by Ian Sales
“You did what you felt was right,” prompted Finesz.
“As did the Admiral.” Mubariz shrugged. “She possesses a tactical genius although she is weak on strategy.” He smiled grimly. “I didn’t doubt she would make Lord of the Admiralty one day, but it would be because of her political connections not her suitability for the rank.”
“Are any of the Lords of the Admiralty masters of strategy?”
Mubariz snorted. “Listigs, perhaps. But the rest? No. Political appointees. The much-vaunted independence of the Navy is a myth. The cabal that commands it is only too happy to bow to the Emperor’s every whim.”
“So you offered to be the knights’ signet eyes and ears aboard Vengeful?”
“I did.” His face took on a determined expression. “I do not regret doing so. Events may have proved me wrong in one respect but I still feel the Admiral’s mutiny was unjustified. We spent six years commerce-raiding and forging secret alliances in an attempt to uncover clues to Ahasz’s manoeuvrings. And then along comes this boy and tells us everything we had been endeavouring to discover. There are easier and more appropriate ways of safeguarding the Empire.”
“But,” said Finesz, “it’s not about ease or appropriateness, is it? It’s about effectiveness. And if it were not for the Admiral or Casimir Ormuz, Ahasz would stand a very real chance of succeeding.”
Mubariz was a moment before replying: “We shall never know.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO
A sleek pinnace silently approached the boat-deck’s entrance, inching nearer with short bursts from its gas-rockets. Tempest’s guide-lights washed across it, painting detail onto the shadowed hull. As Rinharte watched, the boat swung about, orienting itself to the troop-transport. It penetrated the force-curtain and the pinnace’s pilot, visible in the control cupola, gestured imperatively at the marines standing by the capstan. One dashed forward, a hawser slung over each shoulder. A second followed and assisted in attaching the cables to the pinnace. At a signal, the boat was slowly winched inside the troop-transport and into a berth.
Rinharte, looking down from the middle of the three tiers of docks, gripped the railing with both hands and wondered if the Admiral were upset with her. She had been ordered to remain aboard the troop-transport in the Linna planetary system. The pinnace carried a prize-crew and Lieutenant Gogos. The protocol lieutenant was not to take command of Tempest, that would remain Rinharte’s.
“We’re taking Tempest as prize?” Rinharte, surprised, had asked the Admiral over the command-circuit. What use could they have for an obsolete troop-transport? And who would pay them a prize for it?
The Admiral’s reply had been brusque: “On the contrary, Rizbeka, we’re going to use the vessel. I need a base of operations in orbit, somewhere from which to organise the captains who rally to our cause. Mr Gogos will help.”
“I’m not coming with you?” Despite herself, a plaintive note had crept into Rinharte’s voice.
“No.”
Here she now stood, watching as her crew arrived. In the normal course of events—war, in other words—command of a vessel taken as prize was an honour but Rinharte felt as if she were being punished. She twisted round and glanced through the launch-control window on the forward bulkhead. Marine-Captain Kordelasz, overseeing a pair of marines at the consoles, caught her glance and scowled. He too was unhappy with his assignment. What was it he had said? “We have become gaolers”: that was it. With two of their three boat-squads of marines on the upper deck, guarding the sarcophagi of brain-dead clones, it was an apt enough description.
She turned back to the railing. Figures had appeared at the pinnace, which now sat quiescent in its berth, its bow open. She saw Gogos’ pale blond hair, the two bars of a lieutenant on his epaulets. A marine—Rinharte knew it was Tatakai, although it was difficult to tell from this distance—approached the protocol lieutenant to welcome him aboard. Rinharte scanned the crew gathered about Gogos. There were an even twenty of them, more than was needed to simply take the ship to orbit about Linna. Without turning, she gestured for Kordelasz to join her.
“Yes, captain?”
She started at his term of address. Her first ship… A troop-transport which had been scrapped five years ago. She had never hoped for a ship of her own—she was an intelligence specialist, after all—but there was something embarrassing in such an inauspicious first command.
