by Eric Thomson
“Sweet and simple. It shall be as you say.”
“Impress on your folks it’s essential we take the Shrehari by surprise. We will get one chance to smack them hard and convince their commander this isn’t a battle he can win and still make it home. That means they must not know I’ve alerted you, let alone that my ship is lying in wait for them. Nothing goes live, nothing shoots, and no shields go up until I give the signal.”
“Understood. I’ll take you back to the tarmac and let you return topside so you may prepare. Once you’ve chased away the Shrehari, please feel free to come back so we can conclude our discussion about the fate of the Kattegat Maru detainees.”
“Make sure you either find that person of interest or conclude he or she isn’t among them. I’m not leaving the Hecate system without at least forty-four of those people.”
As she expected, Hersom didn’t respond. They spent the rest of the walk back to the landing strip in silence. After passing once more through the control center, he ushered them out, then turned away without a word of goodbye.
Dunmoore caught sight of both Salminen and Guthren’s helmeted heads turning toward her, and she made the ‘mount up’ signal. Within minutes, the eight gunships and the single armed shuttle were loaded and ready to lift. Dunmoore, sitting in the gunner’s seat beside Petty Officer Purdy, mentally replayed her visit of the Kattegat Maru detainee barracks.
Why did that one man stir a vague memory? Coincidence? Or something more sinister? She barely noticed the thrusters lighting, or the craft lifting as she rummaged through the dark corners of her mind for something, anything that might fit.
It wasn’t until she saw Iolanthe framed by the shuttle cockpit’s window that a vision of Toboso bubbled up unbidden. Dunmoore knew who he was, or at least who she suspected he could be.
If she was right, his presence raised more questions than it answered, and posed a moral dilemma. But it would need to wait. In a few hours, Shrehari warships would appear at Raijin’s hyperlimit, looking for Iolanthe and whatever the dastardly humans were doing in this remote, quarantined system.
— Thirty-Five —
Ezekiel Holt, standing beside Petty Officer Harkon in the hangar deck control room, watched the shuttles settle into their assigned positions while the space doors closed. Once they disgorged E Company and Chief Guthren’s landing party, he gave Harkon a friendly nod and went through the now open airlock to greet his captain and ask her about Hersom.
But the moment she saw him, Dunmoore pointed at the door and mouthed the words ‘day cabin.’ Holt immediately spun around and retraced his steps although he cut his long stride in half so she could catch up.
“And?” He asked once Dunmoore fell in beside him.
“It is indeed an SSB rendition site, although Hersom prefers we use the term detention instead of rendition. They hold the Kattegat Maru passengers, but not Fennon and company. One of the passengers is supposedly a threat to the Commonwealth, but they don’t know who.”
“Where’s the crew?”
“Still in the clutches of Tarrant’s pirates. Or at least, I hope they are.” She related the rest of her conversation with Hersom, and her visit to the stockade.
“Son of a bitch,” Holt said with genuine anger once she finished speaking. “I can’t believe this sort of shit is actually happening. What the hell are they thinking on Earth to allow extra-judicial kidnappings?”
Dunmoore led them into her day cabin and tossed the field cap on her desk.
“I don’t know that anyone is thinking clearly, period. But I wouldn’t be surprised if the SSB is exploiting wartime hysteria to extend its reach and power. It’s possible no one outside the Bureau has a clue this place exists.”
“It won’t end well.”
Holt automatically drew two cups of coffee from the urn and handed one to Dunmoore.
“That depends on your point of view.” She sat with a sigh. “If you’re a SecGen who believes in centralizing power on Earth rather than respecting the rights of sovereign star systems, a more powerful SSB is a feature, not a bug.”
“I wish they would leave political games for after the war.”
A bitter laugh escaped Dunmoore’s lips.
“What? Let a crisis go to waste? The politicians and their minions could no more do that than tell the truth.”
“Speaking of crisis games, wasn’t poking at a senior SSB officer a tad risky? His sort holds grudges beyond the grave and has the wherewithal to reach out and hurt you.”
