by Eric Thomson
A skeptical smirk twisted Dunmoore’s face.
“You think? Folks who can corrupt entire government agencies and hire powerful mobsters such as Tarrant will hide behind almost impregnable defenses.”
“Almost, Captain. That’s the operative word. Even the sturdiest walls can be breached by what is at first a mere trickle of water, entering invisibly through a tiny weak spot. Given time, that trickle grows and eats away at the foundations and one day, the entire edifice collapses. That’s how things generally unfold in my world. We don’t enjoy the luxury of solving problems with massive nuclear missile strikes and overwhelming gunfire.”
She raised her cup in salute.
“Here’s to hoping your trickle turns into a torrent with all dispatch.”
“Will this rear admiral to whom you’re reporting create any turbulence because of what you’ve done?”
“I don’t intend to tell him anything more than what I’ve told Captain Fennon. Admiral Nagira already knows of the general situation, thanks to a private message I transmitted on our way back to Kilia from Temar. I merely need to send a follow-up with the remaining details before joining my new commanding officer and his task force. What Nagira does with the information is none of my business, and my new CO doesn’t need to know anything beyond the rescue itself.”
“That sounds like a remarkably sneaky runaround. Congratulations. If the Navy no longer suits you, look me up for a job.”
“I’d make a lousy covert operative, Ser Forenza. You’re aware of my old nickname, right?”
“Doña Quixote, because you’re always tilting at windmills?” He indicated the old clock with the silhouette of a gaunt knight on its face. “That was perhaps partially true at one time, but you’ve changed. You’re not even the same officer I first met on Toboso, and that’s less than a year ago. For what it’s worth, you’ve become someone capable of acting without mercy when innocent lives are involved. Or you always were, but taking Iolanthe into dark places brought it to the fore.”
Dunmoore made a wry face.
“Thanks. I think. But if the Navy no longer suits me, or I no longer suit the Navy, something that has a greater chance of occurring, I’ll find a captain’s berth in a commercial ship. Or maybe even become a genuine privateer.”
“Call me up anyway. The Colonial Office has its own starships. Perhaps I can persuade my superiors to arm one of them and use it to solve the involuntary deportee problem in the Unclaimed Zone.”
— Fifty-Three —
“Thank you ever so kindly, Captain.” Aurelia Fennon accepted a glass half full of amber liquid and examined its color before inhaling the rich, alcoholic aroma. A happy smile softened her dour expression. “I’d recognize a twelve-year-old Glen Arcturus anywhere.” She raised it in salute, imitated by Dunmoore. “Your health. And once again, my most heartfelt thanks.”
“Your health.”
They took a sip of the smooth whiskey in silence, savoring the complex flavors, then Dunmoore put her glass down and sat. She examined Fennon now that Doc Polter had done his usual magic. The bruises would take a few days to fade, but already she seemed a different woman. Freshly washed and clad in black, navy-issue coveralls, Fennon was a far cry from the dusty, bedraggled slave worker who stepped out of Lieutenant Puro’s gunship a few hours earlier.
“Fine stuff this.” She set her glass on the desk as well. “Captain, my daughter’s been talking nonstop since we left your hangar deck and I caught some of what happened between the time she crawled out of the cubbyhole and today. But her tale has a lot of holes in it, holes I’m hoping you’ll be able to fill. For example, one of the passengers we were carrying seems to be missing. A Mostar Quantrill.”
“You visited them?”
“Not exactly. Chief Dwyn was kind enough to allay my fears about their welfare by letting me take a peek via video. They might be in your charge right now, but they contracted with me to carry them safely, and by the Almighty, I aim to do just that once you return Katie.”
“Ser Quantrill, unfortunately, took ill from something he caught in the prison where he and the others were kept. My surgeon tried his best, but in vain. He never discovered the origin of the disease, except that it was from an alien source.”
The lie came as naturally as any truth she’d ever spoken, and Dunmoore thought back to Forenza’s earlier comments about her having changed.
