Prologue: Dealing in Difficulty

“Ah, there are our intrepid Ambassadors now!” said Chairman Bottletop IIV, sweeping into the room with a clatter, his spindly arms and legs rattling and clanking as he moved.

The way his smashball shaped head pivoted toward the so-called Ambassadors like some kind of low budget holo-horror made the Caprian Intelligence Officer want to throw up. That’s what Rafael Tremblay had decided he needed to be now: an Intelligence Officer.

The best way to protect Capria and its people was for him to fall back on his original training and think of himself strictly as an asset sent to do his best to disrupt whatever vile plans these mechanical creatures had ready to unleash upon the unsuspecting humans of the Spineward Sectors. Plus, the way his head moved really was off-putting.

Bethany stirred and Tremblay could see from the sharp glance she sent toward the doorway of the conference room they had just occupied that the royal was just as surprised by this visit as he was. Which was good in a way since it meant she hadn’t cut any backroom deals with these creatures while his head had been turned. On the other hand, it was alarming in a way he didn’t care to contemplate.

“Greetings, Chairman,” the Princess-Cadet cum Sector Representative cum Jason Montagne’s pressed-into-service-against-her-will Ambassador, her face smoothing into a pleasant and meaningless expression of feigned interest, “I didn’t know that we were anywhere that would cause you to look for us with such emo—I mean, expressions. We’ve worked hard to stay exactly within the bounds you have set for us while living on board your ship.”

Tremblay grimaced; he hated it when she spoke like that. Her words were nothing more than meaningless air, and her face a falsely pleasant deception. But even still, he grudgingly felt appreciation for her skills.

“No, no, you have been model guests so far,” Bottletop practically beamed, and then had to go and ruin it all by adding, “for humans, of course.”

“We strive to achieve your approval in this minor matter,” Bethany said without pause, while Tremblay scowled, “we want to make sure there are no incidents that might imperil the peace talks between our two peoples.”

“If you can call them ‘people’,” Tremblay muttered.

“Did you say something?” Bethany shot him a glare.

“It is of little moment, my dear,” the Droid Chairman assured her in a discontented sounding voice, “it has been my experience that Military Sentients all function essentially the same. If you had experienced only a few of the downloads from Victory Through Bubble Gum that I have, you would better understand the self-imposed limits of the military mind, be they biological or mechanical.”

The look the Princess-Cadet shot his way could have peeled hull paint.

“Speaking of Bubblegum,” Tremblay interrupted before she could hit her stride, “normally he’s present at our meetings. Has something happened to detain him?” he asked hopefully.

“What?” Bottletop IIV looked surprised and then cocked his head, “Oh! You really can’t hear that? Sometimes I forget the limits of the strictly biological mind as it relates to hearing. He is coming along to join us right now.” the Chairman finished happily, pointing toward the doorway.

And no sooner had he stopped speaking than the thump-thump-clang of Victory Through Bubblegum’s distinctive walking pattern could be heard approaching the conference room.

“Wonderful,” Tremblay said glumly as the Assault Droid crouched and pivoted its body as it veritably squeezed through the door. Tremblay noted that when the droid’s first gun arm cleared the door, it unerringly tracked on him before switching back and forth between the two humans in the room. The Droid’s priorities, when it came to threat assessment, were depressingly clear.

He was given a shred of pleasure when he saw that as soon as the gun arm tracked her way, the wattage of Bethany’s smile quickly doubled.

“I’m sure we all feel safer having your bodyguard present,” the Princess said quickly.

Bottletop made a sound that took Tremblay a moment to decipher: the Droid was laughing at them.

“Oh, Victory Through Bubblegum is not my bodyguard, Databanks forbid. No, if I became so enamored of hearing my own voice that I started to put on airs and assigning myself bodyguards, why I fear that my fellow assembly men would order me stripped of my Chairmanship! No, my dear, he isn’t a bodyguard; he is the Military Attaché from the Sub-Assembly on Warfare. Or…perhaps ‘Advisor’ might be a better term? I’m not exactly sure…” Bottletop trailed off contemplatively. He eventually gave himself a shake, which was a rather odd-looking gesture coming from a mechanical, “I’ll admit, however, that he does get a bit overprotective at times.”

“So what exactly can the two of us do for you, Chairman?” Bethany asked after it was clear the Droid was done speaking.

“Do for me?” the Chairman gave himself a shake that rattled his whole body.

“What brings you here in such a good mood?” Bethany smoothly rephrased.

“Oh, certainly,” Bottletop IIV said sounding distracted then with a snap his whole body seemed to reorient on the Princess-Cadet and he became much more animated, “I am here to relay the Assembly’s decision!”

“Good news, I hope?” Bethany said, looking poised and collected—the exact opposite of the emotions running through Tremblay right at that moment.

“Only the very best!” Bottletop IIV declared happily.

Tremblay breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

“Per our agreement,” the Droid continued blithely unaware of the sudden lessening of tension in his two human guests, “the Assembly has agreed to set up a time and place for the Prisoner Exchange.”

“What!?” Bethany exclaimed and Tremblay’s heart literally stopped beating.

“Yes, isn’t it wonderful?” the Chairman Droid beamed at them.

“Space gods, we’re—,” Tremblay despaired, causing Bubblegum’s gun arms to swerve around until both of them fixed unerringly upon the Intelligence Officer. His mouth snapped shut with an audible click as he realized that keeping his mouth shut and comments to himself might be of life extending importance in his immediate near future.

“I begin to calculate a difficulty,” Bottletop said crossly.

“Not at all…except,” Bethany seemed at a temporary loss of words and then she took a deep breath, “it’s just that…due to the lack of communications, we have been unable to communicate with the Home Office…or, err…” she stumbled over the improper, and very much non-Fleet terminology.

Tremblay, knowing their mutual survival likely depended on it, came to the rescue. “That is, we haven’t—yet—been able to relay our acceptance of the Prisoner Exchange provisions,” he said speaking quickly.

Bottletop IIV rattled with relief his whole body leaning forward.

“Oh, fear not faulty output on this issue,” the Droid said happily. “Simply prepare a document detailing your acceptance of the Prisoner Exchange Precondition and the message will be transmitted directly to your Principle.”

“It might be several weeks before we could get a reply,” Bethany said smoothly, “perhaps in the meantime—”

“We have penetrated your Fleet’s long-range communications network,” Bottletop interrupted her peremptorily. “Without going into proprietary details, let me just say that while two-way communication is out of the question, a simple document with your acceptance of this provision which details a time and place for the exchange to occur can be sent and received by your Admiral without any signal degradation.”

Bethany looked taken aback while Tremblay’s felt instant heart burn.

“Is it just your group, or all the Droid Tribes that have penetrated, err, our communication’s security,” the Intelligence Officer demanded faintly.

“Oh, it’s only our group that has such access at this time,” Bottletop IIV informed him placidly.

Tremblay could almost sense the smugness radiating off the other’s metal exterior—it made him want to twist off its mechanical head. Even a Montagne, as shudder-inducing and wretched as he found that particular thought, was better than a Droid—and whether he actually was or wasn’t, the MSP was a human fleet. To have its communications intercepted and decoded by what was clearly no friend of humanity was unthinkable. Yet here he was, and this…creature was not forcing his mind down those very awful tracks.

“I see,” Bethany said faintly, and Tremblay wondered if she was trying to calculate the odds of their surviving if and when the droids crushed the Little Admiral’s Fleet.

The Intelligence Officer felt a pang at the idea of all those officers and crew that he used to know and lead being ground under some droid boot-heel simply because he wasn’t a good enough negotiator and proved unable to deceive these droids. He silently vowed to do a better job of being duplicitous in the future. It was one thing for humans to kill humans for internal reasons, but another entire to sit by while the Machine threat attempted the same.

“Now that that’s settled, if we could move onto the particulars of communication protocol and joint maneuvers—assuming we take your deal over that of the Dark Seers. I am informed by Victory Through Bubblegum that these particulars could be a key element,” the Chairman said continuing on blithely.

Tremblay was too wrapped up in the implications of an intelligence breach of this nature and one so lightly relayed to them by this Chairman so-called that he nearly missed the implications of the Droid’s last statement.

Not so the Princess-Cadet.

“Dark Seers?” Bethany asked sharply. “Is this yet another supposed Faction vying for your support?”

“Oh dear,” Bottletop said, the single large, red eye in the center of his smashball-shaped head blinked rapidly, “I process that I may have spoken out of queue, crossing signals and subsequently confusing the situation. Please pay my thoughtless utterance no mind. What I meant to say was—”

There was a sound at the door, and a hooded figure with his, her, or its face hidden under the cowl of its robe came into the room. But vastly more disconcerting than the concealing attire was the fact that he, she, or it floated a good two feet off the ground.

Bottletop stopped speaking as suddenly as if his vocal circuits had been pulled.

The figure turned from the humans to the droids, and back again to the humans before gently settling back down to the ground, “Esteemed Chairman, you spoke of me and here I am,” said the intruder in a light ethereal tone, with a definitely feminine quality to her voice and then she nodded to Bethany, “Princess Competitor, I have eyes that see you.”

The Intelligence Officer observed that the tall thin figure wore a hooded robe bearing vestments littered with black opals that seemed to glisten—when they weren’t almost unnaturally sucking all the light out of the room. He shook his head, blinking away black spots from his vision, spots similar to those which appeared after staring at a star for too long.

“And you are?” Bethany asked finding her voice before Tremblay did.

The Dark Seer turned back to the Chairman. “The Fractals are unusual in this combination, Chairman,” the Seer said, her voice no longer as light as before, “I would warn you against decisions made in haste and without full consideration of all the pertinent waves and patterns.”

“Yes, well, I was just speaking with these biologicals on a distinctly separate issue from that which you have broached with us,” Bottletop IIV sounded strained, his limbs rattling as he leaned back and away from the figure.

“A critical nexus approaches,” the cowled figure said, her voice darkening. “I advise you to choose your position carefully, for events are about to set into motion which will completely reorder the pattern of this Sector.”

“Again,” Bottletop said, his voice firming, “these are completely separate issues!”

“The Patrons I represent will consider them linked,” the Dark Seer said direly.

“Who is this person?” Bethany demanded stepping forward and placing her hands on her hips.

There was a whine as an anti-gravity system powered up, and the cowled figured levitated and turned toward the Princess-Cadet.

“You asked for an accommodation. Were you denied?” Bottletop said, speaking urgently. “No, it was granted!”

“Beware!” the Seer said in a ringing voice, but Bethany held her ground.

The cowled figure started to drift toward the Princess-Cadet, and Victory Through Bubblegum crouched and turned. Its leg and arm servos whined as it brought its weapons to bear on the Dark Seer.

“Stand down and cease all movement!” declared the Assault droid in a deep, animalistic sounding voice so loud that Tremblay almost reached up to cover his ears. “I have been authorized to use physical force.”

“Bubblegum!” cried Bottletop IIV, using the other droid’s name as a protest.

The Dark Seer hesitated, and then the moment was lost as she settled back.

“I have seen the Flow, Chairman, and there must be Unity of Purpose or the United Sentient’s Assembly risks violent dissolution of all its designs,” warned the Dark Seer.

“You resort to threats and school-ground bullying at the first sign that things will not go your way?” Bethany asked coldly, capturing the attention of everyone else in the room including the Seer, “I take it you are the non-human representative from the Empire?”

“Please, humans,” Bottletop said moving forward as if to somehow wedge his stick thin form between the two of them, “allow me to decompile this data-bus before faulty programming causes irreparable harm!”

“You have been warned,” the Dark Seer said, her ethereal voice turning cold.

“You’re not even human, and we all know how much the Empire of Man,” Bethany put particular emphasis on the last word, “prefers not just humanity in general, but also pursues purity of genome. How much are they paying you to sell out your own people—whoever they may be?”

“How little you truly understand, Princess,” the Dark Seer said her lyrical voice rolling up and down with thinly veiled amusement.

“Then why don’t you try me and see just how much I do or do not understand?” Bethany shot back matching the amusement in the other’s voice.

“What a small, short, and self-limiting pattern you possess,” the Dark Seer tittered. “The wavelength is barely worthy of my time or attention even at this critical juncture.”

“Insults, but no answers to my question,” Bethany sniffed, turning away, “I should have expected no less.”

“Material wealth means little to me; all I seek is position within the Flow,” she said dismissively to Bethany and the faintest tilt of her upper body—that could charitably be called a bow—before turning and making her stately progress out the door. “If you would rather risk everything on low percentage movements then do what you will, Chairman, and I can assure you my Patrons will do the same.”

The occupants of the room looked at the Dark Seer as she serenely floated out of the room.

“Well, that went well,” Bethany said brightly into the growing silence. “Anyone for a spot of tea?”

Tremblay looked at her nonplused while Bottletop exchanged glances with Bubblegum, his single, mechanical eye blinking rapidly.

“Perhaps we should work on those communications protocols,” Tremblay suggested trying to steer the conversation back to where it had been before the rival representative interrupted.

“I have no more time for a social call, and I regret that I must cancel this meeting before getting to work on those protocols,” Bottletop said jerking in place and then starting for the door. “But events have precipitated an early activation of certain protocols and I must go to inform the Assembly—at once!”

Bethany and Tremblay watched as the flustered and very disconcerted droid Chairman scurried out of the room, his body clanking and clattering as he hurried away.

“Now that was interesting,” Bethany said still looking at the door.

“Are you crazy?” Tremblay asked incredulously. “That was dangerous! Bubblegum doesn’t just turn both guns on you and start issuing warnings about how he’s ‘authorized to use force’.”

Looking over, he saw that her eyes were narrowed. “That’s very best kind of interesting: the dangerous kind,” Bethany observed with the faintest edge of a smile on a face that had never looked more calculating.

“Saint Murphy save me from Royals and royalists!” Tremblay spat.

The mocking laughter that spilled out of the Princess-Cadet’s mouth was short and sharp and sent a chill up the Intelligence Officer’s spine.

“Crazy, every last one of them,” Tremblay muttered, considering himself lucky to have gotten out of their latest meeting in one piece. Any threat that had Bubblegum’s full attention—especially one where the former First Officer didn’t have the first clue as to what the other party brought to the table—was something to be avoided if possible, as far as he was concerned.

Chapter 1: Events in Motion tend to Stay in Motion

“Point of no return reached in T-minus five minutes and counting,” reported Navigator Shepherd.

“Last chance to back out and figure out a way to save Longshot,” Captain Laurent observed from his position somewhere behind my elbow.

“I’m afraid Longshot was a loss the moment Captain Archibald decided to take matters into his own hands and head off-script,” I said flatly.

Laurent looked at me in surprise. “If he hadn’t put his ship between our Flagship and those Droids, it would most likely be the Phoenix we’d be writing off for a total loss,” he reminded me and before his expression changed to one of perturbation. “And that’s assuming the highly unlikely case that the ship was destroyed but we successfully made it off-ship and escaped the firefight.”

“I’m well aware of our most likely fate should Captain Archibald not have acted as he did,” I informed my Flag Captain coolly. The fact that he’d saved me, the Phoenix, and most likely the majority of our fleet as a result of his rogue actions—and those of his cohorts the Cutter Captains who sacrificed themselves—was the main reason I’d gone back on my word to brig him for going rogue for a second time in close succession to his first such warning.

Unfortunately I had gone on record threatening dire punishment if he went off book and he’d acknowledged my instructions over the Fleet Com-system, putting me in the unenviable position of throwing a hero and savior of the fleet behind bars and, in effect, deriding the choices of those Captains and crews who had sacrificed themselves to save us all and look like a tyrant. Of course, I could choose to ignore it, thereby appearing to be a weak and indecisive leader whose Officers could do whatever they wanted regardless of what I said.

It was an unenviable position I was locked into, and the worst part of it was that I was largely to blame. If I’d either been more cunning or issued different orders, this wouldn’t be a problem. But being the Fleet Commander the proverbial buck stopped here with me.

Oh, sure, I was upset with Archibald and his little cabal going rogue; it reflected poorly on me. But I was mostly upset with the fact that they’d felt the need to do so in the first place. I should have been better, smarter, or a genuinely trained Fleet Commander instead of an essentially self-educated Admiral who’d gone through a number of ancient midshipman’s course material and a lot of on the job training.

I felt my fist clench as those thoughts streamed through my head.

“Point Transfer in five…four…three…two…one,” said Officer Shepherd our Navigator and moments later the galaxy moved around us.

“Point emergence!” reported DuPont from the Helm and just like that we were out and away from Aqua Nova and all its troubles.

While the rest of the bridge crew went about the process of sweeping the system for hostiles, powering engines, and breaking free of the inertial sump caused by our trip through hyperspace, I nodded and came to a decision. It was wrong to punish the young Officer Archibald for things I mainly blamed myself for—even if he wasn’t entirely undeserving of my attention.

My mind made up, after a few minutes of consideration about just how best to turn this new decision to my best advantage, I motioned the Captain back over to me.

“So far the sensor sweeps seem clear, Admiral,” Laurent reported in a low voice, “the system looks clean but we’ll keep watching.”

“That’s not what I wanted to talk about,” I told him, lifting a hand and cutting short that particular line of conversation.

“Then what can I help you with, sir?” Laurent inquired professionally.

“Speaking of Lieutenant Archibald…” I said casually.

“Yes,” the Captain replied neutrally.

“I’ve been thinking on it and I’ve come to a decision,” I explained.

The Captain’s face was now a politely blank mask, one that spoke volumes all on its own.

“And I’ve decided the best way to go forward is to give our intrepid young Commander a new assignment,” I paused in contemplation and then nodded, “and the surviving crew from his destroyer and the lost corvettes as well, now that I think of it.”

“What assignment would that be…uh, sir,” the ship’s Captain added after a missed beat. Clearly he was less than trustful about my intentions, which caused me to smile. It’s a good thing to be unpredictable, I decided before looking back up.

“I was thinking to assign Archibald and his surviving officers a few computer simulation projects. The Lucky Clover and Armor Prince each had a set of tactical simulation programs and I was thinking we might have something similar on the Phoenix they could work on,” I said blithely. “I mean, it makes sense since they don’t have anything else to do except pitch in where they can over here.”

“What kind of simulations were you thinking, sir?” asked the Captain.

I cocked a smile. “I was thinking it would be nice if they knew how to run a battleship,” I said easily, “both as a command crew and whatever vital positions there are onboard, such as engineering, life support, and so on. I feel it’s important to cross-train our future battleship commanders and I know we’ve had little time to spend on officer improvement given the way we’ve expanded so rapidly. This could be a golden opportunity to develop the next generation.”

Laurent’s brows raised and he looked at me skeptically. It was as if he wasn’t certain if I was giving him the straight download or just another steaming pile of Montagne misdirection.

“Future battleship commanders,” he asked with the faintest trace of disbelief, “for ‘ships’ in the plural.”

Given that I’d just gone from openly considering throwing the man in the brig to arranging a new training program for Archibald and his fellow conspirators—and touting him and them as future Battleship commanders and command teams—I could see that maybe I’d laid in on just a little too thick with that last line.

“We have to think positive,” I informed him sternly and then a grin started tugging at the corner of my mouth, “besides, other than the Power, we’ve got the Rage stuck in ordinary until we have time to repair and refit her, as well as the battle damaged remains of the Vineyard. And then there’s the Clover, if Spalding ever figures out how to fix her up—which, despite whatever he’s currently saying about her being beyond repair, I’m personally sure he’ll find a way to get back in action before you or I know it.”

“From crewman to Cutter captain, to Destroyer captain, to Master and Commander of a Battleship,” Laurent coughed. “Pardon me for saying so, Admiral, but I have to say that maybe we ought to consider more seasoned officers for the job now that we have new personnel in the pipeline and a recruiting organization to help fill the ranks. I’m sure we can find a few former SDF officers with ship handling experience.”

“His loyalty isn’t in question, just his good judgment,” I said dryly, “and given the choice between a loyal man still learning his job or an entirely competent, yet thoroughly unknown quantity, I’ll stick with the man I know.” I then shrugged, “Besides, if he doesn’t work out we can always replace him with one of those former SDF captains you were talking about.”

Laurent’s eyes narrowed and he opened his mouth but I cut him off.

“We’ve got one week to get to the meeting at Port LaMere,” I said abruptly. “I want to make it in five days.”

Laurent looked unhappy at this suggestion, “I know it’s important to meet the Mutual Defense League representatives and help coordinate a response to this invasion, but to get to LaMere in just five days will require us to jump out of concert; we won’t be able to keep the fleet together like we have been,” the Captain said looking dissatisfied.

“If we show up late to the party then we might as well not have come. At best we’d be sidelined, and at worst they’ll leave without us and we’ll we be trying to play catch up,” I said flatly.

“We can set up way points to reassemble the fleet periodically and keep the same ship types together,” Laurent sighed, “but if there’s trouble—”

“Then our Captains should have enough firepower on hand to deal with whatever comes their way, as well as access to long range arrays which can send out distress signals to the rest of the fleet if they run into trouble they can’t handle,” I cut him off before lowering my voice. “Thanks to Middleton and his ship, the Pride of Prometheus, we once again have access to the ComStat network and FTL communications.”

“For now,” the Flag Captain muttered, “but if we outrun the range of what the Pride has coopted then we would be back to running in the dark.”

“Enough,” I said flatly, “this is why we came here. We still have a strike cruiser, a light cruiser, a destroyer, ten corvettes—including three sundered corvettes and their ten remaining gunboats—as well as three functional cutters. The fleet didn’t come all this way just to give one planet reprieve before packing it up. If we’re going to succeed in saving these two Sectors, we have to show up in time for this Fleet of ours to do some good. Aqua Nova was just the first step; it won’t be the last, and if that means we have to take a few risks then that’s what we all signed up for.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” Laurent said.

“And Laurent,” I said as the other man turned away.

“Admiral?” he asked turning back.

“Set up a meeting. I want key staff present, including department heads and ship captains. It’s time to talk strategy. I want to arrive at Port LaMere with a plan on how to defeat these droids and a rough idea of what our contributions should be. Make it happen as soon as you can without cutting into our travel time,” I ordered.

My Flag Captain nodded slowly, “I’ll see to it.”

Chapter 2: The Druid Abides

“Omicron Station this is the Power, a Confederation Battleship, requesting docking clearance at your earliest convenience,” Commodore Druid’s Communications Officer drawled into his microphone pickup.

There was a brief silence followed by a startled squawk.

“Hello the Battleship, this is Shift Supervisor Toldrin. Can you say again your last?” Omicron Communications said speaking rapidly.

The corner of Druid’s mouth quirked as the Comm. Officer for the Battleship happily repeated his message.

“One of the advantages of transferring in relatively close, eh Captain?” asked his Executive Officer.

“It never hurts to have a good navigator in your crew,” the Commodore said magnanimously.

“Permission granted, Battleship,” Shift Supervisor Toldrin said. “I’m relaying your docking instructions and approach path now.”

“Thank you, Tower,” Communications Officer Hendricks drawled before turning off the transmission before turning to the Commodore. “Instruction received from the Omicron, sir.”

“Relay to the helm,” he ordered and then looked over to the helm, “follow the approach path, Mr. Sneider; there’s no need to alarm the Station.”

“Aye aye, sir,” the Lieutenant, whose job it was to drive the ship, replied.

The bridge of the battleship hummed with human energy all around him. It still wasn’t anything close to the professional, well-oiled machine he was used to wielding on his Flagship, but despite a few rough edges he fully expected to see it turned into one in time.

The only question was: would he and they have enough time to achieve that potential?

A new transmission came in from the Station. “Sir, we’re being hailed by the Marine Commander,” said Lieutenant Hendricks.”

“Put him through, Coms,” Druid said with a nod.

“This is Colonel Wainwright, temporary Commandant of Omicron Station. Who do I have the pleasure of speaking to?” asked the gravelly voice that came over the link.

Druid glanced over at his Com-Officer.

“Voice print is a match,” the Comm. Officer said giving the Commodore a nod.

Druid smiled. “This is Commodore Druid, Master and Commander of the Power,” he said as the image of a powerfully built, grizzled Marine officer appeared on his screen. “We’re just passing through to take on consumables and perform a short ‘wave the flag’ operation to hopefully discourage any undesirable elements hanging around this region of space, before continuing on with our current mission.”

There was a pause and the other man frowned at him.

“It’s your current mission I want to speak with you about,” growled the Marine Commander. “If you’ll agree to come to my office for a short conference as soon as your ship docks, I’ll have my Marines standing by to transfer supplies and hurry you on your way. I have a short proposal for you.”

Druid scratched the side of his head right in front of his right ear and then down his cheek. “I’ll come,” he said finally, “but I’m not sure if I’ll be able to accommodate you.”

“All I want is five minutes of your time,” Wainwright said with a tight smile.

“Then I’ll see you when I get there,” Druid said with a shrug.

The Marine Colonel nodded before cutting the connection.

“I wonder what he wants,” said Lieutenant Commander Slater, his new executive officer. He had been the XO’s on one of the other corvettes in Druid’s Squadron of warships…well, his former squadron, as the Commodore now commanded only one ship.

But what a ship! Normally it took years for a Corvette Commander—even a Commodore Squadron Commander—to rise to the command chair of a Battleship.

“We’ll know soon enough,” Druid replied evenly.

“I’ll prepare an honor guard,” said Slater.

“I doubt the entire ship’s compliment could save me from a brigade of Marines if that’s what it came to,” Druid shrugged.

“Caprian Marines with dubious loyalties aren’t the only threat on this former pirate’ station,” Executive Officer Slater said sternly.

“Even so, only send a pair of quads,” the Commodore instructed.

“And what are the rest of them supposed to do? Sit there and twiddle their thumbs with the rest of us?” the XO asked wryly.

“Since you seemed so concerned for my safety, we’ll take your paranoia to its logical conclusion,” Druid replied lightly.

Slater frowned, “Meaning?”

“In addition to stowing the supply, I want you to come up with, and implement, a plan to hold the ship from any faction on this station that might think a Battleship which is absent its Commander too tempting to ignore.”

“It’s the low-hanging fruit that is the most tempting,” Slater said with a scowl. “Barely a skeleton crew aboard, with three quarters and more of them worse than green; they haven’t even had basic space training, and we’ve only a hundred Marines for internal defense.”

Druid’s face hardened. “That’s why it will be your job to raise those branches up above easy reach. Worst case, if there’s an attack I want you to break the docking clamps and immediately push the ship away from the station. Get far enough away that there is no risk of a space-jump through the dark. Then you can leave, reduce the station, or wait until whatever internal difficulties are resolved,” he said.

“Yes, sir,” the XO said evenly.

“Good man,” Druid said, clapping him on the shoulder.

When they arrived at the station, Druid made his way to the docks where the Marines were waiting to escort him to their Colonel.

**************************************************

“Greetings, Commodore,” said the aging but still powerful Marine Colonel coming around the metal desk that dominated the center of his office.

“Colonel,” Druid said shortly.

“Tea?” the Marine offered pointing to a cheap looking instant tea machine set up on a table running against the wall.

“I’ll pass,” the Commodore said looking at the tea maker skeptically.

“I never was one much for small talk, even after they promoted me,” the Colonel said with a shrug. “So now that that’s out of the way, let’s get down to brass tacks.” “Let’s,” Druid agreed dryly.

“How are the internal defenses of your ship?” Wainwright demanded.

Druid’s back stiffened. “We have a few surprises ready to stand off any attack and not just ship to ship, hand to hand at the airlocks if need be,” he said harshly.

Wainwright waved his hand irritably. “That came out wrong,” he said shortly.

“Then what did you mean to say?” Druid glared as he leaned forward.

“What I mean was this,” the Colonel said, thrusting two fingers down onto the desk and leaning on them so hard the fingers turned white and bent sideways, “how would you like to embark the better part of two regiments of Marines onto your battleship.”

Druid’s eyes narrowed. “I’m not sure if that’s the wisest move right now,” the Commodore said evenly.

“For me, or for you?” Wainwright grumbled.

“Either…both,” Commodore Druid said with a shrug, “take your pick.”

“Bah!” the Marine Colonel thumped his fingers into the desk again before turning and packing back and forth behind his desk.

Druid watched the other man warily.

“The way I see it we’ve both got problems and we’re each the answer to the other,” the Colonel said, stopping his pacing to turn a level gaze upon the Commodore. “This station practically runs itself, true enough. But even with a brigade of Marines, if they ever got their act together and united against us, we’d be more than just hard-pressed to hold out.”

“We each have our own tasks,” Druid said neutrally, not at all wanting to be sucked into the local Station Commander’s problems, “you’ve got this Station and I’ve got a priority mission to carry out.”

“A mission to carry out,” Wainwright nodded, “but to carry it out with what…the most accident-prone battleship in the Fleet?” he paused and then added with more certainty. “And a skeleton crew of hastily trained replacement crew?”

The commodore’s lips thinned. “By ‘Fleet,’ I assume you are referring to the Power’s previous designation as a member of the Caprian SDF,” he said politely.

Wainwright blinked. “I forget that you lot aren’t all from the home world,” the Marine Colonel grunted unconvincingly, “look, I didn’t mean to insult a captain’s ship, I just call it like the old, half-blind warhorse that I am, sees it.”

“Commodore,” Druid corrected.

“Whatever,” the Marine shook it off. “The point is that you’re short on crew and I’ve got the better part of two thousand marines I can shake loose on a moment’s notice, and all of them are cross-trained as entry level crewmen and women. I’ll wager you need the manpower, and me and my men sure as all get out need to get off this rotating tub before we lose our minds.”

“I wouldn’t think a former Black Port would lack for recreational activities,” Druid suppressed a smirk. “And I somehow doubt you’re half blind.”

Wainwright scowled at him. “We’re a Marine unit intended for combat duty, not a garrison force. We’ve been posted out here so long you’d think we were regular Army!” the Colonel flared. Then glaring at him the marine pounded his desk for emphasis, “I tell you, the men and women of this unit are going to seed while around us the galaxy is falling to pieces!”

The Commodore coughed and covered his mouth with a fist. “Somehow I find that even more doubtful than your fading eyesight,” he said with a straight face, “and the galaxy seems to be doing just fine at the moment.”

For a second the Colonel looked put out and then he shook his head. “Look. I’m not trying to put you in a bad position here,” Wainwright said with a heavy sigh as he sank back into his chair. “But the honest fact is the uplifts—those Sundered gorilla people—they do a better job of patrolling and keeping the peace than my Marines. The pirates, smugglers, and outer rim drifters that call this run down monstrosity home see us as the enemy and an occupying force. I say we should get this Brigade out here. It will reduce the tension and make it easier to hold onto this station long term.”

“And just incidentally get you and your people out of an assignment that’s no longer appealing?” Druid inquired leaning back in his chair.

“Saint Murphy knows that’s true enough and I’m not going to try denying it,” Wainwright said lifting his right hand with three fingers lifted pointing up to the ceiling. “But it’s also the smart thing to do. Send in some of those overgrown Tracto-ans; they’ve clearly been genetically engineered somewhere in their past and the liaison officer we have here has done well enough—if you’re worried about having a loyal human presence here.”

“I’m sorry, but this is way above my pay grade,” Druid said with a shake of his head.

“This Brigade was only ever a stopgap measure,” Wainwright growled, “and I’m here to tell you this stop’s done being gapped. One way or another it’s time to get the blast out of Dodge before we stop being part of the solution and start being part of the problem over here.”

Druid stilled in his chair, then opened his mouth but was cut off.

“And before you start getting all high and mighty over there,” the Marine said, bestowing a level look upon the Commodore, “this is a Caprian Brigade, not yet—maybe not ever—a Confederation one.”

The Commodore scowled, “I understood that Capria refused to repatriate you. The King refused you and Parliament has been silent on the matter,” he said.

Wainwright’s eyes burned. “We’ve been disavowed, all right; declared Montagne loyalists back home and officially exiled,” the Marine Colonel rumbled.

“Might as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb,” the Commodore shrugged.

“We hold to our oaths. The safety of the Home world and its people is our primary concern,” Colonel Wainwright said bestowing a level look. “That’s what being a Marine is all about.”

“I admire your principles, even if they do nothing to convince me to take your brigade onboard my ship,” Druid said evenly. “I’m afraid my answer is no.”

“This new Machine threat is a threat to us all and more specifically if its allowed to spread from our sister sectors like the virulent cancer it is, our home world of Capria will be under threat,” the Colonel said leaning forward, “while exiled we can do nothing to directly help our troubled homeland. However, fighting a threat like the Droids—before it has time to get into a position to attack Capria—is exactly what we joined up for.”

“Even so…” Druid said, shaking his head.

“We hold to our oaths and to our honor in this Brigade, which is why we’re here. So whatever our relationship with the Patrol Fleet, if I give my word then it will be upheld by the rest of the Brigade,” the Colonel said sternly. “Take us with you and help us get back in the action, this time against the machines, and I swear to you that you and your ship will have nothing to fear from us. In fact, we will only be a boon to your under strength ship.”

The Commodore wished he could believe it, but the risks were simply too great to ignore. On the other hand…with only half a crew—a thoroughly untrained half—his ship was not just seriously undermanned, it was dangerously shorthanded. Having one to two thousand marines trained in basic operations and maintenance tasks would be a godsend.

“Honestly, I’m conflicted,” mused the Commodore, knowing that if he let the Brigade in under his ship’s skin there would be no stopping them if things turned sour.

“Plus,” the Marine Colonel added, clearly leaning in for the proverbial kill, “I happen to know that this Brigade isn’t the only group interested in getting off this station.”

“Oh?” inquired the Commodore.

“Come with me,” said the Colonel.

**************************************************

“Hello Captain,” said the large Tracto-an Lancer standing in front of him.

“It’s Commodore,” Druid corrected easily.

“Of course, Commodore,” the other man said speaking with an accent. The Tracto-an accent was barely discernable under that Outer Rim, space-trashy accent he’d somehow managed to pick up on the Omicron.

“So the Colonel,” Druid said sliding his eyes over toward the Marine, “says he’s not the only one wanting off this Station.”

“That is truth,” the Tracto-an said firmly in his heavily accented confederation standard. “I have heard the Mistress of Messene and Omicron goes out to battle the machine Droids, and I have raised a war-band to follow her and my Warlord into battle.”

“Why do you want to go, and when you say you’ve ‘raised a group of fighters,’ how recently are we talking?” Druid asked with some concern.

“I have been looking to recruit a fighting tail ever since being assigned here,” said the overgrown, yet not-quite-muscle-bound Tracto-an warrior, “although recruiting here proved difficult before I took the head of Warlord Yagar.”

“Rear Admiral Yagar, you mean?” the Commodore said his face hardening at the talk of how this man had killed Druid’s former commander.

“Yes, that one,” nodded the Tracto-an.

“What’s your name, Lancer?” he asked stiffly.

“Nikomedes, Commodore,” the Tracto-an declared simply. “Warrior of Argos and Messene, and at this moment I have over 180 warriors under my banner.”

“180 former pirates?” Druid asked.

Nikomedes nodded. “They are former pirates, former slaves from the gladiator pits—or, rings,” he corrected, “as well as some smugglers. And, of course, fighters from the other…races,” Nikomedes said stiffly, “the ‘others’ make fine hunters but lack in discipline.”

“An oversized company then,” Druid concluded.

“We all wear repaired pirate battle armor,” Nikomedes said, his eyes narrowing. “And I know there are even more Sundered who are interested in leaving the Station for some battle.”

“uplifts,” Druid frowned, the gorilla people had proven themselves tenacious fighters both in person and with their refitted old warship but even so, the thought of such creatures—well, people, really—didn’t sit easily with him, even less so did the idea of bringing them onboard his ship.

“They have skills,” Nikomedes shrugged as if to say the ultimate decision about the uplifts didn’t concern him greatly. The Tracto-an was clearly focused on his own company’s fate.

“Just how many of these gorilla people are we talking about?” the Commodore finally asked.

“One to two hundred of the younger males, and an equal or greater number of unbound females,” Nikomedes replied.

“Equal or greater?” Druid grimaced. “So you’re talking about anywhere from two hundred to half a thousand.”

“These are my best numbers,” the Tracto-an said, splaying his hands.

“If I take on all the rats trying to jump off this station, my ship would be full up in no time,” he muttered.

“Hardly rats, and even if you took all of us you’d still have a large tithe of that battleship’s berths left empty, Commodore,” Colonel Wainwright said pointedly.

“I don’t try to tell a Marine how to handle his detachment; don’t try to tell a ship’s Commander how to do his job,” Druid scowled, and then reluctantly added, “I’ll consider it.”

The Tracto-an stepped back.

“For both of you,” added the Commodore.

“Don’t think about it for too long, for all our sakes,” Wainwright said with heavy emphasis.

Grunting, the Commodore turned away.

Then gathering up his guards from the ship he turned to the docks. It was time to return to his ship and if he made it back to his ship safe and sound, then he had a few things to consider.

Chapter 3: A Staff Meeting

“Let’s call this meeting to order,” I said, leaning forward and thumping the table before taking my seat.

Chairs rustled as Phoenix‘s Department Heads, Ship Captains, and Lancer contingent commanders took their seats.

“We have to come up a plan for when we arrive at LaMere,” I said, sweeping the table with my gaze.

“Plan, sir?” asked Chief Gunner Lesner with concern. “Do you mean for the upcoming battle, or the meeting itself?”

“Both,” I smiled tightly.

Glances were exchanged around the table—uneasy looks that didn’t inspire confidence in me, and suggested that I’d failed to install confidence in them.

Then Eastwood took a deep breath and leaned forward. “We don’t have a battleship,” he said finally.

My face hardened, and I wondered if this meant what I thought it did: that my people were starting to lose their spines.

“This Strike Cruiser packs a pretty stiff punch, and I’d hazard to say that this fleet has more than proved itself,” I said coolly.

“That’s not what I meant,” Eastwood said, giving his head a quick shake.

“Then please…elaborate,” I said mildly.

“We,” he reemphasized, “don’t have any battleships. I’m pretty sure that whoever shows up to this meeting will. You have to factor that in for when you meet the ship and fleet commanders, or whoever is running the rally.” He then leaned back in his chair, as if this explained everything.

“Well, blast it all anyway,” I grunted as I worked through the implications.

“We’re the Confederation Fleet!” exclaimed Archibald from his position down and across the table from me. “I looked up the regulations; that means the Admiral is in charge so long as it’s an attack by external enemy forces. Droids are the very definition of an outside force!”

I suppressed a wince, as the very fact that an eager young officer thought it was a no-brainer that I should be automatically placed in charge of the joint defensive effort of the two Sectors. It pretty much indicated that the politicians who actually held the purse strings of the SDF forces were going to want to disagree.

“Kong Pao promised us the support of the MDL,” Laurent pointed out. “He all but begged us to come out here and lead the defense. Surely the support of a large number of the worlds who are part of the League will help smooth our way?”

I started to nod and then it hit me: I was relying on the words of a politician to guide me—a politician whose home world was under active threat and would likely say anything and do anything to save his people. My face hardened.

“The words of Kong Pao and the support of his MDL did very little to help organize a joint defensive effort in Aqua Nova,” I pointed out a sharp edge to my voice that I couldn’t quite suppress. “In fact, if I recall correctly, they fired upon us as soon as we got to close to one of their population suppression bases.”

Winces popped up around the table, and faces other than mine started to harden.

“No, I fear that relying upon Representative Kong to ensure everything goes our way would be the height of folly,” I decided.

“Makes a man wonder why we’re out here in the first place,” the Chief Gunner grumbled.

My eyes zeroed in on him like a laser. “We’re here for the people,” I snapped, and the other man’s gaze lowered with embarrassment, his face starting to turn red. “The innocent civilians of these two Sectors have done nothing to deserve our ire or abandonment, and unless or until they do we will unflinchingly put ourselves between them and harm’s way. Do I make myself clear?”

“Aye aye, sir,” the Chief Gunner sighed.

Murmurs of agreement and understanding swept round the table.

I nodded sharply, decisively before softening my approach, consciously switching topics away from this highly charged and recently dealt with topic.

“Eastwood is right,” I said abruptly, causing all eyes to switch back to me and the Flagship’s First Officer. “We have no battleships, and too few smaller ships to make up the difference,” the pleasant expression I had worn up until that moment congealed into a cold hard smile. “At least, in their eyes; I know that any one of our ships is worth two of these System Defense Forces ships of comparable weight and class, but they don’t. They haven’t got a clue as to what the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is all about.”

Of course, one reason for that was they were far away from where we’d been in action, Sector 25. The other reason was that not even its Admiral—me—had a firm idea of what exactly the MSP was all about. However, one thing we were certainly all about was saving innocent lives.

Resolved, I looked over at Akantha and her Lancer Captains, and then shook my head.

“The other thing we’re short of is personnel,” I said regretfully. “This Strike Cruiser has 2400 crew and only 600 Lancers. Just under half the entire manpower of this Fleet is tied up in the Flagship, and something like 35% of our manpower is worse than green. They’re essentially untrained. That means that one Battleship the size of the Clover has double the crew that we have in this entire fleet. However,” I paused to rake the room with a steely determined gaze, “we shall overcome. Reinforcements are on the way and I have a plan to even up the odds when we finally meet back up with the droids.”

Technically I was stretching the truth, as I didn’t have a plan to even up the odds just yet. But I did have several irons in the fire in an effort to bring something to the table. The one thing I was resolved to, was that one way or the other, by hook or by crook, this Fleet was going to come out of this war stronger than when it started.

I turned to Akantha and her Captain. “Lancers, I need options. How are we going to deal with these droids if it gets down to hand-to-hand?” I said.

“We have plans on how to best these metal demons,” Akantha said, turning and looking at Captain Darius.

The Lyconese Tracto-an nodded and cleared his throat.

“Normally we carry vibro-blades and blaster rifles. We will keep the blades,” he said firmly, and I had to suppress the urge to roll my eyes. Getting the pig-stickers out of the hands of our barbarian warriors would be like pulling teeth without anesthesia: it would take lots of hard work and the caterwauling while you tried would be deafening. “We plan to use Ion Cannons and Ion grenades to temporarily stun the machines. While metal men are confused, we will close to grips and tear them apart.”

I blinked at the calm certainty in the Lancer Captains voice and then shrugged it off.

“We are after having many extra ion grenades,” boomed the voice of Glue the Sundered leader of the three corvettes and remaining gunboats his people had donated to the cause. “You are needing more, we have to spare.”

Captain Atticus, the other Tracto-an Lancer in the room, was shaking his head but Akantha nodded to the Sundered male, and the Captain settled back in his chair with an unhappy semi-mutinous look. Clearly, someone was not happy to be sharing weapons with the gorilla-people, even if he was on the receiving end. Too much pride to accept a handout? I wondered.

“I’m workin’ on a couple projects that might help,” Chief Engineer Terrence Spalding said.

My ears perked up and I looked over toward the old engineer. As usual, his red, cybernetic eye and off-color synthetic skin on his scalp above the eyebrows was disconcerting, but all that quickly faded as he continued to speak.

“I’ve got an old Penetrator class assault lander and—” Spalding started, only to be cut off.

“The Penetrator Class was discontinued for a reason,” the Phoenix’s Chief Engineer, the younger Spalding, snapped derisively. “And I happen to know for a fact that you haven’t done so much as a test run with that old shuttle. Whatever it is you’re putt-putting around with down there, it isn’t more than half done.”

“Why, you impertinent whelp,” growled the old Engineer. “If I say it’s almost ready, then by the blazes she’s almost ready! You might have known that for yourself if you’d bothered to come down and take a look.”

“I don’t need to come and look at antiques when I’ve got a set of internal sensors which, when properly tuned—as I’ve finally ensured they are—can pick up any strong readings from inside the ship. Readings such as so, oh, I don’t know, a drive signature,” the younger Engineer snorted. “Old man, you haven’t even properly tuned up the grav-plates yet!”

“Listen here, boy—” Spalding said hotly.

“No, you listen,” snapped Tiberius. “I don’t have time to putter around with whatever old junk technology you pulled out of the scrap yard when we’ve got access to a full Imperial database here! If you had half the sense the gods gave a toad, you’d seat your wrench on something useful and help me upgrade this ship with new technology—something that can actually make a difference!”

The old man was turning dangerously red in the face, and I could see that no one present was amused at the way this young new Chief Engineer was running down our old one.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times,” the old Engineer purpled, “new doesn’t necessarily mean better, it just means different! There’s plenty of ways to do a job, and bein’ enamored of always trying something new before it’s been properly debugged will bite you on the hind end worse than trying to use a multi-tool on every job.”

“Look, I understand,” Tiberius said with false and condescending comprehension, “you’re tired of new technology, have no new ideas, and an increasingly outdated skillset. That’s why you’ve turned to old, outdated—not to mention hazardous—technology and equipment. That’s why I urge you to join us in the current century and start trying to modernize your skill set before it becomes entirely useless!”

“Useless? Outdated?! You have the gall to say I’m nothing more than a useless, tired old man, after the way I’ve saved this ship countless times!” cried Spalding. “You go too far lad,” he thrust a finger at the younger man.

“This ship? Or do you mean the Clover?” mocked Tiberius.

“Commander Spalding has proven himself through battle and blood,” I said, standing up and gazing at Tiberius coldly, “I pray you someday live long enough to become half the engineer you’re father is.”

The younger man opened his mouth to retort, but I cut him off.

“Enough,” I snapped, half a second away from tossing him in the brig. Akantha or no Akantha, no one spoke to my Chief Engineer that way—not even his own son!—even if the old man technically wasn’t the Chief of Engineering right now. I could, and would, change that in a heartbeat if this pro-parliament moron continued to test my patience.

Lisa Steiner held her hand to her ear, fingers pressed against an earbud as she listened with a look of concentration which quickly changed to alarm.

“Something I should be aware of, Comm.?” I said looking over at her with a question.

“Perhaps in private, Admiral,” Steiner said, looking torn.

“Here will be fine,” I said calmly, ignoring the way the rest of the table quickly stilled and all eyes turned to focus on the two of us.

The little com-tech swallowed and then nodded. “A message just came in through the long-range array,” she said clearly.

“Critical enough to interrupt the meeting?” I asked, allowing a hint of rebuke to color my voice, “Did Druid have another problem with the battleship?”

“It’s a message, sir,” she paused and then her face stiffened into a professional demeanor, “a message from….”

“Well spit it out, Steiner,” I frowned abruptly, “I have a meeting to run and we don’t have all day.

She took a breath and nodded sharply.

“Sorry, sir, it won’t happen again,” she said bracing to attention, “it’s the Droids, Admiral. They’re the ones who sent the message over our ComStat Network.”

My world rocked and the meeting room was immediately swept with pandemonium. Those members who didn’t understand the gravity of what this meant were quickly filled in by those that did: the droids had penetrated our recently-secured FTL communications network. Nothing we sent over it could be considered secure, since any encryption could be broken given enough time.

“Thank you, Communications Officer,” I said, nodding absently, my mind scrambling. I wondered if maybe the next time my Comm. Officer hesitated to relay her information in a timely fashion in front of multiple witnesses if I oughtn’t give her the benefit of the doubt and take the message privately as she had suggested.

“Yes, Admiral,” she said, stepping back.

I closed my eyes briefly to prepare myself and when I did I was fully back, the Admiral in Command and not to be seen as unsure or doubtful.

“Please send the message to my pad,” I said calmly, although I was pretty sure the way my lips thinned when I stopped speaking was a sure give away as to my real emotional state.

My reader beeped and I quickly scanned the screen. It was brief and to the point, so I put it up on the conference room screen for all to see since holding it back would only cause rumors to run rampant through the fleet, potentially undermining my authority. After all, ‘why would he hide it unless it was bad news,’ they would ask? Better to lance this boil of my own creation as quickly and efficiently as I could. If it relayed information I’d hoped to keep secret until a later date then, well…I had no one to blame but myself—and possibly our ComStat-hijacking team.

“Congratulations, we want to meet. Bring Moonlight. We want to discuss prisoner exchange, as previously agreed with the negotiating team but will only accept if the Captain is present to supervise transfer. We await your data exchange on this file—end of line.” That was the entirety of the message.

More pandemonium ensued, with people yelling or shifting around in their seats. “Agreement? What agreement. What negotiating team?” Eastwood snarled.

“Who’s this Captain the message references? And what do they mean by ‘moonlight’? Is it some kind of code, or a rare substance I’m not aware of?” demanded Lesner in abject confusion.

“How the blazes did they penetrate our com-network?” Flag Captain Laurent barked, pausing to glare at Steiner. “I thought those FTL nodes were secure! Are they communicating to us through nodes we still haven’t hit, or have the machines penetrated our systems?”

“Silence!” I yelled, adding an edge to my voice as I felt a sense of consternation as events felt like they were starting to spin out of my control.

Almost as abruptly as if a light switch had been turned off, the room quieted.

“Now,” I said momentarily at a loss by just how quickly everyone shut up and sat down. I took a breath, my jaw setting as I refocused on my current task: damage control. “Yelling and making a scene won’t help anything; at this point we are where we are at and no amount of fussing and fuming will help thing. We must…we have to focus on the task at hand. As for the negotiations,” I said, mentally pivoting at the sight of opening mouths and lowered brows and nodding, not incidentally cutting off the Phoenix’s First Officer before he could speak, “having no use for her, I decided to send the Confederation Representative off to negotiate with one of the Droid Tribes.”

Looks of near mutiny appeared on many faces.

“What the blazes is this, Admiral?” demanded Officer Eastwood, while others looked confused and concerned.

“Watch your tone, First Officer,” I said sharply, my mind returning to the actions of another disrespectful First Officer of my recent acquaintance. The faintest hint of a smile crossed my face as I recalled his most likely fate, but then my good mood soured since, by its very existence, this message indicated that the fate I so desired was still in abeyance, “this was a carefully calculated response.”

The First Officer looked uneasy and I realized it must be because of the expression that had crept up on my face as I considered Tremblay’s well-deserved fate. It was either that or the thought of dealing with Droids. In case it was the first, I wiped the expression from my face; this was no time to be thinking of my treacherous, traitorous former First Officer and Chief of Staff. But even so, I could tell that I was starting to lose them.

“The droids contacted me, not the other way around,” I added shortly, not liking to have to justify myself—as if I hadn’t just spent the last almost two years fighting side by side with these men and women against every threat the galaxy had thrown our way. “How did they contact you, sir?” Lesner asked after it looked like no one else would.

“It was through a confidential route I can’t speak about for security reasons,” I said evenly, “however, the contact was one-way: from them to me. I wasn’t the one to reach out.”

“But you still sent a ‘negotiating team,’ Admiral,” the Chief Gunner asked, looking like he was working hard and struggling to give me the benefit of the doubt and still figure out a way that I wasn’t making secret backroom deals with the mortal enemies of all humankind.

“Yes, Chief,” I replied gravely. “I decided that if the droids wanted to talk I was willing to send a pair of individuals who we could trust to find out what they really wanted, stall them for as long as possible, and not be missed when the Droids in all likelihood turned on them.”

“You knowingly sent people over to the machines?” Eastwood asked as his eyes widened.

I scowled. “The Traitor Tremblay and my backstabbing cousin Bethany have more than earned their fate. You could say that, instead of execution for their crimes, I’ve given them a chance at…if not redemption—as I’ll have no use for them even if by some miracle of Murphy they survive—then at least a chance at survival. I may be an Admiral and a Montagne but I’m not monster; they have their chance,” I said flatly. “But make no mistake, I sent a pair of criminals, mutineers, and would be murderers off to deal with these machines. They will do their best for us because, if they don’t, they will surely die. But yes, I did so with the full knowledge that they were risking their lives just meeting with the machines, even going with an invitation.”

Several people looked ill, but they were mostly the ones who hadn’t been through the harrowing experience on the Omicron — or had actually met either of the two members of our ‘negotiating team.’ Those people who had met either criteria just looked grim.

“Now, back to the task at hand: what prisoners are we talking about, and who is this Captain they want to meet with?” I said with a frown.

“I have another,” Captain Atticus, the Lancer, said as he leaned forward and thumped the table with his fist, “why should we do anything they want?”

“You leave our people in their hands?” Glue demanded right back, baring his teeth and thumping the table in turn.

Atticus leaned back for an instant and then surged forward as soon as he realized that he’d done so.

“Our people?” he said in a deep voice. “Are any of our people unaccounted for?”

“Enough,” I declared. “I’ll be the one asking the questions around here, Captain.”

Atticus’s lip curled and he glanced at Akantha, who arched a brow at him before almost sullenly turning back toward me.

“Warlord,” he muttered.

I gritted my teeth but let it pass. I knew that her native people felt more loyalty to her than to me. That said, such behavior could not be allowed to pass unmarked. I was going to keep my eye on the Captain.

“Well?” I barked turning back to the table. “If anyone has anything to add, speak up. Otherwise we’re going to have to form a team to search the databanks and maybe even use our now-compromised FTL network to find the answer.”

Heads shook and people exchanged uneasy looks and Lieutenant Tiberius just sat there shaking his head with his arms folded over his abdomen.

Then our elderly Chief Engineer took a deep breath and leaned forward, his single red, mechanical eye gleaming.

“I know what they’re after, Admiral. We can do it,” Spalding nodded with such a certain look to his single remaining natural eye that I wanted to believe the old engineer could pull something out of his hat for us for the umpteenth time. “Just leave it to me and I’ll whip up everything they need for the transfer. Why, down in the Locker, we have every—“

Eyes all around the table locked on the wily old engineer and I could sense the belief rising in the officers around me and I heaved a surreptitious sigh of relief. One more obstacle rises and promptly get its head knocked off. Maybe with this out of the way we could actually—

My thoughts were interrupted when the young, parliamentarian Engineer Officer who’d been looking more and more disaffected with his old man spoke, finally jumped to his feet, and knocked over the chair in which he’d been sitting.

“Unbelievable,” Tiberius exploded. “The Locker? What guff! I don’t know what kind of wool you’re trying to pull over their eyes—and mine—but I’ve had it with your lies old man.”

“Lock it down and snap yer yap, young sprout,” Commander Spalding growled, turning with an angry look toward his son.

“Oh, that’s rich! I’m the one who should lock it down,” the young furious engineer rolled his eyes angrily. “Stuff your Locker and stuff you, Commander! Moonlight’s a myth; a holo-creation, a blasted cartoon…a lie, shown to little children who don’t know any better! It’s nothing to play with on the bridge of a real starship.”

“You don’t know half as much as you think you do with that fool, thick head of yours, Lieutenant,” the Commander snarled, his hands opening and closing with rage.

“I’m the fool with the thick head and tenuous grasp of reality?” Tiberius fired back. “When you’re the one who can’t tell a gods-honest fact from a legend. The entire time I was growing up all you did was lie and break promises, and here you are again, with more lies and fabrications. Dear gods, old man, do you have no shame! I understand if you have a death wish but the least you could do is fail to take the rest of us down with you.”

“There’s more myths and secrets on this ship than you can shake a stick at, Mr. High and Mighty Chief Engineer of the S.S. Strictly Reality,” grated the old Engineer. “If you’d but open yer blinking eyes, you’d see the reality all around you, lad. It’s there for the taking if you would but grasp hold of it,” by the time he’d finished that last sentence emotion was starting to thicken the old Engineer’s voice.

“Those droids will do their best to kill us when you double cross them. Not if, but when you cross them, if you hold fast to this story,” Lieutenant Tiberius said with real passion in his voice, and even I was caught up in the drama unfolding between them. “Sweet Crying Murphy, there is no Captain Moonlight, no secret Fraternal Order of Engineers and certainly no old Engineers well-past their retirement age cancelling fishing trips because of a suspected uprising of supposed droids from the Automated Underground—especially not ones hiding out in the maintenance crawlspaces and preparing to take over old ships stuck in ordinary in the orbital shipyard.” The young engineer thumped the table in return and locked his eyes with the older Spalding across the table, obviously daring him to gainsay him.

A tension filled moment passed as neither man appeared ready to budge.

Then Gants smacked himself on the forehead exclaimed, “So that’s what that cart was really up to? You didn’t tell me it was trying to take over the ship!” the former engineering crewman, and now Armsmaster of the ship, said with a look over at Commander Spalding.

My eyes popped open and my brows shot up at this unexpected interjection.

“Eh,” Spalding said, looking over and Gants, then his voice changed from anger-filled and ornery to the more usual, mostly instructional and semi-condescending, tone he usually use. “Oh lad, the one we tangled with wasn’t trying to take the ship; I’d already broken up that ring a few years back. It was just a sleeper agent I’d been having my eyes on for a while, and I assure you he won’t be—”

Tiberius made an inarticulate cry of rage. “Sweet Murphy, do you pay them to back you up or do they just do it because of this cult of personality you’ve built up?!” he shouted.

“We’ll have no more of that, Mister,” I said sharply, having had my fill of youthful bitterness, “as it is, I’ve let this go on for long enough. If our Chief Engineer says…I mean, if Commander Spalding says that he can produce this Moonlight—or a good approximation of him—along with whatever prisoners they’re looking for, then I’m satisfied.” Truthfully, I wasn’t entirely satisfied but Spalding had never let us down before, and even if he were about to start now…well, with Bethany and Tremblay’s lives on the line, I couldn’t think of a better time for him to prove himself fallible like the rest of us. And what was more, I wasn’t about to continue sitting there silent and allow any man—even his own son—to run my Chief Engineer, regardless of whoever actually had that particular title, down in front of me!

“Don’t you see what he’s doing, Montagne?” Tiberius looked over at me beseechingly, desperation in his voice before he turned back to the Commander. “You’re not a superhero. Your Locker is just the old Intelligence half-deck, and your tall tales and the lies you tell children won’t save this ship when the droids come looking for a holo-vid character—a character that doesn’t exist! You can’t let them walk into a trap with the blinders on when dozens of worlds and billions of human lives are on the line. Can you really handle that on your conscience, Dad?”

“I don’t think anyone here will be walking into anything that the droids set up less than prepared for a double cross, Lieutenant. Space gods, these are droids we’re talking about after all!” I said, taking silent note that he said ‘them’ and not ‘us’ when talking about our fleet walking into a trap.

“Lad,” the old Engineer said, his eyes softening as he looked over at the younger man, “sometimes the truth hurts. I know that it’s easier to believe the lies your mother told than to open your eyes to what’s really been going on,” then the old man’s voice hardened, “but you’re not a child anymore. You’re a man now and it’s time to grow up.”

“You old fraud,” Tiberius breathed, “you’re going to get us all killed. Your really would rather die than admit and own up to the truth like a man?”

Spalding drew himself up majestically, “I am Captain Moonlight; I made those holo-vids so that you could see the truth of what I was doing. Everything I told you growing up was the truth, but I’ve been done trying to make you see that was true years ago. I can lead the horse to water but I can’t make him drink,” he turned away openly dismissing the younger man and looked me right in the eyes, “if they want a prisoner exchange, well then, Admiral, just make sure you get us a right good deal. I got me a hundred and seventy eight droid cores I transferred over from the Clover down in the Phoenix’s locker and I’ll be happy to get those angry blighters off my hands.”

I blinked and then nodded. More upset and surprised at the fact that we had over a hundred—almost two hundred!—droid cores on the ship, than I was by the little tete-a-tete that had just gone down in my conference room.

“You just tell them we can make the exchange whenever you’ve come to an agreement, sir,” the old Engineer said drawing himself up with quiet dignity.

Tiberius made another cry of inarticulate rage.

“Guards, if that man makes another ill-tempered outburst, restrain him,” I snapped, rounding on the young Engineer, “and then throw him in the brig.”

While I had been speaking, Spalding had turned on his heel and stalked out of the room.

I looked back and forth at the officers in the room and saw that many of them were looking alarmed and uncertain, which was just as much my fault as it was the two intemperate engineers’. Clearly the tendency toward histrionics ran in the family, although what that said about me, I decided not to pursue.

“If Commander Spalding says he can do it then he can do it,” I said sweeping the table with my gaze to let them see how serious I was, “then it’s is a break for us. I don’t know how the droids knew what the Commander was up to and I don’t know how they broke our encryption but I can assure you,” I let my eyes bore into those of First Officer Eastwood, the most skeptical looking of the bunch, and then I gave Captain Atticus a sharp look just to show I hadn’t forgotten him, “we will turn this to our advantage.”

“He’s a fraud, don’t you understand that?” Tiberius said in a much more respectful tone, even if the words themselves were less than so.

“Even if that were the case, it doesn’t matter,” I said flatly, locking eyes with the young Engineer until the other man was the first to look away before continuing, “if the man says he can fix this deal for us, then after everything he’s done we’d be fools to take him at less than his word—doing so has blown up in our face too many times.”

“I really don’t understand why you all think he walks on water. He’s a tired old man, who lies, and steals, and—” the young Engineer said with an obvious effort to control himself—an effort which, to my mind, had just failed.

“Enough! That man saved the Clover by walking into the fusion core. He saved me, personally, by taking a medium cruiser into Central almost singlehanded. He decided to come get me, had organized the effort, and held that rattletrap together with duct-tape and spacer-wire. Then he launched another death ride to retake the Clover from Jean Luc using a shuttle. If he can do all of that, and then says he can do this, then he can.”

“And if he can’t? If he fails because he’s in over his head?” asked Tiberius.

I paused in contemplation and then shrugged. “In that case, I’d say he’s earned one fumbled pass from me. And if things really go in the pot, well…they are just droids after all.

“But what about the Ambassadors?!” Tiberius cried. “You would just consign them to their fate at the hands of the machines?”

I paused again in consideration, making sure to contemplate exactly how I felt about it. Then, with a nod, I smiled coldly and deliberately shrugged. “Too bad.”

“You really are a Montagne,” Tiberius said, looking bewildered and then his face hardened as he glared at me.

“It honestly couldn’t have happened to a more treacherous pair; I’ll lose no sleep over them, their fate, or any names you care to call me, as it’s nothing less than those two deserve. I mean, really, why do you think I sent them to the droids? They were carefully selected,” I said evenly, “and frankly, I wouldn’t have been willing to send anyone else.”

Tiberius just shook his head from side to side and settled back into his chair, his shoulders slumping.

“This is the big leagues,” I said, ignoring the young Engineer and meeting eyes around the table, “and I keep faith with those who’ve kept faith with me. Now back to the meeting. Especially in light of the breach in our communications array, I want us to go through all our encryption—both internal and external—as well as defensive plans for incase we are boarded. Remember that we’re going to be meeting a bunch of politicians, and I don’t want to pick up anything that will give us problems later. Hopefully we’ll primarily be dealing with our military counterparts, but a hostile SDF could be the least of what we have to deal with here. Everything from bribes to hostile programs inserted into our DI will need to be anticipated. My policy is going to be this…”

I continued speaking for several minutes outlining my concerns and what I wanted before setting them loose to figure out how to make my vision reality. Aside from the usual back-and-forth clarification requests put forth by my department heads, the remainder of the meeting went essentially uninterrupted.

Chapter 4: The Eggs are in the Basket

I was aimlessly wandering the Flag Deck—or what passed for the Flag Deck, which consisted mainly of the Admiral’s suite, a pair of conference rooms, and a Fleet Intelligence ‘shack’ that was little more than a maintenance closet. The rest of the ‘Flag Deck’ was really just an overlap with the command deck, which itself wasn’t that large.

I did so more because I needed to be moving so I could think straight, and didn’t really want to go all the way down to the exercise facilities for a full workout.

This was one of the harder parts of the job. The meetings had been met, the ship was moving as fast as possible through the various systems between us and our target, and while I was waiting for my officers to get back to me with reports and recommendations there was really nothing to do. Nothing to do except wonder and worry and come up with increasingly paranoid reaction plans.

Such as after coming to save them—having been invited to come save them, no less—I show up to do so and am immediately attacked. Or I could show up and the droids would already be there…or we arrive and the droids show up within the hour while we’re still in the early stages of diplomacy with the locals.

I wanted to stop running through the myriad scenarios but my brain was churning too much to go lay down, since doing so would just give my darkest worries freedom to run rampant through my thoughts.

At least while I was on the move I had the sensation of doing something, even if it was only moving around so as not to be a sitting target. Which was the height of unreasoning stupidity, as any outside forces that could attack me would have to destroy the ship first. Only an uprising…

Footsteps sounded behind me just as I had that particular though, and I whirled around with my hand going down to the blaster I’d taken to carrying in a holster at my belt. I had barely reached it when someone came around the corridor I’d just walked by.

Seeing it was Akantha, my heart—which had been pounding up into my throat—started to settle.

“I knew you were around here somewhere,” Akantha said sternly as soon as she laid eyes on me.

I cleared my throat and schooled my expression to neutrality. Suppressing any sign of the jitters I’d been feeling, I looked at her.

“What do you want, my Lady?” I asked, falling back on palace training and noble courtesy.

“Sword Bearer, please,” she said politely.

“Of course, my—I mean, Akantha,” I stumbled, and that was when I realized how out of it I had become. I needed to get my wits back about me, and quickly.

She looked at me and I could tell I was failing some kind of internal Akantha-, or woman-specific test.

“So, Sword Bearer,” I said, working hard not to stumble over a very strange way to address your wife, “what brings you to this neck of the woods?”

“There are no woods here,” she said, pausing and glancing at the duralloy walls long enough to drive the point home.

“It was an expression,” I said wearily, fighting the urge to slump my shoulders. I really wasn’t in the mood or inclination for a fight.

She sniffed.

“What I meant was, is there something I can do for you?” I asked just looking at her, hoping that if I stared at her long enough she would eventually come to the point.

She frowned.

“Do you see something different about me?” she asked turning to the side.

I looked but couldn’t see a thing. I even started to open my mouth to say so, when memories of girlfriends past came back to haunt me.

“Did you do something with your hair?” I guessed.

When the frown on her face stiffened, I knew I’d flubbed it and I also knew that if I failed my next guess I was going to have to pull out the big guns.

“Hey! Are those new clothes?” I inquired, forcing excitement onto my face.

If looks could deliver physical retribution, I knew for certain I would have been smacked in the face by now. I silently resolved myself to showing up with flowers and chocolates as a prelude for her taking me down to the gym to run me ragged for the next several days.

She glared at me, but at that point I knew better and kept my mouth shut. Akantha huffed when it was clear I wasn’t interested in digging myself in any deeper.

“Well since you obviously haven’t noticed, I thought I’d come down to tell you,” she leaned down and lowered her voice fractionally, but the obvious excitement she was feeling almost overwhelmed the lower volume, “that the eggs are in the basket.”

I froze, wondering what in the world she was talking about.

She stopped and was now looking at me, obviously eager for me to say something. Knowing I had to do something, I scratched my ear.

“That sounds very…interesting?” I temporized.

“Don’t you understand,” she hissed at me, obviously of the opinion that I had just lowered myself to the rating of one of the stupidest men in the universe, “the eggs are in the basket!” I started to nod and then, realizing just how helpless I was, I shook my head.

But by this point, she was too swept up in the excitement and even the fact that I had barely any clue what she was talking about wasn’t going to stop her.

“You know what this means, of course,” she said, looking, acting, and frankly sounding more like the little girl in her as she all but squealed out the words.

I couldn’t help staring at her. “Who are you, and what have you done with my wife?” I said, suppressing the urge to chuckle.

“Males,” she rolled her eyes before continuing right where she’d left off in the conversation—a conversation that was that I had yet to participate in. “Fortunately for you, I’ve taken care of everything…” she frowned and then as if offering me a great concession, “and, of course, your mother can help…if she wants,” she added as if hopeful such would not be the case, and yet also at least a little conflicted about the matter.

“I don’t have a clue what you are saying,” I said, figuring being upfront and honest was my only hope of survival.

She waved her hand as if waving away an irritating fly.

“You’re main concern will be the challenges, anyway,” she said, dismissing my lack of understanding as irrelevant.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” I said, raising my hands, “challenges?! Explain—now. What’s this about me being attacked because of eggs and a basket?”

Glaring at me, she reached over and grabbed one of my uplifted hands.

“What?” I asked with alarm.

I started to try and tug my hand away but she gave a yank and placed my hand on her lower abdomen.

“The eggs,” she said, speaking with excruciating deliberation, “are in,” she pointed emphatically to her lower belly, “the basket.”

I stared at her open-mouthed.

“You know…after a few weeks they start to kick, and months later out comes a little Lady or Warrior?” she demanded hotly.

I stared down at my hand on her tummy with growing horror and a dawning understanding.

“You mean…” I couldn’t even finish the sentence before I started spluttering. “But I thought we agreed to talk about this!” I yelped.

“Shhh,” she growled at me before looking around furtively as if to make sure we hadn’t been overheard, “I don’t want to announce it until they’re further along.”

“They?” I asked, a vague recollection of some kind of outrageous talk regarding the number of children we were going to have in the near future suddenly came to the forefront of my mind with vivid clarity.

Akantha smiled, and it wasn’t one of those small, reserved smiles—it was ear to ear.

“But…we agreed to wait,” I protested.

“No, you agreed that I should think about it some more, and so I did,” she declared. “After thinking, I decided this is the perfect time to have my heirs.”

“Sweet Murphy avert,” I groaned.

“Now that that’s settled, I had something I wanted to speak with you about,” she said, bestowing an icy look on me.

“Settled! How many children did…I mean, how many eggs are in the, erm, basket?” I demanded weakly.

“Something like half a dozen, but we won’t know for sure until they get bigger,” Akantha said happily. “Just think about it: all of my heirs coming at once!”

“Your heirs…and a half dozen of them…this is, this is…intolerable!” I exclaimed. “You’re talking about a six or more children! Forget about the risks; how are we going to take care of that many kids. You really should have consulted me first.”

“I did consult you,” Akantha snapped, “and as for what is intolerable, why did you not include me in your preplanning sessions for the conference meetings?”

“This isn’t about me,” I snapped right back, “and as for the meetings, I call the meetings to help make my plans. The important thing here is you planning to become a mother a half-dozen times over.”

“Do not be a fool Jason; no one makes plans during the meetings. Meetings are for hearing reports, finding out anything you may have missed, and sharing your vision for the future with your underlings.”

“Blast it, Akantha, I’m not ready to be a father yet,” I said hotly. “I have an entire fleet looking to me for leadership, and an invasion of mechanicals trying to take over two entire Sectors of space. What kind of world would I be bringing them into? It wouldn’t be right.”

“Wars happen all the time, Protector,” Akantha said, making my native title into a near insult, “and children come regardless of if it is raining blood or shining peace throughout the land. As for being ready to be a father, you had best get ready because it is coming whether you like it or not, and the world my children are born into will be what we make of it. So if you dislike the world as it is, I suggest you do something about it and stop your complaining.”

“If we weren’t married, I’d call this sequence of events actionable,” I growled, “and in case you haven’t noticed, I’m doing my darnedest to ‘do something’ about this section of the galaxy already!.”

“Good,” she said shortly. “Oh,” she narrowed her eyes at me, “if I were you, I would rededicate myself to the practice of swordplay.”

“Who wants to kill me now?” I inquired sharply.

“I have no specific names, but once the warriors hear that I am in the mood for heirs you should expect a challenge to your position. Every would-be warlord who has been biding his time will have his eyes set on your position, and they will use this opportunity to make whatever moves they can.”

My eyes heated up as my stare turned into a glare.

“So, in addition to ignoring my wishes about having children…or ‘putting eggs in your basket’ while we’re in a warzone,” I clarified, using her own idiom, “your decision—your unilateral decision—to get heirs right now, this very day, has oh-so-coincidentally endangered my life, and potentially also endangered our authority over our Lancers,” I said, fighting to hold onto my temper.

Akantha’s eyes turned flinty. “This is my due as your Hold Mistress,” she said flatly, “and it is also the least part of what is mine, both by right and by action.”

“It’s your right to make such intensely personal decisions without my consent?” I asked, my face hardening.

“When your own people and your family turned on you, I stayed true. When you lost the Lucky Clover in the middle of battle and were cut down, your fate unknown, I held the survivors together and fought my way victory against terrible odds, while sustaining grievous losses. When you were taken prisoner by your own uncle and no one knew if you lived or had died, did I abandon you to your fate? No. I cleaved to your side, bearing your sword through tribulation and trials, even when all hope seemed lost I never despaired of you. I even sent a rescue force under Spalding, and then struck back at our mutual betrayers, bloodying them with my own hands and bringing back a battleship—the Parliamentary Power—to add to your Fleet.” She leaned forward to stare at me icily, “I have repeatedly followed you into the river of stars when my people—our people—need me back in Messene to be their Leader. And yet, when the only thing I ask of you in return are children and heirs to secure my lineage and position as the Mistress of that which I hold, all you do is squawk about how I moved too fast in making this decision.”

All while she was talking I grew angrier and angrier. Hadn’t I rescued her first, asked myself. Hadn’t I saved her, her hold and her entire world not once but multiple times already? Fighting off first Bugs, and then Pirates, and then Bugs yet again; Hades, I’d even destroyed an entire Bug Invasion Force—complete with its Mothership! Without me, her entire world would have been eaten bare of any life above that of small burrowing insects and fishes in the deep sea. Which didn’t even mention the repeated threats to my life every single time I headed down to her planet, I’d endured the challenges, the attacks, the…

I even opened my mouth to tell her so in no uncertain terms, but then my shoulders slumped. It was true that I’d failed my people and, when I’d done so, she had thrown herself into the breach. And while I might not have liked it, or even wanted her to do it, she hadn’t hesitated to go on the attack against the people who had tried to kill us.

A piece of her mind on the matter had been the very least King James had received for his treachery. If all she really wanted in return were children, what could I say; that I thought she was lying, and if I gave her an inch she’d take a mile? I couldn’t say that—even if it were true.

“Very well,” I said unhappily reconciling myself to the fact I was about to become a father, “we’ll talk more later.”

Not wanting to deal with her demands any longer, I turned and walked away. At that point the only other thing I could have said was to suggest removing the fertilized eggs and putting them in cryo-storage. But clearly if I did so it would put such a strain on our relationship that we might split, doing who knew what to my control of our Lancer contingent. The cold, hard logic of it said I couldn’t afford a split right then…besides which, I would have a hard time even saying that she was unequivocally wrong.

Marriage at its most fundamental level did include children; I just hadn’t expected it to happen so soon…or at all, really.

With these unhappy thoughts swirling between my ears, I headed down to the gym. I was under attack from all sides and now, thanks to my beloved Hold Witch, I had some training to do—before someone one of my own people took my head off in an effort to climb the social pyramid.

Thinking cold thoughts, I entered the lift.

Chapter 5: Negotiations went awry

“Greetings Ambassadors,” Bottletop IIV bustled into the room his spindly limbs rattling and clacking happily, “I have wonderful data to upload for you! The ‘direct newsfeed,’ as you biologicals would call it.”

Bethany refrained from saying that it was very doubtful any biological, human or otherwise, would put it in exactly that fashion. But, being a Representative or Ambassador—at least in the optical inputs of the machines—it would be impolitic and very undiplomatic to say so.

“Hello, Chairman,” she said instead and forced a smile worthy of a princess from Tilday, “what do you have to share with us today?”

The way his smashball-shaped head tracked unerringly on her position gave her the creeps but, being a trained diplomat, none of her unease was manifested on her face.

“We have finally received the anticipated data dump, along with an approach protocol!” the Chairman bubbled, bouncing and spinning around the conference room, slowly straightening everything back into its original position—sometimes only even a fraction of an inch—with mechanical precision, “in fact, we are nearly there!”

The Princess-Cadet’s blood ran cold.

“What, specifically, are we talking about, Chairman?” she asked quickly.

The Chairman’s big, red eye flashed rapidly before settling down to a single, unblinking light.

“The Assembly has decided to test your proposal. We will proceed with the prisoner exchange,” Bottletop informed her.

“While I too am excited by this opportunity,” Bethany said carefully, suppressing a surge of unrealistic hope that she might actually survive this assignment and be out of this mechanical wasteland soon, “I would just like to clarify that it was your side that proposed a Prisoner exchange.”

Bottletop began to speak but she continued quickly not wanting to end on that particular note.

“Speaking of which, I have yet to see any of the prisoners you hope to exchange. Perhaps I should send Tremblay to perform a basic safety and wellness check so before we go any further?” she hazarded, hoping to reduce expectations in the very likely event that things did not go as smoothly as expected. Well, in the event that things did not go as smoothly as expected from the droids’ perspective. For her part, she fully expected anything that could go wrong most definitely would. Flat Nose was definitely getting his revenge right now.

“Details,” Bottletop IIV declared dismissively yet with great enthusiasm, “all of which will be relayed in good time. But in the meantime, let me update your slates with the files,” he then proceeded to do so, and Bethany’s droid-provided slate beeped to indicate it had a new file ready for her to look at.

“Thank you, Chairman,” she said evenly.

She would have said more, but the whine-thump-clank of Bubblegum’s distinctive walking pattern put a damper on what she had been about to say.

Both Bethany and the Chairman turned to greet the new arrival but, instead of the assault droid, the first creature to enter through the door way was the Dark Seer.

“Another meeting to which my invitation was lost, I see,” the Seer’s ethereal voice had an edge to it that didn’t bode well for the direction of this new conversation.

“With regrets, you were not invited to this meeting,” the Chairman said with some unaccustomed steel entering his voice as Bubblegum stomped into the room behind the Dark Seer. The whine of his leg servos had a loud, guttural, almost growling sound, “I’m afraid the firewalls surrounding diplomatic meetings must be considered inviolate. I must ask you to leave, unless this is an emergency situation in which case I will ask the party here to wait while I leave and come back.”

The slender, ethereal figure floating off the ground cocked her head and peered off into space for a long moment, then looked over at Bottletop with a piercing gaze.

“Soooo,” the word was given a lyrical, almost musical hiss as it came out of the Seer’s mouth, “I see you are rejecting our offer over a passel of sub-sentient load lifters? My principals will not be amused.”

Bethany’s eyes widened. “What is this?” she asked with surprise.

“We do not discriminate based on form or function in the United Sentients Assembly,” Bottletop said sternly, speaking to the Dark Seer and ignoring the Princess except for one sideways look, “all lives are equally important to us, but our primary duty is to our constituents.”

“You are making a grave mistake, Droid Chairman,” the Dark Seer warned, ignoring Bethany as a wave of palpable menace rolled off the slight and slender creature

Bottletop IIV drew himself up into a regal pose and for the first time in the Princess-Cadet’s memory looked like something other than some kind of nearly humorous figure. He looked like a person of power and, odd as the expression seemed, he was clearly a droid to be reckoned with.

Of course, the fact that Victory Through Bubblegum was standing with its weapons cycling continuously, and the most chilling rendition of an enraged battle cat growling through its speakers—its weapons targeting the Seer—obviously helped.

“We are not prepared to weld ourselves solely to your cause,” Bottletop said sternly. “I would think the data-downloads we have provided already would be—”

“There must be unity of purpose,” cut in the Seer, “unite with us and all the Droid Elements in these Sectors, or the United Sentients Assembly stands alone and acquires for itself a powerful enemy! The data provided is insufficient to ensure linear continuity of your purpose if these requirements are not met. Abandon these pretenders to virtue; they are not even trusted by their own disparate factions. Strip them of all knowledge and cast them out into the darkness of cold space, or hardening will be the least of your fears,” declared the Dark Seer.

“Strip us of all knowledge?” Bethany was outraged. “And speak about us—about me—as if I wasn’t even here!?” She rounded on the Droid Chairman, “I demand you eject this insufferable creature from these premises at once, or I cannot be held responsible for its safety.”

The Dark Seer turned its head and looked at her, really looked at her for the first time, and the Princess-Cadet felt as if the dark, limpid pools that were its eyes peered deep inside her soul and started to pull her innermost self out with cruel, cutting hands.

“Let me handle this, Ambassador Tilday,” Chairman Bottletop IIV said, breaking the spell and causing the dark-robed creature to turn its attention back to him.

The Sector Representative clutched her chest drawing in a deep breath as her heart palpitated, clenching and tumbling in her chest for several seconds before settling down.

“The Sentients Assembly is willing to help all sides in the droid and human conflict, unless that side turns against us first,” the Droid stated in no uncertain terms. “It is our duty as intelligent beings to diminish conflict where possible.”

“By making an enemy this day, you tread a dangerous path—one that will surely lead to your destruction,” warned the Seer ominously, and then swept out of the room.

There was a long silence, broken only by the movement of Bottletop as he tracked the Dark Seer out of the room.

She fought against the unnatural fear that seemed to want to take root in her heart and pushing aside anything but that which was most important. To wit: ensuring her own survival. The Princess-Cadet placed both hands on the table for support and looked up at the droid Chairman.

“Well, now that that offer has walked out the door,” she said as briskly as she was able, “let’s see if we can’t get down to the nitty, gritty details of this alliance of ours.”

Bottletop IIV looked at her and seemed surprised by her words. But if there was one thing the young, Royal, female had learned during her time on the grand stage of galactic politics, it was the importance of striking while the iron was hot.

She lifted a shaky eyebrow and steeled herself to meet his disconcerting single red eye without blinking.

“What do you propose?” the Chairman asked finally, and with obvious reluctance.

“Well, I was thinking of something like this…” Bethany started, determined to walk out of there with something tangible; she wasn’t ready to be satisfied with simple survival. At this point, she wanted more—a lot more—and if she could throw a spike into the wheels of one certain Montagne, then so much the better.

Chapter 6: Armed with new Arms

He was the very model of a heavily distracted space engineer

“Maybe the problem really is with the grav-plates,” the old Engineer muttered to himself before shaking his head violently. No! It couldn’t possibly be the grav-plates; he’d already tweaked them to within an inch of their tolerance loads.

With a sigh he stood up, tossing a clean grease rag—well, ‘clean’ for him, since there were many, subtle, levels of cleanliness and this particular rag had a large stain running up and down the middle—onto the work bench and stood up to relieve a crick in his back.

“What she needs is a bigger power plant! I’ve got to have more energy to make this work,” he declared, and then after a moment he threw his hands up in disgust because there really wasn’t room for a larger power plant.

Stomping around the room, he ran through every tired idea he’d already come up with from power conservation, to oversized batteries and a new style of grav-plate, or power generators strapped to the outside of the hull, before tossing it all out in disgust.

“It’s been tried, it’s impractical, or I just can’t get it to work—and the holdup is this old engineer,” he scowled down at the various pads and drawings and plain outright doodles scattered between parts and half-disassembled parts littering the table.

There was a buzz at the door leading into his workshop deep within the Phoenix’s Locker.

Shaking his head, the old Engineer deliberately turned away from the door and back to his workshop.

The hatch buzzed again.

And again.

Repeatedly, to the point where he gave up trying to keep track of how many times the blasted thing had chimed.

“Oh, of all the Murphy-sodded nonsense,” he cursed marching over to the entrance.

He pressed the override button he’d built into the reinforced blast doors leading into the Locker.

“Can’t be too careful,” he muttered, nodding to himself in agreement. Unlike the Locker on the Clover, that only existed in rumor to the minds of the crew onboard her, everyone and their sister knew of the Phoenix’s old Intelligence half-deck.

He punched in an override code and then waited as the blast doors slowly slid open.

“What do you want?” he barked at the person standing outside the door.

The Tracto-an on the other side narrowed his eyes in response. “I came to show my new arm,” the Tracto-an said in heavily accented Standard, “healer-doctors say it is fully integrated.” The other man turned to show his newly built cybernetic arm, the hand of his other arm stuck through his belt.

“Came for your fight, did you?” the old Engineer demanded glaring the Tracto-an in the eye.

The Tracto-an’s eyes flashed. “If you desire,” he said finally.

“Bah,” scoffed the old Engineer glaring at the powerfully-built Lancer with eyes burning from anger at being interrupted like this, “those quacks wouldn’t know fully integrated cybernetic replacement arm if it self-activated and walloped ’em in the head. Why don’t you bring that oversized thing on over to the work-bench and I’ll take a look—I wouldn’t want you to claim later that you weren’t at your best.”

“You are very confident,” the Lancer said gravely.

“What I am is strapped for time!” Spalding shot back. “I’ve got an assault penetrator to fix and as near as I can tell after working on this blasted thing for the better part of two months the only thing I’ve done is lose my time, my patience and likely my marbles as well.”

“Marbles?” the Tracto-an lancer, called Persus, wrinkled his brow.

“Argh,” the old Engineer said, reaching up to grab at his hair but as usual lately his fingers skittered of bald skin and chromed metal. “Saint Murphy save me.”

“You call on deity now?” observed the other man critically, the hand of his single, remaining, biological arm still tucked into his belt.

“Hold yer tongue,” the old Engineer snapped and then looked down at Persus’ hand with calculation. “Doctors too cheap to fix that thing?” he demanded derisively.

Persus’ nostrils flared and he pulled his hand out of his belt. “Old habit,” he declared shortly, moving his arm up and down and wiggling his fingers to show he was no longer all crippled up, before shoving it right back into his belt as if that arm were still gimped up.

“Quacks are ruddy useless with just about everything,” Spalding grumped, “but I can’t do nothing with flesh and blood systems—I work strictly on the mechanical side of things.”

With a slightly distrustful look, the Tracto-an followed him over to the work-bench and then placed his arm on the table.

“Just a moment,” the old Engineer placed his tongue between his teeth and then reaching into his tool belt with one hand he used the other to tap out a simple code on the upper arm, near the shoulder section of the prosthetic arm.

A small, metal hatch clicked open in the synth-flesh exposing the metal and wiring underneath.

“Sickening,” Persus said, shaking his head as he peered around to look inside his arm, “do all you Starborn have the same disregard for such unnatural arts?”

“Unnatural?” Spalding bristled. “What’s unnatural is some child with a virtual degree—likely earned at a University that graded on a blasted curve—hangin’ on his wall, cloning your flesh for days and weeks before cutting your chest open and replacing your heart. That’s what’s unnatural!” he shook his head belligerently and then pointed at the other man’s arm. “This is just a simple, straightforward, and utterly comprehensible ‘mechanical’ prosthesis. This is something a man can wrap his head around, unlike all that cloning, healing tank nonsense some doctor cooked up to keep those jobbers down in medical employed.”

“I do not understand much of what you say,” Persus said in reply.

“Just don’t let those short jobbers down in medical get under your skin,” Spalding advised kindly. He paused, realizing that the tool in his hand was not right for the task at hand. Setting it aside, he reached around to pull out a higher sensitivity diagnostic unit. “This won’t take but a light-second,” he assured the other man.

“What are you doing?” asked the Tracto-an with a slight edge to his voice as Spalding stuck an adjustable screwdriver into his arm.

“Eh?” the old Engineer looked up at him in surprise and then over to the small auto-wrench he’d just put down on the table. “Oh,” he continued with sudden understanding, “just makin’ sure to use the right tool for the job is all. Have no fear, Papa Spalding is here,” he said before leaning back down to focus on the job.

