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  GHOST FLEET

  D.A. Boulter (c) 2010

  Copyright page

  This book is a work of fiction. All characters and events are fictitious and any similarity to people, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Copyright (2010) by D. A. Boulter

  Cover Images: Space Battle by philcold/ www.dreamstime.com; Space Station by Andreas Meyer/ www.123rf.com

  Other Amazon Books by D.A. Boulter

  Courtesan

  Pelgraff

  Pilton's Moon / Vengeance Is Mine

  ColdSleep

  The Steadfasting

  Prey

  Enemy of Korgan

  My thanks to Lisa for her invaluable help in proofing.

  GHOST FLEET

  CHAPTER I

  CONFEDERATION SPACEDOCK BRAVO II

  The young officer entered Captain Martok’s office as if he were at home, confident and relaxed.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Mart Britlot reporting for duty, sir.”

  Martok wondered absently how many times he’d heard that phrase: reporting for duty. Duty. Martok had his own duty, and a dirty one at that. He looked up through his bushy black brows at the tall, young officer, surprised at the ease in Britlot’s voice. Surely he must wonder why he’d been ordered to report while technically still on leave. Martok noted the wavy blond hair, cut regulation style, and the wrinkle-free Fleet Light-Blues. Even freshly arrived from leave, Britlot looked a credit to Fleet.

  Britlot’s lightly tanned and wind-reddened face told the Captain that he’d been in weather. Martok looked through the port to the planet below and the starfield beyond. Over a year, now, since he’d been planetside. He wondered what it would be like to look up and not see a steel-grey ceiling above him. Over a year since he’d breathed anything but the canned air of the station.

  Martok shook off the comfort of digression, and returned his attention to the task at hand. He leaned back in his chair, looking more comfortable than he felt.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant-Commander.” Britlot sat comfortably in the chair opposite, his face not guarded but quietly interested. Martok wished that he’d had that confidence when he’d been Britlot’s age.

  He glanced down at the tilted screen which displayed Britlot’s file. A hard-copy rested beside it. Martok liked the feel of hard-copy in his hands. He considered Britlot’s record. The young man was on the fast track for his own command.

  “You’ve returned from leave early, Britlot. Eager to get back to work? Retribution isn’t due out of space dock for two weeks, and completion of her refit will take another six.” He shouldn’t delay, shouldn’t wait for Britlot to give him an opening.

  Britlot’s smile accentuated his youth. Few attained the rank of Lieutenant-Commander at twenty-six. “Bravo II has a reputation for getting ships out ahead of schedule, sir.”

  The Captain raised his bushy brows at the flattery. No, he decided, not flattery, truth. The men and women of Spacedock Bravo II worked hard to maintain that reputation.

  “And you wanted to scope out the new systems we’ve installed.” Martok returned his gaze to the personnel file and nodded, then ran his fingers through his greying hair. Britlot had a reputation of his own: hardworking, friendly and charismatic. It made his task worse.

  “Exactly, sir.” He hesitated, perhaps at Martok’s guarded expression. “Is there a problem with my early return?”

  Martok sighed. “No, Lieutenant-Commander, that is not an issue. I appreciate your dedication.” Now the Captain hesitated. He took a final look at the file to gain time before raising his eyes to meet Britlot’s questioning gaze. He sighed inwardly.

  “Lieutenant-Commander Britlot, I know of no easy way to say this: Combine naval forces attacked the convoy carrying your parents. Their vessel took severe damage. Your parents did not survive the engagement.” Britlot froze in his chair.

  “Didn’t their ship declare itself out-of-action?”

  “She was a civilian ship. And, no, she didn’t surrender. My information indicates they had no time to do so.” Martok waited for the outburst that didn’t come.

  When Britlot did speak, he sounded tired. “They retired and decided to move to Plestinder. They had everything they owned with them. Did we recover anything?” At the shake of Martok’s head, Britlot’s eyes closed with the loss, then opened again, hard and narrowed. “Permission to put in a transfer request for First Fleet, sir.”