Though she could hear the reproach in Holt’s tone, Dunmoore shrugged off his comment with an unrepentant grimace.
“It’s a bit too late for regrets or recriminations, Zeke. However, I doubt he’ll bother reaching out so long as I don’t spoil his reputation by telling the universe I snuck up on him unnoticed and forced myself into his detention site. That wouldn’t help him earn a promotion and reassignment to the centers of power. Plus he’ll owe us for helping chase off those Shrehari.”
“And their person of interest? If they don’t find him or her among the Kattegat Maru passengers by the time we’re ready to leave, what’ll you do?”
Dunmoore made a wry face.
“I may know who it is.”
Holt sat up with a start.
“What?”
“Unfortunately, I’m not sure if it’s something I can share with Hersom. Speaking from a moral and ethical point of view rather than a utilitarian one. Hang on.” Dunmoore touched her communicator. “Captain to the cox’n.”
A few moments passed, then, “Guthren here, sir.”
“Has Vincenzo uploaded his battlesuit recordings yet?”
“If he hasn’t, I’ll make sure he does within the next few minutes. Standby for a notification.”
The first officer tilted his head to one side and gave her a curious glance.
“Hersom didn’t object at your taking visual evidence of his operation?”
“I doubt it occurred to him that our battlesuits can log everything around them. It’s not something I advertised, and Vincenzo took care to appear concerned merely with my welfare.” A soft ping interrupted her. “Ah. Here we go. I’ll run the sequence where we visit the detainees. Tell me if anyone strikes your former spook catcher’s fancy.”
Holt turned to face the day cabin’s main display and nodded once.
“Go for it.”
They sat through the first and second dormitory inspection video in silence. But upon seeing the third, Holt suddenly leaned forward and raised a hand.
“Can you please pause the playback?”
A frown creased his forehead as he stood and approached the display to study the image. Then, he tapped a face with his index finger. It was the same silver-haired aristocratic profile that raised her own suspicions.
“This man’s features ring a very faint bell. He vaguely reminds me of someone I’ve met.” Holt turned toward Dunmoore. “The memory is fairly recent, not from my days in counterintelligence.”
“Do you want a hint?”
“Sure. I love charades.”
“Think back to the Toboso incident.”
Holt swung around to face the display again and nodded.
“Of course. My recognition skills must be rusty.”
“You’d have twigged right away had you been with me. Thinking back at the moment, I swear I saw a brief flicker of recognition when our eyes met. I think it’s what kicked my subconscious into high gear.”
“If that is Mikhail Forenza in disguise, why are the SecGen’s goons after him? Back on Toboso, I nurtured a sneaking suspicion he might work for the Bureau and not the Colonial Office like he told us. Is the SSB at war with other government branches? And more importantly why are they unable to identify him?”
“I’ve been asking myself those questions for the last half hour without finding an answer.”
“So that’s why you’re in a moral quandary.”
She grimaced.
“I can’t simply point him
out to Hersom and say that guy bears a resemblance to a Colonial Office agent I once met, someone who I suspect makes his living cleaning up political messes with extreme prejudice. What if I’m wrong and the resemblance is innocent? What if it really is Forenza? I still owe him a debt of gratitude for coming in on my side when I took control of Toboso and ended the Devine gang’s conspiracy.”
“He murdered Anton Gerber, and no doubt many more.”
“We’re not exactly wide-eyed naïfs when it comes to killing, Zeke. Besides, we merely have suspicions, not proof.”
“Only because Forenza is a professional.”
Holt dropped into his chair and crossed his legs.
“I wish Carrie Fennon was here instead of back in her ship. She might enlighten us about this man, and I don’t want to risk another subspace burst before we engage the Shrehari.”
“A wise precaution, Skipper. What are your immediate intentions?”
She made a dubious face. “Hope Hersom’s people will find their target before we finish with the boneheads, so they’ll hand the others over to us for repatriation.”
