TEXT:  
   
  In Earth’s Own Back Yard 
  A STORM IS GATHERING 
   
  Stormshadow lurched violently. Her hull made a hideous groaning, screeching sound 
  that mixed with the scream of tortured metal as the clamp finally tore free. The helmsman 
  caught the frigate just before she slammed into the cradle wall. The external monitors 
  showed that Stormshadow’s fire had weakened the support beam but the clamp was still 
  attached to the hull. Her violent struggles had torn it free of its mounts but they’d be tak-
  ing it with them into action. 
  “Aft docking clamp . . . released,” said Browning, which was not, strictly speaking, 
  accurate but conveyed what Crowe needed to know. “Cradle gate is still closed.” 
  “Very well. Commander Browning, clear us a path. Bracket the gate with torpe-
  does,” Crowe said. “Helm, as soon as the torpedoes hit you will go full astern. Ram the 
  gates if they’re still there.” 
  Crowe heard the acknowledgement as Browning fired and the frigate began to ac-
  celerate violently. 
  The torpedoes went to full acceleration as they left the launchers, slamming into the 
  lightly armored gate after a flight of less than a second. Lacking the velocity to punch a 
  hole, they detonated on the surface. Most of the blast went into the gate, twisting it off its 
  mounts at one side. Fragments of torpedo casing whirled across the docking bay along 
  with one of the weapons’ drive section, its exhaust still flaring. 
  As the torpedo engine corkscrewed into the far wall of the bay and fragments rattled 
  from Stormshadow’s hull, she lurched across the bay and smashed stern-first into the launch 
  gate. Crewmembers clung to their consoles and Crowe reeled across the bridge before he 
  could grab his seat for support. 
   
  The Solomani Rim Explodes! 
   
  The Traveller Universe comes to vivid life as veteran game de-
  signer and Traveller expert Martin J. Dougherty takes us deep 
  into the Solomani Rim, humanity’s ancestral home. 
   
  And even far into the distant future, we come together to fight. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
  TRAVELLER® 
  Novels 
  From Far Future Enterprises 
   
   
  Fate of the Kinunir 
  Robert E. Vardeman 
   
   
  Shadow of the Storm 
  Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
  Priority: Hyperion 
  Erik Scott de Bie 
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
  TRAVELLER® 
  Novels 
   
   
   
   
  SHADOW 
  of the 
  STORM 
   
  Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Shadow of the Storm 
  ©2014 Far Future Enterprises, LLC 
  All Rights Reserved 
   
   
   
   
  First Print Edition 
  March 2014 
   
  ISBN: 978-1-55878-034-7 
   
  Cover Design by Alex Athans 
  Image courtesy of NASA 
   
   
  Published in association with 
  Athans & Associates Creative Consulting 
   
  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, events, 
  organizations, or brands is purely coincidental and unintended. 
   
  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1 
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Pavel System 
   
  132-1099 
   
  (2 February, 5618) 
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 3 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  “Signal from task force flagship, sir,” said the calm, crisp voice of 
  CSS Maestrale’s central computer. “Task force commander’s compli-
  ments, your attention is called to a hostile vessel in the indicated 
  quadrant. Request screening as Atami recovers her craft and prepares to 
  jump.” 
  Commander Alex Finchley, captain of the Solomani Confederation 
  strike destroyer Maestrale, nodded. “Acknowledge signal, my compli-
  ments, et cetera. Will comply. Request updated jump coordinates if 
  rendezvous is altered.” 
  “Acknowledged, Captain,” Maestrale replied, but Finchley’s atten-
  tion was already on the three-dimensional battle plot in front of him. 
  The upper half, set for a “big picture” view, showed the battle as a 
  whole, and it wasn’t going well at all. The lower half showed the local 
  situation  . . . and that was worse. 
  “All hands, this is the captain,” Finchley said into his headset mic. 
  “We are ordered to screen Atami during her recovery operations. She’s 
  picking up hundreds of our support crews and planetside personnel; 
  some of them we know personally. We have hostile vessels incoming. 
  They obviously intend to attack the transports. We will not permit that 
  to happen. Prepare to engage.” 
  Finchley’s bridge crew exchanged glances as they checked glove 
  seals and locked helmets in place. Their faceplates stayed open for now, 
  breathing the ship’s air unless a holed compartment made using their 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  4 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  suits’ reserves necessary. The bridge crew were veterans, long-time com-
  rades. Most of them, anyway. 
  Sublieutenant Simon Crowe was anything but a veteran, a new-
  comer to the tight-knit world of CSS Maestrale and still an outsider. His 
  gaze wandered nervously around the bridge as his hands ran through the 
  tap-drill: boot seals, belt life support, sidearm, glove seals, helmet. Eve-
  rything in place, just as it had been a few minutes ago when he’d last 
  checked. The ritual was reassuring in its way, although it was also a re-
  minder that his ship was going into a place where a sealed suit might be 
  necessary. 
  Crowe glanced across to the captain, trying to read his expression. 
  It was blank, professionally calm, until Finchley realized Crowe was 
  looking at him and gave a tight little smile. “BEO,” he said conversa-
  tionally. “An update if you please?” 
  Crowe’s station was bridge engineering officer—BEO—which most 
  of the time meant acting as a manual repeater for updates from the engi-
  neering and technical divisions and advising the captain on technical 
  matters as they arose. If things got bad, the BEO was also in charge of 
  damage control. By the looks of the battle plot, he’d be busy soon. 
  “Engineering and technical report all green, Captain,” Crowe re-
  ported. “Damage control parties standing ready.” 
  The captain nodded, swaying slightly as Maestrale lunged forward 
  under high acceleration. Finchley preferred to stand in action, rather 
  than strapping himself into his seat as regulations required. He said it 
  allowed him to walk around the holographic battle plot—or into it—
  rather than manipulating it from the seat’s control panel, but Crowe 
  figured it was more to do with the stress of battle. Humans were not 
  meant to go to war sitting down. 
  Crowe watched the fight unfold on the repeater plot at the side of 
  his display. Maestrale and her sister Aquila were racing to intercept a 
  Laputan vessel, along with the two other jump-capable warships of the 
  task force escort. Those were corvettes with negligible combat power, 
  but they might keep some missiles off the two destroyers. 
  Their target was a light cruiser. The plot pegged her as an older ves-
  sel of the Varanzich class, but she still outgunned the entire force moving 
  to intercept her. In a gunnery or missile duel she could shoot her attack-
  ers to pieces in minutes. The only chance was not to give her those 
  minutes, which was why Commander Finchley was going in so very hot. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 5 
  Normally an escort vessel would not be permitted to rush away from her 
  charges like this, but since Atami intended to jump out as soon as her 
  shuttles docked, Maestrale could join her at their fallback position in the 
  Elsinore system. 
  Assuming, of course, she survived. 
  Missiles streamed from the Laputan ship, beginning their run at the 
  two Confederation Navy destroyers. As strike vessels they had nothing 
  to reply with at this range; they’d have to rely on evasion and point de-
  fenses to survive long enough to reach their own weapons range. 
  “Make signal. Hauk and Djerv, my compliments, et cetera. Cor-
  vettes are to accelerate ahead of us and provide missile screening.” It 
  seemed to Crowe that Commander Finchley spoke as if he were thinking 
  out loud rather than giving the ship’s computer an order. “Corvettes are 
  to engage until seriously threatened, then jump to the rendezvous point 
  and meet Atami.” 
  Maestrale did not immediately respond, causing Commander 
  Finchley to glance at his gray-suited political officer. A few seconds 
  passed, then Lieutenant Jorgenssen nodded sharply. He lifted his hand 
  off a control on his desk, removing his veto from the command. 
  “Acknowledged,” replied Maestrale at last. Then it—the ship was 
  “she”, but her computer was always an “it”—added, “Escorts One and 
  Two extend their captains’ compliments. They acknowledge receipt of 
  orders and wish us luck.” 
  They might need it, Crowe realized. He frowned at his repeater. 
  The two Confederation Fleet ships were of the same generation as the 
  Laputan Varanzich class cruiser, but she was far bigger, armed with a mix 
  of missiles and laser batteries backing up a particle accelerator that ran 
  the length of her hull. Her laser batteries alone could shatter a de-
  stroyer; a hit from the particle lance would pretty much vaporize either 
  of them—or both, if they were lined up right. 
  The corvettes began firing, their laser armament thinning the mis-
  sile salvo a little. The attack was concentrated on the larger vessels; 
  corvettes were an irrelevance in an engagement of this size. They could 
  be knocked down or chased off at leisure once the bigger ships were 
  dealt with. 
  The salvo began to spread out as Aquila heeled away sharply. About 
  half the incoming missiles went after her. Both corvettes stayed in posi-
  tion ahead of Maestrale. Crowe nodded, watching the short range battle 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  6 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  plot. He saw what Aquila’s captain had done, and why. He also realized 
  what the consequences would be. With the corvettes’ covering fire and 
  her own defenses, Maestrale would survive to reach torpedo range. Aq-
  uila, facing the same salvo unprotected, would not. 
  That was Crowe’s gift, or maybe curse: an ability to mentally dis-
  mantle and analyze a situation like a simulator output. Firepower 
  modified by maneuver matched against armor and countermeasures, 
  damage control effectiveness weighed against structural effects. The 
  mathematics of the situation were pitiless. Crowe could see what Aq-
  uila’s captain intended, and he understood why it had to be done. It was 
  pretty much a death sentence for most of her crew, but then Maestrale’s 
  chances were little better. 
  “Guns, switch everything to point defense,” Finchley ordered. 
  “Helm, I want a torpedo pass. Gunner-T  . . . prepare for saturation 
  torpedo salvo at minimum distance.” 
  The acknowledgements came in as Crowe licked dry lips. The ma-
  neuver was suicidal; anyone could see that. Their guns, plus those of the 
  corvettes, would stop some of the missiles but they’d have to run the 
  gauntlet of the cruiser’s laser armament. Once Aquila went, the cruiser 
  could concentrate her full firepower on Maestrale. Likely they’d never 
  even reach minimum distance and even if they did, there would not be 
  enough left of Maestrale to fill a shipping container. 
  Strangely, that thought anchored Crowe rather than frightening 
  him. With poor prospects for survival no matter what he did, there was 
  little temptation to flee his post. He’d fight it out with the crew of CSS 
  Maestrale and maybe earn their respect. Better that than to know he was 
  despised in his last moments. Yes. Better to . . . 
  Crowe laughed out loud when he saw it, and heard the captain say, 
  “I’m impressed, Mister Crowe . . .” Puzzled glances from other crew-
  members suggested that the penny had not yet dropped. 
  “The hostile’s spinal weapon is inoperable,” Crowe said loudly. 
  “She’s the Josef Valaki. Intel database shows she was never properly re-
  paired after being transferred from the fleet to the Laputan Home 
  Forces, and that much of her portside armament may still be out of ac-
  tion.” 
  “Know thine enemy,” Commander Finchley said sagely. “Helm, at-
  tempt to pass close down her port side if you can.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 7 
  The acknowledgment was lost in a series of violent jerks as the first 
  missiles slammed into Maestrale. One scored a direct hit, tearing away a 
  torpedo mount. The others were proximity detonations, hurling frag-
  ments of superdense casing against the destroyer’s flimsy armor. 
  “We’re holed in several places, Captain,” Crowe reported. “For-
  ward torpedo room is hit but operable. We’ve lost a barbette and some 
  fuel. We can still maneuver and jump.” 
  Finchley acknowledged with a curt gesture, but his attention was 
  on the battle plot. Aquila was slewing, still under power but not prop-
  erly answering her helm. Debris trailed astern as she vented water, air, 
  and precious hydrogen fuel. Slowly, unsteadily, she righted herself and 
  began forging at the target once more. 
  “Signal from Hauk,” Maestrale’s voice said. “Her captain extends his 
  compliments and respectfully requests permission to cover Aquila.” 
  “Denied!” snapped Finchley and Jorgenssen together, political and 
  military commanders for once in wholehearted agreement as a second 
  wave of missiles poured in, then a third. Yet still Aquila lurched erratic-
  ally forward, her remaining guns firing on the distant cruiser rather than 
  protecting her mangled hull. Maestrale was hit too, but as the range 
  dropped she retained her main capability. As a strike vessel her function 
  was to run in fast and launch a salvo of torpedoes—short-range heavy 
  missiles that could seriously harm even a light cruiser. 
  A fourth salvo closed in, this time focused entirely on Aquila. 
  Crowe realized that his own vessel was probably too close for effective 
  missile salvoes, but that just meant that the cruiser would engage with 
  her guns. Maestrale slewed and heeled, twisting desperately through the 
  fusillade of laser fire, and astern from her Aquila suddenly vanished. 
  Crowe’s heart stopped for an instant, even though his conscious 
  mind knew what had happened. “Aquila has initiated an emergency 
  jump,” Maestrale reported. 
  “After pulling in that entire salvo,” Finchley added approvingly. 
  “Left it a bit late, but her captain deserves a commendation for drawing 
  fire off us for so long.” Aquila had delayed her escape until it was too 
  late to retask the missile salvo that was suddenly deprived of a target. 
  “Agreed,” Jorgenssen said from his station. The recommendation 
  would be automatically transmitted with the rest of Maestrale’s combat 
  log; any ship still in the system would record it. The data-share made it 
  possible to reconstruct the events of a battle right up until the last sur-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  8 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  viving ship left the system. In the present situation, it would be a litany 
  of defeat but at least they’d know why it happened. 
  “Why” was pretty obvious in this case. The handful of ships de-
  ployed by the fleet had failed to deter Laputan aggression. Whilst loudly 
  declaring their continued and wholehearted support for the Solomani 
  Confederation, the greatly-enlarged Laputan Home Forces had struck at 
  Pavel, dragging the fleet into the middle of what was ostensibly a fac-
  tional dispute. 
  Laputa was in conflict with the equally powerful world of Thetis 
  over control of local trade, each seeking to dislodge their political rivals’ 
  hold on the surrounding star systems. Pavel was vital to Thetis’s inter-
  ests and heavily defended, but the Laputans had been buying up older 
  naval vessels for years and now had a decisive advantage. They were also 
  of the view that the fleet elements stationed at Pavel had effectively 
  picked a side and were fair game. 
  Laputan strategy was simple. Holding the Pavel system put a large 
  segment of Thetis’s forces in a position where they had to fight no mat-
  ter what the odds, and the Laputans had simply built up a big enough 
  fleet to smash the defenses . . . and not coincidentally to eliminate a sig-
  nificant proportion of their rival’s military strength. 
  Crowe was an engineer, not a strategist, but it was obvious to him 
  that the losses Thetis was taking were irreplaceable. By attacking a tar-
  get their opponents absolutely had to defend no matter what the cost, 
  Laputa might well have won the war at a stroke. 
  For the fleet elements caught in the middle, the only possible 
  course of action was to evacuate, to fall back to Elsinore, and wait for 
  the political wrangling to produce a clear set of orders—if that ever 
  happened. Despite the fact that the war was ripping the Kukulkan sub-
  sector apart, and Laputan Home Forces were now firing on the 
  Confederation Fleet, this was still officially a local dispute between two 
  powerful factions within the Solomani Confederation rather than against 
  it. 
  Both Laputa and Thetis possessed enough political leverage to pre-
  vent their trade war from bringing down the wrath of the Confederation 
  as a whole. So the fleet simply had to get out with the minimum losses 
  and try to keep a lid on the situation. And so CSS Maestrale was charging 
  headlong at a ship almost ten times her size, trying to buy time for vital 
  personnel to evacuate Pavel aboard their overloaded transports. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 9 
  Maestrale shuddered under laser hits, causing Crowe to look up 
  questioningly at his captain. “Not yet, Mister Crowe, but stand ready,” 
  Finchley said. 
  Crowe watched sections of the damage indicator board turning am-
  ber, then red. There were black areas too, parts of the ship where even 
  the damage sensors were not returning anything. The two corvettes fired 
  a defiant—if pointless—laser salvo at the cruiser and engaged their jump 
  drives. One second they were alongside Maestrale, the next they were 
  just . . . gone. Crowe swallowed hard, feeling strangely alone. 
  “Thirty seconds to projected closest approach!” the helm officer re-
  ported. 
  “Gunner-T, stand ready!” Finchley’s tone was harder than before, 
  but he still spoke quietly, calmly. 
  “Twenty-five seconds . . .” 
  Maestrale lurched, losing internal gravity for an instant. Crowe 
  slapped his faceplate down reflexively, but there was no loss of pressure 
  on the bridge. The damage board had gone almost entirely red or black. 
  “Captain! We’re holed on all decks, main drive is erratic, we’ve lost 
  all beam weaponry!” Crowe reeled off the damage reports as his shocked 
  brain registered them. “Gunnery room is destroyed; engineering is holed 
  and open to space. Jump drive is functional but we have power plant 
  damage. Jump is not possible at this time. Point defense is down. Elec-
  tronic warfare is . . . status unknown. Internal life support is functioning 
  on reserve power but failing . . .” 
  “Fifteen seconds to closest pass!” 
  Finchley acknowledged the helm officer’s report with a nod. “Gun-
  ner-T. You may fire when ready.” There was no reply. “Gunner-T! Any 
  gunnery personnel! Launch all torpedoes! All weapons to local control! 
  Fire as you bear!” 
  Crowe found a part of the status board that still worked. “Captain! 
  We’re launching! Someone is . . . someone’s firing torpedoes. I don’t 
  know which barbette it is; all I can see from the board is that the maga-
  zine hoists are operating.” 
  Finchley nodded again, lunging for his seat and strapping in as the 
  internal gravity fluctuated wildly. “Mister Crowe,” he said almost con-
  versationally, “I think now might be the time. I want you to make your 
  way aft with any and all personnel you can muster. We’re going to need 
  jump capability and life support. In that order. I think we’re about to 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  10 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  make that cruiser very angry, and if I were her captain I’d launch a mis-
  sile salvo at us, and push on against the transports. Given the relative 
  velocities we’re passing at, I’d estimate perhaps thirty minutes to im-
  pact. I don’t think we should be here when that happens.” 
  “Aye sir! Jump drive and life support. All available personnel to my 
  command!” Crowe barked, releasing his seat straps. The internal gravity 
  field had died completely, allowing him to feel a sickening corkscrewing 
  sensation. They were tumbling, then. That’d make things significantly 
  more difficult. 
  “Mister Crowe,” Finchley said. “I’m informed that all other engi-
  neering officers and most of the ratings are down. You more or less are 
  our engineering and technical divisions. Do you understand?” 
  “Yes sir!” Crowe said with no emotion at all. The enormity of his 
  task crushed any reaction he had to it. Instead he responded automati-
  cally, moving with numb caution to the bridge airlock and out into the 
  dim, emergency-lit main corridor. Smoke obscured his vision even with 
  helmet lights, but there was no fire. Decompression had seen to that. 
  He made his way aft, pausing momentarily to glance out through a hull 
  breach at the crazily tumbling stars. 
  And at the enemy light cruiser just kilometers away, her flanks lit by 
  the flashes of impacting torpedoes. As Crowe started moving again, he 
  saw another stubby tube accelerating away from Maestrale’s hull. Some-
  one in a torpedo barbette was still fighting. 
  The torpedo flared against the cruiser’s hull, scattering fragments of 
  armor and punching deep into her vitals. Flames billowed out as liquid 
  hydrogen fuel exploded in her tanks, and suddenly the numbness was 
  gone. Crowe let go of the handhold he’d carefully been working his way 
  along and hurled himself down the dark corridor. Debris scattered as he 
  crashed though it, risking a suit puncture. 
  Untethered, fighting the ship’s corkscrewing inertia by instinct 
  alone and heedless of the risk that he might fall though a hull breach, 
  Sublieutenant Simon Crowe smashed his way through the dying ship. 
  Where he passed, dazed crewmembers began to follow until at last he 
  reached the shattered remains of the drive room at the head of a damage 
  control gang. 
  And there, amid all the chaos and destruction their enemies had 
  wrought, they saved their ship. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 11 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Recommendation For Award of Order of Sol: 268-1099 
  Sublieutenant Simon Crowe 
   
   
   
   
  Heavily engaged with a cruiser class vessel during the Battle of 
  Pavel, the strike destroyer CSS Maestrale (Commander Alexander Ulys-
  ses Finchley CN commanding) was ordered to cover the retreat of naval 
  transports. During the ensuing action Maestrale was crippled, with most 
  of her engineering and technical branch personnel killed in action. 
  With a heavy missile salvo incoming and no means remaining to de-
  fend the vessel, Sublieutenant Crowe was ordered to form an emergency 
  repair party and restore jump capability. Showing complete disregard for 
  his own safety he proceeded untethered and with great haste through 
  open compartments and extreme-hazard areas filled with debris, gather-
  ing crewmembers as he passed. 
  Through prompt and efficient action, and inspired leadership of the 
  personnel he gathered, Sublieutenant Crowe was able to restore jump 
  capability to CSS Maestrale. He then ordered all nonessential personnel 
  out of the drive compartment and single-handedly initiated the jump 
  procedure despite a very significant debris hazard and the risk of a drive 
  explosion. 
  Sublieutenant Crowe’s actions are in the highest traditions of the 
  Confederation Navy, and I therefore recommend that he be considered 
  for the above-named decoration. 
  Commander Alexander Ulysses Finchley, CN 
  Approved: Lieutenant Davide Jorgenssen, Solomani Security at-
  tached to CSS Maestrale 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  12 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Recommendation For Award of Order of Sol: 268-1099 
  Commander Alexander Ulysses Finchley 
   
   
   
   
  Heavily engaged with a cruiser class vessel during the Battle of 
  Pavel, the strike destroyer CSS Maestrale (Commander Alexander Ulys-
  ses Finchley CN commanding) was ordered to cover the retreat of naval 
  transports. In company with two corvettes and her sister ship Aquila, 
  Maestrale attempted a torpedo attack on the light cruiser Josef Valaki. 
  During the attack, Aquila was heavily damaged and forced to with-
  draw by emergency jump. The corvettes were also forced out of action. 
  Commander Finchley, now commanding the only significant vessel be-
  tween the enemy cruiser and the transport force, pressed home a 
  torpedo attack despite overwhelming odds. 
  Using his knowledge of enemy capabilities, Commander Finchley 
  was able to position his ship so as to reduce the amount of damage she 
  received. Nevertheless, CSS Maestrale was reduced to a wrecked condi-
  tion as she approached the enemy vessel. 
  Firing torpedoes under local control, CSS Maestrale inflicted heavy 
  damage on the enemy cruiser, forcing her to break off action and thereby 
  protecting the transport force from certain annihilation. 
  The high level of training and efficiency insisted upon by Com-
  mander Finchley, and his calm and inspiring leadership throughout the 
  action, enabled the crew of CSS Maestrale to not only drive off a greatly 
  superior warship but to restore functionality to their vessel and with-
  draw to rejoin the fleet. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 13 
  Commander Finchley’s actions are in the highest traditions of the 
  Confederation Navy, and I therefore recommend that he be considered 
  for the above-named decoration. 
  Rear Admiral Victoria Berdinelli, CSN BT OS SS with Swords and 
  Clasp 
  Approved: Commodore Bryce Pelton, Solomani Security attached 
  to First Fleet Headquarters 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  14 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Yamato Naval Base, Vantage System 001-1102 
   
   
   
   
  Confederation Navy and Solomani Security officials today jointly 
  announced an inquiry into the events of last year’s Battle of Santorini. A 
  pivotal action in the Bootes Trade War, the battle has remained contro-
  versial despite being a clear victory for the regular navy over the Laputan 
  Home Forces. 
  It has been suggested that a complete breakdown in the chain of 
  command was responsible for the confused closing moments of the ac-
  tion. The decision to allow elements of the Laputan fleet to withdraw 
  while others surrendered has been roundly criticized in some quarters as 
  having greatly prolonged the war. 
  The Confederation Navy has indicated support for the commanding 
  officer in the action, Rear Admiral Berdinelli, by announcing her forth-
  coming promotion to Vice Admiral. However, many other officers 
  involved in the so-called “Santorini Incident” are suspended from duty 
  and several have resigned their commissions. 
  The inquiry is expected to deliver a verdict within three months, at 
  which time the battle may be re-evaluated in the light of its conclusions. 
  Central to the inquiry will be the actions of Lieutenant Davide Jorgens-
  sen of Solomani Security and Lieutenant Simon Crowe, a previous 
  recipient of the Order of Sol. 
  Lieutenant Crowe has declined to resign his commission and is on 
  secondment to the Home Forces whilst suspended from the regular navy 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 15 
  pending court-martial. Solomani Security will not comment on the 
  whereabouts of Lieutenant Jorgenssen. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  16 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Yamato Naval Base 
  Vantage System 
  292-1107 
   
   
   
   
  Lieutenant Simon Crowe paused before the double doors of the 
  conference room. He smoothed his black dress uniform jacket, made 
  sure his campaign and command medals, plus the star of the Order of 
  Sol, were straight. His hands moved down, finishing the dress uniform 
  version of the tap-drill. Sword in place, belt straight . . . his black trou-
  sers with the gray stripe of an engineering officer were crease-free. 
  So. Step through the doors, salute and hand over his sword. He’d 
  rehearsed the drill so many times while he waited—endlessly, endlessly 
  waited—for the summons to court-martial. It had been so long that his 
  regular navy uniform felt strange. The Home Guard lieutenant’s tunic 
  he’d been wearing for the past few years lay just a little differently. On 
  another day he might not even notice, but today the difference was im-
  portant. Today might be the very last time he wore regular navy 
  uniform. 
  The doors opened and the marine guards stepped aside. Crowe 
  dragged himself up straight and marched forward to stand before the 
  admiral’s desk. He saluted smartly, hiding his surprise. A court-martial 
  required three senior officers, but only two sat before him. No matter; 
  what was about to happen, was about to happen. Crowe rattled off his 
  name, rank, number and current assignment for the benefit of the re-
  corder. The admiral sitting in front of him knew exactly who he was and 
  why he was here. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 17 
  That was another odd thing. There was nobody else in the room. 
  Normally there would be marines, a handful of mid-ranking staff officers 
  ostensibly acting as observers and recorders but mainly there to add 
  gravity to the proceedings. There was only Vice Admiral Berdinelli and a 
  Solomani Security representative who wore a suit rather than naval uni-
  form. That was odd, too. 
  Berdinelli eyed Crowe’s uniform and stance for a while, presumably 
  sizing him up. She knew about the Order of Sol he’d won; she’d pre-
  sented it. She knew about his subsequent career and the circumstances 
  that had led him to this room. It had all happened under her command, 
  after all. 
  Berdinelli finally spoke. “At ease, Lieutenant, I have orders for 
  you.” 
  “Sir?” Crowe asked, using the non-gender-specific honorific as was 
  normal in the fleet. 
  “You are not on trial, Lieutenant Crowe. I fact I can inform you 
  that you are not going to be tried. Commissioner Pullinger?” 
  The suited man smiled in a professional way that still conveyed just 
  a little warmth. “This may come as something as a surprise after waiting 
  several years, but the decision has been made to shelve the incident. The 
  initial inquiry was unable to reach any verdict, and none of the subse-
  quent investigations have done any better. It has been decided that it is 
  not in the interests of the Confederation to draw out the matter any 
  longer. All suspended personnel are to be reinstated and the matter will 
  be considered closed.” 
  Crowe suspected that meant that the inquiry into the Battle of San-
  torini had once again collapsed into an orgy of political infighting. No 
  SolSec representative was going to say that in so many words, of course. 
  “No verdict has been returned, Lieutenant, so there is no case 
  against you,” Pullinger said with no hint of expression that might suggest 
  whether he approved or not. “The official version of events, which you 
  will repeat when queried, is that the actions of all involved were at least 
  excusable and in most cases correct given the information available to 
  them. The best interests of the Confederation are not served by a 
  lengthy and expensive inquiry which may not produce any useful out-
  come.” 
  “Yes sir, I understand,” Crowe said dutifully, though in truth he 
  was struggling to come to terms with this unexpected situation. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  18 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “You will be returning to duty, Lieutenant,” Pullinger said heavily. 
  “You ordered your ship to fire on a squadron mate and there is not even 
  going to be a court of inquiry over the incident. You would, I think, be 
  advised to tread very carefully in the future if this matter is to remain 
  closed.” 
  Crowe nodded at the threat. That, at least, was expected. “Yes sir,” 
  he said again. 
  “Lieutenant Crowe,” Berdinelli said. “You are to be reinstated at 
  your old rank of lieutenant, receiving no seniority for the six years you 
  have spent with the Home Forces. You will not be required to resign 
  your Home Guard commission; you will be listed as being on second-
  ment while you were suspended from regular fleet duty. You will thus 
  retain seniority earned while in Home Guard service, should you ever 
  return to any branch of the Home Forces.” 
  “Yes sir,” Crowe repeated. It seemed like the safest thing to say. 
  “Now, I know that you have command experience,” Berdinelli went 
  on. “Eleven months as commanding officer of the corvette CSS Rosado. 
  Are you up to taking on an independent command?” 
  “Of course, sir,” Crowe replied. He’d be expected to say that no 
  matter what the job was. 
  “Very well. You’ll be taking temporary command of a new vessel 
  while she works up. There is an outside possibility that you will get to 
  keep her, but I warn you that it’s unlikely. You will be responsible for 
  shaking down the new vessel and reporting on her flaws so that follow-
  on members of her class can be modified on the ways. You will be asked 
  to undertake some patrol work in the surrounding systems, but this is a 
  technical exercise more than anything else. Your engineering background 
  makes you an excellent choice. 
  “This isn’t a glamorous job, Crowe, but it puts you back in the 
  right uniform. Chances are good that you will not even leave your base 
  system for the duration of your tenure as commanding officer, but that 
  does not mean it won’t be tough,” Berdinelli went on. 
  “I appreciate the opportunity, sir,” Crowe said like he was expected 
  to. 
  “You’ll be taking command of CSS Stormshadow. She’s a patrol 
  frigate of a new design, and your input will help eliminate the inevitable 
  teething troubles of a new class. For the duration of this assignment you 
  will hold the acting rank of lieutenant commander. Your orders will be 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 19 
  delivered to your quarters later today, and you’ll begin transit to Carter 
  Naval Base to take command within a few days. Your Home Guard su-
  periors have already been informed. Questions?” 
  “Not at this time, sir.” 
  “Then good luck, Lieutenant Commander,” Berdinelli rose from 
  her seat to shake Crowe’s hand. “Dismissed.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  20 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Carter Naval Base, Barsoom System: 360-1107 
   
   
   
   
  In a brief ceremony held today, the first ship of the Confederation 
  Navy’s newest class was commissioned and formally unveiled to the pub-
  lic. CSS Stormshadow is a 2000-ton patrol frigate armed with a mix of 
  beam weapons and missiles. Also carrying a contingent of marines, her 
  class is to be an integral part of the Iron Gate doctrine revealed three 
  years ago, and will undertake “patrol and intervention” operations 
  rather than joining the fleet forces. 
  CSS Stormshadow will undertake yard trials before being handed 
  over to her duty crew for operational assessment. During this time she 
  will conduct a variety of exercises and tests, and will be available for pa-
  trol operations in nearby systems. 
  Representatives from several planetary governments in the region 
  have welcomed the addition to local patrol forces and the increased na-
  val presence it represents, citing numerous pirate and smuggling 
  incidents in recent years. Rumors that the class is due to be redesignated 
  as a fleet asset and assigned to fleet escort roles are vigorously denied by 
  naval authorities, as is the suggestion that Solomani Security will receive 
  the majority of these vessels. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 21 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Carter Naval Base 
  Barsoom System 
  014-1108 
   
   
   