  “Permission denied, Lieutenant-Commander. First Fleet doesn’t need an officer with fresh hatred driving him. The Combine will wait for you.”

  “Permission to approach Commodore Taglini with my request, sir.”

  Though Martok understood Britlot’s insistence, the request rankled.

  “Permission denied.” He held the younger man’s hard gaze. “And that’s the final word. Understood?”

  Martok readied himself for the insubordination he could see building in Britlot. He hated to have to slap the young man down, but necessity existed.

  Britlot surprised him. “Understood, sir.”

  “Don’t worry, Britlot,” Martok snorted, “you’ll have plenty of time for revenge. After forty years of bitter fighting, I doubt they will sue for peace before Second Fleet is rotated back to the Combine sector.”

  Martok saw Britlot’s gaze go over his head to the scene that graced his wall. He didn’t need to turn to know what had attracted Britlot’s attention. Scimitar, Martok’s last command, her main weapons on full pulse, torpedoes launched, made an imposing holo. Britlot longed for the same, where his ship fired upon ships of the Combine.

  Scimitar and her crew had died in defense of the Confederation, they, too, victims of the Combine. At the time, Martok was busy learning the fine art of walking with damaged nerves and muscles—also compliments of the Combine. Martok knew hate only too well. He doubted he could persuade Britlot of its uselessness, certainly not here. Perhaps, if he caught the young man in the Officers’ Lounge, he might do some good.

  “Your parents’ law firm possessed a box of effects. They contacted Fleet and turned it over to us. It arrived on Bravo II yesterday.” Martok picked up the satchel from the floor beside his chair and set it on the desk. He noted the hunger in Britlot’s eyes. “Sign for it, and you may leave, Lieutenant-Commander.”

  Britlot held his face expressionless as he accepted the release form and thumb-printed it. “I’ll report to Retribution for duty tomorrow, first shift, Captain.”

  Martok’s experience bearing bad news allowed him to recognize that Britlot would accept no condolences. Perhaps later, when he’d thought it through.

  “You are entitled to leave, to settle your parents’ estate, Lieutenant-Commander.”

  “I’ve had my leave, sir, and their estate sits on that desk, Captain. They had no other relatives. My extended family lived on Restovine.”

  Martok winced. He hadn’t known that. The Combine had burned several cities on Restovine before an out-numbered and out-gunned Confederation squadron drove them off.

  “May I return to quarters, sir? First shift will come early enough.” He gripped the satchel tightly.

  “You will take a day off, Lieutenant-Commander, to consider your options.” Britlot’s face remained expressionless to keep Martok’s wrath from descending upon him. Martok sighed mentally. As if he would hold an outburst against one who had just lost the remainder of his family.

  “Dismissed, Lieutenant-Commander. My office is open to you, should you so desire.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Britlot rose with Martok and saluted. Satchel under his arm, he walked out of Martok’s office, his stride no longer jaunty.

  Martok watched him close the door gently behind him, then returned to his chair. One lousy duty done, one left before
he could call it a day. He picked up the file.

  Wanderer needed a captain for the hated Sector Seven reconnaissance run. No good had ever come of it; yet canceling the run would be a mistake, especially with the rumors that now drifted out of the Tlartox Empire.

  He glanced down the list of available, deserving officers. ‘Deserving’, in this case, meaning something else entirely.

  “To hell with duty.”

  The Britlot interview had disturbed him more than he wanted to admit. He dropped the file on his desk and limped out to the Officers’ Lounge for a drink.

  * * *

  “Captain Martok.”

  Martok turned and was surprised to see Britlot approaching down the long, narrow hallway. He had looked for the young man in the Officers’ Lounge the night before, but Britlot hadn’t shown.

  “Yes, Lieutenant-Commander, what is it?” Had Britlot decided to resume his leave after all? Or had he decided to take another shot at transfer?

  “I would like to take Wanderer out on the recce, sir.”

  Martok’s eyebrows rose. Nobody volunteered. Most considered it punishment duty.

  “Come into my office, Lieutenant-Commander, and tell me about it.”

