No Honor in Death by Eric Thomson Page B

but one who had lived a hard life, unlike that of most aristocrats in the capital.  His head was shaved in the Warrior Caste fashion, leaving a strip of black, stiff hair running from his forehead over the top his shiny, olive skull down to the back of his thick neck.  The tonsure exposed a bony ridge and elongated predator's ears which twitched and moved as the Commander unconsciously listened for threats.  His face had the cruel, features common of his species, but his black eyes, deeply recessed below broad eyebrows held a gleam of violence that eclipsed even the commonplace ferocity of the average fighter.  A young prostitute's eyes met the Commander's and she turned away in fear, shivering for a long time after he was gone.  She had seen many violent males in her short, grinding years on the street, but never one like this.
    The Commander ignored her, as he ignored the low caste soldiers who gave him drunken salutes as they stumbled across his path, more often than not on the arm of a sober whore who would take the remainder of their month's pay in a few hours.  He also ignored the snatches of bawdy and oft treasonable drinking songs that floated on the night air as merry-makers went in and out of the numerous inns, taverns and brothels.
    After five years of stalemated war, he felt little charity for the shit-brained incompetents who ruled the Empire.  The excrement on the Council deserved the mockery of the people and the Imperial Forces, as did the mother of the child-Emperor, a true whore if there ever was one.
    After a while, the worst of the slums vanished behind him in a haze of wood smoke and darkness.  He finally reached the district surrounding the Imperial barracks and the spaceport.  Turning right, he took a narrow and dark alley barely wider than a one-man ground speeder, a block before the bright lights and shore patrols on the main boulevard.  At the bottom of a seeming dead end, a discreet sign advertised his destination.
    The Commander opened the door, letting a wave of loud conversation, smoke and ethanol fumes wash over him.  The harsh, guttural tones of the Imperial tongue spoken by drunk army and navy officers were grating, but he ignored that too and scanned the room through narrowed eyes.
    Most of the other patrons had given him one brief glance and had returned to their affairs.  Not all Imperial uniforms were welcome at the Khorak , and an Imperial Security or Tai Kan uniform would have found a cold reception.  But not a Deep Space Fleet uniform.  Only one officer did not return to his solitary affairs.  The Commander's Second.  He raised his silver mug to signal the Commander, who quickly made his way through the hard drinking crowd to the corner table, far from indiscreet ears.
    Ignoring the scowl on his superior's dark, leathery face, the Second asked, "How fare the lords of the Imperial council?"
    "Those motherless turd hatchlings of a syphilitic human have displayed their courage and desire to win this war in its full glory."
    "And you told them your true thoughts," the Second nodded knowingly, though without disapproval on his angular face.  Like the Commander, he wore his hair in the Warrior Caste manner, and had an Imperial's cruel features, but he was younger, less burned by the interstellar radiation that penetrated the imperfect shielding of Imperial warships.
    "That I did, Jhar,"  he took a deep draught of the ale a silent server had placed before him, "hoping to remind them of our glorious past and put some backbone into those old women.  I am surprised the Tai Kan has not seen fit to kill me as I crossed the slums on my way here.  But then, the Council no longer even has the courage to impose proper punishment on an officer of the Warrior Caste.  We have fallen far as a race, Jhar, and will fall even further if we let the humans win the war.  Then, we might as well adopt their soft ways for we will never again find the spirit to conquer."
    "Too true,