War Without Honor

by J. R. Geoghan

  “Should I get everybody up? They’re sick of space travel.”

  Tomalloran’s translator struggled with the ancient language for a quick moment, but Djembe finally shook his head. “Are they sleeping? Who is sick?”

  The Captain stared at him for a second. “No one is sleeping right now, I guarantee you. We have some injuries but the corpsman has done what he could.”

  “What is a corpseman? I thought a corpse is a dead body.”

  Tomalloran sighed. “Never mind. I’ll explain later—if we have time. Thanks again for the medical supplies. You certainly impressed our, er, medical man.”

  These Earthers were certainly odd. But it was time to concentrate. “Dock approaching,” he announced. He reached over and powered up the auto-dock programming—something he always kept turned off as he never allowed unnecessary emissions from his ship’s systems. The ship interfaced with the docking ring and began adjusting the thrusters to align itself correctly.

  Even though the programming was more than capable for carrying out this basic spaceflight task, Djembe watched anyway, one hand near the override control, until the final light thump announced a contact. The panel indicator flipped color. “We have seal.”

  “Is there a welcoming party?” Halloran was climbing out of the copilot’s seat.

  Djembe turned on the interface to the dock’s camera. It was an accepted principle, enshrined in virtual handshakes between programming, that arriving ships should have the option to view the immediate dock area to prepare for waiting guests or reception parties—of either the good or bad variety. He carefully scrutinized the resulting video feed of the dock.

  On the screen several uniformed people were straightening up and adjusting their jackets nearby. Two male officers. Another one who had the look of security. No long guns, but sidearms would be expected. “They are awaiting us with lightly-armed officers and security personnel.” He climbed out of his seat. “Nothing you can’t handle with your charming personality, I’m sure.” He was being sarcastic but honest at the same time. This man had impacted him somehow…

  “One more question, Djembe. Any sign of other vessels we should be thinking about?”

  Djembe leaned over his seat and tapped the scanner control to awaken it. The sweep took moments and the readout lit up. “Several small shuttle-class vessels in free space, most likely either arriving from or leaving to Pluto—not much range there. There is one indicated inbound Coloran flight due to arrive within a few minutes.” He glanced up a Tomalloran. “That will be a jump drive passenger ship, much bigger than Imani. No weapons, just people and some amount of cargo.” He looked back at the display. “Two other vessels about the same size as Imani are docked, not nearby to our dock. Probably civilian system vessels.”

  “When does the, um, interstellar flight, leave next?” Halloran was frowning at something. Djembe glanced in that direction but saw nothing in the cockpit worth frowning over.

  He shrugged. “They usually relaunch right away—board the passengers and fresh crew, swap out any cargo. The ship itself doesn’t need anything except unscheduled maintenance that might have popped up during the last run.” He smiled in a way that didn’t reach his ears. “Yes, that was my life for years. Time is money.”

  Halloran caught his smile and returned it warmly. He stuck out his hand. “Djembe, thank you for everything, on behalf of my crew. And me. I owe you a debt,” his smile spread into a grin, “Beyond the money.”

  Djembe felt his dark cheeks warming as he grasped the man’s hand, and marveled at it. “Perhaps some day you can be my copilot again.” And oddly, he found himself meaning it.

  The gate inside the docking hatch swooshed back in front of them—unlocked, Djembe noticed. He led Tomalloran and the two other men who said they were officers out onto the concourse and looked both ways out of habit. With the exception of the three awaiting them, the entire length of the way was empty with lights turned down in the distance. Either they were isolating his arrival or this wing of docks was one of the unused ones.

  Immediately a leader of the three in uniform approached them, keeping his arms at his sides. No weapons, but no gestures of welcome either. He looked at the four of them. “Who is the pilot of this vessel?”

  Djembe stepped forward. “I am. These people,” he waved at Tomalloran’s men, “are seeking to communicate with Mars Command at the soonest availability. I am delivering them to you.”