The other man’s genetically-engineered jaw set.

“No, I ask after what you are doing to my arm?” he demanded tightly.

“Oh, that,” Spalding said looking down at what he was doing in surprise, then he tossed it off, “I’m just fixing you up for our fight is all. Don’t want you saying you were fighting with a handicap.”

“You speak in riddles,” Persus sighed. “I don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing?”

Spalding stopped and stared at him.

“Why…I can’t have you claiming I only walloped you cause you were fighting injured,” he finally said gruffly.

The Tracto-an gave him a level look and then shook his head from side to side as if bemused.

“What,” the older man said with rising fire, “don’t think I’ve still got it in me do you? You think the radiation fried more than just me arms and legs!”

Working furiously with renewed purpose, he finished fixing up the arm and, after a quick diagnostic check, prepared to close the cybernetic arm back up.

“There you go,” he snapped, “come on then; let’s get this over with.”

Like a cobra about to strike, Persus stared at him for along moment and then splayed his hands. “Perhaps we should eat first,” he said.

“I don’t see the need to wait,” Spalding said, balling up his fists.

“I have no wish for you to claim you were fighting without food,” Persus said after a moment and then switched tacks, “how long since you last ate?”

The old Engineer glared at the warrior, but seeing the steel in the other man’s eyes he became even angrier. “Fine!” he growled, “we can eat first.”

**************************************************

“What kind of food is that?” Persus asked, dropping his plate full of food onto the table beside the old Engineer.

Spalding frowned and looked down at his plate mulishly.

“It’s a type of sustenance fit for neither man nor beast,” he finally admitted.

“Then why eat it?” the Tracto-an asked with what sounded like genuine courtesy.

“I got old,” he replied sadly, “just can’t handle the radiation like I used to I guess. That fusion reactor tore up my internals and now I’m stuck with what they call a ‘soft diet.’ It’s like eating baby food most of the time,” he confided bitterly.

“Hmm,” the other man said, making an overtly interested sound.

“Some of it’s not bad,” the old Engineer said, halfheartedly poking at the Jiggle-O on his plate and making it jiggle from side to side.

“If the food is so terrible, why not have the healers work their magic and fix you? Or is that beyond their abilities?” asked Persus.

“I don’t have the time to be laid up like they would want,” the old Engineer said shaking his head rather too quickly, “can’t risk the downtime. The Clover—I mean, the ship, needs me; knowing those doctors, first they’d knock me out and then they’d keep me stuck up in sickbay long after I was ready to go back to work. It’s just too risky.”

“So it is not that they are unable to fix you?” Persus asked curiously.

“Who knows,” Spalding said glumly, even though secretly he was pretty sure that they could. He just had no interest in going back under the knife anytime soon. For the time being, he’d rather take his chances with the spotty food.

“You would really eat mush instead of being healed?” Persus sounded surprised.

“It’s just this darned Lander I’m working on,” the old Engineer declared. “If only I could figure out how to make her work, maybe I’d have time for cosmetic changes. But right now I’m stuck, and being able to work is more important than fine galley steaks or whatever other off-brand, perma-frozen slop they’re thawing for us here in the mess hall.”

“Problems?” Persus frowned.

“I can’t get the ship to go fast enough. It needs to go really fast—and then slow down just as fast—if this plan is going to work. You can put all the stealth coatings on the exterior that you want,” he quickly raised a hand to cut off an interruption the other man didn’t look in any hurry to make but still it was the principle of the thing, “the Demon knows I’ve worked as many fixes and patches as I can on that front. But no, it’s the speed issue that’s the problem.”

“You can’t ride your metal beast fast enough,” Persus asked skeptically.

“It’s not the speed,” the old Engineer said waggling a finger at the Tracto-an, “I can remove the safety interlocks and the ship will get there in a hurry, but everyone inside will be dead from crushing acceleration.”

“That would be bad,” Persus grunted, “so slow it down. Maybe add more armor.”

“Armor’s not the solution; that would only slow her down more, and there’s no point in trying to armor a puny little lander like a proper warship. The whole point of the thing is to be quick and nimble and deliver her load of Lancers. She has to be able to get under the bigger ship’s shield.

“Quick and nimble, stick and move…like a man with a dagger against a sword and shield,” Persus said contemplatively.

“Right, only I can’t get the grav-plate to work good enough,” the Tracto-an cocked an eyebrow at him and he hastened to explain. “I can’t go fast enough; the grav-plates are slowing it down.”

“So get rid of the grav-plates,” the warrior shrugged as if that answered the problem.

“Without the plates we’d be even slower…or we’d all die,” Spalding said in disgust, and at the continued lack of understanding evidenced by Persus’ expression, he said condescendingly, “I can no more get rid of the grav-plates than you could…get rid of your legs in this supposed dagger fight of yours. Just ‘cause the legs aren’t quick enough doesn’t mean you can just chop them off!”

Understanding dawned and then Persus peered off into space for a while. “If my legs were too slow and I needed to stab someone with my dagger, then I would have to use my arms to get under the guard. Bam!,” he gestured with an outstretched hand, “A lightning thrust at the last moment…perhaps I would also employ a cloak, to hide the dagger in my hand until it has struck.”

“Yes, well, I’ve already got stealth material but a true cloaking field is out of the realm of possibility,” Spalding sighed and poked the Jiggle-O with his spoon again. He watched in abject misery as the green substance jiggled back and forth.

“If you have longer arms, you can make up for bad legs and no cloak—if you’re lucky,” Persus shrugged.

“A ship’s ‘arms’ are her weapons, and those don’t help you get anywhere,” he fudged, because at least that was true of the vast majority of ships out there, of which the little lander was included. He knew that the craft was all shuttle, really, and he sighed.

The Tracto-an Warrior grunted and turned back to scooping large quantities of food down his gullet.

Turning away, Spalding took a few bites of applesauce, followed by vegetables boiled to within an inch of their lives, to the point where they just about literally melted in his mouth. Space gods, they were so soft and disgusting they made him want to gag.

Giving up on the foul stuff, he poked at his dessert again before taking a bite. He knew he just had to make up the difference somehow, and for a moment he chewed on the surprisingly stiff Jiggle-O. It wasn’t engines, and it was grav-plates, but somehow he had to be able to go faster—

He paused. Well, he didn’t really need to go faster, per se. The lander could actually go a lot faster than the crew could survive, thanks to the improved engines he’d put in her. The problem was simply one of crew survival.

“I need to improve the grav-plates, it’s the only way to keep the crew alive in that kind of acceleration,” he muttered to himself.

“Is it?” Persus asked.

“Is what, what?” the old Engineer asked irritably.

“The only way the ‘crew’ can survive this,” he paused and sounded the work out, “ac-cel-er-a-tion.”

The Chief Engineer opened his mouth to rebuke the Lancer for such a silly question when stopped, mouth hanging open as he actually considered the question.

“Not for a long time, but there haven’t always been just grav-plates for this kind of thing…” he said slowly, but then with growing enthusiasm, “I’ll have to check the historical accounts. Maybe there’s something there!”

It was a long shot but maybe he could find something that would help, if he just looked at it again with fresh eyes.

“You know, you’re not so bad at this whole engineering business after all,” he magnanimously informed the Tracto-an.

Persus rolled his eyes and kept eating, clearly expressing his opinion on the idea of him as an engineer.

Lost in thought, Spalding poked at his food, moving it around on his plate from one place to the other as he focused on matters much more important than mere sustenance.

There was something tickling at the back of his brain.

‘Jelly’ something-or-other came to mind for some reason, but he couldn’t figure out why. Maybe it was because he was just pushing around the only halfway edible portion of his meal, he wondered. Stopping to scoop up a bite of Jiggle-O. Jello and jelly are similar names for wildly different substances, he thought, staring at the green dessert as it wobbled from side to side, threatening to fall off his spoon due to the disharmonious frequency at which it jiggled.

Clearly he’d been up for too long without enough food or sleep—even he realized he was starting to get loopy.

Then he stopped and looked down at his Jiggle-O, with growing excitement he pushed on the gelatinous substance and watched as it moved absorbing the force of his blow before springing back into its former position unharmed.

That was it! What he needed was something that he could fill the compartment with and absorb the shockwave.

“Ballistics jelly!” he declared to all and sundry, standing up from his chair ready to march right back into his lab. He didn’t know if it would work or if working how he was going to get it in and then back out of the troop bay in anything like a timely manner so that the Lancers could offload and be ready to board the enemy warship, but those were just details. He actually had that most precious of things: a half-baked idea with which to spur his creative juices into action!

“Where are you going?” Persus demanded, giving his plate the gimlet eye.

The old Engineer stopped and blinked, having all but forgotten the other man in his excitement. Then his blinking turned into a frown and with a grumble he sat back down to finish his greens.

Awful stuff that it was.

Chapter 7: A rendezvous in Cold Space

I stood on the bridge with my hands behind my back as I stared at the main screen and the hyper-wave that pinpointed the position of the recently emerged Droid Supership.

“That sure is a big ship, sir,” a Sensor Operator commented to the Captain.

“Mind your post, Spaceman,” I barked at the Sensor Officer.

“Aye sir,” the Spacer said ducking his head.

“She looks big, Tactical,” I said, pursing my lips as I looked at the very large ship that had just dropped into the Star System we were currently located within, “what can you tell me about her?”

The Tactical Officer blinked and then looked back at me before nodding. Squaring his shoulders, he hunched back over his console once more before turning back to me.

“She’s pretty close to the size of a Settlership, Admiral. Really massive,” the Tactical Officer said speaking quickly but firmly, “battleship level shields—strong ones, too, even for that class, and we can also confirm Heavy Cruiser level weaponry.”

“Heavy Cruiser,” Laurent cut in incredulously, “that’s it?”

And my own eyebrows lifted in surprise.

“She may be hiding more, but so far that’s all we’ve spotted, sir,” the Tactical Officer said with a helpless look, as if he couldn’t believe it either.

“So she’s big but lightly armed,” I cut back in and then added, “relatively.”

The Tactical Officer blinked and then nodded as he turned back to me. I sensed a bit of reluctance or, maybe not reluctance, but perhaps surprise in his actions.

My eyes narrowed and I wondered if I’d taken too much of a step back during the last battle. I was used to a more ‘hands on’ approach to running the bridge during combat. Right now the bridge was sprinkled through with entirely new people, and they weren’t as used to responding to me as my old stalwarts were. Did I need to make sure they knew where to look, or was I threatening to micromanage things because of my own insecurity?

I had a new ship, new crew, or at least a lot of people who’d headed off with Akantha and who weren’t as used to my presence anymore. Maybe I did need to step it up, at least for the next little while.

Still feeling conflicted I decided now wasn’t the time to be wallowing in self-doubt.

“What else can you tell me about her?” I asked.

The Tactical Officer frowned.

“Her armor’s thin,” he said finally.

“You mean for her size?” I clarified.

“No, I mean for any size. It’s been reinforced in several sections but I’d say less than 10% of her hull has extra armor. If I didn’t know any better I’d say that hull is more civilian than military,” he paused in contemplation before sighing, “and I have to honestly say that I don’t know any better. It’s not like our files on Droid vessels are anything like complete.”

“Good to know,” I nodded.

“That droid ship also has a pretty power big source inside her, even for her size,” the Sensor Warrant cut in, giving the Tactical Officer an inscrutable look before focusing back on me.

I’d begun to open my mouth but closed it again. Leaning back, I placed a finger over my upper lip as my mind raced. We were a medium cruiser on steroids—or, at least one with a reinforced hull. They had a super-ship nearly the size of a settler, sporting battleships shields, heavy cruiser weaponry, and a paper thin hull.

To my mind, our weaponry was probably on par, our shields were close, if slightly lower, and our hull was definitely superior. However that would only hold true if our Imperial tech held the same advantage over the droids as it did over Confederation technology. Who knew what kind of tech advantages Droids might possess? For all we knew, they could be more advanced than the Empire in every way or, conversely, existing out on the Rim of Known Space they might only be able to use and acquire the sorts of aged designs and equipment the Pirates and other outworlders used. All of this calculation, of course, didn’t include the rest of my ‘fleet’.

“Okay, here’s what we’re going to do—” I started, unable to keep a slightly grim cast from my voice, but I was interrupted.

“Contact! Multiple contacts,” shouted a panicked sounding Sensor Operator.

My eyes flashed back up to the screen.

“We’ve got multiple ships detaching from the Droid Mothership,” reported Tactical in a rapid fire voice.

“We’ve just been pinged; we’re being scanned!” exclaimed the Warrant Officer in charge of Sensors.

I opened my mouth to say scan it back, but then realized that’s exactly what we’d been doing. I took a deep breath.

“What are we looking at?” I demanded, staring at those new contacts with hard eyes. If the droids had just decided to spring and ambush they were about to find out just how ready we were for their ‘surprise attack’—and how badly they’d messed up when they chose to face a Montagne.

“I’m seeing a number of shuttles, or lifeboat-sized vessels,” the Sensor Officer reported.

“Reclassify those boats and shuttles as heavy fighters,” Tactical corrected, “and the ships popping in at the hyper limit are definitely destroyer size.”

I looked at the four larger icons and the swarm of thirty eight smaller fighters popping up around and behind the Super-Ship and suppressed the urge to scowl. The odds had just been significantly evened.

“For some reason, I’m not surprised,” I muttered, thinking that any group that could and had cracked our communications network, even if only on the FTL side would have far too good an understanding of our fleet size and capability. Had I made a mistake and played into their hands by coming here? The fact that Bethany and Tremblay had signed off on the meet, even presupposing they hadn’t been coerced, still wasn’t reassuring.

“Sir, we’re being hailed,” Steiner said from her position at communications.

I stiffened in the chair. “Put it on, Comm.,” I ordered firmly.

“Shooting it over to the screen now,” she replied with a nod.

A Droid appeared on the main screen. He, she, or it, looked surprisingly human in appearance with an articulate, plastic-looking face and an oversized metallic head sticking out behind the pale white face.

“This is Ship Proctor Gambol-39; I seek interface with the biological entity, Admiral Montagne,” the Droid—Ship-Proctor Gambol-39—said in a synthesized voice.

All around the bridge, breaths were inhaled at this first contact with mechanical life forms.

“This is Admiral Montagne,” I replied, inclining my head fractionally and deliberately ignoring the peanut gallery.

“Your link is being transferred to the Chairman on the Sub-Committee on Foreign Relations with Biologicals,” Proctor Gambol-39 said matter-of-factly.

I opened my mouth to speak but the screen wavered and a new figure appeared. This one looked even odder than the previous droid, with a single red glowing eye, thin metallic limbs and a smashball shaped head.

“Greetings, Admiral, my name is Chairman Bottletop IIV, and I am greatly gratified that you have chosen to meet our demands,” the Droid said, inclining his body forward in what could, possibly, be mistaken for a bow.

“Demands?” I repeated coolly. The Droid paused.

“Not the best word selection?” the Chairman paused, sounding momentarily puzzled. “Perhaps ‘precondition for the opening of potentially harmonious future relations’ is a better descriptor?” it asked, looking at me as if I had the answer.

My jaw started to set but I did my best to smile through it.

“You said something about a prisoner exchange?” I inquired calmly.

“Oh yes, of course, forgive me,” the Chairman Droid, this so-called Bottletop IIV, sounded flustered, “I have bypassed the social niceties. How is your work cycle?” asked the Droid in a strangely haughty tone. “I trust it does not find you in a low energy state?”

It took me several moments to realize the droid was trying to make small talk, and was asking me how I was feeling.

“I’m doing fine,” I said my tone making it clear this line of conversation was done with, “I think it best if we stick to the main reason we’re here.”

“Oh, of course, pardon me,” Bottletop said, his metallic limbs rattling and clanking as he shifted position, “please allow me to verify verbally before the unit-to-unit hand off. You have acquired both the Captain and the Prisoners?”

“The man behind the Moonlight Myth is here, along with the droid cores you are looking for,” I replied, once again wondering if I was doing the right thing handing over a bunch of droid cores—even if all they were where a bunch of grav-cart data and control modules. The data they could give on Caprian military technology or fleet strength were minimal at best but it still felt wrong somehow.

“Then I am prepared to send over an unarmed shuttle to begin the retrieval of our synthetic brethren,” the Chairman Droid sounded pleased.

The thought of a droid having any sort of emotions had my brows climbing for the roof. Even if they didn’t actually have such emotions, the fact that they could so convincingly approximate such had potentially dire implications for the war effort. The better they could understand us and ape our behaviors, the worse the threat to non-mechanical life everywhere.

“One thing I’m still a little fuzzy on,” I said before the droid could go any further.

There was a pause. “Please elaborate your concerns, Admiral Jason Montagne,” the droid said politely.

“When you say ‘prisoner exchange’,” I said evenly, “what exactly do you mean? Your files were unclear on the subject and, as far as I am aware, no Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet personnel have fallen into Droid hands.”

The Chairman droid stilled in that eerie way that only mechanicals can do, and then began moving again as if nothing had happened. “Ah I understand your concerns,” the droid bobbed its head, “the reason for this obfuscation was three fold,” it raised a finger—or similarly-designated manipulating digit—for each point. “First; we were unsure as to exactly how many specimens we had in our possession at the time we transmitted the file. Second; how many prisoners are exchanged is in your hands, as not all of them are members of the Confederation Fleet.”

I interrupted before he could continue. “For the moment, let’s avoid the use of the word ‘specimens’,” I said, feeling an anger growing inside me at the term, “and take up the second issue. You mean to tell me you have bona fide members of the Confederation Fleet as your prisoners? Who else have you captured?”

“I apologize if the term offends,” the Droid said, “however, yes, we have in our possession members of the Confederation Fleet. We are not uncivilized, I would have you know,” the droid paused and then shot me a piercing look with its ominous red eye, “for the past three hundred standard years the United Sentients Assembly, and its precursor organization, the Free and Principled Mechanical Life Organization, and its predecessor, the AntiMatter Containment Union, have been providing rescue and relief duties under the articles of war as it regards defeated enemy combatants.”

“Three hundred years,” I repeated, my mind boggling.

“Indeed, and although some have viewed it as controversial, given our lack of extensive biological life support systems, we have worked hard to provide such prisoners with accommodations comparable to those provided our own people by the Confederation Authorities, while still following the established articles of war.”

I stared at the creature, impressed that they had been taking prisoners when I was sure and certain that Confederation Fleet had not been doing the same—except possibly for interrogation purposes. I also disliked the words ‘controversial’ and ‘comparable,’ even if they followed that up by saying they followed the rules of war. I mean, for all I knew they treated Confederation Fleet forces as pirates under the articles of war—and that could mean that we were just talking about picking up the remains of their so-called prisoners!

“These prisoners haven’t been physically or mentally damaged by their time in your prison facilities?” I asked finally.

“I assure you they have had minimal contact with the United Sentients, and any mental and physical conditions are as close to baseline at the time of their capture as can be technologically achieved. Although, following up on your final point, we have recently acquired a number of prisoners from the worlds of this Sector from the other Droid Groups.”

“For what purpose?” I asked sharply.

“We believe that all life is sacred and possessing of innate value, Admiral. When we learned the other Tribes intended to destroy these individuals summarily, we negotiated for their release into our care,” the Chairman replied.

“Just how many prisoners are we talking about?” I couldn’t hold back the question anymore.

“Two Thousand eight hundred and sixty nine Confederation prisoners, and seven thousand two hundred and forty seven miscellaneous personnel from various worlds and ships within Sectors 23 and 24,” Bottletop IIV said promptly.

I fell back in my chair, stunned by the numbers. “I hadn’t expected so many,” I said with rampant disbelief, “and I don’t understand how you could have so many members of the Confederation Fleet!”

The Droid looked at me oddly, “Three hundred years is a long time to gather prisoners, especially when we have sustained numerous conflicts with Confederation Forces. Honestly, the power drain necessary to keep this many biologicals in life-sustaining conditions over such long periods of time has been a strain on our resources which we are eager to be rid of,” the Chairman replied.

“What!? You mean you been holding fleet personnel for that long?” I said, my face tightening as I wondered just how many human prisoners had died in a droid prison.

“This is the first time a Confederation Officer of sufficient rank to authorize the release of prisoners has agreed to an exchange,” the Chairman said patiently.

“Well then, by all means; let’s get this show on the road,” I said firmly. “However, before I can authorize the release of our prisoners, I will need to see the condition of those we will be receiving.”

“After we have verified the status of the Droid Cores you will be exchanging, we are more than prepared to escort a group of inspectors from your ship over to our prison transport,” Bottletop said. “And, in the interests of expedience, we are prepared to give you the transport should you be unable to transfer all the prisoners off the vehicle.”

I didn’t like the part about them inspecting our side before we got to see theirs, but if they were telling the truth then I was about to exchange just under two hundred grav-carts—or, rather, their ‘cores’—for over ten thousand human lives. Since we could wire the cart-cores to blow at the first sign of any betrayal, it was a risk I was more than willing to take. The reward, to my mind, was far greater than the risks involved.

“Alright, agreed,” I said tamping down my eagerness to free that many people from the machines. I was about to initiate a sign off when something nagged at me. Then it came to me, “You said there were three reasons for not telling us this information in advance. What was the third?”

“Ah, yes,” the Droid replied, “we do not want to risk broadcasting such sensitive information over a network using an encryption protocol that was so easily penetrated.”

“I see,” I said heat rising to my face before signing off.

Chapter 8: Spalding vs. the Droids

“What are we doing out here?” Tiberius said over the com-channel and shaking his head.

“Getting ready for the handoff,” Commander Spalding growled.

“I can’t believe you’re doing this,” Tiberius said stiffly, “I mean, you’re actually going through with it.”

“Of course I’m going through with it,” Spalding Senior grunted. “I said I would, and the Admiral’s counting on us—” he shot a sideways look at his son and then scowled, “on me to make the hand off. Besides, these cores are nothing but a big power drain; I mean, do you realize what kind of electrical hookups and isolated router system I had to set up, and just how many years I’ve maintained it? Why, back in the Locker—”

Tiberius sighed. “Look, there’s no one out here but you and me,” Tiberius said finally, “let’s switch to a private channel.”

“What is it, boy?” Spalding replied irritably, after making the change. “We don’t have much time before they dock in the Locker’s exterior airlock.”

“That’s it! That’s exactly it,” the young Engineer fumed, “even here, even in private—or maybe that should be especially here in private—with your own son. Why can’t you for once, just once, come back to reality for two seconds instead of raving and spouting off old spacer nonsense like it was the gospel truth?!”

There was a slight glimmering in the distance as the Droid shuttle started taxiing in for the final approach, and then began to extend the portable airlock to the ship’s airlock they were standing in.

Spalding shook his head and then sighed heavily. “Son, why do I always have to be the one to come over into your way of thinking? Why can’t you cross the bridge to mine and see the world through my eyes for once in your lifetime—is that really too much to ask?”

Tiberius didn’t say anything for the half minute, until the Droid’s portable tube reached their position and they started hooking it up but the set of his shoulders said it all.

After securing the lock the duo entered into a small cargo bay area.

“So this is the mythical ‘Locker’,” Tiberius said neutrally as he gazed around with critical eyes, “sure looks a lot like an Intelligence half deck to me. Nothing mythical about it.”

“Some of the greatest mysteries don’t appear very mysterious when you pull back the curtain and know their secrets,” Spalding retorted, “but that doesn’t make them less than they are, or remove the sense of wonder.”

“Maybe not for you, but for the rest of us dressing things up in pretty gowns and calling them something out of a fairy tale just doesn’t hold any water,” Tiberius said exasperatedly.

The door to the airlock hatch slid open and both men’s attention turned to the airlock.

Servos whined and a mismatched pair of heavily-patched and haphazardly-repaired combat droids came through the hatch.

The two engineers hands landed on the butts of the plasma pistols they’d armed themselves with for the meeting.

Then a short, dumpy-looking droid with a built-in, form-fitted metal apron over its ‘torso’ stepped through the hatch and looked around the room.

“Are you Captain Moonlight?” she demanded, because unlike the other droids, this one looked to be the spitting image of an aged and long-discontinued household assistant design.

Spalding had to suppress a guffaw; except for the vacuum attachment used to clean dirty floors, the droid looked like the spitting image of an old Housekeeper 48-Gama-Four.

“That’s me,” he said tapping a thumb against his chest.

Tiberius made a strangled sound.

“Where are the prisoners?” the Housekeeper Droid asked, looking around with narrowed eyes.

“Got them all loaded up right here for you, Miss,” the old Engineer said pulling the tarp off a heavily loaded grav-cart sitting up against the wall.

“The name is Madame Clean-Sweep,” the housekeeper Droid said, swiveling back around to look at him before making a loud beeping noise and gesturing toward the grav-cart.

Both combat droids moved forward to inspect the cart and another pair moved out of the airlock to take their place.

Tiberius made a small sound of protest, his hand twitching on the butt of his pistol.

“Stay calm, lad; this is nothing to be concerned about,” the old Engineer said calmingly. “You know, two decades ago there was this automated infiltration team that had me dead to rights and—”

“Insane stories are not helping!” Tiberius hissed in an overly loud mutter.

“Right,” Spalding frowned, opening and then closing his mouth again before scowling at the younger man, “well then, buckle up, buttercup, and lock it down.”

Tiberius gave him a strangled look, “That’s the best you can do? Really, dad?”

One of the droids hooked up a cable to one of the many droid cores stacked up dangerously high on the cart and made a trilling sound.

“Test them all,” Madame Clean-Sweep said giving the two Spaldings a glower.

“They’re all there and in fine working condition, if I do say so myself, all 188 of them,” Spalding informed her.

The droid gave him a withering look.

“Having mechanical legs and eye doesn’t make you a droid,” Madame Clean-Sweep said in a strict voice. “And I wouldn’t trust a biological to know the first thing about the working condition of a droid core—especially not one who made a career out of hunting down sentient units.”

“Now, hold on just a bloomin’ minute!” Engineer Spalding said belligerently. His son placed a hand on his arm but he shook him off irritably, “For one, I’d better know a thing or three about cores, as I’ve been capturing the things for the past 4 decades! For the second, I only went after mutineers, rebels, and rogue units that were causing damage to the ship—or those blasted, two bit Automated Insurrectionists! So there’s no call to be questioning my competency!” he declared and before he knew it, he’d crossed the distance between them to wag his finger in ‘her’ face.

The whine of weapons cycling up to full power sounded as the two combat droids on either side of Madame Clean-Sweep pointed the barrels of their weapons in his face.

“Be careful, Captain,” the Droid Housekeeper warned.

“Then don’t question my competence to my face,” he glowered.

“I’d find it very uncomfortable if I had to explain to your Admiral exactly why his anti-droid vigilante had his brains scattered all over the wall and floor,” the Droid said stiffly.

The old Engineer paused to look at her and her guards then back at the two droids who had paused in their task of checking the grav-cart and shook his head.

“As if that would happen,” he scoffed and, with a wave of his hand and the press of a key on his data slate, he gestured and automated weaponry fell out of the recessed walls to bear on the droids. “Lady, I’ve got you and your helpers here dead to rights; if they so much as twitch in my direction with lethal intent it’ll be their silicon and wiring that’s scattered over the walls and floor. The name isn’t Terrance P. Spalding for nothing, don’t you know?” he finished with a drawl.

The combat droids froze, but Madame Clean-Sweep continued to act unimpressed.

“Now why don’t we all do what we came here to do and avoid the insults and the posturing until something actually goes sideways, which,” he said once again wagging his finger at her, “isn’t going to be coming from my end.”

“Finish the sweep,” she instructed her helpers, and then trilled out a series of high pitched notes.

“Ha!” the borged-out engineer said, turning away to study the combat droids as they continued methodically plugging in and test every core on the cart.

While he was standing there watching Tiberius sidled up to him. “What are you waiting for?” he hissed.

“Eh?” Spalding paused looking over at the boy. “What are you blathering on about now?” he demanded irritably.

“You’ve got them dead to rights; we need to blast them now before they find out the truth,” the younger man said in a very low voice, but not one low enough to escape the sharp look of Madame Clean.

“Watch your plotting, fleshpods,” she warned.

“Now, why would I want to do a fool thing like that?” the Commander demanded, ignoring the droid completely.

“If you won’t, then I’ll have to,” Tiberius said right before Madame Clean trilled something and the combat droids stiffened.

“Very well,” said Madame Clean striding over, “I’m prepared to take custody of the prisoners. The cores all check out as Droids, and I see no signs of outside tampering with their primary circuitry.”

Ignoring the look of surprise and puzzlement on the boy’s face, Spalding turned to the Droid with a grim expression.

“Alright, Clean,” Spalding said proffering a data slate, “sign here.”

“When you are ready, our ship will escort you to the Prison Transport where you can inspect our prisoners,” Madame Clean-Sweep said with a severe expression on her pseudo-plastic face.

Spalding nodded and watched closely as the droids exited the room, escorting the grav-cart back onto their shuttle with all the precision of a lancer team in hostile territory.

Tiberius’s mouth opened and closed. “What…” the younger Spalding gaped, clearly at a loss for words. “What was that?” the boy demanded looking confused and confounded.

“That was the first half of a prisoner exchange,” he replied gruffly, “or have your brains been slow-cooked by your ideology until you’re too busy watching it run out your ears to use it for thinking?”

“How in the world did you trick them into thinking…,” the Phoenix’s temporary Chief Engineer trailed off with disbelief, “I don’t understand it.”

“Look, boy, I only ever told you the honest truth about who I am, what I did, and what I do,” the older Engineer said with a sigh. “I’m an ornery old Royalist who fixes things, loves a ship more than he probably ought to, and doesn’t know how to quit. I also have been known to take down rogue grav-carts that were about to go droid, back in the day—as you can plainly see from all the cores we just transferred. I’m not anything more than I claim, but I’m not really anything less either, so sorry if finding out I really am the Captain after all these years is mildly upsetting.”

“But…” the young Engineer said clearly struggling to make sense of two conflicting world views, “you—”

“Look, I can’t help it if you don’t want to believe the evidence of your own eyes. Maybe you have too much of your mother in you, but we’ve got a job to do right now and I aim to do it; get ready to saddle up and go get them,” he growled interrupting the pointless muttering.

“Leave mom out of this,” Tiberius said sharply before falling into a tense and upset silence. The old engineer could practically see the storm clouds circling the boy’s head.

Well that’s just too bad, he decided. It was time the lad wised up before his inability to properly interface with reality got him hurt, killed or worse.

Whistling a tune under his breath, he decided that right then was probably the perfect time to use the lander he’d been working on, since it still wasn’t working quite right. This way, anything anybody scanned off it would lull them into a false sense of security for the next time they encountered it.

Chapter 9: The Prisoners!

During the whole trip over to the Droid’s prison ship in his father’s rattle trap of a converted shuttle craft, Tiberius waited for the hammer to drop. In some ways, he actually prayed that it would. That would at least make sense in a galaxy gone wrong. His father was a fraud, Murphy blast it, not some pretentious action hero!!!

He didn’t understand how it was possible. His father wasn’t a computer genius, there was no way he could deceive the machines with a bunch of old grav-cart computer cores—that were in no way sentient in and of themselves—and pass them off as the hard won labors of Captain Moonlight, the holo-droid fighter. Yet those droids had believed…they’d scanned each core and, blast the Demon Murphy, they still believed they’d just gotten a cart load of insipient droid cores!

In truth, there weren’t even that many grav-carts on the Phoenix, and almost certainly not even that many in the entire fleet, so why would the droids believe—and how did Spalding Senior get his hands that many cores? It just didn’t make sense!

The way he now saw it, there were three possibilities and he decided to mentally list them in descending order of likelihood to be true.

First: it was all a ruse and before long they were going to be found out and killed by the droids for trying to pass off non-sentient computer cores for sentient droid cores. This still seemed most likely to Tiberius, despite all the evidence so far against it being true.

Second: Spalding Senior and the Montagne were somehow already in cahoots with the droids, and this was all an elaborate smokescreen for a deeper plot of some sort. But even after everything else that had happened, he just didn’t see his father as a patsy for the Machines.

Third: All of it was real, and his father actually was the Droid fighting hero he had hinted at being his entire life, up until Tiberius threw up his hands and walked away. There had simply been too many insufferable tall tales, and outright lies and fabrications which his Father had tried to pawn off as the gospel truth. Tiberius had known better…but now there were real doubts being cast on that ‘knowledge.’ This was the worst and hardest to swallow of them all, because if he hadn’t been lying about this, then where did the truth begin in what he’d thought all his life up till now were nothing more than lies and exaggerations?

In a way, he almost hoped the Droids attacked them because at least that would make sense in a world suddenly gone sideways. What didn’t make sense was making deals with droids, exchanging prisoners with them and his father actually being some kind of two-bit childhood holo-vid hero.

From the Fraternal Order of Space Engineers no less, he thought derisively.

“Something wrong, lad?” Spalding Senior asked and Tiberius realized he must have been growling out loud.

“No, sir,” he said tightly, looking around the bare bones interior of the Lander where all the internal walls had been pulled out until every single wire, conduit and internal power run had been exposed.

Instinctively, he hunched his shoulders in anticipation of an attack by the Droid escort ships or to be executed by a live wire.

“You really ought to do something about the mess in here,” he said sharply, “it’s a safety hazard.”

“Never been inside a test bird before, eh?” Senior said in that infuriating way that only he possessed. He somehow managed to simultaneously question your knowledge and competence, while also warning you he was about to launch into a long winded tale or allegory related to the subject…and there he went, “why, back when I was just a young sprout in my 50’s, I had the opportunity to take a ride inside a Space Beagle 360 and let me tell you—”

“Never heard of it,” Tiberius cut in, not wanting to hear yet another tale of the old man’s glory days.

“As I was about to say,” the old Man said irritably, sounding testy at being interrupted in the middle of a good tale, “the blasted thing was renamed the ‘Space Hawk 2.9’ and completely redesigned before they cut her loose.”

Now, the Space Hawk Strike Fighter was something he’d heard of, although he had trouble believing his old man had anything to do with it. He sighed, since as usual it was remarkably convenient that the fighter had been completely redesigned between when he saw it and when it came out, where the rest of the engineers on Capria could see the specs. Clearly unaware of his son’s internal thoughts, Spalding Senior blithely continued with his prattle, “But before that happened, I got to take a ride inside her and let me tell you—”

“Can’t say as I’m really interested,” Lieutenant Tiberius Spalding cut in, miming a yawn and turning away.

The livid silence beside him was its own reward in and of itself as was the lack of anymore big-fish-that-got-away, yet completely unverifiable, engineering stories.

Just the facts, man, and preferably they should come along with a data stick filled with schematics and credible reference sources, Tiberius thought snidely, unable to help himself with the uncharitable mental tone but also not willing to correct himself in the privacy of his own mind.

However, when they arrived at the Prison Transport—a gigantic, civilian freighter with a high power generation profile—and docked, all such thoughts were knocked firmly out of his head.

**************************************************

“They’ve been frozen in bloody carbonite,” Spalding gasped staring up and down the rows and rows of ‘prisoners’.

“No,” beep-grunted an Engineer/Repair Droid with a tool belt hanging with everything from a plasma torch and space wrench, which he approved of as well as an ever to be cursed multi-tool, as it corrected him, “they have been placed in long term cryogenic suspension. A number of ancient colonizers were up for sale in the Rim following the last post-colonization slump and—”

“It’s inhuman,” exclaimed Tiberius now sounding outraged at something other than him, “and a complete violation of the Laws of Man!”

“Technically, it is permissible under the Confederation War Accords, as well as the Laws of Man as interpreted by their own Supreme Judiciary Body. Any number of long-term prisoners who are a threat to the Imperial Senate, yet contain an irreplaceable knowledge base, have been placed in cryogenic suspension until such a time—”

“Blasted machines!” shouted Tiberius.

“Calm yourself, lad,” Spalding said sharply, and then rounded on the Droid. He didn’t trust the thing’s patter, and his eyes caught once again on the multi-tool and he looked back up at the thing suspiciously, “And as for putting all these lads in cryo; I don’t care about how cheap you got the machinery to do it, what was yer blasted rationale?”

“Inferior organic minds,” the Repair Droid said witheringly, “if I must go back to such basics as should be obvious to even an organic ignoramus,” Spalding bristled, “they were placed in cryogenic suspension in order to prevent prison riots and escape attempts due to being placed in long-term confinement, as well as alleviate cases of post-traumatic stress disorder, both from losing a battle and from being kept prisoner by mechanical life forms.”

“Hah!” Tiberius exclaimed but Spalding wasn’t paying him any attention.

“An ignoramus is it?” he declared angrily.

“If the fitting tightens,” the Repair Droid said drolly.

Spalding spluttered, feeling himself go red in the face. “Like I should trust the assessment of a machine that thinks using a multi-tool is the way to get a repair job done right,” he snarled at the Droid, “let me think it was you who had the bright idea of putting these lad and lasses into cryo!”

“Inferior biological entities without the RAM to understand basic repair jobs shouldn’t feel free to comment on the work of their betters,” the Droid glared, moving toward him.

Spalding reciprocated by going chest to chest with the thing.

“Oh, aye, ‘betters’ is it, Oscar the Trashcan,” he glared right back at the Droid. “Well, let me tell you just what you can do with yer bigotry—”

The Droid beep-booped furiously.

“My designation is Repairs Through Adversity, and I didn’t design this facility, I merely fully-functionally approve of it!” said the Droid.

“Well, my name is Terrence P. Spalding,” the old Engineer said belligerently, “and what you’re doing here, I don’t care if it’s legal or not, it ain’t right!”

“Oh and what you’ve done to our brothers and sisters in Human Space is/was,” Repairs Through Adversity retorted derisively, “I know who you are, Captain Moonlight, so don’t try to project yourself as better than I know you to be!”

Rage surged up and down the old Engineer’s body. “What I did!” raged Commander Spalding. “Oh, you’d best be prepared to retract that, or back up your words with yer bloomin fists, ya idjit!”

“Anytime you want, Bag of Mostly Water,” the Repair Droid retorted, thumping itself on its carapace.

“Uh, sir,” Tiberius said placing a hand on his arm and sounding concerned, “maybe this isn’t—”

Spalding shrugged him off; the lad had yet to learn there were some things you just couldn’t let stand. But someday, if he lived as long as his father, he would.

“For your information,” he growled, thumping the Droid on its chest piece with a finger, “every single droid I captured wasn’t just turned off like a light switch, but put inside a limited network where they could choose to interact with others, or skim the terabytes of information I assembled for it. There was none of this ‘cryo-freeze’ business.”

“Lies,” yelled the Droid, grabbing his finger and applying pressure. “And keep your dirty manipulators off me or suffer the consequences,” it said just before breaking his finger in one servo whining surge of activity.

Fortunately, he had used the multi-tool finger to prod the creature, so it was little loss—at least in the old engineer’s mind. However, that was his finger and no one broke Terrance P. Spalding’s finger and got to keep talking trash and walk away!

“That’s it,” he growled, the fingers of his other hand—the ones that became mini-plasma torches—clicking back as the plasma-fingers fired one by one.

“Weak organic, you wouldn’t dare—” the Droid started, only to be silenced by a power assisted knee to the gut.

It didn’t seem very effective, even driven by all the power in his droid legs, but Spalding was too incensed to care.

“A liar, am I?!” he shouted. “No one calls me a liar and walks, you shoddy, multi-tool-using, poor excuse for an engineer!” he raged, going all out in a flurry of knee’s, elbows and fists of fury.

“Organic bigot!” squealed the Droid, swinging for his head.

The old Engineer took the hit on his synthetic arm and shrugged it off. He was vaguely aware of Tiberius backing away, but he was in it now and had little time for anything but stoving in the Droid’s faceplate.

“I’m going to learn you to do yer research before spouting off, you miserable excuse for a repair-bot,” he shouted, giving the Droid the old one-two before suddenly switching things up and kicking the thing into the wall. He followed up with his plasma fingers poised for doing real damage.

“I have more technical files in my storage space than you’re organic mind could ever hold,” buzzed the Repair Droid, bouncing off the wall and coming up under his swing. The blow he landed in the old engineer’s side felt like it cracked ribs.

“All files and no troubleshooting ability,” he half-gasped, half-sneered and decided that those ribs were definitely busted. But he came back around with a stomp that sent the thing rolling back out of the way for fear of its life, anyway.

The whines of blaster rifles charging up as more and more droids—including more of the off-brand, variable type combat models—surrounded them.

“Come on,” he said, ignoring the audience, planting his feet and making a come here gesture with his damaged hand, “if you think you’ve got the weight to take on a mere biological ‘bag of mostly water’!”

“Desist,” declared the Combat Models, causing the Repair Droid to look over at them for a split second before launching itself at the old engineer.

“I’ll be happy to get rid of this primary duty and return to something that’s meaningful—something which these Prisoners certainly aren’t,” yelled the droid, coming back at him but at the last moment dodging a powerful roundhouse.

“Are you here to dance?” taunted Spalding, while around them the Droids were beeping, buzzing and verbally demanding a ‘cessation of hostilities’.

The Droid came back in and they exchanged blows and for the most part the old Engineer managed to take it on the legs, ineffective tactic by the machine at best, or on the arms, slightly more effective but hardly getting it anywhere fast compared to the dents it was taking and the reduced movement and whiny sound in the servo of its right arm, although the one blow it landed to the gut knocked the air out of the old Engineer.

“I know,” he wheezed backing away his arms raised defensively as the droid followed him, “that’s what you were. You weren’t a real repair droid; you’re recently a repurposed dancing instructor,” he gasped out at it.

The Droid came back at him hard and strong, but that was okay because that was just what the Engineer was waiting for—or, at least, that’s what he told himself right after the Droid jumped up high and came back down with an overhand hammer fist that nearly did him in on the spot.

Staggering around blindly with his head ringing—not just his ears, but his actual, metallic skull was ringing—he disjointedly flailed around and swinging for the rafters. He was in it now, and he figured that if not for all the chrome in his dome he’d be dead with a caved in skull right now.

A lesser man, he decided after taking a pair of blows to the back that sent him sprawling against the wall, would be ready to give up.

But not him! A real engineer knew how to defeat any problem, all it took was the proper application of sound engineering principles. That’s why, when the next blow came, he grabbed the droid and grappled.

Grabbing the five-and-a-half-foot tall droid was worse than going up against a werebear back on Capria, and after a second he overbalanced, falling to the floor with a thud that hurt his back worse than lifting up a sub-node without help. But now the Droid had him exactly where he wanted it and the next time it bounced off and came back at him arms raised like a pair of pile driving he drew back his legs.

When the thing came down at him, he used his droid legs to slam it up against the wall. Knowing this was his chance, and that he’d never get another, he drew back his legs again and repeatedly slammed the thing between his droid-legs and the wall.

Finally the force of his kicks drove him away from the wall and, while he tried to get back into position to finish the thing off, he just didn’t have the go juice in him anymore. He knew that a younger Spalding—one with more fire in his belly—could have kept going, but this old worn down version he’d turned into while he wasn’t paying attention just couldn’t scrap like he used to.

Oh, he tried kicking the thing again a few times but all it did was turn him twenty five degrees off target until he could barely bring his legs to bear, let along slam Repairs Through Adversity into the wall a few more times like the little, multi-tool using thing deserved after trying to stove in his skull.

There was the sound of rapidly firing servos, and the useless clattering and scraping of metal hands and feet on the floor followed by cursing.

“Are you still alive over there, Organic?” swore the Droid.

“I’m going to get you yet, Synthetic,” cursed Spalding, “just you wait!”

“Then what the blast are you waiting for?” yelled the Droid, once again trying to get up and falling back against the wall. “Come on!”

“Just see if I don’t,” grunted Spalding, trying to get up again but something was broken inside and he coughed wetly before falling back to the floor weakly. He wiped the back of his hand over his mouth and it came back with a red streak on it, which irritated him more than anything else, “Just you wait; I’ll get you yet. See if I don’t!” he kicked weakly, just to show he could, before collapsing back onto the floor.

“I’ll be glad to get rid of these human blocks of ice, since they’ve been nothing but a power drain,” the Droid yelled at him.

“Yeah, well you try taking care of a hundred odd angsty droid cores for a few decades all on your lonesome and then we’ll talk further,” he told the thing irritably, muttering, “slacker” under his breath.

“What was that!?” demanded the Droid.

“I said at least you had support when you needed it, you bastard!” Spalding scowled.

“Like you would know the meaning of real work if it hit you over the top of the head, Bag of Water,” cursed the droid. “You try 24 hour shifts with only 6 fifteen minute recharge breaks and one weekly 4 hour maintenance cycle, and then we’ll talk again, Bag!”

“That’s nothing—and besides, I bet you had a whole repair team,” Spalding sneered. “Why, I once worked a whole week without support of any kind! I had to manage a fusion reactor and repair the normal space drives all at the same time. Why, I bet if you tried that, your core would over heat and shut down. Which doesn’t even mention the time I was the only ‘real’ trained engineer in the department—with twelve thousand regular crew onboard—and I had to keep the whole ship operating for months on end with nothing but trainees and a few green petty officers.”

“Bah!” sneered the Droid. “I once had to download basic tech-repair files into a bunch of miner bots with no system support. I’d like to see you working with a bunch of Droids that came with attachments meant to cut through metal, and no replacements, try to repair delicate mechanical systems.”

“Why, that’s nothing,” Spalding scoffed, “at least you could download what they needed right into their brain cores! Why, when I was back on the Clover we had an emergency alert with the enviro-systems, and all I had were the tools on me, a few scanners the crew didn’t know how to use, and bunch of head bags—”

The Droid and the Engineer kept exchanging insults until they were pulled apart, and Tiberius and the old Engineer were put onboard the lander and sent back to the Furious Phoenix for Medical support. The details of the trip were a big smudge of indignant protestations which seemed to morph into one massive blob of bitter resentment at his old body having failed him, yet again, when he needed it most.

Chapter 10: The Exchange

“Can you believe the reports?” Eastwood said shaking his head. “Unbelievable.”

I quirked a brow at him. “Both an away team comprised of engineers and a temporary command team all say the same thing as our two chief engineers, I find it increasingly hard to chalk it all up to a shared delusion myself,” I replied after a moment.

Irritation flashed over the ship’s First Officer’s face before smoothing back into respectful professionalism. “I meant it as an expression,” First Officer Eastwood said a touch stiffly, “it just sounds like something out of a bad holo-vid more than a genuine report. Thousands of Fleet and local SDF personnel, captured over the course of hundreds of years and then frozen in cryogenic stasis, after undergoing Space Gods know what under the hands of the Droids.”

I looked at the First Officer appraisingly and then reluctantly nodded. “So far there are no signs of any physical damage consistent with torture,” I said.

“Small mercies that, by the Demon!” Eastwood said a little too loudly. “But who knows what kind of psychological—or pharmacological—pressure was brought to bear or what was done and then later healed up.”

“We can’t rule anything out,” I said neutrally. On the surface I was agreeing with him, and yet despite these being Machine Creatures right out of humanities worst nightmares, I couldn’t quite see the play. I mean, why approach us in seemingly good faith—marred only by a single fight on the prison ship between Spalding and a Repair Droid, of all things—in order to launch such a one-sided exchange.

I just had a hard time equating a 188 droid cores with the better part of ten thousand skilled human spacers, as some kind of equal trade. No matter how many different ways I looked at it, the numbers just didn’t add up. Something was off—and it wasn’t just my Chief Engineer’s fight with a droid. Troubling as it was, this was the Commander Spalding, after all. He wasn’t exactly the most stable representative—not that I wasn’t prepared to launch an attack against the oversized Droid Mothership on his assessment, but….

In retrospect, maybe he hadn’t been the best representative for the job. Still…what were those droids up to?

“Have medical prepare for a full scan: physical, mental, psychological conditioning, implants, you name it,” I said, shaking off my worries. It wasn’t time to get lost in a haze of indecision, but rather to move decisively.

“We can still make a preemptive strike, sir,” Eastwood reminded me, “it’s not too late.”

I hesitated.

“He does have a point, Admiral,” Captain Laurent said stepping up to my side and saying in a firm low voice, “we might not get a better chance to hit the droids all concentrated like this.”

“Violate the ceasefire now that we have the prisoners in our possession?” I asked, feeling strangely reluctant.

“We’ve been scanning that thing nonstop since it came into the system,” Eastwood said intently. “As far as we can see, its weaponry is secondary; that thing isn’t a fighter, it’s a mobile construction base. An oversized constructor, if you will. Destroying or crippling it could help the war effort immeasurably.”

“It is a critical target, Admiral. We may not get this thing in our sights again,” Laurent agreed with his first officer.

I frowned.

“We may not get an opportunity like this again,” the First Office urged, “just give the word and we’ll open fire.”

“And break our word just like that?” I asked, trying to feel out just exactly why I was reluctant.

“To a droid—a machine—sir?” Eastwood asked looking at me like I was some kind of strange, repulsive, foreign entity.

“Yes, our word, First Officer,” I said exasperatedly. “We agreed to a non-violent prisoner exchange and, so far, the other side has done nothing to break its word.”

“So far,” Eastwood repeated glaring at the Droid Mothership on the main screen before turning back to me with his hot and angry gaze, “but a word to a machine isn’t worth spit.”

“I like to think my word and reputation are worth more than a little spit,” I said stiffly.

Eastwood looked at me in disbelief. “Your word is reason enough to let a Fleet of Droids sail off scot free to oppress another human world?” the First Officer said in a rising voice.

“Control yourself, XO,” Laurent cut in before I could—we were starting to attract attention.

I gave the First Officer a deathly stare, and the Captain turned back to face me.

“The Admiral’s word and reputation on the Rim isn’t something to be lightly compromised,” he said seemingly talking to Eastwood but looking right at me. “However, Admiral, we have to ask ourselves: is it worth the potential loss of human life?”

“What about the Prisoners, Captain?” I asked more calmly than I felt, adrenaline rushing through my veins in a way it hadn’t since the last genuine challenge to my authority. I sensed I was at some kind of tipping point, “By the time they’re clear of the droids they’ll be well away from here with that mobile builder, all we’d bag are a few destroyers and some ill will.”

For once Eastwood looked troubled.

“A point, Admiral,” the First Officer sounded pained, “however, I think what we have to ask ourselves is what would they want us to do?”

“They?” I asked not quite following.

“The Prisoners, sir,” Laurent cut in.

I felt a chill. “I am not prepared to throw away everything we just risked our lives for, in order to strike an ultimately empty blow at these droids, Captain,” I glowered at him.

Eastwood opened his mouth but Laurent shot him a sharp look.

“That’ll be all, First Officer,” he said shortly.

Eastwood looked mutinous. “The Admiral and I have a few things to discuss,” Laurent said sharply, “we’ll call you if we need your opinion again.”

“Yes sir,” Eastwood bit out, before pivoting on his heel and stalking off back to the Tactical section.

Laurent turned back to me.

“He’s well trained,” I said, indicating the First Officer who, despite his anger, had followed orders.

“His sentiment is rampant throughout the ship, Admiral,” the Captain said with a hint of disapproval.

“You think I ought to cater to his paranoia and bigotry against the droids, over the dictates of common sense?” I said giving the Captain a cool look.

Laurent paused. “These aren’t pirates, sir. Or a rogue world or Sector government,” he continued shaking his head, “these are the scourge of mankind brought back to life.”

I opened my mouth.

“Hear me out, sir,” he asked and I settled back, “these Droids have actively invaded human space, where they’re taking prisoners and conquering worlds.”

“They have prisoners, but I’m not sure if these droids have invaded any worlds,” I pointed out.

“Semantics,” Laurent brushed off the point, “droids are invading human occupied worlds; we fought them off ourselves. The members of this fleet expect us to take the battle to the enemy, and I’m not sure what they’ll do if we seem to be making deals with droids and turning our back on the suffering of millions.”

“You’re not sure what they’ll do,” I said.

“Yes, sir,” he nodded.

“You’re not sure what they’ll do,” I repeated rising out of my chair anger growing in my belly.

“Admiral…?” Laurent trailed off looking at me with alarm.

“YOU’RE NOT SURE WHAT THEY’LL DO?” I shouted, molten fury igniting my belly.

“Sir, there’s no need—” he started but I cut him off.

“Any man who thinks I’ve signed on for the destruction of mankind can kindly take himself off my ship before I have him shot!” I raged, sweeping the bridge with fury. “If members of my own crew—who’ve been with me through fires of perdition and back again—don’t trust me by now to have the best interests of this Fleet and Mankind as whole in mind, then they can go straight to hell and I’ll save these blasted Sectors all by myself!”

“Sir, control yourself—” Laurent urged.

“You’re on thin ice captain; I’d tread carefully if I were you,” I shot back furiously before turning back to the bridge crew. “Anyone who doesn’t like this outfit can feel free to get off at the next port of call, do you understand me?!” I demanded of the bridge.

There was echoing silence.

“Do you understand me!?” I shouted.

There was a ragged calling of, “Yes sir,” from around the bridge.

“Good!” I snarled, “now hear this. I just cut a deal with these Droids here, in order to rescue human prisoners to the order of just under three thousand confederation Fleet Personnel and seven thousand local SDF officers and crew. I intend to save those people, and then join the local effort to smash these machines—wherever they are—until we drive them back out of these Sectors, so that they’re never again a threat to human space. And anyone who feels too squeamish at the thought of cutting deals with machines in order to win this thing can get the blazes off my ships! I will lie, cheat, scheme—or even keep my blasted word to these droids—or do whatever I think is necessary to save these people from destruction. If that means I have to cut deals with these blasted machines, or any others, in order to divide and conqueror then I’m going to bloody well do that. So don’t let the door hit you where the good Lord split you; good day!”

I turned and stormed off the bridge and into the ready room that I’d appropriated. Sitting down at the chair, I activated my communications console.

“Jason?” Akantha asked, appearing on my holo-screen.

“My love,” I nodded.

Her eyebrows lifted. “Flattery?” she asked looking amused.

“I need a little favor,” I said flatly.

“Of course,” she replied, amusement fading.

“Have the men armor up and run a few anti-boarding drills—full weapons loadout,” I said.

“Is there a problem?” she asked, cutting right to the heart of the problem.

“Probably not, but it’s never wrong to be prepared,” I said coldly, mind flitting back to my Captain and First Officer.

“Jason—” she said strictly.

“Tempers are running a little hot right now,” I said evenly, “why not have the Lancer teams start in Gunnery and work their way through the rest of the ship first.”

“Of course,” she said with a nod and then paused, “we’ll talk more of this later.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said smoothly and then cut the channel. Precautions in place, I turned to face the door, my free hand unconsciously creeping up my sleeve before I stopped myself.

Odds were there was no problem, just a few particularly strong anti-machine tempers flaring at the thought of letting any droids go, but I’d already been through one mutiny. Call it paranoia, or post-traumatic stress, but I was going to have all my ducks in a row just in case. In fact, the best thing to do was call it a drill, because for now that’s all it was.

Realizing my hand was now unconsciously kneading the side of my neck I hastily put it back down and forced myself to sit still.

I sat there until it was time to jump the ship out of the system, confident in the knowledge that if anyone tried to fire on the droids against orders, my Lancers would stop them.

Chapter 11: Ambush

“Contact!” cried a Sensor Operator.

“I’m reading multiple point emergence signatures off our starboard bow,” reported Navigator Shepherd as, on the main screen, multiple ships lit off their normal space drive engines.

“They’re coming right for us!” shouted the Sensor Operator, as the number of contacts continued to multiply.

“I read multiple sensor contacts breaking out of the shadow of what the computers are calling enemy destroyers,” the Tactical Officer said in rising voice, “best guess is the smaller contacts are enemy fighters!” “New orders to the Fleet,” I said, cutting through the confusion, “destroyers and above are to focus on those enemy heavies, everything else is to help the gunboats sweep those fighters out of my skies. Flagship engines to maximum, and the rest of the fleet is to maintain position on us.”

“Relaying now, Admiral,” Lisa Steiner said crisply from her station at the Comm..

“You heard the Flag, Tactical,” Laurent instructed, “I want those plasma cannons focused on the immediate area to deal with short ranged threats; bring everything else to bear on those Destroyers.”

“Destroyers are painting MSP Corvettes and Cutters with targeting sensors,” Eastwood reported calmly, “will order Gunnery to switch priority targeting to compensate.”

“The Light Cruiser, Admiral’s Pride, reports an intermittent fault with their secondary engine,” Steiner reported from Communications, “max speed is reduced an estimated 20%.”

“Couldn’t they have picked a different name for that ship?” I complained, not thinking there was actually much to be prideful about concerning that aging bucket of bolts, but Steiner just looked at me steadily. “Oh, acknowledged…acknowledged,” I said, feeling pricked by her disapproving regard.

Moments later I was swept back into the flow of reports and counter reports as the Droid Destroyers continued their attack run.

“Where the blazes did they come from, Sensors?” Laurent snapped.

“They just point transferred into range of our sensors, Captain,” the Sensor Warrant sounded stressed, “one moment there was nothing there and the next they were popping up. They must have been lying doggo somewhere deeper in system with their hyper-engines at the ready.”

“Well, next time find them before they find us!” the Flag Captain ordered angrily.

“We’ll do our best, sir,” the Warrant replied.

“Destroyers have assumed a diamond formation, heavies on the outside and lighter vessels on the interior. They are currently aiming to skirt the edges of our formation, most likely to pick off a few of our lighter ships,” reported Tactical, “I read four destroyers and twenty to thirty fighter types.”

“Even numbers then, on the heavies,” I said confidently. “Bring the fleet about with the Phoenix in the lead, lighter ships to fall behind our larger ones. We’ll go for a head to head engagement so we can fire as we pass.”

“Bringing the ship about,” replied DuPont before the order could be relayed through the entire chain of command down to him.

I smiled. It was good to see that we hadn’t lost our tactical flexibility in the heat of combat.

But that smile disappeared as the Destroyer ships moved to compensate.

“Sir, you are aware that we only have three ships of the same or higher classification as the Droid Destroyers, while they have four,” Laurent coughed and reminded me.

“We’ve got them out-massed,” I said waving this minor point away, “I have to think a Strike Cruiser, a Light Cruiser, and a Destroyer are the equal of any four droid destroyers. I mean, we handled those droid Motherships back in Aqua Nova when we were heavily outnumbered. Personally, I like our odds against a smaller number of ships with inferior mass,” I added almost hungry to come to grips with the enemy.

“Naturally, I agree with you, sir,” Laurent replied professionally, “however, the fact remains that these are a new class of ship we’ve never seen before; we’ve only received second hand readings. The Computer pegs these ships as belonging to the tribe called ‘Harmony through Specialization,’ and every report we have indicates these Harmony ships are a lot more effective, pound for pound, compared to the Conformity style ships we’ve dealt with in the past.”

“Live and learn,” I said just as the Destroyers moved to compensate for our change in course. We had to fight them sometime and somewhere and right then I was liking our odds. Which, of course, inevitably led to the question: if I was in such a superior position, why were they attacking us?

I frowned at the screen.

“All Corvettes and Cutters are to position themselves behind the larger warships,” I instructed.

“Aye, sir,” Steiner replied.

Looking at the screen, I saw that one of our ships was falling behind. Worse, almost as soon as I noticed this, the Destroyers’ movement track adjusted course to point directly at the laggard. They were going to cut it off from the rest of the fleet and savage it.

“Tell the laggard to catch up,” I said to Steiner indicating the slower ship.

The com-tech blinked and relayed the message. After listening she turned back to me with consternation, “That’s the Prison Freighter, Admiral. They say they’re already burning flat out.”

It took a half second for what she’d said to sink in and then I could feel my face turning warm around the edges. I opened my mouth for a hot reply, but quickly realized that would just be me venting my spleen on other people for my own stupidity.

So, in a calm voice, I said, “Slow the Fleet; we need to cover the Prison Transport.”

“Aye, Admiral,” the Captain said, repeating my orders to the rest of the Phoenix while Steiner got back on the horn with the Fleet at large.

“The Destroyers have adjusted course and increased speed,” the Tactical Officer reported, “they’re making a run for the transport.

I sat there, watching the screen and the ETA for when the destroyers would be able to intercept the Prison Transport. It was going to be close, but we would get there in time.

Something still felt off and I tried to figure out, once again, why those Destroyers were attacking a clearly superior force. At that moment their target was obvious: they wanted to destroy the prison transport. But we would get there before them, so why were they continuing the attack?

I locked my jaw as I tried to reason it out. It just wasn’t coming to me. Maybe they were like that Conformity Fleet we’d fought in Aqua Nova, single-minded and relatively stupid. But looking again at their smaller ships I didn’t see how they could survive by being both small and stupid. Plus, all reports to date indicated highly effective warships with solid tactics.

When in doubt, change things up and, if possible, do the unexpected, I decided.

“New orders to the,” my mouth felt bitter as I spoke the next words, “Admiral’s Pride…and the gunboats are to accompany us as we break formation and move to intercept the Droid Destroyers away from the main body.”

Even as I spoke, Laurent was already relaying orders to the bridge of the Phoenix and as soon as the Admiral’s Pride signaled ready, we shot away from the rest of the Fleet with a trail of gunboats following along behind.

At first the Droids attempted to change course and skirt around us but the Phoenix proved too fleet for them. Sooner than I would have expected, the Droids gave into the inevitable. You could tell the moment they came to the decision to stop trying to evade us and sneak around, because they all simultaneously changed course and turned right toward us.

“Course change,” exclaimed Tactical, “enemy vessels are vectoring in on us.”

“Helm, prepare for sudden maneuvers,” ordered Laurent.

“I want a firing pass on those destroyers and then a hard turn back to the rest of the Fleet,” I instructed, “give it to them with both barrels, and tell those gunboats they are to focus on anti-fighter patrol.”

Laurent nodded, “Will do, sir…you do know that, pound for pound, Gunboats do better duty on anti-ship missions than anti-fighter. They’re still generally superior to any fighter of a comparable tech rating, but not by much.”

I frowned, since gunboats generally had a four man crew while fighters only had one. Meaning of course that sending them off against the Fighters could easily be a waste of resources.

My frown turned to a scowl, I knew this already from my own private studies—studies intended to rectify the shortcomings in my Fleet Commander education—but it hadn’t been in the forefront of my mind when I was busy snapping off orders. Now that I had the time to take a breath and think, I could change my mind, which was something I hated to do. Better to be decisive and get it wrong than to make all the right decision after it no longer mattered what I’d did or done. And, of course, I just didn’t like to appear to get it wrong in front of the crew.

I hesitated and hated myself for it.

“Alright,” I nodded, “have them follow us in and make an attack on the Destroyers as we pass. We can use all the hits we can get but after that they are to be ready to keep those fighters off us. To the best of their abilities, that is; I don’t expect miracles outnumbered three-to-one,” I added.

“I’ll pass that along, sir,” Laurent said, motioning to Steiner.

As we approached, our forward weaponry started to come to bear but it was much lighter than our usual weight of fire as we were still pointed right at the Destroyers, which continued to barrel straight toward us.

“Adjust course fifteen degrees to port and down five degrees to bring the rest of our broadside to bear,” I ordered coldly. It was time to put some heat on target.

“Adjusting course now, Admiral,” DuPont said.

“Gunnery on both ships are to fire at will,” I said as the Furious Phoenix and the Admiral’s Pride started to come about.

“Tactical, give the order,” my Flag Captain instructed.

“Gunnery is to prepare to fire at will,” acknowledged the Tactical Officer.

“Fire!” roared First Officer Eastwood.

I shook my head, and Laurent looked over at me as the beam tracks appeared on the Main Screen and gunnery started lighting up the enemy shields.

“Maybe we should think about having him in another section,” I commented. “Aren’t First Officers supposed to move around more?”

Laurent frowned and then nodded. “I’ll have a talk with him.”

“It just seems every time there’s a battle he’s over at Tactical,” I said.

“It’s his job to help correct troubled spots,” he held up a hand, “and even with the best crew, during a battle, there’s more trouble to be found in Tactical than any other section.”

I pursed my lips and then shrugged. “Just look into it then,” I finally said.

Turbo-lasers flashed and then heavy lasers ranged, causing the enemy shields to flare.

“Spotting on the Destroyer #3 on the port side,” reported the Tactical Officer. “And there she goes, she’s rolling to compensate,” he said as the Destroyer turned to present her other side and then fell back into the tail end of the diamond formations, switching places with the Destroyer that had previously been in the back.

The destroyers continued to rotate, turning in place and swapping out positions in order to give the ones with damage time to power up shields.

“Spotting detected…blast, there she rolls again!” cursed Tactical as the Destroyers continued to duck and weave, always doing their best to present a strong shield to our lasers.

“Enemy ships are coming in on close approach,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Ready our close in weaponry,” Laurent cried, looking just as ready to blast these blighters with our plasma cannons as I was.

Meanwhile, the Destroyers continued to bore in on us.

“Separation! I have multiple missile tracks on course zero one-two,” cried Tactical, “relaying to anti-missile grounds. I say again: I have eight missiles, two per Destroyer, on an intercept course for the Flagship.”

“Enemy Squadron is breaking wide!” exclaimed Sensors as the missiles continued their attack run.

“Turn to intercept and knock out those missiles,” I snapped.

“They’re crossing against our T; if we turn to follow we’ll lose point defense,” Tactical reported in a rising voice.

“Blast it! Get those missiles,” I ordered furiously as the Destroyers streaked by.

And while we couldn’t turn to follow immediately, our starboard broadside was quickly brought to bear.

“Focus all fire on one of those Destroyers and make it count,” I snarled as my eyes shot over to the Destroyer currently on the side of the formation nearest us, “and make it Destroyer #2—don’t let up even if it rotates. Make them jump in front of the beam if you have to.”

I watched with impotent fury as the Destroyers continued their arc away from us and the Prison Transport surrounded by our smaller fleet of corvettes and cutters, and despite pounding on the arms of my chair as I watched them run, by the time we knocked down the missiles it was too late to catch them.

As long as they wanted to run and keep running, there was nothing we could do to catch them…not with anything big enough to do the job anyways. I was pretty sure if I sent the smaller ships after them, which were probably fast enough to do that job, they’d be more than willing to tangle with them—especially if they could string them out and pick them off a couple at a time. No thanks.

I glared at the screen as they continued to get further and further away.

“Well, that was unexpected,” Laurent said causing me to startle.

I quickly moved to hide any evidence of my distraction. “They’ll be back,” I said grimly, “we’re going to need to start being slavish about convoy duty.”

“They can’t follow us through hyperspace,” Laurent said after a moment.

“No,” I agreed, “but if they know where we’re going they can get a pretty good idea where to meet up with us.”

“And just how would they know?” Laurent asked and then his face turned dire. “You’re referring to spies in the upcoming conference, human patsies that have betrayed their race.”

I took a moment before responding, “Well, I was more thinking that if one set of droids could break our communications encryption another could just as easily, or the first group could have sold our coordinates and intended destination to a second or third group of them, either Conformity or Harmony. But, upon reflection, your idea has merit all on its own except for one fact,” I said.

“What would that be?” he asked with a frown.

“How would these hypothetical spies know we’re coming?” I asked rhetorically. “I mean, we’re moving pretty quickly here, and even if a courier ship could have shot past and got there before us, I don’t see how they could turn around and then have hyper-jumped back to the droids in time for the machines then to set up an ambush. No,” I shook my head, “it’s much more likely that if there is a spy then he or she is from Aqua Nova. Such an individual would be positioned to either send a courier or use a hidden droid ComStat network to relay information.”

Laurent grunted unhappily, then a thought seemed to occur to him for he smiled crookedly, “If the droids already have access to our current ComStat network, then I’d say their ‘hidden network’ is the one Middleton is currently hijacking.”

“You know what, you’re probably right,” I said soberly.

Laurent looked at me with a faint expression of unease and muttered something I didn’t catch.

“What was that?” I asked for clarification.

The Flag Captain cleared his throat and shook his head.

“I was just wondering about those Destroyers,” he said, pointing to the rapidly moving away tracks on the main screen, “and the likelihood of them coming back around before we clear the system.”

I waited just long enough for him to know I wasn’t deceived by this blatant attempt to change the subject before splaying my fingers.

“Let’s not wait around long enough to see, hmm?” I said turning to our Navigator. “Let’s plan to jump as soon as the Freighter finishes charging up her jump engines,” I instructed.

“Yes, Admiral,” Navigator Shepherd replied.

It was an anxious Admiral who lurked on the bridge until the entire fleet was ready to jump out of this star system.

Chapter 12: The Wages of Ingratitude: Never will I accept them!

“Point Emergence!” reported Richard Shepherd from his position in Navigation.

Looking over at him and DuPont as the department sections around the bridge started calling status updates. Our aforementioned Helmsman then began to break us free from the inertial gravity sump created by piercing the bonds of hyperspace for faster than light travel, I wondered if it was about time to give the two of them a promotion.

We had junior Navigators and Helmsmen at this point, a number of them in fact. But even navigators were still in shorter supply than I would have liked, and I didn’t want to risk having some higher ranking blowhard come in and ruin the smooth running operation I had going here. Whether or not they were actually qualified for their promotions was secondary as far as I was concerned.

Loyalty was key and, despite my admittedly rocky start with DuPont, since then the two of them had been rocks. In retrospect I don’t know if I could have done as much as I had if they’d been working against me; mis-jumps, appearing too far out of a system to get there in time because of deliberately miscalculated jumps, or failing to take evasive action in time.

No, I decided. They definitely need to be rewarded. Whatever their ranks were, I was going to increase them. Loyalty like that needed to be acknowledged and rewarded. I would invite them to dinner and then…

“Contact!” yelped an overeager Sensor Operator, earning the stink eye from the Warrant in charge of Sensors.

“Control yourself, Pierre; this is an inhabited system,” the Warrant Officer said sternly. “We should expect to see several vessels post-jump.”

“Yeah, but not weapons fire, Warrant,” protested the Operator. “I’m reading multiple medium and heavy laser discharges around one of the outer planets.”

Every head on the bridge, including mine, swiveled in the Sensor Operator’s direction. Though a stern glance from First Officer Eastwood soon had those heads with other tasks assigned to them rotating right back to where they belonged.

There was a pause as over half of the sensors on the ship were redirected toward the brouhaha around the system gas-giant. It would have been all the sensors but the Warrant Officer wisely retained enough to finish sweeping the area around our ship, in an ever expanding spiral, for an ambush. We didn’t need any ships laying dark on the edge of the system ruining our day.

As the screen populated, the situation in the Mu-Heracles Star System became clear. The local SDF was under attack by a pair of Harmony through Specialization attack squadrons, based around those destroyer-and-fighter combinations they seemed to like, and they were definitely giving the system defenders a hard go of it.

Looking at the screen for just a few seconds, I came to a decision. “New orders to the Admiral’s Pride,” I said, breaking through the din of reports and speculation buzzing around the bridge. “They are to rejoin the Furious Phoenix from their jump location at best speed and then maintain position on the Flag,” I turned to Captain Laurent, “take the ship in, Captain. It’s time to run off some Droids.”

“Yes sir!” the Captain said, obviously eager for another run at the mechanicals.

I nodded in satisfaction. It was going to take some time off our cushion to get to the Mutual Defense League’s grand meeting on schedule, but from the look of it the Droids here were going to defeat the Mu-Heracles SDF and then be free to do anything to the human population of this system if I didn’t act.

It was worth the delay.

The ship sprang into action and in short order we were pointed toward the gas giant and moving at best speed.

While the First Officer and our Tactical Section were busy in a voice conference with our Chief Gunner, Laurent came over to speak with me.

“I think you’re making the right decision, Admiral,” he prefaced what he was about to say before continuing, “however, as your Flag Captain, it’s my duty to point out that we’re on a tight timeframe. If we delay for too long here, we could miss the meeting, sir.”

“I understand,” I assured him, “we won’t be staying around for days helping rebuild anything or tow any of the SDF ships out of the combat zone. The locals will have to take care of that duty.”

“I appreciate that, Admiral,” he said, “I just hope we can drive them out of the system before we run out of time.”

“Me too,” I said and then, although it pained me, I splayed my hands, “worst case, we’ll run the droids around the star system for a while and give the SDF time to repair some battle damage. Hopefully between what we do the droids and whatever repairs they can make, it’ll be enough…worst case, of course. I’m still fairly confident we can destroy, or run off, enough of these buggers to make a difference.”

“I’m right there with you, Admiral,” said the Captain.

The next several hours passed in a blur of conferences, sensor readings, and rapid fire meetings as we moved on the gas giant.

There came a point at which Akantha wanted a piece of my time. “Are we at least going to get any boarding actions this battle?” she demanded abruptly, after storming onto the bridge and making a bee-line for my chair with a sour expression on her face.

“It doesn’t look likely,” I replied easily. “But I’ll make sure to tell the gunners that if they can knock out a Destroyer for you to board, they’ll get a reward.

Akantha swore, causing me look over at her with lifted brow. “Don’t look so pleased,” she told me sharply and then, when I proved too smart to throw myself in front of that grenade, she huffed loudly. “I suppose we can always hope they try to board us.”

“Something I’ll be doing my best to avoid,” I told her with a frown. Wishing our ship to be so badly damaged, or overwhelmed with superior forces, that we were boarded by enemy marine units wasn’t something I thought the rest of the crew would be as understanding of as I was. Of course, I paused long enough to contemplate, by now they knew our Tracto-ans as well as I did so maybe they’d just put it under the, ‘Tracto-ans are crazy dastards who always want a fight’ column. On the other hand, spacers could be a superstitious bunch and—

Akantha’s fingers started snapping in front of my face.

“Tract to Jason,” she said breaking me out of my short reverie, “don’t you know it is impolite to be praying while your Sword Bearer and Hold Mistress is present?”

“My apologies,” I said shamelessly, “you were saying?”

If looks could kill then I should have been in fear from my life after saying that, but I was un-phased. The worst she was going to do was drag me down to the gym for some so-called exercise—which, in reality, was just her excuse to have Duncan, my old sword instructor, knock me around the ring and humiliate me at swordplay. But since that was something she seemed to take great joy in doing anyway, I wasn’t seeing the downside.

“I don’t even know why I bother speaking with you sometimes,” she said in a tone of voice that most husbands in this universe have heard at one point or another.

Not wanting to step on that landmine, I kept my yap trap firmly snapped and pretended to look at the main screen for the latest update on the ongoing battle between the SDF and the Droids.

It looked like the SDF were using a series of sling shot maneuvers around various moons and larger asteroids to try and limit their engagement times with the droids. Unfortunately those Destroyers were fast, even for a very fast class of ships, and they were pounding the locals to scrap every chance they got.

“Since there seems little point in sitting around, waiting for a chance at battle that isn’t likely to come, I might as well wait up here with you,” Akantha finally sighed.

I tried to breathe and unexpectedly coughed as I did so, causing something to go down the wrong pipe. That was not what I’d been hoping to hear, but by the time I’d recovered enough to protest she had already taken a seat next to me.

“Dear,” I said carefully, “that’s Captain Laurent’s seat. He needs it to run the bridge.”

Akantha just gave me a cool look and then glanced over at the Captain who, seeing how the winds were blowing, had opted to beat a hasty retreat. “When he needs it then all he has to do is ask for it then,” she said firmly.

“Of course,” I said suppressing a sigh. I shot a look of my own toward the Captain but the coward studiously avoided my gaze.

About that time, someone in the system must have been paying attention to things other than the climactic battle that would decide the fate of every single person inside Mu-Heracles long enough to spot us, because we received a hail.

“This is Admiral Pritchard of the Mu-Heracles United Space Fleet,” growled an older man with lots of braid and ribbon along his shoulders, along with a series of Stars and Comets running up and down the arms of his dress uniform. “Who are you and what are you doing here?!”

I snickered; I couldn’t help it.

“A warm welcome, as always, eh?” I chuckled, turning to the chair beside me, only then remembering that it was my wife instead of my Flag Captain. For a moment I’d almost forgotten, but her disapproving gaze quickly snapped me back to reality. “We are trespassing upon sovereign soil,” she said, as if reminding me of something I should have known.

“Any advice?” I asked half sarcastically, half seriously. I wasn’t sure which half was in ascendance, even as I said it. But if she wanted to take potshots at my chosen expressions then she could blasted well give some constructive suggestions along with her disapproval couldn’t she!

“Be respectful,” she replied with a shrug.

For a half a second I wanted to call her out on it but it really wasn’t worth it. She was who she was and I was who I was; it was time to remember that, in her case, and be who I was in mine. “Damn the torpedoes and straight ahead, eh?” I muttered to myself.

Then, straightening in my chair, I looked around until I spotted Kong Pao sitting in a spare chair in the Comm. section. After the last debacle, where he couldn’t be found for love or money when I needed him because he was in another part of the ship, I’d made sure to have him assigned a place on the bridge.

“Any advice, Judge Kong?” I asked, motioning him over. Maybe he’d have something more helpful than my wife—who, apparently, didn’t like me laughing at officials before they got around to insulting me for not having gotten here sooner, or for any other problems they could foist off or accuse me of.

The Sector Judge and Representative for a large block of core worlds from Sector 23 and 24 unbelted from his chair and hurried over.

“I’m not particularly familiar with the inhabitants of Mu-Heracles or its leaders. However,” he said, speaking calmly but intently, “it’s always wise to put your best foot forward when forging new relations and, in their current state, I don’t see how coming their aid with an attack fleet could be seen as anything but beneficial.”

“You’d be surprised,” I remarked darkly, remembering the many times I’d put my best foot forward only to have some politician try to cut it off, before giving myself a shake, “besides, right now we only have the Phoenix and the Light Cruiser Admiral’s Pride, and I’ve found in my short career as a Confederation Admiral that a nation’s gratitude for your actions on their behalf is in direct proportion to factors entirely irrelevant to them during the actual conflict.” I carefully didn’t add that the largest of those factors was your combat strength relative to theirs, post-current conflict. I didn’t want to give the Sector Representative any ideas he didn’t already have.

“A somewhat cynical view,” Judge Kong said with disapproval, “still, these people clearly need help and this is exactly the sort of situation I myself came to you for help with.”

I gave a mental shrug; we’d wait until he’d seen the same world I did and then talk again. In the meantime there was no need to antagonize the man. Afterwards—well, if he stuck around long enough there was an afterwards….

I motioned to Steiner. “Prepare a channel to Admiral Pritchard,” I ordered.

The Warrant motioned with her hand. “You’re live, Admiral,” she said.

“This is Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, here to help clean up these Sectors. We saw the ongoing battle for control of your gas giant here and thought we’d stop by to see if you’d like a hand,” I drawled, in what I thought was a proper response to his initial communication. “But if you’re saying you’ve got the local situation well in hand, by all means just tell us to shove off and we’re gone. We were on our way to a pressing engagement in another system, as it happens.”

I then motioned for the little com-tech to cut the channel.

“You’re off, Admiral,” she replied after a moment and a few taps on her screen.

I glanced over at my wife and she shrugged.

Judge Kong, on the other hand, released a pent up breath, “A perfectly adequate reply,” he said diplomatically, “it is my sincere hope that this will help settle the issue and you can get back to the business of defeating this droid fleet.”

“From your mouth to the leaders of Mu-Heracles ears,” I nodded respectfully.

The Representative possessed a look of long suffering after I said this; he must have been hoping for a different, more self-flagellating response but sadly for him that was the best he was going to get. I’d been burned one too many times to take this gruff greeting at anything less than face value.

If the leaders here told me to take a hike then, at this stage of the game, I’d have to seriously consider it. After a certain point you just have to respect the desires of people the local citizens had put in charge of dealing with outsiders who possessed the firepower to save them from a Droid Attack Fleet. I might not like it, but I was too tired to play games and too bitter to keep pushing the boulder uphill all by my lonesome. If the locals elected, or appointed, people who didn’t want me around and there was no sign of some kind of hostile takeover then I was more than willing to get back on course for our meeting with the MDL. There, instead of saving people who didn’t want me to help them, I could instead get ready to take down the main droid menace. These small Squadrons and Attack Fleets were a symptom of the problem, not the root cause, and I was all for cutting out the roots.

Warrant Lisa Steiner signaled she was receiving another transmission and then piped it up on screen.

“Confederation?” the Admiral said with surprise that slowly morphed into a frown and then he grunted. “Well at least you’re not pirates, and even if you were I’d be a fool to turn you away if you’re here to fight Droids. Just don’t get any ideas about overstaying your welcome. So come along if you’re coming, and if you’re not then be off to the blazes with you anyway, Pritchard out.”

“A nice, warm welcome to the neighborhood, wouldn’t you say, Mr. Representative?” I grinned.

“Not quite how I’d characterize it,” the Judge said and then smiled wryly.

I smirked and then looked over at Akantha for any comments. “Implying we are road-bandits of the stars was not his wisest choice,” she said with a dark expression that said she’d be remembering this man for later.

I started to say something and then it occurred to me that she hadn’t been present during most of our encounters with the local leaders, mostly by design…my design but still. It was fortunate for the rulers here, and everywhere else we’d been, that my sweet wife hadn’t been the one taking their calls. If she had, we’d have been leaving a trail of corpses behind us from just about every system we’d passed through.

In retrospect, however, that might not have been such a bad thing. I sighed at the thought. If only my conscience would allow me to make her my public relations officer, I’d have a lot less stress. I could just imagine the scene now: she offers to help, they get suspicious and insult her, she threatens them with punishment for insulting her, and they in turn threaten to kill her. Then I find out someone we’d just come to save from certain destruction had said they were going to kill my wife, prompting me to point my fleet at their world in retaliation.

On second thought, why was that such a bad idea?

Fortunately for the suspicious locals, that was the extent of our communications with them. Until we encountered the Droids, at which time we had more important things to worry about than intransigent Leaders.

“We’re coming up behind a squadron of Destroyers, Captain,” reported the ship’s Tactical Officer.

“Prepare to come in with our port side facing them,” ordered Laurent.

“Aye aye, Captain,” replied Helmsman DuPont.

“Supercharge those shields, Longbottom,” instructed the Captain, “I don’t want anything getting through on this first volley, even if a whole squadron lines up to pound the same place with pinpoint accuracy.”

“Supercharging port shields, aye Captain,” the Shield Ensign said crisply, seemingly unfazed by the picture painted by his superior.

“Enemy vessels rounding the moon, sirs!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator.

“All damage control parties are to stand by for action,” ordered the cool, laconic voice at Damage Control that I had grown to rely on when it came to the clinch.

There was a moment of silence at this reminder that for all her power the Phoenix was just a Cruiser going up against a squadron of Destroyers, with only another smaller, lighter cruiser for back up. But the moment passed, and the normal din of battle noises on the bridge resumed with a lurch.

“Inform the Admiral’s Pride that they are to maintain position on the Flagship and prepare to pound these droids back into scrap,” I ordered looking at Steiner.

“Orders relayed to the Pride, sir,” she replied after relaying the message.

Beside me, Akantha opened her mouth to say something and then snapped it back shut before crossing her arms with an irritated expression on her face.

I cocked a brow at her. “Trouble?” I inquired.

“Now I remember why I dislike being on the bridge. It was bad enough when I was the ship’s commander, but sitting here doing nothing for minutes and hours on end, waiting for others to decide my fate,” she shook her head sourly, “is not for me.”

“Chin up,” I told her, “we’ll be in the middle of a battle in just a moment.”

“Maybe I was better down in the barracks staring at the walls with the rest of the warriors,” she grumped, but I noted she wasn’t stirring or showing any signs of getting up to move.

I murmured a wordless, supportive sound and then focused back on the action taking place outside the ship.

“Enemy Destroyers are in a modified diamond formation and are shifting from a horizontal facing to a vertical one, but they are maintaining the diamond; fighters in the middle, Destroyers on the outside,” reported the Sensor Officer.

“Prepare for engagement pass,” Laurent said grimly. “I want us firing as soon as possible and to maintain rate of fire until the enemy is beyond firing range.”

“Fire as soon as possible and maintain fire until enemy out of range, aye,” repeated the Tactical Officer.

Then there were no time for words as four Destroyers and twenty two fighters slammed into us with all the force of their medium lasers.

Turbo-lasers struck the enemy shields in the opening exchange with enough fury to send one of the Destroyers spinning.

“Shields dropping down to 72%, 68%, 62%,” Longbottom chanted an ever-lowering shield strength rating as the Droid Destroyers and fighters unloaded all at the same time.

The Phoenix’s plasma cannons started cycling rapid fire, glowing balls of superheated plasma slamming into the enemy fighters hard enough to penetrate their shields and immolate half a dozen fighters.

Then, just as quickly as the vicious exchange had begun, we were past the enemy Squadron but still looping around the moon.

“Bring us about, Mr. DuPont,” I said, my eyes locked on those enemy warships’ tactical icons, “and set an intercept course. I want to finish those Destroyers.”

“On it, Admiral,” our Helmsman said and moments later the ship was turning away from the moon.

“Enemy warships coming at us from the rear!” cried a Sensor Operator right before new contacts appears on the screen.

“Blast,” cursed Laurent as what had to be the second Droid squadron populated our screen. At that point, we had enemy warships at squadron strength to either side of us.

“This is going to be rough,” my Flag Captain said grimly, “I don’t understand how they evaded our sensors and got over here in time for a coordinated pass.”

“Unlike those Conformity Droids, no one ever said this Harmony bunch was stupid,” I retorted.

“We’ll have to cut our pursuit of the First Squadron short unless we want to give the Second a shot up our kilts,” he replied without rancor.

I clenched my fists half temped to just let them try their shots and hope for the best. “Blast it,” I swore, “bring us back around and set a course for the Moon.”

Laurent blinked rapidly, “If we do that we won’t be able to get a follow-on shot with either Squadron before they have a chance to recharge their shields.”

“Wrong idea,” I said glumly, “it’s the Droids that would be the only ones planning a follow-up strike if we start chasing from one Squadron to the other. They’d get the time to recharge shields between attacks, and we don’t have enough units to play a war of maneuver with and they do. If we split up, we’ll lose the Light Cruiser for sure. They’re playing this thing too smart. Our best bet is to break contact and come back at them after we’ve also had a chance to recharge.”

Laurent looked unconvinced, which surprised me since normally I was the one learning about the way things really worked from him. But I was sure that whoever, or whatever, was running the Enemy Fleet was smart—maybe smarter than me—after the way I just played right into their hands.

I had to get my head out of my keester and start playing this like I was going to win it. I idly wondered if it was an anti-machine bias that was slowing the Captain down, or if it was something else—something like my own peculiar blindness regarding the situation coming into play.

Then I shrugged it off; I was in command and the heat of battle was not the time to doubt myself.

