by John M. Ford
He shifted power between port and starboard engines: Blue Fire began to roll.
Kodon said to the other Captain, “And your Executive?”
“Dead,” Death Hand’s Captain said. “And I, of course…”
“This need not be said,” said Kodon. “Kill Roms, with your Black Ship, Kadi.”
The other Captain grinned. “Not these Roms. They’re too stupid. After this death, no more for them….” His lips pulled back from histeeth, and his arm spasmed; blood soaked through the sash. The picture broke up.
Blue Fire slipped sidewise through the gap between the parts of Death Hand. Roms still surrounded them, some still firing into the dead ship’s hulk.
“Naval officers aboard,” the Engineer said. “Ready to receive second Marine unit.”
“Squadron Leader,” Communications said, “they’re breaking formation.”
Vrenn heard, registered, ignored: He was the ship now, seeking out the one gap in the formation of Roms they never would have thought to cover: how can two ships be in the same place at once?
Kodon looked up from his foot repeaters. “So, not all their Captains are such fools as their Admiral…. Cancel transport. Signal Code TAZHAT. Action!”
“Acting,” said all voices on the Bridge.
The planet whirled over on the display as Vrenn, clear at last of Death Hand, brought the ship about. Yellow lines cut across his displays, then green ones, then a blue. Vrenn pushed for thrust, the first set of levers, then the second.
Blue Fire engaged warp drive, and the stars blazed violet, and black, and were past.
“Flash wave aft,” said the Communications officer.
“Shield 6—” said Weapons, and a rumble through the decks finished the statement for her.
“Power,” Vrenn said, and the Engineer gave it to him. Blue Fire reached Warp 2, and the rumble died way: the ship had just outrun the sphere of photons and debris that was everything left of Death Hand. And of the Roms around it.
“Kai!” Kodon cried out. Vrenn felt proud, then embarrassed: it surely must be Captain Kadi that the Squadron Leader hailed.
Then Kodon said, “Navigator, course for the nearest outpost. Dronesman, trail one to flash. Communications, have Two Fingers home on the drone signal.”
Kandel said, “Sir, the cargo ships—”
“Dust, like all good Roms,” Kodon said, quiet but intense. “I am not now interested in prizes. I want an answer, and I do not think it is to be found back there.”
“Squadron Leader, shall I signal to the Fleet—”
“Signal them anything and I’ll have your throat out!”
So that, Vrenn thought, is what a real threat from Kodon sounds like.
After a moment, Kodon spoke again, in his normal tone. “Engineer, raise the heat and moisture on quarters decks; we’re going to be hungry but we might as well be comfortable. And I want Warp 4 power as soon as possible.” He got out of his chair. “Kurrozh, you have the conn. Vrenn, you will come with me.”
Vrenn stood, not knowing what to think and so trying to think nothing. It was an old trick to threaten the one and punish the other: this had an intensified effect on both subjects. He could not think of what he had done wrong, but knew far better than to be reassured by that.
And then he knew too well what he had done: he had suggested a strategy to a Squadron Leader during battle, and worse, the strategy had worked.
But then, as Vrenn followed Kodon to the lift, he saw one of the Bridge crew flash him the spread fingers of the Captain’s Star, and then another, and another. And he knew, then, that he would have his ship, even if it flew in the Black Fleet.
The Ensign’s tunic was torn, and smelled of smoke. He slung his bag on to the empty bed, sat down hard, and saluted with a bandaged hand. “Kelag, Death Hand,” he said.
“Kai Death Hand,” Vrenn said. “Vrenn—” He paused. “Brevet Lieutenant.”
“Vrenn…?” Kelag looked at Vrenn’s rank badges. “But you’re an Ensign?”
“Brevet Ensign.”
Kelag shook his head. His eyelids were drooping. “I don’t understand. What’d you…”
“I was Blue Fire’s Helmsman. I am, I mean.”
“Oh,” said Ensign Kelag, awake at once. “Kai Vrenn. Kai Blue Fire.”
Vrenn nodded. “That was Ruzhe’s bed,” he said. “He was aft, in Engineering.”