  The man passed his eyes over Tomalloran and his uniform. After a moment he said, “Are you a member of the Fleet?” He sounded dubious.

  Tomalloran replied, “I am—was—a Captain in an old Earth navy. I have survivors from my crew with me, who are in need of medical attention. I must speak to the commander who assisted us to escape from Earth.”

  The man put his hands on his hips, the security uniform wrinkling somewhat. “So this flight originated from Earth.” He turned to his companion. “Smuggler.” He gestured the third man, who was security. “Take them into custody. You,” he motioned to Djembe, “come with me.”

  This was all going well so far. Djembe had told Deacon to hang back with the Praxxan. Once Tomalloran and his crew were out of the way…

  “Hold on, we’ve got a defector on board.” Tomalloran had raised a hand.

  The man frowned. “What sort of defector?” He focused more closely on Tomalloran. “Are you wearing a translator? Why can’t you speak Standard?”

  Djembe got between the two. “If I may…these green-uniformed humans are in need of proper rest and attention before they should be interrogated. Can you escort them to some sort of reasonable quarters?” He leaned in to the man, who was a bit shorter than him. “You and I should discuss the defector in private, as soon as possible.”

  The man nodded slowly, trying to think through Djembe’s words. He brushed the pilot aside and gestured to Tomalloran. “Come, I am Marra, one of Charon Station personnel. Let Krios here escort you and your…companions…to suitable quarters for a rest period.”

  Tomalloran seemed to hesitate, glancing between Marra and Djembe. “Okay…”

  Marra continued, unfazed. “Excellent then. Krios, you may collect the, er, guests and escort them to B level.”

  Krios stepped up and placed a hand on Tomalloran’s arm, causing Djembe to wince. But the tall man ignored the hand and half-turned to the officers with him. “It seems we must play by their rules, gentlemen. Call out the crew.” He finally looked down at the hand on his sleeve and gently detached himself, his dark eyes narrowing. Djembe stood back as he watched the group of men and woman trudge out onto the concourse and clump together, pointing and whispering amongst themselves.

  The third man from the station was not talkative. He had a handgun in his hand, cradling it in a way that projected peace yet vigilance. “Come with us,” he said firmly to Tomalloran.

  The other took several steps before noticing Djembe again. “You’re not coming?”

  The pilot noticed the sudden apprehension in the taller man’s features. “I am accompanying you, yes. But I must attend to the Imani first. The dockmaster will assist me.” The lie felt almost real.

  The security man stopped and glared. “Your people come.”

  With a frown in Djembe’s direction, Tomalloran gave up and waved to his companions. “Let’s go. Hopefully they have coffee wherever they’re taking us.”

  The group passed, with the one dark-complexioned junior officer named Reyes pausing to give Djembe an appraising stare before keeping with the others. Krios took up station following after the last blue uniform headed off after his group.

  Marra was standing to one side, watching the procession go. He turned to Djembe. “Now, about your other passenger…”

  “Deacon! Bring him out.”

  They both waited until the boy led the Prax out onto the concourse. The moment Marra caught sight of the huge red alien, he let out a short hiss.

  “A Prax! Here on Charon.” A handgun that had been tucked away suddenly
presented itself in his hand and he leveled it at the Prax. “Stay right there.” He glanced nervously at Djembe. “What’s the meaning of this?”

  Deacon stepped forward, between the Prax and the weapon. “The Prax is named Axxa and he must be allowed to speak with Mars Command immediately.”

  Marra looked at him with open suspicion. “And you are?”

  “I am the one who convinced him to defect.”

  Marra guffawed.

  Djembe decided to move things along. “He is telling the truth as I understand it. He approached me about hiring my ship to fly them out of Rat City.”

  Marra’s eyebrows went up.

  Djembe sighed—this Marra wasn’t the one he should be talking to. “Can you take us to your commander? Now?” He asked it with a hopeful smile on his face.

  Marra’s gun hand didn’t waver as he considered the request. Finally he tapped his forearm communicator. “Marra here. Is Trev in the post?”

