My name is Jason Montagne Vekna, Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon, Vice Admiral in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, a Prince-Cadet of House Montagne, and a sometimes-struggling college student. And this is the story of the craziest week of my life.
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Being a member of Planetary Royalty has its perks, but it isn't all it's cracked up to be. The bright lights, flashing cameras and flashier titles usually just amount to nothing more than a glorified prison sentence. For instance, I had been granted the title and rank of Vice Admiral in the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. Sounds great, right? If you looked at the official chain of command, you would see that I was the commander of an entire Fleet sent out to guard the borders of the Confederated Empire. In reality I commanded nothing at all, that was Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski's domain. And that was fine by me.
I usually spent the majority of my time aboard ship working on Tabulated Planetary Service/Statistics reports, otherwise known as TPS/S. Homework, in other words, for my distance learning program which applied toward my degree in colonial administration. It was my dream to renounce my citizenship and become an administrator in a new frontier colony. I was never actually involved in fleet operations. The ‘fleet’ such as it was consisted of fewer than 20 ships and was spread out over 7 parsecs of space. We controlled our section of the border by performing routine patrols as individual units or at most penny packets of two ships.
The only thing I controlled was the workstation and terminal in my stateroom. To make certain I understood my position in this fleet (as if I’d ever forget), the real Admiral had also stationed two Imperial Marine Jacks decked out in full power armor outside my door, as an honor guard. They escorted me wherever I went and were with me whenever I was outside my quarters. This was the only real place I had any privacy during the cruise.
I was sitting at my workstation, pounding away on a particularly tricky problem of resource allocation for a new colony in the early stages of settlement, when Admiral Janeski’s voice sounded from the speakers in my cabin.
“Governor Montagne to the Flag Bridge. Governor Montagne to the Flag Bridge immediately. This is the Admiral.” The speaker then cut off.
I dropped the cup of tea I had been sipping as I jumped out of my seat, having heard my name on the ship-wide intercom for the first time I could recall. This couldn't be good, I thought.
I was aboard the Lucky Clover as a face-saving piece of interstellar politics between the parliamentary government of my home world Capria and our good friends from the Empire. My planet was part of a vast Confederacy which had functionally merged with the Empire about fifty years ago to create the Confederated Empire. The Empire had ‘asked’ (a much gentler word than demanded) that the individual world states in our sector of the Confederacy second ships from our individual System Defense Fleets over to the Imperial Rim Fleet. We were supposed to help patrol the borders of the Confederated Empire while the regular units of the Imperial Fleet were siphoned away from Rim Fleet and assigned to a Battle Fleet on the other side of the Empire, where there was a real war raging with the Gorgon Alliance.
But a battleship, even an outdated one represents a significant financial investment (not to mention its symbolic value), so Capria insisted on maintaining some measure of official control over it, even if it was just on paper. This is where my Vice Admiralty comes in.
It might seem like it would be a prestigious position, but the ruling families of Capria disagreed. Since there was no real power or prestige to be found in such a role, there wasn't exactly a line forming around the corner with eager applicants.
The job was eventually given to the Montagne Branch of the Royal Family, who quickly assigned the position to someone they felt best represented the spirit of the post. Someone who was not powerful enough to cause any real problems, yet high-profile enough to serve as a proper figurehead. Someone charismatic enough to step in front of the cameras when it was time for a press conference, but too inexperienced to really understand what was going on without a script in front of him. In other words, they volunteered me for the job.
After gathering all of the bits and pieces of my ridiculous court attire, I bolted to the door and de-activated the locking mechanism. I planned to finish assembling and adjusting my wardrobe en route to the Flag Bridge. It was a poor idea to keep Admiral Janeski waiting.
As soon as I cleared the doorway, the two Jacks grabbed a hold on either arm and despite my bewildered protest that I could easily walk under my own power, frog marched me down the corridor.
My quarters were those of a former Flag Lieutenant’s and were on the same level as the Flag Bridge. So in almost no time I was through the first pair of reinforced bulkheads leading inside. The first set of pressure doors closed behind us and the second opened as I was unceremoniously pushed onto the Flag Bridge.
Opening my mouth to protest this rough treatment, I took one look at the Admiral’s tight lipped face and snapped my teeth together with an audible click. Glancing down, I started buttoning my formal jacket, embarrassed at the disheveled appearance I presented in front of this most formidable Imperial Officer.
“Governor Montagne,” he said, acknowledging my presence with a nod. “It seems we have a bit of a situation.”
Admiral Janeski insisted on referring to me by my gubernatorial title, probably because he felt it best personified myself in his eyes. Sure, I was Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon. It's true. But the other truth about Harpoon is that it was nothing more than an irregular asteroid barely larger than this ship on an elliptical orbit. About a year ago, I discovered a pair of illegal miners operating there. After I went to the authorities, I couldn't even get a parliamentary court to rule that I should receive a portion of their profits (which would have then been used to offset the costs of my tuition), let alone evict them and their mining operation from the asteroid itself.
“What happens to be the problem, Admiral?” I asked, suppressing a desire to run a hand through my hair and gulp through sheer force of will. When combined with the iron clad media training every royal of my home world is taught from birth, I somehow managed to abstain from any other unseemly behaviors as well. Our training was rigorous because we didn’t want to embarrass ourselves or the government in front of the public. Most especially the government that held our purse strings, but in this case my training did a good job of settling my flutters. I couldn’t imagine what problem could exist that the admiral would need my assistance with but I was willing to do my figurehead best and help out however I could.
The Admiral ignored me and pulled out an official looking paper scroll covered with seals. Looking down at this he prepared to read.
Quickly I schooled my features. This at least was something with which I was familiar. Receiving and listening to speeches from foreign dignitaries while maintaining an appropriately stoic and regal appearance had been one of the primary skills taught in royal finishing school. That and making our own speeches in return, of course. We weren’t really taught that much about the policies, politics or inner workings of the planetary government, nor did we have much say in such matters. Instead we were taught both how to and how not to behave in formal state functions and also how to receive and entertain important galactic visitors. We were really nothing more than the glorified butlers of our parliamentary government.
“By order of Magnus Gaius Pontifex, Triumvir of the Empire, along with the advice and consent of the Imperial and Republican Senate, all ships, officers, personnel, and portable assets belonging to the Empire of Man, excepting only certain diplomatic envoys and delegations, are hereafter ordered to immediately withdraw from the Spine Ward Sectors of the Confederated Empire and redirected to those provinces along the Gorgon Alliance front as quickly as possible-”
I leaned back, eyes widening. “What!” I burst out, unable to restrain myself. And not incidentally cutting the Admiral off midsentence. “You’re stripping the Spine of all Imperial assets? What about the Rim Fleet?”
Fixing me with a thousand meter stare, and consequently freezing me in my tracks, he stopped the next words halfway up my throat. After a brief, but sufficiently reprimanding pause, the Admiral continued “This proclamation is not yet finished,” he grated between clenched teeth, his eyes boring holes through my skull as efficiently as any cutting torch.
Realizing how badly I'd broken protocol by cutting off an Imperial Admiral reading an official proclamation from the Triumvirate of Man, I nodded despite the thousand questions still bubbling up inside me.
The admiral cleared his throat and continued. “In addition all assets belonging to the Empire of Man, the Triumvirate and the Senate, which cannot be easily moved out of the indicated sectors but which represent a military or technological asset of importance are to be destroyed. Also,” he continued grimly, “all private Imperial citizens are urged, for their own protection, to abandon the Spine Ward sectors of Confederation Space. As Imperial fleet units and ground forces will no longer be able to offer an adequate level of protection from piracy and other acts of vandalism nor to provide any form of emergency service until further notice.”
So saying he rolled up the proclamation and placed it back inside an official looking engraved wooden box.
Swaying where I stood, I was completely stunned. This was a complete violation of the Union Treaty, which established the Confederated Empire, and permanently allied both the Confederation and the Empire for time and all eternity.
“What about the Union Treaty…? What about the rights of the Spine Ward Sectors to Confederated Empire protection?” I stumbled out. “Aren’t we still a part of the Confederated Empire with the right to equal protection, under the United Space Sectors and Provinces Act?” I ground to a halt, my mouth opening and closing as the potential implications of the Rim Fleet withdrawing from this specific sector of space really started sinking in.
The Admiral shook his head. “All of those are very interesting questions. Questions to which I’m sure you’ll eventually receive answers. But at this specific moment those are the wrong questions to be asking. What you should instead be asking, or at least considering, is what I’m going to do with all the imperial officers and personnel currently serving in this ad-hoc patrol fleet, and whether or not I am planning to turn the entire fleet toward Empire Space.”
I blinked. The thought hadn’t even occurred to me. He could certainly do it, not only did he have the personnel to man the ships but he also had enough Imperial Marines to seize the vessels by force if necessary.
“I can see you hadn’t thought about that yet.” Again he shook his head but this time his upper lip curled as well. “Taking control of this fleet and moving it to the Empire would be no problem at all.” He snapped his fingers for emphasis and snorted, then shook his head in negation. “However I am no pirate and even if I were, this outdated fleet is hardly worth the effort. The cost of upgrading this poor excuse for a star fleet to battle-ready condition would make it hardly worth the effort.”
“Fortunately for you, but unfortunately for this patrol fleet, that means that a short while from now you are going to be in full operational command of this fleet… such as it is.”
Overwhelmed I gasped in dismay. Feeling lightheaded, I carefully walked over to the nearest work station on the Flag Bridge and collapsed into its form fitting chair. “There’s no way I can actually take command of this battleship, let alone act as a real Admiral for the entire fleet.” I exclaimed verbalizing the first thing to enter my brain.
The Imperial Admiral shook his head dismissively. “You’ve no choice but to fulfill your duty. Political expediency may have placed you in ceremonial command of this patrol fleet, that’s true. Unskilled and unfit as you are, you’ll no doubt make a hash of it. However it is still your duty to carry out the stated will of this fleet’s collective governments and complete its mission and intended purpose before returning safely home.”
“Of course I’ll make a hash of it,” I muttered. “I have no actual training in space force operations.” Then another thought came to me and I jumped out of the chair. “I could be thrown in jail just for taking real command of the fleet. I might even be charged with treason against the planetary parliament!” I exclaimed, pacing back and forth. “They never actually meant for me to command this fleet. You’re supposed to do that.” I finished, unable to stop myself from glaring at the Imperial Admiral accusingly. “That is your job, Admiral.” I flared as only someone already facing the prospect of an unpleasant execution can.
Turning his back, the Imperial Admiral activated the forward view screen. “That was my job,” the Admiral corrected me with military precision. “I’ve since been reassigned by the Triumvir. You can either do your duty and take command of this fleet or else let someone else do it for you. Whatever happens to the fleet from the point I step out this ship’s airlock is no longer any of my concern.” He gestured to the main view screen and one of the many Imperial Technicians assigned to the flag ship shunted a sensor feed through to the screen. On it an Imperial Carrier appeared, and according to the estimated course shown on the screen, the carrier was due to dock with our aging battleship within the hour.
“The Imperial Command Carrier, Invictus Rising, will be docking with us shortly. At that time I will transfer both my flag and all Imperial personnel currently onboard this ship to Invictus Rising. Any other personnel who chose to sign on with the Empire of Man’s space fleet prior to undock will also transfer to Invictus Rising. After that this ship and its remaining personnel will be exclusively under your orders.”
Unable to think of any protest I could utter that would convince an Imperial Admiral to disobey the direct order of an Imperial Triumvir, I slumped back in my chair, overwhelmed by the enormity of what was happening. The entire Spine Ward sectors of confederate space were being abandoned in favor of protecting the Empire’s Provinces along the war front.
Careful to make no sudden motions which might upset the Imperial Jacks stationed in the room, I watched dully as the Imperial Command Carrier came closer and closer. My mind numb, all I could manage was to stare at the screen. Not only was the sector my planet was located in being stripped of protection, but on a more personal level I was in deep, deep trouble.
Fifty years ago members of my planet’s royal family, specifically those royal members belonging to the Montagne branch (of which I was a reluctant part) had temporarily seized power from the parliament in a bloody coup. A coup which was ultimately suppressed by elements of the Confederated Empire’s Rim Fleet months later. And by suppressed, I mean bombarded from high orbit until even the rubble was rendered unrecognizable.
The current parliamentary government had sent me out here knowing with total certainty that I’d never have any hint of real authority within an Imperial Fleet. I was just here to look good on camera and show how important supporting the Empire was to our planet.
When they found out things were otherwise, heads would roll. Perhaps even literally, and it was quickly sinking in that almost certainly one of those heads would be my own. I’d never be allowed to renounce my citizenship and leave for a new colony after this. I’d be carefully watched for the rest of my days and if I was very unlucky I could even be permanently assigned to the royal retreat, which wasn't so very different from an actual prison sentence. Consumed with these thoughts, the hour until docking passed by like a dream.
When the Imperial Command Carrier actually docked with our ship I imagined I could feel the whole world shudder along with the ship. The next two hours also passed in a blur as Admiral Janeski ordered the entire crew confined to quarters and then started transferring all our Imperial officers and personnel off ship, along with the equipment they’d brought with them. After that, he ordered the main Imperial database wiped and prepared to leave the Flag Bridge for the last time.
The captain of the Battleship, also an Imperial officer, soon arrived on the Flag Bridge. Together, the Captain and Admiral ceremonially cased the Admiral’s flag, which was a metal standard made of Duralloy and had been personally given to the Admiral by an Imperial Triumvir when he’d originally made Flag rank. Then they began to leave.
As they pivoted on their heels and took the first step towards the door, I wondered if this was it. If they were just going to walk off and leave me with this terrible mess. Unsure if I was supposed to do anything other than just watch them leave the Flag Bridge I was suddenly reminded of the many holo-vids I’d watched back home, where the departing captain or admiral would ceremonially turned the command codes and keys for the ship over to the new officer about to take command of the ship. Finally seeing something I could do, my royal training kicked in and quickly I cleared my throat.
The Admiral glanced back in my direction.
Seeing him look at me, my courage went up a notch and I hopped out of the chair drawing myself up at full attention. I resolved to play this thing out just like I was a real Royal about to receive actual command of a space fleet. “Admiral Janeski, I am prepared to receive the command key and codes for both the flagship and patrol fleet at this time.”
The Captain looked at Janeski, who in turn looked at me with narrowed eyes. Then, after taking two abrupt strides, the Admiral stopped in front of me and pulled out a clear crystal from a vest pocket on the front of his uniform. Slapping it in my hand he turned and without any further ceremony strode out of the Flag Bridge and off the ship. The Captain, with the corner of his lip pulled up in a sneer, drew out a similar crystal and tossed it at my feet before following the Admiral.
The Admiral was already gone but the sneering captain hadn't yet left when my mouth took over. It must have been the stress because my mouth just took over. "I wouldn't want to keep you from your date with the waste recycler, you Imperial coward," I said in my most polite tone and gave a slight bow. The Captain stopped in his tracks and whirled around on me.
"What did you say, boy," he barked and stomped across the deck plates toward me, stopping literally inches from my nose.
I did my best to keep defiance out of my voice and suppressed the urge to gulp. "It's an ancient Caprian saying, customarily offered when ancient sea vessels would cast off their lines and head off to war," I lied through my teeth.
The Captain narrowed his eyes, and for a moment I was afraid he had actually understood what I'd said. But after an uncomfortable moment or three, he slowly turned and proceeded down the corridor once again.
I breathed a sigh of relief. It's nice knowing a secret language almost nobody in the universe even knows exists, at least nobody outside of your immediate family. It allows all kinds of liberties at times like these. Like I said before, it's not like Royalty isn't without its perks but whatever was I thinking, poking him with a verbal stick like that?
As quickly as that, I was the Master and Commander of an entire fleet of warships. At least briefly, I was in total control of my own fate and my destiny was entirely in my own hands. What could possibly go wrong?
Chapter 2: The Engineer
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer.
Earlier:
Engineering Officer Terrence Spalding nodded his head dutifully and saluted to acknowledge the new orders from the Imperial Chief Engineer. He then turned with dignity and - without warning - leapt out of the room, slamming the door shut behind him, activating the manual locking mechanism. Glancing around wildly he caught sight of an Able Spacehand named Gants.
Pointing to the machinist shop he yelled, “Gants find me a plasma torch from the shop and bring it here on the double quick.” When Gants looked at him with wide eyed, Spalding roared, “Move it, lad!”
Gants scrambled to obey.
Turning back to the control panel, the Engineering officer initiated a class II chemical contamination lock down. He breathed a sigh of relief when the computer accepted the code and temporarily locked down the room.
Gants came running back with the torch and the Engineer immediately began welding the door shut. When he’d done enough to ensure the Imperial Officer was trapped inside, he turned to Gants. “Good lad, Gants,” said the grey-bearded Engineer, clapping him on the shoulder and struggling to slow his breathing. “You may have just helped save the ship.”
Gants eyes widened and his head reared back. “Sir?” He sounded shocked. “What’s going on?”
“Never ye mind all that, lad. Never ye mind. Just rest assured, Engineer Spalding’s got everything well in hand. Together we’ll save this bloody ship yet,” he said, a wild look in his eye as he indicated the door they’d just welded shut.
Gants nodded weakly and then uneasily glanced at the welded door. “If I can ask, sir?”
“No time. No time at all for that, Gants,” the old engineer said decisively. “No. You just run along and hop into that old suit of powered armor I’ve been having the lads refurbish as a surprise for the little admiral.” He winked, but Gants was visibly shaken. Irritated, Engineer Spalding barked “Now run along, Able Spacehand! As soon as you’re suited up, join the rest of us in Main Engineering. I’m putting out the summons for everyone not currently locked down to get over there for a meeting. We’ve got a bloody ship to save!”
Non-regulation length hair flaring out to either side of his head, he turned to activate the overhead comm. system. “All Engineering personnel are to gather in Main Engineering. Repeat, all Engineering personnel are to gather in main engineering as soon as possible for an important announcement.” The Engineer nodded fiercely to himself and headed for Main Engineering at a run, pausing only to grab a pry bar to complement his still smoking plasma torch.
When Spalding reached main engineering there were only a few Imperial space hands in sight, which was predictable since most of the engineering crew was Caprian born.
Ignoring the questions shooting at him from all sides, Spalding went to the largest open area on the engineering deck and then used the plasma torch to scorch a quick line down the middle of the floor. Pausing to look at the Engineering crew on the catwalk gazing down at him as if he were crazy, he shook his crowbar at them.
“Get down here,” barked to old grey bearded engineer, pointing with the crowbar at the line he’d just burned into the deck. “Everyone not doin' something critical to ship operations, stop whatever you’re fiddlin' with and get down here on the double,” he yelled, his eyebrows beetling fiercely.
When the current duty staff, as well as those few engineering crewmembers who’d started trickling in from outside main engineering reached the floor, he gave them a wild grin and motioned with his crowbar for everyone to go to one side of the line he’d just drawn. Then waving the plasma torch in the air to emphasize his points, he started speaking. “Every man who doesn’t love our fine ship Clover should step across that line.” For a moment no one moved, and a few looked at him as if he’d just gone completely bonkers.
Furious, his glare swept the deck. “I said every man who loves the finest ship the Space Gods saw fit to bestow on mankind, stay right where you blasted well are. The rest of you disloyal dogs let your mates know you’re plannin' to jump ship and cross that bleepin' line!” He activated the plasma and a great blue flame belched from the tip of the torch, obviously for effect. When still no one crossed the line (in fact, a few were actively backing away from both it and him as if the space between them were an active mine field) the Engineer gave a grunt of satisfaction.
Angrily he stomped up and down the line he’d just cut into the floor. “Looks like we’ll have to do this the hard way,” sighing he pointed to the Imperial crewmembers, “Lads, I don’t hold yer love of empire against ye,” he said, forcefully indicating they were to cross the line, with his crowbar. When they hesitated in the face of the visibly angry engineer, he indicated they were to move across the line with the active, hissing plasma torch.
After they’d scurried across the line (if only to avoid the active plasma torch), the Engineer’s eyes lit on a couple of new arrivals trying to sneak into the back of the main group and he scowled. “Spacehands Brence and Castwell, how good of you to join us so promptly! Why don’t you two troublemakers go join our Imperial brethren on the other side of this here line.” The spacehands glanced at one another but in the face of the plasma torch wielding engineer didn’t hesitate for long before moving to comply.
“Alright,” said the engineer, his voice pitched to carry. “Anyone else who doesn’t love the Lucky Clover want to go join Brence and Castwell?”
Alarmed, Spacehand Brence began, “Sir, as the Maker is my witness I love this ship as much as the next man. I’ll just go join the rest of the crew, if that’s alright with you.” He started to move to the side with the other crewmembers from Capria.
“Hold your lazy, slacking tongue and stay right where you are, you poor excuse for an engineering rating,” snarled Spalding, pausing only to spit on the deck. “Of course you can say you love this ship as well as the next man because the man right next to you is that thieving, no good Castwell!”
“Sir, I never-” Castwell started indignantly.
"Murphy's first law, sonny: whatever can go wrong, will go wrong! And it seems plenty's goin' wrong for you right about now," he said with a scowl, shaking his crowbar at the pair of errant spacehands. "Don’t think I’m a fool who doesn’t know who it was that failed to reverse polarity on the aft beta node because he was too busy working on building himself a liquor still! Because it was that very same idjit what also tried to sell his fleet issued diagnostic tool to the crew of that poor shot up merchant ship them pirates mauled last month. All for a measly case of rot gut whiskey at that!”
Before he could continue extolling the various misdeeds of the whiskey seeking spacehand, the main set of blast doors leading into main engineering cycled open and a pair of Imperial Jacks marched into the room closely followed by the Imperial Chief Engineer. The Chief Engineer’s lips were white and his face so red it was amazing steam wasn’t shooting out both ears.
As soon as he saw Spalding he motioned to the Imperial Soldiers. “Jacks, clap that Officer in irons for falsely imprisoning a senior officer and disobeying a direct order!” He then swept the assembled engineering crew with an icy gaze. “The rest of you, I don’t know what this officer has told you…”
Engineer Spalding cut him off, spittle flying from his mouth, “I never disobeyed your illegal orders, although by all the space gods I was sorely tempted to. Instead, as ordered, I went and asked which ones of this crew wanted to leave their comrades in the lurch during a time of war and join with the Imperial members of this crew in jumping ship!” He stamped his feet to punctuate the final two words. “And as far as false imprisonment, that’s in no way worse than inciting the men and officers of this ship to abandon their posts, renounce their citizenship and go fight a war at the very moment their planet needs them the most!” Whatever else he’d been about to say was cut off as the Jacks seized him by the arms and picked him up off his feet, impotently flailing arms and all.
“Throw that senile old monkey, that poor, miserable excuse for an addled old space engineer in the brig. I’ve heard more than enough of his blather. More than I’d ever care to experience again, without seeking a blood drenched satisfaction,” the Imperial Chief Engineer stated clearly and coldly and then waited until the still struggling engineer had been forcibly removed from the deck before continuing. He ignored the surprised exclamations coming from the engineering crew and the questions cut off when he turned to look at men gathered together on the deck.
“Now despite whatever that old relic had to say, I’m here to inform you that due to events outside of our control the Empire of Man needs every man willing to join battle fleet and help fight off the Gorgon menace. You can all rest assured that if they get through the Empire, they’ll be coming here next. And everyone, including that old fool, will die.”
There was some muttering among the spacehands at this information.
“In addition, any man who willingly signs on with the Imperial Fleet will automatically receive Imperial citizenship, as soon as his tour of duty is completed. No one, I repeat no one is being asked to give up their planetary citizenship at this time,” he said, shaking his head. “Finally all ranks will be maintained without the usual two step downgrade in rank for a standard transfer from a system defense force to the Imperial Fleet.” He paused and swept the crew with a confident gaze. “I’m here to enlist everyman willing. If you sign up with us you can do so knowing you’ll be getting yourself off this ancient bucket of bolts and onto a proper ‘first class’ warship, fighting to protect you and yours.”
Chapter 3: What to do?
When the last monitor showed itself clear of Imperial officers, crew and Marine Jacks, the last bulkhead and blast door between the two ships had been sealed and the Imperial Command Carrier finally undocked, I slumped back in my chair. It was real. This was really happening. An Imperial Admiral had abandoned the Flagship, turned command over to me, and was even now at this very moment departing in an Imperial Command Carrier for the other side of known space. The daze I’d been in as my brain tried to process the new reality of things started to clear, and I really began to consider things larger than myself and my own private worries, no matter how terminal those worries might wind up being for me personally.
If - no, when - the Rim Fleet (which was composed almost entirely of Imperial warships) abandoned this region of space, the Spine would be all but completely unguarded. There was nothing I could do about the loss of the Imperial fleet. For that matter, there wasn't looking to be much I could do at all. But that didn’t mean I was destined to just stand by and do nothing. I took a deep breath.
For now I just needed to forget about the sudden gigantic problem facing the various sectors of the Spine and focus on something more immediate, like the area of space the Flag Ship was currently patrolling.
Most of the worlds in this sector of space were defended by nothing stronger than a pair of system defense corvettes, able to take care of the occasional converted merchantman turned pirate. Normally anything bigger than a converted freighter that caused trouble was addressed by the more robust Rim Fleet. Following the Imperial withdrawal, however, the Rim Fleet was no longer going to be around to do any of that work. A few of the younger worlds near the border of known space, like my own Commonwealth of Capria, still had some older warships in service as system defense pickets. Sometimes a world managed to keep a few mothballed but never fully destroyed relics more or less patrol-ready. They often served as reminders of the chaotic times before signing the Articles of Confederation and coming under the protection of Rim Fleet.
For all I knew, the ships of this patrol fleet might be the last detachment on this edge of known space still on the lookout for pirates. I’d been told our orders were fairly standard, a basic commerce protection and piracy suppression packet. Perhaps we could hold out here until a relief force was assembled, or we were called back home? Thankfully, our list of potential problems was limited to basic law enforcement-type issues, rather than facing real problems like an un-catalogued Bug swarm, a still-active AI core fragment or, potentially the biggest problem, the Gorgon threat which was located on the other side of known space.
I shook my head in a mixture of resignation and despair. There was no way this ship could continue to operate out here on the edge of space, at least not with me in actual command. Certainly not with both myself at the helm, and its currently reduced crew complement manning the ship. Our best bet was to find the most senior remaining officer, make sure he was at least remotely competent, and turn command of the ship over to him. I could also order the various individual fleet units to break up and return home where they could do the most good. That was certainly the best course of action.
Still, I don’t know why I hesitated. Perhaps it was because up until this point in my life I’d never had the ability to actually make a difference. Maybe the temporary power I could wield was going to my head. I didn’t know then, and I still don’t. What I do know is that eventually I instructed the computer to connect me with the most senior officer still onboard ship. Unfortunately, instead of connecting me with the sort of space officer I’d imagined, our distributed computer system took its own sweet time connect me to the ship’s newest Chief Engineer, one Terence Spalding.
Admiral Janeski had just wiped the Imperial database and removed all the upgraded computer hardware they could easily disconnect. The battleship still had its original Caprian database and distributed intelligence network, but the old network had nothing like the capability of the Imperial systems. A communications technician could have made things work much quicker, but there were no communication techs left on the Flag Bridge. Janeski had taken all of them with him when he left.
Several frustrating minutes after instructing the computer to connect me to the senior officer still on board ship, the distributed intelligence eventually made a connection.
"Finally," I muttered, straightening self-consciously. I was uneasily aware of the seat I was sitting in. Not only was it the Admiral's former chair, but its proportions were entirely too throne-like for me to find a remotely comfortable position. Visions of what parliamentary investigators could do with video footage of myself sitting in such a command chair flashed through my mind and suddenly the collar of this court outfit felt entirely too tight and I nervously tugged at it to relive the discomfort.
After glancing down at the computer readout I wondered if I was connected to the right person. Short, squat, with a receding hairline and long grey hair that flared out to either side of his head and a wild look in the one eye that wasn’t swollen shut, the aging man I saw on screen hardly looked like an officer in the Caprian SDF. It took the fleet’s newest Admiral a moment of just staring at the disheveled figure to realize that the man was actually wearing an officer’s uniform. Although the uniform had several large tears and grease stains up and down the arms and legs, and it had just as clearly lost any of the tightly pressed creases it might have once possessed, it was still a Caprian SDF uniform.
Perhaps worse than his unkempt appearance, the aging engineer also looked like he was coming up hard against mandatory retirement age. All such musings were shaken from my mind as the Officer’s eyes lost their wild look and lit up, focusing on the vid screen.
Shaking my head roughly, I once again focused my attention back on the miniature screen set into the arm of the chair. To my dismay the same disheveled figure was still on screen.
Unfortunately I knew what the other man was seeing. A short and (thanks to the Royal family's access to early life prolonging techniques) entirely too young looking a man, untested and unscarred by the rigors of life. Brown hair and brown eyes were placed in a symmetrical face. My features weren't striking but I shared the same basic good looks and features as the rest of the royal family, excepting the nose. Personally, I thought my nose wasn't pointed enough. Entirely too flat, thanks to mother's side of the family, if you asked me. Of course, mother hated her own nose with a passion and while she was much more pleased with the way mine looked, she still advocated plastic surgery for the both of us when I was done with my schooling and could afford it of course. So it was possible some of her bias had rubbed off on me.
The officer on the screen did a double take. "Thank all the lucky stars!" Exclaimed the wild haired old man, "It’s the little admiral!" he said, giving me a bug eyed stare.
I gritted my teeth and forced out a smile. I hated that nickname with a passion, and if it were up to me that particular nickname would never again be used aboard the flag ship. Ignoring the awful name I refocused on my current duty. "I was just checking the ship's roster and the ship's distributed intelligence indicated you are the senior officer still aboard ship. It seems everyone senior to you has signed on with the Imperials and left for the other side of known space."
“Bunch of blue-faced blighters," cursed the officer. "They came and raided the Engineering crew for personnel to man that shiny new command ship of theirs. The Maker only knows how many of our boys were wise enough to remain onboard. Those unlucky welchers who left us in the lurch are going to wind up dead fighting the Gorgons!" He waved his hands in the air and then snorted before muttering something inaudible under his breath.
My eyelids shot up at the tirade but I forced them back down again with effort. "I'm sure they..." I started, but decided it wasn’t worth it and shook my head. "Anyway, I don't recall meeting you at any of the ship's formal dinners," I asked, sure I would have remembered a character like this officer if I had met him before.
The officer stopped muttering and cracked a smile. "Ah yes, well I don't normally have much time for such things, formal dinners and all that. Manners, table etiquette and the like not exactly being my strong suit, if you know what I mean." He started to put out a hand to shake with before remembering we were talking through a vid-screen. The wild haired officer ran the hand through his beard instead.
"Oh," he exclaimed, with a look of sudden enlightenment. "Forgive me, my name is Engineering Officer Terrence Spalding, and I've had the good fortune of being continuously assigned to the best ship to ever come out of Caprian shipyards. I even took a cut in rank from Senior Lieutenant back to Junior Lieutenant just to stay on with the Clover for this one last voyage. You know, they offered me early retirement as a Lieutenant Commander just before the patrol started, but I turned 'em down flat. Why, I've been continuously assigned to the Lucky Clover ever since I was a wet behind the ear middie. Even when they put her in mothballs 30 years ago, I joined the bone yard crew just to stay near the old girl." To say the engineer smiled as he spoke about his service with the ship wouldn't have done his countenance justice.
I tried to swallow the hard knot which was quickly forming in my throat, but it only served to make it worse (I've since come to understand this particular discomfort to be related to an impending, crushing responsibility). From his looks and the fruits of our conversation so far, this Engineering officer was destroying what little confidence I still had in turning the ship over to the senior remaining office.
"Officer Spalding. A current… a Junior Lieutenant who used to be a Senior Lieutenant." I said out loud and then nodded reluctantly. "Right, so what's your assessment of the Lucky Clover? I mean what's her current condition, and can she get us back to port without any serious trouble," I asked in my most well-composed tone, but all I could think about was how the ship would manage without the more experienced half of her crew.
The engineer looked offended. "The Clover, she's a fine vessel," he said stoutly. “A fine vessel indeed,” he repeated, with cherry red blossoms erupting on his cheeks. “Why, with the right engineering crew onboard her and any halfway decent navigator, the ship will practically fly herself!”
"Lieutenant, let me be blunt,” I said, still clinging to the fraying thread of hope that I might turn the ship over to a trained officer, “this vessel needs a captain. She can't function without one. And Admiral Janeski took the old one with him when he boarded that new Command Carrier of his."
Engineer Spalding looked surprised, and his face seemingly instantly returned to its previous color. "That's right, all those Imperials were the first ones to jump ship and the Captain was an Imperial Officer if ever I’ve seen one.” He slammed one fist into his open palm. “Well, fortunately, that's what we have you for, Admiral. I'm sure you'll do a fine job of captaining the ship, sir. A very fine job indeed." He said again, nodding sagely.
I blinked. "I'm afraid you misunderstand me Lieutenant Spalding. I'm in no way qualified to command a vessel of this size, or any other vessel for that matter. I wouldn’t even trust myself with command of a garbage scow!” I caught myself just short of completely losing my composure, realizing I had arrived rather abruptly at the end of my wits.
The engineering officer nodded slowly. “Well, if the young admiral thinks a captain other than himself is needed, I’m sure he’ll find one. And of course you have my full support regarding whoever you select for command. As for me, I’ll just stick to what I know best. I’ve got an engineering crew and a starship to put back to rights. It’s a crying shame you know, the rough way those Imperials ran her engines, and then thieving off with so many of the crew.”
I drew a deep breath, attempting to regain whatever measure of regal bearing I had remaining. “Officer Spalding, as the senior remaining officer on the Clover I had intended to place you in command of this ship.” I raised a hand to forestall the coming protest. “It is your duty as an officer of the Caprian System Defense Force to carry out your new duties to the best of your abilities. I’m sorry, but that’s just the way it has to be.” I said with finality.
“Aye aye, Admiral. Which is why I’m going to start in on my new duties as Chief of Engineering right away and delegate all that Captaining stuff to line officers such as yourself,” he paused ever so briefly, “as soon as I get out of this here brig, that is. Would you be good enough to send over one of my engineering ratings to bust me out of here? I'd be most appreciative, sir.” With that the ancient Engineering Lieutenant turned off the monitor and the screen went blank.
I sat back in my chair, completely stunned. My first act, an attempt to turn command of the battleship over to someone at least halfway competent, had just ended in complete and utter failure. It looked like I, Prince-Cadet Jason Montagne Vekna, Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon, Honorary Admiral in the Caprian System Defense Force and as of a few minutes ago, Admiral-in-actual-command of the Spine’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, was as utterly ineffective and powerless as ever.
I’d been a fool to think that now that I was in command, things would suddenly change and people would instantly start doing what I told them, just because I’d told them to do it.
For a moment I thought about giving up and going back to my stateroom until they all got home. It looked like once again I had responsibility but no real authority to go along with it. It seemed to be the story of my life.
Unfortunately it then occurred to me that as of right now there wasn’t even anyone present to pilot the ship, or at least point it in the right direction. Thanks to Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski and the Imperial Triumvirate of Man, I had no one competent left to tell me what to do. I didn’t even know if the ship had enough remaining crew to keep the engines running long enough to get us home.
A brief moment before a truly debilitating wave of despair crashed into the fragile remains of my psyche, I remembered Engineer Spalding. He seemed confident that he could put Engineering back together with enough warm bodies. Of course, Spalding also seemed more than a little unstable and certainly didn't seem to fit in the mold of a typical naval officer. Still, there was a sliver of hope that the ship wouldn’t just fall apart before we got home, but that sliver depended on one of the most unusual people I'd ever had the occasion to meet.
What about the rest of it? Affairs I'd considered menial to this point, such as basic provisions like food, water and life support suddenly rose to the forefront of my thoughts, creating a second knot in my throat. Then there were concerns like crew shift schedules, ship security and organizing some sort of temporary chain of command until we could get home. I had to be honest with myself, right at that moment I didn’t know how to deal with any of it. No one else knew how to do this, and no one onboard even thought they knew, with the possible exception of one very senior and obviously eccentric engineering character.
I admit that I thought maybe I should walk away. Just leave the bridge, walk back to my quarters and wait until things sorted themselves out. What was the worst that could happen? These things always seemed to work themselves out before, right?
Sure it might take a while for the remaining officers and crew to sort things out amongst themselves. But ultimately no one wanted to be stuck in deep space. Not when we were in a perfectly good ship that could take us home. What did they expect me to do? I was a Montagne and by Saint Murphy’s wretched wrench, they never trained me to be a leader of men or an admiral of fleets. I was good at smiling, looking good for the cameras and delivering speeches in an appropriately aristocratic fashion.
Then I had a horrible thought. What if things did go wrong because no one was in charge of the Lucky Clover? The crew might well blame me, the Montagne Admiral who was supposedly in command. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead. Throughout recent history my family had made decent scapegoats for all sorts of disasters. In point of fact, now that I was thinking about it, I remembered reading about a Montagne ship captain, one Jean-Luc Montagne who’d been lynched by his own crew right after the Imperial Fleet bombarded our world. He hadn’t been responsible for either the royal coup to seize Capria or the orbital bombardment. As I recalled it, he’d even selflessly sheltered the officers and crew from the various purges initiated by the Montagne’s in the Palace. For all the good it did him. The crew had still thrown him, kicking and screaming into the waste recycler, without any regard for his culpability or lack of it. They’d even gone so far as to broadcast the images via live satellite. The uninvited image of my own face imposed over his during those final moments made my head spin.
I still didn’t know what to do about this whole mess, but after remembering Jean-Luc I now knew one thing for certain. I had to do something fast, if only to make sure I didn’t end up like poor Jean-luc.
First things first, I decided. I used the distributed intelligence system to contact someone down in engineering and instructed them to send a rating over to the brig to release my new Chief Engineer. That was a logical, necessary first step in keeping the ship in condition to get them back to civilized space.
Visions of being thrown into the waste recycler still dancing in my head, I was suddenly grateful the crew had been confined to quarters. I wasn’t sure how long that would last, but hopefully they would stay shut in long enough for me to get a few things done first. Using a handheld from one of the work stations on the Flag Bridge, it took me several minutes to download the information I needed from the ship’s original distributed intelligence system.
After I'd transferred the data I'd found, I left the bridge and returned to my quarters to change. It was time to get out of the monkey suit. The pants were incredibly tight and restrictive, besides which I’d be easily recognizable for as long as I was parading around in them. So instead of court attire I changed into my gym workout suit. It was the closest thing I had to normal ships attire, and was blessedly far more comfortable than the ridiculous uniform my office required.
Following the directions I’d downloaded onto my handheld screen, I walked as fast as I could to the ship’s armory. Regardless of whether I stayed in command of the ship and fleet or bailed at the first opportunity, no one, not an angry mob, an ambitious officer, or a secret parliamentary hit squad (if such a thing even existed) was going to throw me into a waste recycler! Not while I was still alive anyway. They’d have to kill me first. After that, I figured I wouldn’t care too much about anything.
Many twists and turns and the use of several stairwells (necessary due to the nonfunctioning nature of the lift systems, apparently a parting gift from Admiral Janeski and the other Imperials) to change decks later, I eventually reached the armory. It felt like I’d marched all over the ship. A six hundred meter long ship had a lot of deck plating to cover, as I’d breathlessly discovered. I gave myself a quick pat on the back for choosing attire appropriate to the task. At least I'd made one good decision today, I thought.
I was somewhat surprised to find that I'd arrived at my destination without encountering any trouble along the way. Not seeing anyone standing guard outside blast doors or lurking around near them, I pulled out the command crystal the Imperial Captain had ever so graciously lobbed at my feet. I shook my head and quirked a lip. I might have tossed the crystal at my feet too, if I’d been a real military professional like the Imperial Captain.
Another quick look down both sides of the corridor and I plugged the crystal into the emergency override slot on the panel. After several beeps and an unnerving whirring sound the door slowly slid open.
After stepping inside, the first thing I heard was the click of a weapon unlocking and the whine of its energy capacitor rapidly charging up. I immediately froze in place, some twisted version of the fight or flight response more suited to rabbits than planetary royalty, taking hold.
“What are you doing in here,” demanded a gruff voice to my right.
My head slowly turned so I could look at the source of the voice. I readily admit that my heart nearly stopped at the sight of a man in a suit of power armor crouching down with a heavy sonic rifle pointed directly at what appeared to be every inch of my body.
“Umm… Uh...” I stammered. ‘I’m so dead,’ I thought. So much for a career as a mighty Fleet Admiral. This end would rate right up there with Jean Luc's infamy. I wondered momentarily how this particular scene would play out on my headstone. Perhaps 'Shot in the armory of his own ship minutes after assuming command?'
How did the crew get here before me anyway? They were all supposed to be in their quarters.
“This is a restricted area,” Said the man in power armor, rousing me from my momentary stupor.
I gulped hard, then decided to brazen it out. If I was already caught, at least I’d go out with style. I took a deep breath to steady my understandably shaky nerves.
“I’m here to check out a suit of powered armor. I’m in command of the fleet, now that the Imperials have left,” I said, trying to disguise the quiver in my voice and project an aura of confidence instead. “Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna, Prince-Cadet of the Realm, Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon, Commander of the Lucky Clover at your service,” media training came back to save me and I clicked my heels together before performing an arm waving courtly bow. Hoping against hope I was successful at hiding just how very fearful I was at that exact moment.
It was hard to read the expression of the man inside the powered armor because the faceplate wasn’t entirely made out of a clear substance, but the way the sonic rifle wavered for a split second before steadying again, didn’t do anything to help my confidence.
Then the power armored figure pointed the rifle up in the air and popped open his face plate.
Under the weight of the crewman’s suspicious gaze, the fleet’s newest and as far as I was concerned least competent Admiral, nearly wilted. Nearly, but not quite. As it was, I struggled to maintain a stoic face as sweat beaded on my forehead.
Then suspicion turned to recognition and a dawning surprise. “Why if it isn’t the little admiral himself!” exclaimed the armored figure. “I never thought I’d get to see you in person. Unless I was assigned KP duty in the officers’ mess,” the crewman said with a smile.
“Yes. I suppose that would have been the most predictable forum for our meeting,” I said, trying to hide the puzzlement in my voice. This wasn’t going quite how I’d thought things would go when I had originally planned this trip to the armory. “So what brings you here to the main armory? Crewman…?” I asked in my most level voice.
A look of horror crossed the face of the crewman in the power armor and the man quickly set down the heavy sonic rifle and leaned it against the wall. “Sir, crewman Gants, Sir! I’m an Able-Spacer in engineering,” he said, verbally stumbling all over himself. “Sorry I didn’t recognize you as soon as you came in,” he bit his lip, but seemed not to notice as he continued his apologies, “I hope I’m not in trouble for not Sir-ing you right away, as soon as you came in the armory Prince… Umm, your Highness… I mean Admiral, Sir.”
It took a moment for the impact of what the crewman had said to sink in and when it did, the breath I’d been unconsciously holding whooshed out. Along with it went the nearly paranoid fear that the entire remaining crew was out to get me. Seeing the semi-horrified look stealing across Gants face, I couldn’t help it and burst out laughing in relief.
When I could control myself again, I hastened to reassure the crewman. “It’s okay Gants, completely understandable. Sorry I laughed there, it's just been a stressful day. I think I needed a good laugh to release some of the tension.”
Gants appeared puzzled for a moment. “Of course, sir,” he said, obviously confused. “Completely understandable.”
I couldn’t help a small smile. Things might not have been as bleak as they’d seemed at first.
“So, Gants… about that power armor I was looking for,” I said.
Crewman Gants immediately began stripping off the powered armor he was wearing. “Engineer Spalding sent you over for the battle suit he’s been working on, didn’t he?” He paused and looked earnestly at me. “I know he told me to come to Engineering right away as soon as I had it on, but there were just so many Marine Jacks running around the ship I figured they’d shoot me for sure and certain if they saw me running around outside my quarters in this battle suit,” he said, his speech returning to a frantic rush of words.
“I’m sure you made the right choice,” I answered, not quite sure what the other guy was talking about. “Just so we’re on the same page. Spalding’s been working on a suit of power armor and sent you to the main armory to get it for him?”
“Aye aye, Sir. After he locked the Chief Engineer in his office, he sent me over here to get this battle suit. The one I’m taking off right now, he’s been working on it for months. It’s supposed to be a surprise. We’ve been fixing it up special just for you, your Admiralship.” Gants was positively beaming now.
My eyebrows shot nearly through the roof.
“Well, I have to admit that I've never had a custom-tailored suit of power armor, Gants,” I said, trying to find the right words to convey my feelings without looking like a fool. I was genuinely surprised that anyone would secretly make me a custom suit of power armor, and of all the people who might have undertaken such a task, it turned out to be Spalding. It seemed a man I’d never even met before today had apparently spent a lot of time on it. I never would have guessed it from my first impression of the old engineering officer.
“But this isn’t the main armory, Sir,” Gants said.
My heart sank. “It’s not? My handheld it said it was and led me right here.”
“Oh, you must be using the old internal ship’s map. This used to be the main armory back before the Imperials came onboard for the patrol cruise. You see, they built a brand new armory on the other side of the ship and put all their shiny battle suits and personal weapons in it. This here is the original main armory,” Gants said.
“Ah, of course, I must have downloaded the wrong map,” was all I could think to say in response. The Imperials had already left and by order of the Triumvir they were supposed to take all of their equipment with them. In a way it was fortunate I’d come to this armory instead of the one on the new maps. On the other hand, Gants' clarification was almost completely irrelevant. This used to be and, with the departure of the Imperials, once again was the main armory. I made a mental note of this. The Imperial Admiral had whipped the new database, which apparently included the ship’s internal map, so at some point the crew would need to update the old ship’s map.
Unnecessary clarifications aside, Gants provided a helpful set of hands, assisting me in donning the suit after the crewman had finished taking the armor off his own person first. In no time at all I was strapped, clamped, latched and buttoned up inside a suit of recently upgraded powered armor.
Gants stepped back to take a look at his handiwork. “You look a fine sight, sir,” he said, pride in his workmanship evident in the tone of his voice. “The armor looks good on you, if I do say so myself.”
“Thanks, Gants. I appreciate the work you’ve done on it,” I said awkwardly. I’d come down to steal or appropriate (take your pick) a suit of powered armor, and instead wound up getting an early gift instead. I couldn’t really appreciate the work the two (or however many it might have been) members of the engineering department had done on the armor. I’d never done anything remotely like this kind of work myself, so I had no real frame of reference. But I could appreciate the time they’d spent on it and the massive benefit it provided to me now, even if it was only a few hours of work here and there. That kind of time added up and for all I knew they’d been working on it for months.
I looked around the main lobby of the armory, and the servos in the neck of the suit whirred in response to the movement. There were rooms and more rooms further in that I hadn’t opened or explored yet but was certain there must be lots more weapons in here than what could be seen in this one, mostly empty, room.
“Gants, do you have any friends in the crew you can trust to back you up if push comes to shove?” Maybe it was the power armor, or maybe it was Gants' welcoming demeanor, but I found myself suddenly more decisive and confident.
He eyed me and then nodded slowly.
“I need to head back to the bridge for now, but I’d like it if you would call over a few of your mates and lock down Armory. Nobody in or out without my express permission. At least until things settle down and the ship gets reorganized,” I said, leveling my best piercing stare straight in Gants' eyes.
Gants hesitated, “Okay, I guess I can do that, Admiral,” he said. He visibly started and then corrected himself "Yes sir, Admiral Sir! I won't let you down."
“Thank you, spacehand. I won’t forget this.” With that, I turned and made my way back to the Flag Bridge.
Chapter 4: Meetings, warrants and warrant officers
Having arrived back on the Flag Bridge, I listened to the servos of the power suit whine as I paced back and forth on the Duralloy deck plates. I couldn’t keep the crew in their quarters forever. Not only were they needed to run the ship, but I was fairly certain they wouldn't sit in their bunks indefinitely, no matter what I said, or how well I said it.
I needed to let them out before they decided to wander out on their own and blamed their new Admiral for keeping them penned up too long.
There was no way I could do this all by myself. I thought back to the tables of organization I’d had to study as part of the midshipman’s courses I’d taken. My brow furrowed as I desperately tried to remember, but I couldn't remember enough to be helpful.
For the moment I had to be both the Admiral and the Captain of this ship, and I could do neither. I came to the realization that I needed help. I did recall that the ship’s crew was broken up into departments, with assigned department heads. I realized that I could just tell the ship’s computer, the distributed intelligence network, to send a message to the senior remaining member of each department informing them they were needed for a meeting on the Flag Bridge.
After that, it seemed like I was still missing something important, but exactly what it was eluded me. Then, I snapped my fingers in realization. A bridge crew, that was it! I’d tell the computer to message any remaining bridge crew, informing them they were needed on the Flag Bridge. I would set the time for that right after the meeting with the department heads.
Plan made, I turned to the communications console with a feeling of great satisfaction at my budding organizational talents. Things were starting to come together, at last. A great sense of serenity was beginning to form around me, like a warm blanket on a cold night.
A half hour later, I was positively fuming. To say that the ship’s old distributed network was clunky and infuriating to work with was something of an understatement. Sometimes it seemed to half work at finding the people I needed and then, for some unknown reason there would be music, something that had nothing at all to do with a personnel search or messaging, blaring out of the speakers and random search results scrolled over the main console screen. Shortly after that was when the first group of messages meant for the department heads were confirmed as having been delivered to members of the bridge crew, and vice versa.
So it looked like instead of having one group show up for the department head meeting and another for the bridge crew one, I might have a mix and match. I sighed, feeling absolutely pathetic. There was no helping it now. I would have to stick to the original plan and meet with the department heads first and the bridge crew would just have to wait until that meeting was finished.
As it was no one wanted to wait to find out what was going on with the ship they all lived inside. So as soon as they received any sort of permission to leave their quarters, they all bolted straight for the Flag Bridge.
The first one through the door was a crusty middle aged senior chief from environmental. “Who's been monitoring the air scrubbers and oxygen recyclers,” she demanded, sniffing the air. “Something smells off.”
She was interrupted as another senior chief - this one from supply - came in and nearly bumped into her. “We’ve been robbed,” exclaimed the senior chief from supply. “All the new equipment we loaded after we left Capria has disappeared from the ship’s inventory!”
Realizing there was no one in the Flag Bridge but the fleet’s ceremonial Admiral - who was now clad in power armor - they stopped talking, their mouths dropping open instead.
While they were still gaping at the improbable sight, a junior lieutenant with gunmetal grey hair pushed between them and forced his way onto the Flag Bridge. Behind him came two junior ratings. All three of these latest arrivals sported the black hats of ship security and while the officer had a side arm strapped to his waist, the two ratings carried sonic rifles slung to their backs.
“Jason Montagne, on suspicion of high treason against the Caprian nation, I hereby place you under arrest,” stated the solidly built lieutenant before getting a good look at my newly power-armored form.
As soon as he realized I was in a battle suit, the officer started clawing for the sidearm in his holster.
The two senior chiefs gasped and the supply officer dived off to the side, while the petty officer from environmental stood flat footed in dumbfounded surprise.
For my part, I was taken aback, shocked that I was about to be arrested. I had been afraid something like this might happen but while I thought there was a strong possibility of it occurring at some point during the trip home, I never really internalized the idea that the government would arrest me for something I hadn’t even done yet, and so soon! Up to this point everything had all seemed very much like a game.
"Where is your warrant, lieutenant," I managed to stammer amid the flood of anxiety.
The lieutenant sneered, "Warrant? They don't issue warrants for the arrest of a Montagne, they give medals! I might just end up with my own command out of this. So if you intend to survive long enough to stand trial, I suggest you don't make any sudden moves."
I also realized something at that moment. I may have picked up a suit of power armor, and I may have tried to lock down the armory, but at the moment of truth I realized I wasn’t going to actually fight parliamentary forces. The good fight was always rewarded in the holo-vids with wealth, fame and improbable companionship, but in reality such principled stands usually resulted in little more than extra work for the clean-up crew who had to remove the valiant crusader's earthly remains.
Decision made, I decided to raise my hands above my head in the universal sign of surrender. I didn't want anyone to get hurt, and an unexpected sense of relief swept over me. Maybe things wouldn't be so bad upon return to Capria. They might even deem exile to Planetary Body Harpoon an acceptable outcome for me. Ultimately it wasn't all bad, being on a nearly deserted asteroid. I actually thought it might be nice to retire there, with visions of tending an algae farm and perusing hijacked vid-signals for entertainment filling my head.
Unfortunately for those fleeting dreams, it had been a few years since I had last practiced with power armor, and in this tense situation I didn’t have quite as light and deliberate of a touch as when I was completely calm. Instead of raising my arms at a normal, controlled speed, the power assisted servos of the suit gave a high pitched whine and whipped my arms up over my head.
The officer was taken by surprise at the blur of arm movement in front of him, and knowing he faced a potential opponent in a battle suit that was both stronger and faster than a normal human body, reacted instinctively and fired his weapon. The un-aimed blast tore a divot in the metal decking between us.
The two ratings behind the security officer were barely able to level their weapons between the time the officer first pulled out his weapon and when he fired.
Eyes widening, I took a step back, careful not to make any more sudden gestures.
“He’s trying to escape!” exclaimed one of the young security ratings behind the lieutenant.
The other rating didn’t wait to say anything, he simply fired.
The blast from his sonic rifle knocked me off my feet. Pulling myself backward, I scrambled for cover. How had everything gone wrong so fast? I was trying to surrender, not start a war in the middle of the blasted Flag Bridge!
All I could think to do was close the faceplate of my helmet and try to raise my hands again, to show I was surrendering.
The second rating fired, once again flattening me against a nearby bulkhead, but other than rattling my head around inside the helmet, I was extremely pleased to find that the sonic rifle had little more effect than a rough ride at a theme park.
I realized they weren’t going to let me surrender. I knew I had to do something, but what? I had only taken a two week course in power armor use and that was a few years ago. I knew how to walk and get around in the suit without falling over but the weapon controls were all so very different from the model I trained on that I wasn’t even sure I could activate them. I was still trying to wrap my head around the fact that someone was really trying to kill me when the lieutenant opened fired with an aimed barrage.
The first blaster bolt glanced off the heavy metal plate covering my chest and ricocheted into a nearby console. A second and a third followed close after the first, impacting on the arm and face plate.
Instinctively shying away from the hit to the faceplate, I nearly fell over yet again as I scrambled to my feet. The constant audio assault from continued blaster fire, as well as the alarm system built into the power suit issuing imminent failure warnings was almost more than I could cope with as I tried to stagger away.
“All you Montagnes were born drenched in the blood of innocents! In the name of the Caprian Parliament, I demand you surrender or die, you treasonous scum,” cried the grey haired Security Officer as he swapped out the power pack in his hand blaster.
Seeing the officer reloading, I thought about making a run for it and ducking off into the Admiral’s ready room.
But reality caught me up short when I remembered there was only one way in or out of the Flag Bridge. A design feature I couldn’t understand at that particular moment. To get out I had to go past the Security personnel blocking the door. At least if I was going to find a shuttle and make any sort of escape. So instead of running away, I let my outrage at this last insult overrule the logical part of my brain and I leapt forward instead of finding a place to hide. Not stopping to think, I lashed out with my left hand like a football player carrying the ball, attempting to stiff arm the officer out of the way.
No one was more surprised than I was when gauntleted hand made contact with the officer's chest and caused an unusual, muffled popping sound followed by the security officer's thudding impact into a wall eight feet away. Blood covered the fingers on my gauntlet, and I realized with absolute horror that it was from the ragged hole in the chest of the security officer I had moments before simply tried to push out of my escape path.
For a moment, the three remaining combatants all stood and gaped at one another. Then the senior chief from environmental jumped out from the behind chair she’d been hiding behind and slugged one of the ratings in the face.
Spurred back into action (but not wanting to kill anyone), I decided against further punches or other strikes. Instead, I tried to grab the other rating by the arm in an attempt to subdue him. Reaching wildly, while the security rating backed away and tried bring up the rifle for a shot at pointblank range, I managed to snag one arm. All I could see was a look of horror on the face underneath his black cap.
“Stop,” I yelled and gave the rating’s arm a squeeze. I heard a crack and the rating gave a high pitched scream.
I realized the power servos in the suit’s hand had crushed the rating’s arm. Feeling sick to my stomach, I released him.
The rating dropped to the floor screaming, his arm flopping around in unnatural directions until he managed to use his good hand to clutch the damaged one close to his body.
I opened the face plate of my battle suit and leaned over to the side as the contents of my stomach came spewing up all over one of the workstation consoles.
“Medic!” yelled the environmental chief from her position standing over the other security rating (the one with two working arms). “We need some help in here. Somebody call the infirmary,” she ordered.
More footsteps came running down the corridor and a grizzled looking doctor on the wrong side of middle age hustled into the flag bridge.
Feeling confident that my episode of involuntary emesis was concluded, I staggered over to the blast doors and hit the emergency lockdown button. I couldn’t handle anymore life threatening situations right this moment. Parliamentary agents had just tried to arrest me and I had done everything I could think of, first to show that I was giving up and then later when they wouldn’t let me do that, just to run away. How had everything gone wrong? I laughed hysterically and leaned against the bulkhead, sliding down to the floor as I stared at the bloody gauntlet. I realized that I might have just killed someone.
Instantly the laughter died and once again I felt like throwing up.
It took the doctor heading over to the blast doors with a hypo-spray in hand to snap me back into reality. I couldn’t risk being unconscious. If I let the doctor give me a sedative, who knew when or even if I would ever wake up? Temporary relief could turn into permanent sedation until the ship got home for trial.
“It’s okay,” said the Doctor. “This will help take the edge off.”
I shook my head and got to my feet. “No thanks, Doc. I need to be clear headed right now. Besides, these men need your attention more than I do.”
The doctor started to insist but I crossed my arms over my chest and he backed off, eyeing the still bloody power armor with wary respect.
“I need to get these men up to the infirmary,” the doctor said gesturing to the fallen security personnel.
I nodded.
“The door,” the doctor said pointing to the blast doors I’d just locked down.
I jerked at his reminder of the blast door partitions, and after a moment of consideration, turned off the emergency internal locks and cycled open the doors.
Outside the Flag Bridge was a large group of junior officers and senior crew chiefs. Their mouths were agape at what they saw.
I stared at the assembled bridge crew and department heads, once again at a loss. What did protocol dictate after you’ve disabled and/or killed your arresting officers by accident, because they refused to accept your surrender? The officers and senior enlisted crew stared back at me with mixed looks of fear, confusion and horror.
I didn’t know what to do, but something obviously had to be done. It seemed like I spoke before I had actually made any decision.
“The Department heads will meet as soon as the injured are escorted to the infirmary. Bridge crew can wait outside until we’re done.” Carrying on with things like nothing had happened might not be the best policy, but I couldn’t think of anything else to do other than going back to my room and hiding in bed, which was not an option. I will admit, however, that it was becoming an increasingly attractive non-option the longer this day went on.
Ignoring a few wide eyed stares, I turned and headed back onto the Flag Bridge, passing the doctor who was calling for helpers to carry the fallen to the infirmary.
I realize that I might not be the most knowledgeable or deductive person in the galaxy, but I was slowly growing very certain about one thing. None of this would be happening if Imperial Rear Admiral Janeski and his infernal Empire of Man had kept its word and fulfilled its promises.
Something would have to be done about that eventually. Exactly what that something was eluded me at present, however. Which in all honesty was probably a good sign, since the last thing the galaxy needed was to have me start setting interstellar policy.
The meeting that followed passed in something of a blur. I was introduced to all the new department heads in no discernable order. Everyone seemed uneasy inside the battle damaged flag bridge, so we reconvened in the briefing room attached to it. Even after the move they still seemed uneasy, but less so. There wasn't much to be done for that and honestly, I didn't care. Especially when all I could think about was that sickening crunch as I straight armed the grey haired security officer. Still, I tried my best to conduct the affair with an air of professionalism and dignity, even if I was still wearing a suit of power armor.
Eventually I got tired of the quiet and uneasy conversation, so I decided to act like I knew what I was doing. “I want a head count of the crew still with us, now that the Imperials have abandoned the Lucky Clover and left us to our own devices,” I said with as much practiced authority as I could muster.
“Abandoned, Sir?” asked a junior lieutenant wearing the black gloves of Intelligence. “I thought they were just going off to reinforce the fleets facing the Gorgon Alliance.”
I shook my head. “Triumvir Pontifex ordered a complete Imperial withdrawal from the Spine.” Gasps, quickly muffled, accompanied this statement. “Any Imperial assets that can’t be removed are also to be destroyed by the Imperial Rim Fleet before they depart.” I paused to let this sink in, “Imperial citizens are encouraged to depart of their own free will.”
“What!” exclaimed the Intelligence Officer. “Surely there must be more to it than that,” he then added a belated, “sir.”
The other officers and crew chiefs signaled their agreement. “They can’t do that,” declared the senior chief currently in charge of supply, bringing a round of affirmation from the assembled personnel.
I shook my head. “You’re all free to review the video logs for yourselves. In the meantime,” I said, raising my voice over the sudden buzz of dismayed conversation, “this ship needs to be reorganized, a new crew roster taken and any holes in leadership or other critical, skilled positions filled.”
Now they were all looking at me. I continued without pause, hoping to discourage further outbursts “For the meantime those of you who are here are the heads of your various departments. If you feel yourself unable to do the job,” at this several heads perked up and hands started to rise, which I studiously ignored, “then I expect you to let me know your concerns and at the same time who you feel is the most qualified person to replace you.” Several of the hopefuls visibly drooped.
“Until you can find someone more qualified for the position than yourself, don’t bother asking to be replaced. You’re stuck with the job until further notice.”
“Sir what about the crew,” asked the Intelligence officer and as soon as he spoke several of the crew chiefs nodded in agreement. “They’ve been stuck in quarters for well over half a shift.”
I nodded, trying to look as though I had anticipated the question at this very juncture. “Get them out of their quarters for a nose count and then put them back to work. This ship won’t fly itself,” was all I could think to say in response.
“You,” I said pointing at the Intelligence Officer.
The officer paused and pointed to himself.
“Yes, you, what’s your name?”
The officer looked surprised. “Raphael Tremblay, sir. Why?”
“I want you to stay,” I turned to the rest of the department heads. “The rest of you are dismissed. See to your crew, and prepare those revised department rosters as soon as possible.”
When they all looked at each other instead of immediately getting up and leaving like I’d just said, I slammed a still bloody fist onto the table.
Seeing the dent did more to get them moving than anything I’d said so far and after that they scrambled to leave the room. The Intelligence Officer's wide eyes alternated between the dent in the table and the now-congealed blood on the power gauntlet.
Too mentally fatigued to really care, I just stared at him for a moment without really processing anything. Then, I regained my composure and returned to a relaxed, seated posture. “As of right now you’re my new First Officer, XO or whatever they call it.”
Mr. Tremblay's eyes widened further, which I had only seconds before assumed to be impossible. “Sir, I'm far too inexperienced and junior to accept that position. I’d hardly even know where to start,” Tremblay said, shaking his head in negation. “Why would you pick me, you don’t even know me. We’ve hardly met,” he said.
“Hardly knowing what to do is better than not having any idea,” I said, knowing full well how true a statement that was and envious he at least had an inkling of where to start with his new job. Myself I was completely at sea when it came to running a fleet. “As for why? You asked questions during the meeting and I don’t think Intelligence is as critical a position as Environmental or Engineering right now.”
“Asking questions is your criteria,” muttered intelligence officer Tremblay. He didn’t look very reassured by my stated selection criteria.
“Speaking of which, why wasn’t my new Chief Engineer at the meeting,” I said with a hint of growl creeping into my voice. “I personally called down to engineering and told them to get him out of the brig.”
“The brig,” Officer Tremblay said faintly, obviously having difficulty fathoming my meaning.
I waved my hand abruptly, the servos whining at a higher pitch.
“Make sure they’ve freed Lieutenant Spalding from the brig and then go... Well, do whatever it is that First Officers or XO’s do.”
“Where will you be, Sir…,” started the officer then he paused. “What I mean to say is that I really have to insist. I don’t know the first thing about being a First Officer. That’s a line position and I’m a staff officer,” he protested. “Besides which I don’t have the seniority for such a post.”
Not having any idea the difference between line and staff officers and not wanting to display my own ignorance, I waved my hand again and walked out of the briefing room and off the flag bridge. “I need to get cleaned up.” Believing that to be the most politic moment to do so, I headed back to my quarters.
I may have told the Intelligence officer that I picked him because he asked questions, and that was true, as far as it went. But the most important reason I’d picked him was because, after security (which had already tried to kill me) I concluded that the intelligence section was the most likely place to be filled with parliamentary hit men.
An ancient earth philosopher (or maybe it was a poet) had once said, ‘Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer.’ I very much intended to keep this guy as close to me as possible. No extra free time would be allotted for him to run around plotting and scheming and generally feeling sorry for himself because he’d been passed over or any other stupid reason he came up with for causing me trouble. If he was too busy keeping the ship from falling apart he’d have no time for planning a palace coup, or mutiny, or whatever they called it in the naval service. At least that was the hope.
I am man enough to admit that I was paranoid. In my defense, they really were out to get me, as evidenced by the security detail that shot up the Flag Bridge. Just because this guy was in Intelligence didn’t necessarily mean anything. It was probably all just jumping at shadows, but I wasn't going to second-guess myself at this point. Still, in general it's a good idea to keep an open mind.
A few minutes with a rag cleaned all the blood I could see off the armored suit. After that all I wanted to do was take off the bulky thing and sleep until the hard part was over. Instead I’d already promised a meeting with the bridge crew. The very members of the crew most familiar with the task of getting us safely back home. The same home that was more than likely to take me into custody for the twin crimes of resisting arrest and assaulting a security officer, than it was to thank me for returning a battleship to them safe and sound.
Everyone was counting on me to do the right thing. The crew was counting on me to keep them alive and get them safely home. The parliament was counting on me to bring back the Lucky Clover and hand myself over to them for punishment. Admiral Janeski expected me to carry on where he left off and finish the patrol agreed upon by our various governments. All of which ignored the billions of everyday civilians going about their lives in peace, who relied on Rim Fleet to protect them from pirates and alien marauders, or whatever it was that we were supposed to intercept.
The enormity of what I was doing crashed over me and I stood paralyzed. For how long I couldn’t say afterward. I didn’t snap out of it until my door buzzed, indicating someone outside wanted me to come out and deal with more of this unholy mess I’d somehow landed a staring roll in fixing.
Back in the briefing room I had a whole new set of faces with which to contend. Unlike the new department heads who were an equal mix of the young and the old, the bridge crew was almost entirely young. Not only were they young for their posts but I eventually discovered mostly half trained as well.
I should have been able to figure out for myself, if only I’d stopped for a few moments to think things through. Obviously, most of the officers and senior enlisted bridge crew had been provided by the empire. Of those experienced few that weren’t imperials, many had jumped at the Empire’s offer to join the imperial armed forces.
In short, I was left with the enlisted crewmembers they’d been training up during the cruise. Looking at the table of organization for the bridge on my suits internal HUD screen, I discovered we barely had enough people remaining to staff a single shift on the bridge. We didn’t have enough to even think about fully staffing the Flag Bridge on a round the clock basis with three full shifts like we’d been doing up to this point.
We had one navigator, two helmsmen and no one at all in tactical as, apparently, they’d all decided to sign up with the imperials. We also had an overabundance of people who’d been cross trained to man the various sensor stations and the damage control center on the bridge. Our Science officer was the only person approaching middle age and he was here only because he was conducting a study for his PhD thesis at the University of Capria, on the cost/benefits of slave rigging an older warship like ours versus running it with a crew three times the size of most warships in our weight class.
Just counting bodies gave me an uneasy feeling. I realized that even if we called everyone in during an emergency, we still had no one trained in tactical. I had taken a few online classes on basic tactical theory, mostly for the fun of it, but had stopped when I discovered it was a lot more like work than I’d expected and I didn’t wanted to take that kind of time away from my colonial administration studies.
I think I fairly successfully redirected most of the questions I didn’t understand, or subjects which were only barely comprehensible to me, off on my absent Intelligence Officer slash First Officer. Anything I couldn’t hand off, I steadfastly stated was still under review. I thought I sounded like an incompetent fool who couldn’t even make a decision half the time but what could I do? I wasn’t trained to be an Admiral. All I could do was point them in the direction of someone who might have a clue and stick to the things I could do something about.
It was one of the helmsmen who finally helped me reach a decision regarding something I could actually do something about.
“Where are we going after this, Admiral,” he asked, looking worried and yet strangely hopeful that I had an answer at the same time.
“Going, Helmsman DuPont?” I asked, my brow furrowed. “I would hope we would adjourn to the bridge to perform a ship-wide readiness check and systems analysis.”
“After we leave this star system I mean, Sir,” he said. “It’s just that a few of us have been wondering where we’re going to go after the ship’s put back to rights.”
This was the question I dreaded above all others, especially from one of the people who were going to actually operate the ship. Anyone else and I could say that I needed to talk with the helmsman or navigator first. But this was a helmsman and the blasted navigator was right across the table from him.
This was the sort of thing to which Admiral Janeski was supposed tend. On the outside I was stalling for time by appearing to think the question over, while on the inside I was railing once again at our recently departed imperial admiral. Unlike myself, I was sure he never found himself at a loss as to how to reply to a question like this. I wished that I could cause him even a quarter as much trouble as he’d caused for me, and then suddenly I had it. The idea that popped into my brain was so outrageous, so gutsy, that it would never have occurred to me before the Admiral dumped this great big steaming mess in my lap and called it placing me in operational command. I dare say it wouldn’t have occurred to me even if I was a trained Admiral myself, not before the Empire of Man declared it was pulling out and leaving us to our own devices anyway.
Now it not only occurred to me, the idea filled me with a perverse delight.
A couple months ago the Lucky Clover had come upon a pair of pirates, a converted merchant freighter and an aged heavy cruiser that was even older and more poorly built that the Lucky Clover. Swift action and some handy maneuvering on the part of Admiral Janeski had resulted in our ship disabling the two pirates. The fact that the pirates hadn’t been able to keep up on the maintenance of their one genuine warship and that half the guns didn’t fire hadn’t hurt either.
Anyway, the two ships had been captured and claimed as prizes of the Imperial Rim Fleet. Their crews had been shipped off via prison transport while we’d continued on with our assigned patrol route. However, leaving to continue our patrol hadn’t been the only thing the admiral had done. He’d used the Imperial ComStat, a network of FTL buoys which were not always within communications range on the outer edge of the spine, to send a message for a couple of the ad-hoc patrol fleet’s larger vessels to come guard the prizes and repair the engines of the heavy cruiser enough get it to a repair dock.
I thought that since the Imperial Rim Fleet was officially no more, and that our ship had done most of the work and all of the original seizing, that going back and claiming those two ships for our beleaguered Patrol Fleet was a capital idea.
I was sure Admiral Janeski had plans for those ships, at least at one point. What those plans had been or currently were, I wasn’t quite sure but still, it would be nice to derail his plans for once, whatever they were. I couldn’t think of anything more likely to do so than stealing those prizes right out from under his nose and making sure our imperial abandoners never saw a credit of all the prize money from those captured pirate ships.
I also knew the perfect way to sell this to any of the ship’s crew with thoughts of bugging out now and heading straight for home. I was sure there were quite a few of them by now. I didn’t dare order them to do something and have them refuse. At the moment, everyone (outside of the fallen security team) was listening intently to what I had to say because I was the Admiral the Caprian government had placed over them. That could all change in an instant if they didn’t like where I was taking them, and once they started ignoring me it would only be a short step from there to turning on me like an angry slash lizard. Just like they did to poor Jean Luc. I shuddered and felt a little queasy.
“That’s a very good question, Helmsman DuPont,” I said, after an uncomfortably long silence while I considered the question. “Now that I’ve had time to think about it, instead of running around like a maniac trying to put our ship back in order,” I put on a winning smile, direct from media training 101, and watched as they reluctantly followed suit. “Our first order of business should be to go back and pick up those two pirates vessels we took a prize,” I smiled.
Brows furrowed and mouths started to open with questions but I overrode them. “I’m sure everyone on the ship wants to make sure the Imperials don’t steal them from us…” I paused for effect, and then added the only part I thought the crew would really be interested in, “along with all that prize money the crew earned when the Clover captured them.”
Mouths closed and brows became less furrowed. I could see that a desire to go to the nearest port, or just plain straight home, warred with the thought of giving up all that prize money. Money that with half of the original crew gone, along with the Imperial Fleet, would be doubled if ‘we’ grabbed the pair of ships or, on the other hand could become absolutely nothing when the Imperials did all the grabbing instead.
I could tell some of them weren’t entirely convinced by the idea but at least I had given them something to think about, something other than making a bee line for home.
As for myself I thought the idea had merit all on its own but I had to admit to that I wasn’t sure if going straight home would get me killed and/or imprisoned and this seemed like the perfect way to go about delaying the inevitable, at least until I had more information and some time to digest it.
Everyone likes to think that politicians and fat cat capitalistic business men have some sort of monopoly on greed, but wave a fat chunk of change in front of the masses and most people are willing temporarily alter their moral compass or entirely revise their normal, reliable decision making processes.
More than anything else the crew was worried and with good reason. Even a complete naval fool like myself could see we had critical manpower shortages all over the ship. Supplies had been raided, equipment sabotaged and morale crippled to the point where any sane commander would have hove to and head straight for the nearest port. To top all it off, with the Imperials leaving the spine-ward sectors to their own devices, there was a lot to worry about both on both the personal and interstellar scene. In my opinion the crew would have to be complete idiots not to be worried.
A chorus of, “Yes, sir,” and “You’re the, Admiral,” came from the bridge crew.
I just nodded. I could tell that a few of them would still need convincing but for now I’d just let the thought of ‘losing’ all that money do my convincing for me. Hopefully by this time tomorrow the crew would be buzzing over the idea of rescuing their prize money from the greedy Imperials.
“I think that about wraps things up.” I said. “For now the helmsmen will have to be on twelve hour shifting. The navigator will stay on first shift but is on call at need. As there are no tactical staff that problem solves itself. The various sensor and damage control personnel will also be mainly on first shift but I want at least one sensor operator and one damage control operator on shifts two and three.”
There were various nods of agreement.
“In the future we’ll start a cross training program, to fill as many holes on the bridge as possible. Bridge staff as well as general crew will be considered for the training program. Training aside, I’m hoping for volunteers for the two and three shift spots but if there are disputes regarding who get those duties take them up with First Officer, who will be the final arbiter of the initial assignments. The same thing regarding the new training program, also if anyone is interested in the new training program please speak with the ship’s First Officer, Raphael Tremblay.” I gave them a moment to process these orders, hoping it made me appear controlled and collected. “Dismissed.”
As they filed out I congratulated myself for handing off yet another time consuming assignment to the ship’s former Intelligence Officer. I wanted that man as busy as humanly possible.
Chapter 5: First Among Officers
The former Intelligence Officer, looking very harried and overloaded, caught back up with me on the Flag Bridge.
I was sitting in the Admiral’s chair (or throne as I still thought of it, especially since it was the only chair on the bridge big enough to take my power armored enlarged bulk) watching the half trained bridge crew go about the job of scanning near and far space inside the solar system. In the background I listened as the bridge damage control center coordinated with the engineering and damage control parties, as they went about routine maintenance and repairs.
Everyone sounded nervous and in some cases like they didn’t really know what they were doing. Occasionally I’d clump my way to a position of interest and peer over the shoulder of someone. I was trying to get a feel for what they were doing, but I was having limited success. By 'limited,' I mean I had absolutely no better idea what they were doing after observing them than I did before observing them. Unfortunately, having someone in power armor looming over you tends to make most people nervous, so I tried to limit myself to the desk controls on the throne as much as possible.
I was busy mirroring the display of a sensor operator when my First Officer cleared his throat.
I turned my head to face him. “Yes?” I imagine I sounded more than a little irritated, but it had little effect on the already flustered junior lieutenant.
“Engineer Spalding told to me to inform you that he refuses to waste time on staff meetings on the bridge when there are more important meetings in engineering, or better yet actual work to be done on the ship.” Raphael Tremblay said, reporting on our wayward Chief Engineer.
“I take it they freed him from the brig, then,” I said a little too sharply and I knew it.
“Yes, Admiral,” he nodded.
“What else?” I consciously tried to moderate my tone now. Too many outbursts simply wouldn't do here on the bridge. People were tense enough as it was.
“Sir?” the former intelligence officer said.
“What else did he say,” I replied. “Our Chief Engineer is quite the character, I’m sure he had more to say than he wouldn’t be showing up at a meeting.”
“Other than disobeying a direct order and generally being abrasive and insubordinate?” Lieutenant Tremblay asked disbelievingly.
I gestured with my hand for him to get to the point. Servos whined in response, and I think my new First Officer flinched at the sound of the power armor's mechanisms.
“He complained about everything from the state of the ship to the former Imperial crew and even the former Caprian crew who, in his words, ‘deserted the ship’. He also claimed engineering had lost the most people of any department on the ship.”
I'm afraid I wasn’t able to keep my eyes from widening at this news.
The new first officer rolled his eyes in response. “Engineering only lost about a quarter of its people. From the initial reports most other departments lost half or more.”
I tried to hide a sigh of relief at this news, bad as it was. “Not quite as bad as I’d feared, then,” I said in a measured tone.
Raphael Tremblay made a back and forth movement of his hand. “Better than most but I wouldn’t say it even approaches the level of good news. Initial reports are that most of those still with us are hopelessly junior or out and out trainees.”
From what I’d seen so far I had to agree with him. Still it wouldn’t do to talk down about the crew where they could hear him. Images of Jean-luc and his traitorous crew had formed a permanent presence in my mind's eye. I raised my voice above the general din of the bridge and said, “Everyone who stayed with us is worth two of those disloyal jackanapes who left with the Imperials.” The former intelligence officer opened his mouth but I quickly cut him off. “As for training, that just takes time. I have no doubt that our ship can and will be the equal of any Imperial crew, given the chance. What's more, they now know they are surrounded by comrades who won’t abandon them in the middle of their mission.”
The speech appeared to have the desired effect, as I saw some of the crew on the bridge straighten their shoulders.
Lieutenant Tremblay slowly closed his mouth and glanced over at the bridge crew before deciding not to continue that line of conversation any further. "The bridge crews lost over three fourths of its people, including the Captain and all the senior officers, and we have no trained tactical officers at all,” he said instead, trying a different approach.
“I know that,” I replied shortly, silently congratulating myself on identifying this particular Lieutenant as a threat to my budding command. I drew a measured breath.
Lieutenant Tremblay’s mouth quirked but he didn’t look pleased, “I understand we are instituting a new training program to fill the holes.”
“I'm glad to see you've made yourself aware of such developments, Lieutenant,” I said with a cold, practiced smile.
The Lieutenant gave a fleeting smile and then frowned, “If I’m going to be your First Officer, it’s important I know I’m responsible for something like a new training program before I’m approached by crewmembers looking to apply.”
“You've already demonstrated that you've got your finger on the ship's pulse,” I said unrepentantly. "I have the utmost confidence in your ability to continue displaying such attention to details which concern ship wide operations." All of those one-sided public debate defeats with my cousins were starting to pay dividends, I thought to myself with a smirk.
“I mean it!” he said angrily. “If you don’t want me to be your first officer, that’s fine with me. But if you do, I need to be in the loop on things like this.”
I narrowed my eyes and considered. “I suppose you’re right,” I finally agreed.
The former Intelligence Officer lowered his voice. “Why do we even have a training program in the first place, Admiral? We lost our training cadre when the Imperials boarded the Invictus Rising,” he said, then continued in a harsher tone. “For that matter what’s this I hear floating around the decks about us going to retrieve those pirate ships we captured, before the imperials make off with the crew’s prize money?”
“The first thing we should do is head to the nearest port and report in,” Tremblay finished more loudly than perhaps he’d intended.
By the stiffened backs of several members of the bridge crew, I was aware that they must be listening with at least one ear cocked in our direction, I paused before also replying loudly enough to be heard across the bridge. “I have every intention of taking the ship straight to an official port, but only after we’ve secured this crew’s prize money.” I think I managed to keep my voice fairly steady and measured.
“Prize money!” blurted the new First Officer. “This ship may need a lot of things, but prize money has to be near the bottom of the list.”
“Maybe prize money ranks low on your own personal list, Raphael, but while a couple of months’ worth of pay for a common crewman may seem like an inconsequential amount to you, I assure you it’s not inconsequential to many of the crew.” I retorted smoothly. I knew for certain that the money was important to Lieutenant Tremblay and thought many of the crew had to feel the same way. “More importantly, however, as the flagship we have a responsibility to the rest of the patrol fleet and we will have the opportunity to meet with two of the larger ships in our fleet, while at the same time securing our prizes. They need to know about the Imperial withdrawal as well.”
Lieutenant Tremblay visibly pulled himself up short and closed his mouth tight. Disagreement still radiated off him.
I softened my voice. “Besides, it hurts nothing to have a training program for filling critical spots that have no one to man them. The downside is that the crew wastes some time learning they have absolutely no talent for the position they’ve always dreamed about. The upside is they find themselves on the bridge of a battleship a longtime before they ever dreamed possible. If something does go wrong, we’ve got a few more semi-trained people to help deal with it.” I was doing my best to extend an olive branch while simultaneously maintaining the upper hand.
Tremblay gave me a long, accusing look. “After we get those prize ships we’re heading straight to the nearest port,” he asked, obviously still suspicious.
I gave a tight smile, “Well, the nearest one with a space dock and a full service salvage yard at any rate. We wouldn’t want to go to all the effort of retrieving those two ships, only to have them disappear into some local planetary defense force. Or find ourselves saddled with a poor evaluation that loses us half the prize money because we didn’t take it to a place with a top salvage evaluator." At this was point I was working entirely off of holo-drama knowledge of space operations from a popular vid-series, but it at least sounded reasonable.
