When the Guns Roar

by Eric Thomson

  Chief Day repeated the message verbatim, and upon receiving Dunmoore’s approval, encrypted it and pushed it out on the task force subspace frequency.

  “Rooikat acknowledges.”

  “Rendezvous coordinates are on the CIC navigation board, Skipper,” Holt said shortly afterward. “According to Astrid, if we climb into the upper hyperspace bands even without redlining the drives, we should easily arrive before the convoy, and so should Jan Sobieski, provided she receives the message within the next few hours.”

  “Put us on course and ready to jump, Zeke. Chief Day, push the coordinates out to Rooikat.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” they replied simultaneously.

  After a brief interval, just long enough to nudge Iolanthe on a new heading, the jump klaxon echoed throughout the ship, warning everyone aboard they would transition to hyperspace in thirty seconds.

  Dunmoore could sense the anticipation in the CIC almost as if it were a living entity in its own right. To paraphrase an ancient, pre-diaspora author, the game was indeed afoot. Then, the universe twisted into a gigantic, multicolor pretzel while an invisible hand squeezed her innards mercilessly.

  **

  “If we push our engines right up to the outermost safety limits, we might get there before Iolanthe.” Lena Corto looked up from the plot prepared by Hawkwood’s navigator. “Or at least almost at the same time. Being able to cut across the convoy’s dogleg because we’re a day behind Dunmoore is this situation’s one saving grace, Admiral. It’ll allow you to keep her from overstepping orders in case we can’t catch that convoy before it goes FTL inside the heliosphere. The Tyva system’s forward operations base might well be a tougher nut than the one she destroyed.”

  They were in Petras’ day cabin, next to the flag bridge, alone and able to speak frankly. Inexplicably irritated by her tone, he wandered over to the sideboard and poured himself a cup of tea from the samovar kept hot twenty-four hours a day by the wardroom steward.

  “Why,” he asked in a soft tone as he turned to face Corto, “would you assume Dunmoore might commit a rash act, Lena? Although it’s early days yet, the wolf pack method is already proving worthwhile, if only in finding suitable targets for our guns compared to patrolling in the usual way.”

  She stared at him with eyes colder than interstellar space.

  “My apologies, sir. I was merely pointing out how useful it would be to form the pack at the earliest opportunity, so our efforts can be better coordinated. Shall I issue orders implementing this navigation plot?”

  Petras took a sip of tea while he studied his flag captain, both annoyed and amazed at her growing pettiness. Perhaps she had always been like this but kept it better hidden when she wasn’t confronted daily by her frustrated ambitions for one more command at the rank of captain. It could at least partially explain why the navy hadn’t deigned to give her another starship since the early years of the war. Someone higher up might have noticed and made a comment in her confidential file.

  That sort of thing could be the kiss of death for any chance of advancement, especially if that someone was an admiral of Nagira’s caliber — uncompromising, demanding, and intolerant of careerism. In a flash, Petras understood Corto would never wear a commodore’s star. Not because she wasn’t competent, but because she possessed what some in the navy deemed a lack of character. A flaw that diminished her in comparison with her peers.

  “Issue the orders. But we will stay within established safety limits. Task Force Luckner will push into the highest hyperspace band congruent with the safety of its slowest ship. Should Iolanthe and Jan Sobieski engage the enemy before we reach the rendezvous point, so be it. The whole point of adopting these tactics is to hit the enemy with whatever we can and as fast as we can, instead of maneuvering to carry out the optimal solution when it might be too late for a clean sweep. Remember, the perfect is the enemy of the good.”

  “Yes, sir.” Corto straightened to attention. “Anything else, sir.”

  “No.”

  She left via the door leading to the flag bridge while Petras stared at the navigation plot. He took another sip of tea and exhaled slowly. Did a formation such as Luckner, with next to no staff, no fixed base, and operating as a single entity even need a flag captain?

  Every assumption they’d made war gaming a commerce raider formation at SOCOM HQ, every brainstorming session and tactical development proposed as the solution to make the enemy squeal in pain didn’t seem to fare as well as he’d hoped. As with all things, reality was the final arbiter.

