by Eric Thomson
“Understood. Commodore Dunmoore. May her broad pennant fly until she gets her second star.”
“Commodore Dunmoore,” the assembled officers replied in unison before taking a sip.
“Wow,” Dunmoore let out an appreciative whistle. “That didn’t come from the wardroom stores, Zeke. What is it?”
“Emma has friends in the right places, apparently. When I requested this little gathering, she reached out to a contact on the civilian orbital station and snagged a case of Chateau Pétrus, a prewar vintage no less. From Earth.”
Dunmoore put on an air of feigned disapproval.
“Meaning you sent a shuttle to fetch wine?”
A clearly unrepentant Holt shrugged, smiling.
“You’re only promoted to flag rank once. I figured we might as well make it memorable.”
“Should I ask how much it cost the wardroom?”
“No, but your captains generously reimbursed part of that king’s ransom, so your officers aren’t quite paupers just yet.” When he saw Pushkin make his way toward them, Holt touched her arm. “I’ll go mingle and let you speak with Gregor.”
“The star looks wonderful on you, Commodore,” Jan Sobieski’s captain said the moment he was within easy earshot. “And not before time. Admiral Petras is a good commander, but this task force needs someone more flexible, someone capable of throwing doctrine away so she can make things up on the fly. And thank the Almighty Lena left with him. Given a little luck, you’ll come out of this wearing a second star.”
A wry smile creased Dunmoore’s lips.
“My single star is acting, while so employed, Gregor. The navy is way over its authorized flag officer numbers because of the wartime expansion, which means I can become a captain again with a simple administrative instruction. The names of acting, while so employed commodores don’t make the rear admirals’ promotion list.”
“So?” Pushkin waved away her objection with a dismissive shake of the head. “The way this war is going, you’ll move far enough up the list within a year to be among those whose acting promotions become permanent. Admirals are still retiring on schedule, those who hit their level of incompetence are still being made to resign, and some die, whether in battle, by accident or from illness or are invalided out of the service. Admiral Petras being a case in point.”
“Perhaps.”
“I’m convinced I’ll see you wear a few additional stars on your collar in due course. Here,” he held up his wine glass, “I know it’s not Thursday, but I’ll drink to a bloody war or a sickly season anyhow.”
“I’d prefer toasting an early end to the war, but sure. A bloody war or a sickly season.” They both took a sip. “That is the best wine I’ve tasted in ages.”
“It’s also the most expensive I’ve ever seen.” Pushkin’s theatrical grimace caused Dunmoore to chuckle. “But for you, nothing is too good. And in that vein, since we’ll be at anchor, so to speak, for the next six days or until Hawkwood comes out of dry dock — whichever happens first — I want to invite you aboard Jan Sobieski for dinner.”
“I accept with great pleasure. It’ll be nice to see the former Stingrays again.”
“In that case, expect Trevane Devall to pull out all the stops. And Chief Foste will make sure you’re piped aboard in proper fashion. Perhaps you could bring Chief Guthren along if Zeke doesn’t mind. Foste would surely enjoy spending a few hours with her mentor while we eat.”
“I’ll ask.” Her wry smile returned. “You realize each captain in the task force will invite me to supper now. None of your colleagues will accept being outdone by Jan Sobieski’s wardroom, meaning I’ll have six days to visit eight ships.”
“Enjoy the ride, Commodore. You earned it.”
— Twenty-Four —
Mishtak, head of the empire’s governing council and the most powerful Shrehari alive, remained seated when Brakal entered his office. He was ushered in by an aide whose air of disapproval was finely calibrated to avoid causing overt offense while conveying disdain.
A cavernous, high-ceilinged space, the office showcased exquisitely carved furnishings and gleaming wood-paneled walls. The latter were covered with ancient tapestries made from the finest materials, including precious metals and gemstones. Various antique objects such as pre-spaceflight helmets and weaponry scattered here and there on sideboards and tables tried to add a vaguely martial atmosphere but with little success.
