by Eric Thomson
The uniformed Tai Kan troops stomped to a halt, and the officer raised his clenched fist in salute.
“He is indeed expecting you. May I examine your identification and that of your retainers?”
Brakal allowed him to take the credentials while Toralk and Regar showed theirs. If the officer thought it strange that one of his Tai Kan colleagues accompanied a clan lord, he showed no sign. His duty done and the identification cards back in the hands of their owners, the officer waved at one of his troopers. The force field faded away.
“Please go ahead, Lord.”
Brakal inclined his head.
“Your courtesy does you honor.”
The officer saluted again before taking a step back.
“Huh,” Regar grunted once they passed beneath the gate’s red-tiled roof. “Part of me was sure Trage would play little bureaucratic games, such as having the guard detail keep us past the appointed time on spurious grounds, or worse yet, unaware of your appointment with the admiral and ready to turn us around. This was unexpectedly civilized and properly done.”
“Trage might be cunning, but he is not a fool,” Brakal replied with a dismissive gesture. “Playing games with one of the four hundred who sit in the Kraal would do him no favors, and he knows as much.”
Contrary to most Shrehari citizens’ expectations, the buildings within the Forbidden Quarter’s walls resembled those in the government complex, imperial palace included. Drab, unadorned granite structures, none more than five stories high, lined streets crossing each other at precise right angles. Sober metal signs above main doors were the sole indicators of each building’s functions, and most of them were the various ministries’ headquarters, where top officials held court.
The three-story imperial palace itself sat at the heart of the Forbidden Quarter behind an inner wall high enough to hide all but a sliver of the top floor and the red tile roof. Brakal saw only a few officials on the tree-lined sidewalks, mostly hurrying from one building to another rather than taking a leisurely afternoon stroll. As always, the city within a city reminded him of an insect hive where drones toiled in obscurity and to little effect.
Toralk pulled up in front of the admiralty, which distinguished itself from neighboring ministries by colorful banners hanging over the entrance. Sentries stood on either side of the transparent doors, weapons slung. They watched impassively as Brakal and Regar climbed out of the car.
“Brakal, Lord of Clan Makkar for Admiral of the First Rank Trage,” Regar announced using a tone that left no doubt he was an officer in one of the imperial services.
The sentry on the left raised a hand to his mouth and mumbled a few words into the communicator strapped to his wrist. A few seconds later, he barked out a command, and both sentries came to attention.
“You and your aide may enter, Lord. Do you need a guide to Admiral Trage’s office?”
A cold rictus briefly uncovered Brakal’s yellowing fangs.
“If he still sits in splendor on the top floor, then I know the way.”
“He does.”
At a hand signal from the sentry, both door panels vanished into the walls.
Brakal and Regar took one of the lifts rather than climb five flights of stairs, and stepped out on what the former privately considered one of Shredar’s most opulent whorehouses, a place with enough power to screw every member of the Imperial Armed Forces ten times over on a whim.
Sub-Commander Kheyl intercepted them before they managed more than a few steps down the corridor leading to Trage’s inner sanctum.
“The admiral awaits you, Lord Brakal, though your aide must stay in the antechamber. Please follow me.”
After indicating where Regar should sit, Kheyl ushered Brakal into an office more substantial than most peasant housing units. An elderly Shrehari male in formal admiral’s robes rose from behind a polished stone desk.
Brakal felt more than a bit of shock at Trage’s appearance. Compared to how he had looked the last time they met, the commander-in-chief appeared as ancient as a corpse left to dry out in the Karakat desert.
The skin over Trage’s skull ridges seemed to have lost its color and taken on the texture of desiccated leather while his neck muscles were nothing more than thin steel cables covered by ancient parchment. Trage’s black within black eyes, though still bright were slowly sinking into his skull. But worst of all was the hand he raised in greeting. It reminded Brakal of nothing so much as a dried out yatakan’s claw.
“Welcome, Lord of the Makkar.”