  **

  “Nothing on sensors,” Yens reported a few minutes after Iolanthe emerged near where the convoy would cross the Tyva system’s heliopause. Provided this was its destination, and the dogleg wasn’t another feint aimed at confusing potential pursuers.

  “Nothing on our own subspace bands either,” Chief Day added from the signals station.

  Sirico glanced at Dunmoore over his shoulder.

  “Everyone else is probably FTL right now. Perhaps luck will favor us, and we’ll enjoy first dibs on the boneheads.”

  “That’s too much to hope for, Thorin. Jan Sobieski will show up before the Shrehari.” She nibbled on the inside of her lip for a few seconds, then mentally shrugged. “When Rooikat drops out of FTL, I’ll want her to send a drone inward and find the FOB this convoy is resupplying. If it’s another hurriedly built wartime contraption similar to the last one and no enemy ships are hanging around, perhaps the admiral will allow us a stealth attack.”

  Sirico rubbed his hands with murderous glee.

  “That would be splendid. Let’s hope fate is smiling on us. We are the bold and as they say, audaces fortuna juvat.”

  “All right.” Dunmoore stood and glanced at Holt’s hologram. “Keep us at battle stations for now, Zeke. I’ll be in my day cabin catching up on ship’s business. You have the CIC, Mister Sirico.”

  “I relieve you, sir.”

  Yens raised a hand.

  “You may wish to hang around, Captain. Sensors picked up a hyperspace bubble coming in our direction. It’s not big enough to be a convoy traveling in sync.”

  “Jan Sobieski?”

  “Could be.”

  “And we have an emergence, two hundred thousand kilometers aft.” Yens paused for a moment. “It’s Jan Sobieski.”

  Dunmoore turned to the signals station.

  “Chief Day, link me up with Captain Pushkin.”

  “Done, sir,” he replied moments later.

  Gregor Pushkin’s face materialized in front of her. “Captain! Please tell me we arrived before the convoy.”

  “I think we did. Our sensors aren’t picking up anything useful and the subspace frequencies, ours and the enemy’s, are quiet. The rest of the task force are hopefully FTL for our location by now.”

  Pushkin nodded in agreement.

  “We’re not picking anything up other than Iolanthe, and then only because you’re transmitting, otherwise even our state-of-the-art sensors wouldn’t see more than a faint ghost. What are your orders?”

  “Stay on your present heading, set up a laser comlink with us, go to silent running, and wait for the convoy to drop out of FTL. Once it does, we’ll figure out the best angle of attack.”

  “Without waiting for the admiral?”

  “Without waiting. If the convoy shows up within strike range, we pounce. And once Rooikat joins us, I’ll send her to take a look inside this star system and find the Shrehari forward operating base. It would be a shame if it was no stronger than the one Iolanthe destroyed in the Khorsan system and we wasted the opportunity.”

  “Because blowing up naval installations deep within the empire will give Shrehari admirals the sort of conniptions that won’t stem from mere material loss.”

  “Precisely. You didn’t think our operations were aimed purely at causing physical damage. Repeated defeats inside their sphere will sting the Shrehari sense of honor, and an enemy whose blood is roused inevitably makes mistakes he can’t
afford.”

  Pushkin grinned.

  “That’s the skipper I remember. Funny how attacking the moral dimension seems to be under-appreciated by so many.”

  “Probably because it can’t be measured in ammo expenditure and kills ratios. The naval staff hates things that aren’t mathematically provable.”

  “Though they do seem happy that we front line pigs can’t mathematically measure the usefulness of staff officers.”

  Dunmoore raised a finger and gave him a mock frown.

  “Now, now. Don’t be so harsh. Someone needs to make sure we deal with our fair share of administrative trivia. But enough persiflage. Time for silent running. We may find ourselves in a target-rich environment before long.”

  “The laser comlink is up,” Chief Day said. “Switching over.”

  Pushkin’s image wavered for a fraction of a second.

  “We’re powering down,” he said.

  Shortly after that, Yens nodded.

