Leaving the captains of The Third Fleet in the dark was not something Karim had expected to do so early in his first tour as admiral, but here he was.
He could now smell an opposing force in his midst, working to undermine the duty set out to him by the Karess herself. Karim had his suspicions, sure, but he had learned long ago to keep such deliberations close to his chest.
Being the one with the fancier seat – as the pirate Aiden had labelled him – Karim knew he had few individuals to bounce around notions with. Normally, he would turn to his captains; those few that had the decorum and discretion to handle sensitive hypotheticals. But now, with each of them suspect, Karim was alone in his ideations. Instead, he turned to the study of old Earth, to the greats of history in order to gleam some inspiration through osmosis.
Of the Battle of Ferozeshah, one of the key touchpoints that pitted the British East India Company out of Bengal against the bordering Kingdom of Punjab across the Sutlej river. Sir Hugh Gough commanded his Bengal Army of locals and some British regulars against the Sikh Kahlsa army led by the Vizier Lal Singh and unlikely odds.
Gough’s Bengals suffered early casualties in the prior Battle at Mudki and would suffer more still due to the effectiveness of Lal Signh’s artillery, but something in the background of the war stayed further catastrophic losses.
The Sikh army would ultimately withdraw their forces north of the river under flimsy pretence, inexplicably leaving the battlefield to Gough. Gough had won, not through strength in arms, but through the twisted motivations of the greedy working to undermine. Lal Singh had in fact been holding back and purposely taking correspondence with the British, sabotaging the Kahlsa from within in a foolish attempt to weaken the growing influence of the Kahlsa inside the Punjab Kingdom.
Karim could see plainly the parallels between his station and that of Gough’s. In this case however, it was not an insidious commander of the opposition, but one of his own that undermined The Third Fleet.
Karim had his suspect.
Sure, everything that stemmed from the events of the last few days cast the good and noble Commodore der Waals in doubt. It was his motive, and his possible connections with the other captains – especially those that had been grandfathered into the Third Fleet along with the Commodore that remained shrouded to Karim.
Why would a man, so poignant in his loyalty to the crown and realm, and with such steadfast hate for the fugitives they now hunted, aid them in any way?
It was obvious that the pirates were receiving assistance from someone within the Sovereignty, someone with a high degree of clout and financial backing. To have come into so many ships – though aged they may be – and so quickly, was a wonder itself, but to be given Letters of Marc? If der Waals’ squalid hands were on this, it was plain to Karim that someone else was pulling the strings.
Now, with the sacrifice of what remained of Lyonesse Station and the show of force that was The Kolkata’s weapon batteries, Karim knew his foray into routing the pirates by military might had come to an end, and that cooler tactics needed their time in the sun if he and the Third Fleet were ever going to cross the river.
“Whom can we talk to?– we’ve exhausted every one of our leads,” said Commodore der Waals were he sat leaned awkwardly in a backless chair across from Karim.
Karim had invited the Commodore and each of the twenty-three captains over for the first in-person meeting in order to judge their worth without the fog of the wallscreen’s feed. They each sat in the Kolkata’s briefing room which was more akin to a reception hall. Karim had articulated each and every detail of this meeting; from the exquisite dishes, to the place settings, to the chairs themselves; each tailored to mix the right amount of clout to impress the greedy with a touch of subtle ineffectiveness as if to highlight and exacerbate each person’s flaws like the wound of a lame horse.
“And what then?” Karim asked, “we have no leads, so we just pack it in– Give up and go home?”
“Well no,” der Waals said.
Der Waals shifted in his chair uneasily, fighting to control his displeasure, noticeably trying not to step out of line again after his outburst on the wallscreen following yesterday’s engagement. The rest of the captains indulged in the feast, all while victim of their own subtle torment.
One of the destroyer captains, a Kovarova Vermalen, futilely attempted to flag a member of Karim’s waitstaff to requisition a water glass which was noticeably absent from the table. Karim had instructed the staff to avoid her requests, knowing that above all Captain Varmalen wanted to be heard.
“I just think we should come at this from another angle,” der Waals continued, “Maybe we– oh for gods’ sake!”