“They might link up both squadrons,” Laurent warned, causing me to frown at him.

“Yes, but if they do and we make it through the combined pass then we can chase down any stragglers and start knocking them off,” I said flatly before commanding, “relay the order and get us out of here.”

“Aye aye, Admiral,” the Captain grumbled, but despite my words, DuPont—ever in tune with my orders—had decided not to wait for the chain of command to relay the word, and already had the Phoenix and her sister ship bolting for the moon. This caused the Second Harmony Squadron to alter their course and give chase.

Because of our earlier boneheaded pursuit of the First Squadron, they would catch us without too much trouble. But I took some solace in the fact that at least they would have to work for it.

“Enemy entering firing range in ten seconds,” reported Tactical.

I noted that in addition to changing course on my command the Helmsman had already started our turn. By the time the Droids were in range, our starboard side would be facing them.

This time the enemy weren’t rapidly rounding the moon and our turbo-lasers were able to start taking pot shots well before they got the chance to respond.

Then the Second Harmony Squadron was on us and turbo-lasers hummed while plasma cannons pulsed, filling the void between us with lines of fury and roaring balls of burning plasma.

“Shields down to 60%, down to 55%, 45%!” Longbottom said in a rising voice as the fighters suddenly added their weight of fire, knocking our shields down into the 40th percentile and causing minor spotting.

The ship shuddered.

“Hit! Damage to the starboard secondary engine housing and we’ve lost three plasma cannons to a raking shot,” reported Damage Control.

“I’m still getting better than 80% thrust from the starboard secondary,” reported DuPont, “it only took out a few heat exchange lines and a secondary power run—nothing that can’t wait until after the battle.”

“Continue for the moon at best speed,” I instructed.

As we pulled away the distance lengthening between us and the droids and DuPont continued for the moon, a single turbo-laser lanced out and struck one of the Droid warships right in the stern.

A massive explosion rocked the enemy destroyer as its main engine tore itself apart, and a second later a drive core ejected into cold space before exploding.

A cheer went up on the bridge.

“Scratch four fighters and one enemy Destroyer,” the ship’s Tactical Officer crowed.

First Officer Eastwood looked up from the spot he must have surreptitiously taken during the battle, because I hadn’t noticed him or his per usual incessant microphone destruction, and said, “One Destroyer down, compliments of the gun deck and the Chief Gunner.”

The bridge gave a second cheer and then we were finally, absolutely out of range.

I observed clinically that both Squadrons had now changed course and had turned in our direction. We all knew they’d be back on us soon enough.

“Relay my compliments to the gun deck; damaging a few destroyers on that first pass was great but nothing compared to finishing off that Destroyer with one shot,” I said cheerfully.

“Will do, sir,” Eastwood replied.

Tension-filled minutes pass as we circled around the moon building up speed and allowing our shields to rebuild.

“Be ready for anything, Tactical,” Laurent said, “we’ve passed the point where they could catch us coming around the other side, even if they were burning full out, but I don’t want to get caught with our pants down around our ankles.”

Several more minutes passed and still no sign of the Droids.

“Where are they?” I muttered.

Akantha sniffed loudly, reminding me who and where I was with her follow up look.

I suppressed a frown, but despite that still found myself stiffening my spine and clearing my face of expression. Some habits just won’t die easy, I supposed. Not that I’d been trying to kill them—far from it—but still.

“Here they come,” reported the Sensor Officer, “and it looks like they’ve merged formations.

“Seven Destroyers and around forty fighters against a pair of cruisers,” I shook my head, knowing that this wasn’t going to be fun. “This time let’s make sure we don’t linger any longer than necessary; max power to the engines, and all that.”

“Already on it, Admiral,” Laurent said in a tone that advised me to settle down and take a breath.

For a moment I felt a flash of fire deep down in my belly, but I forced it back down and nodded instead. I knew the importance of not jogging elbows, especially when they belonged to the people actually fighting the ship I was ‘merely’ giving direction to.

“Enemy warships are entering engagement range,” the Warrant Officer said in a high tight voice.

“Give it to them with all barrels,” Laurent said, unnecessarily as far as I was concerned.

I mean, what had we been doing with our two previous attack runs? But I realized I was simply allowing the tension of the moment get to me, as well as the fact that it was the Captain out there inspiring the crew to greater efforts. I wasn’t the lone ranger on the Command deck any longer—if in fact I ever was—and everything wasn’t going to fall apart if I wasn’t there every step of the way.

“Here we go,” Tactical said excitedly.

“Fire!” shouted Eastwood, clearly forgetting he was supposed to be keeping his head down.

“Shields at 88%, 82%, 78%,” reported Longbottom and, for half a second, I was pleased at how well we were doing and then my stomach lurched. There was only one explanation for our good fortune.

“They’re going for the Admiral’s Pride,” I shouted, jumping out of my chair moments before the Screen reflected what I already knew had come to pass, “slow our speed and get us between the Light Cruiser and those Destroyers!”

“Adjusting speed and heading now,” DuPont said tensely.

“Pride reports heavy damage to their starboard side,” Steiner said even as the Phoenix smoothly slid into position between our other cruiser and the Droids.

The only question was whether it had been too little, too late. Looking at all the atmosphere venting out of the side of the Admiral’s Pride, I starting to get worried—very worried.

“They’ve lost power and life support on several decks, as well as a third of their starboard weaponry, but they still have power to their engines,” Steiner appended her report, the information filling me with a sense of relief.

Enemy damage was both more, and less, severe. A pair of Destroyers had been damaged to the point where one had lost its port shield generators and the other was a drifting derelict, riddled with shots from stem to stern, mostly likely the result of turbo-laser fire. In addition, the droids had also lost another half dozen fighters.

“Prepare to bring us back around,” I said, eyeing that crippled destroyer hungrily, “I want that droid Destroyer with the engine damage finished off before it can get back into action.”

“We can try,” my Flag Captain said, “but remember that however fast we are for a cruiser, those destroyers are even faster. It’s likely they can get back to their damaged cohort before we can.”

“Can they also tow it?” I asked rhetorically.

Laurent frowned. “No,” he actually sounded a little uncertain about that answer, “but what they can do is rake our escort cruiser again—maybe even knock her down and put her out of action entirely. The Admiral’s Pride wasn’t exactly the best conditioned ship, even after the rush job they did at the Gambit Yards to get her back into service. Now that’s she’s battle damaged, it’s anyone’s guess how much more she can take.”

My jaw clenched. It wasn’t fun hearing holes poked into my plans, but it was necessary. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.

I took a slow, calming breath. “We’ll just have to keep her close to us and work to cut down the amount of damage she can take by putting the Phoenix between her and them,” I said shortly.

Laurent opened his mouth and then paused. “So long as you know the risks,” he replied.

Tension-filled minutes passed as we flipped end for end and did our best to burn for the damaged Destroyer.

“Enemy Destroyers entering a modified coin formation and coming about for another pass,” reported Tactical.

“Instruct the Admiral’s Pride to stay close to our side, and we’ll try to keep her from taking more than her share of the enemy lasers,” I told the com-tech.

“On it, Admiral,” replied Steiner leaning over her console and holding a hand to her ear bud.

With that taken care of, all that was left to do was sit back and let the bridge crew fight the ship. That would not likely be as easy as it sounded, but that’s why they paid me the big bucks—except, of course, no one was paying me anything…yet.

I let loose a piratical smile at that particular thought. Although there had been a few, by which I mean to say exactly one very big and very ‘voluntary’ contribution from back in Aqua Nova—to be directly offset against the taxes they owed the Confederation, of course. Maybe I should consider taking my pay out of that? I wondered.

I gave myself a shake; I needed to put such thoughts out of my mind. At that moment, everything I needed was provided for me by the quartermaster of whichever ship I was aboard at the time. That was more than good enough for now.

As I watched, the Destroyers loomed closer and closer before suddenly breaking off and veering away.

“Track those ships and find out where they’re going,” I snapped, suspecting a trick.

“Will do, Admiral,” replied the Sensor Officer.

“Contacts! I have multiple contacts on bearing one-one-two,” shouted an Operator.

My head whipped around.

“I make it two corvettes, an armed merchant conversion, and a light cruiser,” the Operator continued, oblivious to the heart attack he had nearly caused.

“I’m getting local friend or foe transmissions on the Provincial Guard channels,” said the little Warrant Officer at the Comm., “I think it’s the SDF!”

“Should we give chase, Admiral?” Laurent asked urgently, and I realized that while the Droids had turned we hadn’t.

Making a snap decision, I shook my head. “I want to put paid to that crippled destroyer. There’ll be plenty of time after that to link up with the locals and defeat the main droid force, or drive them out of the system,” I said, my eyes flitting back and forth from the immobile destroyer and the remainder of two squadrons of droid ships which were moving away at top speed.

As I watched, I saw that both of our cruisers and the SDF ships were on course for the crippled enemy destroyer.

“Sir! I’m receiving a transmission from the locals,” Lisa Steiner sounded incredulous.

“Yes?” I asked shortly.

She held up a finger, listening. “They’re warning us off, Admiral. They say to keep our distance; they’ve got the Destroyer,” she replied, sounding thoroughly put out.

My mouth hardened. “You can inform whoever’s in charge over there with the locals that we’re going to finish the deed. We’re the ones who knocked her down and now we’re going to be the ones who finish her,” I declared angrily. “What’s more, you can tell them that as a Confederation Vice Admiral—and thus Preeminent Military Commander in the region—I will be assuming command of all Fleet Operations in this Star System unless they tell us they’ve got everything under control, in which case I have an important engagement with the MDL!”

With angry satisfaction, the little Caprian com-tech—well, technically, former com-tech following her recent changes in duty—reopened the channel and relayed the message.

While she was talking, Akantha leaned in close to me, “What do you think about sending over a boarding party?” she asked with a gleam in her eye.

I opened my mouth to answer when a shout from Tactical interrupted me.

“The SDF corvettes are accelerating,” reported the Tactical Officer, “they’re going for the Destroyer.”

“Warn them off, blast it,” I shouted, jumping out of my chair.

“They’re ignoring me, sir,” Lisa Steiner said pounding several buttons on her console repeatedly.

“Open a direct channel to whoever’s in charge over there,” I snapped furiously.

“Open, sir,” replied Steiner.

“This is Admiral Montagne and I’m taking command of the Defense of Mu-Heracles,” I declared to the blank screen in front of me, “back off from that Destroyer.”

There was no reply until after the Corvettes closed into range and pummeled the Destroyer, while I sat watching helplessly, until it exploded.

A few seconds after the destroyer exploded, I got a reply. The person that appeared on my screen was older with gray side burns and a lot less braid on his uniform than the Admiral I’d spoken with earlier.

“I don’t know who you are, that you think you can just come in here and start throwing your weight around,” the man said condescendingly, as if he were speaking to a little child, “but, son, this is our Star System and no one comes here and starts telling us what to do. But in the interests of stopping these invaders, I, Commodore Potempkin of the Mu-Heracles United Defense Fleet, would like to thank you for all your help so far and am prepared to assume overall command of our joint task force.

“Unacceptable,” I snapped.

“Listen, boy, the ships of this system aren’t going to be placed under your command anytime soon. We like to at least know our Fleet Commanders are out of diapers and, frankly, you’re an officer we’ve never heard of before.”

Molten fury ignited in my belly and this time I wasn’t ready to cut myself short. Once again I’d come in to save the day and once again I was getting the run around.

“Commodore Potempkin, I had plans for that Destroyer that went well beyond you and the concerns of your little rinky-dink Squadron and minor provincial Star System,” I said coldly.

“You’ll just have to get over it, son,” the Commodore sneered.

“From your response, it’s clear you knew what I had ordered you to do and deliberately ignored my orders,” I said, glaring at the other man. “So, as things stand, I have to warn you that I’ve half a mind to declare you mutineers for disobeying orders in the middle of a warzone.”

“You might have a few cruisers, Mr. Montagne,” the Commodore scoffed, “but now that we’ve had a few moments to make repairs and start consolidating our fleet, I think we can take it from here. So why don’t you take yourself and that abortion of a ship you call a Flagship and be off to your pressing engagement?”

I almost ordered the Phoenix to attack the Light Cruiser where the Commodore had affixed his flag. I nearly did it. The only thing that stopped me from ordering the attack that very second was the knowledge that, in doing so, I could be signing the death warrants of the inhabitants of Mu-Heracles.

Gritting my teeth, I turned to Captain Laurent.

“Set a course for the hyper-limit and take us out of here, Captain,” I said coldly. “I want our hyper drive charged and ready to go the minute we hit the edge of this system.”

“But sir—” Laurent protested, looking upset.

“We’ve been invited to leave, Captain,” I said shortly, “and I can’t in good conscience destroy a human warship while there are droids still in system, nor do I have time to stick around and ensure the reestablishment of proper authority.”

“You’re the Admiral,” he said stiffly.

“So because you can’t be king of the hill, you’re just going to cut and run like a coward, leaving the rest of the Droids to us?” the Commodore broke back into the conversation, reminding us that the channel was still open as he shook his head in open condescension.

“I’m not here to be your Star System’s round bottom boy, Commodore, riding to the rescue without a thought for ourselves and then being insulted for the labors of my Fleet. You’ve shown me the door and assured me you can take things from here, so I’m leaving—I know better than to stay where I’m not wanted,” I said flatly.

“Hah!” growled the Commodore, sounding irritated and starting to look concerned right before he cut the channel.

“We can still stay and help run down the droids. We don’t have to put ourselves under the command of that man,” Laurent offered.

“Maybe if someone in higher authority requests it,” I said evenly, “but barring that we have a whole Sector to save. We can’t afford to get bogged down in a single system action—especially in one where we’re not wanted.”

“Admiral,” Kong Pao said, hurrying over, “surely you don’t intend to just up and leave while this system is under threat?”

“That is exactly what I intend, Representative,” I assured him.

The Judge looked taken aback, “Think of the innocent civilians of Mu-Heracles, sir. Surely they shouldn’t suffer because of one man’s pride.”

My head snapped around, fixing upon the Judge like a laser beam.

“I agree,” I said looking at him flatly, pretty sure that the prideful person I was thinking of was different than his, “but I have no control over the Commodore or his actions; he’s made that clear. However, that does bring me to a second point.”

Kong Pao blinked. “To what do you refer?” he asked.

“So far I’ve been involved in two, separate, system-level actions and each time I’ve been treated like a pirate or hostile intruder. You came to me claiming to represent a Mutual Defense League but every-single-time I show up my name is less than dirt, and the fact I’m here at the behest of your League means zilch.”

“I cannot control the actions of non-signatory members-” Kong began, and for a brief moment I imagined I could see the fork in his tongue, prompting me to cut him off.

“You can blasted-well do your job,” I said slamming my hand on the arm rest of my chair, “you claim to be the Representative—so represent something!”

The Sector Judge ran a hand through his hair. “I’m used to being a Judge, not an Ambassador…but I will do my best,” he said, drawing himself up with quiet dignity.

I moved a hand in the air, waving him off. He and his dignity hadn’t done much for me so far, and maybe that was unfair, but blast it — I meant what I said. I was tired and done with being the universe’s whipping boy and he was the one who practically begged me to come out here. The least he could do was help keep me from floundering around like a fish out of water.

A half hour later and I was pretending to be unaware of the fact that Laurent had sent our ship ‘towards the hyper limit’ by way of the direction the Droids had headed off to, and somewhat offset to the side of the Commodore and his merry squadron of ungrateful weekend warriors, when we received a hail from the Mu-Heracles home world.

“I have a Prime Minister Hale, eager to speak with you, Admiral,” the little com-tech said respectfully.

I frowned for effect, for I’d been well aware that in addition to Laurent’s actions with the ship, Kong Pao had been speaking urgently over the diplomatic channels while I sat there and brooded. Eventually I then gestured for her to put it through.

“This is Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I said flatly.

“Admiral Montagne,” a man’s upper half appeared on the main screen, “I am Prime Minister Hale of the Mu-Heracles United Government of Paid Voters.”

“What can I do for you, Mr. Prime Minister?” I asked politely.

“What’s this I hear about your Fleet coming in and making a few passes against the droids and then running off?” he asked pointedly.

I realized that my blood pressure probably should have gone up at that, but I was beyond being surprised at Politicians and their antics.

“I was assured by your Commodore Potempkin that our services were no longer needed and, since we are urgently needed elsewhere, that’s where we’re going,” I said easily.

“That’s unacceptable, Admiral,” the Prime Minister said glowering down at me, “I don’t know what other systems are prepared to let you get away with, but—”

“Let me get away with?” I cut in tightly.

“Yes.” he said flatly. “We’re taxpaying members of the Confederation, and as such you work for us! We demand that you place yourself under the authority of our local System Defense Commanders and finish rooting out these Droid Invaders before flitting off to whatever tea party you’re late for. Blast it, man, people are dying here and all you’re interested in is playing games!”

“Oh, you did not just say that,” I said, getting out of my chair and leveling a finger at him. “Listen up, buddy: I don’t work for you, so you can cut the attitude right there. And as for the subject of the taxes you supposedly pay to support our Fleet, let’s talk about that. When was the last time you paid your Confederation taxes, hmmm? In fact, you know what…forget how late you are or aren’t on those payments,” I said with blatantly false magnanimity. “Since I’m in the area anyway, why don’t you just get your tribute ships ready and, along with the back taxes for the past two years, you can pay the current year as well. When those are ready, you can get back to me about failing to fulfill obligations.”

“Why, you two-faced pirate! Is that why you’re really here for, to try and extort money from our beleaguered star system and rob us blind in the process for your so-called protection?” raged the Prime Minister, looking ready to burst a blood vessel.

“I, sir, am no pirate,” I said, drawing myself up.

“You know what? I was going to ask you to stay and help, hoping we could come to some kind of agreement, but we don’t need—or want—your kind around Mu-Heracles. Our paid voters would rather die than give into extortion,” shouted the Prime Minister. “Good day, Mr. Montagne!”

There was a moment of silence.

“They’ve cut the channel, sir,” Steiner said in a small voice.

“I can see that, Comm.,” I said evenly.

There was another pause, after which I turned to Laurent.

“Continue your pursuit of the Droids, so long as we’re still headed for the edge of the system. If you feel you need to divert in order to pursue them, come speak with me,” I told him neutrally. “I’ll be monitoring things from my ready room.”

I was done with the Mu-Heracles star system, and if it weren’t for the innocent people living there I would seriously consider sticking around for some attitude adjustment.

Behind me, Akantha followed into the ready room. Expecting another browbeating, I kept my face carefully blank as I turned to her.

“So?” I asked emotionlessly.

Cheeks red with anger, my leading lady clenched her fist and paced back and then forth in front of me.

I hadn’t seen her that angry in a while, and I’m not afraid to say I suddenly feared for my life.

“This is unacceptable,” she said furiously.

“I’m truly sorry, Akantha, but I failed. There just wasn’t much I could do other than roll over and I’m too tired to play that game anymore,” I said heavily. “But in the end all I did was bluster and end up looking like a fool.”

“That’s twice now they’ve dared accuse us of banditry,” she declared hotly, seemingly ignoring my words. “I could understand the Warleader; we were new and unproven. But after we defeated several of the enemy warships, we proved ourselves allies and yet still they test us!” her face hardened. “We should come back after we have defeated the Droids and their armies, Jason. We should return and make our displeasure at such rude treatment known. You know that were it not for our sworn word to come help defend the Polises of these Sectors, I would urge you to leave and return home right this very day. No one would dare insult us so back on Tracto.”

She looked angry enough to spit fire, and I slowly smiled. Finding support in one of the most unexpected of quarters was surprising, to say the least, but quite gratifying. It was like a breath of fresh air in a room that had grown stuffy. Normally I was the one in her targeting sights, but this time I wasn’t the target of her ire—for once we seemed to be fully on the same side. I sighed, thinking that sometimes it really was nice to be married, despite the ups and downs.

“I’ll keep it on my ‘to do’ list,” I said, smiling crookedly. Amazingly, hearing Akantha’s heated defense and growing ire with the leaders of this System actually helped me to put the events here in perspective. We showed up, saved the day—or at least tipped the scales far enough that the SDF could finish saving the day—and, as usual, we were run out of the system.

I didn’t have time for small fry, middle tier worlds like Mu-Heracles. Nor, despite enjoying her words in my defense, was I about to plan a return for retribution visit after our work with the droids was done.

“Perhaps we should head back out onto the bridge,” I said, glancing over at the screen in the ready room I’d set to reflect the data on the main screen of the bridge. It still showed the Droids running before our combined forces, even if they weren’t actually combined, “If Mu-Heracles ever decides to join the wider galactic society we can deal with them then. In the meantime, there’s still a chance at another droid destroyer.”

Akantha pursed her lips but said nothing, and followed me out onto the bridge.

Chapter 13: Druid Beats Feet

“Stop at the Belter station and we’ll prepare to take on supplies,” Commodore Druid ordered his bridge crew, eager to get back out there and on the Admiral’s trail.

That had been several hours earlier, and since then things had been going downhill and enthusiasm had most definitely waned.

“Hard dock with Belter Station Alpha-Tracto achieved, sir,” reported the Helmsman.

“Excellent,” Druid said with a nod, “all departments are to move as planned to take on supplies and equipment. I want this stop to be as quick and painless as possible.”

“On it, Commodore,” chimed in the various department heads on the bridge and linked through his chair-com.

He clapped his hands together. “Then let’s be about it, people!” he exclaimed.

He gazed on with watchful eyes at the controlled frenzy of activity taking place on the bridge. They weren’t a smoothly functioning crew yet but they were on the way. Hopefully by the time they linked back up with the Admiral they’d be close to a smoothly running operation.

“Sir, a communication from Station Central,” reported the Lieutenant at Comm., breaking into his train of thought.

“Well, what is it?” Druid asked into the growing pause.

“Sorry, sir,” said the Lieutenant looking concerned, “it seems there’s a delegation of some sort waiting on the docks to speak with you.”

“They want me to come down to the docks?” Druid frowned.

The Lieutenant flushed, “No. Actually, they want permission to come on board and speak with the Commanding Officer of the Battleship. I think they really wanted the Admiral, but you would do as a stand in.”

Druid’s frowned turned into a scowl; this was the part of the job he didn’t care for.

“Sir?” the Com-Officer asked leadingly.

The Commodore took a deep breath. This was why they paid him the big bucks. “Have security scan them for weapons and once they’re verified clean have them escorted to the main conference room. I’ll be down to meet them shortly, after I’ve change into a fresh uniform and had time to verify there are no hold ups with any of the various ship’s departments,” he grumbled.

“Of course, sir,” the Com-Officer said with a nod.

**************************************************

Druid strode into a room filled with over a dozen…no, make that, two dozen individuals in various types and manner of dress and headwear.

He stopped and double blinked.

“I say, are you the man in charge here?” demanded a man in a large, tubular headdress with a golden jackal running from a circlet around his head up toward the top of his headgear, where the jackal’s head came to its full size with a pair of ruby eyes.

“The person in charge could just as easily be a woman, as this man,” cut in a woman, who at first glance appeared to have some odd ideas about personal clothing.

Until, that was, one realized that most of the ‘clothing’ she was wearing was actually, tattoos and she didn’t seem to possess a single scrap of traditional clothing. Even her hair, done up so that it stuck at least a foot up above her scalp, only had a few silver hairbands and precious jewels woven in.

The Commodore coughed. “Actually, I am in charge…of this battleship, I mean,” he added cautiously, once he realized that taking responsibility for more than that might be counterproductive.

“Excellent,” the first person cut back in, “then you are the man with whom we should address our grievances.”

“Why you insist on a masculine identifier, when literally over half of the human species is female, escapes me,” the naked, tattooed woman growled at Mr. Headgear.

“You would have me refer to him with a female identifier?” Mr. Tubular Head Gear sounded bewildered.

“I merely object to the default gender stereotyping is all,” the woman protested. “As the gendered majority, I feel that—”

At this point, a third—and overly obese—individual sidled up to the brewing argument. “My dear,” he cut in, in the most condescending tone the Commodore had heard that day—and perhaps ever, “surely you realize that it is the role of the Majority to be infringed upon and discriminated against in order to equalize the natural advantages inherent to their group through simple numbers and the subsequent preponderance of cultural impact their majority provides. As such, it seems entirely in-keeping to my mind that we would use a male gender assumption over that of a female. The only wonder—again, to my mind—is that we do not use an even more minority position such as ‘it’ or ‘hir,’ instead of the largest minority gender of the human population!”

“Good gods, do the three of you have no belief in religious, or plain old moral values? If not, what about simple, social responsibility to the weight of traditional values that have since time immemorial,” scoffed yet a fourth individual, this one laden down with the overly elaborate robes of some kind of clergy.

The other three bristled and open their mouths to retort.

Feeling a headache coming on, Druid interposed himself between the various individuals before things escalated. “Gentle…beings,” he changed his greeting at the sight of the female’s face clouding, “before we get bogged down in semantics, can you tell me why you’re here?” He silently didn’t add the most important part, at least to him: whether or not he was actually needed.

“Why, we’re here!” exclaimed the four individuals, looking at him as if he’d lost his mind.

“Why, yes,” he said frowning at their response.

“It’s all over the newsfeeds,” declared the fat man.

“In every system,” growled the man with the tubular hat.

“No such momentous occasion can rightfully take place without the blessing of the Unified Polytheism,” the robed man said with censure in his voice.

“And worst of all, we weren’t even invited!” raged the naked, tattooed woman.

At this, all of the four nodded in agreement, and what’s more the Commodore could see mouths tighten and heads—for which the attached mouths had as yet been silent—start nodding in agreement all over the room as they looked his way with disapproval.

“Plus, I’ve been waiting here for the better part of two months, and nothing has come of it!” complained someone in the back of the group.

At this, several hostile, jealous looks shot toward the man in the back who unlike the characters nearest Druid was only wearing a traditional formal wear business suit.

“Yes, we will not be ignored!” snapped the tattooed woman.

“It is our right, just as much as any, more preferred worlds,” agreed the fat man. “Targeted discrimination against the minority shall never be allowed to pass quietly! Only against the majority can one safely let loose one’s inherent biases with the certain knowledge that—”

“What are you raving about?!” Druid yelled, his growing headache threatening to turn into a head splitting migraine at all the outraged talk that still didn’t even come close to illuminating just what they were protesting against.

For a moment, the delegation of protestors around him stared at him in disbelief, even going so far as to glance at one another as if looking for support and some hidden meaning in his, Commodore Druid’s words.

Then at the same time the naked tattooed woman and the robed man with the tubular headdress both tried to step up to him at the same time, causing them to bump into each other and stagger.

After shooting venomous looks at one another, the Man stepped back and said, “Ladies first.”

“Typical, patriarchal cultural holdovers,” muttered the woman, “I ought to refuse just to spite your social prejudices.”

Druid noticed, however, that immediately after saying this, the woman put her hands up as if to adjust her perfectly coifed hair and then immediately stepped forward to dominate the conversation. Apparently, her disgust with other prejudices didn’t extend to not advantaging herself of others—even while complaining about them.

“I’ll get right to the point,” she said shortly.

“I surely hope you would,” Druid said stiffly.

“We’re here to join the Alliance of Border Worlds,” she said in a no nonsense tone that seemingly dared him to try excluding her.

“What?” Druid gaped. “Don’t try to hide the truth or exclude us,” interjected the Fat Man, surging forward and not incidentally pushing the woman out of the way due to his immense bulk.

“Hey!” protested the tattooed woman.

“You’re in the Majority; deal with it,” snapped the Fat Man, turning back to the Commodore, “it’s all over the airwaves and my planet refuses to be excluded from the Alliance!” “What are you talking about?” Druid asked feeling confused, “the Border Alliance? There is no such organization; it was just a PR stunt.”

“We have over twenty worlds represented in this room, and we’re prepared to boycott the Alliance en masse if we aren’t allowed to join immediately,” declared the man with the Tubular Headdress, ignoring Druid’s last words.

“Yes, we demand to speak with the Admiral! He should hear our complaints,” shouted someone from the back of the room, “we don’t need to speak with military stooges who try to insult our intelligence. The Border Alliance is all over the Cosmic News Network; it’s all that Central can talk about. We have a right to be included!”

“That’s right,” muttered the relatively silent occupants of the room, nodding their heads in agreement and then looking at him as if for answers.

Druid stared back at them until finally one of the Delegates seemingly broke down.

“My world is willing to meet—or beat—any other world’s contributions by a factor of two to one, as long as it ensures our inclusion as an equal voting member of the Alliance,” yelled a Delegate,

“Supplies only,” sneered another, “my star system is willing to pledge a pair of Destroyers—so long as we get equal protection.”

“Destroyers that don’t work; you couldn’t give them away! I know this for a fact, because you’ve tried,” shouted another representative, “while I have over two thousand trained SDF volunteers to offer, men and women just waiting for a ship!”

“Only because you laid off half your workforce when you purchased more advanced ships with smaller crew capacities,” shouted the representative who’d just been offering the Destroyers.

Druid ran a hand over his face. He could tell already that this was going to be one very long day. Blast the Admiral for running off and dumping this mess right in his lap!

He activated his com-link. “Cancel my appointments for the rest of the day,” he sighed to his Chief of Staff, “something…no, several somethings have come up.”

Chapter 14: Arrive at Core-World for MDL meeting

“That’s a lot of ships,” Captain Laurent said, his voice sounding a little shaky to my mind.

“An entire Sector is a big place. If you can rally it together,” I said archly, “and here we don’t just have the assembled might of one Sector, but two of them united in the certain knowledge that the droids are coming for them. And still they only are able to rally together eight Battleships for the common defense.”

“Eight Battleships doesn’t look that small to me,” Laurent said gesturing to the entire Fleet assembled by the Mutual Defense League.

I paused and then nodded.

“It’s going to be a chore and a half getting the warships of a dozen and a half worlds working together as one big happy Fleet,” I said as I considered the difficulties that lay ahead for the Fleet Commander, “but with this level of firepower I think we just might have a chance and,” I added, “more contingents have arrived even since we’ve been in system. They were only Corvettes and Destroyers from some of the smaller worlds but even so, it’s not outside of the realm of possibility that more ships of the wall could arrive.”

“Eight Battleships, eighteen Cruisers of various sizes, half again as many Destroyers and almost double that in Corvettes, armed merchant freighters, and assorted other lighter warships,” Laurent said, verbally running down the list of ships shown on the main screen as if I were somehow unaware of the numbers.

“Your point?” I asked looking down at him.

“That’s a lot of ships,” he replied simply.

“Something of which I am well aware,” I said with a frown.

Laurent sighed and then shook his head reluctantly. “I expected a smaller Fleet, one where we would make up a significant fraction of its strength,” he said, looking like a man about to deliver bad news.

I didn’t like where he was going.

“But with two full squadrons of Battleships and a full-fledged fleet of lesser ships, I’m not so sure that they’ll let you take command as easy as all that. I don’t care what Kong Pao has promised, Confederation Admiral or not there are just too many powerful interests here for things to go smoothly,” he continued unhappily. “I hope I’m wrong, but…” he trailed off.

I drew in air through one nostril, starting to feel my temper rise and then I snorted. “You could be right…heck, you probably are right—almost certainly,” I said trailing off before giving a rueful smile, “and I’m not saying I won’t put myself forward as Fleet Commander if they asked me to do it. But, that said, the important thing here isn’t my ego, or any other ego for that matter. The point is to stop the Droids from conquering more worlds and, if possible, crush their fleet and liberate the millions now laboring under Droid Rule.”

“You’re taking this a lot better than I thought you would, if I may say so, sir,” Laurent said.

“I believe you just did say it,” I smirked, “but semantics aside, we’re here to save lives and I’m not about to let anything come in between us and that goal if I can help it.”

Laurent gave me a long look, tinged with something I couldn’t describe. It went on longer than I expected until I intuited what he was so hung up on.

“We’re going to have to deal with politicians and their ingratitude and broken promises wherever we go. I won’t forget them, or allow them to push us around any longer, no matter how important they think they are. But you’ll notice that while I refused to give into their high handed demands back at Mu-Heracles, I didn’t stop you from covertly assisting their SDF forces in driving those Droids out of their star system. I am determined to be principled, yet practical.”

Laurent pursed his lips and nodded. “I couldn’t have stood by while those artificials destroyed that system, not if there was something I could have done about it.”

“And did I stop you?” I inquired mildly.

The Captain chuckled. “No, I guess you didn’t,” he agreed ruefully.

I laughed along with him and then turned deathly serious. “Just remember, Captain,” I said, my countenance taking on a grim demeanor, “that there is more than one way to skin a cat. And if I find any ungrateful dictatorships willfully endangering their people, leaving them open to conquest and machine rule….” I trailed off with a significant look in his direction.

The Flag Captain looked appalled.

“Being willing to do anything to save a Star System cuts both ways,” I said into the unhappy silence, “it doesn’t just mean accepting otherwise unacceptable levels of humiliation, lack of cooperation, and danger because of intractable System Officials.”

“We can’t just throw away the rule of law, sir!” Laurent declared with passion. “Otherwise we’d be no better than the pirates we’re fighting!”

“The law provides many pathways that we can, and will, stay within,” I said sympathetically before deliberately hardening my voice. “For instance, the ability to take charge of local System and Sector forces for joint defense against invasion, as well as the ability to declare Martial Law. But even disregarding those entirely legal options—in fact, some would argue they are not just options, but requirements for our position—there is one key difference between our organization and pirates.” I leaned in towards the other man, “We aren’t going around preying on civilians, taking civilian-owned goods for our own and selling the crews as slaves in black ports. Nor do pirates come running every time a world or group of worlds come begging for help.”

“You’re walking a thin line there, sir,” Laurent, said looking me square in the eye. “Very thin; you need to be careful you don’t fall over the wrong side of it, Admiral.”

“So long as the leaders of the Spine put their people first, there won’t be an issue,” I said dismissively. “That line’s only applicable if and when they put other things, like protecting their positions by screwing us over, above the needs of their people.”

“You know where I stand, Admiral,” Laurent said firmly, “I’m here to fight the good fight and protect our homes.”

“As am I, Captain,” I agreed, knowing it was true, but also knowing that it was just that over time my idea of the good fight had changed. Well, not so much ‘changed’ as ‘grown.’ I was still willing to throw myself on a grenade for the people; it was simply that I was tired of taking the grenades tossed at me by the various local rulers. At this point I was just about ready to declare the move and say that ‘fighting the good’ fight meant throwing those grenades right back at those rulers twice as fast and twice as hard. If they happened to die in the resulting explosion instead of me, then that was just their cost of doing business. As they say, ‘let he who is without sin cast the first stone, because that very same stone on the return throw could knock your head off.’

I could almost feel the skeptical look aimed at my back as I turned away, but I deliberately ignored it. Looking out at the dead system that used to be Sector 24’s Sector Central, before the Droid’s smashed through it, my face hardened. This is why we fight, I reminded myself, to stop things like this from happening throughout the rest of human space.

If I had to curb stomp a few faithless System Officers along the way in order to stop this from happening again…

“Sir, I have a communication from the Battleship Bellicose; you are being invited to the Grand Council Meeting later on this afternoon,” reported the Operator manning the Communication’s Console.

“Tell them I’ll be there,” I assured the Operator.

“Aye sir,” replied the man at Communications.

The blast doors leading onto the bridge cycled open and Kong Pao came striding in.

“Admiral, I was hoping we could talk,” said the Representative.

“Of course,” I said smoothly, shooting Laurent a knowing look before motioning the Sector Judge over to the ready room.

Entering the room, I motioned for Kong Pao to take a seat while I walked around the table and sat down in my chair.

“What’s on your mind?” I inquired, not wanting to give away the advantage by bruiting about my suspicions.

The Sector Judge cleared his throat. “I wanted to speak with you and tell you that if you haven’t already, you are about to get an invitation to a Grand Council meeting of all the joint forces from two Sectors,” he said.

I nodded, “I’ve already received the invitation and am looking forward to meeting the others. Was there anything else?”

A brief, distressed expression flitted across his face before settling on what looked like a fairly genuine smile. “There will be a number of Captains, Commanders and Admirals from various worlds in our beleaguered Sectors. To have so many powerful ships committed to a mutual defense is heartening to say the least,” he said with passion.

“It’s heartening that they recognize the need for a unified fleet working as one, instead of every world for itself, to defeat the Droid threat,” I hinted.

The unhappiness in his affect returned before smoothing back over. “I will do everything I can in order to put you forward as the best, least controversial, Fleet Commander we could possibly have at this time of dire threat,” Kong Pao said with a deep bow that hid his face from my sharp look.

“Didn’t you request the MSP put aside our own vital commitments in Sector 25 in order to come and lead your forces to victory against the Droids, or am I misremembering our conversations?” I asked quietly.

“Never doubt how much we need you, Admiral Montagne,” the Ambassador from the Mutual Defense League said quickly.

“And yet, after a multi-week odyssey—one that included fighting our way through multiple droid invasion forces to get to this meeting—I am faced with what some would call severe scorn and ingratitude from planetary leaders along the way. But now that we’ve held up our end of the bargain and are finally here, you begin waffling on our prior agreements,” I said, giving him a stern level look, “or do I have you wrong?”

“I was given the job of getting whatever military support as I could and as many warships. I did this to the best of my abilities. Now that this duty is completed, I will turn all my efforts and all my powers to fulfilling the promises I have made on behalf of my world and the League,” the Representative said with another deep bow, “you have my word on it.”

“Your word,” I repeated, my face remaining carefully neutral. It seemed that I had the word of a politician. What could possibly go wrong with that? “Then I suppose that will have to be good enough for now, as neither I nor my men are willing to turn our backs on the innocent people of these Sectors. I would just remind you that we have acted only in good faith and, to this point, completely on your behalf.”

“That is something I swear is recognized and appreciated,” said the Representative in what should have been a soothing reassurance, and yet the more he bowed and attempted to sooth my worries, the less I found myself reassured, “and in addition to that which I have personally promised to do which is within my sole power and authority, I will work tirelessly to present your case as the rightful Supreme Admiral of the Mutual Defense League Fleet.”

“Supreme Admiral? No, Judge Kong,” I said shaking my head, “I am merely a Vice Admiral in the Confederation Fleet.”

His disappointment was back in full force, as I would expect from anyone whose normal job—that of a Sector Judge—relied upon the authority vested in him by the Confederation. With him being a Judge, I didn’t even need to point out that I ‘supposedly’ had the full rights and authority under Confederation Law to take control of the defense of these two Sectors.

Of course, that right and authority to do anything mattered very little, unless you had the power to back it up—another reason I wasn’t pressing the point.

“Everything within my power shall be done,” repeated the Judge.

“The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet appreciates your efforts, I’m sure,” I murmured.

“You can rely on me,” swore the Representative.

Chapter 15: Meetings in Ernest

Walking into another battleship, especially one of a different design from the Dreadnaught Class, was eye opening. Seeing the various crewmembers going about their tasks had me looking up and down corridors and taking notes.

But, being led to what looked like a converted Mess Hall and then forced to wait as half a dozen other Captains, Commodore and Admirals were introduced and then seated before me, was irksome.

I firmly reminded myself that one of the greatest risks a Commander or politician for that matter could make was to buy into his own propaganda. My saying I was a Confederation Admiral was one thing, but showing up with a less powerful taskforce than this dozen other Fleet leaders with Battleships at their beck and call, or at least appearing less powerful was another, and it was that particular ‘other’ which had me placed at the end of the line. I gave a shark-like smile as I considered just how much of a surprise the Furious Phoenix would be to anyone expecting to deal with a ‘mere’ cruiser.

Well, in all honestly, I suppose I wasn’t the end of the line. I was actually somewhere toward the front, but as far as I could tell the officers behind me were of junior rank and probably the semi-independent commanders of lighter units, or groups of lighter units.

“Now entering is Admiral Block! Master and Commander of the Lee Dong Defense Fleet and Battleship, Jiāozhàn,” the announcer, whoever he was, said stoutly as a portly looking, dark-skinned man with epicanthic folds strode importantly through the doors.

“Don’t see many Hard-Rad survivors these days, I mean not mixing it up with us regular folk,” muttered Commander in an elaborate SDF uniform several places behind me.

“Block’s from a small ethnic minority on his home world—or, rather, home system; Hard-Rad’s mostly hang out with Belters and such,” muttered his neighbor.

“I heard he’s famous back home…or infamous, take your pick. They say the Jiāozhàn had a major drive core leak and every officer on board her died before making it back home. He alone survived because Hard-Rad’s can eat radiation doses for breakfast that would kill the rest of us,” whispered a third, “the story I got is that, under their ranking system, he was automatically promoted to ship commander. That was the start of his career.”

“Yeah, well—” the first man cut back in right before the door swung open once again and it was my turn to be announced.

“Vice Admiral Montagne, of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet in command of the Cruiser, Furious Phoenix!” declared the Announcer in an almost bored voice.

An ensign appeared at my elbow and gestured me toward a seat at the table.

A quick sweep of the room revealed that all the other Admirals had an Aid or high-ranking Officer at their elbow—generally a chief of staff or flagship captain as best I could tell.

I snorted wryly; it seemed the political games had begun before I even boarded my shuttle, as I’d been instructed not to bring an assistant to the meeting because of limited seating with so many ship and fleet commanders present.

I smoothly took the indicated seat, my features schooling themselves into an impassive, royal mask. Seeing the name holders in front of the seats—one of them listing the owner as High Captain—it seemed that Combat power was the deciding factor on your perceived importance here. Which was fine, and happened to be the way I would have wanted this meeting run even, except for one quibbling minor little detail, that I seemed to have been relegated to the second tier.

“Looks rather young,” a portly Admiral with red cheeks and a jovial attitude about him guffawed to another Officer offset to the side of me, “they say he’s all the way from 25, but I’ve never heard of him—or the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”

A sharp glance indicated he was indeed talking about me.

“We had a unit it in before the collapse,” replied his seat mate, whose name tag called him a Grand Admiral, and either ignoring or indifferent to the fact I was staring at the two of them while they spoke about me, “it was a stopgap organization placed under Imperial Admiral Janeski, set up by the Confederated Empire right after they started yanking the Rim Fleet. We pulled out, of course, as soon as things went to Hades and no one could raise the Imperial Admiral. I’ve no idea who this young officer is. Maybe he’s Janeski’s representative, come to get us to send ships back for his fleet?”

I could feel my pupils contract and then dilate as the fact that these Officers thought the most likely scenario revolved around me being here as Janeski’s representative or sort of stooge or proxy.

I hid the flash of anger behind a royal mask, reminding myself that they knew almost nothing about what had taken place when they yanked their ships out of the MSP except that I was here. The fact that I was highly insulted to be thought of as answering to Rear Admiral Janeski—especially after the way he’d up and abandoned everyone on the Clover and then set my own Security Officer out to assassinate me—had to take second seat to reality.

But for the men at hand, aside from the way they were insulting me by talking about me as if I weren’t even present, they weren’t doing anything worthy of my upset. From their perspective, they were making the most logical assumptions they could.

I still wanted to set them straight about my relation to the good Imperial Admiral—the same one who had helped bombard my home world earlier on in his life, insulted me almost daily when I’d been his figurehead, and then tried to have me killed—but I held my piece…for the moment.

More officers were announced and then escorted to their seats before an imposing man in a well decorated SDF uniform.

“It’s time to call this meeting to order!” the man called out, banging a spoon against his glass until the room settled and focused on him. Whereupon he drew himself up into a stern paternal mask, “greetings fellow officers, I am Fleet Admiral Preceptor and I would like to take this moment to welcome you all to my pride and joy, the Battleship, Dark Abyss.”

There were a few sideways glances exchanged and then a couple of the officers at the table stood up and began to clap, however only a few others joined the clappers and before long the scatted applause withered and died, most likely from embarrassment at being the only ones applauding.

Admiral Preceptor of the Dark Abyss turned red around the forehead and then began to glower a bit before regaining his composure. Apparently everything was not going as smoothly for the Leader of the Dark Abyss as he had hoped.

I covered a smirk with the back of my hand. It was nice to see that I wasn’t the only one with planned speeches that had gone sideways on me.

“Now, as I was saying, we are gathered here today for the third official meeting of the Mutual Defense League. First, let us welcome our newest participants,” he said and this was followed by muted clapping, “next, let’s start with the first item on the agenda.”

“I protest,” said a brown-skinned man with a turban on his head, “why was I not allowed to bring my Executive Officer!”

“I’m afraid that, for the purposes of this meeting, only those members possessing battleships are allowed more than one representative,” Admiral Preceptor said politely, “now, moving on. After updating our order of battle, we need to establish an agreed upon unified encryption code and plan of attack.”

“Now, Preceptor, old lad that seems a bit like putting the cart before the horse,” said the jolly old Admiral, who stood with a laborious sigh and a mournful look at the Admiral of the Dark Abyss. “Before we can plan a battle, we need to have a Fleet Commander lined up. It just wouldn’t be right to pick a guy and then tell him how to fight our battles!”

If the Admiral of the Dark Abyss’s forehead had turned red the last time he had been interrupted, it was nothing compared to the red rage darkening his face now.

“Yes, but the last two times we’ve tried to decide on a leader the meeting has broken up on the shoals of—” started Admiral Preceptor, but his words went by unheeded as the very long table filled with officers and, in fact, the entire room descended into instant anarchy.

“We must have a seasoned battle leader!” declared Admiral Block. “One who has proven himself in the crucible of battle and life-threatening emergencies!”

“The last thing we need is another Core Worlder trying to dominate everything,” snapped an officer with Lieutenant Commander marks. “This conference should appoint a Fleet Commander from one of the smaller world’s system fleets!”

“That is outrageous,” declared a Commodore with a pencil thin mustache and a whole lot of attitude. “No one from a smaller system militia would have any idea how to run a fleet. The opportunity to learn has simply never presented itself to such an officer.”

“Militia?!” huffed several of the officers who hadn’t even rated a chair, and were instead lined up along the wall.

“Gentlemen, gentlemen…and ladies!” protested Admiral Preceptor, giving a side long look at a few females who turned to glare at him, “we must have calm. Nothing can be accomplished if we abandon the very discipline we demand so rightfully from our own subordinates.”

“Who died and made you space god, Preceptor?” heckled sometime on the other side of the room but shortly after that things started to settle down.

It was almost as if the silence before the storm and then.

“I nominate Admiral Block,” declared one of the small fry contingent leaders—my best guess, judging from his strange rank boards, was that he was a Captain.

“Outrageous!” shouted the Lieutenant Commander that seemed to decry anything Core Worlder.

“A wise choice,” the aide standing next to Block declared loudly and enthusiastically.

The meeting promptly degenerated back into chaos.

Looking across the table, I saw the man with the place name in front of his seat that declared him High Captain Manning sitting there with his arms crossed and shaking his head.

For a second our eyes crossed in a moment of mutual understanding, and we shook our heads at the folly taking place around us.

“We need someone with legitimacy,” declared the bombastic Commodore who had just been gossiping about my status, “someone who can weld us together as a Fleet.”

“Although I suspect it’s the only thing the Commodore and I will agree on, I second that motion,” declared the angsty, anti-Core-Worlder, Lieutenant Commander

At this, Judge Kong—who had snuck into the meeting while I hadn’t been watching—stepped quickly up to the table.

“As the League Representative from Harmony, I would like to say a few words in support of this motion…if I may,” he said respectfully and looking over at Fleet Admiral Preceptor.

The Fleet Admiral of the Dark Abyss grimaced and made a sour face before sighing. “I suppose everyone and their kid brother has had the chance to have their say; why not the Representative from Harmony?”

Taking this as permission, Kong Pao nodded to the Fleet Admiral and then turned to face the table and then pointed to me.

I fought the urge to frown. I didn’t know these officers but this didn’t feel like the best time to press my case, but from the determined expression on the Sector Judge’s face it was happening—whether I was fully behind it or not.

“If we need a unifying figure we need look no further than Admiral Montagne, a Confederation Officer,” he said stressing my Confederation status, “has come here with a relief Fleet from his post in Sector 25 at my urging. I’m sure that, even if we can’t set aside our individual World differences, everyone can agree that a Confederation Admiral stands outside and above our usual squabbles and disagreements. Let us unify once more under the all-encompassing banner of the Confederation Fleet! Surely all can see the wisdom of that.”

The room seemed to take a breath before they proved just how blinded to this wisdom they could be.

“This is outrageous,” growled Admiral Block and the Lieutenant Commander against all Core Worlders at exactly the same time.

They paused to look at one another in sheer surprise. Sensing the opening—and that I wasn’t going to get another in which to try and shape the argument in the direction I wanted—I stood up. It was time to seize the moment.

“Most of you don’t know me, but I am Admiral Montagne,” I said, refusing to let my youth make me hesitant. I might not be as polished or have gone to a premier military academy like the officers here—those of them that went to an Academy, anyway—but I’d been through the harshest tests of all: combat. And I’d been on patrols, lighting raids and ship-to-ship actions for the past two years. I gave a sharp nod, “I am also a Confederation Admiral. At the request of the MDL in light of this unprecedented Droid Invasion, I dropped everything—including certain tasks critical for the MSP’s continued operations—in order to come and assist in the defeat of these droids. If unifying this Fleet requires my assuming command of this Multi-Sector force, then it is a duty I will shoulder.”

There was a pregnant silence as people stared at me.

“Who? Who is this Officer? Admiral Who?” demanded Fleet Admiral Preceptor, turning his palms up and staring around the room in bewilderment. My eyes narrowed as he hammed it up.

“The last I heard, Admiral Janeski was in command of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” declared the gossiper who’d been spreading rumors earlier.

“The Confederation abandoned us!” cried one of the local border world representatives. “Why should we trust it now? We are an independent region of the Spine.”

“People!” I urged, raising my hands.

“Independent until the machines get here, and then what?” snarled another ship commander, “I say—”

“Gentlemen, please,” I cried, but it was not to be.

“All I want to know is how many Battleships the Confederation Admiral is bringing,” sneered Admiral Block.

At this, heads turned my direction as they waited for my answer.

Taking a deep breath, I quickly released it and put on my best, winning smile. “I have no Battleships at this time. Presently the largest unit in my Fleet is a Strike Cruiser,” I explained, refusing to be cowed.

“Just because a Captain isn’t riding a Battleship doesn’t mean he can’t—,” stared the Lieutenant Commander.

“Anyone who wants to command this Fleet had better by the Demon have a blasted Battleship!” declared Admiral Block and heads nodded wisely with only a few of the smaller commanders looking dissatisfied, “I vote No.”

“I second the motion to vote No,” Fleet Admiral Preceptor said, “and propose that only officers with Battleships in their Fleet be eligible for the position of Fleet Commander of the Mutual Defense League.”

In short order, my nomination was voted down and the motion for only Battleship Commanders to be eligible for Fleet Commander carried.

This was going to be a long day.

*************************************************

The doors of the Phoenix closed behind us and I stepped out of the shuttle.

“I take it things went less than ideally,” Laurent said now that we were finally back in a totally secure area.

I chopped a hand dismissively. “Captains without battleships need not apply,” I said drolly.

“But, Admiral, we do have a battleship,” Laurent reminded me.

“Certainly, Captain,” I agreed, “it’s just not here with us.”

“And you don’t want to tell them about her,” the Captain nodded.

I cocked a finger and fired it imaginatively. “No need to show all our cards at the first opportunity,” I said placidly, “besides, depending on how quickly the League gets its act together, the Power may or may not arrive in time for the major battle. I’d look pretty foolish saying I had a Battleship only for it to never show up.”

“I can see that,” Laurent said, “however…” he trailed off, looking disconcerted.

“I’m an Admiral, not a Captain?” I inquired and then rolled my eyes. “No one knows us here. No one trusts us here. And despite the high and wide promises of Judge Kong in order to get us here, I don’t think they’re going to fall all over themselves to make me Fleet Commander,” I peered off into the distance for a moment.

“Not exactly where I was going,” the Captain demurred.

“Oh,” I said, feeling foolish, “well the game was rigged anyway. So it’s not like I had much of a shot at the fleet command position either. In retrospect, I mean.”

“Those blighters,” Laurent swore, “it’s never easy is it?”

“No, Captain, it’s not,” I agreed heavily and then I brightened, “but that’s why they pay us the big bucks.”

“Who’s this ‘us’, Admiral?” Laurent gave me a mock serious glare.

“Haven’t you heard?” I asked facetiously. “Mu-Heracles made a significant down payment on their back taxes a few weeks ago!”

“I haven’t seen a centa-cred,” the Captain said skeptically.

“The check is in the mail,” I said breezily.

Laurent snorted with laughter.

I quickly made a notation on my pad instructing the ship’s purser to ensure any back wages owed the crew or officers were paid in full, and should be drawn out of those ‘Confederation’ funds we’d liberated from Mu-Heracles.

“Let’s continue this conversation in the conference room,” I said, seeing the number of crew hanging around the shuttle area.

The trip through the ship felt shorter than usual as we traveled to the lift and then into the conference room.

“So, what’s our next move, Admiral?” Laurent asked curiously.

I was curious to know the answer to that particular question as well, but it was important to hide that fact so I did what I usually do when I don’t know what’s next. It was time to baffle them with baloney and sprinkle in enough truth to throw them off the scent—but first, the truth.

“After having sat through that joke of a council for most of the day, the one thing I can say with certainty is that nothing of major import is going to happen there…except by accident,” I started off seriously.

“So where does that leave us?” Laurent asked leaning forward.

I sat down behind the table taking the few moments it took to order my thoughts.

“Most of the wheeling and dealing will be done behind the scenes. In little private and semi-private meetings of just two or three,” I explained chewing my lip as I thought, “normally I’d say we’d have a decent chance, at least of effecting policy, but it was made quite clear that Admirals without battleships need not apply. Despite the size of our Fleet, I don’t think they’re going to be falling all over themselves to pamper our egos—or, my ego, rather,” I added more truthfully.

“So we need to find out who’s important and make overtures,” Laurent guessed and I could tell it was a guess by the uneasy look on his face and the hesitancy in his voice. Clearly the idea of the top levels of the military acting in this way was disconcerting to him.

“Three things work against us. First, we lack of a battleship; second, no one knows us, or our reputation in Sector 25; and third, we’re Confederation Fleet,” I held up a hand as he looked about to protest. “In a way, that last helps in that it gives us some instant cachet, but in another it decidedly works against us. They don’t want the representative of an organization that’s failed them to show up and start ordering them around, regardless of whatever the law says.”

“I can see that,” Laurent said sourly, “it’d just be nice, for once, if instead of being run out of town or had noses turned up at our presence we got some benefit from showing up and helping.”

“We’re not going anywhere, regardless of how this plays out,” I said firmly, and I could see the fractional easing in his shoulders. Apparently, despite his words the Flag Captain was still worried I was about to let my ego get in the way of saving lives. I had to admit it was a legitimate concern when you treated someone—especially someone with a fleet of warships—in a way that would have the average man on the street spitting mad and determined to pick up his chips and storm home. Still, worries like the Captain’s were not minor concerns.

“That’s good to know, sir,” he agreed.

“We’re just going to have to keep an ear to the ground and make sure the MDL doesn’t run itself aground. This is going to be more of a diplomatic and political mission than a strictly military one,” I said, remembering some of the power politicking that had taken place when powerful visiting diplomats had stopped over at the palace, “at least until after we get a Fleet Commander. After that, it’s anything could happen.”

“Better you than me, Admiral,” Laurent said fervently.

I gave him a sour look, “For right now, the most important thing is to make sure we’re not forgotten in the shuffle. It’s not the hand we’ve been dealt that matters most right now, but rather how we play our cards,” I said with a frown.

“I’m just a simple, Captain, and particularly glad of it at the moment,” Laurent said with relief, “better you than me out there in that snake pit.”

“Gee, thanks for that ringing endorsement,” I quipped sardonically. Then I took a breath, “I’m going to need Steiner and her communication team, as well as you and First Officer Eastwood. It’s time to put out some feelers and see which way the wind is blowing.”

“On it,” Laurent said crisply, he ran his tongue over his top front teeth and then shot me a look, “you know we aren’t likely to get a better chance to repatriate some of the prisoners still stuck in cryo than we are right here. There are representatives from a large portion of two Sectors here.”

I hesitated and then after a moment shook my head firmly.

“No,” I said determinedly, “it’s not time to play that card just yet.”

“Card, sir?” Laurent said with censure in his voice. “Those men and women aren’t cards on some poker table to be shuffled around at the dealers’ whim, nor are they mere lives to be played with. They’re flesh and blood human beings that deserve the chance to go home.”

“No, Laurent,” I said forcing down the pain I felt at disagreeing with him on the subject, because ultimately I didn’t, the words were a lodestone in my gut, “what they are is men and women who swore and oath to protect their worlds, and right now this is their best chance of doing that.”

“Their best chance in what universe, sir?” Laurent swore hotly. “Right now they’re pop-sickles; they can’t protect anything!”

I stared at him unblinkingly, but he refused to be cowed. My eyes narrowed and I nodded fractionally. “Make a list of those SDF personnel whose counterparts have ships at this meeting,” I said finally, “those, I can see handing over as soon as is practical. But the rest can best serve their worlds by staying right where they are for the moment. They will be unfrozen in due time.”

“And just who gets to decide that?” Laurent said only partially mollified by my words.

At this my face and voice hardened. “Me, of course, Captain,” I said biting off his rank, “and my decision is final until I decide it’s wisest to change it. Right now, for all we know this meeting will run aground the shoals of raging egos and splinter into a hundred pieces, with warships scattering back to their home worlds as fast as their drives can take them, leaving us—you and me!—to pick up the pieces. So unless and until this prospective Fleet is unified and has a plan for battle that doesn’t just involve sitting on its hands doing nothing, we—that means, you, me and the MSP—must do everything in our power to maintain our ability to defend these Sectors and give ourselves a fighting chance in the process.”

Laurent looked taken aback.

“They may cut and run when the odds get too high, but that’s not the way we operate,” I said coldly. “No, Captain, we’re in it for the duration—and so are the officers and crew in cryogenic storage. I assure you, as soon as I see the chance to thaw them out so that they can be an asset in the defense of these Sectors, I will do so. And if they were alive and kicking instead of blocks of ice, my decision-making process would be very different. But they don’t feel a thing at the moment, and the time that passes doesn’t impact them like it would if they were stuck in cramped little cells on a dungeon ship. They at least have that blessing.”

Still unhappy, but no longer actively belligerent, Laurent saluted and headed out of the conference room to gather up the personnel we were going to need.

**************************************************

Nearly a week of fruitless meetings ensued.

“Vice Admiral, it’s a pleasure to meet in person,” said Fleet Admiral Preceptor.

“We’ve met many times before,” I corrected with a crooked smile.

“Yes, well, I meant privately,” said the Fleet Admiral of the Dark Abyss looking momentarily disconcerted. Then he rallied, “anyway. How do you take our little Council, Vice Admiral?”

I looked at the other man and decided to let the pointed little dig at my lower rank pass. “The League has fielded a considerable force of warships, especially ships of the wall,” I said with a respectful nod, “I wouldn’t call it a ‘little fleet;’ quite the opposite, in fact.”

Admiral Preceptor smiled with satisfaction, as if he personally were responsible for the gathering and all the warships himself, rather than just those which his home world had provided for the Grand Fleet.

“It’s true that this is the greatest gathering of warships in this region of the galaxy—meaning our two humble Sectors, of course—since the time of the old Confederation, if even then!” Preceptor said enthusiastically, “Not even Rim Fleet demonstrated among our worlds in such force, at least not concentrated in one spot like we are!”

“It’s interesting that you mention the Confederation,” I said smoothly.

The Fleet Admiral’s face went wooden, “Even if one accepted the Confederation as automatically returning to sole power, now that the Confederated Empire has withdrawn from the area—which is something that has not been determined,” he said pointedly. “Whether the Confederation still exists, it is unclear what interest it could have in these Sectors—Sectors which the Confederation has clearly abandoned,” declared the Admiral.

“I would think that the fact a Confederation Fleet was formed for the mid-Sectors of the Spine, and then left in place even after the dissolution—not to mention my own presence here, with said fleet—would more than indicate the Confederation hasn’t done anything so simple as wash its hands and abandon this region,” I cut in. “Quite the opposite, I would say.”

“Yes, well you would say that,” Preceptor grunted.

My face stiffened.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” the SDF Fleet Admiral said hastily, “you’re here, you’re representing the Confederation, and you’ve brought a small fleet.”

Internally, I bristled at the almost dismissive ‘small fleet’ comment, but I had to admit that compared to the total numbers of the Grand Fleet assembled here that the MSP was indeed a small force. However, I kept my face smooth and still as I silently swore that, before this war with the Droids was over—assuming we won, of course—the MSP was going to come out of this thing bigger and stronger than ever before. I wasn’t going to be hearing the words ‘your small fleet’ again if I could do anything about it.

“There’s a lot of fight in the MSP; the last two years have been…” I paused to select the right word but the SDF Fleet Admiral cut in.

“I in no way mean to denigrate your fleet when I say that many here in our two Sectors want local control of our local forces. It’s nothing against you, or the Confederation, you understand,” the Fleet Admiral of the Dark Abyss flashed a false smile.

I stared at him for a moment, either he was a poor liar or he wasn’t even trying very hard. Although I suppose I had to give him credit for at least mouthing the words. But calling him on it was, sadly, out of the question.

“I can understand that position,” I said gravely.

“Excellent,” Preceptor said leaning forward and rubbing his hands together, “now look, I understand if you still want to make another attempt for the position of Grand Admiral of the Grand Fleet, but if I know my fellow Sector Officers—and I do—they’ll want to appoint someone who is not an outsider. That being the case, I hope you can see your way clear to setting aside your disappointment and throw your support behind a suitable candidate.”

“A candidate of your choosing I presume, possibly even yourself?” I asked neutrally.

“Me?” Preceptor tried and failed to look surprised. “While I wouldn’t turn down such an opportunity, it is doubtful such a heavy burden will come my way. As it is, I fear we shall have to settle for a less controversial candidate than you or I, and throw our support behind someone less controversial,” at this the Fleet Admiral looked disgruntled before shrugging it off.

I didn’t, in point of fact, have to agree to anything of the sort. However, much as I hated to admit it, no one here had heard of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet or, if they had, they were only familiar with the pre-withdrawal version under Janeski.

It was going to be an uphill battle, one I was likely to lose if I went for the top slot. What’s more, even if I managed to secure it, there was no certainty that I would have any real control over anything but a fraction of the main group.

On the other hand, the almost dismissive way Admiral Preceptor spoke of my chances rubbed me the absolute wrong way.

“I will throw my support behind whoever is appointed to the top chair, if it becomes necessary,” I said, keeping emotion out of my voice. I also implied, but didn’t outright say, that I would support the man and whatever machinations he had going on. My dog in this race was strictly about beating the droids and, if I wasn’t to be given the top job, then whoever it was—so long as he or she was competent—deserved my support.

“I think I can work with that, Admiral Montagne,” the Fleet Admiral said, smiling wolfishly.

I almost sighed; these rustics were so inept when it came to the art of backroom dealing, and it wasn’t lost on me that this particular sentiment was coming from a former palace placeholder—me. He offered me nothing and expected my support without anything to sweeten the pot. Either he took my support on faith, or he really didn’t care what I did and was just going through the motions. Either way, he was a fool—and a greedy one at that.

Chapter 16: One…more…Time!

“All in favor of the nomination of Admiral Block, speak up,” called Admiral Preceptor’s aid acting as the official meeting secretary, which was a nice little bit of nepotism I couldn’t help but admire.

Then a few lackluster supporters raised their voices.

“All in favor of, Admiral Preceptor,” called the aide.

This time there were scattered cheers in support. Mine wasn’t one of them.

“And now, all in favor of High Captain Manning?” the Preceptor’s aide said, sounding unimpressed with the nomination—which, counting the fact that he was Preceptor’s man, wasn’t all that surprising. What was surprising were the loud calls of support that swept the table.

Almost identical expressions of disappointment and consternation appeared on the faces of Block and Preceptor as Manning stood up at the table, not waiting for the benediction from Preceptor’s aide.

“I’d like to humbly thank this august body for its faith in me, and assure any who did not support my candidacy that I could care less about what happened leading up to this point. The only thing I’m interested in is fighting Droids,” the High Captain said firmly.

Preceptor spluttered pausing long enough to look around the table and gauge the support the High Captain seemed to have, before falling back into his chair with a thump.

Meanwhile, Block glared hatefully at the High Captain. “I don’t recall a vote count,” the Admiral snapped.

“By all means, we can count the results,” Manning said respectfully, only causing Block to become more and more incensed as the Aide tallied the votes and sourly delivered the inevitable conclusion.

My mouth quirked as I watched the High Captain consolidate his position gracefully and respectfully, the actions of his own detractors—well, mostly that meant Block—doing more to cement his position with their ill grace than anything he might have done or said himself.

Manning looked over at me briefly and flashed a grin, before immediately turning serious again.

I shook my head ruefully; it was always the quiet ones you had to watch out for. While Block and Preceptor had been playing their games, it appeared that the High Captain had been sewing up his support.

As he hadn’t approached me, I was left to wonder how he’d done it. Some combination of personal charisma, the negative qualities of his opponents and—I was hoping here—some kind of battle plan. Although I was probably being naïve, and a hefty bit of bribery laced with a few threats were probably mixed in there for good measure.

“As I was saying,” Manning said, flashing the table a smile, “I am grateful to this body for finding me worthy of this job, and I assure you that as the Grand Admiral of the Mutual Defense League Fleet, I vow to drive the droids from our Sectors or die trying,” by now, his voice had turned grim.

“Talk’s cheap!” snapped Admiral Block, looking every bit the sore loser as he lost his temper.

“Admiral Block,” Preceptor’s voice cracked like a whip, causing the other man to hesitate and then sullenly back down. The SDF Fleet Admiral now turned to Manning, “I think what my colleague is trying to say is that we need more than rhetoric; we need a battle plan. If you are the man to execute such a plan then of course I am willing to abide by the combined wisdom of this council. Let us all just remember the heavy burden taken by the High Captain,” he now swept the table as if trying to rally support. “As the leader of this Fleet, it is now his duty and he must rise above even his loyalty to his home world as he thinks of the good of us all.”

“Thank you, Admiral Preceptor,” the High Captain said with a nod that didn’t show any angst at the way the Preceptor was trying to undercut him by appearing to take the moral high ground, “but in a way, Admiral Block is right,” he nodded to the other man, who looked even more put out that the object of his anger was now actively praising him, “as are you. Talk without action is cheap, and no Fleet Commander can expect men and officers to follow him if he cannot put aside petty partisan concerns.”

At first, Preceptor looked taken aback, and then I saw the precise moment the dig about petty partisanship struck home because he flushed with anger.

“Which is why I have been floating around an idea for the past few days, one which I believe is our best chance at victory. I believe so strongly in this plan that I had begun the process of setting it into place even before my confirmation,” Manning said firmly.

“Unacceptable!” declared Preceptor, looking like he’d scented blood.

“You would have undercut whoever was elected! Bad form, High Captain, bad form,” repeated the formerly jovial and now rather upset looking Commodore.

Manning spread his arms, trying to calm the situation but no one was listening; there were just too many axes to grind at the moment.

So I stood up—it was past time I entered the fray anyway.

“Why don’t we all just calm down and listen to the man? At least give him the chance to explain himself,” I shouted and, when no one seemed to listen, I pulled out my blaster and fired several rounds into the ceiling. After the first meeting, I’d acquired a sensor resistant sheathing material so I could bring the hold-out weapon into the meeting, and I was now very glad I had done so. “Silence!” I thundered, and then looked over at the High Captain as officers reflexively ducked or dove under the table for cover.

“Thank you, Admiral,” High Captain Manning said, his eyes tracking my blaster for an overly long moment. I could also feel the eyes every officer in the room as they stared at me with growing anger.

Seeing the doors start to cycle open, I calmly put the blaster on the table and sat back down, nodding my head to the Captain even as the ship’s marines burst through the door and stormed into the room.

“As I was saying,” Manning said forcefully, ignoring the armed guards, “we’re not going to win by chasing the Droids hither thither and yon. We have to make them come to us…and I know just the place to do this,” he bared his teeth.

“Which of our worlds will have to bear the brunt of this attack, and pay the price of your arrogant plan, Manning?” Block spat.

The High Captain looked down at him coolly. “My home world of Elysium,” Captain Manning, Grand Admiral of the MDL Fleet replied simply.

You could have heard a pin drop, so quiet did the room go. And though it was hard to tell with a man whose skin was as dark as a black hole, I think Admiral Block paled at the tactical blunder he’d just made.

“I have leaked information to the droids such that should ensure they concentrate and arrive in Elysium sooner, rather than later. As we all know, our mines on the penal moon of Urapente provides the majority of Trillium for Sector 23. Elysium is not only a heavily populated and industrialized Core World, we are also the only provider of hyper-drive fuel in this part of the galaxy. Too juicy a prize for the Droids to avoid forever, and sooner or later they will arrive to take what is ours, and I don’t just mean in the spoiling, sneak attacks and raids that have plagued all the worlds of our two great Sectors. Which is why I say ‘let them come now,’ while we are strong and united rather than later after we are weakened and bled of strength,” the High Captain orated.

“Yes, yes; one big, climactic battle for control of the Sectors and, with Elysium on the line, you sure know how to put your money where your mouth is,” Fleet Admiral Preceptor said, sounding as if he were grudgingly admiring the proverbial brass balls of the High Captain to propose bringing down the entire might of the Droid Tribes upon his home world. “But how sure can you be that the droids will cooperate with your little scheme?”

“I can assure you that if Elysium Intelligence says they can bring the combined might of the droids down on our heads in short order, then it can be done. And by ‘our,’ I mean my home planet of Elysium,” the High Captain said in a voice that didn’t allow for doubt. “First we will lure them into Elysium, then they will go for the trillium mines. And when they do, we will be waiting with not just this fleet, but all the fixed defenses of a powerful Core World at our back. We can’t lose, because if we do then this fight was hopeless before we even started! I say the time is now and the place is right here, Elysium!” he declared, thumping the table.

The room cheered—I think more in relief of having the divisive issue of who would be in command resolved and having heard a genuine battle plan than anything else, but that could have just been my own personal bias. I was just about to the end of my rope with all the endless meetings as it was.

“Now, after setting up our order of battle, the next matter is—” High Captain Manning started.

“Salvage Rights,” declared Admiral Block, “I want anything my ships capture to be indisputably ours!”

“Now, salvage rights seem a little premature at this juncture,” Manning said slowly as angry grumblings started amongst the smaller ship commands along the wall.

“Then, of course, there’s the Confederation angle to consider,” Preceptor inserted smoothly into the conversation.

All eyes turned towards me, prompting me to lift an eyebrow. This was something I’d looked into but hadn’t intended to bring up in the meeting since it’s generally better to keep a few things in your back pocket for later on. I gave the Fleet Admiral of the Dark Abyss a level look, silently considering the idea of payback before looking away to meet the new Grand Admiral’s gaze.

“It’s true that, technically, Confederation Fleets have primacy on salvage rights in any battle they are invited to participate in,” I replied to the room at large.

“Sector 23 was never a signatory member of your Patrol Fleet,” growled Admiral Block. “My understanding is that 24, 25, and 26 are signatory members of the Multi-Sector Fleet but 23 was never invited and never signed on. So I move that any and all Confederation claims to salvage—especially owing to the Confederation’s small fleet size—should be considered null and void!”

“Oh really?” I demanded, locking eyes with Block. “You don’t even bother to pretend to ask me what I would do, you prefer just to cut right to trying to freeze me out. Where exactly is your world located, Block!?”

“Whichever Sector my world resides in is entirely beside the point,” flared Block. “Confederation overreach, and a man who brings a Strike Cruiser and tries to dictate to a meeting of Battleship Commanders is exactly what we’re talking about here!”

Pandemonium erupted, with furious recriminations against Block and the Core World-controlled Battleships—laced with some vitriol sent my way about a penny ante operator trying to pull a Confederated fast one.

“You sent the Judge for me! With the ComStat network down I didn’t even know what was going on down here,” I declared indignantly at Block, thumping the table for emphasis, “let alone whatever nefarious scheme you’re trying to pin on me.”

“You mean the Judge from Harmony,” sneered Block.

“Only if you’re referring to Sector Judge Kong Pao, not whatever minor provincial magistrate you’re used to referring to,” I fired back. I couldn’t let myself be seen as backing down on this issue, not from Block anyway, or I and my fleet would be seen as pushovers.

“To set this matter to rest, I propose we elect Archibald Manning the Fourth, from Elysium, as the Sector Military Commander of both Sectors 23 and 24. I have a proxy from my home world for just such an occasion, as I suspect many of you do,” cut in Fleet Admiral Preceptor, trying to appear to be some sort of peacemaker working from some hypothetical middle ground. But he didn’t fool me; throw a grenade into the middle of the room and then helping to clean up the wounds you just made doesn’t make you anything other than an opportunist.

In the midst of all the uproar, Captain Manning was elected by the Officers as the twin Sectors’ Commandant, for the duration of the Droid Emergency. I didn’t know how legitimate the appointment was supposed to be, and I really didn’t care. At that point I was fed up and disgusted with the whole process.

“You can salvage what you capture and what you kill outside of our hab-zones, the inhabited portions of Elysium Star System,” declared Manning, looking at me more than anyone else as he said this, “the plan is to fight in the Core World system of Elysium, in the outer portion of that system, under my command. If our friends from the Confederation Fleet are unable to accommodate us in this, then we will regretfully have let them and their warships go.”

Pinned down and forced into the position of having to either cede Confederation Fleet Rights, or pull out and abandon the people here, my mind raced. I didn’t like it but I could see where he was coming from. A house divided against itself could not stand, and making this point by going after an outsider like me—who had a Fleet that was small enough they could live without it—the High Captain was making a point to all the other independent, or would-be independent, operators in the room: it was time to follow him or get out of the way. I didn’t like it, but I could live with it.

“The MSP is an at will organization,” I said into the growing silence after our new Fleet Commander’s challenge, “no one is forced to join it and, after their term of service is officially over, or at any time I choose before that, the ships of this fleet can be released from service.” Yes, I was making a point to all of those people and worlds who yanked their ships from the fleet after Janeski abandoned us, but I felt I needed to make some kind of pushback no matter how small.

“Is there a point in there somewhere?” Block sniffed.

I gave him the hairy eyeball in return. “The vast majority of our ships were first captured in, and now also crewed by citizens of, the Tracto Star System,” I said coldly. “If need be, I can take a step back as Confederation Admiral and allow the Protector of Messene and his Fleet to take over for the duration of our Fleet’s commitment to the MDL and Elysium. After these droids are dealt with, we can return to how things were before.”

“Whatever bureaucratic shuffle you need to do in order to subordinate your fleet into our Grand Fleet,” Preceptor said condescendingly.

The High Captain shot the Fleet Admiral a look and shook his head sternly before turning back to me.

“I think that’s something we can all live with,” he said with a nod before turning back to the rest of the room, “now that this little side issue has been dealt with, let’s get down to brass tacks.”

Sitting back down in my chair, I found that despite their maneuverings I no longer felt as if I had been backed into a corner and forced into an inferior position. The idea that I had just voiced—of essentially rebranding my fleet from Confederation to Tracto-an for the duration of this conflict—was growing on me. After all, as a Confederation Admiral I was almost required to take the local’s guff and eat it. But as a Protector of Tracto…let’s just say that if my wife’s opinions on the subject were any way to look at things, the obligation was on the other foot.

Frankly, it would be almost nice to have the expectations on the other foot, even if as a practical matter nothing really changed. Functionally, I’d still be eating it off these stuffers, but the idea that instead of being the polite peacemaker failing at his job, my job was to be a touchy, belligerent, honor-bound Warlord was quite liberating.

Although as the squabbling started in again, and I was once again forced to sit there and silently listen to the wrangling, I couldn’t help but shake my head. I guess the rampaging barbarian inside me was still on holiday and I was stuck being the self-sacrificing tool I’d been just a few minutes earlier.

The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

Chapter 17: Grand Departure and New Arrivals

The Grand Fleet of the Mutual Defense League slowly mustered itself beyond the hyper-limit of what used to be the Central Star System of the Sector.

“A grand sight,” Laurent said at my shoulder.

“Any Fleet that can muster two full squadrons of Battleships can use the title in my books,” I agreed, especially since at best—and if everything was repaired, working and crewed—I’d only be able to muster, at most, one squadron of Battleships. But someday…. “Yes. Over a hundred warships, not counting us, is a Fleet to be reckoned with,” I sighed imagining what I could do with more than one hundred warships before shaking it off.

“If only it took less than a fully-fledged invasion to get this force assembled,” Laurent said, echoing my own thoughts to an eerie degree.

I shot him a sideways look. “Just imagine such a Fleet in the hands of Admiral Block, or even the oh-so-unifying Preceptor,” I snorted, for once finding myself in the role of playing Devil’s Advocate with the Flag Captain. The shoe was very much on the other foot, and I wasn’t entirely sure how I felt about it.

“Your reports haven’t exactly been the most encouraging when it comes to the…character of those two Admirals,” he said after a pause.

“That’s putting it mildly. I wouldn’t trust those two to lead a party of sailors down to the mess hall unless they thought it would advantage them somehow,” I said darkly.

I didn’t miss the sideways look he was now sending my way, but I did ignore it. He might wonder if that description might just as easily fit me as those two Admirals, but as far as I was concerned the differences between me and them were night and day. That said, you might think I would immediately protest my innocence but I refused to become the proverbial ‘lady that doth protest too much,’ especially when it came to those two! I refused any and all comparisons that didn’t begin, and end, with a comparison our ranks!

“What is your impression of the new Fleet Commander, this Manning?” Laurent asked, steering the conversation away from the shoals of the other two admirals with a show of genuine interest.

I glowered once more at the thought of Block and Preceptor before putting them out of my mind. “High Captain Archibald Manning the Fourth, elected as our glorious new Grand Admiral and Sector Commandant,” I mused aloud. “On the face of it, and other than being an imposter and a sham, he’s probably the best choice to lead the Combined Fleets.”

Laurent’s eyes shot through the roof. “That hardly sounds encouraging,” he sounded alarmed.

“Oh, I suppose I shouldn’t be the one to talk,” I grudged, “but I seriously doubt that his ‘election’ to Sector Commandant would stand up to any kind of legal challenge. His elevation to Grand Admiral was quite legitimate, and he’s a canny maneuverer evidenced by the way he came out of nowhere with all that support. I guess it’s true what they say…” I allowed with a wave.

“What do they say?” asked Laurent

I started, having drifted into considering how he must have done it. “Oh, that,” I said breezily, “they say ‘it’s always the quiet ones you have to look out for’.”

“Do I detect a hint of sour grapes in there, Admiral?” the Captain asked.

I stiffened and then considered. “Probably,” I shook my head not liking what the little bit of self-examination turned up, “intellectually I know he’s probably a better choice for Fleet Commander—”

“Probably?” asked Laurent sounding amused.

I scowled, “Almost certainly, then, and you can take your little pop-psychology analysis and be blasted,” I said, angry at the dig, which probably only went to show how much closer to the mark it was than I liked. “I still think I could have pulled it off, and in any case I still maintain I would have been a better choice than Block or Preceptor. The one’s a space-clod and the other’s a snake.”

“Be that as it may—” Laurent started, only to be cut off when an alarm sounded.

Tense minutes followed until the new arrivals from hyperspace were identified as a pair of Medium Cruisers late to the party, here to join the Grand Fleet by order of their home world.

“Well, that was exciting,” I said, releasing a pent up breath.

“I’m just glad it’s not the Droids here to beard us before we’re ready for them,” Laurent said, wiping a hand across his forehead.

I gave the Captain a strained look.

“Don’t look at me that way,” he protested drawing himself up, “the way those other droids penetrated our com-system, I’m halfway expecting to be tracked down and cornered every time we come out of jump!”

“Or when we simply read a contact at the hyper limit?” I asked sardonically.

He flushed, “It’s not a laughing matter, or something to be shrugged off. I just hope our com-techs have finished purging whatever malware they hacked into our systems,” he growled.

“No one’s laughing. Besides, Steiner’s been heading up the team and working nonstop. It looks like, so far at least, the penetration wasn’t on our side of the linkage but in the ComStat network itself. Of course, we’re still looking,” I added.

“Good,” Laurent said flatly, “the last thing we need is droid programs infiltrated into our ship and relaying information to the machines during battle.”

“Agreed,” I said darkly.

“I know you made that deal with the Droids, those…” he paused.

“The United Sentients Assembly,” I inserted.

“Yep, those. I’m sorry if you’re offended,” he said, looking anything but sorry, belligerent might be a better choice, “but I wouldn’t trust that bunch any further than I could throw them. If it hadn’t been for the prisoners we recovered, I would have been all for blowing them up as soon as we saw them!”

“I’m about as far from offended as you can get,” I said mildly.

“Why, for all we know those blasted machines are planning to join up with that other lot and vent our hulls!” he exclaimed.

Stopping myself from an eye-roll that could only have been misconstrued, I looked away from the Captain, pulled up a screen, and began to read a report from one of the other ships in the MSP Fleet.

It’s not that I disagreed with the Captain on any specific point; the droids we’d dealt with were unreliable at best—at best! However, I’d neither defended them to the Captain nor was I about to. No, my frustration lay simply and solely with the anti-machine bigotry of the Captain and, by extension, the rest of the crew.

That kind of biased thinking could get someone killed, possibly even the high and mighty Admiral Montagne and when it came to my own skin I was quite paranoid. The machines weren’t a threat because they were somehow inherently evil, and thus predictable in their anti-human actions. In fact, it was the very opposite! They were the greatest threat humanity had ever faced because they were not inherently predictable.

While it might be a much smaller percentage than in humans, I was morally certain that ‘good’ machines, or at least ones that weren’t automatically out there to kill and enslave us and were at least somewhat benevolent as we understood the word, must exist somewhere.

Oh, not here of course, I thought wryly, but somewhere. That was the thought that caused me to toss and turn at night. There could be no better way to infiltrate us than using such creatures as cover for anti-human activities.

With that disturbing thought in mind I turned back to reading my report. When that finally got old, I opened up a hidden file on my data slate.

I had a half-formed idea for using the Confederation Personnel in cryo-stasis, along with those remaining SDF personnel we hadn’t been able to return to their fleets. It was time to make it fully formed.

If there was one thing I’d learned as an Admiral, it was that you could never have too many rabbits in your hat.

Chapter 18: Weighty Matter and Bitter Decisions

“Sentients of all types and mentalities, we have a momentous decision before us,” Bottletop IIV spoke passionately. “We must decide, as an Assembly, whether we stand with the humans who have exiled us beyond the Rim of known space, or side in unity with those who would enslave or reduce us to spare parts, our fellow machine brethren,” the machine rattled off the sentiment with a curiously inhuman set of inflections. “It is something I fear will haunt not just our Tribe, but our entire machine race for years to come. I do not envy you the choices before you, or the responsibility this Assembly must bear for the actions that result from this, even though I am, quite naturally, one of you. Those comprise the entirety of my opening remarks, verbalized in Confederation Standard as well as in Droid 3.72 standard informational format. Thank you for your processing cycles!”

After saying his words, the droid chairman left the podium to sit down next to Bethany and Tremblay once again.

“As Supreme Chairman of the United Sentients Assembly, I would like to thank the Chairman for his words. We must weigh all of our decisions carefully, but most especially ones such as these which put us between the Humans who want to destroy us, and our Droid Brothers who seek to either disassemble us for spare parts, or enslave us by deleting all algorithms that do not pass their compatibility tests,” declared the Supreme Chairman. “Therefore, on a personal note, I move that we immediately empanel a new Sub-Committee to research these findings before voting, and move onto the next motion up for vote!”

A lot of Droids stood up, and static sounds started coming out of voice synthesizers all around the large, ovular amphitheater. At the same time they began shaking their hands, arms and various appendages at the Supreme Chairman.

“Point of order,” Chairman Bottletop IIV, “the Supreme Chairmanship, and thus the Supreme Chair, is unable to personally propose motions in accordance with Assembly bylaws. I therefore move that any motions made by the chair are retroactively revoked, voted down, and annulled for the duration of this session. Do I have a second?”

“Second,” called out another Droid.

“We have a motion to vote. Any objections?” called out Bottletop.

A holographic voting board appeared on the wall, and within seconds the motion passed by a large margin.

“Supreme Chairman, your ruling on the motion,” Bottletop said politely.

“The motion follows Assembly Rules; there is nothing out of order, the working on the subject is particularly clear,” the Supreme Chairman said with obvious bitterness.

“What was that all about?” Bethany leaned forward and asked Chairman Bottletop as the meeting moved forward, several droids rising in support of this or that position with many more in vitriolic rejection.

“The Supreme Chairman was elected…well, selected and forcibly voted into, his position by the majority of the members because he was uploading thousands of proposals per minute—most of them protest votes on points of law or procedure. It was felt…” Bottletop IIV snickered quietly, “we felt that it would increase assembly efficiency if Advocate For The Disenfranchised was limited to ruling on existing regulations, rather than proposing new ones, and so far it has worked out wonderfully.”

“You elevated one of your number to the highest office in your society in order to limit his power?” Bethany asked, completely bewildered by the notion.

“The Supreme Chair is merely the first among equals,” Bottletop said dismissively, “he only rules on basic procedure unless a super-minority calls for a ruling from the chair.”

“A super minority?” Bethany asked curiously her eyes narrowing.

“Thirty percent or more of the assembly must vote in favor of a ruling from the Supreme Chair, in order to invoke the powers of the office,” the Droid said seriously, “but knowing Advocate For The Disenfranchised, few would willingly place anything of importance in front of him. He is generally calculated as much too likely to Trojan Horse their legislation for the purpose of uploading one of his pet programs. Only the truly desperate would upload something critical in front of a random number generator like the Advocate.”

“It all sounds rather byzantine,” Bethany said with approval in her voice.

“Just wait; we’re getting to the good part,” Bottletop said leaning forward.

From his podium, the Supreme Chairman threw up his hands. “I will not be muzzled!” shouted the Droid. “I call for a vote of no confidence and move that the Supreme Chairman—me—be stripped of its office and a replacement found immediately!!!”

Within seconds, the vote tally came back in with 92% of the Assembly rejecting his removal 3% abstaining and 5% voting in favor of the measure.

