War Without Honor

by J. R. Geoghan

Djembe pushed back from the controls and regarded Halloran coolly. “You are assuming that all the equipment functions properly, in almost perfect harmony. You don’t see the hundreds of hours I spend in this vessel repairing and correcting. In space, a human lives on the razor’s edge of existence. Explosive depressurization. Weapons damage, atmosphere venting.” He thumbed outside the viewscreen. “Out there we can live maybe two minutes before the oxygen is gone from our bodies. The water in your tissues starts to vaporize and swell up. Now, if you get back inside within fifteen seconds without a suit, you may live but you’ll have a severe gamma ray burn, probably scarring you for life.”

  Halloran had pulled back. “Okay.”

  “Oh, and when you die, your corpse won’t decay unless it’s trapped in a suit retaining some oxygen. Either way you’ll float—either mummified if you’re close to a star or frozen solid if you’re in the deep—forever.”

  “Okay.”

  But Djembe continued. “Don’t forget what happens to everything that’s not strapped down if we hit a solid object while in motion—even as slow as half speed. The ship stops and everything keeps moving like this.” He held up one hand like a wall and smacked the other fist into it. “Leaves a nasty blood smear.”

  “Makes exceeding crush depth seem tame by comparison.”

  Antonov nodded. “Did that once.”

  Halloran put a hand on the man’s shoulder. “Now that’s a story I want to hear—over a bourbon.”

  “Vodka.”

  “Deal.”

  The pilot was ignoring them now. “Decel burn complete, coming about on new heading. Charon Station has had us on their sensors for twenty minutes. I might was well head straight in rather than diverting to Pluto. Maybe the military signature of Imani will placate them somewhat.”

  “How long?” Halloran asked.

  “Ten minutes to spaceport.”

  “What about your ship?”

  “I have resources.

  Halloran left them and headed into the cargo bay. The crew were seated in their spots, watching him closely as he entered.

  “Good news,” Halloran announced. “We’re almost at a space station of some sort. A moon of Pluto, would you believe it?”

  He let that sink in a moment before continuing. “Okay, once we dock the priority is to get to the authorities and get the Praxxan here into their protection.” He motioned toward Axxa, who stood in the corner as he had done, withdrawn, for the journey. Halloran marveled at their ability to stand motionless for hours at a time.

  Reyes spoke up. “And the crew?”

  Halloran nodded. “We find ourselves a bar and settle in for the duration until they come to get us.”

  Several chuckles escaped at that.

  “Was a joke. Maybe not really,” Halloran grinned.

  “A beer does sound extremely good right now, sir,” called out Carruthers. “Think they have beer?”

  “We’ll have to find out. Everyone gather their gear and be ready to disembark at my command.” He walked over to Axxa and noticed that Deacon appeared from nowhere as he approached.

  “Axxa, this is where we part ways.” He looked Deacon over. “He’s all yours now. You up to this?”

  “I’ll get in contact with Mars Command. I have a code they’ll recognize.” The young man did look nervous, though.

  “You want company on this? I may want to speak to the same people, to arrange military passage to wherever we go next.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Deacon snapped. Then, “But if you want me to introduce you to them…”

  “Let’s see what happens. We have no idea what our welcome will be.” He looked up at the crew beyond them. “My first priority is to get these people to safety. Then, I go back for Skip Chandler and the others.”

  Deacon looked shocked. “Back to Earth? You can’t!”

  Several of the closer crew stopped what they were doing and glanced their way. Halloran leaned close to Deacon. “We shall see.” He let the young smuggler see the steel glint in his eyes.

  Axxa chuckled, a rare sound. “I will miss your company, Captain Halloran.”

  Both of them looked up at the hulking alien in surprise.

  Halloran extended a hand. Axxa looked at it warily.

  “You shake it…like this.” Halloran took the giant’s paw and placed in his palm, then gripped it and shook it as politely as possible.

  “It is a farewell gesture?”