“And if not? Since they’re still in the dark after scrutinizing their prisoners for days on end with every means at the SSB’s disposal, I don’t think counting on a sudden breakthrough is realistic. And we can’t stick around. Not if we want to track Baba Yaga before the bastards do something unpleasant with Captain Fennon and her crew. By the way, did you ask whether anyone knows what heading Baba Yaga took after transferring the detainees? It might give us a hint about where to look.”
An air of disgust briefly twisted her features.
“No, but it should have occurred to me once I found out Tarrant’s pirates still held Carrie’s family. I’ll remedy that before shifting to Temar’s L5 point.”
Holt jumped to his feet.
“On that note, we should get underway. If this ambush is to work, Iolanthe must be a hole in space at L5 before the Shrehari drop out of FTL.”
**
Brakal, unable to stay away from Tol Vehar’s bridge for the drop out of otherspace, gripped the arms of the spare command chair. Urag had it installed during the crossing for just such an occasion, lest Strike Force Khorsan’s acting commander evict him from his own.
The unpleasantness of transition faded though Brakal suspected the sensation was worsening as he aged. Fortunately for his temper, humans and subject species suffered from something similar. Otherwise, he might curse the gods for afflicting only the Imperial race.
Knowing it would take the sensor operators time to complete a full scan of Raijin and its many moons, he settled back and drew on his shallow reserves of patience while simultaneously fending off a sense of worry. What if this system was genuinely beset by something evil and deadly, something that might gobble up his ships and crews so that no one could return home and warn the fleet?
As he waited for the first report, Brakal studied the colorful gas giant on the main display. Shrehari intelligence records said the humans called it Satan’s Eye in jest but didn’t specify who this Satan might be and why a gas giant should resemble his eye.
Brakal was about to stand and take his impatience to the mess hall for a cup of hot tvass when the senior sensor operator turned around to face Urag.
“One of the gas giant’s moons falls within our and the human’s habitability parameters, Commander. There is also evidence of artificial satellites orbiting both the giant and this moon. But we cannot detect any starships or any transmissions on the bands used by the hairless apes.”
Urag acknowledged the report with a curt nod, then glanced at Brakal.
“Your orders, Lord?”
“We make ready for battle and approach this habitable moon. I want to know what the humans are doing and find out if our ghost is hiding here.”
Tol Vehar’s acting commander gave Brakal a doubtful glare, but said, “I hear and obey.”
“Keep your cheer, Urag. At least we’re not as far from home as the last time we chased the flame-haired she-wolf. That was a hunt for the ages.”
“From which we barely returned alive.”
“As we will from this expedition. The human capable of killing Strike Force Khorsan’s valiant crews has not yet been whelped.”
“The ghost has killed Shrehari and subject races aplenty in recent times, Lord. And if he’s the one we pursue...”
“Bah.” Brakal made a dismissive hand gesture conveying disdain. “He’s a commerce raider, Urag. One fit only to chase transport ships and their escorts. But against Vehar and Vach? That will be a different hell altogether — for him.”
— Thirty-Six —
“Two Tol and one Ptar dropped out of FTL at Raijin’s hyperlimit a few minutes ago.” Lieutenant Commander Sirico climbed to his feet and stepped away from the command chair as Siobhan Dunmoore entered the CIC, summoned by news of the enemy’s arrival. “Our link with Temar ground control remains active, and I’ve warned them. The orbital defense platforms are still dormant and almost impossible to detect, even at this distance. Their duty officer says the surveillance satellites can’t see us and he’s a little weirded out by speaking with a phantom.”
“Then everything is as it should be.”
“Damn boneheads think they’re running silent, but I can see them all right,” Chief Yens added. “I hope they never figure out how to make themselves invisible to sensors like we do.”
Sirico pointed at the tactical projection.
“On their current heading and speed, I figure they’ll come up our rear unless the Shrehari commander decides he’d rather swing around Raijin on an opposite heading to Temar’s orbit.”