Brakal studied his surroundings rather than look at Mishtak and put on a disapproving air himself at the crass display of wealth while ordinary citizens suffered ever-rising taxes.
“You do not deprive yourself of luxury, Mishtak. Good. Someone in your position needs every bit of coddling and decadence he can get. Does Lady Kembri know your office surpasses her own reception room in opulence or the one which will belong to Emperor Tumek when the child comes of age? If the dynasty survives the next few turns.”
Mishtak’s eyes widened at Brakal’s words.
“Careful, Speaker of the Kraal. Even you are not immune from charges of insulting the empire’s rulers, let alone treason by suggesting the dynasty may be in peril.”
Brakal met Mishtak’s gaze for the first time. A mocking rictus, half contempt, half challenge revealed his fangs.
“Of course. Yet the dynasty may be in peril nonetheless if we do not end this war with the humans. Surely your Tai Kan servants bring you word of discontent growing among the civilian population and within the Deep Space Fleet. If it grows sufficiently under the enemy’s relentless assaults, who can tell when this mood might shift and become something worse. Our species’ sense of honor is a demanding master, Mishtak. Imperial rulers who forget tend to rule no more than a prison cell in the days before their execution. Losing to the humans would strike a mortal blow on our honor.” He took one of the soft chairs facing Mishtak’s desk. “The Kraal will see this does not happen.”
“The Kraal has no say on matters exclusively in the council’s remit.”
“On the contrary. The Kraal has every right to intervene in the council’s handling of matters affecting the empire’s wellbeing.”
“Why are you here?”
“So it is publicly known we met. As equals. You head the executive, and until the Kraal votes otherwise, I head the legislature.”
A mocking rumble shook Mishtak’s chest.
“Equals? Hardly. You are but a failed admiral. One among many incapable of winning against an inferior foe.”
“You should cut back on your daily consumption of ale, Mishtak. The alcohol is making you believe in your own propaganda. You and I realize by now the humans are the furthest thing from inferior foes. Otherwise, we would have reduced them to vassals long ago. Instead, they enter our realm with increasing impunity, striking blow after blow against our forces. It must end before our fellow Shrehari citizens uncover the ugly truth and demand accountability in a way not seen for many generations. You and I can work together, or we can work against each other. But understand this. Oppose the Kraal, and you will lose power. After that, you may as well spend the rest of your life enjoying your estates. No one will allow you in the capital ever again. Even if you defeat me and silence the four hundred.”
“Big words from a small lord.”
“Careful, Mishtak. Even you are not immune from a challenge among Shrehari of equivalent social rank.”
When he saw a thunderous expression distort his opponent’s gargoyle features, Brakal laughed.
“Your sense of honor has suffered under your thirst for power. Ruler of the empire you might be, but the rules still apply, even to one in your lofty position. Oh, and before I forget. I have a second motive for our meeting, a more personal one. If anything happens to me after this, such as injury or death from an assassin’s knife, you will be openly suspected of sponsoring the act. And the Kraal, after electing a new speaker, will ensure retribution. As I said, oppose us, and you will retire from public life, whether you want to or not. Work with us and let your nam
e be remembered as the one who saved the empire.”
Mishtak made a dismissive gesture, but it seemed forced to Brakal’s eyes, just as his next words rang false to his ears. Uncertainty, perhaps even worry, was settling over the empire’s most powerful leader.
“If your goal was frightening me, then you failed. The Kraal has no power at a time when the empire’s efforts and resources must be focused on our final victory. Did you speak your piece? If so, leave and do not return to the Forbidden Quarter.”
“The Kraal’s seat is in the Forbidden Quarter.”
“The Kraal will not meet without my permission.”
This time Mishtak’s empty bravado was unmistakable, as were the slight tremors he fought hard to conceal from his visitor.
“We do not need your permission.” Brakal stood. “The Kraal exists separately from the emperor and the council and answers to neither. Ponder my words, Mishtak, and see if you can show wisdom at last. The future of our race may depend on it.”
