No Honor in Death (21 page)

Brakal smiled as he reached out for a leg of
geta
.   "Your generosity does you honor, Hralk."  He bit into the tender meat and growled.  "Most excellent.  I compliment you on your choice of cook.  Unfortunately, we see little
geta
on the fighting ships."  Brakal sat on a corner of the desk, his massive bulk dominating the sitting Yard Commander.  "You know, Hralk, I have always asked myself where those food requests we send go to.  It seems the choicest rations never quite make it to our tenders when we are out on patrol.  But as long as you eat well, I suppose..."  He shrugged dismissively.

Hralk growled at the naked insult, but as before, chose not to take offence.  "State your business," he said instead, "and be gone, before I inform the Admiralty of your uncouth behavior."

"I quite agree," Brakal replied, around a mouthful of meat, "the air on a warship is much healthier than the rich environment of the shipyards, or the Admiralty for that matter. Tell me, Hralk, are you invited to the Emperor's levee in three days?"

The question was another deliberate insult and Hralk, to his credit, did not answer.  Only Admirals and Clan Lords attend the child-Emperor's levees, occasions which Brakal tried to avoid like the plague when he was on Shrehari Prime.

Hralk, on the other hand, though a noble, was neither Clan Lord or Admiral, and was shut out of the highest social functions of the home world.  And as a second son, he would probably never attend a levee, unless his elder brother died, which remained unlikely as that worthy had decided to spend the war tending to the family estates.

"I apologize," Brakal continued, "I forgot your duties do not permit you to spend your time in frivolities.  I, however, must be there.  Not, as you may think, a pleasant way to spend one's time. But unavoidable, with the reception line and all.  Ah, the reception line,"  Brakal took an absent bite from the drumstick, looking at the ceiling, "where the Regent asks all those boring questions, such as how are you?  How is your ship?  When will you return to battle?  You do well to avoid the levees, my friend.  I, on the other hand, will have to tell the Regent that my ship is still awaiting repairs, that I cannot serve my Emperor by killing humans for many weeks yet.  Quite embarrassing, you know.  Then, the Regent will probably also ask why my ship awaits repairs for so long, when there is an empty bay in the orbital shipyards."

Brakal glanced at Hralk out of the corner of his eyes as he kept on eating.  He saw many thoughts flash across the fat officer's eyes, and was amused by the struggle between belief and disbelief in his face.  For one living so close to the intrigues of the home world, Hralk was surprisingly transparent.  But maybe that is what commends him to Trage and his cronies, for the post of Yard Master was an important one.

"I wonder," Brakal continued, fighting to keep amusement from his heavy-browed features. "Will Admiral Trage tell the Regent that the empty bay is for the flagship, which desperately needs a new coat of paint, or will he tell her that he knows not why it is empty while a famous warship awaits repairs?  It could make for an interesting evening.  Are you a gambler, Hralk?"

"Damn you to hell, Brakal, you and your low-caste ways."  The Yard Master's snarl was subdued as he swivelled his chair to look out at space through the porthole behind the desk.

"Low-caste ways, honorable Hralk?"  Brakal asked, his words underscored by a subtle tone of menace.

Only too late did the Yard Master realize the magnitude of the insult he had given the most redoubtable fighter in the Fleet.  A man who held his honor above all else.

Turning around in sudden fear, Hralk hastily said, "I apologize for those words, Lord of the Makkar.  They were unworthy of you, me and the Empire we serve as Warriors.  The pressures of work, you know."  When Brakal chose not to reply, picking instead a ripe fruit from one of the silver plates and biting into it with a loud crunch, Hralk turned towards his computer console.  He hemmed and hawed for a few moments.

"Ah, I have good news, Commander.  By re-arranging the schedule slightly, your ship can take the empty bay now, and the flagship will not be much delayed."

"Good news indeed, noble Hralk,"  Brakal's smile was chilling, as if to hammer home how close the Yard Master had come to a challenge of honor.  "When can I dock my ship?"