“Bad battle.”
“He got through the battle all right…but when they were working on getting the power back up, some tubes blew. It was intercooler gas. Almost plasma, they said. Anyway, there hasn’t been time to clear out his things.”
Kelag was contemplating the floor. After a moment, Vrenn realized he was asleep sitting up. Vrenn stood, took a step, meaning to stretch the Ensign out flat on the bed, but then he stopped. He did not look up. Security did not like any signs that one knew they were watching. They were much more likely to find something wrong with what they saw.
Vrenn turned out the lights—let them watch by infrared—and went to bed himself. He was instantly asleep.
Security had a Rom in the cube. It was running live on ship’s entertainment channel, and in the Inspirational Theatres. Most of the newer officers had traded duty to watch, but Vrenn had stayed on the helm. Kodon laughed; “You’ve gotten to like the conn quick enough. I know what that’s like.”
The Weapons Officer had the Examination picture on her repeater screen, sound too low for Vrenn to hear. If he looked that way, he could see it clearly enough. The right side of the screen showed the information display: a green outline of the Rom’s body, with blue traces of major nerves and yellow crosses where the agonizers were focused. On the left, the Romulan sat in the chair—very firmly so; Blue Fire’s Specialist Examiner had set the booth foci so the Rom’s muscles shoved her down and back into the seat cushions, leaving all the restraint straps slack. It was the work of a real expert, showing off just a little.
Vrenn supposed his view was really no worse than that in the Examining Room itself: the agonizer cubes were supposed to be entirely soundproof, with phones for the interested observer to listen at any chosen volume.
There had been three Romulans at the Imperial outpost where Kodon’s Squadron stopped. They claimed diplomatic protection; Kodon was hardly interested, and the outpost Commander was only too happy to stay out of the Squadron Leader’s way—especially after the Executive made clear that he was next in line for cube time.
The Ambassador cut her own throat, by Romulan ritual and admirably well. The Romulan Naval Attaché tried to be a great hero by overloading his pistol, but mis-set the controls. Kodon gave him to the surviving Marines from Death Hand. That left the Mission Clerk, who was in the cube, while the Security analysts did similar electronic things to the coded recordings she had carried. Security was pleased with their catch: clerks often knew more useful things than the bureaucrats they served.
The Rom slumped over. The Weapons Officer yawned and turned away; on the screen behind her, the agonizer foci shifted to new nerves, and the clerk’s head snapped up again. “So hey, Krenn,” the Gunner said, “how long before we get someplace with thick air? I hate these little outposts, flatulent rocks.”
Vrenn was getting used to the officers ennobling his name, though it couldn’t be final until the Navy made his promotions official. Which might, he knew, never happen. Not everything a privateer captain did, lasted. But for now, it made the conversations easier. “Three days to Aviskie, Lieutenant, if the Squadron Leader wants Warp 4.”
“He will. Got any plans?”
The Romulan was bleeding a thin green trickle from the corner of her mouth.
“I hadn’t,” Vrenn said.
“I think you do now.”
Vrenn tried not to laugh, but did anyway. The two other Lieutenants on the Bridge were carefully watching their boards.
“So what am I supposed to make of that?” the Gunner said. “There may be too much Cadet fuzz on your ears to know it, but you�
��re on the warp route, Thought Ensign.” Kodon’s half-mocking title for him had spread. “Ever hear of the Warp 4 Club?”
“I have got duty.”
“You can’t conn the ship for three khest’n days.”
Vrenn grinned. The Gunner had no serious faults he could see—except, perhaps, the rank badges on her vest: Vrenn wondered if he ought to wait, just until his Lieutenancy came through in cold metal.
But then he wouldn’t be a full member of the Club.
The Romulan began to convulse, then went rigid: her lips moved, forming words. The Gunner turned up the sound: it was barely understandable as a string of Romulan numbers.
“Here come the code keys,” the officer said, slapping his thigh.
“You see?” the Gunner said to Vrenn, laughing. “I hope your timing’s always this good.”