   
  The little speech had sounded pretty good when he’d written it. 
  Yet somehow, despite all his rehearsals and the work on his delivery, 
  Acting Lieutenant Commander Simon Crowe couldn’t help but feel that 
  his carefully chosen words were coming out flat and dull. He paused for 
  a second, glancing over the divisions of his new crew, the crew of CSS 
  Stormshadow. 
  He’d known what to expect, mainly from what the personnel files 
  didn’t say. Most of the officers were too young or too old for their posts. 
  The older ones were plodders or politically suspect individuals passed 
  over in favor of more zealous colleagues; the younger ones were more 
  varied. None were politically connected, at least not in a positive way. 
  Those with strings to pull pulled them and avoided postings like this 
  one. That left the patrol forces with mediocre or politically unsophisti-
  cated officers, and ships like Stormshadow with a dangerously weak 
  command crew. 
  Crowe took a breath and adjusted his black Navy cap. He ex-
  changed 
  a 
  glance 
  with 
  the 
  one 
  person 
  in 
  Stormshadow’s 
  hold/configurable mission bay that he’d met before, and stifled a grim-
  ace. He’d served with Alice Browning when she was an earnest kid fresh 
  off a Political Awareness course. Now she wore the gray of Solomani 
  Security instead of Navy black, with a lieutenant commander’s insignia. 
  She wore it with pride as the ship’s political officer and “second cap-
  tain.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  22 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Bad enough to have to work with a SolSec goon looking over his 
  shoulder, but it seemed as though she’d developed into a real zealot 
  since Crowe had known her. And to top it all, she was a full lieutenant 
  commander whilst his own promotion was only on an acting basis. He 
  was the captain of the ship but he was outranked by his political officer. 
  Well, there was nothing new there. The political officer always out-
  ranked the captain in real terms, no matter what fictions existed to the 
  contrary. 
  “Gentles,” Crowe began again. “We have been entrusted with . . . 
  well, truthfully, we’ve been handed a very short stick.” 
  A ripple of surprise ran through the divisions, and Browning shot 
  Crowe a hard look from under her cap brim. He went on regardless. 
  “We know the reality of the situation, and I won’t tell you polite lies 
  about it. In fact, I’ll never lie to you. Most of the fleet budget goes to 
  battle assets to keep the Imperials at bay.” That, and politically inspired 
  projects that cost a lot and achieved little, but he wasn’t going to say 
  quite so much in public. 
  “The need to protect our borders—just ten parsecs from here—
  from renewed Imperial aggression absorbs most of the budget, and I 
  don’t have a problem with that. Those ships and bases are preventing 
  another war. We need them. But that means the security and patrol 
  forces get to be Cinderella. That’s just how it is. There’s nothing at all 
  to be done about it, and complaining won’t help. But feel free to grum-
  ble anyway; I won’t censure a crewmember for speaking the truth. 
  “Fact is, though, the job needs doing and we’re the ones tasked 
  with doing it. We’re spread thin, trying to keep the peace on a shoe-
  string, but if we get more ships and people it’s at the expense of the 
  battle fleets. Too much of that and our grandkids will be singing hymns 
  to the Sunburst Banner. And that’s what it comes down to, gentles. We 
  get the job done somehow, so that our comrades-in-arms can hold the 
  line and keep us free. 
  “We really can make a difference out here. Stormshadow and her 
  sisters are the first of a new wave of patrol vessels. Our task is to make 
  the system work, or show that nobody can so that our planners can try a 
  new approach. And that’s how it’s going to be, gentles. We have a big 
  job to do and we’re part of a very small force. We may fail . . .” Brown-
  ing gave him another hard look at that, but he went on regardless. “But 
  if we do, it will be because nobody—absolutely nobody—could have 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 23 
  succeeded. So yes, we’ve been handed a short stick. Stormshadow was 
  rushed to completion and we’re going to have to contend with all her 
  teething troubles whilst on an operational deployment. What we learn 
  will make life easier for the crews of follow-on vessels.” 
  Crowe found himself approaching the closing passage he’d written, 
  only now it felt better, more sincere. “We set forth this day as pioneers. 
  A new crew in a new ship, the first of her class. What we do will light 
  the path for those who follow. So let us strive honorably and with re-
  spect for our ship and for one another. The task is daunting, and there 
  may be those who do not think us able.” 
  Crowe paused for a second, forcing himself not to look at those of 
  his officers whose career thus far suggested that they were not up to the 
  task. “I,” he said at last, “am not among them.” 
  With that Crowe stepped down from the podium and nodded to 
  his new first officer. At fifty-six Miranda Carstairs was still a lieutenant 
  yet not retired from the service, which told Crowe much about her. 
  Clearly out of condition, she over-filled her black uniform. All the same 
  it was crisply pressed and spotless. 
  “We’re scheduled to depart dock for trials in two hours,” Crowe 
  said quietly. “If you’d care to dismiss the divisions and call an officers’ 
  meeting in the wardroom? 
  “Aye sir,” Carstairs responded, ascending the podium step with a 
  little grunt. As she dismissed the crew to their posts, Crowe headed for 
  the forward end of Stormshadow’s multimission bay and the metal stair-
  case up to the command deck. Predictably, Alice Browning fell into step 
  beside him. 
  At thirty-two, Browning looked about five or even ten years 
  younger whereas Crowe was already going gray at thirty-six. Browning’s 
  petite frame seemed constantly bursting with energy. That hadn’t 
  changed, but other things had. There was a hardness about her large 
  brown eyes and an intensity to her gaze that Crowe didn’t like. She’d 
  been such a nice kid, an innocent really, when they’d served together. 
  “Captain,” Browning said formally as a way to start a conversation. 
  “Sir,” Crowe responded. Their situation was awkward in a way that 
  it would not have been if they were both fleet officers. It was not un-
  common for a small ship with a long-serving commander as engineering 
  or gunnery officer to get a new captain who was a mere lieutenant com-
  mander. The protocol was simple—they saluted one another and called 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  24 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  one another “sir” since one was of higher rank in the fleet and the other 
  was the captain of the vessel. Crowe and Browning were technically the 
  same rank at the moment, but Crowe’s promotion was temporary, 
  which could be seen as making him junior to his political officer. Better 
  to err on the side of polite formality, especially when dealing with Sol-
  Sec. 
  “Captain?” Browning said, halting at the base of the staircase. 
  “There’s something we need to deal with right now.” 
  A couple of crewmembers hurried past, eager to be out of earshot of 
  whatever the political officer and the captain might be discussing. The 
  general feeling in the fleet was it was safer not to know about these 
  things. As they departed, Crowe made a “do go on” gesture rather than 
  trying to feel his way through the maze of possible protocols that might 
  apply here. 
  To his surprise, Browning smashed through the walls of the maze. 
  “Simon,” she said. “It’s been a while.” 
  “It has indeed,” he agreed. “Eventful times for some of us.” 
  “In different ways. Well, not that different, I suppose. You trans-
  ferred to the Home Guard while we were suspended, I went to SolSec. 
  And now we’re back.” 
  “I’m back in the regular Fleet,” Crowe agreed. “But I don’t get sen-
  iority for the missing years.” 
  “I do, so long as I stay in SolSec . . . which suits me. It’s interesting 
  work. Not what I set out to do, but we also serve who wear the wrong 
  colored hat . . .” 
  Crowe chuckled dutifully at the old fleet joke. “So, what do we 
  need to sort out?” 
  “The rank thing,” Browning said. “As far as I’m concerned, there 
  isn’t a problem here. Acting or full commander, you’re the captain. My 
  job is to support and advise you.” Her voice caught a little at that, re-
  minding them both of a different time. A time when a very young 
  Lieutenant Crowe asked the advice of his political officer and she had 
  none to give. 
  “It gives the wrong impression if the captain salutes a political offi-
  cer of equal rank,” Browning said, with tight control. “And we’ve got a 
  difficult enough task ahead without muddying the waters that way. So 
  let’s get this straight: mutual respect and courtesy, but you are senior in 
  all ways . . . unless I overrule you on political grounds. Or relieve you.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 25 
  “Very well,” Crowe said, trying to take Browning’s words at face 
  value. Her file suggested she’d turned into some kind of political zealot, 
  or at least a hard-liner, but she was being sensible and friendly and . . . 
  could it be that she genuinely wanted to support her new captain? That 
  might be too much to ask for. 
  “With your permission, Captain,” Browning said suddenly. “I have 
  a final report to send before we depart for our trials.” 
  “Of course,” Crowe said, deliberately informal. Barking “dismissed” 
  seemed inappropriate somehow. He paused for a moment as Browning 
  headed aft, and resumed his progress up to the command deck. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  26 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Barsoom System 
  015-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “BEO?” Crowe asked as conversationally as he could manage, forc-
  ing himself to remain seated despite his frustration. “What’s our 
  technical status?” 
  Sublieutenant William Holmes ran a hand through his neatly-
  trimmed and entirely gray beard. Like the rest of the bridge crew he 
  wore a pressure-tight crewsuit and a peaked Navy cap. His emergency 
  gloves, helmet, and life support belt hung on his duty seat. His cuffs 
  bore a single ring, the only one they’d ever have. Holmes had been pro-
  moted twice in a thirty-year fleet career—from cadet to midshipman 
  and midshipman to sublieutenant. He seemed competent, so his lack of 
  progress was probably for one of two other reasons. Maybe both. 
  “Sir, drive room reports that the coolant leak has been made safe. 
  We do not need to return to port, but Lieutenant Dupuy recommends 
  that we do not undertake full-power maneuvering until a proper repair 
  has been carried out.” Dupuy was little more than half Holmes’s age and 
  his superior . . . and his tone showed how much he liked that. 
  “Understood,” Crowe replied. “Guns, are we ready?” 
  Sublieutenant Christian Roebecker responded in his vast bass voice, 
  “A and B batteries report ready sir. X battery is powered down but 
  charging. Q battery is not loaded. Point defense reports ready.” Roe-
  becker’s huge ebony hands covered much of his console, allowing him to 
  make adjustments to his controls with the tiniest of movements. “Q 
  battery is loading practice missiles now, sir.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 27 
  “Very well, prepare for live fire test,” Crowe said. “Helm, com-
  mence interception of the target drones. Ahead three quarters.” 
  “Aye sir,” replied the chief pilot, a second class petty officer named 
  Williams. “Commencing intercept run now,” 
  “All hands, this is the captain,” Crowe announced. “Live fire exer-
  cise is recommencing.” From the port wing of the bridge, Alice 
  Browning nodded assent. As with any use of the ship’s weapon systems, 
  a live fire exercise required the consent of the political officer. 
  “Sir! X battery reports a malfunction,” Roebecker said. His gigantic 
  voice rose a little as he spoke, but Crowe was not unduly concerned. 
  Roebecker was just a kid, newly qualified from the gunnery school on 
  Vantage and apparently still prone to nerves. He’d settle . . . hopefully. 
  Ignoring Holmes’s exasperated noise, Crowe asked, “What’s the 
  problem?” 
  Roebecker forced calm. “It’s power feed, sir,” he rumbled. “The 
  safety cutout keeps disabling the charge process.” 
  Browning was the first to respond. “The power feed is overloaded,” 
  she said confidently. “You should be able to charge all four turrets at 
  once, but slowly, or one or two at full rate, then transfer the feed to the 
  next. It’s slow, but it’ll work. Oh, sorry Captain . . . my apologies.” 
  “Commander Browning is correct,” Crowe said evenly and with no 
  trace of the annoyance he felt. At least, he hoped not. “Juggle the power 
  feed for now and we’ll make a proper fix when we return to port.” The 
  rest of the bridge crew might be puzzled to hear the political officer sug-
  gesting technical solutions to the gunner, but they were not in the least 
  surprised at the breach of protocol. SolSec was the lord of all it sur-
  veyed, and moments like this served to remind everyone of that fact. 
  “Priority signal from Vice Admiral Spencer, CSN, OS, SS with 
  Swords, commanding Carter Naval Base,” Stormshadow’s computer 
  voice said. “Compliments of the admiral, respect to captain and crew. 
  You are ordered to stand down from weapons test. New orders to follow 
  imminently.” 
  Crowe glanced at the orders scrolling up his repeater—and Brown-
  ing’s too of course. “Mr. Holmes,” he said. “Are we in a condition to 
  jump?” 
  “Uh . . . yes sir, I believe so,” the bridge engineering officer re-
  sponded. “We have fuel and power. Lieutenant Dupuy considers the 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  28 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  coolant pipe to be—in her words—‘suspect’ but feels we can enter jump 
  safely.” 
  “Exec?” Crowe asked. 
  Lieutenant Miranda Carstairs took a while—far too long—to 
  gather her data and answer, “Sir, we are properly provisioned and all 
  necessary crew are aboard. However, we have no combat missiles; only 
  practice ammunition. We are scheduled for three more days of trials, 
  and already we have a problem with X battery and a non-functional tur-
  ret in B battery. We are not properly combat ready, but we can transit.” 
  Crowe looked over the orders again. No reasons had been given, 
  but sending out a ship that was supposed to be on trials to carry out a 
  six-jump patrol with a duration of nine to twelve weeks was something 
  he’d consider only in an emergency. “We can do it—what’s the job?” he 
  muttered with heavy irony, quoting a phrase that fleet personnel used in 
  every propaganda vid he’d ever seen. And occasionally in real life, too. 
  Stormshadow was not combat-ready, and in truth the defects they’d 
  already found warranted a return to base for repairs. But a ship on sta-
  tion was a priceless asset, and even in her weakened state Stormshadow 
  was still a 2000-ton patrol frigate capable of dealing with a range of 
  threats. Was the responsible action to declare the ship unready and ask 
  for the order to be withdrawn, or should they respond like the propa-
  ganda vids suggested? 
  Crowe shot Browning a questioning look. “Captain,” she replied 
  formally. “Political Officer recommends that we overcome our present 
  difficulties en route. Clearly we are needed. We should rise to this chal-
  lenge.” 
  Spoken like a true zealot, Crowe thought, resenting the position she’d 
  just put him in. There was nothing for it but to go along with the politi-
  cal decision even if he was unconvinced. 
  “You have a point, Lieutenant Commander Browning,” Crowe said 
  after a moment’s thought. “Stormshadow: make signal. My compliments 
  and so forth to the admiral, orders received and understood. Will com-
  ply as soon as we are able. Attach a preliminary report of our trials 
  results.” 
  Crowe paused for a moment before switching to the shipwide 
  channel. “All hands, this is the captain. We have been ordered to pro-
  ceed immediately to the Zhongguo system and to carry out a four-jump 
  patrol. Rig for jump. I repeat, rig for jump. This is not a drill.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 29 
  As the crew busied themselves with hurried preparations, Crowe 
  stepped across to Browning’s station. “You more or less committed my 
  ship to this mission before she’s ready. I’d like to know your thinking,” 
  he said. “I mean the real reason, without any political rhetoric.” 
  She shrugged. “The reason is obvious, Captain. Your job is to think 
  about the ship, mine is to consider the political situation. We’re obvi-
  ously needed on that patrol route. Maybe a ship’s been retasked or 
  there’s an incident somewhere. We’re not up to speed but we’re an 
  armed presence and we can do a lot of good just by being there.” 
  “Hmm,” Crowe was unconvinced. “Assuming we can be combat-
  ready by the time something happens. This is a gamble . . . are you sure 
  it’s worth taking?” 
  ”Manifestly, Captain,” Browning said with great confidence. “And 
  besides, there’s another factor at play here that’s worth taking a risk 
  for.” 
  “What’s that?” Crowe demanded. 
  “The honor of the ship and her company, of course,” Browning 
  said, and Crowe could find nothing in her tone to suggest that she was 
  anything less than totally sincere. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  30 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Barsoom System 
  015-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “BEO . . . what’s our drive status?” Crowe said, trying to emulate 
  the conversational tone one of his old commanding officers had used. 
  He was tense, too tense, and it wouldn’t do for the crew to see it. 
  This was Stormshadow’s first jump. True, the yard personnel had 
  run high-power trials and endless semi-live simulations on the whole 
  system, but ultimately the only way to test a ship’s ability to jump was 
  to jump. It was a test that could have very graphic and final results. 
  “Drive room reports all systems ready, Captain,” replied Sublieu-
  tenant Holmes. “We are fully fuelled for two consecutive two-parsec 
  jumps, plus normal reserve for maneuver and small craft operations. Sys-
  tems are online and ready.” 
  “Good. Astrogator?” 
  “Course for Zhongguo laid in and ready, Captain,” replied Miranda 
  Carstairs from her station. On a small ship, officers wore more than one 
  hat and Carstairs was astrogation officer as well as executive officer. The 
  helm could be handled by a petty officer, but fleet regulations stated 
  that astrogators were all commissioned officers. They were, after all, 
  among the small number of personnel aboard any ship who could de-
  stroy it in an instant with a single error. 
  “Very well, commence jump sequence,” Crowe ordered. 
  “Jump sequence, aye sir,” Carstairs responded. 
  “Engineering officer reports fast-burn sequence commenced. System 
  operating within normal parameters,” Holmes said. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 31 
  The jump drive consumed phenomenal amounts of power as it 
  translated the ship into jumpspace, and a significantly smaller amount to 
  maintain the jump field that protected the vessel there during its week-
  long transit. If the system failed or fuel ran out . . . well, actually nobody 
  knew exactly what happened then. Crowe had always wondered if it was 
  really necessary to maintain a jump field, but had no inclination to try 
  that particular experiment. 
  Nobody had reported what happened when a jump field failed, 
  which suggested that the consequences were pretty bad, and an erratic 
  or damaged system was known—from the horrible experiences of per-
  sonnel involved—to produce highly unpleasant and damaging effects. 
  Curious as he was, Crowe had no intention of finding out what might 
  happen if the field dipped below the known safe threshold. 
  “Power has reached adequate levels for jump,” Holmes said. 
  “Go to Ready One,” said Crowe, ordering the officer in charge of 
  initiating jump—normally the astrogator, though it could be done from 
  the drive room—to begin charging the ship’s external jump grid. 
  “Ready One, aye sir,” Carstairs said. “Ready One Initiated . . . 
  Ready One attained.” 
  “BEO?” Crowe asked. 
  “Drive room reports no malfunctions. We can maintain Ready One 
  for at least nine hundred seconds without endangering fuel margins. 
  Drives are ready to jump.” 
  “Go to Ready Two,” Crowe said, resisting the urge to get out of his 
  seat and pace or to lick his dry lips. 
  “Ready Two, aye sir,” Carstairs replied. “Ready Two initiated.” 
  There was a pause of several seconds, then the first officer added, 
  “Ready Two attained. We are ready to jump.” 
  “Very well. BEO?” 
  “Engineering reports ready,” Holmes said. 
  “All hands, this is the captain,” Crowe said into his microphone. 
  “Prepare for imminent jump. Ten seconds. Lieutenant Carstairs, if you 
  please . . . take us into jump.” 
  “Jump insertion, aye sir,” Carstairs replied formally, flipping the 
  cover off the jump-initiation handle and detaching the safety lock. It 
  responded to her biometrics; only designated officers could operate the 
  jump controls. 
  “All hands, jump in five seconds,” Crowe said into his headset. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  32 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Carstairs twisted the jump initiation handle into position. “Jumping 
  in three, two, one . . .” she said, then pushed the handle all the way 
  home until it locked in the far position. “Jumping.” 
  Crowe shuddered as an icy wave of what felt like radio static, or 
  electricity, or silent noise, or . . . something . . . washed over him, leaving 
  a queasy sensation and a moment of disorientation. He heard Holmes 
  slap the console in front of him, arresting his fall. The BEO must have 
  blacked out for a second; that happened to some people, and not always 
  predictably. 
  “Urgh, beer is cheaper and more fun,” Holmes said, shaking his 
  head and trying to focus. Crowe laughed despite his own discomfort. 
  “All stations, report,” Crowe ordered. 
  “Engineering reports no significant issues. The jump drive is operat-
  ing normally in sustained mode, fuel usage is within normal limits—
  Lieutenant Dupuy describes it as ‘encouragingly low’—and we have one 
  minor casualty. A crewman left his station early and fell. Just a scrape, 
  though.” Holmes’s voice firmed up as he read off the report, grogginess 
  already fading. 
  “Operations division reports no casualties, no damage,” Carstairs 
  said. “Astrogation officer reports that we have entered jump successfully. 
  Drive and course parameters indicate a good entry and a high probabil-
  ity of emergence at the target point.” 
  “Acknowledged. Guns?” Crowe asked. 
  “Gunnery department has nothing to report, sir” Roebecker re-
  plied. “Security and minor damage sweep will begin in moments.” 
  “Thank you, guns,” Crowe replied. It was the job of the ship’s gun-
  nery personnel and marines to sweep the ship for anything untoward just 
  after entering jump. The patrols went armed and equipped for damage 
  control, though exactly what threats they might encounter was an open 
  question. Someone somewhere had written a regulation that a security 
  sweep was necessary, so it was done. 
  In practice the patrols simply made a note of any minor damage 
  from vibration and picked up anything that had not been properly se-
  cured. Rarely was there an incident more serious than a cracked coffee 
  pot to deal with. But in theory the patrol might catch stowaways who 
  thought it was safe to emerge from hiding, or spot a serious piece of 
  stress damage before it became fatal. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 33 
  Crowe suspected that the real reason for the patrols was a combina-
  tion of giving the marines and gunners something to do—everyone else 
  had an important task during jump entry, but the fighting crewmembers 
  were utterly redundant—and the equivalent of a parent looking in the 
  closet to reassure their child that there were no monsters in there. 
  Even after centuries of jump travel, it still had an almost supersti-
  tious wrongness about it that made people nervous. There where those 
  that honestly believed that monsters lurked in jumpspace. Crowe, on 
  the other hand, knew how dangerous jump entry could be if something 
  went wrong, and considered monsters to be a much less serious threat 
  than a misplaced digit in the fuel flow calculations. 
  Death by monster would probably be more merciful than what 
  Crowe suspected might happen aboard a critically misjumped vessel. 
  There were no indications that he would be finding out today, though, 
  and that was always something to be thankful for. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  34 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Jumpspace 
  015-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe glanced around the wardroom at his officers. Most of them 
  were present; Carstairs was on the bridge and the marine commander, 
  Morwood, was filling the officer of the watch slot. At present that meant 
  sitting in the ship’s main office waiting for something to happen that 
  required an officer’s attention. 
  The remains of dinner had been cleared away, leaving the command 
  crew to discuss the business of the day over a glass of wine, beer, or 
  whatever else was their preference. Browning drank water; Roebecker 
  liked red wine. Crowe himself had a cup of coffee with a little rum in it, 
  an experiment that wasn’t working out all that well. The rum just made 
  his already less than excellent Navy coffee even more bitter and unpleas-
  ant. 
  Holmes nursed half a glass of beer, sitting as far away as he could 
  from his superior, Lieutenant Fiona Dupuy. Dupuy was approaching 
  thirty, which was not young to be engineering officer aboard a frigate; 
  Holmes was nearing sixty, which was very old not to be. Crowe could 
  see why the animosity between them existed, but that did not make it 
  any more useful. 
  Ironically, both the technical and engineering officers suffered from 
  the same career-stalling flaw. The parts of their files accessible only to 
  the political officer might say more, but even from the hints in the “na-
  val” part of the file it was obvious that both were considered politically 
  suspect. Holmes was openly critical of the Solomani Party that ran the 
  Confederation, while Dupuy’s transgression was not obvious nor specifi-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 35 
  cally listed. It was possibly nothing more than being distantly related to 
  someone arrested for treason years ago, but that was enough to stall an 
  officer’s career these days. 
  The other two officers were totally unalike. Second Lieutenant 
  Piotr Urasnicz of the Confederation Marines was just six weeks out of 
  officer training. He’d retained the incredible standard of fitness that 
  many officer candidates aspired to, hoping that physical prowess might 
  give them an edge in selection and a better berth. It hadn’t worked very 
  well in Urasnicz’s case; he’d ended up aboard Stormshadow. 
  Lieutenant Thomas Connelly, the ship’s doctor, would have done 
  anything to avoid space service. Excessively thin, with a shock of bright 
  red hair and a wispy beard that he must surely have been told to get rid 
  of on many occasions, Connelly had been well on the way to a promising 
  career in neurosurgery when he was drafted into the navy. 
  Promises of fast-track promotion in the medical branch, funding for 
  his final years of study, and a letter of commendation from the navy 
  when his mandatory four years were up had not mollified Connelly in 
  the slightest. Six months into his stint, he was just beginning to find 
  ways of making himself an effective nuisance without incurring serious 
  censure. 
  Crowe had met the type before, and he sympathized. His own naval 
  service was a career choice made whilst studying engineering at the Mar-
  tell Institute on Vantage. He actually wanted to be in uniform and had 
  volunteered. Indeed, rather than leave the service after Santorini he’d 
  transferred to the Home Guard and requested a court-martial. They 
  were going to have to push him out if they wanted rid of him, whereas 
  Connelly would have leaped out the nearest airlock given the chance. 
  “Very well then,” Crowe said over the buzz of conversation. “Din-
  ner is concluded, business may now be discussed. Let’s begin with 
  impressions of the day.” 
  “Well, nobody died,” offered Connelly flippantly. “That’s always 
  good.” 
  “Quite,” Crowe said, not sure exactly how much rein to give his 
  medical officer. “Anything specific?” 
  “We’ve identified a number of design faults, sir,” Dupuy said. 
  “Some of the pipe and conduit routings are . . . suboptimal. Sharp bends 
  are prone to failure when you have high pressure coolant running around 
  them. And some of the piping looks like an afterthought. It protrudes in 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  36 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  places where my crewmembers have to move quickly. We’ve already had 
  some bangs and scrapes, and in a combat situation it could be a serious 
  impediment—might even cause casualties.” 
  “We’ll compile a thorough defects list,” Crowe agreed, wondering 
  how many routine incidents and minor mistakes Dupuy would blame on 
  the ship design. It was an excellent scapegoat for an officer who thought 
  she needed to deflect criticism. “We’ll need your crews to list literally 
  every hazardous bend, protrusion, and badly sited bracket. Run an on-
  going audit; take a small area each shift and compile as we go. By the 
  time we get back to base we should have quite a catalog . . .” 
  “If I might offer an outsider’s impression?” Browning said. “I stand 
  slightly apart from the crew and I’m not part of any department. I’m not 
  speaking from a political point of view, just what I saw as an observer. 
  Actually, no, this is a political point of view . . .” 
  “Do go on,” Crowe said. 
  “Well . . . the jump and maneuver drives function, the weapons test 
  went adequately although some of our weaponry is going to need atten-
  tion. The crew got their jobs done well enough to respond very 
  promptly to a change in orders. There’s plenty that’s not as good as it 
  could be, and naval inspectors might or might not be impressed. But we 
  can move and we can shoot. We can crew our vessel well enough to take 
  it out and do the job. The fleet is a political instrument, especially if you 
  consider naval operations to be ultimately an expression of policy.” 
  “Are you saying you think we’re good enough?” Crowe asked. 
  “Yes and no, sir. I’m saying that this ship is a political instrument 
  and is capable of functioning as one. We have achieved that. Yes, there 
  are many things that can be better, and I really have no idea about how 
  good is going to be good enough. But we can get the job done with what 
  we have. I sensed that during the trials; that’s why I recommended we 
  comply with our new orders. We’re good enough to get started; we can 
  get better as we go.” 
  A moment’s silence greeted this statement of possible approval from 
  the political officer. Then Crowe spoke up. “About these new orders,” 
  he said. 
  Crowe waited a moment for the inevitable grumbling to start, and 
  sure enough Holmes and Connelly both had comments to make about 
  being suddenly yanked from a shakedown exercise and sent haring off 
  into the wilderness. Crowe let them get started and then cut them off, 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 37 
  hoping they would get the point without having to be explicitly told 
  how to behave in the wardroom. 
  “We have been ordered to make a sweep through Zhongguo, Non-
  such, Chinon and Dolor before returning to base via Theseus. Dolor has 
  a small naval base with repair facilities capable of handling ships of our 
  size, so we will spend some time there to repair whatever defects have 
  presented themselves during our cruise. Zhongguo, Nonsuch, and Chi-
  non are short visits, probably two to five days in duration depending on 
  local circumstances. We will spend two to three weeks in the Theseus 
  system, on protection-of-commerce duties, and then return to base, at 
  which point leave will be granted.” 
  Every officer knew that the duration of a patrol in-system was vari-
  able, to prevent hostiles from predicting exactly when a ship would be 
  arriving or leaving. A recommended duration was picked upon arrival by 
  an automated timer to prevent a captain’s habits making him predict-
  able, though many officers routinely ignored the timer. Zhongguo, 
  Nonsuch, and Chinon were backwater systems and had thus been as-
  signed short-duration patrols; Theseus was on a major trade route and 
  was worthy of a longer visit. 
  “We will be making four jumps including this one before reaching 
  the base at Dolor,” Crowe said. “And as usual spending more time in 
  transit than actually in-system. I want to use the time in jump as pro-
  ductively as possible. This redeployment actually means we have longer 
  to go about shaking down the ship, which is good. You don’t know a 
  house until you’ve lived in it for a while, so to speak, and we’re getting 
  longer to live in ours. So, I’d like to take the shakedown steadily and be 
  methodical about it. 
  “My intention is to do a big-issues audit of the ship over the next 
  few days and find anything that requires immediate attention. We’ll be 
  working to restore proper function to the armament as a priority, unless 
  we find something more urgent that needs dealing with. The other criti-
  cal component that needs attention is the crew.” 
  Crowe held up a hand, stifling the automatic protests and expres-
  sions of confidence in the crew. “The crew are obviously competent. As 
  Commander Browning pointed out, we can move and shoot and func-
  tion as a proper navy warship. I want to start building on that as of 
  today. We’ll take a look at watch rosters and working procedures during 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  38 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  this first jump, and run some simple exercises. Nothing complex until 
  we’ve gained a proper familiarity with the ship. 
  “My intentions are simply stated,” Crowe said with a hint of defi-
  ance. “We’ve been handed a short stick. We’ve got a barely-completed 
  vessel and a crew that hadn’t worked together before they were assigned 
  to Stormshadow. Instead of a shakedown we’re on an operational de-
  ployment. My intention is to return to port with a ship and crew to be 
  proud of, fit to be sent straight out again. 
  “In short,” Crowe said to his officers. “I intend to come back to 
  base with a much better ship than we were given.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 39 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Zhongguo System 
  023-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “Signal from Zhongguo Highport, Captain,” Stormshadow’s com-
  mand computer reported within seconds of their emergence from 
  jumpspace. “Emergency band beacon and warning to all vessels. Dock-
  ing permission is denied for the duration of an unspecified emergency.” 
  Crowe exchanged looks with Browning, who shrugged slightly. “I 
  have no relevant information, Captain,” said the political officer, then 
  turned to her console and began sifting through all the data she could 
  collate. 
  “Bridge officers’ situation report,” Crowe said, then added for the 
  benefit of the ship’s computer, “Sound General Quarters and clear for 
  action.” He glanced at the battle plot that flicked into being in front of 
  him. There were two ships in the vicinity of the port; one around eight 
  hundred tons displacement and one that was closer to Stormshadow’s 
  own size. A handful of utility craft were also pegged, plus a couple of 
  system defense gunboats farther out. At least nobody seemed to be 
  shooting at one another. 
  As the klaxon blared there was little movement aboard the vessel. 
  The crew were already at their action stations and suited up for jump 
  emergence. “All hands, this is the captain,” Crowe said on the shipwide 
  channel. “Zhongguo Highport is declaring an emergency and we are 
  proceeding to assist. There is no more information at this time.” 
  “Sir, engineering reports drives are functional within previously re-
  ported limits,” said Sublieutenant Holmes from the bridge engineering 
  officer’s position. “We have sufficient fuel remaining for another jump of 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  40 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  up to two parsecs. Jump drive is offline but will be available in approxi-
  mately thirty minutes. Chief engineer recommends we do not jump 
  without maintenance and recalibration.” 
  “Noted,” Crowe confirmed. 
  “Sir, A and B batteries are charging and will be ready to fire in four 
  minutes,” Roebecker rumbled from the gunnery console. “X battery is 
  charging and will be available in . . . sixty-one minutes at best estimate. 
  Q battery is loading, but have only practice munitions available. Point 
  defense reports ready, but bridge-ventral turret is not responding.” 
  “Tell X battery to charge one turret and take the others offline.” 
  Crowe kept his tone even, but hearing that his ship still had half her 
  teeth missing was uncomfortable to say the least. 
  “Sir, we have full helm and comms capabilities. Operations division 
  reports all stations ready,” As first officer, Miranda Carstairs doubled as 
  the head of the operations division, which handled everything from pi-
  loting the ship to cleaning it. Gunnery fought and engineering handled 
  technical tasks; ops did everything else. 
  “Captain, signal from independent merchant vessel Intrepid Mar-
  keteer. Signal from Imperial liner Catania Star.” Stormshadow’s computer 
  voice reported. The second was intriguing. An Imperial-registered vessel 
  in a system where the port had just declared an emergency? Unusual, 
  and possibly serious. 
  “My compliments, greetings, and whatnot to Marketeer,” Crowe 
  said. “And ask them to please hold. Greetings to the Imperial, play their 
  message.” 
  The space normally filled by the battle plot displayed what looked 
  like an up market hotel’s conference suite. It was a second before Crowe 
  realized that he was looking at the liner’s bridge. Smartly uniformed 
  humans and a couple of Vargr sat at what looked like genuine wood-
  paneled consoles. They wore the red jackets and peaked caps of Tukera 
  Lines, a major Imperial shipping line. The major Imperial shipping line, 
  at least according to their marketing people. 
  The liner’s captain was an old Vargr, with gray around his muzzle 
  and at his throat. The rest of his fur was sandy brown. He wore dual 
  insignia—a civilian captain’s rank and the tabs of an Imperial Navy 
  commander with “retired” bars. “Commander . . . Crowe, isn’t it?” the 
  old Vargr said in oddly accented Galanglic. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 41 
  “Yes . . . yes, sir,” said Crowe, deciding to be more polite than was 
  strictly necessary. His own Galanglic probably sounded strange to 
  someone from the Imperial Core, a couple of sectors and a major state 
  border away. “Lieutenant Commander Simon Crowe, CSS Storm-
  shadow. We’ve just arrived and are assessing the situation.” 
  The Imperial crew knew all that from their sensors and database, 
  but the statement would be considered courteous. Given the ticklish 
  state of cross-border affairs, it was best for everyone to be as polite as 
  possible. “Captain Jensen Garingerry,” the Vargr said, giving a Galangli-
  cized version of his name as a courtesy to those unfamiliar with Vargr 
  pronunciation. “Catania Star, Tukera registry. We have no injuries 
  aboard and do not intend to create an incident out of what just hap-
  pened. We’re on a trade and goodwill mission, so you’ll understand that 
  the absolute last thing on our agenda is causing trouble.” 
  “That’s good to hear, Captain Garingerry,” Crowe said guardedly, 
  wondering what was going on to make such a declaration necessary. 
  “Forgive me, I’ve got a signal incoming from the planetary government.” 
  “Of course, Crowe. When you’ve sorted out your little problem I’d 
  be glad to entertain your officers aboard my ship.” 
  “Appreciated, Catania Star. Stormshadow out.” Crowe glanced at 
  Browning, who had been waggling a hand for attention for a few sec-
  onds. He nodded in her direction. 
  “Captain, I’ve got the government on comms. I’m handling it,” 
  Browning reported, making Crowe bite down on a retort. That was pre-
  sumptuous, but within SolSec’s remit. But then, what was not within 
  their remit? He turned his attention to the merchant vessel instead. 
  “Intrepid Marketeer. This is . . .” Crowe began, but his words were 
  buried under an avalanche of protests, complaints, and threats to go to 
  the navy board from the independent ship’s captain. Somewhere in the 
  middle of the rant, Crowe managed to glean that Intrepid Marketeer had 
  been ordered to break off a docking approach and get out of the way as 
  Catania Star hurriedly departed the port. Now both ships were stuck in 
  a holding pattern and the port was closed and the incomparably valuable 
  perishable cargo aboard Marketeer was spoiling and there were Imperial 
  spies aboard that liner damn-it-all and . . . 
  Crowe listened for long enough that an board of inquiry would not 
  consider him “lacking in courtesy to civilian commercial vessels” then 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  42 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  broke the connection, leaving the Intrepid Marketeer’s skipper in mid-
  rant. He turned to Browning, trying not to frown. 
  “Captain, the Minister for Internal Affairs of Zhongguo is request-
  ing Aid to Civil Power,” Browning said flatly. 
  Crowe did not react, not outwardly anyway. Aid to Civil Power was 
  a direct request for military assistance from the Confederation armed 
  forces. Maybe Browning was not being so presumptuous after all—such 
  a request had to go through the political officer of any force or vessel. 
  Crowe swallowed his annoyance and simply said, “Explain?” 
  “There is serious rioting at the highport and some planetside as 
  well. The latter is contained for now, but the security services at the 
  port have lost control over large parts of the facility. Notably, that in-
  cludes the docking areas. They can’t get troops up from the planetary 
  surface to restore control.” 
  “How did this happen?” Crowe asked, mainly to buy time to think. 
  “Apparently, someone took exception to the Imperial delegation—
  the one that came in aboard that liner. The whole place must have been 
  a powder keg though, with some pretty major underlying issues, because 
  the result was instant anarchy. The security forces managed to get the 
  Imperials back to their ship and out of the port, but they’re more or less 
  besieged in the control section now, with armed mobs running around 
  the port looting the place and fighting one another.” 
  “One another?” Crowe said. 
  “I have no information on what they’re fighting over, but I could 
  take an educated guess,” Browning offered. “If I sift through some intel-
  ligence data and recent news reports, get some idea about which factions 
  are dominant . . .” 
  “We don’t care,” Crowe broke in. “The highport is a government 
  facility and it’s in the hands of rioters. We have been requested to pro-
  vide assistance. I presume that they want us to retake the docking area 
  so they can bring up their own forces to restore order? Surely they don’t 
  think we carry enough troops to subdue the rioting on our own.” 
  “The highport’s population is just over eighteen thousand at the 
  most recent estimate,” Browning offered. “The world government 
  knows we carry only one platoon of marines. I made sure of that.” 
  “Advise the minister for internal affairs that we intend to recapture 
  and hold part of the docking area,” Crowe said after a moment’s pause. 
  “Be sure that he understands our forces are very limited and can hold for 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 43 
  only a short time if seriously attacked. And that they’re not security 
  trained, they’re combat troops. If these rioters attack our people there 
  will be fatalities.” 
  “Yes sir,” Browning replied, adding after a moment, “Understood 
  and accepted.” 
  “Then inform the government of Zhongguo that we stand ready to 
  assist them,” Crowe said. “Exec? I want a briefing with the marine offi-
  cers and yourself in the wardroom. Ten minutes.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  44 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Zhongguo System 
  023-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe watched the operation unfold on his plot. The early stages 
  went well enough; the two shuttles reached the docking area and took 
  up position a few meters from one of the launch bay doors. They were 
  shut and sealed, of course, but Crowe had planned for that. 
  The shuttles were carrying a platoon of marines between them, plus 
  a handful of volunteers from among the crew with Lieutenant Carstairs 
  in overall command. As Crowe observed, a vacc-suited squad disem-
  barked from one shuttle and began cutting through a maintenance 
  access hatch, sealing the hole with a flexible boarding lock. Two eight-
  marine sections then entered the docking area while the third section, 
  along with Carstairs’s volunteers, waited in the second shuttle. 
  The marines were armed for bear. Each trooper carried either a 
  4.8mm bullpup assault rifle or the slightly longer light support version of 
  the same weapon, using an 80-round drum instead of the 42-round 
  magazine of the rifles. One man in each section had a multirole launcher 
  under the barrel of his rifle, capable of delivering either a breaching 
  charge or an anti-personnel grenade. The rifles were backed up by hand-
  guns, grenades and bayonets in case things got really desperate. 
  The boarding party remained suited as they moved through the 
  maintenance area, despite the fact that atmospheric integrity had not 
  been compromised by their entry. As they reached the docking bay floor 
  the two sections split up; eight marines moving to secure the docking 
  control areas along with the marines’ second-in-command, Second Lieu-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 45 
  tenant Piotr Urasnicz. The other section split into two teams of four 
  and began searching the docking bays for any threat that might emerge. 
  Crowe split his feed, superimposing the view from Lieutenant 
  Urasnicz’s helmet camera on a general situation map that used what he 
  hoped was an up to date schematic of the port. Urasnicz’s squad was 
  moving fast, following standard combat zone drills. Marines leapfrogged 
  from one position to another in pairs, those not moving covering those 
  that were. Urasnicz himself was in the middle of the group, his L68A4 
  rifle tracking possible ambush points. 
  Now and then a lone civilian or a small knot of portside workers 
  bolted at the sight of the space-suited marines, or stood still with hands 
  clearly visible. Most of them looked scared, caught up in events beyond 
  their control. It was impossible to tell what anyone might do, though, so 
  the marines carefully watched everyone they passed, ordering anyone in 
  the way to stand aside. 
  Just short of the control area, Urasnicz’s squad came across a hand-
  ful of port workers and civilians. They were tending to a couple of 
  workers and a security guard who seemed to have been roughed up. At 
  the approach of the marines, most looked relieved and a babble of ex-
  planations broke out. 
  “One at a time!” Urasnicz barked. He pointed at an older woman 
  in a Port Authority uniform with supervisor’s insignia. “SITREP,” he 
  demanded. 
  The supervisor blinked and fiddled with her forage cap for a mo-
  ment, trying to collect her thoughts. Then she dragged herself more 
  upright, almost to attention, and spat out a surprisingly concise descrip-
  tion of recent events. The gist of it was as expected: A mob of what 
  seemed to be rioters had stormed the docking bay control area, beaten 
  the guards pretty severely and taken their weapons. Now about a dozen 
  people, with at least three firearms, were holed up in the control offices. 
  No shots had been fired. 
  “What’s this all about?” Urasnicz demanded. 
  The supervisor shrugged. “It came out of nowhere. The Imperial 
  ship had been in dock for about three hours when a mob tried to storm 
  it. Portside security did what they’re supposed to and protected the visi-
  tors.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  46 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  She seemed to be looking for vindication, but Urasnicz was not in-
  terested in making the port authority feel better about fighting their 
  own people on behalf of Imperials. “Casualties?” he demanded. 
  “Some, none fatal. Shots were fired.” 
  “And this triggered a widespread riot?” Urasnicz asked. 
  Crowe’s irritation had been growing as he listened to the exchange. 
  Despite his determination not to micromanage his people, he needed to 
  get the mission back on track. “Lieutenant Urasnicz,” he said. “Shuttles 
  are lifting off from the downport with government troops aboard. We 
  need the docking area secured immediately.” 
  “Sir!” Urasnicz barked. “All right squad, prepare to move up. Get 
  all noncombatants out of the docking area and assist these casualties.” 
  The latter was for the benefit of the port workers. Some of them seemed 
  to be Home Guard members who might be willing to assist the marines, 
  but Urasnicz rightly decided not to trust anyone but his own squad. 
  The marines resumed their advance, reaching the control area in 
  moments. The approach corridor had been crudely barricaded with of-
  fice furniture, and there were a couple of civilians hunkered down 
  behind the pile of overturned desks and chairs. 
  “Confederation marines!” Urasnicz yelled out, stepping into the 
  corridor. Two of his marines flanked him, weapons not quite pointed at 
  the barricade. It might offer some concealment and could possibly stop 
  handgun rounds, but automatic fire from the marines’ matte-black 
  4.8mm assault rifles would slash right through the flimsy cover. 
  Urasnicz gave the civilians long enough to take a good look at him, 
  then added, “Throw out your weapons and come out with your hands 
  up.” 
  “We’re unarmed!” one of the civilians called back, making no at-
  tempt to move. 
  “Come out now!” 
  “You’ve got no authority here!” one of the civilians called back. 
  “We are giving Aid to Civil Power. This is a government-owned fa-
  cility and we have been ordered to return it to proper control. 
  Interference is a criminal act, and we are empowered to use whatever 
  means are necessary. 
  “You wouldn’t fire on unarmed people!” came the retort, but the 
  other civilian seemed less sure. He spoke urgently and rapidly to his 
  companion. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 47 
  Crowe finally ran out of patience. “Mister Urasnicz!” he snapped 
  into his headset. “Government shuttles are inbound with troops aboard. 
  I told them they would have a place to land. Be so kind as to take care 
  of it, if you will.” He switched channels. “Lieutenant Carstairs?” 
  “Sir?” came the immediate response from Stormshadow’s executive 
  officer, aboard one of the shuttles outside the docking bay. 
  “Lieutenant Carstairs, is Lieutenant Morwood with you?” Crowe 
  knew she was; his situation plot showed the commander of Storm-
  shadow’s marines right beside the executive officer. 
  “I’m here, Captain,” Morwood responded. 
  “Mister Urasnicz is dragging his feet,” Crowe said with deliberate 
  calm. “You may need to take more direct action. Brief the reserve for an 
  explosive entry to the docking bay and warn the squads inside for de-
  pressurization. If Mr. Urasnicz does not have the doors open in six 
  hundred seconds, you will blow them and then cut away sufficient of the 
  debris to permit entry.” 
  Crowe glanced across at Browning, expecting some comment, but 
  the “second captain” just nodded assent. “I’m talking to the Minister, 
  Captain,” she said. “He’s asking for an update.” 
  “Tell him we’ve got people aboard and we’re working to secure the 
  docking area. His shuttles are, what, twenty-five minutes out? The bay 
  will be secure for them. Assure him of that.” 
  “Sir,” Browning acknowledged. They both knew it was a hopeful 
  assurance rather than a certainty, but that was the way things often 
  played out—make a commitment and then try to deliver on it. Usually 
  the navy succeeded; often enough that its promises were considered the 
  equivalent of physical laws in some circles. Mainly by people who did 
  not know what it could cost to deliver on a promise. 
  Urasnicz was finally moving, leading his squad forward at a deter-
  mined pace. One of the civilians at the barricade bolted down the 
  corridor. The other hopped smartly over it and sat down on an office 
  desk with a smug sneer on his face. 
  Crowe bit back the urge to tell Urasnicz what to do. Both of his 
  marine officers were young and inexperienced; they needed to build con-
  fidence and yelling orders at them would not help with that. But all the 
  same, Crowe could see what was happening. The civilian was the sort of 
  self-righteous idiot who believed that his cause was The One True Way. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  48 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  He was right, everyone else was wrong, and because of that nobody was 
  allowed to do anything bad to him. 
  Two of the marines bodily picked up the civilian and tossed him 
  aside. “You are not under arrest. Go home and stay there until the crisis 
  is over,” Urasnicz said as his squad kicked the improvised barricade 
  aside. He turned to follow them through the gap, then stumbled as the 
  civilian grabbed at him. Urasnicz turned, struggling with his outraged, 
  purple-faced attacker. 
  One of the marines solved that particular problem with a blow of a 
  rifle butt to the kidney area, and a stamp into the back of the knees. 
  The civilian collapsed writhing to the ground, gasping out threats and 
  protests. 
  “You know,” Browning said conversationally, “I’d expect a com-
  plaint about that to come in sooner or later, probably through the very 
  government that we’re trying to support. People like that are quite will-
  ing to use the system when they’re not waving placards about how much 
  they hate it. For the record, that marine acted correctly and with great 
  restraint considering the circumstances.” 
  Crowe nodded, adding, “We’re acting with a bit too much restraint 
  right now. Urasnicz needs to get moving.” 
  Although the command feed had been off when his captain spoke, 
  Urasnicz began leading his squad at a rapid march to the control room. 
  They rounded the final bend to find a handful of young people, mostly 
  in civilian clothes with yellow-and-blue armbands, blocking the corri-
  dor. Urasnicz halted and started talking again, but this time Crowe’s 
  patience had run out. 
  “Lieutenant Morwood, tell Urasnicz to get those people out of the 
  way!” Crowe ordered, and within seconds the order had bounced down 
  the chain of command. Still Urasnicz hesitated, exchanging words with 
  the armband-wearing protestors, rioters, or whatever they were. 
  “Lieutenant Carstairs,” Crowe grated. “Explosive entry is a go. 
  Morwood is to deploy her breaching team immediately and begin em-
  placing explosives. Detonation is authorized as soon the charges are in 
  place unless directly countermanded by myself. Cut away the debris and 
  enter the docking bay with the utmost dispatch. Secure the docking bay 
  against all hostile forces and await arrival of government troops.” 
  “Acknowledged, sir,” Carstairs said nervously. “Sir, Lieutenant 
  Morwood informs me that the squad already in the bay has encountered 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 49 
  civilians who refuse to leave. They are not suited. If we open the dock-
  ing gates or if we breach them, any unprotected personnel will be 
  killed.” 
  “I am aware of that, Lieutenant,” Crowe replied. “You have your 
  orders.” 
  “Sir, I protest!” Carstairs burst out. Crowe wasn’t sure whether she 
  was just covering her ass for the inevitable inquiry or protesting for what 
  might be considered more valid reasons, but he was out of time. He 
  took a second to flick between Urasnicz’s helmet camera feed and the 
  general situation plot. Then, as if accidentally, he switched to the gen-
  eral command frequency that Urasnicz, Morwood, Carstairs and the 
  whole incompetent mob of them could hear. 
  “All hands, brace for acceleration,” Crowe said. “Pilot. Commence 
  least-time approach on the docking bay areas. Take us close by on an 
  attack vector. Guns. Point defense ready, we may need it. Get bridge-
  ventral online if you possibly can. A and B batteries will target the dock-
  ing bay doors. You will fire as you bear, and you will continue firing 
  until there is a gap in the doors wide enough for shuttles to enter 
  through. Political Officer. You concur?” 
  Crowe turned to glare right at his “second captain.” She flinched a 
  little at the raw fury and frustration she saw; she’d seen it before. Her 
  voice was absolutely even as she responded. “Lieutenant Commander 
  Alice Browning, Political Officer, CSS Stormshadow.” Browning paused, 
  looking her captain in the eye with a little fear but an equal amount of 
  resolve. After a slight pause she finished her sentence. “I concur with 
  Commander Crowe’s orders.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  50 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Zhongguo System 
  024-1108 
   
   
   
