Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  Moments later, a familiar face, though with a few more worry lines around the eyes and a touch grayer, appeared on his day cabin’s main display. Her smile, though, remained unchanged.

  “Hello, Gregor.” That well-known alto sent an unexpected shiver of recognition down his spine. “Fancy meeting you here in the back of beyond.”

  “Sir! What an unexpected pleasure. How are you?”

  “Prospering, Gregor, and making sure the enemy doesn’t prosper. How is Jan Sobieski?”

  “A dream, sir. They classified her as a frigate, but she’d give a light cruiser serious pangs of inadequacy and could eat Stingray for breakfast.”

  “Understandable. The Fleet intends to reduce the number of ship classes and operate just a few core types, like the Shrehari. Give this war another ten years, and we’ll be sailing heavy cruisers, oversized frigates and damn near nothing else besides the inevitable support ships. They already retired the last battle wagons and turned the carriers into command vessels, and now the Voivode class frigates are making the old Type 260 destroyers Admiral Petras scraped up obsolete.”

  “I’d rather the war didn’t last another ten years, thank you very much,” Pushkin replied in a dry tone.

  “Me neither. How are the former Stingrays, Gregor?”

  “Prospering as well. Trevane Devall is as solid a first officer as I could want. He anticipates my orders so consistently, it’s eerie. Say hi to the captain, you paragon of virtue.”

  Devall leaned into the video pickup’s range and waved.

  “Hi, Captain. Staying one step ahead of the skipper is easy. You might remember he’s something of an open book.”

  Dunmoore’s lips twitched with delight.

  “Considering he taught you everything you know about first officering, I’d say it proves Gregor is a fine teacher. And the others?”

  “Guthren evidently taught Foste the fine science of being a coxswain,” Pushkin replied. “She carries the cane of office with a gravitas that instills awe in even the most recalcitrant spacers, and I received my fair share of those. You’ll also be glad to hear Jeneva Syten has lost the worst of her bad habits now she’s responsible for Jan Sobieski’s entire deck department as second officer. And young Lieutenant Sanghvi is showing the makings of a first-rate sailing master. I’m sure they would love to see you, Chief Guthren, and Vincenzo again. If we find time to invite guests over for a meal and an evening of war stories during our cruise along the wild frontier.”

  “I’d enjoy that, Gregor,” Dunmoore replied with a warm smile at the memories evoked by hearing names associated with some of Stingray’s most terrifying and exhilarating adventures. “And in return, I’d love to reciprocate and show you Iolanthe — time and Admiral Petras permitting.”

  Pushkin’s face darkened at her mention of their commanding officer’s name.

  “You should be aware he’s waiting for you with a certain degree of, let’s call it impatience, to be polite. Petras is keen on putting this special task force through its paces and prove the concept he and Lena Corto sold to the Admiralty. But without Iolanthe, we’re little more than a light battle group, good mainly for internal security tasks, and the occasional raid.”

  “Thanks for the warning, Gregor. I didn’t expect him to be happy with the inevitable delay in our joining his command, but innocent lives were on the line. It’s something of a shaggy dog story, which is fairly normal for a Q-ship operating undercover in these parts. You and I can talk about it in private at some point.”

  Pushkin saw the look in her eyes and understood there would be more to Dunmoore’s delay than what she planned on sharing with Petras.

  “Take care with the admiral, Captain. And keep an eye on Lena Corto. I think our estimable flag captain covets Iolanthe for herself. She is senior to you by date of rank, a fact she let intentionally slip at the last in-person command conference aboard Hawkwood.”

  “I will.” Dunmoore’s eyes slipped to one side.

  “Speak of the devil, and he appears. Hawkwood is calling. Until later, Gregor.”

  Her image faded away.

  “This promises to be interesting,” Devall said in a soft tone. “Our Siobhan, who’s been sowing terror among the Shrehari from the bridge of the Fleet’s newest and most dangerous warship, tied to an admiral’s apron strings. And not just any admiral but one whose last command in space dates back to when I was a callow lieutenant with delusions of adequacy.”