The rental room in Aviskie Column Five was dark, and finally quiet, and damp with room fog and perspiration. The incense in the bedside holder had burned out a little while ago.
Light lanced in, and cold outside air. Vrenn rolled off the bed, fingers arched to claw: on the other side, the Gunner had been just a little faster, and was already saluting.
“Come with us, Lieutenant,” Ensign Merzhan said. Behind him were a Navy Commander with a silver Detached Service sash, and two armed enforcers, from the port complement, not Blue Fire’s.
Vrenn saluted: it did not occur to him to disagree. “I’ll dress—”
“Why?” said Merzhan. The Commander made a tiny gesture, and Merzhan’s face froze. The officer said, “Go ahead.”
Vrenn pulled on trousers and boots and tunic, and finally his vest and sash, waiting for someone to stop him donning the rank marks. No one did. The Gunner stood at parade rest.
“Let’s go,” the Detached Commander said, in a voice with less character than a ship’s computer’s. He looked at the Gunner, eyes not so much appraising as measuring her. “We weren’t here.”
“Nobody was,” she said, and as Vrenn was led out he thought that she did not sound frightened at all: just rueful.
Vrenn sat in a bare conference room, windowless, with three Naval officers: Koll, the Commander who had come to his rental room, Commander Kev of Blue Fire, and Captain Kessum of Two Fingers. Vrenn had not seen Kodon. All the Security men had gone, so they were certainly watching by other means.
“This is not a tribunal,” Koll said, “nor any other sort of official meeting. In fact, this meeting is not taking place, and never will have taken place. Is this understood?”
“Perfectly,” Vrenn said.
Kev nodded. Koll put a rectangular object on the table; an antenna rose from it, and several small lights began to flicker. Vrenn realized that the Detached officer, whatever he was, was quite serious about the nature of the meeting: now, not even Security would be listening.
Commander Koll said, “As a result of certain Romulan decrypts, we have learned of a series of secret negotiations between the Komerex Romulan and a faction within the Komerex Klingon. Had these discussions resulted in a treaty, a neutral zone would have been established between the Komerexi, supposedly inviolable by either side. While such a treaty has often been proposed in the Imperial Council, and discarded, this group might have been able to enforce the support of an agreement presented as an accomplished fact….”
Vrenn felt his liver shift in his chest. He knew one proponent of Rom Neutral Space, only one. The idea was related to the principle of center control in the game called chess.
“…an excuse for destruction of Klingon frontier vessels on charting or colonization missions, having no effect at all on Romulan incursionary forces—”
“Commander,” Kev said, “that’s background.” Kev looked at Vrenn, with his impaling eyes; Vrenn tried to puzzle out what the look said.
“Yes, correct,” Koll said. “The point is that now the treaty conspirators have been identified. Among them is Thought Admiral Kethas epetai-Khemara.” Koll gave Vrenn his mechanical, measuring look. Kessum tapped a hand on the table, the two-fingered right hand that gave his ship its name.
Kev said abruptly, “The point is this. Squadron Leader Kodon thinks that you are not involved in this conspiracy, and are too good an officer to be disposed of for the sake of mere caution. I agree with both points. Now, we have worked very fast, faster than Security can follow, we think, so listen carefully. There’s an independent command waiting for you, if you want it. A small frontier scout, but it’s Navy, and it doesn’t have to be a khesterex thath if you stay as clever as you’ve been.”
Vrenn sat very still. He wondered if the stars above this world were clothed or naked now. Here was his ship, then; here too was its price.
“If the one hesitates,” Captain Kessum said formally, “for the breaking of the chain of duty, let certain terms of the negotiation be stated.”
Kev said, “The Roms wanted some proofs of the negotiators’ intent. They wanted information on the next frontier raid. They got it.”
Vrenn said, “Did the one—”
“The one knew,” said Commander Koll. “The one verified it.”
So there was only the komerex zha, Vrenn thought, and the pieces of the game were only bits of wood in the fire. “The Navy honors me,” he said, “and where I am commanded, there I shall go.”
“Kai kassai,” Kev said softly, but his look was still steel needles.
