No honor in death, p.7
No Honor in Death, page 7
The day after Forenza had left Stingray, it seemed that half the crew, including officers, had asked to be posted to another ship. She glanced at the message again and for the first time noticed the signature at the bottom. Usually, she did not care much for navy bureaucrats, but this message made her curious. Siobhan's eyes briefly widened in surprise at the name.
“Ezekiel Holt,” she whispered. “What an interesting coincidence. I wonder...”
Her gloved hand shot out to stroke the com, and then it stopped in mid-air as doubts made her hesitate. Siobhan had not seen Ezekiel since shortly after wrecking Shenzen at Antae Carina. He had been her first officer on the corvette, an officer of great promise until her pigheaded recklessness deprived him of the chance for a career.
Apparently, the navy had decided they could overlook his horrible wounds and subsequent disability, at a time when they needed every decent officer who could think straight. And a cripple in a staff job would free up another officer fit for warship duty. At least, the navy had shown the decency to promote Ezekiel to lieutenant commander.
Shenzen's former first officer did not testify in person at Siobhan's court-martial. He had been too busy recuperating in a regen tank at the naval hospital on Wyvern. But he had given recorded testimony, and Siobhan had been surprised that Ezekiel had shown no bitterness or anger. He had supported every one of her decisions, but that had been in the weeks following the battle when even Siobhan had not been able to think straight. Two years living as a cripple, knowing that admiral's stars were forever beyond his reach, might have embittered him. Siobhan was sure she would have soured on the skipper whose impulsive behavior had ruined her.
Undecided, she turned to the next message: new orders from Battle Group. Siobhan cursed under her breath when she read them. Stingray had to sail in three days, cutting her refit time in half. No reason for the early departure was given, and the latest intelligence reports, which she digested on her way from 3rd Fleet Headquarters, did not hint at any change in the stalemate with the Imperial Navy.
Siobhan switched on the intercom. “Captain to first officer.”
After a few seconds, Pushkin's somber face filled the vidscreen.
“Aye, sir.”
“Bad news, Mister Pushkin. Battle Group HQ has ordered us to sail in seventy-two hours. Concentrate on getting the ship supplied and taking all necessary spare parts aboard. We'll complete only the most urgent repairs in the dock. The rest will have to wait until we're under way.”
It was evident from his expression that Pushkin did not like the change in plans any more than she did, and was biting back choice curses, but he nodded.
“Aye, aye, captain. The crew will have to work two watches out of every three, but we'll sail, even if the tugs have to take us all the way to the hyper limit.”
“Good. Captain, out.”
At least Pushkin seemed to be taking an interest in running the ship again, or more likely was focusing his frustration on his work. Either way, she preferred sullen action to sullen inaction.
Siobhan stared at the blank vidscreen for nearly a minute. The more she thought about the sudden change in orders, the more she wondered. Rear Admiral Kaleri knew about Stingray’s condition. Why give the frigate less than four days to get back into space? For a moment, Siobhan felt tempted to call Kaleri. Then, remembering Jadin's sneering manner, she had a better idea. And anyway, she had to know.
“Bridge, this is the captain. Get me a link to the Battle Group Personnel Officer.”
“Aye, aye, sir. One moment please.”
The screen blanked out, then, a few seconds later, it lit up again.
“Personnel, Holt.”
“Hello, Ezekiel. It's Siobhan Dunmoore.”
Ezekiel Holt had been one hell of a good-looking young man, once: clear blue eyes, short blond hair, and devil-may-care smile, a silver-tongued rogue if there ever was one. That was gone now. She had destroyed that handsome man. His left cheek bore a large red splotch, where super-hot lubricants had burned away the skin. A black patch covered his left eye, and those were only the injuries she could see. She knew he bore many more marks from her handling of Shenzen. Volatile, they called her, and it seemed only the people around her suffered for it, never Siobhan Dunmoore. At least not physically, though the memories still plagued her.
Siobhan had expected anger, bitterness or at least a cold reception. She was not prepared for Holt's reaction. His mangled face softened as pleasure lit up his single eye and he smiled with a warmth she had not felt in a long time.