I have to admit that by this time, I had been considering just exactly what a share of prize money could do for my own career. Combined with the courses I had already completed, Imperial accredited courses at that, there was good chance I could afford to enter a top Caprian University. If parliament ever decided they were willing to let me out of their sight for more than two minutes, I thought glumly. I sighed, as my dreams once again came crashing down around my ears.
Junior Lieutenant Tremblay finally spoke after a long silence. “Considering the circumstances, I have to think the planetary parliament,” he pointed out, “and the System Defense Force will be very interested in getting this ship back safe and sound.”
“I don’t see a great deal of danger in retrieving a couple of prize ships. Do you?” I asked, an edge returning to my voice.
“Not danger, per se, but what if the Imperials get there first, or even while we’re getting ready to take the ships to a salvage yard?” Tremblay was looking cross again, his composure teetering on a knife's edge.
“If the Imperials show, we’re not going to pick a fight,” I said with a shrug of my shoulders, “so barring criminal stupidity, like attacking an Imperial command carrier, I see no obvious danger. I don’t foresee any problems we can't manage.”
The former intelligence officer hesitated.
“Do you see a problem, Lieutenant?” I demanded, looking him in the eye.
“No,” he said then added, “Admiral. But something might still come up.”
I shrugged again, “Well as far as I’m concerned, there you have it. No obvious danger. Let’s remember, Officer Tremblay, this isn’t a luxury cruise. Part of the reason we were sent all the way out here is to stop danger from reaching civilized space.”
“As a trained officer in the Caprian SDF, I’m aware why we’re out here.” Tremblay said.
I could hear the implied rebuke when the other man used the words ‘trained officer’ but there was nothing I could do about my lack of training. Other than resign, which I wasn’t even sure the parliament would let me do. On the other hand that luxury cruise comment had probably been over the top. I decided to ignore the whole thing and let it pass.
“Well now that you’re officially informed about the new training program, why don’t you go see to that or one the other many things you’ve got on your plate. I think I can handle the bridge while we’re parked in an empty solar system.” I gave an airy wave, putting all my royal training into the motion.
Tremblay spun on his heel and left the Flag Bridge, obviously unimpressed with the dismissal.
I breathed easier, having successfully circumvented one confrontation. I was treading on thin ice and I knew it. I was a complete fraud when it came to Admiraling. My only hope was that no one else realized just how out of my depth I really was.
That’s why I was still in powered armor. Unfortunately, I couldn’t keep the suit on forever...could I?
Chapter 6: Drills and Rabbits
He was the very model of a modern, outdated space engineer.
Spalding woke up to the combined sound of his hatch door chiming and someone physically pounding on his door. The door was made of a light composite, but it was still solid metal. They must be pounding on it with a wrench or something.
Rolling over he grinned, until his aching joints started to complain. The grin wilted and a grimace took its place. Grimace turned to scowl when he looked at the clock he’d set up on the two way wall-screen.
Sweet cryin' Murphy, they’d woke him up at 2 a.m. in the morning. What a bunch of lazy, good-for-nothing slackers. He’d told them to keep a sharp eye out during two and three shifts. He told them to triple check everything. Blast it! Arses were going to feel the heat before he was done tonight.
Two o’clock in the grief stricken morning. He’d told them to watch out, he warned them to follow their check lists and have parties out doing manual follow ups and double checks, most especially this first night of all nights, with a skeleton trainee crew. He’d done everything but give away the whole darned game.
He’d specifically set the ship to reboot the three deck main sub-processor back to its original factory specifications at midnight on the dot. Factory defective specifications, as he’d learned when he was a young midshipman fifty years ago. Midnight was the middle of the blasted shift change, when they were supposed to be visually double checking things. Things exactly like breath gas mixtures. And sending out crew parties to verify anomalous readings with hand held scanners.
He staggered around his quarters, forcing his way into his uniform and skin suit. He only fell once, catching himself against the bed, which he thought with pride was an accomplishment all on its own. As soon as he was dressed he over-rode the safety lock he’d personally installed for his room and headed out of the room on a tear.
Still strapping on his tool belt, the sight of Spacehand Brence did nothing to improve his mood.
“Sir! It’s a disaster, three deck’s been flooded with CO2 and Argon. Everybody’s dead!” Brence was on the verge of stuttering uncontrollably.
“What are you talking about, you blithering fool,” Chief Engineer Terrence Spalding asked. He couldn’t help a sliver of fear shooting through his heart, even though he knew better.
“Both Engineering and Environmental have identical readings, sir, there’s no way anyone could have survived breathing those levels,” Brence said, his face crumpling.
“How long ago did the CO2 and Argon levels spike? What’d a physical check with hand scanner turned up,” he demanded, walking as fast as his old bones could carry him to main engineering.
“We’ve no idea, Sir,” Brence said.
Spalding spun around, leaned in closer, poking his finger into Spacehand Brence’s chest and smelled whiskey on his breath. “You’ve been drinking,” he cried. “Drunk on duty and it’s no wonder you don’t have the first idea what’s going on!” His voice echoed through the corridor. “The Imperial’s wouldn’t have you for love or money and so you stayed here to plague the rest of us with your drunken incompetence. Which just got a bunch of good men killed, you mewling idiot,” It was past time someone taught the pair of ne’er-do-wells a lesson and better they learned it from the Chief Engineer, where they only thought they’d killed their fellow crewmates, than after they’d actually exterminated an entire decks worth of people.
“Why don’t you know, you drunken fool?!”
“I was off duty, Chief,” Brence said. “I swear I didn’t touch a drop of the stuff until after shift end. Castwell’s the shift boss in engineering for third shift. I’m off duty!”
Spalding used his forearm to slam the spacehand up against the wall, “An Engineer is never off duty and if I’ve told you once I’ve told you a thousand times. The Clover’s a dry ship when it comes to rot gut whiskey. Its triple distilled Gorgon Ice-ales and simple meads or nothin' else when you’re on my ship!”
“Half the men are allergic to Ice-ale, Sir,” he protested, “and the meads aren’t very strong stuff.”
Spalding drew back and slugged him in the gut. “Saint Murphy give me strength, people are dying and you’re arguing about an illegal liquor still. Get a work party with scanners and emergency oxygen supplies over to 3 and find out what the blaze’s going on over there,” the engineer demanded to the now coughing Brence.
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you,” Brence said right before he threw-up. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he said, “The Imperials took all the self-sealing skin suits with them when they left and the work parties won’t go in there, not when the only thing they’ve got is a stupid head bag.”
“Argh,” Lieutenant Spalding screamed. “Cowards! The Caprian 109-A self sealing Face Bags are specifically rated for short periods in a pressurized area with low or no oxygen. Which leaves aside the absolutely brain straining idea of putting on an exterior suit and slow stepping it all the way from an airlock over to deck three. Why, there’s even more than one airlock on three deck itself!”
The Chief Engineer ran all the way to the next lift and stomped inside, a silent Brence, looking green faced from whiskey and worry in tow.
The doors slid open. A party of engineering ratings stood blocking the way out of the lift and arguing with Castwell. From the sound of things the ratings didn’t want to risk getting in the lift and going over to three deck.
Spalding forced his way through the men outside the lift door and scowled when they ignored him. He went to the machinist room and pulled out a plasma torch. This’ll do the trick nicely, he thought before stomping back out to confront the young hooligans who were too afraid to do their duty.
“Time to do your duty to your crewmates, lads,” said the Chief Engineer in a voice that cut through the din.
There was a pause followed by a resentful silence. “Easy enough for you to say, with your fancy government-issued skin suit, and for them staying safely here in Main Engineering,” sneered a loud mouthed redhead, with damage control patches on his shoulders.
Spalding turned red from half way up his chest to the top of his balding head.
“We’re the ones who have to go to three deck and die in these,” snarled the redhead, shaking the oblong shaped clear plastic-looking bag with a flimsy plastic port at the bottom, near where the chin would be if someone was wearing it.
Spalding glared and started tearing off his clothes, first his uniform and then the self-sealing skin suit. Holding up the skin suit he said, “I paid for this my own self, you candy-arsed coward,” Then he threw the skin suit on top of the uniform.
Now standing in nothing more than his skivvies, he snatched a head bag from one of the crowd of disgruntled ratings. Placing it on his head, he ignited the plasma torch.
“Time to make like a rabbit and run into that there lift,” he said conversationally, taking a few practice swings with the plasma torch before making a few adjustments to the settings, lengthening the two inch flame into a foot long stream of burning plasma.
A few of the reluctant ratings gave him a concerned look and backed away a step or two, into the midst of their gathered fellows.
“I’ve already lit the fire, boys,” the engineer continued in the conversational tone, then roared, “so let’s go save yer crew mates before I use this here torch to burn you a new evacuation port!” So saying, he gave a shriek and charged forward.
Ratings gave out cries of dismay and tried to scatter but he managed to herd enough of them for his purposes, including their red haired leader, into the lift. Jumping into the lift himself, he hit the emergency button and shut the door. Using one hand he slapped the override button and sent them straight to three deck.
“You’re crazy, old man,” screamed the red head. “Get away from the door and let us out!”
To keep any of the cowards from rushing him, Spalding casually swept the plasma torch in front of him. He could tell several of the nearer ones felt the heat when they tried to back away but were caught between the walls of the lift and the bodies of their friends.
“Shut yer yap, before I decide it’s important for the safety of the ship that I remember your name, buddy boy,” sneered the wild haired engineer in his underwear.
The lift chimed and the doors started to slide open.
“There’s no air in here,” cried the red head before scurrying to put on his head bag. The faint noise of suction seals taking hold sounded, as the other ratings pulled on their head bags in a rush.
“Engineering’s the toughest Department on the ship. I don’t care what lies Gunnery tells,” cried the new Chief Engineer, “If you think I’m going to let you disgrace the Department with your cowardice then you’ve got another think coming,” he said before chasing them out of the lift by running around one wall, swinging his torch. “Now jump, my scared little rabbits. Jump! Papa Spalding’ll make a man out ye’ yet, or someone will die from his trying!”
Spalding kissed a few reluctant butt cheeks with the flame of his torch, and made sure the red head got a good stripe along his backside to complement his hot mouth.
The shrieks of burned and terrified ratings echoed out into the corridor as they raced down the hall. “Hop along my little rabbits, hop along, and don’t forget to check your hand scanners,” he yelled after the ratings. He ran after them as long as he could. But at his age he barely made it past the first T in the corridor before his heart was pounding uncontrollably and his breath was coming in short gasps.
He placed his hands on his knees as he stopped to catch his breath, and bent over laughing between gasps. He thumbed the deactivation switch on the plasma torch and dropped it to the floor. He sat down in the middle of the corridor and pulled off his head bag.
He chuckled, expelling air and throwing the head bag as far as he could down the hallway. This was the moment of truth. If his little trick with the sub-processing node had actually killed the crew on three deck, he deserved to die right along with them.
Taking a breath of good clean recycled air, he scowled. He hoped his little running rabbits were too terrified to stop for a good long while yet. “Everyone dead on three-deck, my ugly old bones,” he snorted. “Too terrified and jumping at shadows to engage brain and figure out this was just a training exercise. Idjits.”
One thing was sure and certain, and that was that this ship needed a lot more in the way of safety drills. Or he wasn’t Junior Lieutenant Terrence Spalding, Chief Engineer of Lucky Clover, the finest Battleship to every come out of the Caprian Ship Yards. Or, as far as he was concerned, any shipyard in the entire Galaxy.
“Broke the mold when they made you, my fine lass,” he said and gave the metal wall of the ship a pat. “Even the other ships of your class, none can hold a candle to you, my beauty. You are the last and greatest of your kind.” His voice lowered to a soft, smooth pitch and he leaned his head back against the cold metal wall. “I'll make them worthy of you.”
Chapter 7: Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself?
I was sitting in the Admiral’s throne and receiving all kinds of conflicting reports. Environmental said it looked like a possible sensor problem, while engineering was almost hysterical, insisting that everyone on three deck was dead. The intercom to that level was on the fritz, so trying to reach an actual person down there was currently impossible.
On top of that, the Chief Engineer was nowhere to be found and Shift Supervisor Castwell thought he’d died along with the repair team.
The ship was melting down around my ears and on the bridge there was nothing but confusion. I had to find out how bad it was down there before my brain exploded.
I made my way out as quietly as possible, then sealed the bridge crew in using the command crystals to lock the blast doors and then headed for a lift.
I took a deep breath and pressed the appropriate button before sealing the suit helmet. The power armored battle suit was built to be self-contained, and could even be used in vacuum. So I knew that whatever was wrong on three deck, the suit should be able to survive it.
The door opened up to an empty corridor. There wasn't any smoke, nor were there dead bodies strewn across the deck plates, which seemed like a good sign. Unfortunately, if the suit had a scanning function then I didn’t know how to access it to find out about the various gas levels. And I wasn’t quite brave enough to unseal my helmet and test the air quality personally.
I instead opted to proceed down the hallway and soon came to a T intersection. A quick glance to one side showed a series of doors. A look to the other side made my heart stop.
Sprawled out against one wall and naked except for his underwear was an ancient, balding figure with wild grey hear splayed out to either side of his ears. It was the missing Chief Engineer.
I felt like throwing up (and probably would have, were it not for my previous episode). It was true. Everyone on deck three really was dead. Then paranoia set in. A problem with the air supply just happened to take out Lieutenant Spalding, the Chief of Engineering. I looked around wildly. Maybe this was a trap. When no one jumped out of any doors or demanded I pay for the crimes of my ancestors, I heaved a sigh of relief.
Cautiously I approached the body of the Chief Engineer. It was a humiliating way to die, sprawled naked in a public corridor where anyone could see all of his wrinkled, sagging skin. It was hardly the last image I would have wanted the world to see if I was the Chief Engineer.
Then through my suit’s speakers I heard the Chief Engineer's body make a horrible rattling sound.
“What!” I exclaimed and nearly jumped out of my skin. In fact, that's probably exactly what would have happened if I weren't wearing a full suit of vacuum-tested power armor. I did manage to cause the suit itself to jump into the air and land back on the deck with a thump, which woke up the snoring Spalding.
Eyes bulging out of my head, I stared at the Lieutenant. I had thought the Chief Engineer was on his way to a date with the waste recycler or the welcome arms of the systems primary, and he’d just been sleeping in the middle of a crisis. Perhaps the stress of the situation had over powered him.
Spalding looked around blearily for a second before focusing on my face, or helmet, as it were. “If it isn’t the Little Admiral,” he said with a smile.
I grimaced at the name and crouched down next to the Chief Engineer, servos whining with every motion. “What have they done to you, Lieutenant,” I asked.
“Huh,” said Spalding forehead wrinkling before looking down at his scantily clad body. “Oh this, this is nothing. I had to inspire the men, lead by example and all that, you know,” he said dismissively.
I simply stared at him for a moment, unable to form a coherent picture of what he might have been trying to convey. It was like the man was speaking Greek.
“That, and motivate them with my plasma torch,” the Chief Engineer said with a chuckle.
“What are you talking about? Were you attacked,” I asked, still trying to piece together what series of events could lead to this particular scene. I stood myself back up, and the servos whirred in their increasingly familiar fashion.
“Oh, they thought about it. But they knew what was good for them and decided to do like I told ’em to in the first place,” the Chief Engineer said with satisfaction.
“Say, that’s the suit I was rebuilding for you,” the Chief Engineer’s eyes lit up, “sounds like the servos need adjustment.” Spalding laboriously climbed to his feet.
“I don’t understand,” I said, still desperately trying to decipher the nature of the emergency on deck three, and the Chief Engineer's role in it, “was there a plot?”
“A plot,” mused the Chief Engineer, his hand fumbling around on his waist before he seemed to realize he didn’t have his tool belt. He then reached up to grab my suit's arm. “I don’t think there was anything as deep as a plot, it's more like irrational fear filled the men’s heads and caused their brains to ooze out their ears.”
“Uhhh… you don’t mean to say you killed any of them, did you,” I asked, careful to keep my arm still. I vividly recalled the last time a man got too close to my power-armored arm. I tried to step away but the Engineer followed me.
“There,” the Engineer said in triumph and I was suddenly unable to move. “Let’s get rid of that awful whine.” He looked up at me apologetically. “I don’t have my proper tools with me so this’ll just be a temporary fix.”
I swore and jerked my arms and legs but I was stuck. Somehow the Engineer had locked down the suit’s servos. I couldn’t even pop open my helmet or try to escape. I was trapped.
This could be it, I thought. My breath began to come in rapid, shallow bursts. The Chief Engineer played dead long enough to lull me into a false sense of security before shutting down my suit, or maybe just long enough to get me off the bridge and let the new first officer take over the ship. Meanwhile, they hauled me off to the brig.
“Now this won’t take but just a moment,” the engineer said, tongue clenched between his teeth.
Sweat rolled down my temples. The world began to spin, my vision narrowed, I was sure I was about pass out, and why not? There was no real need to be awake for any of the inevitable humiliation, was there? I let myself relax, and I began to make peace with my fate. It wasn't what I'd hoped for, but at least this insanity would soon be over.
I heard a loud clicking sound, followed by an elated "Ah-ha!" My vision returned and I found that my arms and legs were no longer trapped, and I could move again.
Which I did, quickly backing away from the engineer, who now sported a beatific smile.
“What did you just do?” I demanded.
The Chief Engineer’s brow wrinkled before clearing. “Temporary fix on those noisy servos. Really need to get that suit over to the shop for another overhaul. Thing’s still a work in progress. It wasn’t really meant to be used just yet, I had a few more upgrades planned for that thing,” he said with a wink.
“You’re not part of some sort of plot, are you,” I asked suspiciously.
The chief engineer looked a bit guilty. “I assure the Admiral if there’s any discrepancy in the equipment register that I had nothing to do with it. The new head of Supply Department’s been out to get me from the start,” he said indignantly.
“No. I don’t mean a supply discrepancy,” I felt like pressing the issue, but I merely waved my hand and abandoned that particular line of inquiry, remembering rather abruptly why I had come down here in the first place.
“Why are you naked in the middle of a public corridor,” I asked trying to regain composure. “Obviously, reports on the oxygen levels on deck three have been somewhat inaccurate.”
The Engineer opened his mouth to speak, but I cut him off before he could say a word.
“On second thought, I really don’t want to know. All I care about is getting whatever it is fixed and restoring order on the ship.”
Again the Engineer looked guilty, probably because he’d been caught naked in the middle of a public corridor.
“Ah yes…,” he muttered, “I’m pretty sure it’s not an engineering problem. My guess is we need a systems analyst to take a gander at the sub-processing node.” He looked nervous, shuffling from one foot to the other, his hands working their way across his waist-line. “That’s just a guess,” he hastily added. “No one can know for sure.”
I shook my head and rolled my eyes, instantly thankful for the face-shield's presence to hide the gesture from the guilty-looking Spalding. “I’ll have one of those sent down here right away. Just get yourself dressed and figure out what’s wrong with the ship.” I turned to go, hoping to put this entire scene behind me.
“Right away, your Admiralship,” said the engineer, “We’ll have her right as rain in just a jiff. Expect we’ll need to run a few more drills, though,” the Chief Engineer said to my recently presented back.
I grunted in response and hurried to the lift. Maybe the Chief Engineer hadn’t been part of any plot, but that didn’t mean that this little non-emergency hadn’t been engineered by someone else. Someone with the intent of getting me off the bridge long enough to start a coup.
Then something occurred to me, and over my shoulder I yelled, “How long does it take for the ship’s hyper drive to spin up?”
“About twelve hours to get a full charge,” said Lieutenant Spalding, now following close behind. “Why?”
I stepped into the lift and turned around, careful not to bump anything with the bulky armor suit.
“When the ship’s ready, we need to secure those two pirate ships, as soon as possible.” The doors started cycling closed. “I’ll let you know when to spin up the drives, Lieutenant.” The doors clicked shut during the middle of the sentence. I shrugged and punched in the Flag Bridge.
Arriving back on the Flag deck I made my way to the bulkheads to find them still closed. The command key unlocked them and I peered inside. I breathed out a sigh of relief when I saw that everything was the same as I’d left it. It looked like there had been no coup attempt this time, so with a weary sigh (and blessedly silent servos), I went back to the Admiral’s Throne and resumed my previous position. It was going to be a long night.
Chapter 8: Time To Get Changed
The next morning I, red eyed from lack of sleep, clomped my way to the Armory.
I’d only managed to catch a few winks while sitting on that throne they called an Admiral’s chair. I’d stayed up all night, certain that something bad was bound to happen and determined to be prepared to face the revolution when it stormed its way onto the bridge.
Instead last night I was greeted by a sight that would scar me for life. I was sure anyone who had seen the new Chief Engineer in all his sagging glory, decked out in nothing more than his underwear and a plasma torch, would agree.
Fortunately the problem was with the ship’s old distributed intelligence system, not with the air supply. It looked like time and a general lack of use had left a few Bugs in the system, because there was nothing at all wrong with the sensor units themselves. It seemed the problem originated in one of the ship’s sub-processing cores.
The maintenance teams and the members of deck 3, roused from their sleep by the alarm klaxons, had gone back to bed and a system’s technician was called in to deal with the faulty sub-processor.
The sheer amount of panic on the bridge and the half hour it had taken for first responders to arrive from other decks had showcased how badly the Lucky Clover needed to run some basic emergency drills. A half hour to respond in a real emergency would have seen everyone on that deck dead of asphyxiation. I shuddered to think how we would have done with an actual threat or, stars forbid, if somebody was actually shooting at us.
One thing was certain (other than this ship’s crew needing more drills), and that was this battle suit was killing me. The padding was very much not working in some places, which was why I found myself on the way down to the armory. I was hoping to turn in the power armor for some further work (read: padding improvements), and check out something a little less obtrusive in the way of protective gear.
Over at the armory, Crewman Gants was a sight for sore eyes. His two friends standing guard outside the blast door, armed with pipe wrenches, not so much.
“Don’t worry, Admiral Sir,” he hastened to assure me when I glanced sideways at the pair of them. “I don’t let them have anything more powerful than those wrenches while they’re on guard outside the armory. Just in case someone gets any ideas,” he said laying a finger alongside his nose before leading me inside the armory proper.
If the two pipe wrench wielding guards had given me pause, his half dozen friends inside the armory itself nearly gave me a heart attack. Decked out in everything from strings of sonic hand grenades to flash-shotguns and outright plasma rifles, with one person carrying so many blaster pistols they were literally falling out of not only his pockets, but also his oversized utility belt. The group looked like they were ready to start a war. I wasn’t sure how much damage they could do to anyone other than themselves, but they’d enthusiastically loaded themselves down with as many weapons of war as they could individually carry.
I imagine that my voice, when it finally emerged, resembled a choking sound more than anything else, “Not quite what I had in mind when I asked you to guard the Armory, Mr. Gants.” I took a moment to gather myself together.
“I know,” Gants said with a grin. “This is much better, isn’t it?”
“It sure is something,” I said with a false tone of appreciation. “They look like they’re wearing half the Armory.” I looked around at the ‘friends’ helping Gants guard the armory and shook my head in dismay when the crewman with all the pistols brushed against the wall and several of the loaded weapons fell crashing to the ground.
“Oh. Not even close,” Gants hastened to assure me, but I felt anything but assured. “These are just from one of the light arms lockers, we didn’t even put a dent in it when we took these ones out for cleaning,” he said proudly.
“You were working on these,” I asked, waving my arm to encompass the whole motley-crew and their assorted weaponry. “Fixing them?”
“Yep. A few were down checked for basic repairs, so we just pulled them out and started working on them. Since we were stuck down here anyway,” he said proudly. “Might as well make ourselves useful.”
“I hope no one got hurt,” I said genuinely, trying not to imagine all the trouble they could have gotten into. An image of an exploding power cell from one of the blast pistols flitted through my head, right past the one of poor Jean-Luc's final moments.
“Oleander set off one of the sonic grenades,” Gants admitted, and then hastily added, “It was an accident. Don’t worry, I've got him on duty outside with a pipe wrench, guarding the door.” Gants leaned closer and muttered, “It seemed safer to keep him away from the heavier ordinance, at least until after someone with more skill had a chance to look them over first.”
By someone with more skill he clearly meant himself or one of the other happy hoodlums inside here with him. I felt my blood pressure rising.
I couldn’t risk leaving them in here all by themselves, who knew what kind of trouble they’d get into. On the other hand, could I risk replacing them with a random selection of strangers from the crew? At least from the looks on the faces of these grinning fools, they were happy enough to be down here playing around with the guns and pretending to guard the door.
Although on second thought and after another glance at all the weaponry, I wasn’t sure just how much pretend was going into the guarding part. Pretending could turn deadly serious with this many over-armed and overeager volunteers.
I decided on a half measure, at least until I had time to make a better decision.
“How many of these men are checked out on the weapons they’re carrying?” I asked.
“Checked out, Sir,” Gants asked cautiously, looking concerned. “Uh,” he glanced around the room, “well, I’m not entirely sure, Admiral,” he said, like a kid with his hand caught in the cookie jar, refusing to meet my eyes.
I frowned for effect. “Then for the meantime, it's sonic weapons only, Mister Gants. See to it that everything else is returned to the small arms locker and sonic weapons are issued to the men down here in the armory. Until your people have been trained in their use, and I mean properly trained, Mister Gants,” I said sternly, “there’s no point in carrying around weaponry they don’t know how to use.”
Gants opened his mouth and his fellow temporary armory guards looked dismayed, but I overrode them all.
“Help me get out of this suit of battle armor,” I said imperiously. “I need something more comfortable to wear while I’m on the Flag Bridge, power armor is simply too big and clunky to be effective bridge wear.” I was pretending that this had only occurred to me after I’d spent the last day and night wearing the suit.
Chapter 9: A Change Of Wardrobe
It was a relief to be out of that iron cage they called power armor. I rolled my shoulders and sighed, suddenly aware of how sore my neck felt.
My new wardrobe (which arrived courtesy of a stocky brunette which Gants was apparently sweet on, who worked in the supply/storage department) was a little too well padded, but at least I now looked like I belonged on a star ship. As of this morning, I was the proud new owner of a heavily reinforced officer’s uniform. The armory crew even told me it sported the insignia of an Admiral, which was a step up in blending into the naval world. Much better than official Caprian court attire or that battle suit I’d been wearing up until now.
The main reason I had accepted the new uniform as a replacement for the battle suit, was that along with being bullet proof and blaster resistant, it also provided some limited protection against hand-to-hand vibro weapons. I was told it lacked many of the more modern features of an Imperial uniform, but compared to the uniforms worn by the rest of the crew it was a big step up.
The colors were nothing like the scheme of the current naval uniforms worn by the ship's crew, and the design was very much retro, in my opinion. It would definitely stand out in a crowd, which was certainly a double-edged sword.
The only truly unfortunate thing about this new ensemble was that it wasn’t an SDF uniform. Instead, it was an old-style Confederate officer’s uniform from a period before the official unification of the Confederation and Imperium.
From the cut of the cloth, it seemed a rather rotund Admiral had found his way onto the Lucky Clover at some point and left one of his uniforms behind when he departed.
The ship’s tailor had been called over to the armory from his post in the supply department. After a few quick measurements, the waist was taken in and the arms adjusted. The uniform now fit close enough for me to appear in public without fear of embarrassment. More importantly, I would no longer loom over the bridge crew in a battle suit. A suit of armor that no longer felt quite as invincible as it had before the chief engineer disabled it with his bare hands.
So I left the battle suit behind with mixed feelings. On the one hand, it had stopped blaster fire aimed directly at me at close range. On the other hand, its padding left a lot to be desired in the comfort department. Still, this new uniform seemed to be adequately protective and comfortable.
But just in case personal security once again became my sole responsibility, I was also the proud new owner of a miniature, hold out blaster pistol. It was small and easily concealed in the sleeve of the new uniform, so no one would know I was armed until it was too late. Amazingly, I managed to somehow feel a measure of security with the addition of a new uniform and a pistol that could easily fit in a lady's portable makeup kit.
I had survived an Imperial withdrawal which had seen what was essentially the better half of the ship's crew taken with them, a political assassination attempt, a false-alarm life support failure on deck three, and a face-to-face meeting with perhaps the most crazed Engineer in the SDF.
I was exhausted. After riding the lift, I made a quick tour of the Flag Bridge, before heading back to my quarters for some sleep.
Three hours later, claxons sounded and I jerked out of a nightmare filled slumber. Instead of the usual process of waking gradually to the sound of the gentle, yet successively louder tone of the alarm clock, I bolted out of bed to the sound of the harsh yellow alert siren.
I pulled on the Confederate Admiral’s uniform (the new one with built in protection that made me look fat) hanging over the back of the desk chair, and hastily worked the buttons closed. Buckling on a ceremonial sword (the only part of my court attire I had transferred to my new admiral’s uniform) I couldn't help but laugh. Thanks to the former Marine Jack’s, I had rarely worn the sword on the bridge. Now, my first day in a proper naval uniform and the sword was the very first thing I put on when I heard the alarm.
I paused to check if there was anyone in the corridor outside my quarters. Seeing no one, I took off at a run for the nearest lift.
Arriving outside the Flag Bridge panting, more from the adrenaline dump than the distance to the bridge, I paused to straighten and adjust my uniform. The blast doors were closed, which wasn’t usually the case.
Flicking my hair out of my eyes, I slapped a panel to open the door. Nothing happened. My heart rate skyrocketed. I took a deep breath to calm myself, an action that wasn’t helped by the still howling alarm claxon. I ran a hand through my hair again before glancing around. No one was there and I became angry with myself for even checking. As the Admiral, I shouldn’t be worried about someone else watching me. They should be worried about me watching them!
I reached into a pocket on the front of the uniform and pulled out the command crystal for the ship. I inserted it into the door's control panel, and sighed with relief as it slid open.
I repeated the process with the second set of doors and walked onto the Flag Bridge.
“Where are we headed,” shouted Lieutenant Tremblay. He was wearing dress pants and an undershirt. The rest of his uniform, including footwear, was missing.
“There are no point coordinates set in the Nav Computer, First Officer,” said the Helmsman, panic in his voice.
“Field strength approaching first threshold. Point of no return estimated in two minutes and counting,” a rating at one of the sensor consoles reported.
I stood in the doorway and observed the Flag Bridge, taking in the chaotic scene. I didn’t know what was going on and until I did, it seemed like it was better to find out as much as I could before injecting myself into the fray.
“Someone get me the Navigator up here!” Tremblay actually looked like he was faring worse than I was at this point, which was pleasing for some reason.
“Engineering on the line, Sir,” said a damage control rating.
“Ask them what the devil’s going on,” demanded Lieutenant Tremblay. “Wait. Put them up on the main screen instead.”
There was a pause.
“One moment, Sir,” said the damage control rating.
“How did the entire bridge crew miss the fact our Hyper Drive was spinning up for the past eight hours,” the First Officer asked, looking up at the ceiling before glaring around the bridge.
The image of the Chief Engineer, grey hair flaring out wildly on either side of his balding head, appeared on the main screen.
“What Demon-Disciple of Murphy decided it'd be such a sweet idea to pull the Chief Engineer away from his engines to answer the ruddy phone,” demanded the aged Lieutenant Spalding.
“What game do you think you’re playing down there, Spalding,” snapped the former Intelligence Officer.
“Right now, I’m answering stupid questions over the internal comm. Before that, I was overseeing the formation of the Clover’s hyper-field with a crew of greenhorns. You know,” he spat off to the side, “the one that keeps the whole ruddy ship from bein' torn apart when we tear a hole through hyperspace.”
Then he muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, ‘idjit’.
Lieutenant Tremblay purpled, “On whose authority did you activate the Star Drive and form the point-field,” demanded the young Lieutenant, gaining a measure of composure with every word. “Or is this another one of Engineering’s bright ideas? Like the way its Chief Engineer has ignored every scheduled meeting to date and decided to run a series of ship-wide drills without bothering to consult with the bridge or, heaven forbid, ask for permission first,” by the time he finished, his finger was leveled at the Chief Engineer's image on the screen.
“I don’t have time to waste on administrative meetings, you young space pup. Not when the Clover’s ready to shake apart around our ears,” roared the ancient Engineering Officer.
“You insubordinate old-,” began Tremblay.
Spalding overrode him by raising his voice as he continued speaking. “Everything I’ve done, including spinning up the Star Drive, has been by order of the Little Admiral his-own-self.” Lieutenant Spalding abruptly cut the connection.
I stared at the blank screen. Everything had been by order of the Little Admiral. My orders. I had done nothing of the sort… had I? Now that I thought about it, the Engineer had mentioned something last night about the ship needing drills. I hadn’t disagreed with him, but I didn’t remember doing anything as active as issue an order. And as for lighting up the hyper drive, I specifically remember telling him to wait for -
Oh no. The lift door had closed in the middle of my telling Spalding to wait for the order. I hadn’t thought to check back with the old man later and make sure he had understood. I mean really, who decides to light off a hyper-drive from some off handed comment in the middle of a ship’s corridor?
I closed my eyes. A man who could be found sprawled naked and asleep in the middle of said corridor as often as he could in the brig, and called himself the ship’s Chief Engineer, that’s who. I suddenly began to realize the magnitude of our current situation.
I also realized that hiding out by the blast doors wasn’t necessarily the best thing to do.
So I cleared my throat, struck what I hoped was a properly regal pose and strode onto the bridge proper.
A startled sensor officer glanced over at me and went bug eyed.
“Who are you,” he barked incredulously. “We’re in lock down, what are you doing on the Flag Bridge?”
I was momentarily taken aback. I recognized the man from the bridge meeting, and was sure I’d seen him on the bridge since then.
“Admiral Jason Montagne, at your service. And where else would I be during a yellow alert than on the bridge?” I arched an eyebrow for effect. I couldn’t help feeling like a fraud every time I called my self an Admiral, but I had to play the part.
By now several of the bridge crew where looking at me in surprise.
“Admiral Who?” This particular question came from a crewman over at the damage control station. “When did the old Confed Navy get here?”
I didn’t recognize this one from any of the previous meeting. I thought him to be one of the new trainees.
“It’s the Little Admiral himself, not some stupid Confederal,” hissed a man I did recognize from yesterday's events.
“I thought you said he’d be in power armor. 'Couldn’t miss him,' you said,” hissed back the first crewman.
I felt myself go red from the neck up and cleared my throat louder.
Lieutenant Tremblay whirled around. For a second he stopped, mouth hanging open in shock and his hand started to come up in salute. Then he scowled and returned to his previous posture.
Must be the new uniform, I thought, hiding a smile. At least I still had their attention.
“I trust you’re aware Engineering has spun up the Star Drive,” demanded the First Officer, “because no one else on the bridge, including myself had been told anything about this.”
I paused before answering, tapping a finger on my chin while I tried desperately to find the best path through this latest crisis. I wanted to place the blame right where it belonged, but I had been trained better than that. Finally out of the power armor and inside this new Confederate uniform, my media training as a parliamentary scapegoat kicked in. Instead of damning the Chief Engineer to the tender mercies of all the ice cold space gods, I smiled like I was standing in front of a bank of cameras.
“Of course I am aware,” I said, stepping closer to the First Officer and not co-incidentally toward the Admiral’s chair, “I gave the Chief Engineer his instructions during third shift.”
Lieutenant Tremblay’s expression turned thunderous. “And you didn’t think to share this information with the rest of us?” The First Officer's countenance was absolutely explosive, but his voice was measured and controlled, if a bit low in pitch which was an obvious giveaway for his temperament. Those public debate lessons were coming into play again, and I smiled to myself in satisfaction. I still had the upper hand with this particular opponent to my illusory authority, which was better than the alternative, as Jean-Luc might well attest.
“I thought we all did such a bang up job with the three shift enviro-crisis that a few more drills were in order. I include myself in that evaluation.” I did remember something about standing up for the men under your direct authority from some of those colonial administrative courses I’d taken, so I thought that taking full responsibility for the rest of the Chief Engineer’s actions was perhaps the right course in this particular case. Hopefully it would head off a confrontation regarding Spalding’s competence, or lack thereof.
Not only did I recall that bit of morale-building from administrative classes, but the hard truth of the matter was that we had literally no one else to turn to down in engineering. I knew, since I had looked at the roster. Hard. It was the first thing on my mind upon returning to the Flag Bridge after finding the man sprawled out in his underwear on deck three.
“Sir, threshold limit reached and now exceeded, we are at 80% and climbing,” said the same sensor operator who’d reported to Tremblay before.
Tremblay went white-lipped. “There’s no turning back now,” he said, a slight quiver in his voice. I hoped the rest of the crew could hear the same fear I could, but I doubted such nuances were perceptible to anyone but a thoroughly trained public speaker.
I reached the Admiral's Throne and turned in a practiced motion, sweeping my gaze across the bridge crew's faces until I finally rested my gaze on Lieutenant Tremblay. The crew was understandably excited, and I could see that my arrival had not produced the desired calming effect up to this point.
"Lieutenant Tremblay, what is the significance of the 80% limit," I asked, doing my best to sound more like a university professor than a frightened child.
The First Officer paused and shot me a look. “Up to 80% and we’re just filling the ship with strange particles, the ones we need to survive a point transfer. The hyper field, the part of the point transfer process which actually tears open a hole in hyperspace, doesn’t start to form until we exceed the 80% mark. Up to the 80% threshold and we can abort at any time. If we try to stop the star drive after we exceed the threshold and the field starts to form, the accumulated energy could tear the ship apart,” said Tremblay in a wary tone, studying my expression as he delivered his response.
“Ah,” I said without accompanying body language. I resisted the urge to gulp at the thought of the ship tearing itself apart due to a poorly delivered order to a half-crazed engineer, if only because Tremblay's gaze was firmly locked on my expression, obviously looking for something in my reaction. I refused to give him the satisfaction, so I only nodded slowly as though I felt the answer to be adequate. Good information to know. No stopping the ship after it reached threshold levels. Bad things could happen, and enough of those seemed to pop up without encouragement.
“Where is the Navigator,” I asked in the lightest, conversational tone as I could manage. “He should probably start plotting the course, as it looks like we’re going to get our prize ships back sooner, rather than later.”
I looked around for a yeoman, having recalled seeing them bustling about the bridges of the many intrepid vessels of holo-vid fame. Mouth dry, I suddenly found myself rather thirsty and thought some tea might help sooth my nerves a bit. I also realized I had no idea what insignia a yeoman might wear. "Yeoman," I said, trying for an amused tone but producing something closer to a sharp bark.
Three crewmembers, two women and a man snapped about at the sound of my voice. I could get used to this type of reaction, I thought with satisfaction. I indicated the woman to my left, who did not appear to have a specific task at the moment. "Some tea, please. Not too hot, mind you," I said. Fully half of the bridge crew took the opportunity to steal an incredulous glance in my direction.
The yeoman seemed confused by this order, but drew herself up before replying. "Sir, I'll see what I can do," she managed, with a hint of annoyance. She quickly made for the lift doors and I refocused my attention on the mayhem unfolding around me.
Lieutenant Tremblay drew himself up to attention, “It would be beneficial to the ship and its crew if you would inform the rest of us where we’re going before you have engineering spin up the hyper drive, Admiral,” he said stiffly.
I waved my hand airily, resting an elbow on arm of the Admiral’s Throne. “Lieutenant, I doubt there’s a man on this ship who doesn’t know our destination by now.”
“Sir,” Tremblay said through his teeth, “Have I mentioned that as your First Officer I need to be made aware of any significant changes to the ship, before they land in my lap looking for instructions.”
On the inside I squirmed. Which was why on the outside I put on a smile that was equally parts condescending and exasperated. I’d practiced that smile in front of the mirror after seeing it turned on me at court time and time again. “It was important for the sake of the test that no one but engineering be informed of the point transfer ahead of time, since they needed to form the hyper field." I spoke in a slow, slightly punctuated fashion to drive home the point. "The bridge needed to discover the strange particles and hyper-field on its own for the test to be a real evaluation of our skills. Don't you agree, Number One?” Stars, that was good!
The First Officer was still angry and looked unconvinced but all he did was shake his head and turn away. I breathed a shaky sigh of relief.
“Where’s that blasted Navigator,” Tremblay barked. The bridge crew scurried to locate the missing man.
The navigator finally made his way to the bridge at the same time as my tea, and nearly passed out when told the ship was already past the threshold limit and he had to calculate a hyperspace transfer before the ship point-transferred into oblivion for lack of coordinates.
Now I looked like an Admiral from the vids. A proper point of calm in the middle of a storm. Thankfully, I felt like I was concealing the sheer terror which threatened to overtake control of my bodily functions. I took the covered mug containing the warm liquid and held it in my right hand for a moment. I raised it to my lips before seeing Tremblay shoot a look my way, trying to go unnoticed in doing so.
Damn, I thought to myself, what if it was poisoned?! I sniffed the vapor carefully, trying to discern anything unusual about the drink, but then I realized I had no idea how to identify poisons. I carefully placed the container on the arm of the throne and refocused on the bridge crew's frantic activities. I decided to have the tea tested later, but that holding it produced the same desired effect as actually drinking it, without the potentially lethal side effects.
“It takes hours to calculate a point transfer,” the Navigator gasped. “Whose bright idea was it to spin up the drives before calling in the Navigator?”
Lieutenant Tremblay shot me another look before clapping the navigator on the shoulder. “Then it's a good thing our Lucky Clover takes a full twelve hours to spin up. An Imperial ship this size and you’ve got two, maybe three hours start to finish.”
“Without coordinates we could be lost in hyperspace. We might point-transfer inside a moon, get sucked into a black hole, or appear in the middle of a star’s corona, if there isn’t enough time to calculate them right,” he complained fiercely. “That’s not to mention asteroids, rogue stars or other ships.”
Lieutenant Tremblay cut him off. “Then it’s a good thing you’ve still got over two hours to make the calculations, Navigator.”
The Navigator opened his mouth, but Tremblay place a hand on his shoulder squeezed. “If you had answered the page and come to the Flag Bridge sooner, you would have had more time. A lesson in itself, wouldn’t you say?”
The navigator winced and closed his mouth.
“Like I said, Imperial Navigators make point transfer calculations in this kind of time frame all the time. Rather routine for them, I’d say.” Lieutenant Tremblay kept his grip on the Navigator's shoulder.
I raised a hand. “I’m sure the Navigator would like to get started on those calculations now,” I said, becoming more than a little concerned about the Navigator's ability to discharge his duties in time.
Tremblay nodded and stepped back.
I couldn't help but notice the anxious looks the rest of the bridge crew where giving the Navigator, but at least the general mood had settled down noticeably.
It was a tension filled two hours while the Navigator sweated over his console.
When he announced the calculations were finished with fifteen minutes to spare, I heaved a sigh of relief, along with the rest of the bridge crew.
Chapter 10: For the Prize
The Lucky Clover point transferred into a system without a name, only a number. AZT89443. There was no great flash of light, no massive 'whump' of the engines, and no encounter with hyper dimensional aliens intent on enslaving humanity for the purpose of serving us as appetizers at some transdimensional buffet. I readily admit that I was somewhat disappointed, even though I'd experienced several jumps during my time on board the ship. I suppose I expected the experience to be somehow better from the Admiral's Throne.
“Firing up main engine,” declared the Helmsman, whose name I had learned was DuPont.
“Point Resistance?” demanded Lieutenant Tremblay.
“Engine at 20% of maximum,” said DuPont, his voice tense. “We’re still locked.”
“It was a long jump,” the science officer said sarcastically glaring at the Navigator.
“I want figures, not information I already know. And it wasn’t that long of a jump,” barked Tremblay.
“Engine at 35% of maximum,” reported the Helmsman. “Lighting up both secondaries now.”
“Shield strength at 86%,” relayed a trainee at one of the tactical consoles.
“Engines two and three are lit. We’ve doubled our thrust… and still locked,” reported the Helmsman.
“Report,” Tremblay demanded. No immediate response was forthcoming, which only served to add to the general tension on the bridge. I watched uneasily as the bridge crew tried to break the ship free of the inertial sump created by the point translation.
“We should’ve broken free by now,” said the science officer sounding concerned.
“Give me answers,” growled Tremblay.
“Check the shield modulation, everything reads out as fine on my boards,” the science officer snapped back.
“Shields at 74% and dropping,” said the trainee at tactical. He sounded as scared as I felt.
“All engines at 50%,” reported the Helmsman. “Something’s wrong.”
Lieutenant Tremblay lunged over to the tactical section. Pushing aside the trainee at shields, he settled into the chair and began scrolling through the screens.
I decided it was time to get involved. “What seems to be the problem, Lieutenant Tremblay?”
“Just a second,” Tremblay said tersely.
The science officer broke in. “The shields weren’t properly modulated for a point emergence. Instead of helping us slip out of the sump they’re holding us in, making it harder to overcome the inertia created by our point transfer into the system,” said the science officer. I queried the ship's crew manifest through the console built in to the Admiral's Throne, and found the science officer's last name was Jones.
“Got it,” said Lieutenant Tremblay after less than a minute. A few seconds later the ship lurched abruptly, and I had to grab the arms of the chair to keep from falling onto the floor. My embarrassment was diminished after I saw that half of the bridge crew had reacted in the same fashion, and not all of them were successful in keeping their feet.
“And we’re free,” reported science officer Jones with a sigh of relief.
I adjusted myself in the chair. “We’ve got to do better than this people,” I said, shaking my head. The entire time Admiral Janeski and the rest of the imperials had been on the ship, I’d never experienced a sudden lurch like the one we just felt after exiting hyperspace.
A sensor operator chimed in, “I’ve got two ships on my screen. I think they’re our prize ships.”
Another voice called out, “I’ve got four on mine.” There was a pause, “It looks like a pair of medium cruisers, a heavy cruiser and a freighter matching the profile of the pirate conversion we captured,” he said smugly.
“Hail the Medium Cruisers,” I said in the direction I thought would be the communication's officer. I gave a nod to the sensor operator who had spotted all four vessels and leaned forward in the throne. “Let’s make sure they are who we think they are.”
The sensor operator smiled and turned back to the task. The rest of the sensor division scowled and redoubled their efforts.
A few tense minutes rolled by. “They identify themselves as Pride of Prometheus and Prometheus Fire,” the Communication Tech reported. I exhaled in relief.
“The Captain of the Pride is now requesting a video conference with Admiral Janeski,” said the Communications Tech. Sudden silence filled the bridge.
Looking around quickly, I was acutely aware that no one was looking at me. The pause dragged on.
“They don’t know about the Imperial withdrawal or...” Lieutenant Tremblay slowly trailed off, “you,” he finished lamely and turned red.
“Put the Captain on the main screen,” I told the Communications Tech. There was nothing for it but to go forward. Another extended pause while the Communications Tech figured out how to put the Captain of the Pride of Prometheus on the screen.
I took this temporary reprieve to straighten my uniform. I stopped myself halfway through nervously running a hand through my hair.
A fat man with grey hair came up on the main screen. I had never seen him before. The patrol fleet under Imperial Admiral Janeski had not dedicated a lot of time to socializing. In Pre-prolong years he looked to be somewhere in his mid-forties. In the post-prolong universe we all lived in, that meant he could be anywhere between 40 and 140. Although considering he was from Prometheus and also a ship commander, it was probably safe to put him around the 80 year mark, rather than the unadjusted 40 he looked.
As a Prince-Cadet, I was used to dealing with people older than myself. Not only were most of the people on Capria older, but I was specifically trained to deal with politicians. Admittedly, my training wasn’t in ordering them around. Quite the opposite, but I liked to that think I’d seen enough of their behavior from guests during my stints at the palace to have a good idea of what to do.
I knew I couldn’t pull off the image of a completely professional Admiral, but I figured that since I was a prince-cadet of Capria I could manage something appropriate to the situation. Or so I hoped.
“What are you doing, son,” demanded the Promethean SDF Captain, “Decided to play dress up in Granddaddy’s uniform?” He snorted, referring to the outdated Confederation uniform I was wearing. “Run along and put Admiral Janeski on the screen.”
I refused to be embarrassed. I absolutely refused. I ignored the sudden heat rushing to my face and, instead of allowing myself to turn red, I turned my head to the side and draped a leg over the throne-like edifice they called an Admiral’s Chair. A moment later the heat was gone and I turned back to face the Captain with an arched brow.
“Greetings, Captain,” I did my best to put a royal drawl in the words, “Jason Montagne, at your service. I am Admiral and commanding officer of this Patrol Fleet and all that entails,” I said with my best airy wave and a meaningless court smile plastered on my face.
It took several seconds for the words to sink in, and when they did the Captain purpled. “I don’t know who you think you are, boy, but I don’t have time for your games,” growled the Captain, the fat jowls of his mouth jiggling with the force of his words.
“Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna,” I repeated with emphasis on the title. I pointedly turned to look at the arm of the Throne, activated the screen and entered a search query. I realized I didn’t even know the Captain’s name. I knew that this was something I should have thought to look up long before now, and I felt the heat returning to my face.
“Admiral who?” the Captain demanded, his brow furrowed, before throwing up his hands and shaking his head. “Put Admiral Janeski on before I have your ears clipped for insubordination and impersonating a retired officer in that outrageously outdated Confederate uniform.”
“Lieutenant Tremblay, please squirt over a copy of the Imperial Admiral’s last declaration before he left us,” I said with a slight inclination of my head toward the view screen.
“What,” exclaimed the Captain, eyebrows reaching so high on his face they appeared headed for the ceiling.
“I fear the Imperial Admiral has declared the Triumvirate’s will, which was to abandon the Spine, and promptly departed for Imperial Space onboard an Imperial Command Carrier,” I paused to read the result of his query. Ah there it was, Captain Jeremiah Stood was the man’s name.
Captain Stood’s head reared back and he gave a short shake of his head. “You’re space crazed, my young imposter. I don’t know what you’ve done with the Imperial Admiral, but when he finds out about this line of baloney you’re spewing, it won’t be pleasant for you.” He laughed, a harsh barking sound.
“I’m only speaking to the facts, and as Admiral Janeski reaffirmed my right to command prior to departure when he left to reinforce the Imperial battle fleet, I’m not sure exactly what you think he’ll do.” I rolled my eyes and slowly rubbed my forehead. “I understand that this is something of a shock for you, the realization that this patrol fleet is the only thing standing between the spine-ward sectors and the darkness beyond our borders. It can’t be pleasant, and I realize you will probably require a few moments for the gravity of the situation to sink in, and I fully intend to grant you those moments. As your commanding officer, however, I expect a Sir on the end of those sentences, Captain Stood. What would become of us if we were to abandon the chain of command, along with our hard-won military discipline?”
Once again Captain Stood purpled. “If this is some kind of joke…” he trailed off menacingly.
“You’ll what, Captain Stood,” I demanded, losing my controlled veneer. “Ignore my legal authority over you, bestowed by both Admiral Janeski and the Prometheus Government? Refuse my instructions? Fire on the Flag Ship, perhaps?” I paused and my face hardened, only partially be design. “Prometheus has two Medium Cruisers in this system. Let me be the first to remind you I have a fully armed Dreadnaught Class Battleship, recently upgraded by the Imperial Fleet itself, if it comes to that.”
Off to the side, I noticed Lieutenant Tremblay turn pale and start waving a hand across his throat in a cutting motion, before stopping himself.
I paused and looked at my new First Officer, but Tremblay just gave a quick shake of his head and presented the open palms of his hands before glancing back at the screen. I shook my head, unable to understand what the other man was trying to get across. I didn’t have time for Tremblay, at the moment Captain Stood required my full attention.
Stood’s jaw was clenching and unclenching. The way his jowls quivered made him seem like some sort of cartoonish figure when viewed close-up on the main screen.
I decided now was the time to throw some more wood on the fire. “If you doubt I’m really a duly-appointed Admiral, just look on the Fleet’s official chain of command in your ship’s database. You’ll find my name rather quickly if you start at the top,” I said as smugly as I could. I wanted to smile, or grin or do something to lighten up at least my own mood, but things were too serious all of a sudden. So instead of trying to lighten things, I worked as hard as I could to keep my features even. The last thing I wanted was to give away how worried I felt. After all, this was the first time I had ever tried to be on the other end of one of these particular lashings, and it was definitely uncharted waters from here on out.
The Captain cut the audible and angrily gestured at someone off screen. He scowled and turned back to face the screen. “Name again, your supposed Admiralship,” he asked.
“Jason Montagne Vekna,” I said through a dry mouth, and felt my heart ready to explode through my ears as the captain started a search.
“You’re listed as a Supernumerary,” he said derisively and kept reading, then seemed to come to a realization. “You’re in here as the ceremonial head of this band of intrepid mouse-trappers they call a patrol fleet.”
“So we’re both in agreement that I am listed as the official head of the patrol fleet,” I said, purposefully ignoring everything but the part I wanted to hear, just like my 'superiors' had done throughout my young life.
“You’re listed as a supernumerary with ceremonial duties,” the captain said bullishly.
“This is mutiny,” I said as mildly as I could, but I could see things were starting to spin out of control.
“There’s nothing in my brief that states I have to obey orders from a pampered stripling without the barest hint of naval experience,” Stood snorted.
“Lieutenant Tremblay, lock all turbo-lasers on target,” I paused as Tremblay once again waved his hands in the air, fortunately it was off screen so Stood wasn’t able to see the first officer’s antics. “That would be the Pride of Prometheus,” I offered helpfully. Lieutenant Tremblay threw his hands in the air.
At this point, even an idiot (which I don’t think I am) could see that something was terribly wrong. However, there was no time to figure it out now. We were well past the point of no return.
“You wouldn’t dare,” stated the Captain.
“Targeting the Pride of Prometheus now, Admiral,” said one of the junior trainees at the tactical station.
“Try me,” I returned, trying to keep my voice from cracking under the stress.
Captain Stood hesitated, then after an extended pause finally grimaced. “What are your orders, Admiral,” he said the last word like it tasted bitter.
I smiled and inclined my head slightly. “Take your men off the prize ships and prepare to follow the Clover into hyperspace as soon as our engines have recharged. My Navigator will relay the hyperspace coordinates.”
“So we’re abandoning the pirate vessels then,” Captain Stood asked dryly.
“No," I said, trying to hide my elation. "We’ll be taking them with us.”
The Captain shook his head. “The merchant conversion can make the transfer without too much trouble. The heavy cruiser, on the other hand, is a mess from top to bottom. Those pirates never performed any system maintenance they could avoid, and while the star drive is still intact, the main dish was completely blown to pieces. She can make the strange particles but there’s no way she can form a hyper field of her own.” Obviously Stood had been doing a thorough job examining the ships and their status.
I ground my molars, and then gave a wave of my hand. “I’ll have our Chief Engineer take a look, I’m sure he can come up with something. That ship is coming with us.”
“There’s no way that’s going to happen unless you’ve got a spare main deflector,” Stood made a chopping motion to emphasize the impossibility of what I was suggesting.
I narrowed my eyes. “We’ll see,” was all I could manage before I gave the order to cut the connection. I turned to First Officer Tremblay. “You had something you wanted to say?” I asked.
“I didn’t think you could pull it off,” Tremblay said. He shook himself, “What I meant to say is that most of our weaponry was upgraded Imperial issue.”
I shrugged, oblivious to what he seemed to be implying.
Tremblay’s mouth tightened. “Meaning Admiral Janeski and the Imps took it with them when they left.”
I nearly leapt out of my seat, and couldn't control my shock when I rather unprofessionally blurted “What!"
“In several cases they took out the turret along with the laser itself. Essentially, we’re unarmed,” said Tremblay with a note of finality.
I closed my eyes. I’d known that threatening two medium cruisers, when we had barely half a crew (and an untrained one, at that) was risky business. I sighed. Thankfully, I hadn’t known just how helpless we were when I made my threats.
The First Officer continued, “On top of that, gunnery was raided almost as badly as the tactical section. Even if we had the main guns, we don’t have enough trained men to crew them.”
“Better and better,” I opened my eyes and looked over at my First Officer. “I suppose it's too much to hope that we kept any of the old beam guns after the… upgrade,” I said, more of a pleading note in my tone than I had intended.
“I’ll check into it first thing,” said Tremblay, his lack of confidence easily betrayed by his voice.
“That’s just great. Not only are we unarmed, but even if by some miracle we manage to rearm, we don’t have enough men to fire the blasted weapons.” Being thrust into command of a Dreadnaught class battleship was bad enough, but finding out that essentially all of the weaponry had been stripped added a measure of stress to the equation that I hadn't considered possible.
“That’s about the long and the short of it,” Tremblay said.
I struggled to find a response that wouldn't give away just how hopeless I found the situation. Fortunately, I remembered how I dealt with this type of problem just yesterday. “Look into starting a training program for the proper manning of whatever gun turrets we have remaining, Officer Tremblay. I also want an inventory of our remaining tactical assets. And I do mean immediately.”
“What we need to do is head straight to a proper naval base so we can refit for the voyage home,” said Tremblay.
I turned my hardest steely stare at the Lieutenant until he dropped his gaze and turned away. I turned to address the communications station, since I was still unfamiliar with the names of the crew manning it. “Get me the Chief Engineer, even if you have to roust him from the deepest, darkest pit in this ship and fetch him a set of clothes."
Chapter 11: ‘Tis a Minerale’
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer:
Chief Engineer Spalding was, as usual, quite animated as he protested my order to bring the pirate heavy cruiser with the other ships. “It’s a miracle her Star Drive’s as intact as it is after the pounding our Clover gave her the last go-round. It’d take another Miracle entirely to get that ship through a point transfer without a proper dish, Admiral!”
“I don’t care how you do it, Lieutenant Spalding," I said, my tone light, yet unyielding. "Tow her behind us with bucking cables if you have to, but one thing’s for sure and certain: I’m not going to be the one to tell eight thousand angry crewmen we just abandoned most of their prize money because our Chief Engineer couldn’t figure out how to fix a deflector dish!”
“You can’t just tow something into hyperspace behind you," protested Lieutenant Spalding. "Each ship creates its own unique hyper field bubble. What we need is a new deflector dish, properly sized for a vessel her dimensions.”
“We’re not leaving that ship behind. By hook or by crook, she’s coming with us. So either you figure out how to tow her along for our next point transfer, or this ship will soon be short one Chief Engineer! As well as however many other men it takes to stay behind and make that heavy cruiser hyper capable. The rest of us will just have to carry on as best we can without you!” I couldn't help but recall a naked and unconscious Chief Engineer sprawled out in the middle of the ship corridor. If he couldn’t even fix a heavy cruiser with nothing wrong with her but a stupid dish, what good was he?
“You can’t do that, Admiral,” Spalding said, trying to sound reasonable but coming off more irate than anything else. “The ship will fall apart without a steady hand in Engineering. The whole department’s riddled with nothing but greenhorns and slackers!”
“You have until the end of our twelve hour star drive recharge cycle to figure out how to get that cruiser into hyperspace," I said commandingly and cut the signal before he could protest further.
****************************
The Chief Engineer stomped and stormed around main engineering, barking orders until he calmed down.
Towing a ship through a point transfer, what poppycock. Captains always demanded the impossible, and it appeared Admirals were even worse than captains with their high handed demands. He threw his hands in the air. The strange particle generators made it so a ship survived the jump through hyperspace, but it didn’t actually do anything to get you through the blasted stuff. So it didn’t matter that the pirate cruisers’ generator was still functional. Each ship generated its own hyperspace bubble. Without a main deflector dish, how was that pirate cruiser supposed to form a stable bubble?
A monolith repair ship, now that was the only practical way to carry something the size of a cruiser. The monolith class was essentially just a giant hollowed out skeleton that encompassed the damaged ship and carried it inside itself, and hence inside the monolith’s warp bubble.
For a standard ship type to tow another ship through hyperspace you’d need a huge ship with a big oblong bubble to- wait a minute, he thought. He pulled up the specs on the Clover’s main dish. The Clover had a larger than average hyper foot print, even for her size. This was part of the reason why it took her so long to cycle her hyper engines. He’d been meaning to get the ship resized with a proper dish now that he was the Chief Engineer, but obviously hadn't quite gotten around to it. The Imperials had some fine equipment that they’d brought on board with them and he’d used that to guesstimate the size they needed. According to those calculations, a smaller, more properly shaped dish should cut hyper-bubble formation time in half and put less of a load on the fusion generators as well.
On the other hand, he thought, what if you could generate a large enough hyper bubble and somehow include the former pirate cruiser in it? Refit ships sometimes used their own oversized hyper bubble and strange particle generators to safely transport battle damaged or otherwise stricken starships. Of course, they were much smaller than a nearly six hundred meter battleship…
Spalding shook his head. It was impossible. Even if the Clover could generate a large enough bubble to somehow haul another ship, one nearly as large as she was into hyperspace, tests had shown when starships inside a refit vessel used their own strange particle generators during a point transfer, they tended not to return from hyperspace.
Besides, the Clover just didn’t have enough power to form a huge bubble and also pump strange particles into the other ship at the same time. Not any longer. Blasted Imperials had installed two high powered fusion generators when they refitted the ship prior to the patrol mission. Unfortunately, when the Imps left for Gorgon space they activated the emergency release feature, intended for instances of extreme battle damage, to eject both fusion plants out into cold space where they could be picked up and taken onboard the command ship.
Idly, he pulled up the specs on the Clover’s deflector dish and ran a few figures though the DI (distributed intelligence) network. “Only a damned fool would try to include a ship nearly as large the Clover in her hyper bubble. Especially when the other ship was using her own particle generator at the same time we were using ours,” he muttered to himself.
“Alright you bunch of slack jawed idiots!” Spalding roared to the engineering deck crew. “This is where we separate the men from the boys!”
The deck crew stood there wide eyed, just looking at the Chief Engineer.
“I said get in your heavy load suits, you bunch of would be slackers. That means now,” he cried, lighting his plasma torch. Most of the crew ran for the load suits. A few wild waves of his plasma torch in the direction of the remaining slackers put them into motion also.
“More likely we’ll just sort the fools from the merely insane,” someone muttered behind the Chief Engineer.
Spalding whirled around as fast as his old bones would let him. “Don’t think for a minute that I’ve forgotten the man that tried to get all of three deck killed because he was too busy swilling back an illegal, off brand substance to pay attention to his monitoring boards. That means you, Castwell! I may be old, but my memory works just fine,” said the old engineer, tapping his head with a gnarled finger. The rating turned red and looked away.
The Chief Engineer grumbled in satisfaction. “You just busy yourself with thinkin' about those bucking cables and that blasted big ship we’re bringing up next to us. Because if you scratch so much as the paint on my fine ship, I’ll have your guts for garters,” the Engineer said, raising high his still active plasma torch.
Deciding everyone looked properly cowed, he turned back to watch the men in heavy load suits as they exited the deck one at a time. He deactivated the plasma torch.
“You’d have to be both foolish and insane to pull a stunt like this,” he muttered under his breath and cursed Captains and Flag Officers everywhere.
Castwell might be a no good sort as far as being a sailor went but he knew how work the bucking cables. There were only two minor bumps getting the pirate cruiser mated to the side of the Clover. For all his glowering when it happened, Spalding had to admit things were going better than expected.
Smoke poured through the engineering deck and men ran screaming from a now sparking power core. Cutout breakers burned up one by one with a series of loud pops. “Turn it off! Turn it off,” screamed the Chief Engineer, waving his hands wildly as he jumped off the walkway onto the main deck.
He felt something snap like a dry twig as he landed, soon followed by an incredible bolt of pain. He hobbled and rolled his way to a control station and tried to ignore a leg bent underneath him like a broken tooth pick. He gritted his teeth and grabbed onto the console to pull himself upright. Fingers flying, he leaned against the console and shut down the Lucky Clover’s strange particle generator.
“I said place our generator on inactive standby, not turn the bloody thing on full blast while we’re running a direct link to the pirate cruiser’s generator,” he screamed. “Do I have to do everything myself?!” He was ignored as crewmen stumbled away from the still smoking strange particle generator.
“Blast it,” he said and took a step toward the generator, only to fall to the ground as his broken leg bent and twisted beneath him. Pulling himself up off the ground by way of the same engineering console he’d just used, he accepted that there was no way he was walking under his own power in his current condition.
He flipped a few switches to activate an external line out of engineering to the rest of the ship. Selecting medical, he easily opened a connection. He didn’t understand why the younger crew always complained about being unable to get the DI to perform even the simplest of tasks for them. He never had any problems getting the distributed intelligence to do what it was supposed to. It was actually a relief having the old system running again.
Now, if they’d been complaining about the Imperial system, he’d have understood where they were coming from. That new fangled system was buggier than a monkey with a wrench.
The head of station medical came on the line and scowled. “You told me that you would have a work crew over here to check my connection to the main power grid over four hours ago.”
“No time for that,” Spalding barked. “I need a medical team to engineering. Some fool turned on the strange particle generator before we were ready. A few of the men might need stretchers. Busted my own leg up pretty good,” he remarked, looking down and seeing his foot sticking out at an unfamiliar and unnatural angle.
“Don’t think I’ve forgot how you still owe me that work party,” the Doctor said, signing off brusquely.
A half hour later, Spalding walked out of the Ship’s Infirmary under his own power. It still hurt with every step he took, but the brace the medic had put on his leg made him mobile again. He winced as he gimped over to the lift. It was no coincidence they’d placed him on the only bed with a flickering power supply and jacked his leg full of Combat Heal, instead of the usual Quick Heal. Combat Heal burned like a son of a gun. It was faster than quick heal, but all he’d said was he needed to be up and back in engineering as fast as possible.
Clearly the Doc was still ticked about his missing work crew. Well, he’d have get over it. Spalding would have sent a team over if he had a full trained crew, or if a certain Admiral (who shall remain nameless) hadn’t instructed him to do the impossible or face involuntary exile from the Clover!
Main Engineering was a sight of complete confusion when its Chief Engineer returned. It took almost as long as he’d been gone to sort it out. When the various chickens masquerading as his engineering crew had stopped flapping around aimlessly, he sent a crew of greenhorns along with one of his few trained slackers to go get a new set of cut out breakers for the strange particle generator.
They didn’t have time to replace them all before the ship transited the system, but so long as the generator wasn’t completely fried by the overload they should be able to replace the breakers after the point transfer.
He pulled himself over to the most important piece of the Star Drive. As far as he was concerned, the part that kept the ship and crew alive during a point transfer was it. He ran a hand through his wild hair and performed a diagnostic. In the end, he was scowling but decided it was still theoretically do-able. Cables and workarounds sprouted as he rerouted around the burnt out cutouts and tricked the DI into giving the generator the green light by fooling its sensors. It was an unholy mess to look at, but nothing important had been broken inside the generator itself.
“Alright, let’s try this again,” he shouted and then gave the order for the away party onboard the pirate cruiser to turn on its strange particle generator.
He grunted with dissatisfaction as he measured the particles streaming from the other cruiser into the clover. The particle counts were different from what the Clover put out, and in his book different was generally not a good sign when it came to his Lucky Clover. Unfortunately, this was an expected occurrence, and the count would just have to do for the mean time. But as soon as humanly possible he was going to unhook this ungodly contraption. Setting the strange particle generator on the pirate ship so that it worked on overload, charging both ships with strange particles, was bad enough. Mating the pirate cruiser to their hull for the point transfer was even worse. All so the two ships would fit inside the ugliest, most unstable hyper-bubble the Clover had ever formed. He had to be crazy or desperate even to dream a notion like this… To actually go through with it, perhaps he was both.
But the Admiral had given him no choice.
Chapter 12: Distress Call
“The Chief Engineer reports the ship is ready to point transfer whenever you are, Admiral,” Lieutenant Tremblay reported, then bit his lip. “He’s calling it a miracle of engineering, but it should get the job done. I have to say I’ve never seen or heard of a successful point transfer involving two ships of the same weight within one hyperspace bubble, Admiral. As far as I know, not even the Imperials have tried something like this. As the ship’s XO I’d like to go on record and point out that this could be a very serious mistake, sir.”
“Of course. Thank you for your advice, First Officer. However, I have the utmost confidence in our Chief Engineer. If he says this configuration will work, then I’m sure it will turn out fine.” I was anything but 'fine' with it, but we had to get moving.
Lieutenant Tremblay looked worried but didn’t say anything further.
I suppose the battle armor I had once again donned might have had something to do with my first officer’s lack of continued debate. I wasn’t a trained officer, but even I knew that this bastard abortion the chief engineer had created by hooking up two different parts of two different star drives couldn’t be the best idea in the world. But it was too late to back out now. I was committed.
I had promised the crew their prize money. I had diverted the ship’s course away the direction advised by trained ship’s officers. I had to succeed and be seen to succeed or I was as good as dead. That’s why I had put back on the power armor for this point transfer and locked down the bulkheads with my command crystal. Nothing was going to stop me or this ship. I would return home victorious with two capital ships in hand, or not at all. It was all down to this moment, victory or death.
The only thing left to do was wait for the countdown. I sighed as the ship’s Star Drive charged past the point of no return. Everything was set, the Navigator was present and the point transfer calculated hours ago, long before they had even activated the star drive. A few minor calculations after that and there had been nothing to do but wait until they transferred. I was about to return to my quarters and change back into the old Confederate Admiral’s uniform when one of the crew stationed in the communications section spoke up.
“I have an external transmission from the FTL communications network. It’s an emergency signal, Sir,” called out the communications tech. He paused. “It’s a settlement ship based out of Capria, sir. She says her escort is under attack by Pirates!”
“What?!” I realized both First Officer Tremblay and I had exclaimed at the same time.
“How far away is she,” I demanded.
Tremblay muttered, “I’ll go check on the Settler Manifest,” before heading over to the communications officer for help retrieving the information.
“She’s within our official range, according to the specs in the Navigation Computer,” the Navigator said doubtfully. “But with the non-standard configuration of our hyper-bubble and the extra load we’re carrying, I’m not sure…”
It sounded like the communications officer was reporting to Tremblay that they must have lost the manifest on the settlement ship when the Imperials purged the distributed computer system of Imperial software and upgrades. There was too much commotion to hear their conversation clearly, but the First Officer didn’t look pleased.
“Why does the colonial manifest matter?” I asked, looking at Tremblay. I hoped I wasn’t missing something critical because of my lack of naval training.
“To find out whether or not the colonists are from Capria,” Tremblay said simply.
“Why would that matter? Thousands of helpless colonists are under attack. They could be slaughtered, their ship captured or even taken as slaves by the pirates!” I realized I had spoken before thinking. It wasn't as though I was ashamed of the sentiment I had just expressed. As someone who dreamed of shipping out to a new colony, I could identify with the plight of anyone stuck onboard a helpless settlement ship at the mercy of pirates, escort or no escort.
Tremblay’s face was stiff. “This is a Caprian system defense ship. It’s our duty to defend the people of Capria, not the various populations of the universe at large. Right now we desperately need to get home, not go sticking our noses into every little brush fire out on the edge of known space.”
I couldn't help but stare at him wide-eyed. I was unable to believe I had just heard those words come out of the former Intelligence Officer’s mouth.
Looking a little defensive for perhaps the first time, the First Officer added, “They said they have an escort, it’s not like this settlement ship is completely defenseless.”
I came to a sudden decision and deliberately hardened my face. I didn’t care what it took or what I had to say, that settlement ship needed help. “Mr. Tremblay, and anyone else on this bridge who feels the same way, listen well. I’m only going to say this once,” I raised my voice so everyone could hear clearly.
“This is the Flagship of a Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, one sponsored and organized by the Confederation. We are no longer simply a Caprian SDF ship. If we won’t go to the aid of an unarmed starship carrying upwards of a hundred thousand settlers and colonist, then who in the whole sector will?” I paused to let the words sink in, then finished, “As long as I am Admiral, this ship will do its duty.”
I refused to look around and poll the bridge crew. This was the right thing to do and any lingering doubts I might have had about forcing the crew to make a dangerous hyper transfer in the name of prize money were gone. This was no longer about prize money. This was about saving lives. “Navigator, set a new course. We’re going to rescue those settlers.” Suddenly, a tension I hadn’t even known I was carrying melted away.
The Navigator dragged his heels and Officer Tremblay still tried to argue me out of this sudden course change. But I could tell their hearts weren’t in it. They were mostly concerned for the safety of the ship, not avoiding the pirates, so I tried not to lose my temper. My mind was made up and I was deaf to their pleas.
After ordering the two medium cruisers to follow us to the new coordinates sent by the settlement ship, all I could do was watch his bridge crew as they made a new set of calculations.
“Sir,” reminded Officer Tremblay, “our Navigator already ran over to the converted pirate freighter once, to calculate their point transfer. He won’t have time to both plot a new course for us and then shuttle on over there again before we jump.”
"Tell one of the medium cruisers to send over a Navigator to plot the course," I answered with a wave of my hand. It was frustrating that the Lucky Clover didn’t have the trained personnel to deal with it ourselves but at least we’d still have a small Caprian away crew on the converted pirate ship to keep an eye on the Promethean navigator.
Navigator Shepherd was sweating profusely by the time he declared the coordinates locked in for the new point transfer. I was thankful for the extended recharge time of the old ship’s Star Drive. It gave us lots of time to make changes to their course, even after we had passed the point of no return and were committed to making a point transfer.
When I was certain we were actually locked to go save the colonists from pirates, it occurred to me to ask about our missing weaponry.
Rearming the ship had been a top priority up until I had learned that the pirate cruiser was having trouble with its Star Drive. After that, I had stopped worrying about everything else and suspected engineering had done the same.
Lieutenant Tremblay looked appalled at the question and immediately ordered a direct line to the Chief Engineer. He had just gotten the Chief Engineer on the line and was still at a com-console with Lieutenant Spalding when the ship broke through hyperspace.
Chapter 13: Rallying the troops
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer: They’re all a bunch of fruits!
“What is it, man? Can’t you see I’m busy trying to pull a pair o' capital ships through the hells of hyperspace with only my bare hands and a few oversized trunk lines?” Chief Engineer Spalding was absolutely snarling. The young pup that somehow became the ship’s new First Officer blinked.
“How many of the ship’s main weapon systems are now fit for service,” repeated Officer Tremblay, pushing forward in the face of a very red faced chief engineer.
“The main weapons?! What are you blathering about, man? It's taken all I’ve got just to get the ship ready for this abortion of an operation we’re calling a point transfer. Now you want to know how many weapons I’ve had time to install,” he stuck out a hand and started counting fingers to go with his points, “in between hooking together two capital ships for the most risky jump in two centuries, and breaking my blasted leg, I have no idea and no time for this sort of bureaucratic nonsense,” he said, stopping at two fingers before throwing his hands in the air and moving to cut the connection and go back to work on his overstressed and nearly overloaded star drive when the young pup cut him off.
“Very well, then. Prepare for ship-to-ship combat as soon as we break free of the inertial sump. The Admiral,” First Officer Tremblay shook his head at this, “changed our course. We’re answering a distress call and are taking the ship pirate hunting.” He glared at the chief engineer. “I hope that was a bureaucratic enough explanation for you, Mr. Spalding.”
“Space rot,” cursed the elderly officer. Suddenly the ship lurched. “I’ll have to get back to you,” he said over his shoulder, abandoning the communication console and running over to check on the Star Drive.
“Sweet Servants of the Demon Murphy, every blasted one of them,” he despaired after he saw they’d successfully penetrated hyperspace. “They pull the only man on the ship who knows what he’s doing away from the controls. Then tell him he’s got to reinstall every weapon the blasted Imp’s tore out during their so-called refit, and all while we’re under combat conditions to boot.”
All around him cheers broke out as the engineering crew celebrated the ship’s survival.
In a sour mood, Spalding glared at the prematurely celebrating crew.
In a fit of temper he lit his plasma torch and waved it around to get attention. When only those immediately near him responded by looking at the old engineer, he scowled and activated the speaker system. “Alright, my fine young lads. That’s enough goofin' around. It’s time for papa Spalding’s miracle number three,” he roared, shaking his plasma torch at the engineering crew. “So if you were under the mistaken impression that pulling that pile of bolts they called a pirate cruiser through hyperspace with us was a challenge, well my laddies, you ain’t seen nothin' yet!”
Spalding smiled at the falling faces of the engineering crew as they came to realize the hard work wasn’t over yet. “It's double and triple shifts until we run a new batch of pirate scum out of this system!” He looked around at the now visibly alarmed and shaken crew. “Cheer up, boys. Between the double time and hazard pay, your next paychecks are sure to be all fat and bloated.” He frowned at the lackluster response.
“To Hades with that,” a spacehand exclaimed from somewhere in the back. “I’ll take it nice and safe any day. Tell the Admiral to just take us home.” Heads bobbed in agreement.
“Alright you bunch of slack jawed idjits,” he said, waving his plasma torch at the nearest of the complainers. “Enough standing around gaping like a bunch of fools. First shift hit the cargo holds first, I’ve a list with the location of every one of our weapons those runaway Imps tried to jettison for junk. Team leaders come see me for an upload pronto. Second shift, suit up, it's out to the hull for you your job will be reinstalling the weapons systems as soon they’re handed to you by the First shift.”
Next, he pulled up the DI and rerouted his voice to the cabins of everyone assigned to Third. “Third shift, wake up you bunch of layabouts! It's out of bed and into Engineering for you slackers, this ship won’t fly herself!”
He watched with deep satisfaction as everyone scurried around with new purpose. He took a step to corral one of the team leaders, and grimaced as fire shot up his leg. “Blasted busted up leg,” he complained to no one in particular.
With a determined gimp he hobbled off to save the ship.
Chapter 14: Pirates
We emerged from hyperspace with another lurch. I was somewhat prepared, gripping tightly to the arms of the Throne, but this transfer worse than the last.
“Point Emergence,” reported one of the bridge crew. “Looks like we’ve transferred to the system we were trying for,” the spacehand said, sounding sour with the whole idea.
“Belay that nonsense,” snapped Officer Tremblay. “Helmsman, do your duty.”
“Main engine is lit and baffling is now physically extended beyond transfer area,” said Helmsman DuPont.
“Point Resistance,” demanded Tremblay.
“Engines at 25% of maximum,” said the Helmsman. “The ship is still locked.”
“Shields at a steady 95% and re-modulated for a sump break,” reported a tactical trainee.
“I’m amazed we survived the transfer,” declared the Science Officer standing up from his chair. “The inertia on this sump alone is going to be the worst this ship’s ever seen. I warned you that this was a very bad idea.”
“When I want, or the Admiral wants your opinions, we’ll blasted well ask for them,” shouted Tremblay. “Stay on task, or by all the angry space gods, security will escort you down the brig!” He waved vaguely toward the blast doors which used to have a pair of marine jacks stationed to either side, but no longer sported a security team of any kind.
The science officer drew his mouth into a thin line but said nothing.
“Main Engine at 40%. Both secondaries lit,” reported the Helmsman.
“Shield strength at 89%. We’re starting to feel the drain,” reported the crewman on shields.
“Increasing all engines to 75% of maximum,” said DuPont.
“Wait. No!” exclaimed Tremblay looking alarmed but the Helmsman had already keyed in the increase.
There was a loud bang that reverberated throughout the ship. This was followed by a terrible scraping noise, as the ship broke free of the Inertial Sump.
“Taking a ship to flank speed outside of a combat situation and without a direct order is a court martial-able offense, Helmsman,” Tremblay said, blood rushing to his cheeks.
“We’ve broken free of the Inertial Sump,” a crewman at sensors reported in a small voice.
“I have the Chief Engineer on the line,” reported the communications tech. “He sounds angry. Something about broken transfer cables and trying to destroy one side of the ship.”
I waved my hand, “Tell Spalding to focus on getting the Lucky Clover ready for combat and not to worry about his precious paint job.”
“Looks like we’ve left the pirate cruiser behind,” said one of the sensor operators.
I raised an eyebrow at this.
“That screeching sound was probably us breaking our connection to the pirate cruiser, and the Helmsman then scraping the two hulls together in his haste to break free,” Tremblay said with a nod in the my direction.
“What do you think we should do about the prize,” I said, waving vaguely behind myself in reference to the former pirate cruiser and current prize ship they had just left floating in space.
Tremblay paused for a moment to think, and then turned to the sensor operators. “How far away is that settlement ship, and how many pirates are we looking at?”
The sensor operators jerked and turned back to their screens, imputing the relevant queries.
“I read a single cutter and a pair of corvettes,” said the first one.
“No, there are three cutters, and one of the corvettes is drifting. She’s badly damaged, Sir,” reported another.
The third gasped, “There isn't just one Settlement ship in the system. There are three, and one of them is breaking up!”
“Demon-Disciples of Murphy,” Tremblay cursed the pirates. “Either we deploy the bucking cables before we get too far away and take her under tow, or we forget about the prize ship and max out the engines to help those settlers. There’s no way we can do both, since we can’t tow her and make max speed at the same time, Admiral.” He paused in consideration. “I think the away team from Engineering can worry about the prize for a while, Sir. Those Settlers are adrift and dying in cold space,” he finally advised.
The thought of that broken settler ship was all it took for me to quickly reach a decision.
“Full speed into the battle, Helmsman,” I said, my voice wobbling with emotion. “We can worry about the money later, forget the prize. Those Settlers need our help!” I slammed my fist on the arm of the Admiral’s Throne. The squeal of dented metal sounded and I realized that I was still in power armor. I had forgotten to change back into the Admiral’s uniform before the point transfer.
“Blast it,” I said, cursing my own stupidity. “Someone put a display of the battle up on the main screen,” I continued harshly, more angry at my own stupidity in damaging the Admiral’s Throne than anything else.
It seemed like forever as we crawled to the scene of the battle but in reality it was less than fifteen minutes. Thanks to the transponder coordinates included by the Settler Ship in the distress call and a generous helping of luck we had landed, if not on top of the pirates, a lot closer than half a greenhorn crew towing a second cruiser in their hyper bubble had any right to expect. That’s what the Navigator swore to me anyway when I verbalized my frustration with how far away we were initially.
“Instruct the two Promethean cruisers to join us and form a triangle formation with us at the point,” I commanded.
There was a pause while people scrambled, then Tremblay spoke up, “The Medium Cruisers and the captured pirate conversion haven’t arrived in the system yet, Admiral.”