Vrenn said, “If I might take formal leave of Squadron Leader Kodon—”
Captain Kessum said stiffly, “This one is here for Kodon.”
Yes, of course, Vrenn thought. Blue Fire lived, but Death Hand was dust. And there was the question of strategy, that least Klingon of Sciences, whose practitioners made strange things happen; as Kev had said once before, If you did plan this, do not let it be known.
“…it is of course understood that you will not operate in this part of the frontier.”
“This need not be said,” Vrenn said.
“Then it’s done,” Koll said, and reached for his sensor jammer.
Commander Kev said, “You’ll have to change your name now.”
Scout Captain Krenn was eighty days out on an exploratory cruise when the recordings arrived, scrambled with Krenn’s personal cipher; there was no originating label.
He watched the taped deaths of Kethas and Rogaine twice through. They were competent kills, as the law of assassination specified: that indeed was the reason for taping at all.
Krenn was pleased to see that Rogaine fought very well, stabbing one assassin, blinding another with her nails after her body had hypnotized him. It served the fool right for such carelessness.
Kethas fell near his gameboards, firing back as he collapsed, upsetting the Reflective Game set that had been his favorite. Kethas’s hand closed on the green-gold Lancer, and then did not move. The camera swung away. On the second play, Krenn stopped the image, enlarged it; he realized that the epetai-Khemara had not been reaching for the game piece, but toward his consort’s body.
Krenn stopped the tape again, thinking to rewind and watch for Kethas’s look, exactly as Rogaine died; but he did not do so.
The record covered only two of the house kuve. Little black-furred Odise was shot from a balcony, fell, landing in a wet and messy heap. Tirian they stunned, and agonized for a time, then carried aloft in a flier. His tunic was slit down the back, and the scars of his wings shown to the camera. Then they flung him out, perhaps twelve hundred meters above the dark twisted mass of the Kartade Forest. Krenn did not rerun that scene.
He burned the cassette, thinking, It simplifies things enormously when honor claims are absent.
Krenn stepped out onto the Bridge. The Helmsman saluted, not too sharply, and the Science officer turned. They were enough Bridge crew; it was a small ship. But a Navy ship, and perhaps not a dead command.
“Anything of interest?” Krenn asked Sciences.
“Dust and smaller dust,” Specialist Akhil said. “Your message?”
“Some bureauc
ratic housecleaning.”
Akhil laughed. Then he said, “Is this a good time to ask a question, Captain?”
“As good as any.”
“My oldest uncle was on a ship under a Captain of the Rustazh line. Are you any—”
“They’re all gone,” said Krenn tai-Rustazh. “The name was free for use.”
“So you are starting a line,” the Helmsman said.
“Why else would anyone be out here?” Krenn said. “To play the Perpetual Game?”
Then he laughed, and the Scientist and the Helmsman joined in.
Part Two
The Naked Stars
Negotiation may cost far less than war, or infinitely more: for war cannot cost more than one’s life.
—KLINGON PROVERB
Four: Spaces
“We’ve got the ship on tractors, Captain.”
“Pull it in. Zan Kafter, keep the guns hot: one through the command pod if her energy readings change.”
“Affirm, Captain.” The crew of Imperial Klingon Cruiser Fencer went to work, towing in the depowered but intact Willall starship: it was their twelfth such prize, and they knew the drill.
Captain Krenn vestai-Rustazh sat back in the Command Chair, folded his hands and rested his chin on them. The Willall vessel showed up magnified in the forward display: a boxy thing, without a hint of Warp physics in the design. Willall ships all looked like outdoor toilets with warpdrive nacelles wired on. But those ridiculous-looking ships had made a very serious dent in Imperial space.
They didn’t have any strategy, beyond just raiding the next planet they stumbled across. They didn’t know any tactics, either, other than shooting and swooping. Willall was shorthand klingonaase for their name for themselves, which fully translated said in much more grandiose fashion that they were the race which would command all the possible realities.
But they fought like—“like drunken Romulans” was a popular expression, here on the other side of Empire from Romulan claims. And their junk ships could absorb a lot of fire, and put out a respectable volume.