“You're looking damned good, skipper. I'm glad to see you back on your own ship.”
Nonplussed, Siobhan searched his face for signs of sarcasm or mockery, but found only genuine delight at seeing her, as if the old friendship they enjoyed on Shenzen had never vanished. The way he called her skipper brought back fond memories of their time together and the less pleasant memories of the battle where she lost her second ship. It also brought unexpected moisture to her eyes.
“You-” she cleared her throat, “you're looking good too, Ezekiel.”
He grinned and pointed at the patch. “You like the pirate look, skipper?”
Siobhan smiled lamely. “Yeah. Must work wonders with the ladies.”
“You don't know the half of it.” Before Antae Carina, Holt's exploits on shore leave had been legendary. “Wounded war hero and all. And thanks to you, I can show off my Navy Cross too.” He pointed to a striped ribbon on top of all the other ribbons he wore on his tunic.
Siobhan blinked back her emotions. And thanks to me, she thought, you're not even going to be able to make a decent career out of that Navy Cross.
“I'm glad the navy decorated you. You deserved it.”
“Hey, so did you, Skipper. But I guess you didn't have a good boss to write up the commendation.”
Siobhan must have lost her iron control over her expression because suddenly Ezekiel screwed up his face and frowned.
“What's wrong?”
She shrugged. “Many things, Ezekiel. Too many.” Siobhan hesitated, unused to discussing her troubles with others. But this was Ezekiel. She owed him absolute honesty, and so much more. “To tell you the truth, I didn't know how you felt about me. I nearly didn't call.”
Holt sighed and shook his head in mock exasperation, a gesture he would often make to tease her when they were on Shenzen.
“You thought I blamed you? Damn, skipper, if I remember well, we were all behind you when you decided to disregard orders and go after that Imperial Task Force. There isn't an old crewmate alive who doesn't still think you took the right decision, and that the court-martial was a bloody joke. C'mon, smile a little, skipper. You're so much cuter when you show your pearly whites.”
His cajoling tone finally drew a small grin and Siobhan visibly relaxed.
“That's a lot better,” Ezekiel smiled broadly. “Hey, things have been good for me. I'm a general staff officer now, fully qualified thanks to a painful stint at the Naval War College. When this shindig is over, I'll be so bloody invaluable that the navy will keep me around until I keel over from old age. And seeing what commanding starships has done to you, maybe I'm better off playing puppet master behind an admiral's skirts.”
That last was not entirely accurate, and Siobhan knew it, but obviously Ezekiel was well on his way to convincing himself that it was what he wanted out of life. It hardly surprised her. Holt had always shown a more levelheaded attitude than she had. That was why they made such a good team on Shenzen. Her hotheaded drive and his ability to temper her worst excesses with cool, well thought-out advice.
“I'm glad for you, Ezekiel.” She smiled. “Even if you have joined the ranks of the real enemy.”
Holt laughed with delight. “Now that's the Siobhan Dunmoore I remember and love. And contrary to popular belief, the staff is on your side.”
Dunmoore snorted.
Ezekiel's single eye took on a sly cast. “Tell me, Skipper, since you thought I hated your guts, it had to be more than a desire for auld lang syne that made you give me a ring.”
Siobhan looked away, feeling cheap and transparent. “Guilty as charged.”
Holt laughed again. She had not changed much. Aged a little, but it only made her more handsome. “There are a lot of people out there who wish you'd say that to a general court-martial.”
Dunmoore grinned wryly. Trust Ezekiel to bring a smile on her face every time. He had not changed a bit over the years. If anything, his ordeal seemed to have given him a cheerier outlook on life, something Siobhan could not match.
“Don't worry, skipper,” he continued, pleased that he was still able to make her smile. “Since you didn't call when you got here, I figured you were still feeling guilty about my injuries, so I made sure I gave you a reason to ring me up me on official business. Otherwise, you'd have avoided me altogether.”
Siobhan shook her head. “You know me too well, Ezekiel.”