“What are you talking about? They were right behind us and supposed to jump at the same time,” I said, a knot forming in my stomach.
“I mean either they aborted their hyper drive somehow or they’re not coming,” he said shamefaced. “We missed it, Admiral. In all the excitement we didn’t notice that our three sister ship’s never arrived.”
“You said it's almost impossible to stop a point transfer after you’ve exceeded threshold levels. Did I miss something, or did the Prometheans and the other prize ship exceed threshold levels before we jumped out of the system?”
“Yes. It is nearly impossible without a major explosion, and they had passed the threshold before we jumped, Admiral,” answered Tremblay.
I turned away and clenched my fists. Instead of a fleet of three cruisers to deal with the pirates, as of right now the rescue effort consisted of one unarmed battleship and an un-crewed prize ship with a small away team from engineering to manage its strange particle generator.
The long minutes getting into range of the battle were not wasted. The sensor team put the time to good use, constantly updating the main screen with new information as it came in. The final tally was quite different from the initial readings by the crewmen in the sensor pit.
It turned out that the two corvettes weren’t pirates; instead they were escorts for the settlement ships. One was damaged but still fighting in a desperate attempt to shield the two remaining and still intact settlement ships. The other corvette was dead in the water, venting atmosphere and currently being boarded by two opportunistic pirate cutters.
On the other side of the equation, it seemed the pirates had started out with seven cutters. Two of which were damaged and had limped away from combat with the corvettes, biding their time until the colony ships were unprotected. Two more were boarding the stricken corvette, while the remaining three were furiously pounding away at the still active defender.
“Why aren’t they running,” I asked, obviously confused. “The Clover should be able to crush a half dozen little cutters easily. Your thoughts, Mr. Tremblay?”
The First Officer bit his lip. “I don’t know. Those Cutters are fast little beggars, maybe they think they can loot and pillage up until the very last moment and run off before we can catch them,” he said, sounding uncertain. “These are pirates though, I can’t imagine they think they can handle a battleship, even with the full seven of them.” He paused and certainty filled his voice as he talked through the situation, “They have to know they can’t win and even if their leader has some miracle strategy he thinks could pull it off, the other captains will realize they’re bound to take losses. Pirates are very risk averse.”
“Two of them have already been damaged,” I pointed out. “Two more are boarding that corvette; they have to be taking losses storming the corvette. That doesn’t seem very risk averse to me.”
Tremblay frowned and shook his head. “It has to be only minor damage for them to escape the corvettes. Corvettes are bigger and more powerful than Cutters. As for any losses the individual ships sustain taking the stricken corvette, those are just human losses. Pirate captains and officers are much more concerned with losing equipment than with losing men. There are always more idiots looking to sign on with a pirate vessel for the plunder. It's ships that are in short supply.”
“So taking a larger ship like the corvette is actually a smart play for a pirate captain,” I mused aloud, nodding slowly as I processed Tremblay's analysis. “That still doesn’t explain why they think they can move out of range in time.”
“They can’t,” Tremblay said shortly, glaring at the tactical picture as if that would somehow explain what the pirates thought they were doing. "They should be scrambling to disengage and pull out before we can get over there and blast them to kingdom come.”
A few minutes later they received a transmission from one of the pirate vessels.
A figure in light combat armor appeared on the screen. He was sitting in a similar but much smaller version of the same chair I was in. “Well met, brothers-in-blood. This is Captain Strider of the Broken Maiden. Piranha Squadron is willing to cut Black Philip and a member of the Blood Raiders in for a share of the spoils,” he said, rubbing his hands together with anticipation. Then he leaned back in his chair waiting for a response.
“Philip who,” I inquired, looking at Tremblay.
Lieutenant Tremblay shook his head from side to side. “Not a clue. Neither this Black Philip or the so-called Blood Raiders are in any database I’ve ever had access to.”
“Why do they think we’re here to help them,” I wondered aloud. “It has to be some kind of a trap.”
Tremblay hesitated, “I can’t imagine any other reason they’d send us ‘hail fellow pirate, well met,’ messages over an unencrypted channel. Unless it was a trap.”
One of the Communication Tech’s from the Signal’s section raised his hand.
“Yes,” Tremblay said tersely, looking at the Com-Tech.
“They are using an encrypted line, sirs,” said the tech.
“We broke it that fast,” Tremblay said in disbelief. “Must be a weak one they expected for us to break.”
“No, sir,” the tech said shaking his head. “It's one of the older encryptions in our SDF database. It's more than seventy something years out of date. The DI automatically ciphered it as it passed through our system.”
“Impossible,” Tremblay growled, “how would a swarm of penny ante pirates get hold of an outdated Caprian encryption algorithm?”
“That doesn’t matter,” I said, breaking into the conversation. “How they got the encryption doesn’t matter. All that matters is that we have a pirate encryption key and they still think we’re reinforcements come to cut ourselves in for a piece of the pie.”
Tremblay purpled, “That’s no pirate encryption key,” he started hotly. “That’s Caprian SDF software!”
I jumped to my feet and stomped the deck with a loud crash, cutting him off. “It is now,” I said flatly, towering over the First Officer in my power armor, “and because we have it, we’re going to use it.” I gave the first officer a shark like grin, full of nothing but bared teeth and bravado. “It's time someone taught these pirates a lesson.”
I kept the fierce grin in place because I knew that without it, I would wilt like a hot house flower on a cold winter night. I had never been trained for any of this. I was a man who had the proverbial tiger by the tail; if I dared show weakness or let go, I was finished.
“Communications, open a channel to the pirates and make sure to use the same encryption key they are,” I ordered, with a playful tone.
I waited until I was sure the pirate captain was receiving the transmission before speaking. Schooling my face into its most haughty expression, I opened my mouth. “Stand aside pipsqueak, and watch how a real warship handles a juicy little convoy like this,” I said from my perch on the Admiral's Throne. There were no uniformed bridge crew within range of the pick up to give away the game. Only a single young man dressed in a battle suit and sitting on the gigantic command chair.
The Pirate Captain flushed. “Who do you think you’re talking to? If you think the Piranhas will just stand by after doing most of the heavy lifting, you‘ve got another think-”
I spoke over him, cutting the pirate captain off midsentence. “Stop dancing around that corvette like a band of prancing ballerinas, Captain Spider,” I said, deliberately getting the pirate’s name wrong.
“It's Strider,” exclaimed the Pirate slamming his fist down on the arm of his chair. “And we’re no blasted ballerinas!”
“You’ll get your share, Captain Spider, don’t you worry your little head about that. Equal shares all around.” I hardened my voice and continued, “Now gather your ships into fighting formation and be ready to watch and learn,” I said with another shark like grin, then gestured for communications to cut the outgoing signal.
I turned to smile at Lieutenant Tremblay, “That should keep them properly confused as to our intentions.”
“There’s a Caprian registered ship in there, Admiral,” Tremblay said cautiously.
I blinked and looked at the First Officer with a frown. “Yes,” I said slowly, inviting him to continue.
“And as Caprians, it's our duty to protect it,” Tremblay added cautiously.
I barely suppressed a surge of irritation at Tremblay’s continued insistence at looking out for only Caprian interests and schooled my features into a blank mask. When I felt my temper was under control, I spoke in a level voice. “Agreed."
“Well…” Tremblay hesitated.
“Well what?” I demanded, glancing at the tactical screen. Several of the Pirates were moving closer to one another. Yes! They were actually going for it. Just like I had hoped, they were gathering together in a loose formation. I wasn’t a trained naval officer, and hadn’t known whether or not they’d fall for it. But it certainly appeared that they had taken the bait.
“What are the Admiral’s intentions, regarding the other ships in the Convoy? If I may ask, Sir, for the record,” Officer Tremblay said formally.
I glared at him in irritation for still not answering the question. Then it occurred to me that Tremblay might be wondering if I was seriously considering dividing up the convoy between the Clover and the scum of the space lanes.
My nostrils flared. “What? Did you actually think I was going to help those pirates finish that last Corvette, and then claim the Caprian Settler as our part of the plunder? Then what? Just take off for home space like nothing had happened?” I flared my nostrils half-consciously. “Is that what you thought, Officer Tremblay,” I asked, my voice rising to a yell by the time I was finished speaking. “That I’d leave two ships full of helpless settlers to the tender mercy of pirates just because they weren’t from Capria?”
Tremblay turned pale. “I admit it isn’t the first choice. The thought of abandoning entire families of colonists to the mercy of pirates, it makes me sick. But without weapons or the gunnery crews to man them, I’m not sure what we can do,” He stared at the floor, “Those Cutters are small and fast, they can dart in and out, firing the whole time. While their weapons may not be very powerful compared to what we usually carry and our armor thick enough to stop heavy weapons, can we take twelve hours of pounding while simultaneously recharging our Star Drive? Not to mention shielding the normal space thrusters for breaking the inertial sump after we do make good our escape. Even reattaching the prize ship while under fire might be too much…” Tremblay slowly trailed off.
I knew my expression was thunderous but I couldn’t help myself.
“Where was your concern for these helpless settlers back in AZT89443, Officer Tremblay,” I sneered. “As for these pirate cutters, we’re already dealing with them. Every second they’re not firing on that single remaining Escort ship is another second that escort can carry out emergency repairs and another second of reprieve for every colonists stuck inside one of those mammoth unarmed deathtraps.” I paused to draw in a breath. “As for our own weaponry, I’ll wager you this ship, that for every weapon system and turret our Chief Engineer puts back to rights, you’ll find a crew of men ready, eager and willing to fire them at the enemy.”
I stopped to lock gazes with the former Intelligence Officer.
“Sir, it was not my intention-” Tremblay started.
“Can it, Mr. Tremblay,” I snapped. “I have a battle to fight.” I turned to the Helmsman. “Point us straight at that pirate scum, Mr. DuPont. The order is full speed ahead and straight down their throats.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Helmsman said faintly.
“And someone get my Chief Engineer on the line. I want my weapon systems and I want them now,” I shouted. “Tell him I need something to fire at those pirates and will accept no excuses. He had his chance to Captain this vessel and he turned it down flat. Well, by Saint Murphy’s ornery wrench, it's time he showed us why he got the cushy job down in Engineering!”
By this time the ship was minutes away from the hastily assembled pirate squadron and gathering speed by the moment.
I deliberately ignored the First Officer and stared at the Master Plot on the massive main screen instead.
“Sir! We’re going too fast, we have to slow down,” Said the Helmsman, finally gaining his courage.
“No! Full speed ahead, I’ll not give them another instant to change their mind,” I barked.
“Shifting course slightly to avoid the Cutters,” said the Helmsman. “We’ll still pass right beside them.”
A thought occurred me in that moment. A terrible, horrible thought. “No,” I exclaimed, the idea taking form inside my head. I jumped to my battle armored feet and leapt to the helmsman’s console. “Take us right through the middle of their formation,” I said, leaning over the helmsman and pointing to the small cluster of pirate icons on the main screen.
“That’s insane. At this speed we might hit one,” argued DuPont.
I grabbed him by the back of his uniform and slammed the Helmsman into his flight console. Then, with a whine of power assisted servos, grabbed the man’s head in the heavy metal gauntlets. I forcefully turned the squirming Helmsman’s head toward his console, and then dropped a hand to the man’s neck where it met his shoulders.
“Maximum strength to the forward shields,” I yelled to the crewmen at tactical. “Double their strength and overcharge them if you have to.”
“Admiral, this isn’t some holo-drama,” shouted Officer Tremblay. “We could all be killed,” he said, pulling out a small sidearm he had hidden in the pocket of his uniform. Clearly he had an idea where I was going with this and didn’t like it.
The First Officer had wanted to complain about not having a weapon to turn on the pirates. Well I, Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna was going to show him a weapon, and a terrifying one at that!
I turned my back on the first officer and ignored the blaster pistol pointed in my general direction. With all my battle armor in his way, the First Officer would need a head shot anyway. Scrunching my head down in the battle suit to give the Tremblay a smaller target, I leaned my face close to the Helmsman's. “Ramming speed, Mr. DuPont. Aim for as many of those cutters as you can,” I said right in the crewman’s ear.
The young Helmsman shook his head and started sweating. “No,” he mumbled all but inaudibly.
“I gave you an order, crewman,” I said, unsure what to do if the man refused. It’s not like I was actually willing to follow through with the implied threat and crush the man’s head or break his neck, and I only knew the basics of plotting a course through normal space. There was no way, outside of sheer luck, that I could set a course that would hit those cutters.
The man started sweating but still refused to move his hands toward the console.
An evil thought occurred to me in that moment. Despite everything I had ever done, everyone still blamed me for the crimes of my family as if by my very birth I was tainted. Well, maybe it was time to use some of that taint and scorn they heaped on me time and time again, and turn the reputation of my Montagne ancestors to good use.
“Everyone back home likes to talk about the Montagne’s,” I said quietly into the Helmsman’s ear. “About how we’re natural murderers, mass-murders even given the chance, born with the blood of innocents on our hands. Yet, for all the bigotry and hateful talk, people still think it's safe to ignore the chain of command and tell a Montagne in a battle suit to go to Hades.” Servos whined as I leaned down so far that my face was almost touching the helmsman’s cheek. DuPont gulped but still didn’t move, seemingly paralyzed where he sat. I decided to give it one more push before giving it all up as a bad bluff.
“Are you refusing a lawful order and telling one of those evil, vindictive, natural born, blood-feuding killers to go to Hades, Helmsman?”
DuPont stayed rooted in one spot and I winced in disappointment. Then, as if a pause button had been un-pressed, the Helmsman leaned forward, fingers flying over the console, and returned the ship’s course back to its original track. He made a few minor corrections and sat back with a gasp, his forehead drenched in sweat.
I released the Helmsman but stayed nearby, intently watching the main screen.
“Instruct the ship’s remaining gunners and any crewmen we have on the gun deck to man every weapon that’s in working order. They are to fire on the pirate ships as we bear, Mr. Cloudhammer,” Officer Tremblay finally said, instructing one of the trainee’s at tactical.
There wasn’t a lot of time after that for oration because the next thing I knew, we had reached the tiny pirate cutters.
There was a loud bang that shook the ship with a sickening lurch and knocked my battle-suited bulk off my feet. This was rapidly followed by a series of small pops, like rain on a tin roof and the lights on the Flag Bridge flickered and dimmed before returning to full strength.
Was it my imagination, or had the air recyclers stopped working as well? Perhaps ramming the pirate vessels might not have been the smartest thing to do after all.
I started to pull myself to my feet, the battle suit servos whining in protest. I was only halfway up when the ship started to exert gee forces toward one of the walls. It was no worse than an air car making a hard turn, but still enough to return me reeling back to the floor.
I tucked, rolled and slammed against one of the metal bulkheads, most of the force of the blow absorbed by the power armor but without the helmet on, the back of the my head hit the metal wall with enough force that I saw nothing but stars.
Chapter 15: Tis-a-Pickle!
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer:
A few minutes earlier.
“It won’t fit, Chief,” shouted one of the crewmen working with Spalding on the outside of the ship’s hull.
Spalding popped his head out of the next laser pit in the series of gun placements along the hull to take a quick look. “Turbo-Lasers are all exactly the same size, it doesn't matter how old they are. That’s a turbo-laser pit, hence it's rated to take the blasted thing,” he barked.
“I swear it won’t fit, Chief,” insisted the crewman.
Spalding hopped out of the pit he’d been working in as fast as a man on a spacewalk, sporting a busted leg could manage. At this rate he was going to have to personally reinstall every one of the blasted things himself.
"Pull that turret away from the laser pit, and by Saint Murphy's wretched wrench, do it carefully," he said as he drew nearer, "we only have a handful of the things the damned Imps failed to abscond with, and I don't want greenhorn incompetence to so much as scratch the paint on one!" As soon as the pit was cleared, the problem became obvious.
"Space-rot," hissed the old engineer. "They didn't just take the aperture; they took the whole blasted power coupling assembly!" He bent down and nearly tore a hole in his suit when he bolted upright and went to pull out what remained of his old, grey hair. "They even tore the clamps out of their moorings! It'll take weeks to manufacture and calibrate all of these to battle-ready condition, and that's assuming we even have the proper materials left in the machine shops!"
The crewman, likely fearing for his own safety, slowly backed to the edge of the pit. Spalding continued, seemingly oblivious to the crewman's reaction to his outburst. "Don't worry, ye can't get electrocuted down here, lad. The feedback system keeps power from flowin' until the gun control computer verifies that everything's on the up-and-up." Spalding laughed maniacally and continued, "And since those no-good thieves took all of the gun control hardware with 'em, even if you somehow managed to shunt enough juice back through the control lines from here, there's no computer left to create a connection between here and the power plant!"
The Chief jumped up to the edge of the pit and, without looking, proceeded directly to the nearest heavy laser pit. The crewman had difficulty keeping up with the old man, struggling with the uneven surface of the hull, while the old man leapt spryly from one high point to another, like the old Billy-goat he still was. Upon clearing the edge of the pit, he looked down in dismay at the sight that greeted him.
When the Imperials left the Clover, they took most of the new weapons they had installed with them. In the case of this particular laser pit, they hadn't even bothered to take the cannon out. They must have decided that the old-style, short range heavy lasers weren't worth removal even though they were the newest version of that particular weapon platform, developed and manufactured by none other than the Empire itself. Whatever crew had been given the job had made a right hash of the entire unit. Instead of taking the time to simply unbolt the thing from the pit, they used plasma torches to cut through pretty much anything which was attached to the ship, even going so far as to slag the end of the barrel with a high-powered plasma torch.
He eyed the severed bolts and the bent housing for the power coupler at the bottom of the pit suspiciously. He looked at the plasma torch in his hand before shaking his head regretfully. They didn’t have time to fool around with this mess.
“This pit’s a loss, until we have a day or two to put things right. We’d have to finish cutting the bolts free, fix any damage that procedure incurred, remove this sorry excuse of a barrel and replace it with one of our old reliable units, as well as machine a completely new housing for the power coupling,” he said and glared at the petty officer in charge of the team, silently rebuking him for not spotting the problem in the first place and costing them valuable time.
“What are your orders, Chief,” asked the team leader.
The old man considered briefly, before scowling and shaking his head. "There's nothin' for the turbolasers at this point. The ruination those Imps did in a shift will take us weeks to repair, and we don't have enough units to fill them all, anyways. Focus on the heavies, at least their pits aren't a complete loss, and we've got plenty o' spare parts down in storage." Spalding chuckled darkly, congratulating himself on quietly gathering every compatible old unit he could get his greasy old hands on over the last few decades, and squirreling them away to every out of the way or hidden compartment on the ship. The Imps might have found one or two of his stashes, but they never suspected that he'd been able to stockpile anywhere near as much as he'd managed.
"Just yank out that whole newfangled assembly and put in the old units," Spalding barked. "We ought to be able to re-work the clamps and power couplers in a couple hours and get them back online. We won't have as much range as before, but the old girl will have her teeth back."
He was still congratulating himself on his foresight when the Chief Engineer felt something through the deck plates and paused.
“Sir,” inquired the team leader when the old man didn’t respond after a few moments.
Spalding irritably waved him to silence. It took him a moment to place the change, but he was sure the engines were vibrating differently somehow. He was about to dismiss it and get back to work, but something in the back of his mind kept nagging at him. He hadn’t felt the engines vibrate like this in a long time, not since Captain Falcone-
His eyes widened. He might be going senile and jumping at shadows. Surely even a half trained command crew like the one currently on the bridge wouldn’t make a mistake like that.
After half a moment of consideration he dashed to the nearest exterior airlock. Once inside, he plugged into the internal communication system. He decided not to call the bridge in order to verify his suspicions because if he was wrong he’d just look like an old idiot. If he was right, he’d just waste precious time screaming at the space crazed fools. Engineering could tell him everything he needed to know in a hurry.
“This is Bostwell,” answered the rating through the comm. system. “What do you need, Chief?”
“Color me crazy and dip me in stupid, but did our normal space engines just shift from flank to ramming speed, Bostwell,” demanded the Chief Engineer.
“Uh, just a second Chief,” said Bostwell, a moment later his voice came back on the line. “That’s right, Chief. The Helmsman just uploaded the automatic ramming protocols half a minute ago,” said the rating a hint of fear and a whole new level of respect for the crazy old Chief Engineer entering his voice. He started to say something else but Spalding was already out the airlock door.
Waving his hands in the air he turned his suit communicator up to maximum. “Off the hull! Off the hull! Everyone off the hull and into an airlock,” he shrieked. “If you can’t tie it down on the double quick, abandon it. Just leave it and get inside the ship!”
He ran towards the nearest group of men not moving fast enough for his taste, the fire in his leg burning with every step. He ignored the sensation, the pain not so much forgotten as pushed firmly aside in favor of the safety of his men. “Prepare to receive shrapnel,” he shouted into his suit mike. Telling the men they were about to ram something was more likely to paralyze some of them with fear and indecision than get them moving when every second counted. “Shrapnel! Into the airlock,” he panted, his chest cramping with the effort.
Seeing everyone within his line of sight making for an airlock, he started to think about his own safety for the first time. The way his heart was hammering and his breathing short, he knew he’d never make it in time. You didn’t go to ramming protocols unless slamming into another ship was imminent.
Knowing that impact was surely imminent, he rolled into the nearest empty turret pit and used a handy strap from his space belt to tie himself down. It was the same pit with the cut bolts and damaged power housing he’d just surveyed. He warily tied his suit to two of the severed bolts and leaned back with a sigh. His vision was black and blurry. He suspected that if the pain in his leg wasn’t keeping him conscious he’d have passed out by now.
He glared at the side of the laser pit. On any other ship set to ram, he would have said there was no point in strapping down because if you were on the hull then you were already dead, you just didn’t know it yet. He would have said that about any ship, it didn’t matter the age or size. Any ship but the Lucky Clover, that is. He’d known this ship was special the first time he laid eyes on her. She could survive anything the universe threw at her, even a deliberate attempt to ram another starship, which was why he had bothered to strap himself down. If his baby could survive this, then there was a chance he could too.
One moment everything was fine and Spalding was wondering if he was an old fool for choosing the empty turret pit instead of an airlock, and the next moment the whole ship lurched, shields flaring white. By the time he realized shrapnel was raining down on the open hull, that part was over too. Finding that he was alive but with a shard as thick as his middle finger and longer than his forearm stuck through the foot of his good leg and into the Duralloy metal of the hull, the chief engineer praised his lucky stars. He was just starting to grab for his emergency patching kit when the ship then tried to throw him off the hull.
Spalding screamed and let go of the kit to try to grab the safety straps. The hiss of air escaping through the hole in the foot of his suit filled his ears with the sound of doom, and the gee forces tried to break his straps and throw him off the ship. The old engineer was determined to ride out the high gee maneuver some idiot at the helm had decided was a good idea while there was still be most of an engineering shift on the hull of the ship.
He would survive, if only so he could take his plasma torch to the lot of them when this was over.
He screamed wordlessly as the gravity threatened to snap his safety lines and tear him away from his beloved Clover.
Chapter 16: An Improbable Success
One moment we were racing towards the pirate ships, and the next I was on the floor sliding across the deck towards the bulkhead. I blinked away the pain in my head and the stars in my eyes, and reached for a handhold along the wall to pull myself back to my feet.
I looked to the main screen and I couldn’t see the pirate squadron in front of the ship anymore.
“What’s going on,” I said rather thickly. My first attempt to wildly scan the bridge to make sure everyone was all right left me dizzy.
Focusing forward, at least until I was somewhat recovered and the dizziness abated, I’m certain I would have staggered to the command chair if the power suit had allowed for that kind of movement. Instead, I stiffly walked over and sat down without appearing like a drunken sailor back from a binge.
“We made it,” someone said. The bridge broke out in cheers.
One of the sensor operators yelled, “You did it, Sir! We smashed two of them flat and another one is reeling away. Its shields are gone and one of its engines has been disabled, Admiral.”
Another sensor operator chimed in, “I think the damaged one was caught in our engine wash when the Helmsman slewed the ship around. We didn’t hit it head on, that’s the only reason it survived,” he said, sounding proud of our big ship.
“Where are the rest of the pirates,” I asked, unable to find them represented on the main screen.
“We overshot them, Admiral,” DuPont said, his voice shaking, “coming about now.” The Helmsman's hands shook visibly, but he input the new ship course.
The main screen shifted from its previous setting, which had shown a cone shaped patch of space directly in front of the ship. It now presented a downward looking, rather two dimensional, three hundred sixty degree view with the Lucky Clover in the middle of the plot. From this vantage point the pirate ships were shown to be falling behind them farther and farther by the second.
“Turn around," I said, surprised at how quickly the pirate vessels appeared to be retreating, “we need to finish them off!”
Tremblay spoke up and I looked at him, noting the pistol had disappeared, “You wanted to get there as fast as possible, so they wouldn’t have time to get away,” he said evenly. “They didn’t. But a battleship the size of this one doesn’t just stop on a dime, it takes a while to reverse our forward momentum. We have to turn around and slow down before we can try to catch them again. A more tactically sound approach would be to take up station around the Settlers to help fight off the remaining pirate cutters, now that they know we’re not on their side.”
I blinked. It made perfect sense after the First Officer pointed it out. I supposed if I had stopped to think and consider the ship’s forward momentum, I might have remembered (from my now aborted studies) that ships took time to speed up and slow down.
“Okay,” I said, nodding seriously, “put us between the settlers and those cutters, Mr. DuPont,” I ordered in a crisp voice.
“Sir, we’re getting a transmission from the Pirates. They’re mighty upset, Admiral,” said the external communications technician with a wide grin.
“Put him on the main screen,” I said with a smile of my own.
A picture of the same pirate captain as last time materialized on the main screen. This time though he had a large bruise on his face and smoke filled the back of his miniature bridge.
“Double-crossed! Betrayed! After an honest offer was extended,” roared the pirate captain. “When the League hears about this, you’ll be banned from every dark port and black net station this side of Omicron 5,” he bellowed, slamming his fist repeatedly against the arm of his command chair.
I made a big show of yawning and then properly covering my yawn with my hand before gesturing to the Communications Tech. “Please transmit on both the pirate band and the open frequency,” I said, purposefully unconcerned that the pirate captain could hear my orders. As soon as the tech indicated we were live on both channels, I turned deliberately to face the screen. “This is Admiral Montagne of the Confederation Flag-Ship Lucky Clover. We are prepared to accept your surrender,” I said conversationally.
The Pirate Captain look startled and blinked rapidly, a hint of real fear creeping through his angry pirate façade for the first time. “Admiral who? What the blazes…” he said, clearly startled. Then his face hardened. “So, I’m dealing with a bunch of Impie’s and your fancy Imperial tricks,” he said, spitting on the floor. “You might have broken our code and fooled us once, Admiral Schoolboy. But now that we know it’s Fleet regulars we’re up against, there’s not a man jack among us who’ll surrender now!” His face turned red as he worked himself into a fury. “We’ll spread the word and your stolen codes won’t be worth spit the next time you face Piranha Squadron or any other pirate in the whole Spineward Sectors of cold space."
I have to admit that I was surprised the pirate thought I had somehow broken or stolen their code. I was even more surprised they appeared willing to fight to the death. Still, I had to make one more try for the sake of those unarmed settlers. I didn’t know for sure, but the Clover seemed far enough away that the pirates might come back for another strafing run or two against the convoy before jumping through hyperspace ahead of us.
“Haven’t you heard, Captain Spider,” I asked, once again twitting the pirate about his name. “The Imperial Navy pulled out of this sector and left me in command of the fleet,” I said, flashing a vicious smile. “Now that the Empire’s out and the Confederation’s back in, I can cut any sort of deal I want. I can order your lives spared and transfer you to a nice cushy agrarian prison world, equipped with the latest power tools to make your lives easier. On the other hand, I could order every Confederation unit in this sector of space to hunt you and your little squadron of biting fish until we track you back to whatever spider-hole you’re hiding in and blow the lot of you to space-dust.”
The pirate laughed long and loud. "The Empire’s out and you’re in. Harhar har!” He chuckled. “You’ll have to come up with something better than that to make your lies stick, schoolboy.” He stopped laughing and looked at something outside of my view. “Every ship in the squadron, switch your encryption keys, then form up on me and prepare to jump, this Impie Fleet hasn’t heard the last of the Piranha’s. We’ll be back.” The pirate captain said and cut the connection.
“I had to try,” I said out loud and sighed.
Tremblay shook his head, “They were never going to believe you,” he said. “Imperial Fleet policy is to space captured pirates, to deter others from thinking they can join the pirate life and live to enjoy it. A few notorious exceptions have been hanged instead of spaced, but I think you get the point the Empire made: become a pirate and die.”
“Uh, sir,” said one of the Sensor Technicians looking doubtfully at his controls.
“What is it, crewman,” I asked, looking over to the sensor pit.
“I’m picking up miniature transponders behind us,” he said staring at his screen. His look turned to horror. “Those are emergency distress beacons, Admiral.”
“What are you on about, man,” I asked, standing up from the Throne. “We can worry about pirate survivors after everyone else is taken care of first. They don’t seem to give much consideration for settlers blown out into space.”
The Sensor technician looked like he was going to be sick. “I have over fifty transponders now. All scattered and passing us as we slow down. It looks like,” he paused to finish running a search through the DI before forcing the words out, “the numerical codes sent by the distress beacon match those of the hard suits issued to engineering.”
For a moment I didn’t understand. Then I did. As the horror of what I had just done began to register, I felt sick to my stomach.
“Murphy take us,” breathed Officer Tremblay. “The Engineering crews were still out on the hull when we rammed those cutters,” the First Officer turned green and placed his hand on one of the consoles for support.
I was sure the Tremblay was thinking the same thing I was. We had forgotten to warn the men outside the ship to stop reinstalling the weapon systems and get back inside the hull, prior to executing the ramming maneuver.
“I know we had shuttles before the Imperials left,” I said, working hard to keep my voice steady. “Find out if we still have them, and if so tell someone to take as many as they need to get out there as fast as possible to pick up our fellow crewmen.”
A subdued and no longer cheerful bridge crew acknowledged my orders and the necessary instructions were issued.
As the Lucky Clover’s normal space engines struggled to reverse the battleship’s course, all I could do was watch the screen and hope the pirates wouldn’t head back to attack the settlers before we could get there. There was nothing more I could do for the men who had been out on the hull of the ship, irresponsibly left there to die.
Despite themselves, an anxious bridge crew watched the two undamaged pirate cutters turn away from the convoy and blast off together, while the damaged cutter tried to follow but couldn’t keep up, and soon fell behind its faster, undamaged cousins.
“If we destroyed two cutters and there are three running away, what happened to the other two? Where are they hiding?” I asked, trying to focus my attention and that of the bridge crew on the action taking place near the convoy, instead of the horrific scene falling away from the battleship while we braked to get back in the fight.
Tremblay silently pointed to the corvette the pirates had knocked out of the battle before the Clover ever arrived in system.
I kicked myself for not paying more attention to the tactical plot. The question was a stupid one. Everything I needed to know was right in front of me, if only I took the time to look, assuming I could interpret the images.
There was a stir among the sensor operators and the main screen updated. “The corvette guarding the Settler ships is swinging away from the convoy. She’s on a course to intercept the two cutters boarding her sister ship,” said a sensor operator, tension rising in her voice.
“We’re receiving an encrypted transmission from the corvette,” said a crewman from the communications section. There was a pause. “No key in our database matches the encryption, and our DI can’t seem to make heads or tails of it. All we’re getting on our screens is garbage, sir. We can’t unscramble the transmission,” he said sounding flustered.
I winced. It would have been nice to be able to communicate with the Escort ship without the pirates understanding everything we said. Worse, this might make it harder to convince a suspicious skipper that the Lucky Clover was actually a Confederate patrol ship sent out here to help them.
Seeing my expression, the former Intelligence Officer grunted and stepped down into the communications pit. “Scan the database for any old Confederation Fleet encryption algorithms.” With something to focus on, the First Officer no longer looked like he was about to keel over. I hoped this was a good development.
“Sir?” asked the crewman manning the Signals station, where decryption was handled.
“Just scan the database, crewman,” said Officer Tremblay, clapping a hand on the crewman’s shoulder. While the First Officer was working with Signals, the corvette was getting closer and closer to her dead sister.
“I have separation,” announced one of the Sensor Operators. “The Cutter on the port side is breaking free and coming about to face the corvette.”
I snapped my attention back to the main screen.
“Weapons fire,” said the same Senor Operator. “She’s hit. The pirate ship is hit and losing power to her main engines.”
I watched helplessly as the actions were reported by the Sensor operator and mirrored on the main screen. “Can we zoom in closer,” I finally asked, pointing to the main screen where the corvette was taking on the cutter.
The magnification on the main screen increased. I couldn’t see the three pirates trying to make good their escape, but the action near the stricken corvette was quite clear.
There were some raised voices in the Signals section but I was too focused on the scene playing out on the main screen to it give it my time and attention.
I watched the icon representing the Lucky Clover start to inch back in the right direction. The battleship had stopped her forward motion and reversed direction, but we were still a very long ways away from the scene of the action.
The corvette launched a hail of fire at the now damaged Cutter. The Cutter returned fire and shields flared to life. Neither side asked for, nor gave any quarter. With the cutter’s main advantage, its maneuverability, already nullified by an early blow when it was still turning from the stricken ship to face its still very active sister corvette, the battle could only have one outcome.
Shields on the Cutter soon failed as blow after blow slowly knocked the cutter out of the fight. After a few minutes of sustained fire, it was just another disabled ship slowly drifting in cold space.
Curiously, the other cutter failed to respond to the arrival of the still functional corvette, or to the disabling of its piratical cousin and kept pressing the attack on the disabled corvette.
Seeing what he must have taken for a small pause in the action, Officer Tremblay approached the command chair. “Admiral, we found an old Confederation code. It's over seventy years old, but the corvette’s DI system recognized it and exchanged automatic handshake protocols.”
“Handshake automatic protocol,” I said, looking at Officer Tremblay in not realizing until after the words were out of my mouth that I‘d jumbled them up. “What is your conclusion?” I honestly had no idea what he was talking about, but I thought I should play along.
Tremblay took a deep breath and then sighed letting the breath out. “It means we can talk to them over what ‘might’ be a secure communications channel. It's an ancient code as far as modern encryptions go, but for that very reason it's unlikely these pirates would have it on file and be able to read it. At least not right away,” he said, gesturing toward the main screen. “Nothing transmitted over an open frequency is really secure, no matter how good the encryption. Be it hours, days, or even months, someone will crack the code. Eventually someone, somewhere will find a way, even if it takes them years. But in the meantime, and in situations where every second counts, it allows for unmonitored real time communication.”
I nodded as I absorbed this bit of information. “Very well. Let's open a channel and prepare a data dump with the details of our ship’s provenance as a Confederation Flag-Ship, despite being on loan from the Caprian SDF, as well as our mission orders and any other documents detailing our authority as a the head of a multi-sector patrol fleet.”
Officer Tremblay hesitated. “The data you’re requesting was wiped from the DI when the Imperials took down the new systems and upgrades. In many cases we had to fall back on the original Caprian system backups. I did keep, that is I mean to say Caprian members of the Intelligence Section, of which I was a part, kept copies of some of the pertinent documents on hard copy. This is technically a violation of regulations, but under the circumstances….” he said, glancing around the Flag Bridge.
I snorted. I wasn’t one to talk about not following proper military protocol. Half the time I didn’t have a clue what proper protocol for the military was, and the other half I figured I was almost certainly not following it. If Tremblay had vital documents backed up on a few discs in his quarters and it helped smooth the way with the settler escort, then who was a Prince-Cadet cum Admiral of the Patrol Fleet to complain?
So I said the only thing I could, given the situation. “Get them.”
Tremblay paused before going.
I had been around too many politicians not to catch the sudden gleam of calculation in the eyes of my First Officer. It instantly put me on guard. Parliamentary representatives, and even members of my own extended royal family had looked at me exactly the same way before I was volunteered to ‘command the fleet’.
“Does the Admiral intend to continue to maintain that, despite the intended ceremonial nature of his command and his lack of official military training, he now has the full authority of an Admiral of the Confederation Fleet,” Tremblay inquired cautiously. His eyes strayed briefly from mine to the power armor encasing my body.
My face went blank, “I’m the only Admiral left on this ship and Janeski officially placed me in command before leaving,” I forced myself to keep the growl out of my voice, and to keep my features even. “I even have a nice big scroll in my quarters with ribbons, seals and everything, declaring how I’m now an admiral in the Confederation Fleet, and thus must be physically present for the duration of this patrol.”
“Technically, your commission is as an honorary Admiralty in Capria’s System Defense Force. Not in the Confederation Fleet,” Tremblay pointed out.
“Yes, but that nice big scroll in my room mentions nothing about my Confederation rank being honorary. Only that the ‘Honorary Vice-Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna of the Caprian SDF, with the written consent of Capria’s Parliament, is now formally seconded to the Confederation Navy to act as the Official Commanding Officer of the newly formed Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,’” I said, reciting it back verbatim to the First Officer.
“To ‘act’ as the Official Commanding Officer,” Tremblay parroted back at him. “You, an Honorary Admiral, have been forwarded to act as the Official Commanding Officer, of our so called mini-fleet,” he paused. “As best I can see it, you have not been officially commissioned as a Confederation Fleet Flag Officer, and thus have no official standing outside this ship and perhaps the members of this patrol fleet, ships voluntarily forwarded by the planetary forces that contributed to its founding. Another concern being, now that the Imperial Navy’s gone, those ships could be withdrawn from this ‘patrol fleet’ anytime their planetary governments wanted them home.”
I had looked as much of this up as I could using the defective distributed intelligence network, when I had time from my other duties onboard the ship. Those duties primarily consisting of watching everyone on the bridge like a hawk.
“It is my understanding that when a member of a System Defense Force, officer or enlisted, joins the Imperial Fleet they take an automatic two step downgrade in rank,” I countered, deciding to ignore the fact that every ship in the patrol fleet (including the one we were on) could technically be recalled home, leaving the multi-sector patrol fleet a fleet without any ships.
“That’s true, but we’re not in the Imperial Fleet, if we ever were. Now we’re technically in the Confederation Fleet… according to you,” Tremblay riposted. He had obviously been working on this for quite some time, and I was going to have to be on my toes as I navigated this political minefield.
“Looking through historical records, when members of the Confederation Fleet merged with the Imperial Navy, the Confederation officers all took an automatic one step down in rank,” I said. “Down two for SDF to Imperial Navy, down one from Confed to Imperial. According to that, I should be one step down to Rear Admiral. And all of this ignores the fact that a granted flag title carries just as much weight and authority as an earned one, in the absence of a duly appointed and recognized officer of comparable rank.”
Tremblay opened his mouth to retort, but I interrupted him.
“What’s your point, First Officer,” I asked abruptly, tiring of whatever game he was playing at. For now, I was the Admiral of this ship and that was how it was going to stay until and unless we got home or something else changed. Like a successful mutiny.
Tremblay frowned and looked hard at the floor, “I’m not sure that an officer of the Rim Fleet, if any stayed behind, or any Retired Confederals brought back into service will recognize your authority to command our multi-sector patrol fleet. Which, I will add, is down to all of one undermanned, under-equipped starship. I am sure that as soon as they review your commission they will not recognize you as having any authority over them or their commands, whatsoever.”
“Find your point quickly, Officer Tremblay. I’m fast losing my patience,” I said as evenly as I could. Hypotheticals and more hypotheticals when there was an Escort corvette to speak with and two rescue operations to plan for. One for the Settler ship that broken in two and countless settlers were drifting in space as the two of them spoke. The second rescue obviously involved our missing engineers floating in space.
“My point is that those two corvettes are old Confederation models. They stood and fought even when the situation looked hopeless and they could have bugged out at anytime up until the one was disabled. Most SDF forces would have retreated if it wasn’t their planetary citizens or home-world on the line. So it might be wisest to have you put back on that outdated Admiral’s uniform you managed to scrounge up. Murphy knows where you got it, and when you have us send over copies of our provenance and orders, we send everything but a copy of your actual commission in the Confederation Fleet,” said Tremblay. “Such as it is.”
I was surprised. Tremblay had been dragging his heels over supporting me every step of the way. Now he was actually advocating that I do everything I could to mask the fact that technically I might not be considered an actual Confederation Admiral by the regular forces, despite officially being in command of one of their fleets.
Of course, the whole plan might be to get me out of the power armor so Tremblay could launch a coup d’état and set the ship on a course that could take this Dreadnaught class battleship straight back home to Capria.
On the other hand, his points were reasonable and when it was all said and done, I was a Montagne. I had made a few contingency plans along the way for just for such a problem. Now was maybe the time to see if any of the plans I had formulated were any good.
“Alright, I’ll go change and meet you back here. Have the channel to the corvette standing by for my return to the Flag Bridge. I want to speak with the captain of that ship personally,” I said, rising from the chair. I registered the surprise on Tremblay’s face, quickly masked by the former Intelligence Officer, but I chose to ignore it.
As soon as I was back in my quarters, I placed a com call before stripping out of the battle suit. Unless I was completely paranoid, events were about to be set in motion that would determine whether or not I would remain Admiral in command of the ship, or spend the rest of the trip as a prisoner in the brig.
Manhandling Helmsman DuPont had been a desperation move, and while it had paid off for the Settlers, it had killed engineers and might come back to bite me in the hind quarters. The Piranha Squadron was scattered and broken because of it and the settlers were safe sooner rather than later. But engineers were dead or dying, floating away in cold space and on top of that, playing into the bloodthirsty, crazed Montagne stereotype might backfire with a vengeance. I still remembered the look in Tremblay’s eye when he had produced his well-concealed blaster pistol.
Before I knew it, I was dressed and had no more time for pondering. It was time to talk with the corvette’s Captain.
Chapter 17: A Nice Cruise
I made my way back to the bridge, silently rehearsing the parts of the upcoming conversation which I believed would be the most crucial. Time seemed to be flying by, as I found myself standing outside the bridge far too quickly for my own liking. Gathering my composure, I activated the panel and strode onto the bridge. Once seated in the Admiral's Throne, I motioned to the communications technician to open the channel.
“Hello. Is this the crazy Captain of that big bastard of a battleship? The one that just came roaring by and sideswiped several of those pirate cutters that were giving us such a problem,” asked a hatchet faced woman who looked to be somewhere into her second century. She was dressed in a Confederation uniform similar to the one I was wearing, but it sported an oddly updated appearance. “I hope that old Confederation encryption key you’re using means you’re one of the good guys and not another blasted pirate in disguise.”
“This is Admiral Jason Montagne Vekna, Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I replied, “and yes, we’re the good guys,” I said with a lopsided grin.
“Admiral who?” She gave him a strange look, her eyes lingering on my ill fitting and nearly a century out of date old Confederation Admiral’s uniform. She gave herself half a shake. “That’s not what’s important right now. On behalf of myself and the Settlement Convoy under my protection I’d like to officially thank you for the timely assistance with those pirate scum.” She paused for a moment before continuing, obviously weighing her words carefully.
“Although something my command crew and I don’t understand is why you chose to ram instead of fire your heavy weaponry when you passed through the center of their main formation. A battleship is tough, as you just clearly illustrated, but also very well armed. Frankly we’re baffled,” said the corvette Captain. I couldn't tell for certain if she was admonishing me, genuinely curious, or some strange mixture of the two.
I could feel myself starting to turn red, and took a deep breath to steady myself. Dealing with a trained military officer, whose opinion was important (unlike pirates, who I could bluff and talk to without fear of anything worse happening later on) was nerve wracking. What’s the worst the pirates could do? Try to destroy the ship and kill or capture all those helpless settlers? They were already doing that. The Captain of the corvette, on the other hand, could cause me a big headache in the here and now, plus a great deal of trouble back home if we got off on the wrong foot.
“It’s a bit of a long story,” I said with a wave to downplay the whole situation. I was just about to change the subject when the corvette Captain beat me to the punch.
“We have a little bit of time before my corvette matches airlocks with our sister ship and we move to recover her. Incidentally, killing any pirates we encounter, Admiral,” the Captain said, sitting back in her chair. “My crew is dying to know how Confederation forces came to the rescue. We’d given up hope for a rescue.”
I smiled to hide my suddenly gritted teeth. “I admit that from a given perspective, ramming them might look like something out of a holo-drama,” I said, careful not to mention that I actually got the idea from a low budget Caprian holo-series I had been avidly following prior to being drafted into the patrol fleet, “but it really starts makes sense when you realize we entered this system essentially unarmed.”
The hatchet-faced Captain blinked. “Interesting,” she said, “go on. This has to be good. Also, I assume the cruiser in system, the one that hasn’t moved, is with you?”
“Yes, a captured pirate ship,” I replied shortly, thankful for the momentary change of topic. I relaxed a little and was able to compose myself before continuing further. “Regarding our lack of weaponry, the answer is really quite simple,” I paused and leaned back in my chair, “I take it you’ve heard about the Empire’s withdrawal from the Spine?” The corvette captain sucked in a breath but after half a second gave an almost jerky nod. “Well so long as you know about that, then everything that follows becomes more understandable,” I said with a nod of my own. “I still can’t believe the Empire would abrogate the Union Treaty like this,” I shook my head slowly, trying to convey a profound sense of disappointment. “But I’m wandering off topic.”
I turned to the side and motioned to one of the communication technicians, “Please send our credentials over to the corvette at the end of our conversation,” I said pointedly before turning back to face the captain on the screen. “As I was saying, when the Lucky Clover was designated to become the Flagship of our newly formed Patrol Fleet, the Imperials decided to upgrade her. This occurred prior to the start of our mission, of course, and Imperial Command also placed a number of officers onboard to assist us in our new duties. When the Imperial officers received recall orders from the Triumvirate, those same officers signaled for a command ship and proceeded to strip out all of the Imperial equipment they’d just installed, including our new weapons systems,” I paused and gave a cold half smile. “Thanks to our Chief Engineer, we still have most of the old weapon systems with us. We just hadn’t had time to reinstall them before we received your distress call. Time being of the essence, I decided not to wait until we were effectively rearmed, but instead to come immediately to the assistance of a distressed settlement convoy.”
The corvette Captain’s eyes widened. “I don’t know of many captains, or admirals for that matter,” she said with a brief gesture in his direction, “who would have made the decision to take an unarmed ship, even a battleship, to answer a distress call. Although let me be the first to assure you that my crew and the settlers we’ve been escorting aren’t going to complain. Not one bit,” she said giving him a nod full of thanks, “Once again and on behalf of my ship and everyone in our convoy, I’d like to thank you for your efforts on our behalf.”
I nodded in a fashion I hoped was not too curt and signed off as soon as possible. We monitored the escort corvette as mated its airlock to the airlock of the pirate cutter. On the main view screen it looked like the cutter was now squeezed in between the two corvettes, each almost twice the size of the little pirate vessel.
Also around the same time, the two undamaged pirate cutters formed warp fields within seconds of each other and point transferred out of the system.
Their less powerful star drives and smaller warp fields ensured they wouldn’t go far. However, rapid recycle times meant that they could jump much more often than an older, heavier ship like the Clover. So even if a large ship like the Clover was ready to jump and knew exactly where to go, the larger vessel with its slower but longer ranged engines would lose them after the 2nd transfer point. If the larger ship couldn’t destroy the smaller ship first, of course.
“Let's change the alert status from red to yellow and let the crew know that except for a few loose ends the pirate threat in this system has been taken care of,” I said, turning to speak with the communication tech responsible for the internal com system. “The hard work isn’t over. We still have some crewmen and a lot of settlers to rescue, but as far as the battle is concerned we can chalk this one up in the win column.”
I was suddenly taken aback at the implications of what I had just said. I (or rather, the ship I was commanding) had won a battle with real life pirates!
The blast doors behind me cycled open.
I stood up from the throne and prepared myself for what was to come. It was time to face the music. Hopefully no one (especially myself) would get hurt.
Chapter 18: An Outraged Engineer
I had expected to see Lieutenant Tremblay with a well armed detail of men, or perhaps just an armed detail of men so Tremblay could maintain the polite fiction that he wasn’t involved. I was holding out hope that my surprise for Tremblay, should the First Officer be launching a mutiny, might arrive first.
Instead of an arrest squad, the blast doors burst opened to reveal the Chief Engineer, bald dome at the top of his head gleaming with sweat and what hair he still had flaring wildly out to either side. The half-crazed eyes of the old engineer scanned the room before settling on me. His uniform was dripping with sweat and his left leg was at least twice the size of the other, due to some kind of cast, I guessed.
The wrinkled old officer straddling the line between old and ancient locked his eyes with mine in a furious glare. In one hand he held an unlit plasma torch; his other hand produced a finger pointed right at me.
“Ask for miracles without limit,” he roared, stabbing an accusing finger as he slowly rounded on me. “Engineering can do it.” His gnarled finger thrust accusingly at me yet again. “Ask us to keep the ship running with half the men we need and almost no trained crew,” his finger stabbed once again and he took a step onto the bridge, “Engineering can do it."
"Ask for impossible warp bubbles to haul prize ships too large for any sane spacer to even think about taking with them,” his finger pointed at me like an exclamation mark, and oddly I was quite thrilled that it was the open hand he continued to gesture with, apparently having forgotten the plasma torch in his other. He continued to roar, taking another step into the bridge, “Engineering can do it! Ask us to re-install weapon systems that are only there because we lied, cheated, stole and schemed to keep them on this ship when the Imperials threw them away for junk!” By now he was very close to the Admiral’s Throne, standing almost right next to it. “Engineering can blasted well do that, too!”
“I understand you’re upset,” I started, trying to gain some control over the situation. “We have shuttles out right now-”
“Upset? Upset,” screamed the Chief Engineer, cutting me off abruptly.
By now several members of the Bridge Crew stood on their feet, looking uncertainly at the exchange. I could understand the shame on their faces because I felt it just as keenly as anyone else on board. No one had thought to warn engineering to get off the hull, and as the Admiral who had ordered the ramming, I was most responsible for the results, both good and bad.
“You can demote us, work us till our hands bleed and we can’t remember the last time we saw a bunk. Send us out on the hull during combat to fix things that should very blasted well have been fixed before this ship even thought about getting into combat in the first place!”
By this time the Chief Engineer was so red in the face, that had I not feared the impending introduction of the plasma torch to the conversation (as a club, at the very least), I would have called for station medical with a sedative.
“But as the Demon Murphy is my witness, what you cannot do is leave an entire engineering shift out on the hull to act as human bumper cushions, when you know good and well that you’re planning to ram an enemy vessel!” A vein in the old engineer's forehead was becoming more prominent with every passing second.
“I offered to make you Captain of the ship once before. I repeat the offer," I said, trying to defuse the situation by maintaining a calm, even tone. "If you think the ship would be handled bett-”
That was as far as I got before Lieutenant Spalding’s fist connected with my jaw.
I fell against the Admiral’s Throne, seeing more stars than just the ones depicted on the view screen. Before I could regain my footing, a boot hit me in the stomach. The funny part is that even though I was having difficulty with most of my senses, my hearing was remarkably clear. I know that it was uncompromised because I suddenly snapped to full attention at the sound of a plasma torch activating.
“Back! Back, all ye murderin' idiots,” snarled the Chief Engineer, the last word sounding more like 'idjits' than usual, likely owing to the engineer's rage and uneven breathing. Nobody seemed to notice the blast doors opening in the middle of the scene.
There was a gasp. “This is Mutiny!” declared Officer Tremblay.
He must have just entered the Flag Bridge, I thought, still gasping for air and surprised at the pain in my jaw from just one punch thrown by a man many times my age.
“Seize the Chief Engineer and clap him in irons!” yelled Tremblay.
There was the sound of a plasma torch being swung back and forth. “I also hold you responsible for my men on the Hull, Mr. First Officer,” cried Spalding, the pure rage in his voice now accompanied by something less furious and more accusatory. “You left them out there to die.”
“Sir, think about what you're doing,” pleaded Gants to the Chief Engineer. A new voice on the Flag Bridge, and not a moment too soon. It looked like the surprise I had called up from the armory had met with Officer Tremblay on his way back to the Flag Bridge from his quarters.
“So you’re against me too, Gants,” Spalding coughed. “Arghh,” Then there was a gasp and the sound of the plasma torch hitting the floor followed by the thud of a body. Metal popped and bubbled where the plasma flame touched the floor.
“Never, Mr. Spalding, sir,” cried Gants, incredulous at the implication and sounding hurt. I could hear him moving towards our position, but I was still having some degree of difficulty with my vision.
There was the sound of a scuffle. “Keep your blasted hands off him,” yelled Gants.
“He struck a superior officer in a war-zone. An Admiral, no less! He even tried to kill him with a plasma torch. He’s nothing but a miserable old mutineer,” said Tremblay, the sneer on his face easily visible in my mind's eye.
“He’s an old man with a bad heart and he needs a medic. Medic. Medic!” cried Gants. “He’s never killed anyone with that plasma torch. Only burned a few arses that needed it,” Gants said furiously. It was obvious that he wasn't used to defending the old man, but the hero worship in his voice was evident and it was clear as day that the man felt absolute conviction standing alongside Engineer Spalding in this, perhaps his lowest moment.
There was the sound of another blow. “How dare you," Officer Tremblay said, ice in his voice.
“You want to talk about some more mutiny, do you Mr. First Officer? Well, let's talk and don’t think for a minute I haven’t heard all about you asking the crew their opinions about having a Montagne in command of us all,” Gants said hotly.
It seemed even though he had been willing to bring a couple of his armory buddies to the Flag Bridge to back me up, the former engineering rating was still holding out on me. Oh well, at least he came when asked and was about as opposed to anything the former Intelligence Officer was up to as he would ever be right at this minute, which was exactly what I needed.
I decided something while lying on the deck, listening to the crisis unfolding around me. The young person who had stood up to confront an irate Chief of Engineering might have fallen to the deck thinking he was nothing more than just another young man from Capria. Someone who had been thrust into something he wanted out of so badly he could almost scream, but for all of that was still just a pawn at the mercy of powerful men who were very far away. I decided that the man who got up off this decking was going to be something entirely different from that person. Up until this moment everything had felt like a role I was playing, a game, albeit one with deadly results, but for all of that still just a game. But now people had died and I was responsible. Thousands had lived that wouldn’t otherwise, and I was responsible for that too.
From now on, I wasn’t just Jason Montagne, a two-bit nothing Royal with a martyr complex who was so persecuted he couldn’t even get a student loan because the world really was out to get him. Instead, I was going to be (and refuse to think of myself as anything other than) Admiral Jason Montagne, a Prince-Cadet of the Caprian Realm. Demon-Murphy take anyone who thought differently!
“Enough,” I said firmly, using a hand on the throne to help myself to my feet. My vision seemed to return with the discovery of my newfound purpose.
“Striking a superior officer is a court-martial offense,” said Officer Tremblay. “In a war zone, it's execution!”
“That dirty, good for nothing skunk. Kicking a man when he’s down having a heart attack," said Gants, emotion starting to get the better of him. "Admiral, sir!” pleaded Gants.
“I said enough. That goes for the both of you,” I repeated.
The two men were standing over the stricken form of the chief of engineering like two dogs fighting over a scrap of bone. Behind them were a gaggle of men with sonic weapons. I knew I should check to see if they were all from the armory, or if Mr. Tremblay had finally decided to make his move. Instead, I made a snap decision.
“I’m pardoning all of you. The whole lot,” I said. “Everything that happened up until this moment is forgiven.”
“What,” asked Officer Tremblay, his forehead wrinkling as he looked at me for the first time since bursting onto the scene.
“Thank you, sir,” said Gants knuckling his forehead. “Much obliged.” He didn’t look very obliged; he rather looked like an angry hornet.
“Admirals can’t just pardon anyone they please, they don’t have that power,” said Tremblay, scowling fiercely.
“I have the right and the power and I dare anyone to test me,” I said, sticking my chin out, then wincing at the pain the gesture produced. For an old man, the Chief Engineer sure packed a punch. “Anyone who disagrees with my decisions and actions is free to get off at the next stop. Until then, he’s to keep his mouth shut and obey my orders.”
I kept speaking, pointedly talking over several different people who wanted to inject their say into the conversation. “The first order you’re all to obey is get this man down to the infirmary,” I said, pointing to the Chief Engineer who looked like he actually was having a heart attack or a stroke. “Everyone not doing that is to start preparing this ship for a disaster relief effort, immediately. Those settlers out there don’t care about anyone’s ego, or who made what mistake. They only care how long they can keep breathing. I aim to see to that issue, first and foremost. Everything we’ve done here is for nothing if we stand by and let them die.”
I turned and sat down in my chair, deliberately showing my back. I was trying to make it obvious that I expected them to deal with it. “Everything,” I repeated with finality.
Chapter 19: The Relief Effort
What a relief it was to stop worrying about battles and boarding actions that killed people and focus on just saving lives.
As expected, it was confusion on the bridge and all throughout the ship as the entire crew prepared to receive survivors and then actually started picking them up.
While we were still busy with the first phase of the rescue effort, the second corvette was retaken along with the pirate cutter still mysteriously attached to her. It seemed the corvette’s crew had barricaded themselves in engineering and the armory, weathering the pirate storm until her still-active sister ship could arrive to save the day. As best the corvette's officers could tell, during battle the cutter captain and all of her officers had been killed and so no one alive had the necessary codes to undock the cutter and make a run for it. Most of the pirates inside had been unaware of this, still under the impression the pirates were winning the battle for cold space, all the way until the jacks arrived.
But even if both corvettes and the cutter had been completely empty, there was no way the three relatively small vessels could take an appreciable fraction of the survivors from the broken settlement ship.
Fully loaded, as that settlement ship had been, she carried just under a hundred thousand settlers and all the equipment and supplies they thought they were going to need when they reached their new home.
Even with our best rescue efforts, if we saved even half of those settlers I would have no choice but to count it as a win. Rescue operations like medical triage must be viewed with a 'glass half full' mentality at all times in order to maintain focus and efficiency. The pirates had done incredible damage to that ship and then sent in cutters, one by one, to load their holds with prime terraforming and manufacturing equipment, while the rest of the pirates held off the defenders and continued to pick away at the escort ships.
So for the first time since losing nearly half of our crew to the Empire (some nearly eight thousand men in total) we finally saw a measurable benefit from losing all those men. The Lucky Clover had once more lived up to her name sake by showing us the lucky side of the situation. The loss of so many men may have hurt our ship’s morale and its effectiveness on every level you could imagine, but it had also made room for more than eight thousand half-frozen survivors who would have otherwise frozen to death or suffocated drifting in cold space.
The pirate cruiser that Admiral Janeski had so thoughtfully left for us was little better than a floating death trap and still filled with loads of pirate garbage, but to the floating settlers, a death trap was head and shoulders better than waiting until your spacesuit’s life support functions ran down in the cold vacuum of the void. At least they now had a chance.
We managed to cram another almost eight thousand floaters into the captured cruiser, after we stripped enough trustworthy air recycling systems from the broken settlement ship to ensure their continued air supply.
The air recycling systems were rigged and prone to failure at the first whiff of trouble, but we were running out of space to put people. Even recovering the pirate cutter which the corvette had knocked out after we rammed our way through the Piranhas Formation wasn’t worth more than a drop in the bucket compared to the needs of some fifty thousand survivors.
Still, our over-worked engineers patched a few holes and made the two captured cutters livable before welding them to the outside of our hull. No one wanted to trust pirate systems on a damaged ship. Who knew what kind of suicide protocols and spoiler programming had been installed into its system to activate if its captain died?
It wasn't long before I was speaking with the captains of the two surviving settlement ships. One was a Caprian with a hold full of my countrymen on their way out to colonize some new planet, and the other was a Belter. A man from a culture that lived in orbital industrial stations, mining asteroids and small moons. Commonly called rock rats, it seemed the system these people had been in previously was nearly played out and they had been granted an Imperial charter for the start a new Belter colony further out on the rim of known space. However, the long promised Imperial escort never arrived and they had been forced to set out unprotected or lose their homesteading rights.
The broken ship, on the other hand, had been full of families from Prometheus. Prometheans were a strange lot, but Capria and Prometheus were far enough away from each other that the two groups generally got along when we came together. I pushed aside dark thoughts regarding the two medium cruisers that should have been in system with us but weren’t.
“I’m not sure how many more survivors we can safely take onboard our ship, Admiral,” the Captain of the Belter-ship said respectfully, the scene on his bridge only marginally less chaotic than the one on mine.
My brows lowered and the Captain of the Caprian Settler frowned at his Belter compatriot.
The Belter continued quickly, “It’s not that we don’t want to take more survivors. It’s just that the pirates attacked us too, you see. Not only is a settlement ship by definition filled to the brim already, but we sprung a number of air leaks during the attack. It will take time to find, fix and repair all of the leaks, and in the mean time our recyclers are working overtime just to keep the people we already have alive. If we lose too much air it doesn’t matter if all the leaks are eventually patched, we’ll have too many people and too little oxygen to make it to the next port.”
At this the Caprian Captain reluctantly nodded. “My ship also experienced damage in the attack. I don’t think it's as bad for us as it is for the Belters, but he has a point.”
I stared at the desk for a moment. I was using the Admiral’s ready room for the first time. This room had always been the territory of Admiral Janeski, and being summoned here had always felt like turning in your homework to a disapproving teacher. Despite the bad memories, it had lots of space and better systems than anything else I could find on or near the bridge, and from here I could monitor multiple operations at the same time.
Right now though, all those operations were saying the same thing: there just wasn’t enough room to safely carry all the survivors. Frankly, I was getting fed up with the constant stream of protests. Who cares about safety when the alternative to a dangerous action is certain death, anyways?
“In short, what you’re saying is that even with every ship in the system we can only take on something like half the survivors,” I said flatly.
“I’m sorry, Admiral," began the Belter captain. "But if we take on any more people no one will survive the trip home. It's not food or space, although space is extremely tight. It’s the air. Without air to breath, we’ll all die.”
The Caprian nodded his agreement and looked guardedly at me. “I hate to say it but I don’t see any way either, Admiral. Maybe we can temporarily patch up some of the decks on the hulk and they can ride things out here until a ship can come back out and ferry them home.”
I shook my head in negation. “No,” I said forcefully. “Leaving them behind is a death sentence. The pirates already know there’s a wreck out here to be salvaged, and like flies on road kill they’ll be back as soon as we leave. Then it's death or worse for anyone left behind on that derelict.”
“A corvette could stay behind to guard them,” suggested the Belter. “At least until a rescue effort could be mustered."
“Both Escort ships have been damaged and one was recently disabled. Besides, you’ve already been attacked once. Won’t you need both corvettes to fight off another pirate attack, if they find you again while you’re traveling to your new settlements,” I asked, trying to draw some further dialogue. I didn’t intent to make this easy for the captains of the settlement ships.
The Belter blinked. “But we thought,” he glanced at his Caprian counterpart, who kept his face blank and unhelpful, “That is to say, I had thought that since you and your battleship. The uh… the Lucky Clover is already here, and it seemed logical that you’d escort us the rest of the way to our new homes,” said the Belter, looking and sounding flustered.
I decided to blow some smoke in their faces to confuse them and then thread in just enough truth so that they couldn’t later complain that they had been deceived.
“This is the Flagship of a Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and we have a duty to more than just one convoy of settlers, Captain. Maybe if the pair of you didn’t already have an escort,” I trailed off regretfully. Two parts fiction and one part unpalatable fact.
The Belter looked as if he’d just bitten a lemon, while the Caprian Captain muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, “Montagne’s.”
Offended and not willing to rein myself in after I had just risked everything to save the ungrateful man’s life, I fixed him with a cold glare. The Belter glanced back and forth between his fellow captain and myself, aware that something had passed between us. He didn’t know what it was, lacking the shared historical context, but it was obvious he could tell it wasn’t going to help.
“As it is,” I said stiffly, playing the part of the offended Admiral, which I certainly was, but not to the degree I let on, “you already have protection, so I feel it my duty to see to the needs of thousands of helpless citizens of Prometheus.”
The Caprian Captain glared at his desk but didn’t say anything further. Clearly he’d already given up on further help from a Montagne Admiral.
I felt a flare of righteous anger but throttled it silent before I said something I would later regret. Or rather, something the thousands onboard the settlement ships would later regret.
“I’m sure some workable compromise can be reached,” the Belter captain said desperately, ignoring his Caprian counterpart and focusing solely on me. “The corvettes have done more for us than we could have rightfully hoped, but in the last battle one was disabled and almost captured, while the other was severely damaged. If you hadn’t arrived, I shudder to think what might have happened. Please, if my colleague has somehow offended you, think about the families we are carrying instead. On behalf of the thousands of Belters crammed aboard my ship, I beg you. We desperately need your help reaching a safe port.”
The Caprian captain was still glaring at his desk but he gave a jerky nod and looked up giving up the glare. “On behalf of thousands of your fellow Caprians, I also ask for your help, Admiral Montagne,” he said, sounding like he’d swallowed a fish bone. The Caprian Captain took a deep breath. “The fact is we need your ship, Admiral. Or something like her if we’re going to reach a world to safely put down on. As long as everyone knows the Imperial Navy has pulled out of the region, it’s open season on ships like ours,” he said, his eyes raw with emotion.
I could imagine how the man felt. Defeated royalists or triumphant parliamentarians, it didn’t matter which faction you belonged to. Back on my home world everyone blamed the Montagnes. The parliamentarians blamed us for the purging of their government and the later orbital bombardment by the Imperial Navy. The royalists also blamed us for the orbital bombardment and the counter-purge by the parliamentarians that followed after they returned to power with the support of the Imperials.
It had to be a bitter pill to swallow, begging the son and grandson of butchers to help save your life. For the second time in such a short period of time, no less.
“Alright,” I said, nodding slowly. “I can’t promise the Clover will escort you to your new home worlds. Or,” I paused and nodded acknowledgment to the Belter, “new home systems.” I drew in a deep breath. “But,” I said, holding up a finger, “you can accompany us on our patrol until we reach a world you consider safe enough to part from our company.”
The two captains nodded their thanks and started to smile, much of the tension disappearing instantly.
“However,” I said, lowering my finger pointedly to the desktop, “I’m still not willing to just abandon the Promethean settlers in this system.”
The still forming smiles wilted and the settlement captains looked uneasy. The conversation had come full circle without any resolution.
I started ticking points off on my fingers. “We can’t carry all the Prometheans with us for any kind of extended journey. Don’t I have that right,” I asked, alternating my gaze between the two Captains.
“Yes,” grated the Caprian Captain, no doubt once again smelling the foul odor of a Montagne in the room.
The Belter just nodded. Then decided to add, “Even more than one point transfer might be too long. It takes us a day just to cycle our engines. As it is, to take on another twenty five thousand or so refugee... I don’t know, even split between our ships, people will be packed into corridors with no room to sit or lay down. We were hot-bunking in shifts before taking on the Prometheans. If they’re onboard for longer than a day...well, a person can only stand for so long, and when there’s children involved logic can take a back seat to emotion. Too long and a riot is possible. Which completely ignores a breakdown in environmental and the air supply going bad, killing us all.”
“We could always dump some of your settlement equipment and make room for more people in the cargo holds,” I suggested, finally bringing the idea to the table.
“No,” exclaimed the Belter.
“Still wouldn’t solve the air problem,” the Caprian Captain said glumly, shaking his head.
“Especially not knowing that pirates could come back at anytime and steal any equipment we left here," said the Belter Captain. “Equipment we need just to live our lives, in cold space, as anything other than refugees. Admiral, my people would rather die than be reduced to such circumstances.”
“Our situation is different from the Belters. If our equipment was stolen, we would likely become another failed colony, but we’d at least still have a chance and could always come home if we failed,” said the Caprian Captain. “The Belters have nowhere to go back to if they fail…” he trailed off.
“That’s not strictly true,” said the Belter Captain looking deeply unhappy. “We could always return to our station of origin, as beggars instead of productive members of the interstellar community.”
“I believe I understand,” I said, cutting into the conversation. “If we can’t take them with us on a long journey and we can’t leave them,” I ignored their desperate looks, “then that means we have to find some place,” I nodded at the Belter Captain, “within one jump range of our ships. That place must be able to support the Prometheans until such a time as someone can come back to retrieve them.”
The Caprian Captain stroked his chin and looked away from the screen while the Belter Captain frowned.
“According to the Dictates of Man," the Caprian Captain said, “landing settlers on any unclaimed world or lightly settled world, without permission of the Colonization Bureau, is claim jumping and punishable by orbital bombardment. The statute is quite specific that there are no possible extenuating circumstances.”
“The Dictates of Man,” I said, thoughtfully tapping my chin. “Those wouldn’t happen to be the 'Imperial Dictates of Man' by any chance,” I asked.
“Yes,” said the Belter doubtfully. No doubt he could sense the question was a set up and he wasn’t going to like the conclusion. “The Dictates were laid down by the Imperial Senate working in conjunction with the Triumvirate."
The Caprian Captain just nodded and once again muttered something under his breath.
I suspected he’d just said “Montagne’s” again, the same as last time, but more quietly than before, but I couldn’t be sure. However, this time I didn’t blame the Captain for the sentiment.
“Well that’s a relief,” I said, wiping imaginary sweat from my brow. “Confederation Citizens are required to obey all Imperial edicts and treaties the same as if we were Imperial Citizens as set down under the Union Treaty.” The two captains winced in unison as if they could tell what I was about to say. “After all, under the Union Treaty we are one nation, one people. No longer Empire and Confederation, we are now dual citizens as it were, under one unifying government, The Confederated Empire, with one unified military which protects each and every one of us equally,” I said raising my face and hands to the ceiling in mock rapture, “under the law.”
Then I lowered my face to look at the two civilian captains. “The Empire of Man just took the treaty, tore it into little pieces and shredded the Confederation when they did so. In effect, they used the remains of the Union Treaty as toilet paper when they abandoned us, or rather, when they abandoned you and your ships to pirates. In effect, they said that this document and their obligations under it are as nothing to them, and worth no more than the paper it was written on.”
The two captains looked on white faced as I spoke.
“The Confederated Empire’s become a joke. That is, assuming it was ever a serious concern in the first place,” I continued, carried away by the sudden rush of anger. “They pulled out and left you with me.” I looked over at Caprian Captain, “Me. A Montagne. And I’m supposed to mind the store, with nothing but an ancient battleship and barely enough men for a skeleton crew." I shook my head emphatically. “They pulled out of the Spineward Sectors because of intense fighting against the Gorgon Alliance, right? Gentlemen, the Confederation is comprised of 27 sectors. Their withdrawal broke the treaty with the whole Confederation, but they only bothered to pull Imperial assets out of eight sectors. The least developed eight sectors in the Confederated Empire, I might point out.”
I slammed my fist into the table, the rising anger threatening to overwhelm me. “And what about the Ninth Provisional Sector of The Spine,” I demanded, looking at the Settlement Captains, “The 28th Provisional Sector of the Confederation was settled by Imperials from the Core Provinces and funded by a group of influential senators. How much do you want to bet that when the Empire abandoned the Spine because of ‘pressure from the Alliance’ they failed to also pull out of the 28th Provisional?” I paused again, this time simply to catch my breath. One of the first rules of public performance, whether it is singing, athletics or public speaking, is to never allow emotion to overcome your self-control. I wasn't doing a very good job, to be honest.
“At this point there is only the Imperial Navy of The Empire of Man, and a somewhat less-than-robust Confederation presence in the Spine,” I said, suddenly wondering why I was yelling at a pair of civilian captains about this. They weren’t responsible for the current state of interstellar politics, and there was nothing they could do about it. But I shamefully admit that I still felt better for getting it off my chest.
“The Imperial Navy may abandon its people to pirates at the whim of some Triumvir sitting safely in the Imperial Capitol, but the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet will never do so, at least not as long as I’m here,” I said with a measure of genuine resolve I would previously not have believed I possessed.
“So fill your ship with every Promethean you can squeeze in and spin up your star drives. We’re not leaving anyone behind to take their chances with the tender mercy of pirates. I’ll transmit new jump coordinates from the Lucky Clover as soon as they’ve been generated, so you can start with your own calculations,” I said and promptly cut the connection.
A search of the Lucky Clover’s DI database turned up little in the way of good prospects for the unfortunate Prometheans. They were already out on the rim of known space. So there were no ports of call or developed worlds in the area to take them. Perhaps there were a few black colonies scattered around out here, like in the holo-dramas, but if so I didn't have the faintest idea of how to find them.
I called the Navigator, Helmsman, Science Officer, and First Officer Tremblay into my office for a round table discussion regarding our options. After dealing with the same list of arguments I had just gone through with the Settler Captains, the group settled down to discuss the list assembled by the DI.
"It's bad, Admiral," began Science Officer Jones. "Not only are we trying to retrieve information from a computer system whose database is based on fractured backup copies, but in some cases the information hasn't been updated in over a decade. Even when the records are 'complete,' the information we're looking for is extremely limited. A local system defense library is obviously somewhat limited in its comprehensiveness."
I groaned silently. Yet another example of our having grown to rely too heavily on the Imperial data network which, like every other instance of former over-reliance on Imperial assets, had come back to haunt us.
"However," interjected Lieutenant Tremblay, "we have determined that there is a star system containing a habitable world within range of both the Clover and the remaining settlement ships. The information on this star system hasn't been updated in over seventy years, since before the final union between the Empire and the Confederacy." The First Officer's lip curled in annoyance. I suppose relying on information nearly as old as our Chief Engineer was more than a former Intelligence Officer could handle.
"Fortunately for us, habitable worlds don't generally go bad in less than a century," the Science Officer continued sarcastically, despite Tremblay's interruption. "The inhabitants of the world are listed as primitive, hostile and limited to one continent. However, they are human, which takes a lot of the guesswork out of whether or not the world will sustain the settlers for any period of time. Worst case, we set the Prometheans down on a large island or an entirely unpopulated continent and return later to collect them."
"I don't mean to sound harsh or unsympathetic, Sir, but I would prefer to put them down on some desert world where no pirates would ever think to even look for them," said Helmsman DuPont. "At least until we can come back with a relief convoy to pick them up and transport them to their intended destination."
I shook my head, slightly pleased that I had considered this option already. "We can't even squeeze a fraction the equipment from the cargo hold of the wrecked ship, so there's no way we can bring enough of it to set up portable facilities to keep them supplied with food and other essentials long enough for us to complete a roundtrip and return with more transport ships." Tremblay grudgingly nodded his head in agreement. I continued, trying to build on the momentum. "And that assumes we don't get recalled home as soon as we hit a civilized port of call and the job gets handed to someone else who, under the best of circumstances will be less invested in seeing the operation completed than we are. That's assuming their plight doesn't get lost in some pile of paperwork somewhere and is forgotten entirely."
The discussion continued for a few more minutes, but in the end, establishing a new settlement or colony on an undeveloped world was something I had actually studied intently before landing in the Admiral’s Throne. Since I at least thought I knew what I was talking about, I was firm in my position. In the end, my decision carried the day.
Chapter 20: A Lesson In Piracy
I was back in the Admiral’s Throne a few hours later when Lieutenant Tremblay turned to me.
“I think that’s everything we can squeeze in, Admiral,” he said with a frown. “The final tally from all the ships including ours is…” he glanced at his handheld, “54,341 survivors loaded in various stages of discomfort. Every cargo hold and spare crawl space has been packed to the rafters with settlement gear from the Promethean ship,” he finished, sounding relieved.
“Final sensor sweeps have turned up no life signs and a visual check has been performed by our shuttles?” I asked, still reeling from the disastrous incident involving engineers and an ill-conceived ramming.
“Sensor sweeps are negative and visuals turned up no movement. I think it's safe to say we found everyone who was still alive and transferred them to a functioning ship. By this point, space suits would have run out of power and since we’ve already done a visual sweep of the Promethean settlement ship, we can be confident there’s no one left aboard that hulk,” said Tremblay.
“Alright," I said with more than a hint of relief in my own voice, "then make sure the two settlers have finished their calculations and locked in the coordinates for our new destination. I want to make sure there are no problems like we had with our two missing medium cruisers. Then put me on with the captains in command of the corvettes,” I said with a wave directed to the communications section.
“Yes, Admiral,” said Officer Tremblay, turning to the console in the signals section he was sitting at. After a couple minutes he turned back.
“The Setter ships confirm the calculations have been made and course locked into their navigation computer." He sighed heavily before continuing, “they also wish to, once again, raise the point that the system we are jumping into is listed as a Protectorate World and on the Imperial Proscribed List banning all merchant marine and provincial government travel of any kind to this world and system. The Confederated-Imperial Navy and the Confed-Imperial governmental ships are the only ones allowed entry into the system, even in the case of an emergency.”
I waved a hand dismissively. “I don’t give two figs for the Empire’s Proscribed List,” Tremblay opened his mouth to continue but I cut him off again, “as for the more realistic, although remote concern of possible automated defenses for this Protectorate World. That’s why we’re going to point transfer in well away from the world we’re targeting, to give us enough time to scope out the situation,” I finished smoothly.
“Admiral, I know you disagree. But in light of the possibility of automated defenses, I have to once again and for the record strongly urge that we choose another system to jump to, while there’s still time to change course,” said the First Officer.
“Noted,” I said, trying to keep the annoyance from finding its way into my voice. “Noted and noted again. I know you think any risk is too great and maybe you’re right, but we won’t know until we get there. At least we do know this world can support the Prometheans. Remarkably, we have more information in that regard than they do in their more up-to-date database. All they have is a great big ‘restricted’ sign over any useful information. We at least have basic geographical and biological compatibility studies in our files. The same can’t be said for sure about any of our other destinations. We might think they can make it on some sub-prime, marginal world, but who knows.”
“I realize that, Sir. But…” the first officer trailed off in defeat.
“The final determination is mine to make, and I’ve made it,” I said as kindly as I could to a man who constantly disagreed with me.
“It's just that every jump, every single point transfer we’ve made since the Imperials have left has taken us deeper into the Rim and further away from home,” Tremblay said, his shoulders slumping.
I pursed my lips and nodded. I could understand the desire to get home. It wasn’t as acute for me since I fully expected trouble from parliament upon my return. I could sympathize with missing your home world and family, though. It would be nice to see my mother, even if just to touch bases and make sure she was all right.
“I make the best decisions I can in the time I have to make them. I know you don’t always agree with me,” I said, trying to build some positive rapport.
The First Officer snorted.
“Alright, you almost never agree with me,” I said with a cool smile. “Still, I like to think we’ve done some good out here.”
Lieutenant Tremblay gave a reluctant smile. Then grinned, “Admiral, if you keep going on like this, I think we’ll soon fall off the map,” he exclaimed.
I gave him a sharp look, unsure if I had just missed a barb of some kind. I decided to take it at face value as an attempt at humor, and even though it was a poor one, I did my best to smile back.
“I’ll get you home, Tremblay,” I promised, then hastened to add, “Although there might be a few side trips along the way.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of, Sir,” said the First Officer. “The side trips.”
An uncomfortable silence followed. It was a relief when routine ship matters (if anything could be called routine in a ship barely half-filled with crew and the other half over-filled to the brim with refugee colonists) called the First Officer away.
Now that every dissenting opinion had once again been heard and its bearer sent away to deal with other matters, I had nothing to do for several hours but sit back and worry that maybe the naysayers were right.
As events with the engineers on the hull had proved, I wasn’t infallible. Unlike in school, when a mistake would only cost me a sharp rebuke from a professor, when I make mistakes as an Admiral, people died.
"Admiral, the Caprian ship is hailing us," the chief communications officer stated matter-of-factly. I gestured toward the main screen and the image of the hatchet faced woman Captain appeared.
“Are you sure I can’t talk you out of this,” asked the Confederate Captain.
In the last hours I had familiarized myself with her name and rank. She was Lieutenant Commander Synthia McCruise, and with the death of her fellow ship captain during the pirate boarding action, she was in undisputed command of the two corvette escort.
I groaned quietly, trying to maintain composure. “If you disagreed with my decision, why didn’t you say something earlier, Commander McCruise?”
“I didn’t say anything before because I’m not sure I disagree with you. Besides, it's not like I could stop you even if I did,” she said with a shrug.
I paused and considered her carefully. “Still, if you thought I could be making a mistake, you should have said something,” I said guardedly. "You owe that much to your passengers and crew."
She looked at me seriously. “Every decision we make as commanding officers could be a mistake. We have to go forward with the best information we have at the time and make a decision. Besides,” she gave a smile, that on any other woman I would have called impish, “if I really disagreed with you, all I’d have to do is say that I thought you were right, and then make sure when you jumped that the two Settler ships and I high tailed it to an alternate location. There’s no point in picking a fight with a battleship,” she said pragmatically.
My mouth hung open, stunned at Commander McCruise's frankness.
She smiled again, “It’s not like you even bothered to slave their Nav systems to your own.”
I covered my mouth with my hand. Then coughed. I hadn’t even known I could do that.
“That and the genuine rescue effort you guys have been running, clued us in that you weren’t just another cagey pirate with a good line to sell,” she said seriously.
“You still think we might be pirates,” I said aghast.
“Nah,” she said leaning back in her chair. “Real pirates would have posted guards inside the bridges of both Settler ships. If you were a pirate, you’ve done a pretty incompetent job of it.”
Incompetent! Is that how she thought about me and my ship? “Well, we did take on around sixteen thousand refugees,” I said, playing devil's advocate in a desperate attempt to regain my footing. “I suppose if we were real pirates, we’d have sixteen thousand slaves and a hold full of settlement gear right about now,” I said with an arched eyebrow.
She threw back her head and laughed. “Real smart there, Mr. Pirate Genius. You just outnumbered yourself two to one,” for a moment she looked reflective, “Your prize ship is empty except for a few engineers. So you just lost that ship right off the bat, as soon as you tell your new slaves what you have planned for them. There’s no way a bunch of settler types are going to take a little thing like enslavement sitting down,” she paused. “I suppose at two to one odds on your own ship, if you armed your crew beforehand you’d have a pretty good chance of putting down the uprising. However, a lot of your systems are going to be destroyed. If nothing else, they'll get shot up by your own men.”
