Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  “That we need a Fleet-approved exorcist if you intend to pay a visit, sir?” Sirico suggested with a sly grin.

  Dunmoore gave him the stink-eye, though she meant it in jest.

  “You usually try harder, Thorin.”

  The combat systems officer gave her an unapologetic shrug.

  “I’m only as good as the material you throw my way.”

  “Then how about an update on the Shrehari task force?”

  A disconsolate frown wiped the mirth from Sirico’s face.

  “There’s no humor to be found among boneheads, sir. But I will try. What are your intentions concerning our nuclear mines?”

  “Make sure they self-destruct without exploding if someone tries to tamper with them, in case we can’t pass through this system again for a while. Or if the Shrehari decide to help Tarrant by sampling human technology.”

  “Aye, sir. Not that the bastards will learn much from our sanitized version of the Navy’s standard-issue anti-ship missiles. They’ve seen millions over the years.”

  “Shall I ask Astrid to plot a course for Hecate?”

  Dunmoore nodded at her first officer.

  “Please. It’s time to scram before the Shrehari gets a whiff of us and decides Iolanthe is the ship that’s been raiding their convoys in recent weeks. The last thing we need is four of them chasing us across this sector while we’re looking for the abductees. And update Emma on the situation. We have no choice but to take Kattegat Maru with us to this proscribed star system.”

  “You think that’s where my mother and the rest are, sir?” Carrie Fennon, who’d been quiet as a mouse until now, asked in a tone that mixed excitement and fear.

  Dunmoore swiveled her command chair to face her and smiled.

  “I doubt the kidnappers abandoned them in interstellar space. And since Hecate is not only the closest star system to the rendezvous point but also inexplicably out of bounds by government fiat, it seems a natural place to start looking.”

  “Can you simply ignore the proscription, sir?”

  Holt’s hologram chuckled.

  “Who’s to find out we violated the order if no one sees us sneak in? Navigation logs can be altered.”

  “Don’t go teaching Apprentice Officer Fennon any wrong-headed lessons, Number One,” Dunmoore growled. “If lives are at stake, I prefer to act first and ask for permission later. If required.”

  This time, Holt laughed outright.

  “Mere semantics, Skipper.”

  **

  “Lord?”

  Brakal snarled silently as he looked up from another indecipherable report foisted on him by the ineffectual Gra’k. Would that he was on Tol Vehar’s bridge, in the chair now occupied by the one calling him. Brakal stabbed a thick, bony finger at the communications unit.

  “What is it, Urag? And don’t call me lord, you unredeemable villain.”

  “A human ship, previously undetected, appeared on our sensors as it powered up drives. The ship is large, Commander, but appears to be a non-combatant, since it matches no warship listed in our databanks. The vessel was at a certain distance from Kilia, beyond the station’s effective weapons range, and not in orbit like the others we detected earlier.”

  Brakal ran his hand through the ruff of fur crowning his angular skull and grunted. “That ship maintained silence until now, and Kilia was engaged in a battle with something unseen. Perhaps this non-combatant is the equivalent of our Tai Kan corsair vessels, a kroorath masquerading as a yatakan.”

  “The ghost.” Urag’s flat tone made his reply a statement rather than a question.

  “And if he is here, we might know what happened to Chorlak.”

  “He suffered the same fate as the others who encountered that dishonorable phantom.” Another statement.

  “Dishonorable?” Brakal’s throat gave birth to a disparaging growl. “Because he does as Tai Kan corsairs and hides in plain sight? I think this human’s successes against us has bought him plenty of honor. Dishonor comes from a failure to use every legitimate ruse of war in pursuit of victory.”

  Urag, long inured to his commander’s unorthodox views, merely made a noncommittal sound.

  “Do not let your fascination with the flame-haired she-wolf blind you to our ways, Commander.”

  “Our ways? The ones that see us unable to win against a weaker species?”

  This time Urag didn’t even clear his throat. It was an argument almost as old as the war itself, one that was partially responsible for Brakal’s assignment to a sector where little happened. Or to be more precise, where little happened until the ghost showed up and played havoc with Shrehari shipping, which led to Hralk’s relief and Brakal’s unexpected appointment. But it meant Strike Force Khorsan’s failures were now his. And being higher up the command ladder, his fall would be harder and could even prove fatal.

