by Eric Thomson
Dunmoore’s heart sank.
“How long?”
“Ten minutes. Maybe less.”
A muffled curse almost escaped her lips.
“Let Zeke know.”
“Already done. I flashed a priority message to the bridge. He acknowledged.” Halfen’s eyes slipped to one side. “The Charles Martel projection is beginning to degrade as well. Sorry.”
“There’s nothing to apologize for. You did the impossible in under a day, Renny. Besides, it only needs to work a few minutes longer. Zeke almost has Tarrant convinced he’s a bloodthirsty career climber who eats babies for breakfast.”
“I’ve been listening. He almost has me convinced. Mind you, that eye patch adds a lot to the aristocratic psychopath persona.”
At that moment, Holt spoke again.
“All right, Tarrant, since you don’t appear to possess the brains God granted a stalk of broccoli, I’ll give the human gene pool a thorough cleansing.” He waved at someone off-screen. “Gunnery officer, confirm target lock.”
“Confirmed, sir,” an invisible Lieutenant Protti replied. “The first flight of missiles is ready to launch. Forty-five warheads. The next one will follow half a minute later.”
Holt tapped his chin with a gloved index finger.
“Ninety warheads. I wonder if that’s not overkill. What do you think, Ser Tarrant? Is it too much? I hate wasting the taxpayer’s money.”
Dunmoore saw the color drain from Tarrant’s face in the space of half a second. His jaw muscles rippled beneath the skin as he chewed on Ezekiel Holt’s threat.
“Your superiors will hear of this gross intrusion into the affairs of an independent neutral. Threatening thousands of innocent civilian lives means the end of your career, Larkin. I’m connected to powerful people in the Commonwealth government. They will make sure you pay.”
“Good. My after-action report will sound so much better with corroboration from the local asshole. Just make sure you spell my name correctly. That’s L-A-R-K-I-N. Of course, that’s assuming you’re about to tell me where I can find Fennon and her people. Otherwise the only one you’ll be complaining to is Beelzebub. And he’ll commend me for sending him a fresh batch of blackened souls.” Holt’s fist struck the command chair with a loud thump. “For the last time, where are they?”
“Uh-oh.” Thorin Sirico looked up from his console. “Pretend Jan Sobieski is flickering.”
“Come on, Tarrant,” Dunmoore murmured. “Give it up.”
An ugly snarl replaced the languid expression on Holt’s face.
“Gunnery officer, prepare to fire.”
“Wait. Baba Yaga is taking them to the Hestia system.”
Dunmoore glanced over her shoulder at Forenza who grimaced and said, “It’s the next closest after Cullan, but with considerably less charm and more marginal conditions for our species. I wasn’t able to pinpoint the deportee settlements there, but they exist. The place is known among smugglers for producing opaline-type gemstones of exceptional quality, unmatched anywhere else in the known galaxy, and such mines would need a workforce familiar with advanced machinery.”
“Coordinates?” Holt demanded. “Keep in mind if I don’t find Fennon and her people, or something happened to them, I will scour Kilia with my nuclear fire.”
Tarrant glanced away and rattled off an alphanumeric sequence.
A heartfelt curse escaped Sirico’s lips.
“We lost one hologram, sir. The Growler is still emitting as if it were a frigate, but Jan Sobieski’s image is gone.”
Moments later, a text message appeared on one of the CIC’s side screens. It was from Lieutenant Drost, confirming the coordinates matched that of a G class star with at least one known habitable planet called Hestia.
“Time to end this charade,” Dunmoore said, “before the Shrehari figure out it’s just us and one freighter, and decide on a rematch. As much as I want to finish the job we started in the Hecate system, this time we can’t count on orbital defenses as a backup.”
She tapped out a message for Holt and saw him glance down briefly. An acknowledgment flashed on her command chair’s display.
