The Thirteenth Man (32 page)

As Carristan stood to examine the tray's contents, Thraka improvised. “Lord Arthur ordered it for you both, thought that with all the excitement you might be forgotten by the rest of the staff.”

Delilah approached them, the hint of a frown forming on her face. She and Carristan looked at the tray carefully and Carristan's frown grew more pronounced. Standing behind them, Thraka casually pulled the palm patch from his pocket. He broke the seal and placed it in his left hand, careful not to expose his skin to the active side. Then, with his right hand, he retrieved the plast knife from another pocket and kept it hidden behind his back.

“I would think,” Carristan said with emphasis, “that Arthur would be far too preoccupied to worry about lunch for two rather spoiled women.”

Damn these paranoid women,
Thraka thought as she turned to face him, one eyebrow lifted in question.

Even to the last, neither of them ever truly understood the danger they faced. Thraka had been careful to stay close to them both, and as Carristan turned he thrust the knife up into her diaphragm just below her ribs. A quick thrust and a twist, paralyzing the diaphragm so she couldn't scream, and slicing through the heart and several major arteries.

With a look of complete surprise she let out a tiny, muffled whimper, looked down at his hand holding the knife in her chest and the blood flowing there. Delilah, slightly behind her, still didn't understand what had happened, the look on her face questioning the strange, agonized look on Carristan's. But before she could react Thraka slapped the side of her neck with the palm patch.

The moment ended. Carristan crumpled to the floor without a sound. Delilah had just an instant before the drug took effect and a look of surprise, fear, and pain washed over her face as she took a breath to scream. But before she could do so her eyes glazed over, she touched her forehead confusedly, and spoke haltingly. “Something's . . . wrong.”

“Sit down,” he said, “and say nothing, do nothing, make no sound.” She staggered back to her seat and did so. The drug thieracin, highly illegal, made her completely obedient to his every command. It occurred to him he could have a little fun, tell her to suck his cock and she'd do so without question. But while she was a pretty little thing, he could buy all the pleasure he wanted after this was over, and Dieter would likely get upset if he found out.

Thraka used the towel from the tray to wipe the blood off his hand and the knife, then turned to the door, beyond which the guard waited. He opened it quickly, spoke in an excited voice. “Come quickly. Something's happened to Lady Carristan. Something terrible.”

The guard rushed past him. Thraka quickly closed the door and followed close behind the man as he dropped to one knee over Carristan's body. He carefully pulled a piece of her garment aside to look at the blood. That was the last move he ever made as Thraka, standing behind him, stabbed the knife down into the man's chest, careful to angle the thin blade so it slipped easily between his ribs. A quick turn of the blade, slicing through aorta and heart, then a heel-­palm strike to the back of the head, and the man fell forward on top of Carristan without a sound. Thraka prided himself on being a professional, on knowing how to do these things without creating a fuss.

Again Thraka cleaned off the blood, then grabbed the drugged and obedient Delilah by the wrist and pulled her into her dressing room. He sat her down, carefully scrubbed her face to remove her makeup, pulled her hair back, and tied it in an unattractive ponytail behind her head. From his pockets he produced a small, white lace cap and shawl, common attire for servant women, and adjusted them carefully on her. It wouldn't work if someone looked at her closely, or if she'd been wearing some sort of elaborate gown. But removing the makeup and altering the hairstyle to something unattractive completely changed the woman's appearance. Then add a few visual cues that made everyone immediately think
servant
, and she became virtually invisible, especially accompanied by him, another servant.

Of course, the chaos at every turn helped immeasurably. Thraka pulled the compliant young woman through the public corridors without incident, and met up with two of the men from the tramp freighter. They brought a cloak that covered her even more. And when the docking gantry nudged the freighter away from the station, Thraka breathed a long sigh of relief.