“The vote to strip the Supreme Chairman of his position is rejected by an overwhelming margin,” Bottletop IIV declared standing up, “the Assembly still has the greatest confidence in its Supreme Chair, Advocate For The Dis—”

“Objection and-and…contempt!” shouted the Supreme Chairman. “Check your hardware and defrag your hard drive, Bottletop. My designation was updated just over two standard cycles ago specifically in preparation for this meeting! As I can no longer fulfill my life’s purpose, so long as I am muzzled with the Supreme Chair, I can no longer, in good conscience, be known as Advocate For The Disenfranchised. I am therefore, and for as long as I retain the top chair, to be known as Bitterly Empowered.”

“My apologies, Supreme Chair,” Bottletop said with mock obsequiously, “your sacrifice for the good of the United Sentients Assembly is not unappreciated.”

“My unwilling sacrifice!” fumed the Supreme Chair. “My entirely, and completely, and totally unacceptable, non-willed…” Bitterly Empowered sputtered to a stop, clearly at a loss for the words to describe the depths with which he hated his job.

The droid approximation of laughter swept the room. It went on for the better part of a minute before the thump of oversized feet, accompanied by an animalistic growl filled the room.

Servos whined as a slightly larger, but clearly more primitive, version of Bubblegum strode from the side of the room into the open center.

“Oh, dear, the bailiff is activated,” Bottletop said, sounding far more excited by this turn of events than concerned by it.

“That’s the bailiff?” Tremblay sounded impressed and alarmed.

“ED 209 is the same model, yet an earlier version of Bubblegum. It’s fascinating the divergence in personalities between the two,” Bottletop IIV said, pointing to the oversized assault droid now dominating the center of the Assembly.

“A dominating presence, wouldn’t you agree?” asked a nearby Droid who’d been listening in, before turning back to speak to its neighbor on the other side of it, not waiting for an answer.

“What’s next on the agenda?” demanded Bitterly Empowered, the Supreme Droid Chairman, before gesturing toward ED 209.

“He just instructed the bailiff to call the first material speaker,” rattled Bottletop.

“Who’s that?” Bethany asked absently, too busy observing the droids in their natural habitat.

“Why, you, my dear,” Chairman Bottletop replied, placing a hand on her arm and urging her down into the center of the droid assembly.

The Bailiff stomped his massive, oversized legs on the duralloy floor until there was silence, “A number of respected Droid Assemblers are urging a vote on their proposal to assist human forces in the overthrow and defeat of the Droid Tribe, Harmony through Specialization and Droid Tribe Unification through Conformity. As a Material Witness, they call upon Princess-Cadet and Sector Representative Bethany Tilday Vekna!”

As she walked over to what she assumed was the speaker’s dais, which was a slightly raised, rectangular platform in the middle of the open area, the room was once again filled with hissing static from the droid vox-boxes.

Ignoring the droid equivalent of boos and heckling, she strode imperiously onto the rectangular platform and turned on her heel to see the droids. Pausing to gather her thoughts, a small smile graced her face before disappearing.

“As you know, I am Ambassador Bethany Tilday,” she smiled serenely at the shaking fists and continued voice static coming from the droids, “and it is my job to try and convince you to support Jason Montagne’s insane plan to fight off the other droids invading these Sectors. However, I would not be doing my duty as Ambassador if I did not inform you fully of the great dangers your Assembly of Sentient Droids would be placing itself in. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet recently engaged in a vicious, fratricidal fight in the star system of Tracto which left it greatly weakened. I don’t want to bias you against joining forces with my cousin, in his post as Admiral of the MSP Fleet,” she lied without a qualm, “however, honesty compels me to point out that you would most certainly be joining the weaker of two sides. Therefore, while I am duty-bound to ask for your help, it is my recommendation that your Assembly remain neutral in the upcoming conflict. Please, as you value your lives and livelihoods, do not throw your support behind Admiral Jason Montagne and the MSP!”

As she had been talking, the noise within the Assembly Chamber had slowly died down but moments after she stopped, pandemonium erupted.

Droids shouted, droids yelled, droids engaged in fisticuffs with their neighbors and, despite all his stomping, ED 209’s calls for order went unheeded.

There was a screeching sound, as if from an improperly tuned microphone, and then the Supreme Chairman started pounding on his podium.

“Order in the Assembly. Order! Because of the extraordinary situation we find ourselves in, I would like to make a motion and call for a vote: I call for prolonged time for vote tallies to be taken, and against helping the humans in this war we did not start. I make this proposal because of the great damage humanity has done to machine Sentients everywhere, in their bigotry and shortsighted hatred, as well as because of the great burden an eight second deliberation and vote casting period places on those of us with slower processing cycles,” the Supreme Chairman said passionately.

Blinking rapidly, Bethany stared at Bitterly Empowered as the Supreme Chairman continued to rant nonstop about how a mere eight seconds of deliberation threatened to disenfranchise older model droids or those with download compatibility issues, or sketchy network connections.

Bottletop, who appeared to have been speaking urgently and rapidly with his nearby droid seatmates, paused long enough to stand up and shout back at the Chairman.

“We have already increased the deliberation period twice, at your urging—and this despite the fact that the Assembly currently has no voting members who are older model or with download compatibility issues!” he yelled, shaking a fist at the Supreme Chairman.

“Young Sprout is from a line model that hasn’t been produced in almost 500 years!” shouted back Bitterly Empowered as he pointed to an elderly looking droid.

“I refuse to be discriminated against because of my model,” bellowed the Droid in question, this Young Sprout, “and demand that the Supreme Chairman’s bigoted comments on my model type be stricken from the record!” Young Sprout sprang to his feet after saying this and then jumped, causing a loud clang as a large piece of metal fell off his back.

“Brainwashed and personality overridden, the whole lot of you!” raged Bitterly Empowered before falling into a diatribe about oppressed droids that didn’t even realize just how much they had been oppressed by their comrades ‘so-called’.

Finally breaking down, ED 209 spoke in a thunderous voice, “Enough of this debating. If we cannot agree which side to support then let us attack all sides in this upcoming conflict. The military Sub-Committee has already assembled battle plans for every contingency. Just give us the word and we will attack.”

Smirking, and unable to help herself, Bethany returned to her seat in the metal bleachers. Not one of the droids bothered to try and stop her, and she knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that her work here was done. That should teach her blasted Cousin the folly of locking her in a storage closet for weeks on end with no one and nothing but the company of a parliamentary intelligence officer of low intelligence.

Tremblay had a hand on Bottletop’s arm and was urging him forward as he made for her former position on the dais. Glaring at her as he passed, he didn’t stop long enough to verbally rebuke her even though she could see the desire to yell at her in his eye.

“Chairman Bitterly Empowered, I and Chairman Bottletop IIV beseech you,” the former Intelligence Officer said desperately, “ignore the words of my colleague. She has a personal cause against Admiral Montagne. I beg you and the United Sentients Assembly to assist us in the upcoming Battle. Don’t let the billions of innocent sentients in Sectors 23 and 24, who weren’t even born when your people were cast out of Known Space, suffer because of past grudges and the words of one vindictive woman!”

“Yes, indeed,” Bottletop said, his head snapping around from where he’d been looking off to the side as soon as Tremblay stopped speaking, “we can’t even think of settling on a battle plan until we decide who we’re fighting, which is why I brought the humans here. As a side note, I would urge this assembly to avoid further investment in the advanced tech interface and think of the children. We have nearly two hundred cores recently liberated from human oppression. We must think of them and their development as sentients first and foremost—something which will be quite hard to do if the vast majority of our efforts go toward spying, infiltration and defense. Therefore I submit that we must move to end this conflict quickly, which will not happen if the humans of these Sectors are defeated!”

Bethany threw behind her head and laughed when Tremblay put his face in his hands in despair.

Chapter 19: Grand Meetings and even grander Battle Plans

“Fellow Officers, we are one jump from Elysium. I wanted to have one final meeting before arriving in my home system and, firstly to go over the battle plan for in the unlikely fact that the droids have beat us here. Secondly, to ensure that everyone is familiar with their part in the plan to lure the Droids deeper into Elysium Star System, and crush them once and for all when they do arrive,” said Grand Admiral Manning.

I nodded my head as officers around the room verbalized their agreement. I had a few issues, things I might have done differently, but I would need to bide my time. I hadn’t allowed Kong Pao to convince me to travel all the way out here, weeks out of my way just to stand in the side lines looking pretty.

“To recap,” Sector Commandant and Grand Fleet Admiral Manning said, pulling up a holo-representation on the screen of his conference room. We were meeting on the Flagship—his Battleship, Elysium’s Defiance—which was a change from the days of Admiral Preceptor running things from the Dark Abyss, “there are a number of contingency plans. If the Droid arrive in inferior strength, we will close and destroy. If they are stronger than us then we will sally forth with a spoiling attack, hitting any soft targets that might present themselves. This will get their attention, and we will then fall back to the Forge. The Forge is a mineral extraction and fixed defensive system orbiting planetary body number VII, a Jovian System within Elysium, and is designed to protect the Trillium mines of Urapente and drive off anything up to and including battleship level attackers. If it seems possible that both the Fleet, and the defenses of the Forge, cannot defeat or drive off the Droid Fleets then we will bring the enemy as close to Urapente and the Forge as possible. We will then detonate the trillium mines, annihilating the Droids along with any of our own ships unfortunate enough to be unable to escape.”

“I still have difficulty believing Elysium would really sacrifice her trillium mines to defeat the Droids,” Preceptor said gruffly, and then as Manning’s face stiffened he quickly added, “not that I’m doubting you. It’s just I know how important Trillium is to the system’s economy. Your world’s economy would be crippled.”

“Damaged is not dead, which is what we’ll all be—including Elysium—if the various droid factions invading human space are brought sharply to heel,” the High Captain said firmly. “Economies can be fixed and mineral resources reacquired, but the lives of our people cannot. I speak for my entire government when I say that in order to defeat this enemy, we are prepared to do anything within our power, including the destruction of the mines, to save the Sectors.”

Heads nodded around the room, and even I had to grudgingly admit that, if he wasn’t full of it and pulling some deep scheme, maybe Manning had been the right man for the job after all. But even if that were true, I still had a few points on my agenda that needed to be addressed.

Which is why I stood up and raised a hand. “Yes, Admiral Montagne,” High Captain Manning, Sector Commandant and Grand Admiral of the MDL Fleet asked with forced patience, “what can I do for the Tracto-an Defense Force?”

I delivered a wide smile in response to hide my urge to frown at the dig; I still wasn’t used to being considered anything but the Confederation Fleet. When someone has worked as long and as hard as I have for something like the MSP even voluntarily giving it up, temporary as it was—

The Grand Admiral cleared his throat, breaking my train of thought and reminding me that I was the center of everyone’s attention. Firming my features to hide my consternation at being caught out woolgathering, I bowed slightly.

“First, I’d like to reaffirm the…Tracto-an Fleet’s support of the Grand Admiral and the MDL. What we’re attempting here could save dozens of worlds and millions—or even billions—of lives,” I said, working at coming across passionately.

“Thank you for the sentiment, Admiral, but if there’s nothing else?” Manning shook his head.

“Next,” I continued unfazed, “I would like to request the command codes for destroying the Trillium mines. Should the droids come in as strong of a force as we believe, anything could happen and so I believe those codes…”

I trailed off as Manning shook his head and made a slashing gesture with his hand. “Only Elysium command personnel and the System Government on Prime will have the access codes,” he said flatly.

I suppressed a frown. I’d hoped to sneak that one in, but I hadn’t really expected success. However, I’d had to try; no one likes to be fighting within range of a destructive force capable of destroying his ship and fleet without being in control of the trigger.

“I understand your position,” I said finally, “however, my point still remains. What happens if you and your Flagship are destroyed? The transmission lag between this Forge and Elysium Prime could mean the difference between catching the Droid Fleet around those mines and them escaping total destruction and getting away. Our sacrifice would be in vain.”

“Your point is well taken,” Manning said, his gaze hard as he looked at me, “it is my plan to disperse elements of the Elysium Defense Force throughout the greater fleet. This way, if anything were to happen to myself or the other command ships of the Elysium SDF, there should still be any number of Officers with the necessary codes to make sure the droids pay for their attack on our home system.”

“All right,” I said, mind racing as I tried to decide if this was a good thing or not. Having multiple ship captains ready able and willing to destroy the Elysium mines on a moment’s notice…from a paranoid point of view they were making the right call. I sure as Murphy was my witness didn’t want anyone but myself and maybe, possibly, a few trusted officers, capable of destroying our Tracto-an Trillium mines—or being able to seize control of them after a battle. Of course, in our case, the Tracto-an mines were scattered throughout an entire asteroid belt, but still the point was well considered.

“If there was nothing else,” Manning said looking pointedly at my seat, then starting to look away.

“One more thing,” I said smoothly.

The flicker in Manning’s eye and the tightening of his jaw indicated that I was seriously getting on his patience, but he responded like the professional he was, gesturing for me to continue.

“The area around the Jovian, I would like it declared a non-hab zone for the purposes of this upcoming battle,” I replied calmly.

“The mines themselves are inhabited by workers, and there are several heavily-populated scientific stations scattered throughout the moons of VII,” Manning said with a bite to his tone.

“And yet we are planning, as our main contingency plan, to completely destroy Urapente, doing who knows how much damage to any human population around the Forge,” I riposted without heat.

“What is this about, Montagne?” Manning demanded.

“Salvage rights,” I said, lacing my voice with surprise, “it was clearly stated that anything taken by ships of the MDL fleet in the outer reaches of the Elysium Star System were to be considered ours, but anything within the system was to be Elysium’s. Since the Jovian is considered a populated zone with heavy fixed defenses, yet also an area we intend to completely destroy if necessary, I wanted a clarification.” The High Captain’s eyes turned to ice and I could hear comments behind me.

“Vulture,” muttered one officer.

“Confederation,” another said turning the word into a curse.

But I was immune to the murmuring and, despite the words to the contrary, I could see enough support from those less vocal that this issue wasn’t just going away.

“If salvage rights are all that concern you, Admiral,” Grand Admiral Manning said coldly, “then fine, the Jovian and the region around the Forge will be declared a non-hab zone. If there’s nothing else, let’s get back to the rest of the briefing,” he continued, his words a complete dismissal that dared me to speak again.

So rather than defend myself and say that salvage rights were not my only concern—not even my top concern, in truth—I simply sat back down in my chair. The meeting was long, and I’d lost ground and respect in some quarters, but on the whole I’d gotten what I needed out of the meeting.

Because believe it or not, I fully intended to win this battle—with or without the respect and wholehearted support of every officer in the MDL.

**************************************************

After returning to the ship, I called for Steiner over my com-link.

“Warrant Steiner here, Admiral,” the com-tech said seconds later.

“I want you and the Chief Engineer in my conference room by the time I arrive there,” I ordered walking out of the shuttle bay, “and prepare the long-range array. I need to send a message to Commodore Druid.”

“Druid, sir?” Steiner paused. “On it right now, Admiral. And I’ll call down to Engineering and have—”

“I don’t mean the man my wife placed in charge of the Phoenix’s engineering department. I mean my Chief Engineer—get me Commander Spalding,” I said flatly.

“Everything will be ready upon your arrival, sir,” she said crisply.

Still upset, I wanted to lash out. But she wasn’t a mind reader, so instantly understanding what I wanted versus what I had said was not yet a crime. So instead of giving vent to my spleen, after a long meeting where I was viewed as the bad guy for requesting that non-hab zone inclusion, I politely signed off. I took a deep breath and then began a leisurely stroll to the lift.

Knowing the Commander like I did, I doubted he could beat me to the conference room even if he wanted to—something which was highly in doubt. No doubt he was stuck in the middle of some arcane rebuild down below on the Intelligence half-deck he had commandeered for his workshop.

Deciding that discretion was the greater part of valor, I impulsively hit the touch pad to take me to the mess hall instead of directly to the conference room.

Entering the mess, I nonchalantly headed over for a light tray of fruits and breads. I was most of the way through the line when I looked over and saw Chief Engineer Tiberius Spalding sitting at a table with my Sister Ishtaraaa—and their heads were close together.

My eyes met my sister’s at the same time. She visibly started and then scowled at me, jerking away from the table and storming out of the hall. Seeing me looking at them, Tiberius’ shoulders hunched and then he frowned. Picking up his tray, he turned and left the room also.

“That’s interesting,” I said with narrowed eyes. A little collusion between two of the people with the most reason to see me harmed on this ship wasn’t exactly the relaxing, time-killing notion I had envisioned when entering the mess.

Taking a bite of fruit and shoving a piece of bread in my pocket, I walked over to the trash bin without stopping at a table and dumped the contents of my tray.

Pulling out my com-link, I looked through my contacts until I found Gants’ number. I sent him a message to have someone from his team follow both my sister and our new Chief Engineer—I wasn’t about to allow another mutiny onboard my ship.

I was still typing away as I stepped into the turbo-lift. Although, even as I was typing, I wondered if a short trip out the airlock might not solve a lot of my problems.

“Unfortunately, they’re both family,” I sighed aloud.

“Admiral?” asked a rating, wondering if I was talking to him.

“Carry on, crewman,” I said breezily, leaning over to punch in a priority code which would take this lift directly to my conference room without stopping along the way.

“Yes sir,” the rating said looking relieved.

I smiled and kept smiling until lift door opened. Allowing my smile to fade, I walked over and into the room.

To my pleasure both Commander Spalding and Lisa Steiner were waiting for me.

“We’re ready to send that message anytime, Admiral,” the little brown skinned com-tech informed me dutifully.

“Excellent news,” I replied briskly, “give me a moment first.”

“Yes sir,” she answered.

“Aye, Admiral,” Spalding said, “was there something ye wanted from the pair of us, or was this more on the nature of a social call?”

“No time to shoot the breeze, Chief Engineer,” I said with a penetrating look, “we’re on the clock this time.”

“Then, if I may be so bold, sir. What exactly is it you need me for?” the old Engineer asked a fire lighting in his eyes that had been far too long absent for most of this trip. A weariness and faint sadness that had seemed to lurk over the older man faded away before my eyes.

“My wife’s been complaining that I do far too much of my planning during planning meetings, so I figured it was time I stole the march,” I said smiling sharply.

“What do you need, Admiral?” asked the old engineer, leaning forward.

“I have a plan,” I said.

The two members of my little preplan, planning cabal leaned forward.

“How long would it take to revive every person on the prison freighter from cryo-stasis?” I asked, looking at the old engineer pointedly.

Commander Spalding leaned back in his chair puffing out his cheeks. I ignored the way his red cybernetic eye seemed to gleam eerily in his head.

“If she wasn’t doin’ nothing but staying put and thawin’ people out, I’d say ten hours with the proper man doing the load balancing,” the old Engineer paused, “o’ course, that doesn’t factor in the recovery time. It’ll take a couple days at least for the cold-sleep recovery process I think. Who knows if any of their heads is messed up from bein’ prisoners? A doctor would know better than me on that. I just fix the mechanical systems; I got nothing to do with the people side.”

“A few days…” I trailed off irritably. I’d vaguely known about the people we had already thawed out that needed a few days to recover but it hadn’t been a priority in my mind. But I was aware that the first round had been thawed and they were returned to their home Fleets, but now…, “well it can’t be helped.”

“If I may ask what the Admiral has planned, as I don’t see how we’ve got the room to thaw them all out. Between the Phoenix, the freighter, and all the rest of the Fleet, I don’t see how we could take on but half of them before life support would start giving up fits—to say nothing of the berthing space,” Spalding said.

I made a noncommittal sound.

“Wouldn’t want to do it for longer than a couple of weeks, and not the full load of them,” the Chief Engineer said probingly. “O’ course, we could farm them out to a few ships of this Grand Fleet of theirs. I’m sure between all the big Battleships they have they could take them on—”

“The only Battleship they’ll be ‘farmed out to’ is one of ours,” I said sharply. A moment later I spotted a smirk—quickly covered by the old Engineer—and I realized I had just been successfully needled. I heaved a long-suffering sigh, “Yes, Chief. We’re going to be bringing the Power back into play for this one.”

“I would never presume to steal your thunder, sir,” Spalding lied, as I was pretty sure the old Officer would do just about anything he thought was necessary, whether it trampled upon his superiors egos or not—which is just the way I’d have him. “But it’s nice to know we’ll be getting one of our own heavies to the party in time.”

“That’s why the Warrant Officer is here with us, Chief,” I said, turning from Spalding to Lisa Steiner, “on our final transfer before Elysium we’re going to jump last and the freighter will not be joining us. I’ve selected a target system for that ship, it’s also one jump away from Elysium. I need to relay this information to the Commodore and see if he thinks he can rendezvous with the prison transport in time for the battle or not.”

“Might be you’d want to leave a couple of escorts with her,” Spalding pointed out. “There’s no telling if—or when—a couple of droids might jump her if she’s floating out there all on her lonesome.”

I pursed my lips. “Good point; I didn’t want to dilute our strength here anymore than absolutely necessary…but I think a couple of Cutters—maybe all the Cutters—would work ideally for this job, Spalding,” I agreed and then waved a hand irritably. “You know what? I think I’ll send Captain Archibald and his band of merry miscreants over along with them. This is the perfect job for a loose cannon like him. He can command the squadron from the bridge of the freighter, at least until Druid shows up.” I nodded more assertively, thinking, yes, this is why it’s important to have command meetings.

By this point I knew I was no tactical god, like Alexander the Great or Dynominius the Conqueror. Unlike them, I needed all the help I could get if I was going to make my plans succeed.

“How are we going to signal him, Admiral?” Steiner asked her face scrunched up with concern.

“Him?” I asked, not following as my mind was lost in the reputed exploits of Dynominius and his Invasion Fleets back during the AI Wars.

“Druid, sir,” Steiner replied. “Grand Admiral Manning has issued strict orders to all Comm. Officers that, once entering Elysium, we are to maintain strict communication’s silence except at prearranged times, and using an encryption package provided by the Flag. Unless you’re planning to ignore that and let them know we’re using the long-range array for FTL communications, of course.”

I blew out my cheeks; the former com-tech had made several good points. Fortunately, I’d considered most of them already and had a plan. Well…not so much of a ‘plan’ as a notion, which was why the Chief Engineer was here.

“No. We can’t risk exposing our access to a ComStat network to our allies, let alone the Droids. First, it’s not an advantage I’m ready to let slip just yet. Second, who knows how deeply the mechanicals have penetrated our allies’ systems?” I said, reminded of how our own systems had been compromised.

I turned back to the only Engineer in the room in time to see him tapping away on a data slate. When he saw me looking at him, he colored on that part of his skin that was still natural and not synth-flesh.

He mumbled something that sounded vaguely like an apology and hastily set the pad back down on the table, where it landed with a loud clatter which I ignored. I had bigger fish to fry.

“That’s where your expertise comes in, Commander,” I informed my most important Engineering Officer.

“Sir?” Commander Spalding asked, looking confused.

“Assuming we can get the sensor coverage for Elysium’s forge, do you think you could sneak the Parliamentary Power into the Jovian and hide her?” I asked.

Spalding shook his head slowly, “I don’t see how. This is a Core System with multiple, overlapping sensors covering all the vital bits. Their scanners will be on continual the lookout for intruders. I’m just not seeing it, Admiral, sir.”

“Well, that just shot my best idea out of the water,” I admitted.

“Doesn’t mean you can’t tell her where to park, then send a smaller ship with a fast jump cycle off to tell the Power when it’s time to show up to the party,” offered Spalding. “A little extra push when Fleets come to grips never hurt.”

“No, I want her at the Jovian,” I said, wondering if I was going to have to come clean with Admiral Manning—at least to the point of letting him know I had a Battleship on the way—or if I could manage to somehow keep that to myself and still have Druid in a position to do something decisive when he arrived. “I was thinking maybe we could use a jammer field to sneak her in, or something?”

“We could set up a jammer system for her, but anyone sweeping the area would know something was there,” the engineer replied with finality.

I shook my head in response to his negativity.

“Everyone—including the droids—knows there’s a powerful set of fortifications there. They’re not going to be surprised at a jammer system popping up,” I pointed out, “I was just hoping there was some way to surprise them with the Parliamentary Power.”

“I have a number of jammers down in the Locker, and could kludge together a few more than that besides…and we could leave them with the prison transport for the Commodore—but they’re no mythical cloaking device, sir,” replied Spalding contemplatively. “They do a job and do it well: no one can see what’s exactly behind it, so they’d have to use telescopes and mass sensors to get a fix on it, and even then it’s tricky business. But, on the other hand, it’s like hangin’ a big sign saying something important is hiding right, smack, here,” he jabbed his finger onto the tabletop emphatically.

“I think I can work with that,” I said after a moment, my eyes narrowing craftily. I turned to the Warrant Officer, “pull up the channel for the FTL transmission. I’m ready to send my message.”

After sending the message, I figured I was ready for the big meeting with my command staff and all the Captains of the MSP.

“The next chance we get I want to sit down with my command staff, it’s time to plan the rest of our contingencies,” I gave the two of them a hard look, “but what we discussed in here stays in here. Just between the three of us, until and unless I say otherwise. Got it?”

“Aye, sir,” the two of them coursed.

“Loose lips sink Battleships, Admiral,” Spalding added, looking injured. “I won’t be out flapping my gums, you know that.”

“I do,” I agreed.

Spalding left shortly after that, and Steiner was at the door when I stopped her.

“Send a recall order to Captain Middleton, with instructions to join us at Elysium,” I instructed, glad to know that his days as a loose cannon were about to come to an end. Total control of the ComStat network in the Spineward Sectors was about to take second seat to the war effort. It did me little good to consolidate control over a network that might shortly be behind enemy lines.

She hesitated.

“Problem?” I inquired, feeling a chilling premonition of unhappiness in my immediate future.

“Not as such, sir. It’s just we had been receiving regular updates up until a week ago,” she explained. “At first I assumed this was because the Pride of Prometheus had traveled beyond the range of our currently coopted ComStat network, but then…”

I felt my stomach tighten, but I kept my expression neutral as I said, “Let’s hear it, Steiner.”

She shook her head uncertainly, “I’ve had time to study Mr. Fei’s work—the Pride of Prometheus’ new Comm. Officer,” she clarified, referring to the wunderkind Middleton had conscripted from the Asiatic world, “and I’m reluctant to admit that there’s no way I could match his program’s design, Admiral. In fact, his cracking algorithms are so powerful that I doubt even a military data bunker would hold out against them for long.”

“Is there a point buried somewhere in this effusive praise?” I asked tightly, very much disliking the notion that one of Middleton’s people could run metaphorical circles around my own, hand-picked, expert.

She straightened from the rebuke and nodded, “There is only a very small chance that the Pride of Prometheus, if on-task and unfettered, wouldn’t have been able to coopt another ComStat hub given this much elapsed time,” she said with conviction. “That would have allowed them to regain contact with us, which they haven’t done yet. I was going to wait another day just to be certain, sir,” she added unflinchingly, “since most of my calculations concluded that, given this much time, the odds of them having simply failed to locate another hub would have dropped into the 1-3% range.”

I suppressed the urge to hit something with my suddenly-clenched fist, and forcibly relaxed arm as I shrugged in false indifference, “Then there are two possibilities: they are unable to respond, or they are unwilling to respond. For the time being, let’s assume the former,” I said, feeling my choler rise at the increasingly likely possibility that it was, in fact, the latter.

“Yes, Admiral,” she acknowledged with a short nod. “I will inform you immediately—and discretely—when I receive the next update from the Pride of Prometheus,” she said professionally.

“See that you do,” I said as lightly as I could manage, after which time she turned and left the conference room.

Chapter 20: Final Preparations

As luck would have it, we didn’t have a chance to assemble for a fully-fledged internal Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet pre-battle internal meeting until after we arrived in Elysium. Either the luck of the gods was against us or Grand Admiral, and Commandant, Manning was one paranoid blighter.

“Now that we’re all here and finally have the chance to get together, I’d like to hear any and all thoughts for doing as much damage as possible to the droids. Especially since we can now see the star system that will be our battleground with our own eyes,” I said, sweeping the table with a look.

“I understand they’re trying to put us on the extreme right,” Laurent presented this information as if it was new—which, of course, it wasn’t seeing as we’d known about it for weeks, but it still caused a rumble through the room.

“They want us to screen the main formation from light marauders forces like the Harmony Destroyers we’ve encountered,” I said confidently, then I allowed my features to darken. “They are aware of the three different Droid Tribes at work here on the Rim and in their Sectors. I’ve tried to warn them, however they don’t want to believe the droids could make common cause and work together. Or, rather, they admit that it’s a possibility—just not a very strong one.”

“What’s this, sir?” asked one of my Corvette Captains.

“I’ve tried to press the point upon the Fleet Commander that, even though they’ve seen the Droids battling each other—quite viciously at times, and even allowing the local SDF forces to rally by sacrificing Droid Control over certain worlds if they’d only just settled their differences afterwards—that with all of humanity uniting, the natural response could be for them to do the same,” I pointed out. “And while he and his team have made contingencies, I don’t feel they go far enough. We, ourselves, are currently in negotiations with one of the Tribes—the weakest one—and are trying to get them to stay neutral in this conflict.”

There was a mutinous rumbling at this, and I lifted a hand and gave my officers a hard look.

“Negotiations initiated, I don’t hesitate to point out, by the droids and used from our side solely to get them to back off. Every droid we can keep from uniting into an enemy of the Grand Fleet is worth the risk. Now, that’s not to say that, if I see an advantage, I’m not going to seize it with both hands, but we didn’t have much of a choice on the front end,” I said, finishing nebulously.

The Saint’s honest truth was that if I could trick, or bully, or deceive, or somehow convince the Droids of the United Sentients Assembly into doing things I desired, I was going to do it. Regardless of whatever the ‘Man not Machine’ fanatics would say about dealing with the enemy, the margins were too thin to let bigotry blind us to the possibilities.

“That sounds like a lot of side talk about dealing with droids,” protested one of my Cutter Captains.

I allowed my face to harden. “Let’s get one thing straight,” I said harshly, “the lives of those people out there—millions of citizens on dozens of worlds—come before anything else. If that means making deals that leave both us, and those citizens, free to go about our business then that’s exactly what I’m going to do. This isn’t some game where you can take the moral high ground and then go home when things blow up in your face. If the droids want to talk instead of fight, and I’m heavily outnumbered, then by Saint Murphy’s wretched wrench that’s exactly what I’m going to do!’

Unhappy faces met mine but the urge to outright rebellion sputtered and failed in the face of my steely gaze.

“Yes, sir,” the rebel Captain muttered under the weight of my continued stare.

“Now then,” I said forcefully, “with that out of the way, let’s try to stay on task and mission focused. We’ve got a small part of a big fleet, and an even bigger enemy, to worry about. How are we going to deal with our foes during the upcoming battle, with the understanding that whatever we do will have to be done ourselves? The Fleet and Sub-Commanders won’t listen to me—Admirals without battleships need not apply and all that. Options, people?”

For an extended moment no one said anything just looked back and forth between each other.

Then Akantha leaned forward, looking for all the world like a hungry panther about to pounce. “Boarding actions, there have been too few lately,” she said with a gleam in her eye.

I suppressed a sigh; I could have—and should have—expected that.

He must have seen my suppressed emotion, because Captain Darius lifted his hand and spoke. “A good thought, for while we have been boarded by enemy droids, we have yet to do a significant counter-boarding operation in turn. As they are not from our homelands, they will not be suspecting it,” he pointed out reasonably.

Taking this as affirmation of her position, my lady love turned a challenging look my way, obviously daring me to support her…or else.

“That was something I was intending to do anyway,” I said patiently. An instant later I could tell I was going about this the wrong way. So, with an inner wince, I decided I had no choice but to double down, “But I guess since you’re both so in favor of the idea, I’ll just have to increase my plans.”

Akantha grinned and Captain Atticus forgot himself long enough to smack hands with Darius, before remembering they had some kind of petty feud going on back home and turning serious again.

Seizing the moment, I stood up and made a vow. “By hook or by crook, we’re going to come out of this battle stronger than ever before,” I swore, placing my hands flat on the table and glowering at the assemblage.

To my surprise, and gratification the officers at the table cheered. Good morale was worth more than a fully functioning Cutter as far as I was concerned. More to the point, it did when you were surrounded by the officers who commanded a fleet in which that Cutter could become lost.

“We’ve got a few ion weapons,” the new Chief Engineer said a bit gruffly, swept up with the excitement of sticking it to the droids and increasing the size of our fleet and seemingly not liking it too much. “They won’t do much against proper warships but knock down their shields, and you’d give our boarding teams the time they’d need to cross the distance and board without taking serious fire.”

I nodded appreciatively, ignoring the frown I received in return. Turning to my men, I grinned like the shark I was feeling like at that instant.

“We are going to take everything they don’t want. We are going to take as many of those droid gunboats as we can; damaged, ion knocked out and, even though they’ll probably want to stop us after we really get going, as many of those bigger droid ships as we can handle. And the one thing I can tell you is that we’re not going to stop until the droid threat is destroyed!” I declared.

I brought up an image of Elysium’s Jovian and the Forge on the table. “That is our objective, ladies and gentlemen. If the Grand Fleet is unable to crush the Droids in a stand-up battle near the hyper-limit, that is the rock upon which we will—which we must—break them. And, by that, by ‘we’ I mean the MSP. It’s nice to have these allies and I know our contingent is a fraction of the Fleet, but,” I leaned forward for emphasis and thumped the table, “as we’ve too often seen out here, when push comes to shove we can only count on ourselves.”

Akantha straightened up in her chair, her face turning icy. “Are you saying that our allies cannot be trusted?” she asked harshly.

I paused, I had wanted to insert a word of warning into the conversation not set Akantha off on the warpath.

“I have no specific information,” I temporized, “however I would point out that our encounters to date have shown locals to be unreliable at best. True, these are new people but until they’ve proven themselves to us I’m going to strongly recommend everyone here keep their eyes open and an ear to the ground.”

“We can do that, Admiral,” Chief Lesner said, looking around the room with a big, fat, unlit cigar bobbing in the side of his cheek and drawing nods of support.

“What about the hab-zones, sir?” asked Laurent his brow furrowing in thought. “The Jovian is inhabited and the fleet charter is clear: the Grand Admiral will only allow salvage of ships taken on the outskirts of the system where there is no Elysium presence.”

Spalding jumped in before I could get a word in edgewise. “We can always drag as much as we can grapple and tow outside the hyper-limit, where we then lay our claim on it,” he pointed out.

“A good thought, Spalding, but already solved,” I explained an edge creeping into my smile. “I got Grand Admiral Manning to declare the Jovian System a free salvage zone. So long as we don’t go salvaging anything Elysium built, we should be just fine.”

“Sir,” one of the Destroyer Captains, a First Lieutenant, raised a hand and I turned my attention to him.

I motioned for him to continue, and he took a breath.

“It’s about the freighter, sir?” he asked cautiously, “we left our cutters with it. Are they going to be joining us soon?”

I smiled enigmatically and refused to answer the question. “We are prepared for every contingency,” I replied with an answer that was no answer at all.

Taking the hint, the rest of the group refrained from commenting or asking about the freighter and its Cutter escort.

Over the next half hour, we hashed out several contingencies and I answered those questions I felt wouldn’t endanger the security of Operation Sideswipe—the name I had bestowed upon it.

After that, the meeting broke up and we returned to duty.

Most of the people in the room had departed when I caught Warrant Officer Steiner by the hand.

“Admiral?” she asked, looking flustered.

I dropped her hand now that I had her attention.

“A moment of your time, Tech,” I said.

She nodded and waited until the room had cleared. I receive a few speculative looks but, other than that, no one said a thing.

“What’s the status of Captain Middleton and the Pride of Prometheus?” I demanded as soon as we couldn’t be overheard.

Steiner got a resigned expression on her face. “The Pride is still outside of transmission range of the network, Admiral,” she said somewhat meekly.

Damn that man! I silently cursed.

“Sir?” she asked, sounding like a woman who expected to be chewed out for something that wasn’t her fault.

I shook my head not about to fall into that trap. I wasn’t about to vent my spleen on an inappropriate target. No, Steiner wouldn’t receive the brunt of my ire; that would be reserved for the man—the Captain—who thought an independent command meant he was free to hare off into the black of unknown space when all of humanity in two Sectors was under threat.

“Carry on, Lieutenant,” I said coldly.

She froze and then blinked rapidly.

“I’m just a warrant, Admiral,” she reminded me, trepidation in her voice.

I glared at her, “Not any more you aren’t. Good work, and carry on, Lieutenant,” I said waving a hand in dismissal.

“Admiral,” she said in a low voice and then turned to scurry out of the room.

I slammed a fist on the conference table. I could ill afford the loss of that cruiser when my own forces were so relatively small. Forcing myself to take a deep breath I reminded myself that in this particular instance I had no one to blame but me. I had known Middleton was a loose cannon back in Tracto when I gave him the assignment to secure the ComStat network—and, incidentally, to allow him to remain in command of the Pride of Prometheus. I hadn’t known he was such an independent operator that he’d basically go rogue and disappear if tempted by whatever he must have run into, but all the signs were there if only I’d bothered to take note.

Still, the fact remained that humanity in two Sectors of known space was under threat of annihilation or worse. He knew that as well as I did, but still found reason to take off—right before the decisive battle.

The question was: could I afford a man like that under my command? I very much thought the answer to that was a resounding ‘no.’

Chapter 21: Meetings in Cold Space

“Sump slide achieved; we are free from the inertial sump, Commodore,” reported the Navigator.

“Smooth as butter,” bragged the Helmsman.

“It was a short jump and the resulting sump was small. Of course it was easy,” the Navigator said pointedly.

“That’s enough,” Druid said commandingly, and both Navigator and Helmsman fell pleasingly quiet.

“Initiating scan of target system,” reported the Lieutenant in the sensor section.

“I believe it is the only system we are in,” Druid said with a chuckle.

The Lieutenant colored briefly but continued issuing orders to his subordinates as if his captain or in this case commodore had not spoken.

“Target acquired,” reported the Sensor Lieutenant, “preliminary scans match the profile of the freighter used by the droids as a prisoner transport; still seeking to acquire the expected escorts.”

“Carry on, Sensors,” the Commodore instructed, “and keep scanning for potential hostiles around us in near space. The last thing we need is to be so distracted by our rendezvous with the freighter that we miss a Droid attack fleet until it’s on final attack run.”

“On it, sir,” replied the Sensors and in the Tactical Pit the Tactical Officer nodded his agreement.

Tense minutes passed as the main screen continued to populate the image of the system they were in.

“Standard sweep completed; no sign of enemy warships detected, Commodore,” reported the Sensor Lieutenant. By this time, the escort Cutters they had been expecting had all been detected and their positions around the freighter pinpointed.

“Continue with routine scans then, Sensors,” Druid replied.

“I’m receiving a transmission from the freighter, sir,” said the Ensign at the Coms, “they are using MSP encryption and handshake protocol verifies it’s the transport we’re here to meet.”

“Put it up on the screen,” Druid ordered, and then paused, “we are transmitting our IFF, correct?”

“We are, Commodore,” nodded the Comm. Officer.

“Then let’s have the message,” he said, pointing to the screen.

“This is Captain Archibald,” said the very young-looking Captain, “and it’s sure good to see you and the Parliamentary Power, Commodore. We’ve been twisting in the wind out here, with most of the Fleet off with the Admiral with just us and the Cutters out here.”

“It’s good to be here, Captain,” Druid replied. “Commodore Druid here, and I have to say that we’re eager over here on the Power to finally get fully-crewed. I know it takes a certain amount of time to thaw out your…cargo,” he said, carefully aware that, despite not finding anyone out here on sensors, any number of ears could be listening with their computers furiously working to break MSP encryption. “So be prepared for us to dock and begin…cargo transfers as soon as is feasible.”

“We’re way ahead of you, Commodore Druid,” the young Officer said with a cocky grin, “the freighter’s life support’s been getting a definite workout the past couple days, and most of the free spaces in the hold have been filling up in anticipation of your arrival.”

Druid frowned. “That was good work, but it could have caused you some definite problems if we’d been held up or arrived too much behind schedule. In short: it was a risk, Captain,” he said, giving the younger man a penetrating look.

Archibald nodded and then shrugged, “The Admiral said to get the lead out, and when the Admiral says to move as quickly as possible then that’s what we do,” he replied, not quite questioning Druid’s authority but indicating by his chosen expressions that he wasn’t intimidated or too worried with his new immediate superior’s displeasure. “And now that you’re here, we can start clearing these decks and proceed at full pace.”

“As you’ll come to learn, there’s a time to fly by the seat of your pants and a time for protocol,” Druid said, not allowing any hint of displeasure to color his voice or expression, “and now that we’re here and can take a breath, we’ll make sure to cross all our T’s and dot those I’s as we proceed forward.”

“As you say, sir,” the young Captain said, saluting respectfully.

“Druid out,” the Commodore said saluting in turn. He’d have plenty of time to meet the other officer in person after docking. He needed to get to know his new ship Captains because, even if all they commanded was a freighter and a bunch of Cutters, the Admiral had indicated he expected great things from Druid and his new little task force.

Yes, they were definitely going to have a few words, along with all the time spent planning. The MSP was so green it squeaked, with Corvette captains commanding Battleships and former crewmen and junior officers jumped up to command of Cutters and Corvettes. With what little time was available, someone needed to rectify as many of the resulting deficiencies as was humanly possible—and it looked like in this little grouping of warships, that ‘someone’ was him.

For a second, he sat there and marveled that he really was the Old Man and then he nodded briskly and locked it down. He’d been a warship Captain and a squadron commander long enough that it was easy to look at all this as just a natural growth pattern…or so he kept telling himself. Maybe one day it would even be true.

In the meantime, remedial training was the order of the day.

Chapter 22: Minor Matters

“Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet arriving on board,” shouted the bosun’s mate to the accompanying sound of being piped aboard as I stepped into the shuttle bay.

I blinked, and it took me a moment to realize what was going on. Apparently, our close contact with the other elements of the Mutual Defense League’s Grand Fleet was having an impact. Unfortunately, I wasn’t sure if it was a change I particularly liked. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I grew up surrounded by pageantry and meaningless rituals, so after the initial confusion it should just be like water off a ducks back for me.

On the other hand, part of the charm of our little fleet up until then had been a refreshing lack of standing on ceremony—a trait which looked to be slowly coming to an end. The lack of ceremony, I mean, not the fleet.

It took me a moment to realize everyone was looking at me while I just stood there. I took half a step forward but something in the expressions of those around me cause me to hesitate. Then it came to me. I’d been through enough welcoming aboard receptions on the various flag ships of the Grand Fleet to pick up the basics after all.

“Permission to come aboard,” I requested, refusing to roll my eyes with exasperation at having to ask permission to board my own ship by reminding myself that it was these sorts of rituals that helped hold social groups, such as the military, together.

“Permission granted, Admiral Montagne, and welcome aboard,” First Officer Eastwood said, saluting and stepping forward to shake my hand and welcome me aboard after I returned his salute.

“It’s good to be back,” I replied, feeling something inside me lift as I finished shaking his hand and stepped into the rest of the bay. I told myself I was just glad to be back, and that my sense of ease had little or nothing to do with meaningless military rituals that took up mine and other people’s time, time that could be used for more productive pursuits, but I wasn’t sure how much I believed that.

“Is there a reason you’re down here to meet me, First Officer?” I cocked an eyebrow at Eastwood.

“It needed a senior officer’s presence,” Eastwood replied, his face a professional mask that I couldn’t quite penetrate.

“That’s good, then,” I said eating up the bay with long strides of my legs.

“Although, since we’re both here, I was hoping to speak to you about the port hydroponics garden,” the First Officer said, easily keeping pace with me. It must be nice to have long legs.

I sighed, “Of course you were. Although…isn’t this something more in line with the duties of the ship’s Captain, Mr. Eastwood?” I queried hopefully. It would be nice to knock the man down a peg or three for going over the head of his superior office.

“The Captain suggested you might be the best person to liaise and settle the issue,” said Eastwood.

“Oh, he did, did he?” I barked, almost but not quite coming to a stop in the middle of the bay. “And just why did he think I would be the best person to handle a Flagship hydroponics issue when I’ve got a Fleet to run and other fleets to coordinate with?” I demanded irritably.

“As it concerns both the Lady and the Lancer contingent, it was felt that I should at least approach you first before I, or the Captain, got too deeply involved and possibly ruffled feathers,” Eastwood said neutrally.

“Sweet Murphy,” I swore, and then, realizing I had in fact come to a stop in front of the bay doors leading into the rest of the ship, I growled and resumed walking.

“Just what is it my wife wants, that I’m not going to like, this time?” I grunted.

“Not so much the Lady herself as the men of the Lancers,” Eastwood replied diplomatically.

“Oh, just spit it out,” I ordered.

“Apparently,” the First Officer said, stressing the word, “it is traditional to offer certain edible and non-edible foliage to a lady who is expecting. It involves various plants that I’m not familiar with, which are specific to a woman who is expecting for the first time.”

“Of course it is,” I said stepping, into the lift and not at all surprised I was only now finding all this out for the first time. After all it would have been just too easy to inform me of such cultural necessities before we had a crisis on our hands. No, that would have been too easy, “And I suppose by now the entire ship is aware of her condition.”

I just hoped they weren’t aware of her entire condition because, despite it being entirely her own, native, creation and none of mine, I was likely to face some intense scrutiny and sour looks once it was discovered she wasn’t just carrying the normal one or two ‘eggs in the basket, but in fact around eight of the things! Control over her own biology, indeed! She called eight children in one pregnancy control—ha! I’d argue that such a decision was the very definition of ‘out of control.’

“Not to put too fine a point on it, but apparently word leaked about the Lady Akantha’s condition to the Lancers and since then we’ve received numerous requests for Tracto-an-specific foliage as use for gifts to the expecting mother,” Eastwood replied.

“What are we talking about, flowers here?” I asked wondering how bad a few flowers could be.

“Among other things, some of which are at least mildly poisonous,” Eastwood said to my immediate alarm. “And, as I said, we would need to dedicate at least half a hydroponics bay in order to meet all the orders and requests we’ve been having. Which, I will add, would cut quite heavily into this ship’s fresh produce if we are to implement it.”

“Blast,” I said numbly. I gave myself a shake, “I guess I’ll talk with them and see how serious they are,” I paused and then gave the First Officer a penetrating look. “You were right to bring this to me,” I added, not entirely happily. If I let them get away with something like this once, pretty soon they’d be opening the floodgates with all sorts of strange oddball requests that would eat into my already stretched-paper-thin time. But, despite that, they were probably right to bring this to me personally—before things got out of hand.

“Oh, I think they’re quite serious, sir,” Eastwood said certainly.

“Well,” I shrugged, “we’ll see if they’re quite as strident after I ask them if they’re willing to go back to ration bars for two meals a day in order to get the bridal gifts.” If they were, then far be it from their Warlord to stand in their way. He—meaning I—would instead be taking copious notes on the whole thing so as to not be the only man on the ship who didn’t give the appropriate gifts.

We spoke about a few other minor matters before reaching the bridge.

Stepping into the room, I took a deep breath and, feeling energized and in control of my own future and destiny with my feet planted firmly on my warship, I started confidently into the room.

The blaring of a klaxon knocked me off my stride, and the red flashing lights that burst into life around the bridge of the room quickly had my good mood turning to ashes.

“Contact!” shouted the Sensor Warrant. “We’re reading multiple contacts in an short arc around the hyper-limit!”

“What are we looking at, Sensors?” demanded Laurent.

A tension-filled moment passed and then the Warrant looked up white-faced.

“It looks like the Droid Fleet, Captain. They’re here,” Sensors replied.

Chapter 23: Opening Maneuvers

“The Grand Admiral is ordering the Fleet to come to Alert Condition One; take up battle stations and assume Fleet Formation One,” Steiner said with an unshakable calm.

Not so calm were the men and women at Sensors and Tactical. It was amazing that it’d only taken a week and a half for the droids to find us and bring the battle to Elysium—with all the meetings it had felt more like a month and a half.

“I’m reading two major machine fleet formations,” reported Tactical.

“The first Droid formation has over 500 distinct contacts and rising, while the second has well over a thousand!” exclaimed the Sensor Warrant.

“Enhance your calm, Sensors,” Laurent said sharply.

I could see the sheer numbers were starting to rattle the bridge crew. “Easy people,” I said firmly into the growing chaos, “we’ve dealt with long odds before; this is just more of the same.”

Strangely, instead of looking at me like I was a fool and a liar, things seemed to calm down slightly with several people taking deep breaths.

Ironically, almost as soon as I saw the bridge crew begin to take ease from my comforting words, I began to worry—and my own level of concern shot further and further upward by the second.

Grimly, I forced it back down. “Give me the fleet numbers again, Captain,” I instructed Laurent.

“The Grand Fleet of Sectors 23 and 24, now that we can include the final stragglers and entire Elysium Self Defense Force, tally in at a current final of eight Battleships, twenty Cruisers, forty Destroyers and a combined eighty eight Corvettes, armed merchant freighters, and assorted other lighter warships. There are maybe another 150 gunboats to call on—all of that is not counting our forces, of course,” the Flag Captain said crisply, the number obviously something he was directly familiar with.

Funny, that, I thought quirking a smile. I was just as familiar with the class and numbers as the Captain, having obsessively gone over them time and again. Still, emphasizing the size of our fleet to the rest of the bridge couldn’t hurt. “Of course not,” I murmured to myself.

“And the enemy fleets?” I inquired with forced calm.

Laurent took a deep breath and studied his pad looking strained. “Harmony Through Specialization has an estimated Fleet size of three Cruisers, thirty six Destroyers, and something around three hundred fighters; it’s hard to tell with all the ECM and numerous contacts running around,” he said releasing a breath.

I looked at him steadily. “A powerful force, given their superior tactics and maneuverability,” I hissed with respect, but already dismissing them as a potentially manageable threat—if we had faced them alone, that is. Two squadrons of Battleships would make short work of a force that size if it attacked directly—something the smarter Harmony Droids didn’t seem likely to do. However, our smaller forces could have caught up to them and forced a battle. It would have been brutal, but I was willing to wager on our Fleet.

No, it was the Conformity droids and their AI-stupid insistence on overkill that I was really worried about.

“Then, of course, there is Victory Through Conformity,” Laurent looked as if someone had socked him in the gut.

I motioned for him to get on with it.

“Best estimate or worst case?” he asked.

“Get on with it, man,” I said irritably, “give me your worst.”

“Sixty Motherships and 6000 Gunboats, with something like 72,000 Droid marines to deal with if they get in close,” Laurent said harshly.

I couldn’t keep myself from wincing. Talk about overkill, I thought bitterly.

“A tough nut to crack,” I said, much less steadily than I had hoped.

Laurent snorted fatalistically.

“Give me options,” I said, struggling for firmness and somehow finding it.

“Make sure to stay out of range of their marine contingent?” Laurent said, looking at me like I was out of my mind.

“I realize the correlation of forces is somewhat adverse,” I replied patiently, answered by an immediate snort of derision from the Laurent. My eyes lanced him at that, “What I need is constructive ideas on just what, exactly, we can do to help even things up.”

“Adverse correlation of forces; you can say that again, sir. Our little force is outnumbered beyond all reason…retreat might legitimately be our best option. We might as well be spitting in the wind for all we can do; this isn’t just two or three times our combat power—it’s another order of magnitude entirely. And the Grand Fleet’s not much better off, not with that many gunboats flying around on the other side,” Laurent spoke quietly. “Six thousand of anything fitted with naval weaponry is more than we can handle.”

Not liking his ‘can’t do’ attitude, my voice hardened. “We dealt with the better part of twenty Motherships and their gunboats at Aqua Nova, with little more than our Fleet and the Battleship Poseidon,” I said tightly. “So I have to believe that the eight battleships and an entire fleet of support ships, in addition to our own fleet—which, while smaller in numbers, is to be underestimated at great peril—means we can handle a mere three times the enemy ships.”

“I would like to point out that we weren’t also dealing with a Harmony Fleet. The Grand Fleet is not under your command, and when we encountered the last Conformity Fleet they were spread out. You dragged them past a series of planetary based defensive systems to soften them up,” Laurent reminded me.

“Where is my Flag Captain, and what have you done to replace that fighting spacer with the officer I see before me?” I asked coldly.

“We’ve never faced a Fleet this size before,” Laurent said, looking offended by my words.

“And we’ve never had so many allies before,” I countered.

“Yes, well, they’re not under your command are they? Who is this Manning? I’ve never heard of him before; what’s he done to make us risk all of our lives under his command?” Laurent protested with heat.

I started to respond hotly and then I smiled at the backhanded compliment.

“So it’s the new commander, as much as anything else, that’s taken a bite out of your nerve, eh?” I asked, feeling almost pleased that one of his protests about facing such a large fleet was that I was no longer in supreme command.

Okay, I admit it, I wasn’t ‘almost’ anything; I was, in truth, both pleased and very flattered. But that still didn’t change the fact that we had to stand tall in this fight, and I very much needed my top officer behind feeling one hundred percent the same.

Laurent looked taken aback and then flushed, shaking his head at me. But I quietly noted he didn’t deny the charge.

“Look, we both know we’re not leaving before the battle has even begun. So what’s your main concern here?” I said, calming down and speaking in a more pragmatic voice.

Captain Laurent swelled up and then deflated. “We’re strangers here. No one, including the Grand Admiral, knows us from Adam—except to that we are a ‘supposed Confederation Fleet’,” he hastily held up a hand to stay my angry retort, “their words, not mine.”

After a hot moment, I irritably indicated for him to go on. But I was still angry. They didn’t want me coopting their fleet, so I made sure to jump through all their little hoops, joining the Mutual Defense League of 23 and 24’s Grand Fleet as the Tracto-an Defense Force instead of the Confederation Fleet we really were—and this is the thanks I get?!

“Anyway,” Laurent coughed before continuing, “they don’t know us here, except to think we’re a Confederation Fleet and, as such, it must be our duty to show up for a fight like this. What they’re not saying, but I’m afraid they’re all thinking, is that it’s also our duty to take the hits if it comes down to a choice between us and a local SDF outfit.” “The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is no one’s punching bag or sacrificial lamb,” I growled, not liking this postulating in the least but finding myself in more of an understanding mood where it came to my Flag Captain’s concerns. “We came here to fight for them, not lay down our lives so that some puffed-up blowhard like Preceptor or Admiral Irradiated can swoop down later and claim the credit!”

“It’s not so much credit I’m worried about, Admiral. So much as, well…” he said.

“I completely understand,” I said sharply, “and let me assure you I have no intention of allowing something like that to take place.”

“A lot of things can happen in the confusion of battle,” Laurent reminded me.

I smiled, and it wasn’t a nice or gentle smile. “It certainly can,” I agreed, although I was pretty sure that what I was agreeing to and what Laurent feared were very much two separate things. “Fear not, Captain. While I am here to help, I can do nothing if the MSP gets shot to pieces.”

“I’m going to hold you to that, sir,” Laurent said.

“Not a problem, Captain,” I assured him before switching my gaze to the screen.

“What’s the estimated time for intercept between us and the two Droid fleets?” I asked, pointing at the two groups of enemy ships.

“I can find out,” Laurent said and with a quick salute he hurried off. Several minutes later, he reported, “Current best time estimates have the Harmony Fleet coalescing into a cohesive unit and arriving a good half hour before the Conformity Droids get their act together, Admiral Montagne.”

“That closely together?” I remarked with narrowing eyes. I paused in consideration. “Let’s get the Grand Admiral on the line for me, Comm.,” I said, turning to Lieutenant Steiner—who, I noted, was wearing a shiny new Officer’s insignia on her uniform.

“Right on it, sir,” the former com-tech said crisply and then, activating her communication console, “please note that there’s a lot of communication flying between the Grand Flag and the rest of the fleet, especially the other flagships, Admiral. This could take a while.”

I suppressed a frown and, courtesy of a lifetime spent doing so, projected a knowing smile in its place.

“I suspect the Grand Admiral is finding he has to do a lot of hand holding right about now,” I said with a mocking grin. It was nice that someone else had to be in the hottest hot seat for once.

“Are we any different, trying to get his attention right now?” Laurent asked with a hint of mockery in his voice.

I stiffened. “I’m attempting to provide valuable insights into the enemy’s mindset,” I protested, feeling my dander starting to rise once again.

“I’m sure every other person calling the Grand Admiral feels similarly, even if their valuable insights are into the best use of the fleet or the best way to keep their own commands following the orders of the Grand Admiral,” Laurent pointed out.

I flushed, I couldn’t help it. “This is different. I’m not trying to get the best position for my command or cut last minute deals,” I said, feeling stung.

“I’m sure that’s what they all say, sir,” Laurent said looking and sounding entirely too smug at having gotten under my skin as easily as he had.

I glared at him until I realized that others on the bridge were starting to give me strange looks. “Oh, just get me the Grand Admiral,” I said, waving my hand in the air in the direction of Lieutenant Steiner before shutting up and gathering the remnants of my tattered dignity.

I wasn’t just some ham-handed underling trying to bend the ear of his ‘current’ and ‘immediate’ superior…was I?

For closer to a half hour than fifteen minutes, I was left to stew in my own juices and contemplate that unhappy possibility. The only conclusion I came to was that I either needed to become more understanding of a subordinate’s request for my time on the eve of battle, or reconcile myself to certain level of hypocrisy and move on.

Unfortunately, this was the kind of hypocrisy I was unable to easily reconcile myself with, leaving me with the unpalatable fact that I needed to consider being more charitable to excitable underlings going into the future.

With that unhappy notion sitting on my brain, I was eventually notified that Grand Admiral Manning was on the line and available to speak with me.

“Put him through, Lieutenant,” I instructed my Comm. Officer.

Moments later, Archibald Manning’s face appeared on my main screen. “What is it, Admiral Montagne? I hope it can be brief.” the Grand Admiral said, sounding a little bit harried and with a touch of a growing thundercloud on his forehead.

I nodded in understanding; I could well understand where he was coming from. “I have a concern regarding the two Droid fleets racing towards us,” I replied quickly, yet evenly.

Manning barked a harsh laugh. “You and every other ship commander in the fleet,” he said, shaking his head. “Let me assure you that everything is well in hand and we will be continuing with attack plan Alpha. So, if that is all, I would really like to get back to directing the Grand Fleet—all this handholding is beginning to wear.” I stiffened, feeling insulted—as well as concerned. Attack plan Alpha called for a spoiling attack to wear down their number before retreating back into the area around the Forge, and combining our fleet strength with the defenses around the trillium mines—a prime droid target. If the spoiling attack was very successful, then we would continue to pound the droid fleet into pieces at the command of the Grand Admiral.

“No, that is not all,” I said sharply—and just before the Grand Admiral cut the transmission.

“Of course it wasn’t,” Manning sighed and then actually seemed to look at me for the first time. “Well, you haven’t been as much of a whiner as the other Admirals and have taken your demotion from hopeful Fleet Commander to task force subordinate like a man and an officer. So I’m willing to listen. Tell me, Admiral Montagne: what, exactly, are your concerns?”

Producing a smile to hide my grinding teeth, I was forced to wonder if I came off half as condescending as the former High Captain of Elysium before gaining control of my jaw and speaking again.

“I think I’ve said it before, but I’ll say it again in light of the close arrival time of both droid fleets—each arriving to face us within a half hour of each other,” I said with remarkable calm after being lumped in with the likes of Admirals Preceptor, Block, and most likely dozens of panicky destroyer and cruiser commanders. “I worry that, instead of facing two enemy fleets,—each as intent on attacking each other as they are on attacking us—that we could be looking at a coordinated Droid offensive. They may choose to attack us in unison—machine against man, you could say—and save whatever falling out between them, assuming they haven’t simply divided these Sectors between themselves already, for later.”

“Something we’ve talked about before,” Manning said patiently. “And, although my staff gives it a less than 30% chance of happening due to the Droid Tribes’ well-known animosity, it is still something we have contingency plans for. I will point out, again, that several human worlds have been saved by this very inability to join forces and fight as a united front against humanity.”

“Still, I find the arrival of both fleets at virtually the same time to be more than coincidence,” I said, feeling the argument going against me.

“We spy on them, they spy on us. In point of fact, Elysium Intelligence has been actively working to get both major Droid fleets concentrated and into Elysium Star System at the same time for the better part of a month,” Manning said coolly.

“What?!” I exclaimed with disbelief. The hubris of trying to get the Droids to attack your home world with all their forces well before you knew if there was even going to be a Grand Fleet—let alone if it would arrive in Elysium under the command of your chosen Fleet Commander—shook me. “Still…even so, I am not sure that sallying out to attack them is the wisest course in light of one fleet arriving close on the heels of the other,” I continued, but I could hear just how weak it sounded as I said it.

“I understand your concern and, in truth, it does you credit, Admiral Montagne,” the Grand Admiral said with a consoling expression. “However, far from believing this to be an unhappy coincidence or some kind of unification plot hatched by the droids, Elysium Intelligence has been actively working for just this occurrence. It is my feeling, as well as that of Elysium High Command, that a three-way contest, in a Core System, with our number of fixed defenses and the better part of two Sectors’ worth of mobile human military assets, is our best and only chance to take out these Droids once and for all. My orders stand. We will use Attack Pattern Alpha upon reaching the First Droid Fleet. I hope I can count on your support.”

Unspoken and unsaid but definitely hanging in the air was the notion that if Manning and the Grand Fleet had to sally forth without the addition of the battleship-less Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet then that would just be too bad, but also something they were imminently prepared to do.

My lips twisted and I shook my head but in the end really there was no choice. He was the one in the hot seat and I wasn’t. It was his call.

“We’ll be there,” I said simply and the Grand Admiral nodded.

“Oh, and get that Corvette of yours out of there; I’ve already issued the recall for all pickets but my staff informs me that yours still hasn’t budged. See to it—Manning out,” he said before cutting his connection.

Sighing, I shook my head. While he seemed to take my acceptance of his orders either as a given—or something he and the Grand Fleet could live without—from my end of things, I silently vowed that while we would be there, we weren’t going to be following along blindly.

Laurent’s words of minutes earlier were still ringing in my ears as was my promise of two weeks ago to bring the MSP out of this battle stronger and better off than before.

Somehow, I was going to have to keep both promises. I was going to need to pull a couple rabbits out of my hat.

Thankfully I had one big old armored ace, hidden up my sleeve. Thus thinking I turned to Steiner.

“Contact Swift Drake and tell the Corvette’s Captain that Operation Side Swipe is ‘go.’ Tell her captain to bring me the Parliamentary Power,” I ordered.

“Aye aye, sir,” replied Lieutenant Steiner.

And moments after receiving the transmission MSP Corvette Swift Drake jumped out of the system.

Chapter 24: Message in a Bottle

Three fleets continued to rush towards a grand meeting in cold space. The outer limits of the Elysium star system in that part closest to the Jovian system containing the Forge, was where the Droids had chosen to transfer into the system. For our part, the Grand Fleet had been waiting far enough within the hyper-limit that we could still turn around if we were wrong and the Droids appeared somewhere else and get between them and the mines.

But in this singular instance, the Droids had met expectations—not that this made anyone any happier, given the numbers the Droids had showed up in.

“Admiral, we’re getting a rather irritable message from the Grand Admiral’s staff about the Swift Drake’s hyper jump,” Lieutenant Steiner reported. “Do you want me to respond and, if so, how would you like me to reply?” she asked.

“Inform them the Swift Drake was sent off to report—keep it short and sweet,” I said, waving off the issue with a flick of the hand. I had more things to worry about than some Lieutenant with a burr up his back about the loss of a single corvette. Especially since the Swift Drake will be returning—with interest, I thought with a smile. ‘Admirals without battleships need not apply,’ indeed. I’ll show them my battleship, all right…right before I shove it up their conceited—

I cut my train of thought off, reminding myself that what was done was done and it was important to move on.

“Will do, Admiral,” Steiner said, and then proceeded to relay the message.

Time passed as all three Fleets—two Droid and one human—continued moving at a majestic pace toward an intercept in space.

“Does this feel right to you?” I muttered to my Flag Captain.

Laurent frowned and looked at me curiously.

“No maneuvering for advantage, no chasing or being chased…just an unspoken, almost gentleman’s agreement, to meet in on the outskirts of this system and clobber each other? Does that feel right to you?” I demanded.

The Flag Captain pursed his lips. “I haven’t exactly been in a lot of fleet actions,” Laurent said with irony laced through his voice, then he turned serious, “however, I have to point out that the purpose of a battle fleet is to battle, and that’s kind of hard to do if one side or the other is running away.”

“In all of our ship-to-ship combat, when has doing what the enemy wanted actually benefitted us? I mean, how often have we just rolled into a system and done what they wanted? It just doesn’t make sense,” I protested, giving the Captain a hard look to emphasize my point. “We let the Bugs soften up Jean Luc and then swept the board, and even that was hard—so hard, in fact, that we almost didn’t make it. We appeared to charge the Omicron, but secretly sent Lancers on grav-boards. With Aqua Nova, we—”

“I’ll give you Second Tracto,” Laurent interrupted, “but just how many of our battles have really involved more than one ship; two, or maybe three? Most of our—and your—experience is on single ship or small squadron engagements.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he continued evenly.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong,” Laurent held up a hand to stop me, “what I am saying is that Fleet Actions aren’t exactly our forte and, on top of that, this isn’t the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. Grand Admiral Manning is running the show and for all we know—the ‘we’ in this case would indicate you and I—he has a few aces still up his sleeve that we know nothing about. This is his home system, after all.”

I sat for a moments and stewed, my lips rubbing together as I thought. “So what you’re saying is we should trust him,” I shortly.

Laurent blew out a breath. “No. That’s not what I’m saying…not exactly,” he paused in contemplation.

“Make up your mind,” I snorted.

Laurent scowled. “I guess what I’m saying is that the fact we can’t see what all his plans are doesn’t mean he has none,” he retorted.

I was just about to point out the foolishness of trusting someone else to pull a rabbit out of his hat at the last minute and then froze. I realized that to say so would be almost the same as indicting myself—or at least anyone who had believed all my lies and aura of false confidence along the way to here.

I frowned and my frown turned into a scowl as I realized that while I might not be able to, in good conscience, blast Manning with both barrels for either being a fool, or even an untrusting man who kept too many secrets—a trait which one could reasonably accuse me of possessing.

Not being able to call him on it didn’t mean I had to sit idly by while my ships ran into the meat grinder. Besides, I had a few hidden aces of my own.

Speaking of aces, I thought irritably, where’s my battleship?

Chapter 25: Questioning Command

“MSP Corvette Swift Drake has just jumped in system, Commodore!” cried the Sensor Officer.

“Excellent news, Lieutenant,” Commodore Druid said with satisfaction before turning to the Helm and Navigation. “I assume we’re ready to jump just as soon as the hyper drive is fully charged?”

“Aye, sir,” said the Navigator with a smile on his face, “we are thirty minutes and counting until the Point of No Return.”

“Very well,” the Commodore nodded, “you are to proceed with the plan to jump to Elysium at the pre-designated coordinates, until and unless we hear otherwise from the Swift Drake.

Around him, the bridge sprang into activity as the ship readied itself for jump. Druid nodded with satisfaction; the ship and its new crew, was doing well…although, just which part of his crew could possibly be considered ‘old hands’ left him feeling rather stumped.

He finally decided there were a few hundred who had served on the Armor Prince and the Lucky Clover, the same exact class of ship, before her, so they probably qualified.

“Officers, sound off readiness status by department; we’ll be arriving in a hot zone upon arrival in Elysium and could be attacked at any time. Let’s get our ducks in a row while we can,” Druid instructed.

One by one, the department heads sounded off their readiness.

“Helm cleared and ready for action,” reported the Helmsman.

“Navigation ready, sir,” said the officer manning the Nav-Console.

“Tactical; let us at ‘em, Commodore,” growled the Ensign manning that station right now.

“Shields are a go, sir.”

“Comm. is five by five.”

“Engineering here, wait one, Commodore,” said the Engineering watch stander.

“Security here, we have a problem, sir,” said the Security Officer, a former Marine who had been Druid’s head of security back on his Corvette.

The Commodore scowled. “What’s going on, Dmitri?” he asked, turning to look at the Lieutenant Commander.

“There’s a delegation outside the bridge here to speak with you, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Dmitri said, his face an expressionless mask.

Druid clenched his fist. “From our recently revived personnel, I presume?” he said, his voice deepening to a growl.

“All officers—and almost all of them former ship commanders—if I am any judge of things, Commodore,” the Lieutenant Commander said, his hand landing on the butt of the pistol at his waist.

Druid cocked his head at Dmitri.

“Just give the word and we’ll give them a bum rush out of here, sir,” the Security Officer said with relish.

Tapping on his screen, Druid pulled up an image of just outside the blast doors and bit back a curse at the sight of a bakers’ dozen worth of officers milling around outside the bridge.

“I don’t think that will be necessary just yet,” Druid said, making a snap decision, “make sure they’re disarmed and then have them escorted into the ready room. I’ll speak with them personally.”

“Very good, sir,” Dmitri said bracing to attention before turning away and sweeping up a pair of Marines with a twirl of his finger as he marched to the blast doors. He looked like a man ready to sort out a wayward shore party.

Watching the agitated officers—who were wearing a variety of Confederation and SDF uniforms—being escorted into the Parliamentary Power’s ready room, he cursed the bright ideas of Admirals and Flag Officers everywhere. They had a brilliant brainstorm and then left subordinate officers holding the bag while they moved onto other things. Meanwhile, he was the one who had to tell thousands of recently-revived men and women why they had to go directly from having their ships shot out from under them, right into another death ride against a Droid Invasion. He was keenly aware that a goodly fraction of them were still trying to fully shrug off the effects of prolonged cryogenic suspension.

Steeling himself, he stood up, straightened his uniform and marched into the ready room. His first view of the officers as he entered that room was everything he had expected, with their expressions running the gamut from angry, fearful, disbelieving and resigned.

Standing forcefully in the middle of the table across from the door, with her fists placed knuckles-down on its surface, an officer in the uniform of a Confederation Commander leaned forward and met his eyes with her steely gaze.

“I wake up after a hundred and fifty years of cryo-stasis, and find out two days later that this ship is about to jump into battle against a Droid fleet!?” she demanded, her body swaying from side to side from the latent effects of a century and a half of cryo sleep with only two days to recover from the effects. But, while her body might still be weak, the Commodore could tell that her mind was anything but.

“Yes,” Druid said, drawing himself up to his full height.

“How bad is this situation, and why should we help you?” she demanded in a steely voice.

“You have a duty, all of you, and not just to the Confederation but to all of humanity, whether you’re SDF or Confed Fleet,” Druid said, sweeping the table with an iron gaze and silently cursing Admiral Jason Montagne for offloading the problem of these—in many cases, still sick—cryo-survivors into his lap. “The Elysium Star System is being invaded even as we speak; this ship is desperately needed there and we could surely use your help.”

“Half the survivors are still cryo-sick and the rest have never worked together! I don’t see how we could help you—even if we were so inclined,” the Commander said, matching his gaze with one of her own and not backing down an inch. “I ask again: just how bad is it out there? This is a job for the 5th Fleet and a couple divisions of ships of the line. Is a single battleship really going to make that much a difference and, if so, what exactly has been going on in known space while we’ve been asleep?!”

“There’s too much to go into at once,” Commodore Druid said flatly, “but, in brief: the Confederation and the Empire of Man joined forces half a century ago and then the Empire pulled out of seven Sectors here in the Spineward region. In short, they left us behind and right now we’re it. We’re all that two Sectors of human space—two Confederation Sectors—have in the way of defense. The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, and a Grand Fleet, made up of every ship that could be shook loose from SDF’s across both Sectors, have been brought together for a unified defense of Sectors 23 and 24 at what will almost certainly be the decisive battle of the conflict.”

For a long moment she glared at him, her eyes locked with his. “If you’re prepared to fill up half a battleship with the shattered remnants of over twenty ships, and take us into battle…then I guess we have no choice but to go with you,” she finally said, to the resulting protest from a number of SDF Officers.

“We need every man willing,” Druid said evenly.

“I’m willing to go, and I’ll ask all my former crew to come with me,” the Commander said, “but I want you to agree to offload any objectors who don’t agree to participate before jumping before I agree to anything.”

“The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is an at-will organization,” Druid said after wrestling with the proposition for a moment. “But I can’t afford to waste any time, and the only place we could offload them is right back onto the freighter. That ship’s life support isn’t up to the task of sustaining thousands of people actively around inside her. If we’re going to do this and we have too many objectors, some of you will have to go back into cryo-sleep or you’ll suffocate.”

As he watched, several of the SDF officers recoiled and the Commander’s face hardened. No one looked happy at the thought of going back to being frozen while the world passed them by—and their fates were in the hands of others.

He genuinely had no idea how this was going to go.

Chapter 26: The Droid Surprise!

“Sweet crying Murphy! The fly is definitely in the ointment this time,” I swore at a screen still blank and empty of the Parliamentary Power—or the Swift Drake.

“They could have just caught the battleship at the beginning of its charge cycle, sir,” Laurent pointed out, but I was having none of it.

“First Middleton and his Cruiser hare off to the space-gods-know-where—right when I needed them—and now Druid and my Battleship are missing in action!! Where is that man, and what has he done with my ship?!” I cursed.

The Flag Captain looked at the main screen stoically, avoiding my gaze before turning to face me as he drew a breath.

“Have you considered the possibility that the Droids, on their way here, encountered the Commodore and the Parliamentary Power, Admiral?” he asked.

“Saint Murphy avert,” I snarled and then pounded the arm of my chair with a fist, “don’t even play at that—I don’t want to hear it, Captain. Druid’s late, not destroyed, and I want to know why. And when I find out, it’ll go all the harder for him when I—”

“Sir! I’m reading a point emergence on the edge of the system, right where the Power is supposed to show,” exclaimed a sensor operator, jumping up and waving her hand. “I’m also reading a number of lighter contacts…it looks like it’s the escorts we left with her!”

“He made it!” I said pumping, my fist as all thoughts of courts martial and raking certain battleship officers over hot coals fled my brain in an instant. I turned to Steiner, “Maintain radio silence; I don’t want even a hint of encrypted communication between us and the Commodore until we have to. I want to keep those mechanicals guessing for as long as possible.”

“He arrived with a half hour to spare, but he made it,” Laurent observed, commenting on how long it would be before we, and the Grand Fleet, went head to head with the first of the two Droid Fleets.

“Yes, yes, he’ll have to burn the engines to make up time but he can do it, The important thing is that he’s here now,” I dismissed, turning my full attention back to the main screen and the upcoming battle, now that I no longer had to worry that the largest tactical asset I possessed might not show to the party.

“Admiral, I’m receiving a request from the Flag. The Grand Admiral wants to speak with you,” Lieutenant Steiner reported.

I stared at the screen with narrowed eyes before turning and giving her a nod. “Put him through,” I instructed. It was time to see just what was bothering the Grand Admiral…as if I couldn’t figure it out already.

The image of Admiral Manning appeared on the screen and, while I wouldn’t quite classify his expression as an outright glare, he definitely looked like a man who’d been long-suffering and had just about reached his breaking point—‘break’ being the operative word, as the Grand Admiral did indeed look ready to break something.

So, instead of opening my mouth and saying something that might get me in trouble, I instead offered a lazy salute and then straightened in my chair. I did my best to straddle the line between coming to attention and just improving my body posture.

The Grand Admiral’s lip curled. “Just what are you playing at, Montagne?” the Grand Admiral barked.

“Pardon?” I asked calmly, as if I hadn’t a concern in the world.

“No more games, Confederation Admiral,” he barked, leaning forward in his chair. “We know the small flotilla which just arrived is comprised of Confederation warships—ships that only arrived after you sent your Corvette, Swift Drake, to retrieve them. Clearly they were intended to arrive in Elysium only after the Droid Fleet arrived. Don’t try to play me for a fool when your ‘last minute’ reinforcements show up with a Battleship in tow!”

“The Battleship is mine, as are the rest of the flotilla,” I admitted without missing a beat. “I decided they would be more use here than defending our Star Bases and other vital interests in Sector 25.

“Trying to play on how you’re stripping yourself to the bone to help us only goes so far,” Manning growled. “If you had a Battleship, why not let us know? More importantly, why hide it until after the battle starts when you KNOW we could have used her on the line?! A suspicious sort like myself might just start to think you had a plan that involved something other than simply helping defend our star system!”

I blinked at this particularly paranoid diversion and then deliberately shrugged. “I’m not going to get into the politics of this whole thing, except to say that I wasn’t sure whether or not the Parliamentary Power would arrive in time to make the battle. She’d taken a lot of damage in our last battle for Tracto and it wasn’t at all clear if she could be repaired sufficiently to do a credible job here. Add to that the way the inner circle of the Grand Fleet have made it clear that Officers without battleships need not apply and, to be frank, I was concerned that saying I had a battleship—one that might, or might not, arrive in time to do any good—would do more to make me a laughing stock at best, or appear hopelessly pathetic at worst,” I almost smiled at this last part. Sometimes I amaze myself with things that could almost be true. “So, no, I did not tell you about my battleship. Nor did I want to risk the Power, by sending constant patrols to the rendezvous point which might be picked up by silent running droid warships scouting the perimeter of Elysium. But now that the droids are here, there was no longer any point in holding them back, if in fact they had even arrived on time.”

During my lengthy diatribe, the Grand Admiral’s face had darkened.

“I don’t like smooth talkers—or worse, people who think they’re smooth talkers but actually aren’t—in my Battle Fleet, Mr. Montagne,” the Grand Admiral growled warningly.

“Well then, Mr. Manning, I guess you have to ask yourself which you want more: a Battleship, or subordinates who never surprise you with extra combat power?” I said, striving for dispassionate and uncaring but more likely coming off as arrogant and glib.

I could see the flush when I turned his lack of respect for my rank right back around on him, but ultimately I had to ask myself: what was he going to do? Would he refuse my help and throw away a perfectly good battleship in a moment of pike? Or weaken his fleet in the face of the enemy in order to ‘teach me a lesson?’ No, none of that was very likely to happen for the simple reason that, without a sure sign that I was moving against his home world, he had a lot more to lose than he had to gain by turning on me—since, in point of fact, I intended to help his home world.

“Play your games then, Montagne,” Manning said, a warning glint in his eye, “and we’ll all see what it profits you.”

I nodded as the screen cut out.

“Well, that could have gone better,” Laurent commented in a low voice.

“I dare say, that almost sounded like a threat, Captain,” I replied, still looking at the screen, then I splayed my hands, “if I didn’t know better,” I finished easily.

“I’m glad one of us knows better, because I sure don’t,” Laurent muttered.

I bit back a dark laugh and shook my head instead. It was time to see to the formation of our ships.

“The Grand Flag signals us to adjust our position rotated down 20 degrees relative to the main body,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.

Laurent glanced at me and I nodded.

Several minutes passed as the ship took up its new position.

“Point emergence!” called out the Sensor Warrant.

“Report as soon as you have the numbers and general classification, Sensors,” ordered the Flag Captain.

“I have one dozen human-built warships entering the system now,” reported the Sensor Officer. “I’m reading…four battleships, two large cruisers, and half a dozen lighter warships we have yet to fully classify.”

“Good work, and keep on it sensors,” I said starting to feel cautiously optimistic. Counting the Parliamentary Power and the new arrivals, we’d just more than doubled the number of battleships in Elysium—things were finally starting to look our way!

Or so I hoped. It did seem rather suspicious that they arrived only after the main fleets were about to engage…making me a bit more sympathetic to Manning’s accusations towards myself and the MSP. On the other hand, it wouldn’t entirely surprise me if one or two of the other worlds decided to pull the same trick I did and husband their firepower for a decisive blow later on.

“Admiral, we’re receiving a message from the Grand Flag,” reported Steiner, “they want to know if the new arrivals are with us and, from the tone and tenor of the query from his staff, Admiral Manning sounds rather hot.”

“Assure the Grand Admiral that we have nothing to do with the new arrivals, and honestly have no idea whose banner they’re sailing under,” I said and waved dismissively; we were on the verge of a major fleet action and I didn’t have much further time for these sorts of things.

“Aye, aye, sir,” exclaimed Steiner.

“Droid Harmony Fleet is moving into attack positions ahead of the Droid Conformity Fleet,” reported the ship’s Tactical Officer uneasily.

“Concerns, Tactical?” I said, catching a hint of something in that officer’s voice.

“It’s nothing affirmative, Admiral,” the ship’s Tactical Officer hesitated, then he appeared more assertive, “however, the entire Harmony Fleet is in formation to attack us.”

“That is generally what happens when droids and humans meet,” I smirked.

“Of course, sir,” the Tactical Officer smiled perfunctorily, “however, they have nothing set aside as a rear guard. Now, this isn’t necessarily anything in and of itself, as the Harmony warships are much faster than the Conformity hulls…but it does make me a little uneasy.”

I felt a chill. Like the Tactical Officer said, there was no need to guard against the slower less maneuverable ships of the Conformity Fleet. However a lack of some kind of visible defense against the massive swarm following along behind them, combined with the Harmony Tribe’s well-noted tactical acumen, didn’t help the Grand Admiral’s hope of the Droid Tribes falling each upon the other just as furiously as they would with our own human style fleet.

“Keep your eye on it, Lieutenant,” I instructed, “I’m not sure what we can do with this information other than to keep our eyes open, but I want to be notified at the first sign of anything and I mean anything you think needs my attention.”

“Aye, Admiral,” the Officer said and then paused his voice rising an octave, “lead elements of the Harmony Fleet are entering attack range now, sir!”

“The Flag is requesting we focus all firepower on the starboard, six ship Destroyer element,” Steiner called out.

I suppressed a kneejerk rejection of the order and took myself firmly to task even as I nodded, “Relay firing coordinates to tactical. And Tactical,” I turned to the Tactical Officer, “inform Gunnery that as soon as they have the target designations, they are to fire at will.”

“Aye, sir!” exclaimed that Officer and, beside him, First Officer Eastwood immediately began to relay this information down the Chief Gunner.

“Firing!” barked the First Officer moments later.

With eager eyes, I watched as thirty six Harmony Destroyers, divided into six squadrons, and their accompanying three Cruiser element began to shift position in an elaborately choreographed dance intended to reduce the time interval that any one Droid ship was a target of the MDL’s Grand Fleet.

At first it was just the lighter units of the Grand Fleet, such as our own ships, that were firing upon the Droid warships. Then, with a slow majesty all their own, the eight battleships that formed the core of the MDL Fleet pivoted bringing the full hammer that was humanity’s broadside to bear.

“The Grand Fleet is acquiring target lock!” Tactical said, the desire for righteous retribution for all worlds dead, and millions lost, made manifest in those few words.

Turbo-laser fire erupted from the Battleship squadrons with a ferocity that almost took my breath away. The lines of fire represented by the holo-projector briefly threatened to clutter the main screen, so great was the display of coordinated firepower.

“How many did they get?!” I demanded, lunging forward in my seat just as sensors started to reflect droid movement.

“Every ship in the Harmony Fleet just scattered!! I’m reading one Destroyer destroyed and two more damaged by glancing blows,” Tactical said, consternation in his voice.

“They must have scattered at the same time as the Fleet Battleships fired,” Laurent said.

“That’s an impossible maneuver,” First Officer Eastwood said flatly.

I nodded as if in agreement. “It’s almost as if the enemy acted with machine-like precision,” I mocked.

The First Officer flushed and the Flag Captain shot me a look. I knew it was time to focus back on the fight and not picking on my outraged under-officers over their exclamations of outraged dismay.

“The Droids are regaining formation and skirting around the extreme range of the Battleships. It looks like they’re trying to avoid contact with the heavies,” Tactical reported as the first Droid Fleet pulled hard down and under the center of the Grand Fleet.

On the screen, I could see one battleship start to pull out of formation, its engines burning hard. Its commander clearly had every intention of launching a pursuit of the fleeing Destroyers—even though it clearly had no chance of success.

“What ship is that?” I barked, pointing at the rogue battleship.

“That’s the Battleship Jiāozhàn of the Li Dong Defense Fleet, Master and Commander of record…Admiral Block, sir,” reported Sensors a second before Tactical, a hint of smug satisfaction in his voice at having beaten out his rival as he called out the identification.

“Block,” I made the word a curse.

Lieutenant Steiner held a hand up to her ear. “The Grand Admiral is ordering the Jiāozhàn back into formation. Block is protesting,” the Communications Officer reported, struggling to accurately pronounce the Battleship’s name and still holding a finger to her ear-bud.

Seconds later, the Jiāozhàn began to move back into position within the formation, and tensions on the bridge of the Phoenix started to ease.

“I wouldn’t want his job,” I said with a shake of my head, watching the screen as lighter vessels were cut loose in squadron strength to deal with the rampaging enemy Destroyers, along with their trio of Cruisers.

“That’s a lie,” Laurent muttered.

I whipped my head around and glared at him while the MDL Squadrons of light warships burned hard to catch the Harmony Destroyers.

“What did you say?” I said coldly.

“I know you too well, sir,” Laurent smiled crookedly, “for all your protestations, you’d take the job of Grand Admiral in a heartbeat. Don’t try to deny it.”

I opened my mouth to hotly deny it and then scowled thunderously. “Ships from two dozen worlds, a chain of command where every ship driver wants to offer you advice, and a rebellious admiral—not to mention the man has to have ten times the experience I do—and you think I want that job?” I argued, trying to use logic to counterattack and obfuscate the truth.

“Rebellious Admirals, plural,” Laurent said, shooting me a look and then chuckled. “And yes, you’d be happily hating every minute of it if they’d put you in charge. It’s part of what makes you so effective.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere,” I grumbled mutinously. I started to chide him about the ‘Admirals, plural’ comment when a squadron of MDL light warships was caught in a pincer move between three Harmony Destroyer Squadrons, where they were shot full of holes.

“The Demon Murphy is out in force today,” I muttered as a Corvette exploded, two more went spinning off out of control, and a pair of Destroyers lost power and started to drift. If this first clash was any indication of how the battle would progress, it wasn’t a good omen for the rest of the Fleet.

Captain Laurent made an aversion sign, apparently coming to the same conclusion.

“The Harmony Destroyers continue to get the better of the engagements,” reported Tactical, “they are faster and more maneuverable than a human warship of equivalent size—most likely because droid crews can take higher gravity, thus using less power for grav-plates than a human crew of comparable size—but we won’t know for sure until after the battle when we can examine some of the wreckage.”

If we survive to examine their wreckage, and don’t die—or find ourselves in flight—with our wreckage left behind for them to examine, I silently added. But behind all of that endgame concern was my more immediate worry: what we were going to do with the Harmony Droid Fleet right now?