“So he’s dead?”
“Yes. We buried him in space.”
Fennon studied her through narrowed eyes in which disbelief warred with confusion.
“Shame. Lieutenant Polter struck me as a competent doctor, but I suppose even the best can lose a patient.” She picked up her glass and took another sip. “You made quite an impression on my daughter. Carrie swears by your forthrightness and integrity as a Navy officer. Did you know?”
“I’m flattered, but all I did was try to act in loco parentis and mentor her as much as possible.”
“And I’m grateful, though her idea of doing a tour of active duty as a Navy Reserve officer once she passes her boards isn’t filling me with joy. But she’s a Fennon, with a Fennon’s determination. May I ask who was holding my passengers and why?”
Dunmoore had expected a sharp turn back to questions about the abduction. She shrugged.
“Pirates associated with Enoc Tarrant, hoping to collect fat ransoms. Failing that, they no doubt intended to sell them on a slave market deep inside the Unclaimed Zone.”
“Did you find out why they separated those poor folks from my crew and me?”
“Sorry, no. Enoc Tarrant wasn’t inclined to talk beyond telling me where to find everyone.”
“Oh, aye? And how did you loosen the filthy bastard’s tongue?”
“I planted nuclear mines in Kilia’s crust.”
A bark of laughter erupted from Fennon senior’s throat.
“Serves the bastard right. So we’re left with a mystery. Someone pirates my ship, leaves it drifting empty, takes my passengers to one place, my crew to another, and no one knows why.”
“That’s about the size of it, Captain.”
“In other words, don’t pry, Fennon. Thank the Almighty everyone except poor Ser Quantrill is alive and carry on quietly once the Navy returns Katie. Is that it?”
Dunmoore took a sip of whiskey and smiled.
“Pretty much.”
“Navy secrets? Well, no one said old Aurelia can’t take a hint, not when her only daughter has a bad case of hero worship for the woman who rescued everyone. But answer me this if you would. Why did you decide to recover a few dozen insignificant civilians traveling a dangerous route along the wild frontier where folks take their chances and tough luck if things go sideways? Isn’t there a war for you to fight against the damned boneheads, especially with a ship of this size?”
“If our job isn’t to save human lives, then what is it, Captain?” Dunmoore asked in a soft voice. “We rarely get the chance to turn tables on pirates and put things right again. I could have returned to my patrol route after salvaging Kattegat Maru and justified it by arguing that the needs of the many I might save raiding Shrehari shipping outweigh the needs of a few dozens I might actually rescue in a war which has already cost millions of lives. Yet I know I can’t save millions. Perhaps not even thousands. But I’ve come to realize the small victories, the handful of lives spared each time, they add up.”
Fennon, studying Dunmoore over the rim of her almost empty whiskey glass didn’t immediately reply. Then, she said, “Perhaps it’s best I stop looking a gift horse in the mouth, lest I become a facsimile of the animal’s aft end. Please accept my everlasting gratitude for saving my daughter, my ship, my crew, and my life. There’s no profit, let alone honor in questioning your motives. Carrie is a good judge of character, like most Fennon women, and the Almighty save me if I impugn your integrity in her presence.”
**
“How did Captain Fennon take it?” Holt asked after pouring himself a cup of coffee from
the day cabin’s urn.
“I don’t think she believed the cover story, but appeared willing to go with it, especially if it helps get her ship back without delay. And apparently, young Carrie looks up to me.”
The first officer chuckled.
“Young Carrie has a serious case of hero worship where you’re concerned, Skipper, and everyone in Iolanthe has known for weeks. Except you, it seems. Speak with Emma when she’s back aboard and ask her about her conversations with the girl when they were standing watch together.”
“I’m almost afraid to.”
This time Holt laughed outright.
“And so you should.” He sobered and asked, “Are we making a dogleg for Kilia, to give Enoc Tarrant our love on the way home?”