— Thirteen —
“Emergence,” Yens called out. “Two freighters, one Ptar, one point two million kilometers almost directly ahead.” A pause. “Another emergence. Same configuration. One point five million, five degrees to port, eight degrees down.”
“Two packets in, three to go.” Sirico chortled with delight.
“Correction.” Yens nodded at the tactical display. “All five packets came out of FTL ahead of us. Scattered but not too badly. I’m designating the groupings Tangos One through Five. Transmitting designations to Jan Sobieski.”
Dunmoore, operating on instinct rather than conscious thought, stood, walked over to the three-dimensional projection and reached into it. She touched three enemy icon groupings.
“Ours, starting with the packet labeled Tango One. The others, Tango Four and Tango Five are Jan Sobieski’s. Captain Pushkin may decide which will be his first target.”
“Acknowledged,” Gregor Pushkin replied a few seconds later. “Coordinated jump?”
“Coordinated arrival. Once you’ve selected your initial target, our navigators—”
“Tango Five.”
Dunmoore nodded.
“Tangos One and Five are the first targets. Navigators to sync jumps, so we arrive simultaneously.”
“On it, Skipper.”
“Us too, sir.”
“Good. Thorin, program the missile launchers to fire off a full salvo, one third at each of the Tango One units the moment our systems recover from hyperspace transition. Since we’ll be almost at point-blank range, a single flight should be enough to collapse shields. Main guns are to open fire as soon as they acquire targets, again one-third of the barrels on each ship.
“Aye, aye, sir. I’m working on it.”
She returned to her command chair and watched video feeds of the oblivious Shrehari convoy packets until Holt’s hologram reappeared.
“Navigation is plotted and synced. Jan Sobieski will go FTL a few seconds before us. Since both ships are already at battle stations, you can order up systems and jump at your leisure.”
“Gregor?”
“Confirmed. We await your command.”
“The command is given. Up systems. Start the jump countdown.”
Almost immediately, the CIC’s status panels lit up as Iolanthe’s combat systems came to life. Moments later, the jump klaxon filled Dunmoore’s ears with its shrill warning. Thirty seconds to go.
“Any sign of the task force, Chief?”
“Negative, sir. Looks as if we’re doing this on our own.”
“As we should.” Sirico grinned at Dunmoore over his shoulder. “The navy’s hottest Q-ship and the first in its newest frigate design working together will turn what might have been a nice day for the boneheads into a demoralizing massacre.”
“Perhaps, but them spreading out in packets will make it more challenging for a clean sweep with only two ships. Whoever organized this convoy was thinking.”
“Or decided to test a variation on doctrine and got lucky.”
Dunmoore’s universe twisted itself into a colorful vortex while her stomach made a valiant attempt at escape. Before she could take more than one breath, the vortex spun in the opposite direction, leaving her with an overwhelming urge to vomit. After a few seconds, her senses stabilized, and there they were, clear as day on the optical pickups, seemingly close enough to touch: two armed freighters and a Ptar class corvette.
“Missiles away,” Sirico an
nounced, voice still sounding faintly strangled by the quick succession of jump and emergence nausea. “I’m opening with main guns.”
“Bridge, adjust course to intercept Tango Two. Mister Sirico, target Tango Two the moment our missiles breach Tango One’s shields.”
“Missile hits on all three targets.”
The energy cocoons enveloping the Shrehari vessels surged from green to deep purple in a matter of seconds before they vanished, overwhelmed by the massive release of energy. Almost faster than Dunmoore could process, continuous streams of plasma began eating through armored hulls, creating ever wider black craters. Puffs of crystallized air soon came through numerous breaches.
“They’re done for,” Sirico said. “I’m targeting missiles on Tango Two.”
“Whose Ptar is powering up to return the favor,” Yens added. “Tango One’s Ptar is also firing back. More for the honor of the flag than anything else.”
A bright light blotted out part of the main display.