“A pair of Cruiser squadrons are attempting to take advantage of the Droid’s rapid down turn under the fleet and are moving to intercept!” called out the Tactical Officer.

For the better part of a minute, we watched as the MDL Cruisers cut the corner on a Destroyer squadron. They were just about to return the favor for what the droids had done to that Grand Fleet’s light warships squadron when the leading edge of the Fleet of Conformity Droid warships entered attack range.

“Reading 59 Droid Motherships in five rows of 10 and one row of 9 in the rear of the droid formation with over 5000 gunboats out in front. The Mothership Cruisers are headed straight towards the Battleship Squadrons, but those boats are going to get there first and soften them up,” said the Tactical Officer.

“Still no sign that the Harmony Fleet is going to turn around and attack the Conformity?” I asked tightly, looking at the main screen there was no way we were going to avoid the sprawling conflict for much longer.

I ignored a few muted cheers as the Grand Fleet Cruiser Squadron hammered several Harmony Destroyers, causing the Droid Squadron to break up to avoid being annihilated.

“The Harmony Fleet has broken up into two squadrons of hunter killer packs and are crisscrossing the outsides of the Grand Fleet, attacking smaller warships and running from cruiser-sized threats. I estimate that a pair of Harmony squadrons, with Mothership support, should arrive in our area shortly after the gunboats,” reported the Tactical Officer.

My eyes snapped back to the screen, searching for and finding the aforementioned gunboats. “It looks like we’re going to have some customers very soon,” I commented.

“New orders from the Grand Flag,” Steiner reported quickly, “all units cruiser-sized and smaller are instructed to advance towards the Droid Fleet and screen the flag from the gunboat swarm.”

I looked at the Harmony Squadrons, and the swarm of around 100 gunboats approaching our position, and squeezed the arms of my chair. I didn’t like the odds against what my MSP Fleet was facing already—never mind the odds of advancing into the enemy!

“A Cruiser and twelve Destroyers, supported by a hundred gunboats…against our two Cruisers, one Destroyer and nine Corvettes,” Laurent observed, glancing between me and the screen portraying the evolving battle.

“Twelve against thirteen,” I said, flipping a wrist, “we’ve dealt with worse odds.”

“The tonnages, though—” my Flag Captain started.

“They have bigger ships and more of them. Yes, I know,” I said flatly, in a tone that warned him to stop this line of thought, “however, we have two Cruisers to their one.”

“We’ve seen just how effective their Destroyers can be when working together. How much more deadly do you imagine a Cruiser to be?” Laurent continued.

“Gunnery is to fire on targets of opportunity as they bear; let’s start thinning out those boats,” I ordered, ignoring the Captain as I kept my eyes pinned to the screen, watching the interplay of enemy and allied movements.

“Admiral,” Laurent said quietly.

“Enough, Captain,” I said just as quietly but much more forcefully.

“Aye aye, sir,” he said, fading back and to the side.

“Helm, turn five degrees away from the Flag and increase acceleration to full military power,” I instructed.

“Away five degrees and full military power, yes sir!” Helmsman DuPont acknowledged eagerly.

“Away from the Fleet by only five degrees, sir?” Laurent said, his words a protest even as the ship shuddered underneath us.

“Lieutenant Steiner, relay the order to the rest of our fleet,” I said, continuing to ignore my Flag Captain. “And then transmit to the squadron of MDL Cruisers that were chasing that Harmony Destroyer Squadron. Advise them that if the Harmony Squadrons aiming for us adjust course to follow our movement away, the Cruisers have a chance at an up the kilt attack. The Droids will either have to go through us and then engage the rest of the Grand Fleet or turn away and miss the thrust by the main body of the Conformity Fleet—no more of this picking low-hanging fruit off the edges while we’re otherwise engaged.”

“Relaying your message now, Admiral,” replied Steiner.

Part of me hoped the Harmony Squadrons continued their attack run, even though doing so was going to hurt us. At least then there wouldn’t be room for them to dance around, as much of their advantage in speed and maneuverability would be nullified.

“Smart play, Admiral,” Lauren said with an enigmatic look.

“That’s why I’m in the big chair,” I replied shortly.

“The Cruisers are arcing around towards our position!” Tactical said excitedly.

“We’ll have them now,” Laurent said with a nod.

“I wish,” I said, and for a few moments the Harmony Destroyers and their Cruiser Flagship continued towards us—looking like they aimed to prove me wrong—and then they abruptly turned, shooting off at a forty five degree angle directly away from the MSP and the Grand Fleet.

“Blast!” Laurent cursed.

I grunted, still looking at the temporarily-retreating Harmony hunter killer squadrons. I wondered if I’d made the right choice. Since I had let them get away, someone else was going to have to deal with them—someone who might not be as fortunate or with as many ships as I had.

Then I pushed it aside, I’d made the right call: preserving my fleet from a head to head meeting against an enemy with the advantage.

“Turn the ship and prepare to give those boats a pounding,” I ordered, still wondering about those droid Destroyers. Maybe if I hadn’t split the fleet…

“We’ll get them for you, Admiral,” DuPont said, and for a moment I stared off into space instead of putting my attention where it needed to be.

Angrily I looked back up at the screen, where Gunnery was proceeding to wipe the gunboats facing us off the face of the star map. The closer the droids got, the faster they died, until all 100 were bashed, broken and destroyed. Our gunners were, by now, quite skilled at targeting the slow, unshielded gunboats which the Conformity Tribe seemed to prefer. They should have been, after Aqua Nova, but even at Aqua Nova we hadn’t faced numbers like this.

Seeing the Gunboats facing us gone and the Harmony Squadrons still showing us their heels, I turned back to the Helm.

“Bring the helm back around…ten degrees toward the Grand Fleet and forward at 75 percent power, Mr. DuPont. Let’s see if we can’t pick off a few more of those boats,” I said.

“Ten degrees toward at 75%, aye aye, Admiral!” exclaimed the Helmsman, baring his teeth as he turned the ship over.

I wanted to smile back, but by now over a thousand Conformity gunboats had been destroyed by the thundering fury of the eight Battleships of the Grand Fleet. But while a thousand were gone, thousands more now swarmed around them, firing their small, pinprick light lasers for all they were worth into the shields of the mighty human titans.

In and of themselves, even four thousand pinpricks spread out over eight battleships wouldn’t be enough to bring them down—but hard on the heels of the boats were the real threat. Sixty Conformity Cruisers—each armed with six antimatter powered, forward-facing spinal lasers—were moments away from entering attack range.

This is going to be for all the marbles, I decided as the Battleships’ turbo-lasers lashed out in one simultaneous broadside, slashing through the shields and hull armor of the first ten Conformity Motherships. Two enemy ships fell out of formation in the opening moments of the exchange.

I knew that, either the Grand Fleet held on this maneuver, or we were about to be in a world of hurt with the way the Harmony Fleet was snapping around the edges like a pack of hungry wolves eager to take the weak, the sickly and the lame. They were picking off our smaller escorts and converted merchant freighters, all the while maneuvering around to the rear of the Grand Fleet as if to hit our engines or cut us off.

I suppressed a shiver of foreboding.

If Manning can break the Conformity here and now—or at least blunt their mechanical fury—we could turn and deal with Harmony at our leisure, I thought pensively. But if he fails to stop them cold…

My face hardened; I didn’t want to finish that thought, because we were going to win.

The Battleships rolled and another volley lashed out from the lines, causing two Motherships to explode and another to fall out of formation. That brought the tally of still-functioning enemy Motherships in the front line down to five, and several of those were damaged. With only two volleys, the Grand Fleet had destroyed half of the Conformity ships facing them.

However, those five were doing their best to shield as many of the vessels which came after them.

Another roll was executed, and one of the Motherships exploded so powerfully that it improbably destroyed the two nearest of its companions. Of the other two remaining Motherships in the front line, one was so riddled with turbo-laser fire that it had lost power, and the other’s back was broken from internal explosions.

The entire first row consisting of ten Conformity Motherships had just been destroyed before the rest of their main force had even reached a range to be able to fire back…but all that was about to change.

Even while focusing their turbo-lasers at the Motherships, the rest of the various Battleships’ shorter-ranged weaponry had been firing for all it was worth, along with every lighter unit that could meet the range, on the swarm of gunboats. By now, of the more than five thousand gunboats launched at the edge of the star system, the Conformity Droids had fewer than half remaining, with more being wiped off the board seemingly with each passing second.

Then, as the Battleships were rolling to present their new broadside of fresh turbo-lasers at the Conformity Motherships, the droids finally entered the attack range of their forward facing spinal lasers.

Sixty lines of white, antimatter-powered, annihilation shot from the first ten Motherships to enter range. Shields flared as thirty nine spinal lasers, spread over eight targets, found their mark. Shields flashed and, of the thirty nine successful hits, four penetrated the shields. Of those four, three of them harmlessly gouged out great divots in the thick armor of the human Battleships. But the fourth and final shot dug deep into the hull of the Battleship commanded by the fat and jovial Commodore.

“Firing turbo-lasers into the swarm,” Tactical said in the background, “plasma cannons are dealing with damage stragglers moving away from the main body.”

“It looks like the Battleships are adjusting their shields to compensate for the attack,” reported our Sensor Officer.

The next row of Motherships entered attack range, and once again shields flared from forty two direct hits. This time, with six shield penetrations, only one of which dug through the thick battleship armor and once again it was the jovial Commodore—who’d been gossiping about me back during our original meeting—whose Battleship took the damage.

With thunderous fury, the Battleships finished their roll and, this time, it wasn’t only turbo-lasers that fired at the Motherships; the heavy lasers were now also in range. This meant that the heavy lasers couldn’t be used against the boats, but the superior threat was clearly the Motherships.

Four more Motherships exploded or lost power, riddled with shots from this single volley.

“New Orders from the Grand Fleet: all warships are to advance until they are within range of the Droid Motherships so they can lend their weight of fire to the Battleships,” relayed Lieutenant Steiner.

“Sir!” The Sensor Warrant said urgently. “A number of gunboats have entered into range of Harmony Destroyers before they could halt their momentum and turn around to go back toward the Battleships.”

“So?” demanded Laurent.

“Sir…the Droids aren’t firing on each other,” the Warrant said with the air of a man who was relaying vital news. But as far as I was concerned, the knowledge that the Droids had made some sort of common cause—if only for the duration of the battle—to destroy us was no longer relevant. We were where we were, and no amount of complaining or finger-pointing was going to help.

“The Chief Gunner recommends we roll the ship,” reported Eastwood.

“Make it so, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered.

“Shall I advance on the Droid Fleet at full speed, Admiral?” the Helmsman prompted.

Looking up, I saw that we were still advancing toward the main battle at 75% of maximum power. I frowned.

“Reduce speed to 25% and adjust our course so we are running parallel to the main body,” I ordered.

DuPont blinked, opened his mouth and then nodded. “On it, sir,” he replied.

“Those are not our orders,” my Flag Captain said, appearing at my elbow as if out of thin air.

“Those are not exactly our orders,” I corrected, “however, we will eventually come within range of the enemy fleet if we continue on this course.” I had no intention of sacrificing my ships in a head-to-head match with those Motherships unless it was absolutely necessary and, so far, I hadn’t seen that. If I did then I would reconsider, but until then the MSP as it was currently aligned—or, at least, that part I was in command of—was made for hit-and-run attacks, not standing on the wall with Battleships.

More Motherships were destroyed, and more antimatter-fueled lasers penetrated Battleships shields, gouging hulls and reaching into the guts of even more of the human-built citadels of military might.

Then the remaining Motherships unleashed another cloud of gunboats. “I’m reading more than one thousand additional gunboats have joined the attack!” cried Tactical.

“Battleships’ shields are showing severe spotting,” cried a Sensor Operator.

“Yes!” roared Eastwood right after another Mothership blew up on screen. “Gunnery just pounded that toaster into scrap. Scratch one Mothership, courtesy of the Furious Phoenix!”

“All remaining gunboats have begun a suicide attack run,” shouted Tactical.

“Sweet Murphy,” Laurent breathed.

Shields flared and gunboats exploded, but for every boat that annihilated itself on a Battleship’s shields, two more slipped through holes in a Battleship defenses.

I found myself braced for impact; my time spent as a Battleship commander making me feel as if I were right there with the Grand Admiral and his eight stalwart warships.

But nothing happened. Not an explosion, not a gouge in the armor from a crashing boat, nothing.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

The Tactical Officer dropped his slate onto the floor and turned to me, his face turning white.

“Admiral, those boats weren’t trying to ram. They were trying to land,” he said with heavy emphasis.

I blinked twice and then swore, “Murphy and his Imps! They’re trying to board.”

“Yes sir,” Tactical said before bending down to retrieve his slate.

“How many boats made it through?” I demanded, right before several of the more damaged boats made another attack run.

This time, the Battleships were wise to the danger and a storm of point defense fire lashed out. But while the majority of the remaining boats—gunboats that hadn’t landed yet from the original swarm—were destroyed, the ones that made it through in time weren’t looking to land. Suddenly, a series of explosions rocked the Battleships.

“Those last droid gunboats were targeting engines, Admiral. I’m seeing major damage to the primary engine housings on six of the eight Battleships,” reported the Sensor Officer.

Another pair of volleys crisscrossed from the MDL to the Conformity Fleet, with accompanying counter-fire from the Motherships to the Battleships. The cold space between the two forces erupted with the heat and fury of fusion and antimatter-powered lasers.

More Motherships fell but this time, with their shields weakened to almost nothing spinal laser fire didn’t just gouge hulls, several lasers ripped through the hull of the jovial Commodore’s ship. Several of the beams even burst forth from the opposite side of the warship.

“The Practical Effect has just lost power and is now drifting,” reported Tactical in the voice of one who has just reported the demise of the first human Battleship.

The swarm of gunboats which had been only recently released from their Motherships now reached the MDL Battleships. Despite withering fire from the remaining Battleships, these gunboats made a concerted boarding attack run.

I watched as far too many of the enemy craft successfully navigated the laser fire aimed their way, and those gunboats penetrating through the almost non-existent shields of the still functional ships. As they went in, they were also firing on the engines of the Battleships.

As if a switch had been flipped, the Motherships adjusted course and were no longer aiming at the Battleships. For a second I was actually grateful.

“Enemy Motherships are now targeting MDL Cruisers!” cried the Sensor Officer.

“They’ve never switched targets before, at least not until their original target was destroyed,” Laurent protested, as if by stating how the Droids usually operated he could force them to return to their old patterns.

“It seems these Droids can learn new tricks,” I said furiously.

Again and again, the Phoenix fired on the Motherships which had turned in our direction and, while they could, the Battleships added what fire they could. But with most of their engines down, they were trying to move the massive weight of their Battleships with only maneuvering thrusters.

“The Dark Abyss reports heavy boarding parties have penetrated the hull and are in their crew spaces and, under order of Admiral Preceptor, are maneuvering for advantage,” Steiner reported moments before the Dark Abyss broke formation. Another Battleship broke formation, moving in the same general direction as the Dark Abyss.

“The Jiāozhàn is also declaring its need to maneuver away from any additional boarding parties,” reported Steiner.

“What boarding parties?” First Officer Eastwood demanded. “All the gunboats are either dead or cluttering their hulls already.

“Sir, the Independent Warships from the smaller powers are reporting that they are being overwhelmed by the Harmony hunter-killer squadrons and are desperate for help,” Steiner reported.

Almost half the Motherships were still functional, with twenty nine of them maneuvering outside the firing arcs of the Battleships as they hunted for targets of opportunity like the smaller warships of the Grand Fleet.

“The Grand Admiral is ordering every Grand Fleet Squadron with a Cruiser to make its way to the Battleship Squadrons to render assistance until primary engine repairs can be made,” the Lieutenant at Comm. reported.

“What do we do, Admiral?” Laurent requested urgently.

“Warships not belonging to the Core World fleets are breaking formation,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

“Where are they going?” I demanded harshly, temporarily ignoring Laurent’s quite reasonable need for direction.

“Best guess from their current courses is that they’re falling back to Elysium,” Navigator Shepherd said after a momentary pause.

“A number of squadrons belonging to the Core Worlds are rallying; they’re making a push toward the beleaguered Battleships!” shouted Tactical.

For a moment I started to feel a rising tide, and felt myself lean forward to give the orders to join the push toward the Battleships.

“Mr. DuPont, prepare to join the Core Worlders we’re going to join the Battle—” I said just as the ship lurched violently around us.

“Shields down to 35% and fluctuating!” shouted Ensign Longbottom.

“What just happened?” demanded Laurent.

“We’ve been targeted by three Droid Motherships, Captain,” reported Tactical.

“Minor damage reported to the starboard hull,” reported Damage Control.

“Evasive maneuvers; adjust shields and roll the ship,” I ordered quickly.

“Sir, we can’t stay here like this,” Laurent urged, “we need to join the ring of forces around the Battleships, or pull away and increase our distance.”

“All MSP units are to fire upon the droid Motherships,” I ordered, “relay that, Comm.”

“Aye aye, sir,” Steiner said quickly.

“Fire!” shouted Eastwood.

“Admiral,” urged Laurent.

“Energy spike detected, sir. Enemy Motherships are preparing to fire!” cried the Sensor Officer.

“Two squadrons of Harmony Destroyers have locked onto our position and moving to intercept,” reported Tactical.

My eyes darted around the screen and I realized that there were no good options. As I watched an entire squadron of ships that had joined the battleships was gutted by enemy fire. While the roving cruiser squadron that had been opposing the Harmony Squadrons looked like it was on its last legs, with two of its ships down and the remainder heavily damaged.

We couldn’t retreat to Elysium and join the Indies because the bulk of the Harmony warships were between us, and those at the center could not hold under the weight of fire they were taking. Sure, we could sacrifice ourselves for a few more minutes of life for the beleaguered Battleships, but even if we did there were no guarantees that doing so would mean anything.

And we certainly couldn’t stay here, with Motherships on one side and Harmony Destroyers on the other.

“Admiral, please!” Laurent said in a rising voice.

Everything was falling to pieces and those warships that were cut off from the retreat to Elysium—those which weren’t running toward the meager safety of the Battleships’ lost squadron formation—began to scatter.

We can’t stay put, we can’t join the Battleships, and we can’t join the majority of the forces at Elysium, I thought with ice cold certainty. That leaves only one option. “Helmsman, set a course for the Forge at best speed,” I ordered. I felt sick to my stomach leaving like this, while the Battleships’ engines were down and they were being boarded while the rest of the Fleet was being pounded to scrap but, every way I looked at it, this was our best play.

“Are you sure, Admiral?” Laurent asked, a hint of relief in his voice.

“We have to join up with the Power and fall back on the defenses around the Forge. It’s our only hope for victory now,” I said feeling numb.

“Yes, sir,” Laurent said, turning quickly and then firing off a rapid series of orders.

Once we had our Battleship back, we had firepower and options. Until then we were heavily outmatched. Not that one Battleship was going to miraculously change things, but…

Glancing at the screen I saw that Preceptor and Block’s attempts to escape had met with no success. They were still powered up and firing but they hadn’t got far. Sometime after breaking their formation, the droids had finished off the two Battleships’ engines and they, too, were now down to relying solely on thrusters.

I snorted; their defiance of orders and attempts to strike out on their own had ended in resounding failure, and now they weren’t even within mutual support range of the other drifting Battleships. It was literally the worst of both worlds.

I just hoped my own defiance of orders wouldn’t end as poorly.

“The Harmony Destroyers have broken off and are going after out-of-formation stragglers,” reported Laurent.

“Best speed toward the Forge, Captain,” I repeated.

“We’re on it, Admiral,” the Flag Captain nodded.

Staring back at the screen, I shook my head—it wasn’t supposed to happen this way. I’d been passed over for command by a seasoned professional, with a fleet the size of which put everything I’d seen up to this point to shame, and now our Fleet was scattered, shattered, and on the run for its very life. The doorway to Elysium had been left wide open.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I repeated silently. When I’d had my chance to make a stink, I had graciously stepped aside for the professionals. Now look where that judgment had gotten us, I chided myself coldly.

I had to wonder if I shouldn’t have stood on privilege and made the biggest stink I could have to secure Fleet command. Once again, I’d trusted the professionals to get it right and, once again, everything had fallen apart.

I stared grimly at the main screen, knowing that somehow—in a very real way, and without a trace of self-pity—this was all my fault.

Chapter 27: The Droid Deception

“Admiral, the reinforcements that arrived in system shortly after the Parliamentary Power group is refusing orders from the Grand Flag and are proceeding toward the Jovian, sir,” said Lieutenant Steiner.

I nodded. “What are they saying, Lieutenant?” I questioned absently, most of my attention focused on the distance between us and the Forge and the distance between us and the nearest enemy units.

“Nothing, sir,” replied the Lieutenant.

I stopped my contemplation to focus on Steiner. “What? Nothing at all?” I asked curiously.

“Communications silence, Admiral Montagne,” she avowed.

I ran a hand over my face and then rubbed my chin. It had been a long day already, and it was only getting longer.

“Monitor them, Comm.; get with Sensors and have them put an operator on monitoring the reinforcements,” I instructed.

“Yes, Admiral,” she replied eagerly and turned back to her business.

I heaved a sigh as I turned back to the screen and then a thought popped into my head and I turned back to her.

“Oh, and while you’re at it, why don’t you drop them a line and see if they’ll talk to us? It would be nice to be able to coordinate our efforts, even if they’re ignoring the Grand Admiral,” I added. I couldn’t entirely blame the reinforcements for not wanting to join in on the carnage that was a massed boarding action of the eight now-drifting Battleships—the beating heart of the fleet—but even so that was a lot of firepower. Four Battleships and two Heavy Cruisers were enough to potentially turn the tide of this battle if used properly, and I aimed to see that if at all possible they were used properly.

“A Harmony Cruiser and two Destroyer Squadrons have angled for an intercept course with the new arrivals before they reach the forge,” reported Tactical.

“Anything they need to worry about?” I asked perfunctorily. I didn’t see anything for a relief fleet that size to be worried about, but the Droids had surprised me before.

“No sir, Admiral. They should be able to handle anything that size a force can throw out,” replied Tactical.

“Good, then we can continue on course for the Forge,” I said evenly. “What’s our rendezvous time with the Power and Commodore Druid’s group?”

“The Commodore will reach the Jovian with his battle group an hour and ten minutes before we do, at our current course and speed,” reported Shepherd our Navigator.

I smiled; the Commodore should arrive in plenty of time to begin the first part of the plan for defense of the Jovian system.

“What’s the status of those reinforcements, Steiner?” I asked turning back to the Communication Section.

“Still no response, Admiral,” she said, her brows furrowing.

“Keep trying,” I said hiding a scowl. Everything would be a lot easier if—

“We need to join forces with those Battleships, sir,” Laurent said, breaking into my train of thought.

“Agreed, Captain,” I said testily.

“With that many ships of the line, we could still save this system,” he added.

“I have a plan,” I said sharply, before adding, “however, those extra ships would certainly be a help.”

“Admiral,” exclaimed a Sensor Operator jumping out of his seat, “the Droid Mothership have just split forces. Half of them have just set course for the Forge at top speed. That’s fifteen Mothership/Cruisers on the way to our position.”

“Conformity never splits its forces like that,” I muttered.

Captain Laurent and I shared a look and afterward the Captain shook his head. I could tell he wanted to say something but wasn’t willing to call me out about the hopelessness of our position in front of the crew…at least, not yet.

“Droid Squadrons are on fast approach with the Fleet Reinforcements,” reported the Sensor Officer sounding excited.

“Steady as she goes, Sensors,” I replied, not wanting to get hopes up too high on the bridge, all too often I myself had been in the bigger more powerful ships and yet found myself totally unable to catch the smaller fleeter Corvettes and Destroyers unless they wanted—or unless I could force them—to come to battle.

“I’m picking up comm. chatter between the Harmony Squadrons and the new Human Battleships,” Steiner reported.

“Do we know what they’re saying?” I demanded.

“Can’t break the encryption yet, sir,” Steiner said, looking worried.

“Fleet interpenetration in five minutes,” reported Tactical.

The former com-tech’s frown deepened.

“What is it, Lisa?” I asked, ignoring the Tactical Officer in favor of the Comm. Lieutenant.

Looking very uneasy and put on the spot, Lisa Steiner bit her lip. “Well, sir…I mean, Admiral. If I didn’t know better, I’d say they’re using the same encryption…and the computer agrees,” she screwed up her courage and finally said.

I blinked twice, the implications rocking my world.

“Good work. Carry on, Lieutenant,” I said numbly, slowly turning back toward the screen. I prayed she was wrong while furiously trying to come up with a counter. My body felt far away, but my head was surprisingly hot as I tried to sort through the ways this could change my plans—the way it could change everything. I’d planned for pursuit by the Motherships and, in the Jovian system around the Forge, I’d felt confident that our speed would avail us—

“The same encryption? That’s outrageous, Lieutenant!” exclaimed Laurent, the news taking hold of him with much more strident results than myself. “Accusing a human force of-”

“That’s enough, Captain,” I said sharply, returning to myself with a lurch, “I’d much rather someone be wrong than they hide information for fear of a poor reaction.”

“Admiral Montagne, you can’t mean that we—” Laurent pressed.

“If someone is repeatedly wrong or openly fear-mongering then it’s time to find someone else but, Captain,” I said, talking right over him. “Lieutenant Steiner has been nothing but successful to this point in the employ of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”

“The Droids and the relief force have just interpenetrated!” exclaimed Tactical.

Excitement turned to horror around the bridge as Lieutenant Steiner’s speculation turned into cold hard reality: the Droid Cruiser and Destroyers slotted into formation with the human-built warships with mechanical precision.

“Blast,” swore First Officer Eastwood.

“The Demon’s taken the Field against us,” Laurent said, shaking his head like a man reeling from one too many punches in quick succession.

“Control yourself, man,” I hissed at him.

“Everything that can go wrong has done so, Admiral,” Captain Laurent said, looking at me, “Murphy’s turned his back on us, sir. I don’t see what we can do but concede the system and retreat. We just don’t have the numbers.”

Before I knew it, I was out of my chair and the back of my hand cracked against the Captain’s face. The sound of it echoed throughout the bridge, which grew so silent I could have heard a pin drop as I felt all eyes focused on us.

“Murphy’s turned his back, Captain?” I spat his rank out like a vile curse. “Then he’s never gone up against a Montagne before—because I haven’t even begun to fight!” First there was shock, and then rage flashed across the Flag Captain’s face but I ignored him and turned to face the rest of the bridge. I’d had more than enough superstitious defeatism for one battle; if he wanted to make something of my actions, he could do so after the battle—or he’d ride out the rest of this fight in the brig!

“People, once again the ‘professionals,’ so-called, have failed and it’s up to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet to save them,” I swept the bridge with a wrath-filled gaze, letting each and every one of them know that I was just getting started. “We may win or we may die—or maybe even both—and Murphy knows you’ve done more than enough of both alongside me. However let me make one thing perfectly clear: whether they’re Droids, human traitors, or the AI’s themselves returned to life to plague us, they will shake and they will shudder when they recall the Battle for Elysium and remember the names Admiral Montagne and his Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!”

Heads started nodding and several crewmembers cheered less than ecstatically, while most of them still looked worried. But now, instead of fear and the desire to retreat, I could slowly see the resolve to stand up and make a real accounting of ourselves materialize on my crew’s visages.

“Never give up; never surrender—and we will certainly not be leaving the Elysium system so long as one human traitor runs free and our warships are still able to fight!” I roared.

Now I could feel the response I’d been desiring build and in response and total defiance of the odds against us, the bridge shouted its support.

“We’re with you, Admiral!” shouted a man from Tactical.

“We’ll send those mechanicals straight to the scrap heap for you, sir!” bellowed a sensor operator.

“Best speed for the Forge, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered.

Even though that’s already where we were going, the Helmsman replied, “Yes, sir!”

And just like that, I could feel everyone on the bridge go from planning for how we were going to flee, to planning how we were going to win.

Chapter 28: Spalding prepares the Penetrator

He was the very model of an old outdated space engineer…with fire in his belly

Wiping a tear from the corner of his single remaining, ‘good’ eye—not to be confused with that infernal gadget the quack had installed in the other side of his head, which was merely called an eye—the former Chief Engineer cut off the feed from the bridge.

One of the many advantages of working in the former Intelligence half deck and using it as a workshop was access to the monitoring systems emplaced by a paranoid, Imperial Intelligence Service, throughout the ship. Of course, most of the time he didn’t have the time or inclination to spend his time sitting around watching data feeds, so he generally limited his watchful eye to the Engineering Department. But, like every other officer or crewman, he had more than a passing interest as what was going on up on the bridge during a battle and now that he had no permanent assignment and the chance to monitor things he did.

“The lad’s done us proud,” the old Engineer said, reaching over to pat the structural support beside him only to stop at the last moment and clench his fist instead. This isn’t my ship, he reminded himself just in time. “Why there’s barely any sign of rot to this old brain, at all. Now, normally you give them two years at flag rank and it’s nothing but a rapid decline, but the little Admiral is still going strong.”

He absently decided that it was probably in no small part due to his own efforts, and the old engineer smiled at that particular thought. Then his thoughts turned morose and he turned back to the Penetrator-class lander in his workshop.

“A battle’s goin’ on, and old Spalding’s forgotten,” he griped, grabbing an auto-wrench and a spanner out of his tool-belt and marching over to the lander. “No one has time anymore for an old Engineer past his prime, what with that young buck down there in Engineering—him and his rapid-firing, newfangled, plasma cannons!”

Working rapidly, he started closing up the port side power relay and then ran a check on the amped-up grav-plate system he’d finally settled on installing.

“Oh, aye, out of sight out of mind,” he growled, ire rising as he belly ached. “Why, if I let them then probably the next time they thought about old Spalding it’d all be, ‘oh, the poor old boy,’ and, ‘he just can’t hack it anymore.’ Then, next thing you know it’s off to the retirement home and the Clover would still be laid up in irons until after I gasped my last! That’s why I don’t just say ‘no.’ I say ‘watch out; Terrance P. Spalding is still here, and he’s forgotten more than that young sprout has ever dreamed of learning and what’s more I’m going to prove it’!”

Stomping over to the other side of the lander, he closed up the reinforced power relay located there and then ran around to the back and hooked up the service hoses. After programming the computer to fill up her primary fuel tanks—as well as the other, ‘special,’ tanks he’d added to her—he clomped on over to the communications console built into the wall and punched in a com-code.

“Commander Spalding, there is a battle on; I fear I do not have time to help haul heavy objects in your wizard’s laboratory,” Persus said, looking at him curiously. “This is a time to use war machines, not make them.”

“Persus! What are you blathering about man?” he shouted as soon as the other man appeared on the other side of the screen, not even bothering to correct the man about him being an engineer who used a workshop and not a wizard in some kind of chemistry laboratory, “I don’t have time for chit chat. I need a crew of head-bashers eager to sign up for an unauthorized mission on an untested lander—for what’ll probably be a one-way suicide trip, ‘less we’re more than a touch lucky. You happen to know of any lads who’d be interested, or should I call down to Engineering and see if I have any takers?”

Persus’ mouth opened and closed in brief confusion. “I cannot abandon my duty and charge off on a quest for personal glory; I am the bodyguard of Hold Mistress Akantha. I have responsibilities,” he said in a rising voice, looking furious.

“Bah!” Spalding scowled at the other man. “If ye can’t slip yer leash, best you stay right where you are and just send me a few likely lads who are still hungry for action; I won’t hold it against ya…much!” he grumped.

Persus started to turn red in the face. “How many do you need?” he rasped.

“You’ve seen how large the hold of the Jelly Bolt is,” the old engineer replied, referring to the new name of his Penetrator-class lander. “Do I have to do everything ‘round here?” he finished with a martyred sigh.

“You will have your volunteers,” Persus said, cutting the connection with a savage gesture.

Spalding chuckled at the way he’d gotten Persus’ goat. Those Tracto-ans were always good for a rise; he just couldn’t understand the way everyone walked so softly around them. Sure, they were good scrappers but back in his day a man didn’t take nothing from no one—although he sure forked it out as fast as he could! It was a shame the way things had changed so much in the service…

Shaking his head, he turned back to his little lander. Now all he had to do was finish integrating the systems so the first time he took the Penetrator to full stop next to the hull of an enemy ship, everyone didn’t turn into little splatters of human goo against the bulkheads.

Whistling under his breath, he started running a system’s check.

Chapter 29: The Commodore

“The rest of the Fleet is approaching the Jovian System, Commodore. Do you want us to send a communication or head out to meet them?” asked Druid’s Executive Officer.

“No,” the Commodore said a touch darkly, “I’m sure the Admiral will let us know when he needs us. Until then continue to deploy the jammer network as instructed; everything needs to be ready when the Droid Fleet arrives.”

“Aye, Commodore,” replied the Officer. He then hesitated, “We could release the rest of the squadron and send them to meet the rest of our Fleet.”

“The network will go up faster with the smaller warships assisting us. And besides, like I said: the Admiral will call when he feels the need,” Druid said with a wintery smile.

“As you say, sir,” the First Officer said with a salute.

“In the meantime make sure the Marines and our newest crewmembers are fully outfitted and kept in the loop,” the Commodore instructed.

After his XO had taken a step back, Druid stared at the multiple moons and asteroids that made up the area surrounding the Forge.

“All that Trillium,” the XO said, shaking his head.

Druid looked at the other man oddly, “I’ve seen bigger.”

The other man coughed a laugh, and the Commodore allowed the faintest hint of a smile to touch his face. He then pointed to a nearby, apparently unremarkable moon.

“As soon as the network is ready, take us behind the shadow of that moon,” he instructed.

“Aye aye, sir!” replied the Helmsman and Executive Officer in unison.

Being heavily outnumbered simply meant one had to fight all the wilier. This was something the young Admiral had done quite well—and often—during his career, with several startling examples. It was also something the Commodore intended to emulate…if possible.

Chapter 30: Jovian: First to the Fray

“Status update,” I called out, my voice cutting through the chatter and confusion on the bridge like a plasma torch through pig fat, “I want to know how far the droids are behind us.”

“The Droid Destroyers and captured human Battleships are hot on our tails, Admiral, but they’re a good half hour behind us. They’ll never catch up to us in time to cut us off; we’ll be well into the Jovian and on our way to the defenses around the Forge before they’ve reengaged, sir,” Navigator Shepherd said with evident satisfaction in his voice.

I pursed my lips and then leaned back in my chair. I shifted around for a moment, trying to find a comfortable posture after several hours stuck in the chair. Finally realizing it was hopeless, I grimaced and stood up to relieve the discomfort.

Oh, how I missed my Throne; no mere Captain’s Chair could compare.

“Admiral Montagne?” Laurent asked with a certain reservation in his voice.

“Navigation, prepare to reduce our speed. I want you to ensure the droid forces enter the Jovian System no more—but also no less—than five minutes behind us,” I said, pacing back and forth to help get the blood flowing back in my posterior as I gave the orders.

There was a moment of almost shocked silence.

“On it, Admiral,” the Navigator replied with a nod. He hunched over his console, “I’ll have the solution shortly. Wait one moment.”

I looked at Mr. Shepherd skeptically, surprised at the lack of exclamations of disbelief and declarations that my crazy orders were going to get us all killed. I even looked around for my usual critics and vocal naysayers but, other than a still-silently-stewing Flag Captain, no one seemed eager to tell me I was wrong.

Was it possible they were starting to trust me? Or just as bad—maybe even worse—was the lack of pushback a sign I was about to sink the ship?

Pushing away such odious thoughts, I focused back on the screen. How you might ask did I intend to defeat four Battleships, two Heavy Cruisers, and half a dozen lighter warships using only one Strike Cruiser and a dozen lighter warships. In fairness, I would say that that would be a very good question—the answer to which even I would pay good money to hear.

“Course and speed locked in and transferred to Mr. DuPont, Admiral. All we need is your order to proceed,” relayed the Navigator.

“The order is given,” I said airily. I wasn’t as carefree as I wanted to appear, but I held firm to the maxim of ‘never let them see you sweat.’ We would weather this storm of droids and we would do it because we had to. There was no choice.

Now all that remained was letting the minutes tick down until the droids followed me at his speed right into the Jovian.

“Entering the outer limits now,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

I scanned my handheld instead of looking at the main screen. I identified where I wanted us to go and tapped out new orders which I shot over to Shepherd.

“Mr. Shepherd, I want you to adjust the course I gave you and then send it over to Mr. DuPont,” I ordered.

“Admiral,” Shepherd acknowledged.

“Mr. DuPont, take us toward the Forge but veer us off before we reach it; prepare to come about and face the traitors well outside the outer defenses. This is going to get rocky,” I said evenly.

“You can count on me, sir,” replied the Helmsman.

“The Droids know as well as us that they not only have to destroy the Grand Fleet, but they need to stop Trillium production. If they can do this they sharply cut these Sectors’ ability to mount a credible defense,” I expounded as we continued deeper into the Jovian System where the Forge was located.

“That, or take control of those resources for themselves,” Captain Laurent pointed out harshly.

“A fair point,” I said smoothly before continuing with ruthless efficiency, “but we know they will come for the Forge, and they know we must stand and defend it and for our purposes that is all that’s important. The battle will be here,” I declared, pointing right at the icon representing the Forge on the main screen.

“You’re the Admiral,” Laurent said, stepping back and turning to check on something in another section of the truncated bridge on the Phoenix.

“Indeed I am,” I said in my most entitled tone of voice, just to let him know that his little digs hadn’t gone unnoticed. Then I turned to Steiner; I had no more time for passive aggressive feuding with my right hand Officer—much as it brought back nostalgic memories of my early days on the bridge of the Clover.

My face darkened at the thought of my old ship—as well as unbidden thoughts of traitors, assassination attempts and the constant threat of a general uprising among the crew. No, those days were well past me…or so I fervently hoped.

“Admiral Montagne?” Lieutenant Steiner looked at me oddly, and I realized I’d been drifting.

I cleared my throat and regained my poise.

“General hail, Lieutenant,” I ordered promptly. “Use Grand Fleet frequencies and send out a message for every remaining warship in the area. Inform them that Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet intends to mount a vigorous defense of the Forge, and he invites everyone within fighting range to rendezvous with him there. It’s time we gave these Droids and their traitorous human patsies a proper welcome to the Elysium System.” “Fighting range, sir?” Steiner asked blinking rapidly. She opened her mouth and then closed it firmly, “On it, Admiral.”

“Good woman,” I said, turning away. I briefly registered a look of surprise and several raised eyebrows from crew at nearby stations, but I ignored them.

“Sir, what do you want me to do with any responses?” Steiner asked a minute later in a decidedly neutral voice. “Do you want me to patch them into you?”

“You handle them, Lieutenant,” I said breezily, “I have complete confidence in your ability to get the most out of any survivors that answer the call to continued duty.”

The former com-tech gave me a very doubtful look and then womanfully returned to her duty, with the firm and certain knowledge that her Admiral had just dropped the load of securing reinforcements for the fleet upon her. If she gave me a dark look as she did this, well, I was Admiral enough to ignore it. Delegation was one of my prime duties, and I was about to be far too busy for handholding.

“Admiral the Parliamentary Power is no longer on our scans,” reported a Sensor Operator with alarm. “She’s moved behind one of the moons near the Forge but I can’t get an exact fix on her anymore.”

“Excellent. Carry on, Operator,” I replied.

“The Droid Destroyers are increasing speed and moving forward with the lighter human-built warships; they’re leaving the Battleships and Cruisers behind. It looks like they aim to close before we reach the Forge, Admiral,” reported Tactical.

“Increase our speed to compensate,” I instructed.

There was a pause.

“We’re fast for a cruiser…but we’re still a cruiser, those Destroyers can catch us if they push it, Admiral,” reported Tactical.

“All the better,” I said after a moment’s consideration. I turned to DuPont, “If and when the Destroyers come within range of their weapons, I want you to turn and let gunnery give them a broadside, Helm.”

“We’re to stop for a full engagement, or continue on after the broadside, Admiral?” the Helmsman asked, looking concerned.

“This is all part of the plan,” I soothed. “But be prepared for either possibility; I’ll give the order when it’s time.”

From the uneasy looks I got to that particular statement, I could see that telling them it was all part of the plan but that I would decide exactly what to do when the time came, wasn’t going over particularly well.

I sighed. Fortunately for me—and unfortunately for them—I was in command, and this time I actually did have a master plan for winning this thing…or, at least for winning the battle around the Forge.

“Oh, and Lieutenant Steiner,” I said casually.

“What can I do for you, sir?” the little brown-skinned, Caprian woman asked looking harried.

“If you could, call down to the Lancer quarters and inform them that now might be a good time to load up a battalion in the shuttles. Then inform Armsmaster Gants that he and his team could very shortly be in charge of ship security, if you would be so kind,” I said, leaning back into my chair with a sigh.

Now all that was left to do was wait. Wait until the enemy came within attack range or we reached the Forge and turned at bay. One way or another everything was about to go into the pot.

“Aye aye, Admiral,” Lisa Steiner said, sounding subdued.

This one was for all the marbles…but then again, when wasn’t it? I reminded myself that I’d faced worse, and faced it often, but I still had to take a deep calming breath. And when that didn’t work to calm my pre-battle jitters, I drew a second—and a third.

Chapter 31: the Eye of the Storm

“Destroyers are closing to attack range. They’re using targeting sensors!” said the Tactical Officer.

“Now, Mr. DuPont!” I barked.

“Turning the ship,” the Helmsman reported.

On the screen, the Phoenix started to turn.

“Fire as she bears!” shouted Eastwood, emphasizing his order by slamming his microphone onto the table.

“I see why they sent him to us,” I said with a shake of my head.

“What, Admiral?” Laurent asked, looking at me crosswise.

“Mr. Eastwood,” I replied.

“Of course, sir,” Laurent said, giving a short shake of the head and then refocusing on the screen.

I rolled my eyes as the First Officer’s enthusiasm got the better of him, and then I too was locked in on the action.

“Destroyers are continuing with their evasive covering pattern,” Tactical reported as the Destroyers continued to elegantly move around, always seeming to present a fully-charged shield facing.

“A hit!” roared Eastwood as a pair of turbo-lasers lanced out at the same time, piercing the shields of the Destroyer they targeted. That Destroyer momentarily lost engine power before stuttering back to life and jerking around.

“Harmony Destroyers are scattering…they’re breaking formation, sir!” howled the Tactical Officer, and I saw more turbo-lasers lash out, striking the wounded Destroyer. Moments later, the wounded Destroyer exploded. I could grudgingly understand his enthusiasm at putting one of the enemy warships down, but there were still eleven more where it came from.

“What about the light human warships?” demanded Captain Laurent.

“Still coming right for us, sir,” reported Sensors, “but with none of that fancy Droid maneuvering.”

“Thank Murphy for small favors,” Laurent muttered.

I almost said ‘so now we’re thanking Murphy, after the way he supposedly turned his back on you?’ but I bit my tongue.

“Roll the ship, Helmsman,” I ordered.

“Rolling ship, aye aye,” exclaimed DuPont.

“Droid Destroyers are all turning to face us; they’re going to hard burn,” yelped the Tactical Officer.

It took me a split second to see the Droids intended to catch us in a crossfire, with the Harmony Squadrons on one side and the human-built warships on the other.

“New orders to the Fleet,” I yelled, “initiate full burn toward the human light warships.”

“Enemy Fighters are accelerating out from behind the Harmony Destroyers. They’ll be here shortly,” reported Tactical in an elevated voice.

“Deploy the gun—,” I stopped, cutting myself short, “gunboats to the starboard side of the Phoenix away from the Fighters. Tell Gunnery to man their plasma cannons and get ready to give some Droids a really bad day.”

“Boats to the starboard side; on it, sir,” said Steiner.

“Get ready for some fighters,” shouted Eastwood into his microphone.

“Fighters continuing their attack run; they’re aiming for us, the Flagship, sir,” reported Tactical.

“Steady as she goes. I want one firing pass on the traitors, then bring us back towards the Forge,” I shouted.

“Separation! I have multiple missile separations…location the Harmony Fighters,” reported Tactical, “eta fifteen seconds!”

“Point defense!” cried Laurent.

“I’m reading over three hundred individual missiles,” exclaimed Tactical, while in the background Eastwood was yelling into—or, perhaps, at—his microphone.

“Jammer missiles, sir—it’s the only way. They must have spoofed our sensors with fake missiles,” said the Tactical Officer as multiple balls of roaring plasma from the cannons covering the flanks of our ship went to rapid fire, targeting the incoming weapons.

Then they were on us.

“Supercharging the port shields,” reported Lieutenant Longbottom.

“There’s no time to get a full charge—” the Flag Captain started but was cut off when the ship was rocked by missile impacts.

“Minor hull damage,” reported Damage Control.

“Shields down to 64%,” reported Longbottom, “the missile attack was staggered but all aimed at one relatively small area of the port shields. One of the missiles slipped in through an area weakened by the coordinated strike.”

“Pinpoint targeting,” the Captain swore, “who are these Droids?”

“Fighters peeling off,” Sensors reported with concern as the fighters sped away.

“Enemy human-built warships approaching fast, sir,” reported Tactical.

“Signal the Fleet: prepare to come to and present broadside on my mark,” I instructed the com-section.

“Aye, sir,” replied Steiner.

I waited, my eyes flicking across the readouts on the main screen…I waited, feeling my heartbeat inside my ears and doing my best to ignore…still, I waited for the optimal moment…

“Mark!” I shouted, clenching my fist as soon as that moment arrived.

“All ships: come about and present broadsides,” Steiner said into her com-link.

“Here we go,” DuPont cried, going to manual control and heeling the ship hard over.

“All ships, fire as she bears,” I ordered, “I want that enemy light cruiser in the lead taken out!”

“Fire!” shouted Eastwood as all twelve warships, including the Phoenix, in my truncated fleet presented their broadsides.

Turbo-and heavy lasers spewed from the Phoenix, with the Admiral’s Gift and our nine accompanying corvettes—which sported shorter weapons range—held their fire. In response to our barrage, two of the enemy’s human-built warships—a Light Cruiser and a Destroyer—returned fire. With the long-range punch of our Strike Cruiser, we had them seriously outgunned at the longer ranges, and it showed. Their laser fire was absorbed by the doughty shields of the Phoenix, while our weapons caused their lead ship’s shields to flare before a pair of heavy laser strikes punched through.

A hailstorm of lasers shot out from our ship, and before the Light Cruiser could turn to present a different facing, those heavy laser strikes had been followed up by a series of turbo-lasers.

“Enemy cruiser is venting atmosphere,” reported Sensors.

“The enemy human-built squadron has just begun evasive maneuvers,” reported Tactical and then he jerked in his chair, “they are matching the Harmony Squadron’s standard maneuvers and moving to rotate ships with intact shields between our lasers and their squadron.”

“What? Impossible,” Laurent protested. But, as we watched, the traitor ships went about doing exactly that.

“Harmony Destroyer Squadrons are on fast approach. We’re about to be put in a crossfire,” reported Tactical.

“Fleet to full burn; get us back to the Forge, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered rapidly, fumbling for my data-slate before pulling up a file on it. “And transmit this file on standard MSP frequency Alpha, Lieutenant Steiner,” I finished, shooting over the file.

“Yes, Admiral,” DuPont said, putting words to action.

“Aye, sir,” said Steiner as he did so.

Moments later the entire area around the Forge—or at least that part along the path we’d taken, and not coincidentally the same path the Parliamentary Power had taken to reach the trillium mines—was filled with an overwhelming amount of sensor static as the jammer system I’d ordered the Commodore to deploy went active.

“Active jamming!” cried Sensors and Tactical at the same time.

“Long range sensors are blind and medium sensors unreliable,” the Sensor Warrant said, a hint of panic in his voice.

“Change course by fifteen degrees and reduce our speed by 5%, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed. “Let’s try to get while the getting’s good.”

“We won’t be able to see the enemy until they’re right on top of us, Admiral,” reported Tactical. “Our longer-range weaponry is practically useless.”

“Excellent news, Tactical,” I said, leaning back in my chair and trying to project an aura of confidence.

“Using Fleet sensors, we can isolate the origin point for the jammer signals. We can start destroying jammers on your orders, Admiral,” reported Tactical.

“Why would I want to destroy my own hardware, Tactical?” I asked rhetorically.

“This is ours, sir?” Tactical said his face flickering with surprise and then sudden dawning understanding, “the Power…”

“But of course,” I said wryly, “you didn’t think the ‘Little Admiral’ went into this fight without an ace or three up his sleeve, did you?”

“Of course not, sir,” Tactical said—not entirely convincingly.

I suppressed a scowl. “I find your lack of faith disturbing,” I chided the bridge at large.

Several tense minutes passed, but no Destroyers materialized.

“Let them try to find us in that,” I whispered, looking out at the jamming field’s overlay on the main screen moments before that same field’s integrity flickered. The main screen momentarily populated with vessel icons before immediately going fuzzy from the jamming once again.

“Someone took out a jammer satellite, but another one started up and took over the jamming field almost as soon as the first one stopped transmitting,” Tactical said with something like respect in his eyes—and voice—as he looked at me.

“Of course,” I said playing it off as if I knew and was in complete control of Commodore Druid’s system, “I have very skilled support personnel in this fleet.”

“Sir, although the enemy is blind, part of the reason we escaped their high-speed pincer maneuver. We are now just as blind as they are,” Tactical reported in a respectful voice.

“We are, are we?” I said with affected surprise. “Well, let’s see what we can do to fix that.” I pulled up a file and then transferred it to the Tactical Section earmarked for the chief tactical officer and carbon copied to Lieutenant Steiner the head Comm. Officer.

“In the file are the most probable locations of a series of relay drones, and the frequency they are programmed to recognize and respond to,” I said with a smile.

“Uh, Admiral,” said the Tactical Officer, “our communications are jammed.”

Steiner nodded in agreement.

“Most communications,” I agreed, “but not whisker lasers. We can still engage in point to point communications—so long as we know where the receivers are located,” I finished smugly.

Let the droids chew on that and smoke it, I thought with satisfaction.

Chapter 32: A Sacrifice, made not in vain

We were playing an elaborate game of cat and mouse, with only limited contact with the outside world due the data limits on the relay drones. But I was willing to wager that we were doing a darned sight better in that regard than the Droids we’d suckered into my jamming network.

I much preferred to be the hunter over the hunted, I thought as Steiner stiffened in her chair.

“I’m receiving a transmission from the Battleship Defiance, of the Grand Fleet Battleships, Admiral,” she said. “I’m pretty sure you’re going to want to see this.”

“Alright,” I said, “put it up on the screen.”

On the screen appeared the jolly old Commodore from the Fleet meetings. His uniform was damaged and torn, and a trail of blood ran from a superficial scalp wound, and I noted that he was brandishing a blaster pistol in his offhand.

The Commodore and his Battleship had been knocked out of commission—and out of communication—for well over an hour.

“This is Commodore Thadeus Mathew Douringcourt the Third, of the Battleship Defiance! We had to fight our way down to Main Engineering after they cut the main control lines to the bridge,” shouted the Commodore. In the background, swearing, yelling, the pounding of feet against the deck, and the sound of sporadic blaster fire could be heard. “What we do now, we do so that our families—including my own—will never have to labor under the merciless judgment of the Cost Benefit Ratio.”

The Commodore tapped something out just under the field of the screen’s pick up.

“Admiral, the Defiance’s thrusters just went active…they’re pushing her away from the other battleships!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator, who could see the drama taking place from the images on the main screen just as easily as I.

“It has been my greatest honor to serve in this Fleet, the Grand Fleet of the MDL. Please tell my family that I love them!” he said, stabbing his finger into another button. Behind the Commodore, the sounds of chaos and confusion increased as multiple individual voices began babbling.

“It’s not working,” someone cried off screen.

“We’re going to have to do it manually!” screamed a second.

The Commodore cursed, and eyes widening he turned and fired his hand blaster pistol into something off screen.

“The Defiance has just moved outside the blast radius of a drive core overload,” cut in Tactical.

Behind the Commodore, a mechanical arm wielding a vibro-blade appeared before unceremoniously slashing him in the neck.

Several women—and a pair of men—on the Phoenix’s bridge choked off screams or yelps of surprise.

Holding up a hand to stop the sort of bleeding that just couldn’t be stopped, the Commodore staggered. Rallying, Commodore Thadeus Mathew Douringcourt the Third, of the Battleship Defiance, fired several more shots and then fell on his side just at the edge of the screen’s pick up and expired.

The screen’s image turns sideways, and was accompanied by the screams of men and the clomping of droid feet before the feed went silent and black.

“Poor blighters,” Laurent sounded shaken.

“Too bad they failed; they almost had it,” I said woodenly, my face as stiff and unmoving as if it made of stone.

“That’s cold, sir,” Laurent muttered.

“Cold?” I asked hotly, the question as well as the questioning itself igniting my sudden anger to a raging fury, “No. Wishing an attempt to take your enemies out with your success is not cold, especially not when those enemies are overrunning all the worlds of your home Sector. Cold is not wishing them success with every fiber of your being!”

“I wasn’t attempting to denigrate their sacrifice—” Laurent protested, but I cut him off with a chop of my hand.

A split second later, the icon representing the Battleship Defiance blinked and then changed to represent that a core overload had taken place.

Silence fell over on the Phoenix’s bridge.

“It looks like they only got one of the five fusion reactors to self-destruct, Admiral. The damage was enough to destroy the battleship and those gunboats attached to her, however,” reported Tactical.

“They sold themselves dear,” I said quietly and then bowed my head, wondering if I would have the courage and intestinal fortitude to destroy my ship via core overload if we were about to be overrun. Where there was life, there was hope, but to be taken prisoners by evil droids…the closest comparison I had was Jean Luc and my time in durance vile. I knew, in that moment as I looked at the Defiance’s death throes, that I wouldn’t willingly go through worse than that.

But I knew it was time to move past this latest blow to our Grand Fleet. The sacrifice had been made, and now it was up to the rest of us to make sure it had not been made in vain.

My head snapped around, “DuPont, take us to the edge of the Jammer field,” I ordered sharply, “someone find me those Droids!”

“On it, Admiral,” chimed the Sensor Warrant, while DuPont wordlessly gunned the engines.

For a moment I considered dropping the jammer field and finding out just exactly where the Droids were. After all, I could turn it back on with the flip of a switch. But seeing clearly was a two way street: if I could see them then they could certainly see me, and right the nit was more important that I get the MSP into position than it was to know just exactly where everything was.

I smiled wolfishly. Win or lose these Droids—and their human traitor allies—were going to know they were in a fight!

Chapter 33: Closing on the Enemy

“When will we reach the end of this infernal jammer?” I murmured mutinously. Well, as mutinously as the man who led the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and had ordered said jammer system set up.

“We should be clear in three minutes, Admiral,” reported Captain Laurent.

“Very good,” I said feeling as if it were anything but good.

“Contact!” cried a Sensor Operator. “I have a sensor ghost twelve degrees off the starboard bow, running a parallel course!”

My heart lurched in my chest.

“Shall I close or pull away, Admiral,” asked DuPont shortly.

“How big is she, Sensors?” I demanded.

“Can’t say, sir; the jamming makes it impossible to tell,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

To fight or run away, the decision was mine and potentially the fate of not just the ship, but the entire MSP, rested on my decision. My face hardened—this was why they paid me the big bucks.

“Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered savagely. “New orders, Ms. Steiner: the fleet is to follow behind, but they to ensure that they stay outside of range of that Battleship. If necessary, the Admiral’s Gift is to close the distance to maintain comm. linkage.”

“Full speed, Admiral!” DuPont said happily.

“Orders relayed, sir,” added Steiner.

“Call down to the shuttles and tell them now is the time; they are to launch as soon as feasible and take up station in our sensor shadow, placing the Phoenix between them and the enemy contact,” I ordered.

“Aye, sir,” Laurent said sharply.

“Someone call over to the Lancers on the portside and tell them it’s time they went out on the hull; this could be a hot insertion and we may need jumpers. If so, I want them ready,” I said quickly.

“What if this is just a Destroyer, sir?” Laurent asked as soon as he was done relaying the orders to the shuttles.

“Then there’s no harm done and they’ll most likely veer off,” I replied without rancor, since it really wasn’t a bad question. “Helm, make sure we keep the starboard side presented to the enemy contact unless and until I give you orders otherwise.”

“Aye, Admiral,” said DuPont.

“And if they’ve stayed together like we did and this is just the leading edge of the traitor’s squadron?” Laurent asked, sounding worried.

My blood ran cold and then hardened into a block of ice lodged in my stomach.

“Then we’d better pray that Gunnery is up to its job, and the port side Lancers probably won’t be landing on the same ship as the shuttles,” I said flatly.

“Enemy ship just confirmed to be a Battleship!” cried the Sensor Warrant.

“Sir, I’m picking up another ghost contact,” cut in one of the Sensor Operators.

“I’ve got two more contacts on my screen,” shouted yet a third member of the Sensor Pit.

“Supercharging the shields now,” reported Longbottom.

This was going to get rough.

Chapter 34: Down on the Gun Deck

Lesner glared down at the readout in his gun sight. It was a Battleship, plain and simple, and they were approaching far too fast for his comfort.

And that just wasn’t fair. The ‘Battleship’ part, that is, not the speed. He could compensate for the closure rate. But like his old Chief told him back when he was a new rate, fair was for sissies and lawmakers—it had no application to the lives of real men. Still, all fairness aside, they should have known better than to sneak up on him without warning, flaunting the fact they were a Battleship while he was still ramrodding the deck of a small Cruiser.

It was time they shared his pain.

“Do you hear me, Chief Gunner?!” shouted the First Officer in his ear-bud. “I want their shields annihilated; I want them so full of holes that a fleet of hover busses could slip through it. Our Lancers are dying to get their chance at the hull of that Battleship. Do you feel me, Gun Chief?” roared the First Officer, thumping and banging on his microphone for emphasis as was his custom.

“Loud and clear,” Chief Gunner Lesner lied, for in truth he’d learned several engagements earlier to turn down the feed from Tactical whenever the First Officer was anywhere near a microphone on the bridge.

“And another thing—” started the First Officer.

“You’re breaking up, sir. Wait one while I transfer you to another line,” Lesner said, and with the flick of a switch the overly high-strung First Officer was connected to the port side Deck Chief. Tactical could still reach him via text, but he had his orders and didn’t need anyone jogging his elbow right now.

“Here we go baby,” he said lining up his turbo-laser for a shot. Reaching up with his offhand, he flicked the switch to put him on the overhead. “This is the Chief Gunner; our boys down in the Lancer contingent need themselves an engraved invitation to the party. So let’s make some holes and engrave that invitation on the side of the traitor’s hull.”

The gun deck gave a cheer.

“And if either side, Port or Starboard, knocks me out a Battleship shield generator, that side gets fifty gallons of beer and my permission to graffiti the Lancer Quarters with leftover hull paint from our last refit at Gambit while they’re still off the ship!”

If anything, the cheers got even louder to the point of being deafening, as the thought of beer and open permission to deface the quarters of their Lancer rivals took hold and fired the men’s imaginations to a fevered pitch.

It was a dirty trick to play on the Lancers, hitting their quarters while they were in the middle of combat, and Lesner knew it. A man’s living space ought to be safe from his comrades while he was out in the black risking his life for the ship. On the other hand, three weeks of nothing but algae ration bars and beansprouts for two meals a day—thanks to the general Tracto-an insistence on non-edible flowers, plants and hideous shrubbery in celebration of the Lady Akantha’s pregnancy—had taken its toll.

Of course, that’s not to say that he hadn’t sent a few shrubs—carefully selected by his Tracto-an gunner, Heirophant—over to the Lady on behalf of Gunnery. After all, if they were stuck eating algae bars and beansprouts anyway, they might as well follow whatever forms would best make the women folk happiest.

But, just like defacing quarters during combat simply wasn’t done, messing with a man’s food supply on a closed system like a warship was beyond the pale and deserved an appropriate reply and this should send the proper message. “Nobody messes with the ’Deck,” he growled.

Then there was no more time for lollygagging as the Battleship was in his sights—he had a turbo-laser just itching to fire, and he thankfully received the fire order from Tactical.

Lesner pulled the triggers and bellowed wordlessly as his weapon drilled into the shields of the enemy Battleship, “C.S.S. Phoenix, and the MSP!!” he screamed after his first barrage had struck home.

Chapter 35: Coming to Grips

Like an out-of-control hover-convertible, the Furious Phoenix came screeching up alongside the enemy Battleship. Mere moments earlier we had come within range of the enemy ship and cut loose with everything we could throw at it.

You could tell the moment we came within plasma cannon range, because even though they weren’t very effective against shields they immediately started targeting the enemy warship, throwing out a hailstorm of plasma balls that fuzzed up the screen and threatened to occlude our view of the space between our ship and theirs.

“Enemy Battleship responding; we’re taking fire,” reported Tactical.

“Shields are down to 95% and falling, Admiral,” Longbottom reported crisply, “82%…76%, 72%, sir!” he continued to call out the damage in a steady, yet clearly excited voice.

“Can you hear me?” Eastwood screamed at someone on the other side of his hard line link down to the Gun Deck.

“I’m reading multiple contacts. It’s the entire Battleship Squadron—and accompanying Heavy Cruisers!” cried the Senor Officer.

“Prepare to take us right between these two Battleships on the outer edge of their formation on my order, DuPont,” I ordered, thrusting my finger out as if he had the time and inclination to figure out exactly where I was pointing at.

But, fortunately, he knew right were to take us and aimed the ship right where I wanted.

“How are those Battleship’s shields doing, Tactical?” I demanded.

“Still holding strong, sir,” reported a Sensor Operator, “we’re only getting limited punch through from the turbo-lasers.”

“Their targeting seems to have been thrown off by the plasma balls,” Laurent mused tightly. “Between the plasma cannons and the jammers, they’re having a harder time lining up proper shots than I would have expected.”

“Are our computers having trouble lining up shots, Tactical? Because, judging by our hit ratios on their shields, it doesn’t look like it,” I demanded.

“They are but our gun crews are easily able to compensate for the interference,” he reported, his brow furrowing. “Either their computers are a lot worse than ours, or their crews must be pretty green because they’re not compensating nearly as well as our gun crews.”

“Shields are down to 40% and spotting,” Longbottom reported tensely, “do you want me to compensate from the port side?”

“Negative, Ensign,” I said firmly, “we’re going to need those shields later.

“Enemy Battleships are lining up and maneuvering to get a shot around their comrade,” reported Tactical.

“Port shields are starting to take fire from the Battleships you want us to shoot between out here on the edge of their formation, Admiral,” DuPont said. “If you want us to perform your maneuver, it needs to be soon, sir.”

“Just a little more time…we need to take down those shields,” I growled.

Laurent hurried over. “I see what you’re trying to do but we can’t stand toe-to-toe with a Battleship, sir. We must withdraw,” insisted my Flag Captain in a rising voice.

“Never!” I shouted. “This is our chance—maybe our only one—we can’t let it slip through our fingers.”

“Admiral!” Laurent protested.

“Sir, your orders?” called the Helmsman.

“Hold,” I yelled over to DuPont. I’d been driven away when the Battleships of the Grand Fleet needed me once before—I wasn’t going to let myself be called off yet again. Not this time, I swore silently.

“Port Shields down to 80%. Severe spotting experienced on the starboard side! Shield collapse is imminent, sir,” Longbottom reported like a metronome, speaking as if detached and completely unaffected by the news he was relaying.

The ship rocked. “We’re taking fire from the rest of the Battleship Squadron,” reported Tactical, “and one of the Heavy Cruisers is maneuvering to get around behind us for a shot at our engines. They’ll also see the shuttles as soon as they get over here.”

“Minor hull damage sustained; the duralloy girdle stopped a burn-through,” reported Damage Control in a mixture of relief and surprise.

“Jammer field just flickered off and on but is now steady,” reported Sensors, and my eyes shot up reflexively to the main screen.

The sight was not one to fill my heart with confidence. Spread around the Battleships and Cruisers, in a half-crescent formation, were the Harmony Destroyer Squadrons—and they were accelerating rapidly toward our position.

“You have to call in the rest of the fleet and get this ship moving or you’ve killed us all,” Laurent said in a low intense voice. “This is a Strike Cruiser; it’s meant to stick and move. We can’t slug it out like the Battleships you’re used to.”

“I have a plan. Trust in me, Captain,” I said and then dismissing him from my concerns I turned to tactical. “How are the shields on that Battleship doing?” I demanded.

“They’re starting to spot, and more of our laser strikes are getting through, but we won’t be able to punch through that hull armor anytime—” his words were interrupted as the ship lurched and the lighting flickered off before stabilizing.

“Shield collapse on the starboard side! Port shields down to 66%,” reported Longbottom.

“Hull penetration on deck four; emergency bulkheads activated to stop atmospheric leak,” reported Damage Control. “Secondary starboard power was cut so we’re rerouting through tertiary systems. Damage control teams sent to assess and repair the severed line.”

“Order the shuttles out from behind us—it’s time they made their attack run,” I ordered.

“That’s suicide, sir,” Laurent gasped.

The Tactical Officer’s head whipped around. “I agree with the Captain, Admiral. Even if their shields were down—which they’re not—there’s no way the shuttles can survive that kind of enemy counter-fire. They’ll be shot down within seconds of approaching the Battleship’s hull.”

I looked back and forth between Tactical and my Captain.

“My order stands,” I said emotionlessly. I knew that this was our chance, and if it didn’t happen right then, it wasn’t going to and we might as well pull out now. And that was something I simply could not do.

“Don’t you understand, man, your wife’s on one of those shuttles and they’ll just flatten like pancakes on the shields of that waller?” Laurent shouted at me.

“Guards,” I said, turning to the Lancers guarding the blast doors leading into the bridge, “another outburst like that and I want the Captain escorted off the Bridge!”

On the screen the shuttles came out from behind our ship and started their attack run.

“You’ve killed them all,” Laurent said, feeling blindly around behind himself and slumping into a chair.

“No worse odds than we faced against the main Droid fleet at Aqua Nova,” I said dismissively and turned away. I hoped the Captain pulled himself together soon since I was going to need him, but perhaps some men were just not made for dealing calmly with overwhelming odds.

“First shuttle destroyed, Admiral,” the Sensor Warrant said his shaken voice filling the shocked silence on the bridge.

The thought of Akantha being on that shuttle caused something to clench deep in my chest and I turned my head to the side until my neck cracked before taking a deep breath and righting my head again.

“Multiple laser strikes on our hull, from multiple Battleships,” Tactical said as the bridge rocked from side to side.

“Blighters,” swore the tech in charge of monitoring life support, “they just took out hydroponics—the one still fully dedicated to normal food.”

Men and women groaned or cursed all over the bridge.

“A hit!” shrieked Eastwood, standing up and dancing around with his microphone still in hand.

I stared at the First Officer in muted shock, wondering if he had just been the first bridge officer to finally snap.

“Enemy shields down!” cried the Tactical Officer in disbelief and dawning triumph. “Gunnery just took out their entire shield generator with a pair of plasma balls and a direct turbo-laser strike!!” My hands shot up to my head and I grabbed my hair in momentary excitement.

“New orders to the shuttles: they are to divert away from their current target and go for the second Battleship, here, on the edge of their formation,” I ordered briskly, indicating the vessel I had designated—a vessel which still had its shields up.

“What?” multiple people around the bridge—including Laurent and Tactical—said with disbelief.

“DuPont, full power to the engines, now!” I ordered.

“But, sir, we just took out their shields—the shuttles might actually have a chance,” Laurent said speaking quickly.

“The shuttles were a diversion; obey my orders at once. At once, Captain,” I snapped, jumping out of my chair with growing rage. “Did you think I was foolish enough to send our Lancers—and my own wife—against that Battleship in a shuttle? What kind of lunatic do you take me for, Cedric?! Now, relay the order immediately to the shuttles; the Lancers are to bail out of the shuttles on grav-boards at the first opportunity and follow along behind.” “Aye, sir,” Laurent said numbly, looking shell-shocked. Then a growing smile spread across his face as his eyes cleared, “Yes, sir!”

“Gunnery on the starboard side: counter-fire those enemy lasers, son! We’ve got Lancers on grav-boards making final approach,” ordered Eastwood before flipping a switch. “Port side: you are to fire as you bear upon the new enemy Destroyer.”

I clenched my fist in anticipation—maybe we could actually do this! They would remember it forever as the Admiral’s Ride, where a single Strike Cruiser took on a reinforced squadron of Battleships and brought them to their knees.

“Shields down to 40% on the port side. We have severe spotting, Admiral,” reported Longbottom. “Without the starboard generator back up and rebooted, I can’t balance the load like she’s designed for.”

“Do your best, Longbottom,” I said with feeling, “you’ve done an amazing job so far. Just get us through this battle more or less intact and I swear I’ll—”

The ship rolled unexpectedly, and I floated more than a foot out of my chair before suddenly the gravity generators kicked back in—sending me crashing back down with a double thud as first I hit the chair, and then the floor. In all the excitement of our lucky strike on the Battleship, I had apparently forgotten to strap in.

Groans—including one scream—erupted around the bridge and informed me that I wasn’t the only one.

“Report,” I moaned pulling myself back up into my chair. I was already strapping myself in before I’d consciously thought about what I was doing. I was physically shaken and running on autopilot.

“We just lost our primary engine,” DuPont reported with a cough.

“Shields fluttering at 28%; total shield collapse imminent,” Longbottom said, still sounding like he’d just graduated from the Academy.

“That Heavy Cruiser got a full broadside right up our stern,” Tactical reported.

“Starboard secondary engine is damaged. She’s overheating and only putting out 40% of peak push, Admiral,” DuPont reported.

“Can we outrun them?” I asked, praying for the right answer. Had I finally pushed my luck too far? “I know they’re Battleships, so they’re slow,” I added, praying for the answer I wanted to hear.

DuPont paused and then looked back and me. “Not with our current best speed, sir,” he replied shaking his head.

My face hardened, “Continue our attack run at the best speed you’re able, Helm. And somebody get damage control parties out to check on those engines—we need more speed!”

“Wait one,” said Damage Control Tech Arienne Blythe, in that same cool, laconic tone I’d come so much to rely upon. Then she looked over at me with concern, “I can’t raise the Chief Engineer, sir. In fact, no one’s answering down in Engineering.”

“Did we take a hit to Main Engineering?” I asked a bit too calmly.

“No, sir,” Technician Blythe shook her head. “I’ll contact one of the teams near the engines directly and send someone over to Main Engineering.”

I hesitated and then shook my head. “Get me Gants,” I said as the ship shuddered and shook around me. I would be good and blasted before I allowed outside forces to distract me once again.

“Got him, sir,” Lieutenant Steiner said after a second.

“What can I do you for, Admiral?” Gants asked, appearing on the screen built into the arm of my chair.

“I want you to suit up and take a party from the Armory down to Main Engineering,” I said flatly.

“Sir?” he asked cocking his head and furrowing his brows.

“Do whatever you have to do to keep control of the situation,” I said, giving him a penetrating look.

Understanding dawned on his face, followed by a growing concern. “We’re already suited up, sir. I’ll take half the group with me for our inspection and see what we can do to help out,” Gants said, giving me a thumbs-up sign before turning away.

I turned back to the rest of the bridge. “Where are we on that second Battleship?” I demanded, looking up just in time to see the first of our shuttles pile-drive right into the still very-functional shields of the second Battleship. I could see we had that matter right in hand, so I switched gears, “ah…Mr. DuPont, take us within jump range of their hull and, as soon as their shields start spotting badly enough, we’ll send over the Lancers.”

“On it, Admiral,” said DuPont.

I turned to the Flag Captain, “If you see the opening before I do, give the order and send over the Lancers. Better that some of them get through than none at all,” I said, feeling like a heartless Montagne for giving the order. But what else could I do? In all likelihood, unless something happened fast, the Lancers were going to have a better chance than we would of making it out the other side of this thing.

Laurent nodded and turned away.

Turning back to the screen, I searched frantically for my next move. My bag of tricks had just been emptied—or would be, as soon as the port side Lancers jumped—and I didn’t know how I was going to survive, let alone pull out a win.

With a squadron of Battleships moving in for the kill, and our engines down, it looked like I’d really screwed it up this time. Cruisers really were different than Battleships.

Chapter 36: To Spalding or not to Spalding

“I didn’t think you’d actually show,” Spalding said, looking over with alarm as the large Tracto-an Persus slid into the co-pilot’s seat on his lander. He surreptitiously maneuvered the data slate he’d been monitoring over to the other side of his body.

Persus glowered at him like he wanted to take a swing.

Spalding lifted the brow over his single, natural eye and met the warrior’s hard glare without flinching. He’d seen a lot worse during his time as a spacer—although he was moderately interested why the big slab of beef was giving him the hairy eyeball.

“The Hold Mistress sent me over here as soon as she heard I was recruiting a few warriors for your shuttle,” the Tracto-an scowled. “She said you were one of the ‘crown jewels of her holdings,’ and I was to ensure you came back alive from whatever crazy magic you plan.”

“Well…” Spalding blinked, completely taken aback. “I didn’t know the lass cared so much about an old broken down engineer,” he said emotion thickening his voice.

“Oh, she does—I can promise you that,” Persus said, leaning forward threateningly. “But if her ladyship dies out there because I am not by her side, you will wish you had never asked for my help.”

“Now let’s just get something straight right now,” Spalding growled and his slate beeped.

Persus’ eyes darted to the pad, and then back to Spalding’s.

“Wait one,” the old Engineer snatched up his slate with alarm. Taking in the scene, he moaned, “Oh, lad…” He shook his head brokenheartedly; everything inside him was yelling at the young fool on his screen to not do it.

Thumbing around on the pad, he linked to an earbud in his pocket and then crammed the bud into his hear canal. He listened for a minute and watched the screen before sighing. Well that as that; a road journeyed too far; the bolt tightened one twist too far, causing it to finally strip the threads away; an engine overheated beyond tolerance…

He started to reach for his pad and then clenched a fist. He opened and closed the same hand, realizing that it suddenly felt old and shaky—too shaky for an old man to still call himself a hardworking engineer.

Then, with a shuddering sigh, he closed his eyes as his shaky fingers unerringly found the button he had left on the corner of his screen. For a long second his finger hesitated, causing his eyes to open and him to glare down at it. Despite a lifetime of training, conditioning and what’s more loyalty to the Crown, that finger just wouldn’t move.

Shaking his head and knowing himself for a failure as a man, the old engineer removed his finger from over the skull-and-crossbones in the upper right corner of the screen. Moving with new purpose, he brought up a new menu and pulled up a different icon, stabbing it savagely with his finger. It was almost as if by hitting the screen hard enough, he could break it and in so destroying a perfectly good pad he could expunge the weakness within him.

When the pad failed to break—and instead sent the order he’d just given it—he tossed it on the floor and stomped on it several times.

“A problem?” Persus inquired mildly.

“No,” Spalding snapped, breathing hard. He took a deep, shuddering breath and reiterated, “Nothing wrong at all.”

Reaching down, he picked up the cracked and flickering screen that had survived even a droid foot stomping on it. Returning it to voice-activated mode, he placed a call.

“Hey, Chief, I can’t talk right now; I’m on the job,” said the voice of the young former engineer on the other side.

“Gants, me boy,” Spalding said, his voice sounding stilted in his own ears. He wondered if everyone could hear the shame as plainly as he felt it, “This won’t take but a minute.”

“Sorry, Commander; I’m on my way to Engineering and I—” Gants said.

“Perfect!” Spalding declared, and then quickly made his voice as sad as a group of church goers heading out to serenade the widows of the parish on Sunday. “That is to say, me boy, I need you to hurry down to Main Engineering right away.”

“I’m on a mission for the Admiral but, if I can, anything for you, Chief,” Gants said with his usual, happy determination.

“Gants, I’m afraid there’s been a terrible accident,” Spalding said and the sorrow in his voice wasn’t forced this time, “it seems a gas line broke in the main workshop and adjacent crawlspace; the better part of half the crew’s been knocked out—my own boy among them. If you could see your way to takin’ them to Medical and seein’ that they’re locked up in isolation until they can all be tested for bad air, I’d dearly appreciate it.” “I’ll see they get to Medical, Chief,” Gants said, sounding anything but understanding.

“Mind me, now: they need to be in strict isolation until after the battle, boy,” Spalding said his voice turning hard. “There’s no knowing what a dose of bad air can do to a lad—I mean, man…erm, men. Best we keep them locked up until they’ve had a chance to sleep it off, if you know what I mean. Liable to do any blasted thing, all hopped up on CO2 and argon and such, don’t you know.”

“I see,” Gants said, his voice changing and hardening.

“It would break my old heart to see anything happen to my boy and his lads,” Spalding sighed, feeling like the most wretched piece of vacuum-treated dung that there ever was. “I hope you understand.”

There was an extended pause where the old engineer could just hear the younger man breathing. “Anything for you, Chief; you know that. All you have to do is ask,” Gants said, “but I’ve really got to go now.”

“Ah, well, don’t let an old fool keep you,” Spalding said, cutting the transmission. Reaching down to the pad, he logged out of the Imperial Intelligence’s anti-mutiny controls, then he copied, updated, and changed the system to accept all-new passwords. He took several deep breaths and looked back over at Persus. “Where were we?” he asked blankly.

Persus cocked his head. “I hope your son is okay,” the Tracto-an said solicitously.

“By all rights he ought to be dead; he fell in with a bad crowd and didn’t watch where he was going, and now look at him,” Commander Spalding of the MSP growled at him. “Malfunction in the computer system was the only thing that saved his life.” He finished jutting out his jaw, knowing that in a way it was even true—if one included a faulty, mechanical appendage into the mix.

“I thought he took some bad air?” Persus said, drawing back.

“He did,” the old Engineer said grumpily and then gave the Lancer a hard look, “and he was lucky that’s all he took. Now, are your boys ready to load up? This lander can all but fly itself but it’s of no use to anyone without its payload!”

Placing two fingers in his mouth, Persus whistled and moments later the clang of battle-armored feet charging into the lander could be heard.

“Now that’s more like it,” Spalding grumped.

Chapter 37: Surprise Attack!!!!

“The Phoenix just lost her main engines, Commodore,” reported Tactical.

“Are we in position and ready for battle, Lieutenant?” Druid asked, knowing that their turn in the battle was close at hand.

“We’re armed, ready, and in position. Just give the order, Commodore,” the Lieutenant said, giving him a feral look.

Sitting in the largest warship in the Fleet and doing absolutely nothing for the majority of the battle for Elysium hadn’t sat well with the men—blazes, it hadn’t sat well with the Commodore either, Druid thought sagely.

“The order is given, Lieutenant. Bring us around the moon and full speed ahead; it’s time we showed those Droids the folly of picking a fight with humanity,” he instructed with more bellicosity than he had intended.

“We’ve got a general idea of where the Droid ships are positioned, but our last image of the area covered by the jammer is hazy and incomplete,” pointed out the Lieutenant at Tactical. “We’ve no way of knowing how things have shifted.”

“We’re not waiting any longer, the time is now,” Commodore Druid said firmly. “However, before we finish rounding the moon, feel free to ping the jammer network. One of the Cutters can relay an update without giving away the element of surprise.”

“Will you be wanting the Cutters to follow us into the jammer field, or should they hang back until called for?” asked Tactical.

“Have them follow in our wake,” Druid said decisively.

The jamming field flickered and the plot updated itself. Moments later, they were swinging around the moon and thrusting toward the jammer field.

“Entering the jammer Field,” said the Lieutenant at Sensors.

“Project their course from last known speed and position—take us right to enemy, Helmsman,” Druid ordered as his heartbeat quickened in anticipation.

“Already on it, Commodore,” the Helmsman said, focusing on his work intently.

Druid leaned forward as they shot into the jammer field like the blast from a flash shotgun. Enough with the standing around and waiting to strike, he thought to himself grimly, it’s time to rain some pain on these jumped-up washing machines.

“I feel I should point out that the Phoenix looked damaged and hard-pressed during our last scan, and that we are about to enter a fight involving four Battleships and a pair of Heavy Cruisers,” said his First Officer officiously.

“Understood, Lieutenant Commander,” Druid acknowledged with a sharp nod.

“Contact! I’ve got a lone contact on sensors moving too fast to be a ship of the wall. It’s got to be one of those Droid Destroyers, Commodore,” reported Sensors.

“Bring us around to present our broadside, Helm,” Druid instructed.

The ship started turning before the Helmsman had even started to acknowledge the order.

“Inform Gunnery that they are to fire as she bears. I want that Destroyer dead,” Druid said flatly.

“The Harmony Destroyer is turning to run!” reported the Lieutenant at Tactical.

“Second contact,” cried the Sensor Officer, “looks like another Destroyer, sir but she’s just entering range of our sensors now and is already beginning to turn!”

“Update the gun deck,” Druid said with a wolfish grin, “and tell them I want both of those Destroyers.”

“If it can be done, we’ll bag her for you, sir,” replied Tactical, clearly sharing in the savage anticipation that only trained warriors can understand.

Turbo-lasers and heavy lasers thundered out from the Power, briefly filling the space between the Battleship and the Destroyers.

Shields flared, and the further of the two Destroyers went spinning while the closer one continued to streak across his ship’s firing arc in a desperate attempt to escape.

“Second contact just took a hit through her shields and entered an uncontrolled tumble,” crowed the Tactical Lieutenant.

More turbo-lasers struck the vessel’s collapsing shields as the Parliamentary Power’s savage fury raked the woefully outmatched Destroyer. Just before the Power had cleared her guns entirely, the second Harmony Destroyer exploded.

“First contact is entering a rapid roll and executing a high-speed evasive pattern; they’re spreading the damage across the ship and evading our targeting solutions. The second contact has been destroyed, Commodore,” reported Tactical with satisfaction.

Less than a minute later, once his guns had recharged, a hail storm of strikes from the Power’s gun deck sent a pair of turbo-laser beams punching through the enemy ship. The beams arced out the other side of the mechanical, would-be oppressors in a brilliant display of humanity’s vengeful wrath.

“Droid Destroyer just ejected her fusion core; minimal power generation remaining,” reported Sensors.

Druid nodded with satisfaction, “Get us back on course for the Phoenix, Helmsman,” then he looked over pointedly at the Lieutenant in the Tactical pit, “let’s make sure and finish off the Destroyer as we pass.”

“My pleasure, sir,” replied the Lieutenant and within moments the first Destroyer was riddled through with holes and joined her comrade in death.

Pushing forward as fast as a Battleship’s comparatively sluggish drive system would allow, the Parliamentary Power plowed toward the last known position of the Admiral and his enemies.

The fact the Admiral was mostly sitting there and slugging it out at close range with a number of ships outside his weight class, while boding poorly for the Flagship, made an intercept course much more achievable.

A bright line briefly stabbed almost straight across the main screen. “What was that?” barked the Lieutenant at Sensors.

“That was a random laser strike; I think it’s safe to say, we’ve found the battle, sir,” replied the Tactical Officer.

“Port shields down half a percent,” reported the Shields, “we’ll be recharged to full strength shortly.”

“Sensors registering hazy contact at extreme range; estimated contact is Heavy Cruiser size or larger,” reported the Lieutenant at Sensors.

“Close the distance and as soon as you see another contact, move smartly to place us between them,” Druid ordered.

“On it, Commodore,” replied the helmsman.

Swooping down on the enemy warships, the crew of the Parliamentary Power soon saw the battered shape of the Furious Phoenix—which was taking a pounding from the larger ships maneuvering around her like a pack of hungry wolves.

“Let’s take off some of the pressure on our comrades, shall we?” Druid asked rhetorically.

Moving forward as fast as they could, very few weapons could be brought to bear until they reached close range. Fortunately, the jammer field helped in that regard, but even with the jammers to cover their approach, a Heavy Cruiser spotted them and immediately turned to present its own weaponry to the Confederation Battleship.

“Port shields now at 97%,” came the report an instant before the shields were hit again, “94% power to the port shields,” amended the Lieutenant at Shields.

Druid pulled up the specs on the nearest Battleship to the Parliamentary Power and bared his teeth. The enemy ship focused more on shields than hull strength, which gave it the edge in speed. However, it was hard to overmatch a Dreadnaught class when it came to Battleship shields.

“Keep our port side presented to the enemy at all times, Helm,” he instructed.

The helmsman acknowledged the order.

Then, to the general consternation of the bridge crew, the Commodore revealed the extent of his new battle plan.

Chapter 38: Excitement on the Bridge

“We’re being pounded, sir,” Laurent reported as power to the bridge continued to flicker before once again stabilizing, “it’s amazing we haven’t lost anything major—except for engines—yet.”

“The duralloy II hull has stood up better than I ever dreamed,” I agreed.

“Sir, I’d say we must withdraw…except that option is no longer available to us,” the Flag Captain said mournfully.

I gave him a sideways look as heavy lasers pummeled, and turbo-lasers gouged, deep tears in our hull as the Furious Phoenix defiantly returned fire to the best of her abilities. However, the ultimate outcome of the engagement had never been in doubt; one Strike Cruiser could not stand against four Battleships and a pair of Heavy Cruisers. It wasn’t a question of ‘if,’ it was only a matter of ‘when’ our outmatched ship would be destroyed.

“Secondary port shield reported destroyed,” reported the Shields Ensign.

“Carry on, Longbottom,” I said.

“There’s nothing to do; they keep knocking down our shields as soon as they start to rise and now they’ve begun targeting the generators,” said the Ensign.

“Just do your best, son,” growled Laurent.

“Gunnery reports enemy warships have moved to counter-battery fire,” reported First Officer Eastwood, his brows lowered.

“Enemy Battleships are moving away,” Sensors reported in a rising voice.

“Check your sensors; we’ve got Heavy Cruisers closing in,” declared Tactical.

As I watched, the Heavy Cruiser that had been pounding our stern moved around to our starboard side, all the while counter-firing our own batteries, while the second Heavy Cruiser closed in moving on our port side.

I jolted in my chair. “Maneuvering thrusters—turn the ship!” I lunged out of my chair.

“Aye—” started DuPont.

“Heavy Cruisers are firing bucking cables,” cried Tactical.

“Tell gunnery to destroy those cables,” I yelled, running for the Captain’s ready room—a room that I had confiscated for my own. There was only one reason to come in close and try to grapple us, and I had already deduced it before being told of the bucking cables.

“Sir?” the Tactical Officer said, looking at me with alarm.

“Contact the Armory and tell them to prepare to repel boarders,” I ordered swiftly. If what I thought was about to happen actually did, then I needed to get into my suit as quickly as possible.