  “Have you fresh orders, Commander?” Urag asked instead of continuing the discussion.

  “Yes. Open a link with Kilia and let Regar find out what he might about recent events, Chorlak, and your so-called non-combatant. Keep observing him and prepare a course to pursue.”

  Urag knew from bitter experience nothing would stand between Brakal and his goals but felt honor-bound to try anyhow.

  “We are already beyond our sphere of responsibility, Commander. Should the enemy act while we’re away from our patrol routes, the blame will fall on you.”

  “I won’t tell the robed fools at the Admiralty we went looking for the enemy in his lair instead of waiting for him to nip at our heels if you won’t Urag.”

  “As you wish, Commander. I hear and obey.”

  — Twenty-Six —

  “May I return to my ship when we recalibrate after crossing the heliopause, sir?”

  Dunmoore, who’d led Carrie Fennon to her day cabin for a cup of coffee after Iolanthe went FTL, gave the young woman a searching look.

  “Bored of life with us?”

  “No, sir.” Fennon accepted the proffered mug with a gracious tilt of the head by way of thanks. “I’ve learned a lot since coming aboard, and I know I’ll still learn much from Lieutenant Commander Cullop. But my place is in Kattegat Maru.”

  A warm smile softened Dunmoore’s sharp features.

  “I understand, Apprentice Officer, and I share your sentiments when it comes to the starships in which we serve. Perhaps Major Salminen will want to rotate her platoons on the same occasion. Permission granted.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Fennon took a sip. “May I ask a question?”

  “Always. It’s the best way to learn. Ask away.”

  Dunmoore dropped into her chair behind the desk.

  “Why would Hecate be out of bounds?”

  “Perhaps the survey ship that charted it found a grave peril for humans and the Admiralty wasn’t inclined to share the nature of said peril? Or the government established a top-secret facility of some sort in the system, maybe for research and development? It could be any number of reasons.”

  Fennon studied Dunmoore with her expressive gaze, then asked, “What do you think, sir?”

  A grim expression hardened Siobhan’s face again.

  “There are branches of the Commonwealth government known for doing things that wouldn’t withstand public scrutiny. I’ve encountered one of them a few times. Perhaps they established an outpost in the Hecate system.”

  “To do things requiring the secrecy afforded by distance and isolation?”

  Dunmoore raised her cup in salute.

  “Very perceptive of you. These aren’t nice people even if they work for the government.”

  Worry clouded Carrie’s eyes.

  “And these not nice people might hold my mother?”

  “Let’s not borrow trouble ahead of time.”

  “But you think it’s a possibility, Captain. I can see it in your expression.”

  “It is. Yet whoever kidnapped your crew and passengers did it in such an elaborate manner I’m convinced they’re at pains to en
sure everyone’s safety and continued survival.”

  Fennon slowly nodded.

  “True. But trying to figure out why worries me, sir.”

  “It worries me as well. Yet the only way to find answers is to go there, and we shall, proscription or not.”

  **

  “What news do you bring?” Brakal sat back in his chair and stared at Regar with his black in black eyes.

  “There is indeed a Tai Kan colleague stationed on Kilia, and he was most accommodating. Almost strangely so. But perhaps it stems from speaking to a fresh Imperial voice after living for such a long time among lesser beings. The shooting we saw was the tail end of a battle between Kilia and the human corsair ship Persephone previously identified by Chorlak.”

  As was his habit Regar mangled the unfamiliar human name almost beyond recognition.

  “Apparently the human corsair destroyed Chorlak and a ship belonging to Kilia’s ruler, and turned another of the ruler’s ships into a crewless attack craft, forcing him to wreck it.”

  Brakal’s face twisted into something that might frighten even an Arkanna alpha female at the height of bloodlust.

  “For what reason?”

