Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

"I know who he is. One of our Imperial biggies,” Sten said. “As a matter of fact, I know him personally."

  Was there a slight flicker from Deska?

  "Excellent,” Deska said heartily.

  "Interesting ship you have here,” Sten went on. “Very clean."

  "There is no excuse for lack of cleanliness."

  "That's my theory, too. Of course, I'm not a civilian...” Sten changed the subject. “Your crew's sharper than mine. You run a taut ship, Captain."

  "Thank you, Commander."

  "I don't think you want to feel too grateful. This ship, under my authority as an officer of the Empire, is under custody. Any attempt at resistance or disregard of my orders will be countered, if necessary, by force of arms. You are instructed and ordered to proceed, under my command, to the nearest Imperial base, in this case Cavite, at which time you are entitled to all protection and recourse available under Imperial law."

  "But why?"

  Sten touched buttons on two small cased pouches on his belt. “Do you really want to know, Captain Deska?"

  "I do."

  "Fine. By the way, I just shut off my recorder and turned on a block. I assume you have this room monitored. Nothing else we say will be picked up, I can guarantee you.

  "Captain, you are busted because I think you're a spy ship. No, Captain. You asked me, and I'm gonna tell you. Every one of your men looks like an officer—and you do, too. Tahn officers. If I were a sneaky type, I'd guess that you are some kind of high-level commander. And you came out here, with a pretty good forgery to cover yourself, to check out the approaches to Cavite. Just in case the balloon goes up. Am I wrong, Captain?"

  "This is an outrage!"

  "Sure is. But you're still busted. And by the way, even if you manage to convince Cavite you are innocent, innocent, innocent, all the hot poop your scanners have been picking up will be wiped before we release you."

  Admiral Deska, second-in-command of Lady Atago's combined fleet, just looked at Sten. “You are very, very wrong, Commander. And I shall remember you for a very, very long time."

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  "YOU DID WHAT?” Sten blurted. He did not even notice that he had forgotten to say “sir.” Not that van Doorman needed an excuse to get angry.

  "I did not ask you for a comment, Commander. I merely took the courtesy of informing you as to my decision. Since you are slightly deaf, I shall repeat it:

  "After considerable investigation by my staff, supervised by myself, we have determined that the boarding of the Tahn Scientific Ship Baka was in error. Admittedly, they had accidentally entered a proscribed area of space, but their commanding officer, a Captain Deska, told me that their charts were out of date and in error."

  "Sir, did you personally examine those charts?"

  "Commander, be silent! Captain Deska is a gentleman. I saw no reason to question his word."

  Sten, heels locked, stared glumly down at Doorman's desk.

  "I also personally commend an apology to his superiors and to his company headquarters on Heath, which is the capital of the Tahn System."

  Sten, once again, did not know when to keep his mouth shut. “Sir. One question. Did you at least have techs wipe the ship's recorder systems?"

  "I did not. How could he have navigated home if I did?"

  "Thank you, sir."

  "One further point. You should consider yourself lucky."

  "Sir?"

  "Since it would prove an embarrassment to the officers and men of the 23rd Fleet if Imperial headquarters were to hear of this debacle, of course there is no way that I can place the correct letter of reprimand in your personal fiche."

  Translation: van Doorman hadn't reported the incident to Prime World.

  "I shall tell you something else, young man. When you were first assigned to my command, I had my doubts.

  "The navy is a proud and noble service. A service composed of gentlebeings. You, on the other hand, were formed by the army. Necessary types, certainly. But hardly correct from the navy point of view.

  "I hoped that you would change your ways from the examples you would see around you, here on Cavite. I was most incorrect. You not only have isolated yourself from your peers, but have chosen to associate with, and I am not exaggerating, scum from the lowest circles of our society.

  "So be it. You came from the gutter ... and choose to swim in it. At my first opportunity, the first time you make the most minor error, I shall break you, Commander Sten. I shall dissolve your entire unit, have you court-martialed, and, I most earnestly hope, send you to a penal planet in irons. That is all!"