“That was the Tango One Ptar. Either we hit their launchers just as a brace of birds armed, or we damaged the gun capacitor system. Never gets old, though.” Two additional white blossoms joined it before Dunmoore could reply. “Both freighters. Scratch Tango One.”
“The Tango Two Ptar fired off two dozen missiles.” Tiny red icons joined the larger ones in the holographic tactical display. “As did Tango Three’s. That should account for at least a third of their loads, if not half. Our second salvo is about to hit Tango Two.”
Dunmoore briefly glanced at the defense status board and saw that the Q-ship’s ring of anti-missile calliopes was swatting enemy birds away in rapid succession. Two made it through and exploded against her shields, but other than a faint feedback whine, Iolanthe shrugged the assault off like the old pro she was.
The Tango Two Ptar didn’t fare as well. Iolanthe’s first missile salvo exploded against its shields almost as one. An observer would miss them cycling from cool green to explosive violet as the generators overloaded if he or she so much as blinked. They popped soundlessly a fraction of a second later, leaving the hapless corvette exposed to the full fury of Iolanthe’s large bore main guns. It and the two freighters under its protection didn’t last much longer than the Tango One ships.
Sirico let out a ferocious whoop.
“The Furious Faerie’s terrible swift sword is as deadly as ever.”
“Captain to the bridge. Turn us on an intercept course for Tango Three. Mister Sirico, adjust your fire to the next targets, engage with missiles when ready.”
Dunmoore desperately wanted to see how Gregor Pushkin was doing. Though Jan Sobieski might be overpowered for a frigate, she still carried nowhere near Iolanthe’s weight of ordnance. But her first responsibility was to see her own ship through the engagement.
Chief Petty Officer Day raised his hand.
“The boneheads are shooting off encrypted messages over their emergency subspace channel. Newer code than the latest HQ gave us.”
“Missiles away for Tango Three.”
“Uh-oh.” Yens glanced at Dunmoore. “I’m reading a power spike from the Tango Three ships, sir. Hyperdrives spooling up to jump.”
Sirico turned to Yens.
“Without cycling them? Don’t they need forty minutes minimum?”
“The senior officer probably decided to risk a Crazy Ivan instead of suffering Tango One and Two’s fate, Thorin,” Dunmoore said. “This close to Tyva’s heliopause, an emergency jump shouldn’t throw them that far off or cause extensive structural damage during the transition, unless their drives are badly tuned to begin with. Fire all guns. Let’s see if we can interfere with their spool-up.”
“Firing now.”
“The Ptar is engaging our missiles.”
Dunmoore’s eyes automatically switched to the holographic display where little blue icons were winking out one after the other. Unlike its now-defunct sister ships, the Ptar protecting Tango Three enjoyed the benefits of time and distance to successfully thin out the Q-ship’s salvo, sparing its packet from a devastating strike.
“Hit on one of Tango Three’s freighters.” A force field cocoon flared on the main display. “And on the second.”
The three ships wavered as their hyperdrives reached full power, though continuous streams of plasma struck each of them, painting their shields with purple auroras. One popped, exposing the freighter’s bare hull to Iolanthe’s full fury. Almost without thinking, Sirico concentrated every gun that could bear on it.
While the second freighter and the Ptar vanished from view as they translated to hyperspace, the packet’s third, ill-fated ship wavered convulsively while its engines fought against energy released by the Q-ship’s plasma. Then, without warning, the freighter gave birth to a tiny supernova which dissipated almost as quickly as it was born, leaving nothing more than an ever-expanding debris field.
“That’s two Ptars and five freighters,” Sirico said, slumping back into his chair.
“A good haul, Thorin. Well done. Chief, I need to know how Jan Sobieski is doing.”
“Already on it, Captain,” Yens replied. “Rooikat just dropped out of FTL.”
“Chief Day, send to Rooikat — when your drives are cycled, enter the Tyva system, and find that FOB. Deploy recon drones as required. Since the enemy knows we’re here, stealth is not necessary beyond normal precautions against detection.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Captain, it appears Jan Sobieski took out Tango Five. I can’t find a trace of it. But Tango Four’s ships are accelerating away as if the devil was nipping on their heels.”