“Many thanks, Ser Tarrant,” Holt said, inclining his head in a polite bow. “Keep my warning in mind and do yourself a favor. Evict those Shrehari lying doggo at your L5 point before the Admiralty brands Kilia as a hostile system. I know several flag officers who’d love to transform your little station into a forward operating base. None of them are known to offer compensation, by the way. One last thing, don’t be alarmed but my ships and I will vanish from your sensors in a few seconds. Iolanthe, out.”
“And we’re clear,” the CIC signals petty officer said.
“Thorin, shut off the Growlers. PO, tell Commander Cullop to execute the planned course change then go silent. Zeke, put tractor beams on those shuttles, fire thrusters to conform with Katie’s movements and go silent as well.”
**
“Lord, one of the human cruisers — I can still detect its emissions, but it vanished from the visual pickups.”
Brakal turned his eyes on Menak.
“Show me.” A brief recording of the purported Jan Sobieski flashed by on the main screen. For a few heartbeats, its image wavered, then disappeared without warning. “But the power signature remains unchanged?”
“Less intense, but yes, Lord.”
“And the other cruiser?”
The now familiar form of the second Voivode class frigate replaced the recording of its mate dissolving into nothing.
“It flickers as well, though its emissions are stable.”
An amused rumble sounded from the back of the bridge.
“Decoys, perhaps,” Regar suggested. “To intimidate the ruler of that well-defended habitat? Judging by the last exchange between him and the human commander, it succeeded.”
“But how is it possible to create such a convincing image of otherspace-capable ships?”
“Convincing but short-lived,” the Tai Kan officer replied. He pointed at the screen. “Both are gone.”
“As are their power emissions,” Menak added. “And those of the corvette and the battleship, though both fired attitudinal thrusters to change course beforehand.”
“Do you still have a visual fix on them?”
“No, Lord. Their unexpected course change threw the visual sensors off. I am trying to find them again.”
Brakal’s noisy exhalation sounded like that of an enraged fire dragon. Two decoys and two real ships? Or three decoys and one real battleship?
“We recorded the name and coordinates of the planet in question. It allows us to pursue.”
Urag, who’d remained silent throughout, gave Regar a poisonous look.
“Chasing that battleship and whatever actual companions it might have won’t allow us to find and destroy the ghost. Let the humans go on their quest since it seems unrelated to anything that might interest the Empire. Our duty is elsewhere.”
Unbowed by Urag’s outburst, Regar made a dismissive gesture.
Ignoring both of his advisors, Brakal turned toward Lieutenant Tuku, Tol Vehar’s navigator.
“Show me the planet’s location.”
“The instant I finish translating those primitive human coordinates into proper ones, Lord.”
Urag’s suspicious gaze shifted to Brakal.
“We’ve neglected our patrol route long enough. Who knows what trouble the ghost has caused during our absence? Chasing a battleship that is not an immediate threat while failing to hunt the commerce raider we must eliminate will give a yatakan such as Strike Force Khorsan’s chief of staff more knives to plant in your back. Hralk is already paying for his lack of success. Fail, and you will face the Admiralty’s opprobrium so much faster.”
“And yet...” Brakal murmured, “Something about that battleship still tugs at my instincts, Urag.”
“You witnessed its commander. A human male, not the flame-haired female that has been haunting the most evil of your dr
eams since she nearly destroyed Tol Vakash many years ago. A female resembling her commands the human corsair we encountered in this system, the one you believe is our phantom. Two different commanders, two different ships. We must return to our assigned sector and resume our hunt there. Besides, we will need to resupply soon. Another engagement such as the one in the Hecate system and our missile launchers will be empty.”
“Lord, I found the star system named by those coordinates,” Tuku said. He indicated the three-dimensional navigation plot, where Hestia, Kilia, and Shrehari occupied space were clearly marked.
A sad rumble rose from Brakal’s chest. Following the battleship would take them a fair distance from their assigned patrol route once again. One such occurrence might pass without notice, but not two. And Urag was right. He would fall harder and faster than Hralk if Gra’k and his minions decided they could produce enough evidence to see him permanently relieved by the Admiralty. Still, something bothered him about the behemoth with its one-eyed commander.