He shifted again and winced as a knot developed in his upper back. At his breaking point and still squirming, der Waals grabbed the arm of a passing server and barked, “Get me a better chair or so help me.”
The server looked to Karim who nodded his approval, and he rushed off to the backroom returning several moments later with a freshly printed chair. Der Waals hopped over to the new chair, exerting the bare minimum of effort, settling into his seat with an indignant smile. Instead of removing the faulty chair, however, the server quickly moved on, leaving the old chair as an obstruction which resulted in little overall change in der Waals’ comfort level.
Der Waals sighed a belaboured sigh. “So– what– do we just cart off after the pirates?” he said, “they surely have a significant lead on us now since you’ve parked us in this dead system.”
It was true, Karim had let the pirates go. Knowing it was futile to chase them endlessly and that the Third Fleet needed a new angle. As such, he supposed that Tristan system was as good and as resource rich as any and had parked the fleet near the blasted remains of Lyonesse, tasking those idle members of the fleet with reclamation of any salvage that might be redeemed. It would give him time enough to deliberate their next steps and to suss out the motives of his captains.
“Excuse– oh dammit,” an exasperated Captain Vermalen said to herself as another server passed her by, a little louder than she meant to.
“Captain Vermalen, do you have something to share?” Karim asked.
“No–” she started, her mind wandering again to her personal drought. Something finally snapped in her and she reached for Captain Kennith Fawes’ glass and downed it in a single swig.
“Actually yes,” she said, regaining her composure. Captain Fawes eyed her and grumbled with displeasure. “I think I might have an idea.”
“Please,” Karim pressed. Gesturing for her to continue, he wondered if Captain Vermalen was new to the fleet, or if she was of those already tainted by der Waals.
“We’ve exhausted our local leads, like the Commodore said, sure. But what about hired help? I hear tell of a handful of independent companies that frequent the region. Maybe one of them will have better luck?” Vermalen said, sliding Fawes’ empty glass back over to him without giving his derision the satisfaction of a glance.
“More lawless brigandes,” der Waals countered. “Entities outside the Sovereignty are not to be trusted.”
“They are still Sovereignty citizens,” Karim said.
“Some are. Some are Herd, some Odeen. More still flagrantly flaunt their so-called freedom,” spat der Waals. “Their frivolity is tantamount to making one nauseous.”
Karim had heard of them. Regular, decent citizens that for whatever reason chose to live outside the Sovereignty's rule. Although he couldn’t understand what would possess them to do that, he didn’t share der Waals’ disgust for them.
“How do we contact these people?” asked Karim. “If they have cut off ties with their home, surely showing up with a sizable naval force won’t speak to our credence.”
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“If memory serves,” said Vermalen, “There are a few companies we might contact on Belltower Station. It’s primarily a research outpost that borders the realm and that of the Herd and Vass respectively.”
“I know it,” said Karim. “Though I understood the station to be in the care of Saturnus Labs, a joint venture between us and the Herd Federation.”
“Primarily, but other companies have come to nest on Belltower,” said Vermalen.
Karim considered this, all while inspecting the faces of each of those sitting at the table. It was only der Waals that readily showed his distaste for the topic. The others remained unmoved, some suspiciously so.
“If it’s these outcasts you wish to seek,” chimed der Waals, “then Dusk is a fine enough sort. I have had dealings with them in the past tracking down Calmos and his band of cretins.”
“I thought you said their sort is not to be trusted?” Karim said.
“They’re not. But we might still learn a thing or two,” said der Waals.
Karim nodded and said, “Captain Vermalen, if you would reach out to this Dusk?”
Vermalen nodded and stood to leave the table.
“Hold on,” Karim said, gesturing to Captain Varmalen to retake her seat. “I still have business I wish to discuss.”
Karim waited until each of the captains paused and looked to him, even those that had been too engorged in their meal to contribute ideas. One of them, a Captain Willem Mostro and the Ship’s Second aboard der Waals’ Mercurial, seemed almost relieved and dropped his soup spoon into his untouched bowl of pungent fish stew.
“I have only been your admiral, your leader, for a short time,” Karim started, “but I would like to believe we can be open with one another. Be collaborative.”
