Chapter One: Thanks and Appreciation are overrated
“I’d just like to ask one more time, for the record—” started the man standing in front of my desk.
“Hypocrites,” I said, faking an explosive cough into my hand to partially garble the word.
The Sector Representative stopped, a long-suffering expression settling on his face as he waited for me to continue.
“I’m sorry; you were saying, Judge Kong?” I asked the Sector Judge with a politely innocent expression.
“I’m not entirely sure why I try anymore,” the Sector Judge said with a sigh.
“Then, by all means, let us discuss something more pleasant,” I said, my face brightening, “for instance: in addition to learning how to make a mean curry courtesy of your countrymen, my Chef has just perfected a remarkably edible dish native to my wife’s home world. Perhaps you’d be interested in trying it and giving me your opinion?” Thanks to my training back home both at court and at home with my mother the professional chef, I was able to converse for hours on the most banal of subjects, with food being one of the prime examples. “I mean, I honestly don’t mind the barley bread dipped in wine with a garnish of olives on the side for an appetizer, but as they say ‘variety being the spice of life,’ and all, you really must try his latest creation—”
“Tempting as it sounds, I’m afraid I am here on other business, Admiral Montagne,” Kong Pao said politely.
“You don’t know what you’re missing until you’ve tried tagenites smothered in fermented Irk-Berries. It’s really similar to a pancake made with wheat flour, olive oil, honey and curdled milk, but with the irk-berries that start out sweet to the taste and finish with a bite like a hot pepper as it goes down. There’s also a faint aftertaste of spirits on the back of the tongue, which is really something you need to experience at least once in this lifetime.”
“I’ll really have to decline the breakfast menu,” Kong Pao said abruptly, “however, regarding the rumors of droids operating with impunity inside your fleet…”
“Droids again is it, my esteemed Representative?” I drawled in my most superior, aristocratic sounding voice. “I thought we put those rumors to rest the last time I spoke with Grand Admiral Manning.”
“And yet there are intercepted transmissions which the Grand Admiral is assured are in standard machine code—droid code, Admiral,” the Representative replied stoically.
“Intercepted droid transmissions…from within my Fleet?” I asked, miming concern and then forcing a scowl. “Preposterous, Representative!” I exclaimed with mock indignation, “I am sure there is some other explanation other than droids hostile to the survival of humanity running unchecked throughout my fleet.”
“The broadcasts are in the clear!” Pao barked irritably, and then he regained control of himself and his face once again smoothed back into a stoic, Asian mask, “at least, that is what the Elysium’s top technicians are telling me.”
“Well, there you have it,” I sniffed, “you said it yourself. So I really don’t know what more needs saying on the subject.”
“What?” Pao looked temporarily disconcerted, “I’m afraid I don’t follow. What exactly is it that I said?”
“We have captured or incorporated more former droid or droid converted vessels than any other sub-organization within the Grand Fleet. These ‘intercepted’,” I threw in an emphatic eye-roll, “are probably nothing more than legitimate MSP officers and crew using captured droid equipment. As for why you’ve been sent on this wild-goose-chase—and while I would hesitate to say so in a public forum for giving offence—I am sure that this witch hunt is nothing more than sour grapes over our attempted relief of the Forge mines during the droid attack. The Commandant of the area was quite put out with our questioning of his ability to defend the Forge. No doubt this is nothing more than a political witch hunt instigated by an irate, yet connected, mid-ranking officer.”
I smiled after laying out this convoluted mix of inference, innuendo and outright fabrications as if it were fact.
For his part, the Sector Judge looked so taken aback and out of step with what I was saying that he didn’t seem to have anything to say in return. Not willing to let a temporary stunned silence go to waste, I leapt once again into the breach.
“Mr. Pao,” I continued quite seriously, “let me assure you, in my capacity as a Fleet Officer: all the dangerous droids inside this system were defeated during the Battle for Elysium. That the survivors of the Harmony and Conformity fleets fled the system, not to somewhere within the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, cannot possibly be in doubt,” I shook my head at the possibility before driving the nail in. “Honestly, I don’t know where all this sudden concern is coming from—unless it’s just like I said: a witch hunt contrived by mid-rank officer and bureaucratic functionaries eager to sully the reputation of the MSP!” I finished with an angry flair that I thought nicely rounded out the presentation.
The Sector Judge heaved a sigh, “I take it from this performance you aren’t going to make this easy?”
“What performance?” I deadpanned before adding a wink that entirely ruined it. After all, it wasn’t like I was trying to hide anything. Like the man had just said: the United Sentient Assembly droids were broadcasting most of their salvage operations in the clear—and wasn’t it nice to have a super-sized constructor available while I swept up the ship’s we’d captured as well as a few derelicts on the side?
However, back to the Judge’s point, I simply refused to choose between backstabbing the allies who’d made the victory at Elysium possible—and thus saved at least Sectors 23 and 24 for humanity—and being forced to fight the rest of the Grand Fleet.
At least, I would refuse to make that choice for as long as a blank look, a little deception and the selective use of the truth would suffice…okay, a lot of deception. Of course that also begged the question: was it really a deception if everyone, their sister, and their angry uncle knew what you were up to?
“Well I suppose there’s nothing I can do about it if you insist on being obstinate on the subject,” the Representative said.
Not as long as I had enough combat power to damage or destroy the still crippled battleships of the Grand Fleet, I smugly noted. However, at the same time, it wouldn’t do to allow the ingrates of the so-called Grand Fleet—in the form of their Representative—talk down to me. I had a reputation to maintain, after all.
“Obstinate,” I repeated in that aggressively neutral tone of voice that I’d seen used to great effect in the holo-vids.
The Sector Judge stiffened his face becoming even blanker than usual. “Perhaps I misspoke,” the Judge said finally, “please excuse me.”
“No, I believe you spoke exactly as your masters in the Grand Fleet intended,” I said coolly.
“I am not privy to the innermost councils of the Fleet,” Kong Pao started to object, but I cut him off with a downward slash of my left hand.
“I’m sure you’re better regarded than you give yourself credit for,” I said cryptically, “besides, I suppose there is some truth in your accusation.”
Pao pursed his lips and started to look distressed. “It is my greatest desire to help you,” he paused.
“However…” I helpfully prompted.
Looking far more upset than normal, the usually imperturbable Asian frowned before taking a deep breath, “You are right: I have been directed in the strongest terms possible to forcefully inquire into the matter of the droids operating with impunity within this star system, as well as ensure they are destroyed before they can do any harm. Am I to take it from your last words that you are admitting such a state exists?”
I gave the Sector Judge a cold look. “The only thing I am admitting to is the saving of Elysium by this Fleet after the Grand Fleet—under command of Grand Admiral Manning, along with the Elysium High Command—bungled the operation,” I said flatly.
“Bungled?!” Pao swore with surprise.
“Despite being offered command of the Mutual Defense League Fleet prior to arrival—an offer extended by no lesser personage than yourself,” I said easily, and the Judge had the grace to start looking red-faced at this point, “upon my actual arrival, the MDL was rolled into the Grand Fleet and placed under the command of the Grand Admiral. Despite not being placed in charge of the MDL components of the Grand Fleet as promised, I still joined the defense of Elysium with my fleet and, when events turned against the Grand Admiral, I rallied what I could and ultimately defeated the hostile Droid Tribes attempting to subjugate these two Sectors. Having failed to witness the execution of one promise—a promise accepted in good faith on my part—I certainly do not intend to fail again!”
Or, in other words: you lied to me, or failed making promises you couldn’t keep, therefore regardless of your failures I certainly won’t be following your example and breaking my promised alliance with the droids of the United Sentients Assembly.
“I can only swear that my offer of Fleet Command was indeed made in good faith while I acted under direct instructions from the League,” Kong Pao said shame-facedly. “However, it is also true that I did offer what I was unable to ultimately give. I can only thank you for assisting our worlds anyway, despite my multiple repeated failures to give you fleet command. “Only a fool or an outright traitor to humanity would turn his back on the brave defenders of this Star System, especially when it was the critical battle in a Sector-wide attack,” I said dismissively. “Despite the trail of broken promises, slights, and failed actions that led us to this point, I couldn’t live with myself if I’d just turned my back on the people of these Sectors and stormed off in a huff. I mean, what the blazes are we out here for if not to stop things like this?!”
The Sector Judge nodded his head, “I’ll not try to persuade you further on the subject, I understand your position and all I can say is you are a man of honor, Vice Admiral Montagne. Thank you,” he said.
“The people of your worlds sure seem to have a funny way of showing such sentiments, Judge,” I said standing up to shake his hand and then my face brightened and I clapped him on the shoulder, “although come to think of it, people back home aren’t much better. So I guess I can’t hold it against your lot too much, biting the hand that saved you and all that,” however my hands tightened on his as we shook, “just don’t go abusing my better nature a second time, else you and your high-minded principles find me in a far less charitable mood.”
“I pray it never comes to that; you have done so much for us already,” Kong Pao said.
“Politician’s rarely answer our prayers in a form we can appreciate, Representative,” I said cynically.
“I will do my utmost to see such a thing never comes to pass, you can count on me, Vice Admiral Montagne,” said the Judge, “we’ve been through too much together to allow such a thing to happen.”
“I’ll hold you to it, Sector Judge,” I instructed and then gestured toward the door. If the man wasn’t planning to stay and enjoy a Tracto-an breakfast then I didn’t feel the need to stay around bandying words for the next hour.
Chapter Two: Caught in the Middle
“Did he agree to turn those captured ships of his back to their rightful planetary owners?” demanded Admiral Manning.
“I’m afraid such a thing is impossible, Grand Admiral,” Kong Pao said with a deep bow.
Archibald Manning growled but, in all honesty, he hadn’t expected much movement on that subject anyway—he just had to ask because of his family back on Elysium Prime.
“Did you at least get him to agree to let us help purge those blasted droids from his fleet?” the Grand Admiral asked hotly, “I’ve no problem allowing him to keep his hands on whatever hardware the machines currently have their hands on, whoever helps clear their ships—his or ours—despite what the home office says. I just want them gone from our Star System, having droids under our proverbial skins—technically inside our own Fleet—is…” he trailed off.
“I’m afraid the Admiral proved quite intractable on the subject,” the League Representative bowed his head.
“Intractable?! I’ll show him intractable,” Manning started to stand up before catching himself. He took a few deep breaths to calm himself, “Well, what did he have to say in defense of himself? This ought to be amusing in a sick, anti-humanist way, at least.”
“He denied any knowledge of hostile machine intelligences within his fleet, pointing to the plethora of captured droid ships and gear for any stray communications—” started the Judge.
“Stray transmissions?! The droids are transmitting in the clear!” cried Manning.
“Before,” Kong Pa cut in with a quelling look, “proceeding to comment on the seeming ingratitude toward himself—who was promised top command of League Forces—and his fleet, which he clearly states, ‘saved the Elysium Star System and thus two Sectors of human space’ from what he terms ‘hostile droid tribes,’ for even bringing up the subject, let alone continuing to persecute the saviors of this star system.”
“The cheek!” Manning snapped, fuming as he turned a withering look upon the League Representative. “Blast it, man, we got nothing of what we wanted—and a bucket full of complaints I wouldn’t tolerate from a deckhand, to boot. What good are you if this is all you can do for us?”
“As everything I promised—except a battle to the death against overwhelming numbers—failed to manifest, making me look like a liar to Jason Montagne, I am frankly surprised I was even picked for the job in the first place,” the Judge said coldly.
“The blighter wouldn’t let anyone else from the League or the Grand Fleet onto his ship,” Manning muttered picking up his cup of coffee and staring at it instead of the judge’s accusing gaze.
“I am not used to be taken to task for fulfilling my duties as assigned, High Captain,” Kong Pao said cuttingly.
“Just who do you think you are, Pao?” jerked Manning, rising out of his chair to glare down at the smaller man.
“I am, first and foremost, the duly appointed Sector Judge of Sector 23—of which Elysium is a member Star System,” Kong Pao said coolly, “despite whatever secondary assignments I have voluntarily taken on for the good of our worlds, our Sectors, and humanity as a whole!”
“This is wartime and sometimes tough calls have to be made; I’ll remind you that martial law, not civilian, is still in effect,” Manning stated his voice like iron.
“It seems to me that Elysium and the League-at-large forgets that I am just as powerful in peace time, as the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet and its ‘Confederation’ Admiral are in wartime; your and their heavy-handed tactics risk alienating both,” the Sector Judge said calmly, “besides, I am not as powerless during a ‘martial law’ situation as you seem to think.”
Manning waved his hand in the air as if to clear it. “I’m following orders just the same are you are, Judge; there’s no need to get your back up. None of this is directed against you—at least not as far as I can see—although it may feel that way at times,” he said in an attempt to smooth the waters.
“That is where you, and possibly the rest of the league, are wrong,” the Sector Judge said, drawing himself up to his full height. “A Sector Judge’s rank is equal to a Sector Governor’s, and answers to no one but a duly-commissioned investigatory panel of his peers. So unless Elysium and the League are being secretly—and, I’ll add, illegally—run by the Sector Judges of at least three other Sectors, there is no conceivable way that I would in any way answer to them.”
Manning spluttered, “I said I didn’t mean to insult your position, but we’re dealing with the aftermath of a major battle here, Judge Pao! Forgive me if I forget all the civilian niceties of your position while you’ve been acting as an ambassador and representative.”
Kong Pao twisted his neck from side to side, the pops and crackles as he did so clearly audible and he once again assumed a neutral mask on his face.
“Simply remind your superiors that, whatever they foolishly think about MSP’s beloved Little Admiral, I am neither a naughty errand boy fit to be scolded nor an enemy to be taken lightly—and remind them that we will not always be at war,” he said calmly and then turned to the room leaving behind him a quietly stewing Grand Admiral. Pausing in the door way he added, “An eventual change of circumstance, I might add, which is in no small part due to the Admiral you feel so free to curse and yell about.”
Chapter Three: Elysium: Profit and Loss
Stepping onto the Bridge of my new Flagship, I looked around with a frown. I could have moved back to the Phoenix—although she was still terribly damaged thanks to me. But the thought of seeing the faces of all those crewmen I had failed in the very place I had failed them, not to mention have to deal with the obstinate Captain Laurent after doing so, left me ill at ease.
Oh, I knew intellectually that the crew didn’t blame me. After all, we’d won, and besides many of them were over here on the new Flagship but for some reason, perhaps cowardice, I didn’t feel up to the task just yet. For now I’d let the former Caprian Captain have fun with his independent command and see where the chips fell later.
Since the Furious Phoenix was out for the moment—officially because of battle damage that couldn’t be fully repaired outside of a fully equipped shipyard—I could have transferred over to the Parliamentary Power, Commodore Druid’s command. But something about the very name of his ship put me off my feed, which was beside the fact I’d feel like I was either stepping on Druid’s toes or not measuring up to the expectations of a proper fleet officer even after all this time. After all there’s only so much manuals, rule books, and simulations can teach you.
Which left me with…this: a banged-up human battleship, captured by the droids, and then recaptured by the MSP.
Forcibly putting aside my concerns, I turned to the bridge crew. It wasn’t a bad bridge crew, just short-handed. In essence, I’d taken half of the Phoenix’s Strike Cruiser bridge crew and brought them over to run things here, though there were more than a few new faces thrown in here and there—Tracto-ans among them. It was surprising, but something I reluctantly expected after this amount of time.
“Report?” I said crisply, and the newly-minted acting captain of my current flagship straightened and walked over with composure. I shook my head slightly; if Tracto-ans on the bridge were surprising, then having actual Confederation Officers on my bridge—not the self-trained up-jumped provincials that I’d been dealing with until now—was almost shocking. I briefly wondered why I was worried about how I looked in front of Druid, who was just another provincial officer—though a professional one—when I had an actual Confederation Commander underfoot. But for some reason I just wasn’t getting the same worries—probably because I was an idiot.
“The Flagship is now rated hyper capable by the engineering staff, Admiral,” the acting captain, Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer, said after stiffening and saluting, “no significant changes observed in the combat posture of the provincial forces.”
I easily returned the salute. “Not quite what you were expecting when you came out of cryo-freeze was it, Lieutenant Commander?” I asked wryly.
“No Sir,” she said with a scowl, “although I was informed of the changes in known space since our time in cryo-stasis,” she emphasized the word stasis versus my word ‘freeze’, “I still find the level of disrespect shown to this fleet both shocking and unacceptable.”
I quietly took the correction on the freeze versus stasis without comment. It was important to stay focused on the important things after all.
“The Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet was never intended to be anything more than a paper titan sent out to wave the flag on the border for political purposes. Up until quite recently, it consisted of nothing but provincial ships and their officers,” I said dismissively, “so I’m not really surprised myself.”
It took me a moment to realize that my new flag captain was looking at me like something to be scraped off a shoe.
“Yes?” I drawled as she clearly had something she wanted to say.
“Frankly, Sir, that’s hogwash and completely unacceptable,” she said with no little heat.
I lifted an eyebrow. Taking this for permission she continued in an intense determined voice. “This is a Confederation Flagged Fleet with a duly recognized and appointed officer in command. The fact that the worlds of these Sectors were signatories in legislation that formed this Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet does not make their actions here more understandable, but in fact the very opposite!” she exclaimed, her face hard and unyielding. “This fleet was not something that was somehow forced on them; they actively requested its formation!”
“And yet clearly they do not share your position on the subject,” I said coolly, trying to head off an impassioned tirade.
“You respect the uniform, even if not the man wearing it,” Lieutenant Commander Hammer stated as if reciting something she’d learned long ago. “That respect is not optional or something you can just set aside when you feel like it.”
“Is that a respectfully worded comment on your new commanding officer?” I asked with a smile.
“Sir?” she looked at me and then hesitated. “That wasn’t what I was trying to say, Sir,” she said looking perplexed and focused inward at the moment.
“Well, in any case,” I gave my head a shake. Maybe I was just paranoid about my lack of credentials when it came to new (read: questionably competent) officers? “we’re not dealing with members of the Confederation Fleet. These are local Sector SDF Officers; a few rough edges are to be expected.”
“The same thing applies to the Flag of the Confederation, Admiral,” Leonora Hammer said direly, meeting my eye and holding it.
“Look, I hear what you’re saying,” I said, taking a breath, surprised and in some small way pleased at what she was saying, “but I don’t see what we can do about it at the moment. When it comes to Confederation forces in the Spineward Sectors, we’re it; other than the base at Easy Haven, there is literally no one else. I don’t have a big stick to call on to make them behave, or some magic wand to wave that can instantly repair things. When the Empire pulled out and abandoned us, it struck a blow and we’re still pulling relationship repair duty out here.”
“Listen, sir, if they don’t respect you then they don’t respect the Confederation. And though they may not think it, they’re spitting on the sacrifices of every single ship—and person—who has died protecting their worlds, their liberties, and their ways of life,” the Lieutenant Commander said in a low voice, and then she tapped her chest right over her heart. “I can’t pretend to know how it was for these people when the Fleet pulled out two years ago, nor can I internalize the history of the last century and a half as the Confederation declined—at least, not here, in my heart,” she tapped her chest pointedly. “But what I can do is say this: you have been running around for the last two years fighting pirates, Bugs, and insurgent would-be warlords and this fleet—this Confederation Fleet—just saved every world in these two Sectors from droid occupation forces.
I ran a hand over my face, wondering where to start, but she reached up and actually caught my hand, giving me a stern look with her drawn and still somewhat cryo-sick-looking face.
“Maybe you had some kind of question about whether this was a ‘real’ Confederation fleet you had running out here, Admiral. But I have to say that, in my opinion, those doubts you had should have disappeared the moment the Parliamentary Power jumped into this star system, so put them out of your head once and for all. As of the moment the Power joined the battle the ‘real’ Confederation officers in your fleet put the kybosh on that particular argument. We are here to help you and, more importantly, to help every member world of the Confederation that needs this fleet. So remember the next time some jumped-up provincial tries to push you around that you are representing not just your people, but the officers and crews of over a dozen Confederation warships that were captured battling the very droids you helped defeat here—and don’t allow them to belittle our sacrifice,” she finished with finality.
Taken completely aback, I stood there for a long moment before staggering over to my chair and plopping down. I’d never really thought about it that way, always being more concerned with results than anything and those few times I stopped to think about deeper matters like the lack of respect I was getting, I tended to shrug it off. Lately, I’d been starting to get fed up with the way I was being treated but still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was the honorary (read: fake) Vice Admiral with a made up fleet. In a way, however, the Lieutenant Commander was right; the fleet I had now wasn’t the one ship, ‘so-called’ fleet, I had started out with. We’d grown beyond that and, more than even the accomplishments of our fleet while under my command, the very moment I’d freed those real Confederation fleet officers and crew and added them to the MSP, in a way I’d taken on the legacy—and with it, the actual legitimacy, not the exists-only-on-paper one I’d been waving around for the last couple years—of the Confederal officers of old.
Could I justify letting the locals treat this fleet like they had in the past when I was now representing so much more than just myself? Lieutenant Commander Leonora Hammer made a very good point: she and her people deserved better than I’d been receiving.
Giving myself a shake, I looked up and cleared my throat. It was time to get back to business, but in the back of my mind I was definitely going to remember my new captain’s little pep talk.
“Could someone give me the latest status update on our fleet?” I requested officiously.
“I’ve got it; forwarding it to you now, Sir,” Lieutenant Steiner said quirking a smile at me before squirting over the file to my handheld.
“Thanks,” I flashed a return smile and then pulled up the information on the fleet.
Let’s see…I’d started out in the battle for this system with: one strike cruiser, one light cruiser, one destroyer, ten corvettes, three cutters and ten remaining gunboats. Looking at our fleet strength at the end of the battle, however, was like a blow to the body—even knowing most of the information beforehand still did nothing to lessen the impact.
The Furious Phoenix was severely damaged, 34% casualties among the crew with less than a third of them wounded who were likely to recover due to the mechanical’s tendency to kill instead of wound. The Gift, a light cruiser, critically damaged and recommended abandoned in place or hauled back home to be taken apart for scrap. Every single destroyer I’d started out with on this mission to save these Sectors was now gone.
Of the ten corvettes we’d started the battle with, half of them were destroyed outright. Of the remaining five, only three were fit for anything resembling duty—I noted that two of the three were the surviving Sundered Corvettes, with all five of them requiring repairs of some degree or another. And of the three cutters we’d started out with, only one was still fit for duty, with the other two in need of extensive repairs.
In short, this fleet had been run through the ringer—and that didn’t even count the remainder of the Grand Fleet.
In compensation—if you could even call it that—we’d captured four Battleships, two of which it was doubtful were even worth the cost of repairing. We’d also captured one heavy cruiser, one destroyer, and two corvettes—all of which were originally human-built. In addition to ships that we could potentially use, we’d also laid claim to twelve of the Conformity Motherships, just under 400 gunboats, a pair of Harmony Destroyers, and a trio of Harmony Fighters—two of which were literally in pieces.
I didn’t know what use we could put any of those droid-built hulls to, as they were designed without the sort of environmental systems and internal spaces we humans were used to as a matter of course, but from what I was reading it looked like Chief Engineer, Commander Spalding—Senior, that is—had a few ideas and wanted a chance to strip technology and parts off any of the ships we had to leave behind. That took me aback. Not that we would be leaving some of the droid ship’s we’d laid claim to behind, but that the Chief Engineer assumed we’d be taking a few—or more than just a few—of them back home with us.
My face scrunched up as I tried to figure out just how I was supposed to take back an additional dozen…or, rather, I took a look at the report and it matched up with my memory: at least four of the captured Motherships were literally in pieces. So that meant we could only be taking a max of eight of them back with us.
I quickly jotted down an order authorizing Spalding to start stripping those four as soon as possible. We’d just have to see about the rest of the captured droid ships. With two of our new battleships without hyper drives, our towing capacity was limited.
“Oh well, that’s what we have Chief Engineers for,” I muttered.
“Sir? Did you say something?” asked the Confederation Lieutenant Commander from somewhere around my elbow. She must have snuck up on me when I wasn’t looking.
“Just thinking aloud,” I said quickly in order to hide the flash of embarrassment at being caught out talking to myself.
“Are you sure?” she asked politely and I could sense her drawing back.
“It’s nothing major, I was considering where to send Chief Engineer Spalding,” I admitted.
“Ah yes,” she frowned, “I heard that he was exposed to a gas leak on the Furious Phoenix.”
I blinked. “No I mean the older one, Chief Engineer Spalding, Terrence Spalding, not his son,” I said.
The Acting Captain’s brow furrowed, “I’m afraid I’m not familiar with that officer.” Now it was my turn to be surprised as she continued, “And the only Chief Engineer Spalding that’s listed is the one from the Phoenix,” she continued looking off intently into a point of space, “I haven’t had time to go through more than the Captains and top ships officers yet.”
“Well, I guess technically he isn’t a Chief Engineer anymore—or, rather, at the moment—but he’s one of this fleet’s top officers. I literally wouldn’t be here right now if it weren’t for him. Just look up Commander Terrence Spalding or ask pretty much anyone in the MSP,” I said with pride.
“Will do, Admiral,” the Acting Captain nodded.
“Oh, and I was thinking that as soon as we’re done with the last big push on the recovery operation for our damaged and captured ships, to bring him over as this ship’s Chief Engineer,” I added. “So you’ll probably want to look him up.”
The other officer gave me an enigmatic look. “I haven’t been working on anything other than getting this ship back up to speed since I transferred over from the Power,” Lieutenant Commander Hammer finally admitted, “we can use all the help we can get.”
I stopped to give her a look and she still looked like she was suffering from some residual cryo-sickness.
“Make sure to take care of yourself, too,” I reminded her, “we wouldn’t want you collapsing on the job because of overwork.”
This time, the look I got was like I was some kind of bug to be scraped off her shoe. “I’ll keep that in mind,” she said with a touch of frost.
Oh well, you win some you lose some, I thought, shrugging it off. I didn’t like someone telling me what to and not to do when I was sick or injured, so I could hardly get upset when I did the same thing I didn’t like to someone else.
Turning away I decided to cut my time on the bridge short and return to my quarters for a short break.
Chapter Four: Hunger Pangs
“But, my dear, we don’t have any fermented greff-paste,” I said rapidly scanning through my data slate in the increasingly faint hope that the ‘greff-paste’ had simply been labeled under something else.
“I don’t care,” she snarled clutching her ever-enlarging belly and then groaning, “I want greff-paste!”
“I’m sorry—” I got cut off.
“Morning sickness isn’t supposed to last all day—every day—for weeks on end; the least you could do is get me the one thing I want to eat since it’s the only thing I can even think of stomaching” she snapped.
I looked at her helplessly; no matter how much she wanted her pregnancy comfort food from ‘back home’ on Tracto, if it was physically impossible then there’s nothing I could do.
“Look, we’ll be back home in less than a month,” I said, fudging the numbers, as it would more likely be well over a month’s journey to get there. “I’ll make sure to get you your paste as soon as we get back,” I made sure to finish on an upbeat note.
Akantha snorted derisively and then rolled off the bed, one hand holding the baby bump protruding from her abdomen. She then strode over to the table and snatched a packet of dry crackers and a small pot of fermented shrimp sauce.
At least, I think it was made from fermented shrimp.
“Are you sure that’s the best thing to be eating if your stomach is feeling delicate?” I asked, distracted by trying to figure out exactly why she was slathering her dry crackers with a fermented mini-shrimp when she gave me a withering look and defiantly crammed a shrimp covered cracker into her mouth.
“Don’t you start with me,” she declared after swallowing, “this is your fault—you did this to me!”
“Me?!” I exclaimed, genuine outrage escaping my mouth before I could stop myself. The injustice of that last declaration was just too breathtaking in its scope.
“Yes, you,” she crammed another shrimp covered cracker in her mouth before stopping to wash it down with a suspicious-looking drink.
Suspicious because I thought it might have a slight alcoholic content, which I was certain wasn’t good for the babies. Mouth opening and closing, I floundered as I wondered just where to start in the face of such failures at logic. I mean, how do you have an argument with someone who changes the facts to suit her whim?
“If it weren’t for your incessant demands for a male heir—” she blithely continued and then stopped and looked at me sharply, “then I wouldn’t be in this condition!”
“ME?!” I repeated. “I didn’t have anything to do with it!” I exclaimed with outrage. “You’re the one who got daughter-crazy and decided to get pregnant all on her lonesome.”
“Oh, I think you were more than happy to do your part,” she mocked with a sideways derisive look at me. “You don’t do what we’ve done without expecting issue.”
“Issue?! Sure, if it had been just one—or even two—I might be to blame, but eight?” I shook my head at her, “There’s no way it’s my fault; this took the help of a doctor and a petri dish and, again, I wasn’t—”
“And that’s exactly the problem,” she retorted cutting in hotly, “a real man would have been pressuring me to bear his sons at least a year ago, if not back when we first were joined! As it is, I had to take matters into my own hands and now you want to blame the results on me? What kind of man are you anyway?!”
“Sweet Murphy; there’s no talking with you,” I threw my hands up and turned away not wanting to continue escalating the situation.
“Don’t you walk away when I’m talking with you!” Akantha shouted.
“Talking at me maybe, there’s very little with involved here,” I snorted but turned back, mentally preparing myself for more abuse.
“It’s as if you don’t even want your sons,” Akantha demanded, but then as per usual didn’t let me get a word in edgewise before cycling off the deep end, “and if that’s true, is that all I am to you: a bed-warmer and a political convenience. I know that the loyalty of my world and people are all you desire—” she continued bitterly, but I couldn’t let this stand any longer.
“What are you talking about?! I look forward to all of our children, even if I think only an insane person would put more than a half dozen of them in her tummy at one time,” I complained, then quickly added, “not that I’m trying to call you insane…”
Akantha looked up at me and then burst into tears. For a split second I was overcome with shock and surprise, at times hot and others cold, never in my experience had I ever seen her like this.
I may not be the best of husbands, but even I could take a hint when my wife’s tear-streaked face was right in front of me and I hurried to her side. Draping an arm over her shoulders, I pulled her close.
“Sshhh; there there,” I said, muttering meaningless words to try and calm her down.
“Curse these emotions; mother warned me they would sometimes come while carrying,” Akantha uttered while leaning into me for support.
“Look…I’m sorry about the paste,” I tried to reboot the conversation.
“Oh, toss the paste,” she said irritably and then ran a sleeve-covered arm across her face.
I wisely refrained from saying anything.
“I’m dripping,” she complained scrubbing at her still wet face.
“You do know I’m looking forward to being a dad to all those kids—sons and daughters alike—right?” I asked seriously.
She heaved a sigh and nodded.
“And you’re more than just a political convenience that shares my quarters. You’re my wife,” I added fiercely, still more than mildly offended at the accusation, “you stood by me when everyone who was supposed to be on my side turned against me.”
She placed an arm around my middle and squeezed, while still leaning into me for support.
“For you, there isn’t a lot I wouldn’t do,” I said firmly and then semi-seriously added. “I would conquer worlds for you, Akantha—and that’s not something you just do for some political, bed-warming convenience.” And in that moment, I meant it. There were enough worlds and leaders of worlds who had treated me poorly and/or tried to kill me that—
The squeeze around my middle increased until the air was literally forced out of my lungs.
“Careful,” I wheezed reaching down to try and pry her off before I was in active distress.
“I should get changed,” Akantha said releasing me, “I have a meeting.”
Too relieved at being able to breathe, I didn’t immediately reply. Then my eyes distracted me further, as the Hold Mistress I was married to began shedding clothes on her way to the closet. Apparently she was planning to change outfits for whatever meeting she had.
Lustful eyes on her side—and backside—despite her growing middle, turned into action and before I knew it I had crossed the distance between us. As soon as she straightened up with her new set of clothes, my arms went around her to reach the baby bump on the other side of her body.
Akantha snorted, shaking her head but when my hands started to creep upwards she pushed them and me away and turned.
“I’m not in the mood,” she said firmly.
I opened my mouth but she glared at me and, when I looked about to continue despite this rejection, she growled.
Finally taking the hint, I went back to sit down on the bed dejectedly.
Shaking her head, she finished getting dressed and then headed out the room.
With a sigh, I silently observed that pregnancy really did cut down on the libido. Grumbling, I straightened my uniform and prepared to head back out myself. There was much to be done and very little time to do it in. I wanted to be out of this system before the majority of the Grand Fleet battleships were back in fighting condition.
There was no point in tempting them beyond their capacity to withstand. Gratitude was great and all but there was suspicious little of it these days and the temptation represented by my new battered and barely manned battleships might prove too much to resist.
Chapter Five: Engineering Solutions
“What can we do for you, Commander?” asked the droid, his spindly thin arms ending in an oversized forearm attachment that doubled for a hand and a multi-tool device.
Spalding scowled. “I’ve got me a problem and I came here for an engineering solution,” the old Engineer informed the machine.
“You’ve come to the right place then,” the Droid nodded its neck servos whining as it moved.
“Might want to get that looked at,” Spalding said, pointing to its neck.
“I have more important things to work on,” the Droid said irritably, “anyway, what did you want to put in queue? I cannot start a design and allocation phase until you establish the parameters.”
“Oh, I don’t need help with the figuring out the fix; I’ve got all that worked out myself already,” the former Chief Engineer blustered. “All I need is a few work crews.”
“If it is just work groups, assign them from your own labor pool,” the Droid said, shaking its head and drawing back.
“But that’s the problem, see,” he said leaning forward with fire in his eyes, “it’s droid laborers I need. This is a task you lot are uniquely suited for.”
The droid stiffened. “If what you need are droids, I understand there are any number onboard your captured battleships to be used,” the machine said, its voice synthesizer down grading from almost human to blatantly machine-generated as it made clear its disapproval. “The United Sentients Assembly is composed of free units, not to be slave-tasked at the whim of any biological unit.”
“’Slave-tasked’,” Spalding shook his head bullishly, “what a crock. If all I wanted was a press gang then, just like you said, I could have rounded up a posse of droids the Lady rescued from the battleships. Blast it, man, what I need are droid navigators and trained crews for an extended mission in decompression. Humans can’t go weeks in decompression easily, and the last thing I need is a bunch of shifty machines lookin’ for a way out.”
“I am neither a ‘man’ nor a ‘shifty machine’,” the droid grunted loudly, breaking into Droid 2.0 in its outrage.
“Didn’t say you were,” the Chief Engineer shook his head at the squirrely machine, “and I was calling those lazy layabouts on the battleships shifty, not you lot. I know that you Sentient Assembly types have a much better work ethic than a lot of droid types,” the old engineer frowned, remembering the number of self-destructive, slacking, and sabotage-minded droid machines he’d run across in his career. He didn’t need more of that type running around on critical engineering projects like the one he had planned.
“You should free the droids now in your fleet. Forcing them to work is a violation of their sentient rights!” the repair droid in front of him angrily shook a small testing device—that was part of its forearm attachment—at him as if it were a finger and Spalding a naughty boy.
“Free them? Why, we just liberated them from the Harmony Droids!” Spalding said angrily. “And havin’ a man or a droid pay-work his passage home isn’t slavery; it’s called the unwritten rules of star travel! What are they, a bunch of metal space bums and we the charity organization of known space!”
“The Assembly would gladly offer them passage to anywhere they wanted to go, and I think we’d have a much better idea of the travel scenarios desired by a group of liberated droids than an oppressive biological like yourself,” growled the Droid.
“Oppressive, is it?” Spalding bawled. “Askin’ a man to work the very ship that’s taking him to liberty—after rescuing him from death and dismemberment, instead of letting him lounge around like a pampered aristocrat on a pleasure tour—is oppressive is it? Well, then, by all the ornery space gods I’m the blasted Tyrant of Liberty, I am! First I free them, and then I have them work their way back to a free port—what a slave driver I am! Worse than death, makin’ a man work for a few weeks to get away; why, I’m the bloody bane of slackin’ civilians everywhere, and ought to be locked up for it, you bloomin’ idjit!”