   
  The wardroom door closed behind Lieutenant Morwood, leaving 
  Browning and Crowe alone for the first time in a whole and very event-
  ful day. 
  “So,” Crowe said at last. “It might help if our reports match up. 
  The big picture is . . . better than it might have been. Zhongguo High-
  port is back under government control, with no fatalities. None caused 
  by the Confederation Navy, anyway.” 
  “I was planning on telling the truth,” Browning retorted, a little 
  sharply. They were both tired and irritable, which could make the usual 
  tension between captain and political officer worse. 
  “So was I, at least most of it. Some details might be . . . counter-
  productive.” 
  Browning nodded at that. “Yes. The fact that you . . . we . . . had to 
  bluff our own officers into thinking we were about to shoot our way into 
  the highport with the ship’s guns? That might not reflect well on them.” 
  “It wasn’t a bluff, Alice,” Crowe said. “But I would prefer to report 
  that we did that as a backup plan to overcome setbacks than because 
  our own people failed to carry out their orders.” 
  “The vertical stroke is a myth,” Browning replied. “If some of our 
  people underperformed, it doesn’t necessarily mean censure for the 
  whole chain of command.” 
  “I know that.” Crowe wasn’t a hundred percent sure, in truth, that 
  a failing in his crew would not attract the dreaded “vertical stroke” from 
  whoever felt distant enough to dump his wrath upon everyone involved 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 51 
  with the incident. It was one way a senior officer could protect himself 
  from the repercussions of a bungled mission. “It’s just that our officers 
  do have some promise. If they’re crushed now then they’ll be worthless.” 
  “Fair enough,” Browning said. “From the top then. My impression 
  is that Carstairs is what her file suggests—a plodder who should never 
  have been given a first officer’s berth no matter how much seniority she 
  might have. She’s a good, steady officer in many ways. The sort that 
  keeps the ship working properly and gets the paperwork done. She’s not 
  a fighting officer and she never will be.” 
  “I agree, more or less. As first officer, Carstairs was the only possible 
  choice for forward command of the operation. She not only failed to 
  provide adequate leadership but as far as I can tell she actually stalled 
  Morwood when she was pushing for action. And then she protested in-
  stead of acting when we needed to move.” 
  “The protest was . . . in many ways . . . fair enough,” Browning said 
  carefully. “But Carstairs may have protested more because she did not 
  want to take responsibility for acting. The marines had warned the lo-
  cals to clear the dock and they refused. They’d had fair warning and 
  they’d created the situation in the first place. Carstairs’s lack of decisive 
  action jeopardized the mission.” 
  “Agreed,” Crowe said. “Morwood was stuck in a difficult position, 
  with a subordinate who wasn’t getting the job done and an immediate 
  superior who wasn’t making things any easier. I fail to see how she had a 
  chance to make much difference, though she should have been leaning 
  on Urasnicz a lot harder and maybe pushing the teams in the bay to be 
  more forceful.” 
  “Urasnicz.” Browning said the marine officer’s name carefully, as 
  though even mentioning it meant opening a can of worms. 
  “Both our marine officers suffer from the same problem: inexperi-
  ence. Morwood should be doing Urasnicz’s job, serving out a couple 
  more years as support officer and following simple orders. She’s not 
  ready to be the senior marine officer on site, and she doesn’t yet under-
  stand how much authority she has. Nor is she ready to act as a mentor 
  for Urasnicz.” 
  Browning nodded at Crowe’s evaluation. “True. Urasnicz is just a 
  few weeks out of training and this was his first deployment. I got the 
  impression that he allowed the bad guys to stall him mainly because he 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  52 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  was scared to commit himself. Once Morwood started yelling at him he 
  got going and cleared the control area well enough.” 
  “Well, we’ve established that our marine contingent can bash peo-
  ple with rifle butts to an adequate standard, and that they can win a 
  fight with an approximately equal number of more or less unarmed civil-
  ians. That’s about the best we can say about it. This was not our finest 
  hour.” Crowe suddenly chuckled wryly as a thought struck him. 
  “What is it?” Browning asked. 
  “What if this was our finest hour?” Crowe said. “We suspected, and 
  now we know, that our command personnel are dangerously weak. The 
  next time could be much worse. Question is, do we try to build them 
  up, give them confidence, and hope they’ll rise to the challenge, or do 
  we try to get rid of some of them?” 
  “Any replacements we’d get will have the same flaws—plodders, 
  over-promoted and inexperienced, politically suspect or some combina-
  tion of all those. It might be better to work with what we have,” 
  Browning suggested. 
  “We’ll be giving them a chance to screw up in ever-larger ways,” 
  Crowe said. “But all the same, my feeling is that you’re right. Urasnicz 
  froze, not because he didn’t know what to do, but because he wasn’t 
  willing to take responsibility for doing it. Morwood lacked the confi-
  dence to make him act, and Carstairs just never got the habit of making 
  decisions. Maybe they’ll grow into real officers if we let them. Let’s give 
  them a chance.” 
  “So we write this up in a positive light?” Browning said. 
  “No, we write the bald truth and let it speak for itself. But we also 
  accept what happened and work on being better next time . . .” Crowe 
  trailed off, lost in thought, and Browning nodded sadly, knowing just 
  what he was thinking. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 53 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Santorini System 
  231-1101 
   
   
   
   
  Lieutenant Simon Crowe scratched at the feeble attempt he’d made 
  at the “navy beard” popular among warship captains at present. He’d 
  started growing it the day he’d taken command of the escort corvette 
  CSS Rosado and now, three months later, it was still more of an embar-
  rassment than a fashionable accessory to his uniform. He decided he’d 
  shave the damned thing off tonight . . . assuming he still had a ship. 
  CSS Rosado was one of a cluster of escort corvettes assigned to the 
  heavy cruiser Mackensen, charged with protecting her as she made a run 
  at the Laputan invasion force’s transports. Like many escorts, Rosado 
  was commanded by a mere lieutenant and was closely subordinated to 
  the escort group commanding officer—an actual lieutenant com-
  mander—and thence to the captain of the vessel she was assigned to 
  protect. 
  The mission was simple enough: keep fighters, strike boats, and 
  missiles away from Mackensen as she made her run at the enemy force. 
  The corvettes formed an inverted cone ahead of their charge, creating a 
  potent crossfire that so far had eliminated every missile sent at the heavy 
  cruiser. 
  Crowe glanced at his battle plot and smiled grimly. The Laputan 
  main battle fleet was taking a pasting from the regular navy, and with 
  most of their ground forces still aboard the transports it seemed that 
  today’s action might bring the bitter Bootes Trade War to an end. Had 
  the Laputan assault succeeded in seizing key cities on Santorini, they 
  could have been used as bargaining chips. But the gamble had failed—
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  54 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  was failing—and the assault would likely not even be launched. With 
  nothing to bargain with, Laputa would be forced to accept a dictated 
  treaty. 
  “Signal from Rear Admiral Berdinelli, fleet commander. Compli-
  ments to all captains and well done to all crews,” said Rosado’s 
  computer, “Laputan naval forces have surrendered. All vessels are to as-
  sume a defensive stance and await further orders.” 
  Crowe grinned in satisfaction. “Gunnery Officer,” he said to his 
  vessel’s newest crewmember. “Assume defensive posture. Continue to 
  protect the flagship.” 
  “Defensive posture, aye sir,” she replied crisply. The new midship-
  man seemed like a nice kid, just out of the fleet gunnery school at 
  Vantage and on her first posting. Crowe was a little concerned that 
  she’d taken the Political Awareness course as well, and was technically 
  his “political advisor” as well as the corvette’s gunnery chief. Bigger ships 
  got a specialist political officer but corvettes had to make do with who-
  ever had attended the four-week course. 
  Crowe considered himself lucky not to have a proper political offi-
  cer looking over his shoulder, but a kid with an over-inflated sense of 
  her importance could be just as much trouble. He spoke to the ship’s 
  computer-controlled communications system. “Signal the flagship, my 
  compliments and suchlike; ask Captain Matthen to confirm our orders if 
  he’d be so kind,” Crowe said. 
  Before the signal could have been sent, let alone a reply received, a 
  signal came in from the flagship. “All vessels, task force Mackensen. 
  Compliments of Captain Matthen to all officers; we are ordered to de-
  sist offensive operations and close the Laputan transport fleet. 
  Transports have not surrendered but now have non-combatant status. 
  They are to be escorted out to a suitable jump point and be permitted 
  to depart the Santorini system. We are to fire only in self-defense. Please 
  signal receipt and compliance.” 
  Crowe started to respond when a second signal came in from the 
  same source. “Mackensen. Belay previous order. Form on me and attack!” 
  “Query that!” Crowe snapped. “Maintain defensive posture.” 
  “Sir, Mackensen has gone to maximum acceleration,” Midshipman 
  Browning reported. 
  “Stay with her!” Crowe ordered. “And clarify that last order!” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 55 
  “This is Lieutenant Commander Jorgenssen of Solomani Security, 
  now commanding CSS Mackensen. Captain Matthen has been arrested 
  and I have assumed command under Solomani Security emergency pro-
  tocols. If that force is allowed to withdraw then Laputa and her allies 
  can continue the war. It must be forced to surrender unconditionally or 
  be destroyed. We must attack, for the future of the Confederation! One 
  last push and victory is ours!” 
  Crowe’s battle plot showed the escort force scattering into disarray. 
  Only his own ship had reacted fast enough to stay with the big cruiser 
  and until the others caught up Rosado was the only cover Mackensen had. 
  Not that she needed much; the transports were protected only by a 
  handful of second-line destroyers. They were coming about gamely, 
  heading out to meet the attack while the transports attempted to make 
  a run for it. 
  There were tens of thousands of ground troops aboard those ves-
  sels, Crowe knew. A huge military asset whose loss would probably force 
  Laputa to surrender, but also people with homes and families, protected 
  by a condition of their fleet’s surrender. Signals came in with dizzying 
  speed: threats to fire from the transports’ escort force, orders to stand 
  down from fleet command, messages of agreement and support from 
  some ships. One of the distant Laputan cruisers began accelerating to-
  ward Mackensen, a pointless gesture that drew warning shots from the 
  Confederation fleet. 
  “Signal from Mackensen,” said Rosado’s computer. “Message reads: 
  ‘Knew I could rely on you, Crowe. Glad to have you.’ ” 
  “Do not respond!” Crowe barked. “Political Officer! Your advice 
  now if you please.” 
  The new midshipman unlocked her seat and turned to face her cap-
  tain. He brown eyes were wide and bright as she spread her hands. “Sir, 
  I just don’t know . . .” 
  “You trained for this! What’s your advice?” Crowe pushed, but his 
  political officer had nothing to offer. 
  “Mackensen requests that all escorts detach and pursue the trans-
  ports. She will deal with the escort force.” Rosado’s computer said. 
  “Corvette force is to follow Rosado’s lead. Lieutenant Crowe is assigned 
  as officer commanding until further notice.” 
  “Midshipman!” Crowe barked. “What do you advise?” 
  “Sir, I . . . I don’t know what to do.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  56 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Then concentrate on gunnery!” Crowe barked. In the battle plot 
  he saw the short and gallant action unfolding as a handful of old de-
  stroyers went to destruction against a heavy cruiser. Mackensen swatted 
  them easily, and even had missiles to spare for a strike against the trans-
  ports. 
  The gap closed as Crowe’s gaggle of escorts raced in to attack the 
  fleeing transports. Mackensen’s missile salvo began to overtake the cor-
  vettes, and as the transports opened fire Crowe could see how weak 
  their armament was. Even a few small escorts could destroy all the tar-
  gets before they reached the jump point, assuming the missile salvo left 
  them any work to do. 
  Meanwhile signals buzzed in. Fleet command ordered the corvettes 
  to stand down but their immediate superior cheered on their attack. 
  Just for once Crowe found himself longing for a political officer who 
  could unravel the complexities that existed beyond the chain of com-
  mand and tell him what to do for the best. For now, he was committed; 
  he had been from the moment he’d matched his acceleration with Mack-
  ensen and become the corvette force’s leader. 
  Jorgenssen had taken command of the cruiser to do what needed to 
  be done, and he trusted Crowe to make that happen. They were ship-
  mates from Maestrale, survivors of the torpedo attack on Josef Valaki. 
  And this was still wrong. 
  “Guns! Target the missile salvo and engage!” Crowe heard himself 
  saying. “Make signal to corvette force to do likewise. Signal the trans-
  ports, my compliments and such like, they are clear to run for the jump 
  point. We will cover their withdrawal against rogue fleet elements. Sig-
  nal fleet command, my compliments, etc. Inform Admiral Mueller that 
  we intend to ensure the safety of surrendered enemy vessels for the 
  honor of the fleet.” 
  “Captain!” the new midshipman reported. “Most of our consorts 
  are firing on the missile salvo. CSS Cairoli is accelerating past us on an 
  attack vector. She’s going for the transports.” 
  “Signal from Mackensen,” Rosado’s computer said. 
  “Ignore it! Order Cairoli to break off.” 
  Crowe watched his sister ship continue on her attack pass for a 
  moment, and knew for certain that her captain had decided to follow 
  Mackensen’s lead. The cruiser was firing more missiles, which seemed to 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 57 
  be aimed at the transports rather than her former escorts. That was 
  something, at least. 
  “Make signal,” Crowe ordered. “My compliments, etc., to Cairoli 
  but if she doesn’t break off I’ll fire on her.” 
  “Captain?” said several voices on the corvette’s tiny bridge at once, 
  but only one mattered. That was the quiet, scared acknowledgement 
  from the gunnery officer that she had a firm solution on their sister ship 
  and was ready to fire. 
  “Make signal,” Crowe said. “My compliments etc. to corvette 
  group, they are to target the new missile salvo from Mackensen and pro-
  tect the transports. My compliments to Lieutenant Commander 
  Jorgenssen, beg to inform him that former hostile vessels have surren-
  dered and fleet command is ordering us to let them go. Query his 
  receipt of that signal and retransmit it from recording for his benefit. 
  And tell Cairoli to stand down or we fire on her.” 
  “Corvette group acknowledges. Mackensen orders us to fire on the 
  transports. No response form Cairoli,” Rosado’s computer reported. 
  “Very well then,” said Lieutenant Crowe of the Solomani Confed-
  eration Navy. “Gunnery Officer, do you have a solution on Cairoli?” 
  “Yes sir.” 
  “Is she decelerating or breaking off?” 
  “No sir.” 
  “Then, Midshipman Browning, I am ordering you to fire on our sis-
  ter ship. Your protest is noted.” 
  “I didn’t . . .” she began, then cut herself off. “Aye sir. Firing.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  58 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Carter Naval Base, Barsoom System, 030-1108 
   
   
   