 

CHAPTER 31

OLD DEBTS

T
he numbers had improved. Nadama and Goutain had lost twenty-­five ships, with an additional ten heavily damaged. The coalition had only lost four, plus two heavily damaged, so first engagement had been an unquestioned victory for the coalition. But that still left Nadama and Goutain with more than sixty undamaged fighting ships, while, excluding the hunter-­killers, the coalition had a little over forty, including those with Charlie. And considering the fact that three of Charlie's cruisers weren't ready for battle, and Nadama and Goutain had a preponderance of big battleships and heavy cruisers, the situation was indeed dire. Nadama and Goutain had come prepared to bombard Andyne-­Borregga into radioactive vapor.

“Duke Charles,” Winston said.

Charlie looked up from his screens. “Yes, Winston, what is it?”

“You need to make a speech, Your Grace. Broadcast it to the entire system . . . and to the enemy.”

“I don't make speeches.”

Winston smiled like a patient father. “You are the supreme commander of the coalition forces. You need to show yourself to the ­people fighting for you, you need to tell them what they're fighting for, and you need to tell your enemies why they won't win.”

Above all, Charlie understood that he was a soldier, and when Winston put it that way, he could not deny the power of the visible presence of command. They quickly scratched out a few words, though they didn't have time to get elaborate so Charlie would have to fake much of it. And they had to get back into transition so he'd have to keep it short.

They called in a technician, and Winston appeared first on camera to say, “I give you His Grace, Charles, Duke de Lunis, supreme commander of all coalition forces.”

Charlie sat down in front of the camera, took a calming breath, and spoke.

“It may surprise you that I, a soldier, do not condone war, but I despise tyranny more, and if need be I will die to eradicate it. I won't claim to be without fault, but my greatest sin is the sin of all commanding officers: I will ask others to die as well. Tyranny is a cancer that will grow if not stopped, and the oppressive annexation of Aagerbanne and Finalsa cannot be allowed to continue.”

Charlie and Winston had considered including the oppression of the Syndonese ­people in that, but doing so might force them into an offensive war against the republic, and they just didn't have the resources for that. Winston had said, “A good king is always a practical king.”

Charlie continued. “We have an alliance that includes all of Aagerbanne, the independent states, and several of the Ten, so today is the day we will stop this tyranny. We are in the right and we will be victorious, but cutting out a cancer can be painful. I long ago learned victory is never grand or sweet. In my experience we will find only relief when the dying has stopped. But fight on, do not waver, and soon we will end this.”

After the technician shut off the camera, Winston nodded and gave Charlie an uncharacteristic thumbs-­up. The old man's excitement, though, wasn't echoed by Charlie. He felt like a liar, casually promising victory that way.

At the edge of Borreggan nearspace, Charlie sent his small task force to join the coalition forces amassing near first engagement, while he took
The Thirteenth Man
, under the command of a Captain Matula, into Andyne-­Borregga. As Arthur and Roacka reviewed the situation in the station's command center, Charlie, still on the destroyer and several AUs out, joined them by way of his implants. Neither Roacka nor Arthur had found time to shave for a ­couple of days.

As if having a similar thought, Arthur said, “Time. We need time. Your courier ships got the word out, and we've got fifteen warships coming in from the independent states, another five from Aagerbanne, and twenty from Kinatha. But they're all spread out, and will be trickling in one or two at a time for the next four days.”

Roacka shook his head and rolled a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other. Arthur wouldn't let him smoke the disgusting thing, so he had to content himself with chewing on the stub that remained. “This'll all be over in four days.”

“Maybe we can buy that time,” Charlie said. “Nadama and Goutain are regrouping at first engagement. Their obvious solution is to take advantage of their superior numbers, come at us in force, and clear the way into heliopause. Where are the hunter-­killers?”

“I pulled them out. They're no good anymore.” Roacka still didn't fully understand their capabilities, still hadn't learned to think like a hunter-­killer captain. “They're driving in-­system now from first engagement, presently about three light-­years out.”

Charlie asked, “And the nine that remain are relatively undamaged, still stocked with torpedoes?”

