The Thirteenth Man

by J. L. Doty

  “Let me speak with this Captain . . .” Dieter waved a hand impatiently. “ . . . what’s-­his-­name.”

  “Captain Zsutaka, Your Lordship. I’ll get him right away.”

  Zsutaka was no fool. A man in Thraka’s profession had to make many choices, and fools were easily led and easily manipulated . . . but could just as easily get you killed. On the other hand, an intelligent man like Zsutaka wouldn’t get you killed through simple ineptitude, though he might kill you himself for his own purposes. But Zsutaka was greedy, could be controlled through that greed.

  “You were contracted to bring her to me,” Dieter demanded.

  Zsutaka was the epitome of the tramp freighter captain, slovenly, unshaven, ill mannered, but he knew not to antagonize Dieter. “Your Lordship,” he said, his words clipped by an accent Thraka couldn’t place. “We were contracted to transport her off the station. We’re living up to that contract, and putting ourselves under the guns of sixty warships isn’t part of the deal.”

  Dieter was clearly losing his patience. “Then I’ll contract you to do that too.”

  Zsutaka inclined his head deferentially. “With all due respect, Your Lordship, I’ll not accept such a contract.”

  Dieter snapped his words out. “So you don’t trust me?”

  Zsutaka lifted both hands palm up and cringed slightly, a gesture of conciliation. “It’s not a matter of trust, Your Lordship. We’re in the midst of a war, and I’m a cautious man. Caution has kept me and my crew healthy these many years. May I suggest a solution that should work for both of us?”

  Dieter did a poor job of hiding his distrust. “Go ahead. I’m listening.”

  “We’ll bring her to a prearranged set of coordinates and deliver her to you there. You may come in a ship no better armed than a destroyer escort or a corvette. That way you can be confident you have us outgunned, and we can be confident that you don’t have us so heavily outgunned that you can destroy us before we can make a run for it. And be certain to bring final payment.”

  Dieter slashed a hand out as if cutting the air with a knife. “Absolutely not.”

  Zsutaka shrugged uncaringly. “Then we vent her and Thraka to space.”

  Dieter paced angrily back and forth for several seconds, but finally conceded. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  Charlie saw the scene in Delilah’s sitting room through Arthur’s implants. Carristan and the guard had both bled out almost instantly. Charlie had seen it before, massive damage to the aorta and heart. Done with a knife that way, it was clearly the work of a professional.

  “Where’s Delilah?” he demanded.

  “We’re questioning everyone now,” Roacka said. “She seems to have disappeared along with one of the servants, a spacer named Thraka, formerly of de Maris livery, probably someone’s agent, though your guess is as good as mine as to whose.”

  “The shooting’s started again,” Arthur said breathlessly. “I have to get back to the command center. And you’re the admiral of this fleet, Charlie, so you have to focus on the battle.”

  Charlie’s eyes met Roacka’s. “Find Del for me,” he pleaded. “Find her and get her back.”

  Roacka nodded carefully. “I’ll do my best, lad.”

  Charlie turned back to the situation summary on one of his screens and tried not to think of Del. Nadama and Goutain had regrouped their forces at first engagement, then started chasing the fleeing coalition forces in toward Borreggan nearspace. The first of the hunter-­killer captains got his targeting solution, launched a salvo of two torpedoes, got lucky and took out a frigate, then up-­transited well ahead of the incoming forces.

  Charlie had to suffer the frustration of every admiral throughout history. Once the battle had begun he could only sit and watch. If he started firing off orders about every little thing to his captains he’d only get in the way, create chaos when they needed the freedom to make their own decisions.

  In rapid succession, the incoming invaders encountered five more hunter-­killers. The second hunter-­killer completely missed his targets, the third caused considerable damage to three cruisers, the forth destroyed a medium cruiser, the fifth two destroyers. The sixth was unlucky, though, taking a large warhead and going out with all hands. And through it all the conventional coalition ships sat back at the extreme limit of their range and took pot shots at the enemy ships with their transition batteries, occasionally scoring a good hit. At that point, the invaders down-­transited to regroup again.