I smiled thinly, but felt absolutely glum. “Yeah, not the smartest move ever made by a pirate kingpin,” I said playfully.
“Really, you should think about slaving the navigation of any ships you are jumping with in the future,” she said. “Just don’t try it with my Settlers. I’ll be following behind in my corvette just as soon as we’re able and will deal with any monkey business upon arrival, so be warned,” she said sternly.
In the end, I didn’t change my mind and when every ship that could make the jump was ready, we simultaneously point transferred into hyperspace.
Chapter 21: A bad Transition
We emerged from hyperspace with a crash.
“Sweet Murphy, what was that,” said Officer Tremblay as the ship shook.
“Point Emergence,” screamed the Navigator.
“I know that,” snapped Tremblay, grabbing a handhold to steady himself as the ship shook from side to side. “What just happened? Are we under attack?”
“Oh, my gods,” yelled one of the Sensor Operators, who then gave a girlish scream. On the main screen an image suddenly appeared. A large blue-green planet with several large brown patches on its continents dominated the entire screen.
“That’s Tracto VI,” cried another sensor operator.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. The Inertial Sump broke, it just broke. It's gone and I didn’t even light the main engine,” said a horrified Helmsman DuPont.
“This is theoretically impossible,” exclaimed the Science officer, sounding both intrigued and alarmed. “There’s supposed to be no way you can point transfer this deep inside a gravity well and survive.”
“Spin her around and get us out of here,” roared the First Officer, but the helmsman remained paralyzed at his console, “That means light the engines and get us out of here, you fool,” snarled Tremblay, lunging out of the signal section and struggling for the Helm.
With a sudden, spastic jerk, DuPont snapped back to reality and leaned forward over his console, fingers flying at the controls and the ship gave another sudden lurch.
The bridge crew was watching the catastrophe playing out on their consoles or, if they didn’t have anything important right at the moment, on the main screen. People who could do something were doing it. For everyone else, it was like watching a train wreck.
Everyone who knew anything important was busy trying to save the ship. Everyone except yours truly. Because, truth be told, I didn’t know anything important. I was in absolute mortal terror, and there was nothing really for me to do. I tried to remind myself that even in a real fleet the Admiral didn’t deal directly with flying the ship, he dealt instead with directing the ship and any other vessels in their formation in the right direction. Still, I felt utterly useless. I was useless.
Wait a minute. What about the other ships, the ones that were some strapped to the outside of our hull!
I jumped out of the Throne and almost fell down. “Modulate our shields so we don’t burn up, and someone man the bucking cables,” I ordered, grabbing the arm of the Admiral's Throne and pulling myself back inside. “We still have a pirate cruiser and several cutters full of refugees welded to the hull. If they fall off and we don’t catch them, they’re as good as dead!”
“We can’t pull directly away from the planet,” cried the Helmsman, “We’re going to have to slingshot around. We’re in too close.”
“Do it, man,” growled the First Officer. “Just get us out of here.”
“I think I have a partial answer,” said the Science Officer. “This system has large deposits of Trillium, the substance used to make the star drive work.”
“Initiating full burn now,” said the Helmsman, “we’re going in!”
Engines that normally vibrated slightly when used in deep space, howled fiercely deep inside the ship as the gee forces pressed myself and everyone else on the Flag Bridge back in their chairs.
I growled wordlessly as I strained against the increasing pressure brought about by our acceleration.
Chapter 22: Aches and Pains
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer.
A figured loomed over the old engineer with something bright and metallic in its hand. Barely able to concentrate over the line of fire running down the middle of his chest, he still managed to get his right hand in between himself and the figure.
Wandering fingers found an arm and locked on with all the intensity a dying man could muster.
“Let me die,” said the old man. “I’ve had a good run.”
“Let go of me you ornery old coot,” said the grey haired Doctor, trying to pull away.
“Just like my good lads on the hull,” the old engineer continued, blinking back tears.
“You’re not going to die. Now keep your grabby hands off of me,” the Doctor said, struggling to release his arm.
“Didn’t ye hear me,” hissed Spalding, pulling the Doctor closer. “It’s my time. Don’t try to keep me alive any longer. Just let me go. There’s others that need you more than a washed up old has-been like me,” his hand spasmed and he released the grey haired Doctor.
The Doctor stood up and straightened his lab coat. “Just like a little spoiled boy whose toy got broken. Oh woe is me, woe is me. Life can’t go on.” He mimed the rending of his garments.
“Who you calling boy, Sonny,” coughed the old engineer to the grey haired Doctor.
“You know what, you are right,” snapped the doctor. “There’re lots of others who need that bed more than you do. Get your cantankerous old self out of my Infirmary and into your own bed for a change. We don’t need any freeloaders in medical right now!”
The Engineer half rose out of his bed before the line of fire down his chest caused him to collapse back with a grimace of pain.
“Can’t you see I’m dying, you dumb quack,” he gasped.
The Doctor threw his hands up in the air. “What a bunch of space-rot,” he said, placing his hands on his hips. The doctor started to speak in an imitation of a little girl's voice, “Oh, don’t save me. I’m as good as dead already. No one should waste the effort on such a pitiful, spoiled old brat like me, blah, blah, blah.” Then he leveled a finger at the old engineer. “It's too late to let you die, I already saved you, you ungrateful old tyrant,” he said, then muttered something under his breath.
“What,” the old engineer blurted incredulously. “But I can still feel the fire in my chest every time I move or take a breath.”
“Just like an engineer,” scoffed the Doctor, “he feels a little pain and he thinks the job’s not even started. The human body’s not like one of your mechanical contraptions. When you give it a tune up, things hurt afterwards. That’s how you know you’re still alive.”
Junior Lieutenant Terrance Spalding lay back in his bed with a sigh. Then a thought occurred to him and he picked up his head. “You didn’t give me one of those shoddy mechanical hearts,” he demanded. “I’ve seen the specs on those things and they aren’t reliable for more than forty years of heavy use.”
The Doctor shook his head. “If you’d come to me two years ago, this wouldn’t be a problem. You’re old, old man. These things wear out, especially at your age. If I had the time and equipment I’d have just grown you a brand new heart.” He turned away, “Forty years of hard work,” he scoffed in disbelief after glancing away from the aged engineer.
“What the blazes did you do,” Spalding demanded, bordering on furious.
“I removed a few blockages in your tubes, and worked a bit on some of the areas with dead muscle," the doctor explained. "Like I said, a tune up. It's amazing what modern medicine can do, even with a bunch of old, worn-out and outdated equipment like we have here on the Lucky Clover.”
“Hey, that’s first rate equipment,” the Chief Engineer barked, unable to stay silent when someone was knocking something on the Clover. Even if it was the medical equipment they were talking about. Besides, as he was the one that swiped some of that ‘old, outdated’ stuff from one of the Clover's sister ships before they went to the breakers, he felt a little bit of personal pride was at stake. He’d known the ship would need a fully equipped medical suite someday, and it looked like the he'd been right once again.
“Maybe fifty years ago it was still considered top line. Nowadays, it wouldn’t be out of place on a run-down civilian passenger ship,” said the Doctor. “Times change, you know.”
“Bah,” said the Chief Engineer. “Go away and leave me be. Can’t you see there’s a sick man in here?” Despite the sound of raised voices and lots of activity out in the rest of the infirmary, the ornery old officer refused to budge. Too sick, he decided, not trusting the wild claims made by the Clover’s chief of medical staff. “Outdated. I’ll show him outdated. He’s the one who’s outdated, not anything on the Lucky Clover,” muttered the Spalding under his breath. “He’s just afraid to admit it, he is. Ha!”
The Doctor left as instructed, but a few minutes later came back. Pulling aside the curtain, he revealed a sick bay full of men, women and children.
Children! What were a bunch of kids doing on the Clover? Pushing their way through the overloaded infirmary was a small delegation of from engineering. The Chief Engineer turned away. He couldn’t face them. All he could think about was the men lost during the ramming. Men he’d failed to keep safe.
Ignoring the hubbub outside his small bed area, he faced the Doc. “How many boys did I lose out there, Doc,” he asked, choking back the inevitable tears.
The Doctor hesitated.
“Just give it to me straight,” he said.
“I think it's too soon for this kind of talk,” he started, but at the engineer’s raw look, he relented. “The final tally is 6 dead on the hull and 53 knocked off the hull, but eventually recovered.”
The engineer, who’d closed his eyes as soon as he knew he was getting the bad news, waited for more. When he realized that was it, he popped one eye open. Anyone dead was still one too many in his book, but he’d expected the final tally to number in the hundreds. They’d rammed another ship while a whole work shift was on the hull, after all!
“How could that be,” he wondered aloud. "I felt the impact!"
“Well,” said the Doctor, “we found crewman Pitt electrocuted in the bottom of a laser turret, not a hint of shrapnel in him, so there’s no way to tell when he perished. The other five…” he trailed off and looked away.
The Chief Engineer, who had been about to wave away details, looked up sharply at the Doc’s hesitation to give him the straight download.
“What happened to them, Doc,” he said grimly.
“Well, as best we can tell,” the Doctor said a little shame faced to be saying this, “They were men who weren’t even supposed to be on the hull. They were assigned to main engineering at the time. It seems… well from the equipment we found with them it looks like they were moving an illegal liquor still they’d hidden down in one of the laser pits, when the shrapnel cut them to pieces.”
“Names,” asked the chief engineer his eyelids squeezed tight.
“Castwell, Burke, Helio, Smith and Johnson,” the Doctor said in a low voice.
“Castwell,” he sighed. He’d always know that man would come to a bad end. A natural born slacker, if ever he’d seen on. Still, for all his other failings, the man had a natural touch when it came to handling the bucking cables.
“When you write up the report, remember, their families don’t never need to know they died abandoning their posts for liquor,” the Chief Engineer sighed again.
“Well,” the Doctor said briskly, “Fortunately our shields were full strength forward and we only hit two cutters. For a ramming event the shrapnel was pretty minimal and really only hit the port side, the one you were on. As far as the damage to the ship, that was minimal also,” He gave the Chief Engineer a level look.
“There are a few men about to come over here and thank their Chief Engineer for saving their lives and giving the command crew a piece of his mind,” he grabbed hold of the Chief Engineer’s wrist, “I’ve got over eight thousand refugee settlers to take care of and another fifty thousand spread all throughout the convoy. I’ll not have this ship torn apart by sectarian violence.”
The engineer glared at the hand holding his wrist, his other hand unconsciously reaching for his missing plasma torch.
“Praise Saint Murphy that we only lost six men and five of those in part thanks to their own greed and stupidity," started the doctor. "Watch and make sure it doesn’t happen again, certainly. But think! The way this ship is staffed right now, mistakes, grave mistakes that cost lives are going to happen. Let it go. Whatever feud you’ve started with the Admiral, put an end to it. He’s offered a pardon for all those involved. The last thing we need is engineering feuding with the bridge crew. So just take a deep breath and go say hello to those grateful men outside and turn their energies in a positive direction.”
“The little Admiral can take his pardon and personally introduce it to the reactor core,” growled the Chief Engineer.
The doctor drew himself up severely. “The ‘Admiral’ just saved a quarter of a million lives from pirates who had already blown up one ship and slaughtered close to fifty thousand helpless settlers. He did it using an old, unarmed ship that barely has enough men to operate it effectively and his actions only cost the lives of six men from engineering,” the Doctor hissed, “Six. Stop crying over spilt milk and thank Murphy twice over, the price tag was so low.”
Spalding growled. “I’ll think about it,” was all he said before deliberately turning away from the Doc.
When the men from his engineering department arrived, pirates, empires and Admirals, along with all of their problems melted from his mind.
Seeing the beaming faces of his engineering crew was like a shot in the arm for the old spacehand, and before he knew it he was on his feet with only the steadying hand of one of his crewmen.
“It's great to see you, Chief,” said one of the men.
“Yeah, sir. If it weren’t for you there’d be a lot of families missing their sons and daughters when we get back home to Capria,” said another with a grateful look at the Chief Engineer and a darker look in the general direction of the Bridge.
“Belay that stuff and nonsense, Parkiny,” said the Chief Engineer, refusing to let the good mood leave him now that it was here, “and tell me about my ship!”
From a position up on his feet, things seemed much brighter than they did lying in a bed in sick bay, asking to die. Seeing the faces of so many grateful refugees was surprising, but gratifying as well.
After looking at a twelve year old girl with a bloody nose from compression sickness leaning against the wall because there was no place to sit down, it just didn’t seem right to stay in the infirmary. How could he take up a bed when there were others that needed it worse?
Before he knew it, his men were chattering away in his ear about the next big point transfer they were going to make on behalf of the refugees. For some reason or other the Prometheans had nowhere else to go, and before he knew it he was on his way to engineering. He even had to stop a passel of overenthusiastic engineers waiting outside in the corridor from carrying him up on their shoulders.
“You’re all nothing but a bunch of blue-faced idiots. I’d smash my head on the ceiling for sure! For shame, being away from your posts at a time like this,” he said with more than a note of affection buried beneath his gruff facade. He just didn’t have the heart right then to reprimand them for slacking off, not like they deserved.
He wasn’t feeling very affectionate several hours later when they crashed out of hyperspace and the ship started shuddering around him.
“What have they done to us this time,” yelled Lieutenant Spalding.
He gestured to a group of power room technicians, “You bunch monitor the power core, while I work on modulating the stabilizers,” the Chief of Engineering yelled, fingers flying over the work console he’d just been sitting at until that moment. “The last thing we need is an emergency core shut down.”
He fine-tuned the stabilizers and realized the ship was still shaking and shuddering around them. Clearly they weren’t the issue.
“Oh gods, we’re all going to die!” A large mechanic screamed as the ship gave another big lurch and the normal space drive went to maximum burn.
His console chimed indicating an incoming call and one of the bridge crew appeared on his screen.
“Admiral says to catch the prize ships with bucking cables if they break fee and fall off,” said a scared looking bridge stander.
“Go away you idiot, I’ve got more important things on my plate than a couple of prize ships,” said Spalding, fingers flying as he checked to make sure the power core was stable.
“But Sir! They’re full of refugees. The fall into the atmosphere will kill them, for sure,” pleaded the bridge-man.
He gave the crewman on his screen a flat look and cut the connection. Atmosphere! What atmosphere, what had those boys on the bridge gotten the ship into this time, “You sleep the day away and half the night to boot and when you wake up, everything’s gone all topsy-turvy,” he cursed, fumbling for his override crystal so he could bring up the controls for the bucking cables.
“Is it too much to ask for one smooth point transfer out of this bridge crew, just one!” he demanded of the space gods. As usual, the space gods chose not to answer. “That’s all I ask. Just one.”
When the pirate cruiser, now apparently full of refugees broke free of the ship it was all he could do to catch it and then keep the bucking cables from snapping.
“Hold together, my fine one,” he encouraged the Lucky Clover as gee forces pushed him into his chair. “You can do it. I know you can.”
Eventually, the shaking gentled down to a harsh vibration. Well, harsh for normally very much in fine tune normal space engines. He could feel it anyway. Even though the rest of engineering gave a cheer when the shaking stopped.
He didn’t see anything else fall off the hull, so whatever other ships they were worried about on the bridge must have stayed put because there was nothing on his screen.
Chapter 23: Bugs!
We picked up speed. Slowly at first, but faster and faster until we were hurtling at near-ludicrous speeds around the planet.
“We did it,” exclaimed Helmsman DuPont, slumping back in his chair ever so briefly. After taking a deep breath, he leaned forward and started tapping away at the helm panels.
“We’re going to make it,” Officer Trembaly announced in disbelief.
The bridge crew gave a cheer. “Three cheers for the Helmsman. Three cheer for DuPont,” said one of the bridge crew.
Tremblay let them give one good “hip-hip-hooray” before putting an end to it. “Belay that nonsense,” he ordered. “Quiet on the bridge. We’re not out of it yet.”
Even though the Navigator verified that the numbers looked good, everyone still watched the ship’s course on the main screen tactical display as it shot around the planet. As if by collective desire we could somehow physically pull the ship to safety.
When the ship was most of the way around the planet, and even a relatively untrained spacer like me could tell we were firmly in the clear, the First Officer gave himself a shake.
“Sensors report,” he barked. “Is there anyone out here with us? Ships, automated defenses, anything? Come on people, we’re in a new system here. Let's be professional,” he said, striding over to the sensor pit.
Spines straightened and then people hunched over their consoles with renewed vigor. The brief vacation from duty, while everyone waited to see if they were going to live or die, was over.
I supposed that in a ship with a trained bridge crew, there would never have been a vacation from duty in the first place. It was something to focus on in the future. What if there had been another warship out there waiting to pounce while we were distracted?
“Uh, sir,” said one of the Sensor Operators raising his hand. “I think you’d better take a look at this.”
“What is it,” demanded Tremblay moving over to the Sensors station.
“Well, if I didn’t know better, I’d have to say it was…,” said the Sensor Operator trailing off.
“Bug sign,” the First Officer said flatly.
“I was going to say nuclear weapons on the surface," said the operator. He paused to work down a gulp, a reaction he and I shared at that particular moment. "Bugs?”
“I want a targeted search for Bug ships throughout this system. Start in our immediate area and work your way outwards,” Tremblay said in a loud carrying voice. “You’ll find the necessary profiles in the ship’s DI to help refine your search.”
He turned to the sensor operator who had surmised that the readings indicated the presence of nuclear weapons. “If you look closely at the radiation levels, you’ll see that they’re practically non-existent. It’s one of the favorite bug weapons. Bunker-busters, they used to call them in the old days. Big enough to make a mushroom cloud, but without all that radiation to ruin the food,” he explained to the operator.
When the sensor operators didn’t immediately report any new findings, I waved the First Officer over for an impromptu conference.
“Bugs, Mr. First Officer,” I asked quizzically.
“Yes, Admiral. Bug sign,” reported Lieutenant Tremblay. “We’ve spotted a number of radiation-free craters and blast sites near outlying areas of the native population. It's consistent with a scout raiding pattern,” he explained.
At first, humanity had the thought the lack of other intelligent life forms in the Galaxy was a sign that there was a creator. Then, soon after the AI wars, we encountered the Bugs. Most Bugs were non-intelligent, instinct driven creatures. Some of the higher castes had something approaching sentience, but it was a hotly debated subject. Back in its prime, The Confederation never got around to making a final determination. The Empire, on the other hand, took a quick look and declared them nothing but a bundle of preprogrammed, if highly specialized responses.
Since even the Empire couldn’t deny that a space-faring race with access to beam weapons and high-yield missiles, as well as the ability to make more of them wasn’t the product of an advanced intelligence, they had initiated further investigations. So they looked into the matter just deeply enough to declare the Bugs had been genetically engineered and declared the matter closed. The official Imperial position was that they were probably designed by AI’s before or during the AI wars. Confederation scientists had hotly contested these claims.
Of course, the official Imperial position that humanity was the only advanced form of life in the universe, already threatened by the appearance of the Bugs in their sub-light ships, was demolished when humanity encountered the Gorgons.
The Imperial Senate still tried to maintain that the case was not yet closed on the Gorgons being another AI engineered race, albeit one with actual intelligence, unlike the Bugs. But no one was buying that line anymore.
Humanity was not alone out here and we were quickly waking up to that fact, despite the Empire’s best efforts.
“The nearest Bug sighting was over fifty years ago and nearly 64 degrees southwest of our position along the Spherical Rim of human space,” I protested evenly. “Unless they’ve suddenly developed faster than light technology, how did they get all the way over here?”
“I couldn’t say, Admiral. But we studied the Imperial Bug Campaigns extensively in the Academy. I know Bug sign when I see it. So it's either Bugs or someone who wants us to think it's Bugs,” he said stubbornly, folding his arms across his chest.
I opened my mouth to argue further, but was interrupted by a Sensor Operator who rendered all further argument moot.
“I’ve got a Bug ship blasting off of the surface of Tracto VI. The DI is classifying it as a Scout Marauder,” said a female sensor officer, her voice high with tension and anxiety.
“Why didn’t we see it before now,” demanded Officer Tremblay.
“We weren’t looking for it when we first transferred above the planet. Now that we’ve swung almost the entire way around the planet, its location is coming back up on our screens.”
“A scout marauder means the planet should show signs of at least a level three incursion. There’s not enough damage on the surface for a level three,” the First Officer muttered under his voice.
Tremblay walked over to the sensor pit. “Calculate that ship's point of origin, and scan that area on the surface. If we missed one ship, maybe there are more of them. The standard pattern of behavior for Bugs is to bombard an area from orbit prior to landing their vessels. If we're seeing a Marauder-Class, it's possible there's more bug activity that we think. Scan around that ship's take-off point before widening your search to include the whole planet. Sometimes this class is accompanied by one or more of the smaller Scout ships.”
Another sensor operator spoke up, “Sir, if there was ever an orbital defense battery over Tracto VI, it's gone and there’s no sign of it now.”
The results indicated there were no more bug ships on the planet's surface, and although they uncovered a few more sites where the Bugs had used their missiles, it wasn’t enough to satisfy the First Officer.
“Maybe there was an orbital battery and the Bugs destroyed it, and that’s why there are discrepancies between what you learned at the academy and what actually we’re seeing here,” I offered. It seemed like a reasonable hypothesis.
“Possible, but it seems unlikely,” Tremblay said shaking his head. “The Bugs follow an instinctive pattern. They would have sent small scout ships first, and there’s no way ships that small could have taken out an orbital defensive battery.”
I nodded in understanding and then started shaking my head as an idea occurred to me. “Maybe they had the same kind of problem we did when they jumped in the system,” I said.
Officer Tremblay cleared his throat. “Sub-light ships, remember. They wouldn’t come in via hyperspace and so they couldn't have the same problems.”
My face heated at my own stupidity. “Oh, Right. Well, what about another ship. Merchants or Pirates or something. Heck, even the Imperials could have the same problems we did and it killed them,” I countered, not yet willing to give up on the idea completely.
“Imperial, no way. They’d have to know the same thing we now know about jumping into the system. It's better to do it a long way out and come in nice and slow. Merchants, not likely. This place is restricted and merchants don’t want to risk getting their ship impounded on a lark,” Tremblay said shaking his head at each point.
“Well, what about pirates then? They could have jumped in and either shot down or crashed into the orbital battery,” I continued, pushing the idea as far as it would go.
“I supposed that’s possible,” Tremblay said sourly. “It's more likely there never was an orbital defense battery at all. Although,” he said thoughtfully, “The Empire could have stationed a ship or two out here and pulled them back when they pulled out of the Spine-Ward Sectors. They could have destroyed the Bugs and then left. Honestly, I don’t know. We just don't have enough information available at this point.”
For my own part, I had moved beyond worrying why the Bugs were here and was now worrying about dealing with this Bug ship and the safety of the Prometheans.
The sensor team had detected the Settler ships. Apparently they had arrived safely just outside the system, unlike the Lucky Clover which had almost crashed into a planet.
I would check with the Settler Captains again but it looked like the bright idea of bringing the Prometheans to an Imperial Protectorate World in a Restricted System was turning into a disaster. I tried to imagine the conversation. 'Prometheans, the infallible Admiral Montagne has brought you to your new temporary home. Not only is it inhabited by the primitive neo-barbs we warned you about, but it’s also a system that’s also been infested with Bugs, or soon will be. Good luck, it's a brave thing you're doing here!'
I should have listened when the System Defense Officers, who knew more than I did about military matters, and the Settlement Captains who knew more than a would-be colonial administrator about settlements and settlers, both agreed that coming here was a bad idea.
I needed something upon which to vent my frustrations.
“How far away is the Bug ship, Mr. Tremblay,” I asked, glaring at the scout marauder on his main screen.
“With our speed, we should be able to come close enough for an extended combat pass,” the First Officer said judiciously. “They’re faster than us, but we’ve already built up a good head of steam and they’re just now breaking free of the planets gravity.”
“Set a course,” I ordered, and sat back in the Admiral's Throne with my fingers steepled in front of my face.
“Yes, sir,” said the First Officer. “Please remember that in addition to the weapons systems that were lost or destroyed during the successful ramming of the two pirate cutters, all of our efforts have been focused solely on rescue operations.”
“Meaning what, exactly, Mr. Tremblay,” I asked, suspecting I already knew the answer and that it was one I was going to hate.
“We’re still effectively unarmed, Sir,” the First Officer said taking a deep breath. “Engineering only had time to reinstall two turbo laser turrets. There’s been no chance to test fire them yet.”
“Then we’ll test them on that Bug Ship,” I said with an evil grin. Finally, something I could annihilate and, in the process, make the system just that little bit safer for the settlers.
“Those weapons could do anything from not work, to explode and make a crater in the ship when we try to fire them,” Tremblay said, looking levelly at me. “When we had no choice but to rush to battle against the pirates, it was a risk well worth taking. In this situation however, we have the time to perform a proper series of tests before rushing to use them in combat.”
“And how long would that take? To safely test them without the chance they’d blow up on us,” I asked, keeping a tight rein on my voice.
“Long enough that the Bug ship would be able to get out of range of our larger, slower ship,” the First Officer said evenly.
I clenched my fists hard enough that I felt fingernails threatening to break the skin of my palms.
“Or we could always ram them like we did the pirates,” the First Officer said scornfully.
Even in my anger, I could tell he was being half serious and half mocking, which only inflamed my temper further.
“A better option than a method of last resort, First Officer,” I said icily. I glanced around the room and could see that everyone on the bridge was listening in on our conversation.
“We could always board the Bug Scout to recover the helpless colonists captured for use as a bug food source, like they do in all the holo-vids. Except for the fact that the Lucky Clover is full of helpless settlers and we don’t have any Jacks,” he shrugged, “An unarmed shuttle full of boarders like they show in the vids would be suicidal. The Scout Marauder would blow them away before they’d have time to match velocities and get on board,” said Tremblay.
His tone was respectful but it was clear I was being mocked, and once again in full view of the bridge-crew. The references to holo-vids which often showed the action hero ramming or boarding enemy ships were a staple of bad entertainment. Everyone, including myself, knew that what worked in a holo-vid was sensational, dramatized and, worst of all, impractical against any sort of thinking enemy.
On the other hand, I had seen a type of ship capable of successfully boarding a larger vessel. Two of them were strapped to the hull of the Lucky Clover right now, and no one ever claimed Bugs were smart. For that matter, the Imperials went out of their way to let everyone know just how stupid the Bugs actually were.
I guessed the question was whether or not could we stand by and just let this Bug go, knowing full well that it was going come back later with all its friends and that in the meantime, the Bugs were going to eat their human captives while they were still alive?
For a while, if only in my own mind, I dreamed of taking both cutters. Oh, I talked a good game about only taking one of them, but in my heart of hearts I had imagined there would be so many volunteers from among the crew that one ship couldn’t handle them all. I dreamed of a turn away crowd of more volunteer boarders than both ships could carry, if I’m completely honest.
As is so often the case, hopes and reality failed to intersect. When I had the department heads announce the call for volunteers, the answer to my call was, to put the best face on a sorry situation, underwhelming.
All volunteers were supposed to assemble in the overfull and incredibly cramped main cargo hold. I would have used the mess hall but it had been taken over by the refugees. A half hour after my final deadline to show up, I only had a dozen volunteers from the crew of the Lucky Clover, and half a dozen Prometheans who were still smarting over the pirate attack and wanted to follow the Caprian War-Prince into battle.
Apparently, Prometheans had some weird cultural quirks of which I was previously unaware.
As for the Caprians, well most of them were from Gant’s armory detail. It seemed that after seeing me clunking around in my battle suit, the boys each started refurbishing an old suit of their own on the sly. I was told there were more of Gant's men willing to go, but he insisted someone had to stay behind to guard the armory.
So, discounting Gants' eight, I had four men from the general crew. One of them was a woman, but I suppose that particular distinction isn't all that critical. Two weren’t even proper volunteers at all! The Doc in charge of medical had sent them over under the impression that I was going to have more boarders than I actually did. It seemed Medical had this tradition that whenever a security detail was sent off the ship, someone volunteered to go with them.
I hadn’t a clue but whatever. The other two genuinely wanted to go hand to hand with the Bugs. Well, more like blaster to bug flesh. They were so gung-ho crazy from all our near misses lately they had even brought along their head-bags in case the bug ship had no atmosphere. The devices had such a terrible reputation that I couldn't remember even hearing about crewmen actually wanting to use the old-style breathing devices.
So, the nineteen of us plus the pilot I would have to draft to fly us over trooped on into the Cutter engineering identified as being best suited for the mission. I was skeptical when I saw it was the one knocked out by Lieutenant Commander Synthia McCruise’s Corvette. Perhaps they were serving their revenge against me for leaving them out on the hull during the ramming? I knew the thought was unworthy of their Admiral, but also more likely to be on the money than not.
I didn’t say anything though. If the pilot thought he could fly it over to face the Bugs, who was I to stop them?
We were on the way. Chasing the Bug Scout Marauder, when the pilot I had scrounged up and ordered to join us, finally opened up enough to say more than two words at a time.
“How long you want me to stick around after I get you inside that sucker,” he asked.
“What do you mean, how long? Until we crush the Bugs, free the captives and destroy the ship,” was my answer, seemingly stating the obvious. Isn't that how it always worked out?
“I can always swing by to pick you up later,” the pilot suggested, “after you kill the crew and knock out their weapons.”
“You’ll stay until the job is done and they’re all dead,” I said as smoothly as velvet, hoping I wouldn't have to resort to the iron fist just yet again.
“I’m just saying if it looks like the Bugs are going to make it into the cutter, I’m taking off. There’s no way I’m going hand to hand with a bunch of bug fighters,” the pilot declared with a hint of finality.
“I’ll post the Prometheans to defend the ship,” I said, happy to have found a solution that got those heavily armed, blood thirsty settlers out of the way.
“Thanks, Admiral,” said the pilot, not looking very thankful. Maybe he thought if the Prometheans were there they might not take kindly to him trying to run away at the first sign of trouble. Who knows? Maybe he was just unhappy with the entire situation. I can't say that I would hold it against him.
Of course, this new plan didn’t sit well with the Prometheans. They were out for blood. Preferably pirate blood as it turned out, but Bug blood would do in a pinch.
There was no way I was leaving Gants or his men behind, the eight fools were decked out in power armor. It didn’t matter that it whined and clanked worse than my suit ever had, there was no way I was leaving that kind of firepower behind.
Instead, I left the medics and the only pair of genuine volunteers out of the whole ship's crew. I felt disgusted. I had eight idiots who were here mainly to test-drive their cool new armor and/or blow things up, and six misdirected, untrained foreigners out for revenge. On top of that, we only filled half the ship and I was leaving the only genuine pair of volunteers behind!
My hope was that our experience inside the Bug ship, assuming we actually got there and the pilot didn’t try to run away or get us blown up trying to get in close, went better than my recruitment drive. It couldn't really go any worse, could it?
As we entered extreme range, the Bugs cut loose with a barrage of laser fire, most of it aimed in the general direction of our small cutter, but some of it targeted at nothing in particular as far as my untrained eye could tell. The Pilot juked and dived for all he was worth, trying to get in close. There were a few tense moments when their missiles locked on target.
The pilot (whose name I did not know at the time) proved his value to the team quickly, firing the forward heavy laser cannon for all it was worth. He even took out one of the missiles with what I assume was a lucky shot. The explosion of the missile was somewhat anticlimactic. I couldn't hear any massive 'whump,' or see a gigantic fireball like in the vids. The laser cannon, firing as fast as I believe it could cycle, simply intercepted the incoming weapon with a small flash of light as it vaporized part of the device's fuselage, and a barely audible clatter of its constituent bits and pieces splashed against our hull as we raced through the newly-formed debris cloud filled my mind with images of disaster.
Racing forward as recklessly as possible, we bypassed the rest of the Bug Ship’s fire-and-forget missiles and matched speeds with the Marauder. Angling in toward their hull faster than I thought was advisable while under manual control, the pilot slewed us in beside the Bug Ship. At least this part was unfolding like in the bad vids, I thought.
The hull was rocked in rapid succession as several powerful impacts knocked our little ship off course. "Laser impacts on the hull, maintaining course," cried the pilot, obviously unhappy about this development, but maintaining focus under pressure. A few moments later, we were locked onto the hull of the alien ship. So far, so good, I thought to myself.
After a few moments, an alarm sounded and I jerked my gaze up to the readout panel. The glyph indicating low cabin pressure was flashing in sequence with the alarm's pulsating rhythm. The pilot flipped off the audio portion of the alarm and said, "Looks like we're losing air. I can try to isolate the leak by sealing off non-essential sections and hoping the main cabin isn't compromised. But, if I don't have any luck, the breathable air won't last more than an hour at this rate," said the pilot, sounding more serene than I would have thought appropriate. He was probably just happy for a halfway decent excuse to leave us stranded here.
He checked his instruments and became crestfallen. "We've also lost our main laser cannon, so it's a good bet our ride out of here will be a little more interesting than the trip in." With that, he jumped out of the pilot's chair and made his way to the back of the ship, probably to begin sealing off potentially compromised sections of the ship in the hopes of saving as much of our breathable air as possible.
Now, the rest of us just had to find an airlock or cut a hole to get inside. Fortunately, the pirates had left some of their boarding equipment behind because my overeager young men from Armory forgot to bring ours. We extended a retractable boarding tube, slid open the connecting hatch on the bottom of the cutter (one designed expressly for this purpose) and cut an opening on the bug hull. This process was quite a bit faster than I expected it to be, and after only a few minutes we had our opening. A quick check of the various gases present inside the enemy vessel revealed nothing immediately dangerous to humans, so we opened the hatch and dropped in one by one.
Dropping into the bug ship was like dropping into a vision of Hades. The ship was more bio-organic than metallic construction. What looked like a cross between ropy veins and some kind of angry tree roots pulsed and twisted on the walls. The walls themselves appeared to be moist, but it could have just been a trick of the light or my imagination.
If I'm to be honest, the holo-vids didn’t do the place justice. In the dim lighting, surrounded by the moving constantly squirming environment, it was much worse than anything the entertainment industry had shown.
I was first through the tube, so I stepped forward and noticed the usual clanking of my power-armored feet hitting metal was no longer present. Instead, my feet sank a good inch into the floor of the ship and as I looked behind at my footprints and watched, the floor slowly filled back in the impressions my boots had made.
It felt like the ship was prepared to swallow me up and erase any sign of my presence, any record that I had ever been here, or any indication I had ever existed in the first place. Suppressing a shudder, I turned and growled at my fellow power armored crewmates. I had intended to bark some of that tactical nonsense they always used in dramatic depictions of these events, but one look at my band of power armored, erstwhile marines shook me off my game.
I suppose unsurprisingly, they were lined up in the most unmilitary formation you could ever expect to see. They were all fidgeting with their power armor, and having more than a small measure of difficulty dealing with the soft footing and ghastly surroundings. This was clearly a case of the blind leading the blind, at least as far as the Clover’s Caprian compliment was concerned.
By comparison, the Prometheans almost looked like they knew what they were doing. They quickly poked their heads around the nearest door before rapidly pulling them back, positioning men to either side of the door with rifles pointed at the opening. Maybe they only thought they knew what they were up to but they certainly appeared confident about it.
Not knowing what else to do (but knowing I couldn’t just stand around waiting until trouble came to find us), I pointed at the doorway nearest me and shoved my hands through the crusty, membranous substance that apparently passed for a closed door around here. My power assisted gauntlets tore apart the vile portal and I found myself in a corridor of sorts. I was determined to delve deeper into the ship.
It went on like this for several doorways before we reached what must pass for some kind of main junction. At least a hundred feet across, it was a six way intersection with paths leading up, down and to every side. What it lacked in the rigid uniformity we Caprians were used to with our solid state ships, it made up for in sheer horrifying nastiness. The dark holes looming in every direction you looked swarmed with Bugs of every shape and size.
There was gravity, but despite this, the Bugs crawled up the ceiling and down into the floor opening. They could even be found hanging upside down in the circular crossroad we’d come across, and I’m not just talking the little six-legged, three foot tall ones with the delicate arm-like appendages. Even the six foot tall, semi-humanoid monstrosities with razor sharp claws that looked capable of rending my power armor into pieces like tissue paper could be seen hanging upside-down. Once again, it appeared that the entertainment industry failed to do the true horror of these creatures any measure of justice whatsoever.
We knew the moment they spotted us.
The little ones started dancing up and down, chittering ferociously and waving their delicate little bug hands in our directions, while the larger ones converged on our position like a wave of water suddenly changing direction.
I wasted a moment gulping down my fear. Then, spurred on by that same fear I shouted, “Get them!” I jumped forward, landing on a large bug with a crunching sound, pinning it to the deck, or whatever this stuff was called.
The Prometheans tried to provide cover fire but they weren’t in big battle suits, and so weren’t able to wade into the fray. They stayed in the corridor and shot Bugs as they came.
On the other hand, the armory crew was a disorganized array of smashing power-assisted fists and wild weapons fire. Each member of the armory crew had his own unique battle plan, and it mostly involved raging around smashing Bugs like a three year old in a cockroach farm, and had little to do with following any kind of coherent battle strategy.
Trying to push my way into the middle of the bug avalanche was a losing proposition and I was soon swarmed over. There were Bugs all around and on top of me, each trying to poke and prod me out of the suit. Thankfully (and to my pleasant surprise), their claws skittered off my armor.
Flailing around wildly, I was rewarded with sick crunching and cracking noises as I ripped and tore at the oversized insects until I was able to see again. Throwing another six foot soldier off me, I activated the full strength of my servos and jumped clear of the mess which had descended on my position.
“Sweet Murphy,” exclaimed one of the armory crew. “The little ones have power tools!”
I looked over, certain the man had misspoken. To my surprise, several of the battle-suited figures were pinned down on the ground by weight of numbers. Individually, the large six foot defenders were unable to do more than scratch our armor, but when taken as a chittering, overbearing mass of chitin and claws, they managed to pin some of the men down.
As I watched, several of the smaller ones, the ones with the delicate hand-like appendages, showed us what those hands could be used for. Each one approached a downed man holding at least one crystalline tipped whirling cutting wheel. The vaguely cylindrical mass of the wheel was attached to something that looked like it was made out of same material as the inside of the ship. However, the crystal tipped cutting wheel (aside from being of alien design) looked like something you would expect to see in any regular machine shop.
The large defender Bugs weren’t doing a lot of damage, but I had an all-new respect for the little Bugs hanging out on the side lines up until now.
I brought my blaster rifle around and clumsily inserted my gauntleted fingers into the trigger, then cut loose with a hail of fire in the direction of the little tool-wielding critters hanging around the ceiling, and in a few cases managed to wing one or two before they were able to descend on the downed men.
Unlike their larger claw equipped cousins, who had no regard for anything you did to them and just kept coming and attacking until they were crushed and disabled, the little ones seemed to possess a rudimentary survival instinct and scattered away from the blaster bolts, only to come right back to where they had been standing before the bolt landed. It didn’t matter to them if the bolt had hit an empty patch of wall or one of their comrades, they scattered and then returned time and again with machine-like precision.
I was mostly ignoring the large ones around me in favor of destroying the little ones who might be able to cut my armory crew out of their armor. This plan was nearly my undoing.
Since the big ones were unable to affect me, I had taken to blasting a circle around my position, then unloading the rifle on the little ones. I stayed blasting the little scuttling crab-like centaurs on the walls a little too long and one of the big soldier Bugs grabbed my blaster rifle and yanked it out of my hands.
I was still trying to pull the trigger when the rifle was thrown out of my reach by flailing claws.
Now desperate, I punched and clawed and gouged for all I was worth, slowly going under from the weight of an ever increasing number of Bugs. How many of these things were there on this ship, I wondered desperately. They just kept coming and coming, mindless of the carnage we had wrought.
Then a voice came in through the com patch in my suit helmet and another suit loomed over me. It tossed a long metal stick at one of my free hands.
“The Chief was meaning to save this until later, for a surprise. But when he heard you were going on this mission, he said give it you if things ever turned hairy,” said Gants before swinging around to deal with several more of the large ones. Gants seemed almost oblivious to the dangers surrounding us. He seemed to be having the time of his life.
I missed grabbing the metal stick and dropped it. Grunting and straining under the weight of large Bugs, I felt around until my gauntlets clanked against something hard and cylindrical. I closed my fingers around it and gave a yank.
I managed to pull it close enough to realize it wasn’t a metal staff of some kind; instead it was an old style vibro-blade, the type that went out of fashion over fifty years ago when the new force blades came into fashion. Until then, they’d had a long run as the finest hand to hand weapons mankind had ever created.
Thankful for this latest gift, I ran my fingers along it until I felt the hilt. Twisting the pommel to activate it was a chore, but I finally got it and was rewarded by a nearly inaudible hum.
Lips unconsciously pulled back in what must have been a fairly bestial grin, I pulled and pushed the sword around until I had cut through enough Bug flesh to start really swinging the sword.
The vibro-blade, combined with the power servos in my suit, cut through bug flesh like it was butter. It was almost fun, slicing and slashing through the mindless beasts like some sort of superhero. Soon, I had slaughtered my way clear of the overbearing pile of Bugs that had been trying to hold me down.
A sound I had been ignoring until now finally penetrated the haze. There was a whining screech coming from several of the bug piles covering the young Armory fools who thought a battle suit made them invincible.
With a throaty bellow, I leapt and pushed and slashed my way to the nearest pile, wielding my sword with reckless abandon. I hewed and cleaved, cutting my way down to the man underneath the pile. My swordplay instructor would never have approved, but I couldn’t care less what he thought about my technique right at the moment.
He had only shown up to instruct us because the government thought it was fashionable for the Royal Family to be training an ancient art of fighting that was nearly useless in modern times.
Nearly useless, but not quite. I fought savagely and, despite the man’s condescending attitude and lack of genuine care for his students, I was actually thankful to this particular former instructor.
I freed the first crewman quickly and leapt to the next, ignoring the first one's babbled thanks. The second mound was harder and the man underneath had started screaming in pain before I managed to clear the Bugs off him. By now, we were on a roll and every still-active suit was blasting and pummeling or, in my case, slashing our companions free.
My haste to help another man, screaming in sick harmony with the whining of a crystalline power tool nearly did me in. I leapt towards the writhing man and lost my footing when I landed, which caused me to stumble near the hole in the bottom of the tunnel intersection. Apparently sensing my vulnerable state, a large soldier bug jumped on me and I fell in.
Chapter 24: The Great Fall
Tumbling and twisting, my metallic bulk crushed the bug when we landed, but also nearly broke my neck. The helmet on these old battle suits stuck too far up on the shoulders and allowed enough movement that when the weight of the rest of the suits came down almost full force upon it, the metal reinforced neck board almost broke, which would have been bad for my somewhat less-reinforced spine.
As it was, my neck was seriously torqued and the helmet was permanently twisted to the side as far, at least as I could tell without trying to reef it back straight using my power assisted hands. Something I was reluctant to do after a gentle attempt to turn the thing confirmed that it was stuck sideways. I didn't want to risk breaking the mechanism, neck board, or perhaps most importantly the neck inside it. My neck.
The pain was almost crippling but it helped convince me I would eventually be okay. Assuming I survived this bug ship. An outcome which was less and less certain, the further into this thing I went and the more Bugs I encountered.
A scraping clanking sound on the belly of my armor convinced me I had to move despite the terrible pain. I used the vibro-blade still in my hand to clear an area around me with a wild swing. Feeling resistance, I blindly stabbed and hacked in that direction. When I could no longer feel anything trying to kill me, I staggered to my feet.
I could barely see anything with the visor of my helmet completely covered in Bug juices. It must have happened when I landed face first into that big soldier that knocked me down the tunnel. When I tried to wipe it, all I succeeded in doing was scraping my metal gauntlets over the visor and producing fine, millimeter wide semi-clear lines through the juices. As I watched, more ichor slowly flowed over what little I had managed to clear away.
This wasn’t going to work. I didn’t see any choice, the helmet had to come off. I had picked up a couple extra head bags for the Prometheans, in case they forgot to bring their own. However, other than the same general level of disgust with the head bags as the rest of my crew, looking back on it they had been more prepared than either myself or the entire Armory team. Battle suits excepted of course.
I wasn’t crazy about the idea of walking around a Bug ship helmet-less, with nothing better than a blasted head bag to save me. Unfortunately, there was no other choice. I couldn’t even try to stagger back to the cutter. There was no way I was climbing that tunnel with my head torqued over my shoulder like this.
The helmet's emergency release clamps disengaged easily enough, but that still wasn’t enough to get the thing off. Eventually, I was forced to use my power-assisted hands and arms to pry the thing off my head.
I fumbled around for a head bag, certain that the atmosphere was deadly, regardless of what the readouts indicated. Panic set in as I dropped the thing and failed to retrieve it from the floor before losing control and gasping what I assumed was my final breath. I waited for the inevitable agony before I realized that, although it smelled similar to an old-style waste treatment facility in here, the air was breathable just like the historical vids and sensor readings claimed.
The Imperials had used this little factoid as more evidence the Bugs had been bio-engineered by AI’s, but it was clear they would say anything to make their point that humanity was the supreme life form in the galaxy. I hadn’t been sure whether or not to believe them until this moment, but now I had proof. The air really was breathable.
I still determined to put the head bag on. No point in taking unnecessary chances. Retrieving the device was somewhat easier, now that I had lungs full of breathable, albeit putrid air. So I scooped it up and sealed it around my jaw, just like in the emergency training diagrams. When I was satisfied that the seal was good, I assessed my surroundings.
Down here there were only a few Bugs to crush under my feet, and none immediately present which required the attention of my blade. Now that I had a few moments, I took a look at the weapon Gants had delivered in my moment of need, courtesy of our Chief Engineer who hated me right at the moment. I couldn't blame him for being upset, and I doubted that particular incident would ever be forgiven.
Somehow, Spalding had gotten wind of my plan and pulled most, but not all of his men off the hull before the big slam. Several of his men didn’t make it off the hull in time and were shredded by shrapnel. It was a grim reminder that I wasn’t a fully trained naval officer, and was making things up and reinventing the blasted wheel as I went along.
When I missed steps, people died.
That was part of why I was here. This Bug ship had to go, but for my own sanity I couldn’t risk sending out more people to die because of my mistakes. First Officer Tremblay sure thought I was wrong a lot. Although so far, other than six dead engineers (which would have been a much higher number, if not for the Chief Engineer's quick thinking), we hadn’t come out too poorly. A quarter million settlers were still alive because of my bumbling efforts, anyway. That has to count for something, right?
If things were up to Tremblay, we would be home by now and those colonists would all be dead, or worse.
I realized I was staring at the weapon in my hand and not inspecting it like I had intended. Standing around in a Bug corridor certainly seemed counter to my long term health, so I performed a quick inspection.
The energy level was still green, meaning it was holding a high charge. I would be able to cut through a lot more Bugs before this thing started giving me trouble. The hilt was an old-fashioned square instead of the more recent hexagonal design. Circles were too hard to grip if the hilt was covered by any sort of fluid, so other than a few trophy pieces, this particular design never really caught on.
The blade felt oddly weighted for a weapon its size and there was some kind of engraving on the outside. Using the living wall of the bug ship, I scraped it somewhat clean.
The blade itself was some kind of odd dark metal with crystalline flashes in it, but the letters running up and down the length of the blade were pure mono-Locsium, the strongest, densest material ever discovered by the Empire for use in vibro-weapons. It was said the Empire was so rich they had even made the hulls of entire ships out of this substance. More propaganda, in all likelihood.
Why it was running up and down the blade of this vibro-weapon was a mystery, until I read the letters inscribed on the weapon.
It was hard to puzzle out the secret language of the ancients when they wrote in that cursive style that had gone out of fashion long before mankind left the cradle of civilization, even at the best of times. Trying to do it with gore covering the letters made it harder still, but when I finally figured it out I went white as a sheet.
The letters clearly spelled out one word, ‘BANDERSNATCH.’ My fingers spasmed and I almost released the weapon.
On my world, this was a sword out of legend. Forged or commissioned by our first king, Larry the Great, alternately known as Larry One or Larry The First and Only, depending on which history books you were reading. This sword smote the enemies of Capria and served Larry well until the day he died, as an old man in bed. The story goes he died sword in hand, buried under the weight of the two assassins spitted on his blade, while his infant granddaughter slept unknowingly beside him.
It had passed through a number of hands since then. Most of the royals who wielded it came to bad ends under mysterious circumstances. A few famous wives or generals did well for themselves with the sword in their possession, but the sword had a definite reputation for ill fortune.
Pretenders kept trying to get a hold of it to legitimize themselves, at least when it was still circulating, while a number of monarchs had tried to destroy it over the years to keep it out of those very same hands. The sword kept popping up like a bad penny until about fifty years ago when it disappeared for the last time.
The last anyone heard of it, Bandersnatch was in the royal palace. It was presumed destroyed when the Imperial Navy annihilated my ancestors by dropping a very large rock on their heads, leaving a smoking crater where the palace used to be. Another loss among a series of losses for which my ancestors had taken the fall.
If you made a list of weapons I would rather cut off my hand than be seen wielding, this one had to top the list. Strolling down Founder’s Avenue toward the parliamentary building with a nuclear weapon or a rogue nano-swarm strapped to my back wouldn’t generate a harsher reaction than being seen with this weapon.
A very nearly superstitious dread filled me. There was nothing for it, I resolved right then and there. I had to find and delete any working suit recorders the Armory boys might have managed to get running and dispose of this blade as fast as humanly possible.
If I needed any confirmation that Spalding still was out to get me after the bridge incident, here it was, right in my own two hands. Putting those men up there and leaving them on the hull had been a virtual death sentence, so now he was returning the favor by handing me my own little death sentence in the guise of much-needed help. The old man was apparently craftier than his appearance indicated.
Head bag firmly in place, and with the viper masquerading as a vibro-blade still clutched in my hands, I anxiously crept down the bug corridor.
Down here by myself, the pulsing, writhing motion of the walls was worse than when I was with a group of other people. At least then I had something else to think about. Now, I had nothing to distract me from its horrifying nature. The thought of a little power-tool-wielding critter sneaking up behind me with a silenced cutting wheel was enough to make me whirl around, just to check.
I came to a strange room filled with protrusions that looked like some strange cross between little mud volcanoes and termite mounds. In the center of each mound was a small crater filled with some kind of fluidic substance.
As I watched, a drop of fluid fell from the ceiling into one of the mounds. Looking up I could see the whole ceiling was covered with this fluid and as it slowly condensed on the ceiling, it was guided to a point where it would fall down into the volcano-looking structures. It appeared that the viscous liquid was collected and stored in the little mounds for some unknown purpose.
I call them little, but they varied from about two feet tall to a whopping twelve feet high. I wasn’t willing to climb one of the larger ones with my battle suit just to check if it looked the same on the inside as the smaller ones.
My lips twisted and I repressed the urge to chop them apart with Bandersnatch.
At this point I was looking for anything that could help to get me out of here. Whatever I found would make me happy at this point, be it a way back to the cutter so I could get off this ship for good, a bug control room, whatever passed for bug engines, etc. Anything, so long as I wasn’t all by myself on a ship full of Bugs and surrounded by their eerie living walls.
I passed through another chamber with the odd mounds and kept going.
I had the sudden irrational thought that perhaps I had already been digested by these foul creatures and was just too stupid to realize it. Most of the time you can repress such foolish notions, but this wasn't most of the time.
I began to despair as I walked through another empty corridor. What was I doing here? Where were my men? The Prometheans? Even some blasted Bugs to squish would have been nice right now.
Clearly, I was no military genius who created gold dust whenever he happened to break wind. My plan had utterly failed. It looked like First Officer Tremblay just might get that command he thought I was too incompetent to hold.
From the looks of it, maybe he was right. Stranded on a Bug ship because of my own half-baked, stupid, holo-vid inspired plan. I should have just rammed them or let them go, I thought to myself.
“Too dumb to live, too stupid to die,” I cursed, referring to myself.
I passed through another strange circular corridor, and another of those strange termite mound-like volcano rooms.
Passing through another corridor, I heard a noise off to my left.
Looking over, I realized that the poor lighting from my single, blood covered suit, combined with the now missing helmet and without the mass of light provided by my companions, I had almost missed a closed doorway. How many others I had missed along the way, I had no idea and I kicked myself for not noticing sooner.
Taking a closer look, I saw that this deep in the ship, the crusty membranous flaps that passed for doors around were much thicker and closer matching in color to the walls than the ones closer to the hull, where we inserted.
But that wasn’t what had caught my attention, I realized when I heard the sound again.
I leaned closer to the portal. It almost sounded like voices were on the other side. Then I heard a loud chittering that made me seriously question that particular theory.
Regardless, I was tired of casting about aimlessly. If it was my fate to wander around in this poorly lighted, foul-smelling ship with living, writhing walls as the only thing for company, I was going to burst a blood vessel. It was time to share my pain with some Bugs, or at least do something to get the adrenaline flowing again.
Shoving my gauntleted hands into the door was much harder than it had been closer to the cutter-turned-landing craft. I actually had to punch the thing a couple of times to get my hands deep enough to puncture all the way through the membrane, before I could begin the somewhat gruesome task of tearing it apart. Previous doors I had been able to just push my hands through without this kind of resistance.
It was also different in that previously, I hadn’t really paid any attention to the small amount of fluids that squirted out when I was tearing the door/flaps apart. Without the helmet on, such fluids were harder to ignore. Actually being able to see the dark green and black muck that stuck to the semi-permeable membrane of the head bag was much more vile than when such fluids had stuck to the outside of a metal fiber helmet I couldn’t really see.
With a mighty heave that strained the servos, I tore one side of the flap loose from the wall and tore the other side in half lengthwise. Pushing my way into the room, I saw the strangest looking bug yet.
It was also the biggest Bug I had ever seen.
It stood only about four or five feet tall in the front, but was fully eight feet long. It had a mass of moving limbs on its main body like a centipede, arrayed in no discernable pattern of clusters or rows. It had a stinger-like appendage protruding from what I guessed was its rear, while in the front it sported the same, although proportionally larger, attack claws as the six foot tall soldier Bugs I had encountered before. Below and slightly behind the attack claws, it also sported a pair of delicate arms and hand-like extremities, identical to the smaller cutter Bugs.
It was currently feasting on what could only have been a human corpse. Since the face was still intact and I didn’t recognize the person, I had to assume it was one of the natives of Tracto VI.
The dead man looked more like one of the pasty white skinned Imperials, who for the most part generally looked similar to each other. My own Caprian countrymen sported a more varied, although generally brownish skin tone. He wasn’t as swarthy looking as the Prometheans, that much appeared certain.
My next shock was when I saw that there were several more native captives pinned against the wall. Although pinned might not be the best word for it, as they were all slightly indented into recesses formed in the living wall, and had a strap of the same moving, pulsating stuff as the wall wrapped around their waists. It didn’t matter that their hands and legs were basically free; the wall held them tight as it slowly molded itself around them, pulling them into its slimy, pebbled embrace.
It was obvious the moment the creature noticed me. I would have thought tearing apart the door would have been enough to get its attention, but apparently it wasn't.
I took two steps into the doorway and the monstrosity looked over at me with a bank of black, multifaceted eyes and started shrieking. Seeing it turn to face me, it became obvious just how much larger it was than a standard, six foot tall soldier. The soldiers were basically the size of a man, maybe a little bit bigger when you counted its abdomen sticking out its back side like some kind of giant grasshopper, but certainly comparable in overall bulk to a person.
This super Bug was nearly five feet across and eight feet long, with some sort of segmented body that maintained that bulk throughout its length. It was easily the size of three or four soldiers, and it didn't look happy. It lurched its bulk towards me in a motion I would have thought impossibly fast for a creature of its dimensions.
Some of the captives started yelling at me, but whatever they were saying was muffled by the inglorious head bag. Besides, the massive beast instantly received my complete and undivided attention.
Barely pausing to chitter at me, the monster shrieked like the siren of an emergency services vehicle barreling down a blocked road. Up and down, loud and louder it shrieked.
When it got close, I slashed it right through the center in a sideways cut intended to disembowel it, had it been human. I’m sure it felt the blow. I know the vibro-blade cut a cross section right through the middle of it two-to-three feet deep. That’s why I was mortally certain it knew it was in a fight.
However, you probably wouldn't have been able to tell from the way it slammed into me like a pile driver.
I raised one arm to protect my face, because that was all I had time to instinctively do before I was crushed up against one of the ship’s living walls. It did more than knock the wind out of me, even wearing the power armor. I had never felt anything like its impact in the whole time since I had started wearing the battle suit. That included being swarmed over by the Bugs upstairs and falling down a tunnel and landing on my neck. Another in a long series of misguided maneuvers that landed me in this situation.
Let me add that when this thing grabbed a hold of my power armored arm, I felt it. The squeeze of a soldier had been more restraining than anything else, but it's not like you felt anything on your skin, in your muscles or your bones. The grip of this monstrosity was a whole other matter. It felt like someone put my arm in a vice and not-so-slowly squeezed it with unnatural power.
I flailed at it and hit it the best I could with the closed fist of one hand and the hilt of Bandersnatch in the other, but I couldn’t get any kind of power into my movements as long as the thing had such a crushing grip on my arms. I was also unable to bring the blade of the sword into the fight, being constricted in and restrained by this rampaging beast.
It somewhat abruptly decided to carry me up to the ceiling. The constant breath-stealing pressure let up, and just like that I was being dragged up the slimy, fleshy wall. I was glad to be able to move more freely, but being pressed between its body and the living wall of the ceiling wasn't really a whole lot better than being crushed by its claws.
The shift in position was enough to expose some of its legs to my sword, however. I was only able to use my wrist to generate power, but Bandersnatch still sliced out like the poisonous viper it really was and cut off several of the thing’s legs in just two short strokes.
At this, the creature paused in its siren shriek long enough to roar angrily at me before resuming its previous call.
It was doing something to my midsection, but whatever it was didn’t penetrate the battle suit, for which I was immensely grateful. If it weren’t for this suit, I would have been dead ten times over. That's just counting my time on the bug ship! Whatever his current grudge against me, Chief Engineer Spalding had done me a very good turn when he refurbished this power armor. Without it, I would certainly be dead.
Of course, I decided after a moment’s consideration, without it I would have been less willing to take half the risks I had so far and almost certainly wouldn’t be in this dire situation. Still, those were my failings, and most certainly not a reflection on the Chief.
When the big Bug let go of me and jumped down to the floor, I was surprised. When I didn’t immediately fall down after it, I was confused. Flailing my limbs, I realized I was stuck to the ceiling. My arms and legs were just as fee as any other captive the Bugs had on this ship.
I looked down. My mid-section was covered with one of those living straps the Bugs used to keep their captives in place. Pushing against the ceiling with my elbows and legs did nothing except flex the strap like a piece of elastic, which actually caused the infernal thing to squeeze tight.
I gasped for air, struggling with the exertion. These straps were almost as strong as the creature that put me here.
I considered just hanging out up here and waiting for a while to see if help arrived. Even though they were Bugs, I was sick of all this life and death, hand to hand action. There had to be a better way. After a moment, I dismissed a rescue as a fool's dream. If anyone was going to save me, it had to be myself.
Besides, there was no way I was staying up here like a fly on the wall while it finished eating one captive and started on another. I figured I’d make it up here, on the 'let's all just hang out' plan, until it went after me or another living food source, and then I’d have to come down anyway. So sooner was better than later.
I eyed the creature before carefully placing my heels on the somewhat less-slimy surface of the ceiling. I didn’t want to exert any pressure that would cause the strap to tighten, I just wanted to be ready to push off later when it was time.
As well positioned as a man in battle armor, hanging off the ceiling by a super strong strap of living tissue wrapped around his waist could be, I carefully raised Bandersnatch and angled it so that it would cut across most of the strap in one swipe.
In one swift motion, I was free. There was a sucking sound as the weight of the armor pulled me out of the ceiling, and I pushed off with my heels. One arm was raised to either break my fall or shield my face, the other poised with the blade, ready to slice open the giant Bug.
I was painfully reminded, once again, that I had only taken a two week course in power armor use and wasn’t a trained battle suit operator when I fell short of the bug and landed with a thump. For the very first time, I was grateful for the living floor of the bug ship. Because while I left a big indent where I crash landed, nothing was broken during the fall, especially not my all-too-exposed head or neck.
Somehow in all the confusion, I lost the head bag. I only realized this when stench of the bug floor reached my nostrils. Ignoring the evil smell, I scrambled to my feet and brought the sword up into position.
As if seeing me for the first time, the huge creature once again started screaming, and I realized the head bag had actually muffled its awful voice just a little. Now I got the full siren effect, and I have to say I wasn’t very pleased.
This time when the super Bug charged me, I was ready. With a cry, I jumped to the side and slashed a wide swath, severing almost half its legs on one side. Its momentum kept it going until it slammed into the wall, where it bounced off further than I anticipated, and reoriented quickly before coming back at me again.
This time, when I tried to make like a matador, I wasn’t just going for its legs. I was going to try and take off its head. Unfortunately, when I dodged to the side this time it was ready for me and tried to mirror my motion.
Who ever said a Bug can’t learn new tricks?
Its move caught me off-guard and instead of taking the thing in the neck, I only managed to cut off the top of its head before it caught hold of me and slammed us against the wall.
“Not again,” I gasped, before seeing the top of its head was gone. Inside, I could see what looked to me like insectoid brains (I had never before seen insectoid brains, but I was willing to bet that this was what they looked like). The creature was still very much active, however. Actively writhing and trying to crush me against the wall, that is. It also had regained a hold of my arms with its claws.
Everything hurt, but the sight of its brains gave me an idea. I grunted and strained to overpower its insect arms, and reached for its head with my gauntleted hands. It fought me the whole way. Not with any indication it understood what I was trying to do, but in the same mindless way these creatures had done everything else since I had arrived.
Still, the power armor clinched the deal; I managed after what must have been a full minute of struggle to force my hand into what passed for the thing’s head. I grabbed some of the brain-like substance and made a fist, then swirled my hand around inside the cavity the best I could.
The creature went into a frenzy of motion, and before I knew it I was thrown into the air and once again landed with a thump. The raw power in its body was truly remarkable.
As I gathered myself and then staggered to my feet, I watched as it writhed and rolled around on the floor like a snake with its head cut off. Although now that I thought about it, the creature seemed more like a chicken. A chicken will run around, blood pumping from the hole in its neck where its head used to be until it suddenly keeled over, seemingly coming to grips with its own demise. I had seen a headless chicken run all the way around a barn before realizing it was dead and abruptly calling it quits. At least, I thought I had.
Yes, I finally decided as the creature slammed into a wall and started rolling again; it acted more like a chicken than a snake.
Of course, it could have just lost its vision or smell or whatever Bugs used to get around and started thrashing because it was suddenly in the dark. Then, bolstering my fowl assessment, it abruptly stopped moving and went limp, just like a chicken. ‘Guess that answers that,’ I thought.
My shoulders slumped and I went to lean against a wall. I ached in places I never knew I could ache before, and any place that didn’t ache felt like it was bruised. I needed to take a moment and leaned my head forward. White fire lanced up and down my neck. I groaned in agony and stumbled, catching myself against the wall I was leaning on.
The natives started babbling at me again in their strange way, but I couldn’t make heads or tails what they were saying. Of course, I wasn’t in the best shape right now, and I never claimed to be an expert at primitive linguistics.
Without looking up, I deduced that they probably expected me to cut them loose immediately, if not sooner. I took a glance, and my suspicions were immediately confirmed. They were all gesturing at their belts made of Bug ship wall, and making cutting movements while pointing to my sword.
There was even a redhead who had somehow lost her shirt trying to motion me over. I blushed as my eyes quite naturally went where they weren’t supposed to go and I hastily looked away. My eyes kept wanting to stray back to the surprisingly impressive display, but I tried to focus on something else instead.
I ended up looking at another woman beside the red head. My eyes just didn’t want to get that far away from the forbidden fruit. This one seemed to be the only one not yelling at me and demanding I free them and make everything all right. She was blond and I supposed beautiful, if you like icy features and eyes that bored right through you like a high-powered laser.
She wore a look that didn’t so much say 'you are worthless and I’m ignoring you,' as seem to ask the question of if I was worth paying any attention to in the first place. I was intrigued.
Chapter 25: Hate At First Sight
However, considering I had just smashed a giant bug monster and was about to free her (and the rest of the natives), it seemed an inconsiderate look to be throwing my direction, especially considering I was an Admiral personally present on a rescue mission.
Of course, she didn’t know that. That is to say, none of them actually knew I was an Admiral, but even a primitive native had to know I was the man who had just saved them. You’d think I would get a little credit. I glanced at the other natives who were the most squirming and demanding bunch of people I had ever seen. There was no gratitude there, either. Only a desperate, frothing need to get free.
I sighed. Oh well, it was just a look, and the rest of this bunch of primitives seemed worse. Noisier at least. I shouldn’t be making snap judgments about a culture based on a few abused prisoners in a bug ship, I reminded myself.
I had just taken the first step toward cutting the prisoners free when a furious chittering sound came through the now sundered portal. “Saint Murphy,” I muttered, whirling around to face the doorway. “What next?”
The insectoid Bugs didn’t clatter or clank against the walls, floor or ceiling. The living material of which the ship was made was a substance that cushioned and absorbed the sound of their feet.
If they had acted a little more intelligently, they could have snuck up on me completely undetected. Fortunately, instead of intelligently advancing on my position, they sounded more furious and enraged. And they were getting closer by the moment. Say what you will about these Bugs and their intelligence, they are unequivocally fast when traversing the passages of this slimy, putrid vessel.
No sooner had I run back to check the entrance to the chamber when the first clawed soldier bug arrived.
My reflexes caused Bandersnatch to flash out more quickly than I expected, so quickly that I almost lost my footing as the blade sliced neatly through the midsection of the creature, rendering it a chittering mass of oozing, nasty chitin. But there were more where that one came from. Lots more. I slashed and parried, stabbed and smashed at the doorway to the room, careful not to give ground, lest the mindless beasts pour through the room in overwhelming numbers. At least here, at the only obvious entrance to the chamber, I could kill them as quickly as they arrived.
A Prince-Cadet of the Caprian realm wasn’t supposed to be standing in the doorway of a Bug ship trying to save a bunch of helpless natives, I despaired. (The aforementioned natives had, predictably, resumed their panicked thrashing and wailing in that odd language of theirs.) I wasn’t supposed to be battling for my life against a torrent of Bugs, I thought as the bodies kept piling up. I was supposed to be wrapped in silk, closely monitored and generally scorned by everyone I came into contact with.
When the bodies of the ship's green-shelled defenders blocked the door, the Bugs paused to pull the corpses of their fallen comrades back out into the corridor. Then they came back with a vengeance.
I hacked and stabbed, slashing for everything I was worth, but this time the Bugs had a new tactic. In addition to a second horde of angry claw-clacking soldiers, a number of furiously chittering tool-wielders poured through the top of the gory flesh-door.
Hanging up-side-down from the ceiling didn’t slow down the little cut-wheel wielding Bugs at all, I noticed with horror.
I managed to hack through one of the smaller ones as it passed overhead before slashing through another angry soldier. But for every small Bug I was getting, two more escaped through the top of the door.
Without the larger Bugs to hold me down, I wasn’t too worried about the tool-wielders right now. But not all the smaller ones coming through the door, equipped with crystal tipped cutting wheels, were trying to jump onto my back. Several were heading toward the natives still imprisoned by the flesh-bands attached to the walls of the ship.
There was no way I could hold the soldiers at the doorway and stop the cutter Bugs at the same time. At least not the ones that had already slipped by me and were heading towards the prisoners. Any little bug that tried to come at me directly was just waiting to get skewered.
Putting thought to action, I stepped on a cutter bug that had dropped from the ceiling and apparently tried to land on my unguarded head. The crunch it made under my armored boot was deeply satisfying, I must admit.
I glared at my sword and glanced at the little Bugs who had almost reached the prisoners by this point. What good was this double-edged boon of a vibroblade if I couldn’t even use it to save the prisoners? What I needed right now was a plasma rifle, now that would really keep the doorway clear and let me intercept the smaller ones that had gotten past, all at the same time.
Sensing movement I jerked to the left and saw a massive claw clamp down where my neck had previously been. I had almost gotten my head taken off by a mindless soldier bug because I wasn’t paying attention to my surroundings. Then an idea occurred to me. Maybe the sword could be used in place of a plasma rifle to free the prisoners and give them a fighting chance against the cut-wheel wielding Bugs.
I didn’t really want the blasted sword, anyways. Well, ok, at that exact moment I actually kind of did want to hang onto the thing, but the prisoners needed it more. I tried to convince myself that I was better off without it, but standing in the way of the seemingly endless horde of killer insects, the thought of losing my only real effective weapon was terrifying.
I gritted my teeth. If I stood by while helpless prisoners were slaughtered, just to save my own skin, then I wasn’t any better than the ancestors who nearly ruined my home world, or the Imperials who had abandoned the citizens of the Confederation after rendering us essentially unable to defend ourselves.
I turned around quickly and drew back my arm for the throw, trying to strike a javelin-hurler's pose. I knew they wouldn’t understand me, but it seemed fitting to say something anyway. “Here, take the cursed thing and cut yourself free,” I snarled in the same secret language I had used to insult the Imperial Captain prior to his disembarkation. It somehow seemed fitting to use a language I was certain they wouldn't understand when casting it away from myself, since I couldn't understand what they were trying to say, either! I guess when I get stressed, I occasionally revert to the secret tongue my mother taught me as a child.
I threw it to the icy blonde because whenever I looked back at the group of prisoners, my eyes naturally sought out the half-naked form of the redhead right beside her. Also, I was momentarily filled with fear that I might accidentally hit the busty red head. It's not like I was trained at throwing swords. “There’s been nothing but trouble ever since I picked it up!" It landed point-down in the floor, with the hilt coming to rest against the wall between the two women.
There, my good deed for the day was done and no one could later say that I was just another self-serving Montagne who would let people die to save his own neck.
The blond woman, while decent enough to look at (if you were into that whole icy disdain thing) just didn’t inspire the same thought clouding emotions as the exposed red head. So it seemed safer to throw the vibro-blade at her and let her save the red head. It just didn't seem proper to risk a helpless, disrobed woman's life at a time like this.
Unfortunately, I took too long getting back in the fight at the entrance to the room (I find no shame in admitting that I was caught staring at sights better left to private encounters) when I should have been turning around to continue the fight of my life. Instead of some societal matron twisting my ear at a court ball or other ostentatious function, it was a six foot tall killer bug trying to take off my head. The scariest part might have been that I felt certain the critter had designs on what to do with my head after it had been removed from my neck.
After slamming into and knocking me over, the Bug almost got its claws around my exposed neck in the mad scramble that followed. Barely getting an arm up in time, I struggled for all I (and the modified power armor) was worth. Kicking and smashing at anything that moved just wasn’t the same thing as wielding a legendary (albeit dangerous to possess) vibro-weapon. I wasn’t able to kill the bug and free my arm before being swarmed over by another mad rush of soldiers.
A woman shouted in outrage, and I got the odd feeling that it was directed at me. It took a moment to register that I actually understood what was said. “You are offering me a sword at a time like this? A Cursed sword?! What do you take me for, some kind of...” she finished the sentence using a bunch of words I had never heard before.
One of the natives spoke the secret language of the ancient Earthers! They could understand me. It didn’t matter that she’d thrown a bunch of native speak in at the end. Things were looking up!
“Pick it up and cut everyone free,” I ordered, struggling to my feet through sheer strength. I grunted but got upright. There just weren’t enough Bugs yet to hold me down, at least not right at the moment. Grabbing one (as much for regaining balance as for attack), I tore its arm completely off.
“Do you think I’m a fool? Never!” shrieked the woman in a tone that could shatter glass. I couldn’t see her through all the Bugs swarming to overbear me. I had hoped for a better first reaction when I spoke to her for the first time, to be honest.
“Blast it, woman,” I cursed, pulling another bug off and throwing it to the floor where I crushed it with my boot until it stopped moving. “I’m fighting for my life here, and not just my own life, if you understand what I’m saying!” I bellowed in pain as a bug claw grazed my face, feeling more like a burning razor cut across my cheek than anything else. In the distance I heard the first shriek of pain as the little cutter Bugs reached the one of the prisoners and the native died screaming in agony. “Get over here and help before it’s too late,” I yelled as I staggered and fell to my knees.
“I’d rather die first, you dishonorable swine!” The answer was prompt and even more piercing than the last.
I couldn’t understand it. She would rather die than take up Bandersnatch and free herself and the others. I had let myself be blinded by her beauty. Clearly, the shirtless one was a head case. I shouldn’t have given the little viper a second look. I should have kept my head down and thrown the sword to someone else, anyone else, instead.
I had given up my only weapon when I threw her the blasted sword, and instead of being thankful she- then I remembered how she’d called it cursed. I hadn’t said anything of the kind, unless… Oh of all the stupid superstitious, cave-woman, sun-worshipping, nonsense, I had called Bandersnatch a 'cursed thing' when I tossed it to her. That must be why she thought I was ‘dishonorable’.
“I didn’t say that,” I grunted, struggling to get back to my feet. No rational person believed in actual curses, but maybe she would think I was lying if I told her the truth. She was just a primitive native after all. I hesitated and another prisoner screamed in a far corner of the room.
“Is it cursed like you said, or isn’t it,” she retorted, still sounding resolved but a bit less fanatical about it. I really wished I could look at her while we were talking, instead of shouting across the room as I faced away trying to hold off the Bugs.
I changed my mind about what to say, abandoning the truth in favor of what I thought she wanted to hear. People were dying, and I would say whatever it took to get her to free herself and save them, but when everyone was free and the Bugs taken care of, there was going to be a reckoning. I was seriously considering putting the boots to that crazy head case for letting people die out of superstitious hocus pocus. This didn’t even address how she had managed to successfully ruin my dramatic gesture. One where I had literally disarmed myself to save her and them!
“What I meant to say is that the sword only affects members of my family, The Montagnes,” I gasped, randomly grabbing a leg and crushing it in my grip. “You’ll be fine.”
“You offered me a sword. You’ll have to be more specific than that. What do you mean it only affects members of your family,” she asked, now genuine curiosity in her voice. I still hadn't seen her face.
“What is this, an interrogation about the history of some sword you’ve never seen or heard of before? At a time like this,” I yelled, striking out with my gauntleted fist and being rewarded with the sickly cracking sound of insectoid exoskeleton. I was actually managing to hold my own at this point, even while holding this insane conversation with an ungrateful prisoner.
Then the previously undamaged side of my face felt like it exploded in a crushing, burning sensation as a lucky claw tore through my cheek. I screamed in equal parts pain and surprise. Something had to change or I was going to die, that much had just become certain. “Alright, alright,” I yelled, searching for the words in a language I didn’t normally use conversationally. There was definitely going to be some payback when this was over… assuming we all survived. “Ever since the Founder, any member of the bloodline who’s owned it has come to a bad end. That’s why I was happy to get rid of it. Generals, bodyguards, even wives are okay. Anyone who's only collaterally linked to the Montagnes have gone on to do great things, for the most part.”
“What do you mean for the most part,” she demanded haughtily. The nerve on this woman!
I covered my head with an arm to protect against an incoming claw, and kicked the attacking bug against the wall. “About half the time,” I began, but at this point I was sure my voice was muffled by the floor and all the Bugs around me. I needed to keep this short and sweet. “It’s perfectly safe you crazy, superstitious WOMAN!”
It was at this point that I tripped over one of the smaller Bugs while sidestepping another soldier and fell to the deck. I yelled in surprise, but despite my best efforts, I failed to avoid the tide of incoming soldiers and found myself pinned beneath their massed bulk. I kept yelling until the cutters arrived, along with their crystal tipped cutting wheels.
I screamed as they started cutting on the armor of the battle suit.
Even with their crystal tipped cut-wheels, it took a while to cut through battle suit armor. Long enough that I started to hope against hope that Engineer Spalding had somehow upgraded the armor to the point it was impervious to the little wheels.
Hot fire in my leg followed by a terrible ripping and grinding sensation gave the lie to that pipe dream. Then there was nothing I could do but scream.
I was still screaming when a great wall of fire erupted all around me and I was forced down into the floor by the force of an explosion nearby. The force of the blast must have knocked the wind out of me, because while I still felt like I was screaming, no sounds came out of my mouth. A moment later, a great metal boot landed in the middle of my back, slamming me deeper into the floor. The burning bug carapaces that covered me made it impossible to see what was going on.
“The tracking device says we’re right on top of him,” said a voice I didn’t recognize, but he had a Caprian accent. “Do you think he’s up a level or down?”
“We’ll tear this ship apart until we find the Admiral,” said a voice I did recognize, it was Gants. “I don’t care how many Bugs we have to squish along the way. Remember Tomias!”
I struggled to lift my hands and wave them in the air. Was it the Armory crew come to save me? Don’t ask me how they managed, because I couldn’t imagine how they located me, let alone executed a plan which led them to, literally, my exact location. They had somehow survived and come down to get me.
“Tomias!” shouted several voices over their external suit speakers. I had no idea who Tomias was, but he obviously held some significance for the members of the attack team.
“Let's find the Admiral,” roared Gants and the weight on my back let up.
By now Bug remains and Bug fluids hot enough to boil started pouring down my neck and on my head. I had to get out from under the pile of Bugs I was covered in.
My screams were muffled by the smoking remains of a bug leg that got caught in my mouth. For some reason I couldn’t spit it out. Grunting, I gathered myself to heave my way up out of this smoldering mess, but another armored boot landed to push me back down.
“Good grief, Gants! There’s women in here,” exclaimed one of the armory crew.
“That one doesn’t even have a shirt,” remarked one of the men in what he probably thought was a quiet voice. However, he was wrong and the sound carried, even down under the pile of insect remains I was unable to extricate myself from.
Sweet Murphy, they were probably ogling that red headed pit viper while I was buried under burning Bug remains. Another series of heavy battle suit boots trod on me, pushing me further into the floor.
“Keep your tongue in your head, Oleander. These are probably the native prisoners the Bugs were planning to use for food,” growled Gants, “and get ready to blast a hole in the ceiling. But no more plasma grenades while there are unarmored civilians present.”
I squirmed and bucked as more boiling hot bug remains made contact with my exposed body. I hadn’t realized we’d brought along Oleander, the only man in the armory who managed to set off a sonic grenade by accident.
“I got a live one under here, Gants,” said another one of the armory crew. “It must have been shielded by the bodies of its friends.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll squish it for you,” said the voice of Oleander and a series of metal shod blows rained down on me as the Armory hooligan gave vent to his enthusiasm for bug killing.
“Blazes,” said another one of the crew, “One of the natives has a vibro-weapon."
“She’s hot,” said one of the armory crew.
“I always liked a woman with a blade,” said another.
I was completely disgusted. Here they were kicking their commander while he was down and drooling over that pit viper in human form, who had stood by and deliberately let that same commander get in this very position in the first place. That red head wasn’t a beautiful young woman, they were wrong about that; she was an insane, superstitious and primitive succubus who only waited until I was down to take action. They might not be aware of any of this at the moment, but they would get an earful as soon as I got out from under here.
“Hey! That’s the same vibro-blade I gave to the Admiral," remarked Gants, something between hope and fear in his voice. "He’s been here already!”
“Well, where is he now,” asked Oleander, pausing in his bug stomping assault. I was just lucky that so far he’d stomped my armored arms and body, not my head. If he had it would have been game over.
“Maybe they know,” said Gants.
The ensuing babble that followed masked my screams as I slowly hauled myself out of the pile.
For her part, the red headed demoness spoke to my men in the same secret Earther language I knew, but they couldn’t understand a word she said. I, on the other hand, could understand her just fine.
“I assume from your armor that you belong to either the same or a rival war-band. I hope you’re a rival band. Did you know there’s a warrior under that pile of dead monsters? You probably killed him when you made the big white fire. Although, if he somehow survived, he was almost certainly killed by all that stomping you Hoplites did to that pile of burnt monsters,” she said conversationally. “We should check, just to make sure of course.”
Oh, that witch. There was no way I was letting her ‘check on me’ with Bandersnatch. I didn’t care if Oleander started stomping again.
Adrenaline rushed through my body, dulling the pain and giving me strength. I slowly forced my way up.
Oleander must have been too busy ogling her assets to notice, because no one started stomping right away. Last time they started in as soon as I began to make progress. I still had hope as I poured every ounce of power-assisted muscle I had into the task of forcing my way out of the pile of corpses. I imagined that I appeared like some sort of macabre insect-man crawling from a womb-sac. Knowing it was a Victory or Death situation, I refused to give up and slowly pushed my way out of that pile of still burning bug remains.
They must have used a plasma grenade. Realizing this, my blood turned cold. If I hadn’t been shielded from the main blast by all those Bugs, I would certainly have been dead without my helmet.
The battle-suited figure I took to be Oleander was indeed ogling the tall red head alright. Only she didn’t have the sword on her. Superstitious to the bitter end, apparently. At that moment though, I didn’t care what she had done with it. I would deal with her later.
I hauled back and slammed my fist right into the side of Oleander’s helmet. He staggered and fell to one knee, but thanks to his helmet he wasn’t as affected as I’d hoped.
Using my armored foot, I knocked him over and started stomping on him while he used his arms to try to cover himself. I put the boots to him good and hard, ignoring the shouts of the armory crew as first they must have thought I was another Bug and then realized they’d just found their Admiral and he was in a murderous mood after having been stomped flat several times.
I put it to him until the burning pain in my leg registered, but it wasn’t half as long a thrashing as I wanted to deliver. His armor protected him from the worst of my blows, but as the pain in my leg registered, so did the terrible burns to my face and I slowed to a stop.
I stood there panting and heaving for air, while my men stood around me in a semi-circle. Through their face plates I could see open mouths.
“Are you done now,” asked the same female voice that had refused to cut herself or anyone else free unless I could convince her Bandersnatch wasn’t cursed. I had failed. Then I saw she had obviously changed her mind at some point, because I could see Bandersnatch out of the corner of my eye. She had probably grabbed it up as soon as she was certain I was down for good. I bared my teeth and growled in nearly uncontrolled fury.