“Doubtful.” Dunmoore dropped into the command chair and studied Sirico’s estimate. “He’ll want to creep up on the only habitable world in this system and close with it on his own terms. It’s what I would do. Our aft guns will be able to work their usual magic.”
“And we won’t lose any time by having to unmask either.” Sirico rubbed his hands with glee. “It’ll be up systems and fire at will.”
“Has anyone ever mentioned you take entirely too much pleasure in your job, Thorin?” Tatiana Salminen, who’d entered the CIC on Dunmoore’s heels, asked with a knowing smirk.
“A true craftsman takes pride in everything he does, even if it’s destroying the Commonwealth’s enemies.”
“Whether they be alien or domestic, right?”
Sirico gave the soldier an exaggerated bow.
“I aim to please.”
Dunmoore rolled her eyes at the pun.
“Just make sure that aim is true, Mister Craftsman. We’ll get off one clean salvo, so it has to count.”
“For that precise reason, Chief Yens and I will spend our time profitably between now and then by trying to identify the Shrehari command ship so we may gift it with that one clean salvo.”
But an hour later, Sirico admitted defeat.
“The boneheads are being cannier than usual. Even though their emissions dampening isn’t up to our standards, their communications discipline seems to be. I can’t tell which of them is the command ship. For all we know, it could be the Ptar. Intelligence reports are hinting at them learning a few tricks from us.”
“So long as they don’t pick up our scent before they’re within optimum firing range, it’s not a big issue, Thorin. Choose the Tol with the best target profile for our first salvo, then direct the orbital platforms on the second one. We can leave the Ptar for last. I suspect its captain will veer off the moment we engage the Tols.”
“Funny how I’m still not used to seeing them while they don’t see us,” Salminen said, eyes on the visual feed now dominating the main display.
“Knowing where to look is the real trick,” Sirico replied. “If they bothered to check Temar’s L5 point, I daresay they might notice our hull occluding the background stars, or making a smudge on the moon’s lovely blue orb.”
“Surely they know about Lagrangian points.”
Dunm
oore nodded.
“They do. I can’t recall the Shrehari name for the phenomenon, but their grasp of orbital mechanics is easily as good as ours. The reason they’re not searching the L5 with passive means is that their doctrine doesn’t involve using a Lagrangian as springboard for an ambush. Neither does ours for that matter, outside the small Q-ship community. So they’re concentrating on picking up emissions and giving more likely places the benefit of visual scans.”
A satisfied smile softened Salminen’s serious features.
“I guess we’re about to show them the errors of their ways.”
Sirico turned a wolfish smile on the soldier.
“And if we can nail all three, that lesson won’t be passed on to their fellow boneheads, which is how I want my enemies to not learn.”
“I’ll settle for driving them out of the system and back toward their own sphere. They can’t afford heavy damage so far from home. Contrary to myth, the Shrehari propensity for aggression doesn’t mean they’re suicidally brave.”
The conversation flowed with its usual ease, yet Dunmoore could sense the underlying tension of an approaching battle as if it were a physical presence in their midst. Iolanthe could effortlessly outfight a Tol class cruiser since it wasn’t much more than a heavy frigate by Commonwealth standards. But two of them plus a corvette almost evened the odds. It also reduced her margin for error.
Temar’s orbital platforms would help. However, she didn’t know how powerful they were, or how skilled Hersom’s operators might be, and he’d resisted putting them under Dunmoore’s tactical control for the duration of the battle.
When her fingers tried to break free and dance on the command chair’s arm, she took a deep breath and mentally recited her mantra. Waiting silently for the enemy to come within range was always a test of her patience, and this one seemed to know a thing or two about making a cautious, unhurried approach.
**
“Where are you hiding, demon spawn from the Seven Hells?” Brakal’s rough voice was a soft murmur, almost entirely subsumed by Tol Vehar’s ambient noise, but Urag heard nonetheless.