Each of the captains nodded, as did the stoic der Waals, though with an intrigued eyebrow raised.
“I keep thinking back to what that pirate Aiden said; ‘trouble is there are no good men’, and it may be that he’s right,” Karim said before pausing to take a sip from his wine glass.
“Sir?” asked Vermalen. “You’re saying you don’t trust us?”
“I trust that some in the Sovereignty have cast a shadow on the work we’ve been tasked with.”
“You suspect one of us of this treachery?” asked Fawes.
“Until I know the source, everyone is suspect of being tainted by shadow,” admitted Karim.
“No one in our majesty’s service would purposely create a band of outlaws that would strike back at us,” said Mostro.
“Not on purpose, Willem,” said Karim, “at least not at the outset. But the pirates seem to have been granted a level of firepower far exceeding what they could barter for, or steal, in such a short amount of time. And somehow despite our best efforts at stealth, they always seem to know our movements.”
“Surely none of us would share such intel with pirates!” spat Mostro. Karim let the sentiment hang in the air for a moment.
A few of the captains looked across the table at each other all while Karim watched, hunting for sin in their eyes. Lior didn’t move. Guilt or no, what he was about to say didn't matter.
“Make no mistake, I am not offended, not surprised even,” Karim clarified, “Working this far out on the edge of humanity, I know that all avenues warrant exploration. No stone should be judged worthless. It is only logical to play both sides of these brigandes.”
He knew der Waals wasn’t stupid enough to condemn himself, but in laying everything bare he hoped he could get one of the others to slip.
“No? Surely one of you knows whose hands were at play.”
“Sir,” said Fawes, “you speak of sedition. What you ask of us is to hang our fellows over the fire.”
“What I ask for is an open book,” said Karim, “I have laid out what I know to be true. The only path forward, the only way we are to halt the damage done by these outlaws is to have confidence in each other. I offer clemency so that we may fulfil our charge.”
The silence at the table was telling, each of the captains performing a witch-hunt of their own. Still, nothing but anxiety reared itself. Karim knew all that they needed was a push from another angle.
“In truth, I didn’t expect anyone to call out another in a public domain such as this. Think on it, I ask only this of you. I will do the same. For if we want to be effective, we must be united.”
The captains seemed disarmed by that, settling back down into their seats.
“The truth will shine inevitably, it is up to you how you wish to be recorded in history,” said Karim.
Karim let the matter rest for now, opting to sit back and finally enjoy the dinner he’d had created. In front of him a server placed a platter of crab pakora atop a bed of biryani rice that reminded him of his father’s. Each of his guests, especially those that had meals specifically designed to torment, received their own platter, dished out by the Admiral himself. A hot sake – a staple of his grandmother’s table – rounded out the dish.
After everyone finished, Karim saw his guests out to their respective shuttles, thanking each of them for taking the time to sit with him disregarding their professional obligation to do so. Even Commodore der Waals was given this honour, for despite the skirmishes that might be brewing between them, Karim knew that the great Admiral Kaur would not want him to discount the possibility of mercy.
Back in his quarters, Karim pulled the knot on his dāstar and let his long hair loose, allowing it to wind down for the night along with his mind. As the hair reached his lower back he could feel the events of the day fade until all that was was him and his favourite chair. He had learned early on avenues to wane the constant stress of command, however simple they might appear.
He allowed himself to drift until concern grew of whether he would end up sleeping in the chair. So, with a calm mind and with a belly full of crab meat and rice, he pulled himself into bed and lost himself to the night.
Nearly a day later, just as Karim was finishing up a small bowl of leftover biryani in his quarters, he received a bulletin from Captain Kavarova Varmalen.
“Admiral, sorry if I’m interrupting,” said Varmalen.
“Nonsense,” said Karim, “tell me you’ve heard from Dusk.”
“I have. And they want to speak.”
Karim had expected to hear back soon, but with the communications lag from moving ships, or at the very least comms buoys – between systems in order to make contact, he hadn’t expected a recording.
“What’s the heading? Should we move the fleet to make contact?” he asked, assuming that they would need to jump to Belltower or some neighbouring system.