Breathing hard, I looked over at the owner of the voice and was stunned. It wasn’t the well-endowed red head I had thought it was, but instead the golden haired ice maiden who hadn’t bothered to ask for help. And now that I could accurately put face to voice, she was the one who had tried to refuse it for her and everyone else. I realized I had been so focused on the red head that I'd ignored the possibility it could have been her blond haired wall-mate I’d been talking with.
“He’ll live, and so will I,” I answered her in the secret language of Earth. The sound of that hateful voice brought me out of the haze of intense pain I had just begun to feel.
She looked down at Oleander and back up at me. She grimaced in distaste as her eyes searched my face. “More’s the pity,” she said finally.
“We all have to live with our little disappointments,” I replied. If my eyes came equipped with laser beams, she would have been nothing but a smoking pile of human body parts right now.
“If you live, you’ll be horribly disfigured for the rest of your life,” she said harshly. “But it’s no worse than you deserve, deliberately offering a cursed sword like that.”
“Lady, in the name of every one of Demon-Murphy’s angry mechanical imps, you did not just say that,” I growled. Right at that moment I wasn’t an Admiral. I wasn’t a Governor or a Prince of the realm. I was just a very badly injured young man, one who had tried to save her ungrateful little life and this was how she repaid me.
“A demon summoner as well,” she said scornfully. “I should have expected it from a man like you.”
I tensed and almost raised my fist to punch a hole right through her head. I paused and grinned as I imagined that she might prefer to taste the same boots I had just put to Oleander instead. If there was one thing my Royal Vekna cousins had taught me, it was when you fight you have to put them down fast, and once they are down keep kicking until they beg for mercy.
At that moment I might as well have been back on the playground facing my old nemesis. This blond icy maiden might be the complete physical opposite of cousin Cordelia in just about every single way, but to my eye this woman had the same hateful demeanor and a willingness to kick a man when he was down. I recognized this as my chance to return the favor. My cousin might have had four years on me when we were growing up, but right now I was in battle armor.
It wasn’t any sense of chivalry that stopped me at the last moment. It was the realization that this wasn’t my cousin, combined with the knowledge that with the strength inside this armor I would only get one blow and then it would all be over. I took a deep breath, and as I calmed down I wasn’t even sure this evil witch, this pit viper in human form was worth the price of murder, but I was certain that using battle armor would make whatever I eventually decided to do over too quickly.
So instead, I said the most hateful thing I could imagine right at that moment.
“I see you finally decided to use Bandersnatch after all,” I said, allowing a brief pause for the dig to sink in. Now was the time for the heavy artillery. “Was that before or after the Bugs stopped killing your people,” I asked, gesturing to the other natives.
First she went red and then white at my words. I savored every moment. “You’ll bleed for each of those words,” she breathed. Whatever else she was, she appeared to be brave enough to threaten a man in power armor.
She shook herself and half turned away. When she turned fully back to face me, she had her icy exterior on again. She had been trained, apparently.
“I should have known your accursed sword would have a name as well,” she said, holding herself rigidly erect. “Only the greatest of Evil Blades survive long enough to have names.”
“Oh get over yourself and your silly superstitions, Lady,” I scoffed, shaking my head for effect.
“How dare you,” she started, but I cut her off.
“Do you think I’m foolish enough to believe your façade,” I barked. “If you really believed Bandersnatch was a wicked, evil blade, you wouldn’t dare talk about it that way. At least not where it could hear you,” I said. Then I couldn’t help myself and added, “Don’t you know Bandersnatch eats snark like yours for breakfast,” I ended sarcastically, playing to what I presumed was her primitive superstitious nature.
She opened her mouth but then slowly closed it. She bowed her head. “You’re right of course. It’s foolish to insult any blade, how much more an Evil one such as this.”
I rolled my eyes and then gasped in pain as the movement pulled against the cuts in both sides of my face.
“Bandersnatch, I am genuinely sorry if I insulted you. You have my apologies, I was overcome,” she said holding up the blade while she was talking to it. Like she was some character in a fantasy vid where the blade was magical and glowed with light, whispering evil plots and schemes. She truly looked like the foolish primitive she was turning out to be.
“I’m so out of here, Lady,” I said and turned to my men. They hadn’t understood a word I had said, but seemed grateful I'd turned my attention to the natives.
“Gants,” I said, walking over to the man.
“Yes, your highness,” he said, caution in his eyes. Apparently he had been taken in with the whole mystic sword scene. Even though he didn’t seem to understand the language.
“It's Admiral, my good man,” I said and clapped Gants on the shoulders. “I haven’t thanked you for saving me. All of you, thank you,” I paused and glared down at Oleander. “Everyone that didn’t try to kill me, that is.”
“Err, you're welcome, Sir,” said Gants doubtfully, but looking at least mildly reassured that his Admiral hadn’t entirely lost his mind. Although the way he was looking at my face and neck, he was clearly concerned for another reason. I’m sure the big gashes in my cheeks didn’t help matters… Although maybe he couldn’t see it under the rest of the damage and bug gore, or it might have even been burned closed. I couldn’t tell, there were no handy mirrors nearby and I wasn’t about to touch myself with my gauntleted hands.
I didn’t care how I looked. I was ready to take on the entire world. I wanted to crush these Bugs and exterminate them from the entire galaxy. I wanted to…
I was later told I passed out on my feet. Shock from my wounds and combat exhaustion, they said. I’ll admit, I’ve never been in combat or horribly burned before, but fainting or passing out as they called it, just doesn’t sound like me. I have my suspicions that some sort of anesthetic was involved. Unfortunately, that’s all they are, suspicions.
Chapter 26: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
I gradually became aware that I was awake. Normally, you’re asleep and then you’re awake. You might be half awake, half asleep, but for the most part you just know which one is which. I mean, I’ve had a few instances where I dreamed that I was awake when I really wasn’t, but never before was I awake without knowing it.
At the time I didn’t really care, but afterwards the sensation was more than a little bit disconcerting. Apparently, the medical staff did this to me on purpose, to gauge my pain level and reaction to the surgical heal and burn heal they’d put on my wounds. They’d been hesitant to use quick heal on my various bruises for fear of a medication reaction. The same apparently went for slow heal.
I didn’t have the sort of intense pain I would have been feeling without access to a medical suite most hospitals would have been envious of… well, fifty years ago they might have been envious of the medical facilities onboard the Lucky Clover. I was mostly thankful that I didn’t feel the sort of discomfort from the neck up that a primitive like these Tractonian’s would expect. Or was that Tractoes? Trac-toes, now that was good. Tic-trac-toes. Apparently, I’m very funny when they gas me up in the infirmary. I usually don't have much appreciation for humor, but I laughed at every single one of my own jokes.
My sensation from the neck down was another matter, entirely. From the soles of my feet to just below my neck, I felt like one big bruise. I ached everywhere, and by that I mean everywhere. Places that you would normally discount just plain hurt.
I couldn’t even sit up from the pain in my stomach and abdomen where, alternately, the Monster Bug and then my men had taken turns trying to turn me into pre-canned human jelly. I know I couldn't sit up because I tried. All I can say is I got back to a flat position really quickly and waited for the pain I had just ignited to subside.
Now that I was awake and in pain again from my own efforts to get up, I was surprised I was back on the ship. Being back on the ship and knowing I had been brought here while unconscious, I was doubly surprised to wake up again. Must have been the ever-watchful eye of Gants and the commandoes from the Armory crew that kept me alive.
Maybe I hadn’t been giving my people enough credit. I’d thought for sure that if I was ever helpless and fell into their clutches, they would try to keep me sedated until we got home so they could court-martial me, or whatever it is they do to power-grabbing Montagne's when they get us down. I had been convinced they were out to get me, and this time I had been wrong.
“How long until he wakes up,” demanded that harsh voice I knew so well. It was blondie and once again, she sounded like she was out to get me. “How long,” she repeated.
I was surprised to hear her words repeated in a dry computer simulated voice. Only they weren’t repeated in the secret language, they had been translated into Confederation Standard. A language anyone on the ship could understand.
There was a strangled gurgle.
I looked over and saw that a blond valkyrie, but better known to me as the pit viper in human form, had a metal-pronged fork pressed into the neck of the very same grey haired security guard who had first tried to arrest and then kill me on the flag bridge. In the back of my mind I had been blaming myself for his presumed death at my power armored hands ever since our last, apparently un-fatal encounter.
To see him not only alive but, other than a fork such partway in his neck and a line of dried blood running down the same, in good health was shocking. To know that he had also been in the same room as my recently unconscious self...well, it's safe to say my blood pressure went through the roof.
I looked around the room, the sense of panic starting to take hold.
I was in one of the sickbays of the main infirmary on the ship. A number of people in Caprian SDF uniforms with blue stripes running up and down their legs, indicating they were medical personnel, were sprawled out unconscious on several of the other beds. Even more alarming was that this sick bay was filled with what looked like most, if not all, of the natives from Bug ship.
My eyes widened in shock. I was surrounded! The natives had also backed a number of other crewmen up against the walls of the sick bay with improvised weapons pressed to their necks. Black hats lay scattered on the beds and floor.
They were taller than I expected. The natives, that is. Much taller. I hadn’t really noticed when I was clomping around in power armor, but now that I was back on a more natural plane, I was surprised. They were taller than the men they were holding up against wall. It was my understanding that natives without advanced medical care and a balanced diet tended to be smaller than our well-fed Caprian norm, not larger.
If possible, my eyes bulged even further as I counted the men pressed up against the wall and came up with a total of eight. I did a double take when I recognized a pair of them. They were the same two men who had come along with the grey haired security lieutenant to arrest me and then opened fire when things didn’t go as expected. I had broken one man’s arm. As I recalled, he had an itchy trigger finger.
I looked closer, and my suspicions were confirmed as he definitely had some kind of healing cast on. It puffed up the arm of his uniform quite noticeably. At least when you were looking for it. I obviously had missed that detail on first glance.
“He’s awake,” said a grey haired Doctor I recognized from the incident on the bridge. He was one of the department heads. Medical obviously, since he was a Doctor. He was stating the obvious, that I was alive and likely to remain so. At least now that I was awake anyway. A man asleep in the presence of his enemies generally didn't last too long.
The Doc looked ill-used. He was grey faced and had a big red abrasion on his forehead. Someone had hit him with something solid. I just hoped it was the grey haired security lieutenant who had hit him because, frankly, I was itching for an excuse to put the security officer off the ship and maroon his ungrateful hide.
I couldn’t help myself and stared at the officer, still processing the scene. My head must have been fuzzy because I was having a hard time figuring out what was going on. For the first time since we'd met, I wasn’t filled with the urge to strangle the intolerable witch. She had tried to get me killed after all but, well, anyone who stuck a fork in that prejudiced parliamentary servant got points in my book.
Not that there were enough points in the universe to make me forget what she’d done. I felt my face harden into an iron mask. That’s when I received my next big shock.
The doctor rattled off a series of vital signs and other information the pit viper couldn’t understand. She hid it well, but a trained person like myself could tell if you were watching her as closely as I was. He finished by saying, “I think it's safe to say that the Admiral is going to live.”
“I don’t understand that word you use,” she said trying to pronounce the confederation standard word she didn’t know.
“Your… ah, your husband is going to be fine,” the Doctor said.
My mind filled with white noise and a ringing sound. Something here just didn’t compute.
I was still recovering from my battle with a bug ship as evidenced by my still very much battered and bruised body. That was it. I must have dropped a thread somewhere and missed part of the conversation along the way. It must have been while I was really asleep, rather than zonked out in some chemically-induced half-sleep. Although I was honestly surprised that any man would actually have her, it made sense that her husband was a native and if so had been on the bug ship with her. And since all the natives were here in medical, at least as best I could tell with my fallible human memory, where else would he be?
The white noise retreated and the ringing faded.
I realized they were still talking so I did my best to pay attention. Just because it looked like the pit viper had the good taste to desire the bodily harm of the security lieutenant, it was a non sequitur that she meant no harm to me as well. For all I knew she was a natural psychotic who simply hated all foreigners (or men, for that matter) equally. Which would explain why everyone, excluding the natives who were looking to her for directions was either unconscious, wounded, or pinned against the wall.
She was looking at me impatiently. “Are you paying attention now, or is your brain still addled,” she demanded.
“Pfahh,” I scoffed. Not my finest moment.
Seeing I was paying attention again, she decided now was the perfect time to insult me. “I’m surprised you only look ugly instead of completely disfigured,” she said in that icy voice of hers. Then grudgingly added, “Your healers are obviously much better than ours.”
She then turned and glared at the security officer. Pushing on the fork, she caused him to squirm and try to pull up to relieve the pain from the tongs.
“Are you here just to insult me? Or is there a purpose floating around somewhere,” I said waving at the room in general.
“This blethkurl,” I had no idea what a blethkurl was, but that didn't seem to slow her down, “laid hands on me when I was unprepared and took the sword,” she said and looked down almost as if ashamed of something. Then she glanced at me almost defiantly, before turning with fresh anger on the security officer. She gave him such a look that I was grateful it was aimed at the grey haired lieutenant and not me, and she pushed the tongs in until the man squealed and a fresh trickle of blood slid down his neck.
“All the natives were given a simple sedative after they arrived,” muttered the grey haired Doc low enough that the translator wouldn’t pick it up. “It wore off faster than expected.”
I nodded after it registered that he was talking to me. I was somewhat focused on the fact that parliamentary agents, the old ship’s security section, were not only aware that Bandersnatch was on the ship but had commandeered it as well. This was bad.
Realizing her word hadn’t been properly translated only seemed to make her angrier.
“This worm. This slive. This utter…,” she sputtered off into another incoherent stream of native gibberish.
“Oh, get over yourself, Lady,” I said, unable to stomach all of this outrage over a sword she had proclaimed was evil and seemed to hate nearly as much as she hated myself. “It’s not like you wanted anything to do with that sword since the beginning. But now that it's been stolen, oh, you’re outraged?” I would have thrown my hands in the air if I hadn’t feared the pain that would follow.
“And you!” I turned to the grey haired security officer. “Come to finish the job and kill me while I was asleep? You and your parliamentary hit team,” I waved in the direction of the security guards pinned against the wall.
I’m sure he would have answered me but in her excitement she must have increased the pressure on the fork and he held his peace instead.
“He did try to murder you in your sleep,” the pit viper said too enthusiastically for my comfort. “But we know him, after he steals my Bandersnatch,” she said awkwardly pronouncing the name of the sword without using the translator. “So when he comes back with his men,” she scoffed as if the security guards didn’t deserve to be called real men, then slammed her fist into the wall. “We captured them using the foreign dinner ware.”
The security guard grunted in protest, as if there was more he would say if given the chance but for once she continued to ignore him and he didn’t press his luck by actually speaking without permission.
“His war-band is not very good,” she said matter-of-factly, “Not like your hoplites, who fight well and have fearsome battle armor.”
For some reason I couldn’t place, she seemed to be inordinately proud of this. As if the armory crew being better warriors than the security detachment was, if not a big deal, at least a favorable check in some primitive values system of hers. I decided not to mention that the Armory crew was essentially untrained amateurs and carried the day on the bug ship by virtue of their powerful battle suits and headstrong nature. Not because they were exceptionally skilled boarders, combatants, or anything else, really.
They were not unlike myself in that way, and for a moment I felt ashamed of stomping on Oleander. It was true he’d done the same exact thing to me when he tried to kill me, but at the time he obviously thought I was a Bug. I sighed to myself. I probably owed the idiot an apology or a promotion or something. I paused. Definitely an apology, or something to that effect. The ship needed that man walking around with a promotion like I needed a hole in the head.
I realized I had just assumed we carried the day on the Bug ship because I was safe back on the Lucky Clover along with the former bug prisoners. I’d have to find out what happened after my suspicious loss of consciousness.
“I’m surprised you didn’t let him kill me,” I said.
She looked at me like I was off in the head. “Pillow in face is not a good death for a warrior.”
“Ah,” I replied. That probably meant that in her culture a pillow in the face was a big no-no. So she couldn’t just stand by and let one of their rescuers die while her fellow natives were looking, no matter how much she might have wanted to. So instead she got all outraged at the attempted pillow murderer.
Finally things were starting to gel into a pattern I could understand.
“If pillow murdering is such a big deal, why didn’t you just kill him then,” I asked, morbidly curious. Something had to be holding her and the rest of these natives back from killing anyone. I looked over at the door to make sure. Yes indeed, they had actually managed to barricade themselves in the sickbay as well. From what I could tell from interacting with the blond psycho ice maiden, they were also a deeply superstitious people as well. Maybe that played into this situation somehow.
“Are you slow in head or just stupid,” she flared. “I already told you he took the sword. He stole my Bandersnatch!”
“Your Bandersnatch,” I groaned, starting to roll my eyes at her, but surrounded by a bunch of potentially superstitious natives armed with weaponry that would have made life-sentence prisoners wince, I thought better of the idea and managed to restrain myself. If the sword could be said to belong to anyone on the ship, then the vibro-blade was mine, not some crazy native woman. Still, if it disappeared on a primitive world never to be seen again…
How could I be accused of possessing something I didn’t have and no one could find? Maybe there was something to letting her continue on in the mistaken belief I had somehow given it to her as something other than a tool to cut her and the others free. I had power armor and a big battleship; I couldn’t see ever wanting that sword again. At least, not in this lifetime, but I supposed if need ever arose I would at least be able to find it if I needed it back.
“Yes! He took it,” she said again, giving me the, ‘how stupid are you' look.
I honestly couldn’t tell if that was a hint of genuine outrage in her demeanor or if the pit viper was somehow caught up in her own twisted web of superstitions and forced to play to the crowd. In the end, I guess it didn’t matter to me either way. I was just concerned by my inability to accurately read her. It was important to know which way she’d jump in a given situation, and I was still stumped.
Crazy people are hard to read that way. Was she really outraged the sword was gone or wasn’t she? I needed to play this right, so I could get out of here with my skin in one piece.
“And now I am shamed before my ancestors that I do not have it back,” she added into the prolonged silence. “How can I look at you, knowing I have lost the sword? You must think me unfit to be a sword bearer, without honor, to let a man like this take it from me.” She turned her eyes away again.
Okay, I guess it didn’t really matter the truth of the matter. She was so heavily invested in the story by now, that even if she was lying, she was in too deep. I could just sit back, play this thing straight and get to watch her squirm. I don't deny that the idea had some measure of appeal, but this situation felt like a powder-keg waiting for a match, and I wanted out of the room. Anything this witch thought was a good idea was only going to get people killed. Like on the Bug ship. If I trusted her to take action, people were going to die while she stood by doing absolutely nothing, clinging to her ridiculous, primitive superstitions.
“And I take it he won’t tell you where it's hidden,” I asked, trying to sidestep the obvious emotional turmoil she was inexplicably dealing with.
“He will not talk. Even after we do this,” she said, grabbing the security officer’s hand and showcasing a blood-soaked piece of bedding wrapped around his hand. He’d been hiding it down by his side, which was why I hadn’t seen it before.
It looked like maybe she had cut off his finger. I couldn’t tell for sure and wasn’t about to ask. These natives were as barbaric of a group as I had ever heard about. I felt vaguely sick to my stomach at the thought of how casually she mentioned the disfigurement.
“Lady, there are better ways than cutting on people to get information,” I said evenly. All I wanted to do was spit until that suddenly awful taste was out of my mouth.
“You’ll never get the sword back, Montagne. I’d rather die than see a fool like you tear apart our home world,” spat the Security Officer who had been listening to everything we said with interest.
I gritted my teeth. “We’ll see about that.” I turned to the Doctor. He still didn’t look too good, but he should be able to do what I needed. “Can you set up to perform a chemical interrogation,” I asked conversationally.
The Doc looked even more sick and very uneasy. “The uniform code prohibits commanders from interrogating their subordinates,” he said.
“Is that a yes or a no,” I asked, sensing an upcoming wall in the conversation.
“That means I could do it, but I won’t,” said the Doc.
“Even after this man tried to murder me in your sickbay, you still won’t question him to find out why he tried to kill the Admiral of this ship, or even if there are others out there besides this particular bunch,” I demanded.
“It's against the Law, but more importantly it's against my own set of ethics to assist in the interrogation of a member of this ship’s compliment. I’d say the same thing to him if he were the one asking this of me,” said the Doc.
“Somehow I doubt that,” I said. “I’d be willing to bet good money that if he came in here claiming to have a writ of parliamentary authority and demanded you assist in my interrogation, you would do exactly as he asked.”
The Doctor looked away, unable to meet my eyes for a few moments.
The sad part was that I couldn’t blame him. They say you can’t fight city hall. Bucking your planetary government over ‘principle’ had to be ten times worse. In comparison, defying a mere honorary Admiral, one at odds with said government, had to be a no brainer.
“Then just show me where to find the stuff and I’ll take a crack at it myself,” I said, making a show of trying to sit up but experiencing the same riotous pain up and down my entire body.
“No,” the Doc repeated with more resolve than last time.
“I see,” I said, and I did. In this matter he was more against me than he was the man that attempted murder me. “Were you also in on the plan to kill me? Is that why your men are stretched out on these beds unconscious?”
He looked genuinely shocked. “Security disabled them before being captured by the natives,” he pointed to his own head. “I’m not about to let anyone do anything to my patients and they knew it, that’s why they gave me this,” he said, again pointing at his forehead. “This is a place of healing.”
“Forgive me if I’m uncertain about how far you're willing to bend certain principles, and on which ones you’ll stand firm,” I said coldly.
I turned to face the blond ice maiden. What I was about to say made me sick inside. “I was wrong. I guess there isn’t a better way.”
“No!” said the Doctor.
“Yes!” exclaimed the ice maiden, adjusting her grip on the fork.
“I’ll never talk,” roared the Security Officer and deliberately threw himself on the fork.
Blood spurted, indicating that he must have nicked an artery. There would be no talking. Stomping Bugs and seeing their insides decorate their ship wasn’t half as sickening as watching the Security Officer bleed profusely in the middle of sickbay.
“I’ve failed, the blade is lost,” wailed the blond maiden, her icy veneer crumbling.
“It’s just a vibro-weapon, lady,” I said harshly. “If it doesn’t turn up, I’ll get you another one, since you suddenly seem so concerned about it.”
She stared at me in horror. “You really are nothing but a boat driver. I didn’t want to believe it when I first heard the words out of the metal box that talks, but now I know the truth! I’ve taken a sword from a man who does nothing but choose the direction of a boat, a common freight hauler who carries goods up and down the river between the stars! You probably stole your weapons and armor to value them so low. You’re not even a real warrior at all, are you?”
For some reason, her saying this about me stung more than all the times she’d called me stupid for not understanding her.
“A boat driver!” I shouted, genuinely furious and unable to control my outburst. “I’m a blasted Prince of the Caprian Realm, a member of the blood royal and I’d be a heck of a lot closer to the throne if my ancestors hadn’t been such bloodthirsty fools fifty years ago! For your information, this so-called boat is over six hundred meters long and a powerful warship as well, not some tramp cargo hauler. The Lucky Clover has enough firepower to level a small mountain! It also holds over nineteen thousand crewmen and refugee settlers right now, all of whom look to me for leadership.” I stopped to take a deep breath and lower my voice before continuing coldly, “So forgive me if their needs, and the needs of over a quarter of a million homeless settlers in the rest of the ships of my ‘fleet,’ people who are currently in my care, come before finding an ancient family heirloom that you went and blasted well lost in the first place!”
In the growing silence, I couldn’t resist finishing with, “I guarantee you I am anything but a boat driver. The driver of this boat, as you call it, is the Helmsman and he works for me, not the other way around!”
The pit viper had her mouth open in a perfect ‘O’ of surprise at this outburst. The expression did not look to be one with which she was at all familiar.
But I was done with her, and her whole crew of bloodthirsty savages. I stood up and gritted my teeth at the pain as I walked with as much dignity as a man holding his heavily bruised midsection can, towards the comm. panel. I was daring someone, anyone to try to stop me.
No one did.
Behind me the Doctor broke the silence by saying, “Someone help me get this man onto a gurney. We’ve got to get in and close this wound before he bleeds out.”
But even the thought of that traitorous Doctor saving a murderous security officer from a well earned and, as far as I was concerned, very timely death, couldn’t make me turn around.
I punched in my access code and instructed the DI to patch me through to the Flag Bridge.
“This is the Bridge, go ahead Medical, what do you need,” inquired a cheerful voice. It sounded like one of the comm. techs had taken the call, just like they were supposed to but I wasn’t a hundred percent sure.
“This is Admiral Jason Montagne. Get First Officer Tremblay on the line and tell Gants over in the armory to suit up and send a squad over to the ship’s main infirmary. I have a situation involving the natives and former members of Ship Security,” I said in my most practiced commanding tone.
“Admiral!” The tech sounded wildly excited, “They said you wouldn’t be up and about for at least another day.”
“Did you hear what I just said, crewman?” I was in no mood for happy outbursts.
“Yes Admiral, put Lieutenant Tremblay on the line and instruct the Armory to send over a detail to the ship’s infirmary, in armor,” the Tech repeated back to me with less cheer and more caution in his voice.
“Then do so, Comm. Tech,” I instructed, then waited while the com tech scrambled to put me on hold, and waited…and waited. The longer I waited, the more I fumed.
A chime finally sounded, indicating someone was back on the other side of the line.
“This is First Officer Tremblay. Who am I speaking with, please,” he said cautiously.
“This is your Admiral, Officer Tremblay,” I replied icily.
“I beg your pardon, but I was under the impression the Admiral was currently under heavy sedation due to wounds he sustained during the boarding of the Scout Marauder. How do I know you’re him,” asked the First Officer. I couldn't tell if he was playing around or being serious.
“You know it's me because of the sudden sinking sensation in your belly that says 'I’m not in command anymore,'” I growled.
There was a pause.
“It’s good to have you back, Admiral,” said the First Officer. He sounded entirely too happy to have me back in the loop. What was wrong now, I wondered. The bad feeling was soon confirmed.
“We’ve got a bit of a situation up here, Admiral,” the First Officer said with relief.
“Is that so? Wouldn’t you know it, but I was calling to say the very same thing,” I replied, my tone as dry as it could be.
“Does yours involve a quarter of a million settlers and a failing Settlement ship,” Tremblay asked with false brightness.
I leaned forward and pounded my head against the wall three times before responding.
“I’ll be right up,” I said, suddenly aware of how closely everyone in the room was watching me.
“Glad to hear it, I’ll be waiting. We could sure use some of that infamous Montagne magic right about now,” Tremblay said and cut com line.
I tried to pull at my hair but my hands skittered off a bald dome and overly sensitive skin. I hadn’t realized I was bald now, too. I went over and looked at myself in a flip out mirror surface on one of the sickbay beds. The First Officer was my worst and most vocal critic, and he hated just about every decision I’d made so far. If things were so bad he was actually looking forward to my decision making process and another taste of the so called Montagne ‘magic’ that had kept us skirting along the edge of one disaster after another, without ever quite falling over, then I wasn’t exactly eager to find out what was wrong.
Looking at myself, I decided I looked exactly like what I was; a burn survivor. My hair was gone, my eyebrows were missing and my skin alternately looked an angry red, or scar tissue white. It really didn’t complement my natural skin tones, I thought facetiously.
If I went up to the bridge looking like this, the last thing I’d be inspiring was confidence. Fear might be the first reaction, closely followed by pity and/or disgust. Of course, if I didn’t go up to the bridge, that caused problems all of its own.
I decided to compromise. I thought I remembered my Confederate Admiral’s uniform coming with an open-faced dress helmet. It was padded and made out of composites, so it was probably light enough for my wounded scalp. I’d stop by my quarters on the way to the Flag Bridge and see if I couldn’t find something to cover my head.
The blond ice maiden had been charitable when she said I was ugly. I looked absolutely horrible and felt worse. At least I could comfort myself with the knowledge that this was a temporary condition until my body had time to recover, so the Doc could finish patching me back up. Modern cosmetics probably weren't his strong suit, but dealing with burns most certainly was, so I was confident he could put me back together eventually.
Feeling almost as badly as I looked, I turned around and imperiously ordered the natives to open the doors out of sickbay. What was the point of having a mechanical language translator if you weren’t going to use it?
To my surprise, they actually did what I told them. I didn’t bother checking if they’d asked their blonde-haired leader first. Of course they had. It's not like saving someone’s life had ever made that person want to fill any of their eminently reasonable requests so far.
The door to the rest of the Infirmary was soon opened wide. Medics, support doctors and other medical personnel glanced nervously in our direction, but no one was, or had ever been trying to get inside the sickbay.
My mouth twisted bitterly. When the black hats came marching through my ship, apparently no one was brave enough to do anything. That the natives inside the room might have turned the tables on Security probably hadn’t even occurred to the medical staff as a possibility.
This ship needed a new security force, and as far as I was concerned, the Armory crew were too few, too untrained, and too over-enthusiastic with the high-powered munitions for me to be willing to trust them with the job. Not even on a trial basis. This was something I’d have to think on when I wasn’t busy handling whatever was the latest crisis of the day.
I mean honestly, what if I docked at a port and a Caprian hit team walked on board with murder on their minds, like was the case with that grey haired security officer? Admittedly, in his case he hadn’t left the ship for months, but still, would anyone lift a hand to stop them? I seriously doubted it, and I found my recently discovered faith in humanity dashed upon the rocks.
I was on my way to the bridge and had just stepped outside of medical when I was approached from either side.
Clomping down one side of the hall was a detail from the Armory. They must have really moved to get here this fast. Gants was nothing, if not ready to serve.
Down the other corridor, I could hear some others approaching, but I couldn't see them yet. My heart sank as I recognized the voice of what must have been the leader of the as-yet unseen group.
“Saint Murphy’s wretched wrench! No wonder Medical’s been havin' intermittent power supply issues. How do you expect to integrate a 3500 series Hyborean Works coupling with a 2000 series Caprian automatic regulator, only using one of them new fangled multi-tools,” barked the Chief Engineer.
“But, Sir. The tech manual specifically says that this multi-tool is rated for both the coupling and the regulator,” protested another voice. Presumably one of the engineering crew.
“Listen, son. You can’t trust everything you read in a manual. Especially one that’s written and produced by the blasted multi-tool company,” the Chief Engineer sighed, “Multi-tools are wonderful devices, but they will only automatically adjust to 80% of the fine tolerance necessary for an integration job like this. It takes longer foolin' around with the internal setting on your multi-tool and manually bumping up the tolerances than it does to just get the individual tools you need and do the job right the first time. It might seem slower on the front end, but it isn’t and at least this way you’ll get the job done for sure and certain the first time. That means you won’t have to come back later.”
Great, I thought, just what I didn’t need right now. A confrontation with the ship’s Chief Engineer. Moving to put the armory crew at my back, I turned to face the party from engineering.
The old engineer was chatting with the engineering team until he came around the corner and spotted me. That is to say, spotted the Admiral who had left him out on the hull during a ramming.
The Chief Engineer’s mouth closed and he almost stopped walking before getting a good look at my new face. His mouth twisted and he resumed his steady pace, but whereas before he had been animated and holding forth with the work party on matters technical, now he was silent and grim looking.
Engineer Spalding nodded, “Admiral,” he said, his tone all gravel and smoke.
I could tell the engineering crew was going to be hanging on every detail of this meeting and committing it to memory for later review with their crewmates. Hopefully, things didn’t degenerate like I feared they would.
“Mr. Spalding,” I replied evenly.
The Chief Engineer made as if to keep walking.
“How’s my ship,” I asked, keeping the tone serious but offering an opportunity for some dialog.
For a moment it looked as if Spalding wouldn’t answer me, and instead opt to just continue on down the hall. But he hesitated, then stopped and grimaced.
I knew that if there was one sure way to get the crazy old engineer talking, it had to be about the ship.
“She’d be a fine sight better if we could strip the main weapons we need off the prize ship,” he growled in response to the question, “and fill the hole in our broadside. Even if it is a pile of second-rate junk.”
I felt a wave of relief. This was something the Engineer seemed to want and I could give a positive answer to. “Assuming nothing’s happened to the former pirate cruiser while I’ve been out that would stop a weapons removal, you have my authorization to proceed,” I said, trying not to sound too overjoyed. My head started to itch and I half raised a hand before remembering all the new, still-growing skin. I blinked my eyes closed and sighed, lowering the hand.
The Engineering team was just now getting a good look at my face and neck. Obviously, the sight wasn’t a pleasant one. Even the hardest faces in the detail would only look at me for so long before looking away.
“All the new skin, it itches something fierce,” I said by way of explanation for my momentary lapse in attention.
The Chief Engineer gave me a good once over, looking at my face, head and neck. The urge to squirm nearly overwhelmed me, but I didn’t. I had learned to withstand the stares, glares and red faces of public debate champions during royal media training. The Chief Engineer had a good stare going on right now, but as a Prince-Cadet, I had dealt with worse. Plus I was ready for it. It's not like I had expected the meeting with Spalding to be all sunshine and lollipops. Not after how things went the last time, which was why I had the Armory crew at my back right now. Just in case things turned ugly.
“Looks like someone took a plasma torch to your head,” said Lieutenant Spalding, as if he grudged saying it. The old engineer’s hand, which was habitually near his own plasma torch, twitched and moved away from it.
“You've got the plasma part right, but it was of the grenade variety,” I said with a wry grin.
Despite himself, the old engineer winced at the news.
“Helmet should have stopped that,” said Lieutenant Spalding. Not quite a question, but he was clearly curious.
I shook my head. “I think the suit needs a redesign. The neck structures of the helmet just can’t take the full weight of the battle suit. At least not when you fall down a hole and land on your head,” I winced in memory. “Even if there’s a Bug directly below to cushion your landing.” I paused, still reliving the all-too-recent event. “Torqued my neck over so bad my head was forced up against my shoulder. I had to use the power servos to tear the helmet off my just so I could see again. It wouldn’t straighten back to true, it was so damaged.”
“Interesting,” Spalding said, actually sounding intrigued, “Sounds like a design flaw. I’ll have to take a look at it later,” he frowned, “after things settle down, of course.” Then muttered what sounded suspiciously like, “if they ever do.”
I nodded in understanding. It had been nothing but non-stop chaos ever since the Imperials had run off to the warfront and left us behind to pick up the pieces.
“Well, then. These slackers with me need to get back to work before they start getting foolish ideas in their thick heads and start making trouble just for the fun of it,” said the old engineer in a voice started out reasonable but ended in a growl as he threw an irritated look at the detail behind him.
For their part, the engineering crew did their best to look both startled and innocent. Although, in a few cases, the men looked genuinely surprised at the criticism.
“They say idle hands are Murphy’s playground,” I said, quoting a line that had been handed down since antiquity as far as I knew.
“Amen to that,” said the Engineer before pushing past, making to get inside the Infirmary. He was muttering something about greenhorns and slackers as he made his way inside.
“Chief,” I called over my shoulder.
“Aye,” grunted the Engineer.
“Bander- ah, that is, the vibro-blade you had Gants give me. It's missing, and located somewhere onboard the ship. I’d like it found. Sooner rather than later, if you could help out with that,” I said hesitantly.
The Chief grunted at that and turned back to medical.
“Oh, and be careful in there. There’s an angry young lady who’s spitting mad and a bleeding Security Officer, the same one that went after me on the bridge,” I shook my head emphatically, “anyway, he brought a detail into medical and tried to kill me with a pillow while I was asleep,” I said with mock incredulity.
The old engineer turned around, the surprise and alarm clearly evident on his wrinkled features.
I shrugged, “It seems he saw the sword and decided to take it off her while she was sedated. The natives off that Bug ship took offense at this, as well as at the pillow attempt, and are holding them in sickbay until they get some answers.”
“You’re not planning to keep the sword on you,” the old engineer asked in surprise. “You gave it to someone else?”
“Are you crazy? That thing’s a death sentence. I handed it off the first chance I got,” I retorted, somewhat sharply.
The grim expression on the chief engineer’s face slowly fractured until a wondering look appeared. “Jean-luc told me to give the blade to a good one,” then he chuckled. “At my age I figured you were the last and only chance I’d ever going to get to unload the stupid thing.”
I stiffened in shock.
“It’s a relief, knowing I’m not only the person who’ll have to worry where to hide a legendary sword like that anymore. But then you already gave it away,” he slapped his leg, as if remembering some great joke. “Old Jean-luc said I’d know I picked a good one from a bad one by how quickly whoever he was handed the blade off or if he tried to keep it for himself. Fifty years, I smuggled that thing around, looking for the right person and you get rid of the thing in less than a day.” He started muttering again.
“Jean-luc,” I said, slowly coming out of the shock. “You knew, as in actually knew, Jean Luc Montagne Vekna and he handed you Band-, ah, the sword before his…before the end.”
“Oh, it was just Jean Luc Montagne at the time. The Veknas were still only dreaming of the crown back then and hadn’t yet stamped their name all over everything,” said the engineer, a faraway look in his eye. “The best captain I ever served with, you know. Of course,” he said reluctantly, “he had a tendency to overwork the shield generators. Burned out more than our fair share of relays, double charging the forward shields like he did.”
“The history books say he served on an SDF battleship, called the CDF King Larry Montagne," I interjected, unsure of what he was talking about. "I looked it up since I’ve been on the ship. How did you managed to serve with him if you’ve been continuously assigned here, on this ship,” I asked, both puzzled and elated. I couldn't believe I was talking with a man who actually knew someone right out of the history books like Jean-luc, and held a secret trust from him for all these years.
“Oh, that. Well, it's simple, The Lucky Larry was the Lucky Clover before they ever thought to rechristen her into a him, the King Larry Montagne,” the Engineer said with a wistful sigh.
“Don’t you mean they rechristened King Larry Montagne, and now she’s called Lucky Clover,” I asked, becoming more confused by the moment.
“No, no. They did that later,” the engineer said only adding to the confusion. “It's simple really. First off, she was the Lucky Clover. Then during the reconstruction,” his face darkened, “what they call 'The Coup' nowadays, the old King decided to celebrate his resumption of power by rededicating the CDF Lucky Clover. That’s how she came to be bear the name King Larry Montagne. Although, she was always The Lucky Larry or just The Larry to those of us who served on him. After the Parliament re-seized power, they didn’t like so much the idea of a ship that linked the memory of our Founder Larry One with the Montagnes. So they decided to change her name back.”
“Wow,” was all I could manage. I felt like a schoolboy learning about history for the first time. Although, what I was hearing now wasn’t in any of the history books I remembered reading. It's true history wasn’t my favorite subject, but if it involved space battles and action, I generally remembered it afterwards.
“The Captain always wanted to start a vineyard somewhere, you know. A terrible wine snob, that man,” said Spalding with a snort. “I hope whatever world he’s on, he’s enjoying his wine.”
I blinked in surprise, “Uh, I hate to have to be the one to break it to you,” I said, wondering if the old engineer was having a senior moment, “but he was thrown into the waste recycler by his own crew. It was pretty gruesome…,” I stopped short as I realized something. According to the Chief Engineer, Jean Luc’s crew had been the crew of The Lucky Larry, the very same crew of which this old engineer had been a part. How could he not know his old captain had been killed by the crew and the event broadcast planet wide?
He looked at the chief engineer. The old man had a guilty look.
“Ah, of course. Of course you’re right, he’s dead. A bad business, that,” the older man stuttered, looking like he did down on three deck before, saying he didn’t know anything about some supply discrepancy. “Forgive me. Sometimes my memory acts up. Old age, you know,” he said gruffly, tapping his temple with a gnarled finger.
It couldn’t be. I gave the engineer a sharp look, but the old man wasn’t revealing anything further. Maybe it was a senior moment like he said, or maybe Lieutenant Spalding had just inadvertently let slip the fact that the Captain, killed so violently by his crew during the Troubles, had instead faked his own death and was even now living on a vineyard somewhere?!
Well, if the old Captain hadn’t come back to cause trouble in over fifty years, it was unlikely he’d start doing so anytime soon.
I laughed at the preposterous notion and headed for the lift. I wasn’t going to be the one to blow Jean Luc’s cover, not after all these years. That's assuming it really hadn’t been a senior moment of the type the old engineer was trying to claim. Besides, I had always felt an affinity with poor old Jean-Luc. And even the possibility that the most important thing I knew about him was a lie didn't change my desire to somehow help the old man out.
As I walked by, I saw the Armory crew and the engineering detail eyeing each other like two packs of angry dogs, with poor Gants caught in the middle, being both a former member of engineering and the current leader of the armory.
“Good man, Gants,” I said to the head of the Armory. “Go in there and help the Chief Engineer, but remember I want those Security boys locked up so tight they can’t even dream of causing any trouble until we’ve have time to put them off the ship. And watch out for the tall blonde in there, you may think she’s lovely, I mean if you’re into that whole icy cold exterior thing, but don’t believe it. That Lady’s an extra helping of poison mixed in with a double shot of crazy and filled to the brim with superstition. Don’t trust a word she says unless you can verify it first. Oh, and she’s also out for blood after Security went and stole her sword. Planted a fork in the lieutenant’s neck and everything.”
Gants looked alarmed and more than a little worried at this recitation of the facts, but it was no longer my problem.
There, I thought. Now everyone’s warned about what they were up against and I could go the bridge with a clear conscience. I made my way to my quarters to don the old Confed Admiral's uniform and helmet. After that task was completed, I returned to the nearest lift.
A vineyard, I chuckled to myself as the lift took me to the same deck as the Flag Bridge. Who’d have thought it? I (and old Jean-Luc, apparently) had a good laugh at Parliament’s expense.
Chapter 27: The Bearer of bad news
The bulkhead doors slid sideways and I placed my command crystal back in my pocket. Making sure the ancient Confederation helmet was on securely, without being so tight it rubbed against my now delicate skin, I stepped onto the bridge.
I turned red when several of the bridge crew turned to see who had come in. I knew I looked like some kind of mutant out of a low budget holo-vid, what with this ancient uniform and even older helmet, and let's not forget the no eyebrows thing. Not to mention all the rest of the physical damage my helmet didn’t cover. I probably looked like I was playing dress up or auditioning for a part in a cheesy holo-historical.
It was better to look like a fool than it was to resemble a burn victim, I reminded myself harshly. I walked with as much dignity as I could muster and took my seat in the Admiral's Throne.
I looked over at the First Officer after seating myself, and I was somewhat pleased to see a semi-stunned look on his face. Whether the cause of his expression was the outfit or the terrible burn damage, I didn’t want to know.
Fortunately for me, while it might look bad it didn’t really hurt, it just itched terribly.
“Don’t just stand there, Mr. First Officer,” I said after the pause had grown uncomfortable. “You said there was an emergency situation up here that needed the Montagne magic, as you called it,” I blew on my fingers while shaking my hands loose, deliberately playing off the image of some cheap mountebank magician. If I was going to dress like a fool and look like a mutant, I might as well play the part to the hilt.
Tremblay’s mouth snapped shut and he turned slightly red. This time, instead of returning to his usual disapproving self after he regained his composure, he turned serious instead.
“Its chaos out there, Sir,” he said, and for the first time looked at me as something other than a civilian playing at being an Admiral and getting everything wrong while he did it.
I closed my eyes. If Tremblay was looking to me for answers, like I was a real admiral who could actually wave my hands and magically fix things, the ship must be in deep trouble.
“What seems to be the problem, Raphael,” I said, using the man’s first name. Maybe it was time to bury the hatchet, if that was even possible at this point, because right now I still didn’t know if Security’s attempt to kill me was limited to a handful of disaffected crewmen and one officer, or if others were actively involved in the plot.
“It’s the settlers, Admiral,” he said pointing to the screen. It showed the two ships orbiting Tracto VI along with the Caprian built warship. “The star drive on the Caprian settlement ship broke down. Apparently one of the pirate cutters launched some sort of limpet mines and they didn’t go off until the settler point transferred into the system. It's looking like the pirates, in their usual incompetent fashion, wanted to make sure the Settlers didn’t get away. Right now, the remains of their main dish are floating through cold space in little pieces.”
I closed my eyes. “This is not good, XO,” I said, an instant headache springing up behind my eyes.
“You’re preaching to the choir, sir. But there’s more,” Tremblay said, looking at the floor.
“I don’t see how it could be any worse, unless the Belters suddenly lost their star drive as well,” I said, giving the first officer a hard look, “They didn’t lose their drive, did they?”
“No,” said the first officer, happy to give good news for once.
Of course, then he had to ruin it with the very next thing out of his mouth.
“Their drive still works just fine, but now it seems they don’t to want to leave the system. Ever. With the Empire gone, they’ve suddenly decided they want set their stakes and settle here, instead.”
“Here,” I blurted. “Are they insane?”
“The Caprian settlers sure seem to think so and they are demanding that if the Belters want to stay here, they should have to hand over their main dish, since it still works. The Caprian ship could then clear the system and continue on to their new home world,” Tremblay said with relish. “The Belters are worried about the large number of atmosphere leaks on their ship and insist that they need the main dish in case they can’t get a handle on the situation and have to head back to port before returning here. They also say they paid good money for their ship and aren’t willing to just hand away critical pieces of it to anyone who asks.”
“This Bug-infested navigational disaster, masquerading as an Imperial Protected System, is where the Belters want to settle,” I asked, unable to understand why anyone would actually choose to stay here. The primitives who were native to the place probably didn't know any better, but the Belters had seen far better places and knew just how bad this place was, didn't they? “Let’s forget the main dish issue for a moment,” I said, “honestly, do they have a death wish or something? Right now they are the only settlers in the system that have the option of leaving, and they are the only ones that don’t want to go. Has living in orbit caused them to lose their minds?”
I turned to the First Officer for an explanation.
“Greed, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Tremblay. “It’s as simple as that, I’m afraid.”
“What in this undeveloped navigation hazard is worth risking your life fighting Bugs over,” I asked, genuinely surprised but trying to hide it.
“The same thing that has our own Science Officer drooling,” the First Officer said.
This made me cock my head in interest.
“Trillium deposits. There are deposits scattered all over the system, and they are significant,” he paused. “Our Science Officer thinks that’s why we mis-jumped so close to the planet. Supposedly, the deposits threw off our normal calculations,” he shrugged before continuing, “The Belters see this as the mother lode. Despite the high level of impurities in the Trillium, probably related to the same reason its scattered all over the system, a Trillium mining operation would set them for at least several lifetimes.”
“They want to mine the system for Trillium while Bug Ships are taking pot shots at them,” I said in disbelief.
“They claim that even with the longer processing times and the extra facilities they’d need to build, borrow or steal to get rid of the excessive impurities and make it safe to put in a starship, they could still dominate refueling for three sectors,” Tremblay said shaking his head.
“But that still doesn’t answer the main question. The Bugs. How long to they expect to survive playing hide and seek when the main force arrives,” I growled in frustration.
“They claim that mining Trillium is more delicate than what they were originally planning for and that mining lasers will be of limited use to them during its extraction and refinement. I think they are planning to put the heavy mining lasers on their shuttles instead,” said Tremblay, looking unconvinced at this notion.
I threw my hands in the air extravagantly. “I’m not a trained naval officer, but even I can see that shuttles and mining lasers, even powerful ones aren’t going to be enough when the Bug Fleet comes knocking,” I said. “Are they out of their blasted minds?”
The First Officer hesitated as if there was something more to say but he wasn’t quite willing to broach it yet.
I waved my hands in a circular, come along, motion. “Spit it out, man,” I said, incredulous at the notion that there was more bad news to be had. How long had I been out of it in sickbay, anyways?
Tremblay pursed his lips, “They haven’t said so outright, and so I’m only guessing here, understand,” began Tremblay.
I made a hurry it up motion. “I get you,” I said, my heart sinking.
The first officer looked like he had a fishbone caught in his throat, “I think they are gambling that you won’t let an entire planet full of people, the natives down on Tracto VI, be eaten alive when the Bugs come to strip the system. That you’re going to stay and protect them,” he said finally, “the helpless natives.”
I lay back in my chair, stunned into silence.
“If there are too many to evacuate…as our sensors seem to indicate,” said the First Officer, glaring at something only he could see, “even if we had all three settler ships working and they were completely empty, it wouldn’t be enough,” he then switched gears, “I think the Belters believe you’ll want to stop the Bug ships before they get inside the system proper and are an immediate threat to the planetary population. In which case, there’ll probably be enough firepower stationed inside the system itself to make the risks to Belters themselves…more manageable.”
I shot out of the Throne. “No,” I exclaimed. Now I saw why the First Officer wanted me on put a magic stop to this mess. This was one of those situations naval officers talk about being presented with during training, which they referred to by some obscure name but most of us simply called a ‘no-win scenario.’ “This is a Restricted System,” I protested.
“Not according to you,” said Lieutenant Tremblay with relish. “You told them that with the Empire gone, you were charged with the ability to make decisions about who could and could not come to this system.”
“That’s not what I meant!” I said, sounding strangled even to my own ears.
“That’s how they’ve taken it, even the Caprian settlers who don’t want to stay. To say nothing of the Prometheans who’ve been planning to land on the surface. They all believe you have to power say who gets to stay and who has to go.” Tremblay had been cooking this up for some time, and he was obviously savoring every moment of my excruciating agony.
I put the palm of a hand over each eye and leaned back into the char while I thought, desperately trying to find a way out of this well-crafted box.
Every time I thought I was almost out of this mess, I got sucked back in even further. “No way,” I said more quietly and slammed my fist on the dented arm rest of the Admirals Throne. This could not be happening.
I glared at the arm rest. I really needed to get that fixed. Then I turned to stare at the First Officer before turning my eyes on the main screen where the icon representing the Belter ship was represented.
First, it was save the prize ship in a strictly mercenary affair in which I directly benefited along with the crew. Next, it was take three functional capital ships and save some settlers from pirates, although I had ended up with only one active (but very unarmed) battleship for that fiasco. Then, to save the settlers, and after I had rescued them, I would have to divert to what looked to be the safest temporary port I could find until we could return with help. Now, it turned out that the ‘safe’ port was about the most dangerous place I could have possibly chosen to put them. Ships were breaking down left and right, and the only people who seemed able to leave and get out of here were too blinded by their own selfish interest to see clearly, and the only sane ones who wanted to get out of here were stuck for the duration!
“I see,” I said in a calmer voice, working hard to regain that infamous regal composure. “I see,” I repeated, and I did see. I saw a big choice looming before me, one that put all the other choices I had made already to shame. I could either throw up my hands and say I wasn’t trained for this, and that this whole mess wasn’t my problem anymore (which was, once again, suddenly sounding quite appealing). Or I could stick around and try to deal with it.
On the one hand, I could be just like the Imperials I despised and wash my hands of the whole messy affair. Perhaps put someone else in command like Janeski did, then just head off to deal with supposedly more important matters, like my own continued, long term survival.
On the other hand, I could stay. Say Parliament could go space itself for all I cared and continue on with this charade that I was a real Confederated Space Admiral and was actually supposed to be dealing with problems like this.
I could refuse to give up and continue trying for as long as I could. Which was probably up until someone in authority successfully called my bluff or my crew decided enough was enough and pulled a coordinated, successful mutiny.
When you put it like that, the answer was obvious. I needed to run for the hills.
However, when I opened my mouth, what came out was, “Damn the torpedoes and full speed ahead, Mr. Tremblay,” I said.
Tremblay's smirk fell away and he looked at me like I had just lost my mind. His appraisal might very well have been the case, to be honest. Although clearly, he completely missed the reference to one of the more popular, ongoing holo-vid series.
“There are no torpedoes, Sir,” he said carefully, as if talking to a dangerous lunatic who was about to snap. “Where do you want us to go, at full speed ahead?”
“Get me the ship’s lawyer, Mr. First Officer. I’ll need to speak with him before talking to the Belters about the situation,” I replied, my tone hard and even. “Never give up, never surrender,” I finished pumping my fist in the air.
Tremblay gave me a strange look before slowly backing away to go look for something that might resemble an attorney.
It eventually turned out that the ship’s lawyer had been an Imperial. However, the ship’s manifest eventually turned up a crewman in supply who had recently sat for his Board Examination to become a divorce lawyer. He was currently a trained, licensed paralegal and still awaiting the results of his entrance exam for his law degree.
Since he was the best we had at the moment, I decided to sit him down in the Admiral’s ready room. This wasn’t a conversation I wanted spread all over the bridge.
The crewman came in and before I had a chance to speak, the aspiring officer of the court came over and eagerly shook my hand.
“Good to finally meet you, Mr. Harpsinger,” I said, accepting his proffered hand. “I just wish it was under better circumstances.”
The crewman got his first good look at the man underneath the helmet and a horrified look came over his face. Seeing that I’d caught him staring at me in such a manner, he quickly whipped his face and pasted on a sickly smile.
“First off, let me be the first to congratulate you and say it’s been a pleasure serving under you, Sir,” Mr. Harpsinger said, obviously struggling to inject some enthusiasm into the conversation after his initial misstep. “I realize that technically I might not have my degree in divorce law, but I assure you I am fully capable of providing sound legal advice.”
“Excellent. However, your study of divorce law wasn’t exactly the reason I called you here. I understand you’re a trained paralegal as well, and at times you have helped out in the ship’s legal department,” I said, trying to steer the conversation in the proper direction.
“Of course, Admiral. Of course, anything I can do to help,” said the future divorce lawyer. “But before we get started with all the rest, I’ll just need to know a few things,” said Mr. Harpsinger with a growing enthusiasm, now that we were on a subject he could expound on. “Now, since you’re clearly not interested in a divorce, were you thinking about an annulment or are you planning to keep the marriage despite the, uh, cultural differences,” he asked eagerly.
“If we could focus on the issue at hand,” I said, certain at this point that we were, indeed, a ship of fools.
“Because I’ve looked into the case law and there are clear precedents either way you want to slice it,” the future divorce lawyer continued, with a knowing wink and a chuckle that completely eluded me.
“I don’t think you understand me, Mr. Harpsinger,” I said, slamming a fist onto the table to get this latest lunatic's attention. “I am interested in resolving a brewing settlement crisis as it directly relates to this system,” I said forcefully, wishing desperately for my power armor. I mean come on, the man might be enthusiastic about his new profession and rattled by meeting the fire-scarred admiral of the ship, but surely he wasn’t so dense as to ignore the issue at hand.
Mr. Harpsinger looked uneasy. “This is really outside of my field of expertise,” he said, looking confused.
“Let's just run through the situation, and you can tell me what you know and what you don’t. Then, depending on where we end up, you can research the matter further,” I said soothingly, as though speaking to a child. I was actually quite grateful the other man was finally on track, to be honest.
I walked the hopeful lawyer through the situation. A Prohibited World in a Restricted System. The Prometheans, who had nowhere else to go and the Caprians, who didn’t want to stay but had no choice at the moment with a cracked main dish. The Belters who could leave but didn’t want to and wanted to mine Trillium instead. And finally, the Empire's potential legal authority over an area which they had illegally vacated.
“So, in short what are my options, from a legal stand point,” I asked, grateful to be finished with the recitation. I looked expectantly at the paralegal.
The future divorce lawyer looked overwhelmed. “I… Well I-I don’t know where to start,” said Mr. Harpsinger.
“No, no. That’s okay. If you need time to do some research and get back to me, I understand,” I said, hiding my disappointment. Really, I hadn’t been expecting a miracle out of the crewman, although I had honestly hoped for a little more to go on right away.
“You… ah. You don’t understand, Admiral,” said Mr. Harpsinger, the color draining from his cheeks. The crewman started sweating. This was never a good sign, in my opinion. “The precedents in interstellar law are pretty clear. Even if we accept your authority as a fully fledged Confederation Admiral with the authority to enter the system, you don’t have the right to land just anyone you want on a currently inhabited world,” said the aspiring lawyer.
“What,” I said in surprise. “Surely, as a representative of the Confederation, I have the ability to made decisions in an emergency. It's not like they have to stay here indefinitely. We’ll pull them off later, I promise.”
The future divorce lawyer was shaking his head. “Nope. I’m afraid not Admiral. The case law is pretty settled on this point. There were too many cases of planetary piracy in the early days of the Confederation. It’s clearly established that if more than ten colonists land on any world without the express permission of the world’s government, they can be held and treated as pirates. Unless, that is, the planetary government chooses to pardon them and let them stay. Barring that, they would have every right to execute them as hostile invaders. The crews of the settlement ships should be fine. The law is different in the case of crew abandoning a dead or dying ship,” he said, pausing for breath.
I cut in incredulously, “These people aren’t Pirates! They’re refugees!”
Mr. Harpsinger shook his head in negation. “I tend to agree with you, but this is a case of settled law. The high courts have ruled and say without equivocation that they are attempting Piracy if they land without an invitation.”
“So, we need an invitation from a planetary government that doesn’t exist, or else this same non-existent government will have the right to hang them as pirates,” I said in disgust. “You see where I’m going here. This is idiotic. How can bureaucratic nonsense like this apply to such a fractured, primitive population like this one?”
“Look, I don’t make the laws Admiral; I’m just giving you my best advice. Remember, I’m not even a lawyer yet. But in the case of a world failing to have a planetary government, you could directly appeal to one of the individual nation states instead. Although, really you’d be on firmer ground if you could get the agreement of all of the states first before landing the settler refugees,” he said, clearly at the limits of his 'expertise.'
“I don’t have time for this nonsense,” I said in disgust. This idea was a bust. I might just be better off asking for forgiveness than permission.
“Um, Admiral? Since you’ve asked me about this, I feel compelled to advise you that under Confederation law, if these colonists attempt to land on a Protected World, you are required to use any force necessary to stop them,” said Harpsinger. Seeing my horrified look, he hurried on, “If, on the other hand, you stand by and do nothing, or worse even order them to land, you would probably be considered a Planetary Pirate yourself, since you have the most powerful ship in the system. You’d be arrested at the next port for trial and if convicted, you’d be spaced.”
“You’re saying, Mr. Harpsinger,” I said, cold with fury, “That I either standby and watch thousands of helpless settlers die as they wait for permission from a government that doesn’t exist, and I might add, in a system I personally brought them to for refuge. Or I tell them to land and then I return to the Confederation for execution. Do I understand what you’ve said clearly? Oh wait, there was a part in there about how I’m obligated to blow them up if they tend not to like any of the options.” I roared the last sentence.
Under the weight of a mutilated Admiral’s hot stare and angry demeanor, the future divorce lawyer floundered. His mouth opening and closing like a fish. Then, as if a light bulb had gone off, the crewman from supply jumped out of his chair.
“Wait! I’ve got it. You can give them permission to land, Admiral!” declared the paralegal, dancing around the office with relief.
“You’re making no sense, Mr. Harpsinger. First, I have no authority to tell them to land, and have to blow them away if they do and now I have that very authority. Bring it together, and soon,” I said, struggling to control my temper.
“Oh, my mistake. I didn’t mean you could give them permission to land. I meant your wife!” He said this last sentence as though it should have been obvious from the outset.
I groaned. “Mr. Harpsinger, as I’ve tried to tell you several times, I am not, nor have I ever been married. And even if I was, I don’t see how a wife could give me permission to land settlers on Tracto VI,” I shook my head in disgust. The man was clearly reverting to subject matter which was more comfortable for him, that having to do with nuptials and their eventual cancellation. “I think it's best you leave my office and go back to your duties,” I said, "thank you very much for your time."
“Uhhh,” the future divorce lawyer looked nonplused, then he grinned, “Right, that’s the way to play it Admiral,” he said with a wink. “If you didn’t even know you’d entered into a marriage, you couldn’t be charged with exploiting a primitive native with intent to defraud her planet, land settlers and steal the Trillium resources of a restricted system,” he said with admiration, I menacingly stood up behind my desk. “You’re sharper than you look, Admiral. I don’t know why you called me over in the first place, but I assure you that even though I’m technically not a lawyer, I’ll still consider this a privileged conversation.”
He didn’t get any further because by this time, I was already around the desk and had grabbed a hold of the man’s shirt.
I pushed, although it might be better called a shove, Mr. Harpsinger toward the door while maintaining a grip on his collar.
As the man staggered, I pulled out my hold out blaster pistol. “I have no idea where you get this intolerable idea that I’m somehow married and that this miraculously fixes all of our problems, but the suggestion that I’d exploit a traumatized native woman for my own personal gain is reprehensible. You have two seconds to clear my office before I put a bolt through your leg and make you crawl out.”
Mr. Harpsinger’s eyes were like saucers. “You mean you don’t know? You really have no idea,” he stuttered.
“One,” I said, my voice low and steady, activating the weapon and pointing it at the crewman. The whining sound of the blast pistol rapidly charging up filling the deathly silence.
The paralegal/hopeful lawyer threw himself on the floor, “Forgive me, Admiral. I thought you knew,” he wailed, groveling on the floor.
“Knew what,” I screamed. I wasn’t sure if I could shoot this man just for insulting me, but I knew I most certainly couldn’t do so while the man was on the floor.
“It's all over the ship by now. Everyone knows,” said the man, his faced pressed into the floor.
Furious, I fired a blaster bolt into the deck beside the man’s head.
“Ahh!” screamed the crewman. “The Lady Adonia Akantha Zosime, one of the Natives you rescued from the Bug ship. She’s going all through the Lucky Clover with a handful of natives and an Armory detail in battle suits. She has a translator and says that security stole her sword, and that if the crew doesn’t help her find it, her husband will execute them all as traitors. The sword, the legendary vibro-blade Bandersnatch,” the Crewman wailed.
“What? Who?!” I yelped in surprise. This was a complete disaster, the crew knew about the sword. That blonde witch… “No,” I said, as a horrible thought occurred to me. It couldn’t be.
“She said you personally gave her the sword when you were rescuing her from the Bugs on the Scout Marauder. Which, in her culture, is the equivalent of a binding offer of marriage. She talks like she’s someone important down on the surface, and since she says she’s married to you, I just assumed you knew,” the crewman said. “Forgive me Admiral, I didn’t mean to insult you. That’s why I offered my congratulations."
I, Admiral Jason Montagne, Prince Cadet of the Caprian Realm, Governor of Planetary-Body Harpoon, and (until now) the unknowing husband of a blond ice viper, sat back in my chair stunned.
When Officer Tremblay broke into the room with a blaster pistol in hand, I didn’t react except to look at him. I let the holdout pistol fall from my hand dramatically.
The pistol in the First Officer’s hand wavered for a split second before settling on the crewman on the floor. Taking note of the scarred surface of the deck beside the man, he glanced at me.
“Are you alright, Admiral,” asked the First Officer, sounding concerned, but I'm sure it was less-than-genuine.
He ought to be concerned, though, considering the right mess whoever commanded this ship was in. It all suddenly made sense. Why the First Officer wanted me back in command for this momentous decision. Because either way you sliced the dice, from the First Officer’s perspective, whoever was in command of the ship had to make a decision that would either oversee the death of countless settlers at bug hands, or else see them tried and executed as a band of marauding planetary pirates when they got back to port. All for daring to save some colonists.
I reached into the desk drawer and found a half full bottle of Gorgon Iced-Ale the Imperial Rear Admiral had left behind. I had never in my life experienced a Gorgon Ice-ale before. They said it tasted like peaches that exploded in your mouth and went down like liquid ice.
There had to be a first time for everything, I thought. I tipped the bottle back and took a slug. Yee! Space gods, it was better than they said. Or at least, it was more explosive.
“Sir? Admiral, are you alright,” demanded the First Officer.
“Fine. Just fine, Officer Tremblay,” I said, and everything felt distant like I was looking at it through a glass. I gave a negligent wave to shoo him out. “Carry on, Lieutenant. The crewman and I were just having a conversation and he unknowingly gave me some very bad news,” I said, unconsciously falling into a royal drawl, like my uncles back at the palace liked to use.
“On the other hand, I think we’ve stumbled upon a solution to our little settler problem. One that has the potential to leave everyone happy,” I said, staring at the Gorgon Ice-Ale. “Well, nearly everyone. Nearly,” I said, tipping the ice-ale toward the first officer before taking another slug. I had always known I would die, I just hadn’t known at whose hand. For the last week, I had been sure it was at the hands of a hit-team sent by Parliament, or perhaps my disaffected crew, almost certainly led by the former Intelligence Officer masquerading as my second in command.
But I’d been wrong. Dead wrong, as it turned out. I laughed half heartedly at my own non-joke. Whatever they’d given me down in medical must have cleared my system by now, which was a pity. I could use a sense of humor right at the moment. I’d been wrong because they would never get the chance. It seemed a certain blonde lady, currently turning the ship inside-out in search of a legendary Caprian sword, would get first dibs on that dubious honor. She’d be the death of me, not some faceless minion of elected officials back on the home world.
No, it was going to be some woman I had saved from being eaten alive. Who says no good deed goes unpunished? Well, it was safe to say that whatever was going around had just come back around with a vengeance.
Perhaps it was time to see how drunk I could get on half a bottle of Gorgon Ice-Ale?
Unfortunately, the answer was not as drunk as I might have liked. This discovery was soon followed by the realization that I was one of that unlucky fifty percent who were allergic to Gorgon Iced-Ales. Very allergic, as it turned out.
Medical had to rush up to the Flag Bridge to pump me full of some sort of anti-allergenic.
Having skin so delicate you couldn’t even itch it for fear of drawing blood was one of the worst experiences I have ever had. A constricted airway could only kill a man. An unrelieved itch was nothing but pure murder.
Chapter 28: A Sword, Some Food and a Family Visit!
Adonia Akantha Zosime. Not many men get to know the name of their murderer. Of course, not many learn the name of their future wife after they get married, either. So I suppose it all came out in the wash.
Was that Lady Adonia or Lady Zosime, I wondered. I was later to learn that she didn’t like either address. Zosime went with her title, but Akantha was what she preferred to go by.
I mostly failed to add the Vekna at the end of my name too, so I wasn’t one to cast stones, but in this case I suspected that whatever I said would have been wrong. I tend to think that whatever I said, she would have changed what she preferred to be called just to spite me and say I was wrong. But, I get ahead of myself.
I had already talked with the Belters and growled at them enough that they thought the idea of staying was entirely their idea. One they forced on me, and I still wasn’t entirely reconciled with it. That way, they couldn’t easily back out later once the going got tough, which if recent history was any indication...
If I was going to have to protect Tracto VI against a Bug invasion, I was going to need more than just one ship. I needed a fleet. Not a fake one like the current Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. A real fleet.
I figured I had to consider most, if not all of the current units in my fleet as lost. Their planetary governments were all going to recall them sooner or later. I was laying money on sooner, personally.
I didn’t know where I was going to get a fleet yet (which ignores the fact that the ship I already had was still far from combat-ready), but as soon as I had one I was going to need a base, and who better to help with that piece of logistics than a bunch of orbit-dwelling Belters making a killing on Trillium mining? They needed me to protect them, and I was going to need free fuel and at least basic repair facilities for my ships. I say free fuel, because I suspected that my fleet was about to be listed as a paper tiger as far as anyone picking up the pieces of our government in the Confederated region that was the spineward sectors was concerned.
I certainly couldn’t expect any of the planetary governments who’d contributed ships to the MSP to foot any of the bills. If I asked them for that, they’d just take their ships back all the sooner. The Confed Government on the other hand, if it managed to rise like a phoenix from the ashes left behind by the Imperials, wasn’t going to want to fund a force headed by a mistake like me. So I was extremely doubtful they’d agree to pay for anything more than crew wages, if that.
We were on our own and I needed crew, ships and support. I didn’t know how I was going to get all those things yet, but I had to start somewhere. So I started with the Belters.
Next on my list should have been to tell the Caprians that I was giving them the Belter hyper dish. I still might, but for now they could wait. It was far more important that I actually secure permission for my rag tag fleet of refugees to stay on the planet without fear of a lynching. I could worry how I was going to protect them, probably without the Lucky Clover whose crew wanted to return home badly (although I hadn’t given up on her yet), later.
In the mean time, I had to convince a woman who thought we were married (and who, for the sake of political expedience I at least had to continue to let believe that) to help me convince one or more planetary nation states to let me protect them from the Bugs, and allow me to land my settlers.
Knowing what I did of that icy snake, offering to saving her life and that of everyone she knew in exchange for landing my settlers and mining a bunch of Trillium she had no use for wasn’t going to be enough. She’d shown she would rather let others die than do something she didn’t want to.
I knew at some point I was going to have to replay every conversation we’d had in light of the whole marriage angle, but right now I was still too raw. I felt like I was being forced into some kind of old style dynastic marriage where the illusion of free will was still there, but in reality all options save one ended in hundreds of thousands dead. But in return for being a good boy and saying 'yes' at the altar, I’d get a bunch of new responsibilities and some strategic assets to play around with.
On top of that, I had to simultaneously take any and all of the blame she decided to throw at me for initiating the marriage in the first place. I felt like the dirtiest sort of prostitute. I hadn’t known that throwing her a sword was the same as tossing a ring at a woman you didn’t know and offering marriage. All I had known was I was giving her a weapon with which they could save their own lives. What I hadn’t known was that with everyone watching, the only way she could pick up Bandersnatch and save them was if she agreed to marry me.
I felt dirty and used. I mean, at least she had someone to blame. What about me?
I had no one to blame but myself. I, who could have at least tried to walk away after it was all explained to me, fully intended to accept my scapegoat status as long as I could leverage things so that a quarter million refugee settlers didn’t die in cold space at the hands of foul, power tool-wielding Bugs.
That didn’t mean I was going to just stand there and take it. If I was going to sacrifice myself on the altar of saving their lives, then the least these verbally ungrateful settlers could do was help me out a little along the way. Which was why I was slowly maneuvering the Belters right to where I wanted them. All the while getting ready so that if they ever tried to back out, I could back them into a corner when the time was right.
I still hadn’t decided with the Caprian Settlers. If they wanted to stay, I supposed they could be useful. On the other hand, I had enough Caprians who hated me in my life already. If the Caprian Settlers wanted to leave, then I wanted them gone. The Prometheans, on the other hand, owed me their lives. To their credit, the ones on my ship seemed pretty grateful about it. So maybe I could work something out with any of them that wanted to stay long term.
I was committed. The Belters, in their unbridled greed, had also committed themselves, as far as I was concerned. There was no way I was letting those greedy ingrates fly off at the first sign of trouble. If the Prometheans and the Caprians wanted to take their chances all by themselves out on the dangerous space lanes, they could be my guests and I'd gladly let them finish off the ship's stores of Gorgon Ice-Ale at the farewell party.
I had a system to protect from Bugs and a world that would take them anytime they wanted. Or so I hoped.
I was still thinking about all of this when the corridors between us had all run out, and far too quickly for my tastes, there she was.
Adonia Akantha Zosime, a blond ice maiden native to Tracto VI, with white Nordic skin and a stare that looked right through you and found you pitifully wanting. My pit viper in human form. My (I nearly choked on the thought) wife.
Sweet Murphy give me strength.
I tried to muster a smile, but suspected I only managed an ugly rictus as I approached.
She looked at me hopefully, but when her eyes didn’t find the sword in my possession, she scowled. “Done seeing to the thousands on your war-boat, I see,” she scoffed. “Destroy any mountains lately, or did everyone just run screaming at the sight of your ugly face?”
“Lady Adonia, or is it Zosime?” I asked, “We need to talk.”
“No! We need to find my Bandersnatch,” she snapped. “I can never return home until it is found,” she finished dramatically, as if that explained everything. Then she turned to continue tossing the room she was in.
Around us were the Armory detail and the crew that had been with the Chief Engineer. When you threw in a bunch of her native companions, people were strung out all up and down the corridor and not incidentally listening in on our every word.
Great, I couldn’t even be as frank as I might have wanted to be under other circumstances, not with all these big ears stationed around us. I sighed.
Inside the room was the Chief Engineer, helping toss the quarters. He had a woeful expression when he turned to the pit viper. “I’m sorry, my Lady Akantha, it's not here either,” he said with too much of a twinkle in his eye for my liking, as he led her out of the room and down the hall.
“We’ll need to check another one then,” she said commandingly.
“How’s about we try this one next,” said Spalding.
Ignored, I had no choice but to follow in their wake.
She nodded regally as if this was entirely acceptable with her, and upon entering the room proceeded to tear sheets from beds and cut open any cushion that might be about the right size to hide a sword. The engineers, armory men and natives that were with her joined in with a vengeance. I noted that there was close to an even number of each in the room with her, even though there were varying numbers of armory, engineering and native people spread out in the hallway.
Clearly, everyone involved wanted a part in the tossing of quarters alongside their Admiral's new wife. From their reactions to her, and the faces of the people in the corridor, the ice snake had slithered her way into their affections like the cold-blooded reptile she was, and if I didn’t put a stop to this soon, she’d have everyone eating out of the palm of her cold, scaly hands.
I even noticed a swarthy Promethean woman following around behind the ‘Lady Akantha’ picking up after her, despite the destruction everyone else in the room was making, and looking at her with worshipful eyes.
The Promethean woman came close enough to me to whisper, “Isn’t she so nice! You picked a good one, my War-Prince.”
I stood there flabbergasted. I felt like Alice when she fell down a rabbit whole, only my rabbit hole had been inside a bug ship and I’d landed on my head. Ever since, it was like I was staring through the looking glass. Down was up, up was down, and the bane of my current existence was charming my crew right out from under me!
Being ignored was actually something I was quite used to, although it was something of an oddity since I’d taken command of a fleet consisting of one ship, the Lucky Clover. Bemused, I trailed along behind as the crew under the direction of ‘Lady Akantha’ proceeded to trash every room in the hallway.
For his part, the wild-haired Chief Engineer seemed to enjoy watching me play second fiddle to the Lady.
You could tell her patience had started wearing thin when she suggested they should return to medical to question the ‘rival war-band’ a second time. The Chief Engineer managed to steer her away from this course. I don’t know how he did it. The simplest words from me and it was fireworks, while the Engineer’s ‘suggestions’ she seemed to take for something close to gospel.
Eventually, since she wasn’t getting any satisfaction anywhere else, she turned on me. “Why are you not helping,” she demanded imperiously.
I sighed. My honeymoon as just another piece of movable furniture had come to an end. It had been nice while it lasted. I used to be able to go for days without anyone caring what I did I thought morosely.
“You seem to have more people than you need. I figured I’d just be in the way,” I replied blithely.
“Yes,” she replied, stepping closer and speaking as if I was slow on the uptake, “I have as much help as I need. So what are you doing,” she repeated.
I was a bit nonplused. Boy, was she tall. “Waiting to talk with you, like I said when I first got here.” Having her loom over me wasn’t helping. I looked up at her. I’m no shorty, and safely at the lower end of average, but when she was standing this close it was obvious that she was a good half foot taller than myself.
“Why are you wasting time,” came the response in her native tongue, echoed by the translator. She was giving me her patented cold stare.
“I have tens of thousands of refugees with no place to live. I told you this before,” I was starting to get exasperated. Both with the line of questioning, and the fact she was so much taller than me. I might have to look into improvised footwear in the near future.
“And you want me to find lands for them, right,” she asked, looking cross with my stubbornness. Then a sly look started breaking through her icy exterior. “A place to live,” she finished thoughtfully.
I was startled. “Yes, that's it exactly. Perhaps if you could introduce me to one of the local rulers…”
She sucked in her breath and looked concerned, but I wasn’t buying it. Not for a minute.
“Such a very big job. Finding a place for everyone on flying citadel, Lucky Clover. Even bigger if more people on other flying citadels,” she sucked on her teeth as if in consideration.
It looked like someone had finally explained to her that our ship was no boat. I glanced suspiciously at Spalding, who just looked smug.
“Can you help,” I asked, getting sucked in despite myself. “Please.” I finally forced that out and immediately gagged, but did my best to hide the reaction.
She paused, as if seriously considering and then nodded, “Yes, but first I need something. Before we can see to needs of, ref-u-gees,” she said the last word in Confederation standard language.
“Anything,” I said, hope rising for the first time since I had come down here. “We have weapons and power armor. Flying vehicles. Anything.”
She smiled serenely, “Before Adonia Akantha Zosime can see to needs of others, she must see to her own needs first.”
“Alright,” I said hoping, it wasn’t a thousand suits of power armor so she could crush her rivals and everyone on the surface she thought had done her wrong. Knowing her like I did, such a list would be very long indeed. I might be setting off a massacre worthy of the Montagne label.
“She doesn’t need lots of weapons or armor, and while flying sounds very nice,” she said shaking her head, “she really only needs one thing.” She paused then finished triumphantly, “I need my Ban-der-snatch.”
I felt like thumping my forehead for being such an idiot. I should have known. One time, my mother had lost her ring down the sink. She had insisted we disassemble the entire plumbing assembly in the kitchen until we found the thing. It had taken hours and there had been no swaying her. At one point, she’d even talked about contacting the sewage company to see if it had been caught in one of the filters, or even ended up in the bottom of one of the waste collectors.
I suppose if you replaced the traditional marriage ring with a deadly weapon masquerading as a long-lost family heirloom, in turn masquerading as the equivalent of a wedding ring, then the parallel soon became obvious.
Like any woman who lost her wedding ring, she wasn’t going to worry about the little things (like the rest of the world and a few hundred thousand people) until she got it back.
“Right. I’ll make a few calls,” I said, knowing I’d just been neatly manipulated. As usual, my girl was willing to hold everyone and everything else hostage until she got what she wanted.
The icy exterior was back and she nodded to me. “Good,” she said coolly, and turned back to ransacking someone else’s quarters.
Chapter 29: Given a Job
I marched back to the bridge, envisioning the steam hissing from my ears and turned to Officer Tremblay.
“It’s time to initiate a full-scale search for a missing sword,” I said with finality.
“What sword would that be, Admiral,” Tremblay said, and by the expression on his face it looked like he knew exactly what sword I was talking about but wanted a public confirmation.
“That would be a famous vibro-blade commissioned by my illustrious ancestor Larry One,” I said, using the politically correct version of King Larry the Great’s name. Then, because the cat was already out of the bag, “It has the letters B-A-N-D-E-R-S-N-A-T-C-H written down the side of it,” I added helpfully, just in case anyone had been sleeping through history class and also failed to key into the ship’s rumor mill.
"Yes, Admiral. I think everyone on the crew is familiar with the description of that sword,” the First Officer said before turning to issue the necessary orders.
“Good,” I said as I turned to go. “Carry on.”
“Admiral, what should we do after the weapon is recovered,” asked Tremblay. “I’m certain Parliament and the Queen-Regent, along with every crewman on this ship, will be overjoyed to hear about its recovery.”
“A foolish man might try to hide such a historical heirloom until we return home, to protect it from damage. A wise man, on the other hand, would immediately return the blade to the Lady Akantha. She’s convinced it’s the native equivalent of her wedding ring, a thing she simply must have returned to her before she’s willing to help fix our little settler problem,” I said, striding out the blast doors. While the thought of putting a spike in the wheels of that uppity royal Jason Montagne, who had the gall to go around acting like a real genuine admiral, might appeal to the first officer or others onboard the ship, it was unlikely they were going to risk the lives of helpless settlers just to stick it to me.
Returning to my quarters, I didn’t bother with the main lights, turning on the ones in the miniature bathroom instead.
After getting rid of that ridiculous helmet, I pulled off the uniform before falling back into bed exhausted.
I landed on a solid bar of metal. I gasped in pain, sitting back up as quickly as possible.
Seeing nothing immediately harmful, I felt around with my hands, checking for bruises, before looking balefully at the hunk of metal in the bed. I turned on the lights. It was the missing vibro-blade the whole ship was turning upside down looking for. How in the world did it get here? I picked it up and a piece of old fashioned paper fluttered to the floor.
After reading the paper, things became much clearer.
Admiral,
Sweet Murphy, it's not right to just toss a wedding token at a lady like you did. I realize time was short on the Bug Ship. Har Har Har. But this time, get on your knees and do it right. For shame.
T.S.
P.S. Happy honeymoon. Oh, and by the way, there’s a couple discs I made which were recorded by that two-faced, Empire loving traitor, Lieutenant Van Ness. Lucky for you, I'm familiar with every data trap in this ship's DI, or we might not have been able to recover them. There’s something on them you have to see.
I had the sinking suspicion T.S. stood for Terrence Spalding, the same man who was tearing through personal quarters with the Lady Akantha, last time I checked. He had already managed to find the lost vibro-blade and sneak it into my quarters on the sly! What could possibly be on these two discs that could be so important?
Fumbling around in the dark, I located the discs mentioned in Spalding’s note.
It occurred to me that there were several messages to be taken from this little display of breaking and entering, not all of them designed to help a tired Admiral’s peace of mind.
Popping the first one (aptly labeled 'Number One') into my personal handheld reader, I sat down on the bed with a weary sigh.
The two figures I saw on the first disc sent me jumping to feet, reader clutched in a death grip. It was none other than murderous swine of Lieutenant, Mr. Van Ness and our dearly departed abandoner, Imperial Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski.
Blood rushed to my head and I could hear my pulse pounding in my ears, almost too loud for me to hear their exchange as the recording played progressed.
“So what you are telling me is, it’s time to go to Phase 3,” said Lieutenant Van Ness, standing with his back to the camera. The Admiral’s face clearly visible over his shoulder.
“The Invictus is scheduled to rendezvous with us in two hours time, after that events will have been in motion,” Said the Rear Admiral with a tight smile.
“One concern I have, Admiral. Why do you have work parties out on the hull disabling the ship’s main weaponry,” Van Ness said, sounding upset.
“Do your job, Lieutenant and leave things above your pay grade to those above your pay grade. You just worry about holding up your end and stick to the schedule. I’m not about to let anyone or anything, including incompetence, stand in the way,” Janeski said scornfully, his eyes turning hot. “Just focus on your end and everything will be fine.”
“Yes, Admiral,” said the grey haired Lieutenant who’d tried assassinate me - twice.
“Remember; wait until the Invictus point transfers out of the system. Then lock the Little Admiral away in the brig and take control of the ship. I’ve made sure that every officer senior to you is leaving with me, other than that cantankerous old fool down in Engineering who's made it clear the only way he’s leaving this ship is in a body bag. So other than one senile old engineer, you’ll be the senior officer on the ship,” said Janeski with a frown. “If you can’t handle a fool like Spalding who only wants to play with his engines and belly ache, then you’re not the man I think you are.”