“Hey,” his voice lost its bantering tone, “you're like the older sister I never had. I missed you.”
Siobhan felt a surge of emotion rising once more and did not trust herself to reply. When Holt spoke again, his manner was all business.
“If you've got time, I suggest we meet face-to-face. How about lunch at the officers' mess?”
There was something in Ezekiel's tone and the look in his eye that urged her to accept. All of her earlier misgivings about Stingray came flooding back.
“Eight bells in the officers' mess then, Ezekiel.”
“Right, skipper. 'Till noon. Cheerio.” His smiling face vanished as he cut the link.
Siobhan remained lost in her thoughts for what seemed a long time.
*
“All hands, prepare for static reactor test in one minute.” The chief engineer’s voice echoed throughout the ship, repeating the message.
Exactly sixty seconds later, Siobhan felt a rise in the subliminal vibrations that pulsed through a living ship. But something was wrong. She could not put her finger on it, yet after years in space, she had developed a sensitivity to every nuance of a starship’s moods. As she was about to call engineering, all lights went out, the environmental systems stopped humming, and the computer screen turned blank. In the few heartbeats between a total system failure and backup power from the station kicking in, Stingray was dead.
Just like Shenzen immediately before she ordered her crew to abandon ship. She shivered at the memory. Too many memories this morning. Five years of war had scarred more than just her body. Slowly, Siobhan counted to twenty, curbing her own impatience, giving her chief engineer or first officer time to report. At the count of nineteen, the intercom screen blinked insistently.
“First officer to captain.”
Siobhan touched the darkened vidscreen. “Dunmoore.”
Pushkin’s face was, if anything, grimmer than before. Rage and disgust filled his eyes. Behind him, engineering was in pandemonium. Sparks flew off in all directions, hazy smoke slowly rose, stirred by the resurgent air cycler, and loud, angry shouts echoed in the background.
“The main reactor is offline, captain. Something in the plasma interlink control shorted out catastrophically. If we’d had any antimatter fuel on board...” He shrugged, leaving the rest unsaid.
Siobhan’s face tightened. “Just as well this happened during a static test, then. I want a full report before the end of the watch. And I want to know how long this is going to take to fix.”
“Aye, aye, sir,” Pushkin replied savagely, though his anger was clearly directed at the engineers behind him, not Siobhan. “But we’ll sail on time, I guarantee you that.”
Dunmoore nodded. “Captain, out.”
*
She busied herself with ship's business for the next few hours, reading endless reports, authorizing more requests in that one sitting than she had in six months on Shenzen. Stingray was short of just about everything, except problems. The work, however, failed to keep her mind from dwelling on the order to sail earlier than planned. She finally switched off her computer with a sigh of relief and changed into her service dress uniform in preparation for her meeting with Ezekiel.
When Siobhan neared the entry port, the petty officer on duty, smartly turned out this time, snapped to attention and saluted.
“Good morning, sir.”
“Good morning, PO...?”
“Fesal, sir. Bosun's mate.” Siobhan nodded, memorizing the face and name. Fesal held out the datapad. “If you'd please sign out, sir.”
The captain pressed her palm against the matte screen.
“Thank you, sir.” He saluted again and touched the keypad to unlock the entry port.
As Siobhan walked down the gangway, she saw a pair of sentries at the duty station on the dock end of the tube and let a small smile play on her lips. This was already much better than yesterday. The sentries snapped to attention as she approached and the senior rating saluted. Siobhan wordlessly returned the salute and continued toward the bank of lifts without breaking stride. Chief Guthren was as good as his word. But she already knew that.
When she entered the officers' mess, a few minutes before noon, the same invalid steward as before greeted her and took her to a secluded alcove at the far side of the large dining room.
“Mister Holt ought to be along shortly, cap’n,” he rasped. “Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Coffee, please.” What Dunmoore really wanted was a stiff drink, but her orders against booze applied to the captain too. If she started off her command by disregarding her own rules, she would lose the fight before it started. The coffee in the mess was a damn sight better than that aboard her ship, and she badly needed a good brew.