"As soon as you wish."

"If you will give your people the order to receive her, I will call the
Tol Vakash
now and have her dock within the hour."

Hralk nodded curtly, his ill manners returning now that the crux of peril had passed.  He gave his orders and Brakal, to Jhar's astonishment, called the ship directly and gave the word to dock. It had been so easy, Brakal wondered why he had not done it earlier, when Jhar had first announced there would be a delay.  If this was an example of what passed for backroom dealing and intrigue on the home world, then he had nothing to fear.  These soft turds were no match for Brakal's wits.

He stood and grinned at Hralk.  "With my thanks, Yard Master.  I shall now leave you to your meal."

Hralk grunted and waved him away, morose at losing this contest of wills.  Outside, Brakal tossed the blaster back at Borunna and gave her his best leer.  Then, he headed for the shuttle deck's observation platform, to see the
Tol Vakash
dock.  Word had already passed through the shipyard like wildfire, and Toralk looked at his Lord with deep suspicion as the big officer stood by the large windows, an expression of satisfaction softening his harsh features.

"Success, Lord?"

"As you can see, Toralk,"  Brakal waved expansively at the sight of the big, gull-winged cruiser slowly sailing into the empty docking bay under Jhar's deft control.  "One has but to know which buttons to push.  Hralk was very cooperative."

Toralk grunted, wondering what new troubles his impulsive Commander had called down on them all.  Had he but known, his worries would have increased a hundred-fold, for Brakal had been all bluff, as Hralk would eventually find out, once the
Tol Vakash
was safely docked and undergoing the needed repairs.

There was no levee in three days, and even if there had been, Brakal would not have attended.  No one, least of all the Regent would have noticed the absence.  She was under the Council's soft thumb, some said in Trage's soft bed.  And even if Brakal had attended, his words to the usually half-drunk dowager Empress in a reception line would have been so much water flowing over worn stones.  But as he had gambled, Hralk knew none of these things, being a younger son and shut-out from the highest levels of the capital's social morass.

Thinking back at the ease with which he had frightened Hralk out of his vindictive little game, Brakal laughed softly.  Toralk, who knew his Commander and liege Lord's moods well, felt his worry increase.  But he could not deny that whatever Brakal had done, it worked.  Soon, the
Tol Vakash
would return to the war, where only military skill counted, and the long arm of the
Tai Kan
remained feeble and ineffective.

Later that day, Brakal recounted to Jhar his conversation with Hralk, mirth shaking his great frame.  Even the First Officer had to admit his Commander possessed more skill in dealing with scum than he previously believed.  Yet his worrying nature would not find as much pleasure in the outcome.

"Commander,"  Jhar said, shaking his head, "you have made a very dangerous enemy.  Hralk has lost face in such a way as to bear eternal grudge.  He will attempt revenge, now or later and he has too many friends to remain harmless."

Brakal snorted in derision.  "Hralk is a spineless woman, from a family of shit-eating whores.  He would never dare move against the Clan Lord of the Makkar.  We are one of the oldest families in the Empire, and that still counts for something these days."

"Just take care, Commander.  Remember that the
yatakan
can be as deadly as the
kroorath
."

Brakal grunted, remembering his words to the young duty officer.  "No matter, Jhar.  Let us get this ship ready and return to where there still is honor to be found, and may the seven
irathis
take Hralk and his ilk down to their fires of torment."

Jhar's words proved to be prophetic in a way Brakal had never imagined.  Three days later, Admiral Trage summoned him planet side.  The old commander-in-chief of the Imperial Fleet received him in the privacy of a disgustingly luxurious office suite, a mask of barely suppressed hatred distorting his dessicated features.  He did not invite Brakal to sit, nor did he offer refreshments.  Brakal took this insulting treatment in stride, keeping a sardonic expression on his dark lips as he stood stiffly in front of the platinum-trimmed desk, wondering how many vital ship systems could be built with the precious metal thus wasted on furniture.

