No Honor in Death (20 page)

As Drex marched off stiffly, Kery appeared, fussing about to ensure Dunmoore signed all the necessary forms making Zavaleta' sentence legal.  War had given a ship's captain greater powers, but it hadn't cut down on the mass of paperwork.  By the time she thumb-printed the last pad, she felt the niggling desire to share her annoyance with the rest of the crew.

Siobhan rose, poked her head through the hatch to the bridge and called out, "Officer of the watch, the fusion reactor has gone critical, shorting out the plasma conduits, the main gun capacitors and life support."

Kowalski, who had the watch, turned around to glance at the Captain, that damned ironic look pasted all over her fine-featured face.  She, like the other officers, were no longer surprised at Dunmoore's unannounced drills.  It was slowly becoming a kind of competition, with the Captain devising increasingly tougher situations, and the watch responding with equally increasing efficiency.  If Kowalski realized that Dunmoore was manipulating them into playing her game, she gave no sign.

"Aye, aye, sir."  The Signals Officer slapped the intercom on the chair's armrest.  "All hands, this is the bridge, the fusion plant has gone critical.  Damage control teams to engineering.  Report on status of plasma conduits and gun capacitors."  Kowalski looked back at Siobhan as the alarm sirens began to whoop loudly, and smiled.  Then, she turned to the intercom again.  "This is a drill, I repeat, this is a drill.  Do not prepare to jettison the fusion reactor."

Satisfied, Siobhan nodded and returned to the sanctity of her ready room, to chart the progress of the damage control teams on her master console.  The buggers were indeed getting somewhere fast with all the remedial training.  In the end, all this crew needed was a bit of attention, and a lot of hard work.

Siobhan Dunmoore was giving them that, in spades.

ELEVEN

"Yard Master Hralk is nothing but an excrement-sucking plaything of the spineless women who disgrace the robes of Imperial Admirals,"  Brakal snarled as he paced his small, dark cabin.  He slammed his massive fist into the palm of his other hand, the sound of mailed leather striking mailed leather loud in the confines of the room.  "How dare he delay the
Tol Vakash
's refit even longer?  Three weeks?  Unacceptable, Jhar!"

"Agreed, but you can do little," Jhar replied, eerily calm in the midst of his Commander's fury.  The First Officer was all too conscious of his role as sober second thought to Brakal's powerful personality.  He had to make sure the Clan Lord of the Makkar didn't let his ferocious disregard for danger take him into areas where even his finely-honed tactical mind became useless.  If Brakal vanished into the dungeons of the
Tai Kan
, how long before Sub-Commander Jhar and other low-born Warriors suffered the same fate.  "If Hralk wishes to place self-preservation first, and give the flagship a new coat of paint, then we have no choice."

"There are always choices, Jhar," Brakal bellowed, "only death removes all options, and I am alive.  Do not -" he pointed a gloved finger at his First Officer, "seek to placate me with your reassuring platitudes this time, miscreant.  I know only too well how you seek to manipulate me, but enough is enough.  The
Tol Vakash
is a warship, not an oversized yacht, and she is needed on the line.  Bugger the flagship and all those who fornicate aboard her."

Brakal stabbed the intercom unit on the small, obsidian desk.  "Have my shuttle ready to depart."

"
Kha
," the harsh voice of the duty officer replied.  "Your shuttle is at your command."

Brakal turned to Jhar and grinned cruelly.  "Yard Master Hralk will have an uninvited guest at his midday meal.  Maybe I will find out what happens to all the fresh rations we never receive. And maybe Hralk will find a way to refit the
Tol Vakash
much sooner.  It is all a question of motivation, eh, Jhar?"

"Tread carefully, Commander."

"I shall tread with as much caution as if I were a hunter entering a
kroorath
's lair,"  Brakal's grin widened, uncovering sharp, yellowing teeth.

"That is what I fear, Commander."  Had Jhar been human, he would have sighed in exasperation.  But being Shrehari, he simply growled.  "Just remember that Hralk is not a mighty
kroorath
but a cowardly, venomous
yatakan
.  Even if he is the whelp of a noble line."

Brakal laughed.  "You insult the
yatakan
by comparing them to that inflated piece of toad shit.  And anyway, the Gralik are not a noble line.  Hralk's ancestors sold their women as whores for low caste dung-collectors.  The shit still sticks to their heels."