  “It gets better, Commander. The human corsair also planted nuclear demolition devices in Kilia’s crust, and all to blackmail the station’s ruler, a human called Tarrant, who claims to be the sector’s biggest purveyor of illegal acts.”

  “Your colleague must live in this Tarrant’s pocket to be so well informed.”

  A predatory smile split Regar’s rough-hewn features.

  “Or perhaps Tarrant lives in the Tai Kan’s pocket, Commander.”

  “What does Kilia’s brave Tai Kan operative say about Persephone’s true nature or that of its flame-haired captain?”

  “Nothing. Other than the ship’s greater than usual size, this human corsair appears no different from any who visit Kilia, and its captain the usual fortune hunter intent on profit. Although Tarrant apparently has many other names for her, none of them flattering in his crude language.”

  Brakal’s snort echoed off his cabin’s unadorned metal bulkheads.

  “I can imagine. If this is the Dunmoore who bested me a few years ago and all but annihilated Tol Vakash, then perhaps I could teach Tarrant names for her he’s never dreamed of.” When he saw Regar’s sly expression, Brakal growled, “Are you holding something out on me, you whelp of a sand serpent?”

  “Tarrant gave the human corsair captain coordinates where his people supposedly took the imprisoned crew and passengers of a human freighter, people she is trying to find.”

  “You were going to share this information with me when?” Brakal asked in a tone oozing with peril.

  “No later than the moment your navigator finishes translating those human coordinates into something we of the one true race can understand.”

  A meaty fist slammed on the scarred tabletop.

  “Hah. One day you will overstep your bounds, Regar. No one can dance so close to the line without eventually finding himself on the wrong end of a warrior’s blade. But for this once, well done. Strike Force Khorsan will hunt the corsair because I am ever more convinced it is the ghost that has destroyed so many of our ships. What its captain did to Kilia seems familiar. I would wager the same mind is responsible for that delightfully underhanded stratagem.”

  Unlike Tol Vehar’s temporary commander, Urag, the Tai Kan political officer didn’t bother arguing about assigned areas of operation or the displeasure of Brakal’s superiors.

  He knew words of caution would do nothing more than needlessly rouse Brakal’s ire. Besides, if this Persephone was the ship that plagued them, chasing it would be in the Imperial Deep Space Fleet’s best interests and bugger anyone who said otherwise.

  **

  “How did you enjoy Iolanthe and Captain Dunmoore?” Lieutenant Commander Emma Cullop returned Carrie Fennon’s crisp, almost military salute.

  “It was, um, interesting to say the least, sir.”

  Cullop led her off the hanger deck so that the soldiers from Command Sergeant Jennsen’s number four platoon could finish their handover with Command Sergeant Alekseev’s number two platoon and head back to Iolanthe. Cullop knew Dunmoore wanted to be on her way the moment both ships finished cycling their hyperdrives to prepare for interstellar space.

  “What was so, um, interesting?” Cullop asked with a wry grin, suspecting she already knew what the young woman would answer.

  Fennon seemed to hesitate as if unsure her observations would find a receptive audience, then she shrugged.

  “It’s the endless banter, sir. My mother would never allow that much levity on her bridge. Yet Captain Dunmoore and the others were joking before and during the attack. It was quite extraordinary.”

  This time, Cullop laughed outright. Tatiana Salminen made the same observation shortly after her company joined Iolanthe’s crew and she began to frequent the CIC on a regular basis.

  “Not all commanding officers have Captain Dunmoore’s tolerance for levity on duty. But it helps pull the crew together when things become tense. We enjoy it that way.”

  “Yes, sir. I noticed.” A pause. “Iolanthe is an amazing ship. I stood a few watches with Commander Halfen, and he showed me around. The idea something so powerful can seem so innocuous is awe-inspiring.”

  “I don’t think awe is what our enemies feel when they see Iolanthe unmask.”

  “That’s what Chief Guthren said. He recommended I buy toilet paper futures in whatever sector she operates.”

  “Trust our cox’n to find just the right words for every occasion. And what did you think of Captain Dunmoore herself?” When Cullop saw the hesitant expression on Fennon’s face, she said, “I withdraw the question. One should never ask someone’s opinion of one’s commanding officer.”