“No, sorry sir. They are on-bulletin. Here, now. Live connection,” Varmalen corrected.
Of all things, Karim wasn’t expecting that. It took a very large riftspace emitter and an even larger powersource to make a connection across such distances. He knew the Sovereignty in Hirok Superior had that facility, as did the Herd from an unknown origin. But for a private entity to have that capability?
“I’m ready. Put them on,” he said, sliding his nearly empty bowl just out of frame and tidying his moustache.
“Fleet Admiral Karim Ashok of the Sovereignty’s Third Fleet,” a voice on the other end materialised before any image, “what an honour it is to be speaking to someone of your calibre.”
It was several seconds later that the image faded in to show a nondescript woman of middle-age, her mongolic features barely visible in his terminal’s jade projection.
“I can imagine it might be out of the ordinary,” Karim said, warily. “You are the one in charge of Dusk?”
“I am Dusk,” she replied, “for the purposes of this call you may refer to me as such. Just what is this call’s purpose, I wonder?”
“How is it you have access to a cross-system emitter?” Karim asked, “though, I admit that isn’t the reason why I’ve requested this concert.”
“Then I would ask you to not deviate from your intentions,” Dusk said flatly. “Or should we reschedule for a time best suited for meandering?”
Rude, Karim thought, well if she wants to play it that way…
“Tell me,” Karim started, flashing an image of the pirate Aiden up on their shared bulletin, “have you seen this man– do you know where I might track him for a bit of meander?”
“I know his face, it’s well known in these parts. Though, I am afraid I don’t have a berth for you,” Dusk admitted.
“They have been a nuisance to our traders, and yours too I wager. Any insight that would reap remuneration from our sovereign.”
“There is no sovereign this far out beyond the night, noble Admiral,” she said, pausing as if reading something offscreen.
“What is it?” Karim asked, nonplussed by having her attention divided.
“I might have something for you. A crumb you may follow,” she said, before elaborating, “it seems we have, through some auxiliary contacts, an upcoming meeting with a vessel claiming to hail from your pirates’ origin.”
“All above board, I presume?”
“It is a matter of opinion,” admitted Dusk, “We are in the void of lawless space out here, Admiral. Much of what we do straddles the line between what is wholesome and what is of profit. In this case however, I assure you it is purely condign. This is merely a trading of air recyclers.”
“None of which are salvaged from the dead?” Karim asked, but Dusk continued.
“Deals such as this take place between a small number of unarmed transports. If you were to go in our stead…”
“You would do that– sell them out to the wolves? I thought you valued the wholesomeness of your operation.”
“Profit, dear Admiral,” Dusk reminded him, “for there is more profit in this than a simple barter for spare parts.”
“What’s the price?” Karim asked.
“A favour,” smiled Dusk. “Nothing more.”
“While I don’t doubt that having a Fleet Admiral owe you a favour does hold a great deal of weight, you must know I am hesitant to grant such a token,” questioned Karim.
“Indeed. Yet, that is the price,” said Dusk; firm.
Karim weighed his options in a basket that held nothing but air.
“I accept,” said Karim.
“Magnificent,” Dusk said, showing her first sign of elation. “Here are your coordinates. A pleasure this was.”
The bulletin closed leaving Karim still a touch uneasy. Still, he had a lead for the first time in weeks. Seconds later a text bulletin containing the location of Dusk’s supposed deal with the pirates and a timestamp placing the deal less than thirty-six hours away and two star systems over. Knowing that he had little time to waste, Karim abandoned what was left of his meal and left for the bridge, not even bothering to tie back up his dāstar.
He appeared on the bridge just behind Chaasker, startling her from her dawdle at the tailend of her shift.
“Ad– admiral,” she announced loud enough to the bridge, shocking the rest of the bridgecrew to stand at attention. Her voice cracked with a caffeinated dryness that begged for a glass of water.
“Corporal Chaasker, we have our heading,” Karim said, casting the location of Dusk’s pirate meetup onto the wallscreen.
“Sir– ?” Chaasker began to question.
“Recall the fleet salvage crews,” Karim ordered, “there’s no time to spare.”