“I wish, but no. It’s best course for the nearest starbase so we can restore Kattegat Maru to her crew safely and set Skelly Kursu’s mob loose. Then we need to make for the Task Force Luckner rendezvous. We’re no doubt late enough to attract Rear Admiral Petras’ well-justified ire.”
“So you won’t tell him about the illegal deportee scheme?”
“No. The ramifications are well beyond my pay grade. Admiral Nagira can decide what to do with that information. Petras will hear about our rescuing Fennon, her crew, and her passengers. No more. If it displeases Petras that I ignored his orders for the sake of seventy civilians, too bad. The worst he can do is enter a reprimand in my record. Relieving me of command is beyond his pay grade.”
“Please don’t take that attitude when you report to him,” Holt said in a wry tone. “He might just decide you need a few weeks slaving away under his steely gaze as the task force flag captain, and then where will Iolanthe be? Stuck with Lena Corto as temporary commanding officer? Don’t do this to me. To us.”
“I promise I’ll be the meekest and most repentant captain in the Fleet.”
A snort.
“That’ll be the day. Your loyal crew will be grateful if you merely succeed in not annoying him overmuch.”
— Fifty-Four —
Siobhan Dunmoore, in naval uniform, met Captain Aurelia Fennon and her daughter, both properly dressed as Guild-accredited ship’s officers, outside the starbase commander’s office. The latter, an Academy classmate of Dunmoore’s, graciously expedited Kattegat Maru’s return to civilian ownership and service. He’d also arranged for the release of Skelly Kursu and her mercenary crew without prejudice on the neighboring civilian orbital station, thereby fulfilling Dunmoore’s promise.
Both Katie and Iolanthe, the latter in her battlecruiser incarnation, were docked with the spindle-shaped orbital station and while Dunmoore saw to Fennon and company, Holt was busy replenishing their stores and more importantly, the ship’s missile stocks.
But now that the formalities were over and her storage compartments full, Iolanthe could no longer tarry. A message barely short of nasty from Rear Admiral Petras was waiting for Dunmoore when she arrived. It summoned her to join Task Force Luckner at the prearranged rendezvous forthwith and explain her absence.
“All done?” Siobhan asked.
Aurelia Fennon nodded once.
“Done. We’re free to go with the Fleet’s compliments. You heard most of my passengers elected to find berths in other ships?”
“I did.”
“Can’t say I blame them, not after what they’ve been through, although once you told them you were undercover Navy rather than a privateer, the loudest complainers calmed down right smartly. But Katie needs to earn a living. I’ll be leaving for the commercial station within the hour so we can find more cargo and fresh passengers. Nothing that’ll take me into the Unclaimed Zone, mind you. At least not for a while even if it means fewer profits. Your lot might guarantee we’re registered as being among the living, at least where Lloyds, the Guild, and the Commonwealth government are concerned. But that doesn’t mean Enoc Tarrant won’t be looking for revenge.”
“A wise precaution.” They fell into step, side by side, headed for the docking rings. “I know taking on passengers rounds out your income, but you might also consider sticking purely with cargo for a while, in case someone sneaks an infiltrator aboard.”
“I don’t know... Folks wanting to travel with no questions asked, and no identities checked pay handsomely. Especially in the frontier sectors. And we can always use the extra profits, but I’ll think about it.”
“For Carrie’s sake?”
Fennon glanced at the young woman.
“Aye. And I’ll even think twice about taking on well-paying cargo that comes with a no questions asked clause.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s me who thanks you, Captain.” Fennon sighed. “Don’t worry. I damn well know you won’t be around to rescue us a second time if I unwittingly find myself at cross-purposes with one of Enoc’s business acquaintances. Besides,” she jerked her thumb at her daughter, “this one here will remind me every time I bid for a contract or think of taking on a paying guest.”
They stopped at the lifts. Iolanthe, thanks to her size, was docked on one of the lower arms while Kattegat Maru rode higher up.
Dunmoore stuck out her hand.