  Sten saluted, pivoted, and marched out of van Doorman's office, out of the hotel, and deep into the grounds—where, behind a tree, he laughed himself back into sanity. Admiral van Doorman probably believed he had stuck Sten's guts on a pole and waved them high overhead. He really should have taken lessons from the most polite Mantis instructor.

  Scum Sten headed back for his ships. Not only did he want a drink, he wanted to find out—Alex would know—what the clot “irons” were.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  "BOSS, YOU LOOK like you could use a drink."

  "Many,” the Emperor said. “Drag up a pew and a bottle, Mahoney."

  Building drinks was simple—it consisted of grabbing a bottle of what the Emperor called scotch from the old roll-top desk and half filling two glasses.

  "What,” Mahoney asked after slugging down his drink and getting a refill, “is burning Sullamora's tubes? He's stomping around the anteroom like you just nationalized his mother."

  "Clot,” the Emperor swore. “I told him I know he's innocent six times already. Of course the Baka's papers were forged. I went and told him very clear, I went and shouted in his ear."

  Mahoney just gave him a puzzled look.

  The Emperor sighed. “Never mind. I guess when you leave I'll have to pat his poo-poo again."

  "Speaking of that, sir."

  "Yeah. I know."

  The matter at hand was the boarding and subsequent release of the Baka. Van Doorman may not have filed a report, but one of Mahoney's agents, put in place in the days when Mahoney had run Imperial Intelligence—Mercury Corps—had.

  "First thing we've got to do, sir, is bust that clotting Doorman down to brig rat third class."

  "I've never been able to figure out if beings become soldiers because they're simple, or whether wearing a uniform makes them that way,” the Emperor said. He paused and drank. “Van Doorman has got six—count them, six—of my idiot members of parliament who think he's the most brilliant swabbie since Nelson."

  "You're just going to leave him running amok with the 23rd Fleet?"

  "Of course not. I am going to amass, most carefully, a very large stone bucket. At the appropriate time, I'll run some of my pet politicos out to the Fringe Worlds on a fact-finding mission. They'll come back and tell me how terrible things are. After that, I'll be reluctantly forced to give Doorman another star and put him in charge of iceberg watching somewhere."

  "Sir, I don't think we have that kind of time. Both my agent and Sten agree that every swinging Richard on the Baka was a Tahn officer. They are getting ready to hit us."

  "Forget Doormat for a minute, refill my goddamned glass, and tell me what you want to do. And no, I am not going to authorize a preemptive first strike on Heath."

  "That,” General Mahoney said, following orders, “was going to be one of my options."

  "Remember, Ian. I don't start wars. I just finish them."

  Mahoney held up a hand. He had heard time and again the Emperor's belief that no one wins in a war and that the more wars that are fought, the weaker the structure of the society fighting them becomes. “What about this one, sir? What about—"

  "You tried that one before, General. And I am still not going to redeploy your First Guards on the Fringe Worlds. We are, right now, about one millimeter from go
ing to war with the Tahn. I am doing everything I goddamned know to keep that from happening. I plonk your thugs out there, and that would be it."

  Mahoney framed his sentence very carefully. The Emperor may have considered Mahoney a confidant and even maybe a friend—but he still was the Eternal Emperor, and one step over the line could put General Mahoney out there looking for icebergs with Doorman. “No offense, sir. But supposing you can't stop the Tahn? Meaning no disrespect."

  The Emperor growled, started to snap, and decided to finish his drink instead. He got up and stared out the window at the palace gardens below. “There is that,” he said finally. “Maybe I'm getting too set in my ways."

  "Then I can—"

  "Negative, General. No Guards.” The Emperor considered for another moment. “How long has it been since the First Guards went through jungle refresher training?"

  "Six months, sir."

  "Way too long. I'm ashamed of you, Mahoney, for letting your unit get fat and sloppy."

  Mahoney didn't even bother to protest—the Emperor had his scheming look about him.

  "Seems to me I own some kind of armpit swamp out in that part of the universe. Used to be a staging base back in the Mueller Wars."