“Your eyes are sharper than mine, Garrin,” she said. “Why has the Admiral sent so many?”
Kordelasz stepped up to the railing and concentrated on the group gathered about the pinnace’s hatch. “How many do you think we need?” he asked.
“Four on the bridge and five in the engine-room. We won’t need carpenters or mechanicians for a short trip within a planetary system. I count twenty with Gogos.”
The marine-captain leaned forward over the balcony, as if the additional inches would help him see better. Perhaps it did, for he said, “Isn’t that Midshipman Maganda standing behind Gogos?”
“Maganda?” That Kordelasz had recognised her was a surprise, as was her presence aboard Tempest. “He’s brought a divisions officer with him?” Rinharte asked.
“And some of his own department by the looks of it,” Kordelasz replied.
The prize-crew had ordered themselves, Maganda and three rateds with Gogos, four bridge crew to one side and eight engine-room to the other. Four figures were left unassigned and had separated into two pairs. One pair wore white jackets.
“Why in heavens would I need clerks?” demanded Rinharte. “What was the man thinking?” And those two in white-jackets… “And stewards?”
“Gogos would never make a decision like that on his own,” Kordelasz pointed out. “The Admiral must have ordered him to bring them.”
“True.” The protocol lieutenant was not well-liked aboard the battlecruiser and not simply because of the position he held. Officious and notoriously resentful that the Admiral saw little reason for a protocol officer, he had a habit of avoiding decisions.
Rinharte sighed. “I suppose we should go down and meet them.”
Kordelasz looked back into the boat-deck control-room. “Wait until the pinnace has left,” he suggested. “Then you can have Godnosh and Miyo as honour guard.”
“Do I need an honour guard?”
“With Gogos? Yes.”
Lieutenant Gogos, arms straight at his side, bowed to the exact degree expected by the captain of an Imperial Navy vessel. No, realised Rinharte: the protocol lieutenant had been even more punctilious and chosen the depth of bow given to the captain of an Imperial Navy auxiliary vessel. She held back a sigh and nodded in reply.
“Welcome aboard, Mr Gogos. I see you brought help.”
“The prize-crew? As I was instructed, captain.”
“I was referring to Midshipman Maganda and your three clerks.”
Gogos gave a supercilious smile. “Again, as I was instructed, captain. Commodore Livasto’s squadron will be escorting us to Linna orbit and I am to act as liaison between yourself and his officers. And between yourself and any other ships which may arrive in response to the Admiral’s summons.” He grimaced sourly, for no reason Rinharte could fathom, and added, “The midshipman will be acting lieutenant of signals.”
Rinharte looked past the protocol officer, caught Midshipman Maganda’s eye and surprised a faint smile from the young woman. She did not know the midshipman well but she had heard talk of her. Little of it had been flattering: accusations of a lack of competence hidden beneath good reports given in return for favours.
“Marine Tatakai will escort you to regimental-officer country, Mr Gogos. You will set up shop there. I don’t want you going near the quarterdeck or poop, near the cabins I have under marine guard.”
Gogos, clearly briefed on the presence of the clones in their sarcophagi, said only, “Ma’am.”
With a wave of the hand, Rinharte dismissed the protocol lieutenant. Tatakai led him an
d his party towards the boat-deck’s exit. Rinharte watched them march away and found her attention dwelling on the young woman at Gogos’s side.
“Gogos and Maganda,” muttered Rinharte, disappointed at the Admiral’s choice of officers for Tempest. Had she sent them because Vengeful did not need them? Or was this merely the first safe opportunity she had been given to rid herself of them?
“Don’t believe everything you hear,” Kordelasz remarked.
“About Maganda?”
“About Romi,” the marine-captain confirmed.
She turned to him.
“Speak to those three clerks,” he said, “before you believe everything you hear in the wardroom over brandy. You Navy gossip like old women.”
“At least our after-dinner conversation,” Rinharte replied, offended, “covers more subjects than mere boasts of martial prowess.”
Kordelasz laughed. “Parried! I’ll have you know Major Skaria is quite the amateur historical detective. You should hear him speak on the Lost Flotilla.”