“Perhaps I should throw you in the Tai Kan dungeon now instead of letting you return home. It seems a wise choice at the moment.”
“Your rule would not survive another tenday if that. Many senior Tai Kan leaders also understand what we admirals, clan lords, and Kraal members have come to realize. Their front line officers see what we see and come to the same conclusions as us. I would be out of the dungeon before nightfall, and you would lose the last of your supporters within the apparatus of state.” Brakal turned on his heels and left without another word, let alone Mishtak’s permission.
He walked past the supercilious aide, though not before giving him a dangerous glance promising retribution for his silent insolence.
Once in his ground car, Brakal sat back and exhaled slowly, as if setting his anger at Mishtak’s intransigence free to contaminate the Forbidden Quarter.
“May I assume it went as expected, Lord?” Regar asked. “You seem suitably irritated.”
“You may. I gave Mishtak fair warning. As expected, he forbade the Kraal from assembling, though he knew the order was as worthless as what passes for his sense of honor.” Brakal leaned forward. “Take us away from this cesspit, Toralk.”
“We now understand each other’s position,” he continued. “I gave him a chance to work with the Kraal in finding a way forward and saving the dynasty from an enraged citizenry should our despised enemies prove the council’s propaganda has been nothing but a lie. A lie whose sole aim is distracting the citizenry and hiding our rulers’ greed and incompetence.”
“Will he concede?”
Laughter rumbled up Brakal’s throat.
“Never. Mishtak believes in his propaganda as if it was truth handed down by the gods themselves. Absolute power has addled his wits, and there is no cure for such a disease save execution. The idiot even insulted me directly, forgetting he remains bound by custom and would answer for any smear on another’s honor.” Brakal fell silent as a thoughtful expression replaced his earlier scorn. “Now that I think back on the meeting, Mishtak appeared prematurely aged, as if his soul was decaying along with his body. Perhaps his wits are rotting away as well.”
“But you achieved the aim, which is what matters,” Regar said. “The idle tongues infesting this den of iniquity will spread the word far and wide across Shredar that Brakal, Lord of Clan Makkar and Speaker of the Kraal bearded Mishtak in his own lair and challenged the council’s supremacy on all things concerning the imperial government.”
“Huh,” Brakal grunted dismissively. “That and three taklags will buy me a mug of drinkable ale.”
Toralk glanced over his shoulder, spearing Brakal with hard eyes.
“We are not stopping at a tavern, Lord.”
Regar made a gesture of approval.
“I agree. Mishtak’s first reaction after recovering from the shock of your words might well involve setting his Tai Kan assassins on you again, this time with orders to kill rather than intimidate. The estate’s cellars are filled with any vintage your demanding palate might desire, and no snipers or other deadly creatures can disturb you there.”
Brakal glanced at Toralk and Regar in turn.
“I sense this is a debate I shall not win. Very well. Take us home, miscreant.”
“A wise choice,” Regar said. “Did you consider calling your closest allies in the Kraal and informing them of your meeting with Mishtak so they may spread the word? Perhaps I could arrange for a conference via comlink upon our return to the estate. The more who are aware you challenged him, the better. It will give those still wavering added courage once word reaches them. You should not wait much past the end of this change of the moons before assembling the Kraal.”
“Agreed. Make the necessary arrangements.”
— Twenty-Five —
Jan Sobieski’s crew received Dunmoore the day after her first command conference as commodore with enough formality to please the most demanding coxswain in the Fleet. Eleven bosun’s whistles, a full honor guard on the hangar deck and, since the frigate didn’t carry her own band, recorded music for the occasion.
As soon as the arrival ceremony was over, the former Stingrays who now served under Gregor Pushkin’s command lined up in the passageway to greet her and Chief Petty Officer Guthren. Dunmoore was pleased she could still remember every name even after all this time.
The last to welcome and congratulate her, just before Chief Petty Officer Foste steered her erstwhile mentor to the chiefs and petty officers’ mess adjoining the wardroom was Lieutenant Commander Trevane Devall, Jan Sobieski’s first officer.