  “I don’t mind. I like her. She treated me as if I was an adult rather than a child wearing a borrowed uniform. In fact everyone I met treated me as a grownup.”

  “Would I be wrong in guessing that’s not always the case with Katie’s regular crew?”

  They reached Fennon’s cabin, but before Carrie entered to drop off her gear, she said over her shoulder, “You wouldn’t be wrong, sir. Katie is a family business. It’s hard for my mother and my other relatives to forget I’m the youngest of the Fennons and still legally a minor. Even if the Merchant Guild carries me on the rolls as an apprentice officer.”

  “That makes sense, I suppose. Get yourself squared away and join me on the bridge. I’m happy to have another watchkeeper during our crossing to Hecate. We’ll go over the navigation plot while we wait for Captain Dunmoore’s signal to jump.”

  “Were heading straight there?”

  “Not exactly. Even though we could reach the system’s edge in one jump, Captain Dunmoore wants to do this in at least three. When we go over the plot, I’ll explain why.”

  — Twenty-Seven —

  “You know, I was thinking it’s a shame we can’t put kill marks on the Furious Faerie’s hull. With the two we bagged near Kilia, especially the bonehead intelligence ship, we’re getting quite a collection. If we’re not the record holder by now, we must be within single digits.”

  Commander Ezekiel Holt dropped into the seat across from Siobhan Dunmoore with a lunch tray in his hands. Iolanthe’s wardroom was empty save for them. Both had remained at their posts, Holt on the bridge and Dunmoore in the CIC, while the respective officers of the watch took their midday meals. They used the time for an informal after-action review, ahead of the formal one scheduled at four bells in the afternoon watch, or fourteen hundred hours in Army parlance.

  Dunmoore, as was her habit, kept the crew on its toes by running drills at every occasion. She’d called one when they dropped out of FTL on the run to Hecate so they could query the nearest subspace array for data packets addressed to Iolanthe.

  “Advertising our true nature would defeat the purpose, Zeke,” Dunmoore replied around a bite of her sandwich.

>   “I know, but it’s a given the bony devils will eventually catch on, sir. They might be slow in some areas, but they’re not stupid. One of these times, perhaps even the next time, someone will get off a message fingering us for a wolf in sheep’s clothing before we send them to the netherworld. Remember, we never found Chorlak’s beacon.”

  Dunmoore shrugged.

  “When that happens, I’ll ask Renny and his merry engineers to change our emissions signature and mask our lupine aura so we may exude sheepishness once more. And if the Shrehari become suspicious of every large freighter they detect, so much the better. They might lose their enthusiasm for raiding our shipping.”

  “You’ll ask me to do what, Captain?”

  “Speak of the devil, and he appears.” Holt glanced at the wardroom door and grinned. “Paint the warp nacelles bright pink, Renny, so we look less warlike and ferocious.”

  “That’ll be the day,” Commander Halfen growled. He went to the sideboard, poured himself a cup of coffee, and joined them. “You’ll be glad to know everything is well. The shield generator that wobbled after taking a bonehead broadside when we wiped out the convoy a few weeks ago is as good as new again.”

  Holt grimaced.

  “Perhaps, but we should plan on swapping it out for one fresh from the shipyards during the next overhaul cycle. It’s taken more hits than the rest combined.”

  “And whose fault is that? If we didn’t spend so much time shaking our tail to entice boneheads looking for quick plunder, we might not take so many shots on the aft shield.”

  “Don’t blame me,” Holt replied, then nodded at Dunmoore. “I take my maneuvering orders from the CIC.”

  “And fine maneuvering orders they are, to be sure. Now, what’s this idea of looking less ferocious?”

  “Zeke figures it’s just a matter of time before the Shrehari peg us as a warship in disguise.”

  The chief engineer nodded.

  “Probably. They’re smarter than the assorted riffraff we put away during the Toboso cleanup. But a coat of pink paint won’t do it. If I could find any. Speaking of the enemy, here’s a question for you, Mister First Officer — how do we figure out they’ve decided we’re not a big, cuddly target?”