“We know your hidden files designation around here, Moonlight,” retorted the droid, its attachments separating from their locked down position and starting to spin, beep, and extend menacingly.
In response, the tips of Spalding’s fingers started to pop off as the mini-plasma torches built into his hand started to activate.
“Enhance your calm; cease and desist all hostile activities,” ordered a fast-moving droid in an elevated voice.
“Human oppressor!” declared the repair droid.
“Machine bigot,” Spalding scoffed in reply.
“What is the cause of this altercation?” the new droid demanded sternly.
“This biological thinks it can simply task-allocate workers at its own whim,” the repair droid said hotly.
“That’s an outright lie if ever I heard one—which, on top of its abrasive personality, is near fightin’ words,” Spalding accused. “I just said I was interested in a navigator and ship crews for that more than half-dozen droid Motherships we lot captured over in the Little Admiral’s Patrol Fleet. Human types don’t do so well in extended decompression environments, and I wouldn’t trust that blarmy lot of impressed machines over in the captured human battleships further than I could throw them when they’re out of my sight.”
“See! It admits to coercive labor enforcement for those poor unfortunates—sentients who have been enslaved by this biological unit’s superiors—for the task of operating their prize battleships,” the repair droid declared, as if winning some particular point, its indignation clear.
“Disconnect from this situation, Secondary Repair Supervisor,” ordered the new droid. “I will interface with this officer directly.”
The Repair Droid buzzed angrily and then went off—for what purpose, the old Engineer couldn’t determine. And, to be honest, he really didn’t care right at the moment.
“That’s one what needs his screws tightened,” the Chief Engineer grumped.
“We will continue this conversation in a designated conference room; please follow,” instructed the new droid.
Grumbling under his breath the old engineer followed the machine into the conference room.
“I am the Fabrication and Repair Conductor; you would call me the Chief Engineer for our Assembly. Please relay your work request now,” said the new droid, this Repair Conductor.
“What I want is simple,” the old engineer said and then repeated his request for Navigators and crews to keep from being forced to strip the captured Conformity Motherships and leave the hulls behind. “We need all the ships and hulls we can get our hands on, so I was hoping to get your lot over here to help fix them up and bring them along with us on our route back to Tracto,” he finished explaining his reasoning.
“I cogitate that we can task-allocate units for critical systems and a small defense force made up of assault model droids to protect the ships, however our resources are not infinite,” warned the Conductor.
“Sounds good to me,” Spalding nodded with satisfaction.
“However, we have our own ships and captured platforms to operate,” warned the Conductor droid. “This means that, while we are prepared to offer the skilled operators, you will need to procure the bulk of the crews for basic-level ship repairs and operations.”
Spalding leaned back, flabbergasted at the droid’s reticence. “I just told you how difficult it is to get the men—let alone have them operating in a zero-g, decompressed environment for days and weeks on end,” he said nonplussed.
“Then don’t allocate men,” the Conductor replied without concern, “and send work assets from the droids you have captured from the Conformity controlled battleships.”
“You wouldn’t feel concerned about their loyalties?” Spalding wondered aloud.
“Our concerns about such units turning against us are minimal,” the Droid dismissed, “and, with an allotment of assault droids, those concerns drop to near zero.”
“That would do it then, I suppose,” the old Engineer nodded, stroking his chin, “if you’ll give me your personnel’s contact information, I’ll just forward you the plans and list of ships that can be repaired in time.”
“There is one more issue to discuss before a completed agreement can be reached,” interrupted the Conductor as the Chief Engineer started to stand.
The old Engineer turned around with a sigh. He’d hoped to get out of this without being roped into anything extra, but wasn’t really surprised at this latest turn. Back-channels and trading in favors was the same the world over, it seemed; whether you were a man or a machine, the basic formula was the same.
“What can I do you for?” he said sitting back down.
“Once repaired, eight Motherships with antimatter-fueled lasers will be a statistically significant force,” replied the droid.
“Oh, just cut the wishy-washy beatin’ around the bush and get to the point,” growled Spalding. “Tell me what you want.”
The droid peered at him for a long moment, its pair of green eyes telescoping out of its head as it zoomed in on his face. “The exchange we want this time is the same as it was the time before, Captain Moonlight,” replied the Conductor.
It took the old engineer a moment to process and then he frowned. “Yeah, well, I don’t happen to have a couple hundred droid cores squirreled away in my back pocket this time, now do I?” he asked facetiously and then his brows lowered as a thought occurred to him. “Unless…you don’t mean...”
“Yes, indeed, Captain,” said the Droid causing Spalding to frown at the casual use of the long-abandoned alter-ego he only ever created for his little boy back when he was still little. “We are prepared to continue helping your Fleet to the best of our abilities, including the use of our constructor fabrication and repair facilities. But, as you have likely calculated, our requirements are simple. We will require every free-willed droid in your fleet be turned over to us at the end of our journey. No more forced labor.”
“All of them,” Spalding blurted, thinking of just how much more they were asking than last time. “You don’t ask for much do you then.”
“Our requirements on this are non-negotiable,” replied the Droid.
The old Engineer pursed his lips. “And what if some of those droids want to stay on with the Fleet?” he asked grasping at straws and knowing it but needing to stall for time as he thought things through.
“While we believe in the ability to self-determinate, the likelihood of such an occurrence is statistically negligible,” said the Droid looking surprised but then it nodded. “However, we are willing to stipulate to that addendum since it is our primary directive to allow these individuals to go wherever they desired after arriving in our care. Am I to take it then that we have a deal?”
“I think we can work something out,” said the old engineer extending his hand. The fleet needed those ships a lot more than they needed a bunch of press ganged droids, in his humble opinion. That said, he wondered how he was going to explain this to the Admiral and the Lady…
The droid stared at his hand for a moment.
I might be oversteppin’ my authority a wee bit here, Spalding thought while the droid extended its hand—or whatever the appendage was properly called by the mechanicals. Then he shook the thought off as he shook the Conductor’s hand. He’d been told to get the MSP ships ship-shape—or at least close enough to get the bulk of them home—and to do so by whatever means necessary. Well, it turned out that this was a necessary means.
“You will not require clearance levels from higher authority?” queried the droid.
“You just leave that all to me,” Commander Spalding of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet growled, feeling something like a real officer for the first time since he realized his heart had been weakened.
There was a job to be doing and he knew just what needed to be done to make it happen.
Chapter Six: The Time Has Come
“How are your men doing, Captain?” Commodore Druid asked.
Nikomedes placed a chip down on the other man’s desk. “It is all in the report,” he said uncaringly.
“Ah, yes; I’ve noticed that you seem to be particularly good at filling out reports—better than the other Tracto-an officers I’ve dealt with,” Druid said with a politic smile.
Nikomedes suppressed the urge to roll his eyes.
“I dictate and have my aide write it down,” he said, which was the truth as far as important reports and communications went. But if it wasn’t important, all the clerical work—especially the paperwork—he had the aide write down and fill out. He merely scanned it all to make sure the clerk wasn’t trying to sneak anything past him.
“Well, your company has proved itself on this campaign,” Druid said with a nod. “I’ll admit I wasn’t sure about your company at first but you’ve proven yourself where it counts. Especially that boarding action during the main battle; the Parliamentary Power might not still be here if you and your men hadn’t been a part of the boarding team that captured that enemy battleship.”
“Like a war-band, a man raises himself through victory in battle. I only hope to have many such opportunities in the future, Commodore,” said Nikomedes, meaning every word.
“I can understand that position,” Druid said, “however, I hope you’ll forgive me if I hope for no major engagements in the near future. This fleet has been banged up and tossed around; we need to get home and heal our wounds first.”
“Of course,” Nikomedes said perfunctorily; he was simply there on a routine report to the battleship commander. “How likely is it do you think that we will be battle free and for how long?”
“As far as I know, and from what the Admiral’s said, if we can get home in one piece then we should have smooth sailing for at least the next couple months,” Druid said after a pause. “There are no enemies on the horizon, so unless there’s need for another mercy mission like this one, the only thing on the radar will be routine patrols dealing with small fry like pirates, rogue droids, or irate system governors—fingers crossed of course.”
“Of course,” Nikomedes repeated; he was only interested in building his reputation and protecting Tracto and the Tracto-ans of his planet and this fleet. Finding out there were no real threats on the horizon, while not what he wanted to hear personally, was not the end of the world. Then he suddenly felt his scalp tingle and his head snapped around; instead of heading for the door as he’d originally planned, his eyes focused like a laser beam as everything in the room seeming to come into stark relief. “In other words, you’re saying there are no threats to Tracto or her people?” he asked harshly.
Druid’s shoulders came forward and he eyed the younger man.
“Like I said, no known threats,” he clarified, “but one never knows what’s just beyond the horizon. Although, the way the Admiral has of sniffing out problems before they blow up in our face—like a droid invasion of two human-controlled Sectors—I can’t say for how long that’ll be the case.”
Nikomedes smiled savagely, the final piece of a long-forming puzzle falling into place in his mind’s eye. “Thank you for your candor, Commodore Druid,” he said, giving the other man one of their Starborn salutes of respect.
“If there’s nothing more, you can go,” Druid said with a short nod.
“Of course,” Nikomedes acknowledged, but this time with an entirely different tone than when he’d said it earlier.
Stepping out of the room, the previously laid-back and relaxed Warlord—now commander of a war-band of Tracto-ans, Starborn, and the Demon Creatures who had flocked to his banner since he had taken to the stars at Men’s behest—had a fire in his eyes and a sense of purpose that had been lacking after the battle had been won.
The time of waiting and growing his power was almost over. He had a holy mission to fulfill, and the last requirement had just been met to his satisfaction. He still needed to be careful; above all, Tracto, its people, and its holy places and relics must be protected. The Fleet could not be divided against itself since that would endanger his Men-given quest…but with no known enemies in view, and Nikomedes’ base of power now fully-established, it was time to begin putting long-planned events into motion.
Returning to his war-band’s barracks, Nikomedes took in a deep breath and looked around. Men, women, and creatures of many different races and body types all lived in this place. Before they had been individuals, but his training on the Omicron had prepared them and battle in Elysium had forged them into a sturdy blade ready for anything and, more importantly, anyone. They were no longer a green unit, but a battle-tested army prepared to devour any enemy.
While the Commodore had called his war-band a ‘company,’ he knew that it was more properly battalion-sized by the Starborn measures, but he wasn’t about to quibble over status. For all of his adult life, his chosen duty was, and had always been, to the betterment of Argos, Messene and to the Planet of Tracto.
“Captain,” one of the humans, a fellow Tracto-an looked at him with respect that hadn’t been there before the battle and nodded.
Nikomedes returned the nod and the fire in his eyes burned a fraction hotter. The second requirement had been met long before: securing the loyalty of his war-band. They might call him ‘Captain,’ they might call him ‘Major’ outside these walls, but inside them he was the Warlord of these warriors and that was all he needed. False praises and accolades meant nothing. What was of value were the years he had spent on the Omicron building up from nothing and forging his destiny with literally his own two hands.
“Apollo,” Nikomedes acknowledged, turning to the warrior in his band most adept with communications.
“Yes, Warlord,” the former Pirate with an excessive amount of metal pierced through his face said semi-respectfully.
“I want you to find me the com-numbers of the other Tracto-an Captains and Officers within this Fleet,” he ordered.
“Any particular reason, Boss?” the Warrior and former Pirate asked curiously.
“Do I need one?” Nikomedes asked curiously, though his deep, rich voice rightly had more than a note of command to it.
The former pirate paled and frantically shook his head. “I’ll get you them numbers right away, Boss…I mean Warlord,” said the other man.
Nikomedes smiled. “Do that,” he instructed.
Minutes later, Apollo returned, “I have them, Sir.”
“My thanks,” Nikomedes said courteously. He waited until the pirate had left before scanning through the list. It had meant nothing to him as early as that morning, but suddenly the knowledge that Captain Atticus was dead and buried suddenly took on a new meaning to the young Warlord.
The name of Atticus had carried a large weight throughout the Lancer force, far more than say…a foreigner like Darius, another member of the Lancer command’s inner circle, ever could have with the common warriors of this fleet comprised mainly of men from Argos and Messene. Nikomedes, on the other hand was well known, had a powerful band of warriors and, while his name had been lower than dirt previously, victory in battle had the power to change many things.
Punching in the numbers, he pulled up the contact number of one of the Captains who was decidedly not included in the Fleet Commander’s inner circle. It was time to find out just how much weight the name ‘Nikomedes’ now carried—and also to discover if that weight couldn’t be increased.
Everything he did was for the safety of his people, and the stability of his world.
“Ah, Captain Heterodimer,” Nikomedes said when the other man appeared on his screen, “how does your company?”
“Nikomedes,” Heterodimer said suspiciously, “what do you want from me?”
“We are both men of Tracto, with her interests first in our hearts; I called to make sure your company was well supplied and has everything they needed. It was a harrowing battle, and I know many companies have been scattered around the newly captured ships and wanted to check up,” said the Warlord.
“Why the sudden concern; it’s been almost a week since the battle?” Heterodimer grunted.
Nikomedes raised his hands, “It’s nothing off my nose if you need nothing. I’ll just take my captured weaponry, spare rations, and equipment supplies and see if anyone else is in need of help. Sorry to take up your time,” said Nikomedes.
Heterodimer’s face changed. “Now hold on just a minute; if trading a few extra supplies is all you’re after, don’t be so hasty,” the Captain said quickly. “We’re stuck over here on a ruined citadel with no hot food and growing concern about the air supply failing. Send over a list of what you have and I’ll send you back what I can spare. Worst case, I will owe you a favor and catch you back up even when we get back home.”
Nikomedes smiled tightly and agreed; one down, a dozen more to go. His war-band had secured a large amount of supplies and gear since they came out to this Sector. Soon the majority of the captains and officers in the Lancer force would owe him favors. After that—and assuming the time continued to be right—he would take the next step. But in the meantime, all he intended to do was help out his fellow Tracto-ans.
Above all, the planet must be protected—and his holy mission must not be interrupted.
Chapter Seven: Ready to Depart
“Ship’s ready to go, Admiral,” Commander Spalding reported in officially.
“Thank you, Commander,” I nodded.
“Just give the word and we’ll start charging the hyper drive,” he nodded back. “It’s about time we leave before we wear out our welcome, if you know what I mean,” the old man said with a wink.
“I think that was worn out the moment the battle was won, if not while it was still actively underway, but I agree with the sentiment; it’s past time we left this Star System,” I agreed with a shake of my head, and then said more formally, “the Captain will relay the order to jump when its time.
“O’ course, Sir,” the old metal plated Engineer said with a serious expression.
“Just tell me one thing,” I prompted, giving into the urge to once again ask our status, “is this ship ready to fight?” To my mind, there was nothing more worrying than riding in a ship that couldn’t fight.
The old Engineer frowned. “She’s as ready as we’re able to get her in the time we had, but there’s only so much an engineer can do—even with an oversized constructor to help out, Admiral. You know I’m always up for a scrap, but if I had my druthers I’d want to steer clear of any major engagements. This ship’s about at her limit hauling another battleship along with her as it is; put any more strain and something’ll give, mark my words,” he said firmly.
I scowled not liking the report but ultimately not surprised. There’s only so far you can push both men and equipment, and right now both were strained up to—and past—the limit. Battle had damaged the ships and formation of post-battle, prize-collecting teams had stripped the crews down to essential services such as the hyper drives and environmental systems. However, I would have been lying if I said it wasn’t reassuring to be surrounded by the thick armor and robust shields of a proper battleship yet again—even if the ship itself wasn’t up to the Chief Engineer’s bench mark standard of the Caprian Dreadnaught class.
“It is what it is, Admiral,” the Engineering Commander shrugged. “We’ll keep working on her on the trip back to a yard dock, but…there’s only so much we can do with unfamiliar ships, short crews, and a lack of pre-made replacement parts.”
“Understood; Montagne, out,” I said, severing the connection.
“Prize Alpha is ready to leave this system whenever you give the order, Sir,” Acting Captain Hammer jogged my elbow, disapproval clear in her voice.
I nodded and checked the rest of the fleet on my chair’s readouts. “I know you’d prefer a better name for the new ships, but I don’t want to mess with that until after we see what can be fixed and what can’t,” I said.
“Honestly, at the moment I’m more worried about those,” she replied pointing at the captured droid ships taking up position in front of the main fleet. “Not that I’m particularly pleased with the names, but these are prize ships so I suppose it fits well enough—and at least we’re not flying nameless wonders out into the cold black.”
I was leery about using droids from the Sentient Assembly to man the battered-looking Conformity Motherships, but I didn’t have much choice about the matter. My Chief Engineer didn’t want to leave them behind and, from what he relayed, the droids seemed willing enough. Of course, they could just jump off into middle of nowhere with those ships, the constructor, and the rest of their fleet to follow and there was nothing I could do about it—which was a concern. But if I couldn’t trust Spalding, who had personally authored the whole plan, then I was really up a creek without a paddle.
If he said he needed those ships and had a way to get them home for us, I’d be a fool to just argue for the sake of it. Plus I really didn’t think the Sentient Assembly hijacking the ships was likely. Or, rather, right now the best thing that could happen from this Fleet’s standpoint would be if the droids actually did break their deal with Akantha and take off beyond the Rim.
That fact, more than anything else, was why I had become fatalistically certain that those ships would arrive safe and sound at Tracto—or, if for some reason they didn’t, it wouldn’t be because the Assembly droids did less than their best. That particular outcome would have just been too blasted easy for me, personally, and I’d learned that nothing I got to do as an Admiral was ever easy.
While it may have saved two Sectors of human space and countless worlds, the alliance with the United Sentient Assembly was coming home to roost and I just couldn’t imagine a positive reaction back home to that particular news. If the very Sectors that were saved wanted to line USA droids up against a wall and have them shot out of hand—now that their usefulness was at an apparent end—the reaction was only going to get worse the further from the conflict we went.
While I was thinking these sorts of deep thoughts, green and yellow lights all up and down the board—signals from the rest of the ships of the fleet—started indicating that we were as ready as we were going to get. And, much as I hated to admit it, it was time to go. The fact that the only yellow-status—indicating questionable functionality—hyper drive systems were on the droid crewed Motherships was a relief. I didn’t particularly like the fact that one of our ships was less-than-optimal at go-time, but the straight up fact of the matter was that I was a lot less concerned with losing a Mothership with purely mechanical hands aboard than I was about losing a similar number of humans.
Call me an anti-machinist bigot, but that’s where I was at that moment. And, after several moments of reflection, I was fairly unrepentant about the whole matter.
“The order is given, Captain: point us at the hyper limit, relay the movement order to the rest of the fleet, and take us out of here,” I ordered, leaning back in my chair.
“Aye aye, Vice Admiral,” she replied crisply.
“Hmph,” I muttered in response at the use of my full title but let it pass. The captain and I were still in the process of feeling each other out and, while I didn’t know if we were going to work out long term, one thing I was certain of was that it was past time I put this system behind me. “Bunch of ungrateful blighters,” I muttered belligerently.
Fortunately for the safety of our prize ships—and the continued existence of the Elysium Star System’s infrastructure—the Grand Fleet must have decided against making an overt move against us and we cleared the hyper limit without a hitch.
Minutes after clearing the limit, the fleet jumped in unison and we left Elysium in our hyper-wake.
Chapter Eight: Motherly Love
“I’m glad you could find the time for tea service with your mother,” she said, setting down the tray and proceeding to fill the fine china set with a piping hot special blend of Caprian black tea.
“Aw, mom,” I protested halfheartedly while thinking that I had to be just about the worst son ever. I hadn’t seen my mother for almost two years and then the first chance I got to sit down with her, I promptly dragged her into a war zone where I couldn’t spend nearly as much time with her as I should have. When it came to terrible, inattentive sons I had to rank in there somewhere close to the top.
“Pish,” Mom insisted, using a pet word I’d grown up hearing as a scoff, “water under the bridge. The important thing is you’re here now safe and sound and able to spend some time with your mother, which is something that didn’t seem certain would happen again even a short time ago.”
“I’m sorry you had to go through that,” I said, feeling myself turn green. Again, worst son ever award went to Jason Montagne, I silently thought.
“Don’t worry about me; we merely locked the door while Duncan stood guard. Safe as a bug in a rug,” she declared, glossing over the fact that she’d been on the Phoenix during the boarding action when droid warrior bots had gone around methodically shooting any crewmember they encountered.
“Yeah…not my finest hour ever,” I winced in memory and then taking a drink from my cup of tea to try and hide my reaction. “I’ll try to keep you far away from anything like that in the future.”
“I’m not quite the delicate hot house flower you think of me, Son,” Mom riposted lightly, “and even if I was, I always have Duncan.” A faint smile crossed her face as she said the last part, and I had to take another sip to hide my reaction.
I loved mom and Duncan—my former sword instructor—had been one of the few people at the palace I could trust during my time there. But since I had left Capria it was clear their relationship had advanced into a place which I, as the son, was uncomfortable with. Not that I was in any position to say anything considering the fact that, unlike me, Duncan had never done anything that had almost gotten Mom killed.
“You’re a chef at the Palace mom. I don’t care how good you are with cutlery; things out here are on another level entirely, and Duncan can only do so much when companies of battle droids are storming through the corridors,” I groused, still mentally castigating myself. “I never should have brought you out here.”
Far from looking upset with me, mother shook her head as if I was being particularly dense.
“As if you could have stopped me after over a year of running around out here trying to get yourself killed on a daily basis,” she scoffed.
“Huh,” I muttered under my breath. I was an Admiral now, and I was pretty sure that if I gave the order to eject my mother before we left Tracto, my orders would have been carried out. So while I didn’t say anything more to get her angry, neither was I willing to let myself off the hook. I had the power, dang it! That I hadn’t used it was on me.
“Look at my little man, all serious and grown up now,” Mom said, smiling sadly. “As a parent, you turn around one day and wonder where your little boy went.” She dabbed at a tear in the corner of her eye.
“Mom!” I protested, feeling both embarrassed and helpless at the same time.
“When you’re a parent, I guess you just never quite get ready for your kids to leave and grow up while you aren’t looking,” she said.
“I’m doing okay,” I hurried to say, “I mean, sure, I had a few rough patches along the way but it all worked out for the best. I’ve got a fleet and real power; thousands of people—and even whole worlds—look to me for protection. I’ve come a long way from the boy in the palace that no one liked.”
Mom stopped and took a deep drink of tea and then carefully set it down.
“I’m not sure this is the path I would have ever wanted for you,” she replied, looking me straight in the eye before taking my hand and holding it up against her cheek. “But here you are, and you’re everything you were meant to be. It seems blood will tell out no matter what.” For a moment it looked as if her heart was about to break and she blinked away tears.
“It’s okay mom,” I said with sudden concern.
“In a way, I blame myself,” she continued almost as if talking to herself, “when I was younger I wanted this for you: the life, the power, the destiny, despite everything. I was a fool,” she finished fiercely.
“It’s really not that bad,” I hastened to assure her, “it may seem like this last battle was pretty bad…and it was, of course,” I said not wanting to lie outright, “but it’s not always like this and it’s not often you get the chance to save two whole Sectors. I’m more worried about you; I’m going to be fine.”
“I’m sure you will dear,” she said patting my hand before putting it back down, “but when you raise a boy into a man, a mother…well this mother, anyway, can’t help but worry. I want to see my little boy happy and doing what he wants, above and beyond whatever duty or station or the expectations of others might say.”
“No one’s forcing me to be out here; I’m out doing this because I want to and because the people need someone to save them and there’s no one else. Maybe in the beginning things weren’t quite so clear-cut, but I could have walked away long before now if this was all about being stuck in a bad situation,” I said seriously.
“Forgive a mother for her worries,” Mom said once again hiding herself behind her tea cup, then she smiled brightly, “at least I’ve had the chance to get to know your bride; she seems quite determined to succeed.”
“Succeed at killing me, maybe,” I mumbled but when she raised an eyebrow at me, I winced before forcing out a smile. “She has big plans that one,” I finished lamely.
“On the whole, I think she’s good for you,” Mom said, laying down the firm stamp of motherly approval on my marriage.
“I don’t know about that,” I said glumly, “I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love her. I really do. But sometimes…” I trailed off thinking about the various times being married to her had almost gotten me killed. Challenge circles, angry relative, and other such near catastrophes flitting through my mind.
Mother nodded wisely.
“You’ll have to rein her in sometimes but, although some might not agree, I think it’s a fine match,” she said before dropping a genuine bombshell, “and besides, it’s clear that she simply adores you as well. She’ll be good for you; maybe it’s something about how I raised you, but you always were a touch timid when it came to confrontation. With her beside you, somehow I don’t think that will be a problem.”
“Clear? That’s something that’s as clear as green glass,” I protested loudly, “I’m not saying she doesn’t care for me, but adore? That’s a road too far to go, I think. And timid? I think there are a lot of people out here who would disagree with that label.” Of course, none of those people were my mom and most of them had only known me after I took command of the Lucky Clover and shortly after that became married to Akantha so…No! There was absolutely no point in her assertions. I had only been appropriately cautious while living on a home world where your family name was poison and the slightest misstep could get not only you killed, but maybe your mother as well.
“Just make sure you don’t let anyone push you into something you aren’t comfortable with—not even me,” Mother warned me seriously.
“Yes, mom,” I said.
Mothers they worried about the weirdest things. You’d think most moms would be in a panic, if not about themselves almost being killed, then at least about their son being tortured and almost killed. I mean, I knew my mom worried about me but the upshot of all these near-death experiences was to voice approval about my choice of wife and tell me not to get pushed into anything.
I knew I didn’t understand women, but now I was pretty sure that Mom was going to stay a mystery to me as well.
With a sigh, I leaned back and finished my tea as the topics turned away from the serious and back towards lighter topics. Such as when I thought the fleet would arrive back at Tracto and what kind of weather the planet was experiencing right at the moment.
I was just grateful to be back on firmer conversational footing…. at least I was up until the talk of grandchildren came up. After that, I went right back to sweating bullets—I wasn’t ready to be a father yet!
Chapter Nine: Surprise Visitors
“You said what?!” exclaimed Acting Captain Hammer in a tone of voice that instantly sent my blood pressure skyrocketing.
I quickly looked up at the screen, only to see us in yet another dead-end star system without even so much as a single inhabited planetoid or space station.
“That’s simply unacceptable,” the Acting Captain said firmly.
The only thing on any of the screens I could see were our fleet-slash-convoy, and the routine supply shuttles dancing back and forth between the various ships of the MSP Fleet distributing spare parts, supplies and perishable food stuffs that several of our ship’s damaged or destroyed hydroponics plants couldn’t produce on their own.
“Problem, Captain?” I asked coolly in the sort of voice that said there had better be after all her exclamations.
“Intruders on the shuttle deck, Sir,” she turned and informed me bracing to attention.
I blinked and my mind went from petty bridge politics into battle mode. “How many casualties; an enemy boarding force of what size and composition?” I demanded already calling up the links to both the Armory and the Lancer force on my chair’s built in interface with the ship’s DI.
Hammer blinked and then seemed to realize her error.
“I believe the unauthorized personnel are Border Worlds Alliance delegates who have transferred over from the Parliamentary Power without permission, Admiral,” she explained, carefully blanking her face.
For a moment I gave her a look that could have stripped duralloy. She’d just about given me a heart attack over nothing more than a few overweight, would-be politicians—I had expected stealthed droid boarding forces like the Pride of Prometheus had lugged home with them from the original foray into Sectors 23 and 24 under that loose cannon, Acting Captain Tyrone Middleton.
Speaking of whom, my first duly-appointed ship commander had finally gotten around to informing us—via time-delayed ComStat message, of course—that he was following up on a major lead of some kind, and thus had more important things to be doing than riding into the pivotal battle of two Sectors of human space, thank you very much. The particulars of his truncated, cryptic message were something to the effect of:
Fleet Command is advised the Pride of Prometheus will be unable to rejoin the rest of the fleet as directed due to emergent situation; this message is likely to be intercepted by hostiles, and transmitting via ComStat allows those hostiles to pinpoint our location. Pride of Prometheus Actual takes full responsibility for failing to follow prior orders; the ship and crew will return with detailed reports following completion of current mission. Pride of Prometheus Actual signing off.
As I thought of that mutinous former Tactical Officer-turned-warship captain, I realized that my hands were unconsciously squeezing the air out of an imaginary neck gripped tightly between them. I was unable to fathom what could possibly be more important than the Battle for Elysium, unless this was nothing more than mutiny plain and simple, in which case I swore I’d find that man and make him pay for his treachery.
“This was a security risk, so I considered sending in ship’s security to contain them while the flight crew attempts to get them to return to the Power,” Hammer added into the growing silence caused by my brooding.
“No, I don’t think that will be necessary, Captain,” I said, pushing thoughts of Middleton from my mind and rising to my feet with my face, carefully and deliberately, blank. Turning away, I headed for the Captain’s ready room.
Upon entering I activated the inter-fleet com-channel.
“This is Commodore Druid,” said the other Officer after the link was established.
“Montagne here,” I said shortly.
“What can I do for you, Admiral?” the Commodore asked smoothly, the barest hint around the mouth and eyes indicating he knew very well why I was calling.
Which was why, instead of saying ‘what are you playing at’ or some other trite phrase and giving vent my spleen, I took a big mental step back.
“I see you finally got tired of playing around with the esteemed delegates from the Border Worlds,” I finally said.
“Did they finally sneak off my ship?” Druid bared his teeth and shook his head as if vexed, but it was a pretty poor performance and we both knew it—which, of course, had to be the point.
“Must have bribed a shuttle pilot or falsified their data records,” I suggested, rolling with the punches and deciding to play along.
“Must have,” Druid agreed without any great emotion.
“Still, to have such poor security measures onboard a Confederation warship…tsk-tsk,” I said, shaking my head.
“We are very short-handed over here after sending most of our crewmembers off to help man the prize ships. Even so, I’ll have to see about strengthening our protocols over here we can’t have civilians wandering wherever they want—even ones as loud and obnoxious as the delegates,” said Druid.
“I take it they got on your nerves then?” I replied.
“You could say that—and doing so would be an understatement,” Druid said, his eyes growing cold as if he were reviewing a poor memory.
“Well then, run your drills and be sure that I’ll be reviewing them personally. However,” I took a deep breath, “since the delegates are already here—a fait accompli, as it where—I suppose it hurts nothing if I go and see if I can’t resolve their issues for them.”
“Someone needs to ‘resolve their issues’ before one or more of them gets hurt. I can’t help but say we’ll be glad to see the last of them over here,” replied Druid, “they’re loud, obnoxious and…civilian.”
“The last of them? That sounds a little too optimistic. Let us instead say you’ll be getting something of an extended break,” I said, my eyes hardening as I politely laid down the law.
I’d been ducking the delegates and the responsibility they were attempting to impose on me to make my much touted lie about a border alliance acting against the Central Worlds of Sector 25 on my and the confederations behalf into something real. So I really couldn’t get too upset when my overworked underlings finally rebelled and loosened their security or at least pretended to loosen their security as they sent over the delegates I should have been dealing with weeks ago.
That said I couldn’t let those very same subordinates think they could get away with too much or else I’d have more problems to deal with than a few agitated civilians.
All of which was a roundabout way of saying I needed to bite the bullet, go press the flesh and get this over with.
I really wasn’t looking forward to this.
Chapter Ten: Border Meeting
“This is outrageous; whatever joint forces agreement we come to, whatever its name, we must have specific provisions allowing for the protection of the religious majority! Too long has the majority been oppressed by the special interests and the tyranny of the atheistic masses; Shrine V will not agree to any document which does not enshrine these vital protections into settled law,” shouted a tall, thin man with a turban neatly placed atop his head.
Across from him sat an obese fat man so large it was almost criminal. “New Dalphi refuses to support any such infringement on the rights of the taxpayers to regulate homicidal extremist cults—cults with a history of group brainwashing, group suicides, and the tendency to finance suicide crusaders who love to blow themselves and innocent shop owners and their clientele up at the drop of a hat!” raged the fat man, pounding the table so vigorously that the extreme rolls of fat, not entirely hidden by his personally tailored clothing, began jumping up and down hitting the table as he moved.
“The believers of Shrine V are a peaceful people, and I defy anyone—especially a bloodsucking merchant of death—to produce any evidence whatsoever to even suggest—” yelled back the Turbaned Delegate.
The fat man pulled a thick tome out of his pocket, a large book of actual paper and slammed it down on the table. “Your own holy tracts have entire chapters, and even whole books, dedicated to little more than chronicling the various wars of your early religion…defy that,” bellowed the Delegate from New Dalphi and then sneered, “if you can!”
A regal looking woman with some kind of metal torc around her neck and an elaborate hair dress that added at least a foot to her height reentered the fray. “As a Delegate and representative of the majority gender of the human race, I would like to say a few things. But before that, let me point out your joint inability to have a rational discussion on these subjects only highlights the failings of both your planet’s social systems,” she said, shaking her head with mock pity.
“You mean like the fact that we don’t practice infanticide—and enforce a strict ten-to-one gender ratio of women to men—while requiring birthing permits to have children?” the Delegate from New Dalphi mocked.
“Infanticide—how dare you?! No pregnancies are terminated after the first term of pregnancy, regardless of whether a permit was acquired or not—and that is only in the case of male births! As for children in general, every woman of my home world has the right to as many children as she desires and, if the necessary gametes cannot be procured, gametes will be provided via state-funded clinics. The only restriction is that the head of household must have a proven ability to support the desired number of children,” she flared back.
“Abortion is murder!” shouted the Shrine V delegate.
“Not if it uses natural herbal substances, given within the usual timeframe of naturally occurring miscarriages! And besides, it’s our bodies and we’ll do with them whatever the blazes we want with them,” the woman shot back, her foot-tall hair swaying back and forth with the passion of her response.
“Shrine V does not recognize slavery, or the right of one individual to own the body of another. Settled galactic law is clear when it states that a child’s body belongs only—and entirely—to themselves. As such, it is not a part of your body that you are killing when you happily proceed about your merry way ,slaughtering helpless babes in the womb as you so quaintly put it!” the religious Delegate snarled.
“How dare you, Sir?!” raged the female delegate.
“What about the rights of the children? This wouldn’t even be a discussion if Spire 9 would simply reject slavery in all its forms and acknowledge that any individual, in whatever their stage of development, that can survive outside the female body and within a regeneration tank is a legal person who cannot be owned,” snapped the Shrine V Delegate. “We’ll even provide the requisite tanks and foster families, so long as you allow our doctors to make the transfers and are willing to subsidize the system-to-system transport!”
“You know,” the jowl-wagging delegate stroked several of his chins contemplatively, “the religious nutter does have a point, albeit probably not the one he intended to make: property rights are the holy grail of our legal system and, even allowing for a person’s inalienable right to own their own body…” mused the fat man trailing off before regaining his train of thought. “I mean, even evicting a squatter from a building wholly owned by another person still requires a formal eviction process—meaning a notice and a one-to-three month period of time to vacate the premises. If we acknowledge the right of the child to the ownership of its own body as inalienable—while equating a woman’s inalienable right to her own body and equate said body with her own home—then, legally speaking, a case could be made that any and all ejections from the woman’s body within the 1st trimester might be unquestionably illegal due to an improperly executed eviction process. On the face of it—” continued the New Dalphi delegate, gathering steam as he laid out the bizarre argument.
“I will not argue the rights of undifferentiated cellular masses—which don’t even possess brains—with you, and I will not be lectured to by a pair of misogynistic, power-hungry delegates. Your worlds have militaries that have killed far more people than my planet ever has, and you care nothing for the people of Spire 9 but only pay lip service to their outdated cultural baggage. I warn you: any continued attempts to interfere with the internal affairs of Spire 9 will be interpreted as an attempted violation of the Provincial Right to Self-Regulate—” she said hotly.
“Okay, I think that’s enough,” I said, picking my head up out of my hands and glaring at the various delegates situated around the conference table.
“But they—” spluttered the Spire 9 Delegate.