  “Confirmed. She’s fading from sensors. And not a moment too soon. I’m picking up multiple hyperspace traces.” She paused. “Five.”

  Dunmoore looked up from Pushkin’s image.

  “The rest of the task force?”

  “Or the convoy sailing in a looser formation than we expect,” Sirico replied. “Maybe they decided scattering a bit might make our job of intercepting them more difficult. The convoy was what? Ten armed freighters and five Ptar class corvettes? Five traces, three ships per trace — two freighters and one escort. I’d say the math works well enough to satisfy even the most anal-retentive admiral.”

  “We’ll find out soon,” Yens said. “I figure ten minutes at most before they drop out of FTL.”

  “Zeke, put Iolanthe on a course matching the hyperspace traces and prepare for a micro-jump to close with the enemy the moment they emerge. You too, Gregor.”

  “Aye, aye, sir,” both replied in unison.

  — Twelve —

  Toralk appeared in the formal dining room’s open doorway as if by magic, startling Brakal who was reading up on the minutiae of Kraal protocol while finishing his breakfast tvass. He was sitting alone at a dark, polished table carved from the trunk of a single tree more than ten generations earlier, one able to accommodate twenty guests. The table’s lustrous sheen matched that of the waist-high wainscoting covering ancient stone walls.

  “Lord, a messenger from Admiral Trage respectfully requests you receive him. He has proper identification. I confirmed it with the admiralty’s duty officer.”

  Brakal grunted.

  “Took the poxed whoreson long enough to realize a lord of the empire would only acknowledge the admiralty via an invitation from an admiral of the first rank. Send in the messenger.”

  “Yes, Lord. Regar is checking him to make sure he carries nothing he should not even as we speak.”

  Brakal thought it a tad paranoid. Someone such as Trage was cunning enough for an oblique approach if he ever decided on assassination. He would not send a killer openly. But stranger things were happening in Shredar these days.

  After a time, Toralk returned, followed by a young, almost arrogantly proud sub-commander wearing the insignia of a senior admiral’s aide. Though his head fur was trimmed in the manner of a Warrior Caste member’s ruff, he clearly was not one of them. No true warrior would serve a contemptible worm such as Trage.

  The sub-commander stomped to a halt three paces in front of the table. He raised a fist in salute.

  “Admiral Brakal. Greetings. My name is Kheyl. I serve Admiral of the First Rank Trage.”

  “You are welcome in my home, Kheyl. What is your business?” Brakal kept a carefully neutral tone, knowing every detail of his interaction with the aide would reach Trage’s ears.

  “Admiral Trage invites you to visit him at the admiralty for a discussion on matters of common interest.”

  “Since he shows me honor as clan lord by sending an aide instead of a written summons, I am equally honor-bound to accept. When?”

  “This afternoon at the fourteenth hour.”

  Brakal successfully suppressed a flash of irritation at being given such short notice. It was but another of Trage’s games.

  “Certainly. Please tell the honorable Trage I shall attend him at the given time. Was there anything else, Sub-Commander Kheyl?”

  A rictus that came just short of mocking split the officer’s face.

  “I must commend your security, Lord of the Makkar. A Tai Kan officer? Few of your stature enjoy such deadly competence in their service.”

  “Regar serves me well, as some who would see me dead found out to their great sorrow. You are dismissed, Sub-Commander.”

  “By your will, Lord.” Kheyl gave him the clenched fist salute again, pivoted on his heels and marched out, trailed by Toralk.

  What devilment was that insect with pretensions of adequacy preparing? Brakal scratched his chin, lost in thought. It could not be because he failed to report as ordered upon arrival. Trage knew once he placed an admiral on the inactive reserve list, his civilian rank was the only one that counted.

  No, Trage wanted something else. The commander-in-chief of the Imperial Armed Forces was neither a lord from the four hundred noble clans, nor could he claim relatives who sat in the Kraal. But in this incestuous city, gossip traveled fast and always found a receptive ear. And Brakal’s criticism of how Trage and his sycophants were handling the war effort was well known among the powerful.

  Regar appeared in the open doorway with indecent haste.