  “Something like that. Call it mutual respect.” Halloran grinned at the Prax. “If I don’t see you after we get aboard the station, you take care. And watch out for your clever spy here.”

  Deacon bristled but Halloran had already turned back to his crew.

  “Unidentified military vessel approaching Charon Station, stand by where you are for instructions.”

  Halloran climbed into the cockpit. “What are they asking?”

  The pilot didn’t turn. “They are trying to keep us away until they can call up the Fleet, if they haven’t already, which I doubt.”

  “What do we do?”

  “We go in.” Djembe kept the Imani on a constant course and speed toward the moon, which now showed clearly in the viewscreen with the naked eye.

  Charon was roughly half the size of Pluto, which could also be seen glowing in the faint sunlight off in the distance. Charon itself was aglow with lights—there seemed to be dozens of major light sources dotting the gray globe. As it steadily grew in size, man-made features on the surface began to take shape; domes of various sizes interconnected by thick bands, all reflecting the artificial light streaming from thousands of portals and exterior fixtures.

  Antonov was leaning forward, taking it in as well. “Where is the spaceport?”

  “You’ll see,” Djembe answered. “The smaller ships—like Imani—come right down to the surface and find a dock to set up with. Bigger ones, like warships and cargo vessels, take up a shallow orbit for ease of shuttling to the station.”

  Halloran whistled. “How many people there?”

  “No idea. I was only here once, when I shipped out my first tour.”

  “You were a pilot?”

  Djembe, chuckled. “Not at first; I was a service tech for a fighter wing. Never did get to fly one myself.” He glanced at Halloran. “I ended up flying transports back and forth for the Fleet.”

  “To Ceti?”

  “To the system, yes. And everywhere else that the Grays wanted me to go.”

  Halloran remembered reading once about aliens that had supposedly visited Earth and were referred as “Grays.” He wondered if they really existed. They certainly weren’t in the human Fleet—or were they? “Any other, er, alien types in the Fleet?”

  The pilot gave him a look. “No, only humans.”

  “Just wondering.”

  “Unidentified military vessel approaching Charon Station, stand by where you are for instructions.” The woman on duty seemed somewhat more concerned about them than the last time she had called up.

  Djembe pushed a button. “Negative, Charon Station. We are a priority delta-six Fleet arrival. Will be setting up at the first available docking ring.” He closed the circuit.

  “What’s a ‘delta-six’ arrival?”

  “I think it was used for arriving dignitaries back when I was serving. No idea now.”

  “Delta-six, please use docking ring one-seven-one-four. See your vector attached to this message.”

  Djembe translated the coordinates into the ship’s navigation, then sighed loudly. “Four minutes to docking.”

  “What?” Halloran wondered about the sigh.

  The pilot hesitated. “Just hate being around uniforms.”

  “We’ve got uniforms on,” Antonov pointed out.

  “I know.”

  Rat City

  Skip Chandler groaned as he tried to roll to one side. The hunger gnawed at his belly as he tried to reposition himself to find some shred of physical comfort. His eyes, long-adjusted to the pitch-black of
their hiding place, felt raw and tearless…dry. His blinks did nothing to alleviate the dryness. He was dying of starvation and dehydration.

  Chief Scott Brown gently poked his arm. “Time to go out, sir.” The man’s voice was cracked, parched. Weak.

  Chandler was unable to see him, even though he was merely feet away. He shook his head anyway, even that small motion shooting pains up the back of his neck and into his temples. “You know, Chief. You know…what happened. Last time.”

  Days ago, Captain Chen had pried open the hatch and climbed out into the sun, desperate to find water and food. He hadn’t come back. When Seaman Petrosky had gone out to look for him, Chandler himself had seen the burly man incinerated by an invisible forcefield that enveloped him in a halo of light, then disassembling him into atoms within moments. The field ran right along the shattered hulk of the huge ship whose hull the remaining crew now huddled.

  “We’ve got to try, sir. Perhaps the field…doesn’t completely blanket the ship.”