“He likes mysteries?” The revelation did not fit with the mental picture Rinharte held of the major of marines.
“Too much. Sometimes, I’d rather he did boast of ‘martial prowess’.”
Rinharte abruptly remembered the remaining prize-crew waiting patiently behind her and mentally chastised herself for forgetting them. It was a poor beginning to her command. She turned about and sought out the senior petty officer amongst the engine-room artificers, noticing the group included a pair of mechanicians and a carpenter. The petty officer identified himself quickly once her gaze had settled on him:
“Silnik, ma’am.”
She told him, “You are now acting master of engines, Mr Silnik. Have you served on a vessel of this class before?”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s why I was sent.”
“Then you know what to do. Off you go.”
Leading Petty Officer Silnik saluted smartly, gathered up his crew with a few barked words and led them off at a smart pace.
Rinharte turned to the prize-crew for the bridge: two helm, one from battle order, and one chartsman. “You—” She pointed at the rated able with the telescope of battle order beneath the Imperial Navy sextant on his right shoulder… and wondered briefly why the Admiral had not seen fit to send her at least one rated certificated. “You,” she repeated. “Run up after Ms Maganda and ask her to attend me on the bridge.” She turned to the other three. “You will take your stations on the bridge. Tell Mr Silnik I want us ready to make way the moment we are contacted by Commodore Livasto’s squadron.”
That left only the two stewards and the two… Now that she was standing before them, Rinharte could see that they were surgeon’s mates: their right shoulders bore a red droplet below the sextant. Clearly they had been sent to look after the clones. But the stewards?
“I’m not quite sure why you’re here,” Rinharte said to the senior of the two stewards, a rated certificated. “We don’t need stewards for such a short trip.”
“The Admiral briefed us, ma’am,” the steward replied. “You will be hosting meetings aboard and we are to serve at them.”
“Ah. You’d better inventory the ship’s stores, I suppose. Check the quartermaster’s stores on the troop-deck as well.”
She dismissed them and tersely instructed Marine Godnosh to escort the two surgeon’s mates to the quarterdeck. Everyone had their orders and events were in motion.
“You seem to be taking well to command,” Kordelasz commented dryly.
Rinharte ignored him.
Rinharte felt strangeness as she settled at the command-console. The chair was a comfortable seat, well-padded and high-backed, and the glasses before her were large and well positioned. The two helms stood at the ship’s wheels before her. The battle order rated occupied the Registrations/Acquisitions console to starboard, and across the bridge from him was the chartsman. Midshipman Maganda stood stiffly beside the command-console, awaiting instructions. Rinharte ignored her for the moment and cast an inexperienced eye about her bridge. Every console was functioning, telltales lit and glasses scrolling data. Tempest was operational.
She turned to Maganda, found herself looking up at the young woman and, disliking having to do so, rose to her feet. But even that was no comfort: the midshipman’s sylph-like build made her feel like a lumpen brute. She opened her mouth to speak but something in Maganda’s face made her close it without uttering a word. The young woman was a beauty, but it was an atypical and distinctive beauty. Her face was long, and her lips full and seemingly perpetually fixed in a wilful pout. Her almond-shaped eyes, with their slight epicanthic fold, were large… and there was no mistaking the relief shining from them. Somewhat taken aback by this observation, Rinharte slowly sat back. She gripped the chair’s arms and stared through the window of mullioned glass occupying the for’ard bulkhead while she ordered her thoughts. She saw nothing but stars scattered across blackness.
“Ms Maganda… I need an executive officer,” Rinharte said, with a slow heaviness—adopted, perhaps, in an effort to indicate the responsibility she was about to hand the young woman. Or perhaps Rinharte did doubt Maganda capable of the job. “You will fill that role in addition to acting lieutenant of signals.”
“Thank you, ma’am” Maganda replied with evident gratitude.
“I’m not convinced you’re up to it,” Rinharte admitted candidly, “but I have no choice.”
“I can do it, ma’am, I can.”