Sirico let out a soft grunt.
“They’ll probably try a Crazy Ivan as well once they realize Captain Pushkin won’t let go.”
“If they escape his ordnance.” The main display shifted to show tiny beads of light pursuing three sets of drive nozzles. Yens helpfully outlined the Shrehari ships in red and Jan Sobieski in blue. The red outlines abruptly disappeared. “Crazy Ivan it is.”
“Still, not bad. Between us, we accounted for ten enemy ships, and our shield generators barely felt the sting of their return fire.”
Dunmoore smiled at Sirico.
“The power of tactical surprise, Thorin.”
“Sir.” Chief Day raised a hand. “Rooikat acknowledges. She’ll send an FTL recon drone to study the second planet soonest and follow when her drives are ready. Estimated time to departure, twenty-five minutes.”
“Thank you. Please link me with Captain Pushkin.”
His face swam into focus in front of her moments later.
“Captain!” A broad grin split Pushkin’s face. “I hear you accounted for seven enemy ships — two Ptars and five freighters. Please pass my congratulations to your gunnery crew.”
“You didn’t do so badly yourself. Three ships before the rest jumped out on a whim and a prayer.”
“I hope the bastards come out of FTL somewhere nasty or better yet, burn up a critical hyperdrive component, leaving them stranded in interstellar space until help arrives. What are your orders?”
Dunmoore shrugged.
“We sit tight until the rest of the task force arrives. There’s no point in trying to find the remaining boneheads. If their hyperdrive maintenance was even a bit off, they could be anywhere, and most likely scattered in every direction. I’m sending Rooikat to find the FOB. If it’s as weakly defended as the one in the Khorsan system, I hope I can convince the admiral we should make it vanish. Losing two bases within a short time, along with a couple of resupply convoys will hit their pride hard.”
“Here’s hoping the admiral will see it your way. I have enough missiles left for two more heavy engagements.”
“I’m a bit better stocked, but since the others didn’t expend anything yet on the current battle run, we should be good.” She glanced at the tactical display. “We’d best shift to silent running, in case the local strike group shows up before the rest of Luckner.”
“Good ide
a.”
“But stay at battle stations.”
“That goes without saying. You know, this reminded me a bit of the time Stingray ran that convoy into the Cimmeria system before handing Brakal his first major defeat.”
She gave him a warm smile.
“It did. Except back then we didn’t know where the war was going and whether we’d ever win. I daresay these days, our enemies feel as if they bit off more than they’ll ever be able to swallow. And since we both need to hold after-action meetings with our department heads before writing our separate reports for the admiral, as well as our ammunition expenditure reports for the flag captain...” She let her words hang. “Keep a laser link open and when Luckner appears, wait for my word to go up systems.”
“Will do, sir. Cheers!”
His image dissolved, leaving her to stare at the tactical display.
“Zeke, after-action review in forty-five minutes. Rig the ship for silent running.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” the first officer’s hologram replied.
— Fourteen —
Trage gestured at the chair in front of his desk. “Sit. You seem to be well, Brakal.”
“And you wear the mask of death.”
A dismissive gesture.
“Someone with my responsibilities ages faster than others.”
Brakal’s upper lip curled away from his teeth.
“Especially when you spend half your days explaining to an idiot such as Mishtak that we are losing the damned war he and the other congenital idiots on the governing council started.”
“We are not losing the war.” Trage’s clenched fist hit the desktop with a distressingly weak and thoroughly unconvincing smack.
“The humans are operating inside imperial space with impunity and have been doing so for over a turn. Meanwhile, two out of every three raiders we send into their space never returns. If we are not losing the war, then what?” A cruel rictus transformed Brakal’s face. “Did you dream up a clever scheme to draw the humans into a trap? Let them gradually penetrate deeper and deeper into our sphere so we may ambush them as they approach the homeworld with a fleet capable of exterminating our race?”