  After they had found this “hiding place” and tumbled in through the rusted service hatch in the hull, they’d scouted the hold and found no ladders or access to any upper decks that might still exist. After the patrols faded away days later, the sound of the field descending over the ship had blown their eardrums. The high-pitched whine then fading into an ominous silence, leaving them stunned and fearful to step outside. With Chen and Petrosky gone, Chandler’s worst fears had come to pass.

  Brown sighed in the dark. “Wish we had a lamp.”

  Lieutenant Commander Singletary’s soft laugh echoed from somewhere across the dark emptiness. “Chief, you may not want to see what we all look like.”

  “Wonder how Skipper’s getting along with the rest of them,” Petty Officer Morales said.

  “Probably found a beach somewhere and is sipping Mai-Tais with Reyes and the gang,” Singletary remarked, followed by a bout of coughing. Chandler heard the rattle of death in it. “He’s most likely wondering what’s taking us so long to catch up.”

  No one had anything to say after that for a long time.

  A scraping sound came from the direction of Chief Brown. “Commander.”

  Chandler, lifted his head. “Yeah.”

  “The Admiral’s passed, sir.”

  “Alright, Chief. Thank you.” There didn’t seem like much to say.

  More shuffling, and Brown’s voice now came from what seemed directly above Chandler. “Sir, permission to go outside.”

  Chandler shook his head, knowing the man couldn’t see it anyway.

  “Sir, I know you’re probably shaking your head, but I’d rather die than waste away in here any longer.” Brown’s boots moved away from Chandler.

  The XO staggered to his feet, feeling the tightness in his muscles. “Chief.”

  The hatch groaned and squeaked as Brown pushed on it.

  “Chief! Don’t!” Chandler lurched after him, tripping on a hidden object and falling face first. “Ugh.” He felt around and got to his feet, chasing the Chief. “You hear me, Scott?”

  Brown’s voice came back to him. “Sir, I’m not doing that.”

  “What?” Chandler bumped into a rusty bulkhead and leaned against it.

  “Someone’s trying to get in.”

  A shaft of light suddenly pierced the darkness in the hold.

  Paralyzed, Chandler watched the sliver expand into a widened swath of brilliance. He realized that it was actually night air now cascading into their hiding place, not daylight shining in. His eyes simply couldn’t adjust even to that change.

  They were found out at last. The end of the line.

  A bubble of language erupted from the hatch and a form crept into the hold. Chandler felt a presence at his side and almost struck out at it.

  “Skip, it’s Terry,” whispered Singletary. “Let’s go out in a blaze…”

  Then, a bright light clicked on and they were exposed in it; the ten remaining human forms, standing and crumpled in near-death or death itself. Chandler’s eyes were completely blinded. The language burst out again, and he made to grab Singletary’s wrist and they would attack the light together. He crouched.

  The voice resolved into English. “Commander. Commander! Wake up!” The light pinned Chandler resolutely.

  He looked up, squinting. “How did I get on the floor? Who are you?”

  The light reversed to illuminate Captain Chen. With Terry standing next to him.

  “You passed out, Skip,” Terry said.

  “I find you. But not in time,” groaned Chen.

  Chandler remembered—Chen’s Admiral was dead.

  Singletary put an arm around the Chinese officer. “Where’ve you been?”

  Chen pivoted the light to show another form standing at his side. A young boy, who looked very familiar… “He see me and take me to his people. They come for us now.”

  Chandler remembered. “Boro. That’s the kid’s name.”

  Boro’s eyes lit up at the recognition. “My name,” he said in that odd language that Skip could understand through the miracle of the device jammed in the side of his head by Chief Reyes before they had split off from the rest.

  Chen nodded. “He did say that, yes. I see that his name is it.”

  “Help me up, Terry.”

  When Chandler was standing he took the light from Chen and played it over their hold. Rust-red metal was everywhere. “All personnel report to my position.”

  Groans and grunts were heard as Chandler shined the light on Boro and Chen. “So what happened?”