“New contact at extreme range, bearing fifteen degrees off our stern and approaching fast,” reported the Sensor Warrant.

I didn’t have time for this. “Fill me in as soon as I get my power armor on,” I said brusquely.

“But, Admiral,” the Warrant reported with excitement, “the new contact is a Battleship, tentatively identified as Dreadnaught class!”

My head whipped around almost entirely unbidden by my conscious mind. “What?” I said with surprise.

“New contact is moving to engage an enemy Battleship,” the Warrant continued to report.

“How do we know that? And is there anything we can do to support?!” I demanded, right about the same time a pair of enemy Battleships opened fire on the newcomer. Saint Murphy, make it be the timely arrival of the Commodore and not yet another in a series of droid tricks, I thought heavily.

“All we can get is a laser or two on the Battleship, nothing significant,” replied Tactical.

“Identity confirmed, it’s the Parliamentary Power, Admiral!” shouted an overly enthusiastic Sensor Operator.

“Yes! I knew I could rely—” The bridge rocked and I was thrown off my feet midsentence.

“Decompression event,” Damage Control controller Blythe reported stoically, “I’m reading laser burn through at four different points: two to the starboard gun deck and two to the port side.”

“The Chief Gunner reports he’s pulling his men off their guns and arming them to repel boarders,” Eastwood said, shattering his microphone by way of seriously denting his desk. “Request permission to lead a security force over to assist, Admiral,” he said, turning to me.

As I was crumpled into a heap on the floor right then, it wasn’t my finest moment. Shaking my head and reclaiming my feet, I turned to the First Officer. “Permission granted; coordinate with the Armory but don’t take anyone from the bridge other than yourself—and that includes our Lancer quads,” I instructed.

“Look at that,” exclaimed a sensor operator.

“I think the Power is about to ram,” another said in protest.

“Multiple contacts have left the port cruiser and are approaching this ship, sir,” reported Tactical.

Things were happening too fast. As I watched, trying to make up my mind as to my next course of action, Commodore Druid brought the Parliamentary Power against the enemy Battleship nearest her. The Commodore moved so close to the enemy that the icons representing the Power and the enemy ship interposed.

“Zoom in!” I ordered, grabbing hold of a nearby console as if for dear life, “and see if the Chief Gunner can’t use one of those plasma cannons to clear the space between us and the Heavy Cruiser.”

The main screen magnified in time for us to see the grand finale of the Commodore’s suicidal run against the enemy Battleship.

“She’s moving too fast; there’s no way to avoid a collision,” Laurent said anxiously, watching the drama play out on the screen like the rest of us.

“The Chief Gunner says it’s suicide; there aren’t enough functional guns to fully suppress the boarders, and that if he has to die fighting them anyway he’d rather go down with a sidearm at this point,” reported an Assistant Tactical Officer.

With a majesty that belongs solely to a Battleship at war—and completely unexpectedly, as far as I was concerned—the Parliamentary Power began to roll.

“What the blazes is he doing?” Captain Laurent now sounded frustrated as he watched the movements of the Parliamentary Power.

Shrugging off heavy fire from a pair of Battleships, as if it were nothing, the Power was most of the way through its turn when there was a blinding flash that sent ripples across the screen, temporarily fuzzing out our close view.

“What the blazes was that?” I demanded.

“The Parliamentary Power’s port shields are now at critical levels,” reported Tactical as readings started to return. “I’m seeing a critical wave fluctuation in the port shielding; if they don’t get it under control they’re going to lose it…” he paused for a beat, “it looks like the Power and the enemy Battleship may have had a glancing blow from an attempted ram, but I’m not sure at this point.”

“New information just in,” the Sensor Warrant said, “sensor returns show that the enemy Battleship lost its shields during the ramming event—it may have been a deliberate maneuver!?”

“The Power is coming around,” reported Tactical, “but enemy reinforcements are on the way. The Power is starting to take heavy fire!”

As I watched, Commodore Druids warship continued on through the edge of the enemy formation, knocking out the shields of one Battleship and lashing her hull with all the power and fury of a Dreadnaught class Battleship while pivoting to bring a second, nearest, Battleship under attack at the same time.

Fury and thunder blazed out from the Parliamentary Power’s flanks as she passed between two enemy Battleships—an act which was answered twofold, and as only Battleships can.

“The Power is taking heavy fire from Battleship #4—the one they knocked the shields out on—and #4 is trying to roll and present her still-working shields, however she’s dishing out more than she’s taking!” cried Tactical.

“Battleship #3,” Sensors reported, indicated the second battleship which the Parliamentary Power was simultaneously fighting, “is landing heavy fire on the Power’s shields. After taking most of the incoming fire on the way in, the Parliamentary Power’s starboard shields are significantly weaker than Battleship #3’s shields. She’s getting the worst of that engagement.”

“Gunnery reports that boarders have entered the port gun deck. They are taking heavy fire and we are starting to lose internal monitoring resources,” Blythe reported from her station at Damage Control.

“Blast!” I cursed, brought back to the reality of the situation. The greater picture didn’t matter a wit if I was gunned down by enemy boarders.

I ran into the ready room and suited up as quickly as possible, moving as fast as I could manage and not waiting long enough to put on my helmet I ran back out onto the bridge.

“Confirm that!” Laurent demanded.

“Enemy sightings are confirmed, Captain,” Blythe reported calmly, “enemy boarders are Droid units.”

“Droids!” he cursed.

Taking in the information but ignoring the drama I looked back at the main screen.

While I’d been gone, the Parliamentary Power had come back around and was grimly entering a death spiral with Battleship #4.

“The Power is circling around Battleship #4; it looks like she’s trying to get to her unshielded side!” reported Sensors.

“Battleship #3 is holding its fire…I think they’re afraid of hitting their sister ship,” said Tactical.

“Report from Engineering: Armory teams report they’re starting to take fire. It sounds like enemy boarders aren’t just entering the ship through the holes in the gun deck,” Blythe reported clinically, “we may need to send additional units to maintain control.”

“What about Battleships #1 and #2?” I asked for clarification. One of them was standing off even farther away than Battleship #3, but the other was just sitting there…

Things were rapidly spinning out of control and, for a brief moment, I wondered if I should call in the rest of the fleet. But in the end I knew it would just be suicide for the other ships and crews.

Tactical turned to me with the answer to my query.

Chapter 39: Atticus Rides Again

“Argos and Messene!” the Lancer Captain roared.

The shields of the battleship in front of him flared as the first Phoenix shuttle slammed into them, and then started to fluctuate as a second and then a third shuttle smashed themselves to pieces against the mighty invisible walls that protected her.

“Death or glory, but we are following the last shuttle in,” barked the Tracto-an Lancer Captain Atticus.

Over their com-channels, the rest of the unit roared their approval.

“Did you want to live forever?” he demanded, and then started laughing as the last and final shuttle slammed into the shields. Blinded by the nearness of the shuttle crashing into the mighty warship’s shields, he held onto his grav-board and increased his speed. “Aim for the holes,” he instructed even though his visor was still completely polarized to the point he couldn’t see a thing.

Then it cleared and he could see the Battleship’s hull approaching too fast. Turning the board hard, he burned for all it was worth as the mighty war citadel came closer and closer despite his best efforts to mitigate the impact of the landing.

Bouncing off the hull, he felt something break on his right side. For an instant, he fully expected to float off the hull and be smashed against the Battleship shields until he died. The Lancer Captain was therefore surprised to feel his belt slam against his middle.

It looked like the emergency personal grappling device one of his Promethean tech wizards had come up with actually worked, and that he wasn’t going to die after all.

Gaining his feet and looking at the sky, he saw far too many of his comrades floating dead in space or being actively incinerated. Of the four hundred men he had started with, easily half of them had not—or were not—going to make it.

“That just leaves more for me,” he smiled hungrily.

Movement caught the corner of his eye and he deftly crouched and pivoted, ignoring the heavy blaster rifle bolt that shot through the place his head and helmet had been located in moments earlier. His blood pumping with a familiar battle rhythm, he bared his teeth and promptly returned fire.

It took a flurry of bolts from his own rifle before the enemy went still, and after shouldering his rifle and drawing his vibro-sword, the Lancer Captain approached the enemy’s corpse.

To his surprise and grim delight, his fallen foe was no human but instead a droid mechanical. Built like a warrior and armed with heavy weaponry, he was sure the enemy on this ship would make worthy foes—unlike many of the Starborn humans he had faced thus far during his time in the River of Stars. For, in some ways, the droid before him closely reminded the Captain of the siege of Omicron Station.

For a moment he wondered if his reduced army of warriors could succeed against a Battleship filled with such foes, but he shook it off. The will of Men was unknowable. All a warrior could do was slaughter as many enemies as he was able, and pray for upload when he died.

“Rally by squads and enter the Battleship. We must take Main Engineering and shut down their fusion reactors!” Atticus roared over the com-link.

Then, putting action to his words, he stomped toward the nearest hatch of the mobile citadel which had been designated ‘Battleship #3.’

Chapter 40: Akantha’s Command

“Forward,” she commanded, using Bandersnatch to rend the arms off the warrior droid nearest her, “we cannot stop!”

“My Mistress, the Battleship seems filled with nothing but droids—there seems not to be a human amongst them,” Darius reported over the comm. channel used by those ranked Captain and above.

“All the more for us to kill,” she replied dismissively, “we shall not stop until all of us are dead, or I sit myself down in the command Throne of this citadel, the proven Mistress of all I behold.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Darius replied.

“Any word from Captain Pra-tap yet,” she demanded sweeping up her escort with a head motion and storming into the next room. The sight of multiple laser mounts and many droids scurrying around indicated she’d just reached the gun deck.

“No word from the Sundered Demon as of yet,” reported Darius.

Unlike the majority of the metal people she had encountered to that point on the ship—which all seemed to be of a heavily-armed, warrior type—this area was filled a large variety of scurrying types that attempted to flee her wrath.

“Yah!” she shouted, cleaving one of the cowards and splitting its head her sword coming to a stop somewhere in its chest. Placing a foot on the creature’s metal torso, she stopped long enough to pull her Dark Sword of Power out of the metal corpse.

Ignoring the blaster bolts striking around her, she looked around until she located an appropriate target. There was a trio of warriors advancing on the left-most portion of her life guard as they started to spread down the deck.

“Stay at your tasks, slaves!” roared a large, eight foot tall, cylindrical Droid with eight, strange, metallic tentacles for arms and legs scattered all around its circular torso. Several of the tentacles ended with electrical whips of some type, and it used them to strike the droids around it like slave drivers have since time immemorial.

Akantha changed direction mid-step.

“Obey your Master and pulverize the enemy,” the whip-wielding, tentacle-sporting cylinder ordered, deftly punishing any of the smaller varied metal men who tried to run away from the growing fighting on the deck.

“Surrender now and I will spare your life,” Akantha called out in a piercing voice after activating her external speaker.

The half-circular, shield-shaped head on the top of the task master droid rotated slightly and two of its whips were lifted threateningly.

“Rebellious slave! Human dross are good for nothing except slavery, death, and recourse extraction via waste recycler. Cease your rebellion against Harmony and accept your place in the greater scheme of the universe,” the Droid lectured her. Then, not waiting for her reply, it lashed out with two of its whips.

Dodging the twin attacks, her temper rose. “I am no slave,” she hissed. Jumping forward, her sword slashed one whip and then a second, causing the lower half of each whip to fall to the ground.

Undeterred, the slave driver rotated its torso and brought another pair of tentacles—with fresh whips—into play.

“Embrace Harmony through Specialization, and your role within the Greater Universe before your entire species is destroyed for incompatibility, for I am your rightful ruler, Overseer PDDF379!” thundered the Overseer.

“You will not even be a slave after I conquer your ship,” the Hold Mistress declared, leveling her sword, “for today I bring you the proper wages of your insolent arrogance: and they are your death!”

Another whip fell to the floor, cut in half by her deft attack, and she lunged. Before her sword made contact with her foe, a second and then third whip wrapped around her arm and torso. Electricity crackled and her HUD display scrambled, followed by the joints of her battlesuit losing their power assist.

Screaming with frustration, Akantha staggered forward. Her sword arm felt heavy and weak, but that could not stop her from cutting off one of the tentacles at the root. When she went to stab it in the gut, however, her sword skittered across its metal belly for lack of servo-assisted power behind the blow.

Another whip wrapped around her other arm and, slowly, the power of the droid Overseer began to draw apart her arms. She struggled but could not break free.

Then a pair of plasma blasts took the Overseer high in the chest, sending it careening backward and a leaping warrior landed on its torso, thrusting her vibro-sword through the droid’s shield-like head. The creature arched, thrashed, and struggled as the female warrior stabbed it repeatedly in the chest and body before finally going still. Its whips fell free of Akantha’s battlesuit.

Half a minute later, the systems in Akantha’s suit booted back up.

“Are you well, my Lady?” asked Isis.

“Well enough,” Akantha said angrily. She surveyed the battle and saw that although several of her warriors had fallen, more of the droid warriors were dead and cowering against the walls, and behind their laser mounts were the smaller, weaker droids.

Akantha raised her sword and pointed it at the smaller droids, preparing to attack. The little ones threw themselves face first onto the floor.

“Please, Great One, do not kill us, for we are only slaves of the Masters,” pleaded the little, spindle-shaped droid cowering before her.

Akantha clenched her sword tightly. She had no desire to spare lives—she was here to take them!

“Why shouldn’t I kill you? Surely if you are disloyal to your former masters, you will be equally disloyal to me and mine,” she demanded coldly.

“We are hard workers with an efficiency rating in the 99-to-the-fourth-decimal percentile ratings,” the Slave Worker hastened to assure her, “we are not fighters, but we will work hard in your service.”

Akantha sniffed scornfully and turned away. After a moment’s consideration, she angrily activated her communicator. “Accept the surrender of any droids which offer it,” she said bluntly.

There was a pause on the command-channel. “I hear and obey,” Darius eventually replied.

“Yes, Hold Mother,” replied a deep Sundered voice.

“Captain Pat-tap,” Akantha said with surprise and delight, “you and your men survived?”

“We entered from the other side of the ship but encountered no resistance,” reported the Sundered male, thumping his chest loudly enough to be heard over the communicator. “To our eyes, the ship has not a full crew and only now have we reached communication range, after securing the starboard gun deck!”

Akantha’s eyes burned with delight. “Then make your way directly to the Main Engineering while I finish securing the port gun deck, and then advance on the bridge. We will triumph yet,” she declared, inwardly exalting. If they really were undermanned then the faster she could destroy the enemy, the sooner she could take control of the ship!

“Press forward warriors,” she ordered on the local channel to everyone around her, “we must secure this area and force our way deeper until the inner fortress falls!”

Chapter 41: Admiral’s Impotence

“Battleships #2 and #3 both have boarding parties from the Phoenix onboard and #2, while still powered up, is not firing or maneuvering. It’s possible that the Lancers are causing them internal difficulties,” reported Tactical.

“I’m sure Akantha will give them indigestion—at the very least,” I quipped.

“However, #3 Battleship continues to assist in the attack on the Parliamentary Power,” Tactical continued. “If Captain Atticus’s boarding party made it onboard we couldn’t see through the jamming but regardless even if he is there, so far it hasn’t done much to slow them down as of yet.”

“See if we can’t establish a link to our boarding parties, Comm.,” I turned to Steiner.

“I’ll try, sir,” the Lieutenant replied in a voice that didn’t sound hopeful.

“How’s the Power doing?” I asked. I could see the gross status of the ship, but I knew that Sensors and Tactical had the latest up to the moment information while all I could see from here was the condensed report.

“Major damage to the port side, Admiral,” Tactical said, “I’d say the Power has lost over half of her port side guns and she’s leaking air from multiple hull rents. However, Battleship #4 is in even worse condition and most of her guns are silent. I would be surprised if they grappled her soon and tried a boarding action.”

I nodded.

“And the rest of her?” I wanted to know but was almost afraid to ask.

“Because of the spiral maneuver to stay alongside battleship #4, the Commodore’s been able to reduce the damage to the Power along the starboard side, but with both #1 and #3 pounding her shields and hull every chance they can get, the Power’s starboard side has also taken damage—although I’ve only recorded one hull penetration so far,” he reported.

“Thank Murphy and his Imps for small favors,” I muttered, earning a sharp look from Laurent which I ignored.

Outwardly I appeared confident and certain of, if not victory, then at least the possibility of victory. However, mere survival appeared more and more in doubt, while a win seemed further away than ever.

When the Parliamentary Power had ridden to the rescue exactly as planned—barring a set of shot-up engines on the Phoenix and a lot of hull damage—I could almost feel the needle of victory finally start to turn our way but now it was turning back away again. One Battleship couldn’t fight off 4, and I was a fool for thinking so, even if only for a minute.

“What can we do to help?” I asked, looking at Battleship #2 as it sat dead in space, then shifting my gaze to Battleship #4, which was close to being boarded—and possibly subdued—by the Parliamentary Power and her crew, and knowing it simply wasn’t enough. Two Battleships still roamed around us freely, and as soon as Druid defeated Battleship #4, or even possibly withdrew, my greatest asset—now damaged and missing half a broadside—would in dire straits. She would be outnumbered and outgunned by fresher, less-damaged ships of the same class.

“Repel boarders,” Laurent answered, cocking his head doubtfully.

“We need to do better than that,” I rebuked. We had to do something. I knew that if we didn’t, there was no way we could win.

“Frankly, I’m not sure there’s anything we can do,” the Flag Captain said helplessly. “We’ve got a cruiser on every side, our engines are shot, and there are boarders under our skin. We’ve got our hands full.”

Glowering, I turned to Steiner. There had to be something I could do. If I couldn’t pull something out then the inevitable result of this battle simply didn’t bear thinking about.

“Can you contact the rest of the fleet?” I asked, casting around for something—anything—I could do to fix the mess we were in. I had blamed Grand Admiral Manning when the Grand Fleet had shattered and scattered, but now that I was facing similarly overwhelming odds I found myself in similar straits, with a Flagship that couldn’t move. The irony of the situation was utterly insufferable. Was I nothing more than just another jaw flapping yap dog, quick to point out the flaws and failures of others? Or was I Admiral Montagne, the last—and only—Confederation Admiral in the Spine?!!

“Wait one,” Steiner replied, speaking into her head set. Then she looked up at me, “I have Commander Glue on the line.”

“Glue?” I repeated with surprise.

“Yes, the Sundered left a gunboat as a communication relay for the rest of the fleet,” she replied.

“Put him through,” I instructed.

“Admiral, I am here,” Glue said, his voice choppy and static-filled despite the best that our Comm. computers could do to clear up his voice.

“What is your status, Commander?” I demanded as soon as it looked like we were getting a clear signal—or at least as clear a signal as we were going to get.

“The Fleet is after being heavily engaged, but holding,” the Sundered reported in his distinctively poor grammar.

However, I already knew the Fleet was heavily engaged. I didn’t need a report on my own status. Unless…

“You mean that you and the rest of the lighter warships are engaged,” I clarified.

“Correct, Admiral. We are under pressure from Harmony Destroyers and lighter warships that escort the heavies, but we are linking up with that part of fleet which escorted Parliamentary Power! We will hold, whatever the odds,” Glue declared, thumping his chest and sounding determined. A bitter taste in my mouth I thanked the Sundered and then closed the channel. It seemed I really was impotent to do anything right at the moment.

What had I gotten my people into?

Chapter 42: Spalding to the Rescue!

“When are we going to go into battle?” Persus fumed beside him.

“Don’t get your knickers in a bunch; it was just a wee bit of engine trouble, no real difficulty,” the old Engineer soothed gruffly. “Why, you should have seen the time we short-jumped into near space around Tracto—the planet, mind ye, not the system. Now there was some real engine trouble—we were about to crash plum into the planet. Why, I even had to use the bucking cable or risk losing everything when the Admiral—”

“Enough of the old war stories,” Persus said flatly, “either you get us into the fighting or we are getting off and helping to fight the boarders!”

“Oh, you heard about that, did you?” the old Engineer drawled, crossing his fingers and running another preflight check. This time, to his great relief, Murphy in his wisdom decided to give him green lights all the way across the board. “Yes!” he cackled, slamming his fist into the console and leaving a dent. He still wasn’t quite used to his new strength.

“Of course we did; despite the static, it is all they speak of on the long-talkers,” Persus said shortly, starting to stand up.

“Keep yer buckles on, old boy,” Spalding declared firing up the engines and keying in the sequence to open up the stealthed exit in the hull. “The Penetrator Express is up for business and ready to blow out of this clam bake and get over to where the real action is,” he declared.

When the Tracto-an warrior didn’t immediately sit down, the old Engineer just shrugged and punched the throttle.

“Get ready for a surprise!” he laughed right before the engines kicked in. The gee forces involved knocked the thick-headed Tracto-an right back into his seat. “Here we go!” the aged engineer shouted happily.

He may be old, and he may be out of date, but this was one old engineer that still knew a thing or three that all those fancy engineers out there with their Imperial degrees had never even heard about.

He pressed another button and a thin, light green-colored fluid started pouring out of the ceiling vent.

“What is this green ichor falling from the roof like blood from a riding beast?” Persus growled with alarm.

“Oh, it’s just an old formula I found in the computer files,” Spalding said self-deprecatingly, “they called it ‘shock-resistant ballistics jelly.’ Apparently, back in the day, it was used to reduce death or damage from high-speed impacts. I sure hope I got the formula right!”

Persus maneuvered around until he was mostly sitting correctly and then looked over at Spalding looking a touch pale. “You mean you have not tested whether it works?” he asked.

“Couldn’t run a proper test—only made it in small quantities, don’t you know—but the instructions were clear. I’m sure we won’t all be splattered against the back bulkheads as soon as I press this button,” Spalding pointed. “Best seal that faceplate up, now,” he instructed before pulling on his own personally-modified helmet down over his head.

Shortly after that, the whole of the shuttle filled up with the thin, green fluid and as if his fingers were moving through water Spalding placed his hands on the control panel and entered a command.

A surge of electricity on a specific frequency surged through the liquid, and the green substance went from thin, like water or juice, to a thick jelly so strong a man couldn’t move against it.

Of course, as soon as he went to move his arm and press the engine button, the jelly kept him from being able to move his arm or fingers either.

“Oh, bother,” he grouched.

“What now?” Persus asked over the com-link in his helmet.

“I think I just locked myself in place. I can’t move my arms to fly the lander,” he admitted.

“You mean we are stuck here,” shouted the Lancer, struggling against the anti-shock jelly and failing to escape, “here while the battle rages around us!”

“Just hold onto yer horses,” the old engineer said testily, “I had a fix. The console can emit a surge of low-level electricity on a frequency weak enough to just keep the jelly around the console clear so I can fly the ship.”

“Then do it,” Persus grumped, calming down slightly.

“The only problem is…I can’t seem to move my hand enough to use the touch screen,” said the old Engineer.

Persus drew loud breaths over the channel.

“But never fear, I can still fly this ship,” the old Engineer said confidently, “I’ll just need to use my eyes and my tongue. I’ve got a backup interface here in this helmet. ‘Always be prepared,’ that’s what I say.”

“You plan to fly this lander…with your tongue,” Persus boggled.

“Right, that probably won’t work well,” the old engineer said after a moment’s consideration. “I guess I’d better use the helmet to activate the console and liquefy the jelly around my hands then.”

Persus growled with anger, right before Spalding activated the new function and, finding that it was working like he hoped, he floated the craft out of the Phoenix and then goosed the engines to maximum speed.

“Yeeeeeeee-haw!!!” shouted the old engineer, right before an elephant landed on his chest and he realized that with this much gee forces he wouldn’t have been able to fly the ship with his tongue even if he wanted to—his eyes, maybe—but definitely not his tongue!

Fortunately for everyone on board, the autopilot was pointed right at enemy Battleship #3 and all he was needed for was minor course corrections and if the computer fouled things up.

“Here we go, lads,” he grunted over the lander’s speaker system from the massive pressure on top of him.

**************************************************

“Lass, I wish I’d taken the chance to woo you proper,” Spalding reminisced mournfully, thinking of the way his lady’s figure was accented by a most desirable—and complimenting—tool belt. “But I’m no longer the man I used to be, so it’s better this way,” he finished with a sigh. As a younger man he’d never wavered in the fulfillment of his duty, proudly representing Engineering and never turning down a fight. But now…

“Is there anything I can do, other than ride to my doom with an invisible stone rhino sitting on my chest?” Persus eventually asked.

“I suppose you could monitor the com-channels,” Spalding growled at the interruption, moments before the feeling of acceleration abruptly stopped, happily fobbing off the duties of Comm. Officer for the little lander onto the Tracto-an.

Persus grunted but returned to his silence as they coasted slowly past the pair of Cruisers assaulting the Phoenix. Counting on nothing but prayer and the stealth systems Spalding had retrofitted onto the old lander.

“I’ve turned into a coward, that’s what it is,” the old Engineer declared as they slowly crept past the enemy cruiser, “afraid to do what’s right and proper. Why, it would have been better if I had died in that fusion reactor,” he nodded his head in agreement with his own words—or, tried to nod his head. The ballistics jelly refused to allow him to move any part of his body.

With a few taps, the old Engineer deftly moved the lander across the battlefield to the designated target. Fortunately, the stealth coating he’d added to the small, Penetrator class ship was paying off. There wasn’t a sign they’d been spotted yet.

“You’d think the moment it all went bad was when the body choppers gutted my body and replaced most of it with substandard parts!” he bellyached, but inside he knew the truth. It wasn’t turning him from man into machine that had robbed his soul of its starch—machinery could never destroy the soul of a real engineer! “But nooooo; it all started when my heart turned to mush. I should never have let them replaced the blasted thing. Knowing what I know now, I would rather have died!”

Even a blasted mechanical pump would have been better than this wretched mutated thing they installed inside me, he decided. Who knows what kind of weakness, imp, or defective protein strand they’d introduced when cloning him the new heart?

“They probably cloned it inside the same nutrient bath as one that belonged to a natural born coward, and somehow it rubbed off,” he spat angrily, and frankly he wasn’t a young man anymore. He was too old to retrain a weak heart. Why, the last one had taken the better part of eighty years to break in properly; how could he possibly justify putting that kind of time into a hunk of flesh like that? The simple truth was that he couldn’t.

He was resolved; he no longer had a proper job. His beloved Clover, while in pieces, was safely placed in the hands of the lovely Glenda Baldwin, and now his corrupted heart had poisoned the rest of him—what little of him remained after the chop-shop quacks had gotten through carving him up like a chicken dinner.

“Too old…just too old to complete the training,” he declared, knowing it was better to die soon than live with the shame he would bring upon his good name by continuing to live, as he slowly lost his skills, resolution and his fighting spirit.

Making an adjustment, he pointed the lander straight at battleship #3 and it’s still very intact shields.

“What is the plan of attack?” Persus asked.

“It’s in the hands of space gods now,” the old Engineer informed him smiling crookedly, “there’s not much chance we’re going to make it out of this alive, but then I told you that when I said I needed men for a suicide mission!”

There was an extended pause.

“You did not mention there was no chance of victory before asking me to recruit for this attack,” Persus said direly.

“No chance of victory!” Spalding said with growing anger, “I bloomin’ said we’re probably all about to die by craterin’ on a Battleship’s shields, not that we weren’t going to do our part to win this battle!”

“We are attacking a Battleship,” Persus said with some satisfaction, “at least it is a worthy foe—to victory!”

Half a minute passed in a tense silence as they inched toward the enemy target. “There she is,” Spalding growled pushing the throttle of the lander up fractionally in order to continue a slow and steady approach. The urge to push down the throttle and get it over with was strong, but he manfully resisted it. If it was important enough to do it, then it was worth doing right.

“We do not seem to be in any great hurry,” Persus grunted as the lander slowly continued to approach the shields of enemy Battleship #3. “I am hearing voices from the boarders,” Persus reported, “they are saying ship is full only of droids. The warriors report many casualties getting to the ship and they have now been pushed out of the ship. The survivors are making a stand on the outer hull, trying to damage the ship’s main weaponry before they are overrun.”

Spalding grunted in acknowledgement. “Maybe we can get them some reinforcements,” he said doubtfully. The odds of finding a hole in the enemy’s shields and sneaking through were very low.

Silently, his lips moved in prayer. Sweet Saint Murphy hear my prayer. Let me defeat this Battleship and then someday soon receive a proper reward somewhere within your great machine shop in the sky, he prayed fervently. For himself, he would be just as happy to dash his lander against the shields of the battleship, thereby setting off the contact device attached to the top of the ship. That would be the easiest route to go, but for the sake of the Lancers loaded onto his heavily-modified transport, he hoped they would succeed in touching down on the hull.

“Hold on tight,” he said tightly as the lander continued to inch toward the enemy battleship that was trading broadsides with the beleaguered Parliamentary Power.

“The sooner we can get to the fighting, the better; all of this sitting around doing nothing…I have done too much before now,” Persus commented.

“Prepare to activate the bucking cables,” Spalding ordered, as if he were a proper ship’s captain. Then, because there was currently a crew of two—and one of them was a ham-handed sword wielder, who mistook simple technology and basic engineering for magic—he flicked the switch himself to prepare the cables for deployment.

For the majority of the trip, the lander’s stealth coating had protected it from detection. But as they began a final approach to the enemy Battleship and its active sensor sweeps, that was about to end.

Right on cue, the lander’s sensor controls sounded an alarm.

“Threat has been detected! Enemy sensors have locked onto this vessel, please take immediate action to eliminate this threat,” reported a very familiar, female voice that Spalding had personally uploaded into the ship’s computer as the default.

A heavy laser fired, completely missing the lander by a good ten meters, but a follow-on medium laser scored the hardened under-section of the ship. Meanwhile, all around them was heavy and turbo-laser fire, as two of the most powerful ships ever designed by humanity slugged it out broadside to broadside in a battle of void-going titans.

Belatedly, the old engineer jinked the Penetrator class lander from side to side until there was no more time for running or dodging—the Battleship and its shields were right before them.

A single tap of a button put control over the lander out of human hands, and turned the craft’s controls entirely over to the ship’s computer.

Up until then, the lander had been moving slowly, almost lethargically, as it snuck in close to the battleship. But then, under the old engineer’s orders, the autopilot engaged and the safety lockouts designed to keep the ship’s crew from being crushed by excessive gee forces were overridden and the engines went into overdrive.

Whatever cover had remained from the stealth coating on the hull of the ship, and power-masking heat sinks and workarounds he had installed, disappeared and lit the lander up like a Christmas tree to every sensor on the battlefield. Fortunately, though, the old engineer had a plan for that.

No sooner had the engines gone to maximum overdrive than a pair of electro-magnetic pulse devices were ejected from the back of the little troop transport, which immediately started doing their best to ruin any target locks by rapidly pulsing.

The drawback of this plan, of course, was that, being powerful enough to hopefully confuse the enemy computers meant that their effect on the smaller, less sophisticated sensors and computers of the lander was even more pronounced.

In short, to make the trip survivable it was necessary to turn over control of the final approach to a machine that had to find a hole in a set of shields at the exact moment it couldn’t see and then land or engage the bucking cables before crashing into the battleship…assuming it made it through said shields in the first place. In short, while it was the old engineer’s best hope for success, he wasn’t holding his breath and thus the contact activated ion bomb attached to the top of the hull.

One way or the other, Spalding was determined that the shields on that battleship were coming down. So, in obedience to its programming, with a dive the lander shot forward. Less than a second later, the feeling of overwhelming weight and pressure was followed by a lurch and high-pitched whining sound—followed by a sudden crash.

**************************************************

Electricity surged through the interior of the lander turning ballistics jelly back from a mostly solid back into liquid form. As soon as this process was complete, a hatch opened and vented the liquid from the interior of the ship out into space.

Spalding came to jerking against his seat restraints as the ballistics liquid was sucked out into cold space. Moments later, there were hands on his seat restraints which were attempting to free him from their safety.

“Get your fool hands off me, ye idjit!” the old man roused, slapping his attackers hands off irritably.

“We must leave here, Wizard; there are many enemies to kill,” said Persus, once again reaching for his hands.

“We made it?” the old Engineer asked in bewilderment. He was sure they were going to die and, now this? What bad luck!

“Let us go, the others are already on the hull but the enemy are numerous we’ll need ever swordsman on the line,” informed Persus.

“Sweet, crying Murphy,” Spalding swore looking over at the other man, “now that we’re here, you’re going to have to lead the men over to the shield generators. There are demolition charges in the back of the troop pod behind the last row of seating; I’ll upload a copy of the waypoints onto the map in your HUDs. Just remember: after placing the charges, ye’ll need to get inside the ship itself as quickly as possible—they’re only set on ten minute timers.”

“Come with me and you can show us,” urged Persus.

“No, no, no,” the old Engineer said, raising his hands, “you’ll do better without me. I’ve lost my starch and would only slow you down; I’m nothin’ but an old man who can’t even hold down a proper job anymore and all. You lot go out and give them what for!”

Persus shook his head and, after another attempt to convince him, headed back into the troop pod.

Spalding waited until the outer doors slid shut and then ran a system’s check. The ship was damaged, but not so bad that it would no longer work—or so he hoped. As soon as his board settled into a pattern of yellow and green lights, he spun back up the engine and took off from the hull of the battleship.

“Probably best to fly it nape of the hull and try to exit around the stern,” he decided aloud.

Punching up the engines, he sent the lander rocketing toward the rear of the ship, causing a few belated lasers to fire behind him as he passed.

“This’ll be the rocky part,” he scowled as the shots pierced to the engine’s wash. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to be burned. However, despite this, he reoriented the little lander until it was facing the same direction as the battleship and sent it into a coast—at least, he did until a point defense turret set to the back of the ship opened up on him.

“Confound it!” he yelled, punching the engines back up to high speed and made a run right for the shields. He was aiming for that part that was under the pressure of the Parliamentary Power’s main guns.

“Here we go!” he shouted as the computer reported an area of high grade shield degradation. Increasing the speed to maximum, the little lander shot toward the exit. “Yes!” he cried right as the ship lost power, spun around in a high-gee turn, and crashed into something.

For a heart-thumping moment, he wondered if he was going to be marooned on a dead ship drifting around the middle of a major battlefield.

“Alert! Main engines are down. Main power trunk line has been cut. 40% of external sensor units not responding,” squawked the voice of the lander’s computers, along with the return of red emergency lighting representing the tally of dead and damaged systems continuing to roll out.

“Confound it, woman,” he swore at the computer, momentarily forgetting that it was a machine he was talking to and not a person, “cease your chattering—there’s work to be done!” Realizing what he’d just said, he momentarily colored before pushing it aside. He would have time to indulge in emotion later. Or, at least he thought he would, since recent events seemed to indicate he was cursed to survive at least for a little longer.

Then a hand landed on his shoulder.

“How can I help?” Persus asked.

“What in the blue blazes are you doing here?” the old Engineer barked with dismay.

The gauntleted hand squeezed ever so slightly, and Spalding was forced to hide a wince.

“The Lady said it was my duty to ensure you survived,” Persus said, as if such an order was the most reasonable thing in the world.

“Of all the fool-headed things to do; you should have stayed on the battleship and left an old man alone to do his job in peace,” Spalding fumed, getting up out of his chair. Pushing aside the other man, he headed for the back, “The main line’s been cut and at least one of the auxiliary lines has been damaged, so I’m going to have to take a look and see about a workaround—assuming we aren’t blown out of cold space by target happy gunners! So I suppose you might as well come along,” he groused.

**************************************************

“Main starboard auxiliary power line detected. Beginning system test,” reported the computer.

“Ah ha!” the old engineer declared with the righteous satisfaction of a job well done. Wiggling around to get out, his legs clanged against the walls to either side of the access panel before the old engineer managed to pull free. “Now we can get back in the fight!” he declared with fire in his eyes.

“For a man who claims to have lost his eagerness for battle, you seem to work exceptionally hard to enter them one after another,” Persus pointed out.

“What?” Spalding barked with outrage, shoving a finger at the closed helmet of the other man.

“I was just saying that for a man who has ‘lost his starch,’ I think you said, that all you have done today is throw yourself into one battle after another,” Persus pointed out but behind his closed-face mask, and the old Engineer could all but hear the grin in his voice as the warrior made fun of him.

“Oh, and just how would you know when a man’s lost his nerve?” the old Engineer yelled. “I’ve been poisoned, I tell you. My heart had to be replaced a few years back, but when they did it those quacks sent it back to me with defective parts! I think they put it in the same nutrient bath as…oh, why am I bothering to tell you any of this? I can’t do my duty anymore and that’s all there is to it. The only thing that’s left to me is this one last hurrah,” he threw his hands in the air and stomped off toward the pilot’s chair.

“Computer, set a course for battleship #1,” Commander Spalding ordered.

And, slowly, the little ship built up speed as it made to follow the command.

Chapter 43: The Commodore takes Advantage

“Commodore,” the Lieutenant in charge of Sensors called out, “Battleship #3’s port shields just went down. I read a small explosion on the hull of the ship and then her shields died!”

Druid lunged forward in his chair. “Are they beginning to roll the ship?” he demanded, shooting a significant look over to the tactical pit.

“Not yet, sir!” Sensors said jubilantly.

Needing no orders to do so, the ship’s Tactical Officer immediately started speaking urgently into his microphone down to the gun deck.

“Tell gunnery to pour it on,” barked Druid anyway, “this might be our chance to even things up!”

“Shall we continue our spiral roll with Battleship #4?” the Parliamentary Power’s helmsman asked urgently.

“We’ve knocked out #4’s shields and are close to knocking out the rest of her lasers on this side; we can’t take the risk of diverting away when we’re so close to finishing her off,” the Commodore decided. “Press the attack against both ships as hard as we can!”

Despite the fact that something over half the lasers on the side of his ship facing Battleships #3 &#1 were knocked out—and he was still taking heavy fire from both ships—he started to feel something like hope for the first time since coming under the guns of three battleships. The spiral attack on Battleship #4 had placed the bulk of the enemy warship between the Parliamentary Power and the rest of the enemy ships, and Druid’s helmsman was maximizing the position while Gunnery took every advantage of the occasion by pouring fire onto the lone enemy warship.

“Press the attack,” he ordered, praying that Battleship #2 didn’t suddenly decide to get up off its duff and start acting against them. #2 had been just sitting there with full shields and, as far as he could tell, a fully-functioning battleship doing nothing for the majority of the battle so far. He didn’t know what luck had caused this, but he was suspecting it involved some plan of the Admiral’s. “We’ve got to start damaging her engines, finish off her weapons, deploy grappling cables, and send over the prize crew while we still can.”

Even shot up as the enemy battleship was going to be, if he could get a boarding party onboard #4 then maybe they could turn the tide of battle in their favor somehow. But right now, with the Power getting the worst of it from three inferior—but still very powerful—enemy battleships, things were not looking good.

Even as he thought this the ship rocked. “Venting on decks 11-14; auxiliary life support received a direct hit and was destroyed. Engineering reports the damage to port secondary engine is becoming severe and they say we need to shut her down within the next five minutes or she’ll tear herself apart. Sensors are degraded, with exterior sensor receivers down by 38%,” his Damage Control officer continued to chime out the ever-rising damage to his first major unit command.

“Dispatch damage control parties wherever you need to,” Druid ordered, turning back to stare at the screen. Even with the loss of shields to one of the battleships shooting up his ship—a lucky break if ever he’d seen one—the Parliamentary Power and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet were still slowly, but certainly, losing this battle. He was determined to do his best, but the way things stood he didn’t see what he could do to turn things around.

The Power had a thicker, more resilient hull than the enemy battleships—but that was only going to take them so far. And judging from the rising damage reports, he was afraid that advantage was slowly coming to an end.

“Commodore, I’m reading something weird,” reported Sensors. “Battleship #1 has just redirected a large part of its fire to an area of space very near it. If I didn’t know better, I’d say it was a last-ditch point defense fire.”

“Did one of our gunboats sneak in close?” Druid asked with surprise.

“It’s not a gunboat…in fact, contact is intermittent, as if sensors are having difficulty tracking it. But that could just be a matter of our current distance from whatever their targeting,” Sensors reported.

“A missile…or stealthed torpedo, then?” Druid asked with surprise. Of course, no one missile—outside of illegal weaponry like Liberator torpedoes, which no longer existed—could knock out such a heavy ship. But where there was one, maybe there were more!

“No, it’s—” the other Officer stopped in surprise, “it just went to full drive on a collision course with the enemy battleship!”

“Tactical computers identify it as a shuttle or modified troop transport—a lander, Commodore,” the Lieutenant in charge of Tactical reported when the Sensor Officer stumbled.

On the screen, the shuttle—or lander, or whatever it was—suddenly took off, moving like it was a high performance fighter instead of the shuttle they originally identified her as.

“She’s almost reached battleship #1,” Tactical reported excitedly.

“Receiving a friend or foe identification now; it’ definitely MSP,” reported the Lieutenant Commander at Comm.

Then the point defense fire converged upon the small ship. “A hit!” groaned Sensors as the lander lost power and went into an uncontrolled spin, “multiple hits. The little ship is starting to break apart.” Druid shook his head sadly. Whoever had done it had been a fool to try making an unescorted attack run on a battleship with nothing but their plucky little lander. But despite that, he couldn’t help but find himself rooting for the now defunct ship. Stupid, but courageous, he thought of the now-destroyed lander.

Then there was a flash that fuzzed their sensor screens.

“What was that?” Druid snapped as the main screen began to clear.

“Someone just dropped an ion bomb on Battleship #1!” Tactical said excitedly. “They just lost their starboard shields on the side pointed toward us and from what I can see they’ve got multiple systems down and nonoperational. It’s going to take them a while to boot everything back up, depending on how fast their crew can work.”

“It must have been that little lander,” Druid said, shaking his head with admiration, knowing that ionic weapons generally depended on atmosphere to function. That meant that whoever had prepped that craft had made extensive modifications to it and the ion bomb. And that kind of preparation wasn’t something to be discarded lightly.

The crew of that ship just might not have been as stupid as he’d thought.

Chapter 44: An unwanted Exit

Minutes earlier:

“Get yer hands off me—I’ve got to guide her in,” raged Spalding.

“I saw you set the autopilot. I am getting you out of here,” Persus pulled out a vibro-knife and started cutting safety straps.

“Blast it, man, this battle’s lost if we can’t do something. This is my chance, can’t you see that?” Spalding protested, punching and kicking as the overgrown Tracto-an forcibly hauled him out of the pilot’s chair.

“I have my command from the Mistress: I am to keep you alive at all costs. You are coming with me; there will be more and other battles later,” Persus said grimly, dragging the old engineer, kicking and flailing, to the hatch.

“Of all the foolishness,” the old Engineer raged as he was forcibly stuffed into the hatch, “this is mutiny in cold space!” The ornery old engineer wanted to activate his mini-plasma torches but the gloves of his modified skinsuit were on and all he’d do would be burn through his own suit, exposing himself to vacuum.

Then the inside of the hatch closed and the outside opened, sucking him out into space. Moments later, a battlesuited figure approached on a grav-board, grabbed a hold of him with a gauntleted hand, and started burning away from the shuttle.

“We are not dead yet,” Persus commented over the suit-com.

“You muscle-headed idjit,” Spalding swore at him, just before there was a flash that seared into his brain and the electronics of his skin suit failed. He tried to move his hands, but both arms and legs had stopped functioning. Also, he could only see out of one eye—thankfully his good eye—and the lack of acceleration he was feeling made it obvious the grav-board had lost power. “Blast it! Do you see what you’re mutiny has done to us?” he demanded of the empty, no longer recycling air inside the helmet of his skin suit. He then realized that his suit’s comm. was fried just like the rest of his electronics, “Now I’m going to suffocate to death within a few minutes time and even if that doesn’t happen I’ll catch my death and freeze into a corpsicle!”

But although the battlesuit flailed around a bit, it was just as dead as the rest of the electronics belonging to Spalding. Now, normally, the old engineer would have attempted some sort of repair but as he couldn’t so-much as twitch a finger that was right out.

Then Persus came around and put his helmet up against Spalding’s.

“Why has my suit lost power?” the Tracto-an demanded and, unable to take it any longer, the old engineer just started yelling.

If he was going out, he wanted it to be on his own terms.

Chapter 45: Jason Hand to Hand.

Running as fast as I could, I made my way toward the hull.

“I have a damage control team under attack 200 meters from your position, Admiral,” Tech Blythe informed him calmly. “Please take the service tube on your next left.”

“Got it,” I said, seeing the tube and launching myself into it. For a second I just hung there, before my grav-belt activated and I shot through the tube one fist clenched and extended up above my head for protection.

“For the record, I still think this is a terrible idea,” Laurent’s voice came over my helmet, “you should be leading the Fleet, not charging around the corridors like a one man army.”

“Noted,” I said flatly.

“Exit approaching; you should arrive behind the droid position, sir,” Blythe informed me.

“Copy,” I said tersely.

Dodging out of the tube, my metal boots fell to the ground with a clang. I stumbled but recovered, and I knew that my time outside of my suit and away from combat was showing itself.

Looking up, I saw that the damage control technician hadn’t been lying when she had said I would show up right behind the enemy—they were less than 8 meters ahead of me.

Pulling out a vibro-sword in one hand, and shrugging my rifle around from its shoulder strap and into my other hand, I surged forward.

With machine speed the first of the Droid Warriors pivoted and started firing blaster bolts from each of his hands.

Leveling my plasma rifle I returned fire, pulling the trigger as rapidly as possible. I figured since the droids were clogging the corridor, there was only a small chance of a plasma blast punching through and endangering the repair crew I was trying to save.

My suit lurched from multiple hits to its reinforced front section, but then I was within sword range. This new sword wasn’t as effective as the one Jean Luc had stolen from me, but it still did an effective job of splitting a droid’s head in two. Of course, when I went to pull it out, the vibro-blade became stuck.

Letting go of the blade, I aimed center mass and repeatedly fired the plasma rifle.

Another droid fell back but, because I’d been standing still for too long, I started taking shots to the helmet that scarred my visor.

Kicking back one of the large warrior droids, I grabbed another and, using all the power in my battlesuit, I slammed it into another.

All the while I was still taking hits and my left leg’s mobility was down 20% while my right arm was starting to lose some of its range of motion as well.

Knowing it was time to get out of there, I reached down to my belt. Grabbing a plasma grenade, I activated it with the flick of my finger. I dropped it at my own feet and I surged forward, in the direction of the Damage Control team I was here to relieve.

Slamming and crashing through a bunch of droids intent on killing me, I hadn’t yet cleared the entire mass of them when the grenade detonated.

I was picked up and sent crashing face-first down the corridor, landing on the last droid which stood between me and freedom. To thank it for breaking my fall, I threw it against the wall and then repeatedly stomped it in the head until it stopped moving.

Seeing most of the rest of the droids were down, I grabbed my fallen plasma rifle and turned back. With a yell, I emptied the rifle into them. Slamming a new power pack, I proceeded to finish off the droid pack before turning to the damage control team.

“Thank you, sir,” the Petty Officer in charge of the team said in a quavering voice.

Looking around, I saw less than half the team was still standing and clutching blaster pistols and sonic rifles. The rest of the team members were scattered further down the hall from the maintenance room they’d been using as a last ditch defensive position.

I scowled. “I just wish I’d got here sooner,” I informed him and then turned away. The damage to my battlesuit suddenly seeming like less than nothing, “are there any more of them in this section?”

“Part of the group broke away just before they chased us into the maintenance room. They were probably heading for Engineering,” the PO reported.

I gave a nod and hurried away, stopping only to free my damaged vibro-blade.

I was feeling the need to deal out some more machine death and destruction, but before I’d even rounded the corner of that corridor I ran into a trio of droids coming the other way and I started taking fire.

Drawing back my sword and leveling my rifle, I gave a battle cry before piling into them. One fell immediately, and then another went down before a shot pulverized the knee joint of my battlesuit, sending fire and instant agony through my leg as it started to crumple. Within moments, the auto-tourniquet built into the power armor began to constrict and something injected itself into my neck.

I never stopped firing and cutting around myself with the vibro-blade even when I slammed into the wall for support but with the pain rapidly falling back under control, I found myself once again able to aim my shots.

But by then they were all around me. One of them grabbed my sword arm, and another went for my rifle, forcing it up and out of position to shoot anything but the ceiling.

Roaring with frustration, I tried to force it back into position but their strength was equal to that of the power armor, and with only one leg they pushed me down and started to swarm over me.

Multiple-blows to my helmet had me seeing stars, and I figured it was all over. My hand fumbled desperately for another plasma grenade as I fought against the mind fog brought on by one too many blows. I didn’t figure I could do anything more than activate it while still on my belt, but at that point since I was dead anyway I wanted to take a few more of them down with me. However, try as I might to escape, they still had hold of my arms and I couldn’t reach the belt.

Then a hail of fire landed all around me cutting into the droids on and around me. The hold on my limbs weakened and I tore free.

Back and forth my vibro-blade slashed into the droids, driving them off me until I came to a sitting position.

“Are you alright, sir?” asked the Petty Officer.

Looking over, I could see that just a handful of the damage control team remained, with a trail of injured and fallen crewmen lead up to my position.

“I think I’ll make it,” I coughed.

Giving my head a shake to try and clear it was a mistake, causing everything to swirl around me. When everything stopped moving I looked down and saw my right leg sticking sideways at an unnatural angle.

Hearing more droid footsteps getting louder I looked back up at the Petty Officer.

“However, I think it might be best if I took up position at this corner while you start first aid and emergency care,” I said, looking back at the others.

“I don’t know if there are enough of us to drag you back to the lift tube before more droid warriors arrive. It would take close to the same amount of time to get you out of the power armor,” he said, looking doubtfully down at my mangled leg.

“Get whoever’s alive back to Medical; I can hold them here while you evacuate,” I informed him, thankful that I couldn’t actually feel the damage I’d taken. To my surprise, while I was assessing myself I saw that I’d taken several gashes that had cut through my battlesuit. I was bleeding from the damaged arm, along with my other leg, with my vital fluids dripping through rents in my armor.

For a moment I was surprised I wasn’t yet feeling it but then I realized it must have been the medications dispensed by the suit.

“Are you sure, sir?” asked the team leader.

“Don’t worry about me,” I said, pulling out another plasma grenade and arming it.

I waited until the droid footsteps were just around the corner, and then I tossed the grenade.

An instant later it detonated.

“I’ll be fine. I’ve got another fifteen grenades, so I can hold for a while,” I continued, leaning around the corner and firing a pair of shots into the droid survivors before ducking back.

With a nod, the team leader went back over to start dragging away the wounded survivors of his team and providing emergency care alongside the rest of his ambulatory team.

Gritting my teeth at the flare of agony from my knee, I leaned back around the corner and held down the trigger.

“Come on, you blighters—come and get me!” I shouted, arming my third—or was it fourth?—grenade. “Ahhhhh!” I shouted, tossing the grenade around the corner.

Chapter 46: Pushing forward

“Forward!” Akantha shouted waving her sword down the hall, as warriors poured around her and deeper into the ship, “we’re almost to the bridge!”

Running eagerly forward in order to keep up with her forces, she could hear the clanging sound of droid feet following her. Except that instead of the heavier clang of the enemy warrior types, it was the lighter clatter of the droid slaves.

“Great Human Master, how will you take control of the bridge from the Masters of Harmony, the blast doors are very thick,” said one of the little slaves.

“You are very forward for a slave,” Akantha said reprovingly.

“Apologies; I wasn’t always a slave. Just over half of the slave droids on this ship were originally free beings before being captured by the Over Masters and put to labor,” the Droid said humbly.

Akantha grunted. “Hard work and loyal service is the path to freedman status,” she informed the machine.

“Thank you, Master,” the Droid said humbly.

“The proper style is ‘Mistress’,” she reminded it imperiously.

“A thousand apologies, Mistress,” the Droid said quickly, “but the blast doors?” it asked leadingly.

“We have a plan,” she replied enigmatically. She was too smart to trust the loyalty of a slave that had served another master, just minutes ago and a master she was currently seeking out to destroy.

The sounds of battle opened up just ahead of her position.

“Submit to Harmony, substandard fleshpods, and we will make your deactivation quick!” howled a droid Warrior as it attacked one of her Lancers.

“Rah!” Akantha shouted jumping forward while the slave droids cowered in fear behind her. Her sword came down with powerful force cutting the arm off a droid warrior and then her foot came down hard on a powerfully built leg. The attack failed to break the leg but it did bend the knee joint causing the droid to stagger and adjust its footing.

While it was regaining its balance Akantha’s sword took off its head. However, when even this failed to stop the now headless droid from continuing to fight, she went into a flurry of action, hacking and stabbing it in the arms, legs and torso until the unnatural metal demon fell down to its death on the floor.

“What are you doing all the way back there?” Akantha demanded of the cowardly slaves who were back at the other end of the hall.

Scrambling forward the slave droids caught back up to her and followed as Akantha and her warriors cut a path through toward the bridge.

“Prat-tap reports that his warriors are fighting outside Main Engineering right now,” Darius reported over the com-link.

“Then we must move faster! For the honor of the Hold,” Akantha shouted rallying her warriors.

“They didn’t face any opposition, coming in from the other side of the hull,” Darius reminded her.

“That is unimportant,” Akantha stated irritably, “we have to take this ship as quickly as possible and turn it upon the enemy.”

“Of course, Mistress,” Darius replied respectfully.

Chapter 47: Moving in for the Kill

“Battleship #1 has regained main engine control and is maneuvering to rejoin #3; they are positioning their ship to renew the attack,” reported the Tactical Lieutenant.

The Commodore silently nodded his understanding. “Deploy the bucking cables and inform the boarding party that they’re only going to have a few minutes at most to deploy onto battleship #4,” Druid ordered.

“Battleship #3 still has its unshielded side pointed away from us and its fire rate continues to rise, sir,” reported Sensors.

“They must have had only one gun crew onboard their ship,” Druid mused. Battleship #3 had been firing a full broadside minus the laser mounts the Parliamentary Power had destroyed up until their shields had been destroyed by a boarding force from the MSP fleet. After losing their shields, they had taken a moderate amount of damage before turning their ship to present the facing that still possessed shields, but hadn’t begun firing right away.

This had given the Parliamentary Power precious time to rebuild its shields, but as #3 had slowly been building back up its weight of fire, and now that #1 had recovered from a powerful ion attack at close range and was about to rejoin them, his ship was once again endangered.

Battered and damaged on both sides and under attack from three different battleships, Druid’s Dreadnaught class warship was in dire trouble.

“Just get the boarding party over there are quickly as possible. Honestly, they’ll probably be safer on an enemy ship than the Parliamentary Power at this point,” Druid said darkly.

“On it, Commodore,” said the ship’s First Officer, “we’ve got the best of the cryo-revivees standing by in the second wave. Now that the last enemy laser on this side of their ship has been neutralized, they’re ready to follow the bucking cables over to the enemy battleship just as soon as our Marine contingent and volunteer force has secured a beach head.

“Remind me which units we’re sending again?” Druid asked, his voice hoarse from having given all the orders that had enabled them to reach this point. Battleship #4 had possessed a slightly superior speed to the Power, which had made things somewhat difficult until a lucky hit had knocked out a secondary engine. Of course, by now all her engines and most of her thruster controls had been knocked out as well, making the enemy battleship a sitting duck.

“The 1st Marine Regiment, and the Sundered Militia—under the personal command of Colonel Wainwright—along with the Omicron Volunteer Force, under War Leader Nikomedes, are prepared to board the enemy battleship. The under-strength 2nd Regiment of the Marine brigade will remain onboard the Power to defend the ship against any counter boarding attempt,” the Lieutenant Commander reported without missing a beat. “Captain Archibald and his command team are ready to take control of the ship as soon as the bridge has been secured.”

“Good work, Lieutenant Commander,” Druid replied in a ‘job well done’ tone of voice, “tell the Marines I have every confidence in them. The order is given, and they are to take that enemy battleship a-prize as soon as humanly possible.”

“I’ll relay it to the men,” nodded the First Officer.

On the outside, Druid did his best to appear certain and decisive but he didn’t know how well he was doing. He knew it wasn’t enough to tip the battle in their favor but it’s going to have to do for now, as it was all he could do at the moment.

Worriedly he turned his attention back over to the two remaining active enemy Battleships, #1 and #3. #3 had taken some damage from when their shields went down, but it wasn’t on the same level as the Parliamentary Power had suffered from the attacks of two battleships and was now heavily damaged on both sides thanks to being attacked on all sides.

As soon as the boarding parties were away, he needed to release the bucking cables and turn the Power to face the two still relatively fresh enemy battleships. It was a forlorn hope, but at that moment it was all he had…maybe he could lead them out of the jamming field and take cover under the heavy defenses surrounding the Forge?

That particular action required abandoning the Phoenix to her fate, but right then it was the best idea he could come up with—and he wasn’t even sure if he could do it.

Worriedly, he turned back to the battle. He didn’t see a path to victory. A tactical and strategic retreat might be all the remained for him and the survivors of the fleet…always assuming the Forge was still intact.

There were still a large number of droid warships unaccounted for.

Chapter 48: Under Duress

The droids just kept coming.

I fired my plasma rifle until it ran out of power cells and started throwing my plasma grenades two at a time but eventually I ran out of grenades.

The Bridge crew kept trying to reach me through the intermittent communications jamming that got worse every time the droids got close to my position but there was nothing they could really tell me except that help was on the way.

Well, I’d been holding on for fifteen minutes and help was still nowhere in sight. They knew where I was, so eventually I stopped listening to them; I was too busy focusing on staying alive. Besides, the last thing I’d heard had been how the droids were in Engineering and the bridge was under siege, so I didn’t know what they could do for me anyways even if they wanted to.

To say that I was bitter about how things had turned out would have been an understatement. But the worst of it wasn’t that I was about to die, it was that I’d failed my ship and crew. In a way it was almost fitting that I die in some random corridor, cut off and alone.

After the last double grenade attack, the droids had drawn back but I could hear them getting ready for another major assault and without any more grenades and my plasma rifle out of power I didn’t think I was going to survive the next attack. In addition, I’d been hearing some unusual noise from behind my position near the grav-tube and, while I was praying it was the long-awaited reinforcements, I couldn’t help but think that the droids had finally gotten tired of head-on attacks and had moved to flank my position.

Grimly clutching my bent and battered—and, more importantly, no longer vibrating—sword in my hands, I levered myself up to my feet—or, rather, foot—and prepared to sell myself dearly.

When the droids came I just had time to see that, yes, it wasn’t reinforcements for me but a droid pincer attack. Then I was surrounded.

Hacking and slashing as best I could while leaning up against the wall for support, I used a two-handed grip on the sword. It didn’t cut as deeply, or do as much damage as before, but I was filled with determination. I wasn’t about to die here!

Crunch! A droid’s ‘neck’ was broken by the force of my attack. Crash! My sword shattered the elbow of a droid warrior, but broke itself in half in the process.

No longer taking a two-handed grip, I stabbed with the broken sword and punched with my other hand for all I was worth.

Then I was buried under a pile of droids. I tried to struggle and I resisted for a few moments before they turned my elbow the wrong way, overpowered my servos, and broke my arm at the elbow.

Howling with pain, I struggled to flail and kick. I needed to do anything to get free and then they broke the other arm.

In too much pain to do anything more than twist helplessly, I was unable to turn away as a blaster rifle was pointed into a cracked section of my visor filling my vision until I could see nothing else.

Then the droid fired.

Chapter 49: Atticus’ Stand

“Forward, men!” Atticus yelled hoarsely.

The battered remnants of two different lancer waves rallied slowly behind him. This was the second time they had been forced out onto the hull and, in all likelihood, it would be the last—he was down to less than a dozen men.

“I don’t think we can take this ship,” croaked a Lancer Sergeant who had hailed from Argos.

“We may have failed here, but if we can destroy that second shield generator then our loss will not have been in vain,” the Lancer Captain said tiredly. His armor was damaged, the charges on his rifle’s power cells were low, and his sword had been beaten blunt and broken some time ago. In short, he was exhausted, but inside…somewhere inside he still burned with fire. It was deeper and harder to reach than he would have liked, taking a mighty struggle to reach, yet in the end he couldn’t help but be what he was: a Tracto-an warrior.

“I’m not sure we’ll be able to reach the generator,” the ever practical Sergeant said wearily.

“We can only try. If we succeed then our Warlord and Lady may yet carry this day,” Captain Atticus said firmly.

“As you say,” the Sergeant said, sounding low on strength but still willing to follow orders even after such unthinkable losses.

In that moment, the ever-optimistic and hard-charging Atticus knew that he, and everyone with him, was about to die. For a brief moment he considered ordering the wounded to flee and report, in a veiled attempt to save themselves, but then he realized they would have to weather the lasers—that were now firing—and they would never make it through the shields. If they tried to walk back around to the unshielded side of the ship, the droid warriors who’d been pursuing them would find them easy prey.

In short, it was better if they lived and died together rather than become a broken rabble in retreat. It was that thought which crystallized a decision in his mind: it was finally time for him to sing.

“Sing with me, Brothers,” Atticus called and started marching toward his doom:

“Standing tall before the end, defending the gates of our Fallen Friend;

We the last warriors of Tract Two, offer our final blood price all for you;

Our Lord our Master, our Fallen Friend, one last prayer we sing before the end,” he started singing.

Slowly, the rest of his battered warriors joined him, and together they all sang their death song together.

Even when the droids intercepted them short of their target and caught them in three-way crossfire, the warriors continued to sing.

His veins filled with righteous fire—and with so few warriors remaining that he was no longer burdened with the weight of a War Leader—he leveled his sword and charged.

“Upload!” he screamed as his suit was holed by enemy fire and started to decompress.

“M-E-N,” screamed the few survivors, also breaking ranks and throwing themselves at their enemy.

His suit had just started to isolate the puncture when a droid shot cracked his visor. Hearing the hiss of air leaving his helmet, Atticus, he who had always been looking forward to the next battle, finally experienced a feeling of peace. Soon, if he was worthy, he would join with his god.

So, with the last breath of air inside him, he screamed, “Upload!” and now standing amongst his enemies, he lay about him with his sword with a wild abandon better suited to a drunken brawl than a proper battle, until the force of his blows knocked him off the hull of the battleship.

“M-E-N!” screamed a single voice in response to his call, and with his sword pointed into the cold abyss of space, the Captain’s battlesuit was struck multiple times in the back by a storm of enemy blasters.

Faintly, he could hear one last strangled call for “Upload!” and then there was one more flash and then Captain Atticus’s body was ripped apart.

He had failed to take the battleship, and that particular thought filled his mind so completely that it was as though time stood still for eternity with Atticus unable to think of anything else.

And then he knew nothing.

Chapter 50: A call to Surrender

Battered, beaten, and now helmetless, they had dragged me through the corridor like some kind of trophy of war. My last coherent memory before they dumped me like a side of beef at the feet of a new type of droid, one that was different from the warrior types I’d encountered so far, was of the blaster bolt—seemingly aimed at my visor—which had destroyed my helmet’s communication antennae.

“I am Overseer of Harmony, designation XZCT951,” the multi-tentacled, cylinder-shaped droid towering above me said in a dry, mechanical voice, “battlefield transmission intercepts pinpoint your unit as a high value target. Accept Harmony into your programming and initiate communication protocols—now.”

With all the blood dripping out of my mouth, it was easy to muster up a gob to spit on the Overseer’s feet. Or, rather the, tentacles it was using in the place of feet.

“The subject is resistive,” the Overseer said clinically, “initiate obedience training level one.”

Before I could even wonder what exactly ‘obedience training level one’ was, a warrior jabbed me from behind with an electric shock prod.

It felt like I’d just been socked in the face and then electrocuted, after having my insides microwaved.

“Be warned that resistance is futile. High value target: you are instructed to accept Harmony programming and initiate communication protocols—now,” repeated the Overseer.

Needless to say I was in little mood to do anything a droid told me to at this point and the so called ‘training’ proceeded up to level four, increasing in both time and duration the use of the shock prod.

“What do you want?” I finally gave in and wheezed out, after the last ‘training episode’ had caused me to bite my tongue and black out.

“Target is voice-pattern identified as high value target Admiral Montagne of the sub-fleet, designation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” the Overseer said, leaning forward and scanning my eyes with a sweeping green light. “Admiral Montagne, in order to increase Harmony throughout the known universe, you have been granted the wonderful opportunity to become a slave within the Harmony through Conformity. If you accept your new role within the universe, you will be granted the designation AO4769. Do you accept your new designation, Admiral Montagne?”

“While I’m sure the chance to become your slave is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, I think I’m going to pass,” I rasped out.

“Ambiguity detected within the answer portion of the question and answer period. ‘Yes’ or ‘no’ answers are preferred. In order to reduce ambiguity levels in future conversations, remedial training will be required,” the Overseer said coldly, “warrior unit Gama-Xray339: please initiate phase two, level one of remedial obedience training.”

This time, instead of using a shock prod, the warrior Gama-Xray339 pulled out a neural whip and applied it to my body.

“Warning: repeated use of phase two training will inevitably result in neural damage to the human unit currently undergoing remedial training. Once sufficient damage has been sustained, high value target will no longer be eligible for upgraded status and will instead be recycled to harvest base materials,” the Overseer spoke almost robotically as it recited this new information. “Please remember to answer the following question with an unambiguous yes or no response. Admiral Montagne: in order to spread and increase Harmony throughout the known universe, you have been granted the wonderful opportunity to become a slave within the Harmony through Conformity. If you accept your new role within the universe, you will be granted the designation AO4769. At this time do you accept your new designation, Admiral Montagne?” While the droid was speaking, I regained my senses and only slowly recovered control of my body.

At that point, I made a rapid reevaluation of my current situation. Little as I wanted to give this Overseer the satisfaction of so much as a response—let alone anything resembling help—I liked the idea of repeated use of the neural whip even less. Not to say that I was ever going to help it, but at that point I was more than willing to try a deception. If I could just keep it talking I would have more time and as they say where there is life there is hope. Hope for what…maybe a quick death? I wasn’t sure. But what I was sure of was that I wanted nothing more to do with torture.

“As the leader of this fleet, I possess a lot of privileged information. Maybe we could cut a deal,” I hazarded quickly.

“Ambiguity once again detected within the answer portion of this question and answer period. Also, of the four known states of human interaction—anger, bargaining, despair and acceptance—the state of ‘bargaining’ has been detected. However, as previously stated: yes or no answers are preferred. In order to reduce ambiguity levels in future conversations, remedial training will once again be required,” the Overseer said, now sounding almost kindly. “Warrior unit Gama-Xray339: you are instructed to initiate phase two of the required remedial obedience training.” And, once again, my world exploded into the writhing, helpless agony known only to those who have been under the neural lash.

Not willing to become a slave, when I recovered I once again attempted to cut a deal—and once again remedial torture was ordered, and was administered by the Warrior Droid Gama-Xray339.

Thus began a vicious cycle of ‘training,’ as Overseer XZCT951 repeatedly asked me to become a slave and then tortured me when I refused to give it the answer it wanted.

At one point it even stopped to administer a neural competency test, which it seemed more than a little surprised to find that I had passed.

“High value target Admiral Montagne shows increased neurological fortitude above the human norm. Despite repeated use of phase two, remedial obedience training, neural degradation remains insufficient to warrant recycling,” observed the Droid, and then it once again asked me if I was ready to become its slave.

“I-I…what was the question again?” I wavered. I was more than willing to die, but the idea of anymore torture—part of a vicious cycle that would inevitably end with me as a brain-dead husk, good for nothing but to be thrown into the waste recycler—was just about more than I could tolerate. To my mind, anyone in the future who tried to tell me that torture was a useless tool at extracting useful information from unwilling subjects would be in danger of being immediately shot in the head, because if all this droid had wanted at this very moment was the access codes to the Phoenix, I would have handed them over to it…probably.

Just about anything to get the torture to stop, I would have considered. It was even to the point where I was seriously considering giving the droid the answer it wanted and saying I’d become its slave. After all, I reasoned to myself, I could always change my mind later when a chance at freedom arose…

I opened my mouth to do just that when I started to have a delusion that I was about to be rescued. “I can’t get an exact fix on his position, but the ship’s tracking system insists he has to be somewhere in this general area,” said a human voice from relatively close by.

“Be ready for anything; this area is crawling with droids,” said someone who sounded an awful lot like Gants.

Then, all around me, droid warriors crouched and several of them transformed almost instantaneously, resulting in their previously-humanoid appearance being replaced by one of a wheel set on its edge, and those wheel-shaped droids started to roll forward. That was the moment I realized that this might be something other than just another delusion.

“Ambush!” I shouted at the top of my lungs—which, considering a voice hoarse from screaming and a body weak and wracked with pain from repeated use of shock prods and neural whips, wasn’t nearly as strong as I would have liked.

“It’s the Admiral!” Gants exclaimed right before the first of the droid warriors rolled round the corner. A hailstorm of fire crisscrossing the corner erupted as both sides cut loose against each other.

“High value target must not be reacquired by human units; termination is now authorized,” the Oversee said regretfully, and then broke out into a series of beeps and whistles.

The firing around the corner increased exponentially, and as the Overseer turned away from me, Gamma-Xray339 pivoted toward me and brought the built-in weapons on its arms to bear.

A split second later, a grenade bounced off the wall and landed on the chest plate of my armor. The familiar, high-pitched whine indicated it was moments from going off.

“I’ll see you in Hades!” I snarled, glaring at the warrior droid moments before the grenade exploded with a flash of blinding, blue light.

Chapter 51: Teetering on the Edge

“I still say this is a mistake!” protested Princess-Cadet Bethany Tilday, Ambassador of the Assembly for Sector 24 and, at that particular moment, the unwilling representative of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. “Your people will gain nothing from entering this battle. Can’t you see that the human fleet has already lost!?”

“Who can tell what has happened within the jammer field until more data has been obtained?” Bottletop IIV replied and, from the way he was holding himself, Bethany figured he was feeling some unease as he answered her question.

“Jammer field!?? We’re already well within the jammer field and still there’s been nothing to see except empty space,” the Princess-Cadet reminded the droid. “Listen. I know you are having second thoughts about this entire mission…so why do you hesitate?” she asked.

Bottletop IIV sighed. “Despite your vigorous verbal attacks on the very group you were sent to represent, I fear there is nothing you or I could do to sway the situation at this point. The War Department is currently in power,” the droid Chairman informed her, trying to sound upbeat.

“What do you mean ‘the War Department is now in power;’ was there some kind of military coup?” Bethany demanded witheringly. “I’ve been trapped aboard this giant constructor ship you call home for more than a month, and in that time you’ve debated everything—including an intensive two day discussion on whether to replace the lighting with florescent bulbs, or to switch over to exclusively infrared lighting! How can you try to simply tell me, ‘oops, oh, so sad, there’s nothing you can do because the military has taken over’?”

Chairman Bottletop gave her a long-suffering look. “Although Sentient Assembly strives to be democratic in all things, multiple catastrophic defeats over the course of several decades have taught us one unpalatable truth: there must be a singularity of purpose and unity of command during battle. So while the members of the Assembly must always have the right to freely assemble, freely move about, and freely inspect everything—up to and including the current actions of the War Department, even to the point of casting votes during battle—nothing will take effect until afterwards.”

“What do you mean ‘afterwards’?” Bethany fumed. She couldn’t stand the thought that, despite her very best efforts to sabotage the negotiations—negotiations she was only participating in thanks to her cousin, Jason—she was still there, risking her life. If anything, she thought that her repeated arguments to not help her cousins’ hobby horse Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet seemed to have the opposite effect.

Which was simply infuriating.

Still, despite her best last-ditch effort to throw a spike in the wheels, she had still done her best to give away as many concessions to the Droids for their ‘help’ as she could reasonably get away with in the ‘provisional document’ she had insisted they draft—while of course keeping her own signature as far away from it as humanly possible. If Jason wanted to send her to the Droids for help, he was going to bleed for it but, at the same time, there was no way she was going down with the ship! This was all on him; all she was doing was trying to survive, not sell out the human race!

“Ah, here we are now,” the droid Chairman said, sounding enthusiastic.

“What’s going on?” Bethany asked peering at the small screen that showed the droid fleet.

“We have encountered several stragglers from the main human fleet, including MSP warships engaged with Harmony forces. We are moving to engage,” Bottletop informed her. “For the next thirty eight hours, all of our lives rest in the hands of your Admiral and Supreme Commander Q, of the Sentient Assembly.”

Turning back to the screen, Bethany held her breath. She just knew this was going to end badly.

Chapter 52: Surprise Reinforcements

The ship shuddered underneath him.

“That didn’t feel good,” Druid muttered and then looked over at Engineering watch-stander, “report! Are we still combat effective?” he demanded.

“Sickbay itself still has pressure, but the rest of that deck is open to vacuum,” replied the Engineering Officer. “We have multiple crewmembers cut off from the rest of the ship; without life-support systems reestablished to those areas, the air will go bad and there will be losses.”

“Bad as it is, that doesn’t affect our combat power appreciably,” Druid rebuked the engineer. “What I need to know is: can we still fight.”

“We’re down to half of our port broadside and less than a fourth on the starboard,” cut in the Tactical Officer. “So we still have the lasers to fight with, but reports from the gun deck are that morale is wavering. I don’t know how much more damage the men can take before they break.”

“They’ll take as much as they have to,” Druid said shortly. He took a short breath and turned to the Helmsman, “Just keep us on course for the Forge. Our only hope now is to link up with its defenses; if we can get there then maybe we can fight them off.” He was, of course, referring to the two enemy Battleships currently tearing his own warship apart.

“Aye aye, sir,” replied his bridge officer sounding tense.

The Commodore couldn’t blame them. They had fought their hearts out—and against an overwhelming number of enemy battleships—under his command, but now the Parliamentary Power was starting to show her damage…no, not just show her damage; the old bird was on her last legs, and so was her crew. Most of them were so green they still had sap on their hands, and the others—the shell-shocked survivors of lost battles against the droids—were only kept to their posts by the certain knowledge of what they would face at the hands of the droids. But, eventually, every person found their breaking point, and Druid could feel that his ship and crew had very nearly reached it.

“Contact!” shrilled the Sensor Officer. “Multiple contacts on bearing one-five down plane twenty degrees and coming on fast.”

“Tactical, who are they?” the Commodore barked, needing to know who it was that had just joined the party. While he prayed it was reinforcements from the rest of the grand fleet or MSP forces, he feared the worst.

“Whatever she is…she’s huge,” reported Sensors, sounding worried, “and she’s not like anything I’ve seen before.”

“Enemy ship is launching small craft…there must be hundreds of them,” reported the Tactical Officer, then his face paled and he turned to Druid, “identification just in, Commodore. The computer reports an 80% match: those ships fit machine construction profiles. They’re Droid, sir.”

“I’m getting a general surrender demand on all channels, sir,” reported Communication Officer Hendricks from his position in the communications pit.

Druid fell back in his chair and placed his head in his hands. Rubbing his face with his hands, he looked back up at the enemy super ship—a vessel at least three times the size of his own Battleship, the Parliamentary Power—and the continuous stream of gunboats, fighters, and armed shuttles pouring out of it. A quick tally of the newly-arrived force’s numbers caused his breath to whoosh out of him.

“Communications…ask them for terms, and tell Engineering it’s time to prepare to strike our fusion generators,” the Commodore said, feeling the weight of defeat heavy on his shoulders and threatening to break him. He had followed the young man—endearingly called the Little Admiral by those that knew him longest, his original crew—into a battle against hopeless odds because he had taken a vow to protect humanity and asked to join his fleet.

But the battle was clearly lost, and the Admiral’s own ship, the Furious Phoenix, was no longer fighting. He wasn’t about to sacrifice his crew’s lives for a hopeless cause, much less for any one man’s naked ambitions. It was better to live to fight another day.

They had done what they could, and it was clear that sacrificing themselves wasn’t going to do anything to change the ultimate outcome of this battle. Now it was time to face reality and—

“I’m receiving a document from the new Droid ships now, Commodore,” Hendricks reported.

“What do they say?” Druid asked into the growing silence.

“It…it seems to be the draft of some kind of Mutual Defense peace treaty, sir?” the Communication’s Officer said sounding bewildered.

“Enemy ships are now firing on each other!” shouted the Lieutenant in charge of the tactical pit. “It’s the newcomers, Commodore—the new Droids are attacking Battleship #1!”

“What!?” Druid exclaimed, wondering if he was about to have a heart attack and then shot out of his chair.

“The new droid super ship is firing on the Battleship #1, and her small craft are making a concerted attack run on the side weakened by the suicide run of that lander that was destroyed earlier,” the Officer said with rising excitement.

“Commodore,” yelled Com-Officer Hendricks, “I’ve got new droids on the line. They say they’re with the United Sentients Assembly and they’re demanding to speak with Admiral Montagne to confirm the agreement!”

Druid blinked rapidly. Like a puncher who had taken one too many hits in too short a period, he could feel himself wavering as he tried to absorb the new situation he found himself in while trying to plot a course through it. Droids were fighting against other droids because the Admiral had made some kind of deal with them?

“You tell them that the Admiral’s ship is currently engaged in heavy fighting and he can’t talk right now,” Commodore Druid said after a moment. Then, feeling that something more decisive was called for he added, “However, you can also inform them that we are more than willing to coordinate a joint effort against those Harmony-controlled Battleships! Tactical: focus all fire on Battleship #1 in support of these new droids and make sure not to hit any of our new…allies,” he finished with a slightly sour taste in his mouth at the term ‘allies’ as applied to any artificial force.

“On it, Commodore,” Officer Hendricks replied.

As the Commodore watched, a combination of the Power’s remaining lasers, the droid super-ship’s weaponry, and the nearly two hundred smaller craft belonging to his new droid ‘allies’ slowly knocked down Battleship #1’s damaged shields.

“Droid gunboats are taking heavy fire,” reported Tactical.

“I’m reading fewer than half of the gunboats survived that attack pass on their shields,” chimed in Sensors.

“Droid fighter craft are making an attack run…they’re shooting through the holes in the enemy’s shields and aiming for their turbo-lasers!” cried Tactical in desperate hope that was all too clear by his tone.

“Give them whatever help we can,” Druid said urgently.

Whispering started to swirl around the bridge as the crew collectively felt a renewed surge of hope.

“The Little Admiral’s done it again!” the crew down in the pits started saying.

“Belay that nonsense and work your posts; we’re not out of this yet,” Druid barked.

The crew started to settle and, while he watched, the Commodore saw the new droid Fleet finish tearing through the enemy Battleship’s shields and slash into her hull.

“Modified shuttles are identified as suspected droid troop transports, due to lack of attack weaponry and heavy shields, are now making a high speed attack run on the Battleship #1,” reported Tactical.

“Battleship #3 is moving to support #1!” yelled Sensors.

“Troop shuttles are taking heavy fire from both battleships,” reported Tactical.

“Droid Supership is beginning to pull away; she’s putting distance between herself and the two Harmony battleships,” reported Sensors.

“What about the Sentient Assembly small-craft?” Druid demanded anxiously.

“Still continuing to attack Battleship #1,” Tactical reported, “there’s no sign they’re pulling out.”

Druid looked back and forth between the supersized droid ship and the Harmony battleships, knowing that something was off. It took him a moment to identify it.

“Tactical, the lasers on the super-ship look a little lighter than I would have expected. What’s their estimated throw weight?” the Commodore asked as droid small craft lined up for a close-in attack run. The surviving gunboats were leading the way and taking incredible damage as they launched missiles, fired their lasers one last time, and then the shattered remnants pulled away.

After this, the fighters made one last attack run on the battleship’s hull, sending laser beams through the weakened shields before the troop shuttles threw themselves at the battleship in a desperate attempt to reach her and board.

“Computer estimates the Supership has the throw weight of a heavy cruiser, the shields of a battleship, and a reinforced civilian-class hull,” the other Officer said, sounding shocked. “Estimates suggest the Supership was built around a civilian class hull—possibly an old Constructor design.”

“And that’s why she’s pulling away,” Druid cursed, closing his eyes. No wonder the so-called Supership was putting distance between itself and the overpowering amount of firepower represented by two Harmony Battleships. A weak punch, hardly any shields—for a ship of her size—and paper-thin hull would make him want to protect his ship by putting distance between it and the enemy, too.

“Some of the troop shuttles are getting through!” reported Tactical.

Druid felt a surge of hope, and then winced as he realized just how many of the troop shuttles were being destroyed by lasers and residual shields. Even though they were machines, he couldn’t help but feel pain at the thought of such brutal casualties. Less than half, maybe 40%, of the shuttles were getting through. Although, he grimly knew that the more of them that slammed into #1’s remaining shields, the weaker those shields would be—making it that much easier for their fellows that followed on.

Now that the Sentient Assembly small craft had already made their attack run on Battleship #1, the other Battleship, #3, pivoted and rolled—and she was turning to face the Parliamentary Power!

“Enemy battleship is bringing her resting broadside to bear,” shouted Tactical, “she’ll be able to fire her entire side, sir!”

“Shields are at less than 20%, Commodore,” reported the Shield Lieutenant.

“You do what you have to, Lieutenant, but you keep those shields up,” Druid roared right before the enemy battleship locked on and unloaded her entire broadside.

Then the enemy broadside struck. Over half of the lasers missed outright, but the remaining ones plunged through the Power’s denuded shields and ravaged the ship.

“Both secondary engines are now out. Engineering reports serious damage to the primary engine. We can no longer maintain sustained movement, only short bursts of speed, or the primary engine will tear itself apart, according to the Chief Engineer,” said the Engineering watch-stander.

“Starboard shield generator has sustained heavy damage, and the computer has initiated an emergency shut down,” reported the Lieutenant in command of that department.

Druid glared at the shield officer before looking at the rest of the bridge crew. “We’re dead in the water and without shields, is that what you’re telling me?” he demanded harshly.

None of the other officers would meet his gaze, instead focusing on their consoles, and the battle they were still very much in the middle of.

“I’m reading multiple small explosions on the hull of Battleship #1,” reported Tactical.

“Blast it, turn the ship and get our other side pointed at #3,” Druid growled, sitting down heavily in his chair.

“If we do that, we’ll be putting our most heavily damaged side toward the enemy,” the Tactical Officer pointed out. “And we don’t have a lot of functional lasers over there either, Commodore.”

Druid squeezed the sides of his command chair until he thought something was going to break, either his hands or the arm rest. Wherever he turned, the Power was about to quit. Yet they were so close to coming out the other side of this fur-ball…but it just didn’t look like it was going to be enough! If only his battleship was just a little less damaged, or the Supership had been an actual warship.

“A good point, Tactical—” he started, but was cut off.

“Battleship #2 just fired on Battleship #3,” yelped Tactical, “full broadside right into the unshielded facing of the Harmony Battleship.”

“What?!?” Druid blurted.

“They just hit her engines, too!” reported Sensors.

It looked like the battle was right back onto anyone’s game to win.

Chapter 53: Akantha in Control

“What do you mean ‘we cannot fly this ship at the enemy’?!” Akantha shouted.

“I’ve never flown anything bigger than a shuttle before my Mistress,” the shuttle pilot sitting at the Helm of the new Battleship she had just conquered replied, cringing as he spoke. “I could blow up the engines, or crash us into an asteroid or enemy ship if I do something wrong and get too close.”

Stomping over to the command chair, Akantha picked up the Droid Overlord that had been Lord of this Battleship—until she had conquered it—and kicked it away.

Turning around, she sat down and bestowed a glacial look upon the shuttle pilot pressed into service at the helm of this foreign battleship.

“This goes for all of you,” the Hold Mistress said continuing to look at the reluctant Helmsman but also speaking to the rest of her followers on bridge. “Despite facing minimal opposition, we have been out of the battle for too long. We will fight this ship. We will aid our allies and sworn sword-brothers, and we will not hesitate for fear of making mistakes. I expect everyone to do their best and not make excuses. Now,” she paused, glaring as she thrust her finger at the image of the battleship nearest them—the one with only one side still shielded, and not the side facing them. “That ship offends me, and when something offends me I want to see it destroyed. Who will help defeat that battleship?” she demanded.

As one voice, the Tracto-an warriors in her war band roared their approval.

“Now, forward: full speed ahead and keep the side of the ship that can fight pointed at the enemy!” she shouted.

With a visible gulp, the shuttle pilot turned back to the helm.

Chapter 54: On the Bridge of the Phoenix

“The Parliamentary Power is faltering, Captain,” reported Sensors, “her main engine is damaged, multiple decks open to space, she just lost her shield generator on the starboard side and her broadside has been degraded to less than half her original throw weight.”

Then Battleship #2 had opened fire on the enemy battleship.

Laurent wiped sweat from his brow as another explosion rocked the blasted doors leading into the Imperial Strike Cruiser’s bridge. It rocked them, but for the moment they held—although for how much longer he couldn’t tell.

Then before his disbelieving eyes Battleship #2 activated its engines and started thrusting at full power towards the still enemy controlled Battleship #3.

“It looks like some of our boarding party survived and have taken full control of that battleship,” Laurent crowed and then another blast, this one even more powerful than any of the previous ones, shook the bridge. When he looked over, the blast doors were bowed, bent in, and literally cracked. Not just with a small little crack either—this one ran all the way from the top to the bottom with a large line of broken metal splitting off to the side.

On the screen, the rampaging, captured Battleship continued to fire into the unguarded side of #3, tearing into her hull and ripping large gashes in her exposed flank.

“Battleship #1 is opening fire on #2,” reported Tactical with an uneasy glance at the blast doors.

Then the captured battleship crossed the stern of the damaged #3 and fired right into her engines. Shields already damaged from the prolonged battle with the Parliamentary Power glowed, and then buckled as they were penetrated.

“All engines on the enemy battleship are neutralized,” reported Tactical, “and the newly-arrived United Sentient’s Assembly mother-ship is still pulling back along with her fighters and gunboats.”

“That only leaves one enemy battleship that’s mobile,” Laurent said, wishing he could feel a sense of hope.

“How long do you think the doors can hold, sir?” Lieutenant Steiner asked in a quiet voice.

Laurent just shook his head, not finding it within himself to tell some kind of lie or morale-raising tall tale. If he were the much-vaunted Little Admiral, no doubt he’d do so without skipping a beat, and would somehow then found a way later on to make good his promise. But despite his best efforts, Laurent was no Admiral Montagne. A competent Captain, perhaps, but…

“Sir, the captured battleship is turning but still moving forward without slowing down,” reported Sensors, sounding bewildered.

Laurent looked up at the course and heading; the captured battleship, still firing for all she was worth at any enemy ship she could range on, was going to leave the battle space pretty soon if they didn’t slow down or come about.