  “I know. Let’s hope she still remembers how to cajole a flag officer without letting on that she believes he’s a damned fool. Otherwise, the sparks we’ll see won’t be from Shrehari warships breaking apart.”

  — Fifty-Six —

  “Kind of you to join us, Dunmoore.”

  Petras, an olive-skinned, hard-faced, fifty-something man with the two stars of a rear admiral on his collar wore an expression that exuded all the warmth of interstellar space. His emotionless tone might belie the sarcasm implicit in his words, but she nonetheless understood he was conveying displeasure.

  “My apologies for the delay, sir. Our orders reached us while we were in hot pursuit of pirates who kidnapped the crew and passengers of a merchant ship. It took time to track them down and rescue everyone, but the mission ended well for all involved except the pirates.”

  “I look forward to your report on the matter.”

  “You shall receive it momentarily, sir. May I inquire as to my orders?”

  Petras eyed Dunmoore with suspicion, and she wondered whether she sounded too obsequious.

  “I’ll be honest with you, Captain. Iolanthe was not my choice as the Q-ship attached to this task force. I was hoping for something smaller, more believable as a lure, and more maneuverable, such as Ruddigore or Sorcerer. Preferably both.”

  Dunmoore mentally winced at hearing the names of two frigate-sized Q-ships, converted from pre-war merchantmen and suitable only for anti-piracy operations in her estimation. Neither could stand to a Shrehari Tol class cruiser let alone wreck it in a ship-to-ship fight. And neither would survive even one of Iolanthe’s broadsides without suffering severe damage.

  “With respect, sir,” she replied in an even, unemotional voice, “you’ll find Iolanthe to be as believable and maneuverable as any Q-ship, and her bite is more vicious than that of a Reconquista class cruiser. We also carry this task force’s only infantry, a full company’s worth from the Scandia Regiment. They proved their mettle more than once and are the equals of any Marines. And after our last engagement, we hold the record for combat kills of any starship in Special Operations Command since the onset of the war.”

  “Commendable, I’m sure.” Petras sounded unconvinced. “However, this task force faces a very different war from the one you’ve been fighting so far, Captain.”

  “My apologies, yet I fail to see how deep raids by a task force differ from those conducted by a single Q-ship, except in magnitude and firepower.”

  “You’re a tactician, Dunmoore, and by every account a competent one. But the deployment of Task Force Luckner is a strategic move by Fleet Command, and the tactics that made you successful won’t necessarily work. I aim to disrupt Shrehari shipping on a grand scale, something well beyond the ability of a single Q-ship, even one capable of going toe to toe with a battle wagon. As I mentioned, my plans need a believable lure, and Iolanthe just doesn’t fit the bill.” He shrugged. “But since HQ won’t entertain any notion of replacing yours with a more suitable vessel, I’ll improvise.”

  “I can assure you we will make your plans a success, sir,” Dunmoore replied, swallowing the unexpected surge of bile that threatened to choke her. “Our experience raiding deep within enemy space will compensate for what we otherwise seem to lack.”

  A frown creased Petras’ forehead as if he sensed Dunmoore’s mood. His next words intimated that he understood the latent hostility in her words.

  “Take care you don’t overstep your bounds, Captain.”

  Siobhan inclined her head in a silent
apology.

  “Of course, sir.”

  He studied her face for a little longer, then his stern countenance seemed to soften ever so slightly.

  “Listen, Dunmoore. I understand your unhappiness at being tied to a task force after operating on your own for so long, and I’m sure your views of Q-ship tactics are biased toward solo operations. But it’s our mission to make large-scale raids deep into Shrehari space work. If we can weaken their resolve by proving their rear areas are no longer safe, perhaps they’ll come to their senses and sue for a ceasefire. Sure, I’d rather SOCOM gave me something other than Iolanthe as my Q-ship, and you’d rather still be running a solitary wild hunt, but here we are.”