  Mahoney crossed to one of the Emperor's computer terminals and searched. “Yessir. Isby XIII. Unoccupied now except by what the fiche says are some real nasty primordials and a caretaker staff on the main base. And you're right. It's very close to the Fringe Worlds. It'd take me ... maybe a week to transship from there."

  "Would you stop worrying about the Fringe Worlds? The solution with those gentle and lovable Tahn will be diplomatic. The only reason I'm punting you out there is to see whether mosquitoes like Mick blood.” Then the Emperor turned serious. “Christ, Mahoney. That's the best I can think of. Right now, I'm starting to run out of Emperor moves."

  And Major General Ian Mahoney wondered if maybe he'd better make sure his own life insurance policy was current.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE TWENTY SEVEN members of the Tahn Council sat in various attitudes of attention as Lady Atago detailed the progress on Erebus. Even on screen her chilly efficiency cut across the light-years separating her from the Tahn home world of Heath. If there was any deference in her manner to her superiors, it was only to her mentor, Lord Fehrle, the most powerful member of the council.

  "...And so, my lords and ladies,” she was saying, “in summation, the fleet is at sixty percent strength; fuel and other supplies, forty-three percent; weapons and ammunition, seventy-one percent."

  Fehrle raised a finger for attention. “One question, my lady,” he said. “Some of the members have expressed concern about crewing. What is the status, if you please?"

  "It displeases me to say, my lord,” Atago said, “that I can only give you an estimate. To be frank, training has not yet come up to Tahn standards."

  "An estimate will do,” Fehrle said.

  "In that case, I would say we have enough manpower to place a skeleton crew aboard all currently operational ships. There would be gaps in key positions, of course, but I believe these deficiencies could be overcome."

  "I have a question, if you please, my lady.” This was from Colonel Pastour, the newest member of the council. Fehrle buried a groan of impatience and shot a glance at Lord Wichman, who just gave a slight shake of his head.

  "Yes, my lord?"

  "How long before we can be at full strength?"

  "Two years, minimum,” Lady Atago said without hesitation.

  "In that case,” Pastour continued, “perhaps the other members would benefit from your counsel. Do you advise us to proceed with the action under discussion?"

  "It is not my place to say, my lord."

  "Come, come. You must at least have an opinion."

  Lady Atago's glare bored through him. Good, Fehrle thought. She's not going to be caught out by Pastour's seemingly innocent question.

  "I'm sorry, my lord. I do not. My duty is to follow your orders, not to second-guess the thinking of the council."

  But Pastour would not give up so easily. “Very admirable, my lady. However, as the fleet commander, you must have some estimate of our chances for success if we act immediately."

  "Adequate, my lord."

  "Only adequate?"

  "Isn't adequate enough for any Tahn, my lord?"

  Pastour flushed, and there were murmur of agreement from around the table. Fehrle decided to break in.

  Although the old colonel made him uneasy in his wavering, it was not good to threaten the unanimity of the council.

  "I think that will be all for now, my lady,” he said. “Now, if you will excuse us, we will be back to you within the hour with our decision."

  "Thank you, my lord."

  Fehrle palmed a button, and the screen image of Lady Atago vanished.

  "I must say, my lord,” Wichman said, “that I'm sure that I echo the sentiments of the other members of the council by expressing my pleasure in your choice of Lady Atago to command the fleet."

  There were more murmur of agreement, except from Pastour, who had recovered and merely gave a chuckle.

  "Right you are,” he said. “Except if I were you, Lord Fehrle, I'd keep a weather eye on that woman.

  She's just a bit too good for comfort."

  Fehrle ignored him. Pastour sometimes had a way of saying the oddest things. And at the moment, Fehrle was questioning his own decision to raise the man to the council. Well, no use worrying about that now.

  The fact was that Pastour was one of the key industrialists in the Tahn Empire. He also had the uncanny ability to raise large guard units—all of which he financed from his own pocket—where seemingly there had been few warm bodies available.