Toralk flew his commander over to the massive orbital shipyard in silence, his wordless disapproval as clear as Jhar's openly voiced misgivings.  Brakal, much admired for his battle prowess and leadership, was a mere infant in the murky world of political favours and constant hypocrisy.  His brother Mharak had been trained for both war and politics, not the Commander, and Brakal's inclination to charge into touchy situations had more than once given his close friends and retainers concern for their collective survival.  That Brakal had survived so long was more a result of his popularity as a war hero than his standing as Clan Lord.

The loyal bodyguard and pilot did not deny Yard Master Hralk desperately needed a reminder that there was a war going on.  He, like the others on the
Tol Vakash
wanted nothing more than to return to fighting the humans.  But they wanted to do so under Brakal's orders.  And the Commander was about to charge into the slime of home world politics again.

The orbital shipyard hung before them like a fantastic construct from some ancient saga about a long lost civilisation. A spider web of box-like struts radiated from a thick central core, each construct big enough to hold a battleship.  Brakal snarled at the sight of an empty bay, vowing that it would soon house the
Tol Vakash
.

"Unidentified shuttle, you are not cleared to approach the shipyard.  Remove yourself from the security zone now, or face the consequences of your disobedience," a pompous, youthful voice ordered over the open frequency.

Toralk glanced questioningly at his Commander.  "Lord?"

"Stop calling me Lord," Brakal growled, "and open a visual link with that young puppy."

Moments later the dark, bony face of a pure-race Imperial officer appeared on screen.  A product of the hereditary warrior caste and the Imperial Academy, the young officer nevertheless managed to appear stylish and soft, like most aristocratic whelps these days.  He had probably never served a tour in the war zone, and if his sire's political connections held, would probably never do so and still enjoy the promotions
real
officers had to fight for.

"You will clear me for landing now, excrescence," Brakal replied, scowling, "or I will throttle you with your own intestines for your insolence."

The officer obviously recognized the legendary Brakal, for his face changed from its arrogant mien to the expression of a polished courtier who knew his social and military rank.

"Many pardons, Lord Commander, I did not know your illustrious presence was aboard that insignificant shuttle."

Toralk snorted.  The officer's statement was a bald-faced lie.  The shuttle's transponder functioned perfectly and identified the craft as Brakal's personal barge.  A flash of annoyance crossed the officer's face when he realized the snort had come from a lowly enlisted spacer, but he kept his oily, insincere mask of abject civility.  Brakal, however, was more vocal than his pilot.

"In that case, Lieutenant, I suggest you kill your sensor technician, or better yet, hand him over to the
Tai Kan
, for his inefficiency is a danger to the Emperor."

"Indeed, Lord.  I regret, however, that I cannot let you land without clearance from Commander Hralk."

"You
what
?"  Brakal snarled.  "How dare you forbid a Commander of the Deep Space Fleet from landing on an Imperial station.  Clear me now, turd."

The Lieutenant visibly blanched at Brakal's fury.  Fear of his own Yard Master warred with fear of the legendary Brakal.  In the end, he did what home world maggots did best: he equivocated, with a strong eye to running for shelter beneath his superior's skirts.

"I shall advise Commander Hralk of your request, sir.  In the meantime, may I offer you a landing berth on shuttle deck six?"

Brakal knew very well that deck six was the furthest from the yard's command centre, the tradesman's entrance, so to speak.  He stared at the Lieutenant.  "Shuttle deck one, insect, this instant, and I shall overlook your insubordinate behavior."

"Lord,"  the officer nodded, unable to find enough courage to stall the Commander any further, no matter what Hralk had ordered.  "You are cleared for shuttle deck one.  Please commence your approach."

Brakal did not reply for a few moments.  Then, he took pity on the Lieutenant, for in granting the Lord of the Makkar a priority berth, he had assured himself of the ire of Hralk.  In a low, dangerous voice, the Commander said, "Take some advice, young puppy.  Make the difference between a
kroorath
and a
yatakan
, and learn how to deal with each.  Otherwise, though you may stay far from the honorable lines of battle, you will just as surely die."

With a savage gesture, the Commander cut the link and sat back in his hard seat.  Toralk needed no instructions to start his approach, though his scowl remained as deep as ever.  The battle of wills between the impetuous Brakal and the politically wily Hralk had begun even before the two met face to face.  It was not a good omen.

Toralk's control of the shuttle contrasted sharply with the mood of his passenger.  His landing was so soft, the slight bump of struts meeting deck did not even register over the low hum of the thrusters.  Stretching his large, frame, Brakal climbed out of the small craft, nostrils filling with the scents of hot metal, ozone and harsh chemicals.