  “Aye, sir. Here we are.” She paused, then said, “Sir, if you plan to hold in person command conferences, I’d like to offer Iolanthe’s facilities. Unlike Hawkwood, we have the hangar space to receive every captain’s shuttle, a large conference room with the latest technology and the ability to offer temporary accommodations for everyone concerned, should meetings run longer than expected.”

  Petras gave her a knowing look.

  “Since, in my experience, captains rarely fall over themselves to host a command conference, I’d say your offer is at least partially driven by a desire to better sell me on your raiding experience and your ship’s value to this mission.”

  She allowed herself a faint smile.

  “Indeed, sir.”

  “I’m sure Kirti Midura — Hawkwood’s captain — will appreciate your offer. Do you know her?”

  Dunmoore shook her head.

  “Not personally. I believe Kirti was two years ahead of me at the Academy. I’ve served with only one of your captains, sir, though I know the commanding officers of the other frigates and the destroyers either by reputation or through a nodding acquaintance.”

  “Ah, yes, Gregor Pushkin,” Petras said. “I read both his and your service records, Captain. His performance as your first officer in Stingray earned him command of the first Voivode class frigate. Impressive.”

  “A fine officer, sir. I’ve entrusted both my life and that of my crew to his professional abilities and leadership on more occasions than I can remember.”

  “No doubt.”

  Petras’ dry tone seemed pregnant with the insinuation that Dunmoore might be responsible for teaching Pushkin more than just the basics of captaincy. Such as her tendency to defy doctrine and her superiors when she believed she knew better. Perhaps Petras was among the few who knew of the Corwin affair and its sad end, or the truth about the more recent Toboso incident.

  If he enjoyed Admiral Nagira’s confidence to the point of being given command of this experimental task force, then he could be familiar with the classified part of her personal file. Or she might just be feeling paranoid because Petras somehow irritated her.

  “I shall accept your invitation,” he continued, “and instruct Lena — that would be Lena Corto, my flag captain — to convene a planning session aboard your ship. A member of my staff will be in touch shortly. Are you acquainted with Lena?”

  “No, sir.”

  “I’m not surprised. She graduated from the Academy before your arrival.” He fell silent for a few moments, then said, “Unless there are pressing issues you wish to discuss, I’ll release you to your duties. There will be ample occasion to speak over the coming days, and I look forward to a tour of Iolanthe. One can peruse specs and images for hours and still not appreciate the nuances of an unusual ship such as yours. I’ll give you a chance to convince me. In any case, welcome to Task Force Luckner, Captain. Petras, out.”

  The day cabin’s main display returned to its standby image, the Furious Faerie, leaving a puzzled Dunmoore to stare sightlessly at the starfield display on the far bulkhead. Before she could wallow in her thoughts, an insistent chime claimed her attention.

  “Enter.”

  The door slid aside, admitting Iolanthe’s first officer, who, after taking one glance at his captain, immediately headed for the coffee urn and poured two mugs.

  He handed her one and said, “You have the face of someone who needs a little pick-me-up. Was it that bad?”

  “Strange, rather than bad.”

  After taking a few sips of the hot brew, she recounted her conversation almost verbatim, leaving Holt to contemplate her with raised eyebrows.

  “He doesn’t pussyfoot around, does he? I’m curious about his proposed strategy and tactics if he so casually dismisses Iolanthe’s formidable powers to confuse, mesmerize and destroy.”

  “I suspect that he sees Q-ships as adjuncts or props rather than full-fledged combatants. Lures to his destroyer and frigate powered fishing rod.”

  Holt made a face.

  “Which is curious if he’s been riding a desk in Special Operations Command.”

  “We aren’t your average example of the breed, though. He’ll be familiar with the limitations of our smaller brethren and draw conclusions appropriate to their capabilities. But Iolanthe is the first purpose-built Q-ship with the heart of a battlecruiser rather than that of an up-gunned merchantman.”

  “I wonder if it’s dawned on him or his staff that we carry the heaviest broadside, both in guns and missiles, of this entire task force.”

  Dunmoore made a face.