Moments after the steward delivered her cup, she saw a tall, blond officer walk into the mess, limping slightly and leaning on a black, silver-trimmed cane. Siobhan watched Ezekiel approach with the same anguish she felt before calling him earlier that morning. A born athlete, he used to have an energetic, healthy stride. Now, he was a cripple.
She rose as he got near and looked into his smiling face. The image on the vidscreen had not lied. Ezekiel was delighted to see her. They almost embraced, but propriety reduced the effusiveness of the reunion to a simple handshake.
“You're a sight for a one-eyed pirate, skipper,” he said, holding her gloved hand in his own, “and getting lovelier all the time. If I didn't think of you like the older sister I never had, I'd try working the old Holt charm on you.”
Siobhan could not help but smile at his ebullience. She knew she looked half-starved and driven, and Ezekiel's compliment touched her deeply.
“Don't change, ever, Ezekiel,” Siobhan replied, smiling with delight.
“Why change a winning formula, skipper. After the war, when the medics have finished rebuilding all those kids who took it worse than me, I'll be just as good as new.”
He sat down with a wince, and Siobhan's look of concern returned. But Ezekiel waved it away.
“Substandard bionic leg. Nerve connections constantly on the fritz. On bad days, it's as if I have arthritis. But most of the time, I can't feel it. As I said, when this shindig is over, I'll get myself fixed properly. At least the hand works fine.” He flexed his gloved left hand experimentally a few times. Then, he pointed at Siobhan's own hands. “I see you're waiting to get yours fixed too. Maybe you should wear those things after the war anyways. Gives you a dangerous look.”
“Just like that eye patch.”
Ezekiel sighed theatrically. “War is hell. Hey, in a room full of airbrushed aristo officers, guess who gets the ladies' attention first, and keeps it? I kinda like the patch by now.”
Siobhan shook her head. “You're a real marvel, Ezekiel. I wish I could take you on as my Number One, eye patch, bionics and all. I sure could use you right now.”
His face became serious all of a sudden. “So I hear, skipper. Sorry, I can't oblige. One-eye gimps get permanent shore billets.” There was no rancor or bitterness in his tone. Only acceptance and a hint of regret.
Ezekiel had been speaking the utter truth when he compared Siobhan to an older sister. He had a deep affection for her, and a lot of respect. Hotheaded and stubborn she may be, but as a warship captain, she had few equals. And all too many enemies.
“So,” he continued, “I hear you've been doing grand deeds since we rescued Task Force 301.”
“Depends who's talking, Ezekiel. But yeah, I did have a bit of action at the Sigma Noctae Fleet Depot.”
“Way I hear it, you saved the goddamn place single-handed, after cleaning up the rot and putting a dozen shady operations out of business.”
“Always take space tales with a grain of salt, Ezekiel.”
He shrugged, ignoring the edge of cynicism in her voice. Under the circumstances, she was entitled to take a darker view. But it saddened him nonetheless. Siobhan had been more spirited, cheerful and defiant the last time he saw her.
“I know you, skipper, and you never do things by half. It endears you to us good guys, but we don't have a monopoly on the Fleet. Shall we order?”
They caught up on each other's lives while they ate, Ezekiel passing lightly over his time at the Wyvern Fleet Hospital, with its weeks of regen therapy and the subsequent fitting of bionics and rehabilitation. But he kept her laughing with his stories about the War College, which Siobhan had not attended, and probably never would.
Dunmoore, in return, talked mainly about the happy days aboard Victoria Regina, or some of the more outrageous stunts she pulled at the Sigma Noctae Depot. The old friendship was still there and for Siobhan, it was a blessed relief to be with someone she liked and trusted. Since Adnan Prighte's death, she felt alone and in her loneliness, often fell into the trap of self-pity. With Ezekiel, it was impossible to remain morose. They had grown close a long time ago, and that closeness came back with frightening ease as if the intervening years had never happened.
Once coffee was served, Ezekiel lit a small herbal cigar, grinning apologetically at Siobhan. “Little habit I picked up. It helps on my bad days. Some active ingredient in the weed.”