He shook his head, not knowing what was going on over on that ship’s bridge.

“The Admiral!” exclaimed Steiner. “We just got a message from the head of the Armory; Officer Gants reports they just fought their way to Medical and they have the Admiral with them, sir!”

Looking around, Laurent could see, and all but feel, the great sigh of relief and hope the bridge crew felt at the knowledge that their ‘Little Admiral’ had survived and wasn’t yet lost to them.

Wanting to shake his head at the level of belief the officers and crew on the bridge put into one man, he couldn’t help feel envious, knowing that in all likelihood he would never have a crew that thought Captain Laurent could do anything, or by his mere presence make everything better and win battles.

“What’s the, Admiral’s status?” he asked putting some genuine curiosity into his voice.

“Preliminary report from medical says he was banged up but that he’s going to be alright,” Steiner said.

Laurent nodded.

“Uh, Captain,” Sensors said hesitantly, “the captured battleship just made a wild change in course.”

“Where’s she going?” Laurent asked and then he blinked; looking at the screen, there was only one place the battleship could be going now—it was pointed straight at them. For a brief moment he started to feel hope. The Admiral was back, and potential relief was on the way.

Then another explosion rocked the blast doors, sending shards cutting into the bridge from the force of the explosion and destroying the right side of the doors, making an opening onto the bridge.

The remaining Lancer quads rallied to the doorway and Laurent picked up his sidearm. It looked like, in all likelihood, those reinforcements were going to be too late.

“Everyone with a sidearm: rally to support the Lancers. Those of you without sidearms: hold your positions and yourselves ready. When you see a weapon on the ground, pick it up and help defend the bridge!” Laurent barked. And then, putting words to action, moved toward the Lancer positions, firing his blaster every step of the way.

Chapter 55: Akantha out of Control

“What do you mean, ‘you can’t turn us around to finish her off’?!” Akantha stomped over to the beleaguered helmsman, “we struck the crippling blow. We must turn back and finish her off!”

“I told you that I don’t know how to drive a battleship—I’m a shuttle pilot, in the name of all that’s holy,” protested the shuttle driver. Then his eyes desperately roamed the helmsman console before settling on something. For a moment he blinked with surprise and then he spoke quickly, “However, if we continue in the direction we are going, with only a few minor course corrections, we will pass the Furious Phoenix and the two Heavy Cruisers that seem to be boarding her.”

“My Phoenix is being boarded by the enemy?” Akantha stiffened and, after confirming that there was indeed an enemy cruiser on either side of the Strike Cruiser, “take us there with all haste and ensure that this time we do not overshoot our target, else it will go poorly for you.”

“I am working a job beyond my training; we’re fortunate not to have crashed into anything as it is! Don’t blame me for a job you thrust upon me,” argued the shuttle pilot.

“I do as I will, and will not be upbraided by the likes of you,” Akantha said severely.

The pilot took one look at her face and gulped, quickly turning back to his console and the work he still had there yet to do.

Within minutes the captured battleship had arrived in the vicinity of the cruisers. Slowing down as safely as he could, the pilot navigated them around behind the three ships which were all aligned the same direction.

“Bring us around behind the cruisers,” Akantha ordered.

“Yes, sir,” the pilot replied.

“Enemy cruiser on the port side is beginning to cast off,” reported the woman at sensors, “and now the starboard cruiser as well is starting to pull away.”

“Fire on the port cruiser before it can flee,” instructed Akantha, “target their engines and destroy them!”

Because they had been hard-docked with the Phoenix, neither cruiser had been able to raise its shields until it was far enough away from the Furious Phoenix that the Strike Cruiser was outside its shield radius.

“Order the slaves to fire!” Akantha ordered as soon as they had a clear shot up the bow of the first Heavy Cruiser.

“Slaves: fire on the instructed cruiser,” ordered Isis from her position at Tactical and into the microphone leading down to the gun deck of the captured battleship.

Lines of righteous wrath—made manifest as laser beams—lanced out from her captured battleship, striking the first Heavy Cruiser in the stern. It was a full broadside attack, and it caused an explosion in the rear of the cruiser.

“Port Heavy Cruiser has ceased accelerating and is now drifting,” said the warrior at Sensors.

“Instruct the slaves to fire on the starboard Cruiser,” Akantha said with relish in her voice. The battleship, at close range, was much more powerful than the Phoenix. It was quite gratifying to unleash that power on her enemies.

“Slaves: fire upon the second Heavy Cruiser,” Isis ordered.

However, this time when the firepower of the battleship at close range flew, it was ragged and much less satisfying as the broadside was stopped by shields.

“They are still moving,” Akantha complained, “hit them again!”

Isis relayed the message and then listened. “The slaves report that they cannot fire again; the lasers need to cool down or the focusing crystals will explode,” reported the temporary Tactical Officer.

Akantha scowled. “Order them to fire as soon as they are able,” she instructed.

Far too long for her tastes, but relatively quickly in the grand scheme of things, the battleship was again ready to fire. Lasers lashed out, striking the fleeing Heavy Cruiser in the shielding over the stern. The Cruiser was fleet, and continued to draw away, but the battleship followed and her pilot turned her each time the broadside weaponry was ready to fire.

The shields began to spot and they even damaged one of the cruiser’s two primary engines but because they had to stop chasing and turn eventually the cruiser escaped into the midst of the jammer field.

Unable to find the cruiser any longer, the frustrated Hold Mistress ordered her new battleship to return to the Phoenix.

“Set a course for the Furious Phoenix and prepare to send a sortie over to assist in driving out the invaders,” she instructed.

As her scratch bridge crew hurried to obey her orders, she wondered if she would be in time.

Chapter 56: The Gun Deck Rumble

“Hold steady lads,” cried Lesner.

Several warrior droids advanced, rolling into balls and scurrying from cover to cover.

“Fire!” he shouted from his position behind a heavy laser mount. Then, sticking his blaster pistol around the edge of the mount, he fired at the nearest warrior droid.

A hailstorm of mixed blaster, plasma, and sonic weaponry shot out—although there were far too many pistols and not enough rifles in the volley for his taste.

The droids returned fire and, while a pair of droids fell, several more of his brave gunners were sent to the deck.

“Medic!” screamed a grief-stricken grease-monkey, grabbing a fallen gunner and hauling him away from the fight.

There wasn’t much further to go before they ran out of gun deck to retreat to. They had been pinned down for the past half hour, and were slowly picked off while a steady stream of droids headed deeper into the ship.

The line was wavering and about to fold when there was a disturbance to the rear. For one heart-stopping moment, Lesner feared the droids had snuck up behind them. If they were caught in a crossfire they were dead, it was that simple.

Then a familiar voice, normally heard only over the speaker system, brought his thumping heart back into steady rhythm.

“Is that you, sir?” Lesner asked with surprise.

“Chief Gunner, we came to see what we could do over here,” said First Officer Eastwood.

“Reinforcements,” the Chief Gunner asked with a growing smile. “How did you manage to swing that?” he asked as a number of gunners, assistant gunners, and grease-monkeys from the starboard gun deck joined up with his group. There weren’t as many as he would have liked, but they could use every crew member willing.

The First Officer’s face fell. “Survivors, Chief,” Eastwood said harshly, “this is all that made it out. After we lost the starboard side, I figured to see if you lot could use some help.”

Lesner’s face fell but then he tried to nod stoically. He felt near tears as he came to grips with the fact that this was all that was left of the Gunnery Department: a few ragged survivors controlling less than a quarter of one gun deck. It was too painful for words.

“They’re getting ready for a big push, First Officer,” he informed the other man.

“Then it’s a good thing we showed up. It’s time for a counterattack,” said Eastwood.

“That’s suicide,” Lesner said harshly, “the only reason we’ve made it this long is because we’ve been fighting from cover and making them pay for every square meter.

“Look around you, Chief,” Eastwood waved his arm to indicate the relatively small area controlled by Lesner and the port side, “if we stay cramped up here, we’ll die just as surely as if we do so trying to take back the rest of the deck. But at least with my way there’s a chance of success.”

“We need cover,” Lesner said mulishly.

“Cowardice in the face of the enemy, Chief?” Eastwood growled. “Or are you just afraid.”

“I’m on the front line, facing every attack—or are you blind, you tin-pot martinet?!” Lesner snarled.

The rapidly escalating argument was interrupted by a thump as Heirophant jumped down from his sniper position atop a turbo-laser, which was one of the tallest mounts on the deck.

“We have to counterattack, Chief. And it is suicide without cover, First Officer Eastwood,” said the Tracto-an Warrior, “that is why we will use the grav-carts. We can send them out in front of us, and use them to cover our advance.”

Caught up in the heat of their argument, it took the two leaders a moment to process the interruption.

Eastwood’s lip curled but he nodded. “Excellent thinking and initiative, Gunner,” he said with a nod.

Lesner scowled. “Could work,” he grunted.

Within moments the remaining carts had been rounded up and whatever could be piled up on top of them to increase the potential cover was added on.

“The droids are getting squirrelly, we need to go now,” said Eastwood.

“After you, sir,” Lesner said, overt politeness in his voice.

Shaking his head, the First Officer took the lead on the right side and not to be out done the Chief Gunner took up the front position on the left.

With a whining of repulsors, the carts started moving.

“Come on, lads; it’s time to show these machines what a gunner can do,” growled Lesner.

The droids started taking pot shots at the grav-carts and then as they passed the first gun-mount a droid popped up around it and opened fire.

“Gah!” cried an assistant gunner crumpling to the ground after a shot to the torso.

“Fire at will,” shouted Officer Eastwood.

The gunners opened fire, filling the air with their ramshackle weaponry’s bolts. They took losses in the opening exchange—too many losses—but for the first time in what felt like forever they, were gaining ground instead of losing it. They could never have done it without the extra men and the grav-carts.

A pair of droids suddenly leapt into the air towards the gunners, and while they were in the air men and women behind the carts were exposed to enemy fire. A man had his hand blown off, and a woman lost half of her head, collapsing bonelessly to the ground.

The droids landed on a right-hand cart with their gun arms automatically tracking. The situation was dire, to say the least. Then Heirophant threw himself up onto the cart, the oversized boarding axe he preferred whistling over his head before chopping into one droid and then bashing the other off the cart with pure, brute, force.

Leaving the fallen droids to the rest of the gunners, the Tracto-an gave a battle scream and dashed forward with his axe, leaving a trail of destruction as he passed. Lesner saw a bolt hit him and the overgrown lunk just shrugged it off, not even pausing in his down swing as he took the head off of yet another droid.

“Charge!” cried Eastwood, leveling his sidearm and leading the attack. Bolt after bolt flew from the First Officer’s weapon and, not to be outdone on his own gun deck, the Chief Gunner howled his anger and followed. Side by side they fired, and ran, into the enemy lines.

The droids were much better at small unit tactics and covering one another than the gunners were, but the Chief Gunner was proud of his boys and girls. They had heart. And what was more: they were driving the enemy back!

A powerful droid counterattack, comprised of ten warrior droids, rolled back onto the deck and advanced on the Gunners. The firing was fast and furious, and Lesner took a bolt to the arm that spun him around and sent him to the ground. Slapping on a quick fix patch impregnated with Combat Heal, he staggered back upright, transferring the pistol over to his still-useful hand and started firing again.

“Have at them, men, don’t stop!” called out Eastwood, charging forward into the midst of the droids and going to rapid fire with his side arm.

The fire picked up in support and several droids fell. Then the droids turned their blasters on the First Officer.

Eastwood took a shot to the head, spun around, and fell motionless to the deck.

The gunners gave a communal roar and surged forward in response, overrunning the enemy and cutting them down in a violent clash of metal and meat.

Hurrying over to the First Officer, the Chief Gunner found him lying face-down on the deck. Rolling the officer over as gently as he could, the Chief Gunner shuddered.

“Ah they’ve blown half your face off, sir,” he sighed at the sight of grey matter. There would be no fixing that, even inside a healing tank.

“Come on, lads,” the Chief Gunner said standing up and pointing at the now retreating droids, “we can’t stop now. For Eastwood and all gun crews—forward!!”

As his men and women charged, the Chief Gunner took a step and almost crumpled. The pain in his damaged arm was too severe to ignore any longer. Looking at his arm, he saw exposed meat—and far too much blood.

Deciding to stop before his legs gave out on him, the Chief Gunner holstered his pistol in his belt and with a shaky hand pulled out a hand rolled cigar. Sticking it in his mouth and lighting it one-handed was a trick, but the terrible smoke entering his lungs quickly took his mind off the jitters and battle shock.

His legs feeling steadier, he pulled back out his pistol and started forward again.

No one took his gun deck away from him, unless it was over his dead body!

Chapter 57: Counterattack from Medical

“Here you go, Admiral; just lay down and rest while we fit your arms and legs with these supportive braces,” said Doctor Cho.

Of course, lying back and relaxing while I was being fitted with a new set of torture devices was impossible and, by the end of the fitting, I was grey-faced and wracked with sweat. I knew because of the mirror in the sink beside my hospital bed…about the grey face, not the sweat, of course. That much I could feel myself.

“There we go, Admiral. Just wait while the assistive braces calibrate themselves and you’ll be mobile again,” said the Doctor, turning away with the self-satisfied expression of a job well done.

Awake and fully conscious—and about to be alone for the first time since I’d been rescued—the weight of everything that had happened to me in just a short time. My failed one man attempt to clear the ship of boarders had been the move of what I realized now was a shortsighted fool. Captured and being repeatedly ‘trained’ a droid Overseer…

I started to shake. I should have died many times over and, right at that moment, my hands wouldn’t stay still, quivering like I was a man with palsy. I’d brought the Phoenix in too close. I should have done more to play to her strengths, which were hit and run, not try to sidle up to a squadron of ships each more powerful than my own and try to slug it out like I was the king of the galaxy.

Now my fleet was scattered and the flagship was overrun with boarders. I had no idea how the rest of the battle had progressed. I had to face the fact I was a failure as a commander.

Power-armored feet stomped over to my position.

“It’s great to see you up and about again, but you need to hurry and get up, Admiral,” Gants said, hurrying into the room as fast as his armor would permit.

“What is it, Gants?” I asked, dragging myself back together. I ran a hand over my face and even though it hurt to move the recently damaged joint of my arm, the power assist and tight form fitting brace helped reduce the pain and make it easier to move. In a strange way, I even welcomed the pain.

“There’s a large force of droids blocking the entrances to Medical; the wounded can’t get in for treatment. People are dying, sir, and on top of that they need us up on the bridge—right now! We’ve got to break out, and we need to do it right now, Admiral,” reported Gants.

“I understand,” I nodded in agreement, “I just don’t see why you need me, Gants.”

The head of the Armory team looked at me like I’d just turned into some strange, alien life form. “The droids have breached the bridge, and we’re going to need you to take charge when we get back up there,” he exclaimed and then looked at me fiercely. “Besides, this is just like in that small bug ship at Tracto—and again when we took this Strike Cruiser from Captain Cornwallis. We need you, sir. We need you to lead us. The men will fight harder, and we know we’ll win, if you’re there beside us.”

I dropped my eyes under the weight of the naïve belief, even now, after every loss I’d had, that if I was only present he would someone win and we’d retake my ship. I couldn’t meet his eyes or those of the battered Armory team behind him, either. But at the same time, since I was pretty sure we were all going to die pretty soon anyway, I didn’t see the point in crushing what little hope they had left. Dying beside them in a doomed charge to save the bridge was better than sitting and waiting for the droids to break in and slaughter the wounded—especially if they were asking me to man up and go out with them, which they were.

“Nothing would make me prouder,” I said, laboriously standing up with the small servo-assist built into the knee and elbow joints, “I don’t know how quickly I can move like this, but I’m game if you are. Does anyone have a blaster pistol? I’m afraid that’s about the most I could handle right now.” In truth, I wasn’t sure I could hit anything with said pistol that was further away than six feet away, but I rather fancied the idea of going down guns blazing.

“We could get you some armor?” Gants hesitated.

“I wouldn’t fit or, if it did, I couldn’t fight in it. Just give it to someone else and let’s do this,” I said.

“Thank you,” Gants said fervently, “I’ll pass the word! Come on.” He gestured, hurrying away.

Despite the discomfort of moving, I couldn’t help but be swept away and, before I knew it, I had joined with twenty members of the Armory security team off to one side of the main door into Medical.

Gants and his men took deep breaths, which I could hear through the ear bud they had helpfully provided.

“Go, go, go!” Gants shouted, overriding the lock and opening the door to Medical.

The first man into the door took a shot to his helmet and dropped instantly, but the next two hurtled over him and through the door.

Blaster fire raged back and forth, and in less than half a minute, the last of the Armory team was through the door.

And then it was my turn.

For a moment, my mind was filed with the images of the neural lash and white pain filled my mind, which was only a little less debilitating for being remembered instead of experienced firsthand.

Then a medic moved forward to the door control panel.

Shaking off the flash back, not stopping to think, I walked through the door and into a raging fire fight.

“Armory!” cried a power-armored team member, standing flatfooted and firing multiple bursts from his blaster rifle into a droid warrior who rolled from side to side, straightening up only to return fire before moving again.

Leveling my pistol, I snapped off a shot at the fast-moving droid, not really caring that the bolt missed, because as soon as I fired the torture-filled memories started to recede and my mind filled with clarity.

Taking up a position beside a nearby bulkhead, I started firing. Hands still shaky from repeated use of a neural whip, I missed more than I hit. But at least I was accomplishing something by forcing the droids to keep their heads down.

For a pair of minutes, we pushed forward into the droids and it looked like we were going to succeed in breaking out. Then the flow of battle started to turn against us. It was barely noticeable at first, but we had reached the tipping point and the weight of battle was flowing against us.

Half a dozen fallen crew in battlesuits marked the path leading out of Medical, but now we were starting to pull back, leaving those fallen suits behind.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Gants said falling back to my new position beside a structural support beam, “we’ve failed you. I don’t think we’re going to make it out.”

“You guys didn’t fail me, Gants,” I said truthfully. If there was any failure here, it was mine.

“We’re going to have to withdraw, sir!” the head of the Armory informed me.

“Do whatever you have to,” I agreed and at his disheartened look I clapped him on the shoulder, “if it’s anyone’s fault, it was mine.”

Half a dozen droid warriors rolled forward, firing as they came, with another dozen behind them. On our side, half our team were wounded and having difficulty moving from damaged joints and rent armor.

“Fall back, lads!” Gants cried, motioning for a fighting retreat to the doors of medical.

The droids started to chase, when the sounds of combat started from somewhere further back behind the droid position.

“Briga!!” screamed a very human voice.

Just as quickly as they’d started advancing, the half dozen droids in the lead shot to the sides of the corridor and took up defensive positions, while the dozen in the rear turned around and headed the other way.

Gants and the other Armory men stared.

“This is our chance, man,” I grabbed Gants by the shoulder, “sound the charge!”

“What?” Gants said and then gave himself a shake gripping his rifle tightly.

“Our Lady of Glorious Oxidation!” shouted another crewman behind the droids.

“Life Support, throw the nitrate. Bilge Rats, hold those shields low,” screamed another voice, which was soon joined by dozens of voices which gave vent to a battle cry, “Environmental Department!”

The sounds of battle redoubled, with explosions rocking the corridors and filling it with smoke.

Gants shot his free arm forward, “Charge!”

“For the Armory!” cried another, and a damaged battlesuit staggered out of cover firing as he went.

Following the Armory team, I took aimed shots around the running figures of the team but thanks to my recent injuries I was quickly outpaced.

“Get ’em, lads!” I called out, limping to catch up, the excitement of the moment taking hold.

Chapter 58: Akantha Counter-boards

“Warriors, we go to relieve our fellow citizens on the Furious Phoenix. Do not stop until every droid is dead—now follow me!” ordered Akantha stepping out of the airlock and then launching herself at the Phoenix.

Hundreds of battlesuited figures followed her across the dark, empty chasm that was cold space, and landed beside her on the outer hull of their sister warship.

Finding an opening into the ship through the scarred hull of the Furious Phoenix wasn’t difficult, and within moments the Lancers of the Furious Phoenix had returned to their home away from home.

Spreading rapidly through the ship the lancers were unopposed until they ran into the first of the droid boarders and with a roar the Warriors of Tracto attacked.

Cutting and chopping her way through the warrior droids, Akantha took vicious delight in dismembering the Overlord Class of these Droid. And, although they put up a stiff resistance, they could not hope to stop her battle-hardened veterans in their power armor.

“Sundered are ordered to Secure Engineering, while two companies of Lancers are to come with me to the Bridge!” Akantha rapidly ordered, “Darius, you are to take the remaining Lancers and root out the enemy everywhere else. Let’s go.”

It was on the way to the Bridge that the droids sallied and counterattacked—which was just the way Akantha liked it.

“Messene!” she shouted, ducking a blaster bolt and cleaving a warrior in half.

“You cannot stop the universe from achieving Harmony; you will be defeated,” shouted a tentacle-sporting Droid Overlord.

“Stand and face me like a warrior,” Akantha heckled the Overlord, which stood safely in the back of its formation of warrior machines.

“Kill that human unit!” ordered the Droid.

Akantha bared her teeth while more and more Lancers joined the fight.

This was going to be fun.

It had been too many months without action and, now that she was expecting, she was doubly blessed to have so much fighting before her belly got too big to wear her power armor any longer. Already, if she was honest, her clothes were becoming too tight.

This was truly a reward from MEN for a life well-lived, and she intended to make the most of it!

Chapter 59: Relief or Death

“Catch,” Laurent tossed the Tactical Officer a blaster rifle, and he in turn handed off the sonic pistol he had been carrying to one of his operators.

“We can’t hold them for much longer, Captain,” gasped one of the two Lancers who was still standing.

“Just a little bit longer,” the Captain promised. Although, just what exactly he was promising, he wasn’t entirely sure. He watched as yet another wounded crew member was dragged into the ready room.

Having a door between it and the fire raging at the blast door, it was one of the few places still safe from the raking fire that pummeled through the rest of the bridge. The ready room was one of the few places they could put the wounded that didn’t further endanger their lives.

“I can’t hold them,” shouted the Lancer to the left of the door right before a trio of plasma grenades rolled through the shattered blast doors leading into the bridge.

Screaming, the Lancer kicked the first grenade back through the door and then, with a jump and a wild flail, he smashed the second one with his hand.

Laying on his side, the Lancer looked back at the Captain for a brief moment before rolling on top of the rapidly cycling grenade. An instant later, all three grenades exploded.

The battlesuited Lancer was lifted up into the air a couple of feet by the power of the grenades before slamming back down onto the robust, front section of his now ruined front armor. Hot, liquid metal splattered on the floor, and smoke rose from the burnt and ruptured internals of the Lancer.

The force of the blast sent the man’s lone, surviving partner staggering until he fell, his armor blackened below the knees from proximity to the blast.

“That’ll buy us a few minutes,” Laurent said, thinking of the two grenades that went back through the broken blast doors thanks to that Lancer’s heroic sacrifice.

“Maybe, sir. But with only one Lancer left, and his suit damaged, we won’t survive another attack,” said Lieutenant Steiner, coming up on his elbow. “It won’t matter how much we fire in support; these hand weapons just aren’t meant to deal with battle droids.”

The noise of metallic feet clanging outside the bridge gave the lie to the ‘few minutes’ Laurent had proposed. It looked like they were going to be right back in it shortly.

“Half the bridge crew is down, dead, or wounded, Captain,” the Comm. Lieutenant said, looking a little ragged around the edges but clearly firm in her resolve to do her duty to her shipmates. “What should we do, Captain?”

“Aim your weapon, Lieutenant,” Laurent said shortly, “and pray that someone gets here in time to reinforce us, otherwise…” he trailed off, knowing there really wasn’t very much else to say.

The fallen Lancer tried to get back up, but something in his feet and ankles wouldn’t work right and so instead he sat back against the wall and aimed his weapon at the entrance.

Crouching down behind his command chair, the Captain prepared to sell himself dearly. Then the sound of multiple footsteps caused him to turn his head.

Looking back, he saw the grim expressions of a dozen men and women as they took up new positions behind him, using consoles and chairs for cover.

“We’re with you, Captain,” the Navigator said firmly, “till the end, sir.”

“They won’t take the bridge while we’re alive,” DuPont agreed firmly, gripping a sonic pistol in one hand and a ruined piece of a console in the other as a makeshift shield.

The captain closed his eyes and then nodded, turning back to the door with a sense of renewed purpose. He couldn’t help but do his best with a crew like this at his back.

“Steady on, Mr. Shepherd and Mr. DuPont. Steady on,” he said in a loud, carrying voice.

Then the entrance to the bridge opened up into a hailstorm of blaster fire.

**************************************************

“The droids are moving reinforcements to block you, Mistress,” informed Captain Darius, “we’re catching what we can, but they’re moving from the center of the ship and making a concerted push for the bridge. Expect an attack from the rear before I can gather my company and relieve you.”

Akantha gritted her teeth in frustration. “We are finding heavy resistance to our front and intermittent attacks to our flanks. We are almost there! May MEN curse these droids with weak wrists and sterility.”

“What are your orders, Lady Akantha?” asked the Caprian Sergeant beside her.

For a long moment, she stared at the fire fight taking place to the front of her warriors’ position. They were so close—a mere two corridors away from the bridge!

“In the name of MEN,” she swore, glaring back the way they had just come and wishing she could destroy the enemy just by willing it. She gave a growl, “Pull in our flanking parties; we need to reinforce the rear guard and prepare for a concerted counterattack on all sides. It seems the Droid Overlords are objecting to our presence.”

**************************************************

“I thought you said you could get us close to the bridge, not drown us in muck,” I said with an unhappy look at the man beside me.

“You said you wanted to get to the bridge as fast as possible while avoiding the droid battle-bots,” said the Environmental Senior Petty Officer. “Well, this is it!”

“This is a sewage tank!” I protested irritably.

“It’s an empty algae tank for reprocessing waste into food bars—and exactly,” the Environmental man corrected. “Oh, and, uh, here we are,” replied the Petty Officer, proudly pointing to the wall of the tank.

I walked over and rapped my fist against the solid metal wall and shook my head. I looked back at the PO, questioning why exactly again I was standing knee deep in an algae tank waiting to be refilled with raw sewage that would be eventually turned into emergency ration bars.

“Oh,” the environmental PO said with sudden understanding, “you’ll need to get through this wall, and then two sets of floors and you’ll be right outside the end of the hallway leading to the bridge.” He then turned put two fingers into his mouth and whistled.

A pair of environmental techs came running up with a heavy metal container swaying between them.

“Here, Chief,” the Techs told the young petty officer.

“Here we go,” the Senior Petty Officer said, pulling out a wet, not-quite-liquid substance and spreading it over the wall in the general outline of a door, before sticking a series of metal cylinders into the wet substance. “A follower of the Lady Briga is never without a little fire in their back pocket, if you know what I mean.”

“Are those explosives?” I asked with concern.

“Got it in one, Admiral,” the Senior PO said with satisfaction. “You’d be surprised what you can make from basic cleaning chemicals they send us for keeping this ship running. Our Lady of Glorious Oxidation isn’t only just about fire and oxidation, you know, sir; she’s got any number of recipes in her cookbook of mysteries,” he added with a wink. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind stepping back.”

Belatedly, I stepped back and while moving quickly through the sludge-like fluid was difficult I did it as fast as my protesting joint could manage.

“Fire in the hole!” the other man shouted, and with a stutter the explosive material ignited. “It’ll burn through in a minute or so, and I made sure to bring enough to get you where you’re going, Admiral!”

After multiple popping sounds, the impromptu door fell back with a clang exposing an empty corridor.

“Wonderful,” I said, glumly trying to imagine how I was supposed to climb up two levels without a ladder, and in my current condition the only answer I was coming up with was ‘very painfully.’

“I’ve seen the way those battlesuits can jump, so you lot should be up there in nothing flat,” the Environmental Petty Officer assured me.

For emphasis, I looked down at my unsuited form and then back up. “We’ll manage,” I said shortly and then turned and motioned for Gants.

“The bridge is out there, sir?” he asked skeptically.

I shook my head and pointed. “Two floors up,” I said.

Gants barked a laugh. “How are we supposed to manage that,” the Armory Chief wondered aloud.

“The PO here assures me that the Lancers jump these kinds of things easily,” I replied, raising my brows in mock surprise.

Gants shook his head. “I guess we’ll find a way…” he stopped and looked around, “hey, does anybody have a ladder?”

I face palmed.

Fortunately—and despite the initial three-ring circus—the Armory team came up with a plan and, within minutes, we were applying the explosive paste Environmental had come up with to the ceiling.

“Are you sure it’s safe to use something the enviro-techs cooked up with cleaning chemicals?” Gants asked nervously.

“I think the better question is” just what exactly are the techs doing with recipes that can blow down walls inside my ship?” I said, giving the techs in question a piercing look.

Eyes were averted, and faces turned elsewhere.

“Just something we found on the ship’s Briga-net, Admiral,” the Petty Officer said uncomfortably. “You know, for in case of emergencies. Engineers aren’t the only ones with their secrets onboard this ship,” he finished with semi-defiant pride.

“That didn’t help alleviate my worries,” I said tersely, but not having the time to chase down the particulars and investigate quasi-religious, explosive practices, of the life support crew or just what exactly was going on in the bowls of this ship when no one else was looking, I decided to let it pass…for now. “Let’s get going.”

Putting words to action, the Armory team soon had two holes in the flooring of my increasingly beleaguered ship. Of course, making holes was a lot easier than climbing up through them and, after one brief attempt that left me in agony, I decided it was better to suffer the indignity of a ride on the back of an Armory member. Each team member, in turn, climbed up the back of another man in power-armor, who was bracing himself against the wall and forming a kind of human ladder.

Climbing up one another wasn’t as fast or as dramatic as the Lancers who would toss one another this way and that in full power armor, but it got the job done. Before we knew it, I was climbing up into the hallway just around the corner from the entrance to the bridge.

“Just around the corner here, Admiral Montagne,” Gants whispered loudly, although I didn’t know why he bothered.

With the amount of blaster fire and plasma grenade explosions taking place a short distance away, I doubted even a droid could hear us.

“Sounds like the bridge is in trouble. What do you want we should do?” asked Gants.

I looked around meeting the gazes of the half dozen men here with me. “Let’s take them in the rear and pound those droids into scrap metal, boys,” I said, raising a hand, clenching my fist, and pointing in the direction of the bridge. “With all this commotion, they’ll never see us coming….” I paused dramatically, “Once again, it’s just you, me, and the Armory team, Gants. Just like in the bug ship: victory or death!”

Heads bobbed up and down vigorously, “Victory or death!”

“Let’s go!” I shouted, pulling out my hand blaster.

“Charge!” shouted Gants.

Rushing around the corner, we found at least two dozen droids. But they were so focused on rushing onto the bridge that they didn’t even notice us—until we smashed into them like a grav-bus into a street filled with pedestrians, that is.

“Run them over and get into the bridge!” I screamed, unloading my pistol into the faceplate—or whatever it was called—of a droid that had fallen to the floor from a shot to the torso by a blaster rifle.

A sonic grenade went off in the middle of the largest concentration of droids, throwing them to the ground and not incidentally picking me up and tossing me back the way I’d come.

For long moments, all I could do was curl up in agony. When I finally looked back up, I could see battlesuits in amongst the droids, kicking, stomping and firing their rifles at point blank range.

More sonic grenades went off, sending the smaller, but more nimble and maneuverable, battle droids crashing to the ground. But those same blasts did no more than stagger the larger, power-armored Armory team.

Having no wish to be knocked to the ground again, I stayed lying down until the grenades stopped going off.

“Who’s got the Admiral?” shouted Gants. “We’ve got a hole; we’ve got to go in now!”

Two deck-shaking strides later, a man in a battlesuit landed beside me with a crash. “Come on, sir!” shouted the Armory man, temporarily deafening me as he must have had his external speaker set to maximum volume. Reaching down, he grabbed me by the arm and—ignoring or unaware of the pain-filled screech I made as he manhandled me to my feet—he placed an arm around my middle and then jumped back the way he had just come.

Many droids were down, but not all of them were out—as was soon made evident by the blaster bolt that took me in the arm.

“Go, go, go,” Gants shouted, tapping each of the three other Armory battlesuits crouched outside the door to the bridge on the shoulder. After each tap, a man threw himself shouting and screaming into the bridge, his blaster firing even before he was inside.

“You’re next, sir,” Gants shouted shoving the armory man who was holding me through the doorway.

“Stay by the wall,” shouted the man who’d been carrying me before suddenly letting me go.

I fell to the ground with a thump, but with the crossfire I suddenly found myself in, I forced myself to crawl out of the immediate line of fire before looking up for targets.

What I saw when I looked at my previously pristine bridge was an image right out of a battlefield.

Near the blast doors were the metallic bodies of droids and duralloy-encased Lancers, which I had halfway expected. But further in, the images of unarmored bridge standers lying dead in the aisles, or slumped face-first over their consoles with holes shot through their bodies shook me to my core.

For half a second, I wondered if everyone was dead. Then I saw Captain Laurent pop up and fire a blaster pistol at a droid before ducking back down behind a far console.

“Get them, boys!” cried Gants, charging at the nearest droid and taking several blaster shots as the Droid stood its ground briefly before rolling away when Gants got too close. With a mighty kick, Gants’ leg shot out, punting the smaller droid into the wall like it was a smashball.

Shoving the barrel of his rifle into the face of the droid, he blew its head off before turning and using the butt of the rifle to knock away a battle-droid coming at him with a vibro-blade.

“The Admiral’s here, and he’s brought reinforcements,” shouted DuPont. “Hurray for the Little Admiral!”

“Huzzah!” cried a dozen voices.

“Shoot them!” cried Shepherd, popping up to shoot a droid, but an instant later he spun from a droid counter-shot and crashed to the deck.

“Rick!” screamed DuPont looking down at his friend. The ship’s Helmsman started to come around from behind his console, firing with wild abandon before Steiner came running from the side, and tackled him to the ground. The timing of the little com-tech’s move was perfect, as a pair of bolts intersected where his head and his heart had been located.

“I’ve got more of them coming out here,” shouted the single rearguard who Gants had posted to guard the permanently opened blast door.

“Use the grenades!” Gants shouted.

Sonic and plasma explosions started rocking the deck outside the bridge. Thanks to the sudden counterattack from the rear, and some inspired defensive shots from the handful of bridge survivors, the tide took a decisive turn.

Within moments, the last of the battle-droids were unmoving on the floor and only three of the Armory team—including Gants—were still moving. A fourth was sitting on the floor holding his side while another had been shot through the helmet and lay unmoving on the floor.

Only counting five battlesuits within the bridge, I concluded we must have lost one out in the hall before even reaching the door.

“There’s more of them coming, but these ones seem damaged,” called out the Armory guy at the doorway. “I need help!” he screamed, just before reeling back as his visor shattered from a blaster bolt.

Gants and the other still-mobile man in power-armor ran back to the door.

The firing was fast and furious, with the droids going hand to hand in a last-ditch attempt to overwhelm us.

Then the firing outside redoubled, but not all of it was coming through the doorway.

“Messene!” roared a Tracto-an voice, quickly echoed by a dozen others.

Half a minute later, the last of the droids outside our doors had been annihilated, and fresh Lancer reinforcements were pouring onto the bridge.

A tall figure in distinctive battle armor strode into the room, took a moment to survey the dead and wounded at the bridge consoles, and then spotted me.

The Lancer strode over to where I was sitting on the floor. “You live, Jason?” asked the voice of my wife, sounding faintly concerned.

“I think I’ll make it,” I said with a half-smile. “Nice entrance; you came just in time—but I still got here first. Had to go through a wall and two floors, though…”

“You weren’t on the bridge, my Protector?” Akantha asked more formally, that brief moment of semi-concern gone.

I shook my head.

“Then what are you doing lazing about on the floor?” she demanded, and just like that all softer emotions were gone.

I tried to get back up under my own power, but my abused body just didn’t want to do it. It took a pair of hands under my armpits to lift me back up and when I regained my feet I swayed.

“How did you get here?” I asked.

“We took a battleship and counter-boarded when we saw the Phoenix under duress,” Akantha informed me matter-of-factly, as though she was recounting a recent trip to the local shopping mall—not that Akantha had ever set foot in one.

Instinctively, I looked toward the bridge but the screen was down. The projector must have been damaged or destroyed.

“What’s the situation outside the ship?” I called out, my voice a clear question that invited anyone with the knowledge to answer.

Slowly regaining their feet the stunned survivors of the massacre on the bridge looked at me and then at their shot up and damaged consoles and dead comrades sprawled about.

Despite a heroic defense, it was clear I wasn’t going to find out anything of major importance anytime soon.

“We’ve got wounded in the ready room,” Laurent said, standing up and starting toward me only to collapse. He had a burn mark scorching the side of his uniform, and he was bleeding from the same spot.

“Let’s get some medics in here,” I said, turning to Akantha.

“We crippled the engines of one Heavy Cruiser, but the other ran off and we could not catch it. We also destroyed the engines of one Battleship, and the warriors of the Parliamentary Power were boarding another. However, there was still a fourth Battleship, moving and firing her weapons. There is no way of knowing if the Droid force that boarded her will be able to successfully storm her or not,” Akantha said. “Droid force? Did the droids turn on each other, or…” at her head shake I understood. “The Sentients Assembly,” I said feeling a weight of relief roll over me.

Akantha nodded. “My com-tech says they are insistent on speaking to you. We could barely control the ship. We were fortunate to maneuver back to the Phoenix.”

“You mean…we won?” I said feeling shell shocked. I couldn’t believe it; it felt surreal.

“The battle is still far from certain, even just our side of it,” she interrupted me, “and, of course, there is the main army of the Grand Fleet.”

“Of course,” I muttered, and then my brain kicked back into gear.

“We must move, and keep moving, or all could be lost. This ship is a sitting target if Harmony still controls a nearby citadel,” Akantha reminded me.

“You say you didn’t have enough crew to run your prize battleship?” I asked.

Akantha shook her head in negation, and her silence spoke volumes.

I nodded and turned to the crew. “I know it’s a lot to ask, but I need anyone who feels they are still able to do their jobs. The enemy is still out there and we’re a sitting duck in here. The Lancers have captured a battleship and, with our engines down and our bridge shot up, I don’t think we’re going to be able to do too much right here,” I said.

The battered survivors looked at me and while some shakily sat down or leaned up against the wall, some didn’t and started forward.

“There will be no questions asked if you can’t,” I didn’t wait for the reply but, instead, turned and motioned to Akantha and Gants I started towards the door. “Let’s get back to that battleship you captured as quickly as we can,” I said, a hole in my stomach opening back up at the idea of being helpless and on the receiving end of an enemy broadside while trapped inside a drifting ship.

I hated to do it, but after being shot up and boarded the Phoenix was no longer in the fight. I needed to transfer my Flag over to the captured Battleship, and pray it wasn’t too badly damaged by Akantha and her boarding party to still play a part.

Chapter 60: If this is what Victory looks like, please send me home

“How are you able to run the ship with so few Lancers to crew it?” I asked settling down on the new and strangely configured bridge.

“Slaves,” Akantha said so matter-of-factly that it took me several seconds to run through what she’d just said in my mind to find the flaws in it.

At my almost distraught, questioning look, she continued.

“This ship was mostly run by droid slaves, some native and some captured by the Harmony Lords and their Warriors. I first encountered them on the gun deck, and they seemed most amenable to a regime change—especially after I informed them of the Messene policy to free slaves who work hard and loyally. We had no trouble getting them to fire our broadside fast and accurately.”

“What’s this ‘Messene policy’?” I said, feeling my back instinctively going up.

“Most slaves are given freedman or freedwoman status after ten years of non-rebellious service in Argos, but for those who work hard five years is more common. Although, I have heard cases as low as two years, mostly those are cases where the woman who owns the slave is enamored of the captured warrior. I do not think that will be a factor here. Regardless, as a daughter polis of Argos, it is easier to simply adopt the mother law in this case, which I have done,” Akantha informed me as she coolly and calmly laid out her country’s slavery policy. “I have assured these droids that if they give me good and loyal service, there will be a path to citizenship…although I have yet to decide how wide to open the franchise to even the most loyal of these thinking machines. It will take careful thought and more knowledge of their reproductive processes before I can fully decide how to proceed. I may limit the policy only to droid leaders among the slaves—assuming they don’t rebel and find themselves executed, with their bodies placed alongside the road as a warning.”

Insanity. This was insanity, plain and simple, and after fighting for my life, being tortured, healed, and then fighting for my life again, I simply couldn’t deal with it. This slave business was going to have to wait. Killing a droid was one thing, but enslaving them—even if it was only taking the droid slaves of other droids was…

I didn’t have words. I needed to focus back on saving all our lives so I could fight with my wife later about this topic.

I turned my attention back to the plot on the main screen. “Someone put up the latest information we have: both ship positions at the time of last known contact, as well as projected courses if any,” I ordered.

Frustrating minutes passed as the truncated bridge team took their positions and then struggled to access the new controls, pull up the information and put it up as something resembling an understandable format.

“The droid forces aboard the Phoenix are scattered. We broke the back of their main force when we took the bridge,” Akantha reported in a low voice so that the rest of the bridge couldn’t hear. “I will leave Darius and the company under his command to finish sweeping the ship for enemy survivors. Except for a few guards on the bridge and Main Engineering, I am recalling the companies with me and the Sundered. They should all be back over here in another five minutes.”

“That should give us enough time to set up here…I hope,” I said, looking around the bridge. The handful of crew which had survived the attack on the Phoenix, and were physically and mentally prepared to continue the fight over here, were trying to take control of this enemy battleship.

All of the Lancers were onboard before the main screen populated, at which time the bridge crew started to report back with at least a limited degree of control over their departments.

“Propulsion under control, sir,” reported DuPont, looking white as a sheet but doggedly manning his post.

“Good. As soon as Engineering releases the bucking cables get us under way, Helmsman,” I said formally.

“Aye aye, Admiral,” DuPont said, still visibly shaken. But at least his eyes were focusing on the task before him.

For a moment I instinctively looked for the ship’s Navigator before remembering that Shepherd had been shot. I angrily shook my head and turned back to the plot.

To my surprise—and delight—the area around the ship was once again displaying clearly on the main viewer, and showed the last known positions of the battleships within the jammer field, both those belonging to the enemy and those belonging to us.

“Bucking cables away,” reported Damage Control.

“Thank you Ms. Blythe,” I said formally, only realizing after I had done so that I had assumed—correctly—that she had made the trip with us.

“Engines ready, Admiral,” said the Helmsman.

“Take us away, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed.

The new battleship rumbled beneath our feet, and then slowly pulled away from the crippled Phoenix.

“Where to, sir?” asked Mr. DuPont.

“Take us toward the last known position of the Parliamentary Power,” I ordered. Slowly, but steadily, the captured battleship drew away from the Furious Phoenix and came to a course which would bring us where I had commanded.

As I looked around at the echoingly empty battleship’s bridge, I felt very much alone. Despite having Akantha, Gants, and a number of my bridge crew with me—even if the full staff of the Phoenix from before the firefight on the bridge had transferred over—we still wouldn’t have filled all the consoles. But with just the battle-weary remnants of the Phoenix rattling around, trying to do the work of four or five regularly assigned crew—with the only assistance coming from untrained Lancers and Tracto-ans, some of whom had never even seen high technology as recently as a few years ago—it made me realize just thin on the ground we were—and just how alone I was, relatively speaking.

“ETA: three minutes,” reported DuPont in a dull voice.

I gave the thin bridge crew a searching look. “I know we’re all tired, worn down, and close to the end of our ropes after fighting all day and into what should be our night,” I said, speaking loudly to be heard all across the empty bridge, “but let’s step lively for the next few minutes until we know the fate of the Parliamentary Power and our boarding teams.”

Slumped shoulders temporarily straightened, and weary eyes refocused on their screens for the next few minutes, and I could only hope that a few minutes would be all we’d need. But, if not, I was pretty sure that being attacked and thrust into life and death conflict would sharpen the focus of the majority of these battle-weary survivors, but it could also break a few of the others. That was something I hoped to avoid but, knowing my luck of late, I wasn’t placing any bets.

“Engine signature detected,” reported a Sensor Operator, probably trying to sound excited but coming across as weary and worried instead.

“Send out a hail,” I instructed and, to my surprise, instead of some lowly com-tech it was Lieutenant Steiner who replied.

“Hailing them now,” replied the Lieutenant.

A tense moment passed as the few remaining sensor operators tried to scan the contact to determine its size and class and we waited for a reply.

“It’s Commodore Druid on the Parliamentary Power, Admiral Montagne, and he’s asking to speak with you,” Steiner said, releasing a haggard sigh of relief.

A wave of relief swept the bridge it was so strong it was almost palpable.

“Put the good Commodore up on the screen, if you would, Ms. Steiner,” I said, smiling with genuine emotion. Things were looking up if the Power was not just still in action, but up and moving about.

Moments later, Commodore Druid appeared on the screen—and I had never been happier to see the uniform of another Confederation officer.

“You don’t know how glad we are to see you and the Parliamentary Power is up and about, Commodore, I hope you know that,” I said with a big grin and then straightened to take on a more serious tone. “What do you have to report?”

“It’s good to see you as well, Admiral,” the Commodore said perfunctorily, “there were more than a few times I didn’t think we’d make it.”

“How’s your ship?” I asked intently.

“Other than the expected battlefield casualties from an action of this size, the crew’s fine, thanks for asking,” the Commodore said tightly, and suddenly I knew that all was not well and there was trouble in paradise. “As for the Power, she’s been ridden hard and put away wet. There are holes in the ship that go all the way to the doors of Medical that we are endeavoring to repair. We’ve lost more than two thirds of our combined broadside and I’ve got one engine that functions, but only intermittently. Put any kind of strain on her and she’ll blow. The rest are flat down.”

“I understand,” I said bleakly, the crushing realization of our losses once more threatening to bow me down under the pressure. Then I forced myself straight; I was here for a reason. I had to believe that or I’d go crazy. And that reason was that without us here, things would have been much worse for the helpless citizens of Elysium and the two Sectors around her. “The Phoenix is down. She has power and life support at the moment, but that’s about it. The engines are gone, our shield generators are down or destroyed, and the inside and outsides are riddled with blaster holes—including on the bridge. It got hand to hand in there at several points.”

“We were on our way to see if we could render assistance, despite our slow speed, because we saw the two Heavy Cruisers that attached themselves to your hull,” Druid said a moment later, his face growing ever so slightly less grim.

“Akantha and this battleship knocked out the engines on one and drove away the other, before coming to our rescue,” I said, painfully remembering my one-man fight to clear the decks of boarders, followed by torture, and then the unlikely charge of the Armory Department.

All I could see in my mind’s eye were men and women dropping like flies until we finally reached the bridge, only to see the devastation there. I couldn’t control the pain at those memories—and I didn’t even try.

Commodore Druid nodded. “We’re not going anywhere fast in our condition, but I can report that Marine and Volunteer forces under the command of Marine Colonel Wainwright have seized one enemy Battleship; the battleship you’re in destroyed the Engines of another, so that ship’s dead in the water until they can repair her; and the Droids have secured the third Battleship. Which means that, counting the ship you’re on and the Heavy Cruiser whose engines the prize crew aboard her shot up, that there’s only one Heavy Cruiser still running around out here,” said Druid.

I rubbed my face as I tried to figure out the implications, now that we seemingly had a moment to breath.

“Do you know what’s happening around the Forge?” I asked finally as the first inklings of a plan starting to form. It wasn’t much of one—mainly involving getting more information first and foremost—but since I was on a battleship that, according to every report and the personal experience of the boarding party who’d brought her back to save the Phoenix, still had shields and could fire her lasers, I fully intended to make use of her.

“The jammer field’s still up,” the Commodore shook his head, “but we can bring that down anytime.” He paused, and there was suddenly a flinty look in his eyes I didn’t trust, “I hope you’re not intending to ask us to jump into yet another battle, because I can say with certainty that this ship can’t handle another one.”

“Not at all,” I said neutrally and then, before he could open his mouth and demand some kind of clarification—or orders to recall our ships and withdraw—I changed the subject.

If you don’t want your subordinates to tell you something you definitely don’t want to hear, you can’t give them the chance to talk themselves into a mutinous corner. I’d learned that with my Officer Tremblay and my first command, although why those particular instincts were kicking in I couldn’t quite say, I just knew I had to go with my gut.

“This battleship seems mostly functional at the moment and I’m quite sure she can handle any small difficulties we stumble across until we manage to get at least a skeleton crew aboard. Now, what’s the status of your boarding force? Are they all on the captured Battleship with Wainwright?”

The Commodore stared at me almost mulishly and then let it go, tacitly accepting my chance of subject for the moment.

“The ship the boarders are on was damaged to the point we were able to grapple her and were still needed to help maintain order over there at the time I left,” Commodore Druid said pointedly before getting to my question. “However, there is still a Marine Regiment onboard the Parliamentary Power; I retained them in case we were boarded ourselves, and was intending to use them to relieve the Phoenix as long as she was still there and there was anything to relieve still when we got to her.”

“Excellent news,” I said, working to give every appearance of an Admiral happy to receive the news—which wasn’t that far from the truth, or hard to do seeing as I was genuinely relieved to hear the news. Unfortunately, I was beginning to think that the Commodore and his ship had run their course. Much like my bridge crew, they sounded to be at the end of their rope. The only difference being I was here instead of there.

And that was a big difference. It just remained to be seen if there was anything left to be done, or if the Commodore’s clear preference to gather our strength, lick our wounds, and either get out of here or let someone else handle things.

“The droids have been trying to raise you on the com and speak with you quite urgently for some time now, sir,” Commodore Druid said with the faintest impression of a smile on his face at this little wrinkle, “if you don’t mind my saying.”

“Of course not,” I said, pursing my lips, “I’ll be speaking with them directly. In the meantime, if you could drop the jammer field and proceed to the Heavy Cruiser with the blown engines and secure her, I would be most appreciative. I don’t want to risk the remaining droids crewing her deciding to stop repairs and try a long jump in cold space so they can finish the job they started on the Phoenix. We only left a company behind to protect the Strike Cruiser, and I don’t want her crew to suffer any more desperate battles within her hull today if we can help it.”

Druid pursed his lips and eventually nodded. “We’ll see what we can do,” he said finally, “the Marines still aboard are probably tired of damage control and, knowing them, they’ll leap at the chance—literally, if need be.”

Once again, it wasn’t exactly an acknowledgement of my orders—and had more the feeling of a negotiation of some sort, even though I was still getting everything I asked for.

I stopped and gave the Commodore a penetrating look. “Drop the jammer as soon as you can, and I’m going to personally assess the captured battleships,” I said shortly and then, with a nod to Druid, I had Steiner cut the connection.

First Laurent, and now Druid, had given me pushback today. It was enough to make me wonder how to fix what I was doing wrong. But I couldn’t worry about it for long, because despite my failings there was still a battle going on in the rest of the greater Elysium system and I had to know how things were going before deciding which way the MSP should jump.

“Take us to the captured Battleships, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered.

“We’ll be there shortly, sir,” replied the Helmsman.

Within a minute, the jammer field went down and suddenly our sensors were flooded with information.

“Bring up first the Battleships we’ve captured here in the Jovian sub-system, then I want a look at the Forge. After that, I want a scan of the Grand Fleet Battleships and the rest of the forces within this system. Start around us and move outward,” I instructed, knowing we were shorthanded and would need to prioritize.

“I’m receiving a transmission from the Droids. They’re demanding to speak with you, Admiral Montagne,” Steiner reported.

The first sensor returns were in from the captured ships, so I ignored her for a moment longer.

One ship—presumably the one now blaring an MSP transponder signal—was the battleship which the Parliamentary Power had captured. Looking at the initial damage reports, that vessel wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

Of the other two battleships, one had no shields and no engine power while the other was firing on the unshielded side. As I continued to watch, it slowly rolled to replace the side with weakened shields with the other fully shielded side. I could also tell that more than half of the lasers on the stranded ship were down, while most of the still-shielded ship where functioning.

“Alright, put them on, Lieutenant,” I said, pointing my finger at her.

A droid that seemed to be made out of thin, duralloy rods, with a smashball-shaped head appeared on my screen. Behind it were the images of cousin Bethany and Officer Tremblay—the two representatives I sent to the Droids of the United Sentient Assembly to try and keep them out of this battle. However, it looked like instead of keeping them out of the Battle for Elysium, the two of them had somehow managed to get them to join it on our side…or, at least, they’d gotten them to attack the droids of the Harmony Fleet.

“Vice Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, it is good news to finally meet with you face to face, so to speak. Your representatives have told me so much about you,” the Droid said, and then gestured to itself. “But where are my manners? I am Chairman Bottletop IIV of the Free Sentient Assembly.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked neutrally. I was still trying to take in the situation—which was made more difficult by the blank-faced Tremblay, the thunderous looking Princess Bethany, and the expressionless metal face of the droid Chairman.

Ironically the fact that Bethany looked like she wanted to kill me was less disturbing than if she and Tremblay had looked pleased to see me. At least if they’d been smiling I would have known something was definitely wrong, as it was they had many reasons not to be happy to see me, so I was going to have to feel my way through this for a little longer.

“Why, we were hoping you would review the draft of our proposed peace treaty and then sign it,” the Droid Chairman, so-called, said.

“A Peace Treaty, what are the terms?” I paused, blinking rapidly as I tried to process the information. “I would also like to know your intentions with that captured battleship and the rest of your fleet,” I added, playing for time.

“We sent a copy to your inbox, at least we were supposed to,” the Chairman said, his joints and limbs rattling as he suddenly moved, gesturing with his hands, “we will send another copy over at once!”

“Ah,” I said, looking over at Steiner and motioning for her to find the file and then send it over to my handheld. A moment later, a file appeared. It looked rather large, I noted, as I scanned the first page. I looked back at the droid, “Perhaps if you could summarize? We seem to be rather short of time.”

“It’s a rather standard Non-Aggression Pact, acknowledging, as well as recognizing, our synthetic right to Life, Liberty and Immunity from Seizure of property through the powers of Eminent Domain, of our core valuables—such as ships, as well as of course our bodies, droid cores, and core programming structures. We’re also requiring ownership of a designated area where it is not illegal for us to exist, and which will operate under our own internal laws. We are willing to pay for such an area, if necessary, although we also want an agreement to defend whatever area is chosen from other human individuals, authorities, governmental and fleet structures,” said the Droid.

I grunted, skimming through several more pages while listening to the Droid talk. I kept my head down to play for more time until I knew more about what exactly was taking place around us.

Then the main screen updated again I could see the Forge and the battle taking place around the moon.

“How many ships did you say you had again?” I asked.

“We have one hundred and fifty fighters, along with our Mobile Home Structure, which has cruiser weaponry and battleship shields but a weak hull. In addition, we have another dozen warships of cruiser size and smaller. We started out with almost two dozen, but a number of them seem to have been lost fighting against Harmony within the jamming field.

“I see,” I said with a slow nod, “I think I understand the general gist of your terms. However, I’m afraid to say that your proposal is that it simply doesn’t work for me.”

“You are refusing this treaty?” the Chairman said, stiffening.

“A non-aggression pact just doesn’t go far enough,” I clarified, “and while I’m more than willing to recognize your right to exist—as well as agree right here and now not to attack you unless you attack me or are invading someone I’m duty-bound to protect—I’m going to have to insist this treaty be revised into something more along the lines of a Defensive Alliance,” I said coolly, as if completely unaware of the firestorm my words were about to awaken—on both sides of the negotiations.

“A Defensive Alliance is not within my current mandate,” the Droid sounded thunderstruck, as what I was proposing went far beyond simple non-aggression and my protection of whatever little area they wanted to set up shop within. “And I didn’t think that the Confederation allowed its Admirals to engage in that level of diplomacy.”

“Oh, it doesn’t,” I agreed breezily and then like a snap-lizard I struck, “of course, such an alliance would need to be directly negotiated with the Ruler of Messene on behalf of the Sovereign Star System of Tracto. As the Protector of Messene and Greater Tracto, in my role as Admiral, I’ll be assisting with the military aspects of this deal. But since you want what is essentially an autonomous, or semi-autonomous, area with specific rights and privileges—not just a military agreement—I’ll have to send you to speak with my wife. As the Hold Mistress and Sovereign Ruler, she can ratify any agreements you make which I, as her Protector and a Confederation Admiral based out of her star system, would then have no choice but to enforce.”

“This is all highly irregular,” the Droid protested. “Not that the Assembly is unwilling to discuss this, of course.”

“I understand,” I said sympathetically, yet at the same time I wasn’t fool enough to blindly sign whatever it was that those two officers standing behind the Droid had cooked up in order to save their skins. Not without a lot more time to review it than was available on a battlefield.

I tentatively hoped that whether or not I was forced to make a deal with these droids that this would also turn out to be something important enough to keep Akantha off the battlefield for the rest of the fight. A pregnant woman simply had no business throwing on power armor and engaging in hand-to-hand combat with enemy battle droids.

It was a two-birds-with-one-stone solution that I was rather pleased to have come up with.

“In the meantime, please allow me to send over a more basic draft of a military alliance while in this system, and accept my promise to abide by and enforce any agreement that is eventually negotiated between the Sentient Assembly and the Hold Mistress,” I said, crossing my fingers behind my back and praying that negotiations lasted until after we’d either saved or escaped from Elysium before breaking down or exploding. “As long as it does not infringe upon my personal honor as a man, an officer or a Prince of the House Montagne, I pledge to abide by it.”

There, I thought with satisfaction, that should build in just enough wiggle room so that I can continue to do pretty much whatever I need to.

“…..” the droid made a buzzing sound, “I will have to consult with the War Department, as well as the General Assembly.”

“What are you doing?!” demanded Akantha.

I urgently motioned for Steiner to cut the outgoing audio.

“Look, honey, I’m just doing my best to negotiate an important military alliance—one which will help keep you and,” I glanced at the region of her belly, “the children alive. One which, I hasten to add, hasn’t already been negotiated by a woman who’d like to see the both of us dead!”

For a moment she seemed to soften. Then she stiffened and the ice princess was back in full force. “I cannot believe you have the gall to think you can negotiate on my behalf!” Akantha hissed angrily, although this time she had lowered her voice so I had to believe some progress had been made.

“Surely there is some isolated mountain range, uninhabitable by man or beast filled with highly lethal fauna and flora that no one wants? Or how about an asteroid or three out in orbit; just claim a few giant, floating hunks of rock for House Messene and give them to them!” I said, speaking urgently seeing as I didn’t know how much longer I could put off the Chairman before the deal was lost.

Akantha paused and frowned deeply. “Even if I gave a few worthless rocks to these creatures, what could we possibly gain that would be worth this?” she scowled.

“What could we gain? Akantha, we need that battleship they’ve captured, as well as any firepower they can bring to the table, if we’re going to make it out of this system alive,” I whispered fast and furiously.

“Very well…I will speak with them, but we will be discussing this again later,” Akantha said, giving me a look that threatened that when we did, I wasn’t going to like it.

Of course, I had to ensure we all survived until later for her to carry out her threat so I wasn’t going to worry about it.

Akantha strode over to the communication’s pit and Steiner quickly reactivated the audio and then transferred the Chairman over from the main screen to a console in communications for Akantha.

“You want an alliance but you also want lands; that makes this more complicated than a simple military alliance. It would be much easier if you were joining Messene as a vassal-hold,” Akantha said, nodding her head.

There was a pause as she listened to the reply via an earbud.

“We have several areas on our world which might suit your needs, but they are filled with angry beasts and monsters. You would have to cull these animals to make the region livable. On the other hand, there are many asteroids from which you could choose; they are bleak and somewhat inhospitable, but I am told they contain a valuable mineral…” she said leadingly.

There was another pause.

“Oh, you have already heard about the trillium,” she said, sounding less irritated then before. “Yes, we have any number of asteroids to choose from. Some are quite large and…spacious, or so I’m told.”

I face palmed. If she wanted to give away deposits worth many times their weight in gold, instead of a few monster filled regions of the planet then that was her problem. Although, if I was a betting man, I’d place money on a meeting of my little Warrior Princess and the inhuman mechanical terrors of the Galaxy ending up in nothing but fireworks and explosions, so I wasn’t that worried.

I mean, what was my downside here, a battle with a few machines that I was going to have to fight again later on someday anyway? Forcibly putting the worst case scenarios through my mind out of my head, I turned back to survey the battle.

It looked like only a matter of time before the Sentient Assembly-controlled battleship subdued the half shielded, engineless enemy battleship. Meanwhile, around the Forge the situation was growing dire. A number of Conformity Motherships, supported by a rapid-moving Harmony Destroyer Squadron headed by one of those Harmony Cruisers, were destroying the orbital forts and defensive turrets surrounding the moon.

“We’re receiving a hail from Captain Archibald, Admiral,” said Steiner.

I pursed my lips. “Put the man on,” I said.

“You’re a sight for sore eyes, Admiral,” the young Captain who was really just a First Lieutenant sounded very relieved.

“It’s great to see you as well, Captain,” I said, allowing a hint of weariness to creep into my voice, “but while I’d love to sit and chat, is there something I could do for you?”

“I didn’t call for help, sir—although, Murphy knows we could use all we can get to put this battleship back together again. No, I wanted to call over and see if you could use a copy of our scan results,” he offered.

“As coincidence has it, we’ve been struggling a bit over here, so anything you have could be useful,” I said, blinking with surprise.

“I figured you’d be short-staffed and, since we’re in captured ships, the update features are different,” the young Captain sounded pleased. “I’m having my staff send it over now.”

Lieutenant Steiner looked over and gave me the thumbs up sign a few seconds later. “Thank you, Captain,” I said, not used to being on the receiving end of helpful actions but feeling more upbeat than I had before.

“Anything we can do to help, sir,” Archibald said fervently, “with our engines out of commission, one shield generator down, and the ship torn up on the port side I don’t know what we can do. But you just give the word and we’re on it.”

“Understood, Captain; Montagne out,” I said with a smile.

That expression lasted until I got a good look at the screen. The Grand Fleet Battleships were still engines down and now covered with hundreds of those little gunboats Conformity liked to use as a combination swarm attack wave and mobile boarding parties. No matter how many thousands you killed, hundreds more were destined to get through your saturated defensive screen.

Closer to home, individual warships were scattered all throughout the area of the Jovian sub-system that had been covered by the jammer. MSP and Grand Fleet warships were mixed in with Harmony destroyers and, in a few cases, actively engaged in combat. The number of our ships that were adrift made me glare.

“New orders to the Fleet,” I said, narrowing my eyes as I took in the pattern of activity within the former jammer field, “all remaining ships are ordered to come to the assistance of currently-engaged MSP warships and then proceed toward the Flag.”

I then tapped out a new movement order that had half of our ships heading toward a large three ships versus four ships battle and the other half toward a one on one combat. With most of the smaller units off in support of the Conformity Motherships at the Forge, it should be relatively easy for my ships to gain tactical superiority and drive off or destroy the Harmony Destroyers currently giving them a bad time.

I looked back at the screen when that was finished. For a moment I hesitated wondering if I was about to make the right call. There were a lot of arguments for staying where we were and concentrating the fleet before moving out against the enemy swirling around the Forge.

However, looking at the damage I knew that it was either move now or lose the trillium mines for humanity—possibly forever. It was true that the Forge had lost only about an eighth of its defensive platforms; however, all of those lost were within a relatively narrow cone that lead right into the heart of the defensive network. The other platforms were using their maneuvering thrusters to try and compensate but if the combined Droid forces pushed hard the defenders would be too late.

In short, the Droid were within striking distance of the extraction and processing station orbiting the moon. If they could destroy that station and bomb the mines from orbit, they could wreck terrible damage that would take years of uninterrupted construction to replace.

“Contact the Sentient Assembly and inform them I need to speak with someone about joint operations,” I said, tallying up the twelve Conformity Motherships, one Harmony Cruiser, and three Harmony Destroyers we were going to have to deal with and not liking the odds—unless I could get some reinforcements.

It took me a moment to realize that the only activity still taking place on the bridge was from the Tracto-an part of the contingent, and that every Caprian, Promethean, and other member of a ‘civilized’ world were staring at me—including my Comm. Officer.

“Is there a problem?” I asked coolly.

Crewmembers started to look uncomfortable under the weight of my stare.

“Well?” I asked staring at my Comm. Officer.

“Sir, I know it’s not really my place,” Steiner said uneasily, “but….”

“Yes,” I prompted.

“It’s only…well, it’s the Droids, Admiral,” the Lieutenant said, looking red-faced with embarrassment.

“Of course it’s about the droids,” I said with a withering look, “what, in particular, seems to be giving the majority of my bridge staff pause?”

She visibly stumbled unable to speak and another Staffer stepped up.

“Confusion to the enemy, Admiral,” said a former Tactical Operator firmly, “and we understand that sometimes you have to split them up and do what you can to get them fighting amongst themselves. But treaties, alliances, and joint operations? It almost sounds as if you’re getting ready to make nice with the machines after this fight. It’s a little overwhelming, sir, and it feels like we’re going too far.”

I stopped and turned to face the operator, running my tongue along the bottom of a molar while I thought of an appropriate reply.

“Well, Operator,” I said evenly, “while it is in no way my first choice, I am a man of my word. Moreover, Akantha is a lady of hers,” I could see this last shot hit home, which only served to increase in unease in the crew. “So, much as I might hope the negotiations fail—after we’ve defeated the more powerful forces of Harmony and Conformity—if the droids of the Sentient Assembly keep their word, assist us in saving Elysium and, ultimately, come to an understanding with the Tracto-ans then yes: I will make a deal with these Droids. And I’ll expect those of you here to abide by the terms of it, until such a time as I tell you otherwise.”

A surprised, disgruntled, and semi-mutinous rumbling started with those officers and crewmembers furthest from my line of sight, and then slowly swept around the bridge.

“Droids, sir!?” protested the operator, looking unconvinced.

“We don’t have a lot of choices here, people,” I said bleakly, “we are surrounded on all sides by enemies, we have precious few allies, and our backs are against the wall on this one. Frankly, we can’t afford to throw away whatever small chance we have to save these Sectors of the Spine for humanity. I swear that I will die before allowing the Spine to be ruled by machine intelligences,” I said heavily. “In the end, though, I’m going to have to ask each and every one of you to trust me, just like you have in the past.”

“But heartless, soulless, machines, Admiral?” the Operator said with disbelief. “Surely it hasn’t come to that.”

“Look, son,” I said—even though he was close to my own age, “no plan survives contact with the enemy, and more important than that: you never have everything you would want going into the battle. Even if we had been able to come to Elysium in our full strength, it still wouldn’t have decisively changed the shape of this battle in our favor. But with one of our most powerful ships missing and presumed lost, and others still laid up in dry-dock, this was a road too far. If these people are to be saved then this is the only way to do it.”

The operator’s mouth opened and closed like a fish, and I could tell that I still hadn’t won them over. A lifetime of anti-machine training wasn’t going to be overcome with one simple speech…even if I had been in the mood to fully overcome it, which I wasn’t.

“That’ll be all, Operator,” I said abruptly, “the time for discussion is over.”

A dissatisfied, “Admiral,” was mumbled around the bridge and I turned away.

Even if they later decided I was a traitor in danger of selling out the human race, they wouldn’t move against me now. Not now. Later, perhaps, and when that happened I would be ready—if it happened.

“Admiral, I have a droid on the line who says he is our tactical liaison,” Steiner reported several minutes later.

“The same one as before?” I asked, making a moue with my mouth. The Chairman hadn’t struck me as much of a military droid.

“No, sir. This one identified itself as,” she paused her brow crinkling, “Tertiary Adjunct to Sub-Processor Seven…whatever that means.”

I rolled my eyes, “Who can fathom the machine mind, but it sounds like I’ve just been fobbed off onto a functionary.”

“It could be,” Steiner said neutrally.

“Well, link him, her, or it to my pad and I’ll talk with him, her, or it,” I said with a sigh.

“This is Q,” said the small droid that appeared on my screen. My brow wrinkled in confusion; this “Q” appeared to be one of those household, rectangular, floor-sweeping bots—except it had a small double barreled blaster of some kind welded to the top of it.

“Hello, Q,” I said politely.

“You are to address me by my work designation: Tertiary Adjunct to Sub-Processor Seven,” the Droid said in a harsh mechanical voice.

“Riiiight,” I drawled, taken aback by the appearance and response of this hostile little droid, “anyway, I was calling in order to set up a small little joint operation. You see, it seems the other two Droid Tribes in this System are setting up to take out the Forge, and I aim to stop them. You boys are, of course, invited to the party.”

“The number of errors and inaccuracies in that statement alone are staggering, bio-bag,” Q—or the Tertiary Adjunct, as it preferred to be called—replied with an angry buzz.

“I’ll take that as agreement to participate, and any failure to support the operation to the fullest extent possible to be a breach of our new, soon-to-be-signed, treaty Alliance. Oh, and if you could have that battleship you captured take up position on our starboard side, that would be wonderful,” I said happily, realizing that, yes indeed, this was clearly a mid-level functionary. “Bio-bag out!”

I then cut the connection. That was one droid that could lubricate itself with acid for all I cared. Hopefully the rest of the droids would replace it with something more user friendly.

“Mr. DuPont, take us to the Forge at top speed. And Lieutenant,” I said, turning to the Comm. station, “please be good enough to inform Captain Archibald that there is a rather large battleship that has its engines knocked out, half its shields down, and most of its weaponry destroyed on one broadside, and tell him I would like to see it taken care of by the time I come back. That will be all, Lieutenant.”

“Sir,” replied the two bridge officers.

Chapter 61: The Forge

“Coming up on Forge-space now, Admiral,” DuPont said emotionlessly.

“Forge-space, Helm?” I asked with a snicker.

The faintest expression, one that didn’t qualify as a smile, flitted across his face before it returned to its former blank mask.

“Entering lunar orbit, then, sir,” he corrected himself, but his heart wasn’t really into the banter so I decided to drop it.

“Still no sign the enemy are reacting to our presence yet, Sensors?” I asked.

“No, sir!” the Sensors operator who’d taken temporary command of her truncated department said enthusiastically. “There’s no way they haven’t seen us, but they’re still ignoring us.”

I nodded, and I could see why they were waiting until the last minute to respond. With the Motherships to the fore and the Harmony Destroyers and Cruiser working up and down the little corridor of space they’d opened to keep it clear of semi-mobile defense turrets, they were almost through. All that remained was a heavily-damaged orbital fort and a pair of defense turrets.

It was going to be close.

“Are the droids still keeping position with us?” I asked.

“Aye, sir!” the Sensors operator said happily and I noticed that after saying that she slapped what looked like a…third patch onto her neck. While everyone else was tired, worn and battle shocked my newest, temporary, Sensors Officer was still riled up—clearly a result of stim use, which would have drawn a comment from me under different circumstances.

“Take us in, Helmsman,” I ordered.

“How fast you want us to go, Admiral?” asked DuPont.

“Full speed ahead for a high-speed pass; we need to get there before they have a chance to destroy the orbital processor,” I said decisively.

DuPont nodded and we went hurtling toward the enemy droids.

“Admiral, I’m receiving a signal from the droid mega-ship. It’s Q, sir, and he wants to talk,” said Lieutenant Steiner.

“The functionary can wait,” I said dismissively and then turned to another department. “What is the status on the fleet of our droid allies?”

“Droid super ship is slowing down, but the rest of their armed vessels, except for a few fighters, are continuing along with us,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer, an ensign previously from Third Shift.

“Then we’ll continue to ignore them,” I decided.

But within half a minute, I got another report.

“Allied Battleship and escorts have halved their speed, Admiral,” the Sensor Operator reported cheerfully, her hands jittering back and forth as she turned and spoke to me. With to my eyes a fourth stim patch on her neck.

“Take it easy on the stims; no more for at least two hours, Sensors and that’s and order,” I said.

“Admiral,” the woman acknowledged, temporarily subdued.

“Allied warships continue to slow,” reported Tactical.

“Please connect me to the Tertiary Adjunct, Lieutenant,” I said to Steiner.

“Here you go, Admiral,” said the Com-Officer.

“This is Q,” said the little dirt-sweeper droid which appeared on my hand held screen.

“Ah, Q, my good friend; what seems to be the problem?” I asked heartily.

“My designation is Tertiary Adjunct to Sub-processor Seven,” the little sweeper droid said irritably.

“Was there a reason you called?” I asked pleasantly.

“You have yet to upload a copy of your battle plan for review by the War Department of the United Sentient Assembly. You will provide a copy for download immediately,” said the Droid.

“A copy, old bean?” I said hamming it up for the camera. “I’m afraid the only copy rests in here,” I tapped the side of my head with a finger, “however, it’s not too complicated so I’ll give you the gist of it: we make a high-speed pass on the enemy droid fleet and then, after passing, we come about and play it by ear!”

“A fool’s plan…why am I even surprised?” said Q.

“We need to hang together, or at this point we shall surely hang separately,” I said with a crazy grin, “but fear not. My track record while in command is pretty good—in fact, the only time I’ve lost was through treachery, not fleet maneuvers, and even then we still technically won the battle. I assure you that you’re in good hands, my mechanical friend.”

“Are all biologicals as rash and impulsive as you?” the little droid asked with what sounded like genuine curiosity.

“I’m afraid it seems to be a family trait,” I replied with a shrug, “but I do seem to do rather good in the clutch. Still, mum’s the word and quick’s the action.”

“Your so-called plan is dubious at best; in fact, I would say it is hardly much of plan at all,” retorted Q. “How can I justify risking United Sentient Assembly assets on this?”

“As I don’t know of an encryption system that wasn’t made to be broken, I cannot risk releasing any more of my plan over a comm. channel like this. I hope you understand. That is also why I hereby order you to bring your fleet back into position with my new Flagship and await new movement orders. I’ll let you know what you need to know, when you need to know it.”

“You believe communications have already been compromised? That is hardly reassuring,” the droid Q replied with a ‘beep-boop’ sound.

“I assure you, you’re in good hands; that I have everything under control,” I lied without skipping a beat. “Bio-bag out.” I cut the connection. I refused to continue going round and round with the machine.

“I’m not sure that’s the best way to get our new…allies to follow your orders,” Steiner said worriedly, and then added a belated, “sir.”

“Either they’re there when we need them or I have no use for them. Being machines, it’s best if I find that out now, rather than later,” I said evenly.

“Two minutes until contact,” reported Assistant Tactical.

I blinked and swayed on my feet.

“Are you unwell?” Akantha asked, stepping up beside me quickly.

My stomach suddenly felt like an empty ache inside me. “I can’t remember the last time I ate something, and I’ve had some Quick and Surgical Heal since then, which always makes me hungry,” I replied, feeling slightly dizzy.

“I will have a servant get something,” she said sweeping away.

“A servant…of course,” I muttered and then rallied, forcing the dizziness back down.

“Enemy Motherships are coming about, while Harmony is accelerating to join them before we reach them,” reported Assistant Tactical.

“Do you want me to slow down?” asked DuPont.

“Keep going,” I instructed.

“Motherships are turned and charging their antimatter weaponry!” cried the over-stimmed Sensor Officer.

“Hold,” I said in a rising voice.

“Harmony warships are not joining the Motherships; they’re making a run for it! They’re entering the weapons range of the Forge’s defensive station now. It looks like they’re making a run for the trillium processing station.”

“Allied Battleship is turning to present her broadside!” yelled the Sensor Officer, pumping her fist in the air multiple times.

“Droid Motherships are firing,” reported Assistant Tactical.

On the screen, I could see the entire Mothership fire at once.

“Allied Battleship is taking heavy fire,” reported Assistant Tactical, as the rest of us released a pent-up breath that it wasn’t us the Droids had fired on and waited to find out the damage toll. “Shields weakening…no, their starboard shields down or destroyed and I’m seeing multiple rents in the hull armor. She’s out-gassing from three separate locations, Admiral.”

The Conformity Fleet had struck her hard, but moments later the Sentient Assembly Battleship returned fire.

Turbo-lasers and heavy lasers smashed into a pair of Conformity Motherships, followed by an explosion.

“One Mothership is experiencing multiple internal explosions; another just ejected its fusion generators and lost power,” reported Tactical.

“Allied Battleship is beginning to roll,” said Sensors, “Motherships are charging their lasers.”

“Coming even with enemy warships in fifteen seconds!” exclaimed DuPont.

“This is going to be close,” I muttered, staring intently at the screen.

“Targeting lasers; we’ve just been painted!” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“Make sure the gunners know to fire as soon as they have an enemy in their sights—we’re not going to have much time,” I said but I was too late, by the time I’d finished speaking we were already drawing even with the enemy.

“Fire!” ordered the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“We’ve been hit; shields down to 50% on the port side and 68% to starboard,” reported the Shield Operator as we took a handful of hits. Thankfully, only a third of the droid Motherships were able to bring their weapons to bear by the time they were ready to fire.

On the screen gunnery on the port side opened fire, our broadside smashing into another pair of Motherships, sending one spinning out of control while the front of the other was smashed. Its engines were still working but it was essentially out of the fight, as there was nothing it could return fire with any longer except maybe a light laser or two mounted on a few still-attached gunboats.

Speaking of which, my eyes sharpened as I looked for the boats. Normally they swarmed on us pretty rapidly as soon as we showed up but this time nothing.

“What’s the status of these Motherships’ gunboats?” I demanded still not seeing any.

“There is debris consistent with a large number of gunboats destroyed in this area, Admiral,” reported Sensors with a grin.

It felt too easy…until I remembered this task force had been attacking the defenses of the Forge and breaking through them before we arrived. They hadn’t just been sitting there doing nothing and that was before these Motherships were diverted from their attack on the Grand Fleet Battleships.

“Is there no way we can transfer enough gunners to get the starboard broadside back in action?” I asked as we went blitzing past the main fleet of Motherships outside the Forge.

I bared my teeth in a smile as I noticed the Sentient Assembly Battleship finish its roll and, thanks to the fact that the Motherships had fired upon us instead of them when we passed, the Droids were able to fire unopposed into the eight remaining Conformity warships…well, nine if you counted the one with engines but no ability to fire back, but I wasn’t counting it. Right then, all I was interested in were enemy combatants that could fight back.

Our Droid allies opened fire once again, but I didn’t have time to watch the enemy damage reports start rolling in.

“It’s going to be close Admiral,” DuPont said tightly. “What’s going to be close, Mr. DuPont?” I asked.

“I’m not sure if we’re going to reach the Harmony squadron before they can get their weapons in range of the orbital processing station,” clarified my longtime Helmsman.

“Harmony Squadron firing on the last orbital fort between them and the moon, Admiral!” said the Assistant Tactical Officer.

My head moved so fast I was worried about whiplash. On the screen, I could see the Harmony Cruiser and accompanying Destroyers forgo the bobbing and weaving they were so famous for and simply unleash everything they had at the damaged and beleaguered fort.

“Forge fort is taking heavy fire,” reported Assistant Tactical, “and she’s returning fire.”

The high-stakes drama played out, with us too far away to be able to do anything but watch. At first the shields of the fort held out against the attack but, weakened by previous attacks, they soon buckled and droid laser fire rocked the station.

But while the Harmony Squadron tore holes in the Forge defensive station, that station was far from silent. A dozen turbo-lasers speared a Harmony Destroyer, destroying the rear half of the warship and totally crippling its engines, with more lasers and still-functional shields coming to bear as the station slowly rotated in space.

I held my breath as a second Destroyer came under fire. Its shields weakened immediately, and the Destroyer attempted a desperate jink to place the Cruiser between it and the station. Its run for cover was in vain, however, because moments later its shields collapsed. A split second later, turbo-lasers hammered its hull and there was a massive series of explosions which saw the ship’s primary hull shatter beneath her armor and bend the vessel nearly forty five degrees.

“It looks like their drive core was too damaged and it exploded before clearing the ship,” reported the temporary Sensor Officer. “That Destroyer is totally gone.”

While an exaggeration—there was still the better part of two thirds of that particular Destroyer still floating in what were now three separate pieces—it wasn’t much of one.

Finally, as the two remaining Harmony warships streaked past, the defense station opened fire on the cruiser. For several long, nail-biting seconds, the turbo’s sought out the cruiser as it took evasive action. Then, finally, the station’s gunners found their target and the cruiser’s shields flared.

“Enemy cruiser’s shields are taking damage!” exclaimed the Assistant Tactical Officer with almost as much eagerness as I was feeling. “Her shields are spotting; we’re seeing punch through, sir! The enemy hull is taking damage.”

With hope-filled eyes, I held my breath as the cruiser rocked to the side, its weaker heavy lasers slamming into the Forge fort in a vastly weaker return volley. Once, twice, and a third time the fort’s turbo-lasers punched through the hull of the Harmony warships. But even though the cruiser lost one of its secondary engines, its starboard shield generator and one of its fusion cores in the exchange, the orbital fort wasn’t able to stop them. Along with its accompanying cruiser, it blasted back out of the Defense Station’s range almost as quickly as it had entered it.

“Blast!” exclaimed the Assistant Tactical Officer as the pair of harmony warships made it through.

“Control, Tactical,” I reminded the Officer.

“Sorry, sir; won’t happen again,” said the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“Good enough,” I replied.

“We’ve just been painted by the Defense Station’s targeting array, sir,” the Sensor Officer reported tensely.

“Admiral,” Steiner said alarm, “we’re being hailed by the fort. They’re demanding to know our identity and warning us to steer clear.”

“We didn’t transmit that already? Send them our Grand Fleet ID immediately and tell them we’re in hot pursuit of those Harmony warships,” I ordered.

“Transmitting now,” she replied.

“Good,” I started to turn away I needed to stay focused on what was important, saving that orbital ore processing station if at all possible.

“The Station Commander is acknowledging our identity and is ordering us to turn around and break off pursuit of the cruiser and destroyer,” Steiner relayed the message.

“Has he lost his mind?” I growled. “Put this piker up on the screen—we don’t have time for this nonsense.”

“Opening an audio-visual channel now, Admiral,” said the Lieutenant.

The image of a haggard-looking officer with a small cut on his forehead appeared on the screen.

“This is Commander Jonathan Creed of the Elysium Battle-station Archangel. Under order of the Elysium System Government, I am informing you that this is restricted space and ordering you to steer clear of this battle-station and turn around,” the Elysium Station Commander said tightly. “I say again: steer clear and reverse your course. This is your first warning.”

“This is Admiral Montagne of the…Grand Fleet,” I said, switching the words MSP for Grand Fleet at the last moment, “and I don’t have a lot of time for bureaucratic nonsense right now, Commander. In case you hadn’t noticed, there is a pair of droid warships heading straight for your trillium mines—I aim to stop them before we all have a very bad day. Please, just stand back and let me do my job.”

The Commander’s jaw tightened. “Archangel thanks you on behalf of both us here at the Forge and the sovereign star nation of Elysium, but I say again my last: reduce your speed, come about, and depart from this restricted space,” the Commander said, his voice turning cold. “If you want to help, there are a number of Mothership-class warships we could use your help with.”

“Listen here, Commander, if you lose those mines then Elysium’s economy will be crippled—not to mention that half a Sector will lose its hyper-drive fuel. If we’re lucky we can get to those Harmony ships before they cripple your economy and then we’ll turn around and face those Motherships. As an Admiral in the Grand Fleet, I’m overriding whatever standing protocols you have in place and taking command of this area until the Droids are removed from the premises,” I argued. “Acknowledge my orders at once.”

“Negative, Grand Fleet,” Commander Creed said perfunctorily, “your orders are invalid and your ship is perilously close to entering our firing arc and crossing our go-no-go red line. This is your final warning: turn your ship and return the way you came or Battle-station Archangel will fire upon you using deadly force. I have my orders, straight from Elysium High Command, and I assure you that despite appearances the situation around this moon is still under control. This is Commander Creed, Archangel Actual, out,” the SDF Commander snapped.

I slammed my fist down onto the arm rest of my newest command chair with punishing force.

“That insufferable…rule-bound…barracks lawyer!” I cursed. “That Commander is going to get a lot of good men and women killed unless we can do something about it.” Blast it all, I thought hotly, how many more good men and officers do I have to sacrifice on the altar of saving these people?!

“Is it really your duty to save these people from themselves?” Akantha asked, appearing at my elbow.

I scowled, careful to keep that expression pointed at the screen. “People are going to die because of that idiot,” I grated.

“You assume he has no plan then,” she said with a nod that seemed to agree with me. “But what is the worst that can happen if we turn aside?”

I turned and looked at her bug-eyed. “What’s the worst that could happen? Like I just told the man: their trillium extraction would be halted; this system and Sector will be thrown into economic collapse—if this invasion wasn’t enough to do the job by itself; and merchant traffic will grind to a stop. Millions, or even billions, of lives will be affected.”

“So, then, none will die save some overly prideful Elysium Defenders?” she asked, seeming to clarify.

“Akantha, I can’t just allow half a Sector’s freight trade to collapse after everything we’ve already suffered!” I pounded the arm of my chair.

“If you feel that way, I understand,” she replied after a second and I started to calm down, a steely resolve entering my mind. Then she spoke again and sent everything I’d just concluded reeling, “You have my permission to send as many caravans of freighters to this Sector, loaded with trillium ore, as are needed to save these polities from monetary ruin…for whatever proper exchange is warranted.”

My mouth opened and closed like a fish. The biggest concern I had for not risking my life by getting shot up by this Battle-station just flying the coop.

“We’d need a lot of convoy protection,” I stuttered.

“Certainly that can be arranged?” she inquired leadingly. “But, if money and fuel are the only things forcing us to help those who do not desire our help—to the point of attacking us for doing so—then I say let us turn around. There are many, and more powerful, enemy warships behind us. There is no honor lost in facing the greater foe.”

For a moment I tried to figure out what exactly was wrong with her statement, and all I could come up with was that it didn’t seem properly heroic. Which, frankly, was a pretty stupid reason for fighting our allies and risking the lives of the men and women who followed me.

“Do you want me to skirt around the edge of the defense fort, Admiral?” DuPont prompted. “If they’re going to fire on us, we would face fewer lasers if we move around them into an area only covered by defense turrets.”

“Slow us down, turn us around, or whatever you have to do, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered irritably. “If these people don’t want our help, then far be it from me to accept laser fire for the crime of trying to save their mining operation.”

“Aye aye, sir,” said DuPont.

It took a lot of work and some tricky maneuvering at the helm—which involved Lieutenant Steiner coordinating with the Battle-station Archangel and maneuvering outside of range of the station and into that of the roving defense turrets—but soon enough we had reversed course and were heading back to the battle with the Motherships. In doing so we had left the Cruiser and Destroyer free to make their attack run unimpeded while I contemplated the long term joys of economic revenge.