  “When and where, Lord?”

  “At the admiralty on the fourteenth hour today.”

  “You will attend?”

  “Do you see an alternative? Mishtak hears of my efforts assembling the Kraal, and in typical fashion, he orders his minions to solve the problem for him. Yet rejecting Trage’s invitation would be taken as an admission of guilt by the council. Cowards that they are, the motherless bastards see their own weaknesses and fears in others, as puny insects do. They will find guilt where they would experience guilt, no matter the truth that honest Shrehari carry out nothing more than their duty to the empire.”

  Regar inclined his head in submission.

  “I will not argue the point since you see things more clearly than most of your peers. May I attend as your aide? Who knows what perils await once you enter the walls of the Forbidden Quarter?”

  “You may.”

  **

  Brakal, wearing civilian clothes proper for his status, that is to say, dark and sober, yet exquisitely tailored, walked out into the early afternoon sun and made for his ground car, sitting at the center of a courtyard paved with green-hued flagstones worn smooth by centuries of rain.

  His Shredar estate — the clan’s primary holdings were half a continent away — was a thousand-turns-old semi-fortified pile of granite blocks seized by one of his ancestors from a hapless supporter of the losing side during the last forcible dynastic change. It had been a bloody affair that almost collapsed his people’s star-faring civilization. Fortunately, it happened at a time when the hairless apes from Earth were still confined to their own star system. If another civil war of the sort erupted, but under the guns of human fleets, the empire might dissolve for good. The current dynasty, useless as it was, must stay, but with a new government serving it.

  Regar and Toralk, also in civilian clothes, though of a more common cut and quality, waited patiently by the car. Both wore ceremonial knives stuck into the dark blue sashes wrapped around their midriffs, though Brakal knew they hid power weapons on their persons. Neither went anywhere with at least one concealed sidearm, preferably two.

  “Are you ready for Shredar’s greatest den of iniquity?” Brakal asked in a roaring voice when both straightened to attention. “Where perfumed admirals cavort with low caste whores who call themselves politicians.”

  “No,” Regar replied with a feral grin. “But we will risk our lives and reputations to guard your virginity nonetheless, Lord.”

/>   “Then my virginity faces ruin.”

  With Toralk at the controls, they drove through the estate’s open iron gates. Back when it was built, the small castle could protect its inhabitants from angry mobs, roving gangs, and unhappy monarchs. But in an age of power weapons and aerial vehicles, its walls and crenellations seemed quaint.

  Though parkland surrounded the main house on all sides, the estate itself had long been hemmed in by the unfortified mansions of those whose families were built on money rather than pedigree. The sort who mindlessly supported Mishtak and his council. Few sent their offspring into the Imperial Armed Forces, and fewer still understood real honor meant knowing when one should acknowledge a foe who could not be bested. But they knew to the last coin how much their coffers held and the amounts they were owed.

  And they resented the power of clan lords who claimed a seat in the Kraal.

  Soon, however, the wealthy suburb gave way to government buildings, a sprawling complex of low-rise stone, steel, and wood structures that escaped the Forbidden Quarter’s walls at least two dynasties ago. Their patina and drab sameness nevertheless pleased Brakal’s eyes more than the overly ornate mansions did because they represented the quasi-immutable core of the empire’s administration, one which survived wars, civil and other, insurrections, and dynastic upheavals since time immemorial. If he succeeded in removing the council in favor of a kho’sahra, it would serve the dictator, whoever he might be, with the same grim efficiency.

  They emerged from the complex and drove onto the Field of Honor, aimed straight at the Forbidden Quarter’s temple-like ceremonial gate. It was guarded by a platoon of uniformed Tai Kan. Toralk stopped the car short of the shimmering force field which barred the way when the starship-grade alloy doors were open. An officer with two troopers at his back approached the vehicle. Their faces were expressionless as if carved from the same dark stone as the government complex buildings.

  Brakal opened the passenger compartment window and held out his credentials.

  “I am Brakal, Lord of the Makkar. Admiral of the First Rank Trage is expecting me at the admiralty.”