Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  “When three or more Tol class cruisers come after our shaking tail instead of the usual patrol ships. Intelligence tells us the enemy strike force operating in this sector normally operates Tols in pairs, escorted by two or three corvettes. I’d say a force larger than that stalking Iolanthe will be a sign from God.”

  “Which would exclude the four we spotted approaching Kilia.” Halfen swallowed the rest of his coffee. “Well, that’s me. I just came for a taste of the good stuff. Try as I might, my crew still can’t understand why what they brew isn’t proper.”

  At that moment, Dunmoore’s communicator pinged.

  “Captain, this is the bridge.”

  “Dunmoore.”

  “We snagged a subspace signal packet from the Octavius Array.”

  “Excellent. Place the Iolanthe at jump stations and pipe the packet to my day cabin. You may take us FTL to the rendezvous coordinates when both ships are ready.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” Lieutenant Astrid Drost, currently sitting in the Q-ship’s bridge command chair replied. “Place the ship at jump stations and go FTL when Iolanthe and Kattegat Maru are ready.”

  “Dunmoore, out.”

  “Are we expecting fresh orders?” Holt asked before scarfing down the rest of his sandwich. “Something that might bugger up our quest for Captain Fennon and company?”

  “I hope not.”

  “We might regret making a detour to query the array, Skipper.”

  “I can get away with only so much, Zeke. Ignoring the order to ping subspace arrays at regular intervals would raise more questions than snooping around a forbidden system. HQ hates it when you don’t give their summonses the right degree of reverence.”

  Holt chuckled.

  “Ain’t that the truth? But consider this. With our success raiding Shrehari commerce and convoys deep inside their space, I keep expecting HQ to broaden the effort. Maybe even place a task force of Q-ships under the command of Acting Commodore Dunmoore.”

  Her lips twitched with a suppressed smile.

  “I suppose I probably have the most experience of any Q-ship captain, after running my own mercenary flotilla for a few weeks.”

  “And twice as acting commodore, if you count the convoy command when you were in Stingray.”

  “That wasn’t official, Zeke. It didn’t come with a broad pennant, and everything involving Lucius Corwin never happened.”

  A loud chime swallowed Holt’s reply.

  “Now hear this, prepare for transition to FTL in one minute. I repeat, prepare for transition to FTL in one minute.”

  “I guess Astrid was ready and waiting,” Dunmoore said. “We might as well stay here until our stomachs catch up. I doubt there’s anything in the packet requiring an immediate reply.”

  “And if there is, too bad.”

  “Rebel.”

  The jump klaxon sounded three times. Ten seconds later, Dunmoore wished she’d waited to eat her lunch, but the sensation passed as quickly as it appeared.

  “If you have no pressing engagements, why don’t you come read the mail with me,” she suggested, climbing to her feet.

  “Don’t mind if I do. In fact, I’ll take your spare terminal and reroute any personal stuff.”

  Holt let her lead them out of the wardroom and up the spiral stairs.

  “Expecting a missive from an admirer you neglected to mention?” Dunmoore asked over her shoulder.

  “Please, Captain. You know Iolanthe is the only one for me.”

  “I thought that was my line, you know, captains being wedded to their ships and all that ancient rot.”

  “You’re into faeries now?” He asked with a straight face. “I thought you were more of a dragon lady.”

  “Which would work if this ship were named Abraxas or Fafnir. But she’s named after one of the Fae...”

  The door to Dunmoore’s day cabin opened at their approach.

  “Another coffee?” She asked waving at the urn.

  “Thanks, but no. My nerves are taut enough.”

  Holt slid in behind the spare terminal while Dunmoore took her desk.

  “HQ was generous,” he said after a minute of silent reading. “Half the packet is personal messages for everyone, including most of our Scandian Marines. It seems the Army finally figured out how to route mail through Special Operations Command. They took long enough.”

  “E Company, 3rd Scandia is the only Army unit serving aboard a warship, so I’m not surprised,” Dunmoore replied in an absent tone. “And we’re not on anyone’s order of battle, just to make things even more obscure.”