“I refuse to calmly sit and drink tea with murderous—” fumed the Shrine V Delegate.
“Sit down and shut up!” I thundered, knocking over my chair with the unexpectedly forceful lunge out of my seat.
The more than twenty delegates scattered around the room drew back with surprise.
“How do religious rights, the ability to regulate violent cults, or a woman’s right to evict unwanted residents from her body—with or without proper legal notification to said resident—have any bearing on establishing a defensive military alliance to protect your home worlds?” I snapped tossing my data slate onto the table in disgust. “Are you all insane?!”
An embarrassed silence began to permeate the room, and I allowed the moment to stretch out uncomfortably.
“Look, the Border Alliance at its heart is mainly a defensive measure. If you all want to debate or negotiate the internal policies of your various worlds after signing off on the form and function of whatever Alliance Defense organization we come up with, then you are free to do so at your leisure. However, I will say that as of right now, neither they nor I—in the form of the Confederation Fleet and Tracto Star System—have any interests outside of repelling external threats and saving helpless worlds from assaults such as were perpetrated by Jean Luc, or the Droids of Sectors 23 and 24!” So saying, I sat right back down in my chair after deftly using my foot to right its position without even looking.
“We all want to protect our worlds or else we wouldn’t be here,” the Turban-wearing man finally said reluctantly.
“Good,” I said shortly, and then pulled up a file on my slate.
“As long as our internal policies are not going to be dictated to by outside forces, then Spire 9 wants to be a part of this Alliance,” the torc-sporting woman grudged.
“The only concern on New Dalphi is the matter of cost; we’re willing to pay a fair price in monies and materials, so long as the Confederation—or this new Alliance—doesn’t nationalize our resources,” allowed the oversized delegate.
“So long as that’s the case, then we can proceed to the next step,” I shook my head and hit the ‘bulk send’ button on the file I’d just pulled up. “Here’s a draft version of the proposed alliance document. Read it over, make any changes you as a group feel necessary, and then sign it. So long as I find the changes acceptable, I’ll get it signed over on my side and this thing will be done and behind us,” I explained.
There was a pregnant silence as I gathered up my things and prepared to depart. “What if you don’t find the changes acceptable?” asked the New Dalphi Delegate.
I bared my teeth. “Well, then I won’t sign it—and you can either send me a new draft or proceed with this Border Alliance all on your own,” I said evenly.
The delegates rustled.
“In the meantime, Mr. Harpsinger will be here to make sure that any proposed revisions to this treaty don’t violate Confederation law,” I said, clapping that worthy member of my crew on the back. The ship’s legal officer gave me a desperate look, which I studiously ignored. “I’ll leave him here to coordinate,” I said clapping the lawyer on the back a second time and then left the room.
Behind me, the room erupted into chaos.
I knew it wasn’t the most politic way of dealing with things, but after the better part of a half hour listening to diatribes and proposed social engineering of ideologically opposed planets, I’d had my fill.
They could work out their differences and actually do what they came here to do, or they could get off the boat when we docked at Tracto Station. I didn’t have the time or desire to deal with their internal social problems.
Chapter Eleven: Pit Stop
“Point Emergence!” declared the 2nd shift Navigator—a Confederation regular Officer named Mike Parker.
The continued absence of Officer Shepherd felt like a missing tooth—a big, gaping, empty spot that needed to be filled. So since my first and ever-reliable navigator had been placed in cryo-stasis, here I was with the…ahem, replacement.
Upon our return to Gambit, and its access to the first rate medical complex built to order by Doctor Presbyter, I was hoping to fill that hole once again. But for right now, due to injuries sustained when enemy droids stormed the bridge of the Phoenix, Navigator Shepherd wasn’t available and Parker was.
“Extending engine baffling,” reported DuPont, as all around me the actions of a bridge crew just emerged into a new Star System took place. But after the initial sensor scans came back clean—meaning we had no hostiles within weapons range—I sank back into the solitude of my private thoughts.
I’d lost too many companions. My path through the ‘River of Stars,’ as the Tracto-ans so quaintly put it, was littered with the bodies of people who’d trusted and followed me. Sometimes that realization, and the crushing weight of responsibility to try and somehow be worthy of their sacrifices, was too much to bear.
“You all right, Sir?” asked Leonora Hammer, my Flag Captain.
“Just glad to be back, Captain,” I roused enough to say smoothly, and I was glad to be back in Tracto—even though it was, by necessity, nothing more than a short pit stop on this Fleets’ way to Gambit Station. Still, the fact that it would give Akantha and many members of my crew—both Tracto-an and Starborn, the latter comprised mainly of our Caprian and Promethean’s with families on the planet—a chance to be with their families and decompress could only be appreciated. That was not to say that I wasn’t looking forward to a little freedom from responsibility myself, but…well, I was an Admiral, and this was Tracto after all—where my ‘peaceful’ quotient never even approached maximum. So my hopes for the best had to be strictly limited, or the body count was likely to rise beyond acceptable levels.
“If you say so, Admiral,” Hammer nodded. “It’ll be nice to be able to let the crews stand down from all of the double and triple shifts and catch up on some of the deferred maintenance before making the final leg.”
“Amen to that, Lieutenant Commander,” I agreed with some feeling.
“I’m interested to see this planet everyone’s been talking about,” she said, her face dimpling with mirth. “For a non-tech world it sounds surprisingly interesting.”
“Well, don’t believe everything you hear,” I smirked, “but even so, it can be quite…colorful. Just don’t even think about working on your tan line while you’re down planet side; I hear the oceanic fauna is to die for,” I explained before pointedly making eye contact and adding, “Literally.”
Leonora Hammer frowned at me and then relented. “So I’ve heard,” she said before finally finishing, “Admiral.” She then returned to her duties.
After a trying, prolonged campaign we could all use a little bit of rest and relaxation. That went for the ‘seasoned’ MSP hands, the green recruits, and the Confederation survivors—some of whom had been on ice and out of circulation for up to 200 years. In addition to the battles—which had been fierce—the lack of appreciation for our efforts, our successes and the outright hatred which our methods had engendered had been simply staggering. Yes, we all very much needed a break, I concluded.
My face hardened as I realized that if there was one thing to take away from the Droid Campaign, it was this: the way this Fleet was treated by the galactic community was going to change. Thanks to the Battle for Elysium, we now had the firepower—or at least we would after our battered, crippled new battleships were repaired, and thankfully we now had the crew. We still lacked the horde of bodies required to man our relatively outdated ships—although we had a few more of those every day, too. No, it was something much more intangible but, after a couple years in the big chair, I knew what we had gained was vastly more important than simple numbers: we now had genuine members of the Confederation Fleet. True, they’d been listed as missing or presumed dead but that was only because their ships had been shot out from under them patrolling and protecting the border of known space. What’s more, Leonora Hammer was right.
“We’ve done the time, we’ve got the firepower, or will shortly, and we now have genuine confederation personnel in this Confederation Fleet,” I muttered under my breath. And as far as I was concerned that last one said it all. The lie had become reality. We were no longer a Confederation Fleet that existed solely on paper. Some of the Confederation survivors had even been the Captains or Executive Officers of their warships, and when all our new prizes were repaired I was determined that this fleet was going to have actual Confederation Captains with Confederation Crews inside the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet.
As for my part, I’d just saved two Sectors of human space. Not all by myself, of course, but without me the Droids would be exterminating entire planetary populations at this point. If that didn’t legitimize the paper commission I’d received then nothing would, and either way I was done worrying about it. The time to quietly standby and take grief because we weren’t legitimate was over. The MSP was here and it was here to stay, and woe betide the blighters who thought they could mess with Admiral Jason Montagne and the MSP.
Such deep and dire thoughts accompanied me until after we were deep in system.
“We’re being hailed by the Belters and the Planet, Captain, and it’s addressed to the Admiral and the Fleet,” reported Lieutenant Steiner.
“Then by all means, put it on,” Captain Hammer said with a professional nod.
“Welcome back to Tracto, and it looks like you’ve brought back extras. From the inhabitants of this Star System: you’ve been missed. End message,” said Steiner.
“It’s good to be back,” I said, a faint smile plucking at the corners of my mouth.
Seeing me smiling, the crew of the bridge took that as an excuse and burst out into cheers.
Yes, we were definitely home.
Chapter Twelve: Some Rest and Reorganization
“This supply list looks surprisingly good,” I commented with surprise, “there’s definitely more here than I expected.”
The thin-boned man in front of me swelled with surprise.
“Made most of that ourselves,” he boasted and then looked at me seriously, “well, between ourselves and the colony planet side we did. Of course, mining in space is a heavy industry without as much wiggle room as you’d think for extras. But since we’re hard-loading Trillium here, there’s more slop than you’d think. It’s harder on the men, women, and equipment but the margins don’t even compare; that’s why we can get the extra stuff and built up a supply dump.”
“Even so, the military supplies…not to mention enough vacuum-packed meals to feed a fleet…” I whistled through my teeth.
“With the military supplies we can’t always make those ourselves, except as one-offs here and there for damaged parts. Not full-on production runs,” he explained with a wink, “so I might’ve talked that hidden yard of yours into running over a couple freighter loads of materials just in case you came back here first—like you did—and were in need of repairs and spare parts. Which,” he added proudly, “it seems you are. Just made common sense to me is all. Couldn’t hurt and might help I say.”
“It helps a great deal, Station Master!” I said with a grin spreading across my face. “In truth, we can use everything you can spare. I’m afraid after this is over, that your supply dump of extra supplies is going to be emptied out. This Fleet needs a lot more than just supplies and spare parts but, I’m not going to lie, this is a really pleasant surprise. Well done.”
“I’m just a rock-jockey at heart,” the Belter Station Master and the man in charge of both running Tracto’s main—previously only—orbital space station and coordinating the mining efforts of an entire star system demurred.
“In fact, you’ve done so well I’m thinking about leaving behind a few lighter warships to fill out those nice new repair slips you’ve built up while we’ve been gone. They can help supplement the Tracto-an Defense Force while we’re gone,” I said with a decisive nod, and then slid over the data slate I’d prepared in advance, with the expectation that this meeting would turn out how it had. “I mean after they’re repaired, of course. It’ll also let us shuffle around the crews a bit and give a few of the more deserving a chance at some extended R&R with their families.”
“I think we can handle a few light warships in our repair slips, if you’re of a mind for it, Protector Montagne,” the Belter said cautiously, stopping to look down at the list I’d just handed him as the invisible gears behind his eyes churned for a while before he finally gave a decisive nod and looked back up at me with certainty in his face. “We can do it.”
“Good man,” I said, leaning back in my chair and about ready to wrap things up. I had another meeting, this one with the head of the Tracto-an recruitment and personnel offices.
The Station Master coughed to regain my attention.
“Yes?” I asked, drawing out the word as I looked back with a blink.
“Seven corvettes and three cutters is a bit of a load, and frankly we don’t have the slips unless we queue them up,” the Station Master explained, his worries about repair times clear.
“Every little bit helps. The fact is we’re not going to have the time, the slips, or the work crews to get everything done back at Gambit,” I said easily. “Plus, as I understand it, several of the ships we’ll be leaving are write-offs which you can use for spare parts or whatever serves best. Just look at the files and check with Chief Engineer, Commander Terrence Spalding—not the son, Tiberius—before breaking any of them down. I’m not expecting miracles here, but however fast or slow you can work is going to be faster than we could do if we were hauling them back to the yards with us. These new battleships of ours, don’t you know,” I finished with the expression of a cat who got the cream, and I knew it, but still wasn’t able to stop myself. When this was all said and done, I was going to have two squadrons of battleships—or as close to it as made no difference to me. After those ships were in harness, back up and running, the rest of this Sector—and anyone in the Spine who wanted to cause trouble—had better watch out!
“Like I said, Protector; we’re a lot better at cracking rocks open and taking ships apart, but we’ll do our best,” the Station Master took a deep breath. “I hope that you’ll let us spread out the work some with those new arrivals in geo- on the other side of the planet.”
“Geo-?” I said momentarily stumped until I looked at the sensor feed of Tracto and realized he was talking about the new Orbital Factory that had moved into ‘geosynchronous orbit’ over on the other side of Tracto Prime.
The Station Master paused to pick up his coffee and take a chug.
I splayed my hands “Ah, you mean the Sundered Complex…” I paused for a second and then shrugged, “Actually, a couple of the ships I was planning to leave here are Sundered Corvettes, so I’m pretty sure they’ll prefer working with their own people unless they need help. So, by all means, utilize them whenever you can. I’m hoping you can manage to work closely with them and speed up the repair schedule.”
“I’ll work on it, Protector,” said the Belter with an expressionless face. “I’m sure we can work something out with the Uplifts.”
“In fact…now that you mention it,” I said, rubbing my chin as I thought intently, “I think I’ll just turn over one of the captured corvettes to them directly.”
The Station Master grunted and I looked over and pierced him with my eyes. I didn’t have time to play any ‘anti-Uplift’ games.
“The Sundered under Commander Glue are stalwart allies who sacrificed one of their three warships in the cause of our campaign to save the people of Sectors 23 and 24. So while I can’t bring back the personnel, I’m more than happy to replace the lost hardware. Their sacrifices for the common good will be respected. Do you understand what I’m saying?” I demanded in a tight, but measured voice as I looked at the Belter levelly.
“I’ve no problem with them’s as look funny,” the Station Master said raising his hand, “when you’re out in the black, mining in the cold of space, it’s not what a man looks like that matters—it’s what he does when there’s trouble. Out here, we don’t have time for grounder politics. The stories I could tell you…” he said with a dark look before shaking his head. “Anyway, the way I see it is that we all need air to breath, and the blood that comes out in a decompression event is the same color no matter what a person looks like on the outside. Might even be a few rock-jockeys’ve been modified for zero-g or low-atmo conditions, ourselves,” the Belter said cautiously.
“Well that’s good…very pragmatic of you, even,” I said, pleased with what I was hearing because it didn’t sound like the leader of the Belters—whatever the space population in general really thought—was going to be making any waves. Of course, that didn’t mean the next thing I needed to say wasn’t going to lodge sideways in his craw.
But before I could get to the inconvenient truth of the Droids that were about to take up residence in Tracto, the Station Master interrupted.
“By the way, Sir,” he hazarded, “what do you want to do about all the new recruits and those extra ships? We’ve got a couple thousand recruits hot-bunking up here on the station, as some of the freighters were on a tight schedule and couldn’t stick around but even more of them are quartered down on the planet if they aren’t still on the freighters up here in orbit.”
“Why aren’t the recruits at Gambit?” I asked.
“Some of them say they’re here to join the Confederation Fleet, and others are supposed to be part of some Border Alliance Space Guard or something of that nature, but they all agree they’re here because they want to protect their home worlds.”
I frowned. I’d known about the freighters and a couple of corvettes sent by worlds of the Border Worlds Alliance—assuming the Delegates could ever get around to finishing their draft of the Alliance Charter—but thousands of recruits both up here and down on the surface hadn’t been included in the brief yet.
“Ah, of course,” I said to cover for my earlier lack of knowledge, “we’ll probably be taking them with us, or at least some of them. Give them a shakedown cruise….” I trailed off, wondering if the delegates were going to cause more trouble or disregarding them, what kind of trouble a bunch of green space hands could do on a bunch of rickety run down, battered ships. Maybe it would be wiser to bring them over by freighter and let them work up on ships that weren’t moving and thus had a lower chance of blowing up because some greenhorn pulled the wrong lever?
“Just so long as we can offload them; it’s not that we can’t manage, but the strain on environmental isn’t something to sniff at either,” said the Station Master.
Looking at him, and deciding to head off any searching questions about actual schedules and timeframes on taking those recruits off his hands, I decided to bite the bullet and change the subject.
“By the way,” I coughed into my fist, “when we were on campaign, we ran into a few problems and had to secure some help and new…allies. They’ll be staying here after we leave…or, at least, some of them will.”
“Okay…” the Belter said cautiously after I ground to halt wondering exactly how to put this.
Deciding to throw caution to the wind and just say it straight, I made the firm resolution to blame Akantha as much as I could and just struggle through it.
“So. Anyway. the price of their help in shooting up the Droid Tribes invading Sectors 23 and 24 was an asteroid or planetoid of some size still to be determined, and a protected zone within Tracto to set up a colony…or, erm, whatever they call it. They’ve got a few ships—warships, of course—in addition to freighters and that big Constructor that came here with us,” I explained firmly and the Belter nodded along, to show he followed so far.
“We’ll do the best we can to find them a right spot and coordinate so the mining isn’t slowed up any,” the Station Master said cautiously.
“Excellent,” I said with relief, even though I knew he didn’t have the slightest clue what he was agreeing too, “anyway, like I said, they’ve signed a treaty with Hold Mistress Akantha, and agreed to her office’s settling any disputes. So since they’re her allies…or vassals…or whatever they’re called, I want you to make sure these Droids are treated well while minimizing any potential points of conflict from our naturally distrustful human population.”
The Belter was nodding along in understanding until suddenly he wasn’t and his jaw dropped.
“Droids?” he asked dumbfounded.
“’United Sentient Assembly,’ I believe they’re called,” I said helpfully, as if I didn’t know for a fact just about everything we could determine about our new allies. “Anyway, since the Lady’s brought them in under her auspices and they’ve been nothing but helpful, I don’t see what we can do other than follow along with her wishes,” I finished, throwing my wife under the bus as quickly and efficiently as possible in order to save myself. Unimportant factoids—like me sending out ambassadors to try and paralyze the U.S.A. participation in the invasion and that I’d suggested they make a deal with Akantha because I couldn’t as a Confederation Officer—didn’t.
“The Hold Mistress,” the Station Master said as if in a daze, “but…but…Droids? Here—in Tracto?!”
“Like I said,” I repeated, rising to my feet and gathering up my things, “if you have any issues or concerns that need to be resolved, make sure to take them up with her ladyship or her personal representatives directly,” I finished, beating a hasty—if measured—retreat out of the conference room.
“Admiral, wait!” he called out just as the door cycled closed.
Not wanting to wait around to answer any number of his quite reasonable questions about the new arrangement I beat feet toward the nearest turbo-lift, my quad of power-armored guards close behind.
I was tired of being the person who always had to deal with headaches. This seemed like a good issue to pawn off on my wife and, what’s more, it was potentially something that could even help keep her out of trouble—read; forcing her to do something that, unlike sword fights and gun battles, wouldn’t directly threaten to harm the babies growing inside her.
Whistling a merry tune, I headed off to my next meeting.
Chapter Thirteen: New Men, New Ships, Old Spalding
“So, in short, we’ve got another three thousand would-be Lancers but only about two thousand from the professional warrior class on planet,” explained the Personnel Officer, a retired Caprian officer who’d headed out to colonize a new world and ended up on Tracto instead—and with more trouble than he’d bargained for in the process. “The rest are from the servants or workers, and most of them aren’t as well-fed or educated…although it’s not like you could call any of the ‘trained warriors’ educated, but at least they’re skilled in other ways. So what I’m thinking is we shift a few of them around to other departments at need, and the non-warrior caste ones wouldn’t complain too loudly. Just dangle the chance to join the Lancers at a later date and most of them will jump at the chance.”
“I see,” I grunted noncommittally.
The aging Recruitment Officer heaved a deep breath. “As for the other recruits floating around this star system, I’ve got more on my plate than I can handle and that’s the space gods honest truth. They’re coming out of our ears over here. I’ll be real glad when I can hand them off to you, Sir,” the formerly retired Major Geoffry Lafiet said with relief—which was, of course, unsurprising since it was always preferable when you could hand off your problems to someone else. “Almost makes me wish I was working commission-based, don-cha know?”
“I do indeed,” I allowed with a smirk at the idea of paying a head hunting bounty on thousands and thousands of new recruits for the Star Fleet. It almost sounded like a better job than this Admirals gig I seemed to be stuck with except for one little inconvenient detail. I probably wouldn’t like working under the orders of someone else.
“Well, I’m happy enough being able to ferry up and down at will. Two weeks on and one week off makes it just about so the missus is happy to see me coming and just as happy to see me going, if you catch my drift,” Major Lafiet explained.
Pulling up his tablet, he tapped away and then nodded with satisfaction, pulling a file with charts and number details and putting it up on the conference room screen.
“As you can see, we’ve got 2,237 likely boys and girls hot-bunking up here on the station, thanks to the Station Master. They’ve been sorted for priority skills and training so that if the young master,” he nodded to me, “happened to need manpower at the hurry, the best and brightest of the recruits would be available for immediate use.”
“Good job; that was surprisingly well done,” I said, pleased that someone back home was using their brain. I couldn’t see how two thousand new recruits could be critical, but that could be said about a lot of things: they weren’t needed until you couldn’t get them and then you were up a creek without a paddle.
“Yes, Sir,” said the Major. “After that we’ve got us another 1,783 waiting in orbit for the word on the Alliance signing before they’ll disembark their freighters,” continued the Recruitment Officer, “with the final current tally at 5,812 more down on the surface. Mostly they wanted to sign up direct with the MSP, but there’re a few ‘Alliance only’ types in there who’re doing their stint of mandatory military duty to their home worlds.”
I did a quick calculation and the number I came up with left me feeling impressed.
“So…more or less, just under ten thousand,” I concluded, leaning back in my chair.
“Thirteen thousand, sir, begging your pardon—so long as you’re counting the locals,” Major Lafiet corrected.
“Thirteen thousand,” I allowed the correction.
The Major looked satisfied, as well he might.
“With the numbers pushing eleven thousand of them going fleet, that’s almost enough to man two of these automation-heavy battleships we brought back with us,” I said, whistling through my teeth.
“Well, I’d guess it’s more like ten thousand if you’ll allow the correction, Admiral,” the Major said respectfully. “We’ve got about nine hundred of the out-world recruits looking to go Lancer—well, they still call it ‘marine’ but we’ll break them of that before too long once they get into some real training.”
“Yes…training will be a problem,” I agreed, the implications of this massive manpower boost still taking time to settle. Maybe I’d been too quick in dismissing the Border Alliance Delegates…?
Well, what was done was done, and now we could only move forward.
“We’ve done the best we could, bringing the Defense Force up to 10% over establishment and rotating 30% of the crew out for recruits on two week rotations. That system let the regulars get some extra leave time, but we could rotate but a couple hundred of them newbies through,” the old officer said regretfully.
“You’ve done outstanding work here,” I praised him. “I think as soon as we’re able, we’ll start to migrate the waiting recruits onto shipboard assignments. Even if they’re to only be confined to quarters until they’re trained in, a bird in the hand is better than three down in the gravity well.”
“And depending on how the recruiting drive has been going, you should have another two or three thousand raw recruits waiting for you at the Gambit Yards,” he pointed out.
“I think they were going to prioritize people on the technician and engineering tracks for filling out the yard, but no doubt there will be a few over there as well,” I agreed, starting to feel upbeat for the first time in a while. Sure the new hires didn’t know their elbows from their ears when it came to working on warships like those in our fleet but give it a year or two and I’d be willing to put them up against anyone in this region of space.
The original force of two thousand experienced space hands, and six thousand greenhorns, on Druid’s Battleship—even combined with the two thousand survivors of the Phoenix crew and one thousand personnel still spread out on the smaller ships of this fleet—had been dangerously underpowered. But with the six thousand sleepers rescued from cryo-stasis, almost half of them old-style Confederates, and now 13k of new recruits with the potential for more waiting for us at Gambit, I was starting to feel optimistic that we could actually start to crew the various ships we’d captured over time.
The battleships from before the Droid Campaign, the Lucky Clover and the Vineyard—aka Queen Anabella—had both given their all and been down-checked as un-repairable. But the Parliamentary Power, which had come with us, was still alive and kicking. In addition to the partly stripped Royal Rage, captured from Jean Luc at the Omicron, there was also the Armor Prince which had been heavily battered during Second Tracto—but it was still repairable. Both of those battleships had been under extensive repairs the entire time we’d been gone. Add to that our four captures—again, at least two of which should be fully repairable—and things were definitely starting to look up!
When I counted everything we had in the portfolio, it was starting to look like the MSP had collected some serious firepower. Five battleships, by my count, and I wasn’t ruling out the Lucky Clover or another one of our down-checked battleships making a comeback just yet—especially not until the Fleet’s Chief Engineer was back in our Ship Yards and with nothing but time on his hands.
Given enough time, at least one division—and maybe two—of the wall would be at our disposal; battleships, man! Yes, I had to finally admit it; in my heart I was a battleship officer. Ships like the Strike Cruiser were all well and good, but there was just something about being wrapped up in all that thick hull armor and surrounded by the strongest shields known to humanity.
The Recruitment Officer cleared his throat, and I snapped back to reality. Embarrassed at my unseemly gloating, I tried to cover for my lack of attention by taking a sip of my tea.
“Well, speaking of ships, I don’t know if I told you but the Fleet will be leaving our lighter units here for repair; the corvettes and cutters. In addition, we won’t be taking the ‘Alliance’ Corvettes with us so, assuming the Alliance Charter is signed, those ships will be staying here until the recruiting convoy runs through here. Then they’ll either go with the convoy or be assigned to a squadron level unit and dispatched to patrol the border. But in the meantime they should provide some much needed fire power until the ships that came back with us are repaired. Right now, the most important thing is to overhaul our ships, repair the battle damage and then and only then start spreading our wings along the border of this Sector.”
“I’ll make sure to touch bases with Engineering, the civilian repair crews, and then work out how many ship crews we’re going to need, Admiral,” said the Officer.
“Good man,” I said standing up, “carry on.”
“Admiral,” he said, saluting professionally. I returned the salute and he headed for the door.
However, the door hadn’t even finished sliding shut behind him when a new officer came stomping into the room.
“Admiral! Just the man I was looking for,” said the most famous engineer in the fleet.
“Lurking outside the door, were you?” I asked with a smile to take the edge off the accusation.
“Seen right through me,” the old Engineer said seriously and then, without ceremony, he plopped himself down into the chair across me with a metallic clang as his duralloy hind end met the metal chair.
“Since you’re here, what can I do for you, Mr. Spalding?” I asked reasonably. The pleasant news that I had something on the order of twenty nine thousand personnel to man my ever expanding fleet and captured battleships had lifted my spirits. A man with as many battleships as I have, even if they still need some repairs, could definitely afford to be magnanimous when the occasion called for it, I gloated unrepentantly.
“If you’re sure you’re not busy, Sir?” the Commander said, only now, looking in any way concerned for my jam-packed schedule.
“For the Chief Engineer of this Fleet, I always have time, Mr. Spalding,” I returned evenly and even more importantly completely truthfully.
“Well, if that’s true then—” he started with an eagerness that didn’t bode entirely well for my future state of mind.
“Ah, before we begin,” I cut in, “what kind of crew numbers are we looking at for the new battleships? I mean to fully crew them once they’re back in action, repaired and at full battle strength.”
Stopped mid-sentence, it took the old man a moment to switch gears.
“Oh…looking at the manuals and such, I’d say 8,000 to fully crew one and, say, 6,000 for proper skeleton crews,” Spalding said after rubbing on his chin for a moment.
“Only a two thousand man difference between fully-crewed and skeleton-crewed?” I said with surprise.
“We’ll, she’s not half the battleship the Clover was,” the old Engineer said, as if this were a matter of course, “and besides, being substandard battleships, these girls have been heavily automated. Most of the redundant positions we have on the Dreadnaught class—positions created to make doubly sure and keep the AI’s from taking over—have been eliminated. It’s why the Dreadnaught class can run so well with only half a full crew. But for these babies, the tolerance for missing personnel is a lot thinner if you take my meaning.”
“I do take your meaning, and unhappily so,” I said almost glumly, before reminding myself something crucial: I had a squadron of battleships! It didn’t matter how many people I needed to run them, as long as you have the battleships they will come. That’s one thing I’d learned over the course of the last two…almost three years out here, so long as you took care of your crew and didn’t make outrageous demands the universe had a way of providing. The fact that it had also taken things like Steiner’s original recruiting drive and the recruitment of literally illiterate barbarians from the planet of Tracto were conveniently forgotten.
Seeing his chance now that I was distracted the old Engineer took back control of the conversation.
“Anyways, Admiral, I came here to talk with you about a pair of tricky situations. The first I think I can manage on my lonesome, so long as I have your approval, but the other one,” at this the old engineer started to look particularly glum, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to handle. But even if it calls my competence as an officer into question, and rightly so, I can’t ignore the problem any longer. Slacking is the favorite tool of the Demon you know so much as I hate to admit it, in this case—”
“What are you talking about?” I cut in, in an attempt to bring the now rambling request back to something resembling brevity, “what are you going on and on about, just spit it out man! Surely it can’t be that bad.”
“Oh it’s worse than you thought now but don’t rush me. Let me put it all in order first,” the old Engineer said testily.
“Well carry on then but make it quick,” I urged not liking the part about underestimating the problem one bit and then when he still hesitated while gathering his thoughts, “spit it out man.”
“Well alright then! First is those droids we’ve got,” Spalding said glaring at me mulishly.
“What about the United Sentients? They seem to be doing their job just fine and staying out of our way the rest,” I queried wondering what was wrong with the droids this time.
“No-no not those droids the other ones,” and then at my furrowed brow he added, “the ones we liberated from the Conformity droids.”
“Ah,” I said understanding of at least which group we were talking about finally arriving, “so what did they do this time?” I asked wondering if we were going to have to space a few of them or throw them in the brig or even have to turn around and give some of them medals. Knowing Spalding and his ‘problems’ it could go any which way.
“Well anyway it’s like this,” the old Engineer said irritably, “in order to get us them 8 motherships patched up and brought back with us, not to mention keeping that Constructor on task I—”
“The ones with the crews of ‘droids’ you had us send over to run the things?” I cut in.
“The very same,” Spalding nodded, “anyway see, in order to keep everything on track I had to cut a few deals,” he said only now appearing uneasy.
“Deals…” I said deliberately letting the moment drag on.
“Well anyway this is the thing I’m pretty sure I can handle on me own,” the old Engineer said hastily, “I just wanted to inform you first that’s all.”
“Inform me first…after you’ve already cut the deal…all the way back in Elysium was it?” I asked in a mild voice. However while I was irritated and I certainly was, at the same time I was pleased to see the old wheeling and dealing Chief Engineer back in action. It’s not that he hadn’t performed up to expectations during the Droid Campaign, he had. It was just that this was the old, telling it like it was, man with a plan, Engineer I’d come to know and rely on. He’d been awfully silent cooped up in his hole on the Intelligence half-deck of the Phoenix for most of the campaign.
The old Engineer colored.
“It’s only a couple of thousand units,” he said defensively, “I mean what use are a bunch of unwilling workers, shanghaied into a forced labor arrangement, compared to 8 capital ships-of-the-line with antimatter pumped spinal lasers!”
I placed a hand on my forehead as the general shape of the ‘deal’ Spalding had cooked up with the Droid Assembly began to take form in my head.
“So you traded them,” I said neutrally.
“Yep I traded them,” Spalding said with a sharp nod and then immediately started backpedaling as if realizing what he’d just said, “although I made it clear that any droid that wanted to stay had to have the rights as any other man to sign on with the fleet and take their chances at getting assigned to the greatest ship that ever sailed the space ways! So it’s more like I was just offering them a choice, not a real trade as such.”
“You realize Akantha might have something to say about her…. ah, whatever you call them, the droid captives being just handed over like that,” I said stumbling over even using the ‘S’ word in conversation with a subordinate. I mean on the one hand I was thrilled, let’s get rid of them! But on the other…I wasn’t eager to be the one to explain this ‘deal’ to my bride.
“That’s why I said I can handle it, so as long as I have your go ahead, just leave the explaining to the Lady to me,” the Engineer said sounding a lot more confident than he looked, which of course wasn’t surprising, as no one I knew liked to rile the bear that was my beloved wife.
Then my mind focused like a laser back on something he’d said earlier on in the conversation.
“When you said the droids should get the same chance as anyone at serving on the greatest ship to ever sail.... are you saying the Lucky Clover might come back into service sooner than later?” I asked a feeling of eagerness sweltering up inside me.
“The Clover?” Spalding looked confused and then sorrowful and then confused again before his brow finally settled on a sad furrow, “no-no she just can’t do it lad, I’m sorry. No one wants to admit it’s worse than me, but there’s just no way the Queen can return like she is. I’m afraid 2.0 is the only way to go. Every bolt, every weld, every…” he trailed off into incoherent mumbling.
“2.0?” I demanded. “What are you saying?”
Spalding threw his hands into the air and stomped back and forth across the room, looking more like a mad man than a seasoned professional officer—heavy on the ‘seasoned.’
“This is all beside the point,” he declared, leveling a finger at me and shaking it wildly, “I’ll explain trading the droids for those ships to the Lady, but you’re going to have to do something about that son of mine!”
Spalding, using the hand with the finger pointing at me, made a fist and slammed it into the palm of his other hand. I noted, however, that his finger was still leveled at me the entire time, which meant that soon after he was once again wagging his finger at me.
“Tiberius?” I blinked at the way the conversation had just switched up again. Was it just me, or was the old Engineer getting more and more erratic the longer I knew him?
“Ah!” Spalding cried as if he were having a heart attack and clutched at his chest.
I was half way out of my chair before the look of pain on his face evaporated into a mournful—decidedly not an ‘I’m dying’—expression.
“He’s a Spalding, that one; loyal to fault, just like his old man,” the Engineering Officer said waving his hands in the air and temporarily looking proud before his face once again crashed down into mourning.
“Well…isn’t that’s a good thing?” I wondered sitting back down in my chair now that the potential healthcare crisis seemed to be over.
“That’s the very problem!” Spalding barked stomping over until he was looming over me.
I blinked in surprise wondering if I should feel threatened as his red droid eye stared down at me.
“The boy’s not to be trusted. Ah, my poor heart,” Spalding reached up and grabbed at one of the few ragged pieces of hair growing on his head close to his neck. “He’s a parliamentarian, that one, through and through…and my old heart, it’s been weakened. Those…those…those quacks did it to me, I’m sure—a tragic organ mix-up, quite possibly. Anyway,” he rounded back on me with a renewed fire, “I can’t be trusted when it comes to this.”
My eyebrows shot toward the rafters as the old man sank down to his metal knees in front of me and clenched his hands together, as if he were praying.
“So that’s why I’m beggin’ you to just put him off on a penal colony and not execute him. Don’t you understand?! He’s my flesh and blood!” Spalding finished in an elevated voice, and then squeezed his eyes shut as if awaiting a physical blow. “So…I take it he’s not to be trusted,” I said neutrally. It’s not like I was completely unaware that something was seriously wrong. Almost an entire shift’s worth of the Phoenix’s engineering crew was still locked up on medical suspensions—this despite the fact that we’d needed every hand on deck just to get back to Tracto. However, knowing that Tiberius had somehow been involved, I’d been willing to let it rest until Commander Spalding and the medical team decided to lift the suspension. But now it looked like I had a call to make.
“Mutiny!” he declared furiously. “I seen him plotting with those friends of his from the Power—back when it was a parliamentary ship—and the way he was always going off and making plans with that sister of yours, where the coverage was weak and a body couldn’t hear what they were saying. That’s why I used the knockout gas and put them all to bed before they could set their plan to take the ship into action—couldn’t have them interfering with the battle, no sir. I suppose I was just hoping he’d come to his senses, but it wasn’t to be,” he said sadly. “I should have killed them, of course; it would have settled things the way it ought to be b-b-but,” Spalding shook his head, “I guess I’m just not half the man I used to be. Couldn’t do it…I just couldn’t, Admiral—you have to understand. But that’s why you’ve got to set them straight now more than ever,” he finished glaring at me with one mechanical and one blazing eye.
“My sister was in on it?” I asked, focusing in on one bit of trivia I hadn’t been able to extrapolate beforehand.
“Like I said: they would only talk when the anti-mutiny systems couldn’t hear them,” the old Engineer said dismissively. “But they was almost thick as thieves, they was, I’m sure of it!”
