No Honor in Death (3 page)

"What ship, sir?" Siobhan asked, a sick kind of interest now animating her pale face.  She heard the gossip of the Fleet as much as any other officer, and the worm of suspicion raised its ugly head.  This was the moment most officers dreamed about, getting a major starship of their own.  Not a small auxiliary or escort, but a rated ship.  It should have been her moment of personal glory.  But the sick feeling only intensified and Siobhan took a deep breath, setting the coffee aside as if the strong, bitter scent nauseated her.

"The missile frigate
Stingray
."

"I thought so," she whispered.  "The unlucky ship.  The jinx."

"As I said, Commander," Nagira replied with more sharpness in his voice than he had intended to use, "I do not believe in superstition.  However, I do believe in bad leadership, and the
Stingray
is a sad example of the worst kind.  Her previous Captain is now facing a Disciplinary Board and will probably be dismissed from the Service."

"Who is he?"

"She."  He paused for a few heartbeats.  "Commander Helen Forenza."  When he saw Dunmoore's face tighten, he gently continued, "I told you this assignment was a double-edged sword, Siobhan.  I would rather try to rehabilitate the
Stingray
than take her out of service, and you are the one officer I believe can do it."

"Because I've got little left to lose?" Dunmoore asked bitterly, showing real emotion for the first time.

Nagira sighed mentally.  It was not a reaction he liked.  She had more than enough reason for bitterness, but sinking into self-pity was something that didn't suit her.  Yet he could not tell her everything.

"No, Siobhan.  Because I have faith in you.  And whether you believe it or not, you have more to lose than you think.  You
do
have friends."

Dunmoore looked away, embarrassed at her conflicting emotions.  She had always hated people who wallowed in self-pity.  Now, she was guilty of that sin herself and despised her own weakness.  Nagira sipped his coffee in silence, letting her sort out her feelings.  If the old combative spark was still there, somewhere, she would take up the challenge and win, or go down trying.  If it was not, then she was lost to the Fleet no matter what.

After a few moments, Siobhan looked up at him, face set in an implacable mask.

"When do I take command, sir?"

Nagira repressed a smile of pleasure, conscious that Siobhan, in her present state, would have interpreted it as a smirk of victory.  She had a volatile character and that made her a top-notch fighting Captain, but when she was down, that trait turned against her and those around her at the most awkward times.  And this was as awkward as it got.

"In four days, Commander Dunmoore.  That will give you enough time to take the courier run to Starbase 31. There will be no formal change of command.  Commander Forenza has already been shipped planet side and is currently awaiting the Board's pleasure."

"Thank you, sir.  Will that be all, sir?"  She was suddenly impatient to leave and drown her misery in work.

"Yes, Commander."  Nagira rose, followed by Dunmoore.  "Your orders will be delivered to your quarters by this afternoon.  Good luck."  He held out his hand.  Siobhan took it and gave him a perfunctory shake.  Then she straightened up and saluted with just a touch of the old rebellious, insubordinate and self-confident Siobhan.  The spark he had seen in a young, bright and aggressive Lieutenant long ago, was still there.

As she turned to leave, Nagira softly said, "Just remember to trust your instincts, Siobhan.  You are a good officer, and spacers respect that. And," he smiled briefly, "stay away from windmills."

Then, she was gone.

Nagira stared at the closed door for a long time, wondering whether he had condemned her to career oblivion, or worse, and deprived the Fleet of the services of a good commander.  But there was no other choice.  Dispersing the
Stingray
's crew was the coward's way out, and Hoko Nagira had prided himself on never taking the easy route.  Yet he wondered whether Siobhan, already teetering on the edge, would be able to salvage the ship, its company and its reputation, without utterly ruining what was left of hers, or worse, ruining her sanity.

Siobhan drained her mug, the coffee's bitter tang mirroring the residual bitterness in her soul.  Her interview with the 31st Battle-Group's Flag Captain, an hour after arriving the previous day, had only reinforced the fears raised by words Admiral Nagira
hadn't
spoken. 

As prescribed by Naval tradition, Dunmoore had immediately gone from the docking port to the command deck, intending to report to Rear-Admiral Kaleri, her new commander.