   
  News has just arrived of an uprising on the world of Zhongguo. De-
  tails are as yet unclear but it appears that the incident began at the 
  highport when an angry crowd attempted to storm a visiting Imperial 
  vessel. The rioters were repelled despite overwhelming numbers, but 
  only after inflicting numerous casualties on the security forces. 
  Security personnel are said to have acted with admirable restraint 
  under the circumstances, though there have been the usual accusations 
  of excess from among those who attacked those charged with keeping 
  the peace. 
  Although relations with the Third Imperium are troubled, Imperial 
  vessels are protected by the same laws as Confederation ships when in 
  Confederation space. The Imperial vessel was advised to leave the high-
  port for its own safety, as the port was at that time the scene of violent 
  rioting. Riots also broke out in some areas of Zhongguo, with crowds 
  chanting “Sirius Rising!” and hurling missiles at the security forces. 
  Although segments of the highport were overrun, order was quickly 
  restored by a force of Solomani Security personnel from the Downport, 
  ably assisted by marines from a visiting Confederation Navy warship. 
  Zhongguo Highport remains on the security watch list and visitors are 
  advised to take extra care, but the situation appears to be under control. 
  The meaning of the phrase “Sirius Rising” remains unknown. A sen-
  ior Solomani Security official has announced that an investigation will 
  be conducted as part of a wider examination of the issues surrounding 
  the Zhongguo incident. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 59 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Nonsuch System 
  034-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Lieutenant Miranda Carstairs vacated the captain’s chair as Crowe 
  entered the frigate’s bridge. The plot was already active, showing the 
  dirtball world of Nonsuch and a system pretty much empty of starships. 
  That had caused some concern when they’d arrived; there was supposed 
  to be a task force here. With no reason to suppose otherwise, it seemed 
  most likely that the force had moved on to another system. 
  An emergence from jump a few minutes ago had summoned Crowe 
  from his bunk, and as he flopped into his bridge chair he called up data 
  on the newcomer. He sucked his teeth, then hid his reaction. This was 
  going to be unpleasant. 
  Browning and Roebecker entered the bridge and took their sta-
  tions. The gunnery officer displaced a rating who’d been monitoring the 
  console, but Browning’s seat was empty. Nobody but the political offi-
  cer ever sat there, and most proper black-hat-navy officers would not 
  want to. 
  “Make signal,” Crowe said, trying to keep weary resignation out of 
  his voice. “Greetings to CSS Lesos, my compliments and such like to her 
  captain.” 
  “Signal from CSS Lesos,” said Stormshadow’s computer. 
  “Play it.” 
  The battle plot was replaced with a view of a corvette’s bridge, not 
  unlike that of Crowe’s first command CSS Rosado. Almost exactly the 
  same in fact; Lesos was a sister ship of Rosado. Her captain was a bit too 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  60 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  senior to still be in corvettes and not be a squadron commander, but 
  both he and Crowe knew why that had happened. 
  “Crowe,” Lesos’s captain said without any of the usual pleasantries. 
  “Lieutenant Commander Michaelson,” Crowe responded as po-
  litely as he could manage. “I’m transmitting our latest SITREP; Task 
  Force Mikula has apparently departed the system. No activity here since 
  we arrived.” 
  “I know Mikula isn’t here, Crowe! I’ve just delivered her dispatches 
  to Dolor naval base.” 
  “I assume that there’s no problem and Mikula’s redeployment is 
  routine?” 
  “Obviously!” Michaelson snapped. “I have no updated orders for 
  you. You can continue your patrol as scheduled. Be advised that you’re 
  pretty much the only ship in the area at present. I’m proceeding in to 
  refuel at Nonsuch starport. Lesos out.” 
  Crowe sat quietly for a while, breathing deeply and gently. Gradu-
  ally the adrenaline faded a little and he felt able to explain the situation. 
  There were questioning looks from the bridge officers, all except Brown-
  ing. She needed no explanation of why Michaelson hated Crowe so 
  much; she was the one who’d carried out the order to fire on his ship. 
  “Commander Michaelson and I have some . . . history,” Crowe 
  said. “If you want details, look up the Santorini Incident. We will not 
  be discussing this matter in the wardroom.” 
  Most of the officers turned obediently back to their consoles. They 
  knew, of course. They knew that their captain had fired on another 
  Confederation vessel during the confused last moments of the Battle of 
  Santorini. They knew that he’d spent years “on the beach” while an in-
  quiry wrangled over the minutiae of how to deal with the matter, and 
  that he’d been returned to duty after the inquiry collapsed due to politi-
  cal infighting. But until now it had been easy to imagine that it was all in 
  the past. 
  Now, Crowe’s officers would have to decide what they thought 
  about the whole business, and that might cause friction. Most of them 
  seemed willing to shelve it, but Crowe spotted Roebecker’s quickly-
  concealed glare. That explained a lot. 
  Roebecker was generally good company in the wardroom, surpris-
  ingly graceful for such a big guy and soft-spoken despite possessing a 
  gigantic bass voice. He’d always seemed a bit reserved though, and 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 61 
  Crowe was beginning to see why. He was one of the many who believed 
  that Michaelson and Jorgenssen were right; that the Laputan force 
  should have been finished off at Santorini. It would certainly have saved 
  lives; other battles might not have been fought. 
  “You have the bridge, Lieutenant Carstairs,” Crowe said wearily, 
  vacating his chair and heading back to his cabin where he was absolutely 
  sure he would not sleep at all. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  62 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Jumpspace 
  044-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe skimmed the data on Chinon, more to pass the time than 
  anything. With a dense but more or less breathable atmosphere and 
  plenty of water, the world was an obvious candidate for settlement dur-
  ing the early expansion out from Terra. Its somewhat isolated location 
  meant that the early colonists were bypassed by many of the great events 
  that shook the region, and the world emerged from the Long Night with 
  a modest mid-tech industrial base. 
  Chinon progressed since then of course, but it remained a backwa-
  ter, one of those worlds that lay within the Confederation rather than 
  being an active part of it. Chinon contributed a little to the Confedera-
  tion economy but mostly looked to its own affairs. Notably, its 
  government had resisted pressure to provide more than token funding to 
  the Loyalty Ships program. Other worlds with a similar economic status 
  had provided a corvette or a frigate, some even a cruiser or a significant 
  part of one. Chinon’s contribution would barely have paid for Storm-
  shadow’s shuttles. 
  That could mean one of several things. Most likely it meant that 
  the government of Chinon was not prepared to give in to the blatantly 
  manipulative Loyalty Ships program. It paid its contribution to the navy 
  and other forces of the Confederation, of course. Perhaps the local gov-
  ernment thought that was sufficient. Since there were several requests 
  on file for more patrols in the region, Crowe reasoned that Chinon was 
  unwilling to pay for extra warships that would be deployed somewhere 
  else when the same funds could be spent on local defense forces. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 63 
  Whatever the reason, Chinon pulled its weight and no more, even 
  in a time where the Solomani Party was making a lot of noise about 
  demonstrations of loyalty and the Imperial threat just over the border. 
  The clock counted down to projected jump emergence as Crowe 
  read. Around him the bridge officers and ratings went about their busi-
  ness, running checks and diagnostics for lack of anything better to do. 
  There was no guarantee that emergence would take place at the pro-
  jected time. Indeed, with just under fifteen minutes to go Crowe was 
  not yet feeling the strange tension that sometimes preceded emergence. 
  Even the most sensitive crewmembers did not seem to be suffering dis-
  comfort yet. 
  The minutes ticked down, with the crew suited and waiting, hel-
  mets ready, in case of a disastrously bad emergence. Of course, a bad 
  emergence rarely happened on time—variance in the duration of a jump 
  was an indicator of a misjump. A few hours in either direction was fairly 
  normal, but most spacers went by the rule: “more than a day and it’s not 
  okay.” 
  Projected emergence time came and went. Two hours crawled past. 
  There was no suggestion that anything was wrong, but it was tiring for a 
  crew to remain closed up at action stations for emergence. Crowe was 
  relieved rather than surprised when he suddenly realized he had a mild 
  headache. It was followed by a feeling somewhat like pressure in his si-
  nuses and a tingling in his fingers and toes. It didn’t always manifest the 
  same way, but this kind of pre-emergence tension was familiar. 
  Crowe guessed about five minutes to emergence, based on experi-
  ence. “All hands,” he said into his headset. “Jump emergence is 
  imminent. Projected destination is one hundred and fifty diameters out 
  from Chinon. Commence emergence drill.” 
  “Sir, engineering reports solid drive function, no indicators of mis-
  jump,” Holmes said from the bridge engineering officer’s station. 
  “Astrogator reports parameters look good. No indicators of mis-
  jump,” Carstairs added from the astrogator’s chair. “Ops reports all 
  stations secure, personnel suited. Ready for emergence.” 
  “Sir, gunnery reports all launchers unloaded and beam weapons 
  fully discharged. Ready for emergence,” Roebecker added. A ship ex-
  pecting combat would come out with guns charged and launchers 
  loaded, but that added to the risk of an accident and was not done in 
  peacetime. Laser capacitors had been known to discharge as the jump 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  64 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  field collapsed, damaging the weapon system and its associated power 
  feed. Nobody needed an exploding turret on a routine emergence, how-
  ever remote the possibility. 
  “Guns, we’ll be wanting an active sensor sweep as soon as we 
  emerge. Navigational and military sensors. Begin charging point defense 
  first, then one turret per battery in cascade. Weapons tight.” 
  “Standard navigational and situational sweep, weapons tight. Aye 
  sir,” Roebecker responded. He would have done what Crowe ordered as 
  a matter of standard operating procedure, but a wise captain gave the 
  order anyway, especially with a SolSec officer on the bridge. It would 
  not be prudent to seem lax. 
  The feeling of pressure and tension suddenly increased enormously, 
  and someone on the bridge retched. Then Crowe’s senses told him si-
  multaneously that the ship was tipping, spinning, and tumbling . . . and 
  that it was perfectly still and solid under him. A violent judder rippled 
  along the length of the ship, from somewhere to somewhere else—
  Crowe’s senses could not make sense of the input—and then suddenly 
  everything was normal again. 
  The bridge was in an armored box as deep within the forward com-
  partment of Stormshadow as her small hull permitted, with no external 
  viewports. Crowe knew that in those compartments with viewports, the 
  covers were sliding back. There was something necessary about being 
  able to see out of a vessel, even if all there was to look at was empty 
  space. No amount of computer imagery and multispectral cameras or 
  instruments could make up for the ability to, just once in a while, see 
  the stars outside. 
  Stormshadow opened her eyes. Crewmembers peered out of view-
  ports as sensor data flooded in. The first wave was passive; readings of 
  gravity, solar radiation, light, radio emissions, and other data that could 
  be collected without emitting a signal. It was followed by active data 
  gathered by emitting radio, microwave and laser pulses to see what they 
  reflected from. 
  Crowe watched the system gravity map form on his display, show-
  ing the system’s two stars and their planets, moons, and planetoids. The 
  map became more complex and detailed over the seconds Crowe 
  watched. Colors and intensities varied as gravity fields interacted. Now 
  Crowe could predict where his ship or another could safely jump from, 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 65 
  and where one might emerge—or at least where one would not emerge 
  without suffering critical damage. 
  “Preliminary sweep complete, Captain.” Carstairs said. “No imme-
  diate navigational hazard. Stellar data indicates that we are in the 
  Chinon system as expected. The primary has a distant companion star, 
  too far out to interfere with jump operations in this part of the system. ” 
  “How’s our position?” Crowe asked. 
  “One hundred and thirty-four diameters from Chinon, with resid-
  ual momentum toward the mainworld. A powered approach will be 
  required to make orbit, but the course correction is minor,” Carstairs 
  sounded pleased with that, as she had a right to be. It was a good jump, 
  well within acceptable variance, and she had even set up the emergence 
  to facilitate an efficient approach to the mainworld. That was more im-
  portant to couriers and merchant vessels than a naval patrol vessel, but 
  at least it meant that Stormshadow did not need to waste time turning 
  around to run back in. 
  “Contacts?” Crowe asked. 
  “Sir, we have several small craft in the vicinity of the mainworld,” 
  Roebecker reported. “Most are running active transponders and I’m get-
  ting ghost echoes from a couple of others. Probably security gunships. 
  There’s no highport as such, just a mooring station with minimal facili-
  ties. Standard beacon directing craft that can’t land to moor at the 
  station and request refueling shuttles from the downport.” 
  “Anything else in-system?” 
  “We’ve got a possible contact. Could be a ship running silent or a 
  planetoid. The vector suggests it’s a ship,” Roebecker said. 
  Crowe glanced at the tactical plot in front of him. That had better 
  be a ship; if not there was a small planetoid headed into Chinon’s gravity 
  well. She might be another Confederation naval vessel or a system de-
  fense craft, but if so she would normally have responded to the 
  transponder ping that went out with Stormshadow’s active sensor pulses. 
  Of course, any legitimate civilian ship would also have responded to 
  the interrogative ping. Automatic systems in merchant ships’ transpond-
  ers ensured that they answered a naval vessel’s signals with their identity 
  and registry even if the system was set to remain silent in face of civilian 
  signals. That was normally done only in troubled regions where pirates 
  were known to be active, and Chinon was not listed as such. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  66 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “. . . which makes this most definitely a suspect vessel,” Crowe said 
  out loud without realizing it. “Mister Roebecker, ping her again with a 
  forced response code. If she’s legit she’ll have to reply.” 
  “Hard ping, aye sir,” Roebecker replied. 
  “Stormshadow. Make signal,” Crowe ordered. “To unidentified ves-
  sel inbound Chinon—send her location and vector as a hint—
  compliments of Lieutenant Commander Simon Crowe and so forth, 
  CSS Stormshadow. Please activate your transponder and explain your 
  silence.” 
  The suspect ship’s emissions flared on Crowe’s plot, but there was 
  no reply or transponder signal. Instead she began an erratic series of 
  drive pulses, sending her into a three-axis tumble that caused her to 
  curve a little away from the mainworld. At the same time, an all-
  spectrum jammer began to emit, flooding the surrounding area with its 
  signal. Crowe’s plot became fuzzy. 
  “Stormshadow. Make signal,” Crowe said. “To unidentified vessel: 
  My compliments and such, but please stop that. We are a Confedera-
  tion Navy warship. Cancel your tumble and heave to for boarding. We 
  intend to carry out a customs inspection. And please be so good as to 
  identify yourself.” 
  “Sir, I’ve got a read on her,” Roebecker said. “It’s the Intrepid Mar-
  keteer. She’s a Plessey class small freighter. Eight hundred tons standard 
  displacement, registered out of Dolor. She’s streamlined for planetary 
  landing, no small craft capability. No weaponry as built but four hard-
  points. Broughton’s Merchant Ships lists her as carrying two 
  sandcaster/point defense turrets and no offensive armament at her last 
  inspection.” 
  “Does Broughton mention a military grade jamming suite?” Crowe 
  asked. 
  “No sir, it doesn’t,” Roebecker replied, then answered Crowe’s 
  next question before he asked it. “Point defense is ready and charged. A, 
  B, and X batteries are still charging; some turrets are ready if independ-
  ent fire is required. Q battery is unloaded.” 
  “Splendid, Mr. Roebecker,” Crowe said, more in approval at his 
  question being pre-empted than pleasure at Stormshadow not being 
  ready to fire all her guns. “Get me full combat capability as soon as you 
  can. Helm. Set up a pursuit course if you will. Full thrust as soon as 
  you’re ready, and keep after her.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 67 
  Crowe saw Browning nod curtly in acknowledgement of his order, 
  and realized that her hand was nowhere near her veto control. Some 
  political officers pretty much sat with their hand on the button and 
  paused before allowing any order through. Browning seemed willing to 
  let him do his job . . . at least until he screwed up. 
  “All hands,” Crowe said, “this is the captain. Remain at action sta-
  tions. We have identified a suspect vessel and are in pursuit. Marines to 
  the boats, please. We are expecting to conduct a boarding and search.” 
  “Permission to accompany the boarding party, sir?” Browning said 
  suddenly. 
  Crowe blinked. She had the right to just say she was going, so ask-
  ing permission was unusually polite. “Of course, Commander 
  Browning,” he responded, then added into his headset. “Stormshadow. 
  Make signal. My compliments and what-have-you to system defense 
  command. Request assistance in catching suspected smuggler. Signal to 
  Intrepid Marketeer. Compliments to her captain but would he please 
  bloody well stop his ship so that we can board it and figure out what 
  he’s up to. You might want to rephrase that last.” Crowe knew the 
  ship’s AI would translate his message into a standard code. It would 
  come out as a polite but strongly-worded request to stop and submit to 
  a search. 
  “Signal from system defense command,” Stormshadow said. “Com-
  pliments and greetings from Commodore Durell, Officer Commanding 
  Chinon Home Forces. Signal reads: Welcome, Stormshadow! Glad to see 
  you. We have nothing in range to catch the suspect, but the orbital pa-
  trol is on alert. We’ll grab her if she gets past you.” 
  “Acknowledge with my compliments and thanks,” Crowe said, 
  though in fact the system commander had more or less declined to assist 
  the navy unless the problem fell right in his lap. Having served in the 
  Home Forces for several years Crowe had a higher opinion of them than 
  many of his peers in the “proper navy,” but all the same he was not sur-
  prised at the lack of cooperation. An interception would cost time, fuel, 
  and paperwork that could all be left to the Confederation Navy. It was a 
  sadly common attitude. 
  “Any response from Intrepid Marketeer?” Crowe asked. 
  “No sir,” Roebecker replied. “She’s still corkscrewing and still 
  jamming.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  68 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Very well then,” Crowe said. “We’ll chase her down and make her 
  stop. Helm, close to fifteen thousand kilometers. Guns, lock onto her 
  jamming signal and load Q battery. And get me as much sensor data as 
  you can on her. Something’s wrong here.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 69 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Chinon System 
  044-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “Make signal,” Crowe said. “No compliments this time. Inform the 
  Intrepid Marketeer that if she does not stabilize her tumble and kill her 
  drives then we will take appropriate action. Refer her captain to recent 
  events at Zhongguo and remind him that we have the right to fire on a 
  suspect vessel that refuses to heave to.” 
  This time there was a reply, and it was more or less as Crowe had 
  expected; a confused litany of excuses and vague not-quite-threats. The 
  vessel’s drives were out of control, so her captain claimed, and had just 
  happened to put her into a three-axis tumble that made docking impos-
  sible while still accelerating her in a corkscrewing path that would pass 
  close to the mainworld of the system. 
  Her captain had friends in high places, apparently, and they would 
  want to know why CSS Stormshadow was harassing innocent merchant 
  ships instead of defending the Confederation against the Imperial threat. 
  And speaking of which, he’d noted the preferential treatment Crowe had 
  given the Imperial delegation at Zhongguo, so maybe he ought to just 
  jump out before a complaint reached the right ears . . . 
  “Mister Roebecker,” Crowe said. “Is Q battery ready?” 
  “Yes sir, but we’ve only got practice warheads aboard.” 
  “One of which should make an excellent warning shot, don’t you 
  think? Target Intrepid Marketeer and make very sure she’s aware of the 
  lock.” 
  The stream of protests from the merchant ship did not let up, but 
  the tone changed when Crowe ordered Roebecker to fire. “Storm-
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  70 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  shadow. Make signal. Intrepid Marketeer, we are fully aware that your 
  tumble is intentional. You wish to avoid being boarded. Well, you are 
  going to be boarded. Ideally through an airlock opened by your crew, 
  with empty hands clearly visible to my marines. However, I will settle 
  for them climbing in through a hull breach. Be advised that firing on my 
  missile will be considered a hostile act. We will, of course, retaliate.” 
  Crowe waited impatiently for a response—other, of course, than 
  the baffling wall of excuses and threats that his conscious mind was tun-
  ing out. The merchant skipper had a choice, but not much of one—
  cancel his “dead man’s tumble” and be boarded or allow himself to be 
  hit by what was apparently a live missile. If he activated his point de-
  fense he’d—briefly—become target practice for Stormshadow’s gun 
  batteries. 
  The response was what Crowe had expected; Intrepid Marketeer 
  ceased tumbling and began accelerating directly toward Chinon under 
  full emergency power, broadcasting RRRR on every channel. 
  “RRRR—Universal Code for I am being attacked by a raider,” 
  Browning said from her console. “This guy thinks he’s funny.” 
  “Full active sensor sweep, just in case anyone actually buys it and 
  responds,” Crowe ordered. “Continue to broadcast our identity and in-
  tention to stop and search the suspect vessel. Standard warning not to 
  interfere.” 
  “Sir!” Roebecker’s bass shout startled everyone on the bridge. 
  “Three vessels on an intercept course! Coming in on the port bow, dis-
  persed gun formation. They’ve just gone active and lit their drives.” 
  Crowe spared a split-second glance at the battle plot, evaluating 
  everything in an instant. The three ships were corvettes, small warships 
  normally used for patrol and escort work. The plot indicated they were 
  all of roughly the same displacement and hull form, and their emissions 
  suggested they were probably vessels of the old Dulo class. 
  The Dulo wasn’t the most attractive ship in space, resembling a pair 
  of mismatched cylinders laid side by side. The main hull held drives, 
  crew spaces, and command stations while the smaller ”fighting hull” car-
  ried all six of the vessel’s weapons mounts along its outer surface, plus a 
  docking cradle for its launch. 
  The corvettes were maneuvering under very low power. They must 
  have been sneaking in at the merchant when Stormshadow made her in-
  terception. No, wait . . . Crowe took a snarling breath as he realized 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 71 
  what was going on. Intrepid Marketeer’s tumbling acceleration had been 
  vaguely toward the mainworld, but it could not be coincidence that fol-
  lowing her took Stormshadow into gun range of the corvettes. 
  “Stormshadow. Make signal. Warn off the newcomers, identify us as 
  a Confederation naval ship. My compliments to the captain of Intrepid 
  Marketeer, tell him to run for it and we’ll cover him. Request assistance 
  from system defense command.” 
  Crowe knew for certain that Intrepid Marketeer was a smuggler or 
  something equally illegal, and she’d led Stormshadow into an ambush, 
  but there was no sense revealing that just yet. In all probability system 
  defense command would find some excuse not to have any craft in range 
  to help. Three to one odds weren’t all that bad, not when all three hos-
  tiles added up to just a little less than Stormshadow’s tonnage. But in all 
  probability their weapons worked properly, whereas Stormshadow was 
  missing a few teeth. 
  “Mister Roebecker. Pull our missile off the merchant; self-destruct 
  it at a safe distance. Then set up a secondary fire solution on the lead 
  corvette but do not yet lock weapons onto her. We can’t fire first. Mar-
  keteer’s captain has created enough ambiguity that if we do, they can 
  pretend we were the aggressors in some horrible misunderstanding.” 
  Roebecker shot his captain a frankly hostile glance but began set-
  ting up his fire solution. 
  “SITREP,” Crowe ordered. The crew were already at battle sta-
  tions, and nothing had really changed. All the same, asking for a 
  situation report gave everyone something to do besides run through the 
  tap-drill, checking their suits and equipment for the millionth time. 
  “Engineering reports drive systems fully functional, no serious prob-
  lems. We have jump fuel for two parsecs and the jump drive is ready, 
  but uncharged,” Sublieutenant William Holmes said from the bridge 
  engineering officer’s position. 
  “A and B batteries ready to fire, captain. Q battery is loaded but we 
  have only practice ammunition. X battery is fully charged and ready to 
  fire, but will be slow to recharge. Point defense is ready, but bridge-
  ventral is offline,” Roebecker’s tone was distant, reporting automatically 
  as he watched his own battle plot. 
  “Operations reports—” Carstairs began, but cut off as the lead cor-
  vette rolled and yawed to bring her guns to bear. All six of her turrets 
  fired simultaneously. Her two consorts made the same maneuver a sec-
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  72 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  ond later, guns pulsing. There was no visible beam between the ships, 
  just damage alarms and white-hot fragments of Stormshadow’s armor 
  flaking off as the salvo struck her hull. 
  “Return fire, A and B batteries only!” Crowe barked. “Concentrate 
  on the lead corvette. Mister Roebecker, hand off missile control to 
  Commander Browning. Browning, reconfigure your console and do 
  something useful for a change. Your target is designated Corvette Three. 
  Keep your salvoes thin enough that she can stop all of the missiles, and 
  she won’t realize they’re duds. X battery, hold fire.” 
  As his ship’s guns spat back at their foes, Crowe watched the battle 
  plot for evidence of hits. “Come two points to port and one to black, go 
  to flank speed. No evasion,” he ordered. “I want a close pass on corvette 
  one. X battery will engage at least distance. And get me a damage re-
  port.” 
  Stormshadow heeled to port, her bow dipping to black—“down” on 
  her main axis toward the depths of space where ”up” was gold, toward 
  an imaginary sun above her bridge. “We’re hit on all decks, Captain,” 
  said Holmes. “Mainly superficial. We’re leaking fuel, but I’m transfer-
  ring the rest to the empty tanks. Jump capability is not compromised. 
  Turret A3 is not responding. Damage board is black in that area.” 
  “My compliments to Lieutenant Morwood, request that she send a 
  damage control party under Lieutenant Urasnicz to assess and repair 
  A3,” Crowe vaguely heard the acknowledgement as his ship heeled. The 
  turn to port had unmasked all her weapons, allowing Stormshadow to 
  engage with all eight—seven—turrets in A and B batteries, but made her 
  a somewhat larger target. 
  “Mister Roebecker!” Crowe snapped. “There is your target! Why 
  aren’t you hitting her?” 
  “Sir, fire control is erratic. I’ve registered several hits on the cor-
  vette but nothing serious as far as I can tell.” 
  “Then start hurting her!” 
  “Missiles incoming!” someone shouted. It might have been Crowe 
  himself; he couldn’t tell. He did hear his own order. “Do not evade! 
  Point defense only! Get us closer!” 
  “Point defense active,” Roebecker reported. “Two missiles incom-
  ing. One’s down, one’s in the dead spot.” 
  “Brace!” Crowe shouted, as Stormshadow bucked under his feet. 
  The plot indicated a proximity detonation rather than an intact warhead 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 73 
  smashing into the hull. A hail of superdense fragments wasn’t good, but 
  it was better than an internal explosion. 
  The plot was resolving better images of the three corvettes now. 
  One and Three were indeed Dulos, obsolete vessels armed only with 
  laser turrets. The middle corvette seemed to be a conversion, with four 
  of her six turrets cut away and replaced by crude-looking missile launch-
  ers. The decision to close, taken for completely different reasons, would 
  render her main armament ineffective. 
  “Firing. Hits on corvette one!” Roebecker rumbled, sparing his cap-
  tain a glance that spoke of angry vindication. Crowe chose to ignore it. 
  “We’re hit! Serious fuel loss, power interruption in main hull aft, 
  some holing,” Sublieutenant Holmes said. “Hull punctured in main hull 
  central, cargo hold is open to space.” 
  Stormshadow shuddered as more missiles broke through her weak-
  ened point defense. “What was that?” Crowe demanded. 
  “Direct hit, penetrative detonation in the multimission bay! 
  Holmes told him. “Another in boat bay two; we’ve lost a shuttle. Prox-
  imity detonations along the main hull; main galley is holed, we have 
  casualties. Missile magazine penetrated . . . minor propellant fire. Q1 
  has critical damage, remainder of Q battery is . . . status unknown; the 
  board is black. A3 is a total loss, and we’re reading B1 and B2 offline. 
  Partial power feed loss to A battery. Power feed to X battery is also fur-
  ther impaired.” 
  “Jettison the magazine; they’re duds anyway,” Crowe ordered. “As-
  sign all remaining marine repair teams to B battery. Mr. Holmes, it’s 
  time for the BEO to take the stage. Get me full power to A battery. And 
  do it fast.” 
  The battle plot wasn’t looking too promising. The third hostile 
  corvette was still totally defensive, swatting the slow but steady stream 
  of missiles Browning was sending at her. There would be no more once 
  the current flight was expended though, and that meant six more turrets 
  firing at Stormshadow. 
  Corvette one was in a bad way. She had holes and internal fires. 
  Debris streaming away from her hull concealed the extent of her wounds 
  to some extent, but it looked like she was hurt bad. As Crowe watched, 
  corvette one’s status indicator changed. Her transponder began display-
  ing a surrender code. “Shift our fire to corvette two,” Crowe ordered. 
  “One has surrendered.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  74 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  The “surrendered” corvette began limping away from the battle, 
  which was technically a violation of the Articles of War. Her captain 
  might argue that he needed to reach a safe port before his systems failed, 
  or that he was trying to get out of the way of stray fire. Either way, he 
  was out of the fight. That left two hostiles, and one of them was armed 
  mostly with missiles that could no longer bear as the range dropped. 
  “Gun pass on two, then take us at three,” Crowe ordered. “Mr. 
  Roebecker, transfer control of X battery to Commander Browning. 
  Commander, you have one shot and no recharge. Impress me.” 
  Stormshadow raced past corvette two, firing her weakened A and B 
  batteries at close range. Laser fire raked her hull, but she sped past 
  scarcely hindered. Her hull armor was light, but it offered at least some 
  protection from a corvette’s guns. B battery seemed to be back in ac-
  tion; Roebecker punched the air as his seven remaining turrets fired in 
  unison and corvette two simply disappeared. 
  After a moment the corvette was replaced on the battle plot by a 
  fuzzy expanse of thermal signatures and radar returns; fragments of 
  white-hot metal spun away from the explosion. A few larger fragments 
  were big enough to give a well-defined radar return. Stormshadow’s plot 
  identified and tagged them: a turret and its mountings, most of the 
  ship’s launch, a large chunk of the drive section, and what might be the 
  command area. 
  “Magazine hit by the look of it. Good shooting, guns,” Crowe said, 
  but his words were drowned out by Roebecker’s huge yell of self-
  encouragement. The kid might hate his captain, but he was a warrior 
  and right at that moment Crowe needed warriors more than he needed 
  to be liked or admired. 
  “Corvette two is gone,” Crowe said for the benefit of the bridge re-
  corder as Stormshadow smashed through the expanding field of debris 
  and raced at her final target. Hot metal banged from the hull, and 
  Crowe knew there were bodies in amongst it. Something to think about 
  later, if he couldn’t avoid it. For now, Corvette three was accelerating 
  away, headed outsystem perhaps, but her guns were still firing. A yell 
  from the helmsman caused Crowe to pull up an image of the damage 
  board on his plot. 
  “Lieutenant Carstairs!” Crowe barked. “We’ve lost helm control! 
  Helm is transferred to your position. Can you con us? Carstairs! Can we 
  maneuver?” 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 75 
  After a second, Lieutenant Carstairs’s strained voice came back 
  from the emergency conning position that was the executive officer’s 
  action station. She was using her suit intercom. “Sir,” she said. “We’re 
  holed and the reserve helmsman is down. There’s a major fire on the 
  other side of the bulkhead I think, and we’re cut off. I can hear debris 
  hitting the hull.” 
  “Do you have helm control? Can you control my ship?” Crowe was 
  rasping with the effort not to shout. “I’ll send a rescue team when I can 
  but right now I need you to take the helm.” 
  “Yes. Yes, of course,” Carstairs said, almost fussily. Then her voice 
  firmed up a little. “Sir, I have the con.” 
  “Chase that corvette, stay close to him. Ram him if you can!” 
  Crowe said. The latter was virtually impossible; any ship with working 
  drives could dodge a ramming attempt. The order was more a statement 
  of intent than anything else. 
  “Yes sir, I understand,” Carstairs said somewhat vaguely. Storm-
  shadow began to turn, chasing the third corvette, and that was good 
  enough for Crowe. 
  “Sir, I’ve lost control of B battery,” Roebecker said. “I’m getting no 
  response. The board shows the turrets are powered but I can’t control 
  them! I still have most of A battery though.” 
  “Understood,” Crowe replied. “Lieutenant Morwood?” 
  “Sir?” Morwood replied instantly. 
  ”What’s your position?” 
  “I’m in main hull forward, leading damage control efforts.” 
  “I want you to proceed to B battery with all the marines you can 
  muster. If you can return the battery to central fire control then please 
  do so. If not, and in the interim, please be so kind as to man the guns 
  and fight them in the navy way.” Crowe was rather pleased with that 
  quote; it would look good at the inquiry about how he got his brand-
  new ship bushwhacked and shot to ribbons. 
  Stormshadow bore down on the last corvette, coming in obliquely 
  to allow more of her guns to target the smaller vessel. Return fire 
  punched into the hull, smashing the already malfunctioning bridge-
  ventral point defense turret and opening the wardroom to space. 
  “Lieutenant Carstairs, on my mark I want you to bring us beam-on 
  to the hostile and kill the drive. Roebecker, Browning, Morwood, you 
  will have your shot. Ready now.” 
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  76 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Crowe counted the seconds, watched the battle plot carefully. His 
  strange analytical ability weighed laser charge times against the ship’s 
  velocity, trying to balance damage taken against the need for a crippling 
  salvo. Stormshadow could take little more, he knew, but she had to suf-
  fer just a moment longer, endure one more salvo, for the chance to win. 
  “Now!” Crowe barked. “Battle turn, execute! All gunners, fire at 
  your discretion!” 
  Stormshadow’s remaining armament lashed out, two batteries in a 
  concentrated salvo and another in a locally controlled rolling fire that 
  went on and on. The corvette shuddered, shedding debris and fuel, then 
  tried to activate her drive for an emergency jump. That was an act of 
  sheer desperation, Crowe knew, and as his ship’s fire poured into the 
  hostile he felt regret for what was about to happen to her crew. 
  Corvette Three suddenly ceased to exist, her super-powered jump 
  drive overloaded by laser energy hitting her hull grid. One moment she 
  was weakly accelerating, still firing two of her guns, and the next she was 
  a cloud of wreckage. 
  Silence descended on the bridge of Stormshadow, broken after a 
  moment as Crowe said softly. “I need a full damage report. Secure from 
  action stations and commence emergency damage control procedures. 
  Get a rescue crew to the aft conning position and set up a least-time 
  course for Chinon starport.” 
  “Sir,” Browning pointed out. “We should send a marine force over 
  to take possession of the surrendered corvette.” 
  “We should, yes,” Crowe conceded. “But we need every marine 
  aboard for damage control. Otherwise we might lose the ship.” He ges-
  tured at the battle plot, which switched from a view of the distant, 
  crippled corvette limping away outsystem to an oversized reproduction 
  of the damage board. Parts of it were amber, but not much. There was 
  far too much red for anyone’s liking, but that wasn’t the worst of it. 
  Most of the board was black. 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 77 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Chinon System 
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  Crowe buckled his belt and adjusted it so that sword and sidearm 
  rode more comfortably. He’d not worn full dress uniform since being 
  reinstated as a Confederation Navy officer weeks earlier. Warship cap-
  tains on some deployments spent more time in full dress than in a 
  crewsuit, visiting world-government dignitaries and dining aboard flag-
  ships, but the life of a humble patrol frigate on a forgotten station was 
  less glamorous. 
  The sword was a regulation naval officer’s sword, plain and un-
  adorned except for the delicate engraving on the stainless steel hilt. The 
  blade was long and straight, with no cutting edge. It had an entirely 
  serviceable point, but other than the occasional formal duel naval offi-
  cers were not expected to fight with their swords. 
  Nor, in truth, were officers’ sidearms all that practical. At some 
  time in the past it had been decreed that the Confederation Navy would 
  arm its command officers with revolvers. The thinking behind that was 
  probably something along the lines of: an officer needed a weapon as a 
  badge of rank, but “combat” weapons were what the rank and file used. 
  An officer’s weapons should be a little impractical, to make the point 
  that he was above getting his hands dirty. 
  Thus the Confederation Navy adopted the revolver, but some per-
  verse logic then came into play. If naval officers were forced to carry a 
  six-shooter, then they would have the very most potent six-shooters in 
  Charted Space. And so the long-barreled 8mm naval service revolver was 
  introduced, firing either a “hot” high-penetration, high-recoil round or a 
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  78 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “cool” low-recoil round that performed rather poorly against body ar-
  mor but also kicked a lot less. 
  Crowe’s weapon was loaded, but the ammunition pouch on his belt 
  was empty. It lay better that way, and in truth there was little likelihood 
  of needing a weapon today. This was a diplomatic meeting, albeit one 
  with the potential to be quite unpleasant, and the main danger was 
  likely to be tedium. 
  Shrugging, Crowe turned and stepped out of his quarters into the 
  corridor. As he made his way aft to one of the surviving shuttle bays, 
  Browning fell in beside him. She wore the gray of Solomani Security, 
  with a rather more practical 9mm personal defense weapon instead of a 
  pistol and sword. The tiny submachinegun offered massive firepower for 
  a very short time, making it ideal for emergency self-defense or sudden 
  murder. 
  There were other differences, besides the color of their uniforms. 
  Crowe wore his decorations, including the golden cross of the Order of 
  Sol, whereas Browning’s uniform lacked even service ribbons. SolSec did 
  not advertise where its personnel had served, not even in dress uniform. 
  Their escort was waiting at the shuttle bay, an eight-marine section 
  led by Lieutenant Urasnicz. Six of the marines and Urasnicz himself 
  were armed only with sidearms—practical semi-automatic pistols—but 
  two carried combat shotguns and wore body armor. They would be kept 
  out of sight unless things went horribly wrong, while their lesser-armed 
  brethren acted as an honor guard. 
  The trip planetside was spent mostly in silence. Crowe was in no 
  mood to talk, not after picking his way through the part-repaired disas-
  ter zone that was Stormshadow’s least damaged shuttle bay. The view 
  from the ports was heartbreaking; sections of hull ripped open and an 
  entire turret blasted right off its mountings. He had misgivings about 
  leaving Carstairs to oversee the repairs, especially since there was a 
  chance—however small—that the raiders might return. 
  The world government of Chinon was extending them the courtesy 
  of spares and resupply, so Crowe and his political officer were forced to 
  be polite and accept an invitation to go planetside. They didn’t have to 
  like it, but they had to do it. And so the shuttle descended, not to the 
  main starport but to a private facility serving the governmental center. 
  Ground cars were waiting, staffed by polite but not very friendly junior 
  government officials. 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 79 
  Crowe felt a little naked as the shuttle returned to orbit. He’d de-
  cided that it was better to have all his assets concentrated than to leave 
  a shuttle and crew on the ground where it would need protecting. Ma-
  rines who were guarding the shuttle could not be working at damage 
  control, and right now Stormshadow needed every pair of hands. He re-
  sented pulling as many marines off repair duty as he had, but something 
  told him that Chinon was not friendly territory. 
  The motorcade left the spaceport and drove slowly through an area 
  of parkland that formed a safety and security gap between the port and 
  the seat of government. The vegetation outside was thick and lush, but 
  the colors were strange. Something to do with Chinon’s atmospheric 
  taint, perhaps. The dense atmosphere felt a little oppressive, but in the 
  filtered environment of the cars it was hard to tell how bad things were 
  outside. 
  After a surprisingly long time the motorcade entered an under-
  ground parking area and halted. Soberly-dressed functionaries stepped 
  forward to open the car doors. That probably amused the marines, 
  Crowe reflected as he alighted. This reception was little more impressive 
  than the one at the spaceport, but at least this time there was clearly 
  someone in charge. 
  “Commander Crowe. I’m Melissa Greener, naval liaison for the 
  government of Chinon,” said their hostess. She was young for the post, 
  late thirties perhaps, but wore a Home Guard commander’s insignia as a 
  pin on the lapel of her expensive suit. 
  Crowe shook hands and forced a professional smile. “May I present 
  Lieutenant Commander Browning of Solomani Security and Lieutenant 
  Urasnicz, commanding my marine escort.” 
  Greener greeted both, then turned back to Crowe. “My instruc-
  tions are to convey you to a reception where you’ll meet some of our 
  officials. I’m afraid your . . . visit . . . caught us by surprise. I hope you’ll 
  forgive the lack of a proper reception.” 
  “I’m just grateful for your government’s prompt response to my re-
  quest for spares and equipment,” Crowe replied, then added 
  irreverently, “they can throw tomatoes at me if they want.” 
  “Careful what you wish for, Commander,” Greener replied crypti-
  cally. More formally, she added, “We’ve prepared . . . actually, are 
  preparing might be more accurate . . . quarters for you and your delega-
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  80 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  tion. You’ll probably want to station some of your marines there.” She 
  eyed the two shotgun-armed marines as she spoke. 
  “Yes. Commander Browning and I will attend, and we’ll bring one 
  marine each as an honor guard. The others will remain with Lieutenant 
  Urasnicz at our quarters.” 
  “That’s fine, Commander. Now, if you’ll follow me?” 
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  The reception turned out to be a rather awkward affair in which a 
  handful of junior government officials spouted some rhetoric about how 
  important the navy was and offered vague thanks for chasing off the mys-
  terious corvette force. Everyone seemed uneasy, and it was with some 
  relief that Crowe, Browning, and Greener settled down on comfortable 
  sofas afterward. 
  Crowe sipped his drink, some kind of orange-brown cocktail made 
  with rum, fruit, and various other things that he couldn’t identify. 
  Greener had one of her own, and seemed to like it, but Crowe couldn’t 
  decide if it was pleasant or not . . . which told him all he needed to 
  know about it. Browning drank water. 
  “I can’t really offer you much more than what’s in the official re-
  port,” Crowe said. “We decided to stop and search that merchant and 
  she ran. I strongly suspect that we were deliberately lured onto the guns 
  of those corvettes.” 
  “That’s pretty blatant,” Greener replied. “And far beyond any trou-
  ble we’ve had in-system for years. A while back there was a series of 
  incidents with suspect ships making rendezvous in the outsystem. 
  Maybe they were pirates or smugglers transferring cargo; we never 
  caught any of them. They were always too far out for our system defense 
  force—such as it is—to reach the area.” 
  “Anything planetside?” Browning asked. 
  “Some unrest, yes. The big issue at present—as you’ve heard over 
  and over in the past couple of hours—is a lack of navy patrols in the re-
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  82 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  gion. We’re pretty close to the Imperial border and there have been oc-
  casional raids; pirates most likely. Until you came through we’d not seen 
  a navy ship for weeks. In fact, the entire presence of the Confederation 
  Navy in system most of the time is sitting on this sofa here.” Greener 
  gestured at her own seat. “One powerless and frustrated liaison officer.” 
  “And were you to put on your other hat . . . the gray one . . . what 
  would you say?” Browning put in. 
  Greener chuckled. “It’s an open secret that I also report to SolSec. 
  Is it that obvious?” 
  Browning shrugged. “You were in my class, Melissa. Political 
  Awareness, back in 1101? Actually, you were the head of my class. 
  Clearly I made little impression.” 
  “Oh,” Greener said. “I really don’t remember you. But then it was 
  a short course and there were about a hundred of us. Anyway, yes, I 
  went sideways when I got to Lieutenant Commander. I was behind the 
  curve for promotion so I made the smart career move. I aced Political 
  Awareness and got fast-tracked into the main training program. Came 
  out a full commander and political officer aboard a heavy cruiser.” 
  Crowe had heard that story before. There were two kinds of politi-
  cal officers aboard navy warships. Some were transferees from the regular 
  fleet to SolSec, usually individuals who found their careers stalled. They 
  “went sideways” as it was usually called, got an automatic promotion 
  upon graduating as political officers. And then they went aboard navy 
  ships with a chips on their shoulders and the power to make trouble. 
  Many of them wanted to “fix” the navy or to get back at officers who 
  had been promoted via a system that was clearly unfair. 
  The other sort, career SolSec personnel who’d taken the Navy 
  Conversion Course were . . . not worse as such . . . but bad in different 
  ways. Instead of resenting the navy for perceived injustices, most had no 
  idea how things were done and expected miracles on a daily basis. 
  “So, you went from the bridge of a cruiser to a backwater—pardon 
  me, but you know what I mean—liaison posting. Was there a reason for 
  that?” Browning asked. 
  Greener chuckled. “Believe it or not, I thought it was the right 
  thing to do. These backwaters, as you rightly call them, feel isolated and 
  in many cases resent the way the Confederation ignores them. That’s 
  how they see it. So I transferred to the Home Guard and got sent here 
  as liaison. We apparently can’t spare the ships to conduct proper pa-
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 83 
  trols, so we assign liaison officers to tell the government how to help 
  themselves. We actually do some good . . . sometimes.” 
  “I’m prepared to believe that,” Crowe said, setting aside his drink. 
  The taste was becoming more unpleasant every time he tried it. “And I 
  concede that the fleet is enormously overstretched. Indeed, we’re part of 
  a new initiative to get more hulls on the patrol routes.” 
  “That’s encouraging, and long overdue,” Greener said. “But as 
  you’ve seen things aren’t good. In fact . . .” she looked around for a long 
  moment, as if checking whether anyone was listening. “I have suspi-
  cions.” 
  “About our incident?” Crowe asked. 
  “Bigger than that.” 
  Browning cocked her head. “And have you passed this on?” 
  “Of course. I make regular reports and they go to Dolor naval base 
  where I’m sure they’re carefully filed. Nothing actually happens though, 
  and I’m concerned that matters are coming to a head.” 
  “You mean, something more serious than my ship being am-
  bushed?” Crowe said. 
  “Much more serious, Commander. That’s one reason why I’m will-
  ing to freely admit to being a SolSec intelligence officer. It’s an open 
  secret round here anyway, but all the same it’s not something you talk 
  about. I’ve been tracking ship movements through the system, cargo 
  transfers and the like. It’s not been easy; I’m pretty sure that someone 
  has been putting obstacles in my path. But the picture is disturbing.” 
  “And what can we do about it?” Crowe asked. 
  “There will be an inquiry about the action you just fought. There 
  always is. You can use that to present my findings at a high level.” 
  “I see,” Crowe said. “You want to bypass the usual channels?” 
  “The usual channels lead to a file labeled ‘ravings of a paranoid lu-
  natic’ as far as I can tell. Something’s going on here, Commander 
  Crowe. Pirates don’t shoot at navy ships, and they don’t station escorts 
  to protect merchant craft from being boarded. Something came in 
  aboard that ship; something important enough to warrant attacking 
  your vessel. And not with converted freighters either; those were naval 
  ships.” 
  “Yes. The Dulo class was sold off years ago, mainly to planetary and 
  Home Guard forces. There were hundreds of them up for disposal as I 
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  84 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  recall. All the same, it’s not easy to get real navy ships if you’re not a 
  proper fleet,” Crowe said. 
  “There’s all kinds of accountability involved,” Greener replied. 
  “Part of the naval liaison job is helping local governments get the ships 
  they need, which means I have some experience of negotiating that par-
  ticular maze. The fact that somebody has at least three combat-worthy 
  Dulos suggests that there is either a massive hole in the system . . .” 
  “. . .   or that those ships belong to a planetary navy or a Home 
  Guard force,” Browning put in. “Which means we could be discussing 
  secession or open rebellion. Whoever fired on us is either desperate or 
  extremely confident.” 
  “Or else they have sufficient power in the sackful of cats that is 
  Confederation politics that they think they can get away with something 
  like this. It’s happened before—the Bootes Trade War ended up as a 
  straight fight between Laputa and her allies versus some parts of the 
  Confederation fleet.” 
  “We were there,” Crowe growled. 
  “I know, I skimmed your file when you arrived in system,” Greener 
  said. “And I didn’t mean to rake up old muck. All I’m saying is that 
  Laputa and her allies pretty much took up arms against the Confedera-
  tion as a whole, but somehow the matter stayed under the threshold to 
  be considered a rebellion. It could happen again.” 
  “We do not want that.” Crowe said each word with great emphasis. 
  “Which is why I’d like you to present my data and associated luna-
  tic ravings at the inquiry,” Greener said. “For whatever it’s worth, my 
  conclusion as a qualified observer is that you did a good job under diffi-
  cult circumstances and shouldn’t be censured.” 
  “Thank you for that,” Crowe said, unsure how much he meant it. 
  “Now, I’m going to pass you a physical copy of my data as well as 
  forwarding the files to your ship. There’s a big meeting scheduled for 
  tomorrow morning. It’s officially about how the port authority can help 
  speed up your repairs and unofficially about how helpful the government 
  is being . . . and could they have stepped-up patrols in return please.” 
  Crowe nodded. “I expected that,” he said. “Well, we’d probably 
  better get some rest.” 
  “I’ll see you to your quarters then,” Greener said. “You’ll have the 
  data before you leave.” 
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  Chinon 
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  Crowe was still dressing when the pounding on his door started. 
  His first reaction was irritation; perhaps one of the marine escort had 
  forgotten which room the captain was assigned and was trying to rouse a 
  sluggardly comrade. He started to shrug into his dress uniform jacket as 
  the door slid open. 
  There was indeed a marine at the door, but he was looking up and 
  down the corridor with his sidearm drawn. Alice Browning ducked 
  through the door, personal defense weapon in her hands. He gray SolSec 
  hat was askew but her dress uniform was otherwise immaculate. 
  “Captain! Greener’s dead,” Browning said. 
  Crowe’s first reaction, somewhat uncharitably perhaps, was almost 
  relief that Browning had not been sent to relieve him of duty. “What 
  happened?” he asked, buckling on his weapon belt. 
  “Shot. She was still alive when I got to her. Gave me this.” Brown-
  ing patted a pocket that presumably held a data storage unit. “Comms 
  are down and that can’t be coincidence.” 
  “You alerted the marines?” 
  “Of course. They’re securing the corridor.” 
  Crowe picked up the room’s multifunction handset from its holder. 
  The entertainment system worked, room climate controls worked . . . 
  everything worked as it should in a properly appointed visiting dignitary 
  suite. But nobody answered his calls to his hosts and the external comms 
  connection seemed not to be broadcasting. 
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  86 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Our personal comms work one-to-one at close range,” Browning 
  said. “But we’re blocked out of the planetwide net.” 
  “What’s going on? Some general emergency or is this about us?” 
  “I’m a political officer, not a secret agent!” Browning snapped, and 
  for the first time Crowe saw that she was genuinely scared. “All I know 
  is that Greener offered us her data and someone killed her hours later. 
  Now we’re cut off from the ship.” 
  “Can’t be coincidence,” Crowe said. “Very well . . . we can’t make 
  any assumptions about who’s behind this but we need to get back to 
  Stormshadow.” He tapped his comms and was pleased to see it connect 
  immediately. “Lieutenant Urasnicz? Are your people ready to move?” 
  “Yes sir, we’ve got the corridor secured and we’re ready to go.” 
  “We’ll be moving in moments,” Crowe said. “We don’t have a clear 
  picture of the situation, so weapons are tight unless there is an imminent 
  threat.” He grimaced as he broke the contact; he’d just told Urasnicz, of 
  all people, to hesitate. 
  Crowe and Browning left the suite, their marine escort falling in 
  around them as they hurried along richly carpeted corridors. There was 
  a suspicious lack of people around. Even early in the morning, there 
  should at least have been a handful of domestic staff and a security guard 
  or two. 
  “We need stairs,” Crowe said. “We’re going straight down to the 
  garage facility. We’ll grab transport and make for the port. If we can’t 
  get a shuttle there then we should at least be able to use the port’s 
  comms to call ours in.” 
  Distant shouting and the occasional gunshot reached Crowe as two 
  marines forced a service door and led the way down a wide staircase. 
  Crowe resisted the urge to draw his sidearm; he didn’t want to seem 
  nervous and the marines all had their guns ready. No point wishing for 
  more firepower now; they had a few handguns and two combat shot-
  guns, and that was it. It was enough, or it wasn’t. 
  The marines stacked up at the ground floor doors then burst out 
  into the parking area. They moved in pairs, covering one another, from 
  pillar to pillar as they headed for a row of government limousines at the 
  far end. Crowe moved quickly in the middle of the group, until some-
  thing hit him from behind and he went down. The heavy body of a 
  marine covered most of him as automatic gunfire ripped across the park-
  ing area. 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 87 
  Crowe felt the marine twitch and gasp, and knew she’d been hit. 
  Her pistol was firing though, and she snarled something about staying 
  down. He did, for a moment, looking around to try to get a handle on 
  the situation. There was gunfire coming from the direction of the 
  limousines, from a cluster of civilian-clothed men and women wearing 
  ski masks. 
  Crowe scrambled out from under the marine and, despite her pro-
  tests, dragged her upright. He supported her as she hobbled into the 
  cover of a pillar. Blood stained her uniform trousers from a wound just 
  above the hip. Crowe couldn’t see how bad it was. 
  Shots struck the pillar, and the marines returned fire. Crowe pulled 
  his hat down tight, as if it could protect him, and took a longer look 
  around. Another marine was down, unmoving, and Urasnicz was firing 
  one-handed while he covered a minor wound with his left hand. Some of 
  the gunmen were spreading out, looking for a better angle, and it was 
  obvious that the marines’ position would soon be untenable. 
  “Shotgunners!” Crowe barked. “That car! Get it!” He pointed at a 
  limo at the far end of the garage. There seemed to be nobody near it. 
  The two shotgun-armed marines had body armor; they might survive the 
  dash. 
  One of the gunners set off at a sprint, while the other sprayed his 
  weapon at the gunmen on full-automatic. A couple went down, obvi-
  ously hit, and others ducked as pellets punched into the cars behind 
  them. Then the second gunner was off and running, other marines cov-
  ering him with pistol shots. His partner reached a pillar, ducked behind 
  it and then stuck her weapon out to pump covering fire out at the gun-
  men. The range was a bit long for a shotgun, but volume of fire took 
  care of that. The second shotgunner reached the limo and smashed his 
  way into it with his weapon butt. 
  Crowe finally drew his sidearm. “Lieutenant Urasnicz, you will es-
  cort Commander Browning and the wounded to the spaceport in that 
  car. There, you will either obtain communications equipment and alert 
  Stormshadow or commandeer a shuttle and proceed aboard. You will 
  then send a shuttle to pick up myself and the remaining marines from 
  the roof of this building.” 
  “Sir, I . . .” Urasnicz said, and Browning started to protest as well. 
  “I’ll secure comms here. That gives us two chances to alert the ship, 
  and we’re not all going to fit in that car. You have your orders.” 
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  88 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  The diplomatic limo screeched up, doors flung wide. One of the 
  shotgunners jumped out, helping his comrades load the dead marine 
  into the back. Urasnicz was the last man in, offering his captain a quick 
  salute as the car raced off. It attracted the full attention of the surviving 
  gunmen, losing glass but clearing the building still mobile. 
  While the hostiles were shooting at the car, Crowe led a dash back 
  to the stairs. There, he and his three remaining marines began the long 
  climb up past the accommodation floors and into the conference suite. 
  “Comms is probably on the top floor,” Crowe said breathlessly. “If it’s 
  not then we’ll have to go onto the roof and jack a comm straight into 
  the antenna. Can one of you do that?” 
  One of the marines grunted something that sounded like an af-
  firmative, just as the four of them ran out of stairs. They’d reached the 
  conference floor, and the service stairs didn’t go any higher. Crowe 
  swore silently; he should have expected that. A staircase directly from an 
  access point to a governmental communications suite defied basic secu-
  rity regulations. Of course there was a break. 
  One of the marines kicked the doors open and led the way down a 
  corridor, emerging into the conference room they’d used last night. 
  There were a couple of bodies—a security guard and a young man in a 
  dark suit—on the floor, and several figures in civilian clothing and ski 
  masks clustered in the center of the room. 
  “Engage!” called Crowe needlessly, assuming a two-handed stance 
  and thumb-cocking his revolver. The shotgunner swept the room with a 
  whole magazine, dropping three of the hostiles including Crowe’s target. 
  His own shot was wasted; if it hit at all, it went into someone who was 
  already going down. 
  The other two marines were firing in neat two-shot patterns, mov-
  ing smoothly sideways to seek cover as the shotgunner slapped in a new 
  magazine. “Last one!” he called quietly. 
  Crowe got behind an ornamental table and took aim at one of the 
  hostiles, who was blazing away with a handgun as she ran to the flank. 
  Crowe fired twice then once more. His target ducked out of sight be-
  hind a sofa, re-emerging to blast off an entire magazine in Crowe’s 
  direction. He returned fire with a single round as her pistol clicked dry, 
  then ducked again. He had one round left and no reloads. More of the 
  hostiles were down, but the shotgun was empty. Its user transitioned to 
  his sidearm, tossing a magazine to a comrade. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 89 
  They must all be down to a few rounds, Crowe reasoned. He aimed 
  his last round at the sofa that concealed his opponent and fired as she 
  popped up again to shoot. She flinched but kept firing. Crowe clung to 
  his navy hat with one hand, holding it tight to his head in an instinctive 
  reaction as chips of the table showered him. His comm burst suddenly 
  into life. 
  “Crowe here. Go!” Crowe snapped. 
  “Sir, this is Morwood. I’m aboard a shuttle inbound your position, 
  we have another headed to pick up the second party. Situation planet-
  side is unclear.” 
  “I need a hot extraction and a route to reach it,” Crowe replied. 
  “My team is under fire.” 
  There was a pause that went on far too long, but was probably only 
  a few seconds. “I’ve got a camera feed and schematics from your loca-
  tion,” Morwood said. “Government response is on its way but seems 
  strangely confused. You have hostiles to your front and another group 
  coming up the stairs behind you.” 
  “I need to get to the roof!” Crowe snapped. 
  “Your obvious route is across the conference room and up the main 
  staircase beyond. There are other hostiles in the building and some gov-
  ernment security personnel fighting them. You have no other clear route 
  that I can see.” 
  “This one’s a lot less than clear!” Crowe said, but his mind was al-
  ready made up. “We’re going to push through the remaining hostiles 
  and make a run for the stairs. If we’re not on the roof when you arrive, 
  we’ll be somewhere between there and here. Come and find us.” 
  “Understood sir, and good luck.” Morwood replied. 
  Crowe hunkered down, taking a few deep breaths, ready for what 
  he had to do. He holstered the empty revolver and drew his remaining 
  weapon; his sword. His dress uniform jacket hung open, torn and nicked 
  by splinters of wood. His trousers were ripped too, and he was bleeding 
  slightly. He had no idea when that had happened. 
  A quick glance around showed that the marines were still shooting, 
  but carefully and using single shots. The hostiles’ rate of fire had dwin-
  dled too, but all they had to do was keep the navy party pinned down 
  until their comrades arrived. Crowe knew his team had to go and it had 
  to be now. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  90 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Crowe surged to his feet, just as the hostile who’d been firing at 
  him rushed around the end of the table. She jabbed out her handgun at 
  him, and he instinctively batted it aside with his left hand before plung-
  ing his sword right through her torso. The hilt slammed into her chest, 
  throwing her backward and off the blade, and Crowe paused for a sec-
  ond, shocked. 
  While he was frozen there, someone fired at him, clipping his hat 
  and tipping it back on his head at a crazy angle. He turned, bloody 
  sword pointing at the shooter, as another round whizzed past. The 
  gunman flipped backward, shot in the face by a marine. 
  Desperate rage fuelled Crowe’s sudden rush at the doors, hurdling a 
  body and then the sofa where Greener had sat the evening before. He 
  landed next to a gunman who was working the charging handle of his 
  empty submachinegun, and lashed out, using the stainless steel hilt of his 
  sword as a knuckle duster. Crowe stamped on him as he went down, 
  then ducked as rounds slammed into the wall beside him. 
  Crowe picked up the empty subgun in his left hand, spotted a 
  magazine that might be full on the downed gunman, and threw both in 
  the direction of the marines rushing to his side. One of them grabbed 
  the weapon as the others kicked open the doors, and all four rushed out 
  into the corridor beyond. 
  Crowe pounded along between two of his marines as the third, now 
  armed with an automatic weapon, hung back to discourage pursuit. A 
  couple of short bursts bought them time to reach the stairwell, after 
  which the firing stopped. 
  All four burst out onto the roof moments later, slamming the access 
  doors behind them. As Crowe had hoped there was a landing area for 
  grav craft, but there was no sign of a shuttle from Stormshadow. Waves 
  of foul-smelling, warm air assailed them, making Crowe and his team 
  cough and gag. The marines still had the presence of mind to drag their 
  captain into cover and to aim their weapons at the doors. 
  “Morwood! Where are you?” Crowe demanded between coughs. 
  “We’re on the roof!” 
  “We’re almost there, Captain, look to the west, almost directly 
  away from the spaceport!” Morwood replied. 
  Sure enough, there was a meteor in the atmosphere in that direc-
  tion, a shining spark catching the early morning sunlight and leaving a 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 91 
  trail of tortured vapor behind it. Morwood was coming in hot; hot 
  enough that the dense atmosphere might damage the shuttle. 
  Crowe decided that he’d be glad to live long enough to worry about 
  trivialities like that. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  92 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Troubridge Naval Base, Dolor System: 051-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Naval officials today announced that Troubridge Naval Base is fully 
  up to its designed defensive capability. A force of three entire wings of 
  torpedo-armed strike gunships and their associated fighter contingent 
  has arrived at the station and is beginning operational exercises alongside 
  the forces already assigned. 
  Officials declined to comment on the origins of these strike craft, 
  citing operational security as the reason. Unofficial sources have indi-
  cated that at least two of the strike wings came from reserve carriers due 
  for decommissioning in the near future. 
  In a possibly related story, the Fleet Gunship Carrier Hermes has 
  been transferred to a private concern after decommissioning. It is 
  thought that the vessel will be given a refit and a name change before 
  proceeding rimward to join ongoing exploration missions. 
  Gunship carriers have previously proven ideal for exploration mis-
  sions, acting as a mobile base for multiple smaller craft. An anonymous 
  naval official commented that this is a fine way for no longer battlewor-
  thy vessels to continue to serve, but would not confirm that exploration 
  was to be the carrier’s final fate. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 93 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Dolor System 
  059-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “Signal from Troubridge Naval Base traffic control,” Stormshadow’s 
  computer announced. “Compliments of base commander; Commodore 
  Alexander Ulysses Finchley, Confederation Navy. Recipient of the Ban-
  ner of Terra, Order of Sol with Bar, Cross, and Diamonds. Greetings 
  and salutations to CSS Stormshadow, her captain and crew. We are 
  cleared to proceed into repair dock.” 
  “My compliments and so forth to the commodore, acknowledge 
  and indicate that we are beginning our approach,” Crowe replied. The 
  automated communications system would fill in his own rather less im-
  pressive decorations and credentials as always. There was a word for 
  officers who insisted on doing it all manually; some even went so far as 
  to reel off all their credentials in urgent communications, or in cases like 
  this where they were really only talking to an automated traffic control 
  system. 
  Crowe was used to the excessive formality of non-urgent signals of 
  course, but all the same every second’s delay ate at him. His ship was 
  held together mainly by hopes and dreams, and the crew needed to 
  stand down. Throughout a rough jump passage that took nearly ten 
  days, nerves were strained to the breaking point wondering if they’d ever 
  emerge from jumpspace, and if so where they would be. 
  Now all that remained to do was to explain to Commodore 
  Finchley how he’d got a ship shot out from under him and then been 
  bushwhacked on a supposedly friendly planet. Finchley was perhaps the 
  most friendly audience Crowe could have hoped to tell that story to—
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  94 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  they’d won the Order of Sol the same day, aboard then-Commander 
  Finchley’s Maestrale. But since then Crowe’s career had not been quite as 
  stellar as that of his former captain. 
  Itching to get it over with, Crowe still had to go through the mo-
  tions of bringing his ship in and handing her over to the repair crews. 
  Well, at least they were finally in position to make their approach. 
  A pair of fighters arced in; the usual courtesy escort for a damaged 
  warship returning to port. A cutter from the base would join them pres-
  ently, with engineers aboard it eyeballing the damage. They would begin 
  planning repairs even before the crippled frigate entered a repair cradle. 
  In the meantime . . . 
  “Mr. Holmes,” Crowe said conversationally. “It is a testament to 
  the skill and hard work of the entire technical and engineering staff that 
  we are here at all, let alone proceeding in to dock under our own power. 
  Regulations require that a qualified pilot be at the controls even during 
  automatic docking, but for preliminary maneuvers we have discretion. 
  Since you were instrumental in ensuring that we got this far . . . would 
  you like to drive the boat?” 
  Holmes goggled at his captain for a second, then slammed down 
  the professional mask he normally wore over his resentment at a stalled 
  career. “Uh, yes sir. I’d like that,” he said as evenly as he could manage. 
  “Then if you’d be so kind, please relieve the pilot and guide us in. 
  I’m told it’s pretty straightforward.” 
  Holmes didn’t quite rush to the pilot’s chair, but he was quick 
  enough that he had to wait while the petty officer occupying it got out 
  and moved to the backup position. As she began briefing Holmes on the 
  procedures to follow, Crowe glanced idly around the bridge. Browning 
  was . . . not quite glaring in his direction for some reason, while the rest 
  of the bridge crew were nodding in unspoken agreement with Crowe’s 
  sentiment. 
  The phrase “drive the boat” had come down from antiquity, proba-
  bly from the wet navies of old Terra. Deliberately unprofessional, the 
  phrase made light of the fact that a non-pilot was about to take control 
  of a major warship. The controls were simple enough that anyone could 
  follow a port beacon or preset course under routine conditions once 
  they were shown how, but being invited to drive the boat was an indica-
  tion of the captain’s favor. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 95 
  Given that Holmes had been instrumental in getting them home, 
  the gesture of approval was appropriate. He’d clearly never received 
  such an honor before, and he was delighted. Browning wasn’t though, 
  for reasons Crowe would have to discover later. For now, they were 
  limping in under their own power and that would have to be enough. It 
  was more than he’d have dared hope for a few days previously. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  96 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  059-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Commander Finchley had always had a habit of pacing about his 
  bridge, which Crowe tried hard not to emulate. Commodore Finchley 
  did not pace; he strode from one part of the room to another, gesturing 
  with fierce intensity and turning his gaze from Crowe to Browning, and 
  thence to the sublieutenant who sat as witness and recorder of events. 
  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Finchley suddenly barked. Crowe wasn’t sure 
  what he was expecting as an opener, but that wasn’t it. “Well, at least 
  you got your ship home. Looks like it could have been a lot worse.” 
  Finchley seemed to suddenly realize that Crowe and Browning were 
  standing at attention in front of his desk, while he was almost behind 
  them after a series of rapid strides. “At ease. In fact, sit down. Drink.” 
  That sounded more like a command than an offer, but it was wel-
  come all the same. The sublieutenant, a great tall skinny kid of about 
  nineteen with staff rather than line rank insignia, produced a whisky de-
  canter and glasses from somewhere and began pouring large measures. 
  Very large measures, Crowe noted. 
  “I’m on duty, sir,” Browning said. “We both . . .” 
  “We all are.” Finchley took his glass and sipped from it. “There. I 
  broke regs first. You’re clear to proceed. Now, sit.” 
  Again, the invitation was barked like a command, and Crowe began 
  to see how exhausted Finchley was. He’d been energetic when Crowe 
  served with him, but in a restrained and elegant way. Now he was al-
  most manic. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 97 
  Not one to argue with a superior, especially one who did not seem 
  to be trying to cashier him, Crowe unbuckled his dress sword and seated 
  himself on one of the sofas in the “informal” corner of the office. He 
  tried to leave his drink behind, but it somehow arrived on the coffee ta-
  ble in front of him. 
  “There has to be an inquiry,” Finchley said. “This is it. So talk me 
  through what happened. All of it.” 
  Crowe blinked a couple of times. “Sir, a formal inquiry requires 
  three command level officers and a representative of Solomani Security.” 
  “I count two lieutenant commanders and a commodore, and a Sol-
  Sec representative here in this room,” Finchley said abruptly. “I trust 
  you find my selection of personnel suitable?” 
  “Eminently,” Crowe agreed quickly, aware that Finchley was bend-
  ing the rules beyond recognition. As a mere lieutenant commander, and 
  the subject of the inquiry, he didn’t need to worry about that. Finchley 
  was clearly on his side and giving him an out. Or was he? Crowe glanced 
  at his drink, which kept getting fuller. He was obviously expected to 
  keep pace with the commodore, who poured more for his guests every 
  time he took a drink of his own, even if they did not touch theirs in the 
  meantime. 
  Crowe resigned himself to whatever was going to happen and sam-
  pled the whisky. It was good, very good. Genuine lowland single malt 
  scotch if he was any judge, quite possibly all the way from one of the 
  designated Culturally Scottish regions that were permitted to call their 
  product scotch instead of just “Scottish-style Whisky.” 
  “Another reason for retaking Terra,” Finchley said, gesturing at his 
  glass. 
  Crowe forced himself to chuckle. “One of the best. Well, Commo-
  dore Finchley . . . you’ve seen my preliminary report.” 
  ”Yes. I want the details. Your impressions, your feelings for what 
  might be going on. Anything you got from the liaison officer at Chinon. 
  What happened here is well out of the ordinary. This wasn’t a terrorist 
  attack or a trade war. This was the deliberate ambush of a Confedera-
  tion Navy ship, and a subsequent attempt to cover up the incident by 
  attacking the command crew on the ground. It’s even possible that ele-
  ments of the Chinon world government were involved.” 
  “I would go so far as to say likely, sir,” Browning put in quietly. She 
  had not touched her glass. “I’m sorry, but I don’t drink. I mean no in-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  98 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  sult by that. But as to government involvement, I’d say it was likely that 
  the government was either stalled from within or actively withheld their 
  response. Nobody could be that slow to react to an attack at a govern-
  ment facility.” 
  “My thoughts too,” Finchley said. “Lieutenant Edwards, could you 
  find some fruit juice or . . . something suitable . . . for Commander 
  Browning? My apologies, Commander. I’ve grown rather used to dealing 
  with a certain kind of officer.” 
  “It’s fine, sir,” Browning responded. “Anything will do.” 
  “I concur with Commander Browning,” Crowe put in. “There’s too 
  much coincidence here. We were prevented from boarding that mer-
  chant, which was headed for Chinon, and then the world government 
  was very slow to react when we were attacked even though they’d just 
  been making a lot of noise about getting more patrols in the area. I sus-
  pect they helped with our repairs mainly to get rid of us as quickly as 
  possible.” 
  “And of course, there’s the data collected by the liaison officer at 
  Chinon,” Finchley said. “She’s been filing reports for years, and I sud-
  denly feel the need to take another look at them. It can’t be coincidence 
  that she was murdered just after an incident that might cause High 
  Command to take some notice of her at last.” 
  “She’d have wanted that; to finally get her message through,” 
  Browning said. 
  “Damn shame that it took her getting killed to make anyone take 
  some notice,” Finchley muttered. “But you see, here’s the problem. 
  We’re overstretched to the point where your ship had to be sent out on 
  an active patrol before she was even shaken down properly . . . and eve-
  ryone is shortstopping replacements meant for others. Nobody has what 
  he needs to get the job done.” 
  Finchley got up and started pacing as he spoke. Crowe realized that 
  his old commanding officer was venting rather than talking to anyone in 
  particular, and the realization was reassuring. The “inquiry” into how 
  Stormshadow had been damaged had turned into a bull session about 
  how hard the job had become; Finchley was indeed a sympathetic audi-
  ence. 
  “My remit is to protect this base and make sure it can support pa-
  trol operations in the surrounding systems, and of course to coordinate 
  those operations. But what actually happens is that I send out a task 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 99 
  force and it gets diverted to some other command within two weeks. 
  Right now I have two fleet couriers, one of which is borrowed, a couple 
  of auxiliaries, and one patrol corvette to my name. One. Plus your ship, 
  Simon. No offence meant but she’s not an asset right now.” 
  “I . . .” Crowe began, but fell silent as he realized Finchley had 
  more to say. 
  “I’m even having to fight to prevent my own defensive assets; my 
  gunship and fighter squadrons, being yanked away by other commands. 
  A while back I lost two fighter squadrons as replacements for the Mikula 
  task force. We’ve made good the loss now but it’s only a matter of time 
  before System Defense Command convinces someone higher up that it 
  needs our boats more than we do.” 
  Troubridge Naval Base orbited Raudal Gamma, a rockball moon of 
  the gas giant Raudal. The mainworld of the system, Dolor, had its own 
  defense squadron operated by the world’s Home Forces whereas the 
  gunships of the naval base answered to the fleet. Although the two 
  chains of command were deliberately distinct from one another, a gov-
  ernment with enough influence could appropriate additional forces for 
  system patrol and defense work, and the base would have to make do 
  with whatever was left. 
  “So . . .” Finchley said, pausing just long enough in his pacing to re-
  fill his glass. “It is the finding of this inquiry that CSS Stormshadow and 
  her captain did the best that anyone could expect under very difficult 
  circumstances and it’s in nobody’s interest to have either out of service 
  for longer than absolutely necessary. An investigation will be launched 
  into the situation at Chinon as soon as resources become available. In 
  the meantime, your exec can look after the ship during repairs?” 
  “Yes, sir, of course,” Crowe answered automatically. 
  “Good. In that case, I want you to deputize for me at a function 
  over at the highport. Dress uniform, medals and swords. Just say the 
  usual reassuring nothing-much, nod and smile when local politicians 
  bend your ear. And if you get the chance, remind the captains of the Mi-
  kula task group that this is their base, not Dolor Highport.” 
  “I’m sorry sir?” Crowe fished. 
  “Commodore Reutens has more or less hijacked some of my main 
  patrol assets. She turned up a few months back aboard Mikula, with a 
  set of special orders demanding cooperation from the patrol forces here. 
  She’s reassigned three of my vessels to independent patrol and one as an 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  100 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  escort for her flagship. All of which was on a temporary basis which 
  seems to have become permanent. 
  “The task force is supposed to be based out of Troubridge, but 
  Reutens and her officers seem to prefer the comforts of the highport to 
  their actual base. It started as courtesy visits, like any other port, but 
  now the whole task force just berths there and demands that we ship 
  supplies over. That ties up my shuttles for days on end, and to no useful 
  purpose. Technically it’s not proper procedure, but Reutens is well 
  enough connected to more or less do as she likes.” 
  “I’ll pass on your comments, sir,” Crowe said as if he did not know 
  it was a pointless task. 
  “Don’t bother, it’ll just cause friction,” Finchley said wearily. “I’ll 
  just send Reutens a memo or two.” 
  “Isn’t the Mikula task group supposed to be out on patrol?” Brown-
  ing asked. 
  “Yes. They arrived back in system yesterday and . . . requested . . . 
  some of my fighter complement to replace losses and craft needing refit. 
  Apparently they had a skirmish with a pirate, and the government of 
  Dolor is throwing them a party to celebrate,” Finchley made a sour face. 
  “Which is presumably keeping Commodore Reutens so busy that she 
  can’t file her reports with me just yet.” 
  Finchley downed the last of his drink and gazed ruefully at the glass. 
  “I didn’t just say any of that, of course. But as you can see, things are 
  difficult at present and getting worse. Which is why I want Stormshadow 
  back in service as quickly as possible. Have you heard of the Singapore 
  Strategy?” 
  “Singapore Trade Station?” Browning asked. 
  “No, Singapore on Terra. Back before the Interstellar Wars. One of 
  the great empires had a major fleet base—wet navy that is—at Singa-
  pore Island. The plan was that it would help them control that part of 
  the world by being a base of operations for a fleet that in practice was 
  never available. The base was critical to the Singapore Strategy . . . but 
  there was never the money for the ships to operate from it.” 
  Crowe cocked his head. “So, they built a base they knew they had 
  no ships for?” 
  “Yes. There was a plan to transfer assets from elsewhere when they 
  were needed. Of course, the plan to defend the base was never imple-
  mented. Partly because there was nothing to defend and partly because 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 101 
  there was no money to pay for it. But Singapore was an extremely pres-
  tigious possession because it was the crux of the strategy to control that 
  part of the world. So when war broke out it was a target and its loss was 
  a huge blow to the empire’s prestige even though it was basically worth-
  less.” 
  “I see,” Crowe said. “This base at Singapore became a target be-
  cause if its importance to a plan that was never implemented. I see a 
  parallel to the Iron Gate doctrine.” 
  “That’s my point, yes. We’ve spent a lot of money on bases along 
  the frontier with the Imperials, and on defenses for them. But where are 
  the ships? Without ships to patrol the frontier systems, Iron Gate is 
  nothing more than a propaganda exercise. Which may have been the 
  point all along.” Finchley’s tone was sour. 
  “Stormshadow and her sisters are part of Iron Gate,” Crowe offered. 
  “I know. That’s why we need you out there as soon as possible. If 
  you like analogies, the bases are nothing more than hinges; starships are 
  the gate and bars that will keep the Imperials out. We’ve spent a fortune 
  on those hinges but someone, somewhere has forgotten to provide a 
  gate.” 
  Crowe nodded. “I find myself thinking that this system would be 
  more secure if we just closed the base and transferred all its defensive 
  assets across to the highport over Dolor. At present we’re just spreading 
  the same resources thinner. But we can’t do that, can we? Apart from 
  the political implications, we’ve got a repair-and-construction yard here. 
  That’s a big investment.” 
  “Quite. We have a yard that can build or repair warships up to de-
  stroyer size, to support a patrol fleet that may never be built,” Finchley 
  said. “It’s a huge asset, but it’s standing idle most of the time. We can’t 
  just close it down because of the fanfare over the Iron Gate strategy. So 
  we need to paper over the cracks and pretend we’re doing something 
  useful.” 
  Crowe finished his drink thoughtfully. Finchley’s almost manic frus-
  tration made sense now. He presided over a more or less empty base 
  that drained funds away from the fleet it was built to support. Local sys-
  tems clamored for patrols that could not be mounted, and his few 
  assigned assets were being pulled away to other duties. 
  “I’ll have a talk with my exec and see how fast we can get back on 
  station, sir,” Crowe said fervently. “I know how much we’re needed.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  102 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Be so good as to remind Commodore Reutens that she’s needed 
  too,” Finchley muttered with a gesture in the general direction of the 
  door. Crowe and Browning decided to take that as a sign they were dis-
  missed, and stood to go. 
  “Crowe,” Finchley said as his subordinates reached the door. 
  “Good to see you back in the right uniform. Home Guard didn’t suit 
  you.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 103 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  059-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Lieutenant Roebecker was waiting by the shuttle when Crowe and 
  Browning arrived. In dress uniform he looked even younger than his 
  twenty standard years, and for a moment Crowe wondered if Roebecker 
  had finished growing. If not, then there might be a problem getting him 
  a vacc suit big enough . . . Crowe forced his attention back to the sub-
  ject at hand. 
  “I’ll only be gone for a few days,” he said to Browning. “So I’m not 
  expecting miracles from the yard. But it would be nice.” 
  Browning chuckled. “It’s not like the crews have got anything else 
  to work on, and I’m sure Lieutenant Carstairs can keep them at it.” 
  Crowe wasn’t so convinced, but left it at that. “Any information on 
  the situation in general?” he asked somewhat cryptically. He still wasn’t 
  sure enough of Browning to openly discuss the probable failure of the 
  Iron Gate doctrine, even if Finchley was willing. 
  “I’m still working through Greener’s data, but already I’m seeing 
  indications of a lot of traffic through Chinon that . . . well, you’d have 
  grounds for a stop-and-search at least. Nothing very conclusive, but it 
  could be pirates or smugglers. If so, then they’ve got their hooks into the 
  world government.” 
  “You don’t think it could be an external threat?” Crowe asked. 
  “The Imperials? Maybe. The Imperials are always a maybe, espe-
  cially this close to the border. There’s nothing to indicate any 
  involvement, though. In fact, the main oddball fact is on our side.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  104 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Explain?” 
  “We encountered CSS Lesos on our patrol, and her captain said she 
  delivered dispatches from the Mikula task group here.” 
  “I recall that,” Crowe said more harshly than he intended. 
  Browning let that go; she knew why. “Point is, Lesos isn’t assigned 
  to this region. She’s part of the patrol force allocated to the base at Jar-
  din. I’d have expected her to be real busy patrolling the Pilgham Cluster 
  and maybe the Miasma-Durgha Link. There’s no reason for her to be 
  this far rimward, and none for her to be carrying dispatches for Mikula.” 
  “Odd. Did she dock here or at the mainworld?” Crowe asked. 
  “Either way she could have transmitted updates easily enough. But 
  I’ll find out.” 
  “Please do,” Crowe said. 
  “There is something else,” Browning said almost conspiratorially. 
  “What is it?” 
  “Well, our preliminary survey suggests that we’ve got heavy damage 
  to three turrets from Q battery and the fourth is only borderline repair-
  able at best. The mountings are more or less intact but the external 
  segments were peppered by missile fragments. It’ll take weeks at least to 
  strip the turrets down and replace the damaged wiring and control com-
  ponents, then put it all back together.” 
  “You have an alternative?” Crowe asked. 
  “Yes sir, I do,” Browning replied. “But it’s a little . . . controver-
  sial.” 
  “I’m not going to like this, am I?” 
  “You might, actually. We could dismount the turrets and replace 
  them. The base has the facilities to do a proper repair given time, and in 
  the interim we’d retain some of our weapons capability.” 
  “Some? How many replacement missile turrets does the base have?” 
  Crowe was puzzled. Replacement turrets were a common enough item 
  and the fittings were standard. A base should have at least four. 
  “Troubridge has no missile turrets. None. They’re on a very long 
  list of spares and supplies that have been requested but not delivered. 
  Or more likely delivered somewhere else.” 
  “So, what are you suggesting?” 
  “Well,” Browning said with a small, apologetic smile. “They do 
  have no less than eleven standard-fitting turrets configured for the 
  WEPOL system.” 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 105 
  “WEPOL? I don’t know it.” 
  “It’s one of those contrived acronyms,” Browning said. “Wide En-
  velope Powered Ordnance Launch system. It’s under trials. If it’s 
  adopted they’ll probably give it a dramatic name like Hellseed or Space 
  Raptor.” 
  Crowe chuckled at that, then sucked his teeth thoughtfully. “This 
  is an experimental system, isn’t it? Another try at a viable combined tor-
  pedo/missile launcher.” 
  “That’s about it, sir. The base has nearly a dozen turrets in storage, 
  plus missiles and torpedoes. We could pop the turrets in within a couple 
  of days, which would give us some offensive capability at least. Then we 
  can swap our old mounts back in when they’re fixed. We have to dis-
  mount them for repair anyway.” 
  “I see,” Crowe said. “What do you think?” 
  “Truth be told, my gray hat likes the idea,” Browning replied. “It’s 
  a quick fix to get Stormshadow combat-worthy again, and it can be done 
  alongside repairs to our beam turrets. My black hat, however . . . the 
  gunnery specialist I used to be . . . hates the whole concept. These 
  things are notoriously unreliable.” 
  “We have to do it,” Crowe said. “I’m not keen either, but for the 
  small amount of extra work it does make us more capable while we wait 
  for a proper repair. I can see us ending up with the damn things aboard 
  permanently though, and I don’t like that. I’m not keen on explaining 
  why we chose to monkey with the designed armament, either, but under 
  the circumstances . . . yes, do it.” 
  “Monkey with the armament, aye sir,” Browning replied with genu-
  ine humor. “One other piece of last-minute news. That Imperial liner, 
  the Catalina Star, just came out of jump near Dolor and headed in to 
  orbit. She’s launched several shuttles in the direction of the downport. 
  Not, you’ll note, the highport.” 
  “Well, their last experience with Confederation highports was 
  pretty poor,” Crowe replied, but it did seem odd that a foreign ship 
  would be cleared for direct planetary approach rather than going 
  through the highport. “It’s probably some diplomatic nonsense that 
  we’ll never find out about.” 
  “More than likely, but I’ll keep an eye on it if I can,” Browning 
  said. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  106 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Crowe nodded. “In the meantime I have a two-day shuttle flight 
  ahead, and the same back. I can see why Commodore Finchley is send-
  ing me instead of going himself.” 
  “Rank hath its privileges,” Browning agreed. “Well, good luck Cap-
  tain. I’ll see what I can piece together and I’ll brief you when I get 
  back.” 
  “I’ll try to stay out of trouble,” Crowe said. “We don’t need any 
  more incidents.” 
  “I find not talking to politicians or drunks is a good start,” Brown-
  ing offered. “Or is that don’t talk to politicians whilst drunk? I forget.” 
  “Good advice either way. In the meantime, take care of my ship.” 
  “I will, sir,” Browning replied, and as he walked toward the shuttle 
  Crowe realized that in his heart he had entrusted Stormshadow to her 
  and not Carstairs, the proper-black-hat-navy officer who was nominally 
  in charge. 
  Interesting. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 107 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Dolor System 
  061-1108 
   