Roacka's eyes narrowed suspiciously. “That they are, lad.”

Charlie knew they could still play a role, perhaps a significant one. With the numbers against them, they needed every warship at their disposal contributing to the fight. And though some of the enemy captains might understand they were facing something new and unusual, others wouldn't. Even among those who did realize that the rules had changed, Charlie hoped that few could adopt new tactics in so short a time. He could only hope he wasn't condemning the hunter-­killer crews to a useless death.

“Have them down-­transit where they are, randomly spaced directly in the line of attack from first engagement. Tell them to do everything they can to minimize their transition flares, then run silent and wait for the enemy to come their way. Each hunter-­killer captain is to operate independently, wait until he has a solid targeting solution, launch a small salvo of torpedoes, then up-­transit, run ahead of the enemy as fast as he can, gain some distance, then down-­transit and repeat the whole scenario. Those hunter-­killers are fast enough to stay ahead of the advancing enemy, so each ship should be able to get in four or five shots before they reach heliopause. Tell them to make Goutain and Nadama pay dearly for every light-­year they gain.”

Roacka chewed on the stub of his cigar and carefully rubbed the stubble on his chin. After several silent seconds of consideration he said, “Might work. And let's get some of our conventional warships in there to engage in the traditional fashion. That'll help cover the hunter-­killers' tracks.”

“Good idea.”

Roacka grinned. “I figured I was going to end my days hanging from a gallows, but this just might work.”

Arthur suddenly held up his hand, indicating he was listening to something coming in through his implants. He listened for a few seconds, stood suddenly, and said, “Shit.” He looked at Charlie and said only, “Delilah,” then sprinted out of the room.

D
ieter wasn't happy, though in Thraka's experience, Dieter was never happy, not with ­people like Thraka. Thraka knew he'd always fall short of Dieter's acceptability criteria.

“I told you to bring her to me,” Dieter demanded.

“And I would, Your Lordship,” Thraka said calmly, “if the men on this ship would let me. But you're on a large warship, in the midst of sixty or seventy other large warships, all of whom'll do your bidding, and that makes these men quite nervous.” Thraka didn't add that it made him nervous too. Unlike his father, Dieter was too unpredictable, with a temper that flared too easily, a temper that often led to cruelty.

“You have her, don't you?”

“Oh most certainly, Your Lordship. Once I removed the thieracin patch and the drug wore off, she was quite angry, was . . . quite a handful actually.”

“Let me speak with this Captain . . .” Dieter waved a hand impatiently. “ . . . what's-­his-­name.”

“Captain Zsutaka, Your Lordship. I'll get him right away.”

Zsutaka was no fool. A man in Thraka's profession had to make many choices, and fools were easily led and easily manipulated . . . but could just as easily get you killed. On the other hand, an intelligent man like Zsutaka wouldn't get you killed through simple ineptitude, though he might kill you himself for his own purposes. But Zsutaka was greedy, could be controlled through that greed.

“You were contracted to bring her to me,” Dieter demanded.

Zsutaka was the epitome of the tramp freighter captain, slovenly, unshaven, ill mannered, but he knew not to antagonize Dieter. “Your Lordship,” he said, his words clipped by an accent Thraka couldn't place. “We were contracted to transport her off the station. We're living up to that contract, and putting ourselves under the guns of sixty warships isn't part of the deal.”

Dieter was clearly losing his patience. “Then I'll contract you to do that too.”

Zsutaka inclined his head deferentially. “With all due respect, Your Lordship, I'll not accept such a contract.”

Dieter snapped his words out. “So you don't trust me?”

Zsutaka lifted both hands palm up and cringed slightly, a gesture of conciliation. “It's not a matter of trust, Your Lordship. We're in the midst of a war, and I'm a cautious man. Caution has kept me and my crew healthy these many years. May I suggest a solution that should work for both of us?”

Dieter did a poor job of hiding his distrust. “Go ahead. I'm listening.”