  Holt noticed a catch in her voice and looked up.

  “Something in the orders giving you heartburn, Skipper?”

  “Our independence may be at an end, Zeke, and it’s in part my own damned fault.” She touched her screen. “Contrary to expectations, HQ has been listening. Why don’t you read the orders yourself?”

  Holt obeyed, then raised his eyes again.

  “Task Force Luckner? They may have been listening, but didn’t come to the right conclusions. Will we be able to keep looking for Kattegat Maru’s missing crew and passengers?”

  “I intend to take the time required. The task force won’t assemble overnight and if we show up after everyone else, so be it. Rear Admiral Kell Petras can either crap all over me or think of the bad publicity that would ensue from orders ending our hot pursuit of pirates who abducted Commonwealth citizens.”

  “Risky. Petras, whatever faults Fleet gossip might hang on him, has a reputation for being both competent and demanding.”

  She shrugged dismissively.

  “Tough.”

  “Losing our status as a free runner really rankles you, doesn’t it, Skipper?”

  Dunmoore gave Holt a cold stare, then relented under his unchanging good humor.

  “I’m annoyed at myself for suggesting SOCOM expand Q-ship operations to build on our success, and that’s giving me a bad case of cognitive dissonance. Broadening special operations’ reach is the right thing to do, even if it means I’m no longer exclusively in charge of Iolanthe’s fate.”

  “I understand your meaning. But on the bright side, you’ll see Gregor Pushkin again, maybe invite him over for a meal, and show him around. Didn’t you say he thought they posted you to a desk job?”

  “I was ordered not to discuss Iolanthe when our new assignments came in after Stingray’s decommissioning.”

  “Some folks are about to discover the truth.”

  “Aye, and that’s the rub. I hoped HQ would enhance our efforts with more Q-ships or perhaps use one or two of the new Reconquista class cruisers to act as commerce raiders. I didn’t expect them to create a task force of conventional warships with us as a designated lure.”

  “Luckner includes Jan Sobieski. She may not be a cruiser, but as frigates go, she’s a beast, and she’s fresh out of dry dock with a captain you trust.”

  “Always looking at the positives, aren’t you?” She gave her first officer a fond smile. “Unfortunately, we’ll be under the command of Rear Admiral Petras.”

  “He’s known as a fighting admiral.”

  “One who sat behind a desk at Special Operations Command on Earth for the last three years. The war has changed since his most recent command in space. Carrying out deep raids is a new phase, one Fleet Command is only starting to appreciate. Besides, he’s never actually run special ops. His experience is on the planning and staff side, meaning theoretical.”

  “Do I sense a fear he’ll override our hard-won practical experience, potentially putting him and you at odds?”

  “Only a fool would think otherwise.” Dunmoore’s voice took on a thoughtful cast. “And a rear admiral commanding a task force comes with his own flag captain, a four-striper with more time in rank than I do and stars in her eyes. In this case, one Lena Corto. I’m not personally acquainted with her, but she also has a reputation — for ambition.”

  Holt chuckled.

  “And now we reach
the nub of the issue. I recall you don’t play nice with flag captains.”

  “Only those who labor under the mistaken belief they’re second in command rather than chief planners. And since this new task force won’t operate from a starbase, the admiral won’t be alone in riding herd on us. We’ll also spend quality time with his flag captain.”

  “At least neither will be in Iolanthe. They’ve given Petras a Type 260 destroyer configured as a flagship.”

  “Indeed — Hawkwood. I think they call that variant a Type 261. But she’s much smaller than Iolanthe. Our CIC is twice that of a destroyer’s, enough to accommodate a task force commander along with our own needs, and we have more cabin space as well as better amenities.”

  “Then I’ll see to making Iolanthe as grubby and inadequate as possible.”

  Dunmoore chuckled.

  “There you go rebelling again. Admiral Petras well knows our capabilities and configuration. If he hoists his flag over Iolanthe, we can do nothing more than smile and make his every wish happen.” Dunmoore paused for a moment, then sighed. “I suppose I’ve become overly used to operating well away from a flag officer’s gimlet eyes. A task force commander reining me in doesn’t sit well.”