   
   
   
  The ships of Task Force Mikula were distant shapes, dark against 
  the stars. It was hard to make out any details at this distance. Crowe 
  could have dialed up a magnified view on his repeater screen, but he pre-
  ferred to gaze out of an old-fashioned armored ceramic viewport at the 
  ships and the highport beyond them. 
  The larger ships were moored rather than docked, which meant lit-
  tle more than lying at rest relative to the highport station. Utility craft 
  buzzed about, carrying supplies and personnel to and from the station. 
  Crowe assumed the three corvettes he knew were assigned to escort Mi-
  kula were docked in bays at the highport, leaving the four other vessels 
  of the task force out among the stars. 
  Two were old destroyers, obsolescent but quite capable of dealing 
  with minor threats or “showing the flag” on port visits. Bainbridge was 
  much newer, but smaller than Regolo. The latter was of an age with 
  Crowe’s old ship Maestrale; few of her class now remained in service. 
  They were both built on the tried-and-tested Type 961 hull form used 
  by most destroyer-class vessels. A cylindrical central hull housed most of 
  the ship’s drive and control system, with beam batteries along the dorsal 
  and ventral surfaces. Missile armament was housed in a pair of bulges 
  located amidships, with small craft docking just forward of the flared 
  drive section. 
  The destroyers flanked the Fleet Support Vessel Vesikko, a big 
  transport that carried spares and supplies along with the task force’s ma-
  rine contingent. Like many ships of her type, Vesikko’s hull was a big 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  108 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  rectangular box that maximized internal space. Her only feature of note 
  was the shuttle operations deck located in a spinal bulge that made her 
  look hump-backed and even more ugly than a transport ship had a right 
  to be. 
  The flagship, Mikula, was much the same size as Vesikko, at about 
  twelve thousand tons. Like most other ships assigned to patrol duty she 
  was an older design; in this case a light aviation cruiser carrying fighter 
  squadrons and assault shuttles in addition to a destroyer-class main ar-
  mament. Not by any means a pretty or elegant ship, Mikula had a good 
  service record but was surely not far short of her final retirement date. 
  Crowe gave in to temptation and called up a schematic of Vesikko. 
  She was built first and foremost as a cruiser, with a long flared cylindri-
  cal hull that carried her main armament on the dorsal surface and flanks. 
  She had no spinal mount, but she was intended more for patrol work 
  than stand-up actions, so that had never been a problem. 
  Vessels like Mikula were intended for security and escort opera-
  tions, controlling a star system with fighters and gunships launched from 
  the large bay carried under her main hull. It was a separate structure half 
  the length of the main hull, self-contained with its own reactor for 
  power. There were advantages to that; the two halves of the ship could 
  be built in a different yards and then joined together, allowing a large 
  vessel to be built in areas where no suitable shipbuilding facility was 
  available. 
  Separating the flight and main sections of the ship meant that a dis-
  astrous crash in the flight operations section of the ship would not 
  impair operations of the main vessel, but it also created a structural 
  weak point that could be exploited by a determined enemy. 
  The task force was more than capable of clearing out a pirate base 
  or conducting a sweep of a backwater system, which was presumably 
  what Commodore Reuten had been doing. Sweeps of this sort were 
  supposed to happen frequently, especially close to the Imperial border. 
  In practice they were far too rare, and tended to be launched only after 
  several incidents in a given system. There just weren’t enough hulls on 
  patrol, Crowe reasoned. 
  All the same, it meant that response to a problem usually came too 
  late to save the victims, and as soon as the fleet had moved on, the pi-
  rates and smugglers came back. The patrol forces were supposed to be a 
  deterrent, but they more commonly acted as a fire brigade. If Reuten 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 109 
  and her task force were putting fires out then that was all to the good, 
  but concentrating the local patrol assets like this did mean that prob-
  lems could grow elsewhere. 
  Missions that put the task force in a system for a week or two tied 
  up a lot of resources for much longer. A week per jump in transit to and 
  from the target point, maintenance and resupply time . . . too few hulls 
  divided by too much time spent in jump getting where they were 
  needed . . . Crowe forced himself to just look at the ships instead of try-
  ing to solve an impossible logistics problem in his head. 
  The shuttle was decelerating, ready to begin its final approach. No 
  craft was ever allowed to proceed directly to a planet or installation—or 
  any point they might occupy in the near future—at speed, so the pilot 
  had followed a close-approach vector and was now swinging around to-
  ward the station. As the shuttle rolled, Crowe got a good look at Dolor, 
  which was every bit as unattractive as its name suggested. 
  Dolor’s wisp of an atmosphere was insufficiently thick to conceal its 
  expanses of barren rock. Ice fields here and there broke the monotony, 
  and Crowe’s eyes were drawn to a sharply-defined mountain range bro-
  ken by an immense crater. The only other obvious feature was the 
  irregular splash of light that surrounded the world’s downport. 
  With most of its cities underground, Dolor’s surface was largely un-
  changed since humans came to live there. A few outposts and the small 
  surface segments of the cities were the only sign that what lay below was 
  not a dead world. In fact its population numbered hundreds of millions, 
  which Crowe took as proof that so long as one settler made a home 
  somewhere, sooner or later others would move in next door. 
  The highport lay ahead, a large and fairly modern installation 
  formed from five linked structures. The central residential and industrial 
  area was by far the largest, with three subsidiary sections housing the 
  system defence command and its flotilla of ships, the port’s own utility 
  craft and a segment under construction that looked like it might be an 
  extension of the main industrial zone. 
  The commercial port lay at one end of the central section, sepa-
  rated from it by a web of gantries and access tubes that allowed the port 
  to be sealed off in an emergency but gave easy access the rest of the time. 
  From its size and the number of landing bays, it seemed that the port 
  saw a fair amount of merchant traffic. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  110 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  The shuttle had been directed to the system-defence docking area 
  on the far side of the station to the main berthing area, so there was no 
  need to wait in a holding pattern. That was just as well; they were cut-
  ting it a little fine to reach the station in time for the function. Crowe 
  smiled tightly at that. Keeping himself presentable during a two-day 
  transit, with only the shuttle’s cramped bunks and tiny washroom, had 
  been a challenge. Roebecker had really struggled, knocking his elbows 
  and bashing his head several times. He had spent much of the trip in 
  irate silence, which suited Crowe. 
  As the shuttle docked, Crowe buckled on his sword and straight-
  ened his hat. There was no reception party, just a single petty officer 
  who offered a crisp salute then led Crowe and Roebecker at a brisk pace 
  to a transit center. A couple of changes of elevator left them both some-
  what confused about exactly where they were in the station. There was 
  nothing for it but to follow their guide and hope that someone could 
  direct them back afterward. 
  Crowe fought the urge to sigh as they approached the highport’s 
  executive conference suite. The décor, even in the approach corridors, 
  was grand and ostentatious, intended to impress or overawe visitors, 
  trade representatives, and ambassadors. Crowe could see why the task 
  force crews preferred such opulence to the Spartan quarters of a naval 
  base, but more importantly the surroundings spoke of utmost pomposity 
  on the part of the local world government. Which meant that the com-
  ing proceedings were going to be something of a trial. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 111 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Dolor Highport 
  061-1108 
   
   
   