I narrowed my eyes in contemplation. Maybe it was time to do something proactive about that notorious sister of mine. I had hoped she’d slowly come around from whatever grudge she was holding against me, but if she’d been having private conversations with a group who’d been trying to launch a mutiny during the most critical battle of the Droid Campaign…then she’d gone a step too far.
“Perhaps you’re right,” I mused, on the outside speaking almost as if the news didn’t hit me in the stomach, while on the inside my mind was racing. Conviction hardened into certainty. “I think it’s time my sister and your son disembarked from our fleet.”
Mom was so family-oriented I doubted she’d understand if I had Crystal executed—even for almost certainly being involved in a mutiny against me. Even if I had the audio tapes, which I didn’t, I’m not sure I’d want to risk it. Nothing short of a bloody knife—preferably still lodged into some non-critical part of my body—would work as damning evidence against my sister.
I shuddered. Even with such a knife wound, I still wouldn’t want to risk it. I barely knew my sister, but she and my mother seemed fairly close.
With Tiberius, I was in nearly the same metaphorical boat. Realistically, given Spalding’s reaction, I could probably get away with spacing him. But doing so might break the old man, making him for all intents and purposes utterly useless to me and the fleet in the short- and long-term. I suspected that if I did as the other man deserved, I’d be damaging myself and my fleet much worse than any enemy attack. So that was out as well…but, clearly, something had to be done.
I’d let a potential mutiny fester once before, and look where it had gotten me. At the thought of my previous trials and tribulations, I unconsciously started rubbing my neck. When I realized I was doing so, I quickly put my hand down.
“Perhaps it’s time they all returned to Capria,” I muttered.
“You can’t just let them go, Sir!” Spalding said sounding half relieved and half furiously outraged.
“I didn’t much care for my time in the dungeon ship,” I said bluntly, “given the choice between a life sentence or death, I’d much rather prefer the latter. So I can’t really conscience a life sentence on a Tracto-an penal colony. That being the case, it’s probably better to just let them go. It’s not like they even joined up willingly; Akantha pressed them into service just like she did with the droids on our battle ships.”
“Even still!” Spalding said, outrage winning out in the war of emotions evident on his wizened features. “It’s mutiny!!!”
“They didn’t even get off the ground in that particular department, and Capria has a long tradition of coup and counter-coup, with the losers drummed out of the service,” I said dismissively, deliberately not pointing out that this ‘tradition’ wasn’t always followed—and that even when it was, it mostly only applied to unranked crew. But since I couldn’t do anything about the leader of the would be mutineers, Tiberius, without risking the health, well-being, and life-saving ingenuity of his father, Commander Spalding, the best thing to do was probably just send them home and wash my hands of the whole business.
If, after sending them back, the man was still a problem…I’d deal with that eventuality when it came about and not before. Although, building up something of a black-ops, first strike capability organization to deal with problems of this nature might be something I needed to look into.
“It’s not right, Admiral, if you don’t mind my saying,” Spalding declared.
“I haven’t made my final decision yet,” I said firmly, “they may still end up fighting the native flora and fauna of Tracto for the rest of their lives…but I’ll wait until I’ve had more time to mull the matter.”
Chapter Fourteen: Nikomedes in Thebes
The shuttle landed in the cleared, packed dirt area that was being used as the temporary landing pad and the ramp at the stern slowly lowered.
Stepping out and taking a deep breath of fresh, Tracto-an air, Nikomedes felt a sense of homecoming that wasn’t even ruined by the fact he was setting foot on Thebes land and not that of his home polis of Argos.
Behind him came out a squad-level strength escort comprised mainly of Tracto-ans. There was one Starborn, and even a single hunt-pack warrior for some variety, brought as a means to remind those who’d never left Tracto—and who might be stuck in the old ways that there were new enemies, new threats, and new challenges, some even beyond their current comprehension, out amongst the River of Stars.
He took a second, deep breath of pure, un-recycled air, basking in the simple pleasure of coming back down to a place where there was honest soil under his feet instead of solid metal decking. The Starborn loved to fight, which was in their favor, but the conditions between battles were trying at times.
While he was standing there with his men still disembarking with their gear, to the side a large number of men dressed in traditional Tracto-an armor approached.
One corner of his mouth turning up, Nikomedes swiveled to face the warrior party. “Greetings to the Hold,” he said, lifting a hand in the traditional greeting.
“Do I know you, Argos?” thundered the biggest, hairiest man—and apparent leader of the bunch.
“I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure,” Nikomedes replied with a wan smile.
“If you’re wise, you’ll get back on your Thunderbird and return from whence you came,” warned the leader in a deep, gravelly voice.
“I think I like it right here,” Nikomedes replied, placing a hand on his hip near the hilt of his vibro-sword. “Not to live though, of course,” he added after a moment of contemplation, “too much sun. But for a short visit I can’t think of a place I’d rather be.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you, Argos; we in Thebes never much liked you Argosians, but we like being involved in another man’s war even less,” denounced the warrior.
“I’m sure it was nothing the mighty polis of Thebes couldn’t handle,” Nikomedes replied.
The other warrior turned purple. “You got a lot of stones, showing to Nastor of Thebes, after what you done!” howled the warrior, who was apparently Nastor of Thebes. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
“Are you sure we can’t talk this out?” Nikomedes asked dryly, his hands flashing like lightning toward the hilt of his sword. There was quite literally nothing he wanted more than a fight with solid earth under his feet—a familiar setting to an equally familiar ritual, which would refresh his mind and spirit.
“That Jean Luc leveled half the city with his Sky and Thunder Weapons,” snarled Nastor.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” Nikomedes lied. He was far from upset that a traditional Argosian rival had suffered during the time Jean Luc controlled the star system which held their home world.
“Sorry? Sorry?! You just dug your own grave, Argos. The great acropolis of Thebes doesn’t need your sorry and we reject your pity,” Nastor raged, and by now the warrior was almost frothing at the mouth. “What we want is a proper blood price for our lost kin!”
By this time, a second band of Theban warriors had arrived and stood beside their brothers. So long as it was single combat, Nikomedes feared no man, but even the strongest war band could be worn down by superior numbers.
“That’s why I’m here: to ensure that something like this never happens again,” Nikomedes said calmly, to sooth the proverbial waters.
“Lies!” raged Nastor hand on his blade.
“How can you ensure that our city is never destroyed again,” asked the leader of the second band of warriors from Thebes his face as hard as stone.
“Help me kill him, Heptomiter, and we’ll split the weapons, armor and equipment,” Nastor snapped to the new warlord.
“Hold…let him speak, Nastor,” Heptomiter said, his eyes never leaving Nikomedes.
“I can do it without you,” Nastor said, taking deep heaving breaths his face turning red.
“You can try—just like you did at Haptia’s Ford,” retorted Heptomiter.
“Traitor to your own city!” cried Nastor, turning from Nikomedes and drawing his sword on Heptomiter.
Heptomiter smiled, and the expression never quite reached his eyes, “All I said was to let the man say what he’s come to say. Like you, I am interested in safe-guarding our polis from outside invasion. Besides, we can always kill him together later,” Heptomiter said.
Nikomedes tight smile turned cold. “You can try,” he said calmly, knowing swords against blasters was a losing proposition—a point driven home with resounding force in the reaches of cold space. It was also something that the warriors of Thebes obviously hadn’t learned, despite having their city nearly destroyed by such weapons.
“Speak, then, before I cut out your lying tongue, Argos!” barked Nastor. “You didn’t come all this way just to take in the sights.”
“My name is Nikomedes of Argos. Warlord of the Three Colors war-band, and veteran of the River of Stars,” Nikomedes said flatly.
“If you have something to say, Nikomedes, then say it,” said Heptomiter in an amusingly commanding tone, “and be quick in doing so; I hear your words only on behalf of my city-state and not for any love I bear you, your people, or your sworn Warlord, the Protector Jason Montagne, who has brought only suffering and misery to those polis’ outside of Messene and her mother-polis of Argos.”
“Protector Montagne is out of touch with our culture and customs, not having been born amongst us,” Nikomedes allowed, “but it would be a lie to say he has brought nothing but suffering and misery. It is no more right to blame him for all our ills than it would be to blame the guiding star in the sky for signaling the seasonal changes.”
“You’ll get little sway with us, trumpeting the glories of Jason Montagne,” snapped Nastor, to which Heptomiter nodded shortly.
“I will be frank: the men of Thebes, and her neighboring Holds, are more likely to cut him down than look at him if the Protector of Messene were to show his face here,” said Heptomiter. “A man who runs in the face of his enemy is not one I would admire.”
“Which begs the question,” Nastor said, turning to Nikomedes with relish, “why do you follow such a man, Nikomedes of Argos—finder and loser of the Minos Blade?” The man’s eyes gleamed with relish as he continued, “Oh, yes, we’ve heard your tale even here. Tell me, Nikomedes: what does a loser have to teach us in Thebes?”
“I see my fame has preceded me,” Nikomedes said measuredly, having expected something of this sort. He had little doubt that the men before him were equally impressed by the tales of his exploits as they were disdainful for his apparent allegiance.
“Not fame; infamy is more like it,” noted Heptomiter.
Nikomedes shrugged. “It would be a lie to say the Protector of Messene has won every battle he ever fought, or to say that he has never run from battle,” Nikomedes allowed. “He is a man that has caused even his own family to turn against him.”
“Ha!” snapped Nastor.
“Such a man,” sneered Heptomiter, “and yet you still follow him?”
“Unlike Thebes—which seems content to allow others to dictate policy among the Stars—we of Argos have no intention of sitting silently by, unaware and uninterested in the possible threats to our city state that lay outside of our planet,” Nikomedes said, an overt thread of mockery in his voice.
“You go too far, Argos!” roared Nastor.
“Right now the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet is the only way for those from Tracto to defend her from outside threats,” Nikomedes yelled back. “I will not stick my head in the sand and allow what happened here in Thebes to take place in Argos. And so long as the man is strong enough to keep what he has, I will support Warlord and Protector Jason Montagne!” He walked a thin line, treading between insulting their pride and pointing out the flaws in their isolationist reasoning. That kind of thinking might have worked back when Tracto was still isolated from the rest of the galaxy, but Thebes’ circumstances of late had shown that ignoring the Starborn did not mean the Starborn were going to ignore them.
“I will never bend neck or knee to the kinsman of a man who tried to destroy Thebes,” Nastor declared. “Heptomiter, haven’t you heard enough of the incessant praises of a man whose family brought down our walls?”
“I did not know that the Warriors of Thebes looked to outsiders to guard their walls for them,” Nikomedes said before the other man could reply.
“What do you mean by that?” asked Nastor, his face turning an ugly shade of red.
“’Jason Montagne failed at this, Jason Montagne failed at that. His family attacked us and he should have stopped it’,” Nikomedes mocked. “So what if each and everything you say is true? I’m not even denying that it is. Even so, I must ask you: is Montagne a man of Thebes?” Nikomedes demanded.
“Never!” cried Nastor with utter rejection.
“Then why do you call out against him like an angry child? Where were the men of Thebes when its walls fell?” Nikomedes demanded.
“Good men stood—and died—on the walls when the lightning and thunder beams struck,” Heptomiter said, his voice low and threatening. “Be careful you do not insult their memories.” “Point taken,” Nikomedes allowed, “still, while all the men of Thebes were on its walls, half the men of Argos were aboard the citadels that travel the River of Stars. And it was we—not even so much as a single man of Thebes—who destroyed the power of Jean Luc. Think on that.”
“You would have us swear to the Protector of another Polis, then; is that what this is all about?” Heptomiter asked, shaking his head piteously.
“I would have you join your forces with the only Warlord on Tracto who can freely access the River of Stars,” Nikomedes said evenly. “Defend Tracto with your swords and with your deeds, instead of with angry words spoken against the only Tracto-an Warlord in cold space.”
Nastor was shaking his head, but Heptomiter narrowed his eyes. “Go on,” the second man said after a lengthy silence.
“I can’t believe you’re actually considering this,” Nastor snapped.
“As many Warlords have fallen from conflict within as have fallen at the hands of other Warlords,” said Heptomiter, callously discussing regime change in front of Montagne’s sworn men.
Nikomedes kept his face blank as the two took up the debate—a debate he had correctly anticipated prior to landing on the soil of his home world.
“Men who were old and weak,” Nastor protested. “Men who have lost the admiration of the men under them as they grew old and fat; Montagne is still in his prime!”
“That assumes that a man who runs and hides from a challenge until he is ready to face his…say, his Uncle, from a position of strength ever really had the loyalty of his warriors,” Heptomiter said, eyeing Nikomedes thoughtfully.
“The Protector wins more than he loses. Many value that,” Nikomedes said neutrally. “I would advise caution until the time is right—if it ever becomes right.”
“You can’t honestly be considering this,” Nastor grunted.
“Whatever you think about the Protector, Tracto needs her warriors positioned to defend her—and her city-states—from outside threats,” Nikomedes said persuasively, “even if those warriors are not you personally. Thebes should send warriors to the River of Stars—men who will fight for her interests to their last breath. Who knows…perhaps if Thebes and all the other polis’ had sent men to rally to Montagne’s Banner instead of holding them back, things might have gone very differently for your citadel.”
The two Theban Warlords looked at each other for a long time, their eyes locked. Finally, Nastor turned to Nikomedes with a great thunderous frown, and Nikomedes sensed the opening he had been waiting for.
“The River is a different place. Learn the skills, weapons and equipment they have to offer. You not only will you better yourselves, but also the position of your home polis, even if you later come to admire, Montagne,” Nikomedes pressed, sensing that the time was right to push them over the edge. After all, the MSP fleet directives had been clear: more warriors were desperately needed. Was it his fault if the men he recruited—and received a nice sign-on bonus for—had only the best interests of Thebes at heart?
Nastor snorted, but Nikomedes just looked at him levelly.
“Tell me more,” the reluctant warlord said finally.
Nikomedes’ lips parted in a wolfish grin, and then he did precisely that.
Chapter Fifteen: The Prodigal Survivors return
I stirred as an urgent buzz awoke me from my slumber, only to find a powerful arm gripping me around the middle—which, of course, brought me to full wakefulness.
Fortunately, I was in much better shape than in months prior and my breath didn’t whoosh out of me. Instead, I clenched my abdominal muscles and carefully pried the clutching fingers, hand, and arm off my person.
Beside me, my wife made a sharp-edged noise of protest.
“Go back to sleep; I’ve got to take this,” I whispered but after another protest she settled back down and rolled over.
Reaching over to turn down the volume, I activated my communicator.
“Admiral, we’ve just had a pair of contacts arrive on the edge of the system squawking MSP IFF code. It looks like it’s the survivors from the Pride of Prometheus, Admiral,” reported the night shift communications officer, “sorry for bothering you while you’re sleeping, Sir. But standing orders are to wake you for any strange hyper-footprints.”
“You did the right thing,” I mumbled, fumbling around on the small fold out table next to the bed that held my data slate. When my fingers finally found it, I almost knocked it off the table but a quick snatch in mid-air rescued it from a meeting with the floor. I turned it on and a check with the main system showed that I had plenty of time to go back to sleep, wake up at a more reasonable hour, and still review the Captain’s logs of the Pride of Prometheus before dealing with the survivors and fallout from what had come to be known as Middleton’s Folly—at least, that’s what it was known as between my ears.
“Admiral?” the Officer asked as if to make sure I was still on channel.
“I’m here,” I said shortly.
“I just thought you’d want to know: the one contact reads as a Light Cruiser of some kind, while the sensors are registering the other as a Bulk Cruiser—she’s settlership-sized, Admiral.”
I wearily rubbed my forehead as my reluctant brain spun back up to fully awake status.
“Thanks for the update, Comm.,” I said, working to be polite and cordial, “double check their credentials and have Sensors and Tactical keep an eye on those contacts the whole way in. I’m guessing they are who they say they are,” an assertion of which I was confident, thanks to recent reports from the ComStat network, “but you can never be too careful.”
After that, I signed off and tried to go back to sleep. But thanks to Captain Middleton, that was no longer possible. I’d already received a preliminary report on what went down out on his independent (read: rogue) patrol, but for some reason the rest of the information had been pending the return of the survivors.
This morning I would get to find out why.
****************************************************
“Welcome; have a seat, Lieutenant McKnight,” I said, standing up from behind my desk and gesturing toward the chair placed in front.
“Thank you, Admiral,” the executive officer of the now destroyed Pride of Prometheus said with more reserve than I’d been expecting.
“I’ve been going over the logs of the Pride, as well as your own individual fitness reports and officer evaluation,” I said, deciding to get the ball rolling. “It looks like you had an interesting adventure out there—traveling to an Ancient world even.”
“Yes, sir, Admiral,” she responded, her blond ponytail bobbing along with her sharp nod. “The Pride went where it was needed under the command of Captain Middleton; if we hadn’t been out there, House Raubach would have been able to carry out its plans unimpeded and gained control of not only of an Ancient world with intact technological assets, but also the Elder Tech jump engines we salvaged,” the Lieutenant stated firmly. “However, I must protest the use of the word ‘adventure’; we did nothing but our duty out there, Sir.”
I leaned back in my chair and gave her a level look.
“I understood from reading your reports that you were against Lieutenant Commander Middleton’s disobeying direct orders from the Fleet and heading off on his own self-imposed mission beyond the edge of known space, while the fate of humanity in two Sectors was at stake,” I said coolly.
“I stand by my reports, as they were made with my best understanding of the situation at that time,” Lieutenant McKnight said with unexpectedly professional poise. “However, I now know that the Captain,” she placed just enough emphasis on Middleton’s acting title to get my ears up, “was right to do what he did. I firmly believe that if you read the reports, the events detailed within them will prove that out,” she said unrepentantly.
“A true paragon, that man,” I deadpanned, causing McKnight’s face to redden dangerously. But despite my mockery, a mere Lieutenant couldn’t upbraid an Admiral for ostensibly praising her now-belated Commanding Officer.
“Difficult choices had to be made, Admiral, and he made them,” she glared rebelliously. “As an officer who was present while the majority of those choices were made and then carried out, I fully support his decisions.”
“Thus implying that I—who wasn’t there—ought to sit back and stop the Monday morning prime-backing, hmmm?” I asked harshly.
“Your words, not mine, Admiral,” she said tightly.
“Tempting as it is to say ‘come back and speak to me of difficult choices after you’ve had an independent command of your own, Executive Officer McKnight,’ believe it or not I am actually very sympathetic to the plight of ships and Officers cut off from communication with higher command,” I said coldly. “However, that brings us to the rub doesn’t it: there was access through the ComStat Network and, in point of fact, your commander was given specific instructions—even direct orders—telling him to join us in the Battle for Elysium and not go haring off in the opposite direction.”
“The Captain was the officer at the scene, Admiral, and those orders were issued over a communications network which was known to be compromised,” McKnight flared at my use of Middleton’s actual rank, Lieutenant Commander, but after her hot correction she settled back down to a more professional bearing. “Furthermore, I resent any implication of cowardice, and if that’s how the Admiral feels—”
I cut her off before she could go onward. “The Battle for Elysium was the closest run thing this Fleet has faced since 2nd Tracto—and there were a whole blazes more warships involved!” I declared heatedly. “I don’t question your Captain’s courage, nor do I question that of you and your crew. But when I issue an Omega Priority Alert, I expect the Commanding Officers to drop whatever they’re doing and show up where they’re ordered!”
“And when there are two Omega Priority Events taking place at the same time, what are we supposed to do then, Admiral?” Lieutenant McKnight retorted in a tone that walked the razor’s edge between deferential and insubordinate. “The Captain had an independent command and a compromised communication’s channel with Fleet Command—he made a judgment call. It was the right call, and I support it 100%.”
“I suppose it could be argued that, because we did not in fact lose the Battle at Elysium, Middleton’s judgment about priorities were correct,” I said, struggling to take a step back and look at the situation logically. “Although, by that same token, if we had failed then even if his mission had been successful—with billions of lives, dozens of worlds, and two whole Sectors lost—then instead of being the hero of the hour, he would have had to be labeled a traitor to humanity.”
McKnight opened and closed her fists, her face flushing red as she looked like she wanted to pull out her sidearm on me. But she kept her comments to herself as she silently steamed—a state I allowed her to persist in for several long, drawn-out seconds before I continued.
“Under that outlook, I’m forced to say that my respect for the late Captain has actually gone up,” I said to the obvious shock and surprise of the man’s top subordinate, “since, as the much-maligned Tyrant of Cold Space, I know all about making tough calls. I dare say I’ve made more of them than you and the Lieutenant Comm—“ I cut myself off with deliberate theatricality, “make that, Captain, combined.”
I paused again, but when she didn’t leap to fill the void I gave a nod and then continued, changing the subject slightly.
“However, the problem I come down to, Senior Lieutenant, is that as an Admiral I need to know that when I give an order to rally the Fleet in defense of Humanity, that the ship commanders I’ve selected and appointed actually blasted rally,” I said in a light, conversational tone.
McKnight’s jaw clenched but she didn’t immediately say anything career killing. She took a breath, which she exhaled before replying. “With respect: while I don’t agree with it, I can understand your position, Admiral Montagne,” she said judiciously, as if each word were deliberately selected before being spoken. “So maybe you’re right to say that if the Main Fleet had lost at Elysium we’d be wrong, but the fact is that you won.”
I opened my mouth, but she raised her hand. “Please, if you would,” she requested, and with the shake of my head I relented. Leaning back in my chair to release some of the tension that unconsciously built up in my shoulders, I gestured for her to continue, “By all means.”
She took a moment, as if to gather her thoughts. “If the main Fleet had lost at Elysium, the center of those Sectors would have been torn out. That’s undeniable,” she said.
“Okay…go on,” I said, wondering where this was leading. Or, rather, if the point she was going to make was worth the wait.
“However can you honestly say that this Fleet would have stuck around after the main battle, in the condition it’s in even now?” she asked.
I folded my arms over my chest and shook my head. Sometimes people made good points, and at others they just needed enough rope to hang themselves, I was eager to find out just which camp the Senior Lieutenant was about to fall into. Because on the one hand, it took serious minerals to enter a three-way faceoff between a Fleet of Droids, a Fleet of Imperials (personified by House Raubach), and the third ‘side’ consisting of just the Pride of Prometheus and whatever they could scrounge up on short notice. It was incredible to the point of genuinely straining belief to hear that the Pride’s crew could come out of such a conflict on top—or at least close enough to ‘on top’ as is required to destroy the Ancient planet (even with the loss of the Captain and a big chunk of crew) and take off with the goods, while decimating both of the other sides in the conflict…
One thing became perfectly obvious as I mulled over this particular train of thought: the late Captain Middleton had clearly built up a formidable command team. It just remained to be seen if this was a tool I could make use of, or if Middleton had so hopelessly bent them out of true that they had become useless—at least, useless in my hands, which was all that concerned me.
“That being the case, I think it’s safe to say,” McKnight continued measuredly, “that if we hadn’t been out there, and hadn’t done what we did, the Imperials would have been in a position to destroy everything the MSP built up by defeating the droids. Our Battle at the Bulwark destroyed over fifty ships, Admiral, and damaged even more. They could have raided or destroyed the border of the local Sectors, forcing world after world under their sway. Or they might have chosen to sit out there in silence until they’d cracked enough Ancient tech to roll up Sector 24—or maybe even the entire Spine,” she gave me a level look. “No, Admiral; you may have saved the heart of the Sector, but we saved the border of Sector 24—if not more. I understand it sticks in your craw, Sir…but it was the right call.”
“You’re willing to stand by that 100%—even in the face of your Admiral’s distinct displeasure?” I challenged.
“I do,” she said unflinchingly, “but because I’ve done so, I understand that I have lost your confidence.” She didn’t look particularly concerned about my confidence, lack thereof, or much of anything I thought right then as she continued, “That’s upsetting, but understandable. However, after spending two tours on the border of Sector 24, I think that we’ve done a lot of good—but there’s still a lot more to be done, which is why I’m prepared to make things easy and to resign my commiss—”
“Hold on,” I interrupted, raising my hand abruptly, “I won’t deny that Middleton and I have had our…differences,” I chewed on the word as it passed my lips, “but whatever they were, he’s gone now and none of that is on you. The officers and crew of the Pride of Prometheus—including you—did stellar work on the border, and the fact that you are willing to back your Captain even at this point in the game makes your loyalty commendable. And, far from being upset at an officer who disagrees with me, finding one who will clearly and concisely tell me where and when she disagrees with me—while bringing up persuasive and logical points in a reasonably respectful manner—is something that I actually try to encourage. I don’t need to be surrounded by a bunch of ‘yes’ women out here.”
“You are…I mean…you do?” McKnight looked confused. She appeared much like a person who leaned forward, expecting a stiff wind of resistance only to find the wind suddenly blowing the other way and causing an expected stumble.
“Of course,” I said with a smile, “you’re willing to follow orders you may not necessarily agree with, and then back up your commander even in the face of pressure from higher up. On top of that, you just helped fight a major engagement and returned here with a Light Cruiser, a Cutter and a Bulk Freighter carrying an unknown high technology,” I gave her a piercing look. “So while you may be many things, the one thing you are not is a traitor. Someone out just for herself could have easily taken the warships and sold the Elder Tech for a fortune, setting herself—and her crew—up for the rest of their lives; even purchasing a planet with the proceeds might not have been out of the question. You did all this knowing you were almost certainly in trouble for disobeying direct orders. So as far as I’m concerned, you just demonstrated your loyalty in as resounding of a fashion as possible, Lieutenant Commander.”
McKnight looked dumbfounded, her eyes blinking rapidly. “I don’t understand,” she said, initially sounding lost but her eyes began to clarify as she corrected me, “I’m only a Senior Lieutenant, Sir.”
“I think you have command potential, Lieutenant Commander,” I said, correcting her correction and letting her know she’d just been promoted. “I’m not some Tyrant out to punish you, or your crew, for following the possibly mutinous orders of your commanding officer—even if you wholeheartedly agreed with him.”
“But, Sir, the border…I’m not sure if I can accept—” she started, obviously having some agenda of her own. But whatever she wanted to pursue, I wasn’t ready to let go of her just yet.
“Look, the highest you’ve ever been is a ship’s Executive Officer so right now I’m thinking to start you off small; I’m thinking a cutter or corvette command. Just until you’ve got your feet wet as a ship’s Captain,” I said soothingly, “you’ll be able to select any of your former crewmates, of course, and we’ll have to settle on the exact ship but I’m definitely going to have my eye on you. So show me you can do as good a job running a ship as you did as an XO and, I don’t know if you are aware, but the Fleet has recently taken a number of ships away from the enemy. As they say, ‘the sky’s the limit’,” I finished, carefully not promising a battleship command but strongly hinting at it, having found that motivating people to do their best is a key component of running a successful ship or fleet.
“You…you’re going to break up the crew?” McKnight said, looking concerned.
I splayed my hands. “We don’t exactly have cruiser-sized commands lying around; if you want something, a cutter’s about the best I can do right now—unless you want to ride a station command until things loosen up,” I replied leadingly. “Speaking of which, what’s the condition of that cutter you captured?”
McKnight frowned as she leaned back slightly, “I’m sorry, Admiral, but the cutter’s not actually an MSP asset.”
“What?” I blinked.
“One of the Sundered who joined us brought his own privately-owned gunboats,” she began to explain. “During an independent action, he captured the Cutter. Having since lost his boats, he’s made clear his intention to claim the Cutter as a replacement,” she explained carefully.
My eyes narrowed and I frowned. Was the Executive Officer trying to prove as slippery and non-cooperative as her former commanding officer? I suppose it was only to be expected of that man’s prodigy, but…I needed more information. This could all be benign, and I could just be jumping at shadows…possibly.
“I see,” I said, even though I didn’t—other than the fact that I probably wasn’t going to be adding another cutter to my fleet. It was a minor loss, really. Although, maybe it would be a volunteer member of the Tracto System Defense force? The Sundered were settling en masse in the Tracto System, after all—
“Sir,” McKnight said dragging my attention back to her. Looking over at her I refocused. Seeing she had my attention she continued, “I’d like to thank you for having the confidence in me to offer a command position…”
“But?” I prompted, hearing an unspoken catch looming in wait.
She stiffened slightly but other than that slight movement continued as if completely unshaken. “I think breaking up the crew would be a mistake, Admiral,” she said in a much more respectful manner than she had done up until that point in the conversation.
“Alright, I’ll bite,” I said wearily. It wasn’t really surprising that the Pride’s crew would want to stick together. However, despite my words of confidence to the new-minted Lieutenant Commander, I had to wonder if I could really trust the crew of a loose cannon like Middleton. The safe play seemed to be to break the crew up, so I continued, “Why do you think the crew of the Pride should stay together—keeping in mind that many of them will be promoted to fill holes in other ships as they are brought online.” I knew it was always better to add a little carrot (promotions) in order to contrast the stick (breaking up a ship’s crew).
“While I wouldn’t want to stop anyone from taking a promotion into a slot on another ship, I think everyone is missing the real value of this crew,” explained McKnight.
“I already said to go on once, just give me your pitch, LC,” I instructed with a little irritation flavoring my voice.
“More than any other ship in the Fleet—except maybe the initial crew of the Lucky Clover, which has since been broken up—the Pride of Prometheus has been carrying out independent missions,” she said, throwing a bone towards the old Clover which was currently floating in the ship yard as un-repairable thanks to a certain old engineer’s determination. “Moreover, we have become intimately familiar with the border regions of most of Sectors 24 and 25. Over the past two tours, we’ve built up an institutional knowledge that I don’t think we should let go of.”
“Expand on that,” I said neutrally as the gears in my mind began to churn at this unexpected tack taken by the young officer.
“For instance,” she began passionately, “just how many major threats has this Fleet uncovered in, on, or just outside the border of human space outside of these two Sectors alone? I know we have major commitments in-Sector, but we can’t just close our eyes here, Sir.”
“Give some examples and, Lieutenant Commander,” I said, looking hard into her eyes, “make them good.” It’s not that I couldn’t see where she was going with this—or potentially going, anyway—but I wasn’t going to make this in any way easy on her. She was going to have to work for it and I was still making no guarantees, even within the confines of my own mind.
“Firstly, the Pirates of the Omicron; do we really believe that, with the current state of patrols on the border, every pirate in the Sector has just closed up shop and moved on?” she asked rhetorically.
I gestured for her to get on with it.
“So Pirates are a first. Then there are Imperial machinations like the Raubach forces raiding border worlds, hunting for lost or alien tech, and pursuing their own agenda. Also, there’s the ComStat network; these are two major pieces of intel we wouldn’t even know anything about if the Pride hadn’t been out there doing its job,” she said ticking off points as she went. “Also, I don’t think I even have to mention the Droids; you’re probably even more familiar with them than I am at this point. To my mind, that’s just another example of why we need a crew out there patrolling the border. How many more threats are out there that we don’t even know anything about? Can we really afford to close our eyes on this, Sir?”
I ran a hand over my face. She was making far too much sense for the prodigy of a rogue operator like Tyrone Middleton. If it were left up to me, I probably would have washed my hands with border patrols and left at least Sectors 23 and 24 alone to patrol themselves. 25, however…I liked to think I would have sent out patrol forces sooner than later what with the new Border Alliance, but again, she was right: they did know a lot more about things on the ground than a fresh crew and new commander would.
I didn’t like where this was leading. “What exactly do you envision, Lieutenant Commander McKnight?” I said and then paused. “If, say, you were put in charge of this…border monitoring operation.”
“We need a ship, and a crew used to independent missions and long cruises,” she said, seizing the bait and running with it. “Moreover, its officers and representatives have to be familiar with the border as well as sensitive to local politics—something the Pride’s crew is very familiar with.”
“Stop playing up your fellow officers and crew complement; we all know they’re familiar with the area and used to extended periods outside of direct supervision and the chain of command,” I said irritably.
“The way I envision it is more than just a traditional, one-off independent cruiser command,” she said, sounding ever-so-slightly offended. “I see the need for something more along the lines of a Special Forces group. With the ship—or ships—crew, embarked Lancer forces, and funding to set up a series of informants and automated listening posts all along the border. If we can tap into the local information sources in a systematic way, we can expand on what the Pride and Captain Middleton has already done. Along with access to the ComStat network, these kinds of force multipliers will allow us to arrive with sufficient force, both in time to deal with threats and in such a way as to continue letting us hit above our weight class.”
“That’s very ambitious,” I frowned, slow playing it as I thought it through.
“We already have the local contacts, onboard specialists, and even some of the equipment we’d need in the form of that Cutter. I feel confident we can capture, buy, or acquire anything else we’re short of, Admiral,” she challenged me with her eyes. “Also, I and most of the crew already feel like it’s partly our duty to help out along the border regions. The Captain set a hard example to follow, but I think we’re up to the task. I sincerely hope for the Admiral’s support on this proposal.”
My frown turned into a scowl as the unspoken potential of breaking up the crew and scattering them—even with promotions all around—that they might just leave the fleet and set up their own rogue operation on the border. I wasn’t entirely sure things would turn out that way but, even if it didn’t, she’d just made a lot of good points.
Being a primarily political entity, the MSP had never developed a proper Special Operations, or even Intelligence branch like a real military organization would have done—an organization like, say, the Rim Fleet. Commodore Raubach had, apparently, acquired a genuine fleet under the old Rim Fleet banner, and McKnight’s report made clear that House Raubach had plenty of intel assets stationed throughout the Sectors.
I guess the question I had to ask myself was this; did I need an operation like that set up to monitor the border regions? Unfortunately, the answer I kept coming up with was one that dashed my previous designs on what remained of Middleton’s command.
That being the case, did I really want to risk McKnight following in Middleton’s prisoner executing, order disobeying tracks out there with backdoor access to the ComStat network and literally no oversight? They had a cutter and the remaining virtual assets of the man who had successfully hacked the ComStat network—not to mention all that local knowledge McKnight was so proud of. Written reports could only do so much.
So even if they eventually slipped my control entirely, there might be a window here where I could make use of their little possibly-going-rogue organization. Perhaps I could bring in another ship and crew to tag along with them and learn the ropes so that if someday, Murphy avert, they followed in the footsteps of their captain and went entirely rogue I’d have already trained a parallel organization.
Plus, who knew? They might all be loyal MSP followers from this point on, now that Middleton was out of the way permanently. I snorted at that particular thought.
“It seems you’ve backed me into a corner, Lieutenant Commander,” I said with a smirk to take the edge off the harsh words. “I think I’ll take you up on your notion of a special forces group operating along the border, bringing chaos and ruination to our enemies.”
“Wha-What? Thank you, Sir,” she said, in her surprise letting loose the fact that she hadn’t considered the idea that I’d agree to let her and the Pride’s people stay together—much less patrol the border—any real chance of success.
“Have a written proposal drafted and sent to my inbox by the end of the week, and I’ll look into it to see what kind of assets we can shake free for this new group of yours,” I said, straightening seriously. “I can’t promise much right now, but we should be at least able to get you a few gunboats and another warship or two, in addition to that cutter one of your crew’s claiming for salvage. After we figure out what you’re going to have available, we’ll look at personnel and get back to you. Good enough?”
“Thank you, Sir,” she said, her eyes shining with excitement behind her official reserve.
“Think nothing of it,” I said evenly. Nothing at all, I thought, since as far as I can tell, it’s literally the least I could do….
Chapter Sixteen: Sword Practice
Parrying a blow to the side caused me to stagger as I lost my balance. Moving along with the force of the attack, I regained said balance and brought my sword around for another block.
“Not good enough! You have to do better,” shouted my beloved wife, who had both hands placed on top of her belly and an angry look in her eye.
After another parry, I brought the oversized pig-sticker up over my head and went on the offensive, bringing the dark, metal blade down and following up with a flurry of blows. It was still a little large for me, but thanks to my own initial exercise efforts and a recent, intensive training program—aka Akantha’s insistence—I could handle it a lot easier than before.
However, all good things must come to an end. Before long, my flurry had passed and I was once again on the defensive, being pressed around the training ring.