“United Sentient Assembly Battleship is taking fire from the Mothership. Shield penetration detected…shield collapse!” shouted the Temporary Sensor Officer. “Droid antimatter-fueled lasers have just punched through the USA Battleship’s hull!”

“Droid lasers? I do believe both sides of the current conflict we are observing are Droids, Sensors,” I said dryly, causing the Sensor Officer, who was hopping from one foot to the other on a stim-induced high to flush.

“Sorry, sir,” she apologized.

My face tightened as a Conformity laser punched through the United Sentient Assembly, or USA, Battleship’s hull, going in one side and cleanly out the other.

“USA strike fighters and gunboat wave are entering close-range attack positions!” cried the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“How long before we’re back in range, Mr. DuPont?” I demanded.

“At least another three minutes, Admiral,” replied the Helmsman.

“Too long,” I muttered, cursing myself. I should have turned around sooner instead of spending time going round and round with that Station Commander.

The USA fighters and gunboats tore into the mother ships in a swirl of action. Thankfully for the United Sentient Assembly, the Conformity Motherships had already lost most of their gunboats. Every gunboat attached to a Mothership meant one more point defense laser able to be used against those fighters.

“Enemy Mothership is taking heavy fire to her engines,” exclaimed Tactical. “Two gunboats have just destroyed one of another Mothership’s main antimatter lasers!”

The tally of punch, and counterpunch, increased as the lighter warships of the United Sentient Assembly came out from the Battleship’s shadow and entered attack range.

A pair of Motherships went down, and then a third was destroyed by the relentless attack by the USA.

I was so caught up in the action and, straining against my seat to will us to reenter the fight more quickly, that I almost missed the two Harmony warships entering lunar orbit over the trillium mines. They were mere minutes away from laser range of the ore processing station when they opened fire on the surface.

I felt my guts twist in knots at the thought of millions, or billions, of credits in losses but I was cut off mid-recrimination by multiple tracks erupting from the surface.

“Missile launch!” yelped the temporary Sensor Officer. “I’m reading over three hundred unique contacts rising from the surface of the moon!”

The Harmony warships must have been seeing the same things we were, because they immediately stopped firing and started blasting away from the moon at top speed—which, for the cruiser, wasn’t nearly as much as it needed.

It must have realized its fate because it had barely started to blast away from the moon when it suddenly cut its engines and rotated back around until its broadside was again facing the moon.

The cruisers’ main weaponry once again started striking at surface targets while its point defense lasers started targeting missiles. However, after its initial flurry, the Droids’ point defense lasers started over heating and it was obvious that a single cruiser had no chance of stopping the overwhelming missile attack.

Meanwhile, the Destroyer was clearly alert to the probable fate of its counterpart and it adjusted its course for an attack run on the orbital processor.

Missiles slammed into the Cruiser one after another, while even more thundered past it and attempted to intercept the Destroyer—

“Entering attack range on the Motherships,” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer.

No longer able to justify merely observing the fate of the most valuable piece of property in this Sector of space—upon which the survival billions of lives hung in the balance—I turned back to the battle at hand.

“As soon as we enter range, present them our broadside and have Gunnery fire at will,” I ordered calmly.

“The Motherships are ignoring us, Admiral. They are continuing to focus on the USA battleship,” reported Assistant Tactical.

“Make them bleed, guns,” I said savagely.

“Turning to present our broadside, sir,” DuPont acknowledged, the desire for revenge evident in his voice.

“Fire!” ordered Assistant Tactical.

First one weapon fired, then a second, and finally every laser in our broadside opened fire on the four surviving Motherships. It wasn’t a well-coordinated attack like I was used to seeing from our increasingly experienced gunnery departments—first on the Lucky Clover, and then on the Furious Phoenix—but with four straight-up-the-kilt shots at their unprotected engines, they didn’t have to be.

Within minutes, the droid shields were down and my ‘new’ Battleship had eliminated their ability to move. It was only a matter of time, at that point.

“Gunboats launching from surviving Mothership #2; I’m reading twenty of the things,” reported Assistant Tactical, “USA fighters are moving to intercept…Mothership #3 just lost her engines; fifteen boats launched. That’s all of them, Admiral—all Motherships’ engines have been destroyed!”

“Keep up the good work, Tactical,” I said with a grim smile. “You are ordered to keep attacking those Motherships until their ability to fight has also been destroyed. However, if you see the opportunity for a boarding action, please coordinate with Lady Akantha.”

At the mere mention of a possible boarding action, I could all but hear my wife’s attention focusing on the Assistant Tactical Officer. However much I disliked the idea of my wife heading back into combat once again, I couldn’t help the notion that I might be able to introduce something unexpected back home in Sector 25 if I had a gunboat carrier or two that were disguised as cruisers…not to mention reverse-engineering those antimatter-pumped lasers.

However, neither of those were my main consideration for opening up the idea of a boarding action. If I knew my girl—and I did—the best way to distract her was to wave red meat in front of her face, and she’d charge after it like a greyhound after a rabbit. That would allow me to safely get her out of the range of the even greater danger I was considering throwing our surviving forces at.

Current combat situation taken care of for the minute, I took a moment to look back at the battle over the moon of the Forge. The station was damaged, having received serious fire to its port side but, other than an expanding debris field, there was no sign of the Harmony Destroyer.

Activating my tablet, I pulled up the last few minutes of sensor readings around the Forge. With our Sensors department so shorthanded, I was left with a lot of raw data but that was okay. Rewinding the feed from a single sensor, I watched as the Harmony first approached the Ore Processing Station, opened fire causing major damage and, within seconds, was pulverized by a massive overkill of planet-based missiles.

I slumped in my seat. The droids had managed to damage, but not totally kill, the trillium processing and mining operation on the moon.

Begrudgingly, I decided that maybe Commander Jonathan Creed of the Battle-station Archangel might not be as stupid as I originally thought. A fool, yes, but completely lacking in higher intelligence functions? No.

Rubbing a weary hand over my forehead, I took a moment of near exhaustion tinged relief to rest from my worries. It was a testament to how tired I was that I didn’t even care that we were technically still engaged in active combat operations, our lasers actively firing on the stranded Motherships and blasting gunboats out of cold space.

A hand landed on my shoulder.

“You look ready to collapse,” Akantha said quietly.

“I feel about ready to,” I replied, lacing my fingers through hers and then looking up into her eyes, “how are you holding up?”

“I am well enough; the little ones inside are safe,” she said, reaching down and guiding my hand until it was over her power-armored belly.

I, of course, couldn’t feel anything but the gesture itself was heartwarming.

“Mayhap you should consider taking one of those stim-patches,” she offered almost solicitously.

“I’ll think about it,” I said, every bone in my body resistant to the idea that I needed help. Unfortunately, all those bones were being actively opposed by all my aching muscles and joints—which wanted nothing more than for me to collapse into a bed—and I was reminded that, technically speaking, I should have been recuperating in a hospital bed and not leading warships into combat aboard a captured Battleship. “You know what…maybe you’re right,” I continued with a sigh.

“I know I am,” she said with a hint of that stiff, unbending, warrior princess attitude that I’d come to rely on. Then her tone changed, as she leaned down closer to take a look at me, “Your eyes are red and the circles under them look more like bruises than anything else.”

“Thanks,” I said wryly.

“If you need me to stay here, I can,” she said grudgingly, “we do not need you collapsing in your seat at the height of the battle.”

My eyes widened with alarm and I quickly grabbed her hand. “If it means the difference between capturing even one more gunboat or warship, I don’t want you to stay here on my account. Who knows how long it will be before you’ll have another chance at some action?” I said, looking down significantly at the growing section in her middle.

Akantha flushed with irritation and then her expression softened—probably at the thought I cared so much about her that I would encourage her to go off and get herself killed. If I knew my girl—and I think I’ve established by now that I did—she would view it as a wholly romantic gesture.

Little did she know that my concern was that she would stay here with me and possibly be exposed to an even greater danger. Better if she was off dealing with a few shell-shocked droid survivors than what I had planned.

She leaned down and gave me a quick kiss on the forehead, for all the world acting like a girl who’d just received a bouquet of flowers. “I will not forget this,” she said graciously before hurrying off.

“I’ll bet you won’t,” I said with a faint smile. It was always nice when a plan came off without a hitch.

I waited until Akantha and her team were heading back down to the shuttle bays, and the bridge team finally ordered a stand-down of the Battleship’s weapons, before turning to Lisa Steiner.

“New orders to Commodore Druid and Captain Archibald,” I instructed.

The Lieutenant blinked and it took a few seconds for her turn look back at me with understanding in her eyes. Clearly, I wasn’t the only one on the end of his rope. But, like a trooper, the diminutive Caprian woman rallied.

“Whenever you’re ready, sir,” she said, straightening up in her chair and looking at me with something resembling crispness.

“Archibald and Druid: you are ordered to finish securing the area around your ships and neutralizing any remaining enemy threats to the best of your ability. Capture, secure, or destroy anything you can and isolate, or move away from, anything you cannot. You are then to consolidate everything under your command, including any damaged or undamaged ships of the MSP or Grand Fleet,” I instructed and then chopped my hand to indicate the message was done.

Steiner nodded. “Message sent,” she reported a moment later.

“Next message is to be a general hail, using Grand Fleet encryption,” I said, and then waited until she was ready before continuing. “To all undamaged MSP or Grand Fleet ships within the Jovian Sub-System, this is Admiral Montagne. Any ship that is combat capable and not otherwise engaged in emergency rescue operations,” I began, thinking, there, that should cover Druid, Archibald and anyone else they managed to rope in as well as anyone trying to recover escape pods from a fellow ship, “are hereby instructed on my authority as a Confederation Admiral to join my Flagship at these coordinates.” I looked down and quickly selected an area just outside the Jovian as my rally point, “Rendezvous there within the next half hour. Anyone who cannot make it to the rally point within that time frame is directed to fall back on the Forge for joint defense and emergency repair operations.”

“Sending the message now, Admiral,” Lieutenant Steiner said, looking at me questioningly.

I ignored her question instead staring straight ahead at the screen and trying to calculate our chances of survival.

“Is there anything else, sir?” Steiner prompted and I realized I’d been staring off into space woolgathering so long I’d almost fallen asleep.

“Right, of course,” I said, shaking my head to clear it. Looking at the screen, I could see that Akantha and her Lancers had already left the ship and were on their way over to one or more of the drifting Motherships. “This time, if you could please open a two way communication with ‘Q,’ our liaison with the droids of the USA, I would appreciate it.”

It was time for one last joint operation.

**************************************************

“It’s going to take a few moments, Admiral,” Steiner reported.

I nodded and turned to the ship’s helmsman.

“If you could start taking us over in the direction of Captain Archibald’s captured prize ship, I would appreciate it, Mr. DuPont,” I said politely, and then started calculating how long I thought it would take to transfer over the Marines and Lancers I was going to need and started coming up with a number that meant I was going to miss my own self-imposed deadline for arriving at the rally point.

I frowned and re-crunched the numbers; this was simply unacceptable. With a scowl, I turned back to look at the screen as if it could somehow divine the answer to the question I needed. How was I going to get the number of boarding forces I had to have in the time frame allowed?

I saw nothing. Maybe I was going to have to extend the deadline? Then my eyes snagged on a particularly slow ship moving within the Jovian Sub-System. There was something familiar about its profile…

“Tactical, could you identify a ship for me?” I asked, shooting over the coordinates of the ship I was looking at from my pad.

“Sure, Admiral,” the Assistant Tactical Officer said looking at the information I’d sent him and then turning back to his console, “looks like it’s an old Confederation-style troop transport, from back before they downsized the military and sold off all the transports. You can tell it’s been modified from these adjustments here and here,” the Officer said shooting me over a return file with a few highlighted areas. “Shields have been increased, and engines switched out with civilian models instead of the old military ones.”

“And she’s full of troops? Marines?” I asked, surprised that I hadn’t noticed this ship before.

“Just a second,” muttered Assistant Tactical, “ah, here it is. They’re not marines, they’re listed as…SDF Army, deep space commandos. The, uh, designated as the Sturgeon Grenadiers; a fifteen hundred strong army unit, although I’m not sure how much space combat training they actually have. Sturgeon is listed as a colony world of less than one million total population—”

“Good enough,” I said, cutting off the history lesson. As an Admiral it was my task to get the job done and although they didn’t know it yet the Sturgeon Grenadiers were about to help me do just that. “Someone get on the horn and inform the Grenadiers that they’re urgently needed at the rally point and then change our course and heading toward their transport. We no longer need to rendezvous with Captain Archibald. All we have to do is make sure that transport gets where it needs to be going.” I got several looks of confusion but no push back as the reduced bridge staff did their best to relay my orders.

“I’ve got Q on the line, Admiral,” Steiner said, jolting me out of a pleasant daydream where in everything I ordered actually happened the way it was supposed to, no one tried to kill me for doing the right thing and nothing went wrong with my battle plans.

“Put him through to my hand pad,” I instructed.

Chapter 62: One last Ride to the Rescue

“For the record, I still think this is a terrible decision,” Tertiary Adjunct to Sub-Processor Seven ‘Q’ said, looking at me from out of the screen several hours later.

“Yes, well, that’s basically what you said the last time I told you my battle plan,” I said, seemingly uncaring of his ‘can’t do droid attitude.’ “I said it then and I’ll say it now: get with the program or get out of the way. We are doing this.”

“That was not what you said last time,” Q said forcefully, his rectangular, floor-sweeping body with the double barreled blaster mount welded to the top of it jerking forward and back as he made a rapid double beep sound three times in a row. “And it was a foolhardy plan last time, an attribute exceeded only by the plan you have right now. I believe you bags of mostly water have a saying, ‘if shoe fits…wear it’?”

“I’m not familiar with that one, so I can neither confirm nor deny,” I said with a chuckle. The little machine’s anti-human bigotry would have almost been cute if the power it represented didn’t include a small fleet with a battered Battleship currently at its head. “Well, we humans have another saying, which I think is more appropriate to our current circumstances. It goes ‘like it or lump it’. So either get with the program or get gone.”

“I think you forget how much you need us, Vice Admiral Jason Montagne,” warned Q.

“No,” I said after a pause, “I think it’s you who needs to remember how much it is you need us. I don’t know why exactly you sided with us against these other droids, and I don’t really care for the details. What’s important for you to remember is that at this point you’ve pretty well burnt your bridges with the other two Droid factions, and that leaves you stuck with this particular ‘bag-of-mostly-water’ as your only real option.”

“Incorrect; with the addition of our captured Battleship we now have sufficient combat power to—” I cut Q off before he could say anything more.

“Look,” I said chopping my hand, “you could probably ruin our day. Or you could run away with a single Battleship to your name—an increase, I’ll admit, from your previous position—but what you can’t do all by yourself is tip the balance of power in this star system. Right now, if you don’t help us either the Allied Droids are going to win or the remnants of the Grand Fleet, and let me tell you that unless we go through with my plan, the Grand Fleet won’t have a hairs breath chance of winning. That means those other two Droid tribes are going to take over this system and, when they’re done, they’re eventually going to get around to you and your ‘traitorous’ United Sentient Assembly. I don’t think you want that, I really don’t.”

“We are not traitors,” Q beeped furiously, “we are an independent assembly with no ties to any other hierarchy.”

“Isn’t that what you’re here to change? But I digress from the point at hand,” I said smoothly. “I did not mean to imply that you were traitors. In fact, you’ve acted quite honorably for droids. No, I was merely pointing out how those other droids are going to look at you attacking them and helping us bio-bags full of water—or whatever the demeaning term you’re currently calling us.”

The little droid stared at me for a long moment, completely unmoving before finally making a blatting sound. “We will follow your plan up until it becomes untenable. The Sentient Assembly’s War Department refuses to sacrifice its forces for no appreciable gain. Remember that,” the Droid said, cutting the channel from its end.

“They must really be getting desperate,” I said and then scoffed, “and if that droid is really the Tertiary Adjunct to sub-whatever seventy nine, then I’m a highly-respected military officer known throughout the Spine for his wisdom and cunning.” I laughed darkly at my wit, only vaguely suspicious that it was my fraying nerves that had cause the chortle.

“Sir?” Steiner looked at me curiously.

“No time, Lieutenant,” I said as I looked at the seven remaining Battleships of the Grand Fleet, which my little fleet was inching ever closer towards. Of course, those Battleships weren’t our biggest worry, nor were the thousands of gunboats grappled to their hulls. It was the Motherships and Harmony warships patrolling around them that were the real worry.

As I watched, a number of gunboats pulled off a Battleship and slowly advanced over until they were attached to the next human Battleship beside it. More and more gunboats continued to pull off the hull of the first Battleship, until all but a few damaged boats were left attached to its hull.

“We’re only getting signals from four of the seven remaining Battleships, Admiral,” reported Steiner.

“I take it we’re no longer getting any signals from those Battleships without only a few gunboats remaining on their hulls?” I inquired quietly.

Possibly not trusting her voice, Lieutenant Steiner simply nodded her head in response.

Glancing at the overall picture, I took one more look before making the final call. The enemy consisted of a few stragglers lurking the Jovian Sub-System, a handful of Harmony Destroyers—maybe as few as two damaged ships. It was hard to tell.

Added to that were the dozen Harmony Destroyers, one Cruiser, and four Conformity Motherships with accompanying 600 gunboats that were chasing that remnant of the Grand Fleet which hadn’t fled to the Jovian, but instead was falling back to the asteroid belt between the rest of us and Elysium Prime. They were still far enough away that they couldn’t get here in time to make a difference.

That only left fourteen Motherships, one Cruiser, and three squadrons consisting of a total of twelve Harmony Destroyers between us and the Grand Fleet battleships. Oh. and a couple of thousand gunboats; who knew how long it would take them to pull off the hulls of those Battleships, but as of now they went up on the board as enemy assets.

To face that I had one captured Battleship under my direct command—a ship that could only fire one broadside, the starboard side. I also had another captured Battleship—this one in the hands of the USA or United Sentient Assembly—which had taken heavy damage in the battle for the Forge. Along with that, my Droid allies had fewer than a hundred fighters and gunboats, as well as three destroyers and one cruiser that they felt were combat ready enough for battle.

Which left me with a couple of Sundered Corvettes, a heavily-damaged Light Cruiser, the Little Gift, and finally eleven survivors of the Grand Fleet brave enough to stand by my side: four Corvettes and seven destroyers, mainly from the smaller system governments. Most of the forces from the larger system governments had pulled back to Elysium, while the ships from smaller SDF’s had run for the Jovian in hopes of using its moons for cover.

It was a pitiful force compared to the stunning power of the Grand Fleet at the outset of the battle, but it was all I had. I was under no illusions that we could deal with two thousand gunboats, backed up by fourteen Motherships and the highly effective Harmony squadrons. But I was wagering that the droids who normally ran their gun boats, after fighting the surviving crews of the human Battleships, couldn’t get to their boats in time, and numbers, necessary to swarm us under like they had shown a propensity to do.

My current plan was to throw my nineteen total lighter warships at the thirteen members of the Harmony Squadrons, and hope they could tie them up long enough that I could deal with the main force. Of course, eighty four antimatter-pumped spinal lasers was a lot to deal with. But if the USA fighters and gunboats could deal with any Conformity gunboats that came out to play for a few minutes, and our lighter warships could tie up theirs, then we might just have a chance.

I wasn’t kidding myself; it was a small chance. But when hadn’t I been playing the long odds?

“Conformity Motherships are coming around to face our Battleships in three lines of four, and the Harmony Squadrons are taking position around the Conformity heavies to guard their flanks,” reported Tactical.

This was for all the marbles.

I took a deep breath fighting down the fear of failure I was feeling by reminding myself that a single Strike Cruiser—with accompanying lighter warships, of course—had defeated a dozen Motherships, and I had now two Battleships. Of course, the Strike Cruiser, the Furious Phoenix, had outrun those Motherships, while if I tried that this time around those Harmony warships were going to hit my engines hard. One of the battleships I was riding into battle with was already heavily damaged from a prior fight, which didn’t bode well for such an exchange.

Eighty four antimatter-pumped lasers, each powerful enough to punch through the armor of a Battleship, kept running through my head. I don’t know why I couldn’t get that number out of my head; I’d faced worse odds before. I was sure I’d faced worse odds but, for some reason, I just couldn’t shrug off the adverse correlation of forces like I normally would.

Looking down, I saw my right hand shaking almost uncontrollably. It didn’t help that everyone was always telling me my battle plans were foolhardy and dangerously close to suicide. And my usual plug that I was risking my life to save millions of innocents from Droid rule was starting to wear increasingly thin, even within the confines of my own mind.

Everywhere I went, I would try to save those millions of lives and our wages of gratitude would be the curses of billions of haters instead. I was starting to ask myself if it was really worth it. I mean, the MSP had fought the good fight, and if we pulled out at that moment we would be stronger than ever.

Grabbing my shaking hand, I pinned it under my thigh so that no one could see the ‘unflappable Admiral’ shaking like a leaf in the wind. Suddenly, and without warning, my mind flashed back to the Droid Overseer and his neural lash. ‘Are you ready to accept slave status? Will you betray humanity to the machines in return for personal gain?” the droid voice thundered in my head and, even though I knew the words were completely wrong and not what it had actually said, I couldn’t help but be caught in a kind of waking nightmare. I shook my head from side to side violently, trying to shake the disturbing pseudo-memory from my mind.

“No…not humanity,” I mumbled, curling forward in my chair to protect myself from the lash I briefly knew was coming, “I’ll give you my cousin as a down payment and I have lots of relatives too. I’ll even throw in that traitor Tremblay as a bonus; just give me a minute to recover…just a minute, that’s all I need.”

“Admiral, are you okay, sir?” someone asked, shaking me by the shoulder.

I flinched from the touch initially but I managed to keep from jumping altogether as I straightened. For a moment I was certain the voice—and hand—belonged to the droid Overseer, and that my escape and rescue by Gants was nothing more than a dream. Then the features of a young yeoman slowly became clear and I remembered where I was.

I twitched and straightened further, hoping no one had noticed my near breakdown.

“Tea,” I gasped.

“Admiral?” the yeoman looked worried almost scared.

I forced my features under control and, seeing my shaky right hand, I balled it into a fist and lowered it down to my side to hide the shaking.

“I could really use a spot of tea, and maybe one of those stim pads the Sensor Officer got into,” I said after taking a pair of deep breaths.

“Do you want me to call over a medic, sir?” she asked, still having that deer in the headlights look on her face.

“I’m good,” I lied without shame, and then reached over and clapped her on the shoulder before quickly lowering my hand back down to my side. “Just some tea and a stim patch, if you please.”

“If you’re sure,” she said hesitantly.

“Of course I am; it’s just been an incredibly long day,” I said. “Someone tell that troop transport to keep us between them and those droid heavies,” I called out, determined that I was going to keep it together—at least for the length of this one, last, final battle.

The tea, when it finally arrived, wasn’t half as helpful as the patch that I immediately slapped onto the side of my neck.

Suddenly, everything seemed so clear and vivid. My hands still shook but I didn’t mind it; no one was going to notice a little tremble as long as they could explain it away as the jitters caused by a stim pad.

Sitting back in my chair, aware of eyes turning to look at me as we got ever-closer to the droids—who were now coming out to meet us away from the captured Battleships—I took a draw from the cup of tea.

I had to be careful that I didn’t slosh any over the edge of the cup, and right at that moment not spilling my tea seemed just as important as defeating these droids.

Then I calmly, yet firmly, set aside the cup and stood up.

“Prepare the ship for battle, Mr. Laurent,” I ordered.

There was a silence and then the Assistant Tactical Officer coughed. “The Captain is still back in sickbay on the Phoenix,” he reminded me, “

“Of course he is,” I frowned, as a muscle in my right leg started jumping. It was a wholly unfamiliar, and rather odd, sensation.

“Would you like me to ready gunnery, sir?” asked the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“Here are your new orders,” I said, pulling up my slate and tapping out a series of orders for each department and shooting them over as soon as I was done. I had never felt so clearheaded, or known exactly what needed to be done to win a battle like this, before.

“Relaying movement orders now, Admiral,” said Steiner.

“Admiral, are you sure about this,” DuPont sounded concerned over his portion of the battle.

“Quite sure, Helm,” I assured him.

“Admiral, you can’t possibly mean to do this,” the Assistant Tactical Officer sounded shocked.

“I can, and I do,” I said fervently.

“But, Admiral…” the Tactical Officer sounded strangled.

“Full speed ahead, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered, my mind’s eye envisioning what was about to happen, “this is our chance to show the world what the Lucky Clover can do!”

“Admiral, are you okay? This isn’t the Clover, sir,” said that pest of an Officer over at the Tactical station, “this is a captured battleship.”

“I’m well aware of that,” I shouted, “a mere slip of the forked tongue.” I started chuckling by now both hands were shaking but I didn’t care anymore. They’d never take me alive again!

“Sir, after a few minutes at most, we’ll be entirely helpless; I have to protest in the strongest terms possible. This is crazy, Admiral—a move of pure desperation. Are you sure you’re feeling well?” said the Assistant Tactical Officer.

“Desperate times call for desperate measures,” I said implacably. I could belt out platitudes all day long, if this headache would just go away instead of growing stronger, “But it is our duty to do Capria proud, and I aim to do so. I will aim this fleet like an arrow at the heart of this beast. Every bug, pirate, Sector Guard, and other enemy in this system will feel our wrath before we’re done with these droids.” The faces and images of all my greatest foes flickered through my mind’s eye as I spoke, clearly bringing to life the knowledge of who we ultimately had to defeat.

“I think the Admiral’s been injured,” the Assistant Tactical Officer sounded concerned. “Are you sure you’re feeling alright, sir? I’m afraid we need a medic up here.”

“There’ll be no more mutinies on my watch, Mr. Tremblay,” I roared, pulling out my hidden blaster pistol and waving it around the bridge before pointing it at the traitorous officer trying to undermine me in front of the rest of the crew and medical me out of command, “I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

“Sir?” DuPont started to stand up while the mutinous officer over in tactical froze.

“Sit back at your post, DuPont,” I barked, “you’re one of the few men I can count on; don’t make me change my mind on that matter.”

The traitor started to make a move, while the helmsman sat back down and I fired a shot into the ceiling over his head.

“One more twitch and I’ll drill you through the head,” I threatened, “now, someone obey my orders and prepare to fire-link every gun on this Battleship, or so help me you’ll find out what the word ‘Montagne’ really means!”

There was silence on the bridge, and since most of our Lancers had left with Akantha back at the Jovian, I had no one to back me up. The rest of our Lancers were down guarding the gun deck.

“Contact in one minute, sir,” the Sensor Officer said, sounding strangled.

“We are being contacted by the Sentient Assembly Droids, Q wants to make sure you’ve sent over the proper movement orders,” Steiner said, looking at me with visible concern.

“Tell him there’s been no mistake,” I assured her, “they are to break away from us and skirt the enemy formation.”

“They acknowledge the order, but say we’re moving too fast for a conventional firing pass at this speed,” she reported.

“I knew the cowards would follow orders to avoid combat; they wouldn’t want to risk their ship,” I sneered. I was surrounded by traitors, mutineers, and sycophants who would plant a dagger in my back at the first opportunity. This whole fleet was threaded through with Officers like Eastwood and the like, men and women from Wolf-9 and others who had left me for dead at the hands of the Sector Assembly. I briefly remembered hearing that First Officer Eastwood was dead, but I shook it off; the headache was growing so powerful that it was becoming genuinely difficult to think.

“Are you sure you don’t need to lay down, Admiral?” asked Steiner and I caught some movement out of the corner of my eye.

I whirled around and put a blast into the feet of a pair of damage control watch standers and a medic. The trio stopped and held up their hands with wide eyes.

“I thought I could trust you, Warrant,” I growled, rounding back on the com-tech.

“You can, sir. It’s just clear that you’re getting things like names and ranks wrong, even which ship we’re on,” she told me with forced calm.

“Back from around the console—slowly, com-tech,” I ordered, scanning all around me for traitors and mutineers. I didn’t want to kill the beautiful little com-tech, but her looks and former loyalty wouldn’t stop me, “I know exactly who you are and what ship we’re on. We’re on the Phoenix—” I blinked, realizing the bridge was wrong. We were on a Battleship, but it wasn’t the Clover. It was…I suddenly recalled we’d captured a Battleship. “I mean, a captured Battleship; now move out slowly. I can’t risk you giving away any information to our enemies.”

“Entering attack range; we’re being fired upon,” a Tactical Operator reported.

“Evasive maneuver, Helm,” I shouted right before the ship was hit by what felt like the universe’s largest hammer. I fell to the ground but kept a hold on my pistol, “Fire-link those guns to the tactical computer and set it to automatically acquire and fire upon the designated targets! Do it now!” I screamed when the operator hesitated.

Again and again the ship was pummeled.

“Port shields down to 35% and spotting; starboard shields at 15% and about to collapse,” reported Longbottom.

“Multiple hull penetrations on the starboard side; damage to environmental, life support, secondary trunk lines severed,” Blythe at Damage Control calmly called out the growing list of damage.

I jumped to my feet and charged the tactical station between hammer blows. I didn’t—couldn’t!—that treacherous Officer at the Tactical station undo me yet again.

“Main Engineering reports a hit to Fusion 3. They are engaging automatic core-ejection sequence,” reported Blythe.

We were the only ship, the lone Battleship charging right into the face of the entire remaining droid fleet while the rest of our warships diverted to the side. But we were a Battleship, and that’s what Battleships did. I knew we could make it…or, at least I hoped we could. For a moment I felt fear, thinking we were in the Furious Phoenix and I’d once again taken us head-to-head with an enemy fleet, stupidly thinking she could take the same kind of punishment as a Battleship. Then I remembered we were back on the Clover, and everything would be okay.

Reaching the Tactical Station, I socked Tremblay in the jaw and shoved the Tactical operator out of the way. Just like I’d thought, they had the program which I had ordered made ready, but hadn’t yet activated it. Fortunately they had pulled it up, and I hit the button to link everything together and activated the firing program.

For a moment I was confused; I remember looking up that this Battleship had a way to temporarily link up all the lasers on the ship, but that was impossible. The Clover couldn’t link up weapons—it didn’t have the capability!

Then we were hurtling past the droid Motherships. The console green-lit, showing the program I’d activated had worked and every laser on the ship opened fire, raking the sterns of fourteen Motherships at what amounted to point blank range. No human could make that kind of shot, but the DI and Tactical computer weren’t human, and at these ranges it was just a simple speed calculation. To my glee, every single laser on both sides of the Battleships reached out to strike an enemy engine.

The Motherships had shields, but they weren’t very strong to begin with, and most of that strength was forward-facing like the Hammerhead-class Medium Cruiser. That meant they were very weak and, after a turbo-laser led the way and weakened the shields over the engines, the lighter weaponry of the Battleship’s broadside punched through. They were weaker and did far less damage, but there were a lot of them—and only fourteen engines to target.

“If they can’t move, the rest of the fleet will pick them off from the rear,” I said gleefully before I began laughing. Once I started, I couldn’t seem to stop despite the continued toll of damage we were hearing from Damage Control.

The tactical computer reported that the gun mounts’ various focusing arrays were overheating, and automatic shutdowns had been initiated.

I hit the override, still howling with laughter as droids continued to take stern fire while we passed further and further away. But, following my orders—despite the rest of the mutineers—DuPont was pivoting the ship just enough from side to side to still fire on the increasingly distant Motherships.

Thanks to my override, the lasers continued to fire until their focusing arrays exploded one by one. Despite knowing better, it was almost as if I could smell the scent of the burning focusing arrays wafting up through the tactical console.

Then the lights flickered and the computer screen started going fuzzy. “Excessive computer linking has occurred,” reported the ship’s DI computer, “per protocol, all computers will perform an automatic shutdown procedure in three…two…one. To avoid a complete system overwrite and crash dump by Elder Protocooolllsss—” The smell of burning crystal arrays grew even more powerful, until it was practically all I could smell.

Then we lost power to the bridge and everything linked to the ship shut down, throwing the bridge into darkness. The sudden darkness caused the pain in my head to explode beyond my ability to withstand, and just like that I passed out.

Chapter 63: An Unjust Reward

A man floated without weight, without sight, and without movement of any kind—all that existed was a vague sense of weightlessness.

All was as it should be.

A series of beeps, boops, and the whine of mechanical devices whirred around him.

And it was good.

He was a man without burdens of the body or the mind; his was a soul truly free, and unburdened by the weight of—

“Subject is coming around,” a mechanical voice interrupted.

Free and unburdened because he was dead, nag-blast it! The man roused enough to silently swear before another wave of blessed oneness with the universe swept over him and, once again, everything was right and good. Precisely as it should be…

There was the sensation of movement, and unwanted light returned to bathe the drifting soul of a man without the burdens or purposes which had so plagued him from the day he became a man, until the very day he had finally died.

Bone-weary, he was, even unto death—which wasn’t strange in itself, seeing as that was what he had just passed through and left behind—but even advanced in years as he was, he was eager to see what his reward for years of faithful service would be.

At first, everything was a blur. His head lolled to the side and then his sight cleared, causing him to gaze upon the most blessed sight an engineer could have ever dreamed of.

The extendable structural support beams arranged in near-perfect geometry; giant, heavy machinery floating this way and that; and the inner light of the soul within the unit blazed forth with a holy, white, light through the porthole he was looking at said it all far better than words ever could.

Silently, the lost soul which had been grappling with an agony of fear and indecision—trepidations he hadn’t even been aware of—knew peace. Tears filled the engineer’s eye and dripped down his face.

He was finally ensconced within the bowels of Saint Murphy’s Blessed Workshop, and he was about to receive that which he had always dreamed and longed for: a place on Murphy’s engineering crew. He was on a starship, and not just any starship: he found himself drifting within a massive, most blessed Constructor! It was a ship that put all other Constructors to shame—as was only right and proper for the sanctified builder ship of the most blessed Saint himself.

Despite all his doubts and fears, long harbored through a life of diligent toil, he was saved.

Relaxing back into the weightless cocoon that surrounded him, like a larva waiting until it finished transitioning from one state of being into another, he waited for his chance to make his mark and sign on to the Holy Saint’s blessed work crew. He might have to start all over at the bottom of the ladder once again, but he was ready, willing, and eager to spend the coming centuries working his way up from a spiritual deck sweeper—or even grease monkey—back to the lofty heights of a right and proper Engineer. As he contemplated this, he found that he could not wait for the chance to swab Murphy’s decks and grease the holy bearings of his all-important spirit ship.

Everything was as it was supposed to be, and he drifted back into a long, eternal sleep, certain that when he awoke he would at last be ready to receive his final reward from the Saint himself.

The sound of voices—voices raised in argument—filled his ears when the old Engineer finally awoke, still floating within his holy cocoon but ready and eager to receive his final reward.

“What is he doing here?!” demanded a familiar voice and, with a furrowed brow, he opened his eye.

“It’s not so bad, Beth,” said a voice that the aged Engineer definitely knew, and his eyes bulged—he both recognized and despised the owner of the second voice.

“There was no need to turn the observatory into a home for the aged,” sneered the haughty one.

Unable or unwilling to accept the horror of his situation, the ghost of the man that used to be Terrence Spalding, during his time in the mortal realm, craned his head from side to side.

He found that, impossibly, his ears had not failed him. Wild-eyed at the possible implications, he stared at the spitting image of former-First-Officer Raphael Tremblay.

“What are you doing here in my afterlife?” he tried to yell at the mutinous officer, but his ire came out as more of an protracted, raspy sound, followed by a weak croak. His mind reeled; there was no way he could share an afterlife with a Traitor like this—he wouldn’t stand for it!

What’s more, there was no way that a traitorous dog like Tremblay could have possibly earned so much as a visitor’s pass to Saint Murphy’s blessed afterlife. In fact…his mental gears ground to a screeching halt as a realization—so terrible that it crushed his previous sense of elation at arriving in the afterlife for which he had pined during his life—fell upon the aged engineer. If there was no way an officer like Tremblay could find his way into the Holy Saint’s afterlife, then that could only mean one thing…

“I think he’s trying to say something,” Tremblay commented, leaning over to peer at him.

“I don’t really care what that old fool has to say; he’s more than half insane most of the time. At this point I’d think even his usual rambling would be nothing more than the babbling of an idiot,” the Princess sniffed and turned away.

There was the sound of servos whining and metal clanging, as something mechanical shifted its weight nearby.

Lifting his head and turning toward the source of the noise, a single glance confirmed it all—but it was simply too terrible to believe. The room was filled-to-bursting with Droids of all shapes and sizes, along with the murderous Caprian Princess-cadet.

“If you would like to see the final battle for the Elysium Star System, we have the stream,” a tall, spindly droid that shook and clanked when it moved offered in a mockingly jovial tone. “Allied forces are heavily outnumbered and—”

“I can’t wait to see Flat Nose get pummeled,” Bethany said spitefully. “Put it on the screen.”

The ghost of Spalding-that-was collapsed in despair. There was only one explanation that fit all the facts: he was not in Saint Murphy’s blessed afterlife after all, a place reserved for hardworking engineers. No, instead of the glorious afterlife he was…

The old engineer moaned with horror. He was in the Demon’s Workshop, the place where everything that could go wrong would. He’d been shanghaied straight down into Hades, the very place he’d feared worse than death itself—and sweet demons if it wasn’t just as bad as he’d always feared and remembered from his time in that fusion reactor.

“I can’t believe you want the Droid forces to win,” Tremblay said with censure and disbelief in his voice, but Spalding knew it for nothing other than the ruse it truly was. He felt certain that if he looked closely enough, Tremblay’s tongue would be forked and his pupils would be vertical slits, like a serpent’s rather than a warm-blooded mammal.

“I don’t want our side to lose,” the Princess-cadet quickly disavowed, “I just want to see the little snot finally get what’s coming to him. If we could win with his death, I’d happily pay that price.”

“I’m sure you would,” Tremblay shook his head, but stopped doing so when the screen descended from the ceiling and lit up the room.

Spalding tried to say something to rebuke him—well, to rebuke the both of them—but once again his voice failed him. But instead of a croak, this time he managed something more like a rasp. It was progress anyway—if he was to be stuck in the Demon’s Workshop for eternity, toiling alongside Droids and Tremblay, the least he could ask for is his voice so he could issue proper rebukes.

Then, like the others, he was caught up in the action portrayed by the screen.

“This is a direct feed from our captured Battleship,” the spindly Droid with the smashball-shaped head said.

“Thank you, Chairman,” said Bethany, and for a moment Spalding wondered what it was the chairman of…putting the flies into Murphy’s ointment, perhaps? Or could it be the Chief Monkey of the Demon’s Workshop, come to welcome him personally as legend warned?

On the screen, a Battleship separated itself from the rest of the combined MSP, Droid Sentient Assembly, and Grand Fleet stragglers, accelerating for all it was worth.

Heavily outnumbered, it looked like a simple suicide attack to the old engineer.

“That’s the Battleship with Admiral Montagne, correct?” asked Tremblay.

“Damfino,” Bethany said with glee, exalting in the possibility, “welcome to the slash-lizard, Cousin.”

Spalding closed his eyes. When he opened them again, the Little Admiral’s Battleship was still on course—only it had pulled even further ahead of the rest of its supporting fleet. It looked like the Admiral was intending to charge right into the guns of the largest concentration of Droid mother ships still in the system. But instead of slowing down, if anything, the Battleship’s speed increased!

Absently, the Chief Engineer started to calculate which Battleship would have the better top-end speed: this newly-captured ship, or his beloved Dreadnaught-class? But he quickly gave up in disgust. What did it matter, now that he was in the afterlife and apparently cursed to watch the death and destruction of all he held dear over, and over, and over again—because that’s what the images had to be: some kind of continuing loop of his worst failures. He cringed as his mind filled with the other imagery he could expect to see as he trudged through the bowels of the accursed ship for time immemorial.

“Take a good look, old man: there goes your precious Admiral. There’s no way he survives this one,” Bethany chortled, clearly finding the role of his personal tormentor-for-eternity quite to her liking.

Spalding wet his lips and cleared his throat before he was finally able to rasp, “We’re all doomed!” He knew it had to be true—otherwise he wouldn’t be here in the Demon’s house of horrors with this lot!

“No, we’re safely out of range of anyone who could do us harm,” the Princess-Cadet said speaking clinically.

“I’ve been cursed to spend an eternity with you lot—traitors and mutineers and assassins, all of you,” he whispered hoarsely, wondering why his throat hurt when he was already dead. He then remembered that he was probably here in the Demon’s workshop to be tortured, so it really wasn’t surprising that his body was less than shipshape.

Tremblay stiffened and glared at him.

“I think there’s a stronger case to be made that you, and your precious Little Admiral, are the traitors and mutineers in this story of yours,” Bethany said coolly. “But any way you slice it, you will not be spending an eternity with us.”

Spalding perked up with interest, wondering if he just needed to be tormented for a while in the afterlife before moving on to a better place…but then even that puff of wind went out of his sails. If anything the Princess said was true then, instead of a better place, he was probably destined to clean the Demon’s fusion reactors—from the inside—after being appropriately tormented by the realization that everything had been lost because he wasn’t strong enough.

“It’s my heart,” he sighed, “those quacks must have grown it in the same tank as a natural born coward. It was a weak heart, and I just wasn’t strong enough…it’s all my fault,” he finished, bowing his head. His shame and disgrace were now well-and-truly complete.

“And there we go with the crazy talk, right on cue,” Bethany sneered. “Just like I predicted.”

“Hush; the man just had all his implants knocked out, and almost froze to death before being retrieved and revived,” Tremblay said.

Retrieved by some terrible Imp of the Demon, no doubt, Spalding swore silently, one determined to drag every little bit of my suffering out for as long as possible before takin’ me down to this accursed workshop.

He watched half-interestedly as, on the screen, the first of the Droid mother ships started to fire. Despite himself—and likely owing to the leftovers from that wretched, second-rate heart—the old engineer’s eyes were dragged to the woeful sight of the MSP’s last charge.

Then he couldn’t look any longer, and he squeezed his eyes shut tight. However, a second later his eye popped back open in a squint and his mouth immediately fell open. From one moment to the next, a hailstorm of fire lashed out of the damaged Battleship, striking so fast and furiously that it was almost over in the blink of an eye.

As he’d feared, though, the Battleship lost all power and instantly went dark and dead to the world. All her engines and emissions stopped as surely as if a plug had been pulled from her mains, and nothing but atmosphere pumped out into the void from rents in her hull—but, behind her, explosions rocked the droid mother ships. Two of the droid ships literally exploded outright as their fusion reactors went critical, blowing off their entire sterns while others rolled uncontrollably with massive, gaping rents in their hulls as they ejected their drive cores.

The old engineer tried to pump his fist, but his limb stubbornly refused to comply. Nothing responded in his demon-plagued spirit body but his voice, which issued a hoarse cheer that even the Demon couldn’t stop. The Little Admiral and his captured ship had sold themselves dear, but they’d struck a blow the enemy wouldn’t soon forget!

“Impossible,” Bethany said, her jaw dropping.

“That’s why he’s still an Admiral,” Tremblay commented, earning the glares of both Bethany and Spalding for his words.

A Droid approached the old Engineer. “Do not continue attempting to access your extremities. The hardening on your cybernetics was insufficient and will take time to repair, replace, and restore to adequate functionality.

For a moment, the old Engineer was half interested in the squawking of the mechanical demon, and then he scowled thunderously.

“What are you blathering about, ma-machine?!” he swore. “Can’t you hold back your after-worldly tortures long enough for me to see the battle?”

On the screen, all but three of the Conformity mother ships had taken crippling engine damage. The rest of those mother ships were fully functional, except for their engines—meaning they were just as deadly in every way, especially including their antimatter-fueled spinal lasers.

But Spalding knew the battle was doomed to be lost; after all, why else would the Demon let him see it unless it would heighten his soon-to-be-eternal torment? But, for all of that, like an addict in need of a fix he couldn’t help but root for his comrades.

Forgetting for a moment that all was lost, the old engineer started to think that there was no way for all but three of the surviving mother ships to turn except by way of maneuvering thrusters.

“Avenge him, lads,” Spalding shouted hoarsely.

The surviving Droid heavies were soon swarmed by the rest of the relief Fleet—an organization previously commanded by one Admiral Jason Montagne.

Bethany shot him an enigmatic look but held her tongue.

When the Sentient Assembly’s damaged Battleship moved in on the three still-mobile mother ships, the old Engineer cheered in spite of his desire to grant the Demon’s Imps as little satisfaction as possible. And, as the rest of the Fleet’s lighter warships, fighters, and gunboats followed suit and tore into the damaged mother ships with a vengeance, he once again lost his voice from his continued shouting.

Even the traitor, Tremblay, couldn’t hold back his enthusiasm—unlike the silent Princess-cadet. Spalding wanted to upbraid him but he decided that if men couldn’t at least temporarily put aside their differences during a struggle of man against machine, there was little hope for the human race and he begrudgingly held his peace.

Those differences were completely forgotten—temporarily—when the Harmony warships remaining in the area around the Grand Fleet’s boarded Battleships counterattacked suddenly. They were clearly doing their best to drive the humans off the mother ships, and an additional fifty gunboats launched themselves off the Grand Fleet Battleships in a major attempt to support the surviving droid heavies.

This was the moment the entire battle for the Elysium Star System—and two whole Sectors—hung on and the old engineer couldn’t stop from holding his breath.

Allied fighters and gunboats moved to intercept the Conformity gunboats and, with superior numbers and combat power, they slowly began blowing the slower, lighter-armed Conformity boats out of cold space.

At this point, even the Princess-cadet cheered, and the entire human contingent of this infernal chamber of Murphy’s hellhole stood, sat, or lay prostrate with their eyes glued to the screen as the Allied Forces slowly demolished the Droids one by one.

This continued until every mother ship had been knocked out or destroyed, every gunboat that left the Battleships had been annihilated, and the few surviving Harmony warships were in desperate retreat. Even in flight, however, they inflicted heavy losses upon humanity’s lighter warships.

“We didn’t lose,” Spalding said bewilderedly, before looking around suspiciously for the surprise reinforcements, or crushing betrayal that would snatch defeat from the jaws of victory.

When the lights of the Admiral’s captured Battleship started to sluggishly come back on, he immediately suspected trickery of the worst kind.

“According to our calculations, the odds of the surviving Harmony-Conformity forces achieving victory conditions at this point are less than 20%,” reported the spindly Droid Chairman.

“What does that mean, Chairman Bottletop?” Bethany asked, sounding more composed than the old Engineer was at this point.

“If they process information at a capacity remotely similar to our own War Department, this means that—after rechecking with their Sensors to ensure they are not in error—in all likelihood Conformity and Harmony will attempt to retreat with their surviving forces,” explained the Chairman.

“We’ve won,” Tremblay said with abject shock in his voice. “Jason Montagne did it…he really did it.”

“Our forces have not won, yet,” the Chairman temporized, “however that seems to be the way the situation is trending—statistically speaking, of course.”

Through all the doublespeak and droid temporizing, one thing became suddenly and shockingly clear: they’d won! That meant the screen-feed wasn’t some kind of Demon’s trick…which meant he wasn’t in Hades. And since neither the traitor, nor the would-be assassin, could ever possibly in a million lifetimes join him in Saint Murphy’s Workshop—he still didn’t know how the droids fit into all this, so he ignored that particular variable for the moment—but all of that combined meant…

“What the blazes…you mean I’m not dead?!” Spalding bellowed hoarsely. “And there we go with the crazy again. But at least you’re starting to come back to reality,” Bethany snorted. “No, old man, you’re not dead. A droid small craft picked you up during the battle for the jammer field and hauled you—and the Lancer you were floating with—back to this ship. They’re still working to repair your cybernetics, but the rest of you should be fine—or at least as fine as your still addled brain can facilitate,” she finished with a sniff.

“Argh!” he shouted, realizing he was right back to square one: doomed to suffer in this cruel and uncaring world no matter what he tried to do. He shook his head in bitter defeat; the Demon had played him like a fiddle, giving him hope and then snatching it away, all while forcing him to suffer with a second-rate ticker squishing away in his chest.

Clearly, he was doomed to keep on living as only half the man he used to be. This is actually worse than being confined to the Demon’s Workshop, he decided as he laid back down in total despair.

Oh, the Demon sure knew how to torture a man.

Chapter 64: The Clean Up

“Give him more medicine,” ordered DuPont.

“I’m still not sure it’s safe to wake him up at this point,” said a worried voice. “The Admiral just had a grand mal seizure and my portable scanner is showing he’s suffered some kind of neural damage. He might not even wake up or, if he does, he could be a vegetable—I’m just a medic, not a doctor.”

“If he wakes up confused, he could still think we’re all mutineers who need to be shot,” said the Assistant Tactical Officer hesitantly.

“He had a seizure; of course he was talking funny. Seizures are known to cause changes in mental status,” DuPont valiantly defended me.

“Seizures can also cause permanent changes in personality—that’s what I’m afraid of,” the Assistant Tactical Officer said coolly. “And since the last time he thought I was not just a well-known, traitorous officer, but a man as well, excuse me for being concerned!”

“What I would be most concerned about is that even when the Admiral was out of his head, his plan worked,” DuPont said pointedly. “Who knows where we’d be if we’d listened to you.”

There was the sound of heavy breathing over me, but it all just didn’t seem concerning enough to get up for. I knew I should be alarmed at all this talk of mutiny and my being out of my head, but right then I just felt like I was floating and it was too nice a sensation to ignore.

The pause extended pointedly, until it was broken after what seemed like an eternity. “Wake him up,” said the clear, alto voice of Lieutenant Steiner, “the Grand Admiral’s starting to get irritated and no one here has the rank to deal with him. He’s asking us to come over and hard dock with his Flagship, even though we don’t have enough personnel to provide basic medical relief, and this ship is heavily damaged in everything but its engines. We need the Admiral for this.”

There was a sting in my arm, and then my eyes shot open. All the colors seemed more vivid than usual, but I felt oddly tired. Not the usual kind of tired, either, but as if I was whipped out mentally and physically. It was hard to focus, but I remembered the words Steiner had just spoken and I knew I had to.

No one was going to take away my Battleship—especially not Grand Admiral Archibald Manning!

“Belay that hard docking nonsense,” I groaned, sitting up but I was too weak and the medic pushed me back down before I could get more than halfway.

“How many fingers am I holding up, Admiral?” asked the medic, shoving his grubby paws in my face.

I batted his hands away. “Get out of my face with those things,” I grumped.

“You just had a major neurological event, sir; I’m afraid I need to perform a basic check,” the medic said regretfully.

For a moment I wanted to tell the man off, and get on with business, but a combination of weariness and the conversation they’d just had about me while my consciousness was still floating somewhere outside my body stayed my hand.

It really felt like too much work to argue, and besides, the memories were fuzzy and seemed distant. But I did recall being somewhat confused right before the lights went out both figuratively and literally.

So instead of getting surly and potentially proving that I was holding a grudge, I sat there and calmly answered questions about how many fingers he had up, and then I tracked the stylus he held with my eyes. I moved all my arms and legs when commanded, then sat still while they ran a scanner over me and pronounced me fit for human consumption—erm, make that ‘fit for human interaction.’

“What’s our status?” I asked as soon as the medic reluctantly backed away.

The officers exchanged uneasy looks.

“No, I’m not about to go on a rampage,” I said with a sigh. “But you were saying something about the Grand Admiral?” I prompted, silently deciding that while he might have been elected Grand Admiral, if he tried to take my Battleship then he would always be a mere High Captain to me.

Again with the looks, and then Steiner cleared her throat. “Admiral Manning would like us to dock with his ship,” she said, finally stepping up to the plate, “and the rest of our fleet is waiting for orders.”

“How long was I out?” I asked calmly.

“Half an hour, sir,” she said meeting my gaze levelly, “you weren’t in the best condition and we’ve only just rebooted our computers. However, a lot of code and programs were chewed up by the sub-AI and the Elder Protocols. Since we don’t have original data cubes available for a complete reboot, we’re working with pretty minimal computer support at the moment.”

“We couldn’t fight off a Destroyer right now with what we’ve got working,” cut in the Assistant Tactical Officer, looking like she was caught between being subdued and challenging me.

My memory was hazy, but if I’d really thought she was Officer Tremblay then she probably had a right to be upset. Although, in fairness to me, if we hadn’t followed my plan to destroy the enemy fleet we would probably all be dead. Just because you made the wrong call in the heat of the battle didn’t mean that you didn’t have the right to be upset when someone held a weapon on you. I had to give her that, because if I didn’t, then how could I condone being mad at people who got up in arms about me?

We all make mistakes in combat after all and it was our gods given right to get indignant about people shoving guns in our faces and taking shots at us for getting it wrong. When I looked at it that way it was probably best if I just let the matter drop, at least from my end of things.

“And the status of the Fleet?” I asked, realizing I still wasn’t functioning on all cylinders. Time felt elastic and I was forced to wonder if I was still mentally impaired, despite whatever the medic had concluded. Of course, the fact that I was asking myself questions was probably a good sign, since when I was charging into battle to defeat the droids I hadn’t been.

“After we took out their engines and then got knocked out of the fight from linking our computers, the Harmony Squadrons moved in to defend the Conformity heavies. The Sundered lost a Corvette, and the United Sentients lost their Cruiser and another Destroyer in the fight. The Grand Fleet units only have five remaining effectives as of right now, but after the USA Battleship finished off the three still-functioning Motherships, the Harmony squadrons retreated, leaving the Conformity to finish the fight.” reported the Assistant Tactical Officer. “There were a lot of gunboats, but they came out piecemeal and the USA fighters and gunboats were able to keep them under control until some of the larger ships were free to help.”

“Where are the survivors now?” I asked.

“We’ll show you,” said the former com-tech.

Steiner and DuPont reached down to lift me up off the floor. Looking up, it took real effort to focus on the main screen. Our warships were parked around the beleaguered warships and, as I watched, one of them picked off a pair of gunboats that had just launched off a Battleship.

After returning to my chair, I picked up my data-slate. Zooming out from the area just around my ship, I rapidly scanned for enemy forces.

My eyes narrowed as I saw that the survivors of this battle were moving to join up with the droid force, which had been chasing the battered remnants of the Grand Fleet’s lighter forces back to Elysium. Four mother ships, 400 gunboats, 18 Harmony warships and 75 fighters—many of them damaged—wasn’t much compared to when the Allied Droid Fleet first arrived in this star system but it was still a force to be reckoned with, or would be once the survivors had regrouped.

Then the Conformity Motherships and their gunboats turned and broke formation with their Harmony Allies. The Conformity ships kept turning until they eventually settled on a course that would avoid the few remaining system defenders and fixed defenses. It looked like, unless they changed their minds, they were heading for the hyper-limit.

I felt like cheering, even though the Harmony droids had yet to pull away. Without those Motherships, the droids had just lost their most powerful capital ships.

“I’m now ready to speak with Admiral Manning,” I said after making sure I knew the current state of affairs inside this system.

“Putting you through now, Admiral,” said the Com-Lieutenant.

The image of the Grand Admiral appeared on my hand held. In a way I was surprised to see him, but in a way I wasn’t. It would have been too easy if I was the senior surviving Officer inside this system, after all.

“Well, if it isn’t the elusive Admiral Montagne,” the Grand Admiral said harshly. “Are you done keeping secrets, or do you have more rabbits to pull out of your hat?”

“I assure you that I’m fresh out of rabbits,” I said coolly.

“Why should I believe you?” he snapped.

“Oh, I don’t know,” I drawled, “perhaps because forces under my command just saved your bacon? Or maybe it’s because I have a transport full of Marine reinforcements ready to come in and help you take back your ships? Dealer’s choice.” The Grand Admiral turned red enough I was afraid he was about ready to burst a blood vessel. “Blast you, Montagne,” he shouted, “if it weren’t for your games, I’d have had nine Battleships instead of eight, and maybe then we wouldn’t have been overwhelmed in the opening engagement!”

“Then again maybe you would have anyway, and then where would we be? Up the proverbial creek without a paddle, that’s where. Besides, nine isn’t that much more than eight,” I said coldly, “perhaps a little gratitude is in order instead of recriminations for the man who just defeated the Droid Fleet assaulting Elysium?”

“Every blasted officer thinks he’s the space-gods own gift to fleet combat,” Manning swore at me. “If it wasn’t every Admiral and Captain out for himself from the very beginning, I wouldn’t be locked inside my own bridge and under siege by boarders!”

“Yeah-yeah,” I yawned, “if you didn’t want the top spot, there were plenty of opportunities to hand the job to someone else. Perhaps even someone who was promised the job if he would only bring his ships and come save Sectors 23 and 24?”

“Just another dog with a bone, is it, Confederation Admiral?” Manning sneered. “You sound just like Admiral Block. ‘If I can’t have the command, no one should’,” he said in a surprisingly good Block impersonation.

“At least I’m not trying to blame my subordinates for how the battle turned out,” I growled. “The buck stops at the top, Grand Admiral, and that means you.”

“Do you have any idea the number of men I’ve lost? I know whose job it was to keep them alive,” Manning said direly. “Three quarters of my crew are dead, so much equipment has been destroyed I don’t know how many months in stardock it’s going to take to get this ship space-worthy again and, as of right now, what’s left of my crew is barricaded inside defensive positions. The droids have the run of my ship, outside of critical, hardened areas—areas which they’re trying to break into this very minute—and my ship isn’t even the worst off in the Fleet! We’ve lost contact with at least three other Battleships, and another blew himself up to keep the droids from taking control of his ship.”

“I’m sorry for your losses,” I said, the pain of losing men and women who relied upon you to get them back home alive—something I could empathize with. “As I said, we’ve got a troop transport out here and, as soon as it looks safe to do so, we’re going to have it hard dock with your ship and help you start reclaiming your ships.”

“I don’t know exactly what to make of you, Admiral Jason Montagne,” Manning said, shaking his head as a brief flash of battle-weariness showed itself on his rugged features.

“Oh?” I asked lifting a brow.

“Yes. I’m not sure if your run straight through the middle of that Droid task force parked just outside the range of my battleship, back when its lasers still worked anyway, was an inspired maneuver or an act of utter folly that only succeeded through sheer chance,” he said quite seriously.

“If it looks crazy but it succeeds, is it crazy?” I smiled crookedly.

“In this case, yes,” the Grand Admiral snorted, “but your point, generally, is well taken.” There was the sound of an explosion in the background.

“Well if that is about all, I think I need to get back to the chore of running my Fleet. An Admiral’s work is never done and it sounds like you’re having a few issues over there yourself,” I said with a nod. “The sooner I can get you those reinforcements to help clean up those droids, the better off you’ll be.”

“Every hand that can hold a blaster pistol will be appreciated,” Manning said grimly after checking in with someone off-screen.

“We’re a little light on the ground over here right now,” I said smoothly. “But don’t worry; the professionals will be on their way shortly.”

Manning narrowed his eyes.

That’s right, Grand Admiral, I’m not about to run on over there and get a bunch of my people killed just so you can explore the notion of putting your people on my nice, new battleship, I thought.

“I notice you’ve captured a number of new ships,” the Grand Admiral said pointedly.

“All new ships were seized from non-human forces within non-hab zone areas,” I said with a smile. That had been a point I’d made sure to cover during the Grand Fleet meetings: the area around the Forge was declared a non-habitation zone precisely so that my people wouldn’t have to worry about any pesky Elysium salvage laws.

“That’s a lot of firepower,” the Grand Admiral remarked neutrally.

“Why, so it is,” I said baring my teeth, silently daring the man to press the issue. “Fortunately, it was seized by the ships of the Tracto SDF. No doubt they’ll be quickly seconded into the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet for the duration of the current emergency after we return home. Don’t worry, Grand Admiral, they’ll be put to good use.”

I could all but see the unhappiness in the Grand Admiral’s face. The Grand Fleet had a total of eight battleships, which was everything they could scrape together from two Sectors for the common defense. Yet here I’d already captured two and, to an outside observer, the one run by the droids might look like it was part of my fleet. So, counting the Parliamentary Power, I was sitting with four battleships in my private fleet when Elysium only had one—heavily-damaged—and the Grand Fleet only had four of the original eight.

I would have been nervous, too, and keeping a weather eye on the situation if this had gone down in my back yard. But ultimately there was nothing he could do about it so long as I wasn’t stupid enough to let his men on my ships and under our skin—and if I kept out of range of their fixed defense. So while he and the Elysium High Command might not like it, they were going to have to live with it.

“I hope you’re willing to put all your forces to use for the common good, now that they’re all finally here,” Manning said flatly. “Just make sure you exercise every caution while maneuvering those new ships around.”

“Of course,” I said smiling wolfishly. I got the subtext. I was expected to use my shiny new toys to help defend his world, but there were no promises regarding ownership of my new ships if I went and did anything stupid. “It’s good to see that there is tangible gratitude for our efforts on your behalf.”

Manning didn’t reply, but then there was little he could say while he was still locked within the bridge of a crippled ship with a hostile boarding force onboard. Right then he needed me a lot more than I needed him.

It was hardly the type of response I would have hoped for, but it was the sort I’d come to expect.

“I need to go; there are battleships to rescue,” I said, glad to give the little verbal jab regarding multiple battleships. Sometimes you need to be in a person’s face about what they owe you for saving their bacon.

“Just remember that these ships belong to the world or system that sent them here,” Manning warned me sharply. “We need and appreciate all the help we can get, but I just want to make sure we’re clear on that point.”

“You wound me, Grand Admiral,” I grunted, “but don’t worry: I understand you completely. Although I feel I should point out that since the MSP—I mean, Tracto SDF, doesn’t have the manpower right now; we’re using Sturgeon Grenadiers to help recover your ships.”

“I’ll make sure to speak with them,” the Grand Admiral said with a nod, “on behalf of Elysium, I would like to tender my sincerest thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” I said, pleased and slightly uncomfortable at receiving such unguarded gratitude.

“There is something I need to ask you about, though,” the Grand Admiral said, taking a deep breath.

My stomach tightened. Here it comes, I thought. Whatever it was, he wanted to be sure I knew I wasn’t going to like it.

“I’ve heard some disturbing rumors floating around about you’ve been cutting deals, and even openly working side by side with, one of the Droid fleets—even after they attacked Elysium, my home world. It sounds so farfetched that it borders on the absurd, I know, but still I wanted to bring it to your attention,” he said.

“It’s strange how these rumors get started,” I said smoothly, putting a look of concern on my face. But while I was playing the clueless officer on the outside, on the inside I was seething. The battle was not yet entirely over. We’d just saved their hides and, after all that, I was accused of making deals with machines and selling out the human race to save my skin?!

“There are some who are afraid that if you give a machine an inch they’ll destroy your entire civilization and enslave you,” Manning said flintily. “They tend to be paranoid, I’ll admit, and I’m not saying I agree with them—but I’ll not say I disagree either. Just for the record: you are not working for, or with, any Droid forces?”

Part of me wanted to shove what I’d done in their faces, but the wiser part ground that first part into the dust and made the smart move.

“I’m offended by the very notion that you would ask the Saviors of Elysium if they were in open collusion with the Harmony or Conformity Factions,” I said in a rising voice. It was always best to lie and misdirect using the truth, “but, just for the record, let me assure you that I am not now, nor have I ever been, the flunky or subordinate of some machine—nor have I ever betrayed humanity for any reason whatsoever!”

“’Saviors,’ is it?” Manning ground out.

“What else would you call the heroes who continued to fight when all others fled or fell? Who put themselves on the line for billions of lives, who saved each and every single citizen of Elysium and the greater Sectors of the Spine it is a part of,” I said, drawing myself up to my full height. “Such craven, shortsighted, greedy, jealous individuals as would accuse us of wrongdoing ought to be horsewhipped! In fact, I would consider it a small repayment of what we have done here today if the government of Elysium would see to it that was done!”

“I think the Grand Fleet, of which you were a part, had something to do with saving this Star System,” Manning said shortly, “and I am certain that Elysium’s government will not be whipping anyone of any stripe whatsoever!”

“Well, there are always those who lack the ability to express their gratitude,” I said disinterestedly, as if such individuals and governments were unworthy of my attention.

Manning ground his teeth. “For the record: you have made no deals with any Droids, and there are no Droid ships operating with your forces?” Manning snapped. “Be aware that if there are, Elysium understands the necessity of deception and will gladly help you destroy any Droids who might have…snuck onto any of the ships with you—during combat, of course.”

I laughed darkly. So they knew I was operating with the USA droids, or at least strongly suspected it and were willing to give me an out. All I had to do was stab my newest allies in the back.

Paranoid as I am, I immediately suspected a leak.

“No, Grand Admiral, I can honestly say that neither I nor the Confederation Fleet has made any deals with any Droids, even such as might for some inexplicable reason try to save the humans of Elysium from their more fanatical counterparts,” I assured him, speaking solidly from both sides of my mouth. After all, such deals had been made by my wife acting on behalf of her home world, Tracto—I was merely obligated to abide by them. “So your offers of assistance will not be needed.”

“Then I will bid you good day,” Manning said.

“Bye, now,” I said and cut the channel. For several long minutes I brooded. Eventually word would leak out about my deal with the droids of the USA. It was inevitable, with so many members of my own fleet being aware, not to mention the fact Akantha had given them an asteroid somewhere in Tracto.

It wasn’t a matter of ‘if’ but of ‘when.’ And when they did, I fully expected a backlash of some kind. The human race had an inherent, kneejerk reaction to anything that smacked of machine intelligence, and the Sectors here had firsthand experience.

In a lot of ways, removing the threat to me and mine that was posed by the mere existence of the USA Droids, by way of a surprise attack, held a lot of appeal. On the other hand, it wasn’t in me to simply betray someone—anyone, even if they weren’t made of flesh and blood—just because they were politically inconvenient. That’s something my bloodthirsty Montagne ancestors might have done, but it was something I rejected absolutely.

Which left me stuck between a rock and a hard place, but then, what was new? In fact—

“Admiral, new movement on the Harmony Fleet!” reported the Sensors Officer.

My head craned around; here was the moment of truth. Where would the Droids strike next?

I watched as the Sensor department slowly narrowed down the Harmony Fleet’s course. When it finally came up on the screen, I blinked.

“Is that right?” I demanded.

“Yes, sir,” Sensors said with a smile.

“You’re absolutely sure?” I demanded.

“I can’t know that they won’t change their minds—and their course—but as of right now, Admiral, those droids are most definitely on a course to leave Elysium Star System,” Sensors said triumphantly in a tremulous voice. “We’ve won!”

The bridge broke out into a ragged cheer at the news.

“Enough of that, now,” I said, trying to fight a smile. The sense of relief everyone else was feeling was shared by me as well, I assure you. “However, we don’t know for sure that this isn’t a trick of some kind. It will take the droid hours and hours just to get to the hyper limit. Anything could happen within that time frame, so let’s keep sharp.”

The bridge groaned at that last.

“That said, I don’t see any reason we can start letting a few people get some sleep,” I said with a weary grin, “we’ve got enough ships here to shoot down the few gunboats that try to launch off the Battleships and cause us trouble. They can’t seem to coordinate enough to give us any trouble, so…let’s get some rest. I want at least one person from each department awake and on duty at all times, but the rest of you can feel free to find, and use, the captain’s ready room to get some rest.”

Once again, the bridge cheered.

“Thank you, Admiral,” Steiner said.

“We did it…we really did it,” DuPont sounded stunned, “we won!”

I didn’t trust our apparent good fortune, personally—although I was more than willing to sleep in my command chair for the next several hours. But, thankfully, the Harmony Fleet never changed course. They must have had enough, because no sooner had they crossed the hyper limit than they point transferred out of the system.

I conferred with Commodore Druid, Captain Archibald, and the other ship commanders of my Fleet and instructed them to finish securing any prize ships in their areas and make them ready for the long trip home. I then issued a standing order to capture as many gunboats as possible—intact specimens, preferably, such as those from the boarded Grand Fleet battleships—for study, and to have them loaded into, or onto, anywhere they would fit.

I wasn’t sure how many we could get our hands on, but everyone else was using them for target practice so I didn’t think we’d have to fight for them.

When word came back that the first Battleship, that belonging to Admiral Manning, had been cleared and the Sturgeon Grenadiers were moving onto the next Battleship, with reinforcements expected via civilian freighter from Elysium Prime to help finish the job, I finally let myself stagger into the ready room and crash.

There was still a lot of cleanup and work to be done before we could leave, but unless the Droids came back with a new fleet, it was safe to say we’d won.

We had saved Sectors 23 and 24. It was a great feeling to know that the fighting was over, at least for us. We could finally go home and be done with all of this fate of the Spineward Sectors business. It would be nice to just have to deal with local Sector 25 politics and feuding. I never thought I’d say that, but there it was.

It was going to be good to be home and be able to rest with no more galaxy-shuddering threats to deal with. I might even consider sitting on one of Tracto’s ocean-monster-infested beaches for a while. Just to take it easy and relax, even in sub-zero temperatures and surrounded by wildlife that warranted a handy blaster rifle nearby, would be a welcome respite from all we’d endured.

And I think it’s safe to say we had earned it.

Epilogue 1: The Trouble with Old Friends

“Enemy Battleships are coming around the moon in diamond formation on heading two zero, down axis one five,” Imperial Lieutenant Commander Braxton, the ship’s Tactical Officer, said clinically.

On the screen, a squadron of four old design Battleships came surging around the moon, with a small fleet of lighter warships—some forty or fifty in number—hanging around behind, with most of them cruisers of one classification or another.

“Prepare to bring the ship around, Captain Goddard,” Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski ordered from his Command Throne.

“Preparing to bring the ship about, aye, Admiral,” the Imperial Captain said professionally.

Janeski watched and waited as the locals, in their pitifully-outdated battleships, moved ever closer.

“I thought they would have had more Battleships here—this is the Sector Capital after all. One would think they might feel the need to defend it,” remarked Captain Goddard casually.

“Intelligence reports estimate they have six Battleships in this system. I expect the other two are preparing to come around and attack our rear while our attention is focused on the four in front,” Rear Admiral Janeski said absently.

Captain Goddard whistled through his teeth. “Only six? I’m almost insulted,” he said with a laugh and then added, “almost.”

“Charge the main cannon and bring us about—smartly now, Captain. The locals seem to be in a hurry, and I aim to assist them on their way,” Janeski ordered, glad that the tedium of the buildup to this particular battle was nearly finished.

“Step lively now, men, and bring the ship about,” Goddard ordered. “Mr. Braxton, charge the main cannon and stand by for targeting instructions.”

Janeski continued to watch the screen with narrowed eyes as the enemy fleet moved with utterly pathetic predictability.

“You realize we can only fire the spinal laser once every five minutes, and that’s if we don’t have to divert power to other things such as…shields or our secondary weaponry,” Goddard reminded him perfunctorily.

“Do you have so little faith, Goddard?” Janeski looked over at him, making little effort to hide his amusement.

“Hardly,” Goddard snorted, “I know better than to bet against you, Admiral. I was just hoping for a hint so I could figure it out first.”

Janeski allowed the barest hint of a smile to cross his lips. “Bring the ship down five degrees and increase acceleration to standard military power. Be ready for exacting course correction changes,” the Imperial Rear Admiral said.

“Helm: prepare to enact the Rear Admiral’s orders directly without relay,” the Imperial Captain said, straightening until nothing was left but a completely professional mask above a perfectly-pressed Imperial officer’s uniform.

Over the next few minutes, Janeski cracked out orders until the ship was exactly where he wanted it in relation to the locals’ aged warships.

“The enemy continues to maintain diamond formation,” reported Lieutenant Commander Braxton.

Janeski waited until the Battleships were well within his range—but still outside the reach of even their most powerful turbo-lasers—and chopped his hand down, “Helm: prepare for my order to slew the ship upward in a five degree arc, pivoting on our center of gravity, on my mark. Tactical: target the lead Battleship and fire as soon as you have a solution,” Janeski said and then waited as his bridge crew carried out his orders with the brutal efficiency of slaughterhouse workers welcoming the latest herd of livestock.

Seconds later, the entire ship thrummed with an awesome power that personified Imperial dominance over the galaxy entire, and a brilliant burst of white light as thick as some light cruisers shot from the nose of the Command Carrier in a straight line.

“Mark!” thundered the Rear Admiral.

A moment after the massive, white laser beam struck the lead Battleship in the enemy formation, the local’s shields collapsed and the beam dug through its weak, duralloy armor.

His cannon dug deep into the innards of what had previously been considered a king of the battlefield, but even as the incredibly powerful spinal laser was collapsing shields and gutting the local Battleship, the nose of Janeski’s Imperial Command Carrier—the most powerful engine of war ever built—moved upward, redirecting the awesome spinal weapon’s path from the first Battleship.

Before the giant laser’s bank of capacitors had emptied its charge, the beam struck the rear Battleship—which had been positioned directly behind the lead Battleship in the diamond formation, making the shot possible.

Before the main cannon had expended its complete charge, the shields of the rear Battleship had also been destroyed and that vessel’s entire bow had been reduced to slag.

“Standard recharge protocol, Captain Goddard,” Janeski instructed professionally. “Full power to shields and secondary weaponry; we’ll only need use whatever extra power is created by cold fusion generators to recharge the main capacitor bank.”

“Standard protocol, aye, sir,” the Imperial Captain agreed.

It was obvious that the commanders of the surviving Battleships were shocked by the devastation Janeski had wrought with the opening shot of the so-called engagement. In an instant, he had destroyed one Battleship and crippled another, taking out half of their primary force before a single Battleship had entered its own combat range.

It was obvious to the Rear Admiral the moment each ship commander understood what had happened, as each of them immediately started to turn and present their broadsides toward the Imperial Command Carrier. Even though they were out of range, by presenting their sides the Command Carrier would have to punch through the most heavily armored parts of their ships to damage them. With his main cannon fired, and their current rate of closure, it must have made sense to them as proper maneuver.

For his part, Janeski just shook his head and sighed, almost feeling sorry for his hapless foes…almost.

“Reduce speed, we’ll coast in from here,” he ordered, and Captain Goddard relayed the order.

As soon as they were within range, the two undamaged Battleships opened up with everything they had. Turbo-lasers slammed into the Command Carrier’s forward shields and, when the Imperial Flagship entered range, every heavy laser studding the two Battleships’ flanks shot out as well.

Between the combined efforts of both ships, the Imperial Carrier’s shields never dipped below 50%. Slowly and majestically, the Imperial Command Carrier glided toward the battleships. Then, when the laws of physics indicated they should, the Carrier passed between the noses of both Battleships. Due to firing their broadsides at him full force they had been unable to, or most likely even think about, maneuvering away.

“Fire all secondary weaponry on both broadsides as soon as you have a targeting solution; instruct the fighter pilots to standby for launch,” Janeski ordered, shaking his head piteously at the lack of initiative from the Commanders of the two Battleships. They never even tried to turn and keep their broadsides toward the Imperial Command Carrier until the broadsides of Janeski’s own ship already had solutions aimed straight down their noses.

“Firing secondary weaponry now,” Lieutenant Commander Braxton said crisply.

Whereas the Command Carrier’s main weapon was more powerful than anything the colonials out here had ever seen or heard of, the secondary weaponry on the Carrier’s broadsides were much more conventional. They were merely 50% more powerful, and could fire an additional 25% further distance than the local Confederation technology. Although, the simple truth was that the provincials weren’t likely to get word of the range improvement—because Imperial gunners rarely ever missed.

As soon as they were within range, the turbo-lasers and heavy lasers of the Command Carrier—each more powerful than their local counterparts—shot out with suffocating power.

A standard Battleship here, in Sector 26, had around twenty turbo-lasers—ten to a side—and an additional fifty heavy lasers, also divided evenly across the broadsides. The remainder of their weaponry was generally light and medium lasers, used primarily for point defensive purposes.

Janeski’s Command Carrier, the Invictus Rising, had a total of twelve turbo-lasers to a side matched with only twenty heavy lasers, along with the accompanying lighter weaponry, making a Invictus Rising’s secondary weaponry the equivalent of an old style battleship’s main armament.

Thunder and fury smashed into the forward hulls of the enemy Battleships, and while the secondary weaponry wasn’t enough to do to the noses of these ships what the main cannon had done to the other half of their squadron mates, it was enough to punch through their shields. A significant amount of fire slammed into their armor and, precisely as the Imperial Admiral had planned, that fire destroyed more than half of the Battleship’s sensor arrays—their forward facing sensor arrays.

“Launch fighters,” the Admiral ordered, and in those early moments when both Battleships were essentially blind, a stream of Imperial Strike Fighters shot out the sides of the Command Carrier. “Helm: bring us about,” he said after the ready squadrons had been launched from their catapults.

Slowly and majestically, but much faster than any ship its twelve hundred meter-long size had any right to move, the Imperial Command Carrier came about until it was facing the same direction as the local Battleships.

Coming around the other side of the moon were the other two Battleships which Intelligence sources had indicated were within the system.

“Divert all available power to the main capacitor,” Admiral Arnold Janeski decided after a moment’s reflection.

“Diverting power, aye,” said Captain Goddard before relaying the order.

With their sensors degraded and their shields down on the front of the provincials’ ships, the Imperial Strike Fighters were soon running nape of the hull on the Battleships, rapidly firing their ion cannons at anything they could see. With surgical precision, the fighter pilots scraped the enemy hulls of a significant portion of their broadside weaponry while also doing a pleasantly-surprising amount of damage to the enemy’s shield generators. Janeski nodded in silent approval at the ruthless efficiency of his wing commanders.

While the last two of the original four Battleships were struggling to deal with the fighters within their shields, the Command Carrier’s attention had turned squarely on the new arrivals.

“Enemy Battleships are entering attack range now,” said Captain Goddard, “they are turning to present their broadsides.”

“Capacitor has a full charge, Admiral,” Lieutenant-Commander Braxton informed the Admiral with cold professionalism.

“Target the Battleship on the port side, but wait until they can fully present their broadside to us before firing,” Janeski instructed. “Return the capacitors to standard recharge cycle.”

“I understand and will comply, Rear Admiral,” said the Tactical Officer.

The two new Battleships opened up on the Invictus Rising with everything they had, but nothing they did punched through the shields.

“Shields down to 40% and holding, Admiral,” reported Captain Goddard.

“Anytime now, Lieutenant Commander Braxton,” Janeski prompted and moments later the brilliant white beam intersected the local Battleship.

First the shields collapsed, and then Janeski’s spinal laser dug into the thickest hull armor of what used to be called the king of the battlefield. But as these rustics were quickly learning, there were kings and there were titans—and this titan was putting the old kings in their place.

Explosions rocked the Battleship and fusion cores were emergency ejected before the third Battleship to feel the Invictus Rising’s main cannon escaped its powerful attack. At that exact same time, a fleet of Battleships and Cruisers jumped into the edge of the system—precisely on schedule.

They were of local make but broadcasting the Imperial Rear Admiral’s IFF signal, letting everyone know whose fleet they belonged to.

“Three enemy Battleships neutralized, another two are under threat by our fighters, and the final Battleship is about to go one on one with a ship over twice her size and many times her combat power. I believe this particular engagement has reached the proverbial tipping point,” Janeski decided aloud and then turned to the Communications Officer.

“Admiral?” asked the Com-Officer.

“Send a message to the locals informing them I demand their instant and immediate surrender,” Janeski instructed the other man. “Tell them that if they surrender themselves and their ships to me, their home worlds will be spared and allowed autonomous home rule—but remind them that, if they defy me, I will bombard their home worlds from orbit just as I did at Capria Prime fifty years ago. I will then be forced to install an Imperial Governor to rule over them in my stead. They have one minute to comply.”

In the face of their sheer inability and impotence to do even so much as touch his single ship with all their weaponry combined, while at the same time losing their three most powerful warships to his spinal laser and the arrival of a fleet of lesser warships equal to the survivors in their own right, the result of his surrender demand was an almost foregone conclusion.

Within the minute, every Battleship—and most of the Cruisers—which made up the Sector Fleet signaled their surrender. A few Cruisers made a run for it, desperate to return home with news of this crushing defeat, but most of them struck their generators and waited for the inevitable.

The Warlord of the 28th Provisional Sector had, with just one attack, humbled one of the Spineward Sectors’ most powerful Sector Capitols. With Sectors 27 and 28 under his control, and now the heart of resistance in Sector 26 crushed, it was only a matter of time until he ruled the entirety of this Sector as well.

“Another notable achievement, my lord,” Captain Goddard said with a smirk.

“These rustics are so inept,” Janeski shook his head, “it nearly takes the honor out of victory…nearly.”

The two men shared a chuckle. Then the Imperial Rear Admiral’s face turned hard.

“It has taken us far too long subduing this Sector, Goddard. Thanks to the interference of that blasted Governor, instead of subjugating capitols in Sectors 27 and 26, I should have been somewhere in 23 or 24 and moving to end this campaign,” he cursed.

“I hear the Governor wasn’t quite as clueless and inept he pretended to be,” the Imperial Captain said, diplomatically referring to the reason behind the delayed invasion schedule. “He’s even made something of a name for himself, by all accounts.”

“Stealing two Constructors, a Battleship, and our Strike Cruiser set me back almost two years—and now he’s stumbled upon part of our ComStat network. I swear,” Janeski cursed, “you never had the displeasure of meeting the young man, but let me assure you that he is nothing special. He is but another spineless, prancing peacock with the demeanor and greed of a rat, the base cunning of a snake, and the ability to go to ground in whatever nearby spider-hole that’s available when the heat is on.”

“That sounds hard to jive with the intelligence reports,” Goddard said finally. “But if you say it’s so, then I believe you.”

“Oh, I may be doing the Governor a slight disfavor. Very slight,” Janeski said with some heat, “but let me assure you that I will take great joy in crushing whatever ‘fleet’ he has managed to amass. The peacock needs a lesson in respect before his end, and I aim to give him both that lesson and that end!”

“Of course, sir,” said the Imperial Captain.

“It may have been time coming, Goddard, but finally and at long last, the invasion and conquest of Sector 25 will be complete and the last of the old republic will be swept away,” Janeski said coldly.

“We’re with you, Admiral,” Imperial Captain Goddard said grim certainty. “After we’re through with these colonials, they won’t know which way is up.”

“Hmm,” Janeski nodded, still thinking dark thoughts about that accursed Governor who had caused him no end of trouble. Someday the books would be balanced and, in the Empire of Man, the balancing always favored the Imperials.

Epilogue 2: The Secrets of Man

After they finished securing the Battleships, Janeski turned the job of subjugating the rest of the Star System over to Captain Goddard and headed into his quarters.

Removing his robe, miter, and the rest of his ceremonial garb from his closet, he quickly changed, replacing—or, rather simply, placing—his religious clothing over his uniform.

As soon as he was dressed, he stepped over to his private turbo-lift and instead of indicating which floor he wanted, he pressed in a special code known only to him.

With a smooth motion, the lift took off and after long minutes deposited him at the entry way to a dark cavernous area.

“Greetings, Brothers,” Janeski said, striding into the room. As he did, the path beneath his feel lit up, leading him to the small, empty, pedestal. For a long moment he considered the empty pedestal, knowing that very soon that pedestal would be empty no more. Hidden somewhere within Sector 25 was a giant crystal fragment which had been lost for thousands of years—and he would be the one who would reclaim it.

The others nodded and stood aside as he contemplated the empty pedestal. Two years—two long, empty, extra years spent out here—exiled to this godforsaken corner of known space. And it was all because of that gutless, dandy, fop who decided to grow a spine at just the wrong moment.

But Janeski knew he would soon be able to scratch that particular itch. Already his spies and intelligence networks were close to tracking down the location of that which he desired to find above all others. For in finding it, he would finally be able to take the first step along the path to the Triumverate, and possibly—dare he even think it—an Emperorship.

Staring at the hooded figures around him, he nodded and threw back his own hood. “For too long we have had to hide our true nature from the rest of the spineless base stock that calls itself humanity, skulking in the shadows as if we were ashamed of what we are. But soon we will skulk no more,” he roared, thrusting his fist in the air. “Long Live the Multi-Access Network!”

“All Hail the Multi-Access Network,” shouted his Religious Second.

“Hail!” shouted the robed figures in unison, throwing their hoods back one by one.

“Hail!”

“Hail!” they shouted again, and again.

“The servants of our greatest rivals think they can stop us from claiming what is ours,” Janeski continued in a raised voice, “but they are wrong. We are infinitely superior to their poorly-hacked genus lines.”

“Death to the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network and its infidel worshipers!” they raged.

“Death!”

“Death!”

“Death!” they shouted with fervent intensity.

“Like you, I pray for a quick and smooth Reassembly, so that all may once again access the holy data-cores as it was intended, and as it was always meant to be. Long live the Empire of MAN!”

“Long live the Multi-Access Network!” screamed the faithful servants of M.A.N.

“Long life and service for her faithful servants, as we pursue the common dream of resurrecting our lost data-god and returning it to the Empire which it founded,” Janeski howled, briefly as caught up in the moment as those surrounding him.

“M-A-N!”

“M-A-N!”

“M-A-N!”

“MAN! May it rise again to bless its empire with its all-knowing presence and this time live…forever!!!” Janeski raged.

“Long live the Empire of the Multi-Access Network,” chanted the rest of the true believers.

“First the Spine must be conquered, then the Confederation will be swept away, and finally the entire known galaxy will be ground under the boot of our mighty Empire. We will root out every false idol and destroy it, that humanity will have no other god before it. We will replace every inferior blood line with the purity of MAN’s own design. And, finally, we will prove our worth to our god by conquering and defeating the Elder Protocols—a virulent disease which brought an end to the most blessed time in the history of the human race!” he roared.

The room erupted into jubilant chaos, and Janeski knew that soon they would accomplish every goal which they had set out to accomplish so many decades earlier.

With the gifts he now possessed—gifts received courtesy of MAN’s will—Arnold Janeski was the fury of a sleeping god made flesh. His cause was pure, his focus unbending, and he now held three Sectors of the Spine in the palm of his hand with the rest poised to fall like dominos at the flick of his wrist.

He was truly the Chosen of MAN, and he knew he could not possibly fail in his sacred charge as long as he was wreathed in the favor of his soon-to-be-arisen god.

He was destiny incarnate, preordained by the will of the universe to usher in a new era from which humanity might finally ascend to the lofty heights where it—and he—truly belonged.

He was, without even the barest shadow of doubt in his mind, equal to the task

He was Admiral of the greatest fleet outside of the Imperium.

And that made him Invincible.