Severus rallied magnificently, gashing open his face with an indignant sneer. “Eminently.”
“Good. Now get off my bridge.”
Severus turned and stalked away, all eyes following him. Something occurred to him and he turned with a hungry smile. “Oh, admiral,” he said, “there’s one other thing.”
Constantine grunted. “Astonish me.”
“I want my prisoner back.”
“You w...” Constantine didn’t know whether to roar with laughter or throttle the obnoxious fool. “You’re unbelievable...” he growled. “Get him off my bridge! Now!” The ensigns stepped forwards menacingly, but Severus wouldn’t budge.
“I’m quite serious, admiral.” His voice adopted a formal tone. “I was commissioned by the Administratum, in conjunction with the Officio Xenobiologica, to capture and study a high-ranking tau ethereal.” He pushed a hand into his pocket and extracted a thick wedge of papers, all of them marked by the winged black seal of the administratum. “This isn’t some vanity project to keep me amused, admiral. It’s all here: official tactical sanctions and permissions, resource allocations, requisitioning documents. I think you’ll find I’m perfectly within my rights to demand your assistance in this matter. See for yourself.” He proffered the wad with a sly grin, enjoying himself.
Constantine bit his tongue in fury. “‘Commissioned’?” he managed to choke, resisting the urge to splatter the governor’s smug grin all over the deck.
“Well... I admit it was my idea,” he grinned, “but evidently the proposal went down well with the robes on Terra. They’ve been most agreeable.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me this before?”
“‘Need to know’, admiral. You know how it works.”
Constantine had to concentrate hard to prevent himself from shouting. “You get off my bridge,” he whispered. “Right now.”
Severus gave a friendly grin. “One tau ethereal, unharmed. I’ll expect delivery by the end of the day. And don’t worry about the gold ribbon, admiral, presentation isn’t everything. I’ll be in my cabin if you need me.”
He walked out humming cheerfully.
Constantine counted to twenty before he trusted himself to talk.
“Adept Borial?” he said, keeping his voice calm. The robed tech-priest stood obediently. “Get that teleporter repaired. I want the wretched thing operational within the hour.”
The priest nodded quickly, knowing better than to protest. Constantine stroked his chin thoughtfully “And send someone down to the seventeenth starboard vertex. The solitarium complex. Tell the... tell them I want volunteers.”
An ensign scurried to comply.
“Right.” The admiral nodded, staring around the industrious scene before him. “Would someone please give me some good news?”
The servitor seated to his left frowned, listening to a comm signal in its ear.
“Barge #15/F0 destroyed,” it droned. “Winch assembly compromis—”
The admiral shot it in the head with his exquisitely crafted pistol and was immensely satisfied to find that it made him feel much, much better.
The comm chimed to life.
“Shas’la? That report’s just been confirmed. Definite enemy presence in the engine bay. Make for the rally point off the main promenade — I’ll try and divert some troops for a regroup. I want as many units as possible heading for the power core.”
“On my way, Shas’el.”
Kais prowled through the corridors of the Or’es Tash’var, stepping over unrecognisable bodies of tau and gue’la alike, thinking of the past.
Four tau’cyrs. Four tau’cyrs since he traded the white training regs of the battledome for the tawny plates and crested helmet of a fire warrior. Four tau’cyrs since losing the “Saal” training rank epithet and becoming “La’Kais.”
Four tau’cyrs of feigned alertness, escorting diplomats on mundane trade agreements and ceremonial engagements. Four tau’cyrs of policing the virtually crime-free streets of T’au, marching along its polished thoroughfares to protect its bright towers and domes from the terrors of antisocial behaviour. In all that time, other than during firearms training or ritualised pulse salute duties, he’d fired his weapon once. Just once.
It had been during a por’vre expedition to the kroot sept of Queh-quih. An enterprising water caste trader (whose name he’d long since forgotten) had identified a market for hand-crafted kroot jewellery (rusticity being in vogue at the time) and had arranged a trade visit. Naturally, being a por’vre, the shrewd merchant understood the importance of first impressions, opting to include two shas’las with his retinue. The kroot, Kais was told, would appreciate the display of strength.
He and Ju had been selected at random by some Shas’ar’tol AI, and dispatched aboard the merchant vessel Por’creta Tai. It had been a journey of new experiences: the wonder of void travel, the immaculate corridors of the vessel, the awkward lurch of a warp-hop and the attendant relief at exiting in open space rather than in the heart of some star. For all their ingenuity, the earth caste scientists had thus far been unable to unravel the mysteries of the warp, and even the brief “dips” into unreality that the bravest kor’os undertook were fraught with danger.
And then the wonder of a new world, to walk amongst the tall, savage kroot with their chittering, squalling language of clicks and squawks, to feel their pinprick eyes watching with something between suspicion and respect — these were experiences Kais and Ju would discuss and recollect for tau’cyrs thereafter.
The expedition had lasted a five-rotaa and was, in the end, disastrous. The por’vre was growing impatient with the incessant humidity of the world; the air caste crew of the Por’creta Tai, ordered to remain on the surface out of deference for the kroots’ inexplicable dislike of vessels orbiting their planet, were suffering the effects of prolonged gravity exposure on their frail bodies. Ju was bemoaning the lack of por’hui broadcasts which might help her to meditate. Kais hadn’t eaten a decent ration in three rotaa after witnessing the kroot’s culinary preparations. And to top it all, the promised “jewellery” had turned out to be a selection of whittled bone fragments and colourful feathers.
It was not going well.
The final straw came on the sixth rotaa during a visit to the produce market. The por’vre spotted a stall in the distance selling trinkets and baubles and, in a fit of desperation, all but sprinted to inspect the wares. Kais and Ju were forced to hurry after their supposed protectee, stifling their irritation at his spontaneity.
At which point the por’vre, in his haste, stamped on the paw of a kroothound basking in the sun and found himself the unwitting victim of one hungry vengeful predator. Cackling a birdlike shriek, the creature swatted the merchant’s legs aside with a single jagged claw and bounded onto his back.
Pandemonium ensued.
The por’vre screamed, the kroot tribesmen nearby leaped forwards, the hound opened its serrated beak to crush its flailing victim’s skull—
—and Kais and Ju shot it, once each.
Afterwards, of course, it had been made perfectly clear that killing the tribal shaper’s favourite warhound — notorious for its playful rough-and-tumble with strangers — was not a clever way of endearing oneself to the tribe. The Por’creta Tax left a dec later, in disgrace.
And even though Kais and Ju had laughed at the absurd error afterwards, he’d never forget that moment when the weapon lurched in his hands, thrumming induction field ejecting a single tumbling particle at impossible velocity, opening up in a blue teardrop of plasma in midair. He’d never forget the impart on the creature’s flank, the initial flare of energy transfer, the scorched fragments of flesh and bone detonating outwards as the squealing beast shuddered aside. He’d never forget the stink of burned flesh.