An officious senior clerk informed her Kaleri was not available and she was to report to Flag Captain Jadin.  Seething at the man's manners, but unwilling to cause a scene the moment she arrived at a new duty station, Siobhan beat a quick retreat to Jadin's office suite.  The Flag Captain kept her waiting for an hour, while clerks and junior officers streamed in and out of his office at a constant rate.  It did not bode well for a pleasant meeting.  Finally, an acne-scarred Lieutenant poked his head into the antechamber.

"Captain Jadin will see you now."  After a brief pause, he added, "Sir."

Siobhan took a deep breath to flush her resentment away and marched in, coming to a halt the prescribed three paces in front of Jadin's desk.  She saluted.  The Flag Captain, gazing out the window at the distant field of stars did not turn or otherwise acknowledge her existence.  Angry, Siobhan dropped her hand and assumed the parade rest position.  After nearly a minute, Jadin turned around and examined her much like a biologist examines a new species of bacteria.  Stung, Siobhan returned the favour.

Flag Captain Jadin was thin, elderly and carried himself with almost artificial erectness.  His weak, receding chin, beaked nose and bulging eyes gave him the kind of pop-eyed appearance that had been fodder for caricaturists for centuries.  The eyes held a disdainful, detached look.  He sniffed.

"Commander Dunmoore.  I see you are not quite recovered from you ordeal on the
Victoria Regina
.  Well publicized, that was."  His enunciation was excruciatingly perfect, pedantic even, and his tone left no doubt that he believed the publicity surrounding Siobhan's actions was at her instigation, for self-promotion.

"Admiral Kaleri is on the planet right now, and will not be able to receive you.  I shall not disguise the fact that your arrival is unwished by the Admiral.  In her opinion, which I share -"

You probably don't have a bloody opinion of your own,
Siobhan savagely retorted in her mind.

"The
Stingray
should be decommissioned without delay.  The ship is old and the crew, - well you shall see for yourself.  It distresses Admiral Kaleri that her recommendations were not considered.  Nevertheless, you are here, though I have serious doubts about your competence to command a frigate.  You have a questionable track record with your previous commands.  I suppose being one of Admiral Nagira's favourites makes that irrelevant."

Siobhan didn't reply for a few moments, but her anger dissipated, replaced by a coldness that matched Jadin's. 
Very well.  This is how it's to be, then.
  "Thank you for making my position clear, sir.  I shall endeavour to prove you wrong."

"Or die trying?"  Jadin mockingly asked, not at all put out by his inability to provoke her into an insubordinate response.  "We shall soon see.  I wish you to familiarize yourself with this Battle-Group's standing orders, operating procedures and signals.  You will sail in one week from now.  Make sure your ship is ready, or suffer the consequences.  I will have your orders sent over in the next few days."

Jadin turned his back towards Siobhan and gazed out the window again, signalling the end of the interview.  Dunmoore snapped to attention, saluted and turned on her heels.  His voice checked her step.

"One piece of advice, Commander.  Keep your energies confined to your ship, or yours might be one of the shortest commands in naval history."

"Excuse me sir,"  the steward had re-appeared at her elbow, carrying her breakfast.  Siobhan's attention returned to the officer's mess and she gazed up at the man in surprise.  He was a veteran, too disabled by combat injuries to continue serving on a warship and his white tunic bore a broad wound stripe.  A badge of honor.  He placed the plate in front of her and deftly refilled her coffee mug.

"Thank you, Spacer."

"Be me pleasure, sir."  His voice had a deep growl, as if his vocal cords too had suffered the outrage of the Shrehari broadside that had beached him.  She felt a sudden kinship with the man.  They both bore the marks of their service like proud badges. He hovered near Dunmoore for a few moments, clearly wishing to speak, but unable to form the words.

"Begging' yer pardon, sir," he finally said, "you be takin' the
Stingray
then?"

His eyes met hers without shame or fear.

"Aye."

His head bobbed.  "Don't take no notice of her bein' a jinx then, sir.  She's a good 'un an' she's got good spacers aboard.  All they needs is a good skipper.  One they can trust."

His words shocked Siobhan into momentary silence.  Before she could recover, the steward had left.

Gazing thoughtfully at her ship, she ate her breakfast, wondering about Vice-Admiral Nagira's double-edged sword.  When she'd taken command of her previous ships, she'd felt a buzz of excitement that made her whole body tingle with anticipation.  Not this time.  It was as if something vital within her had snapped, or simply worn out.  Maybe it was the memories.  Or maybe Siobhan Dunmoore was simply past it.  Washed-out at thirty-four.  She shrugged and finished eating, her eyes slipping back into the long distance stare that alarmed spacers who had never experienced the losing side of a battle.

