when in the last five thousand years has any Fleet unit worn gray?"
"Fleet Security changed to gray last year, J'Quel," said the captain. "They call it imperial gray. You should keep up on FleetOps Orders of the Day."
"I always use the first two paragraphs to get to sleep, H'Nar," said DTrelna. On the screen the last of the troopers had entered the ship.
"Ready yet, Mr. N'Trol?" said the commodore, turning to where the engineer sat, busy at the first officer's station.
"Can't do it manually," said N'Trol, shaking his head. "Computer won't let me."
Captain and commodore stepped to the first officer's station. Reaching past N'Trol, DTrelna opened the complink. "Computer. DTrelna. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."
"Illegal command," said computer. "Fleet Directive 60.35.B states that. . ." It broke off, then spoke again, its voice coming from the bulkhead speakers. "Personnel properly identifying themselves as Fleet Security officers are demanding admittance to this bridge."
"Command priority," said DTrelna. "Do not—repeat, do not—admit them." He glanced at the armored double doors guarding the bridge.
"Computer," said L'Wrona quickly, "authenticator Imperiad seven one, eight one. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."
"Implemented, My Lord," said a deep, sonorous voice from the complink.
L'Wrona smiled grimly at the other two officers. "Now let them try to find those commtorps."
N'Trol stood, shaking his head. "You tap that old Imperial programming too much, Captain, you'll have a computer with dysfunctional schizophrenia."
"I've only used it once before," said L'Wrona.
"It's unlikely we'll ever be on this ship again, gentlemen," said DTrelna.
The commlink chirped. Leaning across the vacant console, DTrelna touched the call tab. "Yes?"
"Colonel A'Nal," said a flat, hard voice, "Fleet Security. Under the authority of Fleet Articles of War, I order you to open these doors."
DTrelna tapped the Hold button. "Well?" he asked the other two.
"If he's talking Articles, he's got arrest warrants," said L'Wrona.
"We could let them drag a Mark 44 up here," suggested N'Trol. "It would take them a while. It's a hot day, they'd work up a sweat, pull some muscles . . ."
"And eventually burn the door down and come thundering in here, pissed as hell," said L'Wrona. "Fun, but not a good idea."
"Better let them in, J'Quel."
"Computer," said DTrelna, thumbing the complink, "please admit the properly identified members of our Fleet Security arm."
The thick doors hissed open. A rush of gray uniforms surged onto the bridge, led by a tall man with colonel's insignia and the crossed daggers of Fleet Security on his collar.
"You're all under arrest," he said as troopers took D'Trelna's and N'Trol's blasters.
"This one won't give it up, sir," said a corporal.
L'Wrona stood imperturbably, hand firmly on his weapon's grips.
"You will please surrender your weapon, Captain My Lord L'Wrona," said Colonel A'Nal.
"Not until I see the arrest order," said L'Wrona, extending his free hand.
"Certainly." Taking a paper from his tunic pocket, A'Nal handed it stiffly to the captain. L'Wrona scanned the order, eyes stopping at the signature block. He handed it back. "This is signed by a councilman. You may be able to hold Commodore DTrelna and Commander N'Trol on it—you certainly can't hold me."
"Even the aristocracy is subject to Fleet orders," said the colonel. "Even you, My Lord."
"It's just a civil order," said L'Wrona, "and I am not just any aristocrat."
A'Nal glared at L'Wrona and started to speak. As he did so, a voice called wonder-ingly from the first officer's station, "Seven hells! They've wiped the commtorps records!"
The colonel turned to the technician as the three ship's officers exchanged satisfied looks. "I thought that couldn't be done?"
The woman shrugged. "Nevertheless, they've done it—accessed the Imperial programming, somehow. It's all gone except basic
"Fleet Security changed to gray last year, J'Quel," said the captain. "They call it imperial gray. You should keep up on FleetOps Orders of the Day."
"I always use the first two paragraphs to get to sleep, H'Nar," said DTrelna. On the screen the last of the troopers had entered the ship.
"Ready yet, Mr. N'Trol?" said the commodore, turning to where the engineer sat, busy at the first officer's station.
"Can't do it manually," said N'Trol, shaking his head. "Computer won't let me."
Captain and commodore stepped to the first officer's station. Reaching past N'Trol, DTrelna opened the complink. "Computer. DTrelna. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."
"Illegal command," said computer. "Fleet Directive 60.35.B states that. . ." It broke off, then spoke again, its voice coming from the bulkhead speakers. "Personnel properly identifying themselves as Fleet Security officers are demanding admittance to this bridge."
"Command priority," said DTrelna. "Do not—repeat, do not—admit them." He glanced at the armored double doors guarding the bridge.
"Computer," said L'Wrona quickly, "authenticator Imperiad seven one, eight one. Destroy all record of commtorps last launched from this vessel."
"Implemented, My Lord," said a deep, sonorous voice from the complink.
L'Wrona smiled grimly at the other two officers. "Now let them try to find those commtorps."
N'Trol stood, shaking his head. "You tap that old Imperial programming too much, Captain, you'll have a computer with dysfunctional schizophrenia."
"I've only used it once before," said L'Wrona.
"It's unlikely we'll ever be on this ship again, gentlemen," said DTrelna.
The commlink chirped. Leaning across the vacant console, DTrelna touched the call tab. "Yes?"
"Colonel A'Nal," said a flat, hard voice, "Fleet Security. Under the authority of Fleet Articles of War, I order you to open these doors."
DTrelna tapped the Hold button. "Well?" he asked the other two.
"If he's talking Articles, he's got arrest warrants," said L'Wrona.
"We could let them drag a Mark 44 up here," suggested N'Trol. "It would take them a while. It's a hot day, they'd work up a sweat, pull some muscles . . ."
"And eventually burn the door down and come thundering in here, pissed as hell," said L'Wrona. "Fun, but not a good idea."
"Better let them in, J'Quel."
"Computer," said DTrelna, thumbing the complink, "please admit the properly identified members of our Fleet Security arm."
The thick doors hissed open. A rush of gray uniforms surged onto the bridge, led by a tall man with colonel's insignia and the crossed daggers of Fleet Security on his collar.
"You're all under arrest," he said as troopers took D'Trelna's and N'Trol's blasters.
"This one won't give it up, sir," said a corporal.
L'Wrona stood imperturbably, hand firmly on his weapon's grips.
"You will please surrender your weapon, Captain My Lord L'Wrona," said Colonel A'Nal.
"Not until I see the arrest order," said L'Wrona, extending his free hand.
"Certainly." Taking a paper from his tunic pocket, A'Nal handed it stiffly to the captain. L'Wrona scanned the order, eyes stopping at the signature block. He handed it back. "This is signed by a councilman. You may be able to hold Commodore DTrelna and Commander N'Trol on it—you certainly can't hold me."
"Even the aristocracy is subject to Fleet orders," said the colonel. "Even you, My Lord."
"It's just a civil order," said L'Wrona, "and I am not just any aristocrat."
A'Nal glared at L'Wrona and started to speak. As he did so, a voice called wonder-ingly from the first officer's station, "Seven hells! They've wiped the commtorps records!"
The colonel turned to the technician as the three ship's officers exchanged satisfied looks. "I thought that couldn't be done?"
The woman shrugged. "Nevertheless, they've done it—accessed the Imperial programming, somehow. It's all gone except basic
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