“It’ll be exactly like you say, Sir. The operation will go like clockwork, and I’ll be at the rendezvous point before you know it to hook up with the rest of the fleet,” Lieutenant Van Ness said with relish. “One way or the other, that old retiree won’t stand in the way.”
“I wish I had a few loyal line officers to spare but I‘ll need every man worth his powder to help secure the Command Carrier,” Janeski said, breath hissing out of his teeth and then gave Van Ness a hard look. “This is a milk run, it doesn’t get any easier than this, so don’t mess it up with any of that SDF cowboy space rot they teach you out here.”
“We’ll follow your instructions to the letter, Sir,” Van Ness hastened to assure him. “Professional all the way, you can count on me, Admiral.”
“A spineless civilian like that won’t give you any trouble. He’ll fold at the first sign of adversity, which is why he was chosen. Wants to be a Colonial Administrator of all things,” he said, his voice dripping with disdain, “The esteemed Governor is more useful to us alive than dead, if only as a scapegoat should anything go wrong. But kill him if you have to. Your people will blame a Montagne for anything, even an incompetent stripling like this one.”
“Yes, Sir. I know the plan,” Lieutenant Van Ness said respectfully.
The Transmission ended.
I sat back, stunned at what I had seen. It felt as if my whole little world had been torn from its nice, predictable orbit. I was actually a bit numb when I switched the discs and started the second one.
This time, the image was one of Lieutenant Van Ness, looking like death warmed over, his skin pale and ashen. The recording must have been made on a personal workstation pick up, probably in his quarters.
"The Governor isn't the fool we took him for. Within minutes of your departure, he somehow organized a troupe of undercover Confederates and seized control of the Armory. I moved as quickly as I could, but by the time I got to the bridge, he was already decked out in a suit of personalized power armor." The grey-haired security officer was laboring with each breath. He paused for a moment before continuing.
"When I arrived on the bridge, he was in the process of appointing some of those loyalists to key positions throughout the ship. I attempted to arrest the whelp, but he proved more competent in a battle-suit than his file suggested, and every bit as bloodthirsty as his infamous ancestors." There was another pause as he gathered his breath.
"I am sending this message to you via your secure channel over the ComStat system. I regret missing the rendezvous at the appointed time, but am here to inform you that I will take control of the ship within two days and proceed to the rendezvous point, where I will transmit via the same channel if I don't receive new instructions from you before then." With that, he leaned forward and the transmission cut.
The rage I felt when I saw the first recording was slowly replaced by an icy chill. I honestly couldn't tell you how to describe it. I mean, I'd obviously survived two attempts on my life at this guy's hands, and he was currently laid out on the doctor's operation table, but I think it would probably be fair to call the feeling I was now experiencing ice cold terror.
Arnold Janeski was the most competent military figure I had ever seen, and he had ordered nothing less than my execution, either at the hands of Lieutenant Van Ness and his goons, or by what amounted to nothing more than an angry mob of parliamentarians.
After a few minutes, I activated the comm. system and said coldly, "Patch me through to Doctor Presbyter. Now. I don't care if he is in the middle of surgery, get him on the line."
Rather quickly, I was greeted by the Doctor's voice. "Medical, go ahead."
"Doctor, I need to speak with Lieutenant Van Ness," I said in the most level tone I could manage, careful not to give away the cold fury I felt. "How soon will that be possible?"
There was a pause. "I'm sorry, Admiral, but I'm afraid you'll be waiting for quite awhile. The Lieutenant didn't make it through surgery."
I took a long pause, digesting this information and its potential implications. Finally, I said in my most measured voice, "I'm sure you did everything you could, and I suppose I shouldn't be disappointed. After all, I was under the impression that he had died the first time he came into your care. Carry on, Doctor." I cut the transmission and leaned back in my chair. A few moments later, I winced at my implication that the Doctor might have been involved. Still, he was yet another person on this ship who I now had to keep a close eye on. I suppose I might have been too hard on the Doctor, since he had also been assaulted during the pillow incident, but that's the thing about paranoia: you're just another lunatic until it turns out they're really after you. It was, however, an unforgivable slip on my part. I had to be more careful.
I was as angry with myself as anyone, at that moment. I mean, really, a man tries to kill me and I don't even follow up to see if he survives the incident? I just assume he's dead, when in reality he's free to roam about the ship? It really was an unforgivable, nearly fatal mistake. The fact that I was busy trying to save everyone else's life is no excuse.
It took a long time to process this information. I replayed the vids, searching for clues that I might have missed the first time, but there was nothing I thought could help me identify any other potential accomplices which may have been on board. Neither was there any indication as to where Janeski intended to rendezvous with Van Ness after he had taken command of the Lucky Clover.
The only thing which puzzled me was the comment Janeski made about needing crew from the Clover to help him secure the Invictus Rising. It could have been nothing more than internal Imperial politics combined with the well-known crew shortages the Empire was experiencing due to the war with the Gorgon Alliance, but frankly I was in no condition to make a final determination. I had a banquet to attend.
Space gods, I could use a stiff cup of tea right about now. I went back to the bathroom and palmed a stim patch. It was time to go make some kind of dramatic gesture, so I could get on with the business of saving innocent lives, and it appeared that I needed my wits about me more than I previously suspected.
With a groan, I freshened up before putting back on the old uniform and that awful helmet. Whoever said being an Admiral and a Prince was easy should be shot. Or at least married against their will and shoved about someone else's board, like a pawn in some interstellar game of chess.
But before I could shoot anyone, first I had to call down to supply. There were a few things that needed arranging if I was to do this properly. Properly. Ye Space Gods, when my mother found out I had married without even bothering to bring the girl home first. I winced. Best not to think about that yet. I instructed myself to focus on the tens of thousands of innocent settlers dying on the vine if I couldn't make something, anything, work. I took a series of short hard breaths. "I can do this," I muttered, pumping myself up before started for the door.
I slowly ground to a halt. No, I couldn’t do this. This was insane. Nobody could be reasonably expected to cope with this series of events. I stopped before opening the door and just stood there with my head leaned against it.
Fighting and dying for these people was one thing. Either way, it was over quick. Living for them each and every day was something else entirely, shadowboxing unseen opponents who were three steps ahead of me and hiding at every turn.
I gave myself a shake. I had to box up everything I had just learned and focus on the situation at hand. I straightened my shoulders, and then gave a groan. Mother would be furious, but I’d just have to somehow explain that we had eloped without being fully aware of all the cultural and familial implications. It would have to do.
Worst case, there was always the example of Jean-luc. The galaxy was large, and Montagne’s virtually unknown outside of Capria's little sphere of influence. If I left the sector and kept my head low, I’d be virtually free.
I kept telling myself this until I finally worked up the nerve to open the door. The thought of running away was appealing, but right now there was nowhere to go. So it was forward.
Pausing just once to run back and throw up in the toilet, I finally managed to get out of the room. I almost convinced myself the bout of emesis was a result of taking a stim patch on top of all the work the Doc did on me while I was unconscious. It was a hard sell, but I'm quite persuasive.
I arrived in the main mess hall. It was empty for the first time since I had taken the Promethean refugees onboard. The Prometheans had reacted better to being kicked out of their only place to live than I suspected a comparable number of Caprians would have. It was only temporary, and I had invited a number of them to the event I was planning. Still, it made for a measure of discomfort most people would have found utterly intolerable.
Regardless, setting seating assignments, coordinating with the galley and ordering in everything from wall hangings to plusher seats from the smaller officer’s mess, was something I was used to being involved in. If not for some event at the Royal Palace, then from tagging along behind my mother, who was a trained gourmet chef.
It helped settle my stomach to keep my mind occupied with other things. Being able to focus on something I actually knew how to do, like plan a grand function. In this case, a banquet in honor of Lady Akantha and everything she had promised to do for these homeless, broken down settlers.
Of course, if she didn’t make good on her promise to ‘help out,’ then no one was likely to complain when their Admiral, the esteemed Prince-Cadet Jason Montagne dumped her like a bad habit and explained about the terrible mix up that caused all this confusion in the first place.
Several hours later and the scene was set. If the engineer was happy to let me wander in their wake on a fruitless search because he’d already put the vibro-blade in my bed, then I was more than happy to let them keep searching until the scene was properly set.
Since most of my crew was either asleep, at their duty stations, or busy with the search, I was forced to make use of the Prometheans I had kicked out. Several of the Promethean women were quite helpful. After the pall that had hung over me ever since I’d taken command of this ship with her Caprian crew, it was nice to see some genuine gratitude.
Apparently, to the Prometheans I was the War-Prince who drove off the pirates and saved them from certain death. It seemed after learning I was going to find them a new place to live inside a system rich natural recourses, I had risen even higher in their estimations.
With the Caprians, I always felt like they were watching me with suspicion. Trying to see which way I’d jump. The Prometheans just accepted me for the war leading, miracle worker they thought I was. Both views had their draw backs, but it was a nice change. Even if it was only a temporary condition.
Since they had proved so useful in cleaning out and setting up the main hall, I decided to utilize them further and had them get together with the tailor. We decided to set them up in a room nearby the crew’s main dining hall.
I was going to have them wait for the fitting until after the main course, but they assured me that no woman likes to show up to an occasion dressed in a simple hospital frock.
Since they were going to be taking her measurements anyway, I decided to send a message for Gants to come join me here for a brief conference. We might as well get her measured for her next two gifts at the same time.
When Gants arrived and realized there was going to be an occasion in honor of the Lady, he grinned happily. "Of course, sir! I'd be thrilled to help out in any way I can. The lady deserves all the best!" Damn Gants and his eternal optimism.
I closed my eyes. Somehow, she managed to make a favorable impression on the man, despite all my dire warnings. If I wasn’t careful, she’d soon have him wrapped around her little finger just like the rest of them.
I had to get that woman off my ship. Then I had a wonderful idea. If everyone liked her so much based on a false first impression, then when we got the refugees down planetside, I’d make sure she was well rewarded and set up in a fashion she’d find acceptable. It was going to cost, I was sure, but it would be worth it. Then she could stay down with them as their planetary liaison to the native population!
I would be the absentee husband she got to complain about never being home long enough to kill as payment for his latest failings, and I could breath safely on own ship. It was a win-win.
"Gants, I think it might be helpful if we presented Lady Akantha with a few appealing offerings. It might go a long ways towards smoothing out this...transition," I finished, actually having difficulty defining what was about to happen.
"Oh, absolutely, Admiral," he gushed, far too enthusiastically for my taste. "We must spare no expense in ensuring her happiness at this occasion."
I glared at him, but managed to hold my tongue. For his part, he didn't seem to notice the look of consternation.
After all the little additions were in place. I summoned Lady Akantha to the dining hall. Gants had my hand written note requesting her presence, and everyone in my crew that was with her was ordered to abandon the search for the meantime and join us for a repast. A banquet was being thrown in her honor and I had invited as many people as I had seating for.
The natives were invited also, of course, because to do otherwise would be to insult the lady. My officers were present, because if there was one thing Admiral Janeski had failed at, it was calling his officers together for team building activities like dining together. His affairs were always glum and mostly focused on bolting down the food in a civilized fashion before returning to duty.
Still, we had been trained differently. His focus was to outmaneuver and destroy his enemies on the battlefield of space. I had been trained in a different school, and knew how to outmaneuver and destroy people at the social scenes. While I liked to think I wasn’t a disaster when it came to combat, part of the reason I wanted to renounce my citizenship and leave Capria was specifically because of how I had been trained. Still, the Admiral and I were alike in that when it came to social events, we weren't really trained in the other’s field of expertise.
Finally, to balance things out, I added the grateful Prometheans I’d had to temporarily remove from the hall. I felt I needed a group that was solidly in my corner at the banquet tonight. Besides, at moment the Prometheans lived on this ship too. They had a right to see the woman who was going to help me fix this situation and put their lives back on track.
Of course, when the Lady Akantha arrived outside the mess hall where I was stationed to intercept her so as not to ruin any of the surprises, it was obvious I was back on the top of her hit list. The natives were eyeing me funny as well.
She smiled icily where everyone could see, but as soon as she got near she leaned in close, “Why are you so determined to embarrass yourself and shame me yet again,” she hissed.
I quirked an eyebrow, “I’m throwing a Banquet in your honor. I hardly think that’s something of which you should be ashamed,” I said as evenly as I could. “Quite the opposite, when you stop to think about it.”
“Cooking food and cleaning the Hall is the job of women and menials,” she glared. “Am I such a poor Sword Bearer and Hold Mistress in your eyes that you would lower yourself to such tasks, that everyone should know your low opinion of me?!” She finished a touch too loudly, even for her own liking.
People turned to look at the unhappy couple, but I waved my hand to say everything was fine.
I had to take a moment to process her perspective. It was a little harder than I had originally suspected, to come up with a counter argument to her objections. I mean, I wasn’t surprised she had objections. Honestly, everything I had done to this point (even saving her life) had consistently failed to satisfy her. I hadn’t thought a banquet in her honor would be any exception.
Still, the perspective was all off from my way of thinking. We were on a military ship that I commanded. I had never properly proposed to her, either by way of my culture or hers. So to rectify that, I was ordering people around and throwing a big too-do in her honor.
How was I supposed to throw a surprise party, if she had to be involved every step of the way? It kind of ruined the surprise, to my mind.
Then I had the glimmerings of an idea. She used to think this was a river boat, but now thanks to a certain meddling chief engineer, thought of the Lucky Clover as some sort of floating citadel instead. But we weren’t safely at home in some nicely furnished citadel. We were warriors on the warpath. Even in her culture, I bet they didn’t bring along a lot of women and children when they went to war. On the other hand, maybe seeing all the Promethean families and female members of our crew had sent her calculations rocketing off in the wrong direction. Natives were used to a sense of motion when they traveled, and so far all we had done was drift along in a stable orbit around the planet.
I took a deep breath and met a gaze so frigid it should have shriveled me on the spot. Doing my best to ignore it, I pushed forward.
“I realize there are cultural differences. But please try to remember, this isn’t a giant castle we all live inside. This is a ship full of warriors that moves from place to place seeking out pirates,” and then, because I wasn’t sure if her world even had significant water travel yet, “bandits and other ships filled with the warriors of hostile worlds and empires intruding on territory we have claimed.”
I could tell something was getting through that thick skull of hers, but I still couldn’t read her and tell what or how much.
“When you look around this ship, I’m sure you see families. Women, children and such,” I continued calmly, avoiding a patronizing tone. “Perhaps that’s why you think of this ship like a citadel down on your world. But please remember, until a day or two ago we only carried warriors and people who knew the risks. People who are ready for battle at any time.”
“Then why do you have so many people, so many non-warriors in this flying citadel…your Lucky Clover,” she challenged, not quite ready to believe anything I said.
“When we drove off or killed the pirates who had destroyed their settler’s ship and left them to die,” I paused, not sure if she understood anything about the dangers of cold space, “to, um, sink in the... river between the stars, until they died from being unable to breathe, we had lots of extra room in this ship.” I swallowed, not wanting to get into the subject of the Empire and why there was so much extra room.
“So of course we picked them up and brought them with us until we could find them a new home,” I finished.
She actually seemed to have softened a bit and looked at her Promethean maid and the members of my crew with more understanding in her eyes. Then, as usual, she hardened.
“That still doesn’t explain-” she said like a woman determined not to ignore bad behavior.
I cut her off. “Surely, even amongst your people, a man may sometimes desire to surprise his Lady and to give her fine things.”
She looked surprised and, dare I say intrigued, before catching me looking at her and smoothing her features back into an icy mask of disdain.
“The women from Prometheus helped,” I started, only to see the mention of other women turn her icy disdain into angry disapproval. “Once they heard it would be in honor of the woman who will help them find new homes, and for the person who just saved their lives, they wanted to surprise her.”
“Perhaps I abused my position as Admiral to please you," I admitted. "Other than that, I can only plead with you, knowing how my mother would react if she saw how you’ve been treated ever since I rescued you over from the Bug ship.”
She was starting to soften. “The sword stolen-” she said, icing up again. Why where women so difficult?
“Going around the ship without clothing proper for your station,” I hastened, trying to intercept her mid-sentence. “I just wanted to make sure you saw the best side this ship could offer after having experienced some of the worst. I didn’t mean to step on your prerogatives, or shame and embarrass anyone. I assure you, after this we can work together going into the future. For now, please enjoy the best my humble war-ship has to offer.”
I think I almost had her, so I decided to end on a dramatic note.
“Besides, my crew doesn’t think feasting the Admiral’s Lady is inappropriate for them to help out with, and everyone else on this ship owes me their life. I’m sure they can all manage to overlook a little borderline impropriety with a man trying to please his new…” what was that word she’d used? I searched my memory until I had it, “Sword Bearer. If they are so ungrateful that they can’t,” here I paused and pretended to be angrier than I was, as I glared around at the Prometheans and, more importantly, her native tail, “then I’ll just have to consider withdrawing my ship’s hospitality and sending them right back to where I found them.”
It was a bluff, that last bit about putting them off the ship and sending them back to the Bugs or pirates for ingratitude, but it sounded like something that would play well with her barbaric outlook.
She stood there, as if still considering what I’d said, but for my blond ice maiden her features practically glowed when you compared to how she normally looked. Which is to say her face had softened a little bit and instead of her usually pale faced anger, her cheeks had taken on a bit more their of natural, frosty pink color.
“It still seems very improper,” she said, glancing back at her native complement before looking back at me.
“Forgive me,” I said as fervently as I could manage. If she would just accept this small olive branch and, dare I even think it, stop wanting me dead, perhaps we could work something out where I set her up for life and we never had to see each other again, except on rare holidays and occasions, like when my mother insisted on meeting her. Besides, any young lady forced into an unwanted marriage deserved all the fervor I could put in my voice. Even if I blamed the whole thing on a cultural misunderstanding (instead of myself for not being a mind reader) for her current status.
“I suppose I shall have to,” she said with a slight quirk of the lips that you would have to really stretch to call a smile. Then her voice turned hard again to let me know she was serious. As if she was ever anything other than that the whole time I knew her. “This time.”
Eager to let that final note put a cap on our conversation, I clapped my hands and motioned for the Promethean women to come get the Lady Akantha.
There was a harsh glare from the Promethean maid who had attached herself to my intended (or whatever she was called at this stage in our relationship), which was not something I’d expected. Either the relationship or the glare from the maid. I had to let them work it out amongst themselves later. The ladies were going to keep my Ice Maiden occupied for a while and give me a breather, no matter what Akantha’s little follower thought about the matter.
“I’ve arranged for a fitting to arrange proper clothes for you, before you enter the main dining hall,” I said to smooth the way and distract Akantha from her little maid. “The tailor is standing by as we speak.” I held up a hand against a protest that hadn’t come, “However, if it's somehow inappropriate for him to be present and attend to the measurements himself, there are all these Maids to assist you,” I said, gesturing to the gaggle of surrounding women. The last thing I needed was more drama because I’d sent a man to measure her for clothes.
The impromptu and suddenly designated maids were happily encouraging her in the right direction, and my Lady looked sorely tempted.
I suspected that no women could resist the idea of a completely new wardrobe, especially not one at someone else’s expense, and it looked like I was right.
Counting my lucky stars, I beat a hasty retreat and shut the door to the main dining area behind me. I wanted to forestall anything she chose to bring up that would ruin the suddenly positive mood.
I then spent the next half hour working on a presentation. I culled the historical archives for information and footage, then I assembled a montage of pictures and main events, as well as video clippings of the most famous and infamous former wielders of the vibro-blade. I started with the founder and then played up the bad ends many Montagne wielders came to emphasizing the bizarre and outrageous ends many of my ancestors came to, whether or not they had the sword in their possession at the time of their deaths, and then went on to emphasize with seriousness all the non-Montagne who had done well for themselves while wielding it.
I was actually surprised at just how often the sword was present during some of the most pivotal events in early Caprian history. It wasn’t always present, but it was there just often enough that a person like myself, who knew about the sword but hadn’t actively studied it in depth, was surprised at how much I learned I didn’t know about it before.
One thing was clear. The native ladies on Tracto VI had this whole sword fetish thing going on. I figured when the time was right, I’d play the montage with my voiceover as a distraction and make good my escape.
Chapter 30: The Banquet
When she came walking into the main mess hall, I could tell I had taken her by surprise. She had known something was up, but I think the tearful Prometheans lined up all along her route to the main table and thanking her for finding them a place to stay took her off guard.
I thought the little children scattered in alongside their parents was a nice touch. Which was why I’d put the families there in the first place.
Everyone wanted to shake her hand. Not a custom of her people, judging from the awkwardness on her hand grip. The mechanical translator was working overtime trying to translate the torrent of gratitude and well wishes. With the Promethean women trailing along behind her (also in new clothing I noticed, with gritted teeth hidden behind a smile) she looked like a sovereign being welcomed by her people.
While this was the stage I had deliberately set in order to make her feel obligated to help me, I was surprised at the simple yet elegant cut of her clothing. I didn’t recognize the style, so I figured it must be of native design. The cape trailing behind her was a dark gunmetal grey on the inside, but a vibrant dark blue on the outside and she was wearing a practical, yet well designed set of black trouser pants, with a draw string tied in an elegant knot work in the middle where a zipper, button or magnetic clamp would have been. The shirt was long sleeved with drawstrings running along the arms, and a neckline that climbed all the way up to just under her chin, with these delicate little silver lines of scroll work running up and down the neck onto the shoulders. In the middle of the red shirt was embroidered the symbol of a dark thorn on a blue field.
The Maids were wearing some kind of Promethean gown, in sky blue and white striped colors, and they were also sporting the same dark blue cape, but their capes lacked the grey inner lining.
As soon as she was through the crowd and ascending the steps to the small raised platform where myself and my officers were waiting, I made my move and went to meet her at the top of the stairs.
Meeting her eyes while she was still on her way up, I was once again the recipient of a gaze that stared right through me, one that instantly judged and found me wanting.
Too deep to change course at this point, I dramatically brought the sword into her view and flourished it before kneeling to present it to her hilt first. Fortunately, it was in a reinforced sheath with V shaped strips of Duralloy inserted over the edges from the inside, so if she took it into her head to activate the blade and cut me down, I’d have a few moments to beat a hasty retreat while she was busy freeing the blade.
Behind me, the ship’s officers stood and saluted, all except for the irascible Mr. Spalding who had begged off of the event entirely, claiming some sort of engineering crisis. I didn’t believe him at the time and thought less of the excuse now. I thought I’d even spotted him somewhere in the vicinity of the main doors once or twice but he wasn’t really important right at the moment.
What was important was the way the ice maiden, Lady Adonia Akantha Zosime, stopped on the way up the stairs. I caught her starting to look around, hand creeping up to cover her mouth and, dare I think it, but I do believe I detected a hint of a blush. Then reality reasserted itself and she straightened, giving me a cool look that said as clearly as anything, I was still found very much wanting.
She came to the last step and stopped on the platform, looming over me. I really hated that. I know I was on bended knee, but still, it was the principle of the thing. A woman just shouldn’t be that much taller than me.
She seemed to be waiting for something, but I honestly didn’t have a clue what she wanted.
The pause dragged one. I was going to have to say something. I thought it wise to begin with the simplest thing first.
“If you would take the sword, Lady Akantha,” I said. If she didn’t follow my script, things could go off the rails very quickly.
“Why should I,” she said in a ringing voice, leaving me kneeling at her feet. The translator echoed her words, which she was saying in our shared tongue, throughout the chamber in Confederation Standard. She looked at me, the barest ghost of a smile flitting across her lips before turning to the mess hall. “Who is this man that offers me a sword, and why should I accept his offer above any others?” She turned back to wait for my response.
Oh, that ice witch. First, she ransacks the ship, bending everyone (including myself) to her will in an effort to get back a stupid vibro-blade she never wanted in the first place. Then when it's finally been found and I throw a banquet in her honor, no sooner do I present it to her on bended knee, than she’s suddenly not sure she wants it and starts playing hard to get.
“I am the man that saved your life,” I said, hoping to keep things short and sweet. Figuring I could add all the fruit salad behind my name later on if she insisted.
She seemed to be considering this but I knew it all for the ploy it was. She just liked me on my knees in front of everyone, and wanted to make me squirm.
“A definite point in your favor,” she said after her moment of consideration, “But do you think you’re the only man who has saved my life,” she asked.
I didn’t now, but before she asked this particular question, I had kind of been assuming that I had.
“What makes you more worthy than any other, that I should accept the burden of your blade,” she demanded.
She had me scrambling, and worse I knew she could see it. If I had ever thought I would be the undisputed master of this battlefield, I was now disabused of that notion. So I temporized by starting with the truth.
“I am a Prince of the Caprian Realm. A member of the Caprian blood royal,” I tossed out there, then wanting it over with I threw everything but the kitchen sink at her, “As well as the Governor of Planetary Body Harpoon, and Admiral of the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.”
She nodded appreciatively while I was talking and then shook her head regretfully.
“Every man who offers me his sword claims his lineage is the greatest or the proudest or the most superior. But I have never before heard of this Capria, and so I know not how to compare it to the claims of others,” she said in a mournful voice.
And now she scoffed at the big artillery too. I was at a loss for what she wanted. Other than maybe to humiliate me by refusing the sword in front of all these people.
She must have seen my confusion because she decided to throw me a bone.
“All of your titles except Prince are those held in trust for another. Governor is not ruler. Ad-mi-ral,” she said, pronouncing the rank in Confederation Standard, “is title of great war leader, but again, not ruler,” she stared into my eyes. “I am a Hold Mistress. How do I know you will be able to protect that which is mine and secure the inheritance of my daughters? You can be called away in service to your overlord at any time.”
Was she speaking hypothetically, or did she mean she already had daughters but no husband? This was starting to weird me out. Was I marrying her and adopting a family at the same time? I knew I should be focusing on other things, but this was turning out to be surreal.
I mean, so what if she wanted security while I was gone? All women wanted security. Men too, for that matter. Everyone wanted to feel secure. What was this bit about daughters? Mom would probably be happy to know she had some grandchildren and would almost certainly want to visit them regularly, prolonging the amount of time I had to spend on the surface with this woman.
Enough of this getting beat on for not being my own man, I decided. Let's put this into stark contrast.
“Monsters like the ones that captured you and held you onboard their ship are making plans to return to your world in bigger and bigger ships. They will keep coming until they have conquered your world and devastated your resources, industry and population unless someone can stop them,” I paused for effect. Blondie looked shaken, although she hid it well from the crowd. Good. It was time she realized she wasn’t the only one who had a firm grip on the other’s sensitive parts.
“They have done this before on distant worlds, and they will do so again and again until they are stopped. Starting here,” I looked at her squarely and held her gaze to let her know I wasn’t joking.
“If you take up this sword and help me find a place in your system for the people in my care, I pledge in turn to help them construct a mighty fortress far above the sky, out in the airy reaches of cold space. I will ensure they have the tools to build another on the surface of your planet, and also to station such ships as I am able, to drive the Bugs away from your world. If possible, I will also track these vile monstrosities back to their nests and crush them absolutely.”
“And my daughters inheritance,” she asked in a barely diminished voice.
“Under the circumstances,” I said, wondering again what exactly those were, “I will do the best I can for your daughters. However, without me and my fleet, your daughters won’t survive long enough to have an inheritance. Unless it's as homeless refugees fleeing your world on a starship.”
“A persuasive case,” she announced coldly, any hint of playfulness disappearing from her demeanor.
She gave me a regal nod and placed a hand on the hilt of Bandersnatch. “As always, my choice was no choice at all,” she said to me in a low voice that not even the translator could pick up.
“There’s always a choice, Lady,” I muttered back at her. “It's just that sometimes, all other options are worse.”
She nodded and turned, pulling the sword out of its sheath with a flourish, and presented it to the crowd. After a few moments, everyone proceeded to their seats and it was time to eat.
The dinner went better than I’d expected, and the sword’s holo-montage was a hit. Watching recordings of people was obviously a new and exciting experience for her and the rest of the natives.
At one point, when the action was hot and heavy and we were watching a clipping of a royal guard fighting off a band of assassins, she even grabbed my hand in excitement.
The action slowed and she seemed to realize what she’d done. Dropping my hand like it was something awful, she gave me a disgusted look that showed I was still the big ugly in her life. Both figuratively and, with my still healing skin, literally.
Thinking to make a quiet exit, I was just starting to get up from my chair when a hand reached out and thrust me back down in my chair.
I have to say, my lady was no shrinking violet. She was tall and well built. Properly proportioned, she was no rail made out of skin and bones. However, I had already known all of this just from looking at her. What I hadn’t known was just how strong she was for her size as well.
So, instead of creeping out the back way and returning to mingle with the crowd for brownie points, I stayed up on the dais for the remainder of the dinner banquet.
Some of the cultural missteps were quietly amusing. Yet others one didn’t dare be amused at for fear of a violent reaction.
At the end of things, she seemed as happy as a woman suddenly married to a man she just met could be.
I instructed Officer Tremblay, who had been unusually quiet during dinner, to find quarters appropriate for her station, and made good my escape.
I was flat exhausted, and if I had possessed the energy would have been campaigning for an immediate trip down to the surface. As it was, I knew the settlers could only survive so long on with shuttles making trips into the planet’s atmosphere for replacement air before things turned ugly on the Settlement ships. I was just too tired to deal with it.
Returning to my quarters, a small two room set up originally intended for the ship’s Flag Lieutenant, I fell into bed and crashed hard.
Chapter 31: To the Surface
The shuttle ride down to the surface was uncomfortable. Oh, the gee forces were never fun, but somehow I had fallen further than ever in Lady Akantha’s estimation.
I’d barely got two words out of her frozen exterior, and both of those had been biting.
I couldn’t figure out what was wrong. I wined and dined her, gave her a proper proposal and made sure she had nice quarters. Anything had to be better than sick bay. I genuinely thought we ended on a high note the last time we spoke. I must have been wrong. Maybe it was just her way of putting up a good front for the crowd. I couldn’t understand her, but if things went according to plan, hopefully I wouldn’t need to for much longer.
All I needed was permission from one of the local rulers to let us land our settlers. Any nice, out of the way location would do, so long as it wasn’t in the middle of a volcano.
“Remember,” I said. “I need to talk with someone who can give me permission to land a lot of people. Preferably a local ruler of some kind, although a representative with authority would do in a pinch,” I looked over at her to make sure she understood.
She shook her head at my repetition of the question, “We go to see my Uncle first. After, we can find lands for the people,” she said with an icy glare.
This time she wasn’t staring at the wall for extended periods. I was the direct focus of her gaze. I quickly realized I would rather have her looking at the wall, but having opened my big mouth to the point of wearing out her patience I guess I had made my own bed and now had to lay in it.
At least she had agreed with my estimation. Although, she still insisted we go visit her uncle first. She was rather close-lipped about the subject, but I suspected that she and her uncle didn’t get along, from the stony silence to my questions.
I had reluctantly brought along the Armory team once again. They were riding in the same shuttle as ourselves and the Promethean fire team that I was told had really helped us out on the Bug ship after I was separated from the rest of the group. Apparently, they had somehow managed to put on space suits and walk along the outside of the Bug ship to place explosive charges near the engines. So they were okay in my book. By deliberate design the rest of the natives were coming down in a second shuttle alongside us.
We knew the general area the Scout Marauder had blasted off from, and thus where they had captured Akantha and the rest of the natives, but not the exact coordinates. So once we got close, directions started to involve a lot of questions and finger pointing.
Eventually the shuttle set down outside a rather large pile of stones. It looked like some kind of fortress citadel out of ancient Earth history.
Fortunately, no one was shooting at us. That might have something to do with the paint job Lady Akantha had insisted on if we didn’t wanted to land a long ways away and walk for more than half a day to reach the city. Since I had no intention of wasting the better part of half a day walking when lives were on the line, I agreed we could painted the shuttle any color she liked.
After landing, I stepped out a ramp on the back side of the shuttle and paused to admire the new color. It was the same dark blue as the cape she had worn to the banquet. When taken with the color of the capes all the maids had worn, I started to get the suspicion dark blue was the Lady’s official color.
Maybe being a Mistress Holder actually meant something around here and she had some connections. She was mum on the subject and so upset with me right now that I didn’t feel like pressing the matter. I figured all would be revealed in good time and there was no need to cause another blow up.
I saw a lot of sheep and cows in the fields around the fortress, which was kind of surprising. I had been under the impression that a place was either cattle or sheep land, not both. Although, if this was some kind of local economic hub I suppose that might explain away my current confusion.
A bunch of men clad in metal armor from the waist up came running out of the fortress. The armor flared out at the waist until it looked like some kind of manly metallic version of the mini-skirts young girls were so crazy about back on historical Earth. They also had trousers of a similar, although slightly different and rougher cut than Lady Akantha had worn to the Banquet, and metal shin and thigh guards strapped on over the top.
A number of poorly dressed men with spears came pouring out behind them.
It looked like we’d kicked over the hornet’s nest this time, despite the fancy new color of our space shuttle.
The Ice Maiden took a few steps in front of our group and, other than a single startled look at the noisy second shuttle landing beside us, ignored it in favor of facing the oncoming warriors. She was brave to face a band of at least fifty armed warriors charging in her direction.
I was in my power armor (as were most of my men and everyone had power weapons) so I wasn’t really all that concerned for our immediate safety.
Akantha, on the other hand, was decked out in a different version of the same outfit she wore to the banquet. Slightly thicker clothing, perhaps for colder conditions than those on the ship, but in the very same colors and with the same simple elegant cut as her previous set. She looked both striking and beautiful staring down those warriors way she did. Not to mention standing in front of us like that, practically daring them to run right over her.
The locals might think that because they outnumbered us, they could win any confrontation. If that was their thinking they were sorely mistaken. A handful of men in power armor equipped with blaster rifles and plasma grenades could level this whole citadel in short order.
I was the only one carrying a plasma rifle, having previously restricted the armory crew to blaster weapons. This was deliberate because the last time I had needed a plasma weapon back on the Bug ship, I hadn’t had one. My Armory team, on the other hand, had been outfitted with plasma weapons (or at least plasma grenades) and had used one of them on me by mistake. As there had been no time to fix my current helmet-less situation before coming down to the planet, I was being very careful with the ordinance situation this go round.
The last thing I needed was another plasma grenade to the head. For now, sonic grenades and blaster weapons would do just have to do for my little band of happy hooligans. The Prometheans seemed much more sensible when it came to handling heavy weaponry, both from my own observations and the reports after I had checked out of sick bay. So they were our designated plasma grenadiers. We weren’t here to start a war, so this distribution of firepower should work out fine. Or so I had hoped.
The rushing citadel guards played a good game, like they were just going to run right over us. Still, when Akantha whirled her cape and held it up over her face like some sort of clichéd vampire in a cheap holo-film, they slowed to a halt. Recognition, alarm and confusion crawled over the faces of the men in front.
Then, for no obvious reason (other than the fact that they had stopped) the heavily armored warriors sorted themselves out into formation and pointed swords and shields in our direction.
“Land-Bride Zosime, we didn’t realize it was you, returned to us from the dead,” declared a particularly huge man, his voice translated through the ear bud linked to the hand-held translator in my pack. A giant among these large, six and a half foot tall men, he stood several inches taller than the rest. His armor wasn’t made of metal, but some kind of rough pebbled substance. It was also thicker than the standard metal armor worn by the others. “We heard you were taken captive by sky-demons. As you know, no one taken has ever returned. How is this possible,” he asked, looking suspiciously at our power-armored forms.
Akantha raised Bandersnatch by the middle of its sheathed blade, until it was chest level. The eyes of the man in the strange armor widened and he started to flush. He took a deep breath.
“Are these…,” he paused and looked at my men, hidden behind their faceplates. He then searched my face and took in the Prometheans before continuing, “Gods or Sky Demons? They look not how the Sky Demons are described by those that survive the raids and destruction,” he said questioningly.
At the talk of Gods and Sky Demons, I took a couple steps until I was able to cover the ice maiden, in case she had bitten off more than she could chew. I dare say no one respected the violent superstitious nature of these natives more than I.
Akantha took a deep breath and glanced at me out of the corner of her eye before once again setting her gaze firmly forward and ignoring me. I was grateful to find her attentions focused elsewhere, even if only for a few moments.
“They are neither Gods nor Demons, but men as other men," said Akantha, who was apparently speaking the same language as the new warrior. "Although, they are generally shorter and browner of skin than our own peoples,” she said in a clear carrying voice. This caused a stir among the crowd of armed warriors.
I was thankful for the ear bud I had placed before leaving the ship. It made understanding the natives much easier than listening to the hand held mechanical. It also had less chance of spooking the superstitious natives who were busy wondering if we were sky demons. The mechanical was still present; it just wasn’t set on speaker function. Right now it was wirelessly transmitting to my ear. The rest of my men were also listening to wireless translation, but I was carrying my own separate device in case we had to split up.
The large bull of a man looked surprised at first, and then his expression changed to a pleased one for the first time.
“So you’ve taken a sword and are now a Sword Bearer,” the large man said with a smile. “Many within the Halls of Argos will be both angered and well pleased with your decision,” he said, a brief look of calculation in his eye. “I take it your chosen Protector is here?”
“He is,” she said, looking straight ahead and ignoring me.
The man must have noticed something along the way that tipped him off. Perhaps it was the fact I was the only one in armor without a helmet and was standing next to her. Anyway, he seemed to clue into the fact that I was the person he was looking for.
“Well done, foreigner,” he said, looking at me. “Many will be offended that your Sword Bearer chose you over them,” he added with relish, “how will you answer when they demand to know why you and your Sword was chosen over they and theirs?”
Before I could answer this, Akantha half unsheathed the vibro-blade. She displayed the side with the mono-Locsium crystals writing its name and then flipped it over in her palms.
When the assembled men observed the dark metal with small crystalline deposits flashing in its depths, there was collective draw in of breath, followed by a long sigh.
“How is this possible,” their large leader asked in disbelief. “All of the dark swords of power are accounted for. Besides, this one matches the description of none of them.”
“There is the sword of King Lykurgos, lost these past three hundred years and more,” Akantha said imperiously. “And new swords of power have been discovered in the past. Who is to say this is not one of them?”
“Nay,” the large man said, a light entering his eyes. “The hoplite Nikomedes, who has taken the name Minos, has returned from a quest into the great chasm and recovered the lost sword of Lykurgos and renamed it after himself, calling it the Minos Sword. The Sword of Kings.”
Akantha sucked in a breath, and if I didn’t know my ice maiden better, I’d say she looked faintly dismayed.
“His sword perfectly matches the ancient descriptions. This new sword does not. There is no way the sword you bear is the lost sword of King Lykurgos, for that is now born by Nikomedes Minos,” he said with hard finality.
“This sword was forged by King Larry One, a Great King of Capria, a vast Kingdom standing astride the River of Stars. It is called Bandersnatch,” Akantha said unyieldingly.
“Despite its look, I doubt its blade can stand against the might of the Minos Sword,” he said dismissively and then looked at her with compassion. "The days when the swords of power were found and forged are long past. I doubt this new sword, no matter how well forged, can stand for long against a true sword of power,” he said, not trying to pronounce the sword’s name.
I couldn’t help myself and laughed. “Bandersnatch is a vibro-blade. I’d be surprised if anything you’ve forged locally can survive more than a few passes without breaking.”
He looked at me hard, then cracked a smile. “A large boast for a man from the stars who seems to know nothing of our land. Let's see if you are still bragging about your mighty sword after you’ve been here a while.”
He turned back to Akantha. “Your mother has been beside herself with grief ever since you were taken. The whole citadel has worn the black of mourning since word reached us of the destruction. Let me escort you to the Main Hall.”
“Of course, Kephus,” she replied without so much as a look at me by way of consultation. It’s not like I was surprised by this treatment, this was her place and she knew the local customs and on top of that she’d treated me the same way back on the ship. “Let's see Mother. I’m sure Uncle Nykator will want to see me as well, now that I’m a Sword Bearer,” she said sharply.
“As you say,” said the large man, keeping his tone level. Obviously I had correctly identified the relationship between my new wife and her uncle as problematic. This was getting more complicated with every passing minute.
The walk through the native’s fortress was interesting. I suppose to a primitive rustic from the hinterlands of this world, it was an impressive and awe inspiring sight.
To a young man who had seen the great monuments of Capria, lived in its great metropolis and commanded a 600 meter star ship, it looked like a quaint re-creation of something off ancient Earth.
A closer view of the gate and walls soon disabused the quaint recreationist outlook. The stone was solidly built and scarred where weapons had chipped and left marks as deep as your finger.
This was a working citadel where people lived their lives and died fighting to defend it, and once inside surrounded by all the ramparts and crenellations, I had to admit that it was a bit imposing having all that stone work looming over the top of you.
The men in their armor and metallic miniskirts, holding ancient style wood and metal weapons, added that certain medieval touch that let you know this wasn’t some fantasy theme park recreation.
The gates themselves were made of some kind of native wood-like substance and iron bound for strength. I thought it might take a concerted barrage of blaster fire to knock them down. So while a quick escape was possible, an instant one, where you didn’t need to stop and knock down the gates, wasn’t.
Seeing the people of this citadel, it was obvious they had never seen foreigners like us before. Also, no matter how ragged or careworn their clothing, they were all exceptionally big and tall. I decided their stature must be the result of superior genetics after seeing enough samples of the local stock.
What they might have done if we were blithely strolling down the street unescorted was unknowable, for they backed away from the gate guards who were escorting us up the hill to the inner keep of the citadel. This was clearly the final fallback position if this place was ever attacked.
If anything, its wall and gate were taller and thicker than the main gate leading into the citadel, and the guards at the keep didn’t want to let us in.
I noted that the guards at the keep sported the same dark blue capes as Akantha while the guards escorting us from the main gate, mostly didn’t sport capes at all.
The man she called Kephus had one, but his only had a dark blue ring of fabric around the edges the inside was a solid grey color, except where water marks from cleaning it could be seen.
Their objections to our approach were soon muted by a few words from Kephus, and the sight of Lady Akantha holding a sheathed Bandersnatch.
Instead of continuing to block the way, a runner was sent ahead and they drew back muttering at the foreign presence of me and my men. I noticed a few envious looks cast at our power armor, but other than that, they didn’t seem to care for us at all.
Entering an isolated section filled with murder holes and another iron bound gate at the end made me feel a little tense. I firmly reminded myself that we were equipped with modern weapons, and could blow our way out if need be. It didn’t help as much as it should have. After my recent burn experience, the thought of a bunch of natives pouring boiling oil on my currently unprotected head had me sweating.
At least these natives wouldn’t be seeing a hopelessly young man by native standards, thanks to the royal access to early prolong treatments. Instead, they’d be seeing a warrior in battle scarred armor with a now ugly face, one still covered in healing skin and burn scars.
The thought of my now frightening face caused me to smile a shark like grin. At least I wouldn’t have to deal with them thinking I was too young and whelpish for their culture to take seriously as a warrior and a man.
Chapter 32: First Impressions
Stepping into the main hall of the keep was like entering a different world. Banners of every color and description dotted the walls, from ancient coarse-woven cloth that was rotten and falling apart all the way to the bright and tightly woven with what appeared to be fresh blood stains on them.
A simple, yet elegant music was being played that filled the room with a sense of refinement and peace. The people in the hall were somewhat at odds with the aura produced by the music. The men were dressed either in the same metal armor with a miniskirt, arm and leg braces as the warriors outside, or the natural looking thick pebbled armor as Kephus, the leader of the citadel gate guards, was wearing.
There was a stir when we came through the doors that started immediately around us and spread until even people in the back of the room were looking and pointing us out to their friends. The women were kind of a surprise as well. Some wore half armor and appeared almost as serious as the armored men, while the rest wore shirts and trousers with the same refined look and cut as the clothes Akantha was wearing.
There was not a dress among the bunch, which kind of messed with my whole medieval high-society picture. Trousers were the norm in Caprian society even at court. But there were always a few ladies going for that certain look that only a dress could provide, at least they did when they wanted to look their best for the cameras.
Here, it seemed the natives might have forgotten about the concept of the dress as a form of clothing entirely.
Not that many of them, outside the ones wearing the half armor, didn’t make up for this lack with facial paints, tight or loose fitting clothing and, where it looked like they could afford it, jewelry.
Also, I couldn’t see an overweight one among them, male or female. Even in Caprian high society, with all its high end medical services, there were always one or two of the more stoutly framed who didn’t care how much they over-filled their clothes.
Unnaturally tall and broad, and not a single pleasantly plump member among what I had to presume were the best fed section of the population. That sealed it. They must have been genetically engineered at some point in the past, as natural selection just doesn’t cut it as an explanation. Not when you’ve got even the poor and underfed looking like figures straight out of Nordic legends.
The Viking Historical Society would love to have some of these people as members. Just standing a few of these people outside of their lodges as door guards would raise the Society’s estimation in many eyes.
Although, they’d have to change the style of their armor and clothing. What they were wearing just didn’t fit the coarse and boisterous look the Viking historical types were trying to recreate. No, what these people had was something different. They made a virtue out of simplicity. Which is not to say I didn’t notice the occasional divergent style of clothing or complicated stitches.
Most of the people in here, men and women, had that high neckline that reached almost to their chins. However, they weren’t all dressed uniformly. Some of the women had necklines that plunged well below their throats, while any of the men, in what I would call everyday armor, had the fabric around their necks unbuttoned to let out the excess heat caused by being indoors.
There were two chairs on a raised dais at the end of the hall. Large and imposing as they were, I still wouldn’t call the hand carved and extremely well varnished furniture a pair of thrones. They just lacked that certain something that screamed monolithic power the way a throne did. For all of that, they were still works of art, and imposing in their own fashion.
Sitting on one of the two chairs was an armored bull of a man in the pebbled armor that seemed to be the preference of the warrior types around here. With piercing blue eyes and a blonde beard streaked with white, he lacked the pattern baldness so common in base stock humans. He cut an imposing figure and looked like a cross between a modern warlord and an ancient barbarian king.
In the other chair was a beautiful woman. She appeared to be around the same age as the man, but other than that similarity they were nothing alike. Where he pronounced power and presence, she came across as ethereal and other worldly. Where he was obviously large and strong, she seemed almost wispy and bird like. Where he had streaks of white, her hair was a uniform shade of corn silk blond so pale it was almost, but not quite white. Where he had weapons, she had jewelry.
I couldn’t imagine any couple looking more different than these two. Not when they were of the same culture and racial stock. You’d have to start mixing different genetic lines before you’d approach the disparity between these two.
When the woman’s gaze found us, her hands became still and her eyes locked onto Akantha like a dying woman who had suddenly found a life line and the grief that had been on her face slowly began to fade away.
The man, on the other hand bellowed like a stuck pig when he saw us. His eyes weren’t fixated on my ice maiden, although they still burned when he looked at her. Instead, he spread his gaze over the rest of us in her party, registering the presence of Kephus then moving over me and my armored companions finally seeking out the unarmored Prometheans with their rifles before returning to focus on my own recently mutilated face.
I suppose that since I was standing next to Akantha and I was the only armored figure without a helmet, I was the obvious choice for him to land the full force of his anger on. The lack of a helmet was not by choice, but by necessity. Fortunately or unfortunately this very telling lack had the effect of making me an easy person to focus on. I’m sure my scarred and damaged skin wasn’t what he had been expecting because his anger visibly flickered and turned pondering before once again hardening into a harsh look of calculation.
Clearing the way by dint of size and sheer presence, the man strode down the steps, beckoning us closer. His posture said as clearly as anything that he had come as far to meet us as he intended, and his abrupt gesture also made it clear that it was up to us to meet him the rest of the way.
As we approached, I could see that he had the same Nordic nose and general features as the rest of the local indigenous population. A strong brow and a jagged scar started at his forehead and ran across his eye and over his nose before trailing off, indicating that this was a man who had been in a real fight and was both skilled and very lucky to still have both eyes. It added an intimidating cast to his harsh, angular features.
Eyes fixing on the vibro-blade, he grunted. “So the Woman made of Ice has finally met the man who could melt her where no other suitor stood a chance. You’ve taken a sword, daughter-mine, and I’m incensed that neither my council nor permission was sought before such a momentous decision,” he scowled and if looks could kill, his would have been like a battle axe when his attention turned towards me.
Clearly, he knew who was to blame for this sorry state of affairs, but was just flat wrong about the whole melting bit. Akantha was still as icy as ever, at least as far as I was concerned. Still, other than the fact he looked like he wanted me dead, it was nice to see another man whose opinion of her ran parallel to mine. I was confused though, I thought we were here to meet her uncle, not her father.
The next words cleared up my confusion.
“Uncle,” she replied, any true feelings hidden behind that icy mask I’d come to know so well and hate. “As you know, a Land Bride needs not seek the permission of any man. Nor any woman. I am under no obligation to consult with either my mother or her Protector. The decision is mine alone,” she said coldly, then turned to look at her mother. Her face softened slightly. “I wish there had been time to speak with you beforehand, mother. Circumstances did not allow, but I trust you believe me when I say that after everything that’s gone before, I did not make this decision lightly.”
She turned back to face her Uncle and the cold mask returned. “As for your council, you’ve thrust it upon me so many times I felt sure I understood it. You feel I should either accept one of the lackeys you’ve pushed at me time and again or, having rejected them all, wait until you found someone new to put in front of me,” she said with the same cold remoteness as before.
“You little fool,” growled her uncle, “you meet some foreigner from a far away land and just bring him in the Zosime without consulting your parents as is the tradition and custom of this land. I won’t stand for it. I forbid this union,” he declared.
Akantha shook her head. “You have not that right, Uncle. I am a Land Bride and thus have the right to accept whomever I choose as Protector.” She stood there, looking impervious to the large man's anger.
Her uncle took a moment to throttle back his fury before responding. “I would not be so sure about that, daughter-mine,” he finally spat, then turned to an older man standing in a corner of the dais, out of the way but readily available in case the pair needed them.
“Nazoraios, I seek your learned opinion on the matter. Can this wayward daughter of mine ignore the wishes of her parents as completely as this one suggests?” His tone was harsh, and all but begging for a confrontation.
Around us I could feel the room tighten as men gripped their swords and women leaned closer. Everyone looked on this little set-to with intense interest and, in some cases, outright glee on their faces. It looked like whatever this Nazoraios had to say would carry great weight and they didn’t expect it to be good news for my ice maiden. Clearly Akantha wasn’t well-loved in this small court. I almost felt a kinship with her in that very moment. Almost.
“An interesting question, Protector Nykator. Very interesting, indeed,” the older man lidded his eyes in consideration.
He might be old, but his eyes were sharp and he still had muscle on his frame. Nazoraios paused to stroke his white beard before shaking his head. “A Land Bride does have the right to accept whoever offers as her Protector, without consultation of any kind. Permission from neither her mother or her father is necessary,” he finally said, and I could hear the sighs of disappointment circling around the room. In the pause that followed, the Protector who was also an uncle purpled.
When it looked like he was about to explode, Nazoraios looked sidelong at the uncle and his niece, “Although a Land Bride does have that right,” he repeated carefully, before continuing, “according to inheritance law, if the mother does not give her blessing to the union before,” he paused to emphasis that last word, “the Land Bride accepts a Sword, both the Hold Mistress and her Protector have the right to test the fitness of the new Protector.”
Nazoraios’ gaze flitted around the room taking the temperature of the court. “In extreme cases, the Hold Mistress has the right to disinherit the Land Bride, who would then be free to set out in search out new lands." The room buzzed with excitement at this latest revelation.
“Of course I’m not disinheriting my daughter,” said Akantha’s mother firmly, quieting the growing commotion. “What nonsense. Besides, if Adonia thinks she’s found a Protector who will be a good match for her and will be able look to the inheritance of her daughters, then as much as it pains me not to have been involved in the decision sooner, I respect her judgment. My daughter is a very level-headed girl and I trust her decision,” said her mother, disappointment over the abrupt change in her daughter’s status overwhelmed by relief at her safe return. “I’m just thankful to the gods that she’s back in the arms of her family.”
Uncle Nykator looked like he completely disagreed with his wife, but gave a smile anyone could see was false, anyway. Aside from the medieval arms, armor and the rustic nature of the construction surrounding us, this was all starting to seem very familiar to me. Too familiar, if you asked my opinion.
“We all rejoice at little Akantha’s safe return, my sweet Sapphira,” he said, sounding anything but happy at Akantha’s return before turning to capture his wife’s hand and place a possessive kiss on it. He then let go of her hand and turned back to face our party. “Still, however much we might rejoice at our Daughter’s safe return, there is the matter of a foreign Protector. One untested by the rigors of life and combat.”
I snorted loudly and made a show of rubbing at my face, as evidence of just how untested I was or wasn’t, and her Uncle looked at me and grimaced before continuing as if I hadn’t interrupted.
“Untested by our rigorous way of life.” He repeated, his voice sounding like a not-too-distant thunderstorm.
Sapphira looked in alarm at Akantha’s Uncle. “Surely, it doesn’t matter whether the girl secures my blessing before or after, Hypatios,” she pleaded with her Protector.
I had to wonder just how many names these people had and used in everyday life. It was hard to keep track of them all.
Sapphira, unaware of my thoughts, continued with her impassioned plea. “What’s important is that she has received it. As well as my complete confidence in the sword of her choice.”
“My dear Polymnia,” he said, giving Sapphira an intimate look.
There they went again! Changing names with no apparent rhyme or reason that I could fathom.
“I am pleased you’re happy, but we can’t have an untested Protector guarding ‘our’ Daughter. I must insist on this point. There are others whose suit Akantha has spurned for too long,” said Uncle Hypatios Nykator.
“Surely this is unnecessary,” said Akantha’s mother, beginning to wilt.
“The man shall be tested. I insist,” said the uncle. At Sapphira’s continued rebellious look his voice hardened, “I am the Protector of Argos. I am also a Warlord of Men under my own Banner, as well Lord of the Tegean Host by strength of arms and general acclaim. I like to think I know a thing or two about testing the quality of warriors and protectors,” he said all of this while looking at Akantha, then paused for emphasis before turning back to Sapphira.
“My dearest Hold Mistress and most favored Sword Bearer, if you feel I am no longer fit to make the decisions that are necessary as your Protector, and to carry out those decisions as I see the need, I willingly offer to reclaim my sword and depart Argos in peace. I swear there will be no feud or bitter circumstances between us because of this,” he said pleasantly, his eyes teasing a threat.
Akantha’s mother looked dismayed. “No,” she said faintly. “I’ll not rebuke you. You know more of men and warriors than I, being one yourself. If you feel the need to test this Protector, despite my daughter's choice and receipt of my belated favor, then you must do as you think best.” Sapphira looked dismayed and unhappy.
“I bow to your will in this matter, Hold Mistress,” Uncle Nykator said with a cruel laugh.
I glanced over at the Lady Akantha. She seemed furious and dismayed but not overly surprised at this latest turn. I looked back at her overbearing Uncle. Despite the fact he was built like a mountain, I felt nothing but disgust for the man’s heavy handed tactics. Although fury, mostly at my ‘Sword-Bearer’ for not warning me about small little potential problems like the fact I might have to fight the very uncle we were coming to petition, was running a close second.
“What does this testing involve,” I asked, working hard to keeping the stress out of my voice. Apparently, I was to do battle one way or another. I intended to keep the affair on footing with which I was familiar.
The Uncle glared at my scarred face for interrupting the script, “There are three ways a man may receive recognition as a warrior. Acclaim, Deeds and Combat,” he said.
The Uncle turned back to Akantha and leaned close, “You should have thought twice before crossing me, girl,” he muttered loud enough for myself and some of the closer members of the court to hear.
“Hey, listen up you overbearing idiot,” I said in a tight voice, deliberately using the last word from Confederation Standard to insult the man. “I don’t care if you are her uncle. I’m her Protector here. So speak to my Sword Bearer that way again and I’ll destroy you. I don’t care how many Hosts or Banners you have under your thumb, I’ll crush you plain and simple. The same way I crushed all those Bugs, the ones you call Sky-Demons, and freed Akantha in the first place.” I folded my power-armored arms across my chest and waited for a response.
Sure enough, it wasn’t a long time coming. The Warlord Protector of Argos yelled like a stuck bull and pulled his sword. Moving almost too fast to follow he brought the sword over and down in an over head chop, aimed right at my exposed skull.
I barely had time to raise my hands in defense and catch the sword in an inward V made out of my suddenly crossed arms.
As I suspected, the natives didn’t have anything better than normal steel, and my armor easily absorbed the blow without difficulty.
The large man grunted and pushed, trying to knock me over. But with the power assist of the suit’s servos, even this giant of a man was doomed to fail. I smirked.
Struggling to keep his own balance (her uncle really was almost as strong as a bull, I realized) I lifted up my foot and kicked him right in the middle of his pebble-armored torso, knocking him back. It should have sent the man flying, but instead Akantha’s uncle staggered back several steps. He almost fell, but managed to catch his balance in time. I was simultaneously impressed and dismayed.
I looked at the man warily. If I had thought Akantha was strong for her size, this beast of a man was in a whole other category entirely. There was no way these people were base stock humans. Not possible. They must have been heavily engineered beyond anything I had ever heard of to be able to wear all that armor and still make the battle suit servos work like they just had when going hand to hand.
Fortunately, they had nothing even approaching modern weaponry. As such, other than being able to do something to affect my head - like cut it off - there was really no other way they’d be able to hurt me.
There was a moment of shocked silence as the people saw Akantha’s giant of an Uncle fail in his attack and stagger back like that. Then a rush of armored men and half-armored women jumped in between us, crying foul.
Apparently, insulting a Warlord Protector was not only something not to be contemplated by the people here and now, but it was bad form and gave her uncle the right to challenge me. However, a challenge was a different affair entirely from just drawing your sword and trying to whack someone’s head off. So in addition to my gaffe, there was another big no-no on his side of the issue.
A debate began to rage as to whether two wrongs equaled a right and the whole thing should be considered a draw, or if two wrongs made one super big wrong and we had to do at it all big and formal now.
Not that I cared. No one talked like that about someone under my protection, let alone my wife. You learned early on that if you didn’t stand up for your allies, the hyenas at court would sense weakness and not only did they move against you full force, but pretty soon you had no friends to back you up. The next thing you knew, your family estate was getting bombarded from high orbit. The outcome of the initial exchange was less meaningful than simply participating, although losing was something that definitely counted against you. Failing to even show up and enter the verbal fray, on the other hand, was absolutely crippling.
These native barbarians were the same way. Only it appeared they settled their disagreements with swords, words and more swords, instead of just words and legal documents like I was used to.
Chapter 33: A Challenge or Two
“That was pretty stupid,” said Akantha with a frown, “Stupid to insult him like that, but in this case also brave as well.” She was wearing the least hostile look I had received from her (or anyone else, for that matter) all day. “He could have taken your head!”
“It looked like you needed some help, and he was acting worse than an Imperial Ambassador at Court,” I spat, looking over at her Uncle. Our eyes met and I glared. Unfortunately, my glare was like a sixty watt bulb in the face of a million power search light. Still, I wasn’t going to be the first to look away.
Akantha reached up and grabbed my face, forcing my head around to face her.
Dang it, she was almost as strong as a man! I say almost as strong, because there was no way she was stronger than me, I decided. Whether out of pride or some basis in reality, I wasn’t quite sure. Still, this was not something I had signed on for. A man shouldn’t be getting manhandled by his own wife. I transferred my glare to her instead.
“I don’t need you to protect me. I can fight my own battles,” she said cuttingly and released my chin.
“You could have fooled me, the way you and your mother let him talk to you. Like a bull in a china house,” I retorted.
“I don’t care what kind of house he's in, calling uncle a bull will just enrage him,” she said coldly. “And I don’t need your help. Don’t try to be something you’re not suited to.”
Clearly, something had been lost in the translation, and just as clearly she thought I was the type to stand by while my woman was insulted and walked all over. I mean, I wouldn’t have cared that she got what she had coming to her if everyone hadn’t already known I was stuck with this Protector gig. As it was, I had to stand up for myself or they would all look down on me and in this case, standing up for myself meant standing up for her.
“Something I'm not suited to? Like what? Like someone who would ride to the rescue on a damaged pirate ship with nothing more than a handful of volunteers, just to save a bunch of ungrateful natives I’d never met before and, for all I knew, had already been eaten by the Bugs,” I snapped. “I guess I’m just stupid that way.”
Her icy veneer cracked a bit and she lowered her voice. “Don’t try to pretend you were on some mercy mission. You rescued us ‘natives’ from that Hell Ship for one reason and one reason only. Me. You knew the Land Bride of Argos was inside it and you decided…” she hissed.
I cut her off. “Space-rot,” I snarled, “Listen lady, I didn’t know who was on that ship when I went in there to save people, and I didn’t know who you were when I first saw you,” she opened her mouth to give me her disbelieving best, so I stamped my foot hard enough to crack stone. That shut her up for once.
“For that matter, I still don’t know exactly who or what you are. I’d certainly never heard of a place called Argos until today. I was under the impression you knew, or could at least get me an audience with one of the local leaders. Not that you were the niece, or daughter or whatever of the ruling couple.” My voice was low and hard, and I had to work to fight the impulse to grind my teeth with every word.
She opened her mouth and then slowly closed it. A light bulb seemed to go off behind that stiff face of hers. What that bulb might be I neither knew, nor right at the moment cared.
“If it’s alright with you, my wife, I need to start getting ready to fight. It sounds like your Uncle is already set to tear my head off,” I said, glancing through the crowd at the still fuming Warlord. “Unless you want me to level your mother’s citadel from orbit instead?” I looked at her expectantly.
She scowled. Clearly she did not find this a very funny idea. Which is good, because I don't know if I really meant it as a joke. See our communication skills were growing by leaps and bounds already.
“Nykator will probably send someone else against you first,” she said, turning away.
Several minutes later, she became a prophetess. It seemed a younger warrior wanted the satisfaction of facing me in Trial by Combat. Uncle Nykator, being the fair and just individual he was, recognized the right of the young hero who had recently recovered the long lost dark blade to fight me first.
They thought the odds were stacked against me. I figured with my armor and weapon advantage, things tilted the other way. Which totally ignored my ace in the hole. The power weapons carried by my men. I gave them orders to use them the moment I went down. Cousin Cordelia's other lesson was in the forefront of my mind at this particular time: never fight fair.
Nikomedes Minos was the man I was to meet. For all the big deal everyone was making him out to be, he was in the same metal armor as the rest of the common warriors. No pebbled armor for him.
Akantha turned, holding the sword by the scabbard and she presented the hilt of Bandersnatch to me. “Unleash your fury, Protector,” she said, her words more a rehearsed phrase than meaningful.
I pulled the accursed blade free and stepped towards my opponent. The way I saw it, everything was on track for a quick victory, soon to be followed up by a clean sweep of the boards for the visiting team.
Then Nikomedes Minos pulled out the newly renamed Minos Sword and everything went straight to Hades.
The sword in his hand didn’t vibrate, but other than that it looked like the bigger, badder brother of Bandersnatch. Dark metal with crystals glittering in its depths, it could have been the twin of my sword except that while mine was nearly five feet long, his was over six and a half and much thicker in the middle. Even its hilt looked more intimidating than mine.
Great. The home team, expecting resistance, had thrown a ringer into the game at the last moment. Apparently they weren't interested in fighting fair, either.
There was a moment of mutual shock while myself, my opponent and the crowd took in the fact that there were two of these mythical dark blades in play. Not just one, as we had all previously believed.
“Die, scar-face,” shouted Nikomedes, breaking the moment by jumping forward. His sword was raised high for a lethal, game-ending blow.
Not waiting to find out whether his sword just looked tough or if it really had the stuff like all these natives seemed to believe, I went for every advantage and twisted the pommel to activate my vibro-blade and brought the blade up to block.
A regular sword coming down on Bandersnatch with that kind of power behind it, while it was in vibration mode would have been cleanly severed. Certainly anything these natives would be able to manufacture by hand locally should be destroyed.
That it didn’t break said something. That this native actually knocked my sword out of position, forcing me to recover, said something else. Mostly about how strong this guy was, I decided.
I was used to thinking of myself as fast. Back when I was taking sword lessons with my cousins, I had always had an edge in the speed department. This guy was faster. Not a lot, but enough that when you combined the fact that my form was a little awkward in this power armor, it put me on the defensive. When you added that he was both faster and wielding the bigger heavier sword…
Let’s just say the visiting team took a few blows that would have finished the game if I had come to the match wearing the same armor as my opponent. As it was, superior armor carried me through until I caught my balance.
I tried to counter attack with a straight lunge but was sent reeling, back on the defense after a series of over handed blows issued from the big Norseman. My head was obviously my main area of weakness. It was an area I had to protect, and Nikomedes was apparently no idiot. He knew this as well as I did.
Now, I might have been a little bit rusty. As I staggered around the ring, I quickly came to the realization that I was in big trouble. I was used to having a speed advantage over my opponents, but that clearly wasn't the case here. If I could just bring the extra power from the suit servos into play for something other than defense, I might still be able to end this thing easily enough.
Nikomedes faked high and went for a blow to the back of my leg that would have hamstrung an opponent in the types of armor these natives were used to dealing with. I only had a split second to make a decision. Going with my gut, I jumped. It was time these natives saw what a suit like this was really capable of.
I easily cleared the three and half feet necessary to go over the Minos Sword.
Expecting resistance, Nikomedes was thrown off balance when his sword passed through empty air. It didn’t matter how much genetic engineering was in your bloodline, inertia couldn’t be overcome in an instant. It didn’t matter how strong or how fast you were, with a big blade like that you were going to be out of position, even if only for an instant.
Whether Nikomedes could have recovered if given that instant, I don’t know because I chose not to give him a chance to find out. Bringing Bandersnatch around at waist level, I forced the native champion to scramble just to block the blow.
Now the power of my suit came into play for offense, and I happily turned the tables.
Nikomedes was good, I have to give him that. Unfortunately, while I was in this power-armor, I was better. I had the advantage and I used it ruthlessly. I drove forward with a series of short slashes and thrusts designed to keep my opponent off-balance more than anything else. The native warrior was obviously not used to fighting on the defensive, and it was all he could do to keep his posture under my relentless, pressing attack. All I wanted was to get one opening to end this thing quickly and cleanly.
The need to keep on the offensive was almost my undoing. I was so concerned that if Nikomedes got back on offense that the advantages of my power- armor would be minimized, that as soon as I saw my opening I launched a powerful blow aimed at ending the fight. It would seem that I overextended.
Nikomedes countered by sidestepping and spinning the Minos Sword around impossibly fast for a decapitating blow. I had less than a split second to realize the danger. With no other choice, I released Bandersnatch and brought my arms up. Even with a humongous blade like the Minos Sword, the native warrior was too fast and I barely managed to get one armored wrist between us.
Crippling pain exploded through my hand as my arm was knocked out of the way. Although the Minos Sword was deflected away from my neck, the flat of the blade glanced off my head. I suppose I should be clear, and say that even a glancing blow from a sword as large as the one my opponent wielded was potentially devastating.
Red and white pain exploded through my senses and I staggered. The next thing I knew, I was on my knees. Blindly, I reached for my opponent. Waving my arms in front of myself, I felt something. My left hand wouldn’t close, so I fell forward grabbing desperately with my right hand.
For a moment, I thought I failed and was a dead man. Then he felt resistance, and I used my momentum to pull sideways. Maybe we would both overbalance and fall over.
However, neither of us went down. Blindly, I raised my left hand and was rewarded by the sound of metal on metal. My vision started to clear and I saw that I had managed to drag my opponent down with me, and although neither of us had fallen to the floor, we were both on our knees.
“I don’t know what she sees in you that she doesn’t in me,” snarled Nikomedes. “You’re nothing but a stupid brown monkey,” he roared.
I was surprised that he even knew what a monkey was, let alone would choose to insult me by comparing me to such a thing. It's not like monkeys were high on the list of species imported to new worlds.
I was still befuddled and considering his words when he lunged up at me.
I belatedly tried for a better grip, but it was too late. He’d caught me wool gathering in the middle of what was turning into a fight to the death. The top of his head crashed into my face. I think he must have been aiming for my jaw, but hit me in the cheek bone instead.
White fire and a cracking sensation knocked me flat on my back. Dazed from the twin hammer blows to my head in quick succession, I just lay there, too stunned to move.
I heard a voice in my ear I didn’t like and sensed a presence looming over me. I didn’t know where I was. For a moment, I was back on the Bug ship, pinned down under the weight of Bugs and unable to move. That I might have been on my back instead of my front didn’t occur to me.
Hearing a native voice and now fully believing I was back on the Bug ship, I was certain Akantha had come over with Bandersnatch to finish me off. Meanwhile, my men stood by and idiotically applauded. Where was the blaster fire I had explicitly ordered them to open up with, anyways?
Pathetically, I raised my foot and kicked at her. I tried again and then again. If I was going down, then I was taking the primary author if my fall with me. When I felt something connect, it gave me new energy to roll so I could get up to my feet.
Something clanged against my back several times and I had trouble getting my feet under me, but I just chalked it down to my dazed status. I turned around and saw a figure on the floor with a bent leg and a sword in their hand.
I don’t know when I realized it was Nikomedes on the floor instead of Akantha. It must have been about the same time I realized her native voice was coming from somewhere behind me instead of from the ground. Sometime around the second kick, I think.
I do remember being surprised that his sword left these long gashes in the armor over my legs. These dark power swords of theirs were impressive.
Realizing my danger I stopped kicking him in the side and stomped on his sword hand instead.
“Who’s the monkey now, pretty-boy,” I asked him as I leaned down to pick up the sword. Even though I couldn’t understanding a word he said (I must have lost my ear piece somewhere along the way, or maybe it was damaged) my mechanical translator relayed my words into their native speech just fine.
I was using my left hand, so I only got the Minos Sword a few feet off the ground before it slid through my fingers and fell back down to the floor. There wasn't pain in my hand so much as a simple inability to use it correctly. Worried that my opponent might pick it up again to use against me, I kicked it away.
Then I went over and used my foot to help get Bandersnatch part of the way up, so I didn’t have to lean over so far. I used my right hand this time, to make sure the sword would stay put. After securing the blade, I walked over to Akantha.
By now I recognized the word stupid in her native language. She’d said it to me enough that I could understand that word, even though nothing else translated.
My mind was filled with cotton and I was walking on air. I felt like you do when you have a really bad flu. Nothing hurts very much if you stay still, but if you try to move, everything becomes bone weary and you walk careful just to keep your balance.
She kept buzzing around in my ear until I said irritably. “I can’t understand you. Go away, my translator broke.”
She went away for a merciful instant in time while I just stood, there but of course, she had to come back.
This time she had Gants and his translator so she could tell me what an idiot I was. While Gants worked on turning my mechanical back to translate their words to me as well as me to mine to them, I’m sure I just stood there looking stupid.
“You have to beg forgiveness of my Uncle and back out of the fight,” she was saying when I tuned back in. It probably took me awhile to refocus on her because of what she was saying, more than anything. Selective hearing loss on some unconscious level, just like with a pair of paternal grandparents on my father’s side. Great-grandpa’s hearing was bad and he had deliberately chosen not to get it fixed. I suspected this was so he could ignore my grandmother while she was prattling on. Although it was amazing how he could pick up everything she was saying if he wanted to pay attention. For her part, she seemed to like the fact that if he heard her and took offense, she could always use his partial deafness in her defense and ask him what he’d thought he’d heard.
I realized I was wool gathering once again and shook my head at Akantha.
“I can stay here with them while you go back to your ship. Everything will be fine,” she said.
“No,” I shouted, everything would not be fine. Fifty thousand Prometheans would be homeless. I didn’t have time to return to the ship. Environmental systems were breaking down even as we spoke. It was now or never.
“I won’t let you kill yourself,” she said firmly. “Not over some misunderstanding.”
I looked at her blankly, not processing her last statement.
“What misunderstanding,” I asked. “Your Uncle is an abusive killer and needs to be taken down a notch,” I paused and chuckled, “must run in the family,” I chuckled again. What can I say? I was still walking on air from all the head blows.
She looked at me in irritation but let the family comment pass for the moment. “After we talked, I asked Gants about it and he told me everything,” she said the waited to see my response.
I didn’t see how he could know everything. But in my addled state it all somehow made sense, “He did,” I said, “Okay, good, I guess. Then you know why this has to be done.”
She stared at me. Something here wasn’t going according to whatever script she’d already written in her head. Maybe she expected me to make some kind of romantic gesture? I was lost.
“He said how surprised he was you’d given me a sword instead of a ring as is traditional on your world,” she said irritably. “He was happy, but when I said offering a sword was traditional for my people, he said how it was good I had let you know the right thing to give me. Because no one from your world had ever been to our system before.”
“Uhh,” I said, like all men everywhere whose woman wants to press him for details on an already settled issue. Demanding to hear it directly from you, even when she already knows or strongly suspects that this knowledge will only make her deeply unhappy when she learns the exact details. Naturally, I suspected this unhappiness would transfer directly back over to me, and thus was hesitant to try to apply finesse to a situation like this without all my wits about me.
“Well,” she pressed. I had been trying to turn slowly away from her as if in a worse condition than I really was but she wasn’t going to let me off that easily.
“Well, what,” I asked, faking surprise and failing totally. You really shouldn’t try to fake emotions when you aren’t at your best.
“How did you know to offer me a sword and entrap me like that, on the ‘Bug ship’,” she demanded. When I didn’t reply right away, she continued in a thoughtful voice, “Unless, like you said when you claimed to still not know who I was, you really didn’t know. So when you Offered Bandersnatch to me, what you were really doing was,” she covered her mouth as she worked through the implications.
I looked away, searching for anything to distract me. “Oh look, there’s your Uncle,” I said and turned to face him, preferring that conflict to this one.
She placed a hand on my shoulder. When I resisted by locking the servos, she walked around to look at me in the face. Tragic loss battled with annoyance on her face as she rounded on me.
“Why are you doing this, if this has all been nothing more than one big mistake after another,” she flared in a quiet voice so the crowd around us wouldn’t hear.
“I’ve already told you my reasons,” I said, deliberately pulling away. I didn’t like being in a locked suit. It didn’t matter if I did it to myself or the Chief Engineer took me by surprise and started working on my servos. It wasn’t any fun being trapped.
I couldn’t meet her eyes. A quarter of a million lives and, potentially the end of my own life hung in the balance. I knew which one I’d choose if and when it came to crunch time. If there was absolutely no other alternative, I’d throw myself on the fire to save them, maybe even try to make run for it later on. I wasn’t sure, there were still the Bugs to deal with. If I was going to throw my life away, it had better be because the people I was saving were going to stay saved. Not die the moment I ran away.
In comparison, having left sealed orders on the Lucky Clover to set the refugees on the planet if anything happened to me, then dropping down in a shuttle to take my chances with the natives… well it was a no-brainer. Especially when the alternative was to not get native approval for the refugees, and then have to go home to face off against a Confederation Judicial Agent ready to prosecute me for Planetary Piracy.
I’d much rather take my chances down on the planet, and for that I needed her help. As far as I knew, this was the only way to get it.
“You don’t need to die over a mistake,” she said finally. “I can find another Protector. There are half a dozen men in this room, this room alone, who would jump at the chance to take me as their Sword Bearer,” she said stiffly, that icy mask I so despised back in place. “This is not your fight, and it's not worth dying over a mistake.”
I reluctantly met her eyes. The pain in them was very real and despite all the tragic mix ups, the unnecessary deaths and her wanting me dead on at least one occasion, I still felt like this whole situation was somehow my fault. Unlike all the other times when I’d looked at her and been unable to tell what was going on behind that icy mask of hers, this time was different. And really I wished it wasn’t.
“If you want quit of me after I drop your uncle and the Promethean refugees are down safely,” I said, meeting her eyes and trying to put as much honesty as I could in them, “then I’ll step away. I’m willing to stay on as your Protector for as long as you need and to step aside at any time so you can pick someone else.”
She glared at me, “This is not up to you. I already said I don’t want you to do this. I won’t have it, do you hear me,” she said and grabbed Bandersnatch, “as your Sword Bearer, I say you’re too injured to fight. I am taking back the sword and do not sanction my Protector taking part in this challenge,” she said fiercely.
I let her take the sword. “I can still take him. All he’s got is a basic metal sword,” I said.
“That’s just what he carries around on a day to day basis,” she said turning to look at her uncle who was making his way to the open space in the middle of the Hall, “For a challenge like this, he’ll demand mother give him permission to use the sword she bears.”
“What? There’s another sword,” I asked.
“He gave her one of the White Swords of Power,” she said unhappily. “She’ll have no choice but to hand it to him and sanction the challenge. Like the Dark Sword Nikomedes used, it will cut through your armor. Which is why I wouldn’t allow this even if you were a proper Protector,” she glared at her uncle.
I scoffed, “Not likely. There’s no way he can cut through this armor with anything less than a vibro-blade.”
She raised her eyebrows and looked pointedly at my left hand, then brought her gaze back up to my eyes.
I glanced down. Blood was dribbling down my armor. It looked like Nikomedes had cut through the armor and partway into my wrist with that Minos Sword of his. No wonder I hadn’t been able to hold the other sword with that hand. Maybe this armor wasn’t as impervious to these native ‘power swords’ as I had been assuming? Regardless, I was still committed. This just meant I had to finish the fight quickly, before I lost too much blood.
The uncle picked this moment to sound off.
“I’ll admit you’re warrior enough that it is no dishonor to fight this challenge with you, False Protector from the Stars. The real only question is, are you man enough face me? Or are you too cowardly to follow through with your sword when your words have already cut,” he said contemptuously.
For a moment, I seriously considered taking his advice. Everyone around me was suggesting I make like a coward and run away from this fight. The last time I ignored everyone, I had taken us to this system and we all knew how well that had turned out. Our one shot and I blew it, only succeeding in landing us in an even bigger mess than before.
Then my face hardened. “Gants,” I hollered, “Get Nikomedes out of here and make sure he lives,” I said pointing imperiously to my former opponent without breaking eye contact with uncle Nykator. Then I strode over and picked up the Minos Sword. If Akantha wanted to keep Bandersnatch away from me, that was fine. I had another sword that should do just fine.
Behind me I heard Akantha gasp and sputter in outrage.
“You don’t need to fight, you fool,” she cried.
Murphy in a box, I knew it was unromantic as all get out, but what could I do? Was I supposed to sacrifice myself on the altar of other people’s best interests? This was the only way to save everyone including myself. I would let her talk me out of this Protector gig in a heartbeat, and was willing to do so as soon as the refugees were safe and sound.
“Stop,” she cried as I strode over to face her Uncle.
“Let's do this,” I said and then, mindful that Akantha didn’t want her Protector mixed up in all this any further, “but let's not fight as two Protectors whose Sword Bearers are close to one another and both opposed to the idea, but instead as two warriors with a grudge that can only be settled here.”
Her Uncle smiled savagely and agreed.
I replied with my most bestial grin. It was better this way, I decided as we went to different ends of the circle prior to formally facing off.
I’ll admit, being surrounded by all this superstition was starting to rub off on me. Despite the fact I had never held this sword before, I was half convinced I was better off with it than I was with Bandersnatch. Which was insanity, as I was at least somewhat familiar with my family sword, and the Minos Sword was bigger than anything I’d ever trained with.
I told myself I didn’t feel the way I did because Bandersnatch was unlucky for my family, and the last two times I’d wielded it I nearly got killed. No, instead I pseudo-logically decided that it was a better sword for me because it wasn’t right for a man’s wife to have a bigger sword than he did. The Minos Sword was easily a foot and a half longer than Bandersnatch, and heavier too, but with the power assist built into my suit the extra weight wasn’t the negative it might have otherwise been.
Snorting like a bull, Nykator built himself up into a fury, stamping his feet on the ground in an obviously familiar pre-fight routine. “Warrior rules,” he snarled.
Akantha finally pushed her way through the crowd and leaned in close, “My Uncle has no honor or he would wait until you recover,” she said as Nykator picked up a shield from the wall. It was covered in the same thick pebbled stuff from which his armor was fashioned. “If you can put him down without killing, then for the sake of my mother I will be happy. For my sake, I will only say that to see him dead would not displease me,” she said with an ice cold fury.
“Warrior rules?” I asked as her Uncle continued snorting and stomping around like the bull I thought him to be.
“Under warrior rules, Hoplites are not limited to swords. They can use anything they normally carry, including shields, or pick things up from the environment, like sand or extra weapons, during the combat,” she said disapprovingly. “By challenging him as a warrior, you forgo the rules that govern the battles of an official Protector. He seeks to turn this foolhardy action of yours against you and to his advantage.”
“Hmm,” was all I said in reply. It was clear Akantha thought he’d got the better of the exchange and that I was some kind of fool, so maybe I was missing something. But what kind of idiot challenged someone from the stars to a duel that included non-standard weaponry? I mean, I had given my plasma rifle and plasma grenades to Gants before the start of the first challenge, but was I missing something here?
“He added a Stone-Rhino Shield already, so who knows what else he’s secreted on his person,” she said, yet again making it clear just how foolish she thought I’d been to mess with her uncle. Whether she thought it was foolish under any circumstances, or just in my current state I couldn’t tell, and it was too late to worry about at this point.
Then it was time for action.
Because he had seen my last fight with Nikomedes and I was in bad shape with a nearly useless hand, I needed to come up with something original. As my brains slowly unscrambled, I thought I’d come up with just the thing to get this fight started on the right foot.
Rushing like a bull, Nykator led with his shield and I closed distance to meet him in the middle of the floor.
When I judged the time was right, I launched myself into the air, leading feet first. I had enough time to register surprise in her uncle’s face before he crouched, planted his feet and angled his shield for the impact.
We met with a crash. I imagined I could hear his joints popping one by one as I knocked him over, when I landed feet first on his Stone-Rhino (whatever that was) shield. Then I found myself launched past him by a combination of forward motion and the feet he had planted under his shield to help me on my way.
While not quite the reaction I’d hoped for, I was willing to chalk this one up as a win for the visiting team. Alas, the battle was far from over.
