Zero-Option | Page 8

the enemy they felt it necessary
to single her out for attention. Clearly she'd come a long way since that
day when she'd evacuated the crew of the Grand Banks and primed it
for self-destruct. He tried to imagine what it must have been like for her
watching from the tenuous safety of her life pod as her ship had hurtled
through the black infinity of space, the defensive array of the Unity
waystation pounding it mercilessly. But not enough. Not enough. The
old Grandy had defied the odds and made it through the screen of
defenses, through the shields, where it had unceremoniously plowed
into the station. That in itself would have been enough to wreak havoc;
but then the ship's auto-destruct had done its work. The graviton
collection coils had collapsed and the thing had become a singularity,
sucking three Unity ships and the station into its ever-growing well of
gravity.
Three ships and a station. He shook his head in awe. All with an old
scow that had been on its last legs as an offensive weapon.
Three ships and a station. How many lives had been lost that day? he
wondered. How many thousands of souls sucked down into that well of
lightlessness? It made him shudder; and he wondered if he would have
been capable of such a cold and calculated maneuver. Without remorse
she had casually dispatched tens of thousands of lives. In all the years
he'd been a part of this war he'd never actually killed anyone. He'd
never actually even seen anyone killed. His assignments had never
involved that sort of thing. Naval Intelligence generally left
assassination to those best suited for the task: the Empaths. That was
just as well with him, since he knew it wasn't in his character be so
ruthless.
He had no doubts, however, that it was well within Jhordel's, and that
consequently she was the only choice for this mission.

5.
"Begging your pardon, sir," the ensign said stiffly, "but the captain
requests your presence at her table in the mess at nineteen hundred
hours." He saluted, then turned on one heel and marched away before
Imbrahim had a chance to respond. The commander stood in his door,
bewildered, feeling as though he'd just been blindsided.
"Better wear your dress togs," said N'robo, smiling waggishly as he
approached from down the corridor. "The skipper is particular about
that when in port." He shrugged and made a noise through his nose. "I
guess she feels its one of the rare opportunities to feel civilized in all
this madness. Thing's are considerably more relaxed out on patrol."
"Thanks for the warning," said Imbrahim.
N'robo laughed, his ebony face wrinkling with lines of mirth. "Don't
fret it so, Commander. The lady has a reputation, but believe me, she
won't bite. Unless, of course, you get on the wrong side of her." He
chortled loudly, as though enjoying some private joke and taking a
particular delight in the nonplused look on Imbrahim's face, then
continued on down the corridor to his own cabin.
Imbrahim watched him go, overcome with a greater sense of isolation
than he'd felt in a long time. Once more he was reminded he was a
stranger on this ship, alone among them. Not a spacers. Not regular
navy. Not even something they particularly liked. Quite the opposite.
He had no doubts they looked upon him with a measure of disdain.
He withdrew into his cabin and prepared himself for dinner, not at all
looking forward to the encounter.

6.
On a spook there was not enough surplus energy, nor the space
available to accommodate a full-fledged reconstitutor. Imbrahim
recalled meals as having been adequate, but far from memorable.

Granted, some of that was an internal prejudice he had never been able
to shake: the constant thread of background thought that always ran
through his mind as he ate the stuff, reminding him that the food he
was shoveling into his mouth had not so long ago been shit. Some of it,
anyway, because of course the components for recycling came from an
assortment of ship wastes.
The fare on the Confederation, however, was worthy of anything the
commercial liners had to offer—even if it, too, was partially composed
of what had once been the bodily discharge of one of the thousand odd
crew.
He found himself savoring what appeared to be veal marinated in a
wine and mushroom sauce. It had been brought to them by actual
crewmembers, rather than servobot. A quaint custom N'robo assured
him was, like the wearing of dress uniforms, strictly reserved for
in-port occasions like this. Imbrahim didn't really care; the smell of the
food had reminded him that it had been some time since he had last
eaten.
The taste of