  “I doubt Petras will chain you to his flagship’s starboard flank like a mere corvette, demanding we conform to every signal he makes. Even if he’s been riding a desk at Special Operations Command, he’ll know it’s not the way to use a Q-ship.”

  She smiled at him again.

  “I’ll be an optimist and believe he intends to practice mission command — tell me what he wants and let me do it my way. Otherwise, the next few months won’t be to my liking. But first, we must finish this job. Petras can wait until we’re done. Not only will we be the last to join Task Force Luckner but I suspect we won’t make it within the required time window either. Not from where we are now, let alone after chasing our kidnappers to Hecate the Mysterious.”

  The first officer gave Siobhan a wry look.

  “That’s what happens when you go on wild hunts behind enemy lines. HQ can’t keep up with your position anymore.”

  “Wild hunts? I heard no bugles.” She glanced down at the screen embedded in her desk. “But let’s look at this task force’s name as a good omen.”

  “Why?”

  “According to the historical database, Captain Felix von Luckner could be called our spiritual ancestor. He was one of the most famous and successful commerce raiders in pre-diaspora times. Funnily enough, his crew were nicknamed the Emperor’s Pirates.”

  “If Admiral Petras came up with the name, I hope it was because he understands the exigencies of unconventional warfare and not out of affection for ancient naval lore.”

  — Twenty-Eight —

  “So that’s Satan’s Eye.” Dunmoore studied the gas giant in the main display with appreciative eyes. “Aptly named. The polar vortices, as seen from this angle, do resemble the pupil and iris of something sinister. It reminds me of a tale about an evil entity which existed only as an all-seeing and all-knowing virtual eyeball.”

  Iolanthe had crossed Hecate’s heliopause a few hours earlier, after a single jump from the rendezvous which, as expected, was devoid of clues, not even a recent ion trail from a starship. The Q-ship was still a few light hours away from Raijin, her sensors looking for signs of sentient life before Dunmoore ordered that last, short jump to the gas giant’s hyperlimit.

  An automated buoy, one of several orbiting the distant star, was broadcasting a warning on a loop. It told anyone coming within range of Hecate that entry into the system was forbidden by order of the Commonwealth government, on pain of dire penalties. After listening to the message once and recording it for posterity, Dunmoore ignored its baleful words in favor of approaching the moon Temar unseen.

  If Tarrant’s unnamed employers took the captives to this system after receiving them from Baba Yaga, that moon seemed the most logical destination. It was the only body capable of sustaining human life with no need for artificial habitats.

  But if they found nothing, Dunmoore would be forced to decide between continuing her hunt and reporting to Task Force Luckner’s assembly point as ordered. Abandoning Carrie Fennon’s people to their fate would be gut-wrenching, yet she couldn’t survive Admiral Petras’ wrath unscathed if she continued with no new evidence to guide them.

  The task force’s entire premise depended on Iolanthe serving as designated bait to lure the Shrehari. Without her, Petras commanded only a light battle group, good for nothing more than quick hit-and-run raids on the fringes of Shrehari-held space. He wouldn’t consider seventy-odd civilians sufficient justification to delay assembling his first command after years ashore. Especially not with Admiral Nagira’s eyes on him.

  Who knew what Petras promised the head of SOCOM or even Admiral Nagira himself? What innovative tactics he proposed to prove in the crucible of battle and not coincidentally improve his chances of promotion to vice admiral?

  Moments after the thought crossed her mind Dunmoore felt a stab of shame. Accusing someone with an honorable record of seeking glory to earn another star was unworthy. Yet, the Fleet’s upper echelons used to be rife with careerists and many of them stayed on after most of their sort wilted away under the pressures of war.

  Raijin’s image wavered, then shifted with a jerk and a small, bluish dot floating above the planet’s colorful, orange-hued outer atmosphere swam into focus at the center of the CIC’s main display.