I rolled to my feet and turned around in time to see Nykator heave himself back to his feet with a mighty grunt.
He moved his head as if shaking off the impact, then set his shield and raised his sword before advancing yet again.
Admittedly, he was moving slower than with his initial headlong rush to finish me right at the start, but I had to ask myself where these people came from. Even an Imperial Marine Jack would have had trouble dealing with a flying battle suit.
This guy, with nothing more than some primitive armor and a high quality shield (as evidenced by the fact it took my power armored weight without breaking) just took the hit, rolled with it, and jumped right back to his feet looking for more, complete with his customary stomping and snorting.
When he had closed some of the distance, her uncle blurred forward. To me it was almost like his sword came out of nowhere and I scurried to parry. Unlike with Nikomedes, sparks flew from his White Sword where it hit the black metallic substance of the Minos Sword but, other than that, this White Sword was just as sturdy as Bandersnatch.
If Nikomedes had been fast, Akantha’s Uncle was faster still.
Every attempt I made to turn the tables and go on the offensive was a failure, and sparks flew off my battle suit as Nykator rained blow after powerful blow on my armor. Even through the armor his blows hurt! For every two I blocked, he snuck another one past my guard. Pride was out the window, I was seriously rusty, and unfamiliar with my new sword. Not to mention that I had just fought another battle, which partially explained why I was doing so poorly. The rest was simply that he was that much better and, though I hate to admit it, faster than me.
Then, for no reason I could tell, he paused in the middle of our combat and hesitated. Not wanting to risk this gift horse getting away by stopping to look it in the mouth, I launched myself at him. It was my turn to rain power blow after servo assisted power blow down on his sword and shield, and it was his turn to retreat across the ring from me.
Even a man built like a bull and bearing an incredible shield to take the blows of my sword without destroying it, had to give ground before my mechanically-assisted muscles.
Grunting and bellowing curses, he slowly backed away. I was just starting to think I could win this thing by attrition when he moved with lightning speed and knocked my sword out of position.
Stumbling, I was desperately trying to recover when he thrust his shield hand at me, opening his body for a counter.
I was just starting to move toward this opening when a finely ground powder billowed around my head. At first I thought it was sand, and then my eyes began to burn and I couldn’t breathe. Pepper! It was something like pepper and, like a fool, I’d gone for the obvious gap in his defenses. The one he had deliberately opened for me.
Reeling back, I tried to put my sword between us. An incredible blow to my hand shot pain all through my forearm. Another landed, and I heard my sword land with a clatter somewhere too far away for me to consider trying to find it blind.
The crowd made the local equivalent of a booing sound, but no one came to my rescue.
Lurching back, I felt my lungs spasm. I couldn’t even wipe my eyes for fear that my gauntleted hands were more likely to damage things further, rather than gently remove any of the fiery substance.
I was forced to use the only thing I still had available to parry his sword. My arm with the damaged hand.
I felt a series of sickening blows to the arm I’d placed between my head and where I thought his sword might be. The servos didn’t care about my pain or bruised muscles and helped me wave my arm around like an impromptu shield.
Then I felt a tug and a horrible pain in my left hand, followed by the automatic tightening of the battle suit around my forearm. I knew in an instant what had happened. Battle suits only engage the auto-tightening feature for one of two reasons. Sudden loss of atmosphere, otherwise called a pressure leak, which wasn’t the case here. Or to stop blood loss when a significant part of the suit has been crushed, severed or otherwise removed without prior authorization.
In other words, I had just lost my hand.
I spun around and threw myself forward. I could feel displaced air from the blade as it whistled past my head.
Still unable to breathe, I threw myself on my back and scissored my legs in the air to block any further blows while I fumbled at my waist with my good hand.
It turned out my good hand wasn’t so good, and I took several blows to the legs and one to the floor right next to my head as I swiveled in a desperate, random pattern.
At last I had what I was looking for and popped a cap before throwing the small rock sized object in my hand at this native Warlord who thought himself a master of fighting dirty.
I covered my ears the best I could with my damaged and missing extremities. I could fight dirty too.
The blast of the sonic grenade going off in an enclosed space caused everyone in the room to start screaming. Most of the shockwave was absorbed by my battle suit, but I was starting to get limited air into my lungs at this point.
I climbed to my feet, tears streaking down my face and wandered in a circle, listening for the sound of movement.
“He’s off to your right,” yelled Gants. “Get him, Admiral!” My men started to cheer and several of the natives sounded like they were taking exception to the directions my men were giving me. There was the sound of swords being drawn followed by a scream that resulted in a sustained burst of blaster fire before things finally settled down.
Eventually, I stumbled over the Warlord, who was thrashing on the ground. With nothing better than my feet available as weapons, I started stomping.
It was hard to properly put the boots to a man who’s rolling away from you, especially when you can’t see. But what I lacked in eyesight, I made up for in fury and pure dogged determination. He wanted to fight dirty, so here we were. Fighting dirty. And I, having brought my opponent down, intended to keep him there just like cousin Cordelia would have done.
I stomped and kept stomping even after the uncle recovered enough that sword blows started raining on my legs.
When one of the strikes hit a suit joint and caused the leg to freeze up, I overbalanced and landed on the primitive Warlord. I then proceeded to bludgeon him with my badly damaged hand and arms. I shrieked with pain from every blow I landed on him, but kept it up until he stopped moving.
Unable to see, I fumbled around until I felt his sword and then pushed it away. Hopefully it was out of reach, if Nykator was playing possum.
On forearms and knees, draped over the fallen Warlord's body, I lay there for a moment and rested. At least I was able to breathe again, which was something.
I made one aborted attempt to get up, but with the leg joint seized up, there was no way I was making it to my feet in my current condition.
Two of my battle suited armory crew, servos whining, came to assist me to my feet. Someone poured water over my eyes and thrust an inhaler into my mouth. Coughing and dripping sweat, I could barely open my eyes but I could somehow see again.
Feeling lightheaded, I watched as a male medic backed away and Akantha filled my limited vision.
“Have you seen my hand,” I asked, looking down to verify that it was in fact missing. It was. I looked up at her with a hopeful expression. She opened her mouth and then closed it, but my vision wasn't quite good enough yet to tell what expression she wore.
“You didn’t need to fight, you know,” she said at last, “I tried to tell you before, but you were too thick-headed to listen. There are barren lands on Messene that I can dispose of however I want,” she said, touching my face with light fingers and pushing open my swollen eyelid to get a look at what remained underneath.
“Oops,” I said, unable to think of anything witty to say. “About my hand,” I continued, focused on my missing limb.
Akantha eyed me strangely. “You look out on your feet. Do you want me to take care of matters here while you recover?” Was this genuine concern I heard in her voice? “Or is there someone else you’d rather deal with it, like your hoplite Gants?”
“Sure, my Ice Maiden, whatever you want,” I said, unconsciously calling her by the name I’d given her in the privacy of my own mind. Gants was a good man for the Armory, but not the handler of matters. Or the matter of handlers. Or…
“About that hand,” I muttered, looking around. “It's still missing,” I complained, holding up my stump.
There was the hiss of a medical device of some kind, and I fell into darkness.
Chapter 34: Settlement and a Dispute
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer: the nuts are cracking
The aged engineer eyed the barren land consisting of dirt, shrubs and giant bones around him suspiciously.
“This is a bad idea,” he muttered under his breath before taking a small step onto the shuttle’s off ramp. He scowled at the dirty hydraulic assembly on the right side of the shuttle. Someone had been stinting on shuttle maintenance.
“Slackers!” His customary bark was followed by a growl, and he leaned closer to take a look. The cylinder looked like it needed a good buff and some lubrication. He’d make a note to have the whole assembly taken down for inspection and the cylinder run over by one of the ship’s machine shops.
“Chief Engineer-Wizard,” exclaimed a female voice, “I am so grateful you could come. The learned advice of a Master of the Arts Engineering Mechanicus is in dire need, I fear.” Despite the imperious tone in her voice, the young Lady sounded truly grateful that Spalding was down on this ugly mud ball.
The Chief forced a smile that slowly turned genuine as he faced the tall, young lady. “Ah, Lady Akantha,” he said fondly, then scowled, “if I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I ain’t no quack Wizard with a bag full of love powders. I’m just an ornery old engineer.” He put extra emphasis into the scowl to make sure she understood.
“Of course,” she said in a voice that clearly didn’t agree with him and a smile that slowed the angry beating of his old heart. “I have need of your wisdom. Reach into your bag of tricks and help me convince the Promethean Tribe of their foolishness.”
The old engineer’s eyes widened. “I’ve told you before,” he said, hastily reminding her. “My bag of tricks are strictly scientific in nature,” this wasn’t the first time he was wishing he’d never mentioned reaching his hypothetical bag of tricks. It was just an expression. But for all of her otherwise reasonable and accommodating nature, the Lady Akantha was a tad bit on the superstitious side.
“I need a miracle worker,” she said in that happy, imperious way of hers, “and now that you’re here, I’m certain that anything we put our minds together on, we can accomplish.”
“No need to be hasty,” he said hurrying down the ramp. “Let's just take a look at things before we get our minds all set in stone.”
“A miracle,” she repeated, and led the way deeper into the temporary settler camp.
“Remember how I’ve told you before that any man… or woman,” he allowed, “can set their sights on the Destination or the Method and, if they work hard enough, they can have it? But only a fool or a miracle worker…,” he trailed off, realizing the young whipper-snapper was trying to use his own sayings against him.
“I remember,” she assured him. “That’s why I called you! The new citizens have proved themselves entirely unreasonable in their demands, and that’s when I knew there was only one person who could fix this.”
“Now wait just a minute,” he barked, hurrying to keep up. He leveled his finger and then had to stop abruptly, before he ran into Akantha' imposing form.
“At last!” said one of the refugees standing just outside a temporary portable structure. One of those models that collapsed and disassembled easily, so beloved by early colonists and military land forces. “Someone who can finally talk some sense into this unreasonable-” the Promethean bit his tongue, “the War-Prince’s Bride.”
Spalding pulled himself up short, puffing with the effort. Sandbagged! “What’s the blasted problem here,” he growled, stepping into the temporary structure. Then nodded at Lady Akantha, “Sorry, my Lady,” he grumbled.
The Prometheans were utterly flustered. “She’s completely unreasonable," shouted one of the assembled settlers.
“They want to get themselves killed,” cried another.
He threw his hands in the air and turned to march right back out the door and return to the shuttle. He was right; this had been a bad idea.
United (if only in their demands that he return to settle the matter), he allowed them coax him back into the structure with promises to behave themselves and moderate their tones.
Later, when the chief engineer finally made good his escape so he could return to the Lucky Clover and get about the important business of the day, he left behind a the tent full of mollified settlers.
A triumphant looking Akantha beamed in his direction as she escorted him back.
“A miracle!” She declared imperiously, “Just as I expected.”
“Common darned sense,” he said, in a foul mood after playing referee for the last two hours. “As any Murphy-touched idiot should have been able to see for himself. There was no need for a referee old enough to be everyone’s grandfather to step in and point out the obvious.”
“Oh, cheer up. We won! And the tribe will be safe from the Stone Rhinos,” she declared.
“If they’re tough enough to soak up blaster fire, like that skin sample you gave us seems to indicate, then moving the settlement off the flat and into the hills is the only reasonable way to go,” he frowned. “They can sink a deeper well for water, or run a pipeline up from the sea and set up a desalination plant.”
“Yes, but you convinced them by using words they could understand,” she said seriously. “Though I tried, I could not.” Apparently, failure was something to which she was unaccustomed.
“I’m going to take a piece of that sample back with me to the ship,” he declared, trying to change the topic. “Nothing natural has skin strong enough to resist blaster fire. The Doc needs to take a look at it and run some tests. Outside of my field,” he said, turning back toward the temporary structure.
She gently took his arm, “The Stone Rhino comes to Messene peninsula to die. There are lots of dead rhinos outside the camp. It takes a sword of power, pit traps or poison for my people to kill a mighty rhino. That’s why this place is uninhabited by my people and so dangerous for yours. We can get another sample using your ‘plasma torch’,” she said, pronouncing the last two words in Confederation Standard.
Her superstitious respect for his plasma torch was touching, but he still grumbled as he leaned down, well outside the camp, to cut a sample off the gigantic carcass of a long dead Stone Rhino. It was nothing more than skin and bones at this point.
“Helping you sort matters with the settlers is all well and good. But the real danger to everyone isn’t down here, it's out there in space,” he waved his hands at the night sky. “Set up a few towers with a handful of men and laser turrets and things should be safe enough down here on this mud ball…” he reddened, “I meant on your fine planet,” he corrected hastily.
“And why is that,” she asked, amused. Thankfully, she was willing to overlook the slur against her world. “The danger greater up in, ‘cold space’, as you call the river between the stars,” once again she pronounced a pair of words in Confederation Standard.
“The Clover needs to be ready! The Bugs are itching for half a chance to infest this system,” he expounded, waving his hands in the air, “Which completely forgets about Pirates raiding the border systems, like the ones we stopped on our way out here. Or the great big mess those blasted Imperials made withdrawing from the Spine and taking their fleets with them.”
He glared up at the stars, “No doubt the Confederation is practically falling apart at the seams while we’re stuck out here. The Clover was built to make a difference. She needs to! She’s been stuck in dry dock for so long, it’s time for her to shine,” he said, stamping his foot up and down in agitation.
Lady Akantha looked unhappy. “I hadn’t realized the situation out in the Lands of the Stars were so dire,” she said, looking wistful for a moment.
“Oh, it’s not as bad as all that,” said the Chief Engineer, worried his belly-aching had give the wrong impression.
“No. I understand,” she said with a sigh. “How long do you think before my Protector, the Admiral,” she once again used the Confederation word, “has to take heed to the needs of your Overlord?” she asked, looking like a woman who is contemplating her husband’s future naval deployment.
“Don’t let the grumblings of an old fool ruin your honeymoon, lass,” he said gruffly.
“How long,” she insisted, a tone of command creeping into her voice.
The Engineer winced to be the bearer of bad news. It served him right for standing around on a mud ball doing nothing and complaining like a slacker, when there was work to be done on the ship.
“The lad’s made more than his fair share of mistakes,” he said more harshly than he’d intended, then took a deep breath. “But his heart’s in the right place. I suspect as soon as we get something set up here, that can at least see off Scout-sized ships, we’ll make the journey back to Confed space,” he paused and bit his tongue.
Akantha raised an eyebrow and he turned a bit red.
She kept looking at him until he relented with a sigh.
“It's not really my place to say anything,” he said, uneasily aware he was speaking out of turn, but thinking it might ultimately prove necessary.
“I can keep your words in confidence,” she assured him, looking intrigued.
“The Clover’s a mite short on manpower at the moment,” he said. She opened her mouth to comment, but he waved her off, “not something you need concern yourself with, the why’s and the wherefore’s,” he assured her. “But the sad fact is that after the better part of a year, many of the crew want to go home and the lad, well, he’s a fine one. For all there’ve been some tragic mistakes along the way,” he said, his voice hardening again at the thought of that ridiculous ramming maneuver.
“Go on,” she said, playing it cool and looking at him out of the corner of her eye.
Spalding wasn’t fooled for an instant, but went on anyway. Being old was a double-edged sword. Firstly, you knew all the tricks the youngsters had in their bags, so spotting them wasn't all that difficult. But the older you got, the less you cared about such things. Sometimes it's just easier to coast right on by those clever little tropes and gambits.
“The point is, he’s got a big name to live up to, and even bigger boots to fill as the Admiral of a Confederation Fleet,” he said matter-of-factly. “So you know, not everyone thinks well of the Montagne’s these days, especially after the Troubles.”
“I wasn’t aware of any of this,” she said, looking at him seriously. “Are you saying the action by that grey haired man and his war-band, the ‘Security Department’, wasn’t a surprise? That they had general support when they tried to kill my Protector… the Admiral,” she inquired, looking concerned.
“Oh, aye,” he confided, and then hastened to add. “Oh, the attempt itself was somewhat unexpected,” he tried to reassure her, “But the sentiment behind it, not so much. Right now most of the crew gives the lad the benefit of the doubt because he’s a Confederation Admiral, not properly part of the Caprian defense force. But I fear that not taking the men home right away, and then almost crashing into the planet has tested the crew's patience. If there’s another misstep...” he trailed off.
He didn't even want to get into the information he had uncovered during his search of Lieutenant Van Ness' quarters and recordings. Not to mention that he had recovered the sword at the same time, and had taken it to the little admiral's quarters without her knowledge. Better to leave that out of the conversation for now, he thought.
“You are talking of an insurrection,” she said grimly. “Is he so unpopular with his own warriors then,” she demanded. “The Prometheans and the Armory Hoplites seem to hold him in high esteem.”
“He’s only been a real Admiral for less than a week,” he said, “Before that… well, he’s filling some pretty big boots and the men just haven’t had the kind of time they need to get to know him yet. I have to admit, he’s pushing a boulder up hill. The Montagne name, it’s what got him into the top spot in the first place, but now it acts against him. He’s got a few points from the men for smashing the pirates, although that had its own problems." The old engineer had to stop his temper in its tracks at the mention of the ramming which cost a handful of crewmen their lives, if only for the sake of his re-worked heart. "Then rescuing the settlers helped some more, but that nearly crashing into the planet bit... It shook a lot of people up.”
“Has he no men he can rely on,” she asked, looking away.
“The young Admiral suits up in battle-armor half the time he’s on the bridge, the other half he walks around the ship as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. Gants is a good steady lad, and the handful of boys down with him in the armory do their best. But it's more bluff and enthusiasm carrying things than anything else at the moment,” he said.
“Jason Montagne is a proven and resourceful warrior,” she said a bit stiffly and looked uneasy. “I’ve seen it with my own eyes.”
“I’m sorry if I’ve troubled you with an old man’s fears,” he said, absently fingering his plasma torch for reassurance.
“I thank you for your candor,” she gripped his arm, her hand crushing. “You can come to me with your ornery old fears any time you want,” she said fiercely, a fire present in her eyes that the old man hadn't seen before.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine,” the Chief Engineer said awkwardly.
“He must live to fulfill his obligations,” she said grimly and let go his arm. “There is much to be done.”
She drew herself up in front of him and nodded stiffly.
“Safe journey on your way home. You have given me much to think on,” she said formally and stalked off, those long strides of hers quickly taking her back into camp, leaving the old engineer to make his way back to the shuttle by himself. Nothing jumped out of the darkness to squish or eat him, and the walk back to the shuttle was thankfully uneventful.
Back on the ship, Spalding threw himself into his work. He wondered briefly what he might have set into motion down on the planetary surface, but was soon swept up in the process of trying to simultaneously educate a half-trained a work force and keep the Clover running at the same time.
Which didn’t even touch on his current job, weapon installation (or, in many cases, reinstallations) as the Clover’s old weapons, as well as scavenged weapons from the captured pirate cruiser were finished installing and then test fired.
He was on the hull, working with his plasma torch, when spacehand Brence came over and touched helmets. Whatever the man wanted to say, it must either be important or very embarrassing to the crewman, if he was staying off the open communication channels.
“I’m hearing from some of our men in the shuttle hangar that instead of instead of taking Promethean families down to the surface and then coming back up here empty, the shuttles have started returning fully loaded with natives,” Brence said urgently. “I was wondering if we should send a few boys over to the armory, just in case.”
“Ha!” Lieutenant Spalding couldn't help his reaction. “Is the Lady up here with them,” he asked.
“No, but Gants and a few of the armory boys are. Supposedly, he says it's not a problem, but…” it was hard to tell through a shaded helmet, but the spacehand looked worried. “He’s with an awful lot of natives right now. He might not be speaking freely-” the Chief Engineer cut him off.
“Are Gants and the rest of the boys still in their armor,” the old engineer demanded.
“Sure are, Chief, but even still,” continued Brence, the worry rising in his voice with every passing word. “Why are they here, and what are we going to do about them? The Admiral can’t have ordered it; he’s in medical right now, unconscious. I mean he couldn’t, could he? What should we do, Sir?”
Spalding pondered the situation for a moment. It seemed the Lady Akantha was taking matters into her own hands, “Put ‘em over in Marine country. We’ve got all the Prometheans out of there by now,” he said decisively. “Should be empty and out of the way for the mean time.”
“Should we let the Bridge know?” asked the spacehand.
“From the reports I’ve been getting, it’s the Admiral who came up with the strategy that sent those pirates packing,” the Chief Engineer said grimly. “Now, he’s not got the formal training, unlike certain others on the bridge who I could name. Officers who should have known better than to leave us hanging out to dry on the hull,” the Engineer said, grabbing his plasma torch. “As far as I’m concerned, Mr. First Officer Tremblay can go and find out about this little surprise all on his lonesome, he can. Maybe when engineering moves a little further up in his estimation, we can see about more in the way of some decent interdepartmental cooperation.”
The engineering rating grinned and nodded before backing away.
Spalding had just cleared away another blockage and was deep into a new task when he received another urgent message, this time from spacehand Bostwell.
“Chief, I’m getting reports that the First Officer is in a fury and demanding to speak with you,” said the greenhorn at the engineering communication console. He’d been helping to coordinate work teams out on the hull, but also relayed and, in certain limited circumstances, handled interdepartmental communications.
“What’s he want with me,” Spalding asked in dry, mock surprise.
There was an embarrassed silence.
“Well,” demanded the old engineer.
“Sir, it’s all over the ship by now how we, that is I mean engineering, knew about all these natives coming up to the ship before the bridge did. How you told the men not to warn the First Officer. It seems he knows about the rumors and he’s pretty angry,” said Bostwell.
“He is, is he?” asked the Chief Engineer. “Well, patch him on through. I guarantee my anger is like the heat of a sun, compared to whatever little pot he’s got on the boil,” snorted the Chief Engineer.
There was the sound of the connection going through.
“Hello? Is this Spalding,” demanded Tremblay over the suit's speaker.
“It is. What can I do for you Mr. First Officer,” asked Spalding pleasantly.
“What can you do for me?! The natives take it into their head to invade the ship, and word all over the Clover is that Engineering knew all about it and didn’t bother to tell anyone, and you have the unmitigated gall to ask me what you can do for me?!” The First Officer's voice was so shrill that it was causing the suit's speakers to distort quite badly. Spalding grinned, savoring the young upstart's childish temper-tantrum.
“I did send them over to marine country when I started hearing reports they were at loose ends and just milling around,” allowed the Chief. “Can’t have them getting in the way of a proper working crew until they know what’s going on. It seemed like an out of the way place to put them.”
“You miserable old excuse of an engineer,” shouted the First Officer. “This is mutiny in cold space is what it is, you scheming old royalist!”
“I’d be careful throwing around big words like that, my young whippersnapper. I’ve broken bigger men than you,” growled the old engineer. "Unmitigated, mutiny, royalist,” he said, ticking off the words on his fingers. The First Officer couldn’t see him doing it, but it helped his thought process.
“Don’t try to deny you weren’t directly involved in whatever the Hades is going on here,” Tremblay said angrily.
“Very well. I’ve got a few words of my own for you, my young parliamentary bootlicker,” sneered Spalding.
“So you admit it,” exclaimed the former Intelligence Officer. “This is all part of some deep plot to put a Montagne back on the throne, isn’t it? You’re just too old and senile to see that it’ll never work!”
“Senile, is it,” roared the Engineer. “Am I a scheming manipulator with deep plots against both the ship and her government, or a raging buffoon too old and infirm to tell black from white and night from day? Make up your mind, lad. I need you to decide what I am, exactly.”
“I’ll see you hanged first!” roared the First Officer.
“Arrogant, incompetent, murderer,” said the Chief Engineer, still ticking off points. “Perhaps we should add traitor to the bunch as well? Don't tell me that an Intelligence Officer like yourself is just some stooge who's contented never knowin' who's really pullin' his strings!”
“I’m coming down with my sidearm and every man who’s still loyal to Capria. We’ll put an end to this incipient little rebellion of yours once and for all,” said Officer Tremblay. “We may die, but by the angry space gods of old, you’ll have felt it before we’re through with you.”
“Go ahead and make your third move against the Confederation’s lawfully appointed fleet commander. History is written by the victors, I’ve seen that much in my sorry old days. So comfort yourself with your little lies, because that’s all you’ll have when I’m through with you! Then I'll tell everyone who survives how you died a mutineer’s death, attacking our newly arrived Marine-Lancers in your latest and greatest try to seize control of the ship. Spaced out the airlock,” said the Chief Engineer furiously, “is what I’ll do to your corpse, and tell your family it was justice!”
“Don’t try to cover yourself with lies that won’t stand up to scrutiny,” sneered Tremblay. “I’ve never raised a hand against the Admiral, and if these natives qualify as old-style Confederation Lancers, then I’m a grease-monkey’s uncle.”
“Why don’t you ask the Admiral about our new shock troops then, if ye doubt my word,” bit out the Chief Engineer.
“A man who is conveniently unconscious,” yelled Tremblay, “If you think I’ll stand by while you load this ship with a bunch of scabs, you’ve seriously misjudged me.”
“What you are is not a monkey of any kind, nor its uncle,” grated the Chief. “What you are is incompetent, Mr. First Officer Raphael Tremblay.”
“You’re space-crazed, old man, and I can’t wait to see the expression on that wrinkled old face when I come down there to shove reality back down your throat,” said Tremblay.
“Incompetent is what I said and it's what I meant,” said Spalding. “You say no one can doubt your loyalty. Ha!” The engineer waved wildly, even though the First Officer couldn’t see him. “But only a fool or an incompetent would be the sort of First Officer who allowed two attempts to take place on the life of his Admiral, each time by the very same man!”
There was a pause. “I had nothing to do with that,” Tremblay said defensively. “There was no way of knowing…”
“Double ha!” exclaimed the Lieutenant Spalding. “Intelligence and Security go hand in hand. Like a hammer and wrench, they sit side by side in the parliamentary toolbox. Claim to know nothing about a murderous ship’s officer running free and gathering up more men for another attempt. Well, it only goes to show that either you’re an incompetent fool who knew nothing, which is damning enough all by itself, or else you were in on the blooming plot from the jump! Which is it, Mr. Tremblay?”
“Security would never come to me looking for support in an unsanctioned hit on the Admiral of this ship,” Tremblay defended himself, “and any assertions otherwise are false, and perhaps motivated out of jealousy and spite.”
“Two attempts on his bleeping life, and still you find the mere suggestion that the man might be bringing onboard additional security forces entirely unbelievable,” said the Chief Engineer. “Once again, we have evidence of your sterling intellect, Mr. First Officer.”
“Even if I believed that the Admiral wanted a new security force, this is still a Caprian ship, Mr. Spalding. We do not simply allow native scabs to board her in sufficient numbers to endanger the ship, all because the man who supposedly authorized it is laying unconscious in sickbay and unable to confirm whether or not he did,” argued the First Officer. “I’ll open this ship to cold space and watch everyone in it die before I’ll let a ship in the Caprian SDF be taken-a-prize!”
After a significant pause, “Then let's wake him up,” said Spalding in an all-too-reasonable voice.
“What are you talking about,” demanded the First Officer.
“Let's go down to the infirmary and have the Doctor wake the man up. If the Admiral says he authorized them to be here, then we’ll have no more talk of venting the ship. On the other hand, if he says the natives - the scabs, as you call them - need to be thrown off the Lucky Clover, why then, if they won’t go quietly me and the Engineering lads'll help kick them off the ship for you,” barked the Chief Engineer.
There was an extended pause. “If this is some kind of trick,” warned the younger officer.
“Yeah, yeah, you’ll kill us all,” said the Chief Engineer wearily. “I’d just be careful all locked up there in that fortress they call a Flag Bridge. Even supposedly isolated environmental systems can be made to ‘malfunction.’ So I wouldn’t start getting it into your head that you can vent the rest of us and continue on, business as usual.”
Another pause. “I’ll contact the infirmary and set things up. You’ll be notified when it's time,” said the First Officer.
“I think Gants and the armory boys will be on hand to monitor and make sure there isn’t a third mysterious attempt on the young admiral's life while he’s still unable to defend himself,” cautioned the chief engineer.
“One man in power armor, the rest can either leave their battle suits behind or stay at the armory,” said Tremblay.
“For an innocent man, you are awfully cautious,” growled the old engineer.
“Just do it,” said the First Officer. “I’ll be bringing a few men who feel the same way as myself. If I see any more than what we’ve agreed on, that’s it and this truce is off,” he finished.
“Alright then,” said Spalding.
“Be warned, I’m bringing an Ion Spike,” so saying the first officer cut the connection.
The chief engineer cursed. Ion Spikes were portable weapons specifically designed for disabling power-armor. You had to get in close and physically touch the battle suit with the spike, but if you did, it could fry the onboard computer system and shut down the suit. The newer Imperial models were somewhat resistant, and a Spike might or might not fully disable such a suit. The older style versions carried on the Luck Clover and worn by the armory team had no such resistance.
Clearly, the first officer wasn’t taking any chances.
“That blue-faced blighter,” he said before turning to trudge his way back into the ship. "Saint Murphy save us from fools and first officers."
Chapter 35: A Rude Awakening and Arrivals
It wasn’t like last time, where I didn’t even realize I was waking up. This time I was dragged kicking and… okay, not screaming, perhaps grunting would be a better word for it. Anyway, I found myself kicking and grunting into the land of the living and suddenly conscious.
“I still think this is a bad idea. The Admiral has sustained repeated, massive blunt trauma events in a relatively short period of time. He isn’t healed from the first time he found his way into my sickbay. Now you want to interrupt the healing process a second time, before anything has time to completely heal yet again, in the name of expediency,” protested the Doctor.
“Your protests were noted already,” Officer Tremblay said irritably. “At this point, it's too late to change anything. Focus on your patient and make sure he wakes up in his right mind. There’s no benefit to pointless protest.”
The Doctor snorted and returned to his work. Which, as far as I could determine, consisted mostly of looming over me with a portable scanning device and taking measurements.
I opened my mouth to ask what was going on, but a dry mouth and throat stopped anything more coherent than a croak from emerging.
The doctor, who had been so vigorously protesting waking me from my nap early, looked down in irritation before picking up a cup with a straw and placing it in my mouth. As soon as I had taken two miniscule swallows, the Doc removed it and turned back to his measurements.
With my throat lubricated but still feeling sore, I decided to try again. “What seems to be the problem, gentlemen,” I asked, my voice creaking like hundred year old wooden furniture. “I’m up early?” For some reason, I couldn’t figure out why I was in the sickbay. After a confused moment, the memory of my recent experiences down on the surface returned.
I groaned.
“Are you alright, lad,” asked the Chief Engineer sounding concerned.
“Enough wasting time,” Officer Tremblay said sharply.
“I’m just checking to make sure the-,” started Chief Spalding.
The First Officer cut him off and forcefully placed his hands on the side of my oh-so-comfortable hospital-style bed.
“Did you order new Lancers for the ship,” demanded the former Intelligence Officer.
“Lancers,” I puzzled. I didn’t get the reference. It was some combination of the beating I'd taken and whatever drugs the Doc had pumped me full of which must have been muddling my faculties so thoroughly. Clearly, however, Tremblay had cooked up some new scheme intended to land me on the wrong foot. At least this time he'd started the confrontation from a position of strength, having his adversary (myself) pumped full of sedatives prior to engagement. The man was definitely learning.
Tremblay glared at me in frustration and slapped the side of the bed. “Did you give the order for more marines or didn’t you,” he demanded.
Someone must have seen something I didn’t, because the next thing I heard was the same cool voice that had just haunted my dreams. They hadn’t been very pleasant dreams, either.
“Lay a finger on him and die,” said my beautiful, blond ice maiden.
“I’m not going to touch him,” Officer Tremblay said, moderating his tone and then turning abruptly to give a proper nod to the Lady Akantha. “I’m not the enemy of any person in this room.”
Wild-haired Spalding snorted.
“Anyone not trying to seize control of this battleship, anyways,” he amended before turning his attention back to me. “But I won’t stand by and let you put words into his mouth either. Either he ordered additional personnel for this ship while he was down on the planet or he didn’t, and this is all some kind of power grab. Possibly headed up by a certain pre-reconstruction royalist!”
At first I didn’t get who he was talking about and then it came to me. The Intelligence Officer assigned by parliament suspected the Chief Engineer of being a royalist of the old school. What they called an apologizer, or worse back home. Someone who still supported the old Montagne Royals.
It made a certain amount of sense. The man had held the legendary sword Bandersnatch in trust for over fifty years, receiving it from the hands of a certain Montagne Captain he still seemed to respect.
Then, the rest of what the First Officer said started to penetrate and I finally got the reference to Lancers. The Empire had Marine Jacks. The Confederation used to have old style Lancers for their ship boarding operations and away teams. I was a child of Imperial times, so the reference to old Confederation terminology took a moment to process.
With the advent of the Confederated Empire the Lancers had gone out of fashion and been phased out of the armed forces in favor of Imperial-backed Marine Jacks. Supposedly, the Marine Jacks had better training and discipline. I honestly didn’t know, it was from before my time.
Realizing the pause had grown uncomfortably long, I knew I had to say something.
“Ah, yes. That.” The words formed themselves in my mouth, seemingly bypassing any approval process my brain might have wished to take. “I’ve felt this ship needed a marine complement for some time. The Armory crew does its best, but what they possess in enthusiasm, they lack in other areas...” I trailed off, hoping I wasn’t making a hash of things.
The Chief Engineer looked triumphant and my girl even cracked a smile in my direction.
Lieutenant Tremblay looked betrayed. If my goal was to stymie the ship’s First Officer, it appeared I wasn’t doing too poorly working with my meager scraps of information.
“How many men are we talking about,” I asked curiously. “I was under the impression…” I paused to let the silence do the talking for me. Maybe now I could actually figure out what was actually going on.
“Several thousand hoplites were pledged to the service of Hypatios Nykator, some eighteen hundred have rallied to your banner since his fall,” said Akantha in that coolly imperious tone of hers.
“Excellent,” I said, more than a little stunned. What I really wanted to say was, 'what in the world has been going on while I’ve been asleep?' Instead, I said, “I’m surprised that many would want to serve a man they don’t even know.” Surprised! What was I going to do with nearly two thousand hot-headed native warriors? Fantastic, I thought to myself. How do I get myself into these situations?
Then I had an awful thought. Surely these natives didn’t have anything to do with all this talk of Lancers? I suddenly had a sinking sensation. “How many of them will be staying to guard the city of Argos,” I asked hopefully.
The next second all my hopes were crushed. “Argos has its own hoplites,” she said with an arched brow. “Five hundred of my uncle's former hoplites have transferred their allegiance to Kastor Kephus.” At my look of confusion, she added, “The same Warrior who escorted us from the city’s main gate to the inner keep.”
I was still confused, and she somehow picked up on it through the facade I was desperately maintaining for Mr. Tremblay's sake.
"The Hold-Mistress of Argos, my mother,” she allowed, “has taken him as her new Protector.”
From her expression, forgetting the name of someone I’d met exactly once (before proceeding to having my brains knocked around inside my skull) was a big no-no in my girl’s book.
“The Prometheans then, I’m sure they need some help defending-” I started to say, only to be cut off.
“Many of that Tribe have answered your call to service,” she interrupted. “Some two thousand already flock to your banner,” she said, clearly pleased with herself. “With more still signing up.”
My banner! Surely I was dead wrong and there was no way she and the Chief of Engineering meant to station a bunch of blood thirsty natives on my ship and call it a professional marine force!
“That’s wonderful, honey,” I said with a sick smile. “Did they sign up for the ship or for system defense.”
She looked puzzled for a moment then smiled uncertainly. “I told them of our great need for crewmen on this floating citadel, and assured them of a place inside this Lucky Clover, with many chances to fight pirates,” she said finishing happily. “They can avenge themselves on more of the same bandits that caused them so much pain.”
“Of course you did. And all eighteen hundred native, ah, hoplites, signed up to be Confederation Lancers?” I asked, smiling weakly, just to make sure.
“You are their new warlord and they will follow you to the Stars themselves,” she corrected. “If they must learn to be Lancer’s to do this, then that is what they will do.”
“There you have it,” I said, struggling for an even face as I turned to Tremblay. “The problem here seems to be success beyond my wildest expectations. I discern nothing untoward happening here without my knowledge.” Once again, I was forced to claim authorship of a situation I had no hand in, or look like a weak fool in front of my First Officer.
“I must advise against allowing so many natives onboard the ship,” warned Tremblay, face reddening.
“Of course,” I said. “There must be a trial period while they adjust, that’s for sure,” then I motioned the First Officer close, “I’m sure you’ll be instrumental in the orientation and monitoring of our new lancers, what with your background in Intelligence and our recent training programs,” I added, happy for yet another job I could foist off on the ambitious Lieutenant.
Tremblay looked like he was about to have a stroke. Clearly, monitoring and making sure the natives knew what not to touch while on the ship was the last thing he’d been thinking of as the next step in his maneuvers.
Maybe he had been thinking of something more along the lines of escorting them to the nearest airlock and having done with the whole situation. Unfortunately, he was just going to have to learn to live with disappointment. It seemed to me that I had to deal with that very emotion every day, ever since Admiral Janeski left the Lucky Clover to its own (or, I suppose one could say, to my) devices.
“We might as well invite the Caprian Settlers to the party,” I said grandly, “we wouldn’t want them to feel left out.”
“You can’t mean to try and seduce them away from their future colony,” Tremblay said, sounding weary. “Or are you intending to settle them on Tracto VI as well?”
“No-no-no,” I said with a mock chuckle. “For some reason, I don’t get the feeling that our fellow countrymen desire to put down roots in a system about to be overrun by Bugs,” I waved my hand in a sweeping motion. “Mr. Tremblay, you are to instruct the Belters to begin the process of transferring their main dish to the Caprian Settlement ship. Any Caprian Settlers that don’t want to stay here with us should have the chance to leave.”
The First Officer looked surprised, “And if the Belters object to this seizure,” Officer Tremblay asked, his voice sounding like a snake coiling in preparation for a strike.
“Then inform them that I have personally ordered this reallocation of recourses,” I said smoothly.
“And if they still refuse and become obstinate,” the First Officer said with a skeptical expression.
“You can inform them that one way or the other, they will no longer have a main dish on their ship. They can either take an action that will earn my good will, or one that risks my wrath,” I said flatly. I glanced at the Chief Engineer and the blond valkyrie. Unsurprisingly, the Lady Akantha seemed proud of the hard line I was taking.
I shook my head.
Taking this as some kind of uncertainty about my position, Tremblay pounced. “Your wrath,” he asked incredulously. “Is there something more concrete I can warn them about, or is this another one of your bluffs?”
“We have a broadside recently reinstalled and ready for test firing, as well as a brand new Lancer force eager to bust some heads,” I said imperiously, taking a page from my new wife. I looked at him sternly. “What, in this entire time I’ve been in command, has led you to the belief I make a habit of bluffing? Was it our encounter with the Pirates? Perhaps how we dealt with the Bugs? Or was it my...handling of the Natives down on the surface, perhaps?”
The First Officer looked uncertain for a moment, then bowed stiffly and saluted, before making himself scarce.
As soon as he had left the room, I turned to Akantha and Spalding.
“Eighteen hundred warriors just decided to flock to my non-existent banner,” I demanded before shooting a withering look at the old engineer. “And you just start transferring them to the ship for our new security force,” I demanded.
“It was my decision,” Akantha said sharply. “You told me to handle your affairs on my planet before you were sent to your healers. That many warriors couldn’t be left without a leader, not unless you want them to turn to arson and banditry or join a rival polis.”
“That didn’t mean you had to bring them onto the ship,” I protested hotly. “There were plenty of other uses for them down on the surface where they could be helpful.”
Her face stiffened. “I’m sorry you disapprove of the decisions taken in your name,” she said coldly. “I felt that after the attempt to murder you in your sleep, you would welcome additional warriors to stand guard, as well as to help in other matters.”
I grabbed hold of my temper with both hands and throttled it back until it subsided.
“I am not unhappy,” I lied. “This has all just come as a complete shock, and it's not at all how I would have handled it,” I said, then cut her off before she could respond. “Not that anything you did was necessarily wrong,” I lied again, “but it's taking me a while to process. I just woke up and here the three of you are, and you drop this in my lap. I never imagined anything like eighteen hundred super-soldiers.”
The ice maiden also paused before answering, a series of expressions flitting across her face. “When you spoke with Officer...the Tremblay, you sounded much more supportive of these decisions,” she said finally.
I paused as I tried to decide the best way to put this. “The First Officer is indispensable right now because he is one of the few trained officers we have on this ship, not because he has given me his loyalty or earned my trust,” I said finally. “Before I disagree with your decisions in front of that man, I’d like to know more than I do right now. I just woke up, for Murphy’s sake, and I don’t even know how long I’ve been unconscious this time, let alone exactly what else you’ve all been up to.”
She looked slightly mollified by this verbalization of trust.
“I understand better now,” she said slowly, “however, I think it only makes my point even stronger. If you do not feel you can rely fully on this Tremblay, and yet cannot remove him either, then that only makes my decisions in your name even more necessary and correct, not less.”
The Chief Engineer cut in, “I think what the lass is trying to say is that, this ship could use a Security Force she -and you - can rely on. With the Jacks gone and the Security Department in lock up, that doesn’t leave us with a lot of choice,” he said.
“No offense to Akantha’s countrymen, but these are men used to fighting with swords and spears. They know almost nothing about modern technology. Tremblay is correct in that much, at least. Right now, they pose a hazard to the ship with their ignorance,” I countered.
“So we add to them men who are more familiar with this technology of yours,” Akantha said commandingly. “I’m sure there are a number of Prometheans who would be willing to teach them what they need to know, and would even fight beside my people when it comes to that.”
“I don’t know,” I said, somewhat less furious than a few minutes ago. “I mean, we still don’t have any trained officers we can rely on to teach these warriors how to use blaster weapons without killing themselves. Let alone how to use battle suits, which I assume you intended for them,” I said, looking pointedly at Akantha.
“Of course. A large reason many of them are willing to swear service to an unknown foreigner, even one who defeated the great Nykator, was the offer of a suit such as yours. I knew from our search of the ship that you had many more suits,” she said.
“Even if we can overcome that difficulty, who can I rely on to lead these warriors you have recruited for me? I don’t know any of them,” I said, not giving up the fight. “How can I pick decent leaders from among them and predict the cultural problems that are bound to crop up?”
“You are right,” Akantha said firmly.
“I am,” I said in surprise. Just when I thought I had the gauge of her, she pulls the rug out from under me.
“Yes,” she said shortly, “that’s why I’ve decided to accompany you inside this great citadel.”
“That’s not necessary. Your people need you here,” I blurted all-too-abruptly.
“You have made a great many promises, and now you must survive long enough to fulfill your obligations,” she said stiffly before turning to stalk out of the room.
This was great, just great. Obviously, watching me almost get killed three times in a row had made even the savage ice maiden a little on the over protective side. Now she didn’t seem to think I was going to make it longer than two days without her oversight, and was going to stick to my side like glue until her little planet was in the clear.
“What the Hades gives her the idea I either need or want her help,” I said, turning to Spalding with what was left of my energy and anger.
The old engineer pursed his lips. “Now then lad, it can take a new bride a small while to settle down into the married life,” he said. “You’ve not exactly been out of the sickbay longer than you’ve been on your feet in the whole time she’s known you. I’m sure that after she’s been reassured you’re not liable to drop dead on her, the Lady Akantha won’t be so clingy.”
“Clingy! You’re talking like this is some sort of marriage rift, when that has nothing to do with it,” I barked at the old man. “What wife do you know of who just up and decides to join her husband onboard his Flagship, along with eighteen hundred armed warriors, primitive or not? No, this is some kind of power grab, pure and simple.” I looked at the engineer, defying him to argue with that!
“Now I’m sure all dynastic marriages have their own little kinks that need to be worked out in the beginning. Once things settle down, it probably won’t seem so bad,” soothed the aged engineer.
“Dynastic-” I felt like I was about to have a stroke, I was so beside myself.
“Oh, aye,” said the old man with relish. “It's been a while since the royal family has married outside the home planet, so you’re not as familiar with this situation as maybe you should be,” he added sympathetically.
“This is no dynastic marriage! She’s in line to inherit a small city and an island, while I’m not going to inherit anything at all, unless you count Harpoon,” I said. “There’s no way this is some kind of dynastic anything. Parliament would have a cow if that were the case!”
“Oh aye, Parliament,” the old engineer said, twirling some of his flyaway hair. “Well, Parliament is a long way from here, and what they don’t know for a while won’t hurt them. As for the Lady Akantha, I’m sure she understands by now you’re not in line to inherit. But lad, she’s the closest thing they have to royalty down on that planet of theirs. If she’s not thinking dynastically, then I’m a robber baron moonlighting as an old Caprian engineer!”
“I can’t understand her,” I complained bitterly “and just so you know, I was hoping to get rid of that crazy woman and her off the wall notions. At least for a little while.”
The Chief Engineer looked at me sternly. “Don’t let the lass hear you talking like that, or you’ll have more trouble than you know what to do with.” He came over and placed a hand on my shoulder. “It’s too late for that kind of talk anyway. She may be the strangest Admiral’s wife we’ve had in a couple generations, but don’t be too quick to judge all the effort she’s gone to on the surface as bein' worthless. Gettin' us a few more warm bodies for the ship won’t help out right away, but in the long term this ship needs a proper crew, and that’s a start. Even if the whole lot of them will make our current stash of greenhorns look like wizened old space hands in comparison,” he said gruffly.
“Is there no way you can talk her into staying on Tracto VI,” I pleaded, desperately clinging to the last remaining shreds of my oh-so-perfect plans.
“Now stop yer whinin’, it's time to man up. Besides, this lass has saved your life once already. I’m sure she’ll find other ways to make herself useful during the trip, as well,” said the old man.
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” I muttered.
“Hah,” laughed the older man before turning to stomp out of the room.
"Not so fast," I said. "Just how did you get those two discs? I can't imagine a trained security officer would leave evidence like that out in the open."
Spalding looked startled. "Fifty years aboard a ship teaches a man a thing or two. I might not be so good with all those little ones and zeroes, but having served continuously on this ship through six refits, four different planetary regimes and a full-blown decommissioning ceremony, I know more about her hardware than any mutinous dog like Van Ness ever could." The old engineer laid a finger to the side of his nose and smirked. "That arrogant little lapdog could have learned a thing or two about covering his tracks from our excessively patriotic First Officer." With that, he turned and left the room.
With everyone finally gone, I allowed myself a moment of self-pity before looking for my left hand. I closed my eyes even while I was turning my face. I didn’t want to look, even though I had to know.
It felt like I had fingers that moved, but I had heard about phantom pain before. I didn’t know how I would manage, short a hand.
I peeked an eye open and slowly ran my eyes from the forearm to the palm of the hand. My left arm had been entirely encased in some kind of healing cast. My eyes flew open and I wiggled my fingers. They all responded as they should!
I lay back with a sigh. It felt like I could sleep for a year at least.
A buzzer on the side of the bed activated. “Sir,” came Tremblay’s voice.
“What,” I asked, surprised to hear the First Officer’s voice coming from the speaker built into the bed.
“I hate to bother you, Admiral, but something’s come up,” he said, sounding anything but upset at rousting his Admiral literally from his sick bed.
Maybe I’d earned it by endorsing a move that put a bunch of barbarians on the ship under the pretense of making them marines. Or Lancers rather, as this was supposed to be a Confederation outfit now. Hadn’t you heard? Admiral Montagne himself said so! I snorted.
“Oh, go on, Mr. Tremblay,” I said, wearily turning my attention back to the speaker.
It seems our long lost pair of corvettes has finally arrived,” said the First Officer, “I just thought you’d want to know.”
“Long lost… I wasn’t aware they were missing,” I said. “But then, I’ve been unconscious or otherwise engaged ever since we entered the system.”
“As you say, Admiral,” said the Officer.
The thought of what kind of tales might spread around the fleet and over to the corvettes popped through my head. Natives, as marines for the Lucky Clover, was the least of it as far as Captain McCruise would be concerned. The last thing I needed was her taking offense at the decision to transfer the Belter’s main dish.
Much as I hated to admit it, I needed to get in front of this situation before miscommunications had the chance to queer the deal and screw everything up.
“I’ll be right up,” I said and cut the connection. I lay back in bed for one last peaceful moment before gingerly swinging my legs over the side. This was no time to be laying around, there work to be done around this orbital ranch.
Chapter 36: Let's make a trade
“You look like you’ve been to Hades and back, Admiral,” said Synthia McCruise, the only surviving captain of the two recently arrived old style Confederation corvettes. She gave me an appraising look.
“I won’t be winning any beauty contests,” I said deprecatingly. I returned her appraising look the best I could. Other than a few more signs of stress and worry than were present the last time we talked, she looked exactly the same.
For a man whose face was still a wreck of healing burns and scar tissue, I knew I should be the last one to throw stones, but this woman was still as unattractive as ever. She had the same hatchet face, and woman-on-the-wrong-side-of-middle-age look to her.
“Better get that face fixed before you try wooing the lady’s again,” she said with a smile.
“Err, that shouldn’t be a problem,” I said with a straight face. “I’m already spoken for.”
“Careful,” warned the Confederation reservist. “If she sees you like this, she might change her mind.”
I barked a laugh. “I doubt it's my face that will turn her off. It's one of those semi-arranged dynastic things,” I said as truthfully as possible, without giving the game away. “In her culture, I think scars are a good thing.”
“Ever hear about too much of a good thing...” asked the Lieutenant Commander in command of the two corvettes.
“Anyway,” she continued seriously. “Fun as it is to catch up, and although I’m curious about how you managed to pick up all those new scars in just a few days time, that’s not the reason I called,” she said, looking at me expectantly.
“Ah, the Belters,” I said knowingly.
“Yes. The Belters,” she said, giving me a level look. “What’s this I hear about taking away their main hyper dish?”
“The Belters want to stay and mine trillium. The Caprian Settlers want to put this system behind them. A rogue pirate limpet mine took out the Caprian’s dish just after they point transferred,” I said, recounting events to the best of my ability. “It's as simple as that. The Caprians want to leave and the Belters don’t. So they get the hyper dish and the Belters get to squeal.”
“And the fact the Caprian’s are from your home world has nothing to do with it,” she said questioningly. “Are you sure there isn’t a little unconscious bias factored in there somewhere?”
I threw back my head and laughed. “I can assure you any biases I have are of the fully conscious variety,” I said, genuinely chuckling.
At her slightly alarmed look, I shook my head.
“Those Caprians want away from me and Tracto VI as fast as their star drive will carry them and, for my part, I’ll be happy to see the last of them. My biases are coming at things from the other direction entirely,” I said with a laugh.
She paused, and might have even bit her lip unconsciously. “Even still, I think my point stands,” she finally said.
“If the Belters suddenly decide they want to leave this system, I’ll reconsider. But as long as they want to stay, House Zosime and the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet are ensuring they will be more than adequately reimbursed for their troubles. Any Caprian that wants to stay, up to and including the entire settlement ship, is free to join the new colony. We don’t need the rest hanging around orbit with a grudge,” I pointed out.
“But the risk,” she argued, “They say you are unwilling to escort them back to Confederation space. That they will be at the mercy of pirates and rogues until they arrive at their new home world,” she said, looking at me expectantly.
If she was hoping for me to disprove the rumor, she was about to be disappointed.
“This ship has provided them with a safe haven and the offer of joining a new colony if they feel the risks are too great for leaving here. Or they can wait in orbit until the MSP,” I said, pausing at her surprised look, “that’s the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, can spare a ship or two to escort them. Either way, it’s not my problem.”
“Still-” she started.
I cut her off. “Like your unit, this ship has an obligation to something bigger than one settlement ship that would like a cushier set up. We’ve been out of contact with the Confederation, not to mention the rest of our fleet. We need to touch base and let the rest of the galaxy know we’re still alive, and see if anyone else needs help. Not to mention many of my crew are growing restless and need some reassurance that their families are okay amid all of this political turmoil.”
“I see you won’t be swayed from your course,” she said with resignation.
“I’m afraid not,” I replied as softly as I thought I could afford.
“It's shaky grounds, forcibly removing critical equipment from one group of civilians and granting it to another, but since that’s not a factor, let's shift the discussion.”
“Perhaps about why your corvettes took so long getting here,” I shot back, not wanting to relinquish the initiative.
She quirked a smile, “Perhaps.” She looked off to the side of her display before relenting with a sigh. She turned serious before continuing. “My little Pride is holding up fine with a few hastily rigged repairs here and there. But the Perseverance can continue no more. At least not safely,” she said, looking grim. “There’s a crack in her main deflector dish that we thought we had under control after it broke down en-route to here. But the last few jumps the damage has grown worse. I think we can only consider moving her at dire need, for risk of stranding her crew in cold space.”
I frowned. “That doesn’t sound good. If there’s anything my engineers or the Belter work crews can do, I’m sure everyone in the system is pulling for the Perseverance.”
“Thank you,” she said with a curt nod.
“This actually makes an idea I’ve been toying around with more practical than before,” I said, thinking hard. I had only toyed around with the idea before because of the great disparity in values, but with new Trillium mines on the way, perhaps the problem could be papered over.
“Idea,” she said suspiciously, “what idea has crawled into that Flag ranked head of yours?”
“I’m not sure you’ll like the idea, but I think you’ll agree it's for the best. All factors considered, of course,” I quickly added at her instant frown.
“I’m liking this less and less by the second,” she said flatly.
“It's really not that bad,” I defended boyishly.
“Just spit it out. Whatever’s crawling around inside that devious, battle scarred head of yours,” she said.
“I was thinking of a swap,” I said with a twinkling grin.
Her forehead wrinkled, “What kind of swap are we talking about.”
“Well, it's my understanding that you’re based out of an old Star Base, your corvette squadron that is, and that it's still functional,” I said, then clarified yet again, “the star base I mean.”
“Yes,” she said shortly, obviously not liking where this was going.
“Well I have one ship, a trio of damaged pirate ships, and a system that needs defending from Bugs while I’m gone back to the Confederation with the Lucky Clover,” I continued.
“What’s that have to do with me and my ships,” she interrupted. “I’m not sure I can afford to leave both ships here. The damaged one can stay of course, I can’t risk moving her, but the Pride is needed back at the base.”
“See, that’s just the thing. I don’t know your exact situation, but surely if your base commander sent you out to escort three Settler ships with just the two of you, that must mean he’s short of ships somehow,” I said, my grin cracking a little wider.
“Perhaps,” Synthia said. “What’s all this speculation have to do with those of us out here?”
“You have two damaged ships. Two corvettes, measuring about a hundred thirty meters that might be repairable with the resources we have here. I, on the other hand, have a damaged heavy cruiser, over 560 meters in length. True, it's been run into the ground by pirates, and so there’s no way I can get her refitted out here. Not in this lifetime, anyway. That’s why I’m thinking we should make a trade and swap your two corvettes for my heavy cruiser,” I said, finishing with my best winning smile.
From the look on her face, my smile probably had more in common with a hideous grimace than anything else, but at least she seemed willing to consider the matter instead of rejecting it out of hand.
“Forgetting for the moment the little fact that I’d be handing over official Confederation equipment, a Confederation warship no less, in return for a pirate ship,” she mused with a slow shake of her head.
“Don’t think of it as handing over official equipment to some provincial defense force. Think of it instead as a lateral transfer from one Confederation fleet organization to another,” I injected with my most convincing voice.
“Still,” she cut back in, “I don’t have the authority to just hand over my command to someone I’ve never met until this week.”
“So leave a small training cadre. I was intending to use some of my own people as the core and fill the ship’s out with new recruits, anyway. Having more trained hands on board is not going to hurt anything. We can take the other cruiser back with us and, if your base commander won’t go for it, you can always return with a new crew and new orders.”
“I’m not sure,” she said, obviously wavering, “a heavy cruiser would significantly increase our combat power in the long term, but right at the moment, as you know, we just don’t have enough hulls to take care of everything that needs doing.”
“So let's make an agreement in principle and head back together to speak with your base commander," I suggested, more than a little pleased at how receptive she was to the idea. "If he agrees, we’ll make the exchange and your side can just owe my side a favor or, if it needs to be all official, whatever the difference turns out to be between the assessed value of the three ships,” I finished.
“Don’t forget just who captured those two cutters you’ve still got strapped to your hull,” she said abruptly.
It was then I knew I had won. It was all over but the devil in the details and a few more protests.
“If my Base Commander goes for the swap like I think he will, then I can’t afford to leave a lot of trainers onboard the two corvettes. Just enough to see to our interests and make sure your guys don’t break anything. You’ll have to cadre the ships on your own,” she said, driving a hard bargain.
“Alright,” I said agreeably. For a moment there, I had actually hoped to get away without losing any of my few trained personnel.
“Of course, we’ll ride home in the Pirate Cruiser as well,” she said.
“It’s not in the best condition,” I warned.
“If it’s repairable, then we’ll need our own people on her as soon as possible,” she said flatly.
“Fine,” I said, raising my hands (including the one with the healing cast) in the air to mime surrender.
She stopped and looked at the cast, then looked back up at me and raised an eyebrow.
When I didn’t reply, only giving a quirk of my mouth, she spoke in a low voice, “You have been through a war, haven’t you?”
“Had to save a few natives from the Bugs,” I said, visibly shrugging it off. “Then there were a few complications down on the surface when they were returned and a meet and greet with the local rulers went sour.”
She nodded in agreement at the word complications.
I frowned. “Anyway, have your legal department contact mine to go through the details. After they’ve hammered something out, we’ll be ready to charge the jump engines and blow this hole. In the meantime, you can send over a few people to survey the ship and, after we get some new crews on your corvettes, we can egress this system,” I said briskly, returning to the character of Admiral-in-control.
“If something can be hammered out,” she grumbled, clearly not enthused at the thought of giving up her command for a trash filled former pirate warship, heavy cruiser or not, and cut the signal.
Chapter 37: To depart or not to depart
The expected delay for exiting the Tracto System was pushed back even further, as a surprising number of Caprian Settlers decided they either wanted to join the new colony down on the surface, or sign up with the Confederation Fleet.
Parliament had a tendency to encourage royalist members of our population to join the settlement efforts, not coincidentally leaving parliamentary-ruled Capria with fewer potential dissidents. So it wasn’t surprising that this ship was mostly filled with pro-monarchy settlers.
What was surprising was that just less than one in twenty of these former Caprian royalists were willing to place themselves under a Montagne Royal and settle their families on Tracto VI. Even if he was openly serving in the Confederation Fleet and the system was a potential gold mine of resources.
Down in the main cargo hold, I was holding a formal meet and greet, and Lieutenant Tremblay looked like he was about to have a stroke.
First we had filled the ship with natives, then a bunch of bereaved Promethean survivors recruited by Akantha had shown up. As far as the First Officer had been concerned, for my next amazing trick I had tempted a number of old Caprian Royalists aboard, along with their now fully-grown children with families of their own.
Unlike the native warriors and mostly untrained, yet enthusiastic Prometheans, the Caprian Royalists were comprised of a surprising number of former military. Both officers and enlisted personnel, it seemed the people joining The Clover had left Capria either due to age or discrimination, at least according to the few I had personally spoken with. Parliamentary ‘new’ men got all the good jobs, eventually forcing them onto half pay, or out of the system defense forces entirely as a younger crop of more politically reliable officers and enlisted joined the ranks.
Among a number of overly experienced and (hopefully) untarnished jewels, I even had a former officer in the Royal Lancers, a unit once modeled after the Confederation Lancers and fanatically loyal to the Royal Family before it was disbanded by Parliament as being too pro-monarchy. They were feared to be too susceptible to sedition, post-coup.
In addition, there was a grizzled old gunner. He actually looked young when placed side by side with our Chief Engineer, as he was right now. Even though he was on the wrong side of middle age, the man had already endeared himself to me. I had not a clue as to his actual competence, but not two minutes into standing beside Lieutenant Spalding he had my Chief Engineer red in the face and all but snarling something about Engineering departmental pride. There were a couple of other SDF fleet officers, but I was sending the ones with actual command experience over to the corvettes. They might have a few decades of rust on them, but that was better than anything the Clover could boast. Plus, I figured with four damaged ships to work up and repair, having Captains with actual command experience (no matter how previous that experience happened to be) would help ensure there was a human population in the system for us to protect when we returned.
With a pair of cutters and two corvettes, I figured there was now a good chance I could safely leave the system.
Still not being the trusting sort, most of the crews of the small system defense detachment would be Prometheans. I threw in a few spare sensor operators from my bridge crew, as well as a couple natives, just to make sure it was viewed as a real Confederation-style multi-planetary crew complement. I also thought if any of the new commanders started to get ideas, the Prometheans would at least make sure they had to stick around Tracto VI until I came back. When the four new command officers came marching up to me in their mismatched Caprian SDF uniforms and civilian attire, I saluted.
“I’ll really miss the chance to serve on this old beast,” said a grey bearded man with black hair and light brown skin.
I shook his hand. “I’m sure your new command appreciates your sacrifice,” I said.
He nodded in appreciation and backed away until I had shaken everyone’s hands in turn. The small group was comprised of generally middle-aged or older looking men, of native Caprian stock. Brown skinned and brown eyes.
All of them expressed thanks for this chance to command a ship, either again or (in the case of one former First Officer) for the first time.
Then Grey Beard pushed himself back into the front of the line. “So, when we’re out here guarding the planet while you’re gone,” he started, “if anyone comes a knocking, what do we tell them? Are we the local militia, or part of the Confederation fleet,” he asked in a tone that was closer to a demand than a respectful query.
I gave him a sharp look. “There won’t be anyone but Bugs coming to this system, and hopefully they don’t send any more ships until I get back.”
He settled down a bit. “Sorry if I seem a bit pushy and abrupt, but this kind of thing is important to know on the front end. We’re all more than willing to help out, even if this is just a temporary job until we can get down the serious business of farming the surface,” at this, the other command officers laughed. “I suppose it can wait until you get back, Admiral.”
I sighed. “It's not an unreasonable request,” I paused and looked around to include all the men in what I was about to say. “I don’t know if, in the long term, you’ll be considered part of the local space militia, or system defense force if it gets big enough for the name. Or if you’ll become an official part of the Confederation Fleet instead,” I paused in thought.
“Here’s what I’ll do,” I said abruptly. “I’ll write you all temporary commissions in the MPF-1,” I gave them a quick smile, “officially, that’s the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet I’ve been assigned to command. Whether you stay in the MPF, are needed in the Tacto System SDF if we ever have one, or go back down to the surface to farm, we’ll just have to see. The important thing to remember is however this thing shakes out, you’re working for me when you’re in space, and House Zosime while on the surface.”
“Zosime?” Asked the middle aged former First Officer, now set to command the more damaged of the two cutters.
“Do we keep our former ranks or start over fresh,” asked Grey Beard, looking intrigued.
“Come on, Fred,” said one of the men who had been silent until now. “You’ve got a command again. Let's not start empire building before we’ve even set foot on the ships.”
I looked over and observed that the man who had just spoken was a touch shorter and stouter than his fellow ship captains.
“Oh,” I asked, looking at the Stout Man and then back to Grey Beard.
“Bob Kling,” the stout man introduced himself. “Former Captain in the SDF. That one over there,” he said pointing at grey beard, “Is Fred Johnson, a former Commodore in Capria’s glorious system defense force.”
The grey-bearded Fred Johnson turned red, “I’m not trying to build an empire out of an ant-hill,” he said, smoothing his beard. “It’s true I’ve been a ship commander and a base commodore, so I know something of both positions, but we all know you’ve spent longer shipside than I have. So if you’re put in charge of our little squadron, I’m not going to complain,” he added hastily.
Kling just smiled and shook his head.
To head off any more squabbling, I put on his best winning smile. Like previous winning smiles it attracted the attention I generally desired when I used it. But instead of charming, this smile from my new scar faced exterior tended to repulse. Still, it did focus the attention nicely.
“Because you’re all retired, not active military, I’m going to start you all off as Lieutenant Commanders,” I said, pulling a random rank out of the hat. “As for House Zosime, that’s the house to which my wife is currently the heir. The new colony has been settled on the Messene Peninsula, a holding she already held directly in her own name, as the heir to Zosime and the Argos city-state.”
I paused, hoping this trivial information had re-grouped everyone's thoughts. “Now then, if everyone agrees that Lieutenant Commander Kling has the most experience in this area,” I looked around and the other two men nodded, followed belatedly by the grey-bearded Fred, “then until I return, Bob Kling will be squadron commander and Fred Johnson will be his second in command.”
“Yes sir,” saluted the former Caprian First Officer, whose name I couldn’t remember. The others followed suit.
“I’ll review things when I come back, and any adjustments that are needed will be made at that time,” I said with a regal nod. “If that will be all.”
“Speaking for myself,” said Bob Kling, “I’ll defend the planet my family is on without any other resources, if need be. But I surely would appreciate having that commission in hand, just in case those Belters or our former comrades cause any trouble while you’re gone.”
“Sure,” I said shortly, “I’ll have the ship’s legal officer draw up the papers for my signature and run them over before you leave for your new commands.” Seeing no further objections or questions, I gestured toward the crowd of common crew and former enlisted who were waiting for a chance to meet and greet their new Admiral. “If I may,” I said, and moved to the assembled crew waiting to greet their new Admiral.
The new commanding officers started and then moved along the receiving line.
“Bunch of old royalists,” Tremblay muttered under his breath.
“Lieutenant Commander McCruise wouldn’t spare any of her people. I don’t know of anyone on this ship who could hold an independent ship command…” I said, looking over at Tremblay, “unless you’re tired of being First Officer and want to nominate yourself for a command.”
“As if,” scoffed the former Intelligence Officer. “I know better than to throw myself at something I’m not ready for. Besides, you’re not getting rid of me that easily,” he said with a grim smile. “I feel I can do more good for Capria and its greater interests right where I am.”
I matched his smile and, being ugly and scar-covered, came out the better in that match. “I’m sure you do,” I said agreeably.
Turning back to the receiving line, I shook hands until my fingers ached and my feet hurt. Unfortunately, it was my left hand that was cut off and reattached, so I couldn’t claim injury to shirk the ritual.
Eventually though, my battered and still-recovering body made itself known, and I called for a chair and the ship's legal officer.
From my chair, I instructed the legal officer to draw up the temporary commissions for the new squadron Lieutenant Commanders, and then continued glad-handing the new crew.
It was important to make a good impression the first time the new recruits met me in person. First impressions were key, and they were also the only thing I had at the moment to soften whatever rumors they were bound to hear from the currently active crewmembers.
Eventually, I decided I had done enough and was able to credibly plead exhaustion. After ordering Tremblay to have engineering spin up the star drive, I beat a staggering retreat and returned to my bed, in the old Flag Lieutenant's quarters I had been using since before the beginning of the trip, back when the Lucky Clover was still under Imperial command.
The next morning, fresh from a full night’s sleep and yet, for some reason still feeling exhausted, I yawned and stumbled out of my quarters, bleary-eyed and dry-mouthed.
On the way to the bridge I passed the Admiral’s quarters, outside of which stood a pair of native guards. Both female, they stared at me in disapproval.
I guess that was where the First Officer had put the Lady Adonia Akantha Zosime. Picking up the pace until I turned the corner, they continued to glare of at me until I was out of sight.
Sheesh, I couldn’t even go to my own Flag Bridge now without hostile presences giving me the hairy eyeball. What a life.
Arriving on the bridge, it was clear I had overslept.
Normally, second shift was composed of everyone assigned to second shift, as would be expected, but that meant relatively few people on the bridge. Unless of course, as was the case today, when a point transfer was expected.
So while I had expected to see a lot more bodies than usual during the shift, what I hadn’t expected was not to recognize most of them.
There were a couple swarthy Prometheans its true but the rest of the people I saw were brown-skinned Caprians. However, over half of them weren’t people I recognized. I also wasn’t used to seeing any grey-haired individuals on my bridge.
However, in this case, it seemed just about every section had its own grey-haired or grey-bearded member. Two were officers, the rest were enlisted, but still it was enough to make me look over my shoulder as I contemplated beating a hasty retreat. I was used to buffaloing my regular crew of greenhorns. This mixed bunch of bridge crew wannabe’s from the original staff and, obviously, new transfers put me on edge.
Then I had to clench my teeth to keep from jumping. Stationed inside the doors of the Flag Bridge were two power-armored figures. One was an older man who gave me a brief smile, the other a stone-faced native from Tracto.
It wasn’t as obvious in a battle suit but if you had been putting the things off and on over the last few days like I had, and had a paranoid attention to detail when it came to new and heavily armed people around my person, it was obvious the man was from the same unusually tall native stock as the rest I’d recently encountered.
The armor also had some strange symbol painted on the surface of the chest, as well as on one of the arms and both legs. They were uniform between the two men, so I suspected it wasn’t some native design I should reasonably know nothing about, but instead something from civilized space that I should.
I sighed and turned back to the Admiral’s Throne. Plopping myself down in my usual fashion, I leaned back and contemplated the situation. It looked like I was just going to have to bluff my way through things, as usual.
So instead of twiddling my thumbs, I activated the undamaged arm on the Throne and started pulling up any and all information I thought might be needed.
Five minutes after I entered the bridge, the First Officer made an appearance.
He looked around with a hard expression, taking in the new members of our bridge crew, before coming to stand beside me.
For once the silence wasn’t uncomfortable. I was even mildly comforted to know I wasn’t the only one worried about the new staff and how he would look in front of them. Even if he was thinking something completely different, that’s what I imagined Officer Tremblay was feeling, and it was enough to help put me at ease.
I gave a little start when two men came in and sat down at the navigator’s station. There was room enough for two at the main nav. console, but seeing a second person was somewhat jarring.
I felt like a man who was used to the engine of his personal vehicle, growling and stalling and making all kinds of strange noises, but at least it was something I was used to. Even if I was wrong, I felt like I could predict what it was going to do. Then suddenly, the engine has been overhauled and instead of the usual grumbling and groaning, it runs much more silently. Instead of being reassured by this improvement, I kept a death grip on the steering wheel, waiting for a disaster where everything catastrophically fell apart.
As far as I was concerned, I was that man desperately clutching at the wheel and wondering what new troubles awaited him now that the old ones were fixed. Unable to imagine anything better, even when it was right in front of me, all I could do was imagine things getting worse.
Taking a deep breath, I couldn’t stand it anymore and went into the Admiral’s ready room, to steady my nerves. Closing the door I headed over to the chair behind the desk and sat down.
I hid out in the room, trying to figure out what I was going to say when I returned to Confederation Space proper, until the door chimed indicating someone desired admittance into the august abode that was now my ready room.
Right then I was wishing I wasn’t allergic to Gorgon Ice-ale. I could use some right about now. Realizing such thinking for the crutch it was, I fingered my hold out blaster pistol instead. Iced-Ale was a poor substitute for firepower. Usually.
I then entered the signal for the door to open.
Seeing the stiffly formal expression on her cold face told me at once that this was the very last face I would have wanted to see outside my ready room if I had been thinking about it.
“Not trying to kill yourself with alcohol, I hope,” she said bitingly.
“I beg your pardon,” I said, flustered.
“Word is, the last time you hid yourself away from the world in this ready room,” she said, still improving her grasp of Confederation Standard, “you almost killed someone and then nearly drank yourself to death.”
For a moment I was stunned. There was no way she should have known about that incident. I flushed with embarrassment. Someone was speaking out of turn and feeding it to the sweet little princess here. My embarrassment turned to anger and my gaze hardened. I knew just the tone to take with her to cut this off at the knees. It was time for some brutal barbarian-speak. It was time to act like the worst of the Montagne reputation.
“Show me the coward who says these kinds of lies behind my back and claims I was hiding in fear,” I growled. “I’ll cut out his tongue so he can’t repeat such filthy lies, I’ll cut off his hands, starting with his fingers, so he can’t write them down either.” I was on a roll. This was more fun than watching a comedy show. “Then I’ll work my way to his…”
She cut me off. “Perhaps I misheard the conversation,” she said waving her hand sharply. “I apologize for the insinuation. My understanding of your language is limited by this translator,” she finished.
Insinuation! She as much as called me a drunk and a coward for hiding out in this room once before and then implied that I was doing the same thing again right this moment. She also had a much better grasp on my language than she professed, using words like 'insinuation.'
She was wrong before, but dangerously close to the truth this time. So I let it pass. For now.
“I am in this room considering the situation and working on a strategy for when we return to Confederacy Space,” I said, feeling the need to justify myself. Dang it, I wasn’t some coward hiding out in his ready room!
“You have many new men under your banner,” she said firmly, “you must see and be seen to see.”
Of all the nerve, I thought harshly. To tell me how to run my own ship. How was I supposed to do that, see the men under my command. Was I supposed to tour around the ship while the bridge ran amok with Tremblay at the controls and nobody to keep him in check.
Although… maybe she had a point. The bridge crew appeared more competent than ever before, if the sight of all that grey hair was any indication. Plus, touring the ship offered the perfect excuse for staying off the Flag Bridge and avoid tripping myself up in front of those ever watchful eyes.
“You know what,” I said with a smile, “you’re right.”
For a moment she seemed taken aback, as if she’d expected more of a fight and less in the way of agreement.
“I am,” she said with a little less certainty.
Seizing the initiative, “I think you should come with me on a tour of my battleship, before we jump,” I said.
She paused to consider it. “Yes. Yes I will,” she said, sounding surprised.
Of course she wasn’t as surprised as I was. I stood there, mouth slightly open before realizing it and snapping my mouth closed. I was sure if I suggested it, especially if it involved spending time with me, she’d find a reason to shoot me down. I was planning on getting rid of her for a while and it looked like now I was stuck with her.
The tour was a surprisingly good distraction from the realization that our course was now set and it was time to face the music back in civilized space.
My lone wolf days were coming to an end, and seeing all the changes swirling around me both on and off the ship, I was coming to be okay with that. I wasn’t certain what the future might hold, but looking at all these fresh new faces, I was no longer certain things would turn out as badly as I’d feared before.
So with my new wife at my side, I marched back to the Flag Bridge and to my future.
The End...
The following is an excerpt from Admiral’s Gambit - A Spineward Sectors Novel: Book Two
Chapter 1: Departure and Arrival
My name is Jason Montagne Vekna, although I’m not sure if my new wife agrees with that or thinks my new last name should be Zosime. It’s a long story. I never really cared for the 'Vekna' part, so it wouldn’t be any skin off my nose to switch it out, but it might cause problems back on the home world. So I was deliberately not asking her opinion.
Anyway, I’m currently the Admiral of the ever-so-proudly named Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, or MSP as I like to call it. Of course, I’m only an Honorary Admiral in my home world’s SDF or System Defense Force, and was forwarded to be the Acting Admiral of the MSP. But don’t tell anyone about that little technicality.
One week ago, the Imperial Admiral in command of the MSP resigned on orders of his Triumvir, and the Empire as a whole abandoned the eight Confederation Sectors comprising what we natives like to call 'The Spine,' or 'The Spineward Sectors.'
Before becoming the official figurehead of the MSP nine months ago, I was a minor member of a nearly irrelevant Provincial Dynasty. The Royal Family on my home world answered to the Caprian Parliament, not the other way around, and the Parliament held our purse strings. So generally, we acted as some sort of glorified galactic butlers, wining and dining anyone Parliament needed to impress or fob off in an appropriately decedent style.
Before leaving, Admiral Janeski of the Imperial Rim fleet turned command over to me and I proceeded to… well, let’s just say I picked up a pirate ship or three - again, a long story.
I also saved a beautiful native from horrible insects. Unfortunately, I was busy ogling her half-naked neighbor and there was a cultural misunderstanding. She thought that by giving her a sword with which to cut herself and the rest of the Bug prisoners free (not coincidentally including her busty neighbor) that I was proposing some form of shotgun marriage wherein if she didn’t take my sword and accept my offer of marriage, she and everyone else would die a gruesome death.
I, on the other hand, had no clue about this and was only trying to do the heroic thing. In other words, I had given her my only weapon and, as a result, was being slowly overwhelmed by ravenous insects. The very same ones that were trying to eat us all alive, regardless of potential or real wardrobe malfunctions.
Its safe to say that, as far as romantic meetings go, it was hate at first sight. She wanted me dead, and as far as I was concerned, she had let other people die, and even tried to kill me by deliberately not lifting a finger to help anyone, all after I gave her my only sword.
A series of further misunderstandings followed, but when I found out that a quarter of a million settlers I had rescued couldn’t land on her planet without local permission, and couldn’t stay in orbit without dying of suffocation… well, let’s just say I decided to go through with the marriage anyway.
By this point, we were both generally aware of the situation, and still feeling things (if not each other) out. She was no longer trying to kill me, at least. Instead, she was now determined that I survive long enough to ‘fulfill my obligations,’ which I took to mean I needed to save the entire population of her world from being eaten by semi-intelligent (and officially non-sentient, according to the Empire's propaganda machine) space-faring Bugs in slow driver ships.
After that, I assumed she planned to dump me like I bad habit. I was just hoping I was dumped before she met my mother so I could sweep the whole thing under the rug. As it was, she had recruited around eighteen hundred super-sized native warriors to my 'banner,’, although they sure seemed to listen to her a lot more than me, and she was determined to stick to my side like glue by this point.
In the meantime, I had a Fleet consisting of one ship because, as far as I knew, in the two weeks since everything else had fallen apart, the fleet had fallen apart too and returned home, each ship determined to protect its own home world, rather than uphold its obligations to the Confederacy's charter of mutual defense. This mass egress left no one to prevent piracy, or protect merchants and other civilian ships. Like the ones carrying a quarter of a million settlers I had rescued from pirates.
Chapter 2: Around The Bridge
I was sitting on my bridge waiting as the time officially counted down to zero. This was the last point transfer, the final hyperspace jump to faster than light before we officially returned to civilized space.
To say I was nervous was an understatement. I was petrified, which was a good thing because I couldn’t let any of the half-dozen interest groups on my Flagship sense weakness because as far as I knew, this was the only ship I had, other than a few small warships protecting my wife’s world Tracto VI.
I looked over First Officer Tremblay. He was busy watching a bunch of old royalists who were former Caprian SDF and current members of my Confederation Fleet. A fleet comprised right now of one Caprian Dreadnaught Class Battleship. Confused yet? I sure know I was.
He was one of the ship’s former junior Intelligence Officers. I couldn’t find anyone to make Captain, and I wasn’t about to put a Parliamentary man in command of my ship, so he became the First Officer, and I was currently holding down the Admiral and Captain hats with both hands. Tremblay thought we should make like a lightning bolt and head straight home for Capria, abandoning our duties to the Confederation, now that the Confederated Empire was no more. At least no more in The Spine, the Empire was still very much present in the rest of Human Space, as far as we knew.
I, suspecting Parliament would be more likely to give me a chop to the neck than a pat on the head, was a little less gung-ho for the return to Capria and do it right now this instant plan.
Around the bridge was Helmsman DuPont, a man I’d had to threaten with death to get to save the settlers those pirates were attacking. We were unarmed at the time, so I guess I can’t blame him too much. Ramming is normally a very fatal event, so it’s generally reserved for overly dramatic holo-vids.
I’d never been to a military academy, and all my training was on the job, so ramming had seemed reasonable at the time. But then, like a lot of things in life, it had some unexpected consequences.
The Navigator was present, sweating bullets, as usual. Our Science Officer and the whole entire host of the first shift bridge crew were present for this particular jump.
I had deliberately set the time for our point transfer into the new system, so that first shift would be on duty. Second and third shifts used to be ghost shifts, but with the help of a serious recruitment effort initiated by my loving wife (who I sometimes thought of as a pit viper in human form, when she was mad at me, or my blonde ice maiden when she was just disapproving), I had added my own personal touch and recruited some of my fellow Caprians, who had been on one of the settlement ships we rescued. So now those shifts were no longer empty but actually almost fully staffed.
Her moves gave me a bunch of enthusiastic, but relatively untrained Lancers and crew, but I liked to think that my recruiting drive, while not netting as many bodies, had more than made up for a lack of quantity by the quality of so many former members of the Caprian military.
You see, despite being seconded to the Confederation Fleet (at least until Parliament got its act together and tried to recall us now that everything was falling apart), this ship was Caprian built and, for the most part, Caprian crewed. Sure, there were several thousand natives of Tracto, the primitive world my lovely new wife hails from, and Promethean settlers looking to get some pirate blood in retribution for all of their dead relatives.
But all the non-Caprians in their several untrained thousands were still outnumbered more than three to one by my native countrymen.
Anyway, I had gotten comfortable with first shift, and wasn’t yet with second or third, especially with all that grey-headed wisdom watching me every second for the slightest mistake. I don't enjoy scrutiny. After all I’m the Admiral, isn’t it supposed to be the other way around, me watching them?
So, first shift had the con when the timer hit zero and space warped around us.
Chapter 3: Not So Easy
The Lucky Clover point transferred into a system named Easy Haven. It was the home of an old-style Confederation Star Base, Wolf 9.
For some reason or another, it was one of the few original Confederation naval bases in the sector that hadn’t been scrapped or upgraded beyond recognition by the previously combined Confederated Imperial Fleet.
I had taken some time to look the place up on our trip from Tracto to Easy Haven. Fifty years is a long time for a base to go without a serious upgrade, but to the best of my knowledge it was still an active fleet base. It was home to a squadron of older Confederation corvettes stationed out of it, present mostly for ceremonial duties than anything else.
This original, unmodified Confederation issue part was critically important, because the Imperial Fleet had orders to destroy all of their equipment on the way out of the Spineward Sectors.
“Extending baffling beyond transfer area and firing main engine,” declared Helmsman DuPont.
“What’s the Point Resistance?” demanded Lieutenant Tremblay.
“Engine at 20% of maximum,” said the Helmsman. “We still have a lock on the ship.”
“Shields properly modulated for a Sump Slide,” declared the man at shields.
“This should be an easy one,” said Science Officer Jones. “Resistance is really quite minimal when you compare it to many of our previous transfers.”