   
  The conference suite was filled with uniforms, suits, and gowns. 
  Dignitaries and celebrities mixed and mingled with navy and Home 
  Guard officers, chatting and swapping anecdotes. The buzz of conversa-
  tion was underpinned by a small live orchestra in one corner of the 
  chamber. 
  In the opposite corner, Commodore Reuten was holding court. She 
  looked somewhat young for her rank, but she was tall and attractive and 
  made a good public-relations figure for the fleet. Even without political 
  connections she had advantages that could accelerate her career. 
  Reutens was surrounded by a mob of junior officers who vied for 
  her attention and approval. Most of them were Fleet, a handful Home 
  Guard and one or two were from the Merchant Navy. There wasn’t a 
  SolSec uniform among them. In fact . . . Crowe made a more detailed 
  sweep of the room. There wasn’t a gray uniform to be seen. 
  “Representing Commodore Finchley of the Confederation Navy, 
  Acting Lieutenant Commander Simon Crowe, recipient of the Order of 
  Sol, and Sublieutenant Christian Roebecker, officers of the frigate 
  Stormshadow, Confederation Navy!” the door announcer said into his 
  microphone. His words were repeated just loud enough to be heard by 
  anyone who cared, anywhere in the room. 
  Crowe allowed himself the luxury of a small sigh. That’s Command-
  ing Officer of the frigate Stormshadow. But you got the “acting” part in, I 
  noticed . . . he thought as a few heads turned. Most of the people in the 
  room were not interested in a mere acting lieutenant commander nor a 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  112 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  frigate with no reputation. Those that were interested were, for the 
  most part, hostile. They’d be the ones who knew his name. 
  Roebecker had already steered onto a diverging course, putting 
  some distance between himself and his tainted superior. Crowe let him 
  go, although etiquette expected that they presented themselves together 
  to whoever came to greet them. 
  Clearly Crowe did not merit the attentions of anyone important; 
  the man who approached him was far too young to be anything but a 
  minor functionary, an aide to a minister perhaps. His smile, greeting, 
  and handshake were impersonal and professional. He did not offer a 
  name, and disengaged as quickly as was decent. Still, having been 
  greeted Crowe was now permitted by etiquette to socialize . . . assuming 
  he could find anyone willing to spend time with him. 
  Crowe spent more time talking to waiters in the next two hours 
  than navy or world government personnel. Everyone apparently knew 
  everyone else, and those that had never heard of Simon Crowe got a 
  potted version from an acquaintance. After trying to join several conver-
  sations and achieving at best a few polite pleasantries, Crowe retreated 
  to a corner of the room away from both orchestra and commodore. He 
  armed himself with another glass of wine, hoping that together they 
  might be able to fend off the utter boredom of the event. 
  To his surprise, Crowe looked up to see an older man approaching. 
  He wore the three-rings-and-loop of a full commander on his jacket 
  sleeves, and a proper navy beard that clearly had more years’ seniority 
  than Crowe himself. Almost white, the beard came down to its owner’s 
  medals . . . of which there were a good few. 
  “Simmonds, Bainbridge,” the newcomer said in navy shorthand. 
  “Crowe, Stormshadow,” Crowe replied, shaking the offered hand. 
  This was odd; a shorthand greeting was more common among enlisted 
  personnel working together ashore, or between officers who simply had 
  no time for a full introduction. 
  “Robert Simmonds. Bob,” the newcomer added, suggesting that he 
  was being informal and friendly rather than curt. 
  “Simon. Pleased to meet you, Bob.” 
  “You look as bored as me,” Simmonds said. “It’s like a family reun-
  ion in here, and we’re not family. Even the people I know are little more 
  than polite.” Simmonds hitched his dress sword more comfortably as he 
  spoke. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 113 
  “That’s not a regulation weapon . . .” Crowe said, mostly just to 
  make conversation. 
  “No, it’s actually an Imperial Court Sword, believe it or not. Used 
  to belong to Admiral Estriiagaali. He surrendered it with his fleet at Jael 
  in 991 to some distant relative of mine. It’s become a sort of family tra-
  dition that the current naval hero gets to have it until someone eclipses 
  him . . . or her.” 
  “It’s quite a thing of beauty,” Crowe agreed, and as he had hoped 
  Simmonds would not, the commander drew it from its scabbard with a 
  flourish. He passed it to Crowe, who put down his glass to gingerly hold 
  the precious thing in both hands. 
  Simmonds’s sword was quite similar to Crowe’s own, which was 
  hardly surprising since both derived from the same traditions. The hilt 
  had a small hand guard and a stirrup-like knuckle bow, but where 
  Crowe’s regulation sword was of plain steel, Simmonds’s was inlaid with 
  iridium. There were no gems, however; many purely ceremonial weap-
  ons had gems on the hilt where they would be dislodged by an impact. 
  This one had none, suggesting a certain practicality. There was another 
  difference too . . . 
  “Yes, it’s got an edge,” Simmonds said. That was unusual. Most na-
  val swords were blunt for the whole length of their blade and were not 
  designed to be sharpened. The point was serviceable, as Crowe knew 
  from experience, but partly from tradition and partly because a razor-
  edged sword was a hazard to an untrained user, blades were never sharp. 
  Crowe passed the weapon back. “It’s a piece of history,” he said. 
  “You must be very proud of it.” 
  Simmonds shrugged. “I forget sometimes how old and special it 
  is—to me it’s something that was in the family when I was a child, so 
  it’s got a more personal value. It is a bloody nuisance at times—I’ve al-
  most lost a couple of fingers, and I once did irreparable damage to some 
  very expensive shoes with it.” 
  Crowe chuckled at the image. “So, you’re not part of the, as you 
  say . . . family . . . here?” 
  “No, Bainbridge was seconded from the patrol flotilla. We got sent 
  off on a wild goose chase all the way to Cicero and back, and rejoined 
  the task force just in time to miss a pretty good skirmish. I hear tell you 
  had one of your own.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  114 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “We did, at that,” Crowe said regretfully. “Followed a suspect mer-
  chant and got jumped by corvettes. Milspec vessels, not some cobbled-
  together pirate jobs.” 
  “Hmm,” Simmonds said thoughtfully. “Scuttlebutt says there’s a 
  rogue corvette force been sighted in the backwaters. I’d assumed it was 
  Imperial scouts or raiders. They were definitely naval units?” 
  “Dulo class,” Crowe replied, trying to keep his tone neutral. Sim-
  monds was not being hostile or judgmental, and it was slowly dawning 
  on Crowe that he had come to expect everyone in naval uniform he met 
  to have an opinion about the events at Santorini. Maybe there were 
  some who didn’t know or didn’t care about the controversy after all. 
  “The Dulos were sold off en masse a good few years ago. I served 
  aboard one in my pre-beard days,” Simmonds said. “Yes, there was in 
  fact a time when I was young and clean-shaven. Given everything that’s 
  happened since then, maybe some Dulos could have been . . . misappro-
  priated.” 
  “It’s more than the ships,” Crowe said. “They operated as a squad-
  ron, like they’d trained together for a while. And it was a good ambush. 
  I’ll admit that we’ve not even finished shakedown and the crew are not 
  the best they can be, not yet, but all the same we weren’t lax.” 
  “Nobody is suggesting you were,” Simmonds said. “Though I’d be 
  willing to bet that our higher-ups would prefer to believe that a green 
  crew made a mistake—no insult intended—than there’s a serious mili-
  tary force out there in the backwater systems. They might actually have 
  to do something about it if they believed it.” 
  Crowe nodded slowly, wondering if profound cynicism was endemic 
  under Commodore Finchley’s command, or if things really were that bad 
  throughout the region. His thoughts were interrupted by the approach 
  of another officer, a Home Guard lieutenant by his uniform. 
  Crowe and Simmonds turned to face the new arrival, who was a lit-
  tle unsteady on his feet. Both started to speak, but they were 
  interrupted. “So, how did you do it?” the newcomer demanded. 
  “I beg your pardon, Lieutenant . . .” Simmonds began, but surpris-
  ingly the Home Guard lieutenant ignored him. 
  “How did you do it, Crowe? How did you get from court-martial 
  to command? How did you get from Home Guard to Fleet, for that 
  matter? Whose golden boy are you? What’s so special about you that 
  you can shoot up a squadron-mate and get promoted for it?” 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 115 
  That’s a . . . fascinating . . . interpretation of events, Crowe thought. 
  Six years in limbo awaiting a court-martial that never happened, and an 
  acting promotion at the end of it, for doing what seemed best in a con-
  fused situation. If he was someone’s golden boy he’d like to think he’d 
  pick a patron that could get him out of trouble a bit quicker. All the 
  same . . . 
  “Lieutenant!” Simmonds barked, tapping the full commander’s 
  rings on his right sleeve with a finger of his left hand. “I do believe you 
  may be drunk. Kindly be somewhere else before I have to speak to the 
  shore patrol.” 
  The lieutenant dragged himself upright and managed a pretty good 
  facsimile of a salute that was not at that point required by regulations. 
  “My sincere apologies, Captain,” he said. “I didn’t see you there . . .” 
  “Commander. Now why don’t you go somewhere and study rank 
  insignia? Somewhere that’s not here,” Simmonds said slowly and with 
  careful emphasis. 
  The lieutenant saluted again, badly. Crowe suspected he wasn’t as 
  drunk as he was pretending to be, but before he could say or do any-
  thing the lieutenant looked him up and down with contempt, then 
  turned back to Simmonds and said. “Yes sir, I’ll do that right away. 
  Though I do respectfully submit that the commander’s choice of com-
  pany seems a little questionable.” 
  With that, the Home Guard lieutenant walked away, a good bit 
  less unsteadily than he had approached. Simmonds turned back to 
  Crowe and shrugged. “The boy’s a fool, obviously. No wonder he’s in 
  Home Guard and not the fleet.” 
  Crowe decided to let that go. It was probably meant kindly, but 
  since Crowe had spent the past few years in a Home Guard squadron it 
  failed to go over that way. No matter, he decided. “Sir . . . Bob, I mean. 
  I think it’s best if I find some accommodation and turn in. Before there’s 
  an incident.” 
  “Good idea,” Simmonds said, glancing around the room. “I think 
  I’ve done my social duty too. How about I find a berth for you aboard 
  Bainbridge? We’re short-handed so I can probably scrounge you and 
  your lieutenant a cabin. I’ll call my exec and he’ll send someone to in-
  form Lieutenant  . . . ?” he left the question hanging. 
  “Roebecker. Thanks, Bob,” Crowe said. When they got to Sim-
  monds’s ship there would be salutes and a side party to welcome the 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  116 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  captain of a friendly warship aboard, permission to board asked and 
  given, and all manner of formalities. But as they walked to the door of 
  the ballroom, Crowe was glad of the informality. Just possibly, he might 
  have made a friend. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 117 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CSS Bainbridge 
  Dolor Highport 
  062-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe tumbled out of his borrowed bunk and scrambled into 
  about half of his dress uniform before answering the door. To his sur-
  prise, Bob Simmonds stood there. The destroyer’s captain wore a more 
  complete version of dress uniform, and was holding his sword belt in his 
  hands. Crowe blinked at him, confused, then offered a salute. 
  Simmonds waved a vague response and gestured at Crowe’s uni-
  form. “I suppose your internal time is out of kilter with Dolor Standard, 
  but all the same I’d have expected you to be up and about by now. 
  Don’t you at least want breakfast?” 
  “Uh, breakfast is good,” Crowe said lamely. 
  “There isn’t time now. I’ve ordered the steward to send some coffee 
  and such to meet us. Maybe you can eat en route if you’ve a mind.” 
  Crowe struggled into the rest of his uniform, ran water over his 
  hands at the sink and finger-combed his hair. That would have to do; 
  clearly Simmonds was in a hurry. He jammed his hat on his head and 
  strode to the door then looked questioningly at Simmonds’s sword belt 
  and picked up his own. He put his arm through it, allowing his blade to 
  rest on his back. 
  They walked through the corridors of CSS Bainbridge. The ship 
  was obsolete and had clearly been repaired more than once in her long 
  service, but she was spotlessly clean and obviously well cared for. They 
  exchanged salutes with personnel they passed, finally reaching the main 
  airlock where a party of marines stood guard. With the ship docked to 
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  118 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  an arm of the highport, marine guards at the lock were mandatory. 
  There were an excessive number of them, though. 
  Crowe finished surreptitiously straightening his shirt and jacket and 
  buckled on his sword belt, wanting to ask about all the marines, their 
  destination, and a host of other things. Simmonds was moving too fast 
  though, and Crowe’s curiosity rose as six of the marines fell in behind 
  them. All wore sidearms and dress uniform; this was an honor guard and 
  security detachment rather than a combat deployment, but other than 
  that Crowe could not say why they were there. 
  At the end of the docking arm was the main service area for large 
  vessels visiting the highport. It normally handled cargo and supplies 
  moving in and out of freighters, but the area closest to Bainbridge’s 
  docking arm was more or less empty. Sublieutenant Roebecker stood 
  there in full dress uniform, looking impatient. He saluted as they ap-
  proached but said nothing. 
  “It would seem,” said Simmonds. “That they’re not here. Roe-
  becker?” 
  “Lieutenant Braithwaite’s friends have informed me that they are en 
  route. They will be delayed a little due to a circuitous detour around a 
  shore patrol checkpoint, and they apologize for the wait. No insult is 
  intended.” Roebecker’s tone and language were excessively formal, and 
  his use of the word “friends” was interesting. In fact it could mean . . . 
  No. Surely not, Crowe thought. That would be absurd. 
  “Well then, Simon, if you’re intent on pursuing this nonsense . . . I 
  suggest you use mine.” Simmonds drew his priceless antique sword and 
  offered it hilt-first to Crowe, resting it on his arm. 
  “I couldn’t . . .” Crowe said vaguely, utterly bemused. In the back 
  of his mind, a clear voice was screaming that it knew exactly what was 
  happening, but he ignored it. This could not possibly be what it looked 
  like. It just . . . couldn’t. 
  “If you mean that you cannot countenance using my antique family 
  sword, that’s very commendable of you. But will I remind you that it 
  was made for this and it’s a very fine weapon. The fact that it’s sharp 
  might . . .” Simmonds chuckled at his own unintentional pun, “give you 
  an edge.” 
  “Well . . .” said Crowe. 
  “On the other hand,” said Simmonds, gesturing at the party of half 
  a dozen officers of the Home Guard who were entering the docking 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 119 
  area. They flanked the lieutenant that had approached Crowe the previ-
  ous evening. He carried a drawn sword. “If you mean that you cannot 
  put a sword into the body of another human being . . . In that case we 
  may have a problem.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  120 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Dolor Highport 
  062-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe ran through a series of light cuts and thrusts with his bor-
  rowed sword as Sublieutenant Roebecker conferred with one of the 
  Home Guard officers. Simmonds stood nearby, holding Crowe’s own 
  blade. After a moment, Roebecker returned. 
  “Lieutenant Braithwaite is ready,” Roebecker rumbled. “As are his 
  seconds. I am ready. Commander?” he said to Simmonds. 
  “I’m ready, but I do need to point out that this is madness,” Sim-
  monds replied. 
  “Wait!” Crowe said. “What are we doing here? You’re right, this is 
  madness. I wasn’t even challenged! Can’t we discuss this?” 
  “The time for discussion is over, I’m afraid.” Roebecker didn’t look 
  entirely sorry about that. “The principals are armed and on the field of 
  combat. The president is here. We must proceed.” 
  Crowe and the Home Guard officer—Braithwaite, his name was, 
  apparently—glanced sideways to where another party was approaching. 
  Everyone snapped to attention and tried to salute without injuring 
  themselves with the swords they held. 
  “Gentlemen,” said Commodore Reutens, stepping up to a point 
  midway between the duelists. “I have been asked to preside over this 
  duel between brother officers of equal rank in equivalent service, and I 
  have agreed to do so as an impartial observer. I will tell you when to be-
  gin and when to stop. You pledge your honor to obey those commands, 
  and you seconds pledge theirs to force you if you do not. My surgeon 
  will attend any injuries. Any questions?” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 121 
  “No, but I would prefer not to fight,” Crowe said heavily. “I wish 
  to apologize to Lieutenant Braithwaite for . . . any and all insults . . . 
  whatever insults . . . I may have offered.” 
  “So you’re a coward too!” snapped Braithwaite, making a series of 
  fast circling movements with the point of his sword. It was much the 
  same as Crowe’s own, probably mass-produced by the same contractor. 
  “Acting Commander Crowe,” Reutens said testily. “As you well 
  know, apology for an insult can only be offered by the challenged party. 
  You challenged Lieutenant Braithwaite this morning. You were appar-
  ently offended by his conduct yesterday evening toward yourself and 
  Commander Simmonds. Since you issued the challenge, you cannot 
  apologize. It does not seem that your opponent is inclined to. Lieuten-
  ant, are you prepared to apologize to Acting Commander Crowe?” 
  Braithwaite made a noise that suggested he was not. 
  “Very well then,” Reuten said. “You will stand here and . . . here. 
  Your seconds will flank you with swords ready, but may only intervene 
  to defend a downed principal or for their own safety. Upon my com-
  mand you will fight, and upon my command to halt you will step back 
  and desist immediately. I will call a halt if a duelist is disabled or 
  downed, loses his weapon, or in any other circumstance that I feel mer-
  its a halt. Are we clear?” 
  “Yes sir,” Crowe said automatically. He was familiar with the stan-
  dard dueling rules of course. Everyone who graduated naval college was. 
  But that didn’t mean the situation felt any more real to him. And what 
  of the challenge? He had issued none, which meant that it had been is-
  sued by a “friend” acting on his behalf. One of the seconds most likely. 
  Roebecker or Simmonds? Or both? 
  Crowe shook his head slightly to banish speculation. He had to 
  fight and win, or fight and lose without getting killed, if it came to that. 
  He saluted his opponent and then Reutens as president of the duel, 
  bringing his sword up to the vertical in front of his face each time. 
  “Simon? Jacket,” Simmonds said softly. Crowe cursed, shrugged 
  clumsily out of his dress uniform jacket, and tossed it to one of Sim-
  monds’s marines. He saluted again, seeing the contemptuous sneer on 
  Braithwaite’s face the whole time. This couldn’t be happening. It just 
  couldn’t. 
  Crowe assumed a standard guard in tierce, sword pointed at his op-
  ponent’s throat and his unarmed hand held high behind him. He 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  122 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  surreptitiously checked his stance; knees flexed, front foot pointed 
  where he wanted the sword to go, back straight, head up, knuckle bow 
  turned outward to protect his sword hand. He fixed his opponent with 
  what he hoped was a determined and threatening stare. 
  Braithwaite’s expression was blank, unreadable. He had adopted a 
  defensive posture, crouching lower than Crowe with his sword hand 
  high and blade drooping in a hanging guard. His unarmed hand was for-
  ward, close to his weapon hand. Crowe nodded slightly. Braithwaite was 
  using the Alten Style, probably intending to fight defensively until 
  Crowe became frustrated and left himself open on a reckless attack. 
  Crowe stepped forward, into measure, and circled to his right. At 
  this distance he could hit with a lunge and so could his opponent. He 
  tried a probing thrust and aborted it as Braithwaite closed the line with 
  a small movement of his hilt. Altenists were notoriously hard to hit, but 
  then they were limited in how well they could . . . 
  . . . Braithwaite’s point came up to the horizontal as he rolled his 
  hand over, delivering a sharp rap on Crowe’ s blade as the arm snapped 
  straight and he lunged, driving the point straight at Crowe’s face. 
  Crowe jerked his head to the left and clumsily batted the thrust 
  aside with his unarmed hand, feeling air disturbed by the point on his 
  eyebrow. He scrambled back a pace, struggling to regain his composure, 
  as Braithwaite recovered from his lunge and thrust again. Crowe went 
  back another pace, leaning back to get away from the point. His clumsy 
  parry contacted Braithwaite’s sword as it withdrew; far, far too late. 
  Braithwaite began to circle, his movements no longer the measured 
  pace of the Alten System duelist but a light, aggressive step that sparked 
  with repressed energy. He was grinning now, a cold and frightening ex-
  pression. “I’m going to kill you, Crowe,” he hissed softly. 
  Crowe forced himself back on guard, mentally and physically, and 
  circled to match Braithwaite’s movements. He was rattled, thrown off 
  by the suddenness of Braithwaite’s switch from defensive to all-out at-
  tack and just as much by his intensity. Crowe opened the distance a 
  little, extending his arm to present the point of his sword. If Braithwaite 
  came in fast again he would impale himself. 
  Braithwaite returned to his hanging guard, defensive, using less en-
  ergy than Crowe whose outstretched arm would tire him. A trained 
  fencer would know to wait, Crowe realized, expecting the opponent to 
  return to a lower and less tiring position than Crowe’s point-in-line. But 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 123 
  Braithwaite was clearly beyond merely well-trained. He had learned how 
  to exploit his opponent’s expectations. By adopting a defensive posture 
  he told his opponent that he did not intend to attack . . . and then 
  launched an all-out assault to take advantage of the surprise he thus 
  gained. 
  Sure enough, Braithwaite’s point swept up as he sought to take 
  Crowe’s blade. He planned to push it off line and lunge into the gap . . . 
  but the blades never met. Crowe’s sword point described a circle as he 
  avoided Braithwaite’s attempt to control it whilst keeping the point 
  aimed at his opponent’s face. Braithwaite’s blade swept sideways, trying 
  to find Crowe’s, but again he deceived it, allowing it to go past and 
  maintaining control of the line of attack. Crowe lunged, and this time it 
  was Braithwaite’s turn to bat the thrust aside with his unarmed hand. 
  Crowe stepped back, seeing bright drops of blood hitting the deck. 
  Braithwaite looked at his hand, surprised, then at Crowe’s weapon. 
  Crowe could have attacked him then, but checked himself as he realized 
  Braithwaite was not properly defending himself. A victory won in that 
  manner could lead to censure and might be seen as a breach of dueling 
  regulations that would allow criminal prosecution. As his instructors at 
  Naval College had told him over and over, there was more to dueling 
  than putting the pointy end in the other chap. 
  Reutens should have called a halt at that point, seeing that Braith-
  waite was bleeding and not ready to defend. Crowe put aside 
  speculation about why she did not, but he did permit himself a small 
  nod of satisfaction. “It would seem that I have an edge,” he said, more 
  evenly that he expected he would manage. “We could stop at this 
  point.” He kept his guard up as he spoke, just in case Braithwaite broke 
  convention. 
  “It’s nothing,” rumbled a voice just to Crowe’s side and rear. Odd 
  that Roebecker would comment on the opposing principal’s wound . . . 
  unless of course he wanted the fight to continue. This was starting to 
  make more sense now. Roebecker had issued the challenge, or more 
  likely conspired with Braithwaite to arrange a duel. 
  Braithwaite had used the defensive hanging guard of the Alten Style 
  to lure Crowe in and gone straight for a kill shot. That suggested that 
  this was no mere incident, it was an attempt at a legal assassination. 
  There were plenty of officers who resented Crowe for his part in the 
  Santorini controversy, but this was taking it very far indeed. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  124 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Yes, it’s nothing,” snapped Braithwaite. “I caught the edge when I 
  off-hand parried. Wasn’t expecting it to be sharp.” His tone was 
  pointed, suggesting that Crowe was somehow cheating by using a non-
  regulation sword. There was nothing in the dueling regulations to disal-
  low an edge, he knew. Besides, he was fighting an unwanted duel set up 
  especially to kill him. And now his opponent was accusing him of cheat-
  ing? 
  Any remaining sense of unreality evaporated, leaving Crowe in a 
  clinical, calculating mindset. His opponent was highly skilled but had 
  probably been banking on his surprise move taking Crowe straight out 
  of the fight. Now he was injured and his sucker punch had failed. He’d 
  be rattled; he’d make mistakes. 
  “Yield or fight!” Crowe snapped in a tone that was somehow both 
  harsh and slightly bored. 
  Braithwaite glanced around for a moment then exchanged a long 
  look with Commodore Reuten. She raised one eyebrow and waited. Af-
  ter a long, long moment Braithwaite nodded sharply. “Fight!” he said. 
  “Very well gentlemen. Return to measure . . . and commence!” 
  Reuten commanded. 
  Now Crowe took the initiative, circling left and right like a preda-
  tor sizing up a herd. Braithwaite engaged his blade, tried a few probing 
  movements and a disengage, but he seemed half-hearted. Crowe wasn’t 
  fooled. He could feel rage building, screaming at him to smash Braith-
  waite and anyone else involved in this piece of treachery. He slammed a 
  lid on it, vowing to make no stupid mistakes in anger, and to be very 
  sure of Roebecker’s involvement before he acted. 
  Braithwaite suddenly lunged, no longer half-hearted but blindingly 
  fast. Crowe parried contre-tierce, deflecting the thrust, and launched a 
  direct riposte to the heart. Braithwaite brought his weapon back across 
  his body, making the conventional lateral parry of quarte, and began a 
  thrust. Crowe made a similar lateral parry, following with a quick circu-
  lar parry when he felt no blade contact. That found Braithwaite’s thrust, 
  and Crowe launched a fast riposte back down the line. 
  That should have ended the matter, but somehow Braithwaite 
  avoided the riposte, pivoting his body aside by moving his back foot 
  across behind his front in a perfect demi-volte movement as he thrust at 
  Crowe’s face. Crowe aborted his thrust and scrambled out of reach, 
  aware that someone had just shouted “Yes!” at the display of back-and-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 125 
  forth blade work and somewhat afraid that it might have been himself. 
  Braithwaite followed up with another thrust, then turned it into a lunge 
  as Crowe scrambled back. The point followed him, never farther than a 
  centimeter from his chest, until Bainbridge ran out of reach. Crowe 
  slashed at his extended arm, forcing his opponent to retract quickly. 
  Crowe followed up with a thrust that he knew would be parried, 
  batted the riposte aside with his off hand, and raised his sword for an 
  overhead slash. Braithwaite’s weapon came up to parry . . . and Crowe 
  kicked him in the chest. 
  It was a fairly poor kick from an unarmed combat point of view, 
  but it did the job. Braithwaite staggered, wide open, and Crowe rushed 
  in to seize his weapon by the blade. Against an edged sword, it would 
  have been a huge mistake, but the traditional court sword used by the 
  navy was blunt, as Crowe well knew. He twisted the weapon aside, 
  drawing back his own sword for a killing thrust. 
  At the last second, Crowe’s calculating instinct warned him of a 
  new danger. There were irregularities about this duel. None of it was his 
  fault, but a court of inquiry might find that he had killed a man in an 
  improperly-arranged duel, and that could have . . . consequences. Some-
  one wanted him dead, but out of the picture on charges was almost as 
  good. Instead of thrusting he punched his opponent in the teeth with 
  the iridium-inlaid hilt of Simmonds’s priceless antique sword. 
  “It’s your lucky day,” Crowe grated to Braithwaite, and hit him 
  again. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  126 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Carter Naval Base, Barsoom System: 064-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Naval analysts have questioned the detachment of several patrol 
  vessels and heavier units from the border forces over recent months. 
  Most of these vessels have been sighted in systems up to ten parsecs 
  from their base, undertaking a range of tasks better suited to couriers 
  and auxiliaries. 
  Senior naval officers in the Pilgham Cluster patrol forces countered 
  these statements, saying that the detached vessels were undertaking 
  “long range patrols in the surrounding area, showing the flag and reas-
  suring the people of the region that the fleet is out there doing the job.” 
  As always, a balance must be struck between defending the frontier 
  from the “grand threat” of the Imperial Navy and ensuring the security 
  of commercial traffic within the Confederation’s less well-traveled sys-
  tems. 
  Rumors that these vessels are being used to temporarily replace lo-
  cal ships which, for various reasons, are not available, have been denied. 
  Naval authorities have also refuted allegations that these vessels are un-
  dertaking a vigorous search for pirate bases or other installations, stating 
  that too much is being made of a routine patrol surge in an area whose 
  world governments have long requested a greater naval presence. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 127 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Off Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  065-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “The bridge just confirmed that we’re clear to launch,” Com-
  mander Simmonds said as they approached CSS Bainbridge’s shuttle 
  bay. “Vesikko has entered the transfer dock.” 
  “That’s good to hear,” Crowe replied. “Now all I have to do is to 
  jump through a few more hoops at the base and I can finally get back 
  aboard Stormshadow. With a bit of luck they’ll have her operational by 
  then.” 
  “Hope so,” Simmonds agreed. “I’ve got orders to wait a couple 
  more days for you then proceed solo if you’re not available. I was kind of 
  looking forward to being a task group commander.” 
  “We’ll do everything we can,” Crowe said. “There’s a full repair 
  yard here, and they’ve had most of a week. Stormshadow might be in 
  better shape than she was before Chinon.” 
  Simmonds chuckled. “Cling to your illusions and false hopes as long 
  as you can, Simon. One day you’ll be an old cynic like me. On a more 
  serious note, what are you going to do about your lieutenant?” 
  “I’m not sure. It’s pretty obvious that he issued that challenge on 
  my behalf, and that there was more to it than a random dispute. I was 
  set up. And I’ll say it once more—I’m sorry about abusing your sword 
  like that.” 
  “Iridium and steel don’t take much damage from teeth,” Simmonds 
  said with a shrug. “It’s a fighting tool and we’d dishonor it by treating it 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  128 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  as anything else. Besides, that Braithwaite fellow was there with no 
  other intention than to kill you. He got what was coming.” 
  “I wonder what would have happened if I’d just run him through?” 
  Crowe pondered. Merely smashing Braithwaite’s teeth in had resulted in 
  a perfunctory interview with Commodore Reuten, who pronounced the 
  duel fair and proper and closed the matter, then in the next breath told 
  Crowe to get off her station. Technically that was all kinds of wrong; 
  Dolor Highport was not under her command and neither was Acting 
  Lieutenant Commander Crowe, but it made sense to depart quickly. 
  And so Crowe had hitched a lift aboard Bainbridge as she departed 
  the highport and returned to Troubridge Naval Base. At the same time, 
  the destroyer transferred back to Commodore Finchley’s command 
  where she belonged. 
  Sublieutenant Roebecker had been assigned a berth aboard Vesikko 
  for the trip. Actually, Crowe had too but he decided to remain aboard 
  Bainbridge as the environment was friendlier there. Vesikko was taking on 
  supplies from the naval base ready for the task force’s next deployment. 
  That was a departure from previous practice, which had required the 
  base to transfer supplies by shuttle to the highport, but this was the 
  transport ship could use the bulk transfer dock at the naval base, which 
  would make life simpler for Commodore Finchley. 
  Crowe and Simmonds shook hands in the corridor and bade one 
  another goodbye as the friends they were becoming. Once in the shuttle 
  bay, there was a second goodbye, but this was a formal affair with a side 
  party and salutes. 
  Within moments of boarding the shuttle, Crowe was en route to 
  the naval base, gazing out of the viewport at the gas giant Raudal. Fuel 
  shuttles plied back and forth between the base and the giant planet, 
  skimming raw hydrocarbons from the atmosphere to convert into liquid 
  hydrogen fuel. The base maintained enormous reserves in case fleet units 
  had to be refueled unexpectedly, and keeping the tanks topped up was a 
  full-time job. 
  Somewhere on the far side of the naval base, Stormshadow rested in 
  a repair cradle. According to a brief signal from Lieutenant Carstairs, 
  repairs were going well and she would be operational in a day or so. 
  Maybe his youthful hopes and dreams were not unfounded after all, 
  Crowe mused with a chuckle. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 129 
  Nearer, the ungainly bulk of the Fleet Support Vessel Vesikko rested 
  in the bulk transfer dock. Huge arms held her in place as supplies were 
  loaded aboard through her great aft hatches. She was not in any way an 
  attractive ship, but she had given many years of good service as a support 
  asset. 
  Crowe wondered how he would react if he were offered a support 
  command. A tanker or logistics ship captain was still the master of a ma-
  jor ship, and had a vitally important job to do. But all the same, Crowe 
  was a fighting captain . . . or at least he saw himself as one. Too many 
  propaganda vids as a teenager, maybe. With the Imperial hordes at the 
  gate, the Confederation needed men and women to crew its warships, 
  and officers like the young Simon Crowe wanted to be to lead them into 
  battle. How would it have felt to find there was no battle, just endless 
  resupply runs? 
  The shuttle curved gracefully toward a bay on the side of the base, 
  past a cluster of point defense turrets and an antenna group. Doors slid 
  closed behind it and by the time the pilots had settled their craft onto 
  the pad, the outside pressure light was green. Crowe picked up his bag, 
  with his sword across the top between the straps, and stepped into the 
  airlock. 
  He was halfway down the ramp when it registered that there were 
  an unusual number of gray coveralls in the docking bay. Not portside-
  utility gray; SolSec gray. As he stepped off the ramp, a couple of gray-
  clad figures slipped around behind him. That was fairly standard proce-
  dure when SolSec wanted to “talk” to someone, in case they bolted. All 
  the same it was disconcerting when it was you they were behind, Crowe 
  decided. 
  Three more sets of gray coveralls—two women and a man—halted 
  a few paces in front of Crowe. “Commander Simon Crowe?” one of the 
  women asked. It wasn’t really a question. 
  “I’m Crowe,” Crowe replied with a nod. His calculating instinct 
  was—ever so slightly—reassured that the SolSec enforcer used his in-
  formal 
  rank 
  title—commander 
  rather 
  than 
  acting 
  lieutenant 
  commander. That was a good sign . . . maybe. 
  What was definitely not a good sign was the SolSec officer march-
  ing toward him across the docking bay. Unlike the enforcers, the officer 
  was in uniform rather than working coveralls, and he wore a personal 
  defense weapon as a sidearm. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  130 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Crowe kept his expression neutral as he saluted. The officer re-
  turned the salute, which was another good—well, good-ish—sign. 
  “Commander Crowe. We need to discuss a number of matters, not least 
  certain irregularities concerning your recent duel, which left Lieutenant 
  Braithwaite of the Dolor Home Guard in need of medical attention. 
  You are hereby relieved of duty pending investigation. Your sword, 
  please.” 
  Crowe passed it over without a word, trying to fathom why he was 
  being arrested here and not at the other end of his trip. Commodore 
  Reuten had already proclaimed the duel fair and correct, so what irregu-
  larities existed? It might be that there were none. This could be a SolSec 
  setup . . . or maybe the whole thing had been a SolSec sting? No, that 
  was unlikely. If they wanted him they’d just arrest him. SolSec didn’t 
  need to worry about minor details such as proof or even a solid case 
  against someone, not if they were a mere lieutenant commander. 
  “If you’ll accompany me?” the officer said. 
  “Of course, sir,” Crowe replied, because when SolSec were polite 
  enough to ask you acted as though you were cooperating by choice. 
  That was how it was done. “I wasn’t aware you were assigned to Trou-
  bridge.” 
  “Of course not,” replied Commander Davide Jorgenssen. “Why 
  would you?” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 131 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  065-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Commander Jorgenssen’s quarters were ever so slightly smaller than 
  those of the base commanding officer. They did not double as his office, 
  however, which gave him significantly more room. He had not troubled 
  to fill it, creating a Spartan atmosphere that fitted his image as a zealot. 
  The only wall decorations were diplomas, a couple of medal cita-
  tions, and a propaganda poster that was supposed to motivate and 
  inspire. It showed SolSec and navy officers playing sports, eating, and 
  fighting together in some kind of heroic brotherhood. The reality was 
  somewhat different. 
  Yet not entirely different, Crowe realized. He sat opposite Jorgens-
  sen at a genuine wood table, with a meal spread between them. It was a 
  fish and smoked cheese salad, with fresh-baked bread and crisp white 
  wine, and Crowe conceded that it was really very good. The only down-
  side was that the wine was being poured by a man on the other side of 
  the largest controversy to wrack the navy in fifteen years, and Crowe 
  could only wait for the hammer to drop. 
  “Long time since Maestrale,” Jorgenssen said. “Remember the night 
  before Second Pavel?” 
  Crowe was taken aback, wondering where Jorgenssen was going 
  with that. “Yes sir, I recall that night rather well. My first time in action; 
  I’d not long joined Maestrale’s crew from Carlo Mirabelle.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  132 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “You did well that day. By which I mean you saved everyone aboard 
  our ship including both of us. We drank this wine at dinner the night 
  before the battle; I break out a bottle once in a while as a reminder.” 
  “Of what? Sir.” 
  “Better times, perhaps,” Jorgenssen said. “And also that sometimes 
  your survival hangs on some green kid who might just be a hero. You 
  and I could have worked well together, Crowe. At Santorini, when I 
  took command of Mackensen, it was your boat that put herself alongside 
  us. I knew then, dammit, Crowe, I knew . . . and I was wrong.” 
  Crowe sipped his wine, waiting for the rest of whatever Jorgenssen 
  had to say. After a moment he went on. “I knew I’d found one. An offi-
  cer I could count on. Someone who could see it, see what needed to be 
  done. I’m career SolSec, Crowe, not a sideways frustrated naval officer. 
  SolSec from my college days. You know why?” 
  “No, sir.” 
  “Because it needs doing, Crowe. Because we’re coming apart and 
  the only thing keeping it together is the men and women in gray. We 
  silence the dissenters, plug the intelligence leaks, arrest the traitors, and 
  they hate us for it. They’re scared of us because they have secrets—
  everyone has secrets—and we root out secrets. We might discover 
  theirs. Or we might arrest them just for the fun of it.” 
  “Not everyone thinks like that, sir,” Crowe offered. 
  “No, but that’s the general picture,” Jorgenssen said. “Not that it 
  matters. We’re keeping it together. For now. You know what the big 
  threat is?” 
  “The Imperial Navy, sir,” Crowe said mechanically, knowing that it 
  was the answer Jorgenssen wanted . . . so that he could say it was the 
  wrong one. 
  “No, it’s not the Imperial Navy,” Jorgenssen said predictably. “It’s 
  secession. Fragmentation. Look what happened in the Bootes Trade 
  War. We had factions within the Confederation fighting a major war 
  against one another, and actually using the fleet as a tool in their con-
  flict. The fleet should have come down upon Thetis and Laputa and all 
  of the other worlds involved like a righteous hammer from the very gods! 
  Or perhaps SolSec should have headed it off so that nothing ever hap-
  pened. But instead we had Home Forces units firing on the fleet and 
  getting away with it.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 133 
  Crowe couldn’t think of much to say to that, so he nodded assent 
  and let Jorgenssen keep talking. After a moment the SolSec officer went 
  on, “Unity, Crowe. That’s what the Solomani Party represents. That 
  should be us,” he pointed at the propaganda poster. “But you’re won-
  dering why we’re having this conversation.” 
  Crowe nodded slowly, sensing that the hammer was finally about to 
  drop. 
  “Well, first of all there is the curious business of your recent duel. 
  By some incredible mischance you managed to pick a fight with the for-
  mer swordmaster to the Dolor Home Forces. Your post-incident 
  deposition states that you were unaware of the challenge until Com-
  mander Simmonds came to escort you to the duel. And strangely 
  enough, although Commodore Reuten has stated that the duel was in all 
  ways proper, she has now requested that you be suspended from duty 
  pending an investigation.” 
  “I have no explanation,” Crowe said. 
  “I assumed as much. I have no choice but to suspend you as re-
  quested and launch an investigation. Until such time as it is complete 
  you are confined to the base and are of course relieved of duty.” 
  Crowe tried to let that slide past. In truth it was better than he had 
  expected, but to be beached a second time was crushing. 
  “I’ve been there, Crowe. I was suspended after Santorini too, 
  though not for as long as you were,” Jorgenssen said with what sounded 
  like genuine sympathy. “But more importantly, I’m moved to wonder 
  just why this has happened. I know that you’re the kind of officer who 
  will do what he thinks is right. Your judgment on what that might be 
  differs rather radically from mine, but you have the courage of your con-
  victions. And I recognize a set-up when I see one.” 
  “So you’re saying that you think someone wants me out of the 
  way?” Crowe said. “I got the impression that Braithwaite was supposed 
  to kill me. He suckered me in and took a cheap kill shot. That might 
  have just been cold tactics—you said he was a swordmaster, yes? But I 
  wonder if this whole thing wasn’t just to get me out of the way. Dead, 
  or arrested for killing Braithwaite.” 
  “You may be flattering yourself, Crowe,” Jorgenssen said. “But it 
  does look like someone wants you out of the picture. Much as I dislike 
  you, that does pique my interest. Your Sublieutenant Roebecker ar-
  ranged the duel without consulting you. At the least that makes him 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  134 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  guilty of breaching the relevant regulations, but he might bear further 
  investigation. Where is he?” 
  “He came in aboard Vesikko. I ordered him to report aboard Storm-
  shadow,” Crowe said. “He’s probably there by now.” 
  “I’m going to bring him in for questioning,” Jorgenssen said. “And 
  we’ll see if there are any gaps in his story. Something doesn’t add up 
  here, and my remit is to find out what it is. You can go.” 
  For a moment, Crowe just sat there. Then he realized that he had 
  been dismissed and had better make himself scarce. Sending him away in 
  the middle of the unexpected lunch was presumably one of the mind 
  games Jorgenssen liked to play. Well, be that as it may. He was sus-
  pended from duty, aboard a naval base with relatively little to do. Hit 
  the gym, maybe, or find a bar. 
  But first, there was a job to do. Crowe needed to find himself some 
  accommodation and get out of his uniform. He was breaching regs by 
  wandering around dressed as a frigate captain when in truth he was . . . 
  Crowe paused in the corridor. 
  In truth, he wasn’t quite sure what he was at that moment. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 135 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Simon Crowe sat with his feet on the coffee table, drinking exces-
  sively fizzy beer straight from the can. His other hand flicked between 
  vid channels using the armchair’s built-in control. 
  He’d been assigned some really rather nice quarters, largely because 
  SolSec was currently responsible for him. As a mere frigate captain he 
  would not have merited a three-bedroom apartment in the ambassado-
  rial section, that much was for sure. All the same, the apartment was a 
  cell of sorts. 
  Crowe was free to come and go as he pleased about the station, but 
  he could do none of the things he considered important. His ship was 
  under repair and he could not assist. He could not even investigate re-
  cent events. He had been declined permission to contact his own 
  officers. He was stuck in limbo and he didn’t like it at all. 
  Something on one of the news channels caught Crowe’s attention. 
  He scrabbled at the control for a moment, seeking whichever it had 
  been. He wasn’t sure whether he found the same channel or not; it 
  didn’t matter. A few seconds’ frantic channel-hopping showed the same 
  report on every station. 
  Bainbridge was burning. 
  “. . . accident aboard CSS Bainbridge,” the news anchor was saying. 
  “No further information is available at this time.” 
  Crowe was out of his seat, hurling the beer can across the room, be-
  fore he realized what he was doing. One hand operated his comm, the 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  136 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  other tore open the wardrobe. Trousers, shirt, boots, jacket . . . Crowe 
  threw on his uniform, fumbled open a box on the shelf and pocketed the 
  contents, and hobbled toward the door trying to get his other boot on 
  whilst repeatedly calling the same numbers over and over on his comm. 
  There was no answer as he rushed through the corridors for the 
  base commander’s office. One arm in and one out of his jacket, shirt 
  unbuttoned and hatless, he raced around the last corner to Commodore 
  Finchley’s quarters. 
  The marine guards at the door took one look at him and drew their 
  sidearms, then holstered them as Finchley himself threw the door open. 
  “Thought you’d be along, Crowe, and I’m sorry. No.” 
  “But sir!” Crowe protested as he followed Finchley into his office. 
  “Suspended is suspended, I can’t overrule SolSec or the regs. But I 
  can use your help here.” 
  “I—” 
  “Stay here and help or I’ll have you escorted back to your quar-
  ters,” Finchley said sharply. 
  “How can I help, sir?” Crowe said with an effort. 
  “Use my auxiliary screen, call your . . . former . . . ship and get an 
  update.” 
  Crowe threw himself behind a spare desk and called up a display. 
  Instinct told him the first thing to look at was the tactical situation 
  around the base. Bainbridge got his attention first, ringed as she was by 
  orange distress-call indicators. The readout scrolling up the side of the 
  screen said she had experienced an explosion in the drive section and 
  had serious fires in several compartments. 
  Crowe frowned. Some of the areas showing damage were not con-
  nected to the drive or heavy-power systems. How had the fires spread 
  there and not to the compartments in between? In fact, how could this 
  happen at all? The fires were mostly in compartments vital to flying the 
  ship, and the drive explosion had caused massive casualties among the 
  engineering and technical crews who could restore their function. 
  Bainbridge was out of the fight. 
  Crowe blinked at that thought. What fight? There was no combat, 
  just a jump emergence a couple of hours ago that the main computer 
  pegged as . . . Crowe grimaced. The corvette Lesos. Seven other vessels 
  were closing on the base; Mikula and her escorts, plus a couple of Home 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 137 
  Forces corvettes. Odd that they’d be so far off their unofficial station at 
  the highport, but maybe they’d be able to assist Bainbridge. 
  The comm pinged. Crowe answered automatically, earning him a 
  glare from Finchley’s aide. The screen lit, showing of all people Lieuten-
  ant Carstairs. “Captain!” she said, surprised. 
  “Complicated,” Crowe responded, indicating that questions could 
  wait. “What were you going to say?” 
  “Sir, I’m in the docking area with a working crew. There are shut-
  tles here and repair personnel. I know one of our ships is in trouble. Can 
  we help?” 
  “Sir! Commodore Finchley! Crowe barked over his shoulder. “My 
  first officer, former first officer, is offering to round up a rescue team 
  from the yard crews and proceed to Bainbridge’s assistance.” 
  Finchley was looking over his aide’s shoulder, in increasing alarm, at 
  whatever was on that screen. “Yes, do it,” he said. 
  “Lieutenant Carstairs, Commodore Finchley has authorized your 
  mission. You are to assemble any and all technical personnel and volun-
  teers with damage-control training, take any necessary shuttles or other 
  transportation, and proceed aboard CSS Bainbridge to offer assistance. I 
  will inform her commander that you are en route.” 
  Crowe did not wait for acknowledgement, but pulled up the prior-
  ity channel for Bainbridge. Within two seconds he found himself looking 
  at Bob Simmonds, who was half in and half out of his crewsuit. 
  “Bainbridge Actual. Oh, Simon! The ping said it was the Commo-
  dore.” 
  “It is. I’m in his office. Assistance is en route. My—former—first 
  officer is assembling a damage control team to assist you. ETA thirty 
  minutes.” 
  “Acknowledged, Bainbridge . . .” 
  “Bob!” Crowe said urgently. “Tell me what happened. All of it. It’s 
  important.” 
  Simmonds paused for a moment, clearly trying to decide whether to 
  cut the connection and get back to saving his ship. “We had no warning. 
  Some kind of drive malfunction. There was an explosion in the main 
  drive chamber. The whole senior shift is down, and a lot of the special-
  ists. We’ve got simultaneous fires all over the ship and a lot of casualties. 
  Main fire control is out, and there’s a problem with the helm.” 
  “Shoot me the tech data. Just a raw dump.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  138 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  It took three seconds for Crowe to receive the data and five more 
  to skim it. There it was, clear as day. “You’ve been sabotaged, Bob,” 
  Crowe said. It was not until he spoke the words that the thought that 
  had been forming crystallized. “We’re under attack.” 
  Finchley looked up from his aide’s screen. “What did you say, 
  Crowe?” 
  “We’re under attack, Commodore. Bainbridge has been taken out 
  of action by sabotage. Sir, you need to . . .” Crowe trailed off, then 
  snarled, “You need to scan those extra ships in Commodore Reuten’s 
  force, sir. You need to do it now!” 
  Finchley cocked his head, pausing for a second, then snapped to his 
  aide, “Do it!” 
  “Sir, we need to launch our fighters and gunships; we’re under at-
  tack!” Crowe said again. 
  “Where from? Crowe, where’s the threat?” Finchley demanded. 
  “I don’t know for certain, but I suspect . . . dammit, I just know. 
  It’s Reuten’s task force. She’s been reinforced by those corvettes I 
  fought, or some others like them. She’s . . . she’s going to attack the 
  base!” 
  “Why would she do that?” demanded Finchley. 
  “Sir, the Home Guard ships in Task Force Reuten?” Finchley’s aide 
  broke in. “Their transponders are wrong. Older codes. And they’re not 
  any class in service with the Dolor Home Forces. The database thinks 
  they’re Dulo class vessels.” 
  “There’s your threat, Commodore!” Crowe all but shouted. 
  Whatever Finchley was about to say next was drowned out by the 
  stationwide alarm. His aide silenced it as new data began pouring onto 
  the repeater screens. Fragmentary images for the most part, short se-
  quences showing marines and dock personnel exchanging fire with . . . 
  other marines and dock personnel. 
  “Sir!” Finchley’s aide said. “Gunship control area has gone silent. I 
  had a report of gunfire in the corridors, then they went quiet. The moni-
  tors show the launch doors are locked down. We can’t launch our 
  gunships!” 
  “Contact the launch bays direct, find out what’s going on,” 
  Finchley said. “Crowe, do something about the control room.” 
  “On it, sir,” Crowe responded, frantically running through the 
  comms channels. Internal communications were disrupted and the 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 139 
  monitors offered only a partial picture, but it was not hard to figure out 
  what was happening. He called Stormshadow. 
  It was mere seconds before Stormshadow replied. The bridge comms 
  image showed Browning in the captain’s chair. Crowe did not give her 
  time to ask questions. “What’s your status?” he demanded. 
  “Sir,” Browning said automatically, though she certainly knew 
  Crowe was suspended and thus out of the chain of command. “We’re 
  crash-starting the power plant. We’ll be independent of portside power 
  feed in about twenty minutes. Lieutenant Carstairs is en route to Bain-
  bridge, Dupuy is ashore and out of contact, Roebecker is missing. We 
  can have the ship ready for space ten minutes after independent power, 
  but we don’t have a proper crew.” 
  “Where are the marines?” Crowe asked. 
  “Most of them are ashore under Lieutenant Urasnicz.” Browning 
  sounded scared, but she was keeping it together for now. “They went to 
  secure Dupuy and the working party. Lieutenant Morwood and one 
  squad are guarding the boarding ramp.” 
  “Don’t let anyone aboard,” Crowe said. “No one, and especially 
  not Roebecker. You may need to take command of Stormshadow and 
  fight her.” 
  Browning’s eyes widened, but she nodded sharply. 
  “I need to talk to Urasnicz,” Crowe said. “Can you set up a link?” 
  “Yes sir . . . done,” Browning replied, and the image on the screen 
  changed. Urasnicz and the marines were hunkered down in a docking 