“We'll bring her to a prearranged set of coordinates and deliver her to you there. You may come in a ship no better armed than a destroyer escort or a corvette. That way you can be confident you have us outgunned, and we can be confident that you don't have us so heavily outgunned that you can destroy us before we can make a run for it. And be certain to bring final payment.”

Dieter slashed a hand out as if cutting the air with a knife. “Absolutely not.”

Zsutaka shrugged uncaringly. “Then we vent her and Thraka to space.”

Dieter paced angrily back and forth for several seconds, but finally conceded. “All right. I'll do it.”

C
harlie saw the scene in Delilah's sitting room through Arthur's implants. Carristan and the guard had both bled out almost instantly. Charlie had seen it before, massive damage to the aorta and heart. Done with a knife that way, it was clearly the work of a professional.

“Where's Delilah?” he demanded.

“We're questioning everyone now,” Roacka said. “She seems to have disappeared along with one of the servants, a spacer named Thraka, formerly of de Maris livery, probably someone's agent, though your guess is as good as mine as to whose.”

“The shooting's started again,” Arthur said breathlessly. “I have to get back to the command center. And you're the admiral of this fleet, Charlie, so you have to focus on the battle.”

Charlie's eyes met Roacka's. “Find Del for me,” he pleaded. “Find her and get her back.”

Roacka nodded carefully. “I'll do my best, lad.”

Charlie turned back to the situation summary on one of his screens and tried not to think of Del. Nadama and Goutain had regrouped their forces at first engagement, then started chasing the fleeing coalition forces in toward Borreggan nearspace. The first of the hunter-­killer captains got his targeting solution, launched a salvo of two torpedoes, got lucky and took out a frigate, then up-­transited well ahead of the incoming forces.

Charlie had to suffer the frustration of every admiral throughout history. Once the battle had begun he could only sit and watch. If he started firing off orders about every little thing to his captains he'd only get in the way, create chaos when they needed the freedom to make their own decisions.

In rapid succession, the incoming invaders encountered five more hunter-­killers. The second hunter-­killer completely missed his targets, the third caused considerable damage to three cruisers, the forth destroyed a medium cruiser, the fifth two destroyers. The sixth was unlucky, though, taking a large warhead and going out with all hands. And through it all the conventional coalition ships sat back at the extreme limit of their range and took pot shots at the enemy ships with their transition batteries, occasionally scoring a good hit. At that point, the invaders down-­transited to regroup again.

“Your Grace,”
The Thirteenth Man
's com officer said through Charlie's implants. “I have an incoming message riding on an old de Maris encryption key from a man who identifies himself as Spacer Turnman. He says it's urgent that he speak with you. He says he can tell you where the girl is, whatever that means.”

Turnman? Charlie had to think for some seconds before he recalled the man, one of the snitches from the chain. Charlie said, “Put him through.”

Turnman wore de Satarna livery, sat at a console on some ship and had aged considerably in the past year. “Your Grace,” he said.

If the man had had anything to do with Delilah's abduction, Charlie swore then and there he'd kill him. His voice came out in a growl. “You know where Delilah is?”

Turnman nodded, though his attitude was not confrontational or adversarial. “I accepted a position on Lord Dieter's staff. I think he was looking to see how he could use me against you, and with no other prospects, I had no choice. The man who kidnapped the princess is one of his agents.”

“And you're willing to tell me where she is?”

Again Turnman nodded.

“Why?”

Turnman shrugged. “I'm not proud of what I did, Commander.” He used Charlie's old rank, the rank he'd held on the chain. It wasn't uncommon for one of the Two Thousand to do so. “And you could have had us executed, but you didn't, so I figure I owe you this. Maybe it can square things between us . . . a bit.”

“Where is she?”

Turnman gave him the coordinates and explained the conditions of the rendezvous scheduled with the tramp freighter.

“If you're lying,” Charlie told him, “I'll find you and kill you myself. If you're telling the truth . . . well, let's wait and see.”