I was just happy there were no sudden lurches, jerks, crashes or slams this time, unlike many of our previous jumps. Ever since the former Caprian military crew had joined the ship, each point transfer had gone smoother and smoother, until it almost felt like the ship the Imperials had originally handed over to me.
“I want figures, Science Officer,” the First Officer said exasperatedly. “How many times have I asked for our point resistance and you’ve given me a feeling or an interpretation?”
“Maybe you need a new Science Officer, then,” snapped the other man. “I’m a Civilian with the University of Capria, here to study the cost/benefit of slave-rigging versus not slave-rigging this ship. I'm not here to act as some sort of military automaton.”
“Just the facts, man,” retorted the First Officer, “or is that too much for your scientific brain to process?”
“Alright, cut the chatter you two,” I said, hoping to keep the two senior officers from each other's throats. “Science Officer, prepare yourself so that next time you give us a proper report. Tremblay, focus on the task at hand,” I said, waving at the main screen, which was slowly being populated with system traffic.
“Engines at 30% of maximum,” reported the Helmsman. “Lighting up both secondaries now.”
“Shield strength at 98% and holding,” reported the shield operator. “Shield regeneration is keeping up with the sump drain. We could stay here for days,” he remarked.
“Belay that chatter,” sneered the First Officer, “Only a fool would stay in an Inertial Sump left behind by a hyperspace point transfer, if he didn’t have to.”
“Engines two and three are lit. We’ve doubled our thrust… and there she goes,” reported DuPont. “We’ve broken the sump and are free to proceed throughout the system. Caprian Space Lines would like to thank you for this-”
“Cut that out,” I laughed before Officer Tremblay had a chance to lambast the helmsman. “Just because we’re back in civilized space doesn’t mean we’re home free yet. Keep your eyes peeled for anything out of the ordinary.”
“Report,” Tremblay demanded after a pause. “How’s the pirate cruiser doing over there? Did they come through the Inertial Sump without any damage?”
“She was included in our shield coverage,” reported one of the sensor operators. “The temporary shield relays Engineering set on their hull worked like a charm.”
“Not even a hint of the drain we experienced to our shields generators with the previous jumps,” agreed the shield operator with a grin.
While the rest of the Bridge Crew went about their duties with a smile on their lips, I watched the main view screen and worried.
First, I worried because there wasn’t anything on the screen. Then I worried because there was too much. In the two weeks since I had taken actual command of the ship, we had never been in a system with this kind of traffic.
In my head, I knew the amount of traffic was normal for this system. This wasn't a thriving core world with hundreds or even thousands of ships present. Even still, the two dozen and counting contacts already on the screen were enough to make me want to bite my nails.
“That’s odd,” said one of the Sensor Operators.
“Fewer feelings and more facts, Sensors,” said the First Officer, striding over to the man’s sensor console. “The other Officers of the Watch don’t have this kind of problem on Second and Third shifts,” he growled. “First shift is first because it’s the best one on the ship. The Admiral and I trust you to do your jobs in a professional manner. Don’t let us down, or I assure you the cushy first shift position might very well go to third instead. Third shift doesn’t have these kinds of problems.”
“Sorry, Sir,” muttered the Sensor Operator.
Then the Tech raised his voice, “What I meant to say is I’ve isolated the readings from two of the ships further in the system. They both match the profile of a Hydra Class Medium Cruiser.”
“That’s Promethean build,” said Tremblay. “What are the odds of two Hydra’s showing up at the only fleet base we know is still intact,” he asked dryly.
I shared a look with the First Officer. In other matters we might be sharply divided, but on this one it was clear we saw eye to eye.
Our suspicions were confirmed a few moments later.
“The computer’s coming back with a match. Those ships match the profile of the Prometheus Fire and Pride of Prometheus. It’s the same two ships that stole our prize ship and abducted our away team, Admiral,” shouted the Sensor Operator.
“Settle down, Sensor Tech,” said the First Officer.
“But, Sir!” said the man at sensors. “We had to ram those pirates because they disobeyed the Admiral and ran away when we needed them.” The sensor man sounded genuinely outraged. If everyone else on the ship felt the same way… well that was good for their Admiral (me), but very unlucky for that pair of ships.
I turned deliberately to my First Officer, “Mr. Tremblay, confirm the identification of those two medium cruisers without tipping our hand, please,” I said, raising a hand and added, “assuming that’s possible. Then, if you would, please inform the Confederation Reservists on the former Pirate Cruiser that we’re going to have to cut them loose a little sooner than expected.”
I turned in the direction of the outraged sensor man and saw smiles on the face of the Bridge Crew.
“Assuming that it's the same pair that left us in the lurch, and in so doing abandoned a ship full of their own settlers to the tender mercy of pirates, all in favor of stealing a captured prize rightfully belonging to all of us in here. Then I’ll tell you what, my boys,” I gave a shark-like grin. “That pair of rogues is about to get some very well deserved payback. Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet Style, courtesy of our very own Lucky Clover!”
The bridge crew roared its approval at this course of action. The Helmsman soon plotted a course and after what could have only been a handful of seconds, the Clover was off.
“They’re squawking Promethean transponder codes as if they don’t have a care in the world,” confirmed the External Communication’s Tech. “It’s the Fire and Pride.”
“Thanks, Ex-Com,” said the First Officer as the battleship accelerated, picking up speed.
“Sir, we’re being hailed by the Star Base,” said an Ex-Com Tech.
“Put it on the main screen and let's hear it,” I instructed playfully.
“Unidentified Battleship, turn on your identification beacon immediately or System Command will be forced to designate you a Rogue vessel and presumed hostile,” said a middle aged man in a fresh looking Confederation style uniform. “System Command out.”
I looked over at Lieutenant Tremblay.
The First Officer shrugged. “You told us not to give away our intentions to the medium cruisers. If they look at the backlogs, they’ll see we were squawking the Lucky Clover’s ship ID before canceling the transmission,” he said.
I rolled my eyes, stifling a groan. Clearly my silent running idea was already a farce. “I assume that with modern computer systems System Command will automatically know our ship’s ID from the first signal they received. It shouldn’t matter that we’ve gone silent,” I said irritably.
“Modern distributed intelligence systems have re-incorporated that feature,” said the first officer. “Unlike earlier more AI-paranoid systems.”
“Then why…” I trailed off questioningly.
“The Confederation always did have more in common with the Caprian philosophy when it comes to dealing with DI computer systems,” said Tremblay
I raised a brow.
“The more hobbled, the better. And the less chance you’ll develop a rogue AI,” the First Officer stated matter-of-factly.
“The Imperials never quite learned the same lesson our peoples did. The Empire’s always been much more willing to push the edges of what’s possible. It probably has something to do with the fact that in comparison, while under AI rule their peoples did rather well, others like our own Caprian forbearers suffered tremendously or even underwent genocidal purges as soon as we’d outlived our usefulness to our AI masters.”
“The old dreaded Cost/Benefit ratio," I said with a manufactured shudder and false bearing of dread.
“We laugh now,” admonished the First Officer with a reluctant smile of his own, “but back during the AI wars, mothers would scare their children into taking naps with dire warnings that if they were bad, the AI would institute a Cost/Benefit analysis on them and if they fell below the acceptable Ratio, they’d be taken away. Never to be seen again.”
“Scary stuff,” I muttered. “I think I’d rather live with a clunky DI system than risk a return to those days.”
The First Officer indicated the main screen. “Enough of the history lesson, perhaps,” he said, redirecting my attention back to the matter at hand.
“Right,” I said abruptly. Turning to the Ex-Com operator, I said, “put me through. But make sure to use the encryption Lieutenant Commander McCruise thoughtfully provided to us. Reluctant as she might have been to do so,” I added with a smile.
When the Tech told me we were live, I schooled my still somewhat burned and scar-faced features into a polite mask. A few days transit time back to civilized space had allowed for the medical staff to work some further magic on my face, but they said that barring a full work up and extended stay in the ship’s infirmary, I was going to sport the evidence of that particular adventure (rescuing the native prisoners from Bugs) for the rest of my life.
Like any modern day individual, I fully intended to get my face fixed and put back to normal… eventually. For the meantime though, having a battle-scarred face seemed to help out with both the natives and the rest of the crew. I might keep it, if just for a little while longer.
“System Command, this is Admiral Jason Montagne, Commanding Officer of MPF Lucky Clover, Flagship of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, or I suppose we might now be the MPF-1, assuming the Assembly, in its wisdom, has already decided to designate a second fleet,” I said, speaking slightly faster than I wanted to, so I took a deep, calming breath to steady my nerves. Realizing I had taken too long a pause, I settled back in the Admiral's Throne to wait for the response. Because of the distance between our Battleship and the Star Base, there would be a gap of several minutes between the time they received the transmission and had a chance to reply.
With nothing better to do but look at the man and study his features, I sat there and observed. Other than being middle aged, the next thing that struck me about him was that his skin color was much whiter than the usually brown-skinned Caprians of the Lucky Clover.
Not quite as pale skinned as an Imperial or a Native of Tracto, like the native warriors on my ship training to be Lancers, he still looked like his skin would burn under the rays of a hot primary sun. He had black hair and a sharp pointed nose, once again putting him at odds with the generally flat nosed Caprians, and a look about him that said as certain as Duralloy, this man was a serious professional.
“Admiral Who…? What Fleet?” the middle aged man paused to take a deep breath. “How did you get this encryption key,” demanded the Confederation Officer.
“Admiral Montagne of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and you are…” I gestured toward the man on the screen then continued, “Anyway, we got the Key from one Lieutenant Commander Synthia McCruise,” then I realized how that might sound. “Don’t worry, the crews of your two corvettes are fine. Well,” I hesitated, “mostly fine, anyway. They had a little run in with a squadron of pirates who called themselves the Bloody Piranha’s or some such nonsense, I think. Anyway, we showed up to save the day and put an end to that little reign of pirate terror. So you can talk with her if you want,” I put on my best winning smile, the one I had practiced for the cameras ever since primary school. “She’s in the heavy cruiser strapped to our hull.”
A pause.
The other man’s eyes popped before his brow lowered and he started to scowl before his face settled back into its professional mien.
“Colin Le-Godat,” the other man said shortly, omitting his rank and organization. “And yes, put Synthia on the Com,” he shook his head. “She lost both corvettes and is riding back in a heavy cruiser,” he marveled. “This, I have to hear.”
The other man paused, “I suppose your strange profile makes sense now that I realize what we’re seeing is really two separate ships instead of just one big blob,” he said.
“Oh no,” I said when it was my turn to reply, “the two corvettes were heavily damaged, but as far as I know are still mostly in one piece. The heavy cruiser issue is another one entirely,” I was going to say more, then I reconsidered, “I’ll let her talk with you and explain the situation first.”
“You do that,” said the Fleet Officer, Colin Le-Godat.
Turning my head toward a nearby bank of bridge stations to hide my rolling eyes, I looked over at the Communication section. I made a circling gesture with my one good hand, “Patch him through before we cut the trunk lines,” I said, trying to sound as much like a real Admiral as possible.
Several minutes later, a hard-faced Colin Le-Godat was back on the screen. Looking at that face, I couldn’t imagine anyone ever mistaking the man for anything other than a Fleet Officer.
“Assuming she hasn’t been coerced somehow,” he said, giving me a penetrating look, “the Lieutenant Commander had quite the wild tale to tell. Full of fanciful accounts of ramming and cold space rescues,” he said, “She also spoke of a potential ‘deal’ whereby you…” he paused and pursed his lips, “meaning the MSP, want to transfer to us an ancient and very run-down heavy cruiser, in exchange for two battle damaged but otherwise very well maintained corvettes,” he looked like he’d bitten into something sour, “One of which has no independent star-drive capability at the moment.”
“That about sums it up,” I said cheerfully. Hopefully we could avoid the full list of penetrating questions until after the agreement had been made.
“Let's table that discussion for the moment,” said Le-Godat, “You claim to be the Flagship of a real honest to Murphy, may the space gods destroy me if I lie, active Confederation Fleet Formation,” his eyes pinned me to my chair.
Feeling the weight of all the half-lies and self-justifications, I suppressed a gulp and, not entirely trusting my voice, gave my best regal nod. A nod gave me the perfect excuse to break my gaze with those all-too-knowing eyes.
When I looked back up and waited for the reply, the other Fleet Officer nodded slowly.
“My sensor technicians, in addition to confirming your outrageous story of transporting a heavy cruiser on the back of a battleship through multiple point transfers, also say you are heading in the direction of two medium cruisers, the Promethean SDF Cruiser Promethean Fire and SDF Cruiser Pride of Prometheus. As System Commander, I must officially ask if that so and, if so, may I ask why and for what purpose,” he said in the kind of voice that made a lie out of his ‘request’.
I paused to think, my eyes moving furiously until I thought I had come up with the proper response.
Straightening, I looked right at the main screen pick up. “Your Sensor section is correct. I am indeed taking my Dreadnaught Class Battleship over to see the Prometheans and have a... ‘discussion’ with the Captains of those two cruisers,” I said, putting the ring of authority into my voice.
“Why, and for what purpose,” said the Fleet Officer, momentarily taken aback by the authority in my tone, “I’ll brook no settling of provincial disputes here in Easy Haven,” he said harshly.
I raised an eyebrow at his tone and looked down my nose at the Fleet Officer, “This is no provincial dispute, but rather a matter of either mutiny and treason or rank piracy against the Confederation. And you would do well to moderate your tone when speaking with an Admiral appointed to command of a Confederation Fleet, Mr. Le-Godat,” I said sharply.
The Fleet Officer quirked an eye. “How can one not be sure whether it's mutiny or piracy, Admiral… Montagne, was it?” he inquired.
“Ah,” I said, ignoring his last snipe, “A number of the ships in the MSP are at-will members and technically have the ability to terminate their memberships in our fleet at the instruction of their respective provincial governments. The Promethean Cruisers are part of this agreement. However, it is unclear if their planetary government authorized a removal from the fleet, thus removing their actions from out of the realm of treason and into the arena of piracy.”
“How can removing their ships from your fleet be considered piracy,” said Fleet Officer Le-Godat with a sharp look. “If, as you say, they have the right to quit?”
“Oh, the piracy charges aren’t related to the Medium Cruisers, they're in regards to a captured pirate conversion. The Prometheans were supposed to jump to the assistance of your two corvettes, along with my Flagship. Instead, they and our captured merchant conversion mysteriously disappeared en route to AZT89443.”
“Ah,” said the fleet officer, “things start to become clearer.”
“As you can imagine, even if Captain Stood and the Promethean Cruisers were completely entitled to voluntarily remove themselves from my fleet, after I’d issued them otherwise legal orders to rendezvous with the Lucky Clover at AZT89443, they were the last ones to put eyes on a merchant conversion with an away team from my ship. On top of that, the merchant conversion belonged to either the MPF or the ship which captured her which is, again, my very own Lucky Clover. If they're not part of the MPF…”
“In that case, System Command is willing to stand by while you deal with your wayward ships,” the Fleet Officer said, then added, “as long as the unified code of military regulations are followed, of course.”
“No longer being part of the unified military authority, the MPF has reverted to the most recent Confederation regulations regarding such matters instead, but your point is well taken,” I nodded in acknowledgment of his concerns. “If they submit themselves to our inspection without undue protest or resistance, they will be accorded every right under the laws of cold space. Part of my fleet or not, if they chose to resist Confederate authority during this crisis, after being suspected of treason, piracy and mutiny, any force necessary will be used to bring them to justice,” I said, my tone and expression unyielding.
Fleet Officer Le-Godat nodded slowly and then seemed to come to some sort of decision. He nodded decisively. “In that case, Admiral,” he said, a new level of respect for me in his voice, “as Acting Commander of the Easy Haven Star Base - Wolf 9 and 209th Confederation Active Reserve Light Squadron, I formally notify you of an act of potential piracy occurring within the Easy Haven System itself.”
My eyes widened.
“I also appeal to you, as a fellow Confederation officer and only Flag Ranked Officer in the system, to investigate the matter for your final determination,” said the Fleet Officer.
“I guess it's my turn to ask why it is only potential piracy, and for more particulars on the exact situation,” I said with a tight grin. Beside me, I could see the First Officer close his eyes and place a hand on his forehead. Tremblay could be so dramatic, at times.
“An Imperial Medium Cruiser commanded by one Marcus Cornwallis, an Imperial Commander in the Confederated Navy and the nephew of Imperial Senator and Rear Admiral, Charles Cornwallis-” for some reason I couldn’t understand, the Fleet Officer in command of the system defenses stopped talking and searched my face instead.
As the confederation active reservist spoke, the First Officer had been slowly shaking his head, but at the name of Charles Cornwallis, his look turned to horror and he rapidly shook his head at me, his face full of what could only be described as panic.
“I assume Commander Cornwallis has been sponsored into the Imperial Fleet by Senator and Admiral Cornwallis,” I asked stiffly, ignoring Tremblay and his antics.
“I’m sorry, Sir, but I feel I must ask. Do you know either the Commander or his Uncle the Senator,” asked the Acting System Commander of Easy Haven.
“I have not yet had that pleasure. Why do you ask,” I queried, trying to be polite.
“Just now, your expression,” said Officer Le-Godat.
Officer Tremblay broke in, “Sir, I must advise against any direct interaction between yourself and the Commander. Perhaps it's best for everyone involved if we find out the value of what’s being requisitioned before we move to labeling it piracy,” the First Officer said, more than a hint of desperation in his voice.
“Is there something going on here, that I should be made aware of,” asked the Acting System Commander.
“A small spot of history well over fifty years old, involving Uncle Cornwallis and the Royal family on my home-world of Capria, it all happened long before I was born,” I said, trying to laugh it off, “and is nothing you should worry about. I doubt it will affect the interactions between myself and the Commander, if he even knows that it happened in the first place.”
“Although you say it's nothing and I shouldn’t worry about it, I hope you’ll forgive me if I do so anyways,” said the Officer Le-Godat, looking worried.
I shrugged and glanced over at Tremblay. “There’s no reason we shouldn’t take a look into the matter before dismissing it out of hand as proper, or deciding to take action. There’s no need to rush to judgment here,” I said, struggling to project a jolly tone.
From the looks on the faces of my First Officer and the System Commander, I had failed to effectively project such a demeanor.
It turned out the Imperial Commander had stayed behind to escort a pair of semi-giant Constructor Ships, half the size of a settlement ship. Obviously, a Constructor was huge. A baby mammoth in comparison to the fully grown Settler ships, it was still many times the size of the Lucky Clover. There seemed some dispute about the legality of this action, but no one in Easy Haven had been willing to contest it.
Then the Imperial Commander had spotted several home grown Spineward Sector-built Constructor ships waiting for a proper escort to their final destination. With only a limited number of resources, the System Commander had sent the only escort he could spare with the giant settlement ships first. When Lieutenant Synthia McCruise and her pair of corvettes returned to Easy Haven, the other two corvettes in his Squadron were supposed to escort the Constructors to their final destination.
After spotting the ships, Commander Cornwallis had interpreted his mandate from the Triumvirate (to deny or destroy any Imperial military or strategic assets) to include the computer banks on the Constructor ships, loaded with technological innovations made in the fifty years since the Union Treaty.
All this despite the fact that the ships were locally built by local Sector Corporations that had nothing to do directly with the Empire or its military.
The Commander felt that, in his opinion, the tech base these ships represented was of significant strategic importance, and as such they could either join his convoy headed back to the Empire and seek re-numeration or relief when they arrived there (an unlikely prospect with an Empire embroiled in a war so hot they had to withdraw from the eight sectors comprising the Spine in the first place) or else abandon their constructor ships so he could destroy them.
Surprisingly, I agreed with the Commander on one thing. These Constructor ships did, in fact represent a strategic asset of grave importance to the development of the Spine in general, and this sector in particular.
The rest of his position was just a power play to try and make himself look good for coming home tardy, sort of an apple for the teacher in exchange for turning in late homework. As far as System Command could tell, Cornwallis' ship represented the last Imperial Warship in this Sector, and probably the whole Spine.
“How did three entire Constructor Ships find their way to Easy Haven?” I asked, “One would be rare enough, but I’ve never heard of three in any one system at the same time.”
The System commander looked slightly embarrassed. “Everything we’ve heard from our intelligence sources,” I cocked an eyebrow and he had the grace to look embarrassed, “err, recently arriving merchant ships,” he amended.
I smiled as he sputtered to a stop.
“At any rate,” said the Commander, recovering his composure. “As far as we can tell, this is the only military instillation the Imperials didn’t blow up on their way out the door. At every main base and orbital fortress, such as Draconis 3, Alpha-Proxima, even Beta-Regula they just evacuated the work force before setting off scuttling charges.”
“Amazing,” I said, and that’s because it truly was. The Empire wasn’t going to risk anyone or anything they had ever been involved with being turned around and used against them later. The level of pure paranoia evidenced by this gesture was stunning. Well, stunning for anyone not named Montagne.
The System Commander nodded. “We figure the only reason they didn’t do the same here, is because Wolf-9 had never been upgraded, and the fact that there was an old-style Confederation reserve squadron based out of here, was just a lucky oversight. Technically, Wolf-9 isn’t even an active naval base anymore. Half the place is in mothballs, the other half on standby,” he said sadly. “We’re a bunch of old reservists who never officially transferred into the Imperial Fleet.”
He met my eyes levelly. “I think that as far as the local Sector Commanders were concerned, this old fleet base was a relic left over from the Confederation’s glory days, and the Light Squadron presence here was something they were either unaware of, or completely forgot. We’re mostly just here for parades and photo-ops. Assemblymen looking to remind the voters of the good old days before the Empire took us to war seek us out on a kind of nostalgic pilgrimage,” the Acting System Commander said sadly. “We even pulled our little corvettes out of mothballs and refurbished them ourselves, because there just wasn’t the kind of funding or support necessary for a bunch of parade ground warriors playing to the tune of a few of local politicians.”
“I think it's safe to say that your squadron are anything but a bunch of parade ground warriors now,” I said fiercely. “The pair escorting those settlers sure gave those pirates one heck of a fight before we showed up.” Now was the time for some bridge-building, I thought. I couldn't imagine just how much work went into restoring those ships to active duty, based on Le-Godat's description of their resources. A pat on the back was the least I could offer the man.
“Thank you for that, Sir,” he said with a curt nod. Now we were getting somewhere.
“But that still doesn’t explain all the Constructor-Ships,” I continued curiously.
The System Commander started, “Sorry, my mind wandered. That’s pretty simple. The Corporations that own them thought the local planetary governments were eyeing them a little too closely and decided to head for the only place in the Sector with a still-active military presence,” he said.
“Other than a few local SDF Fleet elements,” I added.
“Since those were the very same elements they were most concerned about, I don’t think they factored too largely into their calculations,” Acting System Commander Le-Godat chuckled.
“Right, well it sounds like a clear-cut case of an overeager Imperial Officer straying across the line,” I said firmly. “I’ll just wander on over his way and see if we can’t work something out.”
“Reason has already been tried,” Le-Godat said flatly. “I pray a new face and a different approach end better for you than it did for us.”
“That bad, eh,” I asked dryly.
“Commander Cornwallis threatened to blow my ‘outdated space junk’ out of the sky if any of my corvettes got within so much as twice the distance of our weapons range. After which, he’d blast the Constructors to pieces,” growled the Fleet Reservist.
“Well, let's see if he’s just as willing to duke it out with something a lot closer to his weight class,” I said with toothy grin, “The last time I checked, an Imperial Medium Cruiser might have us on the tech-side, but one of these old Dreadnaught Class Battleships is bigger, stronger and outweighs her by a significant margin.”
“Good luck,” said Le-Godat, signing out.
I turned to the bridge staff, “Find me that Imperial Medium Cruiser,” I barked. “It’s the one right beside a bunch of gigantic Constructors, you really can’t miss it.”
The Sensor staff redoubled their efforts. Apparently, being on the hunt was quite a lot more fun than anything else we had done to this point.
Soon, the much smaller Medium Cruiser appeared on the main screen beside five enormous Constructors.
Clearly, the bridge crew needed more training, I thought before leaning toward the First Officer.
“How do we stack up against that Imperial Ship,” I asked quietly, careful to keep our conversation private.
The First Officer flashed a grin. “The man that never bluffs, eh,” he said sarcastically.
“We’re bigger and tougher, I know that. I just need to know by how much,” I said irritably.
“We’ve got a slight advantage in throw weight. Very slight, say maybe 10%, but she’s faster and more maneuverable. If she can keep the range open, we go from a 10% advantage to about a 20-30% disadvantage, when a third of our firepower simply won’t reach her,” said Tremblay, his eyes snapping up, left and right as he went through the mental gymnastics comparing the two vessel's statistics.
“Not good,” I mused.
“We’ve got better shields and armor,” continued the First Officer, “our shield generators might be old, but if so they’re still beasts, say a 20% advantage there. The hull is really where we come in strong. This old lady was built to take a beating and keep dishing it out. We should have a 50-52% edge in the 'ability to taking a beating' department, over a standard Imperial Strike Class Cruiser,” he finished.
“Should have,” I repeated, ever-hateful of those inevitable addendums.
“The Imperials have the have the best, most well-funded scientists in the entire Confederated Empire working on their military projects. They come up with new cutting edge stuff all the time. Who knows if they’ve already come out with some new weapon, armor or shield upgrade no SDF officer like me’s even heard of,” shrugged the former Intelligence Officer.
"Oh, come now, Mr. Tremblay. You sell yourself short. You were also this ship's primary Intelligence Officer prior to Imperial withdrawal. I'm sure there is no person in this fleet more capable of assessing their tactical capabilities," I said with a calm look and steepled fingers. “So your best guess, please.” I prompted. I love putting Tremblay on the spot, it was much better than floundering around all on my own.
Tremblay folded his arms and turned slightly toward the main screen. “We can take her in a straight-up fight, even if she works to keep the range advantage in her favor,” said the First Officer, “unless she gets lucky of course, or does the smart thing and runs away,” he added. “There’s just no way we could catch her.”
“How would the Constructor’s do,” I asked slowly. “If we slugged it out, that is?”
“Most likely scenario,” Tremblay asked guardedly.
“Hit me with it,” I said.
“They get pummeled,” he said evenly, “Maybe one or two are repairable over time, but the Imperial can disable them all quickly and then blast them to pieces while he’s still busy pecking away at us. With his speed and maneuverability advantage he could probably get to most of the Constructors during the fight, even if we were present, if that was his priority,” said Tremblay.
“Then we can’t give him that opportunity,” I said firmly, pursing my lips.
“Yes, Admiral,” Tremblay said. He didn’t roll his eyes, but the sentiment was present.
“Assemble the command staff. It's time to figure out how to handle this mess. We’ve got three medium cruisers to deal with,” I said firmly.
“Surely you can’t mean to go after the Prometheans and the Imperials at the same time,” protested the former Intelligence Officer, sounding more than a bit incredulous.
“There’s no way I’m letting those faithless Prometheans off the hook, if there’s any way to swing it,” I said in a regally imperious tone.
“Sir, with all due respect, there’s no way we can handle three medium cruisers all at the same time. They’d peck us to death, cripple our engines and then do whatever the Hades they were going to do anyway, all while we drifted helpless and watched!” The First Officer apparently wasn't a fan of this strategy.
“Then we’ll just have to figure out how to deal with them all one at a time,” I said smoothly. “Don’t worry, I have an idea.”
“Sweet Murphy save us,” Tremblay said under his breath.
I clapped him on the shoulder. “Have a little faith, Mr. Tremblay.”
Chapter 4: Strategy Session
My original plan was to hide behind the pirate cruiser until we reached the Prometheans. We’d deal with them and then head for the Imperial Cruiser.
The ‘Command Team’ shot that down within seconds.
“There’s no way they haven’t already seen us, Sir,” said Tremblay, happy to see the first, most crucial part of my cunning plan go down in flames within the first two seconds of the conference. “But even assuming they’re idiots, there’s still no way they don’t spot us hiding behind it. First, we’re bigger than the pirate cruiser, second there are two of them, so we can’t keep the ship between us and the both of them the whole way in. It's one or the other, and whoever sees us will tell its partner,” he finished, sounding quite satisfied with himself.
One by one they all agreed with him. I looked around. Akantha, my ever-supportive wife, was quite happy to see me fall on my face. She’d been quietly furious with me the whole trip from Tracto, but whenever I broached the subject she would say something like, ‘oh, is there some reason for me to be angry,’ or she’d just deny it. But I knew she was upset.
Ever since the incident on the hull, the Chief Engineer showed up to our command meetings, which was a mixed blessing. The grey-haired Gunner was also present, along with whoever had the tactical station that shift. We had Gants from the Armory and the old Caprian officer in charge of training the Lancers, plus a Promethean and a native Tracto-an understudy to the Lancer Unit. Rounding out the team were Akantha and First Officer Tremblay, naturally.
Everyone shook their head at my plan, everyone except the grey-haired gunner. He stroked his beard and looked intrigued.
“You have something to add,” I said, looking to the only face not filled with derision for my cunning plan.
“If we had any missiles, I’d say send the pirate cruiser anyway, while we headed off to deal with the Imperials,” he said, still stroking his beard. “I’d just lob a few ballistic missiles after them and when they reached closest approach, WHAM!” he said, slamming his hands together.
Several people started and Tremblay jumped.
I appreciated the sentiment, even if it was wholly inapplicable. I even opened my mouth to say so, but was beat to the punch.
“You’ve spent too much time standing in front of the ion cannons while they’re firing,” scoffed Chief Spalding. “We’ve no missiles, you ionized idjit,” and when the gunner opened his mouth, he wagged his finger and hastily added, “Engineering can build anything needed, but not in this kind of time frame.”
The gunner closed his mouth, glanced over at the would-be Lancers, then shrugged. “Got no missiles,” he shrugged again, “we send gunners instead. Me and the boys aren’t afraid of a little cold space assignment. We’ll just hold onto the cruiser until we’re close and then float on over to sort them out.”
A storm of criticism erupted and the Gunner just sat back in his chair, laced his fingers behind his head and smiled.
“That’s a job for Lancers, not space crazed Gunners,” exclaimed the Lancer Colonel. “And it's too dangerous!”
The Chief Engineer gaped like a fish before recomposing himself and jumping into the fray, “The Engineering department could do a better job of it. Leaping from ship to ship is a natural skill of ours. Why, a gunner can’t even hit his target half the time,” he said gamely. “How can you trust him to find his way in open space?”
Ever-eager Gants looked intrigued, “I know a few boys who might be interested in such a plan,” he offered cheerfully.
“Impossible,” snapped First Officer Tremblay. “This cruiser decoy fantasy has been off-base from the word jump. And anyone who supports it is either a fool or a few screws loose in the head,” he shot a glance at the Chief Engineer as he said this.
“That’s right,” exclaimed the Lancer Colonel, “Jumping’s a fools plan,” he shot the gunner a look like he was stupid for ever suggesting it. Tremblay nodded his agreement.
“Shuttles hidden behind the prize ship are the only way to get at them fast enough they just can’t run away and zap you to pieces with their point defense,” continued the Colonel.
Tremblay looked betrayed. I couldn’t help an amazed smile from spreading across my face.
Then Akantha sealed the deal. “My people aren’t afraid to take a shuttle or jump off the ship, if that’s what it takes to give us a chance to battle the oathbreakers,” she said, icy disdain for anyone who was afraid of the risks oozing from her voice.
It was nice to see her venom pointed at someone else for a change, I thought.
Riding this wave of enthusiasm, we soon hammered out a tentative plan for dealing with the Imperial Cruiser as well. It wasn’t perfect, but I was more than happy to end the conference on a positive note.
Lieutenant Commander McCruise had much less enthusiasm for my plan than the Command Staff. That might have to do with the fact that she’d be riding in an unarmed ship (unarmed, that is, ever since Engineering stripped her weapons systems) on a ballistic course towards two very much still functional medium cruisers.
Still, she saw things my way eventually. Especially when I pointed out that by the time she got her engines in working order, they’d already be past the two targets, or at least so close that seeing an otherwise dead ship floating past suddenly light its engines was just as likely to generate a hostile response.
See, who ever said I was an autocrat was clearly mistaken. I represented the height of representative democracy where everyone gets a vote. Mine just counted for more than all the other ones combined, when you read the final tally, that’s it. Nothing more.
Chapter 5: Into the Fray!
Soon our plan was in motion and the pirate cruiser separated from our hull. Behind it was a small swarm of shuttles filled with newly minted Lancers, barely trained enough to walk in their power armor without falling down, hidden in its shadow and thirsty for blood. Who said putting a man that Parliament considered a Royalist Fanatic (like the Lancer Colonel) in command of a bunch of clueless but bloodthirsty natives was a bad idea?
As for myself, I was starting to have second thoughts. Especially when word reached me Akantha was on one of those shuttles.
I heard it was a feeding frenzy down there as Lancers argued over who should have the first chance at action. She must have gone down and gotten caught up in all the excitement. The longer I knew her, the more bloodthirsty she seemed to become.
But there was no way to recall the shuttles without tipping our hand, so I was left with nothing but worry. I told myself it was only for the Settlers back on Tracto VI, the people who might lose their homes if she died. I even believed myself for once. All of my rationalizations still didn’t get rid of the small pit in my stomach at the sight of her going into a battle I would be helpless to join. Not unless things went very wrong and I finished with the Imperials first.
We’d actually timed things so that even though we had the farthest to go, the Lucky Clover would get within range of the Imperial Cruiser first. Hopefully, the whole system would be focused on the little drama playing out around the fleet of Constructor ships, buying crucial seconds for the small fleet of shuttles carrying my wife and nearly six hundred armed and angry (did I mention power armored?) Lancers.
Because there had been so many volunteers, the Lancer Colonel had stationed another group of six hundred Lancers on the hull of the pirate ship. Just in case reinforcements were needed somewhere along the way. In total, about half my Lancer force of twenty four hundred were deployed on this little side mission.
I still had about twelve hundred untrained Lancers, many of them former Promethean settlers who weren’t as enthusiastic about attacking their former countrymen. Even if those same countrymen had left their settler brothers and sisters to die in cold space.
I wouldn’t say the new Promethean Lancers were particularly forgiving about the situation, but I think the thought of facing a cousin, friend or someone you knew, just because they happened to serve under an awful captain, probably made them less eager to get out there and mix it up than they otherwise might have been.
Now there was nothing to do but wait. I decided I hated waiting. Watching the ship creep closer and closer to the Imperial, and switching back and forth to watch the same thing happen with the Promethean medium cruisers was maddening.
“We’re getting close enough to the Imperial that they are bound to notice-” Officer Tremblay started.
“We’re being hailed by the Imperial Strike Cruiser,” exclaimed the Ex-Com Tech. “They’re demanding we back off or they’ll blow the Constructors.”
“Put the Imperials on screen,” I instructed, ready for battle.
“You’re live, Admiral,” said the Ex-Com tech.
I straightened myself in the Throne. “Unidentified vessel, this is MPF Lucky Clover, Admiral Jason Montagne commanding. Identify yourself or be destroyed,” I said in my most imperious tone.
The First Officer’s head whipped around. “This isn’t part of the script,” he whispered hoarsely.
I smiled grimly, maintaining focus on the main screen's pickup point.
A tall, white-skinned man with well-bred Imperial features appeared on the screen. “Move that filthy old space bucket away from my ship or the Constructors get it,” said the Imperial, “Imperial Commander Marcus Cornwallis, out.”
“Marcus Cornwallis, of the same Cornwallis’s as Rear Admiral Charles Cornwallis,” I demanded, deliberately hardening my face.
“I won’t warn you again,” said the Imperial Officer with cool professionalism.
“A man of the same family who bombarded my home world fifty years ago,” I continued, deliberately raising my voice, “in the process, killing my father and most of my extended family? That Cornwallis,” by this time, I was shouting at the screen.
The first crack appeared in the Imperial Commander’s features. “I don’t know what you are referring to, but let me assure you, familias inside the Empire do not direct the actions of its naval vessels.”
“So you admit it,” I exclaimed, finding myself dangerously close to the line between playing a character and becoming actually enraged. I suppose coming face-to-face with a member of the family directly responsible for my own's near-complete destruction was enough to blur certain lines.
The Imperial Commander looked nonplused, “Don’t you understand? Back off, or I’ll blow the Constructors to kingdom come,” he said smugly, as though speaking to a child.
“To Hades with the Constructors!” I was absolutely livid, and leapt out of my chair. “Helmsman,” I barked, turning to that section of the bridge, “set a course to put us between the Imperial Cruiser and the Constructor.” I then turned toward the tactical section.
“First Officer, instruct gunnery to fire as she bears. I want one broadside firing at the Imperials and another into the Constructors,” I roared, feeling the veins in my neck and forehead bulging.
Turning back to the Imperial Commander, who was looking at me like one would a crazy person, I sneered, “I’d rather see them destroyed than fall into the hands of a Cornwallis!”
“You’re insane,” exclaimed the Imperial Commander, turning to someone outside the main pick up. “Communications, get me System Command and tell that moron LeGodat to warn off this crazy person before I’m forced to destroy his ship,” said the Imperial Commander, speaking quickly and looking suddenly red faced.
“LeGodat and his simplistic, we-all-have-to-go-along-to-get-along protestations,” I scoffed, thinking this was the perfect time to throw some more wood on the fire. “I outrank the man and have taken control of all mobile Confederation Forces in Easy Haven, for the duration.”
“Demon Murphy take you for a fool,” snarled the Imperial Command, “I won’t let you ruin everything,” he said viciously.
The Imperial Commander turned to his bridge crew, “Light the engines and put us between the Constructors and this Rogue Warship,” he instructed.
The Ex-Com on the Lucky Clover chimed in, “Sir! System Command and the Imperials are both requesting we accept a conference call with Le-Godat.”
“Oh, whatever,” I said, waving my hand in our patented royal dismissive way. “Put him on. I’m curious to know if he’s scrounged up any more vessels for my fleet yet.”
“You’re going to get us all killed,” said Tremblay, looking both pale and furious. Oh, how I love to see that man squirm.
“Death in the pursuit of Honor, is no death all,” I said, trying for my most pompous. Hanging around these bloodthirsty natives with their strange honor code was giving me some truly wild inspiration.
“Sir!” exclaimed Tremblay and Le-Godat at the same time.
Seeing another person to carry the torch of reason, Tremblay stepped back they all looked at Le-Godat.
Then the Imperial cut in. “Who is this stooge I see on my view screen, System Commander,” demanded the Imperial Commander. “Instruct him to vacate this area of space at once, or I will destroy more than just these Constructor ship’s,” threatened the young Cornwallis.
“A moment Commander, please,” begged the System Commander, turning away from the Imperial and toward myself. “What is this, Admiral," Le-Godat demanded desperately, “you told me you would be restrained and when I questioned you after hearing the name of the Imperial Commander, you told me there was only some old, outdated family business from before you were born between you! You can’t do this!” The System Commander looked like a man powerless to stop a train wreck, yet desperate to try anyway.
I drew myself up into my most Princely and regal pose, “Commodore Le-Godat, let me assure you, I have been the height of reason,” I said looking down my nose at the System Commander.
“It’s just Lieutenant Commander, not Commodore,” said the Fleet Officer in charge of system command and the corvette squadron, “and I’m sorry to have to say you’ve been anything but, Admiral.” LeGodat looked like a man caught between a rock and hard place, a slight sheen of sweat growing on his forehead.
“Listen, Commodore,” I repeated the title purposely.
“It's Commander,” exclaimed the Fleet Officer.
I shook my head, trying for my most condescending bearing. “It’s simply not proper for a ‘Lieutenant Commander’ to command a Star Base of this size and tactical importance. Commodore has a much nicer ring to it, wouldn’t you say? So I’ve promoted you,” I said grandly, accompanied this statement with a regal tilt of the head.
I then snapped my head around to face the Imperial Commander's image. “But neither is it proper for a member of the Caprian Blood Royal to let a Cornwallis slip through his fingers, not when the Imperial Commander has been caught red handed in the act of piracy against the Confederacy!”
“I regret to have to inform you, Admiral,” said the System Commander, looking grey faced, “That if you engage the Imperial Strike Cruiser in combat, I will have no choice but to fulfill my mandate to protect this system and its inhabitants by firing on your vessel.”
The Imperial Commander looked like a man who’d just swallowed something bitter.
“You’ll do as you feel you have to, Commodore,” I said in a sympathetic voice. “In the meantime, every Imperial vessel that hasn’t pointed its nose to the hyper-limit and started a maximum burn will feel a taste of my wrath! Ex-Com, cut the transmission and redirect us to the Promethean Cruisers. Continue on the open frequency,” I instructed.
The entire bridge sat rigidly in their chairs, fingers and hands clenched tight.
“What was that, Admiral,” Tremblay began in despair. “You’ve not only cast us as the aggressors in this conflict, but you’ve implicated the home world, not to mention potentially the entire Confederacy as well!”
I ignored him and turned to the tactical section instead. I caught the eye of the grey-haired individual manning the main console.
“If we actually pass between the Imperials and the Constructors, and we’re within range of our weapons, instruct Gunnery to aim for non-critical areas and most importantly of all, they are instructed to miss their targets,” I said firmly.
The Tactical Officer pursed his lips and then nodded.
Officer Tremblay looked angry and surprised, “Was this whole thing a ruse then,” he demanded. “What’s the big plan now? Bluff them until it's time for us to turn around and run away with our tail firmly between our legs, having made ourselves the laughing stock of civilized space?” I could imagine him envisioning his career's former projected trajectory, now watching it go down in flames, and had to stifle a smile.
I shook my head. “You and your insistence that everything I do is a bluff, up until I actually go and do it,” I said warningly. "When will you learn, Mr. Tremblay? Now, on the other hand, threatening to fire on unarmed civilians? Unarmed Confederation Civilians? That was a legitimate ruse of warfare, not a bluff. Threatening to fire on and destroy an Imperial ship caught in the act of pirating Confederation vessels,” I slammed my good fist into the bent side of the Throne. "No. That was no bluff, Mr. Tremblay. That was a stated fact. If they don’t high-tail it out of here faster than we can catch them, that Strike Cruiser will soon know that they’ve been in a fight.”
I deliberately turned my face away from the First Officer back to the main screen. “Ex-Com, the Prometheans please,” I said harshly.
The tech jumped, “Yes, Sir,” said the person manning the Ex-Com section. “You’re live now, Admiral.”
“Members of Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, Pride of Prometheus and Prometheus Fire, you are immediately instructed to heave to and prepare yourselves for inspection teams from the Confederation Flagship, MPF Lucky Clover,” I said harshly. “Resistance will be met with overwhelming force. Put your power generators into shutdown mode and do not attempt to spin up your hyper drive systems. You are being detained on the suspicion of mutiny and piracy.” I glared unmoving at the screen for several moments, making sure they had the opportunity to see my ruined face in all its terrifying glory.
“Ex-Com, cut transmission,” I said when I felt an appropriate dose had been administered. I was really going now.
A saw a yeoman out of the corner of my eye. I leaned back in my chair and said "Yeoman, a spot of tea, if you'd be so kind. All of this reasonable communicating makes for an awfully dry throat." I couldn't help myself.
After the Tech indicated they were off the air, I leaned back and heaved a sigh of relief.
The signal, when it came back, was twofold.
A swarthy, medium-sized man neither fat nor slim, middle aged and a haggard look to him appeared on the screen first. “The Medium Cruiser, Prometheus Fire, regrets to inform you that she has been voluntarily withdrawn from the Patrol Fleet, as per agreed upon protocol. The Fire stipulates that it has, and continues to be, in compliance with all applicable Confederation and Confederated Empire statutes and ordinances. Costel Iorghu of Prometheus Fire out,” said what must have been the captain of the ship.
Then the transmission from Captain Stood came in. Grey hair slicked back and still as fat as ever, the older man jiggled as he slammed his hands down on the arms of his chair and leaned forward. “The Empire’s all but gone and the Confederation dead and buried. I think you have more pressing worries than us and what happened to your fancy little prize ship, right this moment,” he sneered before cutting the transmission.
I paused, uncertain for a moment. It was a good opportunity to take a sip of tea the yeoman had just delivered. “That went well,” I commented in an off-handed fashion.
On the main screen, a swarm of shuttles leapt from behind the drifting cruiser that was scheduled to be turned over to Wolf 9 and the 209th Light Squadron.
Turbo laser fire lashed out from the Pride of Prometheus, striking the still drifting wreck. The Pride raked the wreck with two volleys before realizing the threat wasn’t coming from drifting prize ship.
“Both medium cruisers have started charging their hyper drives,” said a female sensor operator.
The Pride refocused her weapons and turned them on the shuttles, but she only got a few good hits in, destroying one shuttle and damaging two more before they were in close and landing on the hull.
For her part, The Fire maneuvered to escape the shuttles sent against her, but refrained from firing. Unfortunately for the Fire and her sister ship the Pride, she was an old Hammerhead design, a rugged vessel that had seen service as far back as the AI Wars and perhaps longer. Its rugged durability came with a serious trade-off in the engine department, making her slower than a modern ship her size and less maneuverable, too.
If you came at her head on, she was still an aged yet formidable foe, but when she didn’t fire and even turned away so that most of her heavy weapons couldn’t even bear on the shuttles, it was the same as tacitly admitting you were caught, without actually giving up. Such a maneuver would be gambling on the chance that your opponent would choose to focus on someone else, like your sister ship instead.
The Pride was still maneuvering for her best firing arc when the surviving shuttles landed on her hull. It took a little longer for the six craft sent after the Fire to catch up, but eventually they landed as well.
“Fire of Prometheus has cut power to her engines, and her hyper emissions are fading,” grinned one of the Sensor Operators. “She’s as good as surrendered, Sir.”
“Excellent, Sensor Tech,” I said, loosening the tight grip I had on the arms of the Admiral's Throne. I hadn't even noticed grabbing it so tightly.
There was a stir in part of the sensor section. “Admiral! The Imperial Strike Cruiser is coming about. She’s heading straight for us,” said one of the sensor techs.
“Poke the bear with a stick and watch what happens next,” the First Officer muttered darkly, his voice low enough that no one but myself was likely to hear him.
“Exactly,” I said with a false sense of relish. If you're going to play a part, you might as well go all-in. The First Officer looked at me like he thought I was a crazed man. Apparently, I was doing well.
“We’re the bear and that Imperial is just an over-aggressive little mountain lion who doesn’t know what it’s messing with,” I said, trying to project confidence for the rest of the Flag Bridge.
“If they continue on this course, the Imperials will meet us before we range on the Constructors,” reported Tactical.
“The man just blinked,” I said happily.
“Huh,” said the First Officer, clearly finding the idea that an untrained Royal could see something a trained officer like himself had missed to be preposterous.
“He doesn’t want to risk us firing on those Constructors. For a man who acts so very willing to blow those ships up to keep them out of our hands, he sure is going to a lot of trouble see to it ‘we’ don’t get a chance to destroy them,” I said with smug satisfaction. That satisfaction soon turned to a creeping feeling of dread as the Strike Cruiser came closer and closer.
I had considered the possibility of actually fighting the Strike Cruiser to be about 50/50. Looks like I had been unconsciously betting on the wrong 50. Either that, or I was pretty bad at figuring the odds.
“Wait for it,” the Tactical Officer said from his console.
For a second, I was confused. The icons on the screen hadn’t yet met. I was about to make a comment but didn’t get the chance.
“Wait for it,” yelled the Tactical Officer. “Gunnery, now,” he roared. “Port broadside fire as she bears. Forward gunners give it to her with both barrels.”
I watched entranced as the main screen was filled with streaks of light. I was surprised I wasn’t actually feeling anything. With the ramming maneuver, and obviously during the trip in the little cutter, the evidence of combat could be felt through deck plating. Here, there was nothing. No recoil, no massive 'thwumps' or those other high-pitch weapon sounds I was so used to hearing in the holo-vids.
“Her turbolasers are ranging on us, Admiral,” exclaimed one of the sensor operators. “Ours are replying in turn. We’re still outside the range of our heavy laser cannons,” the man said excitedly.
“Shields are falling,” reported the Shield Operator. “We’re down to 50% on our forward shields.”
“She’s rotating,” roared the grey haired Tactical Officer. “Recommend we do the same, Sir.”
It took me a moment to realize the Tactical Officer was speaking to me.
“The batteries are getting kind of hot. Recommend we rotate to give the port broadside a chance to cool down,” the man at tactical said urgently.
“Do it, Helmsman,” I ordered, working hard to keep my tone steady.
Then the Imperials brought their other broadside to bear and continued coming in at an angle such that their main weaponry all found a target. I felt a small shudder and a series of automated warning sirens started going off.
“Shield penetration,” yelped the shield Operator. “We’re down to 20% on the shields. Spotting is occurring and some of their fire is getting through.”
Damage Control sounded off, “Hull compromised on deck five. The leakage has been stopped by the automated pressure sensors on the blast doors,” reported a man at damage control. “Dispatching a work party now.”
“How much damage to the enemy ship,” I asked, pounding my chair in excitement.
There was a pause. “Negligible so far, Sir” stated one of the tactical trainees after conferring with sensors. “We haven’t even made it through their shields yet.”
“I thought our shields were stronger,” I said in frustration.
“The Imperials have better fire control computers and more skilled gunners,” the officer at tactical said hoarsely. Fingers flying over the tactical console and eyes never leaving his screen. “They have more weapons able to fire at these longer ranges than we do. Our boys are doing the best they can.”
“Reroute power from the rear shielding array to the forward. Let's compensate for the extra damage we’re taking,” instructed Officer Tremblay. He was already at the shield console and I had never even noticed him move there.
“Shields stabilizing,” reported the Shields Operator.
“How’s our regen rate,” queried the Tactical Officer.
The shield operator listed a number that had the man swearing. “Sweet Murphy, the Chief Engineer told me we only had three of the five fusion generators the ship was issued with, but I forgot,” the man said, looking grim. “Must be getting old.”
Then the Lucky Clover’s starboard turbolaser batteries came to bear and a renewed series of lights flashed back and forth.
“She’s trying to maintain her distance,” exclaimed one of the sensor operators. “The Imperial's turning to keep the range open.”
“Get us as close as you can and keep us there, Helmsman,” I ordered before several opened mouths could urge me to do so.
“Yes, Admiral,” DuPont said with determination.
For several minutes the two ships pounded away on each other.
“It’s a good thing both our barrels are too hot to fire more often,” reported the Tactical Officer. “With only our three old power generators, I’m afraid we couldn’t keep recharging the shields and fire one broadside full out. As it is, if we were facing more ships, we wouldn’t have the power to fire both broadsides at once, even if the shield recharge rate was cut entirely,” he growled in frustration.
The enemy vessel rotated again and a fresh barrage of turbo laser fire rained down on the Luck Clover.
“Shield strength falling rapidly,” wailed the shield operator.
“Re-route power from the rear shield array,” said the First Officer.
“There’s nothing to re-route,” said the Shield Operator frantically. Then the ship was rocked by series of blows.
“Decompression on decks one through three,” reported Damage Control.
“How bad is it,” snapped the First Officer.
There was a pause and several more blows caused the ship to shudder.
“It's minimal,” damage control reported in a loud, yet pleased tone.
“Roll the ship,” I ordered.
“We’re not yet at the end of the heat life of our barrel,” protested the Tactical Officer.
The Helmsman looked back at me and I nodded, indicating he should continue anyway.
Several more clangs occurred, then finally the roll was over and a fresh broadside was unleashing its fury.
“Enemy shields are spotting,” said a sensor operator pumping his fist. The Bridge gave a cheer in unison.
I gave them all a brave smile, but on the inside I was sure the other side was cheering about all the turbo-bolts that landed on the hull of the Lucky Clover, not about a little bit of shield spotting.
“Contact the Chief Engineer,” I said as soon as Tremblay regained control and the cheering died down. “Tell him I don’t care how he does it, but we need more power to the turbo-batteries,” I barked.
Something on the other side had to give, or our ship was going to be in a world of hurt.
Then a series of explosions rocked the ship and the lights flickered on the bridge. I didn’t know how much more of this my ship could take.
Chapter 6: The Paring Knife
He was the very model of an ancient, outdated Space Engineer: the paring knife.
Crewman Bostwell was trying to say something as the ship rocked worse than it ever had before and a power surge shot through Main Engineering.
Several crewmen's uniforms caught fire and they fell screaming from the catwalk.
Smoke started to pour from one of the three primary conduits running from Fusion Generator number 2. Main engineering started to fill with smoke. “Shut her down,” screamed Crewman Brence, pointing at the sparking and flaming fusion generator. “We have to shut it down and eject the fusion core!”
“No,” bellowed Chief Spalding. “Turn the vents on full blast and get that smoke out of here. Main Engineering isn’t surrendering yet!”
“But Chief, the internal breakers are all fused up and even if we could replace them without killing the men doing it, there’s a crack in the containment, there’s no way she’ll hold up under the strain!"
“Never,” roared the Chief Engineer. “If we lose a power core, the Clover’s as good as finished!”
“We may not have a choice, Sir,” yelled Brence, pointing to the burning generator.
“Chief!” said Bostwell.
“What,” screamed Spalding, his hair even more wild than usual.
“The Bridge says the Admiral doesn’t care how you do it, they need more power and they need it now!”
The Chief Engineer threw back his head and laughed. Wiping away the tears, he slapped Bostwell on the shoulder. “Tell them they’ll have their power in five minutes."
“Chief,” protested Brence, “this is insane! We need to dump the core and advise the Admiral to abandon ship if things are so desperate.”
Engineering was rocked again by a nearby impact.
Lieutenant Spalding slapped the nearest thing he’d had to a crew chief, before Tracto VI, on the chest. Those know-it-all settlement types who couldn’t hack it in the SDF and showed up to complain about the state of his Engineering department might know more, but Brence had been there with him through thick and thin. Seeing Castwell die of his liquor addiction had also worked its wonders on the former, no good slacker.
“Engineering won’t abandon its post while one, single gunner is still manning his. You round up any man that isn’t running for it, get that fire put out and those breakers re-installed,” he barked at the crewman.
“Sir, it doesn’t matter. Even if we get the breakers back in order and the fire put out, it's too late. The core is going to blow, Chief,” repeated the crewman, panic in full control.
“You let me worry about the fusion core, laddy. You just make blasted sure that when the power starts flowing right, you funnel it where the Admiral needs it. Do you understand,” he barked, grabbing the other man by the back of the neck and glaring into his eyes for good measure.
“No, Sir. I don’t,” said Brence.
“Good lad,” he said, patting him once on the cheek before slapping him away and giving him a boot in the rear to see on his way. Then he marched to the biggest machine shop on the ship and forced his way into a halfway repaired heavy load suit.
Stomping back onto main engineering, he watched as the vents struggled, and ultimately failed to contain the smoke. Brence and a handful of men had climbed up onto the fusion generator and were trying to put out the fires with a series of small, portable fire extinguishers.
As he watched, one man was electrocuted and his blackened body was thrown half way across the decking, landing on the floor with a sickening crunch.
Seeing a runner high-tailing it off the deck, the old chief used his clumsy load suit to collar the man. Literally. He was trying for an arm, but the clumsy suit grabbed hold of the fabric of the rating’s collar instead.
“I need you, lad,” laughed the Chief Engineer. “No more slacking for you!” He marched the two of them over to the plant with the damaged fusion core.
He pressed the still kicking and struggling crewman towards the manual door controls. “It’s a two man job, lad,” he said loudly and pressed the man against the controls he would need to operate.
“Stay here and start the opening sequence,” he instructed. “If you're thinking of running while my back is turned, know I’ll find you and toss you into the waste recycler just like they did to Jean Luc,” he warned direly.
He went back to grab a square section of hull metal, normally used for simple emergency patches. Returning, he clumsily worked the levers and the first door leading into the fusion core swung open.
“Ye’ve done yer duty, lad,” said the Chief Engineer. “You can finish running away if you like.”
“Yes, sir,” said the wide-eyed engineering rating, glancing back and forth between the wildly grinning chief engineer and the opening leading into an unstable power core.
“Engineering is still the toughest blasted department on the ship, my young rating, and don’t you ever forget it. You tell the Chief Gunner I’ll see him in Hades,” howled the grinning Chief Engineer as he marched through the door. “Floating from ship to ship, what a bunch of nonsense,” he said as he manually closed the door behind him.
He saw the rating was still nodding like a fool and he sighed. It was a sorry bunch of hands he’d be leaving the Engineering department in. A sorry bunch indeed. Turning slowly, he resolutely opened the second of three doors leading directly to the cracked fusion core. The book said there was no way a standard heavy load suit could survive the radiation bath of a cracked core. There was no way a man inside a load suit would survive long enough to fix anything, they said.
Whoever wrote that book was a liar. He’d looked at the specs himself and figured that a man in a heavy load suit, holding a properly sized section of outer-hull metal between himself and the main leak ought to have just enough time to make sure the fix was in before turning into a crispy critter and giving up the ghost.
Closing the second door, he turned and started the cycle to open the third and final door. It was all that was between him and an out of control power core. Holding his hull-metal shield in one hand and his trusty plasma torch in the other, he waded in to do battle with the Demon Murphy himself.
Chapter 7: Down in the Turret Pits and then Back to the Bridge
The Chief Gunner’s Mate on the ship didn’t question the sudden return of power. More power than they’d had the whole battle so far, in fact. Instead, he ordered a renewed barrage of turbo-bolts from the rest of the men and took careful aim at that infernally hard to damage Imperial Strike Cruiser.
Aiming for where he thought a spot in the shield was about to form, the Chief Gunner on the ship cut loose with the battery under his direct control. He didn’t need some fancily dressed tactical officer up on the bridge telling him what to do. This was a fight, not rocket surgery!
The ship shook and rocked around me, and the power continued to flicker on the Flag Bridge. Damage control said there was a fire in Main Engineering and they’d heard nothing from Spalding ever since he said to give him five minutes.
That was six minutes ago, and the Imperial ship continued to pummel us dangerously close to the point of submission. The Lucky Clover and gotten in a few random blows here and there, but nothing to write home about.
Damage control was talking about needing to eject a fusion core before it exploded, taking the ship with it. But if they did that, there was no way we could stay in the fight with the Imperial Cruiser.
“I read a pair of CR 70 old-style corvettes coming up fast behind us,” yelled a Sensor Operator.
It looked like Le-Godat was about to make good on his promise to join the Imperials. He was perfectly positioned to strafe us from the rear. After the engines were taken out, it wouldn’t matter about the fusion generator any more. We would be sitting ducks.
I was just about to order the core dumped and bitterly offer our surrender to Commander Cornwallis, when the Lucky Clover once again lived up to its name sake, with two spots of luck.
Without warning, the lights surged painfully bright.
“We’ve got full power back! More than we had before the fusion core went unstable,” exclaimed the Tactical Officer before thumping one of his trainees on the shoulder and speaking furiously into his speaker.
“A hit,” roared the Tactical Officer, pounding the trainee beside him on the shoulder so hard the younger man started to fall out of his seat.
“Her forward shields are wavering, and I’m getting erratic power readings from the Imperial Cruiser,” said a sensor operator, her voice rising above the fray.
“We hit something critical,” said the Tactical Officer, “Pour it on, lads,” he shouted into his speaker.
“We’re gaining on them,” Helmsman DuPont said fiercely.
“The corvettes are almost on us,” snapped the Tactical Officer.
“Only fire when fired upon,” I bellowed, just to be sure I was heard. “The longer they hold off, the better!”
“Admiral, recommend we slew our engines so it's harder for them to make any trick shots,” suggested the First Officer.
“Make it so, Helmsman,” I instructed, oblivious to whatever 'slewing the engines' actually entailed.
The Tactical Officer stopped barking orders into his receiver for a few seconds, long enough that I turned to him to see what had happened. His eyes were locked on his primary display, and he took a step back from his console with his hands slowly raising into the air. I had no idea what was going on, but was just about to order Tremblay to his station to assist with whatever the problem was, when he spoke.
"Heavy Laser range in three..two..one. We've got them, send 'em to Hades, boys!"
A new barrage of fire erupted from the Lucky Clover, making every time we had fired before pale in comparison. The shields of the Imperial Cruiser, showing random openings before, now seemed ready to collapse under the crushing weight of our medium-range fire.
The corvettes seemed to hesitate, and instead of unloading their fire into the vulnerable rear of our ship, they swung wide around the old Battleship and streaked in for an attack run on the Imperials.
After we had fully cleared our Heavy Lasers, the Imperial ship’s shields manage to stabilize, and their engines were once again at full power. But by now, the damage had been done and the Luck Clover was in close, able to bring all her firepower to bear. Miraculously, we even had enough power to fire it all, this time.
I didn’t know how Engineering had managed it, but Spalding had worked another one of his miracles.
All that was left was to see if the poorly named Montagne Magic was going to be enough to give my larger, much more outdated and moderately damaged provincial warship the ability to defeat a top of the line, faster and more maneuverable Imperial, one with nearly the same throw weight only light damage.
The Imperial was trying to get away, but things were going to get much closer before they started sliding apart again.
Roaring in for the kill were the pair of small corvettes. They came in close and fired their lighter weapons at holes in the Strike Cruiser’s shields. The Imperial Cruiser defiantly fired back, sending one corvette spinning from a pair of turbo-bolts and the other one streaking away from the much larger capital ship to avoid a similar crippling blow.
Then it was our turn. Under my feet, I could feel the deck shake and the ship heave, but all I could focus on was the air spilling out of the hull of the Imperial ship.
The heavy lasers might be old, outdated and clearly less powerful than the newer turbo-lasers and turbo-batteries, but there were a lot more of them, and what they lost in power they made up for in sheer volume.
I could overhear the Tactical Officer instructing the heavy laser gunners to focus on taking out the enemy weapon systems and turret placements because they weren’t strong enough to penetrate the hull without a concentrate barrage on a relatively small area.
“We don’t have the training and proficiency for that kind of operation yet. We’ll do a lot better stripping her of her ability to do us further damage,” the man said, lecturing his trainees, even in the heart of battle.
There was an explosion.
“What was that,” yelped Officer Tremblay.
“Forward shields are down,” said the shield operator.
“They just completely destroyed our forward shield generator,” reported Damage Control. The crewman listened to something in his ear, “Report is, there’s nothing left but the mount. We’re going to need a brand new generator when this is all over.”
“We’ll worry about that after we survive the battle,” said the First Officer.
“Helmsman, rotate the ship so our least damaged side is facing them and take us in. Right down their throats,” I ordered, stealing a line from one of the more bombastic naval holo-vids.
The damaged corvette had recovered enough to limp away from the battle, but the other one was still harrying the Strike Cruiser from its rear, swooping in and out. There was less defensive weaponry there, and the corvette couldn't afford to gamble anywhere else.
Despite their best efforts, the Imperials kept receiving hits landing on and around their engines, from that pesky little corvette.
The corvette seemed able to nimbly to dodge or absorb the relatively low powered defensive fire on the rear facing. There was a lot of it, but it wasn’t very powerful compared to the Cruiser’s main weaponry.
Shrugging off blow after blow, the Dreadnaught Class Battleship lived up to its namesake, and pounded its way right next to the Strike Cruiser.
The Strike Cruiser started to rotate, but it was moving much slower than before. It seemed the corvette was having some kind of effect back there after all. Clearly, not all those shots had missed or been absorbed by armor.
“We’ve just about knocked out all her weapons on that side, while they’ve only killed about a third of ours,” the Tactical Officer reported with enthusiasm.
Then the Strike Cruiser was rocked by a series of small explosions and lost power once again. It was only for a few seconds, but the Imperial ship came back online with even less power than before.
Her gunnery seemed less coordinated as well.
That’s when I knew it was time. The Imperial was slower and less coordinated than ever before. The hits she’d taken causing her more distress than the equivalent damage to the Clover. They’d already shown that if you gave them time, Imperial damage control teams could restore most of the lost function.
I wasn’t going to give them that time.
I turned to Lieutenant Tremblay. “Instruct the Lancers to suit up, if they aren’t already, and to get themselves out on the starboard hull and be ready to jump,” I said.
Then I turned to the Helmsman. “I don’t care how you do it, just get us in close to that damaged side of theirs, where our gunnery team has nearly knocked out their weaponry,” I ordered.
“There’s no way we can match ship velocity and spins in time to board. They'll be able to move away with plenty of time to spare. Any bucking cables or grappling hooks will be useless,” protested the Helmsman while doing as he’d been ordered.
“Didn’t you hear,” I said with a grin, “we’re not going to board her. The Lancers are.” I knew I gave the helmsman a rictus of a smile, but I couldn’t help it. I was sending a bunch of untrained and overeager (but in the case of the natives, blood thirsty as well) young men to take down an Imperial Strike Cruiser.
For a moment, I was struck with the knowledge that it was too much to ask of them. That was when I knew what I had to do.
“Tremblay, you have Con,” I declared, jumping out of the Admiral’s Throne and then pointing at the Tactical Officer, “He’s your new second in command until I come back,” I ordered.
“Where are you going,” exclaimed the First Officer, completely blindsided.
“Just let the Helmsman do his duty and pull away from that ship as soon as we’re across. There’s no need to wreck the ship once the Lancer’s are onboard,” I said, breaking into a jog toward the lift.
Activating my wrist com, I contacted Gants and instructed him to bring an extra suit to the nearest starboard airlock.
Chapter 8: Boarding Action
After meeting up with Gants (who was all enthusiasm, as usual), I slammed my way into the suit. I did manage to hurt my recently dismembered hand when I jostled it, but before I knew it, I was cycling through the airlock and out onto the hull.
I was just as untrained as any of them, when it came to jumping from ship to ship. Thankfully, someone other than me had been thinking of things, because I noticed that each small squad of men had been issued a portable thruster pack. It looked like the plan was for one man to hold the thruster while the other men dangled behind him, holding onto a safety line.
I hunched down and my visor automatically darkened as turbo-bolts lashed the hull of the Lucky Clover. Quickly, the other side of the Strike Cruiser was visible. There were only a few active turrets working, the rest were mere blackened craters on their hull.
It was time, and in the case of his little armory squad, Gants activated the portable thruster pack and they were off.
The Prometheans at least had a good idea of what to do. Not only were they from a high tech civilization (at least when compared to the natives of Tracto), but they’d recently spent some time floating in space waiting for a rescue from the pirates. So they were motivated, and at least had some theoretical and practical knowledge to go with their lack of experience.
Unfortunately, not everyone aimed well and just over half my Lancers missed the Imperial Cruiser entirely, at least on the first pass.
Imperial point defense batteries flared to life as I watched, and my men started to light up like Christmas candles as they were shot down one by one.
The rest were motivated to get down on the hull anyway they could. Some made it, others weren’t so lucky. I knew the chances were small of being struck by one of those point defense systems, but the sheer, overwhelming terror was almost too much to bear.
Then, before I knew it, I was down on their hull and it was time to force our way into the Strike Cruiser.
The Armory crew, having been involved with one previous boarding action, remembered to bring a self-sealing boarding tube along with them.
I would have made a comment about at least remembering vital equipment the second time around, but looking at the various Lancer squads landing around us, I realized they were probably the only people in my original twelve hundred man boarding party to bring one along.
That meant our opening had to be successful. There was no choice, because there were no other boarding tubes. Anyone who survived the withering fire when they overshot and landed on the other side of the hull were just going to have to force an airlock or something.
No pressure, I reminded myself.
For a moment I just stopped and stared at my hands. Here I was, not three weeks ago a loyal subject of the Confederated Empire and useless to just about everyone, including myself. Now I was boarding an Imperial Warship with the intent of seizing her through bloody force, and all I could think about was to wonder and worry about how many Marine Jacks they had onboard.
Then Oleander jostled me so bad I almost lost contact with the hull and had to make a desperate grab at the security line I’d dropped to keep from floating out into space. I glared at the man, who had the grace to look sheepish and mouth a sorry. I had nearly been reduced to a helpless target for the remaining Imperial point defense.
But I smiled and shrugged at him, then opened a channel to Gants and told him Oleander was going to be the first one into the boarding tube and dropped inside the hull to greet the Imperials.
Gants gave me a worried look but did as I asked.
A boarding tube is a collapsible piece of tubing over a meter wide, consisting of a cutting end with drills, torches and other methods of cutting quickly through hull-plating, and a telescopic tube which could extend up to seven meters. Inside the collapsible section were two pieces of high-tech, incomprehensible (but fully functional) membranous material which could maintain an air seal, once the interior of the target vessel had been breached. Essentially, all one had to do was place the cutting end of the tube against the hull of the ship, and let the drills cut their way through the metal until it found pressure, at which point the seals would activate and Marines (or, in our case, Lancers) could jump into the tube and come out in whatever compartment had been breached.
Oleander was through first, as was ordered, followed by several other men and then it was my turn to drop through that tube and into what would prove to be the worst fight of my life yet.
At first it was easy going. A few unarmed crewmen who ran away. Then some men with blaster sidearms. I knew that unless they got in a series of lucky shots, there was nothing they could do against a man in power armor but I ducked behind a door anyway when I moved to return fire anyway. The last thing I needed was a lucky shot that put me and this clunky old suit out of the action.
I wish my old upgraded power suit had been available, but the helmet and suit attachments at the neck still needed work, and Spalding had been too busy getting a couple thousand old battle-suits up and running to focus on it.
The corridor behind me swelled with battle-suited figures. There must have been almost a hundred of us gathered around that insertion point, and I was starting to feel confident that we could do this.
That’s when the Jacks came out of the wall and showed us what a real Marine in first-rate power armor could do. And when I say come out of the wall, that’s literally what I mean.
The first group burned a hole and took us in the side while the second had stood motionless with their camouflage. We obviously hadn’t even noticed and walked right past them. Gants was the first to recognize the ambush for what it was.
"They're coming through the walls," he screamed, and dove to the far side of the corridor.
I later learned our suits had a feature to help us detect such stealthy intruders in our midst, but we didn’t know about it at the time and even if we had, we were dressed in grandpa’s old provincial version. The Jacks were in top of the line, state of the Imperial fighting equipment. I seriously doubt we would have picked up anything recognizable even if we had known of that particular function. That's my position, anyways, and I'm sticking to it.
Crouching down, first with fear and then with a reasoned desire to survive, I unslung my plasma rifle and looked for the opportunity to return fire. Snapping off a shot, I watched in dismay as a nearly invisible Imperial suit staggered and then shrugged it off.
"Focus your fire, men," I yelled over the suit's communication system. I really didn't know much about a coordinated boarding action, but keeping everyone focused and together seemed the most important part of any successful plan.
Looking at the Jacks, the difference between our forces was obvious. Where we had helmets with necks that stuck out like an old fashion suit of armor from a time when horseback jousting was the premier combat sport, they had a seamless curved section of reinforced armor running from the edge of their shoulders to the top of their head. Far from being a weak spot, their head area was so heavily reinforced they could use the entire top of their armor, including their heads, as battering rams.
The amount of firepower they were putting out was devastating and as I saw Lancers staggering and going down, I screamed into my speakers and stood up. A lot of people behind me were being burned down or actively seeking cover, and in the confusion I couldn’t always tell which.
This realization filled me with rage and I pulled on the trigger, unleashing a stream of plasma bolts through the gaps in my men.
Looking into the main body I caught a good look at one of the exposed Imperials. It appeared where we had to carry blaster or plasma rifles, they had blasters tubes built into one arm and plasma tubes in the other. All they had to do was point and subtly push their wrist down to be rewarded with a kill.
While we had a motley assortment of carbon nano-steel boarding axes and vibro-blades, they carried force-blades and crystal axes made out of pure mono-Locsium.
Hits they would shrug off could put our men down, and sometimes we didn’t get up again.
I think if there had been more of them, they would have overwhelmed us with that first ambush. As it was, less than twenty Jacks killed over half of us, putting down a good fifty of my men, without losing single one of their own before withdrawing.
I missed the worst of the ambush by virtue of leading from the front. The Jacks hit the middle of our column while our scouts walked by, all fat and happy. I sat there cursing, swearing and taking the occasional pot shot as the Imperials did the damage they intended and then withdrew.
My battle suit was the same style of antiquated clunker as the rest of my men, so they had no idea there was anything different about me, probably why they didn’t actively try to take me out in the initial furor. I later learned the reason we had so many old-style battle suits for my Lancers was because Spalding had snuck them off several other ships that were headed for the breakers. As it was, I was both grateful we had the suits and furious at how poorly they stacked up next to the Imperials.
A few of our more bloodthirsty natives responded to the attack by raising their vibro-weapons and charging after the Jacks. We found their bodies later. As far as we could tell, of the six men who charged off after the Jacks, only one managed to get his man before also dying.
It was a sad state of affairs when an undisciplined barbaric charge netted us our best win/loss ratio.
After that, I think my Tracto-an’s started to realize what these suits were capable of. Before, they’d just been treating them like superior versions of their own native armors. Seeing the Jacks in action, bouncing off walls and killing men left and right with bolts from their arms and with blades and axes in their hands did not have the same intimidating on the Tracto-an’s it had on the rest of us, it actually seemed to inspire them.
My rambunctious Armory crew and the few Promethean’s amongst us huddled close together and covered our firing lines as we crept through the ship.
In comparison, the men who called me Warlord tried to do a little wall bouncing of their own and eagerly moved ahead to find combat with the enemy. They had no mercy for any the unarmed ship’s crew they found. If the person wouldn’t surrender or, after surrendering tried to resist or escape, my Tracto-ans were more than happy to cut his or her head off.
In return, the Jacks savaged my forces.
There were a few more ambushes, which finally taught my warrior natives some caution. It seemed there was no honor in tripping an improvised mine and blowing yourself up, and thankfully the savage warriors caught on to that fact quickly enough.
But leaping into battle to get carved up two to one didn’t faze them in the least, and they were more than happy to replace any lost weapons with captured enemy gear. They even went so far as to hand off vibro-blades in exchange for mono-Locsium boarding axes and force-blades. They couldn’t figure out how to get the force blades to work, probably because they were genetically coded to one wielder, but they were such fearsome weapons that the natives prized them highly anyway, and made do with the mono-Locsium boarding axes instead.
I was holding tightly to my Minos Blade, having lost my plasma rifle in one of the engagements. I realize another man might have changed the name of a blade that had been renamed just in time to lose a battle for its new owner. But me, I considered the Minos Blade lucky. I had never lost a battle with it. Although, to tell the truth, I had come close twice. So far, any battle in which both the sword and I were involved in was a winner for at least one of us.
I think the Imperials discounted it as a broken vibro-blade that didn’t vibrate. However, the Minos Blade and I soon taught them differently. Slashing and rending for all I was worth, whenever a Jack came close enough.
I think it was at this point that they penetrated our internal communications and sorted through enough confusion to realize I was some sort of leader. A team of five burned through the walls on either side of us and went for an ambush. Fortunately, we’d been properly paranoid and with all the natives running around searching for enemies, they couldn’t slip more than a small five man team deep within our lines to get at me.
As soon as we saw the red color to the walls that preceded an imminent explosion, I used my power armor enhanced arms to take the Minos Blade and slam it through the Duralloy wall beside me. I felt resistance and something tug on the blade, and then they were through the walls.
Following my lead, a couple of the Armory boys with vibro-blades tried to deal with the intruders hand to hand, while the rest leveled plasma rifles and cut loose.
For his part, Oleander pulled loose the pins on a string of plasma grenades before he and a couple Prometheans who had stuck close by, dove behind us to get away from the blast.
Unlike the vibro-blades that were getting cut to pieces, my ‘dark sword of superstitious power’ (otherwise known as the Minos Sword), was standing up just fine to the Jack’s mono-Locsium boarding axes and force blades.
I, on the other hand was not, and that was just the problem. My other hand, that is. Even in my reinforced armor, my recently reattached hand just wasn’t up to all this activity, and right now I needed it desperately. Because the Jacks had more than twice the skill, and were encased in twice the battle-suit I was.
While I would never admit it out loud, I think Oleander’s danger-close thinking, when he tossed a string of plasma grenades practically at our feet, actually paid off. Surprisingly enough.
The Marine Jacks, having pushed us back and cut the heads off two of my men, were thrown off their feet and coated in white hot plasma, when the string of grenades exploded.
Their suits might be resistant, but the burning plasma sure slowed them down.
I used this to my advantage to put all of my two-handed, servo-assisted power behind the Minos Sword and thrust it into the visor of a fallen Imperial Marine Jack.
You can say it was unsportsmanlike, and as dishonorable an action as you care to throw around, but I was fighting for survival here. This was another Victory or Death scenario and so far, there had been a lot more death on my side than there had been victory. The sickening screech as my sword penetrated his suit and sank into the Jack’s head, set off a string of uncontrolled twitching in the man under my boot.
I looked away and moved on, too busy to be sick to my stomach.
We pushed forward, my men and I, heading deep into the ship in search of the Bridge or Engine Room.
I suspect the reason the Jacks eventually decided to come at us in force wasn’t because we were in a terrible position. Oh, it certainly wasn’t good, but it wasn’t as bad as some of the series of corridors we had passed through recently. It must have been because we were getting close to something important.
This time was different, though. This time, they came in serious numbers, not the little raiding teams that had been so devastatingly effective so far, and the Jacks were supported by a number of heavily armed members of the crew.
Whatever else you want to say about the Imperials, you have to give them this. They were tough sons-of-guns. However, while my Caprian and Promethean men were probably willing to concede them the honor as the toughest men in the galaxy, the Tracto-ans felt a little differently.
The Caprian and Promethean reaction to an unexpected attack that decimated your numbers was to turtle up and push them back. The Tracto-ans had a whole other way of thinking. When they were pressed, they pushed back. Hard. Where I and the men around me from the armory team crouched down to return fire, the Tracto-ans charged.
Taking a page from the Marine Jacks, my natives in provincial armor bounced off walls, they dived and rolled, anything to close to grips with the enemy. When that didn’t work, they’d get together and two of them would cut through a wall almost as fast as a single Jack working by himself could, then they’d try to go around.
They even came up with the idea of using grenades to blow a hole in the ceiling, and then two men would launch a steady stream of their fellows up onto the next floor. At least, they would do so until the Jacks cut the throwers down. All of this was in an attempt to get over the Jacks so they could cut a new hole and land on top of them.
It was all out, it was brutal and it was carnage. I think the Tracto-ans had less preconceived notions of what was and was not possible using power armor, and when they saw a Jack do something impossible, their response was to try and duplicate it. They didn’t stop to wonder if their old suit was up to the job or built for the task. There were some colossal failures, but unexpected successes as well.
However, the thing that told most in our favor was numbers. We were outnumbered by the unarmored crew. But they were nearly helpless against us unless they were sporting heavy weaponry. The Jacks had us outclassed, but there were fewer of them than I had expected.
So, despite brutal losses, my Lancers carried the day all the way to the Bridge of the Imperial Strike Cruiser.
We managed to blow open the doors to the Bridge using all the explosives we carried, along with whatever we could scrounge from the fallen Jacks. Marching into the Bridge in my armor, I was hit by a blaster bolt from a hand held weapon. I pretended to ignore it and planted my feet on the deck plating.
“Commander Marcus Cornwallis, in the name of the Confederation Fleet and its Government, I demand you surrender this ship and your person to my forces. You and your men will be taken before a High Justice, where you will be charged with the crime of cold space piracy and violating the sovereignty of Easy Haven, as well as the government of the Confederation in the Spine.” That was as far as I got before the commander decided to make his final stand.
“Charge,” screamed Commander Cornwallis, “let's get these provincial rubes,” he roared, unleashing a stream of blaster fire at my helmet.
I raised my bad hand to cover my face, and the next thing I knew the Imperial Commander had run himself through on my sword. I’m still not quite sure to this day if he did it on purpose, or if he was so caught up in putting down us provincial rubes that he forgot to look where he was going.
Either way, he had some starch, this Imperial Commander. He dropped his blaster pistol and pulled himself up the Minos Sword using his hands, until he was close enough to spit in my visor. Which he promptly did before slumping wearily to the floor.
His First Officer, one Lieutenant Commander George Franklin, was much more amenable to my suggestion that enough blood had been spilled already and accepted my offer.
“I formally surrender the Imperial Strike Cruiser, Victorious Solar-Flare, to…” he paused and looked at me, clearly wanting to know who I was.
“Admiral Jason Montagne of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” I said helpfully, then added, “And of the Tracto System Defense Force, of course,” I added, motioning toward some of the Tracto-an natives, who pumped their fists in the air in reply.
“I hereby surrender this Imperial ship to you, Admiral Montagne,” he said stiffly.
“Excellent. I accept your surrender,” I replied formally.
“Now,” I said with a quirk of the lips, “let's get on the speaker and let everyone know it’s time to stop killing each other. Your Jacks and my Lancers, especially. Don’t you agree?”
Not surprisingly, he agreed and we gave the necessary instructions over every com channel we could reach.
Then I, being no fool, called for a medic. The Commander was still breathing, and the last thing I needed was a dead Cornwallis on my hands.
The Confederation, or at least that part of it which was located in the Spine, was not at war with the Empire, and I was dead certain that any government replacing the Empire out here wouldn’t be very happy with an Admiral who decided to start such a conflict.
Seizing an Imperial ship for piracy was bad enough, even if the evidence seemed to be in our favor. But killing its Captain and a member of an influential senatorial family?
Far better to send him home in disgrace for over-reaching his authority and then going on to losing his ship to a bunch of ‘provincial rubes,’ like myself.
“Who are you,” asked the Imperial First Officer, “and where did you people come from? Most provincials turn and run at their first taste of real combat. I’ve never to meet anyone, Gorgon or Provincial, who’d board an Imperial ship with anything less than overwhelming force.”
I just gave him an enigmatic smile. I was tired of sounding my own horn and telling people exactly who I was. It was time for them to start finding that out for themselves.
“I’m just a Confederation Officer doing his duty,” I said.
Exactly what I thought that duty entailed, I didn’t say because at that moment, I honestly wasn’t sure. I did know that whatever it turned out to be, it definitely involved stopping piracy wherever I found it. If that meant I got to stick it to the Empire and put a finger in the eye of few certain Imperials along the way… well, that was more than just alright with me.