  “Intellectually? Sure. But perhaps they can’t yet see beyond the sluggish bulk carrier envelope. People will listen to their prejudices rather than face facts contrary to long-held opinions. And the Fleet has never considered Q-ships as true men-o-war.”

  “Until Iolanthe.”

  “With our existence, never mind our deeds still tightly held secrets, I doubt we’ll see a change in the general attitude soon.”

  “I’d say our attachment to Task Force Luckner just blew a big hole in the notion of us remaining a riddle, wrapped in a mystery, inside an enigma.”

  “To a point. Shrehari intelligence isn’t what you might call highly effective. As long as we keep striking and vanishing as we did up to now, they won’t add us to any Fleet order of battle.”

  Holt sighed.

  “I guess that depends on how Admiral Petras intends to use the old girl.”

  Siobhan nodded in agreement.

  “Aye. And that’ll become my dilemma if his intentions risk blowing our cover.”

  “The boneheads are bound to wise up someday, so I wouldn’t make it a fall-on-your-sword issue, Captain.”

  “I won’t, I promise.”

  “And as to Petras rubbing you the wrong way, I’d wager the feeling is mutual.”

  “Really?” Dunmoore raised a skeptical eyebrow. “And why would that be?”

  “You know why as well as I do, Captain, so there’s no use belaboring the point. Now, should I pull out the good silver and prepare Iolanthe so we can receive a dozen senior officers in style? It’ll make a change from our usual pretense of being scummy privateers interested mainly in plunder and sowing mayhem.”

  “If getting out the good silver means making sure both ship and crew shed their usual informality and do honor to our beloved Navy’s most exacting traditions, then yes. And see that Major Salminen’s troops practice the proper ceremonial to receive visiting captains and flag officers. We’ll do this with the painfully correct protocol one expects from a starship of the line.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking this in the right spirit.”

  Dunmoore gave Holt a curious glance.

  “And what would that be?”

  “Selling Iolanthe’s qualities and acting like a team player rather than locking horns with the admiral because you know this sort of warfare better than he does. Forenza wasn’t blowing smoke when he said you’ve changed. Maybe mentoring a young apprentice officer helped you as much as it helped her.”

  “Perhaps.” Dunmoore’s eyes slipped back to the starfield display on the far bulkhead. “Or it could just be that I finally reached the point where I understand the adage old age and treachery will beat youthful exuberance every single time.”


  “In which case, may the Almighty help Admiral Petras.”

  About the Author

  Eric Thomson is the pen name of a retired Canadian soldier with thirty-one years of service, both in the Regular Army and the Army Reserve. He spent his Regular Army career in the Infantry and his Reserve service in the Armoured Corps. He worked as an information technology specialist for a number of years before retiring to become a full-time author.

  Eric has been a voracious reader of science fiction, military fiction, and history all his life. Several years ago, he put fingers to keyboard and started writing his own military sci-fi, with a definite space opera slant, using many of his own experiences as a soldier for inspiration.

  When he is not writing fiction, Eric indulges in his other passions: photography, hiking, and scuba diving, all of which he shares with his wife.

  Join Eric Thomson at: https://thomsonfiction.ca/

  Where you will find news about upcoming books and more information about the universe in which his heroes fight for humanity’s survival.

  Read his blog at: https://ericthomsonblog.wordpress.com/

  If you enjoyed this book, please consider leaving a review at Goodreads, or with your favorite online retailer to help others discover it.

  Also by Eric Thomson

  Siobhan Dunmoore

  No Honor in Death (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 1)

  The Path of Duty (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 2)

  Like Stars in Heaven (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 3)

  Victory’s Bright Dawn (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 4)

  Without Mercy (Siobhan Dunmoore Book 5)

  Decker’s War

  Death Comes But Once (Decker’s War Book 1)

  Cold Comfort (Decker’s War Book 2)

  Fatal Blade (Decker’s War Book 3)

  Howling Stars (Decker’s War Book 4)

  Black Sword (Decker’s War Book 5)

  No Remorse (Decker’s War Book 6)

  Quis Custodiet

  The Warrior’s Knife (Quis Custodiet No 1)