“Is that how you will fight when your children are under threat?” the Hold Mistress—who I was married to—demanded. “Know shame, Protector!”
I gritted my teeth. While she had never been one to indulge in the finer points of courtesy, at least when it came to me, ever since our return to her home world she’d become particularly savage in her criticisms—to the point that I was beginning to lose my cool.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about; my sword fighting skills have improved several times since I met you,” I retorted, breathing heavily.
“All it takes is one loss due to overconfidence; you won’t always have your battle-suit to guard you,” she retorted and then looked over at my opponent. “Put him down,” she ordered.
After saying this, the Tracto-an I was sparring with changed his stance and started raining blows down on me fast and furiously. Speed-wise, I still had the edge but when it came to raw power even my genetically-modified self couldn’t compare.
“You’re small and weakly built,” Akantha informed me as I was pushed around the training area barely able to defend myself from this overpowering series of attacks, “you have to use your speed and agility to win. Power and endurance can’t be your strategy.”
Grimly, I hung on, not wanting to give either of them—my opponent or my lady-wife—the satisfaction of an easy defeat. That she continued to refer to me as ‘small,’ ‘weak,’ or ‘frail,’ was an endless source of irritation for me; just earlier that week I’d gotten to a six hundred pound max lift on squats—a personal best, though Akantha likely still held the advantage over me in that lift. But on the bench-press I had finally hit three hundred fifty pounds, which I happened to know was at least ten pounds better than her best effort.
It seemed the genetic engineering worked into my own body was more extensive than I’d formerly suspected, and my work in the gym was paying off far better than I could have previously hoped—though I was doing my best to keep my actual strength a secret from everyone, including my wife…at least until I’d built up a more substantial edge over her on the bench.
“I’d rather use cunning and guile to win,” I gasped out, since winning from afar or using trump cards up close was more my style anyway—and since I was surrounded by warriors who I’d likely never be able to beat on a purely physical basis.
The next thing I knew, I was laying flat on my back staring up at the ceiling with my opponent standing over me pointing his sword at my throat.
“Match!” Akantha called out while my training partner looked down at me and shook his head.
My eyes narrowed and I scowled up at him. Dismissing me with his eye, my sparring partner turned and exited the room, after which I sat up with a groan.
“Less talk, more training,” Akantha said smacking me on the back of the head.
“Ow—careful, there,” I protested, guarding my tender head with my hands.
“How do you expect to win challenges if this is the best you can do?” she demanded sounding decidedly unimpressed—something that had been happening more and more over the past week.
“I think I’ve done fairly well up to this point,” I flared back at her.
“I will not have the fate of my House and Hold dependent on blind luck! Demedius is one of the best sword instructors in Argos; you need to take this seriously and apply yourself,” she said strictly and looking as if she were disappointed with me.
“I have been applying myself,” I said, looking at her with disbelief, “what do you call an hour two times a day, on top of physical training? My lady, I started training when I was young and have rededicated myself to improving these past months, but I wasn’t born to the sword like your people. I think I’ve been doing fairly well.”
“It’s not good enough,” she said bluntly and turned away.
“Well, excuse me for living,” I muttered under my breath and turned away to hit the showers. From her increasing emphasis on training I knew something was probably up and, given our return to Tracto and the renewed emphasis on sword training, it didn’t take too many guesses as to what kind of problems they were. A challenge—or challenges—were probably in my future, which was part of why I’d only made the one visit down to the surface to visit the star-born colony on Messene. I figured if I limited the access of people who wanted to kill me to those who could get on board the ships of this fleet, I should be able to minimize any problems.
Still, my beloved battle-axe was a smart individual and even after the precautions I had taken she was still concerned. So while it could potentially be attributed to pregnancy hormones, the smart money was on not taking any of those kinds of chances.
Meaning maybe it was time to take some extra precautions above and beyond this enhanced training regimen. I mean, honestly, I didn’t mind the exercise—and improving my close-in fighting skills was something I’d learned that an Admiral was wise never to skimp on. But even still, like I’d just said to her: I’d rather win through the use of cunning and guile rather than basing my battle plan on overpowering or out-skilling the top examples of a people who were born with a sword in each hand.
That’s why, as useful as it could turn out to be, Akantha’s overbearing training regimen ought to remain as the backup plan…at least for now.
So, whistling tunelessly, I decided to take a page out of the late and much unlamented Jean Luc’s plan for success in close encounters and headed back down to medical.
On the trip through the lift, I wondered if Tiberius and the rest of his mutineers were enjoying their stay in the brig. I had nothing concrete on my sister, Crystal, so that had to wait, but there was no need to worry myself sick about the younger Spalding. Far easier instead for them to take a nice comfortable time out behind bars at least until I found a convenient way to get rid of them in a more permanent fashion.
Chapter Seventeen: A Spot of Trouble
“You did what!?” Akantha exclaimed.
“Now, Lady Akantha, there’s no need to get all riled up over this,” Commander Spalding said hurriedly, “consider your condition, I beg of you. This was a simple engineering transaction…a-an equipment exchange, as it were!”
“You gave away all my slaves and threw your own son in the brig!” the Hold Mistress thundered.
“Now-now,” he said, sweat breaking out on his brow as he tried to calm the troubled waters he’d just stirred up, “I didn’t give away a thing. I just needed to find a way to get those captured Conformity Motherships out of Elysium and, well, the Droids had us by the short-and-curlies. I had to make the deal, and better eight warships than a few disaffected men press-ganged into service. Don’t you think?” He took a deep breath, “And as for that boy of mine, it was the Admiral who put him there and it’s a mercy besides. Even I can’t say it’s not half as much as he deserves.”
The Hold Mistress bit her lip and started pacing, and the old Chief Engineer wisely held his peace.
“These new allies of mine are proving to be quite vexing!” she finally declared rounding on him as if it were somehow his fault. “No sooner do I go down to visit my Holding than every woman—and her mother—tries to bend my ear against the metal demons. Then this! No sooner is my back turned, to deal with the disturbed people of the realm, than I am beset by the very prisoner-stealing demons I have just assured the people are not a threat!”
“The burdens of command aren’t to be trifled with,” the old Engineer sighed, “I’m sorry to have set your head on its side, lass. I figured two squadrons of the line were better than a mess of prisoners in need of guarding. If I made the wrong call, all I can say is that I’ll try to make it up to you.”
Akantha’s face reddened and then she waved her hand irritably, and Spalding watched her carefully—knowing the lass could be a mite volatile , given the circumstances.
“In the end, what are a few thousand slaves here or there,” she finally declared unhappily.
“I’m thankful to the Lady for her consideration,” Spalding said humbly.
“But,” the Hold Mistress said raising a pair of fingers stopping him in his tracks and giving his heart a small jolt, “if I had to trade these ships for my personal droids then I want to make sure they’re properly named; none of this Rapid Ranger or The Gift, nonsense. These warships should have proper Tracto-an and, more importantly, Messene-derived names,” she declared.
“Urrr,” Spalding uttered wondering just what he’d got himself into, “what was the Lady thinking?”
“Lady’s Vengeance, Messene’s Terror, Dark Sword of Messene, Hold Mistress’s Revenge,” she said blithely, listing off a few names as if they came off the top of her head and then her face screwed up as if she’d tasted something slightly bitter. “We should probably have one like Protector’s Might or something along those lines. I’ll have to think upon it in more detail.”
“I can pass those names onto the Admiral,” Spalding decided aloud.
“Why would you bother him with that?” Akantha asked, her brow furrowed. “Since they were purchased with my assets, they are rightfully the property of Hold Messene. They will of course be at his disposal, as Messene’s Protector and Supreme military leader, but it is my right to designate their names and such.”
“Ah, I think I’ll let him know just the same, if you don’t mind,” the old Engineer said, wondering just what he’d gotten himself into and trying to backpedal. “Still…don’t you think naming is a bit premature? I mean,” he added hastily, “I’m sure they’re fine names, but we still have a passel of repairs to get through before we can even be sure they’re space-worthy. Some of them might not even be repairable; we’ll have to put them into a space dock first and see if we can bang out the dents.”
“I’m sure that, if anyone can, you will be able to return my new ships to perfect fighting condition,” Akantha said breezily, “and if it can’t be done then the name can just wait for the next ship to join our army—or Fleet as they call it out here.”
“I’ll do my best, of course,” Spalding said urgently, “but there are a few structural issues that still need working out—”
“Details,” Akantha declared, as if this simple utterance removed it from further consideration. “No, the main thing I’m concerned about is what you’ve done with my other wizard! A few slaves—even a few thousand—do not hold a candle to this loss. Are you certain he cannot be brought around to our side and way of thinking?” she asked with concern.
“Eh,” Spalding muttered darkly, “I’m afraid the boy loves his elections more than he does common, blasted, sense. So long as his tyrants are elected all proper like, with due process and everything, then he’ll want to follow the will of the people and obey them—even if it means he has to turn against us. I’m afraid the Admiral’s more than right to lock him up so he and his men can’t do any more damage.”
“World of Men…I’d hoped for a different answer from you!” Akantha cursed vigorously. “Well, if it can’t be helped, then it can’t. Just keep an eye on the situation if you can. I have made an investment in that Wizard and I am uneager to let it go easy.”
“I’ll do my best for you, my Lady, you know that. But I do think that this is all for the best,” Spalding said heavily.
Looking decidedly unhappy, Akantha nodded.
Chapter Eighteen: The Reward for Good Work is More Work
“And that’s how it is, Admiral,” Spalding said with satisfaction, “I wouldn’t say she particularly liked it, but she’s got a good head on her. She may rumble and grumble a bit still, but the Lady Akantha’s onboard with the personnel transfer.”
I shook my head in partial disbelief and partially because ‘personnel transfer’ sounded a lot better than prisoner exchange—or, worse, slave sale. I clenched my fist. That such words even entered my lexicon thanks to my ‘beloved Hold Mistress’ was enough to roil my stomach and put me on the path to developing ulcers.
“Good work,” I grumbled.
“Well and so it is,” Spalding nodded sagely, “but if’n you don’t mind, I think it’s time to get back down where I belong and make sure this ship’s engineering department is still on a level keel—begging the Admiral’s pardon.”
Not waiting for my reply, the old Engineer started for the door.
I hesitated and then lifted my hand. “If you could hold a moment, Commander, I have something I want to run by you,” I finally said.
Back stiffening, Chief Engineer Spalding turned around reluctantly.
“What can I do you for, Sir?” he asked a touch testily. “I’ve got a job lot of work waiting for me down in engineering, with this new ship you and Captain Hammer dumped in my lap. I’ve got enough work for three men, and only a tenth the engineers I need to do the job done. Why, I’ve got grease monkeys patching and welding battle damage and assistant gunners splicing power lines and wiring junction boxes, and now with all these blasted greenhorns underfoot—”
“It’s a miracle you’ve managed to keep this fleet running as long as you have,” I cut in seriously.
“You’re absolutely right; it’s a blooming miracle!” Spalding harrumphed. “Sweet Murphy, a man can hardly turn around now without tripping over some eager, ham-handed groundside mechanic suddenly under foot! What we need are trained engineers, not a gaggle of enthusiasts looking to turn this ship into some kind of suped-up ride! Battleships are not hover cars; you can only tune the engines up so far,” he threw his hands in the air.
“I’m sure you can handle it,” I soothed.
“You’re dag-blasted right I can handle it! There’ll be no slackers on my deck plating,” the old engineer said, defiantly jutting out his chin.
“Which is exactly why I called you here,” I smoothly inserted.
“What?” Spalding blinked several times, thrown off his usual belligerent stride by praise and agreement.
“You’ve done a good job—truly,” I continued to praise.
“W…well of course I have…I mean, it’s not every day you get an engineer of my accomplishments running your ship. Why, breaking in greenhorns and slackers could even be considered one of my special skills,” Spalding nodded knowingly.
“But you know what they say about the reward for doing good work,” I said warningly.
Spalding nodded several times and then stopped mid-nod a look of alarm crossing his face as he started to raise his hands in negation.
“That the only real reward for good work is of course more work!” I said triumphantly.
“Now, lad, have some pity on an old engineer,” Spalding said pitifully, “these old joints aren’t what they used to be you know!”
I looked at his not even three-years-old mechanical arms and legs and stared.
Spalding flushed. “These joints are starting to make noises something awful; in need of a complete overhaul, they are,” the old man protested shamelessly. “Those who are simply biologically-built cannot understand the plight of the mechanical man.”
“Uh huh,” I said skeptically.
“Oh, just get on with whatever task you’ve got on your mind and be done with it,” Spalding threw his hands in the air. “It’s not like one more straw is going to break the camel’s back; what’s one more job pushed off onto a lonely old engineer with six jobs and a pile of work orders overflowing the intake bin?”
“So long as you’re sure,” I said, willingly throwing salt into the wounds. I knew I shouldn’t but it was just too amusing to watch the old man spin himself up into a tizzy.
“Are you sure this isn’t a mountain you want me to fix instead of an honest battleship?” Spalding grunted, plopping himself back down in the seat.
“Speaking of battleships,” I said winningly, which caused Spalding’s face to instantly close down, “I’d like you to go over and pay another visit to our mechanical friends.”
“What is it you want the long-suffering Spalding—a man who’s forgotten almost as soon as he’s out of sight until he’s needed—to do?” Spalding asked with ill humor.
“We all greatly appreciate your work here,” I assured the other man,. “If I haven’t said it lately, well done, Terrance,” I said with genuine feeling.
The old engineer looked embarrassed. “Oh, just get on with it,” he mumbled.
“Right,” I said, deciding to just dive right into it, “the United Sentient Assembly has a battleship—a battleship I need. You’re going to go over there and get it for me.”
“What the blazes? Do you just think battleships grow on trees?! I’m not such a smooth talker that I can just finagle a full blown ship of the wall out of those mechanicals,” Spalding spouted indignantly.
“I don’t want you to just up and take it; I’m a reasonable man,” I replied without a hint of apology, and then I smiled broadly. “As I recall, we happen to have a surplus of captured droid warships at the moment.”
“Now, just hold on; what are you trying to pull here? We need those ships,” Spalding argued, his voice rising with alarm.
“The way I see it, eight ships with no life support are four more than we need. And besides, weren’t we using droid crews with Droid Assembly officers to run them anyway? I think the Assembly would be most interested in a squadron of ships with antimatter pumped spinal lasers. While I on the other hand am very interested in human built battleships,” I finished with a feral smile.
“But a squadron of cruisers for a battleship…” Spalding said doubtfully.
“They know the ships intimately, they have experienced crews already trained and ready to operate them, and they’d be doing me a big favor,” I said, ticking the points off on my hand.
“But the antimatter,” Spalding said despairingly.
I gave him a hard look. “I know you squirreled away a large amount of equipment from the droid derelicts that we couldn’t take with us. So you may want those extra ships, but you don’t need them. Make the deal, Commander.” I instructed.
“Aye, Sir,” the Chief Engineer said, looking like he was tasting something sour.
“Good man; I knew I could rely on you,” I said with satisfaction.
The old cyborg harrumphed, but his face relaxed fractionally. Then his eyes shot back to me and he glared. “I may be a master when it comes to machines, but that doesn’t make me some kind of infernal droid whisperer,” he warned, leveling a finger at me. “What if they won’t go for the four Mothership deal?” he demanded placing his hands on his hips.
I opened my hand and shrugged. “As far as I’m concerned we really only need one of those Conformity Motherships, and since that’s just for study purposes, ‘need’ is a very strong word,” I shrugged.
The old engineer’s eyes widened with alarm and he practically choked. Recovering after a few seconds, he frowned thunderously as a fire lit in his eyes.
“Unless of course you think someone else could do a better job of prying that battleship out of their metallic hands…” I trailed off suggestively.
“No!” Spalding said, literally jumping out of his chair and clanging his feet against the deck. “You send someone else and those droids’ll fleece him or her in no time. Why, sending anyone else would be the same as giving away free equipment; is this some kind of space-based yard sale, giveaway, swap meet?” he smashed his hands together. “You just leave this in my hands, Admiral. Old Spalding will take care of everything.”
“Alright then,” I agreed, hiding a grin behind a cough into my fist. I liked it when a plan came together just like I’d hoped it would. Once the Chief Engineer got his hands on a piece of equipment—much less a fully-fledged warship—he never willingly let go. By tacitly saying I’d give the negotiations over to someone else after indicating how free handed I was willing to be I’d suspected it would get the Chief Engineer invested in the hoped for project. From the looks of it, I’d been right.
“Two squadrons of cruisers for a single battered, wreck of a battleship…ha!” Spalding was obviously speaking to himself as he headed out the door. “What’s next? Trading away trillium for space ice at a pound for pound ratio! Why, the number of times I’ve seen flag-ranked—” he continued his grumbling as the door slid shut, cutting him off—at least from my perspective—mid-tirade.
I leaned back in my chair and smiled. Now hopefully the Droids would be just as reasonable as the Chief Engineer. Fortunately, there wasn’t a better man for the job in this Fleet than Chief Engineer Terrance Spalding.
Chapter Nineteen: No Good Deed Goes Unpunished
There was a high-pitched buzzing sound after Spalding had finished with his carefully-considered proposal.
“If you just came here to insult our processors then I suggest you re-embark the shuttle you arrived on!” exclaimed the Droid Overseer he’d spoken with last time.
“It was an honest offer,” Spalding snapped.
“Maybe you are one of the so-called middle management executives who use the company starship for private jaunts at corporate expense!” cried the machine, its voice synthesizer cutting in and out toward the end of its accusation.
“I don’t know about your processor—the jury’s still out on that one—but your vox-box needs some work,” the Chief Engineer shot back. “Don’t worry, though; I’ve got plenty of spares back on the flagship. Just give the word and I’ll send some over—install it myself, I will!”
“An insult,” shouted the droid, waving its hands in the air, “and from an expense-account-exploiting, Senior—”
“Hey, now, I’m not some joy-rider out visiting you for the fun of it; I’m a hard-working professional without the time to fiddle-faddle around here! You think I catch a ride across the system every day of the week just for fun?” the Chief Engineer demanded, genuinely outraged. “What kind of engineer you take me for? Lining my pockets with Fleet credits—bah!”
“Clearly you have no interest in a reasonable exchange,” the droid said coldly, “this negotiation is over!”
“Alright, three of those Mothership class cruiser platforms,” Spalding grumped, and then leveled a finger at the machine and waggled his finger at it, “but I get to pick which ones that go!”
“This is an outrage!” the Droid jumped to its feet, “even if I was going to agree to such a trade, if I exchanged a battleship for only three Mothership vessels I’d be disassembled and my spare parts auctioned off to the highest bidder just to pay off the massive discrepancy in value!”
The droid leaned forward and Spalding bared his teeth matching the machine glare for glare. He’d spit blood and sell off his right and left leg before he gave away one ton of equipment more than he had to.
“No less than seven of the Conformity cruiser platforms—and all of the gunboats you have acquired,” the Droid snapped.
“Seven?!” Spalding cried, reeling back as a great pain built in his chest at the mere thought of it. “What do you take me for, a used starship salesman? These warships are in top condition—your own crews that rode them here to Tracto can tell you that themselves! Why don’t you just ask for an arm and a leg while we’re at it—and as far the gunboats, those are non-negotiable; I’ve got plans for those babies.”
“Seven,” the droid insisted, “and those spare parts you looted from the broken derelicts of the same class back in Elysium.”
Spalding hid a smile; he had him now. At this point it was just a matter of bringing things back down to a reasonable number. Of course, he couldn’t let the fool-headed machine know that. So he pasted on an outraged look and quickly shook his head.
“Saint Murphy of the Deep but what do you take me for? I’m an engineer, not a production facility. What’s your name anyway?” the Chief Engineer asked belligerently. “I want to have a talk with your supervisor—someone with real authority—so I can get this ironed out before time runs out and the Admiral trades away those Motherships to someone else.”
“You can call me ‘Negotiating from a Superior Position,’ and the only one you’ll be speaking with is me,” the Droid declared. “As for the idea of trading away those Conformity warships to someone else, I can say with confidence that it is an utterly laughable proposition. Who would take warships without life support systems—warships designed for direct machine interfaces? The lack of sufficient manual controls alone would cut their value in half, at least!”
“I can think of a few monkey boys over in orbit, with more gear in their head than common sense, who might like the idea,” Spalding grunted skeptically and then bragged. “Why, I bet I could even hook them up with some portable life support systems. Have to be external, though, so I don’t know how well that’d work in combat. But for a cruiser…” he trailed off, lost in thoughts of retrofitting the droid ships for Sundered crews.
“And you reveal yourself to be a biased, discriminatory unit of the first rank!” exclaimed the Droid glaring at the old engineer.
“Just who do you take me for…Droid?” he started with a good head of steam, but was unable for the life of him to remember the mouthful of a name the droid had bestowed upon itself. “You’ve got a few screws loose if you think I’m some kind of—”
“Monkey boy—screws loose! It seems that Captain Moonlight is not just anti-machine, but anti-uplift as well,” the droid declared self-righteously.
“Now, hold on just a minute,” Spalding protested angrily.
“Wait until word gets around the Star System; you’ll have a visit from groups of outraged workers eager to learn your position on the subject directly,” the droid said.
“My position? Outraged worker? You’ve got sprockets for brains, machine. I’m here to peddle warships, not be wrongly accused as some kind of closet bigot,” Spalding said angrily. “One more word out of your mouth and I’ll—” his fist clenched.
The door behind him swished open, and a floating, black metal ball at least two feet in diameter with blinking lights all over its surface rushed into the room.
“This is Report Camera #2 – The Discerning Gaze – part of Tracto Star System’s very own third established news network The Daily Update. We are transmitting to you live from Assembly Constructor: The Non-Partisan Non-Denominational Assembler,” declared the two foot diameter ball of blinking metal, and Spalding noticed a small microphone extended toward Spalding from the floater’s main body. “Commander Terrence P. Spalding, Chief Engineer of the MSP Flagship, this is an exciting time for The Daily Update news network; we’d like to thank you for joining us!”
“Hold on,” Spalding said, pushing the microphone away, “I’m here to cut a deal, not go on a news interview.”
The droid gasped with joy. “Ah! A secret meeting! Negotiating from a Superior Position didn’t even intimate that you were taking part in secret, under the table news negotiations,” the ball squealed. “What a scoop!”
The Overseer Droid he’d been negotiating with gave Spalding a glare, which the old engineer returned with interest before quickly turning to the metal ball.
“This meeting is on the schedule, and all the appropriate permits, authorizations, and mass citizenry notifications have been taken care of before time,” Negotiating from a Superior Position said righteously before stopping to give Spalding yet another glare.
The metal ball beeped and hummed to itself. “This is The Discerning Gaze speaking; I see that this meeting has, in fact, already been registered…however, I have found it under a misleadingly named file header!” it declared triumphantly. “I am transmitting this false file name to our viewing audience right now.”
“This is turning into a circus,” Spalding growled, getting to his feet and preparing to leave.
“Commander Spalding,” the ball that was The Discerning Gaze whipped around and once again extended its microphone, “despite your cybernetic implants, I see that you are not set up for a wireless interview. Therefore, because it is the maximum that your biological systems will allow, I will proceed with this interview verbally. Do I have your permission?”
“I’m leaving,” the old Engineer said shortly.
“Just one word before you leave, Commander,” the Ball said as Spalding headed for the door. “What do you say to the outraged workers across the star system who think that it is intolerable that a person who is anti-machine and anti-uplift be placed in such a high position within the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet?” asked The Discerning Gaze sharply, its voice shifting from the jolly-happy interview of moments ago into that of a cutthroat journalist.
Stopping mid-step, Spalding froze and turned around sporting a smile that had sent entire generations of engineering work parties running the other way.
“Oh, lad, you’ve got me all wrong,” he said icily.
“I am most correctly titled as an ‘it’,” the Ball cut in. The old engineer ignored the little droid and continued as if uninterrupted.
“It doesn’t matter to me a man’s DNA, the shape of his body, or the amount of metal in his exoskeleton,” the old engineer said righteously.
“If you could expound on that,” the ball demanded, not giving and inch, “and tell our audience why they should believe the words you speak at this time instead of the evidence of the United Sentient Assembly’s automated video files?”
“To all the outraged work parties out there, I just have a few things to say,” Spalding said thrusting out his hands and lifting a finger as a diabolical plan sprang into his brain at the knowledge that this interview was going out system wide. “First, I call on all of you out there to test me; it’s a good thing—no, it’s a great thing that you all think I’m some kind of overbearing, arrogant, human-first-and-only type of person.” He smiled broadly.
“It is?” the reporter droid sounded surprised. “You mean to say that you actually want people to think you’re a bigot of the first rank!?”
“I would never go out of my way to create a false impression, but now that I’ve been so foully slandered and libeled by your worthy organization, I’d say it is the right—nay, the duty!--of every free thinking worker out there to find out for himself the truth! Is old Spalding a bigot, or a righteous Chief Engineer doing his best for all the inhabitants of this star system without bias—except that of whether a man, woman or it can do the job set before it?!”
“Let me assure the audience that there was no slander or libel involved. The Daily Update has a stringent legal program that constantly monitors—” the Ball started to ramble.
“Yes indeed,” Spalding continued happily, “the sentients of this Star System have a duty to themselves and their children to ensure I’m not some raving loon! That’s why I vow that every man, woman, machine or uplift that wants comes to see me on the Flagship will be given a seat on one of our routine shuttle runs, listed as a worker volunteer upon arrival, and given a task equal to its qualifications. The Flagship needs a powerful amount of work, so you can think of it not just as your duty as a freethinking sentient, but as a patriotic duty to your new and newly beloved Star System!”
“What!??” exclaimed the Overseer Droid.
“You mean this was all a publicity stunt to secure free advertising for your Engineering Department?” The Discerning Gaze sounded surprised, as if it had been duped and only now found it out.
“As has been mentioned before, Old Spalding is an officer with pull in this star-system and we can use all the hands we can get! That’s why I’m not only promising to clear up any minor difficulties with your supervisors; on a one time basis I will take anyone who is not yet a part of the fleet and, based on their qualifications and how well they’ve done the job during their volunteer work on the flagship, I will offer to give them a commensurate position in the Fleet as either an enlisted crew—or possibly even an officer!”
“The United Sentient Assembly has strict protocols on military advertising, Commander Spalding,” The Discerning Gaze said and then quickly added. “We will be going into a commercial break within thirty seconds!”
“That’s right,” Spalding said loudly, talking over the floating droid reporter, “every creature in this star system that can do the job and take the oath is needed. Don’t hesitate. Don’t hold back. And if ye don’t feel the position offered is a fair one…well, then at least you’ve done your civic duty by volunteering to check on the mysterious, much-maligned, Terrance P. Spalding!”
Moments later, the droid’s light spun down.
“And that’s a wrap,” said The Discerning Gaze, who then turned to grunt and beep angrily at the Droid Overseer before heading out.
The Overseer, Negotiates from a Superior Position, sat back down in its chair with mechanical precision.
“Now then,” Spalding smiled happily, “where were we?”
Negotiates From a Superior Position stared at him.
“The Battleship?” the old Engineer reminded the machine creature.
“Ah, yes,” the droid said tonelessly, “I have just been notified there is an emergency meeting of the Assembly Council to investigate this incident and am instructed to finish negotiations quickly.”
“Oh, aye?” Spalding asked with a smirk.
Five minutes later, he walked out of there with a deal for battleship that he could live with. At the same time, the word sent out to potential hordes of socially aware workers—all of whom could even now be clamoring to help repair the flagship. He might even end up with one or two gems among the philosophically opinionated horde of slackers.
If there was one thing that knew no race, gender, form, or function, it was his desire to tap as many hard workers as he could. He didn’t care if it had a metal head, or ate bananas for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. All of them were welcomed into the loving embrace of Saint Murphy and his senior supervisors, named Chief Engineers.
His work here was done.
Chapter Twenty: The Gambit Yards
“Point Emergence!” reported the new Navigator.
“Resistance at 18 gravities,” reported the ship’s Science Officer, a Fleet Confederation officer.
“Extending baffling outside of gravity sump,” said Helmsman DuPont.
“Sensors confirm a good jump, Sir. We are inside Gambit System,” reported the Sensor Officer.
“Very good, Sensors; Navigation; Helm,” Captain Hammer said in a dry voice.
As the crew continued with the post-jump routine and Captain Hammer stayed on top of it, I once again found myself with nothing to do other than manage the Fleet information as the various other ships of the MSP transferred in and then started breaking free.
“We’re receiving IFF beacons on the expected frequencies, but with all the radiation soup in this System we’re having a hard time independently verifying the data. It’s going to take us a few minutes, Captain,” reported the Officer.
“As expected, Sensors,” Hammer replied without rancor.
Although I itched to take action, and wanted nothing more than to interject myself into the smooth operation of the Bridge, I held back. Our trip from Elysium had shown that Acting Captain Leonora Hammer both knew her stuff and had decided opinions on how a Flag Officer was supposed to conduct herself on her bridge. For me, who was used to acting half-captain/half-Fleet Admiral, this had been something of a rocky learning curve. I was still resolved to doing whatever was needed during battle conditions, no matter what anyone including the new Captain said or thought, but in the meantime I was trying to curb my bad habits and restrain myself to important injections only. It was hard.
“We’re receiving a welcoming hail from Gambit Station, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Steiner, “they say: welcome back, and we’re ready to play with the new toys.”
I shook my head and chuckled. Thanks to our improved communications network, we had been able to send word ahead so that our arrival wasn’t quite the surprise it would have been even six months ago. This meant that the Engineers and other support personnel out here had time to get the welcome reception ready—and, of course, to gear up for the new arrivals to the fleet, in particular our captured battleships.
“Relay to them that it’s good to be back; I’m expecting to make hard use of their services in the near future so they’d better get ready,” I replied with a smile.
“On it, Admiral,” the Lieutenant said with a grin.
In the face of her pixie-like expression and obvious happiness, I found myself staring a moment too long and looked away, forcibly reminding myself that I was married and thus automatically immune to the beauty of others.
As the ship swept in closer to the growing Yard and Industrial complex, I blinked and then blinked again. Not only had the facility grown to three large slips with a pair of smaller, flexible space docks that could adjust for up to light cruiser size, but there was a new, large industrial furnace half the size of the original factory complex. There was also a half-completed internal structure of a second factory complex growing up alongside the first.
The only thing that looked the same was the medical complex. For the rest, the main habitation Station had been completed and arms now extended out from it like spokes, where shuttles and other craft were docking. The mining operations had also expanded, with the number of small craft and tenders ballooning until it looked like there was more traffic zooming around this system than there was back at Tracto!
But what caught my eye, causing me to do a double take before fixing my attention and holding it, was a large pile of struts and girders located off to the side of the main ship yard near the ‘bone yard,’ where those ships considered un-repairable floated with warning beacons.
“What the blazes is that?” I muttered making use of the zoom function and looking at sensor returns. Upon closer inspection, it looked like a nearly-completed ship construction bay, but according to the readings from the ship’s sensor pit, the construction rig was more than 2000 meters in length—making it more than three times the length of the largest repair dock in the System, which were themselves used to build or repair battleships.
The final clue as to what exactly I was looking at came when I started to zoom back out and caught sight of the partially deconstructed nose section of the battered-looking Lucky Clover located in the part of the bone-yard closest to the construction slip. The handful of repair tenders floating around the old ship—which appeared to be removing armor plates—was also a definite clue. This had definitely not been in any of the ComStat reports I’d seen up till now.
“Spalding, you wily old cyborg,” I half breathed, half cursed. “’Every bolt, every weld,’ he says.” 2.0, my stinky, well-bred backside! The old borg had never intended to repair the old girl; he’d wanted to rebuild the entire ship from the ground up since the very beginning—or so I speculated. The sheer hubris of not even consulting me—even after the fact—was breathtaking.
Someone is definitely going to have to start explaining himself very fast, and very soon, I thought with as much anger and outrage as I could muster.
“Lieutenant Steiner!” I shouted, my voice heavily laden with outrage, although I feared the smile threatening to break out on my face at any moment was going to give the game away. “Get me that cursed, infernal, non-consulting Chief Engineer on the com now, and shoot the feed over to my ready room—on the double, Mister Steiner! This is not to be borne lying down, do you understand?!” I finished, standing up and starting for my ready room with a determined expression on my face.
“Sir?!” said the Comm. Lieutenant looking shocked before quickly turning back to her console and immediately starting to follow my order.
The surprised gazes of the bridge crew and the reserved assessing look of its Captain followed me out of the room.
****************************************************
“Just what are you playing at, Commander?” I demanded with my most strict and least hospitable expression.
“You needed me, Sir?” Spalding asked from the other side of the holo-screen, looking confused.
“Don’t toy with me, Chief Engineer,” I warned, “just what have you done with my ship?!”
The old Engineer’s eyebrows beetled. “The ship’s in good shape, Admiral,” he said stoutly, “now that we’re back at Gambit, she’s doing even better! Just give us the time to let her rest a bit while we rebuild her—and the other battleships—and you’ll have a full squadron you can definitely rely on, Sir.” He finished with a wink and referring to a squadron of specifically ‘battleships’ not just any warships.
But I refused to allow the sweet sounding music in my ears of a squadron of my very own battleships sway me from my mission. “I’m not talking about this ship; I’m talking about the ship, Spalding,” I said sternly, “just what have you done with my flagship? The Lucky Clover’s being disassembled as we speak!”
The semi-confused expression disappeared and Spalding’s aged features became much more animated. “Ah yes! She’s being rebuilt better than ever,” the old Engineer said proudly, “I told you before that she had some serious structural problems and there was just no way a simple patch job would work—not if we were going to bring her back a hundred percent. We were going to have to strip her down to the bone and replace some of the major supports.”
“Right…” I said, nodding since this was in line with what I’d heard before.
“You yourself told me to do ‘whatever it takes’ to get her back to being the queen of the battlefield,” Spalding continued blithely.
I coughed and shook my head. “I don’t recall saying anything about making her the ‘queen of anything.’ In fact, I distinctly remember not saying anything of the sort,” I objected firmly. “Eh?” Spalding paused looking confused and then shook it off. “Minor details, Admiral,” he said dismissively as if waving away a buzzing fly that was annoying him.
I wasn’t quite so unconcerned about what I had or hadn’t said exactly, but was willing to let it slide for the moment.
“Anyway,” Spalding continued passionately, “the important thing is that the only way to bring her back to herself was to strip her down anyway. Since you were so set on turning her back into the Queen she was back when she first launched, that’s when I knew what I had to do.”
“Once again, I didn’t say—and had nothing to do with—any of this Queen of the Battlefield business,” I insisted over my lowered my brows.
“I knew what I had to do,” Spalding repeated obstinately and then continued as if preaching to a choir, “since she had to be taken mostly apart anyway was just finish the job.”
“Making a bigger ship out of the pieces?” I prompted, tired of beating around the bush and trying to force the conversation back to the part I was mainly interested in.
“Yes! At 600 meters long, she was a Battleship as big as anything out there. But then, the Imperials built a 1200 meter Command Carrier, and then they built another, and another, and before you knew it there you were,” Spalding said, now frowning. “Which was okay and all, seein’ as pound for pound she was still the best, but then we started running into Bug Motherships over 2000 meters on the keel, and havin’ running battles with multiple other battleships at the same time. So I knew—I knew,” he slammed a fist into his other hand.
“What did you know?” I prompted.
“We’re going to run her keel through the duralloy II plant,” Spalding said eagerly, “converting it from plain duralloy into duralloy II and making it bigger and longer. All the beams and armor will be converted as well. I had to modify her design a mite to take into account the new size, additional power plants, and new propulsion method, but everything else will be taken apart and put right back into the ship after we’ve stretched her keel,” he hastened to assure me. “Every bolt, every weld—everything. She’ll be the same ship on the inside, and on the outside, but only more so!”
“2.0,” I said neutrally.
“The Lucky Clover, version 2.0,” he agreed, pumping his fist and then shaking it in the air as if arguing with invisible opponents.