"Brakal," the Admiral rumbled, "the Council warned you to hear and obey, and cease doing things according to your whims.  It appears that warning had no effect.  The orderly running of the Imperial Fleet cannot account for ship commanders, no matter how noble, disrupting tight schedules and long-laid plans.  I tell you now, for the last time, obey your betters or suffer the consequences.  Your rank does give you leave to disregard orders as you please, and will not protect you from punishment."

Brakal smiled, knowing full well that Trage could not tear into him for his actions at the shipyard.  Hralk's obstructionism was just as indefensible, and would create a strong wave of discontent among the Warriors-by-elevation who followed Brakal, if the Commander decided to spread the word that home world scum played petty games with those who fought and died for the honor of the Empire.  Trage knew this also.

"You are amused, Commander Brakal?" The Admiral asked sharply, a hint of menace in his matter-of-fact tone.

"I was merely thinking, Lord Admiral, that rotating senior officers to and from the war zone would avoid any future misunderstandings.  Those who have experienced the exhilaration and fear of battle can make better decisions about the use of our Empire's resources in this struggle."

Trage stiffened, as if slapped.  The insult was veiled, but clear nonetheless.  Most of the high command had never served in battle, and neither had their bum-lickers here on the home world. That the Admiralty remained blind to the deepening divisions between the Deep Space Fleet and the rear-echelon fornicators bode ill for the future of the war, as the minor dispute between Brakal and Hralk had shown.

"You walk dangerously, Brakal," Trage warned.  "I shall not waste breath warning you again.  Take your ship back to the line, and be careful.  Clan Lords, even of the revered Makkar, are not immune to the displeasure of the Emperor."  Or the Council, Brakal silently completed the threat, since the child-Emperor and his Regent acted as the Council ordered.  His father had already found out it was not an empty threat, though proof of Trage's involvement had never surfaced.

"You are dismissed, Commander."  Trage turned his attention to the stack of printouts on the desk.

Brakal saluted and turned on his heels, wondering about the Admiral's real intentions, and what he had hoped to gain by this interview.  That Hralk had complained, he did not doubt. The Yard Master could hardly confront Brakal in person.  It would be an open acknowledgement of his loss of face, and could only, had Hralk been a man of courage and honor, end with a challenge.  Instead, the fat turd had whined to Trage, and the demons knew which other powerful men in the capital, not realizing that his loss of face was thereby compounded.  Even worse, Trage's mention of the incident showed the Admiral had as little appreciation of a Warrior's honor as Hralk.  But the powerful on Shrehari Prime were honorless turds from upstart Clans with no history.  To them, it did not matter.

What did matter was Trage's warning.  It lacked the subtlety of previous threats and Brakal realized that his position had shifted once again in the unending swamp of Shrehari politics, and not for the best.

The Commander passed the sentry box outside the High Command palace, absently returning the salutes of the soldiers, and let his feet take him towards the lower town, his preferred shortcut to the spaceport.

If, he wondered, the poisonous toads cared so little about face, how much did they care about the feelings of the new Warriors?  All those officers who had made loyalty to the Empire as much of a virtue as their contempt for the spineless Council members, represented a potent force, one which could bring about the collapse of the current power structure.  All they needed was a leader and an excuse to rise and name a military dictator, a
Kho'sahra
who would clean out the filth of home world politics.

For the first time, it occurred to Brakal that maybe Trage and his cronies did realize this, and saw him as the greatest danger, as the one man who could unite the Deep Space Fleet and topple the Council.  The man who would be
Kho'sahra
.

His victories, noble lineage and unimpeachable sense of honor made him justly famous, as did his open disdain for the weaklings in the Admiralty. He commanded the undying loyalty of his crew, and if rumours were true, that of many raised to the Warrior caste on merit throughout the Fleet.  Perhaps that is why the Council refused to let him fight in his successful manner, promote him to command a strike force, or give him the honors he had earned.