“Fair winds and following seas, Captain Fennon. Take care of your daughter. She’ll make a fine officer.”
“I will. Good hunting, Captain Dunmoore.”
Siobhan turned to Carrie.
“Promise me you’ll study hard, stand those boring night watches in deep space, and pass your boards on the first try. If you apply for a tour of active duty as a naval reserve officer, send me a message through any Navy subspace node, and I’ll put in a good word with the selection committee.”
When she saw Fennon senior frown, Dunmoore added, “I believe it’s not unheard of for family-owned merchant ships such as yours to place freshly minted officers in other vessels so they may gain valuable experience. Three years as a junior watchkeeper in the naval reserve, serving on a Fleet transport or replenishment ship will certainly do that, and better than in any of the larger shipping companies.”
“I’ll consider it. If Carrie passes her boards on the first try. C’mon, youngling. Let’s put Katie back into service.”
But before the two Fennons could step into the lift cab, Carrie impulsively flung her arms around Dunmoore’s neck and squeezed.
“Thank you for everything.” She released her, stepped back, then came to attention and saluted. “Goodbye, sir. Fair winds to you and yours.”
As the lift doors closed on them, Dunmoore realized she’d grown fonder of Carrie than she was willing to admit. The younger woman seemed almost like the kid sister Siobhan never had, and she wondered whether their paths would ever cross again. Just then, Ezekiel Holt came around the corner at a fast clip and skidded to a halt beside her.
“I gather you saw the Fennons off, Skipper?”
“Yes. How did you know?”
“I see that look on your face.”
She eyed her first officer with suspicion.
“Which one?”
“The wistful ‘I wonder if we’ll we ever meet again’ look.”
“Hilarious.” She jabbed the lift controls with her knuckles in a brusque gesture. “Is Iolanthe ready to sail?”
“The moment you and I are aboard. I just came from the harbormaster’s office. He agreed to send Admiral Petras a subspace message advising him we’re on our way.”
“We could have done that ourselves.”
The lift doors opened.
“Sure, but this proves we actually docked at the starbase to complete our rescue mission. It might make Petras less inclined to tear a strip off you.”
“Now who’s being sneaky?”
Holt grinned at her. “Merely taking care of my captain, so she stays my captain for a long time to come. I don’t enjoy the idea of breaking in a new skipper, especially if it’s someone named Lena Corto.”
“What about Forenza?”
“Happily ensconced in VIP quarters and waiting for the next aviso, thanks to t
he good word you put in the commanding officer’s ear.”
“Excellent. I don’t think him traveling on a regular liner would be safe right now. Not when the SSB is still on the hunt for Colonial Office agents interfering with the involuntary deportation scheme.”
“That means we can join Task Force Luckner with a clear conscience. Since Astrid already plotted the fastest route to the rendezvous, all you need to do is give the word.”
“It is given.”
— Fifty-Five —
“Enter.” Commander Gregor Pushkin, captain of the Voivode class frigate Jan Sobieski, paused the daily stores report and glanced up as his first officer, Lieutenant Commander Trevane Devall, came into the day cabin. When Pushkin saw the unusually broad grin on Devall’s face, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.
“What’s up?”
“Task Force Luckner’s laggard just dropped out of FTL.”
“That quasi-mythical Q-ship? The sole reason for Luckner’s existence?”
“Aye, though she’s identifying herself as the battlecruiser Iolanthe right now.” The grin widened until it almost threatened to swallow his aristocratic face. “Captain Siobhan Dunmoore, commanding.”
“What?”
Pushkin half rose from his seat, incredulity quickly giving way to a smile of pure pleasure.
“Desk job indeed. It figures Admiral Nagira gave her the newest Q-ship in the Fleet.”
“Should I set up a tight-beam link so you can chat before she makes her manners with the flag?”
“Yes, please.”
Devall touched his communicator and said, “Put it through,” confirming Pushkin’s suspicion his first officer prepared things before telling him of their former captain’s unexpected arrival.