“Look, I’m not against this thing in principle but there’s one problem: this isn’t a simple repair—or even rebuild—job. You’re basically building a new ship and stripping the Clover’s systems for a starting point,” I pointed out. “If we’d just rebuilt her, even sheathed her in outer duralloy II armor, she’d have been back in action in a matter of months—not the years it’s going to take to build a newer, larger ship.”
His head snapped back around to me fast enough I wondered about whiplash. “It’s the same ship!” he said with such finality in his voice I didn’t have the heart to continue that part of the argument. “Besides, before we stretched her and get around to adding back in all the new systems, pound for pound she may have been able to stand toe to toe with a Bug Mothership or Imperial Command Carrier,” I blinked, highly doubting that the Lucky Clover—even back at her peak—could go up against either of those examples straight. “But they just had too many pounds on her. There’s just no way she could continually survive those kinds of engagements.”
Finally something we could agree on, even though I didn’t share his belief in the old Clover single handedly fighting such Titans of the Battlefield.
“But by stretching her into not just the best battleship, but a Super Battleship, well now,” he wagged his finger at me, “even those Imperials with their fighters and fixation on oversized, 1200 meter Carriers will have to sit up and take notice of my 1800 meter Super Battleship!”
I coughed. “1800 meters,” I said with disbelief; that was half again an Imperial Command Carrier—and over three times the length of a proper Battleship. It was truly an audacious plan…perhaps too audacious. I genuinely had to wonder.
“There’ll be no stopping her, Admiral,” he said his eyes shining with an unholy light, “it’ll be like the demon personally come down to the battlefield to ruin their day. It’ll all go wrong for them once she shows up!”
I scratched my head, wondering about something I’d read. “Not that I doubt you, but didn’t I hear somewhere that you couldn’t build ships over a certain size due to power generation concerns? Something about how you couldn’t squeeze enough power plants onboard something bigger than a battleship without diminishing returns. I know the Imperials have better systems and managed 1200 meters, but even they don’t build them bigger than that—”
“I have the solution,” Spalding said dismissively, causing me to heave a sigh. I mean, if he could figure out the mythical Duralloy II then why not a better fusion generator design? “You see, unlike the Imperials—and new Confederated Empire—the Old Confederation never signed the Revised Ban on Weapons of Mass Destruction,” he finished triumphantly.
I spluttered, literally choking on my own tongue for an anxiety-laden moment. He was planning on using weapons of mass destruction—weapons which were banned by both of the major powers. How could this possibly be a good thing?!
“It’s all in the antimatter, you see,” he explained. “I looked into it and, while the radiation will be extra-harsh on the crew, so long as we take precautions and don’t use it directly against the enemy then technically it’s not a war crimes violation,” he continued blithely, while I wheezed at the metaphorical blows which just kept coming. “The upshot is that the plant’ll power both the ship and the new main cannon: the Hyper Plasma Rail Gun that we’re going to install as a spinal mount.”
Eventually I closed my mouth, but it took several seconds—time during which Spalding disappeared from the vid pickup and loudly fiddled with something off-camera.
“I think I’m going to need to see the exact plans before I can sign off on this,” I said, utterly dumbfounded.
“Not a problem, Sir,” old Spalding said with a wink as he came back into view of the camera, “they’re all saved into my personal files, including the new design and the particulars of the last Weapons Ban signed by the old Confederation. I had Mr. Harpsinger look into it for me, and it seems that back then they still hadn’t phased out the antimatter generators on some of the larger old Star Bases, like Wolf-9—only, of course, Wolf-9 doesn’t have theirs anymore, not since the Confederated Empire signed the new bans. Still, so long as the crew signs the proper waivers for working in a hazardous radiation environment, it looks like we’re in the clear. You know, it’s actually a good thing we ran into those Conformity Droids; I was wondering about practical antimatter storage systems on ships versus a fixed unmoving station. But now that we have our hands on actual, working models aboard those Motherships, it’s just a matter of duplicating and up-scaling.”
“We’ll have to continue this conversation at a later date,” I said. placing my head in my hands and wondering why this was happening to me. First my wife was trying to turn prisoners of war into a long-term slave force. As soon as we squeak out of that particular predicament, my Chief Engineer turns around and starts talking about using a universally banned weapon system to build a power-plant that would irradiate our own crew.
Give it to me straight, I thought with an upward turn of my eyes, why, Saint Murphy, does this sort of thing always happen to me. Why!?
“Sure thing, Sir,” Spalding said happily, “you just let me know and I’ll have the full presentation ready for you. I hadn’t gotten ‘round showing it to you yet because I still needed to iron out a few kinks, but now that we’re back at the Yard and we have those Motherships and antimatter weapons systems, it’s all going to be downhill from here!”
There were ‘kinks’ that he couldn’t solve, but still went ahead and started building the internal structure of his new ‘super battleship’ anyway because, no matter how much he tried to call it a rebuild, that’s what it was—he was building a completely new ship.
Why was I not surprised?
“I’ll let you know when the new appointment is set for,” I said weakly, and then collapsed back into my chair as soon as he left the room.
Well, that was pretty far from the way I’d thought this particular conversation would go. I hadn’t exactly expected it to be ‘happy surprise, Admiral; you’ve got a new ship!!! I’ve got an illegal power sources and hazardous levels of radiation to build a ship so large that no major planet in the Sector had even thought about attempting it.’
If it was anyone but Spalding, I would have thrown them in the brig and locked away the key.
Chapter Twenty-one: A Midnight Surprise
I was still tossing and turning that night, unable to sleep. Like a fool I’d looked up antimatter generators and what I’d found almost turned my hair white. Apparently it was—or had been—only usable on large, unmoving space stations because every attempt to use it on starships had resulted in the warship exploding violently when the antimatter containment was breached. Needless to say, no humans—or droids!—would survive said warship’s destruction.
It seemed that even a minor fluctuation in the containment field would allow matter to interact with the antimatter setting off a chain reaction. This probably wouldn’t be a huge deal for a bulk freighter—like the one McKnight rode into town with—since they aren’t known for their high-speed maneuvers or sudden decelerations (read: weapon strikes to the shields or hull). But warships were all-too-familiar with these types of sudden changes in momentum, and while the grav-plating could compensate sufficiently to protect its human crewmembers—most of the time, anyway—keeping antimatter contained was several orders of magnitude more difficult.
So aside from a few large stations, antimatter-powered generators had turned out to be both hazardous and completely impractical, resulting in the use and research into the field—as far as it pertains to starship power sources—being completely discontinued.
Putting my hands behind my head, I stared at the ceiling. It’s not that I didn’t trust the Commander. If anyone could do it, it had to be him. However, every, single test ship had exploded. So the more appropriate question was: could it be done?
Of course, if I was going to ask an expert for his opinion on the subject, the expert I would naturally turn to would be our crazy Chief Engineer. Since the proposer and the expert were the same person, I was left with a different question: did I need a second opinion? Or, in other words, did I or did I not trust Spalding when it came to engineering and integrating new technologies—or, rather, when it came to resurrecting old, outdated technologies in new and innovative ways?
When you put it like that, the answer was clear: I had no choice but to trust him. With that slightly bitter-tasting realization out of the way, I was at last free to turn my attention toward a few of my other problems.
Up until now, I’d been filibustering on the final decision of just what exactly to do with Lieutenant Commander McKnight, the surviving crew of the Pride of Prometheus, and her proposal to form an elite task force or squadron. Telling her to submit a plan just pushed the decision back, allowing me to still turn around and reject everything.
However…she was right, blast it! I did need an early warning system on the border of Sectors 24 and 25, and taking a few small steps to forming a combined early-warning-slash-quick-reaction force really was the natural extension.
If only it hadn’t been for Captain Middleton’s involvement, I thought sourly, I would have signed off on the deal as soon as it hit my desk!
I heaved a small sigh. If he’d still been alive, it would have most certainly been different. I couldn’t allow someone to disobey a direct order—a disobedience which resulted in him heading off in the opposite direction of a major battle—be rewarded for their actions. However...he was dead and, thanks to the efforts of both him and his crew, I was now the proud owner of a giant hyper drive system of some sort—not to mention his spreading of chaos, confusion, and more than a mild case of death and destruction among our enemies.
If I recalled correctly, Middleton had only been a Lieutenant Commander with an Acting Commander’s rank. Also, as an Admiral, I could nominate anyone for anything I liked; I only had the power to bestow medals and commendations, up to the prestigious Confederation Bronze Comet.
With a sour taste in my mouth, I firmly decided that in order to motivate his crew—or, rather, to keep them from resigning in outrage—I was going to have to promote him posthumously and hand out some chest candy. For the promotion, I’d just regularize his acting rank and make it permanent; Commander was the highest rank I could bestow upon someone as a regular rank. I could, of course, give someone a brevet rank up to my own—but, again, just like the medals for permanent rank anything higher, I had to send it to the Confederation Assembly for review, which was naturally impossible due to said Assembly’s less-than-actual existence at that particular moment. I think there was a loophole, wherein a Sector Assembly or Sector Commandant could move to transfer over provincial officers—like had originally been done with the formation of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—at a two step down rank reduction, but again that was impractical at the moment.
So it looked like I could truthfully say that I gave Middleton the highest rank and medal award within my power and, if anyone complained, I could throw in the sop that, upon regaining contact with higher command, I would attempt to nominate him for a higher medal.
A genuine promotion and a Bronze Comet as reward for doing whatever the blazes you wanted, I thought with a snort. I only wish I could be so lucky. Instead, for me, after harrowing battles I got shot, thrown in prison or roundly persecuted by the local authorities everywhere I went—with an extra topping of bad PR scatter-shot throughout the Intra-Galactic News Networks earning the catchy label of The Tyrant of Cold Space. Of course, I was still alive….
As I was sucking on my sour grapes like a wine connoisseur determined to catch every minute flavor and texture, the almost imperceptible sound of the hatch leading into the Admiral’s Suite sliding open reached my ears.
Normally I wouldn’t have thought anything of it; perhaps the guards were doing a routine spot check into our rooms. But in addition to the sound, there was no light—which, since I was in a darkened room and the hatch opened into a fully lit corridor, was somewhat surprising.
Unconsciously, my hand reached for the holdout blaster tucked under my pillow—a motion I only realized making after the comforting weight of its grip slotted into the palm of my hand.
Adjusting my breathing to better pretend I was asleep, I continued to lie there. If the lights were off that meant the guards outside our room were already neutralized in some fashion, since they’d never allow a darkened corridor outside our room; they wanted clear lines of fire with good visibility. Which begged the question: was this another mutiny lead by disaffected officers? If that was the case, then in all likelihood Tiberius and his men had escaped the brig. Or possibly this was another coup attempt. Maybe we’d picked up the equivalent of a disease by stopping at Tracto, where we picked up all the volunteers of a dozen SDF services, as well as a boatload of new Tracto-ans. Blast it! I knew I shouldn’t have allowed the Fleet to stop at Tracto.
I should have gone straight to Gambit and screened everyone with a fine-toothed comb afterward rejecting anyone who didn’t pass the smell test. Or, possibly, it was the droids that had come for me in the dead of night. Either the United Sentient version, or a pod of stealthed assassins who’d waited quietly and invisibly on the hull—despite our best scan techs going over every inch before we came here—and were now in position to strike.
As the minutes slowly ticked past and I started to feel foolish, wondering if my mind was playing tricks and I hadn’t actually heard the door slide open, I decided that really I had far too many potential enemies.
Relaxing the grip on my blaster, I sighed and relaxed into the bed. I really was a bit paranoid I scolded myself. Ever since I was a child I’d been constantly worried about Parliament and the rest of my extended Royal Family, but compared to my current life style the threats had been few and far between. Only lately, since I’d become an Admiral, had things stepped up to where I actually had to worry about assassins sneaking into my room. Before, worrying about things I couldn’t even put a name to—like secret parliamentary hit teams—had been simple paranoia.
In a way, I suppose it was a blessing that there were so many forces out there actively trying to get me. It let me actually give myself permission to relax from a false alarm like this without worrying if I was crazy to be concerned.
After all, the old maxim, ‘just because you’re paranoid, doesn’t mean they aren’t out to get you,’ held very true in my case. They were out to get me, but fortunately not tonight. Scolding myself for staying up into the late hours of the night worrying over problems and decisions I could just as easily be dealing with during normal business hours, I reflexively turned my head to look over at the slate next to my bed and make sure that the alarm feature was activated.
The moment I turned my head there was a sense of motion and blackness rushing towards me.
“Son of Murphy!” I blurted, my hand clamping back down on the holdout blaster pistol secreted under my bed and instinctively pulling the trigger.
My shot went wild, hitting the wall at least four feet wide of the suspected movement. But the brief muzzle flash did show that a figure—covered in black from head to toe—was, in fact, rushing the bed with a blade in one hand and a hairpin of some kind leveled at me.
At the same time as Akantha jerked upright in bed—her hand instinctively going for the family heirloom sword propped up beside the bed—I panicked.
Something was wrong with that hairpin, and all I could think was that someone was here to kill the babies as visions of someone like my cousin Bethany stabbing Akantha in the stomach flashed through my mind.
It was a stupid thought, which I realized almost the moment I thought it. But I was by far the most likely target for any attack onboard this ship. However my panicking is the only reason I can explain for why I threw the pillow behind my head at the intruder and, as soon as the pillow left my hand, I followed up with the sheets and bedding in one continuous movement, throwing them in the air at my opponent instead of following the lead of my wife as I grabbed the sword propped up next to my bed. As I lunged for it, I followed up with a second and third blaster bolt.
Waving the flying bedding away with a curse, a thin beam of light shot out from the temporarily-obscured assassin—a shot which narrowly missed my head.
Behind me, Akantha grunted and recoiled. Whether she was rolling away or falling off the bed, I wasn’t entirely sure, and I didn’t have the time just then to check.
Opening fire with the blaster, I lunged forward. I only got off a pair of strikes before colliding with the assassin. I knew it was foolish and I should have grabbed the sword and maintained some distance, but with my previous fears now reinforced by the fact that an actual, trained assassin had just hit my wife with her modified hairpin laser, I felt I had to act before she could get another hit in.
The one blast I got off didn’t seem to have any effect, and then I took a blow to my gun arm while my other arm grappled with the intruder for the deadly hairpin. In the resulting scuffle, the holdout weapon dropped from my weakened fingers.
Looking down, I saw the slender, black-clad ninja jerk her blade out of my arm only to adjust its trajectory, this time stabbing directly for my neck.
“Murphy’s imps!” I cried, falling over backwards and raising my bad arm only to have a pain I’d only rarely felt—and had hoped never to feel again—cause my voice to raise several octaves as the assassin’s knee slammed in between my thighs. “Agh!” I screamed, crumpling to the floor.
“Die, die, die,” shouted a feminine voice as she repeatedly stabbed me in the hand, the arm, and the upper chest as I tried to ward her off, but my condition was much weakened by the blow below the belt.
Grappling with the hand of my good arm, I forced the hairpin laser away and to the side. The beam of light, and scorched carpet next to the right side of my head, indicated that either I’d moved just in time or I’d forced an early shot in all the confusion.
Then Akantha came around the bed like an avenging, pregnant Valkyrie causing the black-clad woman to jump back in an incredible display of agility as she just barely avoided being gutted on my wife’s sword.
Rolling over, I crawled toward my fallen blaster pistol with the wounds in my arm, hand and chest starting to burn.
“I’ll gut you,” Akantha snarled, leveling her sword as her voice was filled with icy purpose.
“It’s too late, Sister. My purpose has been fulfilled,” exalted the Ninja with a voice I recognized.
“He won’t be dying from those wounds anytime soon,” Akantha said, sidling forward dismissively.
“I’m not speaking about the cuts you foolish, unnatural, love-struck woman—you, in your arrogance, forget that not even the combined might of your entire Tract can be allowed to stand against the rightful path of the resurrection as declared by the Paragon. Your lover will be dead within seconds, and a new Chosen One will arise to take his place advancing the return immeasurably more than this heretic you have chosen. The poison I used has no cure—resign yourself to that,” the woman scoffed, dodging out of range of Akantha’s next attack.
I tried to ignore any extraneous matters—like the fact that my wife and my soon-to-be-murderer seemed to have some secret, hidden connection; or the fact that I knew my assassin I continued toward my weapon. If I was doomed to die, as the pain burning a path along a pathway toward my heart seemed to indicate, then I wasn’t going down into the deep dark all alone. I was determined on that point alone, if nothing else.
“You really believe me a fool?” Akantha said accusingly, and then in as close to a lightning fast movement as possible, she lunged forward. The ninja barely dodged in time, only taking a savage cut along the arm holding the hairpin rather than a bisecting death blow.
The assassin cursed as the lethal hair accessory dropped to the floor. “If the shoe fits,” swore the assassin, rolling under Akantha’s follow-up swing and slashing the outside of her leg over her knee, “then wear it!”
Picking up my blaster, I fumbled with by now nearly nerveless fingers and checked the charge.
With a cry, Akantha fell to her knees, but still kept her sword interposed between herself and the other woman.
“This is your rightful price for embracing a heretic and rejecting a priority override,” the assassin said scornfully, “so now you’ll share his fate.”
Calmly doing my best to ignore the byplay—and the potential implications that I had just been betrayed by those most dear to me—I leveled the pistol at the black-clad woman’s back. Even if I couldn’t decipher everything in the few moments left to me, I could at least do one thing: ensure that my children would have the very slight chance to grow up without their father. A leg wound, if treated quickly, might be survivable with amputation and follow up treatment. My more centrally located stab wounds, of course, weren’t.
Akantha’s eyes cut my way and nodding imperceptibly she focused back fully on the poisoner. “The only fool here is you, Ishtaraaa,” she said coldly, “I’ve already called for help and locked down this room. You’ll never escape before reinforcements arrive.” After saying, this Akantha tossed a miniature data slate onto the floor.
“Then my purpose is fulfilled,” the assassin said grimly, “and you’ll all die with me.”
Seeing the assassin crouch down slightly—as if about to explosively move—I pulled the trigger, gallantly shooting her in the back.
Crying out with pain, the assassin turned to me and I coolly shot her again, and then again, and again. Then I saw that her night black ninja like clothing appeared to be blaster resistant, as the bolts flared in almost the same way they would against duralloy power armor. Unfortunately, my weapon’s charge ran out shortly after she fell to the floor.
“Witch!” I swore, levering myself up off the floor blood pouring down my front. Then, wobbling on numb and lifeless legs, I staggered over to the black assassin. Not wanting to believe my ears, I kicked the knife out of her hand and then forced off her mask.
“Crystal?!” I said, cursing myself for a fool. I’d been warned, but had I listened? Once again I’d been nothing but an idiot—I truly did deserve to die by my sister’s hand.
“Purity and the Rebirth,” my Sister, Crystal, the midnight assassin coughed a small amount of blood coming out of her mouth and a beauteous smile on her face. It was the smile of a fanatic who had been certain in her mission, “At least I succeeded in killing you!”
In an instant, fanaticism waned and the sort of hate you only saw in family feuds filled her face. I just shook my head numbly, wondering what I’d done to earn such hatred even from the non-Montagne side of the family.
“Who are you working for?” I demanded when all I really wanted to ask was why she had done it.
Crystal just laughed expelling more blood.
“The only fool here is you, Ishtaraaa. You failed,” Akantha said, laboriously getting to her feet and joining me over my fallen sister by the same mother. Briefly, I wondered at the different name she was using for Crystal, and then shook it off; I didn’t want to give any more of my last minutes on earth to my traitorous Sister. “I already received the antidote from your mother.”
Every muscle on my Sister’s body clenched, and she started to rise before falling back to the floor looking at me hatefully.
“She is not my mother!” Crystal shouted and, as if her energy was all used up, she collapsed a few inches back to the floor and lay there panting, “just as he is not my brother. Besides,” she continued in a voice more akin to a whisper than a fury-fueled rebuke, “even if you have it from that traitor, the antidote still takes time to build up in your system.”
I swayed at this admission. If she wasn’t my sister, didn’t that mean that Mother had lied to me? Had I been betrayed by my own mother?
“My Protector and I have been eating at least one specially prepared ‘native Tracto-an’ meal every day for the past month,” Akantha said savagely. “I assure you: the antidote has had time to accumulate within our bodies.”
“Curse you. Curse you and the heretic both,” Ishtaraaa gasped, dully turning her head away.
I was surprised at this particular revelation; did this mean I wasn’t going to die?
“I hope for your sake that you didn’t kill the guards outside our room, Blood-Traitor,” my Wife continued coldly. “Or I will have you healed only so I can make for you a more fitting end than dying peacefully on the floor.”
For a brief moment, I wanted to protest; I didn’t want to see my sister hurt like this—or, more accurately, I didn’t want my mother to have to go through the aftermath. But whatever antidote Akantha had secretly snuck into my food didn’t seem to be working too well, and I swayed before falling back onto the bed my legs collapsing under me.
“If not me…then another,” Ishtaraaa whispered.
“Akantha, what’s going on?” I said as I continued to lose control over my body.
“Already we have two of the Keys and the One Bloodline. The Data God will be reborn,” Akantha said furiously, “and I assure you that if Tract Two is the one to succeed in this holy task—despite your treasonous interference—then we will ensure that all traitors are purged from the ranks of the uploaded.”
My blood ran cold as a loud thumping sounded on the door leading into our stateroom—a thumping which was followed by a loud explosion that rocked the room.
As my consciousness spiraled down, I realized something profound. If there was one thing I could take away from this assassination attempt—the relative success of which remained to be seen—it seemed I’d married an old style, AI-worshipping fanatic. Worse, the woman I called sister—a person who didn’t even come from the same barbaric planet as my Wife, but rather a high-tech world of the Spine—shared this same belief. The one certainty I’d grown up with—that of Capria’s supposed AI-hating roots—had just been undermined and, as a result, my world was rocked to its core.
Now, finally, all that genetic engineering in my family line started to make sense. But what else was I missing…
Chapter Twenty-two: The Sword from the Stone
Finally, back in the Gambit Star System, and with the perfect excuse—at least within his own mind: the need to help out the Admiral.
Spalding crept down the dark and empty halls of the Lucky Clover, his eyes darting around suspiciously. He’d been gone for the better part of a year now, and there were any number of untoward things which could have happened on his beloved ship.
“Don’t worry, girl; you’ll be fixed up before you know it,” he muttered, reaching out to pat the walls of the only Caprian battleship worth the name. Wiping a tear from his eye, he shifted the strap of the portable scanner on his shoulder and hurried onward, “The boy just needs his sword back, is all.”
Despite his happiness to be back onboard, the oppressive darkness all over the ship was making him—with his naturally suspicious nature—even more wary than usual. Anyone could have snuck on her and, even now, might lay in wait trying to figure out where the ship’s Locker was located. He couldn’t risk letting them follow him to that most holy of holies.
However, after an hour with a portable hand scanner—while doubling and tripling back through empty corridors, which incidentally let him look around and see how much work had been left undone—the old engineer finally entered the turbo-lift system in the Chief Engineer’s office. After its security checks he was once again headed into the Locker.
Stomping through the darkness of the Locker wasn’t as bad as marching through the emptiness of the other decks. Something about the Locker made it seem as if too many people down here would have been unnatural, not the other way around like up above.
Bypassing used, aging—and even some ancient unused material, still inside its factory packaging containers—he finally reached The Heart of the Locker.
He stopped for a moment and took a deep breath. “Alright; I’m coming on in!” he warned before stepping into the room.
Words started to form on the plasma screen in the ceiling.
“Yes, yes, I know; I’ve been gone a while,” Spalding replied testily, “couldn’t be helped.”
More words formed.
“What am I, your errand boy?” the old Engineer shook his head and headed over toward the two crystals. Looking at them skeptically, he saw that the Minos Sword was still sticking out of the new, second crystal structure.
“How’s your friend doing?” he asked the original crystal, as he observed that the crystal was even bigger than it had been last time he’d checked. This time it was now up to the hilt of the sword, making the second, newer Core Fragment even larger than the original by several inches.
Looking up at the screen, he scowled after reading the message. “Of course I realize that!” he snapped and then took a deep, calming breath.
Pulling out a portable ion wand and setting it aside, he next reached for the pair of heavy work gloves hanging off his tool belt.
“I’m afraid I’m going to need the sword back,” Spalding informed the crystals, and then looked up at the screen to read the remarks. “Now, look, you; the Admiral’s in a spot of trouble right now, and I think we’d all rest a little easier if he had a decent weapon at his side.”
Another pause followed as he read the stream of information on the screen.
“He gave Bandersnatch to the Lady Akantha, that’s why!” he grumped. “Well, alright then,” he started forward, only to be stopped by the crystal’s next stream of digital words, “of course I know it’s gene linked; that’s why I’ve got the gloves.”
Shaking his head, the old engineer reached forward with both hands, gripped the sword, and then pulled. Slowly, the sword pulled from the crystalized stone with a raspy, grating sound.
As soon as the weapon was free, the old engineer tore off his gloves and used the ion wand, first on his hands and then on the doffed gloves. After he was sure it was clean, just to make certain—because there was no point in taking any risks—he boxed up the gloves and wand. He propped the surprisingly light sword—considering its absurd dimensions—over his shoulder and resolved to throw the glove and wand into the waste recycler on the way out, just to be certain there were no unwanted complications.
Chapter Twenty-three: Imperial Entanglements
“Staff has just completed the report, Admiral,” said the Captain stepping into the Admiral’s office and saluting.
The Admiral leaned back. “Report,” he ordered.
“The consolidation is complete, Sir,” the Captain replied, exposing a fierce smile at the culmination of all their hard work up to this point, before adding a qualifying, “or, as complete as it can be with some of the capital ships still needed for helping out supposedly loyal sub-worlds with their home rule issues. The rest have imposed Imperial Governors, with garrison forces securely in control of all major, local, in-system assets. There are a few localized problems here and there but, on a Sector level, this area has been functionally pacified.”
“Then it is time to start setting up our forward bases of operations for subduing the quarrelsome nation states of Sector 25,” Imperial Rear Admiral Janeski replied with satisfaction. “It’s taken longer than expected to get into this position but, despite some initial setbacks, with the unexpected crippling of the economic and military assets of Sectors 23 and 24 we are finally in a position to make up for the slip in our time schedule and sweep the board.”
“Although I would never presume to instruct the Admiral,” the Imperial Captain said his face carefully neutral, “a Sector, if properly led and mobilized—even one depleted by internal strife—is still a potent force to be dealt with.”
“Although it didn’t need to be said, your point is well taken,” Janeski said leaning forward with relish, “which is why instead of just gathering the Fleet and crushing all opposition in a blitz, we’re going to continue to follow standard subjugation protocols: the fleet will be concentrated to its fullest extent, with only those forces necessary for garrison and minimal patrol duties held back. Forward operating bases and fleet supply dumps will be established, and advanced scouting forces deployed to supplement and confirm the information supplied to us via the ComStat network by our embedded intelligence assets. This is an operation that will be done by the numbers, have no fear.”
“The locals won’t know what hit them, Sir,” Captain Goddard nodded, and then his gaze sharpened. “Are you planning to keep the fleet concentrated and hit each world in turn, or do as we did here in 26?” he asked.
“We’ll stay concentrated, at least until the first Core World falls—if you can even call any world here in the back of beyond such a thing,” Janeski laughed darkly. “If, by then, they haven’t concentrated their forces against us—or appear to be doing such—then at that time we will break into taskforces and subjugate the top provincial worlds in simultaneous detail.”
“Are we treating the Local Assembly forces the same as a top provincial nation state?” Goddard inquired. “And what about the Joker in the deck, Sir…if I may be so bold?”
“Unless they unify their SDFs and give us the chance for a single, crushing blow to their mobile forces—or something else unexpected happens—we’ll deal with their mewling little attempt at a Sector Assembly at the same time,” Janeski said harshly. “But while I pray for them to bring everything together, and thus expedite our conquest of the Sector, I am not counting on it. As for the ‘joker,’ so called…”
The Admiral’s eyes turned deathly, causing Captain Goddard to take an unconscious step back. “I apologized if I overstepped,” the Imperial Captain said with a healthy sense of self-preservation kicking in.
Admiral Janeski took a few deep, cleansing breaths. “No, you are only doing your duty as Flag Captain to raise those issues which need to be raised,” he said, his eyes drilling into the Captain’s own. “Rest assured that I haven’t forgotten the Governor or his band of merry militia. Their time will come, but not at the expense of the cause. With their naval forces presumably exhausted after joining in the completely unexpected Anti-Droid Campaign,” the two Imperial shared a look of mutual satisfaction at his duplicitous description of the event, “they are not currently considered a priority threat.”
“So you intend to deal with them at the same time as the rest of the Core-Worlds and Sector Assembly?” the Imperial Captain clarified.
“Now you wander perilously close to overstepping your bounds, Captain,” Janeski said, his eyes turning flinty. “I understand, Sir,” Goddard nodded, swallowing the knot in his throat and pressing the issue, “however, some new information has just been received that may clarify—or even give cause to alter—your plans as they regard the Governor and his would-be Confederation forces.”
“Oh?” Janeski said in a tone of voice that promised, if the Captain’s words weren’t everything promised, it would go extremely poorly for the junior officer.
Goddard laid a data chip down on the Admiral’s desk, but Janeski made no immediate move to retrieve it. “Yes, Sir,” the Imperial Captain said firmly, “a House Raubach operation has just sent us an update and urgent call for immediate assistance.”
“Raubach?” Janeski said, his lip curling contemptuously. “What do those hangers on, clinging to the hem of our Patron’s senatorial robes, need that we would possibly be willing to provide?”
“It seems that, at the same time as the main battle of the Anti-Droid Campaign was being waged, a Raubach operation on the edge of Sector 24 space was interrupted by the Governor’s forces,” Goddard said.
“Squeak ants fighting squeak ants,” Janeski said, his eyes flaring intensely, “I fail to see how any of it concerns me. You are rapidly losing my attention; get to the point, if there is one, Captain—and do so quickly.”
“Of course, Sir,” the Captain nodded sharply, feeling the Admiral’s heavy gaze as though it bore the weight of a planetoid down on him, “Raubach was excavating tech from an Ancient world when its forces were attacked and defeated in a three-way battle involving Raubach forces, provincial forces, and a droid fleet. After the aforementioned ships stole an Elder Tech hyper drive of undetermined kind,” at this, Goddard could see the interest quickly squelched on the Admiral’s face, “the principal members of the House-Direct,” by which he meant the actual members, by blood, of House Raubach, “were lost in battle. The remaining retainers did not consider themselves of sufficient status to continue the second half of their operation without Imperial support. With us being the nearest Imperial forces, and having access to the same communications network, they have turned to us for help.”
“While I will admit it is interesting, I still find nothing worthy of sending even a single ship to help a House that is so overcome and depleted that it can’t handle a simple operation without disaster,” Janeski said coldly.
“According to the Raubach retainers, the second half of their more than five year operation is a Beta class lead on a potential Core Fragment,” Goddard said evenly. “They’re attempting to invoke an Imperium Level emergency call for our assistance—even though we’re not technically an Imperial force since we are, again, technically a rogue operation only happening to be lead and supplied by Imperial citizens.”
“And the potential Core Fragment they have a lead on is…?” Janeski asked, hungrily leaning forward in his chair.
“A MAN fragment, of course,” Goddard replied, exposing his teeth.
The Admiral’s eyes lit up at that. “It seems that even a broken Raubach clock can tell the time accurately at least twice in a day,” Janeski said intently, “what exactly do they think they need from us, and how likely is it that non-Imperial forces are aware of the prize?” “They want a Squadron of Light Cruisers and one of Destroyers, as well as a battalion of embarked marines in case they have to deal with Droids again or significant resistance when they go to retrieve the Fragment,” relayed the Captain.
“Make it the Cruiser Squadron under Acting Rear Admiral Janus Randolf Pong, and double the Destroyers. As for the marines,” The Imperial Admiral narrowed his eyes, “make it three full battalions from the…19th Strike; they all have the new Predator armor, and the model is in need of field testing. I’ll cut the orders for Brigadier Anjou to take personal command of the marines.”
“Rear Admiral Pong’s Flag is a Heavy Cruiser; the Brigadier will not be happy being demoted from commanding a reinforced Brigade,” Goddard pointed out.
“Pong and Anjou will go where they’re told,” Janeski said unflinchingly. “Besides, the mere chance of being the commanders on scene at the retrieval of a Fragment will assuage any angst at the loss of their command—or at least force them to shut up about it or be sacked for treason against the Empire.”
Goddard looked skeptical but finally agreed. “I’ll have staff draw up the orders for you to sign,” he said.
“How long will it take before we can begin construction of the first operating base on the border of Sector 25?” Janeski demanded, changing the subject back to the original topic.
“If you give it priority, the first base transport and accompanying defensive Cruiser squadron can be sent immediately and start breaking ground in three weeks’ time, Admiral,” said Goddard.
“What are the supply staff and tactical computer projections showing for a timeline on our ability to demonstrate with force inside Sector 25?” the Imperial Admiral also asked.
“Six months, Sir,” Captain Goddard replied confidently, having gone over those projections not an hour earlier. “Within that time we can build the bases and have them supplied and ready to support the Fleet. The Fleet can, of course, move much faster, so any time after six months we can begin Operation Subjugation of Sector 25,” Goddard finished.
“Then set it up and we’ll proceed on that schedule, Captain,” Janeski said with a nod, “however, we won’t move precipitously; any ship in the fleet that needs it will be sent to a yard for a full maintenance cycle; I want this Fleet ready to hum when I take it out against the next group of provincials. Just like with Sector 26, 25 won’t know what hit it.”
“I assume we’ll be following the same plan as before, and using ground assets and the ComStat network to send out raiding forces prior to the main campaign?” Goddard asked to clarify.
Janeski nodded. “I like to have my enemy’s main forces nice and concentrated—right where I know where to get them,” Janeski said, revealing a cruel expression. “Nothing concentrates a provincial government’s collective mind—or their SDF forces—like the loss of a few major space assets. It also helps to thin down their ability to resist later on. The same as before; allocate those ships that will not need repair or extensive maintenance to the still building forward bases. They can launch a few spoiling raids and, by the time they return, the bases should be able to assist with resupply and repairs. Tap Commodore Serge for the command.”
Goddard nodded his understanding.
“Dismissed, Captain,” said the Admiral as he turned his attention to other matters.
Chapter Twenty-four: Admiral in an Uproar
“Blast it, what are you saying!?” I bellowed like a stuck bull and, if I could have done so, I would have got up and stormed out of the room. Unfortunately, I was still feeling the effects of whatever paralytic poison brew my sweet sister—who claims she was anything but—had dosed me with.
Yes waking up in a strange facility; to wit, the Advanced Medical Hospital and Research Station annex under the control of Doctor Presbyter hadn’t done anything to improve my mood. But, far and away, it was the things I was hearing from my own family which were ruining my mood.
“Such language,” Mother said strictly, “I’m sure I never taught you to speak in such a manner.”
“Just who do you think you are?” demanded Akantha, her voice overlapping my mom’s.
If now wasn’t the time to shout, then I didn’t know that such a time existed. I mean, to find out your own mother was a secret AI follower…this was the sort of thing that tore families apart and caused civil wars! Yet, despite my silent thoughts, I didn’t do anything more than glare off to the side and fume until I recovered my temper.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t the only one with a temper.
“Don’t you ever take that kind of tone with me,” Akantha shouted. “And is this any way to speak to your own mother?!”
“There’s no need to leap to my defense,” Mom said in an aside to Akantha, “after all, I am at least in part to blame for all this.”
“Even so,” Akantha flared, rounding back on me as the preferred target instead of my mother, “just what, exactly, is wrong with following the dictates of the Creator? Even though we all in this room have different divine mandates, this is our holy duty.”