  Britlot followed Martok into the dark room, where Martok hit the plate that lit the room and the holo of Scimitar. The Captain moved to the outer bulkhead and inspected his plants. The moist dirt gave off a slight odor, which improved the recycled air of the station. He touched the green leaves of his spear plant, enjoying the presence of something growing.

  “So, Britlot, you want to take out Wanderer?” He limped to his desk and sat on its corner. “I would like to know why. Only yesterday you wanted a transfer to First Fleet.” Martok motioned Britlot over to the porthole. The planet below filled a quarter of the view.

  “Do you know, Britlot, that I haven’t been planetside in over a year? I haven’t made a trip out to the mining asteroids or the agri-station in an even longer time.” He looked out the port and smiled. “Bravo II keeps me busy.”

  “A lot goes on here, sir,” Britlot replied, perhaps wondering at Martok’s tack.

  “Aye, Britlot, a lot goes on here. Personnel problems take much of my time: who should be assigned where in order to keep the place running at maximum efficiency; defaulter’s table; requests for transfer to the fighting fleet. My staff handles most of that, of course, so when it reaches me I know that real problems exist.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Martok laughed. “Do you? Maybe one day you will. Thus, when someone asks for what most consider a punishment detail, I have to wonder why. What problems am I setting up for myself? I don’t like the sound of this, Britlot.”

  “I don’t want leave; I have nowhere to go. Fleet is my home, sir.” He looked down at the planet. “What would I do down there? I’ve just come up. Sir, my parents’ effects contain diaries and such. The reconnaissance run will give me time to study them while still serving Fleet. We’ll return before Retribution begins her post re-fit trials.”

  Could it be that simple? Martok doubted it. He had never believed in simplicity; life had proven complex. He considered Britlot. No, he would deny this request, also.

  “Sir, Wanderer may only be a scout, the reconnaissance run merely routine, but she is a command. If I show I can handle her, and the type of crew she usually gets, I’ll be that much closer to a real command.”

  Martok nodded, hiding the smile that threatened to break out. “Now, that I understand, Lieutenant-Commander. Your file says you are ambitious. Very well, you may have her. I’ll have your orders posted before lunch. She leaves in three days; better familiarize yourself with her.” He handed Britlot the crewlist datastick. “Good luck.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Britlot saluted smartly.

  Martok’s mood lightened. Britlot’s request transformed a distasteful duty into something positive. A good day. Britlot would handle the spacers, misfits though they were. His ambition would see to that. He might even return them a better crew, a gain for everyone.

  He sat, pushed his leg into its proper place, and posted the orders. He would, he decided, see Wanderer off personally.

  * * *

  Martok stood, waiting, when Britlot and his crew arrived to embark. The men slipped by the Captain as quickly as possible, while Britlot stopped and spoke with him.

  “Good of you to see me off, sir.”

  “I understand you’ve downloaded a wide range of reports on the Sivon sector, Lieutenant-Commander.”

  “Yes, sir. I want to be thorough.”

  Martok’s eyebrows rose. “You understate the case, Britlot. You’ve pulled every report, merchanter, Fleet and rumor.”

  Britlot heard the unasked question. “I heard about the ghost ships, sir. Our mission takes us into the area of heaviest sightings and I decided that it would be a good way to keep the crew on their toes. An interested crew’s efficiency exceeds that of a bored one.”

  “Ghost ships?” Martok laughed. “Scanner ghosts is all.” He sobered. “However, you’ve more than just ghost ships to worry about, now.”

  “Sir?”

  “Fleet Intelligence is worried about the Tlartox Empire. Their information indicates the Tlartox are restive. Keep a keen eye on those scanners, Britlot.”

  “Aye, sir. The Tlartox? They got their fill of us at Tlenfro. Surely they remember that.”

  “Precisely what Intelligence worries about, Britlot. And 300 years is a long time. Just do your duty, Lieutenant-Commander. You’ll find Intelligence happier with a comprehensive report about Tlartox activities, or lack thereof, than with any report on ghost ships. Don’t make me regret sending you.”

