Wing Commander #07 False Color by William Forstchen (best books to read in life .txt) 📕

fighters, tenacious in battle even when the odds were against them. Hadn't the hero Karga himself won glory for honoring a brave but outmatched warrior who had challenged him in battle? Perhaps if the Empire had accorded a status higher than that of prey to the humans the war would not have stretched on so long.

"Let them," Largka said calmly. "They can burn slowly in the radiation of the brown dwarf, or quickly in the explosion of the Karga. Even if they escape, they will be marooned on the habitable moon, and some of our warriors are still there. We have achieved our purpose, regardless."

"At a high cost, Admiral," Khirgh commented.

"You would have preferred to evacuate with the Cadre?" That was a sneer. There were no political repercussions left for Largka now, no more need to pretend to support the Emperor, or Thrakhath, or their toadies.

"I know my duty," Khirgh snarled. "But you cannot deny the cost of this exercise."

"If your precious Prince had planned something more worthwhile than a mere raid to be avenged for what the humans on Landreich did at the Battle of Earth, if he had given us sound objectives and the forces we needed to achieve them, rather than sending us out with blunted fangs, this 'exercise' might have had a better outcome. But instead Thrakhath has thrown away this squadron as he has thrown away so many other warriors and ships, for nothing but his own vanity. One day it may be that he will throw away the Empire itself. And perhaps my sister's son will still be alive to claim the throne as the last surviving member of the branch of the Imperial hrai worthy of holding it."

"Treason!" Khirgh surged toward Largka, claws extending. "The Prince was right about your treacherous ambitions!"

Largka rose from his command chair, drawing his ceremonial dagger. His thrust met Khirgh's rush, and blood pumped from the intelligence officer's slit throat. Khirgh's claws grasped ineffectually at Largka's chest before Thrakhath's agent sagged to the deck. The admiral studied the body for a long moment, but there was no savor to the kill.

"Lord Admiral," one of the bridge crew said, voice a little unsteady after witnessing the short but savage clash between the two officers. "Lord Admiral, the cruiser's shields are failing!"

He jerked his attention to the monitor. Minimum sensors had been restored, and they could read the wild fluctuations in the energy levels powering the cruiser's defensive grid. A rapid string of energy pulses from Karga's forward batteries played across the Terran ship's bow, and suddenly the sensor readings showed the shields entirely down.

The next barrage tore through the Confederation ship like claws through soft flesh. On the main viewscreen he could see the rippling series of explosions as every system overloaded at once and the cruiser came apart.

So . . . there would be no collision, no need to count on the self-destruct system to ensure the Terran ship's destruction. Karga's foe was already dead.

But the countdown to destruction would go on. His ship and crew were already dead as well, thanks to the shield failure and the radiation sleeting through the hull. Best to deny Karga to those who might find him drifting out here, derelict, a prize to be claimed and dishonored.

With one foot he rolled the body of Khirgh away from his command chair and sat down once again. "Time to self-destruct?" he demanded.

"Two minutes, Lord Admiral." The voice was calm and resigned. There was one officer, at least, ready to meet a warrior's death.

The time passed slowly for Largka as he meditated over the familiar words of the Fifth Codex. Honor shall flow to the warrior who does his duty, for his Clan shall earn glory by his deeds. Honor shall flow to the warrior who meets death in battle, for his name shall be remembered. Honor shall flow to the warrior who strikes down his foe, for he shall win victory for his people . . .

"Eight seconds . . ." someone said. Largka heard another crewman quoting the Codices, and felt a swelling pride within. They had all done their duty . . .

A long moment later he realized the count had passed zero, but nothing was changed. "Report," he snapped.

"The computer has gone off-line, Lord Admiral," the engineering officer said. "Self-destruct sequence cannot be completed. I do not believe we could even trigger it manually. There is too much damage to internal systems."

"Vraxar!" he swore. Was he to be denied the chance to take Karga out in one last moment of glory? Would he preside over a crew of the dead and dying, like the Wandering Conquistador of Kilrathi legend?

No . . . that was too much to ask.

"Communications Officer! Can you at least put me on internal channels? Or must I shout a message to the crew?"

"Internal channels, Lord Admiral."

Largka licked lips gone dry and summoned up the will to speak. "This is Admiral dai Nokhtak. Our self-destruct system has failed. The ship has won a glorious victory over the Terrans, but all estimates indicate that we have already received lethal dosages of radiation. Repairs are impossible without the support of a base or a fleet tender; by the time we could accomplish anything on our own we would all be dead anyway."

He paused. "Any crew member who wishes to take his chances in lifepods is welcome to do so. Some of our comrades may still be alive outside the ship and able to render aid. For myself, I choose the only honorable option, Zu'kara. Any who wish to do the same will do honor to their hrai, seeking a clean death in the moment of victory. Follow the dictates of your own consciences. That is all."

Largka sensed the emotion in the flag bridge. Zu'kara -- ritual suicide -- was the ultimate expression of the warrior's creed. The Kilrathi warrior took his own life if he or his clan stood to be dishonored, or to enhance honor when the odds