  “Your Grace,” The Thirteenth Man’s com officer said through Charlie’s implants. “I have an incoming message riding on an old de Maris encryption key from a man who identifies himself as Spacer Turnman. He says it’s urgent that he speak with you. He says he can tell you where the girl is, whatever that means.”

  Turnman? Charlie had to think for some seconds before he recalled the man, one of the snitches from the chain. Charlie said, “Put him through.”

  Turnman wore de Satarna livery, sat at a console on some ship and had aged considerably in the past year. “Your Grace,” he said.

  If the man had had anything to do with Delilah’s abduction, Charlie swore then and there he’d kill him. His voice came out in a growl. “You know where Delilah is?”

  Turnman nodded, though his attitude was not confrontational or adversarial. “I accepted a position on Lord Dieter’s staff. I think he was looking to see how he could use me against you, and with no other prospects, I had no choice. The man who kidnapped the princess is one of his agents.”

  “And you’re willing to tell me where she is?”

  Again Turnman nodded.

  “Why?”

  Turnman shrugged. “I’m not proud of what I did, Commander.” He used Charlie’s old rank, the rank he’d held on the chain. It wasn’t uncommon for one of the Two Thousand to do so. “And you could have had us executed, but you didn’t, so I figure I owe you this. Maybe it can square things between us . . . a bit.”

  “Where is she?”

  Turnman gave him the coordinates and explained the conditions of the rendezvous scheduled with the tramp freighter.

  “If you’re lying,” Charlie told him, “I’ll find you and kill you myself. If you’re telling the truth . . . well, let’s wait and see.”

  Charlie passed the coordinates on to Captain Matula, with orders to, “Get me there, soonest.”

  Then he contacted Roacka and told him what he’d learned from Turnman. “I’m going after her.”

  For a moment Roacka looked like he might argue, but before he could say anything, Arthur switched into the circuit and said, “You can’t go, Charlie. You’re the man running this show. We can’t take the risk we might lose you.”

  Charlie looked at the situation summary on his screens. The recent success of the nine hunter-­killers operating independently had improved the numbers nicely, giving him the first real hope they could win this, though it wasn’t a foregone conclusion. He said that now, and added, “And Dieter’s out there. He’s vulnerable. That’s a stroke of luck we can’t pass up. If I can capture him, we can neutralize Nadama. Even if I kill him, it’ll give Nadama pause.”

  Arthur started to say something, but Charlie cut him off. “This is a battle, brother. I learned long ago that sometimes we have to take risks when an opportunity presents itself.”

  Roacka grimaced and said, “He’s right.” It hadn’t been an enthusiastic endorsement, but Charlie would take it.

  “One more thing,” Charlie said. “If Turnman’s lying or double-­crossing me and I don’t get back from this, find him and kill him.”

  Roacka grinned and nodded.

  The invading fleet changed tactics, began sending out small groups of fast ships, leapfrogging one past the other in short micro-­transition jumps, attempting to flush out the hunter-­killers. It was dangerous since several of the conventional coalition ships could
concentrate fire on a single invader, and it also slowed their pace to a crawl.

  Five warships from Aagerbanne down-­transited on the far side of the system. Charlie ordered them to drive in-­system and take up defensive positions near Andyne-­Borregga.

  Again, all Charlie could do was sit and watch. He had to let his forces fight their battles, and force himself not to call up to the bridge every minute and give Matula orders.

  During the next fifteen hours the invaders lost eight more warships, while the coalition lost four conventional warships and two hunter-­killers. The invaders inched their way to within one light-­year of Borreggan nearspace, and three warships from the independent states down-­transited on the far side of the system. Seth Andrews was the captain of one of the hunter-­killers that went out with all hands, though he and his crew had been responsible for several successful kills among the enemy’s ranks. Charlie said a silent spacer’s prayer for him.