  “I was…creeping…is that the right word? Away from this ship when bright light came from the sky. I turned and saw your man die. I am sorry for that.”

  Singletary said, “Not your fault, Captain.”

  “I keep walking until I find people. They run—ran—away from me fast. I chased them but was too tired. I went to sleep. This boy wakes me up.”

  “Who’s coming for us now?”

  Chen shook his head. “The boy ran away, then came back and pointed in your direction. I…assumed…he knew about us. I bring him back, but he crawled through piles of metal and avoids something. Made…hand signals…say others come same way to us.”

  The boy began jumping up and down.

  “He seems excited,” Brown commented dryly from his spot near the edge of the light.

  Suddenly, lights—several of them—burst into the hold from the hatch. Several rough-looking humans entered, carrying weapons. As Chandler and the rest watched, one looked over the group without a word, then strode to Chandler and took him by the shoulders.

  “You are not from here.” He heard the man’s voice clearly, despite the garbled language his ears registered from the other’s mouth.

  “No,” he frowned at him, rubbing the base of his skull.

  “Come with us now if you want to live.”

  Chandler chuckled with the humor of it. “We’ve heard that before.”

  Singletary shrugged. “Does he have a burger? I’ll go anywhere with him for a burger.”

  “I’ll settle for water.” Chandler motioned to the man to lead them. “Everyone, follow us! Leave the Admiral—we can’t help him now.”

  Brown was by his side. “Sir, I sure hope the Skipper can get us out of here.”

  “We’re on our own…for now, Chief. Keep up with them, will you?”

  Chapter 38

  Charon Station was typically half-empty, the majority of the passageways and concourses dating back to the early days of the Praxxan War when the Fleet was marshaling thousands of workers back from Coloran and the colonies in between. Miles of tunnels and hundreds of living quarters went unused, which allowed some wiggle room for the less-honorable pursuits that had always plagued societies.

  While the station staff manned the sensors and monitored the docking ports—those that they could—with diligence, holes existed in the web of station security. But on this trip, Djembe felt that coming in legitimately to an authorized dock for a change made sen
se. His plan was to drop the odd-uniformed group off at the first security checkpoint he could and use the ensuing confusion of thirty new strangers without ID's in the system to rejoin Deacon and the Prax defector elsewhere. He wasn't concerned about what the Fleet ended up doing with the odd military people—it was only business, after all. He needed to be where the bargaining was going on.

  Djembe was concerned about the Tomallaron fellow, however. The self-identified Captain of the group was going to have to be dealt with. He wanted to be a part of the call to Mars Command and would no doubt monopolize the conversation. Djembe was worried that this man would so misdirect the Fleet bosses that he might not get the extra financial consideration that he was undoubtedly due for not only escaping Earth with the precious cargo, but taking the extra time and wear on the Imani to fly them to the edge of the system. After all, the Fleet itself had caused this inconvenience—indirectly—by placing a cruiser in their path to Vesta. The Imani…Djembe was extra worried that something might happen to his beloved ship in the next few hours. He determined that at the first opportunity he would divert her remotely to one of the off-grid airlocks on the station that he had used in the past. Or even a hole on the old Pluto docks.

  As the station grew to fill the forward viewscreen, Djembe became more and more uneasy. For a dozen years, this mode of approach—through the front door—had not been how he made his way in. He found himself fidgeting.

  "You okay?"

  He looked over at the tall, lanky Captain as he had a hundred times since they’d come aboard. As always, he carefully considered his reply and what should be held back.

  “Is this a reference to well-being? If so, then I will be well once I am paid.”

  Tomalloran nodded slowly. “If it’s within my power to help, I will. You’ve been more than fair to my men and me during this…this disaster.”

  Djembe looked away, once again struck by the odd and somewhat overpowering desire to like the man. This Captain had strong leadership ability. Also, he saw the barely-controlled anger beneath. Djembe’s mind flashed with faces of officers he’d served under, not many of the remembrances fond ones. He shook his head to clear it. They were almost to the dock indicated by the station control.