By the time she finished her meal, the mess had filled.  Most of the other officers ignored her.  She didn't care.  There wasn't a spacer on the station who didn't know the tall, red-headed Commander with the tired eyes was the unlucky ship's new skipper.

She toyed with her mug until her chrono read fifteen minutes to the start of the forenoon watch, a quarter to eight in the morning.  Dunmoore had sent a message to the
Stingray
advising them she would come aboard at eight.  There had been no reply and she assumed that meant they were ready and waiting.  If not, then God help them.

As she left the mess, she felt the eyes of many an officer on her receding back.  And the eyes of a disfigured Leading Spacer in an immaculate white steward's tunic.

"Good luck,"  he whispered as the doors closed behind Siobhan, "'cause yer gonna need it, Cap'n."

TWO

The missile frigate
Stingray
was berthed at dock 37, well below the station's habitat levels, down at the bottom of the central well.  The Admiral wanted to keep her crew as far as possible from the others, to avoid contamination, as if bad luck was contagious.  Perhaps it was.

Siobhan ignored the glances, both curious and speculative, of spacers from other ships as she walked to her ship.  She wore the silver and black stingray insignia on her left sleeve and a ship’s captain’s star on her right breast, leaving passers-by in no doubt of her identity.  But the scrutiny did not really register and she absently returned salutes.

Dock 37 station-side was empty, abandoned, as if no one wanted to approach the jinx.  A thin layer of dust covered almost everything.  The floor was deeply scarred and scuffed by generations of spacers and their gear.  Through thick windows, Siobhan saw huge grappling arms holding the frigate tightly in her berth.  The
Stingray
's white hull seemed as tired as her new skipper, her metal tarnished and aged under the dock's uncompromising lights.  Close up, the frigate was huge, but even that was an illusion.  The old
Victoria Regina
could have swallowed her for lunch without so much as a belch.

A transparent gangway tube led from the dock to the
Stingray
's main airlock, like a thick umbilical cord joining an unwanted child to an unwilling mother.  An empty sentry post stood forlorn at its mouth, abandoned like the rest of the dock.

Dunmoore's footsteps echoed through the long, empty gangway.  She kept her eyes fixed ahead, building up a head of steam.  The ship's pitted and scarred main airlock was closed, but lights on the control panel showed green.  It wasn't locked from the inside, contrary to standing regulations.  Siobhan's face tightened as anger began to bubble up from within.  Patience wasn't one of her virtues, and this morning, it had vanished entirely.  She breathed in deeply before touching the keypad, her nostrils filling with the acrid tang of lubricants, reactor coolant and recycled station air.  Kicking ass was a bad way to start a new command.

The airlock opened with the weary groan of lousy maintenance.  Just inside, a Petty Officer Second Class, his service dress tunic unbuttoned, beret casually tucked under a shoulder strap, sat in a cheap chair, balancing on its back legs, reading something no doubt pornographic.  His erection was painfully visible under tight uniform trousers.

At the noise, his head swivelled towards the gangway, a look of annoyance crossing his features.  Then, his brain caught up with what his eyes saw and he struggled to rise, overbalancing on the chair.  He fell backwards with a clatter, head striking the bulkhead with a dull thud while the reader went flying across the airlock, landing at Dunmoore's feet.

After a few stunned moments, he managed to untangle his thick limbs and awkwardly got to his feet, still dazed, struggling to regain some semblance of dignity.  Fury tightened Commander Dunmoore's features.  Her nostrils flared whitely as she stepped aboard her ship and saluted towards the bow, where in the days of wet navies, the national flag used to fly.  Then, she turned her attention to the Petty Officer, examining him from head to toes with blazing, contemptuous eyes.  He was a short, stocky man, with a red face covered by a fine tracery of broken veins.  Small, piggish eyes framed a thick, oft broken nose beneath a mop of dark, greasy hair.

Bleary-eyed, dishevelled and unshaven, his breath and body odour were distinctly stale.  The dark blue tunic had seen better days and bore evidence of food and drink stains.  He was the sorriest picture of a non-commissioned officer Siobhan Dunmoore had ever seen.