“Very well. We will wait here for a few more days and see if the phantom appears. Then, we head back to our demon-spawned base of operations so we may resupply. If a convoy finally made it through.”
“With the ghost operating in these parts instead of raiding our shipping lanes?” Regar asked. “I’d say the warehouses will be full. And since our sector no longer suffers its depredations, you might even find your chief of staff sitting on a missive from the home world confirming you as the admiral in command of Strike Force Khorsan.”
— Forty-Seven —
Iolanthe’s wardroom erupted in applause when Ezekiel Holt, once more wearing a commander’s three stripes on his collar, entered for the evening meal. He made a theatrical bow and said, “Thank you, thank you.” He pointed at Lieutenant Protti. “I had a great supporting cast, and you were a wonderful audience.”
“How did it feel playing the villain of the piece, sir?” Sirico asked with a grin. He dropped his voice by two octaves and said, “I will scour Kilia with my nuclear fire. Brilliant! I almost believed you would do it.”
“It’s the eye patch,” Protti said. “You had to be on the bridge while it happened for the full effect. Chilling, just chilling.”
Dunmoore made a face at her first officer.
“But calling Shannon O’Donnell a sociopath? Really, Zeke?”
“You wanted to put distance between Persephone and Iolanthe. I merely did my best to make the difference believable.”
Holt piled food on a tray before joining her and Forenza at the captain’s corner table.
“The Growlers are back in the hangar, Skipper, but Renny thinks they’ll need a starbase-level overhaul. Some of the more delicate electronics are one power surge away from frying. I don’t envy you explaining why when the inevitable questions arise. You know how Fleet engineers are when they find evidence of unauthorized modifications on anything under their purview.” He sat and dipped his spoon into the thick stew. “Kattegat Maru is in fine fettle and keeping good station on our port quarter. Emma says young Carrie Fennon received quite an education in the fine art of winning without fighting. She’ll make our apprentice officer read Sun Tzu during the crossing to Hestia.”
“What about the Shrehari?”
“Still trailing Kilia with dampened systems. It looks as if they learned to avoid battle unless the odds are overwhelmingly in their favor.”
“Years of getting nowhere will do that to the most aggressive species. I think they’re as tired of this crap as we are and no longer inclined to die for the emperor without a damn good reason.”
“Especially since their reasons for attacking us were spurious in the first place, Captain,” Forenza said. “Using war with an external foe to mask or divert attention from internal problems will only take you so far. With no great racial, religious, or existential issues at play, there’s a limit to how much sentient beings will endure.”
“Do you think they’ll get tired enough to seek an armistice?” Holt asked.
The Colonial Office agent made a so-so hand gesture.
“It depends on who’s in charge over there. The only armistice we’ll accept is their vacating the star systems they took from us, and that is the biggest stumbling block. No Shrehari leader wants to be reviled because he handed back hard-won conquests without a fight. It would take something like a military dictator to enforce an armistice based on the status quo ante, a kho’sahra.”
“May I ask how you know so much about the boneheads?”
A faint smile creased Forenza’s features.
“I devote many hours of personal study to the present situation, Commander, because I believe a well-rounded operative needs broad horizons. They help one better understand the second and third-order effects of one’s actions.”
“It would be nice if our politicians thought the same. Their horizons don’t seem to extend beyond the next election, even in wartime.”
Forenza raised a finger and said, with mock sententiousness, “It has ever been thus, Commander, since the first stirrings of democracy in ancient Greece. Sadly, I doubt most of them even know what second and third-order effects are, based on the short-sighted decisions emanating from our illustrious Senate, or our even more illustrious Secretary-General.”
Dunmoore, coffee cup raised to her lips, watched the banter between her late nemesis’ brother and Holt, wondering how two people, born of the same parents and presumably with a similar upbringing could become such different adults. Helen had been self-indulgent, possessed of an undisciplined intellect, and quick to pull family strings when the consequences of her actions came home to roost. Until she ruined a frigate’s crew to the point where even the Forenza name meant nothing.