He nodded once at Toralk and strode across the wide shuttle bay towards the sentry post guarding access to the station proper.  At his approach the young spacer standing watch snapped to attention and saluted.

"Your business, Commander," he asked curtly.

"My business is with the Yard Master, the honorable Hralk."  The way Brakal said 'honorable' left no doubt of his low regard for the station commander.  The spacer stared at Brakal for a few heartbeats, then nodded, deciding it was better for his continuing health to let the visitor proceed without further stalling.

"As you wish,
Kha
.  Pass."

Brakal gave the sentry a toothy grin and unerringly headed down the maze of passages towards the station's command centre.  Yard workers and officers saluted him as he strode by, their looks either curious or knowing as they recognized the Imperial Fleet's most aggressive and successful captain.  When he entered the rarefied command levels, the decor changed from the austere, hard look common throughout the Fleet, to the kind of sickening luxury all too prevalent near the core of the Empire, where the war remained a distant business, one transacted by the uncouth, low-caste Shreharis who manned the Deep Space vessels.

In the plush antechamber to Hralk's office, a young female, dressed to provide more stimulation than a deprived front-line spacer could handle, rose from behind an ornate wood desk and bowed briefly, giving him an uncluttered view of her charms.

"I am Borunna, aide to the Yard Master.  How may I help the honorable Lord?" She eyed him warily.

Brakal considered her for a moment, surprised that Hralk was allowed a civilian secretary on a military station.  She was undeniably attractive, with a full head of deep red hair, slanted eyes and smooth skin, stretched tautly over the bony ridges of her face and shoulders.  Her words had an exotic accent, and that, along with her unusual appearance, marked her as a mixed-blood, a product of the mating between a Shrehari and one of the subject races.  An appealing combination in a private whore.  Hralk deprived himself of little, the fat pig.

"Tell the honorable Commander Hralk that Brakal wishes to speak with him now."

"I regret, but Commander Hralk is in conference, and cannot be disturbed.  Would you care to make an appointment?"

"I would care to see him now, Borunna."  Brakal snarled and closed the space to the door in two steps.  Just as he laid his hand on the door latch, he heard a rustling of silk behind him.

"Please, Commander,"  the secretary said, courtly regret filling her voice as she pointed a nasty blaster at him, "I have orders to preserve the honorable Hralk's privacy."

Brakal looked at her in astonishment for a few moments, then burst out laughing as he dropped his hand to his side.  Borunna, thinking the moment passed, dropped the aim of her blaster to the floor as she smiled back.  It was sufficient.  In a flash, Brakal seized the woman, smelling her delightful perfume, and wrenched the weapon out of her delicate hand.  He held her warm body for longer than necessary, feeling arousal course through him.  Then, the scourge of the Commonwealth Fleet released the half-caste secretary and gently pushed her into a waiting chair.  He pocketed the gun.

Still smiling, Brakal opened the door to Hralk's office and walked in.

Yard Master Hralk, mouth full of bloody meat, fingers shiny with the juices of his midday meal, looked up in anger at the intrusion.  The desk before him lay covered with silver dishes, each holding a delicacy whose aroma made Brakal's mouth water.

"Greetings, Hralk," he bellowed,  "Kind of you to invite me to this feast."

Hralk, mouth full, could not reply without losing face, though his expression darkened almost comically.  In three steps, Brakal reached the large desk and grabbed a handful of grapes. While Hralk convulsively swallowed his food, he popped the blue fruit into his mouth one by one, smiling at the fresh, tangy taste.

"We never get these delicacies out on the line, you know.  But I am pleased to see you eat well.  It aids the war effort immeasurably."

"Get out of here, Brakal," Hralk finally said, "or I will have my guards throw you out."

Brakal shook his head, grimacing.  "It saddens me to receive such a cold welcome from a fellow officer.  And here I thought you would invite me to partake in your meal, offer me your hospitality, as a visitor to your fief.  I suppose the exigencies of war take precedence over our revered traditions."

The words and tone remained light, but the import of their significance were not lost on Hralk.  Neither were the many meanings attached to them.  Had Hralk possessed more courage, he would have chosen to take Brakal's comments as an insult and demanded reparation.  But the plump, soft Yard Master, like so many of the home planet's nobility, feared the man who commanded such loyalty and respect among the Deep Space Fleet.  It was a feeling that humiliated Hralk and made him lose face in front of himself and his ancestors.

Brusquely, he gestured at the dishes.  "Eat then, Lord of the Makkar, and be damned."