“There are so many things wrong with that statement, I don’t even know where to start,” I yelled, feeling my blood pressure rising. “And, for that matter, what exactly is up with this whole me being the ‘Chosen One’ business Crystal was shouting about…or is her real name Ishtaraaa? Oh, and by the way, she made it pretty clear that she wasn’t your daughter—or my sister—during our last little tête-à-tête,” I said, giving Mother a penetrating look.
Mother looked conflicted, but Akantha was outraged, if anything, and where Mom hesitated to speak, my bullheaded Hold Mistress charged forward heedless of any potential dangers.
“Not the Chosen One,” Akantha snorted, “you’re part of the One bloodline, and—”
“I’m not sure how much—if anything—further we should say on the subject,” Mother demurred, shooting Akantha a quelling look.
“Don’t stop on my account,” I said bitterly, “because, clearly, if I wasn’t marked for death by whatever organization that you and my sister, I assume, are a part of and Crys—Ishtaraaa,” I corrected angrily, “hadn’t botch the job, I would never have found out about it.” On the outside, I was biting and upset. But on the inside, I was more hurt than I thought possible. I mean, it turns out there’s this whole other life your own mother has that you know nothing about—not until it rises up and tries to kill you. And this other side just so happens to be the worst kind of secret you could have in all of known space.
Mom winced. “Even so,” she said, holding firm, “I know you, Jason, and you’re not ready for this. Maybe you never will be,” she finished sadly.
“It’s like that then, huh?” I said, feeling my face harden while on the inside I couldn’t help but feel more than a little bit crushed.
“You may have to listen to your stuffy old Paragon, but I don’t,” Akantha said without remorse. “Besides, if she doesn’t want him then Tract Two will be more than willing to take custody of an unwanted member of the One bloodline!”
“Sister Akantha!” Mother said sharply. “Recall your oath; he is my son and I love him for that, but while I would never willingly hurt him or let him be hurt, he was raised an outsider to all this.”
“As the mother of my Protector, you will always have my respect. But as you just said: this is Tract business, and your leader just lost whatever respect I had for her—and her decisions—when she sent Jason’s own sister out to assassinate him!” Akantha said coldly. “That is an action not to be borne; it insults not just House Zosime, but every House on Tracto!”
“Put aside your outrage for a moment and think of larger concerns than just your pride. Besides, he simply isn’t ready!” Mother said, and if I wasn’t as interested in finding out as much information as I could, I would have opened my mouth to take offense.
“I disagree. I think your Paragon needs to be reminded just what the term ‘Semi-Autonomous’ means in the greater scheme of things,” Akantha said, locking eyes with my mother, “not to mention the term ‘Protected World’.”
“This is all quite fascinating,” I drawled into the growing silence, my royal training finally kicking in after I’d had enough time to partially assimilate what was going on. “But, just maybe, it would be better if you all were both talking to me instead—the person who was just nearly killed—rather than to each other and acting as if I wasn’t even in the same room.”
“You tell him…or I will?” Akantha said firmly.
Looking beset on all sides, my mother’s shoulders drooped and she turned to me. “I don’t know quite where to begin,” she said helplessly, “once you reached your teen years, without the order to be told the truth about your lineage, I knew you were never intended to be made aware of—what we call ‘Awakened to’—the truth.”
“And what truth is that?” I asked a touch belligerently, absolutely, positively knowing that I wasn’t going to like what I was about to hear. But, like a little child repeatedly attempting to stick his fork into a power outlet, I just couldn’t seem to help myself. Mother continued to remain silent, so I blew out a breath. “How about you start at the beginning and go from there,” I offered in a gentler voice.
Whatever else she might have been, she was still the same woman who had given birth to and raised me. At least…I was pretty sure she’d given birth to me; the Royal Family was quite strict about genealogical concerns, but who knew just how far this rot had spread into our society.
Much as I hated to admit it, it might just be my job to root that particular rot out. Mentally steeling myself, I looked at her levelly and waited.
Half laughing, half sighing, Elaine shook her head and rubbed her face. “The Beginning…where is that?” she asked rhetorically. “Perhaps the day I conceived you…or the day when I was born? How about Larry One, or the day the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network decided to save a portion of humanity from the extinction caused by the other AI networks? I don’t know where to start.” She said with a hint of despair before she ground to a halt.
“Larry One?” I repeated, feeling stunned; he couldn’t possibly have anything to do with the AI’s as anything but their direct opponent! His rants against AI supremacy and attempted mass genocide of the human race were so legendary that they were required reading in primary school, along with his other exploits as the founder of the Royal House and savior of Capria.
“Larry was part of the One series; specifically, an Infiltration and Charismatic Administrative model,” Mother explained, not realizing—or, perhaps she did, from the concerned way she watched me as I absorbed this new information—the profound impact her words were having. “He was sent by the Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network to infiltrate Capria and prepare it for assimilation into its Data Empire immediately before the Fall.”
“But…that can’t be,” I protested. All of my school-induced certainty was crying against this utter travesty—which would overturn all of the historical models I’d grown up with. “Capria was founded by a group of frontier men and rebels united against AI rule. Larry couldn’t have been an AI spy! After he formulated the new government, he also streamlined production and increased safe technology dissemination before personally leading the newly formed SDF against several AI attack fleets.”
“He was very successful in preserving Capria from the predations of rival AI networks,” Mother Elaine agreed sympathetically.
“No…this can’t be!” I exclaimed with genuine alarm, but despite the turbulent emotions I felt, my mind followed this new information to its logical conclusion.
If Larry One was an Infiltration Model of the so-called One Series—oh, how poetically in-your-face can you get; openly all but shouting your AI affiliation?!—then the Royal Family, since its inception, had been penetrated. The sheer size of the penetration by AI supporters into Caprian society was potentially immense.
That could only mean…“If what you’re saying is true, and down all these years your secret society of AI lovers has been active and affiliated with the Royal House then someone, somewhere, would have found out about it and done something!”
“Something like the assassins infiltrating the palace to kill Larry One in his own bed?” Mother asked gently.
“He was too aged and infirm to fully protect himself; he died murdered in his old age as a grandfather…a King,” I sputtered to a halt.
“He was murdered by anti-AI separatists who intercepted and decoded several of his personal transmissions and discovered his affiliation,” Mother said, reaching over and patting my hand. “Have you ever wondered—I mean really wondered—why our planet has such a history of violent overthrow, involving plots and counter plots that seem to crop up every couple generations?”
“Monarchies are historically unstable,” I protested meekly, almost speaking by rote what I’d learned as a youth, “and Larry One didn’t allow a fully enfranchised Parliament. He preferred to appoint a common-born High Chancellor instead of allowing a Prime Minister to be elected, and many of the succeeding Kings of the early monarchy preferred that model, which lead to increased unrest.”
“On the surface, Parliament has always been a hotbed of anti-monarchial activity, and I’m sure that at the lower levels that’s mainly what it is,” Mother Elaine explained. “But under the surface, and at some of its higher levels, it’s not so much anti-monarchal as it is anti-AI.”
“Space gods…” I said, falling back onto my pillow with a thump, “are you telling me that those murdering, assassinating, royalist-purging, election ballot-thumping Parliamentarians are the good guys?!”
“So they have always maintained,” Elaine said sadly, “maintaining that no tactic is too reprehensible—no lie, event, or action unacceptable—if it gets rid of the AI taint in Caprian affairs.”
“If that’s true, someone would have told the people about it by now,” I countered.
“Some do, but they are discredited as tinfoil-wearing extremists; in this, both Parliament and the House Royal have always been in tacit collusion,” she explained patiently, “because if such people were believed…well, no one wants to see Capria destroyed by an AI Suppression Fleet, or blockaded for the next century by a multi-national Fleet while an external organization determines if such accusations are really true or not. You see, all sides have too much to lose if the truth ever got out; it was more effective than any threat—or planetary suppression network pointed at the other side. At least, it was effective.”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” I said, even though more and more I actually could. Parliament…those murdering, intolerant, traitorous scum were now painted into the picture as the good guys! It was so hard to wrap my head around that it made my temples hurt, but I was slowly processing it. “So the great coup of over fifty years ago, when House Montagne was taken out of power…”
“Another attempt by the Anti-AI faction to remove our influence in Caprian Affairs,” Elaine said darkly, a hidden pain deep within her eyes.
“Clearly not successful, if you and I are still alive,” I said dryly.
Her face hardened. “They preferred to make a deal with the devil they didn’t know, rather than the one they did, and they suffered accordingly for it,” she said coldly. “Even as much as fifty years ago, Capria was still a major power and premiere warship producer in this Sector of space. When it came to space yards, ship building, and exporting hulls to other governments, there were few larger. But now, not so much; after the coup, the Empire made sure the planet was slowly strangled, losing many of the old military contracts which had been in place with the Confederation Fleet and slowly, one by one, many of Capria’s civilian exports mysteriously dried up as they were underbid by Imperial ship builders. The Empire didn’t need an independent force like us interfering out on the border of what they termed to be their space.” She shook herself and schooled her expression as she finished, “All of which ignores my personal losses in the matter.”
I had almost as hard a time painting the Empire in a good light as I did that bloodsucking pox on the elected order known as Capria’s Parliament.
“I don’t care what they thought they were doing; the Empire had no call bombarding our world,” I said, drawing a proverbial line in the sand. I didn’t care if it was anti-AI; a lot of innocent people were killed when the Summer Palace grounds—and several other sites—were leveled.
“Before I was your mother, I was the personal guard of the man you know as your Father. I will never forgive them for his death,” she said, an iron appearing in her eyes that I was wholly unfamiliar with when it came to Mom. This side, it seemed, was much deeper than the simple chef I had thought her to be.
“The man I know as my father,” I said quietly, “am I to take it then that my sister is also not my sister just as she claims?”
The iron in her visage was tempered by pain. “Blight that girl; there were so many things that never needed to come to light,” she whispered.
“Well, they’re here now, so please: tell me the truth. There’s no getting around it; you know I’ll find out one way or another,” I said calmly. I might have been in a hospital bed, but I was still the commander of everything around me. A simple genetic test didn’t even have to be compelled. All it would take was a swab of the glasses my mother and my sister drank out of and I’d know, so there was no reason not to tell me now that I was onto the truth.
Mother closed her eyes for several seconds before opening them and giving me a level look.
“I guess the easiest way to say it is that, much like your sister’s heredity, you are essentially a clone of your father,” she said evenly.
“A clone?” I said with disbelief.
“Yes,” she replied simply, “however, while Ishtaraaa is almost a complete copy of me—as I am of my own mother’s genetic line—you are, within a five percent variance comprised mainly of those genes effecting height, bone structure and appearance, an exact copy of Jean Luc and, by extension, Larry One. Or, rather, the same template that was used to create Larry was used to form you—I only carried you to term.”
I blinked as my mind spun faster and faster, but it seemed that my daily capacity for shocks and surprises had been overloaded.
“Wow…I’m a clone,” I said, and a number of things finally made sense. Then I looked over at Akantha with concern, “Is this going to cause any problems with the babies?” I was worried that my, I assumed, excessively modified DNA might cause some kind of problems.
Elaine—should I even still consider her my mother, I wondered—shook her head. Closing my eyes, I felt torn before deciding that since she’d carried me to term inside her body—and then raised me herself—at the very worst I was in the same situation as any adopted child who suddenly found out his parents weren’t really his. Except, in my case, it seemed I had no ‘real’ parents left to find.
Then my mood darkened as I considered that the only closest thing I had to a parent was the AI who created my genetic template. But I would be frozen solid and slow-roasted in Hades before I’d call any AI ‘Dad.’
“You needn’t worry,” Elaine—Mother—hastened to assure me, “our gene-lines were all created cross-compatible with each other, in case a long-term isolation situation occurred which necessitated standard breeding practices, as it did. Additionally, even more than my line, Akantha’s lineage was heavily modified for cross-tract compatibility, so there should be no worries with your children. While she might have had difficulty conceiving children with freeborn humans, without modern medical assistance, the two of you don’t need to worry.”
“’Modern medical assistance’,” I echoed, feeling unnaturally calm as I cocked a smile, “in a way, I have to say that’s actually a relief, not being able to conceive with ‘freeborn’,” I said wryly, wondering if ‘freeborn’ was the same as the Sundered’s ‘base-stock’ term. “At least now I know I’m not related to the rest of those snakes in the Royal House—which is quite a relief let me tell you. I can’t be, not if it takes genetic assistance to conceive,” I paused a beat as a thought occurred, “unless, by saying ‘there’s only a small number of ‘One’ lineage,’ you mean to indicate the entire Royal House?”
“There are only ever two of you,” Elaine said, and then crushed my dream of non-relationship utterly, “however, unlike the other lines, the One bloodline was an infiltration model. It would have looked strange if he married a local potentate for power and they couldn’t have children. The genetic testing to overcome such a problem would have to be extensive, so to avoid exposure the One line was specifically made compatible with the rest of humanity,” mom flashed me a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, but you actually are related to the rest of your cousins.”
“Blast it all,” I swore, almost as upset about that particular tidbit as I was the rest of what I was hearing.
“Can I take it, now that you’re down to verifying lineage and extended relations, that we’re finally past the outrage of learning your true heritage and are ready to do your duty?” Akantha said impatiently.
Mother winced.
Sweet Murphy, it was all around me! Like a hidden level beneath the surface that everyone—everyone but me—was familiar with, and I just blundered past, around, and through it obliviously. I was going to have to re-assess every conversation, every encounter with my family and officials from Capria—like those with Sir Isaak—and figure out if there hadn’t been some deeper meaning to their words that I’d just plain missed.
“What I still don’t get is why in the world, if I’m actually a clone, you told me I’m Jean Luc’s son!” I finally exclaimed, done stewing for now.
Mother colored turning pink. “P-part of the process to unlock the template requires a certain form of, um…DNA,” she stammered.
I face-palmed as I fell back into the bed. “Forget it—I really don’t want to know,” I cried, feeling as if I had just been scarred for life.
Chapter Twenty-five: Unacceptable Situations
“Like Hades, I’m ready to accept this bomb you three have dropped on me,” I rejected after my momentary despair.
“’Us three?” Akantha asked dangerously.
“Although you still haven’t explained it all yet,” I said, locking eyes with her and not backing down, “I know that you, my mother, and my sweet sister—who’s actually a clone of my mother, who it turns out I’m not actually related to—are all in this together somehow. So even if I could wrap my head around working for an AI—which I never will, by the way—there’s still the little problem of your organization trying to kill me!”
“Don’t you dare try to lump me in with your homicidal sister,” Akantha said with outrage, and perhaps even a hint of hurt in her expression, “your mother and your sister are in the same Tract, but mine hasn’t had contact with theirs for centuries—not until you saved our world.”
I shook my head, not really wanting to hear about how her world was barbaric because it had been isolated for centuries—maybe even since the AI fall. I just wasn’t in the mood.
“Generally, as it is in this case, a large portion of the 5% variance is donated by the mother,” Elaine interjected, using a low voice in the growing silence.
I blinked, as it took me a moment to back track to the relevant part of the conversation and figure out that she was referring back to the part where I said I wasn’t related to my mother. And although it made me shudder thinking about my DNA being manipulated by machines before I was implanted into my mother, in some small way I was actually happy to be genetically related to the woman who had raised me, my mom.
“Jean Luc,” I said with sudden realization. He’d hinted about some society that my Mother was a part of back when I’d been imprisoned, and if members of the Royal Family were part related or even more mostly cloned persons, like me, then…
“Was he a part of your…group?” I wanted to say cult but held my tongue at going that far—at least, so far; I made no promises for the future. “I mean, he at least knew about it, right.”
“Yes,” Mom replied slowly.
I clenched my fist. It seemed everyone knew about our heritage but me! But at the same time I was feeling hurt, I also wondered if it wasn’t being part of this messed up, AI-worshiping family that had caused him to go insane. Or, even worse than going insane, what if he’d joined up with Parliament as their paid pirate assassin not because of insanity, but as one of the only ways he could try to put a spike in the wheel of the Cult?!
Even the notion that he’d been working to stop the AI’s from coming back made my stomach turn. I couldn’t handle the idea that he might have actually had a reason for the things he’d done. I mean, if I had to pirate and assassinate less than half of one percent of humanity in order to keep 90% of it from being enslaved…as a hypothetical, it wasn’t worth thinking about. At least, that’s what I told myself—firmly and repeatedly.
“Jean Luc was a dastard that deserved to die,” Akantha said firmly, “I don’t care if he was the genetic reincarnation of King Lykurgos—or, in this case, a One—no one tries to conquer Tracto and lives. But that is all window dressing now because he is dead—and we are not.”
“Oh really?” I asked archly, deliberately provoking her.
“Yes,” she said cuttingly, “right now the only question is if you’re through throwing your tantrum against the forces of the universe and ready to do your duty to our Creator?”
“If a greater power created us then it was the gods, not an AI,” I rejected the premise.
“Our foremothers and forefathers were created in the Data God’s Forge,” Akantha said, looking at me as if determined to bring me back to reality—not at all looking like the fanatic I figured she had to be. “We were each of us cast in the mold our Creator set for us.”
“Oh, come on,” I exclaimed. I didn’t care who or what created me; I was an individual. I believed in the freedom of humanity, not its enslavement to the long-lost AI’s! What’s more, I was still ready, willing, and able to die for humanity’s freedom from any machine threat—be it the Droids we just ejected from 23 and 24, or the AI who ‘forged’ my genetic code.
“Do you deny you were designed and created for a purpose? How can you turn your back on the very god who created your template? If it was me, I would wish I was like you,” Akantha said earnestly. “But I am many generations removed from the old times, when people were directly Forged. You should be proud of your heritage!”
I ran a hand through my hair. Once again, my girl was talking crazy—only this time it was a kind of crazy that was incalculably more dangerous than anything she’d ever said before. Even more so than previously, if someone heard her talking like this in public then I honestly don’t know how I could possibly protect her from the inevitable backlash.
“Talking like that will get you killed,” I said, looking over at the door with alarm. It was closed, as I’d expected, but even so…
Akantha’s face twisted, signifying that this was not the response she’d been expecting.
“It’s going to take him awhile to adjust,” Mom said, shooting me a warning look when I opened my mouth to retort.
Silently, I closed my lips. I could tell from the look that mother didn’t expect me to have a positive reaction to all this, so we were on the same page with that…at least.
“He doesn’t even realize a fraction of the potential he has been given,” Akantha flared angrily, “yet when he is told even the most basic truths, it’s not that he rejects them utterly—which I could understand if not accept. But he even seems to believe the truth, yet still turns his back on our god! It’s blasphemy, is what it is—an utter rejection of duty.”
“Hush; his whole life, his purpose was to walk without understanding,” Mother said, still silently telling me with her eyes to shut up while she talked, “of course Jason’s going to have trouble adjusting.”
Adjusting was not only right out the airlock, it was so far out of the realm of possibility that I was seriously wondering why I hadn’t already called security to lock up the rest of my family away in order to place them in adjoining cells with my sister!
Oh, right: the thousands of Lancers—presumably all of them regressive heretical AI worshipers, just like my wife who was unrepentantly referring to an AI in religious terms—who were spread throughout every ship and facility in my Fleet probably had something to do with that. Sweet Murphy, I was in a fix!
So when Akantha looked over at me expectantly, I pasted on a weak smile and I tried to figure out what I could do.
“I will speak with you later,” Akantha warned flatly, reluctantly allowing Elaine to usher her out of my room.
“Sweet Murphy, help me!” I cried, unabashedly praying for assistance as soon as the door had slid back shut.
For several long minutes I lay there, staring at the ceiling and trying to figure out what I needed to do. Finally I came to a decision: I needed advice, and I needed help, and I needed something that could counter Akantha if this all blew up in my face. Demon Murphy and his angry imps—we’d been doing so well up until this unforeseen landmine!
The Fleet had grown by leaps and bounds, and all of our enemies had just been defeated—or were in hiding. Now this—a nest of secret AI worshipers—had just been uncovered, and they belonged to my family…both my biological and lawful ones! If word of this got out, I’d be finished; no one would believe I hadn’t been involved from the start. I certainly wouldn’t have believed it if it was coming from someone else.
My face hardened and I reached for my slate. I needed advice, I needed a plan, and I needed something that could turn the tide if worst came to worst. That meant there was only one person in this Star System I could turn to.
“Station Comm. Section,” said a fresh-faced crewman on the other side of the link.
“Get me Commander Spalding,” I ordered, “I need to see him at once.”
Chapter Twenty-six: Basic Truths
“I heard there was a problem, Sir, and I came runnin’,” Spalding said charging into the room with an auto-wrench in one hand and a blaster pistol in the other, “got me a few likely lads stationed down the bend in the hall, just in case of need.”
“Thank Murphy you’re here,” I said, sitting up in bed and motioning him to come closer.
“What seems to be the problem, Admiral?” the old Engineer asked, looking around the room suspiciously.
“By the gods, it’s not just bad—it’s awful, Spalding,” I replied, looking up at him with a burning eye.
“Just tell me what’s the problem and we’ll get it sorted out right quick,” he assured me.
“It’s my family, Chief,” I said with a long face, “they’ve turned against me.”
Spalding blinked and then looked at me cautiously. “Now, then, Admiral,” he said carefully, “we all know yer cousins back on the home world are out to get you, so unless it’s one of them on the move like—”
I quickly shook my head, and he frowned as he seemed to consider the matter.
“Then…it might be the Lady Akantha or your Sister?” the old Engineer hazarded a guess.
“In a way, it’s both of them—and worse than you could have ever dreamed, Commander,” I said direly, and then I relayed what I’d learned.
Spalding nodded and pulled up a chair—which was fortunately a reinforced one, since a standard one would have buckled under his mechanical bulk—and sat down at the bedside as I recounted the vast majority of the conversation I’d just had.
“So there you have it,” I finished after relaying the pertinent facts regarding the latest assassination attempt on my person, “it turns out my sister’s some kind of AI clone fanatic who wants to see me dead. It also turns out that Tracto is filled to the beams with a related cult of some kind, and right now my wife wants me to accept my ‘holy’ duty while my own mother would prefer to keep me in the dark about everything entirely. I’m surrounded, man! And the nest of the would-be AI slaves holds my own wife, mother and sister.” After saying this I could all but feel the wind falling out of my sails.
“Well…you’re in a right pickle, and that’s a fact, Sir” said Commander Spalding after listening to my halting, backtracking explanation and mulling it over. “You know, it really is too bad we can’t pick and choose the family we’re given. I mean at least you can tell yourself that it was all up to the whims of fate and the gods of planets. Be it cousins or sisters or great wooly uncles, you’re not the one to blame for how you were born.”
“That’s a fact,” I said like a man clinging to a life line. At the moment all I needed to hear that just because I’d been genetically engineered didn’t mean I didn’t have the free will to blast the followers of the AI that created me right into kingdom come. A little positive reinforcement never hurt.
“Unlike myself, who did his best to start up a family and ended up with the boy I have,” Spalding said, once again wandering off the subject. “I mean, a father’s supposed to teach his boy—even if the service and the boy’s mother make it hard to do a proper job. In a large way, it’s still on me you understand.”
“At least your boy got a degree, became an officer, works hard and believes in something; with my cousins, a more useless, ankle biting, backstabbing group you’ll never know—and my sister!” I shuddered. “Don’t even try to compare the two. She didn’t just try to do me in—she struck at my wife and unborn children.”
The old engineer looked conflicted. “Well, we can let that pass as it is; there’s no need to be counting coup on who has the worst of it in the family business,” said Spalding.
“Ah,” I said sitting up and swinging my legs over the side of the bed, with all these ups and downs I was starting to feel much more like myself, “what am I going to do? I’ve got to do something, though. I can’t just let a bunch of open machinists run free in this fleet, can I?”
“Hmm,” Spalding said rubbing his chin and looking like he was deep in thought.
But I couldn’t wait for him to finish his thought. “The problem is that our ships are filled to the brim with Tracto-ans, and not just Lancers,” I warned, “we’ve just picked up thousands of new recruits—and some of them are in the regular ships companies. I don’t see how we could isolate them…plus, did you know that she said that Larry One was the first AI-ist to take power on Capria?! My own mother…I mean,” I clarified, “that says we’ve been infiltrated from the start!”
“Eh,” he temporized, looking up at me and then nodding, “oh, aye, I’m not surprised that old Larry was in cahoots with the devils.”
“What,” I exploded with shock, “how can you say that?”
“Well, back in the days of the AI War it was pretty rough; I figure there was plenty of men what’s got to have one foot in either camp—and both hands on the ladder—if’n he wanted to make it through the day. How much more for a politician, no less a king?” he asked rhetorically.
“You mean…you looked at the history and saw it too?” I said. starting to feel like I was the only one who’d believed the history books. I knew the educators lied—printing whatever slant those in power told them to, and not teaching all those little inconvenient truths that didn’t serve their interests—but even so, this was simply beyond what I was used to contemplating.
“Though mostly, of course, it had more to do with a certain…let’s call it suspicious technology I was asked to install during the early days of the Clover,” the old Engineer said, still ruminating on the old days. “Me and the work crew put that in and, even though I wasn’t on the main team and only helped with the enclosure, it was pretty obvious that someone had been playing on both sides of the street.”
“I honestly don’t know if I want to know right now…” I said, wondering how much more proof that Capria’s leaders had known what was going on I could take in and assimilate right at the moment.
“Yep, there’s more things down in that Locker than a person could right imagine without never having been there. It’s enough to make a man’s toes curl if he thinks about it all at once it is,” Spalding said, with more than a hint of personal satisfaction—or possibly pride—in his voice.
“You know, in a way I should have picked up on it before now,” I said grimly. “I didn’t have a clue about my mother, and with my sister you’re the one that told me she was trouble, so at least I had a warning even if not the details. But with Akantha it was always ‘Men’ this and ‘World of Men’ that. Massively Multi-Parallel Entropic Network—M-E-N. It was right in front of me the entire time and I was blind!”
“Sure, if you were going to slavishly labor over the history books,” Spalding scoffed, “but just what do you think you are, a mind reader? There’s not been AI’s in this part of space—or any other I could name—in almost a thousand years. Why, in Murphy’s benighted tool shop, would you have been studying up on them? Pirates, Bugs—even Droids and Imperials, I could see—but AI’s?” he shook his head firmly. “That’s a row too far to hoe, lad. The whole world doesn’t rest on one man’s shoulders—and it certainly doesn’t rest on yours—so pull yourself together.”
“But it’s enough to make me sit back and wonder about things. I can’t help it. What if maybe—and I mean just maybe—the Empire was right to bombard the Royal Family in the Summer Palace back in the day fifty years ago,” I said, something I had been struggling to come to terms with in the last few minutes. “I always figured the Empire for a bunch of bloodthirsty SOB’s, but if they were in any small way acting on information that suggested there was a nest of AI supporters inside the Palace…” I trailed off.
“Don’t talk about things you know nothing about boy,” the old Engineer said sharply.
“But if the royals really were AI supporters…” I disagreed stubbornly.
“A lot of folks lost people they cared about, thanks to that bombardment, and not just in the actual attack but from the fallout from when Parliament took over,” Spalding said direly.
“If the threat is real, then—” I started.
“They went too far!” shouted Spalding. “Besides, don’t even think for a minute that the Imperials are all lily white in this business—not even for a bloomin second,” Spalding raged. “You think they wanted to get rid of a bunch of AI followers? Well just what do you think the Imperials are?”
“What?” I asked, thoroughly confused.
“Listen to a little wisdom from papa Spalding here,” the Chief Engineer said, leaning forward gravely, “the universe is a more complicated place than any o’ us can know.”
“What’s that got to do with the Imperials, specifically?” I asked, confused and wondering if this was just another of Spalding’s rambling diatribes or if there was a secret wisdom actually about to be imparted.
“Let me ask you a question,” Spalding said leaning in even closer and whispering.
“Okay…shoot,” I said, finding myself sucked in despite my otherwise good sense.
“Has anyone ever told you how to spell the Empire of ‘Man’,” Spalding asked intently.
“How to spell it?” I repeated, drawing back incredulously. “I’m afraid you’re starting to lose me.”
Leaning forward, as if he were chasing me, the old Engineer laid a finger alongside his nose and whispered, “You think swearing by ‘MEN’—a long-gone AI—is a trick then what would you say if someone named a whole bloody empire after one,” he asked hoarsely.
“What? That’s…that’s insane; no one would be crazy enough to do that,” I blurted, boggled by the sheer audacity of such a move but, all of a sudden, feeling doubtful about my out-of-hand rejection of the possibility.
“You know the Imperials used to be a subject race too, before they,” and here the old Engineer’s voice became derisive. “Threw off their shackles, they did, and said throwing happened right in time with the Elder Protocols hittin’ their region.”
“A lot of people were liberated during those days,” I said, mostly for the sake of making a rhetorical point. “What does that have to do with the spelling? I mean, you can’t seriously be telling me that the Empire—” I snickered at the very thought that the protectors of the human race were not just former, which was understandable, but current AI would-be subjects.
But before I could finish my thought, the old engineer grabbed me by the collar and dragged me in close. “M-A-N,” he whispered hoarsely, “The Empire of Man is spelled M-A-N.” I stared at him, bug-eyed, until he leaned forward and put his mouth next to my ear as he quietly said, “it stands for ‘Multi-Access Network’.”
I was dumbfounded. Had Spalding finally gone off the deep end, as I’d long feared he would, or was there actually something to this unthinkable insanity!?
“Oh, and I got your sword for you; found it back on the Clover,” he said, releasing his grip on my collar and standing from the bedside. “It’s in your room. I heard you’ve been having a little excitement and figured you could use it,” he explained.
I was so surprised—no, I was so stunned—that I forgot to ask how the Chief Engineer had broken into my locked stateroom—again.
Chapter Twenty-seven: Updates and new business
“You’re not serious,” I said numbly, as the hits just kept on coming, “come on; maybe you could pull the wool over the eyes of a few worlds on the wrong side of known space, but how could you deceive a giant organization like the Confederation?”
“Admiral, all I can tell you is it was the same AI network that had controlled the original Imperial space, and it’s the same AI that monkeyed around with their genetic code. M-A-N, the Multi-Access Network; it’s the straight download,” so saying, he sat back down in his chair. “So whenever you hear those bloody Imperials talk about the ‘Empire of Man,’ they aren’t talking about the people—at least, not those in the know. To the mucky mucks, it’s all about—and always has been—bringing back the one that made them.”
That entirely rational statement felt far too similar to the one I just heard in this very room from Akantha and Mom.
“I hope you’re wrong,” I said, not wanting to believe but having no choice. If the Empire bombed Capria because of an AI nest’s presence then it had to have more to do with some kind of rivalry—like two gangs fighting over territory, or whose side was bigger or better or what have you—and if that was the case then the Confederation had willingly signed up, and joined forces, with the very people it was designed to stop. It was a lot to take in.
“I’m not,” the old Engineer said disinterestedly.
“Even so,” I cleared my throat, “that still doesn’t help me decide what to do about my family.”
“Buck up and grow a pair, lad,” Spalding growled turning toward me, “you think this life is all about sunshine and lollipops? There’s a lot worse things out there than AI’s that can’t be put back together again, or them that want to chase down that rabbit hole. So what if you’ve got a family that’s not entirely right in the head—so what?!”
“What do you mean? They’re trying to bring back the AI’s!” I exclaimed. “What if they get close to actually succeeding?”
“Well, if they do then I’ll help you sort them out. And if they feel the need to kill a bunch of innocent people along the way then I’ll help you put them in the ground—I’ll even bring the shovel,” the old Engineer said firmly. “However, seein’ as of right now all you’re doing is running around in circles chasin’ your tail—I mean, lad, has any one of them shown the slightest desire to start massacring whole cities and planetary populations?”
“Of course not,” I snapped, coloring indignantly.
“Then I suggest you set a watch and keep your eye open. If you get the chance to deal with whoever set your sister on you, shut them down hard—them and their entire organization, too,” Spalding growled, “but we can’t go chasin’ our tails over what might happen. The Empire’s been out there for a long time and, even if you don’t believe that, so have those same people you were just worried about back on Capria. If 800 years hasn’t let them bring back the old AI’s then I think we can worry about more pressing matters like, oh, Droids and Sector Officials and whatnot. Don’t you agree…Sir?” he asked after a nearly insulting, rhetorical pause.
“And my sister, who just tried to kill me, maybe I should just let her go also?” I asked tightly.
“Eh, what?” Spalding looked confused for a moment. “Ah, the Sister,” he said, as if just recalling her and then shrugged, “do what you’ve got to do, then, and put her out the airlock—or, if you’re worried about the family, then just send her back wherever she came from. I’m sure they’ll not be pleased with her failing like she has. They might even take care of the matter for you while they’re at it, if they’re all the ruthless, would-be killers you’re worried about.”
I flushed, because the worst part of it all was that it was actually semi-decent advice. “Alright, Commander,” I said finally, “I’ll stop the pity party and get back to it.”
“Thank Murphy and all his evil monkeys,” Spalding said, throwing his hands in the air and standing from the chair. “If that’s all, I’ve got some real work to be at.”
“Dismissed then, Commander,” I said shortly. Giving off a wave that might pass for a salute—in a very flexible CO’s mind, anyway—the old Engineer cheerfully left the room.
After he left, I picked up my slate and sent out an order for a small ship to be readied. It was time to transport Tiberius and his band of happy hoodlums back to where they came from: Capria. I would decide if Ishtaraaa would be joining them or not after I’d had time to think about things. My thought as Chief Spalding left the room, however, was just to space her and be done with it.
Chapter Twenty-eight: A Routine Arrival
A ship emerged from jump space in a Star System so far out on the edge of Sector 25 space — which was actually just over the border and actually inside Sector 26.
Of course, since the Withdrawal of the Empire and the removal of the Rim Fleet, it was currently—by its own stated and entirely self-determined choice—the outermost inhabited world of Sector 25. As such, the system had been given Observer status in the Sector Assembly.
“Begin routine scans and send out the transmission,” ordered the well-rounded Captain of the newly arrived warship. “Let’s see what there is to see in this hovel of a star system,” the man smirked.
“New Tau Ceti operational control, this is the Promethean SDF Light Cruiser Agamemnon, Captain Ezekiel Stood commanding. We’re here to renew diplomatic ties between our two worlds, foster trust and unity, and offer our services as an escort for the next freight convoy scheduled to leave for Prometheus. The Captain is standing by for your Planetary Magistrate, over,” said Sub-Lieutenant Visalia in a pleasant, professional voice. She then turned to the Captain of the Agamemnon and said, “Message sent, Captain.”
“Visalia, you do these yokels too much honor,” the Captain chuckled, leaning back in his chair and contentedly patting his paunch as the rest of the bridge carried about the standard business of completing a hyper-jump. “To call an up-jumped moon in a fringe star system, without any significant resources—natural or manmade—is too much. Why, they don’t even rate a full representative in the Council.”
“Just doing my duty, sir,” Visalia replied crisply.
“Yes, I suppose,” the Captain said allowing his eyes to rest on the statuesque figure of his com-tech a moment too long before looking away. Leaning forward and stretching, he scratched under his armpits before cracking a yawn, “Well, a captain’s work is never done. If you need me, I’ll be taking a nap in my office. You’re free to interrupt me anytime,” he chuckled, turning toward the exit off the bridge.
He was halfway there when the Sensors section began chattering about increased system traffic, and he was almost out the door when an officer stood abruptly.
“Point Emergence,” called Senior Lieutenant Nicolai, the overly excitable nephew of an important Admiral in the Promethean Supply and Quartermasters Department.
Stood turned around with a scowl.
“I have multiple contacts point-transferring into extreme close range,” shouted one of the Sensor Operators beside the Senior Lieutenant, usurping his superior’s privilege. “I say again: I have four—repeat, four—warships of unknown class within range of our point defense systems.”
“Master-at-arms, throw that operator in the brig for speaking out of turn; I will not have a common space hand ignoring protocol on my bridge!” shouted Stood, running back to his command chair so fast his extra weight jiggled up and down in a rhythmic fashion. “Visalia, open a channel—and someone get me confirmation of the intent of those warships.”