Mikhail, however, seemed to be the complete opposite. Self-possessed, thoughtful, and in his own way, meticulously professional. Dunmoore knew he would do her a bad turn if his mission called for it, and without the slightest compunction, but never out of sheer spite like his mercurial sibling, even though he was much deadlier.
So far, the Colonial Office agent was the soul of politeness, helpful to a fault, but still very much a man serving his own masters. Forenza gave Dunmoore a knowing glance as if he could divine her thoughts, but his conversation with Holt went on unabated. Finally, they ran out of pithy comments, and Holt scarfed down the rest of his meal.
“If you’ll excuse me,” he said, climbing to his feet. “A first officer’s day never truly ends. When do you intend to discuss next steps, Skipper?”
“I want Emma in on the conversation, and that means when we drop out of FTL at the heliopause. Knowing Renny, he’ll want a good two or three hours before our first interstellar leg, giving us plenty of time. Between now and then, perhaps Astrid and Ser Forenza can put their heads together and come up with what information is available on the Hestia system.”
The latter inclined his head by way of acknowledgment.
“I shall do my best. Hestia was not my primary objective, but that of a colleague whom I suspect is no longer among the living.”
“Shame we weren’t able to reconstruct Kattegat Maru’s log. It would at least have given us basic navigational information, including landing areas.”
“Chief Day hasn’t given up, Skipper. But unless Carrie Fennon has something substantive to add, we’re stuck playing this one as we go along. Astrid already checked the database, and there is little on Hestia besides information from the initial survey, now woefully out of date. The same appears true for most of the systems Ser Forenza’s office is investigating.”
Dunmoore exhaled softly.
“I suppose someone’s making sure outlaw colonies stay unmentioned in official records. Nice to know corruption runs rife in the Survey Service as well.”
“A hazard in any government agency, Captain. Organizations are only as good as the people running them. Statistically, half of all humans are below median intelligence and easily led astray by the ten percent who combine above average intelligence with
a defective sense of ethics.”
“Only ten percent?” Holt asked with a smirk.
“It depends on the agency, of course. If you think the SSB has a higher percentage of ethically impaired employees, I daresay you’d be right.” Forenza drained his coffee and stood as well. “Please ask Lieutenant Drost to contact me when she’s ready. I’ll be at her disposal no matter the time of day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I wish to take advantage of your fitness facility. Even though I grow older, my duties remain as physically demanding as always.”
**
“Hestia.” Lieutenant Astrid Drost, Iolanthe’s sailing master, nodded toward a dun orb dominating the conference room’s main display. “We found nothing more than the basic survey data in our and Kattegat Maru’s navigation library. Between them, Ser Forenza and Apprentice Officer Fennon filled in a few blanks.” She nodded at the Colonial Office agent and Carrie’s hologram. “But it isn’t much. We’ll need to run our own survey upon arrival.”
“Assuming we don’t stumble across Baba Yaga still carrying Captain Fennon and crew,” Dunmoore said. “Though with their head start, the safest assumption is by the time we arrive, they’ll have landed our people and left.”
“But since we’ll already be there, we might wish to liberate a few involuntary laborers and shut the operations using them,” Holt said to approving nods. Forenza had briefed them extensively on the secret deportation scheme before Drost took center stage. “Even if we can’t bring any deportees home ourselves.”
“That will indeed be a job for the Colonial Office,” Forenza said. “In due time.”
Dunmoore gestured at Drost. “Please continue, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. Hestia has an oxygen-nitrogen atmosphere, even though it’s a little lean on the former — approximately eighteen percent at sea level. Water covers just under half the surface. The land masses are largely desert, ranging from mostly ergs at the equator to arctic tundra near the poles, with a narrow band of what passes for temperate zones in each hemisphere. According to Ser Forenza and Apprentice Officer Fennon, the sole settlements and known mining operations are in this area, within a hundred kilometers of the water’s edge.”