  A woman’s voice answered. “Yes, he’s just arrived.”

  “Good. Please ask him to stay until I’ve arrived.”

  “I believe he is about to leave.”

  “Tell Trev to pull up the video from Level D and lift sixteen to see my group. Trust me, when he sees what I have he’ll want to wait for us.”

  Chapter 39

  Charon Station

  “Your Coloran flight is scheduled to depart at Eighteen Thirty. Please make your way to the boarding gate. Thank you.”

  Kendra was already closing up her bag. “Yes, thank you,” she replied to the monotone female voice emanating from speakers somewhere in the sleeping compartment.

  “Your Coloran flight is scheduled to depart at Eighteen Thirty. Please make your way—”

  “I said thank you. Cancel notification.” She didn’t like the way her voice went tight at such a minor annoyance. Clearly Charon Station had some older electronics and sensors installed in these compartments—they were holdovers from the early days of the war, after all.

  With a sigh of resignation mixed with frustration, Kendra slung her bag over a shoulder and tugged on her uniform jacket to smooth any gray creases. “Mirror,” she called to the sensors.

  She half-turned in the reflection, making sure that everything was in order. She might be out to pasture, but she wasn’t going to let herself go all civilian and shabby. The officer in the mirror was well-proportioned, filling the uniform in all the right places to draw attention—sometimes unwanted attention. But such was the life of a female in the Fleet. On the other hand, the ribbons she didn’t wear every day but kept tucked away in a small box in her kit attracted a different type of attention. The kind she also shied away from but didn’t resent quite as much. They had been earned, not part of her anatomy. Even if she didn’t prefer to bask in her fame, she felt a quiet comfort in having realized some career success, some that even Kaela in all her beauty and power hadn’t attained.

  She strode to the door and waved it open, leaving the mirror view on. Let the room’s next occupant fret over their own reflection, Kendra thought. She was ready to move on.

  Two floors above, she exited the lift and looked around for Travers. The boarding area was half-full of travelers studying tablets or lounging with their eyes closed, ignoring the amazing view of the stars outside the wide clearsteel windows. Since the younger man wasn’t in evidence, she wandered over to the view and sat in a chair facing the blackness. The transport hung nearby, looking trim and ready to leap through space. The docking tube reached out forty meters or so to the airlock on the ship, looking very thin and unprotected.

  “Would you like something to drink, Captain Kendra?”

  Kendra looked up a flight attendant that had appeared above her, smiling patiently as she waited for her answer. “Coffee, please. Black.” The ancient stimulant was one of her favorites, even if the real thing was wasn’t so hard to get out here in space.

  “As you wish.” The attendant retreated and paused next to another traveler who had just sat down. Xilas the mining executive. Before he could catch her eye, Kendra turned back to the starscape. She suddenly felt old. All these younger men vying for her attention—it would only get worse on Coloran. She would be pressured to find a husband, no doubt by her mother first of all. But space was her mate.

  “Ugh,” was all she could think to mutter. She needed coffee.

  “Hi.” Xilas plopped down next to her, his smile as bright as his greeting.

  Kendra laid her head back on the rest. “Ugh.”

  An overhead announcer—that flat female voice again—began speaking to the room. “Coloran departure in…thirty minutes. Please prepare for boarding.”

  The security man paused in front of a doorway and indicated with a wave that the group should enter. “Here.”

  Halloran glanced in an saw that it seemed like a waiting room of some sort, with chairs arranged around it. He waited for the second man from the station to walk up. “I need my people taken care of, not locked in a cell…”

  The man raised a hand. “I understand. I have ordered medical personnel here to review the status of each one. They should arrive very soon.”

  “I also need to speak to the people called ‘Mars Command’ as soon as possible. I have critical information for them about the Prax.”

  The man nodded. “Come with me then.”

  Halloran hesitated, unwilling to leave the group. He waved Antonov over. “You and Reyes keep things together while I’m gone.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “To try to get us noticed by this Fleet of theirs.”