“The star looks fantastic on your collar, Commodore. Thank you for accepting our invitation to dine with Jan Sobieski’s officers.” He gestured at the open door. “Our home is your home.”
As she entered, trailed by Pushkin and Devall, those officers who hadn’t served with her in Stingray and were waiting in the wardroom instead of greeting her in the corridor, came to attention.
“At ease, please. I’m merely a guest.” She turned to Devall. “Why don’t you introduce your messmates, Commander?”
After he’d done so, a young ensign who looked as if she graduated from the academy the previous week shyly offered Dunmoore a glass of wine.
“It won’t be as fine as the one Emma Cullop served,” Pushkin remarked in a low voice, “but Trevane keeps a good cellar.”
She took a sip and smiled at him.
“The wine is excellent, Gregor. Considering your first officer’s family origins, I expected no less. Jan Sobieski’s wardroom will be hard to top in this task force.”
“You mean after Iolanthe’s?”
“The flagship has a higher standard to uphold.”
Pushkin chuckled.
“I still can’t get over the fact you’re a commodore, and that behemoth of yours is a flagship.”
“Then you and Zeke have something in common. And it’s that former behemoth of mine. My promotion and appointment may not be substantive just yet, but Zeke’s are.”
**
After a pleasant meal, Pushkin invited Dunmoore to join him in the privacy of his quarters for a snifter of brandy.
“This is not top-shelf stuff,” he said, handing his former captain a glass half-filled with amber liquid before sitting down across from her, on the other side of a low table, “but it doesn’t bite either. Which is more than I can say for what the wardroom serves — at my chief engineer’s behest I hasten to add. Trevane knows a battle he can’t win when he sees it.”
“Like every good first officer.” She raised her snifter. “Your health, Gregor. Jan Sobieski is an impressive ship, and your officers strike me as more literate and intellectually curious than most wardroom denizens in our beloved Fleet.”
“The luck of the draw.”
“A captain’s influence more likely,” she gave him a complicit wink.
“And who did I learn it from?” Pushkin took a sip and sighed. “We’ve come far since the day you took Stingray, haven’t we? I neve
r thought I’d get my own command back then, let alone a gem such as Jan Sobieski. And I daresay you never figured to wear a commodore’s star, let alone take over a raider task force such as Luckner.”
“True.” She tasted her brandy and nodded. “Nice. From Dordogne?”
“Of course. A commander without friends in low places can’t afford the good stuff from Earth. If you thought the Chateau Pétrus dug up by Emma Cullop was expensive, you should see what a real cognac costs.” Pushkin shivered in mock horror.
“Pass.” Another sip. “We certainly came far. In retrospect I can’t quite figure how we turned the mess Helen Forenza left me into a tightly knit, fighting crew, except I couldn’t have done it without you.”
A bark of laughter escaped Pushkin’s lips.
“What I remember most is me being the surliest first officer in the entire navy. I’d not have blamed you for putting me ashore.”
“I’d have been a fool to do so. The navy needs senior officers who can work their way through the toughest situations and not lose their professionalism.”
“Again, who did I learn it from? You were pretty close to the edge yourself during those early days.” After a pause, Pushkin said, “Changing the subject before this becomes uncomfortably mawkish, do you ever wonder what happened to our old foe Brakal? Any idea whether he made it back from that planet of the dingbats — what was it called again? Miranda?”
“Apparently he did. Last I saw his name mentioned in an intelligence report, they thought him to be somewhere in or near our area of operations. We might even have crossed paths without knowing. A few Tol class cruisers escaped Iolanthe’s guns in the last year or so, and not because we didn’t try.”
“He always was one of the wiliest bastards on their side. Thank the Almighty there aren’t too many of his sort.”
“Even if there were, the churn intelligence is reporting among the upper ranks in front line formations will blunt the efforts of even the best among them.”
Pushkin gave her an ironic glance.