  bay, exchanging fire with what looked like a mix of Home Forces per-
  sonnel and fleet marines. 
  “Lieutenant Urasnicz,” Crowe said. “I am suspended from duty and 
  not in the chain of command, so this is not an order. Indeed, you can be 
  arrested for even talking to me. Be that as it may, we are going to need 
  launch capability for the station’s gunships. The control area is out of 
  contact and possibly in enemy hands. Are you close to it?” 
  “Yes sir,” Urasnicz said. “But there’s a lot of hostiles between us 
  and there, and we’re short of ammunition. We’ve retrieved the shore 
  party plus some station personnel, but we have casualties. Lieutenant 
  Dupuy is down, sir.” 
  “Understood. Lieutenant,” Crowe shoved the information in a 
  mental box and slammed the lid. “I can’t order you to do a damn thing, 
  but we need the gunship launch control room back under our com-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  140 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  mand, and we need it fast. What you do with that information is your 
  own business.” 
  “I understand, sir,” Urasnicz said, and the link flicked off. 
  The doors to Finchley’s office burst open, and Crowe reached for a 
  sidearm that was not there. In the doorway were Commander Jorgens-
  sen, a submachinegun in his hand, and five SolSec troopers in body 
  armor behind him. “Finchley! Get a general channel!” Jorgenssen 
  snapped. “Do it now!” 
  Finchley’s aide did it for him, and everyone froze in shock. The 
  screen showed a split image; an office planetside, a warship’s bridge, and 
  what looked like an up market hotel’s conference suite. Crowe knew 
  that room and the man who stood in it; he was looking at the bridge of 
  the Imperial liner Catania Star. 
  “Sirius has risen,” a gray-haired woman in the central, planetside, 
  image was saying. “Dolor hereby declares its secession from the Solo-
  mani Confederation. Our Home Forces will disarm Confederation 
  personnel in the system, who will then be repatriated if they desire it. 
  Troubridge Naval Base now lies within Dolor territory and is the prop-
  erty of the Home Forces. Confederation personnel are ordered to stand 
  down and hand over control of the base.” 
  “I am present on behalf of the Third Imperium,” said the captain of 
  Catania Star. “The Imperium hereby offers friendship and support to the 
  newly-independent worlds of Jardin Subsector. We recognize the sover-
  eignty and independence of these worlds, and hope to assist in a smooth 
  transition to full self-governance. The Imperium is here as an observer, 
  not an aggressor. We urge restraint on all sides.” 
  The third figure finally spoke. “I am Admiral Janice Reuten, of the 
  Dolor Independent Armed Forces and formerly of the Confederation 
  Navy. My marines are already aboard Troubridge naval base and my 
  ships will soon be in gun range. You are advised to surrender the base to 
  me; you can make no effective defense.” 
  “We’ll see about that!” Finchley thundered, but there was little 
  more to his words than defiance. With the gunships sealed in their 
  launch bays, the station’s weaponry would not be enough to repel an 
  attack. “Status, Crowe!” he demanded. 
  “Sir, the gunship bays are still locked down. We’ve got crews as-
  sembling, and portside personnel are volunteering en masse to fill out 
  any empty berths. Station weapons are manned and ready to fire. Your 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 141 
  marines have managed to contain the incursion around the transfer 
  docks, but Vesikko must have been carrying a lot of personnel; pressure is 
  mounting. My own marines . . . that is, a marine force from Storm-
  shadow . . . is attempting to retake the gunship launch control rooms. 
  Stormshadow herself has inadequate crew but can be ready for space in 
  minutes. No signal from Bainbridge.” 
  Finchley and Jorgenssen exchanged a long look. Finally, Jorgenssen 
  spoke. “We have a duty to resist. If we do not, this will happen else-
  where. A good stand here may deter others from attempting a similar 
  coup.” 
  “I do not need you to tell me that!” Finchley yelled. He might have 
  gone on, but Crowe held up a hand. 
  “Sir, signal from the CSS Lesos. Signal reads, ‘We stand ready to de-
  fend Troubridge base. Orders please. Usual compliments and greetings.’ 
  And sir! One of Mikula’s escorts is veering off. She’s signaling too.” 
  “Play it,” Finchley ordered. 
  “This is Sublieutenant Andrea Oxley, SolSec,” said the holographic 
  image of a very young woman in a gray coverall. She had a gun in her 
  hand. “I am political officer of the corvette CSS Marasti, and I have 
  taken control of the vessel. We are loyal and remain under your com-
  mand.” 
  Crowe’s attention was diverted to his repeater screen. It showed 
  Lieutenant Urasnicz, looking weary and grim. “Sir,” Urasnicz said. “Re-
  gret to inform you that our attempt has failed. Gunship launch control 
  room remains in enemy hands. We have heavy casualties and are almost 
  out of ammunition.” 
  “Understood, Mister Urasnicz,” Crowe said. “Thank you for trying. 
  I . . .” he trailed off as he realized the marine officer was not paying any 
  attention to what he was saying. 
  “Marines!” Urasnicz bawled over his shoulder. “If you got any left, 
  share ’em out! Scrounge what you can! Fix bayonets!” He turned back 
  to the screen. “Sir. We can and damned well will take the room, but we 
  can’t keep it long. Send us any help you can. Urasnicz out.” 
  “Sir!” Crowe burst out, silencing both Finchley and Jorgenssen. 
  “My marines are attempting to storm the gunship control room at 
  bayonet point. They need support. And I . . .” 
  Crowe ripped the Navy insignia from the collar of his jacket, thrust-
  ing his hand into his pocket and coming out with a different patch. “I 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  142 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  hold a commission in the Home Guard. Six years seniority and com-
  mand experience. Commodore! There’s a frigate in your docks that 
  needs a captain!” he held up his old Home Guard lieutenant’s tabs as he 
  spoke. 
  Finchley nodded once and turned to Jorgenssen. “Lieutenant 
  Crowe is volunteering for duty at a most opportune moment,” he said in 
  a deceptively light tone. “We would be well advised to accept.” 
  “I concur,” Jorgenssen rasped. “Commodore, I am not needed here 
  either. The time for political advice is over. You know what you have to 
  do and I do not doubt that you will do it. I will therefore take my 
  troops and whatever other personnel I can gather and chase the traitors 
  off your station . . . if you will accept the offer of assistance form Sol-
  Sec?” 
  “Damn right I will!” Finchley said. “Lieutenant Crowe. You are or-
  dered to proceed aboard CSS Stormshadow and take command for the 
  duration of this crisis. You are hereby seconded to the Confederation 
  Navy on my authority and that of Commander Jorgenssen. We’re going 
  to need time to launch our boats, and your job is to buy it. By any 
  means necessary.” 
  “Yes sir!” Crowe snapped, heading for the door. He halted for a 
  second as Finchley reached into his desk drawer and produced a service 
  revolver. “It’s loaded, Crowe. Now get going.” 
  Crowe snatched the gun from his superior’s hand and ran for the 
  door. 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 143 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  Dolor System 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe walked briskly through almost deserted corridors. He’d run 
  as far as he could, then jogged, then marched breathlessly, and now 
  struggled to manage even a rapid walk. Maybe Urasnicz had the right 
  idea, keeping in shape as he did . . . but then naval officers were sup-
  posed to sit in a big chair and give orders, or perhaps pace deliberately 
  about the bridge. All this rushing about was unexpected and quite dis-
  agreeable. 
  There were few personnel about, and those that Crowe did see 
  rushed past with suspicious glances at one another. There was heavy 
  fighting a couple of decks down, with men and women in the same uni-
  form battling for control of the station. Nobody knew who to trust 
  beyond their immediate circle of acquaintances; a disheveled officer with 
  a torn jacket and a gun in his hand was best avoided. 
  Ahead was the repair dock, on the opposite side of the station to 
  the main cargo transfer area where Finchley’s marines battled to repel 
  the traitors from Vesikko. Crowe grimaced as a thought struck him. He 
  had not at any point paused to consider if Reuten had a good reason for 
  her treachery. Was secession the best course? Was independence better 
  than repression by SolSec and the Solomani Party? 
  No, it wasn’t. Period. 
  The Confederation was imperfect in many ways and downright 
  flawed in others, but Crowe believed in it. SolSec was a necessary evil, as 
  today’s events were proving. Perhaps the gray uniforms on the bridge of 
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  144 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  warships were a badge of shame, an indicator that the fleet could not be 
  trusted. And maybe it was time to start earning that trust. 
  Crowe slapped an override panel, which read his biometrics and 
  granted access to the chamber ahead. Acting Lieutenant Commander 
  Crowe, suspended from duty with the Confederation Navy, could not 
  have got past that door until he was reinstated. But Lieutenant Crowe 
  of the Home Forces was on the active list, and the repair bays were not 
  off-limits to him. There was, however, another problem. 
  “Crowe,” rumbled Roebecker. Crowe’s former gunnery officer was 
  halfway across the access chamber, flanked by two ratings. All of them 
  wore naval uniforms with dark blue armbands, presumably to distinguish 
  them from loyalists. Roebecker held a submachinegun—a SolSec-issue 
  model—casually in his huge hands. One of the ratings was armed with a 
  length of pipe, and the other a nasty-looking wrench. 
  “Sublieutenant Roebecker,” Crowe said as evenly as he could man-
  age. “I had my suspicions.” 
  “I’m taking Stormshadow,” Roebecker said. “I’ve got men moving 
  into the repair docks right now. She’s clamped in place and dependent 
  on external power. Your pet SolSec goon is going to have to surrender 
  or we’ll just switch her off.” 
  “There’s nothing you can do with my ship,” Crowe said, wondering 
  if he could raise his weapon and shoot before Roebecker riddled him 
  with bullets. 
  “Nothing you can do, either, yet here you are,” Roebecker said. 
  “You just won’t die, will you, Crowe? You weaseled your way out of a 
  court-martial into a command, Braithwaite somehow failed to kill you, 
  and here you are, suspended from duty but still able to access the repair 
  bays. Tell me . . . what exactly do you think you can do with that frig-
  ate?” 
  “I can fight traitors,” Crowe said. “You want to tell me why you’re 
  doing this?” 
  “You really don’t see it, do you, Crowe . . .” Roebecker began. 
  “I . . .” 
  He never got any further. Crowe ducked sideways and brought up 
  his revolver, snapping off two rapid shots that sparked from the far 
  bulkhead. Getting Roebecker to start talking had bought him enough 
  time to shoot, but he’d missed. And now Roebecker’s weapon was com-
  ing up. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 145 
  Crowe fired again, diving to the floor as Roebecker blasted half a 
  magazine at him. One of the ratings started to rush forward, wrench 
  raised high. Crowe shot him twice, hot-loaded 8mm rounds tearing right 
  through the mutineer’s torso. He flopped to the ground. The wrench 
  clanged on the deck plate as it dropped from his fingers. 
  Roebecker stepped sideways to clear his line of fire as Crowe fired 
  his last shot. He saw Roebecker twitch as the round grazed his ribs, but 
  his submachinegun came back on target. Crowe’s dive had taken him to 
  the ground. He was dead in the water, weapon empty, with nothing left 
  but defiance. He gathered himself to make a lunge for the wrench. 
  There was no possible way he could get to it in time, let alone use it, 
  but somehow dying while going for a weapon seemed better than just 
  waiting for it all to end. 
  Roebecker allowed himself a final sneer as he took aim. “You just 
  don’t get it, Crowe, do you?” he said, and pulled the trigger. 
  The burst went wild as the second rating smashed Roebecker in the 
  legs from behind with a length of pipe. Roebecker went down hard, 
  helped on his way by a second blow across the kidney area. The rating 
  scooped up the submachinegun and kicked Roebecker in the ribs as he 
  strode past, offering Crowe his hand. 
  “SolSec enforcer?” Crowe asked. 
  “Monitor,” the rating said. “I’ve got Roebecker. We just needed to 
  see what he was doing, and now we know. I get the impression you’re 
  planning to fight the traitors . . . Mister, err, Crowe?” 
  “Lieutenant Simon Crowe,” Crowe said, realizing that his insignia 
  was in his pocket. “And yes, I need to get to my ship.” 
  “Very well. Proceed with your mission, and I’ll finish mine.” The 
  monitor turned back to Roebecker, who was trying to stand. “Sublieu-
  tenant Christian Roebecker, you are under arrest for treason.” He 
  delivered a couple more vicious kicks as he spoke, playing to a SolSec 
  stereotype that Crowe knew only too well. To be fair, Roebecker was 
  dangerous and the monitor had no handcuffs, so a brutal subdual was 
  probably necessary. Crowe put it out of his mind as he hurried across 
  the chamber. 
  Two corridors along, Crowe encountered a party of marines. His 
  first instinct was to look for armbands, but instead he halted and re-
  turned their salute as Lieutenant Morwood rushed up behind her 
  troops. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  146 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Captain! We’ve been sent to escort you aboard. The commodore 
  called to say you were assuming command . . .” Morwood glanced up 
  and down the corridor as she spoke. “What’s happening?” 
  “No time to explain,” Crowe replied. “I’ll make my own way 
  aboard. You have something more important to do. I need you to un-
  clamp Stormshadow by any means necessary. That includes cutting or 
  even blasting the clamps. There are hostiles inbound, who may or may 
  not be identifiable by a dark blue armband. I need my ship free of the 
  clamps at any cost, do you understand?” 
  “Yes sir,” Morwood replied. 
  “As soon as you have released the clamps, you will get back aboard 
  and prepare either for damage control or emergency gunnery operations. 
  We will be departing dock as soon as we are able. You know what that 
  means.” 
  “Yes sir,” Morwood said again. Both of them knew that launching 
  would require opening the docking area gates and exposing the repair 
  cradle to vacuum. Anyone outside without a suit, or with a holed suit, 
  would perish horribly. There was a limit to how long Crowe could wait 
  for Morwood and her troopers if they got pinned down or wounded. 
  “Let’s make this happen,” Crowe said, returning Morwood’s salute 
  and hurrying off. 
  The repair cradle was all but empty when Crowe and the marines 
  arrived. Morwood led her troopers away to begin freeing Stormshadow 
  while Crowe rushed up the gantry leading to the frigate’s airlock. She 
  looked to be in a terrible state, part-repaired with armor panels off and 
  exposed conduits underneath, but she was what he had to fight with, 
  and as the adage went, when the darkness comes you fight with what 
  you have. 
  Stormshadow was what Crowe had, and she would either be enough 
  or she would not. 
  Browning was waiting at the airlock with a party of armed ratings. 
  “Permission to come aboard, sir?” Crowe asked breathlessly, saluting his 
  political officer. 
  “Permission granted,” Browning replied, returning the salute. 
  “Lieutenant Simon Crowe, Home Forces, reporting aboard CSS 
  Stormshadow on the orders of Commodore Finchley. I am ordered to 
  relieve you, sir, and to assume command of this vessel.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 147 
  “Lieutenant Commander Alice Browning, Solomani Security, acting 
  commanding officer of CSS Stormshadow. I stand relieved.” 
  They saluted one another, then turned and walked briskly to the 
  bridge. “SITREP?” Crowe asked. 
  “Most of the crew are aboard but we’re short of officers. Carstairs is 
  aboard Bainbridge leading damage control attempts, sir. Urasnicz is 
  fighting on the station and from what I hear giving the traitors hell. Sir.” 
  Crowe smiled at the pride he heard in Browning’s voice. There 
  would be—might be—time to congratulate themselves for their faith in 
  their officers later. “Morwood is ashore and Roebecker is missing.” 
  “Morwood will be along presently, she’s doing a little job for me. 
  Roebecker is in SolSec custody. So, we have most of our officers miss-
  ing. Very well, you will assume the duties of executive officer and 
  gunnery officer. Holmes will take engineering—it’s about time anyway. 
  I’ll wear the BEO’s hat.” 
  “Yes sir. But . . . Lieutenant Crowe?” Browning stopped short of 
  the bridge doors. She put her hand on her personal defense weapon. “As 
  political officer I have to ask you . . . what are your intentions?” 
  Crowe smiled thinly. “I intend do what we all signed up for. I’m go-
  ing to fight the enemies of the Confederation, within and without. And 
  I’m going to give them hell.” 
  Browning smiled at hearing her own words come back at her. “In 
  that case ,sir, Stormshadow is yours. Political Officer has no advice at 
  this time. We all know what needs doing.” 
  “Then let’s do it,” Crowe said, and led the way into Stormshadow’s 
  bridge. 
  His bridge. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  148 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CSS Stormshadow 
  Troubridge Naval Base 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Stormshadow lay in one of the naval base’s four large-ship bays, lost 
  in a cavernous area designed to take anything up to the size of a light 
  cruiser. Other than a couple of shuttles parked at the far side of the bay, 
  there were no other craft present. 
  The bay was closed off from the rest of the station by huge doors, 
  with another set protecting the personnel inside from the hard vacuum 
  outside. Both sets of doors were armored, but not so heavily as the main 
  hull of the base. Docking bays were always a weak point, and a favorite 
  target for strike craft. 
  A clutter of utility vehicles, maintenance robots, tools, and spares 
  were scattered about the bay, mostly where dockside workers had 
  dropped them when the alarms went off. Here and there figures scurried 
  about, dwarfed by the cruiser-grade docking clamps and the structural 
  beams that supported them. Most seemed to be just trying to get under 
  cover, but Stormshadow’s external pickups relayed the sound of gunfire 
  from somewhere in the bay. 
  Crowe was trying to run through the pre-launch command check-
  lists while obtaining a tactical feed from the base’s battle computer and 
  establishing contact with friendly forces on the ground and in space, all 
  at the same time. He missed the first ready light that came on. 
  “Forward docking clamp indicator just went to Released,” Brown-
  ing said. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 149 
  “Acknowledged. Engineering, are we ready for maneuver?” Crowe 
  asked, turning his attention fully to getting his ship out into space. 
  “Yes sir,” replied Holmes’s voice in Crowe’s earpiece. 
  “Helm, neutral lift.” 
  “Neutral lift, aye sir,” the helmsman replied. 
  “Hold us there. Lieutenant Morwood?” 
  “Morwood here!” 
  “What’s the status on the aft clamp?” Crowe asked. 
  “Sir, we have contact with hostiles close to the clamp. I only have 
  five men; I can’t guarantee reaching it.” 
  Crowe paused for a second. “If they’ve got personnel in the cradle 
  they’ve probably also got control of the gates. Get your people inside on 
  the double, Morwood. We’re taking the quick way out.” 
  Browning glanced over her shoulder at Crowe, sensing what he was 
  about to do. “B battery is charged, sir,” she said. Actually, all three laser 
  batteries were charged, but B was the relevant one. 
  “Which turrets will bear on the clamp?” Crowe asked. 
  “Only B4 sir.” 
  “Then commence firing with B4. Burn the clamp.” 
  “Fire on the docking clamp, aye sir.” Browning repeated the order 
  for form’s sake, but she was already shooting. 
  “Helm, increase lift as soon as the marines are aboard. Then com-
  mence yawing us in place. We’ll snap the clamp off.” Or rip a hole in our 
  own hull, Crowe added mentally, then went on, “Stormshadow. External 
  speakers and general broadcast.” 
  Crowe paused a moment, then began his broadcast. “Now hear 
  this! This is CSS Stormshadow. Clear the repair cradle immediately. This 
  area will be exposed to vacuum imminently. Clear the cradle!” Crowe let 
  Stormshadow start to repeat the message as he checked the status board. 
  Morwood and her marines were back on board. 
  “Helm, start yawing. Break us free,” Crowe ordered. “Exec, open 
  the launch gate.” 
  The external pickups relayed the deep rumbling grind of the clamp 
  and the curiously hollow crackling-humming sound the lifters made in 
  atmosphere. In fact, Crowe knew, the lifters were silent but their gravity 
  field caused ionization of the air. Under the right conditions, a ship run-
  ning its lifters hard might create a spectacular electrical discharge every 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  150 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  few seconds. It was harmless to the ship, but anyone nearby—or any-
  thing flammable—was in danger. 
  “Launch gate is not responding,” Browning said over the creak of 
  the hull. “We’re being overridden from the cradle control office.” 
  “Understood. Q battery, load torpedoes,” Crowe ordered. 
  Browning gave him a sharp look but did as ordered. “Torpedoes 
  loaded. Q2 and Q4 report hoist malfunctions; we have no reload capa-
  bility until it’s repaired.” 
  “Acknowledged,” Crowe said. “No movement on the gate?” 
  “No sir.” 
  “Then target the launch gate with Q battery,” 
  “Aye sir, targeting the gate.” Three of Stormshadow’s mis-
  sile/torpedo launchers came around atop her hull. “Sir, Q1 is 
  malfunctioning. It won’t traverse,” Browning said. 
  Crowe resisted the urge to swear. “Morwood!” he barked. 
  “Yes sir?” came Morwood’s breathless voice. 
  “Get your people to Q battery. I need traverse on Q1 and the 
  hoists working on Q2, Q4.” 
  “Yes sir, on it,” Morwood said. He cut off as Stormshadow lurched 
  violently. Her hull made a hideous groaning, screeching sound that 
  mixed with the scream of tortured metal as the clamp finally tore free. 
  The helmsman caught the frigate just before she slammed into the cradle 
  wall. The external monitors showed that Stormshadow’s fire had weak-
  ened the support beam but the clamp was still attached to the hull. Her 
  violent struggles had torn it free of its mounts but they’d be taking it 
  with them into action. 
  “Aft docking clamp . . . released,” said Browning, which was not, 
  strictly speaking, accurate but conveyed what Crowe needed to know. 
  “Cradle gate is still closed.” 
  “Very well. Commander Browning, clear us a path. Bracket the gate 
  with torpedoes,” Crowe said. “Helm, as soon as the torpedoes hit you 
  will go full astern. Ram the gates if they’re still there.” 
  Crowe heard the acknowledgement as Browning fired and the frig-
  ate began to accelerate violently. 
  The torpedoes went to full acceleration as they left the launchers, 
  slamming into the lightly armored gate after a flight of less than a sec-
  ond. Lacking the velocity to punch a hole, they detonated on the 
  surface. Most of the blast went into the gate, twisting it off its mounts at 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 151 
  one side. Fragments of torpedo casing whirled across the docking bay 
  along with one of the weapons’ drive section, its exhaust still flaring. 
  As the torpedo engine corkscrewed into the far wall of the bay and 
  fragments rattled from Stormshadow’s hull, she lurched across the bay 
  and smashed stern-first into the launch gate. Crewmembers clung to 
  their consoles and Crowe reeled across the bridge before he could grab 
  his seat for support. 
  For a long second Stormshadow came to rest, jammed half in and 
  half out of the launch gate. Then, just as Crowe was about to call out an 
  order to apply yawing thrust, the pilot pre-empted him and began twist-
  ing the ship from side to side. 
  “Stormshadow! Make signal!” Crowe ordered as the ship lurched, 
  and with a terrible grinding of metal ripped her way out of the repair 
  yard that had become her prison. 
  Crowe took a deep breath, spared a glance at the damage board and 
  decided that he’d expected to see more amber and red, and turned his 
  attention for a second to the hail of loose objects, hull debris, tools and 
  workbots that came tumbling out through the breached gates as the at-
  mosphere inside blew out. He glanced away before he saw any bodies; 
  perhaps there were none. 
  “Signal to all ships, in clear. My compliments and such like,” 
  Crowe said in a very cold voice. “Inform all vessels and the base that 
  CSS Stormshadow is out. We are loyal, and we’re here to fight.” 
  Stormshadow’s computer voice acknowledged as Crowe called up 
  the battle plot. “Helm, take us at the traitors. Guns, you are clear to 
  engage at discretion. Weapons free.” 
  The frigate shed debris—her own and parts of the repair cradle—as 
  she came about and lunged at the incoming traitor fleet. Outgunned, 
  outnumbered, and out of options, but very much back in the fight, 
  Stormshadow began her attack run. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  152 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Off Troubridge Naval Base 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  “Status!” Crowe demanded. 
  “Sir, A, B, and X batteries are ready to fire,” Browning replied. “All 
  turrets are functional. Point defense is online; Bridge-ventral is not re-
  sponding. Q battery is partly functional. Q2 and Q4 are experiencing 
  hoist failures but full function has been restored to Q1.” 
  Crowe gazed at the battle plot for a moment. It was fuzzy and 
  tended to break up, courtesy of the powerful jamming suite aboard Mi-
  kula. Ship-to-ship communications were degraded too, though powerful 
  burst transmissions were still getting through at close range. Contact 
  with the base itself was lost; this was going to be a captain’s fight rather 
  than a commodore’s neatly controlled action. 
  The main enemy force was maintaining course for the station, pre-
  sumably intending to get into gun range before Finchley could launch his 
  strike boats. A stream of missiles was already pounding out from the na-
  val base, hoping to saturate the defenses of Reuten’s flagship. 
  Mikula and Regolo remained in tight formation, each with a corvette 
  as close escort and screened by a mob of fighters. Those few missiles that 
  slipped past the screen were shot down by the escorts’ guns. 
  Two corvettes had peeled off to engage Lesos and Marasti. Both ap-
  peared to be Dulo class vessels, slightly inferior to the more modern 
  ships they fought. That was offset by the way Marasti was being handled. 
  She was under the command of her political officer, not a black-hat cap-
  tain, and possibly had other members of the crew out of action as well. 
  Her movements were erratic and her gunfire was wayward. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 153 
  Lesos was doing better, scoring hits on her opponent and evading 
  the worst of the return fire. She was trying to cover Marasti as best she 
  could, but the engagement could go either way. That was better than 
  the loyalists could have hoped for not long ago. 
  As Crowe watched his battle plot, he realized what Reuten in-
  tended just before she did it. The remaining two corvettes broke away 
  from their charges and swept around, charging at Lesos and Marasti, 
  while the destroyer Regolo accelerated to meet Stormshadow. Breaking 
  up the formation like that meant weaker missile defenses, but Reutens 
  had gauged what the base could throw and had clearly decided her ships 
  could take a few hits. Four corvettes would soon overwhelm two, and 
  even an old destroyer massively outgunned Stormshadow. 
  Reutens intended to quickly win the minor actions, then concen-
  trate her force to knock out the base defenses if her marines failed to 
  capture the station. She could withstand missile fire from the station 
  indefinitely, but she would need to silence the guns quickly. Her plan 
  was surely to close in fast and saturate each battery in turn, minimizing 
  the damage her ships took. 
  Crowe’s analytical mind could see how it would play out, and it 
  was obvious that Reutens had won. The firepower equation was heavily 
  loaded in her favor, even if the base’s fighters and gunships got into the 
  fight. If they did not, then it was already over. So, the only thing to do 
  was to buy time for the gunships. Drag out the engagement as long as 
  possible and hope that a concentrated small-craft strike could tip the 
  scales. 
  “Helm,” Crowe ordered. “Come about twelve points to starboard, 
  twelve to gold. Flank speed. Guns, engage Regolo with whatever missile 
  capability we have.” 
  Stormshadow heeled, turning away from the fight as her puny missile 
  salvo raced toward the destroyer. The destroyer’s forward point defense 
  guns created an invisible laser net that swatted the missiles easily, but 
  Regolo’s missile armament was also small. As his own missiles’ signatures 
  winked out on the battle plot, Crowe saw the flare of gas-propelled cold 
  launches from Regolo’s missile bulges, then the white-hot flare of drives 
  as the missiles began their acceleration. It was a ragged salvo, a stream 
  rather than a coordinated saturation strike, which suggested that either 
  Regolo’s gunnery systems were inferior or her missile officer was no good. 
  Either way, it improved Stormshadow’s chances. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  154 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “X battery may engage the missile salvo at optimum range,” Crowe 
  said. 
  “Sir, X battery is still slow to charge. We can keep one turret in ac-
  tion, but battery fire will drain the capacitors and we’ll not be able to 
  fire a salvo for . . . too long.” Browning shrugged apologetically as she 
  spoke. 
  “Understood, one turret only. Point defense can handle the rest.” 
  Crowe was reasonably sure it could; the missiles were coming in from 
  astern at a slow rate of overtake, allowing plenty of time for the point 
  defense turrets to engage. Both aft turrets were functional. 
  “Signal from Lesos,” Stormshadow’s computer said. 
  “Play it,” Crowe replied wearily. 
  Sure enough, the tone was bitter. “Lesos to Stormshadow. We’re 
  fighting, you’re running. Seem familiar?” 
  “Do not reply,” Crowe said. 
  Stormshadow rocked as a missile got through, detonating close to 
  the hull and hurling heavy fragments of its armored casing at the frigate. 
  Had the missile achieved a direct hit, its armor would have allowed it to 
  penetrate deep into the frigate before detonating; a fragmentation hit 
  was much less serious. All the same, amber lights appeared on the dam-
  age board. 
  “Hold this course, flank speed, no evasion,” Crowe said. “But be 
  prepared to . . . Belay that! Sixteen-point battle turn now! Take us 
  straight at Regolo! Guns! Get her attention . . . get it and hold it!” 
  Again Stormshadow heeled, this time with an alarming groan from 
  somewhere. For an instant Crowe wondered if he might snap his ship in 
  half, but then they were around and accelerating in the opposite direc-
  tion. Regolo came beam-on, unmasking her full armament, and laser fire 
  began raking the frigate’s hull. Amber lights flared on the damage board, 
  but Crowe could see their own armament scoring too. White-hot armor 
  fragments spun away, along with what might be a point-defense mount. 
  And there was something else, something important. 
  A tiny blip had appeared for a second on the emissions readout, al-
  most too small to spot. Crowe knew what it was. As an engineering 
  officer he had run that test many, many times. He grinned savagely at 
  what it meant, knowing that the odds had just been evened. It was a 
  drive systems test, and if the drive spiked that way, it meant that . . . 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 155 
  “Sir!” Browning burst out. “Bainbridge is under power and coming 
  about. She’s launching missiles. They’re . . .” she hesitated as the gun-
  nery computer predicted velocities. “They’re aimed either at us or 
  Regolo. I can’t tell yet.” 
  “I can,” Crowe said. “Make signal, in clear. Signal reads: ‘Glad 
  you’re back, Bob.’ ” 
  “Bainbridge acknowledges and sends captain’s compliments. Per-
  sonal signal appended, signal reads: ‘Save some for us!’ ” 
  Stormshadow rocked, her drive wavering, as laser and missile fire 
  battered her hull. But now Regolo was accelerating away from her, back 
  for the protection of Mikula. Most of her guns were masked, though she 
  still had enough to pound the frigate hard. 
  “Stay on her!” Crowe ordered needlessly. “Guns, hand off our tar-
  geting data to Bainbridge and see if you can’t provide some mid-course 
  guidance to their missiles. And look at your battle plot!” 
  Out from behind the naval base came a wave of small craft: delta-
  shaped gunships with torpedoes under their wings, escorted by smaller 
  and more agile single-seat fighters. The station’s missile launchers, which 
  had fallen silent, now spat a concentrated salvo. The strike boats would 
  follow it in, forcing enemy fighters to choose between missile defense or 
  trying to stop the torpedo-armed strike boats. There was no right an-
  swer to that equation. 
  The news was not all good, though. Marasti was gone, broken up 
  into a cloud of fragments, and now Lesos fought alone against three simi-
  lar vessels. The fourth traitor ship had veered off, trailing wreckage. 
  “Good fight, Lieutenant Oxley,” Crowe said softly. There was nothing 
  else to say. 
  A missile plunged into Lesos’s hull and for a second there was noth-
  ing but static on the battle plot around her position. Then she came out 
  of the blast zone, wounded but firing. A great rent down her port side 
  vented air, flame, and debris into space. Her captain might still be game 
  for a fight, but Lesos was in desperate trouble. 
  “Helm, take us to the assistance of Lesos,” Crowe ordered. “Guns, 
  continue to engage Regolo until we reach optimum firing range for the 
  enemy corvettes.” 
  Regolo was slewing now, turning to unmask her whole armament for 
  a salvo, then turning away to accelerate toward Mikula. The cruiser was 
  surrounded by a horde of strike boats, torpedoes flashing on her hull, 
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  156 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  but she was knocking them down at an alarming rate. Her fighters 
  twisted in and out of the attack formations, trying to get past the loyal-
  ist fighters to attack the torpedo boats before they began their launch 
  runs. 
  Stormshadow reeled again, heavily hit. “Penetrating and proximity 
  missile hits along the main hull! Laser hits forward!” Browning said. 
  “Bridge-ventral point defense turret is gone. A battery is heavily hit. 
  We’ve lost A3 and A4 for sure, and A1 is only partially responding. B3 is 
  offline.” 
  “Q battery! Load torpedoes!” Crowe ordered. 
  Seconds passed, then Browning replied. “Q1 and Q3 loaded. Ready 
  to fire.” 
  “Launch!” 
  The range was short, and Regolo’s point defenses were saturated by 
  missiles from Bainbridge. The torpedo salvo rippled unevenly from its 
  launchers, but Crowe’s battle plot was suddenly whited out as his ship 
  heeled beneath him. As it cleared, he saw a cloud of debris scattering aft. 
  Impacts rang on the forward hull. 
  “Torpedo detonation!” Browning shouted, finally losing her cool. 
  “One blew up on the mounts . . . Q1 is gone, and the board is black in 
  the rest of the battery!” 
  “What are we hitting?” Crowe demanded. 
  ”It’s debris from Regolo, sir! Look at her!” Browning was calming 
  down, training reasserting itself, but her tone was excited. 
  They’d hurt the destroyer, Crowe could see. She had a couple of 
  big rents amidships—a mist of blazing fuel streamed from one of them. 
  There were fires around where one of her laser batteries had been, and 
  debris breaking away from around them. She was firing at Bainbridge, 
  ignoring Stormshadow as if her captain thought he had taken missile hits 
  from the bigger ship. 
  As Crowe watched, jets of flame spurted from Regolo’s portside mis-
  sile bulge. The plot registered a minor explosion, followed by a 
  scattering of large fragments. Crowe smiled savagely. Regolo had just 
  dumped her magazine to avoid an explosion. Stormshadow’s torpedo at-
  tack had cost the enemy destroyer half her missile armament, and by the 
  look of it she still had internal fires that might spread to the other bulge. 
  “Lieutenant Morwood? Morwood?” Crowe said into his headset. 
  There was no response; the board was black in Q battery, which sug-
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 157 
  gested things were very bad indeed. “Doctor Connelly!” Crowe snapped, 
  paging his sole remaining officer. 
  “Connelly here,” came the instant reply. “I have multiple casualties 
  and—” 
  “Connelly!” Crowe barked. “Send someone to Q battery. Anyone. I 
  need a status report.” 
  “That’s not my responsibility, Captain. I have—” 
  “Doctor, I need this. Just make it happen.” 
  “Aye sir, I’ll find a volunteer.” The surgeon’s tone was abstracted 
  but businesslike. He might resent naval service but like everyone else 
  aboard he understood the basic rule: Save The Ship. 
  Bainbridge was maneuvering clumsily and at much less than her full 
  acceleration, suggesting that her capabilities had only been partially re-
  stored. All the same, she was gaining on Regolo, her smaller armament 
  offset by better fire control. The two destroyers were fully focused on 
  one another now, Stormshadow forgotten as a mere nuisance where 
  Bainbridge was a lethal threat. 
  “Approaching gun range for the corvettes,” Browning reported. 
  “Switch your fire to target designated corvette three,” Crowe said. 
  Three was a Dulo, and Stormshadow’s instruments indicated that she 
  already had heavy damage. Could she be  . . . ? 
  One of the other traitor corvettes suddenly vanished. Crowe heard 
  people cheering, himself among them. Lesos poured fire into the second 
  corvette, hurting her badly, but she’d lost half her armament and was 
  holed in several places. 
  “Sir, I have a torpedo on Q3’s ramp according to the last readout,” 
  Browning said suddenly. “I may be able to launch.” 
  “Find out,” Crowe said harshly. 
  Browning knew what he meant, and even as Lesos put another salvo 
  into her opponent, Stormshadow’s torpedo raced across the narrowing 
  gap between the two ships. The corvette’s small hull had no room for 
  point-defenses and she could not evade in time. The torpedo struck 
  home, its armored penetrator head smashing through flimsy hull armor 
  and internal partitions. The warhead detonated deep in the corvette’s 
  vitals, flinging its own armored casing in all directions followed by blast 
  and heat that set off the torpedo’s remaining fuel in a spectacular piece 
  of overkill. The corvette broke in two, the smaller fighting compartment 
  spinning away as the aft section of the main hull, largely made up of fuel 
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  158 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  tanks, burned fiercely for a few seconds then exploded in a silent infrared 
  flare that whited out Crowe’s battle plot. 
  Stormshadow’s remaining guns spoke again, and corvette three scat-
  tered debris. Her jump grid began to glow, and her transponder code 
  changed. 
  “Corvette three is striking her colors, Captain.” Browning said in a 
  strange tone. 
  “Is it her?” Crowe demanded. 
  Browning knew which ship Crowe meant. “Yes sir. ninety-nine-
  point odd percent match. A and B batteries—what’s left of them—are 
  overloaded. Recommend cooling the capacitors before recharging.” 
  “X battery status?” Crowe asked. 
  “Ready to fire, but recharging will take around thirty minutes.” 
  “Very well then. Take A and B offline, cool and recharge.” 
  “X battery is locked onto target. The hostile is about to jump,” 
  Browning said. 
  “No she isn’t,” Crowe replied. “Kill her.” 
  All four turrets of X battery fired as one, striking the corvette as she 
  supercharged her jump grid. For a moment Stormshadow’s instruments 
  whited out, and when they came back up there was no sign of her oppo-
  nent. 
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  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 159 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Off Troubridge Naval Base 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Crowe skimmed over the data from the battle plot and the damage 
  board. Damage all over the ship, casualties everywhere. Drives degraded 
  and fuel spilling out of holed tanks. One turret in A battery functional, 
  three in B. X battery worked but was discharged; Stormshadow might be 
  able to bring one turret into action sometime soon. Q battery; status 
  unknown . . . which meant it was inoperable. Point defense was mostly 
  functional; bridge-ventral was gone but it had never worked properly 
  anyway. 
  Stormshadow could move and shoot, but could do neither very well. 
  The rest of the loyalist force looked to be in similar shape. Regolo and 
  Bainbridge were pounding one another to extinction, while Mikula was 
  chewing her way through the gunship forces at the cost of multiple tor-
  pedo hits. Lesos . . . 
  “Signal from Lesos,” said Stormshadow’s computer voice. “Signal 
  reads: ‘Thanks for the assist.’ ” 
  Crowe chuckled bitterly, wondering how much pride that had cost 
  to send. According to Stormshadow’s instruments Lesos was in a terrible 
  state, with more than half her guns out of action and internal fires raging 
  on the accommodation deck. She, too, could move and shoot, but not 
  well enough to make any difference to the battle. 
  “Make signal to Lesos. My compliments and such,” Crowe said, 
  rushing out his next words before he had time to consider them and 
  change his mind. “Stormshadow has some guns and we retain torpedo 
  capability. Intend to attack Mikula.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  160 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  Browning unlocked her chair and spun to face Crowe. “Sir, we 
  don’t have torpedo capability! Q battery is dead.” 
  “You and I know that, Lieutenant Commander, but the enemy 
  does not,” Crowe said formally. “We will make what looks like a tor-
  pedo run and draw the enemy’s fire away from the gunships.” 
  Browning’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, sir. We can bluff them,” she said. 
  “They’ve seen us use torpedoes so they’ll presume we intend to do so 
  again . . . assuming Commodore Reutens is competent.” 
  “She’s a traitor, but she’s not a fool,” Crowe replied. “She’ll have 
  pegged us as strike-capable as soon as we fired torpedoes at Regolo. And 
  as gunnery school teaches us . . .” 
  “. . . do not allow strike craft to close,” Browning agreed. “We may 
  seem like we can deliver a more concentrated strike than any given gun-
  ship, so we’ll draw the majority of fire. You are aware, of course, that 
  Mikula retains very significant missile capability and we have severely 
  impaired forward point defense?” 
  “Yes, but thank you for reminding me,” Crowe said. Browning had 
  to consider the possibility that the captain had forgotten how vulnerable 
  the ship was. She was also quietly offering him a chance to back out of 
  his plan without losing face or risking censure from a SolSec investiga-
  tion into his actions. Not that it mattered; he knew what needed doing. 
  “Signal from Lesos,” broke in Stormshadow. 
  “Play it,” Crowe said. 
  “Signal reads: ‘That’s lunacy.’ No compliments appended.” 
  “Make signal to Lesos: ‘Fully aware of that. Intend to attack regard-
  less,’ ” Crowe said. He found himself hoping that his political officer 
  would decide that a frigate was an important asset and not to be thrown 
  away like this and overrule him, but Browning just nodded. What they 
  were doing was more important than any one ship. 
  “Signal from Lesos,” said Stormshadow. 
  “Play it.” 
  “Signal reads: ‘Intend to support your action. Damn you, Crowe.’ ” 
  Crowe smiled thinly. “Helm! Come about. Take us at Mikula. 
  Flank speed.” 
  Stormshadow began to accelerate hard, back toward the thinning 
  melee around Reutens’s flagship. It was seconds before the first missile 
  launches began, a stream rather than a swarm but still too much for 
  Stormshadow’s point defenses to handle. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 161 
  “Helm, keep us steady,” Crowe said. “Do not evade.” Stormshadow 
  didn’t need to survive long enough to launch her weapons; she had 
  none. All she needed to do was look threatening and draw fire. That was 
  working; the frigate was taking laser hits now, as proximity missile bursts 
  raked her hull. 
  “In fast, strike hard . . .” Crowe said. 
  “Out is optional,” Browning finished the strike forces’ unofficial 
  motto. As political officer she was supposed to suppress that sort of talk, 
  but it really did not matter at that point. Then she jabbed a finger at the 
  battle plot. “Sir!” 
  “I see it,” Crowe replied. Lesos was overtaking Stormshadow, adding 
  her remaining armament to the frigate’s defense. She was saving nothing 
  for herself, seeking only to protect her comrade long enough to make 
  her strike. Lesos’s captain did not know the gesture was empty; he was 
  giving his all as Crowe had hoped. And Mikula was buying the bluff. She 
  turned every available gun on the two ships charging in from her aft 
  quarter, allowing the gunship force a chance to reform for a new strike. 
  Crowe finally gave in to the urge to get out of his seat, pacing across 
  the bridge to stand behind Browning’s chair. He walked right through 
  his battle plot, but there was nothing to see really—just a shrinking 
  range indication and a curious gap in the missile stream. 
  Mikula had ceased firing missiles for a moment, readying a concen-
  trated salvo. The plot showed she had discharged all her remaining 
  launchers at once, and Crowe knew it was all over. He’d done every-
  thing he could, drawn fire and given the gunships a fighting chance. If 
  Carstairs were aboard he could perhaps initiate an emergency jump, but 
  even that slim chance was denied. All that remained to do was maintain 
  the bluff as long as possible. 
  Crowe put his hand on Browning’s shoulder and gave her a faint 
  smile as she glanced up at him. “Captain requests permission to attack,” 
  he said. 
  Browning had re-routed gunnery control to her own console, but it 
  was still the political officer’s station and retained its normal functions. 
  She nodded slowly before formally responding, “Political officer grants 
  permission to attack, and condones the actions of the captain.” Then 
  she flipped the cover off a rarely used control and slapped it hard. 
  “Log dump in progress . . . complete. Updates running,” Browning 
  said. Stormshadow’s logs had just been transmitted to every vessel in 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  162 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  range—which in this case included the traitors aboard Mikula. Updates 
  would stream out until she was destroyed, creating an indelible record of 
  her final action. The galaxy would know that CSS Stormshadow and her 
  crew went to their end In the Navy Way, resolute and faithful to the 
  last. 
  . . .and of course the crew of Mikula would know that Stormshadow 
  was coming at them with no regard to survival. 
  The Confederation Navy’s battle anthem crashed out over Storm-
  shadow’s speakers, making Crowe smile faintly. It was a good piece of 
  theater, and if it was enough to convince Mikula that they were still a 
  threat then someone else might strike the killing blow. 
  The bridge doors slid open, revealing Thomas Connelly. The ship’s 
  surgeon wore a bloodstained theater gown rather than a crewsuit. To 
  Crowe’s knowledge he had never been on the bridge before. “Captain!” 
  Connelly burst out. “A marine casualty came in from Q battery. Walked 
  in, despite . . . anyway, he made me come tell you because there’s abso-
  lutely nobody else available . . .” 
  “Tell me what?” Crowe demanded. 
  “He said to tell you . . . Q battery is loaded and ready to fire!” 
  Crowe and Browning shared a look. Had the bluff just become real-
  ity? The damage board was still dead, but in theory the weapons might 
  respond to commands from the bridge. With the hoists out of action, 
  Morwood and her marines must have climbed into the shafts and man-
  handled torpedoes into place by brute force. Doing that with one 
  torpedo was a superhuman feat in the narrow hoist passages. To load a 
  full battery . . . 
  Incredible. 
  Crowe glanced at Browning’s battle plot. Pity it was for naught; the 
  incoming missile salvo would gut Stormshadow before she reached firing 
  range. But what a brave try! Crowe could feel nothing but pride in his 
  crew as the salvo approached. 
  Lesos lunged forward under emergency power, shaving right under 
  Stormshadow’s ragged and wreckage strewn fore section. She turned 
  beam-on, placing herself between the frigate and the salvo, her remain-
  ing guns thinning the missiles in a virtuoso display of defensive shooting. 
  Her point defenses got more of them, and her hull took the rest. 
  Stormshadow reeled as debris smacked into her hull. A few “leakers” 
  came around Lesos’s shielding hull and detonated alongside the frigate, 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 163 
  shrapnel tearing through her hull. Air shrieked out as the bridge was 
  holed, and Crowe slammed his helmet faceplate down instinctively. 
  Doctor Connelly had no suit. He gazed around, panicked, as the air 
  pressure began to drop. Crowe ran toward the surgeon, shoulder-
  charging him back through the bridge doors as they automatically 
  closed. If the corridor outside had air, Connelly would live. If not . . . 
  Crowe turned back to the battle plot. Laser fire from Mikula raked 
  Stormshadow’s hull, but the bigger ship barely noticed her puny reply. 
  The damage board was red and black, then flickering, and finally just 
  black. The bridge lights dimmed and the drive wavered. The helmsman 
  was shouting something about control loss. 
  Crowe grabbed his seat arm and clung on as Stormshadow began to 
  tumble. Loose objects and fragments of hull plate crashed about as the 
  ship turned end for end . . . and then suddenly righted herself and began 
  driving once more at the enemy. 
  “I have no control!” the pilot shouted. “Someone’s using the emer-
  gency conn in engineering!” 
  Crowe scrambled into his seat, fastening the straps and promising 
  himself not to wander about the bridge in any future combat. “Captain!” 
  Browning’s voice said in his helmet. “All beam weapons are down, no 
  response from any turret. Aft point defense is functional.” 
  “Torpedo status?” 
  “Unknown.” 
  “Assume they’re live. Prepare to fire.” 
  “Aye sir,” Browning replied. “Ready.” 
  Crowe took a last look at the battle plot. Bainbridge was limping 
  toward Mikula, whose hull was lit by the flashes of gunship-launched 
  torpedoes. Lesos was maneuvering and signaling weakly; an all-bands dis-
  tress call. Regolo was dead in space, burning fiercely through rents in her 
  hull. As Crowe watched, her jump grid flared and she vanished in a blue-
  white flare of gravitic distortion. Crowe shuddered to think what would 
  happen aboard that ship, entering jump space crippled and on fire. Bet-
  ter, perhaps, to stay and die fighting . . . 
  “Captain! I have helm control!” the pilot called out. 
  “Maintain torpedo run,” Crowe ordered. 
  The range dropped, and Stormshadow shuddered under laser fire. 
  With the damage board totally black there was no way to tell how much 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  164 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  they were suffering. Not that it mattered; there was just one thing to do 
  now . . . 
  “Lieutenant Commander Browning,” said Crowe. “You may fire 
  when ready.” 
  Stormshadow’s last torpedo lanced out though the maelstrom of 
  fighters and gunships, striking at the intersection of Mikula’s main and 
  flight hulls. A rent opened, scattering bodies and wreckage. Half a 
  fighter spun out of the hole, then the fires went out. Mikula’s captain 
  had sealed off the flight section and vented it to space, killing everyone 
  inside who was not already suited up and spilling many who were into 
  space, but probably saving his ship in the process. 
  Probably winning the battle too, Crowe realized. Mikula was ma-
  neuvering very gingerly but still retained much of her fighting power. 
  The only serious warship left on the loyalist side was Bainbridge, and she 
  was crippled. Lesos was a wreck and Stormshadow had no weapons left. It 
  was all over. 
  Unless . . . 
  “Pilot,” Crowe said almost conversationally. His voice sounded 
  strange over the suit radio. “Emergency flank speed. Your target is Mi-
  kula. You are to ram her.” 
  The pilot glanced around, twisting her head in her crewsuit helmet. 
  She started to say something but fell silent as Browning held up her right 
  hand. In it was her Personal Defense Weapon. “Political Officer con-
  curs,” Browning said. “You will ram the enemy flagship. Hail Terra!” 
  “Hail Terra,” the pilot responded automatically, glancing at Crowe 
  who said nothing. She turned back to her station and took a death-grip 
  on the controls. 
  “Stormshadow, make signal,” Crowe said. “In clear. Message reads, 
  ‘Remember what you see here. Thus ever to traitors. Hail Terra!’ Send 
  and repeat.” 
  It was a good epitaph, Crowe decided. He’s always hated all that 
  propaganda-vid Hail-Terra business, like most black-hat officers, but 
  right now a gesture was needed and there was no time to come up with 
  any better last words. 
  And besides . . . 
  Crowe watched Mikula growing larger in his battle plot. He could 
  see part of her hull through the breach in Stormshadow’s bridge. She was 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 165 
  getting huge, big enough to see detail on her hull with the naked eye, 
  when her drives suddenly went to full emergency power. 
  Crowe saw it a full second before the plot began to register it: Mi-
  kula’s flight and main hulls began to separate at the weakened join. The 
  hole made by Stormshadow’s torpedo was getting larger, cracks spread 
  along Mikula’s hull. 
  “Pilotbreakoff!” Crowe yelled. “Abort ramming attempt, full astern, 
  emergency turn to starboard and gold! Evade! Evade! Evade!” 
  The pilot did not wait for confirmation from the political officer, 
  though she hunched down as if she expected to be shot out of hand. 
  Stormshadow heeled violently, her hull groaning under the strain as 
  Crowe clung to his command chair. 
  Under normal circumstances, a ship’s political officer sat with one 
  hand on “the veto”, a control that only allowed the ship to respond to 
  commands once the political officer released the button. Had Browning 
  had a hand on the veto, the turn would have begun too late. 
  But Browning’s hand was nowhere near her veto; it was on the 
  gunnery controls, savagely and pointlessly spraying point-defense fire at 
  the enemy cruiser because Stormshadow had no other weapons left. 
  Stormshadow passed so close to Mikula that her instruments could 
  detect no gap. Then she was past, and behind her the cruiser began to 
  break in two. Her flight and main hulls separated under the strain of 
  evasion, ripping a chunk out of the central hull. 
  “Captain!” shouted someone on Stormshadow’s bridge. “Mikula’s 
  transponder! She’s surrendering! She’s . . .” 
  The bridge fell silent as Mikula began to break up, shedding pieces 
  of her hull and one of her engines. Then her internal fires reached a 
  magazine and she disintegrated in a hail of white-hot debris. By the time 
  Stormshadow’s battle plot was readable again, there were no more foes 
  to fight. 
  The Battle of Troubridge Naval Base was over, and Stormshadow 
  had survived. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  166 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Off Troubridge Naval Base 
  066-1108 
   