  “Temar,” Chief Yens said. “At this range, the sensors can’t detect anything useful, other than to confirm the moon is within the expanded parameters for habitability, albeit barely. And that’s pretty much everything I can see in this system other than the damn buoys.”

  “Thank you, Chief.” Dunmoore rubbed her jawline.

  “What are you thinking, Skipper?” Holt was present in person for a change, rather than via hologram from the bridge, and recognized the gesture. “If someone’s hiding on Temar, I’d bet they seeded Raijin’s high orbitals with surveillance satellites. There’s no point in proscribing a star system if you can’t pick up intruders and make good on your threats.”

  “Detection? Sure,” she replied in a thoughtful tone. “Making good on threats, now that’s another question altogether. I’ve not heard of any naval units stationed in the Hecate system, and it would take at least a task force if not a full battle group to chase down and apprehend trespassers. If they’re serious about dire penalties. And the Fleet has precious few ships to spare for guard duty in a star system whose only remarkable feature is a habitable moon orbiting a gas giant.”

  Dunmoore fell silent, eyes still on Temar’s small blue disk. After a moment, she slowly shook her head.

  “I doubt there’s anything in this system capable of threatening Iolanthe. At least in the physical sense.”

  “Agreed, to a point.” Holt’s dubious tone belied his words. “But if we disobey orders keeping everyone out of the system and a report makes its way to Fleet HQ, Iolanthe or to be more precise you will face a disciplinary threat.”

  “True. But finding Kattegat Maru’s crew and passengers in this system could be our trump card. If whoever ordered their abduction has set up shop here, they aren’t about to complain once we confront them.”

  “What if we draw a blank? What if we don’t find the abductees and you’re charged with disobeying a government order?”

  Dunmoore gave her first officer a wry grin.

  “What’s life without a little risk?”

  “Something that might allow you to end the war with an admiral’s stars on your collar?”

  She laughed with delight.

  “You expect the war to last another decade? Because Q-ship captains, especially those with only a few years in rank, aren’t on the fast track to flag officer. If you were hoping to ride my coattails into a starbase’s executive suite, sorry. Not going to happen. I’m having too much fun as a starship captain. I’ll take my lumps if necessary. At worst A
dmiral Petras or perhaps even Admiral Nagira will give me a sharp rap on the knuckles and a downgrade on my efficiency report. I don’t think the Navy will send one of its own to a penal colony on Parth for the crime of trying to save innocent civilian lives.”

  “You underestimate the viciousness of a bureaucracy thwarted.”

  “The bureaucracy does not understand how vicious I can be when I’m thwarted. We will approach Raijin with due caution and try to stay off their sensors. But if they notice us, we will flex our muscles shamelessly. I want to know whether Fennon and company are on Temar.”

  Holt recognized the steel in Dunmoore’s voice and knew any further argument was futile. He climbed to his feet.

  “Astrid will prepare a navigation plot to get us there. Will you leave Kattegat Maru here or take her with us?”

  Dunmoore tilted her head to one side as she considered the question.

  “No. She’ll make a hole in space again and wait. That way if I annoy the tinpot gods of the bureaucracy into showering reprisals on us, at least they won’t find any justification to confiscate Katie and take away the Fennon family’s livelihood. Besides Carrie is a civilian and while the Navy might shield us from the consequences of trying to do our duty, she has no such protection.”

  “Agreed, although Emma might be disgruntled by missing out on exploring a proscribed star system.”

  “Life is full of little disappointments, Zeke. We can take plenty of visuals and send them over so she has something to occupy her time when she’s not standing watch.”

  “Knowing Emma, that blessed event will be the third Sunday of never.”

  Thorin Sirico guffawed.

  “I’m sure I’ve seen her enjoy the odd five-minute break in the wardroom, sir. Although perhaps she was inspecting it instead, looking for something that might keep the boatswain and her mates occupied.”

  Dunmoore stood.

  “Okay, you comedians. I’ll be in my day cabin. Send me the navigation plot once Astrid has worked her magic. And keep watching Raijin while we’re waiting.”