  “I can’t but help feel like we are extra baggage, being carried around the galaxy by others.” The Russian looked dejected suddenly.

  Halloran smacked the other’s upper arm. “One mission at a time, Captain.”

  Reyes had his hands on his hips, frowning from one captain to the other. “You officers. Always gettin’ sloppy-eyed emotional.” But Halloran caught his small grin.

  The man from the station interrupted. “We go now. Thank you.”

  “At least he’s polite,” Reyes noted.

  The armed security guard remained in place by the doorway as the crew settled into the room. Halloran looked him over one more time but the guy seemed like normal security types—bored yet vigilant.

  He nodded to Antonov. “Catch up with you later. Whatever happens, try to stay together.” Halloran started after the station man, who was already walking away.

  Several corners later the man stopped at a lift, which opened as they approached.

  “Convenient,” Halloran muttered.

  “Please.” The man gestured to the opening.

  The elevator rose through what seemed to be several stories. Halloran watched the symbols on the lit panel change but couldn’t make sense of the language. He remembered that the thing jammed in his head allowed him to understand a translation of the language and also allowed his English to be rendered in that language for others to comprehend. But, it was no good at helping him read it. Still, it was a minor miracle of tech that it even did what it did, in his estimation. When these people spoke he could hear the foreign language coming out of their mouths but the device simultaneously converted the words into English, somehow raising the “volume” within his auditory system such that the English translation was more clearly understood by his brain than the nonsense coming into his ear canals. Amazing. Only when someone yelled in that language did the audible portion intrude into the translation taking place in his head. Halloran wondered if he would ever get the chance to learn this new language. No, I would rather go home. But would it ever happen?

  The door opened and the man took Halloran’s elbow with one hand, gesturing with the other.

  A large control room was laid out before them, looking like something from NASA in Houston. But Halloran immediately noticed that most of the space was dimly-lit, the seats and stations unoccupied. Either the station was designed to handle more capacity or it was half-abandoned, Hal
loran figured. Several workers in gray uniforms glanced up at the sound of the door opening.

  The man turned them to the right and they walked down a short corridor, then into a doorway on the left.

  His guide stepped back. “Here he is,” he announced.

  A trim-looking, older man sat at an overly-large desk, ignoring his new arrivals. Finally, he paused in studying the tablet in his hands and looked up. “This has been a day of interesting guests on Charon. And you are?” The voice was gravelly.

  “Captain Thomas Halloran, United States Navy. Earth,” he added after a moment.

  The man set his tablet down. “Earth. You came on that ancient transport?”

  Halloran was pretty sure the man knew that to be true already. “Yes.”

  “Krios,” the man addressed Halloran’s companion, “does this man have others with him?”

  “Yes, Trev. Thirty similarly-dressed humans.”

  The man—Trev—winced at the ‘humans’ reference. “Yes, I am aware of the Praxxan among this party.” He returned his gaze to Halloran. “You travel in the company of an enemy. Your existence is unknown to any attempts to scan you for identity. You travel in a stolen military transport. What should I think from these facts?” He leaned back in his chair as he watched Halloran coolly.

  “Only that we’re not your typical Fleet crew and I need to tell someone at ‘Mars Command’ as soon as possible about it. I have information—.”

  Trev raised a hand. “Please, there will be no communication with Mars on this issue. I myself will investigate you and your fellow spies as well as your Praxxan leader, discovering what plans you have and why you have come to my station.”

  Halloran’s frustration and anger began to rise. “Look, we are humans in need of medical attention. Our ship was hijacked by these aliens on Earth and over half my crew were butchered. It’s a miracle that the rest of us even got away. Do you understand—”

  Trev slammed his hand on the desk, cutting Halloran off. He pushed back and stood behind the desk, leaning on it and moving his face close. “You do not speak to me in this way, on my station. We may not be Fleet but we are officials and there will be order!”