   
   
   
  Stormshadow was in a terrible state, but better than Lesos. As they 
  limped toward Troubridge Naval Base the two ships separated, as if out 
  of mutual distaste. Bainbridge was already moored to a beacon, her crew 
  conducting their second set of emergency repairs of the day. 
  The crewman Crowe had sent to tour the ship and collect reports 
  had returned with a preliminary report. It wasn’t good. Stormshadow 
  had heavy casualties and severe structural damage. Only one beam turret 
  was even repairable; for the time being their only armament was point 
  defense and manually loaded torpedoes. Morwood’s exhausted marines 
  promised to reload the mounts a second time if necessary, but Crowe 
  doubted their bodies were up to the task even if their spirits were will-
  ing. 
  With Mikula and Regolo gone whatever system forces remained at 
  Dolor seemed inclined to stay put. That was just as well, since the Con-
  federation Navy presence in the system was down to three more-or-less 
  wrecks, a handful of torpedo craft and the recaptured Vesikko. When 
  your most potent asset is a transport ship, Crowe reasoned, you don’t go 
  seeking more combat. 
  As Stormshadow crawled back to base, Crowe managed to get an 
  update on his personnel: Dupuy was critically injured but alive in the 
  base hospital, Carstairs was aboard Bainbridge and Urasnicz was en 
  route to Stormshadow with a marine damage-control team. 
  It was a better outcome than might have been expected. Of course, 
  until reinforcements arrived there was the non-trivial problem that 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 167 
  Troubridge Naval Base now lay in hostile territory, and it was going to 
  take some time to sort out who was a traitor and who was not. 
  Nice problems to have, Crowe decided. Since we’re alive to have to deal 
  with them. 
  “Signal from Troubridge Naval Base traffic control,” Stormshadow’s 
  computer announced. “Compliments of base commander; Commodore 
  Alexander Ulysses Finchley, Confederation Navy. Recipient of the Ban-
  ner of Terra, Order of Sol with Bar, Cross, and Diamonds. Greetings 
  and salutations to CSS Stormshadow, her captain and crew. We are 
  cleared to proceed into the transfer dock, which has been converted into 
  an emergency repair facility.” 
  “I’m surprised they’re letting us in,” Crowe said irreverently. “We 
  left a bit of a mess last time. Acknowledge the signal and offer thanks 
  and compliments to the commodore. Inform him that we intend to be 
  at least marginally combat-worthy within thirty-six hours.” 
  What a thirty-six hours those are going to be, Crowe thought. It had to 
  be done though. Dolor was in open rebellion, and a new attempt to take 
  the station could come at any time. Like the Samurai of old Terra said: 
  After the battle, tighten your helmet straps! But first . . . 
  “We’re cleared to proceed in to dock,” Crowe said. “And that re-
  quires a qualified pilot at the helm. But for preliminary maneuvers, we 
  have discretion. It’s normally quite straightforward, I’m told, but today 
  might be more of a challenge. All the same . . . Lieutenant Commander 
  Browning . . .” 
  Crowe paused for a moment as Browning turned to face him, her 
  expression carefully neutral. Crowe nodded, affirming what she hoped. 
  “Commander,” Crowe said. “Would you like to drive what’s left of 
  the boat?” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  168 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  CONFEDERATION NEWS AGENCY 
  Carter Naval Base, Barsoom System: 089-1108 
   
   
   
   
  The Solomani Confederation Navy and Solomani Security today 
  jointly announced a state of emergency across the Solomani Rim sector. 
  The Sirius Rising movement, thought to be behind unrest and insurrec-
  tions on a number of worlds, now controls several major fleet units and 
  at least one base. Nine worlds, mostly in Jardin subsector, have declared 
  independence from the Confederation. 
  Most of these secession attempts were thwarted by vigilant SolSec 
  monitors and security officers, and by prompt action on the part of the 
  fleet and its marines. Several worlds remain in open rebellion, and there 
  are fears of a new flare-up of the Bootes Trade War. 
  Imperial involvement in the Sirius Rising movement has been con-
  firmed, although this has been confined to financial support and political 
  pressure. In the words of Commissioner Horace Pullinger, acting as 
  spokesman for the Solomani Party, “The Imperial hordes are not about 
  to come pouring across the border, although the fleet has been placed 
  on high alert and patrols are being stepped up. The real problem is in-
  ternal; secessionists and malcontents who weaken the fabric of our 
  society. We must root out the traitors and stand together in this time of 
  crisis.” 
  Experts have discounted the suggestion that the Solomani Confed-
  eration stands on the brink of disintegration as “alarmist propaganda,” 
  but there are growing fears that internal conflict may create exactly the 
  opportunity the Third Imperium seeks to renew its campaign of aggres-
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 169 
  sion against the free Solomani people. Vigilance and solidarity are more 
  vital than ever before. 
  The Solomani Party has sent out this message to all worlds of the 
  Confederation: 
  Let all loyal Solomani men and women stand shoulder to shoulder 
  against the traitor and the invader. Thus shall our freedom be preserved, and 
  our culture endure. Hail Terra! 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  170 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  Library Data 
   
   
   
   
  Court Sword: One of a number of similar weapons often referred to 
  as “foils”, the traditional court sword is a member of the smallsword 
  family. Featuring a long, straight blade with a sharp point but typically 
  no cutting edge, the smallsword has a small hand guard and is relatively 
  easy to carry. It is a standard dueling weapon, with formal rules for en-
  counters. 
  The court sword is traditionally associated with the Imperial nobil-
  ity within the Third Imperium and with both the Imperial and the 
  Solomani Confederation Navies. The latter inherited many of its prac-
  tices from the Imperial Navy at the time of its formation, though over 
  time some of these have been eroded and amended. 
  The court sword is normally considered to be a dress item rather 
  than a functional weapon, but is perfectly serviceable in skilled hands. 
  There are several “systems” for its use, some of which use radically dif-
  ferent bodies of technique due to their unusual guard or starting 
  position. 
  The Solomani Confederation Navy claims an unbroken lineage in 
  its traditions of swordsmanship all the way back to the great Terran 
  smallsword master Domenico Angelo of the pre-starflight era. Thus the 
  phrase “fencing as God and Angelo intended” is still used in some naval 
  circles. It is rarely heard in the Imperium, however. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 171 
   
   
  The Solomani and the Imperium: Encroachment by the First Im-
  perium, or Vilani Imperium, upon Terran territory led to a series of 
  interstellar wars that ultimately toppled the decaying First Imperium 
  and replaced it with the Second Imperium, or the Rule of Man. Despite 
  strenuous efforts, the corruption within the former First Imperium was 
  too great and its remnants collapsed into what became known as the 
  Long Night. 
  After the end of the Long Night, the region around Terra was one 
  of the few to have retained strong trade links and a high level of inter-
  stellar traffic, and thus became a hub for the redevelopment of the 
  region. Contact with the emergent Third Imperium led to trade and 
  support by the worlds of the Terra region, enabling the Imperium to 
  grow into a major interstellar power whose borders expanded out to 
  meet those of the Terran region. 
  In 588, Terra and her sister worlds joined the Imperium. Such was 
  their power that the Solomani, as the people of the Terra region became 
  known, rapidly rose to dominate the affairs of the Imperial court. How-
  ever, although the Third Imperium derived its legitimacy from a claim of 
  being a continuation of the Second Imperium, it had apparently inher-
  ited the self-destructive tendencies of the First. Once again, Terran 
  influence was not quite enough to prevent disaster. 
  This time it was not total collapse, but the Imperium did suffer 
  many years of civil war that wrecked the economy and almost caused the 
  breakup of the Imperium. Salvation came in the form of the Solomani 
  Cause, an alliance of disparate groups linked by their Solomani heritage, 
  which provided stability and economic growth in the troubled years af-
  ter the Civil War. 
  Once the crisis was over, the Imperials turned away from Solomani 
  influences and restored many Vilani practices dating from the collapsed 
  First Imperium. Naturally, this placed the Imperium on a path to de-
  struction and caused the Solomani people to rethink their support for 
  the Imperium. 
  The Solomani-dominated worlds around Terra became an autono-
  mous region within the Imperium, still supporting the Imperium despite 
  its flaws but able to distance itself from the worst mistakes being made 
  to coreward. This was satisfactory for a time, but questionable Imperial 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  172 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  practices and a habit of interfering in Solomani affairs led to the Solo-
  mani region withdrawing its support from the Imperium and charting its 
  own path. 
  The Imperials accepted the situation for many decades, but eventu-
  ally became jealous of the success of the Solomani. After many years of 
  encroachment and several Imperial-engineered incidents intended to 
  weaken the Solomani, in 940 the Imperials attempted to annex Terra 
  and the surrounding area. 
  Despite issuing what amounted to a declaration of war when they 
  announced the annexation, the Imperials proved incapable of doing any-
  thing for fifty more years, until finally in 990 they launched an 
  unprovoked assault into Solomani space. Despite being caught by sur-
  prise, the Solomani fleets were able to stem the Imperial advance and 
  even pushed the invaders back. 
  The War of Solomani Liberty raged from 990 to 1002. For the first 
  three years, Solomani fleets repeatedly defeated superior Imperial forces 
  and countered every thrust into Solomani territory. However, a combi-
  nation of internal divisions and the vast Imperial might arrayed against 
  the Solomani fleets meant that the balance eventually shifted. 
  From 993, the tide gradually turned until by 998 it was only the 
  heroism of Solomani naval and military personnel that held back over-
  whelming Imperial might. The invaders finally broke through in 998, 
  and even then they were checked several times as the Imperial steamrol-
  ler bore down on Terra. It was not until 1002 that the Imperials were 
  able to successfully invade the Solomani homeworld. 
  The Battle of Terra has become known as “The Storm” in numer-
  ous historical dramas. It ended with an Imperial victory and the 
  occupation of the Solomani homeworld, but such was the price exacted 
  from the invaders that they were unable to drive farther into Solomani 
  space. The survival of the Solomani Confederation was bought with sac-
  rifices made at Terra. 
  The Imperials remain unable to admit that they lack the means to 
  advance further, and are resistant to Solomani overtures for an honor-
  able peace. However, the armistice that began after the Battle of Terra 
  has remained in place ever since, and relations with the Imperials have 
  gradually normalized. 
  Today’s Solomani Confederation stands constantly in the shadow 
  of The Storm, threatened by Imperial aggression. The Imperials have 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 173 
  never given any sign of willingness to abandon their aggressive intentions 
  in Solomani space, and are openly committed to the annexation of all 
  Solomani space, including those regions never part of any Imperium. 
   
   
  The Iron Gate Doctrine: The Iron Gate strategy was formulated in 
  the 1101 Solomani Confederation Naval Review. Dedicated to improv-
  ing the strength and unity of the coreward border region by creating 
  several new naval bases (hinges) and patrol flotillas (gates) to deter and 
  defend against low-level Imperial encroachment. 
  The Iron Gate Doctrine is intended to place more patrol ships in 
  systems that are threatened by Imperial influences and associated law-
  lessness. In time of war, the “hinge” bases will serve as forward bases 
  from which to defend, and strongpoints upon which the fleet can fall 
  back in the event of losses. 
  The Iron Gate region is roughly ten parsecs deep, and sufficiently 
  well patrolled that Imperial scouts and raiders cannot readily pass 
  through to harass shipping or obtain intelligence deeper in Solomani 
  space. The strategy has been accompanied by the creation of several new 
  warship designs, mostly tailored to patrol work within the Iron Gate 
  region. 
   
   
  Loyalty Ships: The 1101 Naval Review showed a requirement for 
  more light and medium combatants to undertake patrol and escort work 
  as well as dealing with raiders. The Loyalty Ships program was imple-
  mented soon afterward to address budget constraints preventing 
  sufficient ship numbers from being deployed. 
  The Loyalty Ships program included new escort corvette, destroyer, 
  and cruiser designs. All are simple-but-sure vessels intended to be 
  crewed by personnel not quite trained to Confederation Navy standards. 
  Member worlds were then invited to show their loyalty to the Confed-
  eration by funding the construction of a corvette, destroyer, or cruiser, 
  or part-funding one in the case of small economies. Corporations and 
  other groups were also invited to provide funding. 
  The Loyalty Ships are assigned to the Confederation Navy Reserve, 
  serving alongside regular and Home Guard vessels. Some have been 
  formed into task forces comprised entirely of Loyalty Ships, though 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  174 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  most augment local patrol squadrons or Home Guard forces defending 
  their home systems. 
  Loyalty Ships all follow a standard naming convention, with the 
  first vessel of any given class funded by a particular source having the 
  same name and an origin identifier. Multi-source funded vessels have 
  their own naming conventions. It is thus possible to see the loyalty of 
  any given world or institution by the names of the ships it has provided. 
  For example, the first cruiser funded by the world Vantage is named 
  Vantage Loyalty. The first funded by Home is Home Loyalty. The third 
  funded by Home is Home Bastion, and so forth. 
   
   
  The Naval Duel: The Solomani Confederation Navy uses a fairly 
  standard form of the traditional duel to settle disputes. A challenge is 
  made by individuals (referred to as “friends”) acting on behalf of the in-
  jured party, and addressed to the friends of the offender. No contact is 
  made between the principals of the duel until they meet to fight. 
  Under naval regulations, duels between personnel in the same chain 
  of command are not permitted, and normally only officers and senior 
  non-commissioned officers will duel. Duels are not allowed in time of 
  war, nor between commissioned and non-commissioned officers, and 
  SolSec officers cannot be challenged. They can issue challenges, how-
  ever. 
  The duel is overseen by an impartial individual referred to as the 
  president, and each principal has two seconds charged with restraining 
  their principal if his conduct becomes unacceptable. They are armed, 
  and may defend themselves if attacked. Seconds can also defend a 
  downed principal, which has occasionally led to an escalation of a formal 
  duel into a six-man brawl. Such conduct is considered reprehensible. 
  Suitable medical assistance must be available, and every effort is 
  made to ensure the safety of injured principals. However, no charges can 
  be brought against an individual who wounds, disables or even kills his 
  opponent in a properly conducted duel. The president is required to 
  halt the proceedings when a wound is inflicted, but unless “first blood” 
  has been agreed beforehand, a wounded duelist is permitted to continue 
  fighting if he wishes to do so. Surrender is considered honorable in the 
  event that a duelist has a significant wound, though those who yield at 
  the first scratch are considered cowardly in some circles. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 175 
  Various fencing styles and systems exist within the Confederation 
  Navy. Most are based on a fairly generic sword drill that is also effective 
  in open combat should an officer ever have to use his sword. There are, 
  however, a number of specialist dueling styles that focus on drawing out 
  an engagement until an opportunity arises to deliver a surrender-worthy 
  but non-fatal injury. These are not taught by Naval College swordmas-
  ters, but private instruction is often sought out by those with a mind to 
  issue a challenge. 
  Private sword instruction is sometimes available from brother offi-
  cers within the navy, but is more commonly sourced from the civilian 
  “dueling circuit” of swordmasters who conduct exhibition bouts or 
  teach prospective duelists for a fee. 
   
   
  Bootes Trade War: The Bootes Trade War was a complex “war-
  like situation” arising from a dispute over control of the lucrative trade 
  routes through the Near Bootes Cluster. It pitted the powerful worlds of 
  Thetis and Laputa against one another at times, and jointly against 
  other rivals at others. 
  Characterized by shifting alliances and political fallout across the 
  entire Solomani Sphere, the Bootes Trade War drew in elements of the 
  Solomani Confederation Navy. Although the fleet was engaged by vari-
  ous factions, political wrangling prevented a formal response on the part 
  of the Confederation and created a highly complex situation in which it 
  was difficult for naval commanders to determine a clear course of action. 
  A turning point in the war was the Battle of Santorini in 1101. A 
  lunge by Laputan forces almost succeeded in capturing key cities of the 
  world of Santorini. Engagement of regular Confederation naval and mili-
  tary forces stationed in the Santorini system triggered a robust response 
  by the Confederation military, leading to the surrender of the Laputan 
  fleet. 
  The surrender agreement included a provision to allow the unen-
  gaged Laputan ground force transports to withdraw from the system, 
  and remains controversial to this day. Preservation of these ground 
  forces permitted Laputa to continue prosecuting the war and it has been 
  suggested that the resulting casualties ran into the tens or even hundreds 
  of thousands, plus the loss of a great many naval vessels. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  176 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  The Battle of Santorini remains a sensitive subject in naval circles, 
  and has caused deep divisions between those who supported the deci-
  sion to allow the Laputans to withdraw and those who believe that 
  these forces should have been forced to also surrender. 
  The Near Bootes region remains troubled and is heavily patrolled. 
  Notably, its worlds have on average contributed less than half the aver-
  age donation to the Loyalty Ships program, but do retain significant 
  Home Forces. 
   
   
  Torpedoes and Missiles: All navies make use of missiles for long-
  range combat. The ability of a missile to maneuver during the terminal 
  attack phase enables it to hit an evading craft even at very long ranges. 
  By coasting most of the way to the general target vicinity, missiles per-
  mit an engagement at extremely long ranges. However, the need to carry 
  sufficient fuel to reach a high transit velocity limits the size of warhead 
  that can be carried. 
  Some navies, including the Solomani Confederation Navy, make 
  use of heavy, short-range, missile-like weapons referred to as torpedoes. 
  Torpedoes are designed to accelerate extremely fast and maneuver hard, 
  almost the complete opposite of a missile that is designed for fuel effi-
  ciency in its transit phase. 
  Torpedoes are able to carry a heavier warhead and are more solidly 
  constructed than missiles. This enables them to survive point defense 
  fire more effectively and also to penetrate deeper into an armored target 
  before detonating. They are not compatible with standard missile 
  launchers, although a project aimed at creating a combined mis-
  sile/torpedo launcher system is currently under testing. 
  Torpedoes are short-range weapons and are normally used by ves-
  sels designed for the strike role. Strike vessels are generally equipped 
  with a powerful armament for their size, relying on speed and evasion to 
  get close enough for a killing salvo. Handicapped in a long-range duel, 
  such vessels can overwhelm a major warship if they can get close enough. 
  The traditions of the Solomani Confederation Navy strike forces go 
  back to the desperate defense of Terra during the interstellar wars, and 
  strike forces are still handled with the same level of aggression and fight-
  ing spirit. The official motto of the strike forces is: In Fast, Strike Hard, 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 177 
  but most personnel use the unofficial version, which appends the phrase 
  Out is Optional on the end. 
  Use of this motto is discouraged by Solomani Security and the Of-
  fice of Morale and Psychological Warfare. It is, however, in almost 
  universal use aboard strike boats, corvettes, and destroyers armed with 
  torpedoes, and has recently become prevalent among battle cruiser 
  crews. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  178 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  About the Author 
   
  Martin J Dougherty has published dozens of books on subjects as 
  diverse as self-defense, military history and space travel in addition to his 
  work for Traveller and other game systems. He teaches the smallsword 
  and military saber as part of the Society for the Study of Swordsmanship 
  and is excessively fond of single-malt scotch whisky. 
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 179 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  An Excerpt from 
  TRAVELLER 
  Fate of the Kinunir 
   
  Robert E. Vardeman 
   
   
   
   
  The klaxon caused Captain Rikart Telson to jump reflexively, 
  breaking his intense concentration. He dropped his notebook on his 
  desk, calculations for the manual on space warfare he was writing scat-
  tering like a star cluster. The faint air current from the duct above his 
  tidy, tightly racked bunk had hardly spun a sheet with intricate drawings 
  through the air before he grabbed his jacket from his wardrobe and burst 
  through the hatch into the aft port corridor leading forward. 
  The stolid gray-haired officer struggled into his uniform as he ran 
  from his quarters at the rear of the Kinunir’s B deck, through the ward-
  room to the bridge. He dodged several of his command deck crew along 
  the way as they scrambled to general quarters, then agilely spun around 
  and ducked through the closing iris valve onto the bridge just as he fas-
  tened the last silver button on his space-black uniform. For all the alarm 
  bells and warning lights, he might have been idly strolling along and just 
  happened by. Composure was everything in an emergency. The crew 
  could never see him rattled, no matter how his gut churned. 
  A quick survey of the duty crew showed they were working fever-
  ishly to extinguish the spectrum of warning lights flashing across every 
  control board. His XO, Commander Franks, stood immediately behind 
  the computer officer, Lieutenant Rolland, bent over his shoulder and 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  180 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  trying to do the man’s work for him. Rolland shifted slightly in his chair 
  to interpose his thin frame between her and his work. Franks stepped to 
  the side and continued needlessly to point out what he was already do-
  ing efficiently. 
  “Report,” Telson said, taking in a deep breath to keep from gasping 
  out the order. Looking calm and sounding that way presented a particu-
  lar challenge because this alarm had dragged him away from a 
  particularly nasty battle exercise. Separating his mockup conflict from 
  the real thing rattled him, required a shifting of focus from theoretical to 
  dangerously genuine. And the habit he’d acquired in childhood, of writ-
  ing first with an old-fashioned pen into a paper notebook, wasn’t 
  helping this time. 
  Laurel Franks glanced over her shoulder. The panicked expression 
  on her face turned Telson colder than the vacuum outside their hull. 
  “Distress call, sir,” she said, moving away from Rolland, to the 
  computer officer’s obvious relief. “We can’t locate the source.” 
  “Rolland,” the captain said in a low voice, “what’s the panel show?” 
  Directing his question directly to the lieutenant at the computer panel 
  and bypassing his XO was a breach of etiquette that could undermine 
  Franks’s standing with the crew. But he didn’t care. Assuring Rolland he 
  didn’t need constant supervision from the XO mattered more than 
  pleasing Franks. 
  Telson had objected to Commander Franks replacing his former 
  XO, but the woman had powerful friends at the Imperial Navy base on 
  Regina. The captain had yet to find out who her patron was, but it had 
  to be at least an admiral for such a plum assignment to be given any offi-
  cer lacking command experience and—to his mind, worse—lacking 
  experience in deep space. Admiral Trevanian was Telson’s best guess, 
  but his own sources had been shut down and Kinunir ordered to patrol 
  along the boundary between the Aramis and Regina Subsectors before 
  he could present a formal protest to the full Admiralty Board. 
  “Another glitch, sir,” the computer officer said. 
  Telson moved so he could look past the XO, who had become fro-
  zen to the deck. The expression on Rolland’s face told the story before 
  he began his explanation. 
  “The AI program is set too sensitive. The smallest star whisper at 
  the ten centimeter wavelength sets off alarms.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 181 
  “Is that so, Commander?” Telson asked. Franks gritted her teeth 
  and braced like a midshipman at first inspection. “The alarm sounded 
  because of a random hiss on the hydrogen emission spectrum?” 
  “It might be so, sir,” she said. 
  Laurel Franks looked as if he intended to order a firing squad for 
  her on the spot. If it had been within his power, he might have tried. 
  “Allie needs to be rebooted. Again.” Franks stood at attention, her 
  blue eyes straight ahead and not meeting his. 
  “Allie?” Telson looked to his computer officer for an explanation. 
  “That’s what she—we—call the new AI security program, sir.” 
  Rolland’s tone carried nothing but disdain. Whether that was directed 
  toward Franks or the new program installed back on Regina was some-
  thing Telson needed to explore. 
  “Naming it allows us to deal better with her personality. Her com-
  puter personality,” the XO explained. 
  Franks squared her shoulders and color came back to her pale 
  cheeks. Of all his crew she looked the most like a ghost, skin so white 
  and translucent it might have been cast from travertine. 
  Telson glanced around. The bridge once more showed nominal 
  conditions without a hint of danger confronting the battle cruiser. One 
  by one, the crew turned back to quiet boards and pretended to tend 
  their stations. Not a one didn’t strain to hear the dressing down he 
  would give his XO for the third spurious general quarters alert since 
  they had reached their patrol region and had moved out from Moughas 
  toward the jump point to Keng. Scuttlebutt bubbling up from the low-
  est deck said the marine detachment had a pool going for when he 
  would toss Franks out an airlock. That annoyed him, even as it made 
  him want to put a few credits into the pot himself. 
  But that would be cheating. He and he alone determined the 
  woman’s fate. 
  “Explain the false alert,” he asked. 
  The edge to his voice made Lieutenant Rolland shiver. Rolland had 
  been on the receiving end of his verbal whiplash many times on their 
  first two deployments. That instruction had turned the skeletal, nervous 
  computer officer into the finest at this MOS in the fleet. His XO was 
  still too upset to notice anything but the readouts detailing her com-
  puter program’s responses. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  182 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “The lieutenant has worked to get the program shipshape, sir,” she 
  said. Her voice carried a shrillness to it that grated on his nerves. “With 
  a few more trial runs we—” 
  “To the computer room. Now.” He clamped his mouth shut to 
  keep from saying something in front of the crew that he would later re-
  gret. 
   
   
   
   
  Available Now 
  E-book ISBN 978-1-55878-001-9 
  Print Edition ISBN 978-1-55878-029-3 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 183 
   
   
   
   
   
   
   
  An Excerpt from 
  TRAVELLER 
  Priority: Hyperion 
   
  Erik Scott de Bie 
   
   
   
   
  Tenalphi 
   
   
  Smoke rose from more than one building out the forward observa-
  tion windows of the Hyperion, painting the pre-dawn sky. Commander 
  Leda Kargatane didn’t even need the shortwave to tell trouble was com-
  ing, and the trader had overstayed its welcome. She’d always had an 
  instinct for these things. 
  Kargatane bunched up her fist and drummed it on the console. 
  “He’s late.” 
  “You expected different?” At the helm, Mysisann Moon frowned in 
  disgust, then moderated her tone when Kargatane looked at her sharply. 
  “sir?” 
  “Indeed.” The Hyperion tech officer Norris Nolley configured the 
  pre-takeoff sequence. “One might remind Commander Kargatane to 
  consider it fortunate Captain Benedict answered the hail at all. Local 
  time on this planet is only 0400 hours.” 
  “Probably just finishing up at the local whorehouse,” Missy said 
  under her breath. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  184 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “Enough, Lieutenant.” Kargatane rounded on the pilot, who merely 
  shrugged. 
  Back at the computer, Barton and Dogson chuckled, while Norris 
  himself looked perplexed. He asked for clarification, indicating that he 
  was asking a question in his usual way. “Query: What amuses?” 
  “Pay it no mind, Norris,” Kargatane said. 
  As much as the man knew about interstellar anatomies—he served 
  as the Hyperion’s medic at need—he could be remarkably dense about 
  their use. 
  The levity was a relief. Kargatane knew they were all more than a 
  little worried, since the captain had taken Ensign Westing with him. 
  The captain could handle himself fine in a scrape, but Westing was just 
  a boy, and if anything happened to him . . . Well, best not to dwell on 
  it. 
  Kargatane couldn’t dispute Missy’s speculation either, knowing the 
  captain’s proclivities. The man tossed himself at everything that moved 
  and was at least vaguely humanoid. He seemed willing to compromise 
  on one or both of these requirements if alcohol was involved. She found 
  it distasteful, but he was a good captain other than this small vice—and 
  all the others. 
  She really deserved a raise one of these days. 
  “Come on,” she said under her breath. “Finish up.” 
  Kargartane turned up the battered shortwave radio the crew of the 
  Hyperion kept on the bridge. “Incident at the governor’s mansion . . . 
  reports still coming in,” it buzzed. “Imperial peacekeepers saying single 
  assassin but releasing no further details. There are widespread reports of 
  rioting in the streets, and the government is moving to shut down all 
  transit from the planet—wait.” There was a loud thump over the waves 
  and loud, assertive voices. “You can’t come in here! You can’t—hunh!” 
  Then the transmission became static. 
  Wonderful. Now the Imperium was cracking down on the news 
  outlets. It must really be bad. 
  Kargatane looked over her shoulder. “Barton, Dogson,” she said. 
  “Report to the turrets. If they try to ground us, we may have to blast 
  our way out of here. Where’s Jetta?” 
  “Gunnery Chief Douglass reports the forward turret is primed and 
  in working order,” Norris said. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 185 
  Kargatane nodded. Jetta lived in that turret sometimes. “Tell her to 
  stand by.” 
  “If Commander Kargatane pleases,” Norris said. “One might re-
  mind her that if the Hyperion charges her guns . . .” 
  “Then we’ll definitely have to use them,” Kargatane said. “No harm 
  in being prepared, though.” 
  She cast a look at Missy, who looked even more irked than usual to 
  be out of her bunk before the 0600 muster. At that moment, the pilot 
  looked like a woman who wanted a firefight. 
  “Commander Kargatane should know that the proximity sensors 
  detect movement,” Norris said. 
  “About damn time,” Kargatane said under her breath. “On screen.” 
  The display crackled into fuzzy blue life, the sensors having shifted 
  to low-light pickup. Sure enough, three forms huddled against the early 
  morning chill stood outside the ship, signaling for the access ramp. The 
  lead figure held up a hand and offered the pre-arranged series of signals 
  to show that he was a friend, not a would-be intruder. The second figure 
  shivered uncontrollably while the third, a young woman by her shape, 
  glanced nervously over her shoulder. 
  “Does Commander Kargatane wish this one to lower the access 
  ramp?” Norris asked. 
  Kargatane considered leaving the captain out in the cold, but it 
  wouldn’t be fair to the others with him. “Give me thirty seconds,” she 
  said. 
  She headed aft and down from the bridge and made it to the cat-
  walk overlooking the cargo hold just as the ramp lowered. “Ha ha!” a 
  loud voice bellowed. “Permission to come aboard?” 
  Yes, it was him. 
  Captain Tiberius Benedict—T.B. to his crew—was larger than life. 
  His rugged good looks and easy smile had managed to charm his way 
  thus far through a life filled with much love and little competence. He 
  even had a little goatee that he claimed (particularly when Kargatane 
  asked him not to) his various lovers liked to caress at intimate moments. 
  Something Kargatane did not like to consider. He strode onto the ship 
  with two people behind him hidden in heavy coats to keep off the rain. 
  “Well?” T.B. threw his arms wide and called up to her. “Am I a 
  genius, or am I a genius?” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  186 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean,” Kargatane said. “All I see 
  is a half empty cargo hold.” 
  “Tenalphi wasn’t good to us financially, it’s true,” said T.B. “But 
  who can deny that the shore leave was good for the body and spirit?” He 
  stretched. 
  “I wouldn’t know, sir, you left me in charge on the bridge.” 
  “Quite right, quite right.” T.B. smiled that insufferable smile. “All 
  part of my master plan, you see. I had to make sure at least one of us 
  kept us honest. And who better for the job than humorless Leda Karga-
  tane?” 
  The commander did not appreciate the joke. She strode down the 
  steps into the cargo bay, arms crossed. “The city is in a panic,” Karga-
  tane said. “What business could have been so important you’d risk a 
  beating from Imperial troops or subject your entire ship to lockdown?” 
  T.B. grinned. “Making someone a man, of course!” He swatted one 
  of his companions on the back, which put the boy to one knee, cough-
  ing. “You should have seen him. Fortitude to make the Hyperion proud. 
  And stamina—whew!” 
  His hood jarred loose and Kargatane recognized the drawn features. 
  “Ensign Westing.” 
  “Reporting for duty, sir.” Westing coughed and clutched at his 
  stomach. 
  The kid looked exhausted. Kargatane had a soft spot for the boy, 
  owing to his late mother, as did most of the crew. Her frown deepened. 
  “Ensign, you are relieved of duty until morning. Go to your quarters and 
  wait for Norris. He’ll take a look at you.” 
  “Tosh, tosh.” T.B. waved his hand to supplement the dismissive 
  phrase from his obscure homeworld. Sometimes, Kargatane could swear 
  he made those up. “He’ll be fine for duty. Just needs a little fluid in him. 
  Used it all up on the hired hands. Or was it another part of them?” 
  Westing covered his mouth as though he would be violently ill, and 
  hurried past Kargatane in the direction of his bunk. Kargatane glared at 
  T.B., who smiled ingratiatingly. 
  “I can understand wanting to stare at me for a while longer,” the 
  captain said. “But we have a jump to make. I trust all is ready?” 
  “The Hyperion will launch at your command, Captain,” she said. 
  “Preferably immediately, before the port authority cancels our departure 
  clearance.” 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 187 
  “Immediately it is, then.” His whimsical attitude turned serious—
  for as much as Kargatane disparaged his carefree attitude, when the time 
  came for action, he proved his worth every time. “Guns at the ready? All 
  present and accounted for?” 
  Kargatane nodded. “Including your passengers, confined to quarters 
  until I can interview them. All four of them.” 
  “Five.” He raised his hand to indicate his second companion, the 
  woman. She was pretty, blonde, and light blue, if one liked that sort of 
  thing. “This is Trill, a former employee of the Madam Two-Swords es-
  cort service. She’ll be riding to Zaibon with us. Personal arrangement. 
  You’ll get to interview her, just like the others. Only on a schedule.” 
  “Much pleasure,” she said in the way of a native of Tenalphi, and 
  kissed Kargatane’s hand. “I look forward to our interview, lovely one.” 
  Then she headed up the steps after Ensign Westing. 
  “Likewise,” Kargatane whispered after her. Mentally, Kargatane 
  added Trill to the list of reasons to regret that T.B. hadn’t granted her 
  shore leave. “The Hyperion’s already at capacity as it is, sir. Unless you 
  have some other plan for Trill’s accommodations during the trip?” 
  “I’m sure some great idea will arise,” T.B. said. 
  “I’m sure.” 
  It was a game they played virtually every time the Hyperion made 
  berth. Inevitably, T.B. would win the heart or at least body of some lo-
  cal prince or princess, or the governor’s only child, or in some cases a 
  gold-hearted Imperial officer who only wanted to experience real love. 
  And inevitably, said paramour would stow away aboard the Hyperion, 
  marking them for the wrath of one governmental body or other. And the 
  whole mess would fall to Kargatane, as first officer, to clean up. 
  At least this one seemed relatively normal. Kargatane hoped she 
  wasn’t a mobster or an Imperial assassin, like the one everyone seemed 
  to be looking for. 
  “You’ll get to interview her, don’t worry,” T.B. said. “I’m not going 
  to keep her all to myself. Ahem.” He eyed her pointedly. “You want to 
  maybe join—” 
  “No, sir,” she said. “Again.” 
  “Durn durn,” he said. “Well, had to try. Carry on, Commander.” 
  Kargatane sighed. “Captain.” 
  He headed up the ramp, and Kargatane was about to follow him 
  when she felt tingling static in her head and the skin stretched tight at 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  188 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  the back of her neck. She couldn’t credit the familiar feeling, but it al-
  ways seemed to happen when abrupt violence was on its way. With the 
  honed instincts of a trained soldier, she immediately took cover behind 
  one of the hydraulic lifters. She’d left her carbine in her quarters, so she 
  drew her sidearm instead and prayed she wouldn’t need to use it. 
  Half a dozen Imperial Marines flooded into the hangar bay. They 
  were well provisioned—with heavy machine guns and ablative body ar-
  mor—against Kargatane and her six-round pistol. They leveled their 
  guns at her and shouted, though she couldn’t make out their words over 
  the Hyperion’s warming engines. 
  Their commanding officer, however, really drew Kargatane’s atten-
  tion. The statuesque woman wore a fully articulated suit of battle dress, 
  its servos whirring slightly as she strode forward with the easy grace of a 
  hunting wolf. She wore the insignia of a captain. Kargatane could make 
  out her dark skin and a strong chiseled nose through the red faceplate of 
  her helmet. 
  “Attention, Free Trader Hyperion,” she said, her voice amplified. “In 
  the name of the invincible Imperium, you are instructed to abort your 
  launch, stand down, and submit to boarding and search.” 
  The ship gave a lurch, and Kargatane heard the engines finish spool-
  ing up. “Unlikely, Captain,” she said, though there was no way the 
  woman could have heard. 
  The armored captain waved to her men, who hurriedly opened up a 
  massive case that produced a portable laser cannon they started hooking 
  to a tripod mount. Damn. That could put a hole in the Hyperion and cut 
  their departure short. If she ordered Barton and Dogson to fire the 
  ship’s guns, the Marines would have to chase them. Nor did she want to 
  kill anyone she didn’t have to. That part of her life was done now. 
  She looked through the steam flowing down from the engines. An 
  idea occurred to her. 
  Kargatane leveled her pistol away from the Marines and at the 
  mostly empty fuel tanks. She took her time and lined up her shot, then 
  squeezed the trigger. 
  Her bullet put a hole in the fuel cell with a plink. It didn’t explode, 
  but then it didn’t need to. The hangar sensors detected explosive gas 
  and immediately started blaring a warning klaxon. Then the emergency 
  sprinklers came on, filling the room with rain and steam where it hit the 
  power plant’s heat exchangers. 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  Shadow of the Storm ⊕ 189 
  The water shorted out their laser cannon, making the weapon 
  nothing but an oversized paperweight. The Marines waved their guns 
  around wildly, looking for the threat, but the captain saw through the 
  distraction. She just stood there, water dripping off her helmet, and 
  looked Kargatane right in the eye. Was she smiling? 
  Kargatane rode the ramp back up into the Hyperion. 
   
  [: :] 
   
  After checking in on the bridge, Tiberius Benedict retired to his 
  sumptuous quarters and busied himself dimming the lights. He set his 
  favorite mood music playing—a soft piece from the lone planet in the 
  distant Sagittarian subsector. T.B. brewed two cups of tea, then 
  stretched and eased himself into his plush armchair, which immediately 
  molded itself around his body and warmed to soothe his aching muscles. 
  The chair had cost a small fortune on Persephone, but it’d been worth 
  every credit. Kargatane had questioned the choice, of course, but then, 
  that was what he paid her for. 
  Leda Kargatane was many things: former military, a capable com-
  mander, and a damn effective administrator. Also, she seemed 
  completely immune to his charms. Even now, he couldn’t decide if he’d 
  taken her as first mate because he wanted to sleep with her, or because 
  it intrigued him to be around a woman he couldn’t sleep with. It was 
  certainly a novel experience for him. 
  By contrast, the captain himself had never served in anyone’s mili-
  tary or even worked more than a few hours in his life. The idle son of a 
  wealthy merchant on a core world, he’d taken to sailing the stars be-
  cause it spoke to him. His was a traveler’s soul, driven by wanderlust to 
  see as much of the universe as he could—and enjoy its various delights. 
  Such as— 
  The red indicator light above his door flickered and a low note 
  chimed. Right on time. 
  “Come in,” he said. 
  The light changed from red to green and the door slid open. Trill 
  stepped through, the soft lighting picking up the blue sheen of her skin. 
  She wore her thick black coat, still damp from the rain, and her makeup 
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
  190 ⊕ Martin J. Dougherty 
  was slightly smeared. Exactly the way T.B. liked it. She said nothing, 
  only stared at him with furious intensity. 
  “Wail well,” he said. “That coat looks fine on you, but it’d look 
  finer on my floor.” 
  Slowly, Trill opened her coat to reveal scanty red lingerie that set 
  off her skin extremely well. Without taking her eyes from him, she re-
  vealed one sharp blue shoulder, then paused. She stared at him, 
  unmoving, a slight frown on her lips. 
  This reaction was not unknown, but T.B. still found it a little odd. 
  He usually didn’t evoke quite this reaction in the men or women he en-
  tertained. “Wail well?” he said. “What’s going—nnrrk.” 
  A sharp pressure built in his head, almost like static but without the 
  sound. His thoughts blurred, melting into blobs of nothing, and then a 
  crushing headache hit him. 
  “What—?” He felt at his nose, and his fingers came away bloody. 
  Trill was still staring at him. Then she smiled. 
  The headache hit T.B. again, ten times harder. He couldn’t 
  speak—couldn’t think. He reached for his sidearm, but his fingers could 
  only spasm and grip the arm of his chair. He tried to get up and suc-
  ceeded only in collapsing to the floor. There he lay, shuddering and 
  staring up at Trill, able to vocalize nothing beyond “Nnrrrh.” 
  Trill’s smile widened as she knelt over T.B., and the captain briefly 
  wondered if this was some sort of erotic game. Not one that he liked, 
  but a game. 
  Then she coughed, and coughed again, and wretched as though 
  vomiting. Definitely not a game he liked. 
  Trill’s face swelled, and her neck tightened with the strain. Her 
  whole body stretched taut, and she retched over and over, trying to 
  vomit. Red lines of blood shot through her eyes, and she looked terri-
  fied. Then her face split open, and it emerged. 
  T.B. couldn’t even scream. 
   
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  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
   
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
   
   
   
   
  Jerry Nuckolls (Order #10423581)
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/D/Martin J Dougherty.-.Shadow of the Storm.pdf