  Also, Lord Wichman's supreme militancy—even for a Tahn—served as a counterbalance to Pastour. Wichman was one of Fehrle's master strokes. He was a man who had risen through the ranks of the military and could boast nearly every award for heroism that the Tahn Empire had to offer. More importantly, he had a way with the masses, and in his role as minister of the people, he seemed to be able to get any kind of sacrifice necessary from the working class. How he got that cooperation, no one cared to know.

  In another time, the Tahn Council would have been most closely compared to a politburo system of government. Each member represented key areas of society. The various viewpoints were discussed and whenever possible added to the political stewpot. All decisions were unanimous and final. There was never a vote, never any public dissension. Each matter was thoroughly discussed in private, compromises made whenever necessary, and the plan agreed upon. A meeting of the council itself was a mere formality for the record.

  And so it was with no trepidation at all that Fehrle addressed his fellow lords and ladies.

  "Then, I assume we are all agreed,” he said. “We proceed with the attack on the Emperor as planned?"

  There were nods all around—except one.

  "I'm not sure,” Pastour said. “I still wonder if maybe we ought to wait until we are at full readiness. In two years, we'll have the Empire in the palm of our hand."

  There was an instant hush in the room. Everyone looked at Fehrle to see how he would react.

  Fehrle did his best to keep the impatience out of his voice. “This has all been discussed before, my lord,” he said. “The longer we wait, the longer the Emperor has to build more ships. We cannot win a manufacturing war with the Eternal Emperor. You of all people should know that."

  "Yes, yes. But what if this operation doesn't succeed? We are risking our entire fleet! Where will we be if we lose that? Back under the Emperor's thumb, that's where, I tell you!"

  Wichman instantly shot to his feet, his eyes bulging and his face scarlet with anger. “I will not stay in the same room with a coward!” he shouted.

  The room erupted as Wichman began to stalk out. Fehrle slammed his hand down on the table. Wichman froze in midstep. Silence reigned again
in the room.

  "My lords! My ladies! Do you forget where you are?"

  Fehrle glared around at each member. They all squirmed in their seats uncomfortably. Then he turned to Pastour and gave him a frosty smile.

  "I'm sure the good colonel misspoke. We all know from his reputation that he is no coward.” He glanced over at Wichman. “Don't you agree, my lord?"

  Wichman's shoulders slumped, and he walked silently back to his seat. “I apologize for my rudeness,” he said to Pastour.

  "And I for mine. You must forgive me. I have a great deal more to learn about the workings of the council."

  The tension crept away, and Lord Fehrle brought the meeting back to order.

  "It's settled, then. We attack immediately!"

  Everyone shouted agreement. Pastour's voice was the loudest of all.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  "MR. KILGOUR,” FOSS said, wistfully looking at the display in front of him, “can I ask you something?"

  "GA, lad.” Kilgour checked the time. There was an hour and a half to go before the shift changed—and a little inconsequential conversation might help kill the boredom.

  "Look at all those fat freighters down there. When you were young, did you ever want to be a pirate?"

  Kilgour chuckled. “Lad, Ah hae input f’ ye. When Ah was wee, Ah was a pirate. Come frae a long line a’ rogues, Ah do."

  Foss glanced at Kilgour. He was still not sure when his XO was extending his mandible. He turned back to the screen.

  Sten's four ships had been assigned escort duty. Even though the increasing tension with the Tahn had reduced merchant traffic through the Fringe Worlds, there were still certain shipments that had to be routed through the area. The ships were now dispatched in convoys and given integral escort. In addition, during passage near the Tahn sector, Imperial ships were attached for support. Hanging “below” Sten's ships were five tubby merchants from Tanz Sullamora's fleet, one container link with four tugs, two hastily armed auxiliary cruisers, and one archaic destroyer, the Neosho, from van Doorman's fleet.

  Sten couldn't figure out van Doorman's thinking—if, indeed, the admiral was ever guilty of that. He seemed more interested in keeping his ships on the ground than in space. Possibly, Sten hazarded, the admiral was worried that he would forget them if they weren't in plain sight. Van Doorman was, even though the term's origins were long-lost, a perfect bean counter.