  “No, sir.” Britlot saluted. Martok felt the Lieutenant-Commander’s eyes on him as he walked away. A trick of acoustics brought him Britlot’s whispered words, “Aye, sir, I’ll do my duty.”

  TLARTOX HOME PLANET

  Sab Tlorth had her doubts. She gave a quick lick at a tuft of orange fur to set it in place.

  She took her seat in the Tlartum, her ears at a cautiously interested angle. This vote would decide her future, as well as the future of the Empire, yet those of her klatch must not appear concerned.

  Her chair, in the second tier of the circular room, allowed her to look down on almost everyone else, as befitted one of her stature, a Second of her klatch.

  “Star Admiral?”

  Sab looked up into the grey and black face of someone she should know, but couldn’t place. A klatch Second, like herself, but which one?

  “It is good to see you here, Star Admiral Tlorth,” that one said. “Too often your proxy votes for you.”

  “The place of a warrior is to serve the Tox; I cannot always attend. Yet a warrior is also of the Tox. This vote carries great importance, and my klatch would not disrespect the Tlartum.” Sab glanced around. Many, like this Second, milled about, attempting last minute conversions. She wondered what pitch he would use.

  “This vote is insanity.”

  So, directly to the point. She appreciated the novelty. Sab returned her gaze to the Second.

  “You feel the Hunt is of such little importance?”

  “Tlar never intended that the Hunt take such a dimension, and you know it, Tlorth!”

  “Do I?” Sab’s ears went forward a notch and her pupils slitted. The Second brushed back his whiskers nervously. Irritating a Second of the Warrior Klatch and Star Admiral of Fleet hadn’t been his intention. Lucky she wasn’t a Hunter.

  “The vote will be close, Star Admiral, but many do not realize for what they vote.”

  “We vote for the right to continue the Hunt as we see fit, as Tlar bade us do, the right of any Tlartox. Is that not so, Casull?” She remembered his name. He represented industrialists, she believed.

  Casull sighed. “It is not so, Star Admiral. Annulling the treaty will bring war. The choice, no matter the wording, is for war or for peace.”

  “Others see it quite differently.”

  �
�Yes, I’m sure they do.” When Sab said nothing, Casull seemed to collapse inside, though his posture remained straight. “Then, I can say nothing to change your mind?”

  “Second Casull,” Sab bared her teeth slightly, “the vote has not yet occurred.”

  Casull’s grey ears came forward and fire built within once more. “With what time we have left, Second Tlorth, consider carefully. Consider carefully and remember Tlenfro.”

  At the mention of Tlenfro, Sab bared her fangs, though her ears stayed upright. “Indeed I shall.”

  Casull, not a fool, nodded and left.

  Sab sniffed at the air. Grass. No hint of blood to excite the senses, no touch of forest damp to lull the unwary. Nothing that might later call the result into question.

  The tiers filled as delegates took their chairs. In the room’s center stood the podium, raised slightly, with the scribes’ desks in a circle about it. Though computers could do the work more rapidly and, perhaps, accurately, computers could be broached. The record of what occurred in the Tlartum stayed in the Tlartum—until carefully edited.

  High windows let in the late afternoon light, and the wood of the chairs and tables gleamed. Deep scratches in chair arms told of tight, hotly contested votes. No such scars marred Sab’s chair.

  “Three hundred years of humiliation end this day.” A tall Tox with gleaming black fur sat beside Sab.

  “Councilor Rennelt, the vote has not yet been cast,” Sab replied.

  “The Hunters will not let us down, Second Tlorth. Nor, I suspect, will you Warriors. We know the true stakes.” She bared her fangs. “The Tox are ready. Too long have Tlar’s strictures been undone. The Hunt must be revived.”

  Together, they watched the remaining seats fill. Though Sab didn’t personally know everyone, it appeared to her that proxies occupied few seats.

  “I understand the human governing bodies divide themselves into groups and sit opposed to one another. Do you suppose this is true, Second?”