  It had become a battle of attrition. If they could slowly pick away at the incoming invaders, reinforce their own forces with incoming coalition ships, they might win this thing. But if Charlie couldn’t get Del back whole and healthy, it would be a hollow victory.

  Charlie waited for a lull in the bridge chatter, then asked Matula, “How far to the rendezvous point?”

  “We’re about five hours out, Your Grace.”

  Charlie hadn’t eaten anything for hours, and he badly needed a shower and a shave. He decided to take a break. He could monitor the situation through his implants and be back on the bridge in seconds if something developed.

  As Charlie headed for his cabin, a little piece of him missed having Add and Ell dogging his heels, and constantly commenting on everything from his stature to his manhood. But in the tight confines of a man-­of-­war, and with internal security systems monitoring everything, personal bodyguards were considered an inappropriate extravagance, and a sign that the duke lacked confidence in the ship’s discipline. Keeping them close at hand would be an open insult to the crew.

  He’d gotten his orders—­his target—­from Goutain several days ago, but he wasn’t close enough to the de Lunis to get to him easily, not with those damnable Kinathin twins always hovering close by. But this might be his opportunity. He had no responsibilities that would justify his presence on the destroyer’s bridge; after all he was just another Syndonese refugee. But he’d managed to get an assignment in the ship’s galley, had been working there when the duke called down and asked them to bring a light meal to his cabin. He’d made sure he was the one delivering the meal.

  No power weapons; they’d register too easily on the ship’s internal security systems. A simple plast knife will do the job quite nicely, he thought as he knocked on the duke’s cabin door.

  Charlie felt the ship up-­transit as he toweled his hair dry; they had a short transition run of a ­couple of hours to get to the rendezvous point with the tramp freighter. The shower had felt good, even though it was the usual one-­minute rush job dictated by shipboard rationing. With his rank he could have ignored rationing, but he’d spent too many years adhering to shipboard regulations to casually violate them now.

  At the knock on his cabin door he quickly pulled on a pair of pants, then opened the door. He didn’t recognize the man carrying the tray of food—­one of the Syndonese refugees—­and while he’d seen him about he certainly couldn’t recall his name. “Come in. Come in.” He waved at the small retractable desk against one bulkhead. “Just put it there, and thanks for bringing it. I’m starved.”

  “Your Grace,” the man said in a thick Syndonese accent. He crossed the small cabin to the desk, placed the tray on it, and began arranging the meal.

  Charlie turned to his grav bunk and the fresh clothing he’d laid out. He could hear the man behind him laying out utensils, removing lids from containers, and arranging the meal. He got a whiff of fresh food . . . and then his implants crashed.

  It wasn’t a dramatic thing, but when not deactivated or placed in standby during sleep, there was always a constant background of data chatter like someone else carrying on a quiet conversation on the other side of a large room: easy to ignore, to forget it wasn’t there, until it suddenly stopped. His implants shouldn’t crash like that, cutting him completely out of shipnet, isolating him. That just didn’t happen, unless someone nearby had intentionally jammed the signal—­

  He dropped, spun, and lurched to one side, grunted as a knife sliced a searing line of pain across his shoulder. He hit the floor, rolled, and came to his feet just as the man charged into him. Charlie managed to get a grip on the wrist of the man’s knife hand. They stood face-­to-­face, so Charlie head butted him in the nose, sending a spray of blood flying over them both. The man’s face screwed up into an ugly grimace as he and Charlie spun across the small cabin like two dancers enjoying a waltz. Charlie’s thigh caught on the edge of the small desk and they both went down in a cascade of dishes, food, and utensils. Somewhere in the tumble Charlie felt a sharp, intense pain in his right side. His hand closed on the hilt of a dinner knife and he came to his feet, clutching his side and facing the assassin in a crouch.