Rinharte did not reply. She was honest enough to admit her doubts were founded on what she had heard of the midshipman, not on what she knew. If there were truth to those rumours, well… They would all learn soon enough.
“What are your orders, ma’am?” asked Maganda, all happy efficiency.
“See if the stewards have finished their inventory. Find out if the surgeon’s mates can tell us anything useful about our ‘passengers’. Report in at intervals. If you run into Mr Gogos and he requires anything of you, tell him he must come through me.” She waved a hand, thought better of saying “Dismissed”, and instead said, “Off you go.”
“Ma’am.” Maganda saluted snappily and hurried coltishly from the bridge.
There was nothing to do now until the battle order rated detected Commodore Livasto’s destroyers. Much as Rinharte wanted to make way immediately for Linna orbit—she was itching to command a vessel under motion—she knew better than disobey the Admiral’s instructions. Livasto expected to find her here in orbit about Kasukierto and she would not jeopardise the Admiral’s plans by being elsewhere.
With the click of a switch, she set the glasses before her to repeat the data from the other consoles. It was an effort to remember what the graphs and tables of data meant. As a midshipman, Rinharte had spent time in each of a warship’s departments but that had been almost two decades ago. Her technical skills were rusty. But thankfully not entirely lost.
According to the glasses, Tempest was at full readiness. The engines were on idle, all mechanisms nominal and the registrations envelope at its maximum. There was, she noticed, no sign of Vengeful in their vicinity. She had left, was en route to Urkia. Would, Rinharte wondered, Ormuz learn what he needed from the nomosphere? She wished she had access herself to that magical realm. Such a powerful intelligence tool… The ability to dig and sift through the entirety of the Empire’s information. In real-time. If the Serpent could do the same, it was no surprise he felt confident enough to attempt to take the Imperial Throne.
The caster on the arm of Rinharte’s chair buzzed. Startled, she took a moment to react. She switched it on. The circuit telltale told her the caller was on the troop-deck.
“Captain Rinharte?”
Midshipman Maganda. She had moved quickly to make the troop-deck and complete her task in such a short time. Rinharte would have to speak to her about that: it was forgivable for a midshipman to be caught running in the gangways but not for an executive officer, acting or o
therwise.
“Yes, Ms Maganda?”
“We have enough in ship’s stores to feed a full crew for a month. There’s nothing edible in the quartermaster’s store, though. Just boots and belts.” Maganda paused to take breath and then carried on in a rush, “Shall I send one of the stewards to check out the galley stores in the regimental officers’ quarters? We might find something we can use.”
“You don’t need my permission to make a decision like that, Ms Maganda. Do as you see fit.”
“Oh. Yes, ma’am. I’ll send someone, then.”
“The surgeon’s mates?” prompted Rinharte.
“Sorry, ma’am. I spoke to them. They’ve puzzled out the controls on the coffin-things but they’ve no explanation for the clones’ condition. It’s so weird, ma’am: they’re all identical. I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“Few of us have,” Rinharte replied dryly.
“Oh, I did, um, meet Mr Gogos, ma’am. He says he has a signal he needs sending. I told him I was busy.”
“So you should have done.” Maganda, as acting executive officer, now out-ranked the protocol lieutenant while aboard Tempest, but Rinharte wondered if she should point this out. No, she decided. Let the young woman work it out for herself.
“Is there anything else, ma’am?”
“See if Mr Silnik has everything he needs. Then return to the bridge.”
“Ma’am.” The midshipman broke the circuit.
Rinharte returned her attention to her repeater-glasses but nothing had changed. Tempest was still alone. With no indication of when Livasto’s squadron was due to arrive, there was nothing to be done but keep station. And guard the clones.
She rose to her feet and addressed the battle order rated: “Mr Badwa, I am leaving the bridge. Report immediately if anything requires my attention.” She could not leave a rated in command even though she had no officers to spare. It was not because it was not the Navy way but because those without commissions or warrants had no experience of command. She rued the Admiral’s decision not to send her at least one master. If Tempest was intended to be a base of operations, she was severely under-staffed.