Zero-Option | Page 8

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 the meal matched the aroma. Candied carrots, scallop potatoes, and snow peas supplemented the meat dish, providing a repast of a sort he hadn't enjoyed in some time. N'robo, who sat to his right, informed him the vegetables were the real thing, having come from Earthside in a resupply shipment just that day. The veal, however, was clearly not the real McCoy. Not because it tasted artificial, but because no one had eaten 'real' meat on Earth in more than two centuries. He had no idea as to whether or not the reconstituted cutlet he was devouring with gusto approximated the actual flavor of veal or not. All he knew was that it was surprisingly good for something that had once gone down a toilet into a separation unit.
"I'm glad to see our culinary offerings meet with your approval, Mister Imbrahim," said Jhordel. She sipped daintily at