She locked eyes with the PO and read the emotions passing through them.  His initial annoyance had been replaced by fear but that was, in turn, giving way to a sly craftiness.   Siobhan came to the instinctive conclusion that the man was a bully.  Maybe even a coward, but definitely someone to watch.  A good ship shone through her non-commissioned officers and the
Stingray
was looking shabbier by the second.

"Commander Dunmoore.  Permission to come aboard?"

"Sir?" He attempted a smile, which faded the moment it appeared, killed by Siobhan's contemptuous stare.

"You are?"

"Petty Officer Second Class Zavaleta, sir.  Bosun's mate."

"Tell me,
Petty Officer
Zavaleta, do you usually look like a bag of shit or is today a special occasion?"  Siobhan kept her voice deliberately low.  Zavaleta seemed to lean towards her, as if to better understand her words.  The slyness gave way to fear again at the lack of emotion in her voice.

"Sir?"  He glanced down at his tunic and, fingers trembling, hastily buttoned it up.  Then, he put his beret on and came to attention again.

"Pick up your bloody reader, PO Zavaleta."

"Aye, aye, sir."

Straightening up again, eyes narrowed in an unconscious display of rancour, Zavaleta truculently held out the reader, its screen gray and scuffed.  "Palm print, please, sir."

Dunmoore placed her hand on the cool screen, but not without a twinge of revulsion at what it had shown moments earlier.  "Commander Siobhan Dunmoore, Captain, CSS
Stingray
."

The reader flashed as it acknowledged her identity.

"Permission to come aboard granted, sir," Zavaleta replied, his tone taking on more than a hint of nauseating oiliness.  A bully, then.  Someone who would have thrived under Commander Forenza.

Not under me, boyo.  Nor, if I you continue like this, will you keep those stripes for very long.

"Thank you," Dunmoore automatically responded.  Then, her voice took on its earlier edge.  "Zavaleta, you will not, under any circumstances, inform anyone on this ship that I have come aboard.  Do you understand me?"

Zavaleta looked at her for a few heartbeats, digesting his new Captain's order and then nodded as understanding filled his face.  Understanding and a look of pure malice that disturbed Siobhan.  She was repelled by the intensity of the naked emotion.

"Aye, aye, sir."

"And Zavaleta..."

"Sir?"

"Find someone to relieve you so you can get cleaned up and put on a proper uniform.  And lose that porno crap you've got loaded on the reader.  You've just used up your one chance with me.  Next time I find you in this state, I will put you up on charges."

Leaving a stunned Zavaleta behind, Dunmoore stepped out of the airlock and into the main hull.  The corridor was wide and well lit.  Though free of litter and clean, it felt grungy.  Siobhan couldn't explain the feeling as she walked towards the lift bank at the heart of the frigate.  She did not meet any crewmembers along the way, and even though the ship's environmental systems hummed along, the
Stingray
could just as well have been abandoned.  She certainly felt that way.  If starships had a soul, then this frigate was a very lonely one.

A badly maintained lift whisked her up to the bridge deck.  Moments later the hatch opened with a tired whisper, revealing a darkened compartment empty save for a single officer sitting in the command chair, playing a game on a small computer screen.  At the sound of Dunmoore's entry, the officer, a Lieutenant, looked up.  More alert than the duty Petty Officer at the entry port, he immediately jumped to attention, his right hand quickly fastening his tunic.

"Lieutenant Devall, sir, Officer of the Watch and ship's Gunnery Officer," he introduced himself in precise, clipped tones with only a hint of an accent.  "Welcome aboard, Captain."

Siobhan nodded.  "Thank you, Mister Devall.  At ease."

Devall relaxed minutely as she examined him in much the same way she had inspected Zavaleta.  He was a good looking man in his late twenties, with a handsome, chiselled face, intense blue eyes and impeccably styled blond hair.  His uniform was superbly tailored and would have passed muster on any Admiral's guard, or in any aristocratic salon. He had the look that spoke of a privileged upbringing, much like her predecessor, Helen Forenza.

The Lieutenant's languid, almost nonchalant gaze, as he met Siobhan's eyes, was nevertheless guarded, wary, as he waited.

He examined Dunmoore in the same manner she examined him, and came to the conclusion that, exhausted as she seemed, the
Stingray
's new Captain was probably as dangerous as an overloaded gun capacitor.  He knew someone was going to taste the lash of her coiled anger before the watch was over.