  The man was a pro, no question about it. He knew how to handle a knife and how to fight. But perhaps he saw the same thing in Charlie and that made him wary. They squared off, stepping carefully in the confines of the small cabin. Time was on Charlie’s side; someone would realize he’d dropped out of shipnet and they’d come to investigate. Charlie saw it in the man’s eyes when he realized the same thing and lunged at him with a thrust.

  Charlie deflected the thrust with a palm to the man’s wrist, spun, and side-­kicked him. Add and Ell would’ve been proud, except at the moment of the strike an excruciating shock of pain from his side took all the power out of it. It connected weakly. It was something, though—­backed the man up a pace—­so Charlie charged in and they both went down to the deck again.

  It turned into a nasty, brutal struggle on the deck of the cabin, both of them trying to hold the other’s knife at bay while using elbows, knees, teeth—­anything—­to win. To survive. But Charlie was just too weak from the slash wound in his shoulder and stab wound in his side. They rolled over and the man was on top of him . . .

  The cabin door burst open. It was the second time in his life when he couldn’t tell Add from Ell as one of them lifted the man off him, dislocated his shoulder with a quick twist, broke his arm with a loud snap, then slammed him against a bulkhead. She said to the assassin, “I want you alive so we can talk.”

  It was Add.

  Ell helped Charlie to his feet. “Let’s get you to the infirmary, little brother.”

  CHAPTER 32

  CORNERED

  Charlie refused to let them heavily sedate him, even though the assassin’s knife had punctured a lung. “I’m in the middle of a fucking war,” he growled, coughing up blood and trying to ignore the pain.

  The ship’s surgeon stared at his instruments and said, “Looks like it’s a straight puncture. You’re lucky he didn’t have a chance to twist or turn the knife. We’ve got to get you into surgery. Now.”

  “Absolutely not. I told you, I got a war to fight.”

  Add and Ell looked at each other and rolled their eyes, then looked at Charlie, shaking their heads. Add said to Ell, “I think we’re going to have to hold him down, like when he fell out of that tree and broke his arm.”

  They ganged up on him, and after considerable argument—­after Add and Ell threatened to hold him down while the surgeon administered the anesthesia—­Charlie agreed to let them give him a local and dope him up briefly, on the condition they brought him out of it as soon as possible. The shooting had started again at the edge of Borreggan nearspace.

  He drifted off into a drug-­induced haze. A piece of him realized it had been pure fantasy to think he could run a war while under the knife. And when he returned to lucidity an hour had passed.
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  “I repaired the damage to your lung,” the surgeon told him. “It wasn’t too bad. But no strenuous activity until we get you into accelerated healing and finish the job.”

  Charlie ignored the surgeon and immediately keyed his implants back into shipnet.

  They were blind in transition, but Arthur was providing updates on a continuous feed. The coalition had continued its previous strategy of using the hunter-­killers to lie in wait and torpedo unwary invaders. But the invaders had finally realized they were facing something new and different, and were now moving much more cautiously and slowly. The Four Tyrants had lost a large battleship, while the coalition had lost a hunter-­killer, a cruiser, and a destroyer. Interestingly, the battleship had been Nadama’s flagship, and Nadama was dead. That made it even more imperative that Charlie get to Dieter; capture or kill the heir, and the de Satarna forces would have to withdraw.

  In other good news, four more warships from the independent states and three from Kinatha had down-­transited into the system and were on their way to join the battle.

  “Your Grace,” Matula said in his implants. “We’re about a half hour out from down-­transition.”

  “Right,” he grumbled, trying not to make every word sound like a growl. “I’ll be right up.”

  “Wait a minute,” the surgeon said. “You need to spend at least a day in accelerated healing before any exertion.”

  Charlie didn’t try to mask the pain in his voice. “When this is done.”

  Del had never truly known what it was like to want to kill someone. She’d known rage, fury even, but she was surprised to realize that even then her anger had been nothing compared to this. The man had murdered Carristan right in front of her, and she’d sat there and watched complacently. And Dieter had been behind it. No, nothing compared to this. She embraced the anger and let it fuel her hatred for the man.