone ever mentioned correcting commodores to tease majors could be detrimental to a lieutenant commander’s career, Thorin?”
“I apologize, sir.”
The contrite air on Sirico’s face was so obviously false, Dunmoore couldn’t hide a smile.
“I forgive Thorin for his attempt at teasing the commanding officer of my sole infantry unit. Flogging, keelhauling, or any other form of traditional punishment will not be required.”
“If you say so, Commodore,” Holt replied in a grave tone.
“How about we study Aquilonia station?”
“Coming right up,” Chief Yens said.
The image on the CIC’s main display wavered again as the optics focused on a small chunk of the airless moon. A broad, flat area surrounded by flashing navigation lights came into view. It was bisected by a low, rectangular structure, almost a kilometer long and one-third of that wide, with space doors at regular intervals, the sort capable of extruding bulk loaders to feed refined metals into the holds of waiting cargo shuttles or small bulk haulers. Landing pads surrounded the structure at regular intervals, each defined by glowing yellow markers.
“Charming.”
“Functional. Austere. Hasn’t been inspected by the technical standards authority in years.” Dunmoore glanced at her flag captain. “Fortunately, checking it for trouble isn’t our job, even though I’m sure Chief Guthren and a hand-picked crew of boarding party specialists, backed by Tatiana’s soldiers could do as good a job as the Marines from the 1st Special Forces Regiment.”
“Don’t let them hear you, Commodore.” Holt nodded at Yens. “Give us a high power scan of the place, Chief. Pound it with the best our sensors can manage. Ask Rooikat and Fennec to do the same and merge the data.”
“Aye, aye, Captain. Between us, we’ll paint you a detailed three-dimensional picture in the tank.” Yens jerked her thumb at the holographic tactical display.
“Excellent. With life signs?”
“Of course.”
While Task Force Luckner approached Thule and its moons, Iolanthe’s sensors scanned Aquilonia at full strength. Soon, the shimmering image of an underground warren filled the virtual space where representations of star systems, orbital bases, and enemy formations usually held pride of place. Bright spots appeared, indicating the presence of living beings clustered on the two levels immediately beneath the above-ground loading docks.
“Pass the data to Terra for the Special Forces folks,” Holt said. “I’m sure she’s scanning as well, but we’re newer with better gear and are backed up by two sharp-eyed scout ships.”
A few minutes passed in silence until Chief Day said, “Terra thanks us for the data. They’d appreciate it if we kept the same sharp eye on Aquilonia Station until they put boots on the ground.”
“Tell them we will do so.”
Dunmoore barely heard the exchange. Her mind was shifting from what lay beneath the landing area’s su
rface to what the Shrehari in orbit aboard those twelve Tol class cruisers were thinking as they watched a formerly hostile task force approach. Were their trigger fingers itching? How many knew the ships they saw were the same who shamed the empire by desecrating their home system several weeks earlier?
Was Brakal watching and did he recognize Iolanthe as the phantom who’d been plaguing his hunting grounds for so long? The Furious Faerie was in her battlecruiser mode, hiding the fact she sometimes appeared as nothing more than a large freighter — slow, vulnerable and ripe for the picking. Until the hunters became the prey and died in an uncontrolled release of antimatter before they could warn their HQ that a Q-ship was trolling the sector, looking for victims.
“Astrid worked out the orbital assignments, Commodore.” A side display came to life, showing the moon, the Shrehari cruisers, and the human ships’ proposed orbits.
She examined the schematic, then said, “Approved. Please disseminate.”
**
“There. That battleship.” Kho’sahra Brakal pointed at Iolanthe’s image on the large display dominating Tol Radaq’s flag bridge. “It is the phantom which bedeviled me for so long on the frontier. It and the others, save for the largest and the one seemingly unarmed, attacked the home system, and destroyed Tyva base.”
“The battleship appears to be the human’s flagship.”
“Appropriate, considering its power and battle prowess, even if it is not quite as large as the one in the middle of their formation. Did they identify their admiral or the phantom’s commander?”
“No, Lord,” Admiral of the Third Rank Kaalak replied. “They merely named the one who will speak with Surgh and begin negotiations once their ships are in orbit.”
“Then I will wait until we meet face-to-face. They promised the officer responsible for Khorsan and the raid on the home system would form part of their supreme leader’s escort.”
“I could ask for a visual link with that battleship.” Kaalak thought about trying to pronounce Iolanthe but knew nothing more than a mangled gurgle would come out.