"Stand easy, Lieutenant," Siobhan finally said, her damaged vocal cords transforming the matter-of-fact words into a harsh order.  He adopted the parade rest position, eyes staring over her right shoulder.  "Where is the First Officer?"

"Shore leave, sir."

Siobhan raised her eyebrows in astonishment.  "Didn't you get my message that I'd be on board this morning?"

"Aye, sir. It's been logged in. But the First Officer was already ashore.  He didn't get the word."  Malicious enjoyment briefly flashed across Devall's eyes.

No love lost there
.  "And the crew?"  Her voice took on a dangerous edge.

"Half are on shore leave, the remainder are either at harbour watch stations or off duty."  There was a barely perceptible pause. "Sir"

"I see," Siobhan replied abruptly, choosing to ignore Devall's manner.  "Is it normal procedure on the
Stingray
to have only the OOW on the bridge during harbour watch?"

Devall shrugged, as if the question was irrelevant.  The gesture annoyed Siobhan immensely  "There's not enough to do to bother with more than one person up here at a time."

"I see," Siobhan repeated, eyes narrowing.  If it was standing procedure, she had no cause to tear into him until she established her own ways. 
But if you don't get rid of your world-weary act soon, you'll find out what
my
ways are.

"Open the ship's log, Lieutenant."

"Sir." Devall nodded, his face losing all traces of his earlier disdain as he correctly read the Captain's mood.  He walked over to the First Officer's station and touched the keypad.  "Ready, sir."

Siobhan joined him, inhaling a brief whiff of expensive after-shave.  She pulled a small data wafer out of her pocket and shoved it into the reader.  Then, she placed her hand on the screen.

"Computer, I am Commander Siobhan Alaina Dunmoore, NO199235."

"Acknowledged," the computer's impersonal voice replied.  At least this one sounded female.  On the
Victoria Regina
the computer had always sounded like a muscle-bound bruiser.  Some misguided soul had programmed it to flirt with her a few weeks after she took over as First Officer, thinking it would be a splendid joke.  A month of back-to-back watches had cured that particular sense of humour.

"I hereby take command of the frigate
Stingray
."

"It has been so logged."

"Mister Devall," she turned to the Lieutenant, "you will not post my taking command for another hour, nor will you advise anybody that I'm aboard."

"Aye, aye, sir," he replied, sudden amusement dancing in his pale eyes.  He was quick on the uptake, usually a good trait in a Gunnery Officer.  "Do you need someone to guide you around the ship?"

"No, Lieutenant.  I'm quite familiar with Type 203 frigates."

"Anything else then, sir?"  The hint of disdain returned.

"No." Face set in a hard mask, Siobhan Dunmoore left the bridge.  When she was gone, Devall shook his head and whistled softly.  A lot of people were going to be in for one hell of a shock.  Especially the First Officer.  He sat down in the command chair again, this time without loosening his tunic, and smiled.  Dunmoore looked like someone who ran a tight ship.  Good thing he hadn't taken Kowalski up on her bet.

The hatch to the wardroom automatically opened at her approach, exposing a sight that added fuel to Dunmoore's anger.  Used plates, utensils and cups littered the tables, the coffee urn was cold and empty, its traditional shine dulled by a lack of care.  Like the ship itself.  But what really made Siobhan's blood boil was the sight of three officers sprawled around a littered table, their uniforms unbuttoned and rumpled.  The three, clearly worse for wear, were playing cards for money, in contravention of regulations.

It took them a few moments to realize their privacy had been invaded, and the older of the three, a woman, quickly got up and started buttoning her tunic.  The two younger men were up and getting dressed seconds later, their movements as unsteady as the focus of their bloodshot eyes.

Not trusting herself to speak Siobhan Dunmoore simply glared at the trio while they arranged their uniforms.  When they finally came to attention, eyes staring straight ahead, the Captain of the
Stingray
took a deep breath and turned her blazing anger on senior of the group.  She was a hard-faced Lieutenant of average height who appeared to be several years older than Siobhan.  Her short dark hair was shot with grey, and lines marked the corners of her green eyes.  Her bloodless lips were tightly pressed against each other.  Siobhan read no shame or resentment in her face.  She read nothing at all.