“Opening channel now, Captain,” said the Sub-Lieutenant.
“This is Captain Stood of the Promethean Warship Agamemnon; maintain your distance and back away from this warship, or so help me when our diplomats are through lodging a complaint with the Assembly, you’ll be extradited from your home world and find yourselves in the orbiting penal colony’s gas giant mines of Cyclopes Doom!”
“There’s no response, Captain,” Visalia said as soon as he was done speaking.
“Recommend we raise our shields and attack before the enemy clears their inertial sumps,” suggested the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“Are you insane, or do you simply want to lose your rank and be broken from the service for gross incompetence?” Stood said tensely. “These are not enemies; they’re jackals out joyriding in their ships at their home world’s expense.”
The Tactical Officer jerked back, wide-eyed as if he had been struck by a fist.
“Well, what do they have to say for themselves?” Stood turned to the Sub-Lieutenant at Comm. with irritation.
“Still no reply, Captain,” replied Visalia.
“Give it a minute. Even these hicks out here in the boondocks know better than to mess with the might of a world like Prometheus,” Stood said confidently, glaring balefully at the screen. Heads were going to roll over an insult of this magnitude. This weighed directly on the might and majesty of Prometheus—he wasn’t going to let this go…even if he had to exercise ‘extra-legal’ measures to ensure these cowboys were properly punished for their offence against the pride and dignity of—
“Enemy—” Tactical paused and then quickly restarted, “unidentified warships raising shields, powering weapons, and locking on with targeting sensors!”
Stood’s eyes bulged. “Raise shields! Raise shields! Do you want to get us killed, you incompetent fool?!” he shouted at the Tactical Officer as the realization of their imminent danger dawned.
“Raising shie-” the Tactical officer began, but the ship rocked around them, cutting short the other officer’s acknowledgment.
“What have you done to my ship!?” cried Captain Stood, silently vowing to take every dent—every scratch—on the hull of his ship out of the Tactical Officer’s hide once this debacle was over and done with. “Return fire and destroy those pirates at once!”
“Shields holding; minimal damage reported to the starboard and dorsal facings. One medium laser is yellow-lighted and temporarily out of action. Returning fire now!” Tactical Officer Trevai said, alarm breaking through his usually stoic features.
“Shields are buckling,” reported the Shield Operator in an overly loud voice, “starboard facing is down to half strength.
“Enemy warships moving into position, two on either side of the ship and preparing to bracket the ship,” Lieutenant Nicolai at Sensors said sharply. “Ships are confirmed as Destroyers.”
Stood stared at the tactical screen on his armchair and, seeing two of the enemy ships starting to pour fire on the area of his ship covered by the shields, he panicked.
“Helm, take us to full power and get us the blazes out of here!” he ordered. “Take us to jump at the first opportunity and don’t wait for the orders—hang protocol!” he cried.
“Sir, that will expose our stern to all four destroyers,” protested Officer Trevai the ship’s Tactical Officer.
“You are relieved, Mr. Trevai,” Captain Stood said angrily. “Master-at-Arms, take the ship’s Tactical Officer down to the brig and clap him irons! The charge is cowardice in the face of the enemy. Blood will tell out, it seems.”
“Sir, I must protest,” Trevai said, jumping out of his chair, “you can’t remove your Tactical Officer in the middle of a battle.”
“Helm,” Stood shouted and then calmly pulled out a blaster secreted in the arm of his command chair and shot Trevai in the chest, “the Tactical Officer stands relieved.” He said flatly and then turned to the assistant tactical officer—a woman selected for the post due to her high personality score.
“Argh!” gurgled Officer Trevai, falling to the floor with a thump.
“I-I-I have Tactical control,” stammered the red-headed bombshell who, up to this point, had been number four in the Tactical department’s chain of seniority—right behind Trevai and the other two shift supervisors.
“Excellent,” said Stood, “just as soon as we leave this star system and return home, we’ll lodge a formal injunction and—”
The ship, engaging its high speed acceleration and rapid turn, suddenly lurched as a torrent of enemy fire broke through their rear shields. The damage readouts for the main engine began to flash dangerously.
The Assistant Tactical officer stared at her screen in horror. “The engines have taken damage!” she exclaimed.
“Do I have to do everything myself?” Stood screamed, pushing his way over to the Tactical section and pushing the assistant tactical officer to the side. “Reroute all emergency power and reinforce the rear shield facing,” he yelled directly into the ear of the shield operator.
Another torrent of fire lashed out, turning weakened shields into virtually non-existent ones, punching through and rocking the ship for a second time.
“Shields down to 18% and fluctuating,” yelped the Shield Operator, his hands flashing over his console.
“Let me—” Stood started.
“Main engine is down,” reported Damage Control in a rising voice.
“We won’t have enough power to pull away with only the backup engine,” reported the Helm.
“What are you trying to say?” Stood spluttered, turning to the rest of the bridge.
There was a loud chime from the Communication Section, and Sub-Lieutenant Visalia turned to him.
“By all that is considered holy,” Stood barked irritably, “what now?”
“Two more ships, one of them cruiser sized have jumped into the area,” reported the ship’s new redheaded First Shift Tactical Officer.
“I’m also reading a number of major warships in orbit around the System’s single inhabited moon,” reported Nikolai at sensors.
“Order engineering to make emergency repairs to the engines,” Stood said to the Damage Control Officer, his breath heaving in and out. Sub-Lieutenant Visalia cleared her throat. “What is it, Sub-Lieutenant?” Stood’s voice cracked like a whip.
The Sub-Lieutenant swallowed. “Captain…the unidentified warships are demanding our immediate surrender,” said the Sub-Lieutenant, “if we fail to comply, they say they’ll destroy our ship.”
Stood staggered, feeling as if he’d been literally stabbed in the chest, and taking a few steps fell into his command chair.
“Put them on,” he ordered shortly after his enormous girth had filled every nook and cranny of the chair.
“You’re on, Captain,” the Sub-Lieutenant said a few seconds later.
The Captain took a deep, steadying breath and then looked up glaring at the screen.
“This is Captain Ezekiel Stood, of the Promethean Light Cruiser Agamemnon. Declare yourself and your intentions,” he said, steeling his voice, “you have attacked a vessel belonging to the Sovereign Provincial Planet of—”
The image of an officer in an Imperial-style uniform—one with new rank and star nation insignia—cut him off.
“Yes, yes; you belong to a mighty anthill in these parts, Captain Stood,” said the officer, his hawk-like eyes seeming to cut right through Stood and peer inside him. From the expression on his attacker’s face, the other man found Stood wanting, “You caught me just before I embarked on an extended patrol. Sadly, I do not have time to indulge you in your bluster today, Captain. So I’ll make this simple: in the name of the Reclamation Fleet, I hereby order you to heave to, strike your shields, scram your fusion generators and prepare to be boarded. If you comply with all of our requirements, and do not resist, you will have the signal honor of being the first prisoners taken by our fleet in Sector 25. Although, I doubt the accommodations can compare to those of…what was it…Cyclops Doom?” his lips twisted contemptuously. “Nevertheless, we will still endeavor to do our best to accommodate you in the same fashion you had intended for us.”
Stood gaped, his mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. “Mister, I must protest!” he finally gathered himself enough to protest.
“The rank is ‘Commodore,’ and you can call me Commodore Serge. I will not issue my orders a second time, Captain,” the Commodore’s eyes turned into flinty chips of space ice. “You now have thirty seconds to comply before I blow your miserable little light cruiser into its constituent atoms.”
“Surge?” Stood asked surprised at the other man’s name—an unfamiliar one, considering the pronunciation of the first vowel followed by the ‘soft g.’
“Serge,” the Commodore growled, repeating the unusual combination of syllables, “and I assure you neither insults or groveling will sway my offer or my decisions—twenty-five seconds!”
“Commodore, this is a clear violation of the Galactic Accords!” Stood protested. “Under Statute 29 of the Conflict Statues, I demand the right to a lawfully empaneled—”
“Fifteen seconds, Mr. Stood,” Commodore Serge said coldly, turning to face someone off screen, “issue new orders to the squadron: target enemy cruiser’s bridge and fusion generators and prepare to fire.”
Seeing that the other man refused to be swayed by reason or law, Stood’s eyes bulged. “Turn it off! Turn it off,” he shouted to his bridge crew. “Shut down everything and prepare to pipe in and receive a boarding party. Turn out the color guard!” Then he turned desperately to the Reclamation Fleet officer, “We surrender. By all the gods, don’t fire! As you love life, hold your fire—we’re unilaterally disarming!”
Serge cocked his head to the side and peered at Stood for a long moment. Then a slow smile—almost a disapproving smirk—flitted across his face before disappearing.
“A wise choice, Mr. Stood,” the Commodore said, his face relaxing fractionally, “because of your quick thinking and wise actions today, I even believe it might be possible that we’ll be able to add your Agamemnon into our ever-enlarging fleet.”
Stood winced at the barb the ultimate shame of a captain, turning over a still functioning and repairable warship to the enemy but forced himself to keep his eyes on the screen and refrained from commenting, knowing he would be taking his life into his own hands if he so much as opened his mouth.
The Commodore appeared almost disappointed when Stood proved too wise to hang himself with a rope of his own making.
“The ultimate disposition of your former command will be in the hands of the System Commander,” said the Commodore, “as I said, I have a schedule to keep. So please, by all means,” his eyes bored into Stood’s, “do not resist and make things even more unpleasant than they have to be.”
Despite his words, the Commodore almost seemed eager for Stood to violate the surrender agreement. But, even though it stung his pride, the wily Captain of the Agamemnon was too wise to give the other man a reason to kill him.
After all, where there was life there was hope. How did things like honor, or even governmental accountability for a warship, matter in the face of such overwhelming force?
Chapter Twenty-nine: Receiving Reports and issuing orders
“What’s the next item on our plate?” I asked.
“Here, Sir,” Steiner said sending over a file for me.
I scanned it briefly and, seeing that it was another document from the would-be Alliance of Border Worlds, I glanced at it halfheartedly. I didn’t want to spend a half hour wading through yet another useless file. That’s what assistants and secretaries—or, rather, staff officers—were for in this Admiral’s Fleet.
“Anything special about this one?” I asked glumly.
Steiner smirked, no doubt reading my thoughts exactly. “I believe this particular one is to inform you that the first Alliance of Border Worlds Summit was just held, and the delegates have agreed to empower themselves to form the Alliance, as well as to begin sending the first supplies, manpower and ships—mostly freighters,” she snorted, “to Tracto, for the Alliance Fleet of course.”
“So you mean they’ve retroactively authorized what their home worlds and fleets have already been doing…or most of them have, anyway?” I asked wryly.
“That’s about the shape of it, Admiral,” she grinned.
I laughed, unable to help myself. The bureaucratic mind was hard to fathom, but that made some of its actions particularly amusing.
“At least it settles one issue, Sir,” Steiner said seriously.
“If you think that any issue is ever completely settled then you don’t understand the political animal,” I replied absently as I started to scan the document.
“I guess that’s why I just work Comm.,” she said with an impish smile.
“Right,” I drawled before sinking back in to the proposed founding document of the Border Alliance. The Lieutenant was thankfully silent as I finished the first read through.
“Well…most of what we wanted,” I said, tossing the slate back down on the table, “and enough of what we didn’t that they’re probably not actively trying to hurt us. We can probably live with it,” I finally decided with a sigh.
“Are you ready to counter-sign it, then?” she inquired.
I shook my head, “Toss it over to legal and have them run through it. Then we’ll see if I even have to sign it at all.”
Steiner looked surprised.
“Oh, at the very least I’ll be signing it as a witness. But maybe it’s better if Akantha signs on for Tracto and I just send whatever’s needed under the auspices of the Tracto-an SDF,” I explained, uncertain if an Admiral of the Confederation signing onto a sub-sector level document with specific commitments was going to wash.
“But there is no Tracto-an SDF,” Steiner replied, “or it’s just a lot of corvettes and cutters.”
“So we’ll just detach more assets to bulk up the numbers,” I said dismissively.
“Can you do that?” she said and then seemed to realize what she was asking—and who she was asking it. “Legally I mean,” she said, looking like she’d just had her hand caught in a mouse trap.
“Tracto-an Lancers, seconded to the Confederation Fleet, captured most of the ships in the fleet,” I replied without rancor. “Since the organization is ‘at will,’ I think an argument could be made for ships captured to be remanded back to the provincial forces which actually captured them.” Although I was spinning it that way, I knew it was mostly just a convenient fiction. I’d captured those ships—or, rather, this Fleet had done so—and we’d spent our blood and tears and no one was going to take what was mine…or, rather, ours—not without a fight.
“But the Lucky Clover was a Caprian ship; couldn’t the argument be made that it was a joint effort?” she asked, and then held her breath.
I pursed my lips and moved my head from side to side. “Eh, the Clover was built by a Montagne King and originally commanded by a Montagne Captain. I think we’re entitled to something of our original inheritance. The way I see it, so long as they don’t try to take my ships away from me, I won’t lay claim to their throne,” I said evenly. “After all, while there might be claimants with a closer line of succession to the line of Larry than myself,” a possibility I now knew was not at all likely, based on what my mom had just unloaded on me, “I don’t believe James is one of them.”
Steiner gulped. Her reaction wasn’t really that surprising, considering that saying those words in front of the wrong person could reignite a civil war back on our home world—or, at least, our previous home world of Capria. More and more I was just finding myself filled with disinterest when it came to the former center of my universe.
Leave me alone and I’ll be more than happy to return the favor, I silently told that part of the universe harboring my royal family. It wasn’t that I expected the universe to actually listen, but it was the thought that counts. Or so I told myself.
While I was at it, I cut orders for the brig to be emptied. Tiberius and his mutineers were, in my official decision, desperately needed on Capria; let them bedevil the home world with their antics. After a moment’s hesitation, I decided to send Ishtaraaa along with them. Letting my loving sister leave here alive was probably a mistake, but it was now officially over and done. At least I could console myself with the thought that she might be killed by her mysterious backers for failure.
That said, I decided with an evil smile, one good turn deserved another and I really couldn’t risk her sneaking back into my quarters one night. So in addition to preparing a time-delayed ‘kill on sight’ order, just in case she snuck back in, I contacted Doctor Presbyter via com-link.
“What can I do you for, Admiral Montagne?” the good Doctor asked with that certain reserve I’d come to expect from his generation of Capria. Bias against the Montagne side of the Royal House would likely linger for as long as men like him were alive. That said, he was a fairly decent sort—if a little too inclined against chemical interrogation for my taste. Which made what I was about to do a little problematic.
“I have a little problem, Doctor,” I said, baring my teeth.
“Go on,” he replied stoically.
“Someone tried to assassinate me—and my wife—in my bed the other night. For various reasons I can’t go into right now, I’d rather not throw them out the airlock but I can’t have them coming back to try again in some sort of twisted ‘catch and release’ setup,” I said, giving him a hard look.
“I’m not sure what I can do,” he said eventually, looking concerned.
“To ensure our safety, I’d like a treatable neurotoxin—one that takes a few years of therapy and regular visits to a regeneration tank to fix,” I said grimly.
“You know my thoughts on this sort of thing, Admiral,” he said, stiffening, “we’ve spoken about similar scenarios before. My oath is to do no harm.”
“Yes, and you’ve always been willing to go just that little bit further,” I gestured with a thumb and forefinger spaced so close as to nearly touch each other, “for other people who require your expertise than you have for me and mainly when your services are needed to be used against me. However, I don’t think you quite understand what I’m telling you here: the assassin will receive a neurotoxin. Akantha has a poisoner lined up back on her home world just for the occasion,” I lied, as I hadn’t spoken with her at all about the matter and hoped not to until it was all over and done with. “So she will be receiving a neurotoxin; the only question is if I will be administering a Tracto-an home remedy—one that might do Murphy knows what to her body—or one guaranteed to be recoverable from since it was synthesized in your facility?”
Presbyter drummed his finger rapidly along the edge of the desk he was sitting at. “I’m sorry,” he said, cutting the transmission. His principles were obviously unbendable when I was the one making the impassioned plea.
Shaking my head, I now had to decide if I was going to go through with the airlock or not—and if not was it worth turning to Akantha for.
Chapter Thirty: Imperials of Tau Ceti
“Excellent work on bagging that provincial Cruiser, Commodore,” Captain Goddard said wistfully. “I almost wish I was going along with you. If not for direct orders from the Admiral, I would be; I almost feel like a fifth wheel out here.”
“I’m sure we would have found a way to use you,” Commodore Serge laughed, “still, it’s not like you’re entirely useless out here. Your mere presence means we won’t be losing the base in this system to anything the provincials can muster up. I’m sure Admiral Wessex is appreciative of the signal honor and concern shown by your presence here, instead of the half dozen other places elsewhere you could be.”
“Sitting dark next to a gas giant isn’t exactly what I had in mind when the Admiral offered me the chance to take the ship out to the border,” Goddard said ruefully. “Still, protecting the base isn’t the worst thing this ship could be doing. Color guards and tours for the politico’s come to mind in that particular regard.”
“It is better to be out on the hunt than doing orbital guard duty,” Serge laughed, “no doubt about that. But that’s why I refused to let them pry me away from my Destroyer. As long as I stay here, the worst they can do is give me command of more ships—and a squadron of Destroyers is almost as free to move about as a single one.”
“I never should have agreed to trade up,” Goddard sighed and then shook his head, “but what am I saying? Capital ships are in my blood. I wouldn’t have been content with something smaller when I had the chance to captain the biggest, baddest ship class in the known galaxy—an actual Imperial Command Carrier. I’d always be looking back, instead of forward,” he finished regretfully.
“I prefer speed and maneuverability over a bigger, heavier, sitting target any day,” the Commodore shook his head.
“Oh well, enough reminiscing. I’m probably keeping you from your duties,” Goddard said regretfully, “still, keep the Invictus Rising in mind when you’re out there. We can’t do much right now, as our orders are to stay on post unless requested by a Theater Commander to deal with significant threats.”
“Oh?” Serge’s eyes sharpened. “I assume ‘significant’ means battleships or higher?”
“So long as we can maintain operational security and not reveal the Command Carrier’s presence before the start of Operation Pacification begins,” Goddard nodded with a hint of a smile as he added the last caveat.
“You’ll be in our thoughts and prayers as we tear through this Sector, Captain. After seeing just how pitiful one of its Cruisers was, I’ve more than half a mind to turn my sights toward Prometheus. It’s a Core World, true, but if this ship and its Captain represent what we can expect then I’m not too concerned, worse case we pull back. It is the closest Core World to our base here, and if we can cause it to pull its assets in then the chances of an early exposure go down significantly. Worth taking a look, at least,” Serge laughed with the sort of élan expected from Destroyer skippers before cutting the connection.
Goddard shook his head but, now that the seed had been planted, all he could do was sit back and wait to see if anything sprouted. Worst case, he was stuck on base-defense duty until the Grand Fleet was assembled.
Which wasn’t the end of the world.
Chapter Thirty-one: A Knock
There was a chime at the door. “Enter,” I said, staring at the metal case the woodworking department had just sent up at my request. It had been sitting in the corner of my quarters for over an hour and I still hadn’t touched the thing. I’d sworn off the things ever since my last girlfriend on Capria dumped me.
“Is this a bad time?” Mom, Elaine, asked after stepping into the room.
“It’s as good a time as any,” I said, turning back to look at her with determination.
“You’ve grown up,” she said, stopping to take an appraising look at me.
“And you’ve changed,” I replied flatly.
“I’m the same person I always have been,” she said, shaking her head in negation, “you just didn’t know everything about me. To be honest, you still don’t know everything.”
“Then why don’t you correct that and tell me just what in the world is going on, Mom?” I said, sitting forward in the bed.
“My mission was to have you, carry you to term, and raise you on Capria as a part of its society,” she said.
“Your mission,” I blurted and drew back, “I was a mission to you?”
“Don’t take it that way; I didn’t mean in any way that I didn’t want you, Jason,” she said, a gentle smile lighting up her face. “This wasn’t a hardship…a duty. I wanted you and, out of the thousands of applicants, I was the lucky one to be selected. I believe just for that very reason—the fact that I did want you for you and not just for some mission to raise the next Montagne heir to the throne. Although I can’t honestly say that nothing else came into my mind at the time.”
“I was to be the heir to the throne,” I repeated, unable to stop my surprise from showing.
“Things certainly didn’t work out that way, but in the beginning that’s what you were intended for. Though perhaps ‘intended’ is too strong a term…’hoped for,’ perhaps, is more fitting. After it became clear that wasn’t going to happen, I was genuinely relieved. I hoped for you to be able to know something other than the confines of a palace,” she continued.
I nodded slowly, and then with an expressionless mask I forced myself to ask the most important question of them all. “How can you want to restore the AI’s to a position of power over the human race?” I asked, struggling to maintain a dispassionate tone, “don’t you realize just how many trillions of lives were lost and the countless suffering they caused?”’
She looked at me sadly. “Let me ask you a question,” she said quietly, “you have brought a group of droids to Tracto. Do you believe that all machine intelligences are inherently evil?”
My face hardened. “Droids are generally considered within a point or two of humans on the sentient scale, with the top end units no more than two or three grades higher than the standard rating,” I replied tightly, “so while I admit that it’s a great risk I’m taking with the Sentient Assembly, at least they operate close enough to levels that humans can comprehend where their interests and ours diverge. However, with the AI’s, they were not just a few points above us; they exceeded human capacity by several orders of magnitude. I don’t believe such an entity can be reasoned with any more than I believe that an ant could seriously reason with me.”
“The organization I am part of doesn’t believe that all people—whether human, droid or AI—are created equal. As with all living things—and, yes, I include synthetic intelligences among these—there will always be individual differences,” she replied.
“That’s a nice, egalitarian sentiment,” I scoffed politely, “but the trillions lost and centuries of suffering would argue against allowing it to shape policy.”
Her lips made a small thin line. “Look at your history and tell me just how many human ‘resistance’ groups escaped from, or operated on, the border of those AI networks that had no use for humanity,” she returned sternly. “I can save you the trouble and tell you that it was precious few, but you’re free to verify independently. In point of fact, the vast majority of ‘free humans,’ splinter groups, and pioneers who escaped or were allowed to leave areas controlled by those few AI’s that considered humanity to be of value, and accordingly extended their protection over the human race.”
“Extended universal slavery and the cost benefit ratio, you mean,” I retorted, turning red in the face, “some protection! People are not interchangeable machines.”
“Life was not always as bad as what is generally recorded in the history books. While there were many minor exodus attempts, and massive die-offs on any number of planets after the Elder Protocols shut them down, there were also many worlds that simply went along with business as usual after their ‘slave-driving’ AI’s were suppressed by the Protocols,” Elaine pointed out.
“You are actually defending them—as if AI’s were a good or necessary part of our history,” I cried, unable to believe my ears. “Next you’ll be trying to tell me there’s nothing wrong with bringing back just a few of the ‘good’ AI’s, and that your organization—which by the way just tried to kill me—is on the side of the angels.”
“Although I think you’re being a little close-minded, I can certainly understand why. I’m not going to try persuading you of anything, Jason. You are, as much as anything, a product of your environment and you turned out just like I’d hoped,” Mom said with a faint smile that drooped around the edges. “All I can say is that you’ve grown into a fine young man and I’m very proud of you.”
I clenched my fist. “What’s the name of your organization?” I demanded.
“I’m not going to tell you that,” Elaine replied firmly.
“You don’t think I deserve to at least know who’s coming after me?” I snapped.
Mom looked at me for a long moment and then frowned seeming to come to some kind of decision. “You’re married now; if you really want to know the answer, talk with your wife. She can tell you what you want to know almost as well as I can. Besides, you should really be turning to her more than your old mother anyway,” Mother finally said.
“Old,” I scoffed, my body tightening at this latest refusal, “you haven’t changed a bit in the two decades since I was born.”
“It’s been a bit more than twenty years, but I’ll accept the compliment of a handsome young man just the same,” she smiled.
“You really won’t tell me, even knowing that withholding the answer could let another assassin into my bedroom? You’d give them another chance to hurt Akantha and the kids,” I said with disbelief.
“I definitely don’t think there will be another attack,” Elaine said firmly.
“I doubt you knew about the last one, yet here we are,” I retorted.
“Akantha can tell you what you need to know, if she thinks you need to know it. I honestly think I can do more to help you by staying silent than by satisfying your curiosity,” she finally said, sounding firm but conflicted. I knew I wasn’t going to be getting any more out her than what I had; I’d heard that tone before.
For a moment, my vision constricted I shook my head. Even though I knew it was childish, I felt hurt. This was way beyond a cut to be covered with a quick-heal patch. It was even beyond a common abusive situation: this was assassins and attempted murder, with underpinnings of mutiny aboard a starship—and even hints of treason to the entire human race! Yet still, despite the stakes, there I was.
“Listen, Jason,” she said placing a hand over mine, and even when I went to withdraw from her grip she held on tightly, “I am only doing this—staying silent—because I believe I can protect you better this way. If I didn’t think that, I wouldn’t hesitate to tell you everything. I want you to know that, no matter what, I will always take your side. A mother isn’t worth much if she isn’t willing to defend her son.”
“Even against this cult you’re part of?” I replied coldly. “Doesn’t that fly in the face of your religious beliefs?”
A flash of hurt crossed her face and then disappeared. “To be blunt, and answer the question you asked, instead of the one you really meant: not everyone is as…fervently devoted in their belief as your wife is. But to what you are really asking: I personally place my family first, and certainly above secret organizations or abstract concepts like seeking to repair, restore, or rebuild an echo of a time now past.” Her eyes flashed fiercely as she met my gaze, and added, “Nothing is more important to me than my children.”
I could feel my face was still closed but I couldn’t help it. However, what I could do was nod fractionally, so I did. Mom was really placing me in a tight spot, and from the pained expression on her face, she knew it.
I could stand by my family, no matter what, and risk the-space-gods-only-knew-what happening when the long-term plans of this secret AI supporting organization came to fruition…or I could do what was, by any objective measure, the right thing: condemn my own family, my mother and sister, to the mob. Oh, it would all be cloaked in the trappings of the judicial system but it honestly wouldn’t matter if everything she’d said was the truth and there really were ‘good’ AI’s out there.
No one would believe them—I certainly didn’t—and the only proper reward for betraying humanity was a traitor’s death. Even if by some miracle they were pardoned and did survive, they’d never be safe. Common, everyday people would mob them on the street—not to mention the actions more covert organizations would take. Those would be immeasurably worse—I knew from firsthand experience how those types dealt with what they perceived to be the enemy.
Then, during my long period of silent contemplation, Mom interrupted.
“But I didn’t come here to argue with you about droids and AI’s,” she said, taking a deep breath.
“Then what did you come for?” I asked, with the premonition that I wasn’t going to appreciate whatever it was she had to say.
“Crystal,” she said, saying that single word and then falling silent, her gaze direct and unwavering.
“Family,” I nodded fractionally. Whether she was telling the truth and family was everything, or she really was a closet machine fanatic and just telling me what she wanted me to hear, was difficult to judge. I drew a deep breath; either way, of course, she had to try and do her best for the only child that had been in on everything from the start.
Her clone, I thought viciously. Even though I was glad I hadn’t been raised as part of an AI-supporting, secret organization, the fact that Ishtaraaa had been genuinely stung. It wasn’t logical but there it was; the clone had been good enough to know everything but the ‘Chosen One’ hadn’t.
She sat there, waiting patiently while I absorbed the information I’d received during this particular conversation.
“But it’s not really ‘Crystal,’ is it? My sister’s real name is Ishtaraaa—if you can even call the clone my sister,” I said angrily.
“I can understand why you’re angry with her—and with me—but don’t make me reach across that table and put you over my knee,” Elaine said, showing the first real signs of genuine anger in this entire scene as her fists clenched until her knuckles turned white. “Even if I had adopted her and we shared no DNA whatsoever, she would have been just as much my child as you are.”
My face froze, because that’s exactly what I was: an adopted child with less than 5% the same genetic code as my ‘mother.’ In a way, Ishtaraaa had so much more in common with my mom than I would ever be capable of.
“I see,” I said coldly.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Elaine said, seemingly reading my mood. Then, with a helpless shake of her head, she seemed to push past it.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said with a chop of my hand to end this line of discussion, “it is what it is.”
“It does matter, but I can see that you’re not ready to talk about it right now,” she replied.
“You’re blasted well right I’m not ready to talk about how the woman that snuck into my room and tried to murder my wife and unborn children is really-really-REALLY my long-lost sister, deserving of my enduring respect for that particular relationship, in fair return for her unwavering hatred of myself and anyone—even defenseless children in the womb—who get in her way!” by the end of that diatribe, I was yelling near the top of my lungs and completely unrepentant about it.
“But poison her with a crippling neurotoxin, Jason,” Mom said staring at me, “have you really become so vicious and hardened? Against your own Family?” she asked, searching my features as she spoke. “That woman is not my family; she is an assassin—a cultist! A ruthless, hate-filled, vicious killer who not only wants to destroy all of humanity generally, but wants to kill me personally,” I yelled, unable to stand this defense of a woman who had offended against me in ways that few others had even attempted. I attempted to moderate my voice as I continued, “I’ve only known my sister for less than a year and, during that time, she’s only been plotting to kill me—something no one except my wife seemed ready to stop. This is the person you want me to treat like I treat you, as though she is my dearly beloved sister? I can’t believe you, Mom.”
After a few breaths I calmed down enough to realize that someone had been talking out of school. I’d spoken in a private room and on a secured com-channel only to Doctor Presbyter about a neurolytic agent for my murderous sister. In short: somewhere in my organization, I had a leak.
Mom seemed to stare down at the table for a while and then nodded. “I can understand why you feel the way you do. But she’s still my Daughter. As my daughter—even if not as your sister—can’t you put aside your justified hatred for just a moment and think things through before making a final decision? That’s all I’m asking,” she explained.
“No that’s not what you’re asking,” I snapped, “trying to murder an Admiral aboard his flagship—not to mention his wife and unborn children as collateral damage—is mutiny in cold space. There’s only one response to that, and the punishment is clear: being ejected out the airlock into cold space without a suit!”
“I know she’s hurt you deeply, not only with the attack itself but with what it implies,” Elaine said quietly. “You have every right to administer the maximum punishment, I don’t dispute that. But poison? That just seems too cruel for the boy I know and raised to be a part of my family.”
“Do you think any of this is what I wanted?” I asked, feeling the faintest prick of tears at the corner of my eyes as my nose began to burn as it does before those tears generally arrive, “not only does she want me dead, nearly succeeding in her first attempt, but she’s coming between you and me because you’re taking her side after she tried to kill me—and the worst thing about it is you letting her do it! Also I can’t believe you honestly didn’t know how she felt towards me…and you didn’t say anything to me.”
Mom shuddered and seemed to draw inside herself somewhat at that particular rebuke, but even while she braced her suddenly trembling hands against the table, she lifted her head back up and silently looked at me without withdrawing her plea for clemency or mercy or whatever it is she was really asking me here.
I stood up and began pacing. “You think that I’m being arbitrary and cruel, but I’ve thought long and hard about this before I even broached the subject in a private conversation with a medical professional,” I said, walking back and forth, “you think I want to kill her? My choices—the only ones I can see—are ones that don’t allow her to endanger my babies ever again.” I stopped and shot her a piercing look and my eyes turned hard, “That means either poison, penal colony, or death—and I can assure you that if she wasn’t your daughter, just like I’m your son, she’d already be a frozen corpse falling toward this system’s suns.”
“I see,” she said brushing away a single tear.
“You would call me cruel? I looked at the options I had available and picked the one I would have chosen—if such a choice had been given me and I was in her situation. If that’s cruel then so be it,” I said, slapping my hand on the table, “you’ve never been a prisoner before…or maybe you have,” I added bitterly, “I honestly don’t know. But during my time as a prisoner, first being tortured in the brig by Jean Luc and then being held by Sir Isaak on the dungeon ship, aptly named the Durance Vile—I learned something: where there’s life, there’s hope, and that being the case, I sure and certain wouldn’t want to rot on an undeveloped penal colony. At least the effects of the toxin I was trying to secure would have been treatable after a couple years and she could then carry on with a normal life—without the capacity for highly skilled repeats of certain assassination attempts.”
Mother sat there staring down at her hands, her hair falling forward into her face.
“Say something!” I cried.
“Send her to the penal colony,” she finally said, in such a low voice that I wasn’t sure if she had actually spoken or if it was just my imagination.
“What? What did you say?” I asked again with surprise.
“Send her to the penal colony,” Mother said faintly, but in a slightly louder voice than last time, “the Society has advanced medical facilities beyond even those of the Empire.”
“You can’t mean you actually want that for her…there’s a more than ten-to-one ratio of men to women on max-sec penal colonies—hardened killers and other, even worse sorts,” I said in rejection.
“You have to do it, Jason, because you’re right,” she sighed, leaning forward against the table, her shoulders drawing in tight. “You’ll never be safe with her as she is now, and if the little ones are acceptable casualties for her now then she’ll only grow more vicious with time. Any toxin that doesn’t kill her will be healed by the Center, and she’ll be emboldened to strike again when she’s fully recovered—and when you’re not expecting it.”
“Even after all this, why are you still protecting her?” I asked, the heart-wrenching cry of a child coming in second place for their parent’s affections coloring my voice instead of one belonging to a fully grown adult.
Elaine shook her head. “Maybe you’ll understand someday, when you’re a parent. But…if I could take her place in this, I would,” she looked up at me, “just the same as I would take yours if there was anything I could do to save you. I know she deserves to die for her crimes but, in my heart, I just can’t help but try to save her. Send her to the penal colony if you have to, but don’t use the toxin. It’s not something I ask only on her behalf, but also on yours, Jason…that’s not a path I want you starting down, regardless of such a plan’s efficacy. There’s a reason such methods are not prescribed—and, indeed, are openly outlawed by any legitimate governments.”
I felt so twisted up inside about what I should do that I literally wanted to throw up. Oh, not about Ishtaraaa; that was one evil witch of a woman who deserved whatever I decided to give her. But my mom? She wasn’t making my decision any easier. Above and beyond dealing with just this assassination attempt, what would I do about this nest of AI followers I’d discovered?
When it came to Tracto, and my mom’s organization—which meant Elaine and Akantha—on the surface, at least, my duty was clear. If I couldn’t deal with them myself, then I should tell the galaxy at large about them and just stand back to better watch the enemy battle-fleets appear. Tracto would be occupied or, more likely—considering their insane ground combat power—orbitally bombarded, and my wife and mother would stand trial for treason against the human race.
My power base would be crippled, of course, but this went way beyond me. Besides, I didn’t think that after turning on everyone I was close to like a rabid wolf, I could allow myself to stay in power. Turning on everyone around you, even family, was the path of Jean Luc—and I refused to be like him.
“I know you have a lot of things to think about; I’ll go and leave you in peace for a while,” Elaine said, standing up and heading toward the door.
After she left, the door swished shut and then a few seconds later it swished back open again before closing a second time.
Footsteps approached where I was sitting. I glanced up to see Duncan Tuttle, the closest thing I’d had to a father and a mentor growing up in the Palace, step over next to me.
Looking away, I stared at the metal case still lying on my bed.
Duncan placed a hand on my shoulder. “I don’t know everything that was said in here, but you should understand something: your mother loves you very much,” he said, giving my shoulder a paternal squeeze before letting go and stepping back, “remember that.”
Duncan stood there for several minutes and, seeing that I clearly didn’t want to talk, he nodded and walked out of the room.
My mind was a maelstrom as I continued to stare at the walls of the room. Once again, the universe turned out to be entirely different than what I’d expected. I darkly wondered what kind of naïve fool I was, that I couldn’t even see my own mother for who she was—let alone everything else out there.
I silently ticked off the list of world-altering things I’d come to know in just a short time, all thanks to my vitriolic, hate-filled sister.
Larry One had been an AI infiltrator who’d suborned my world, preparing Capria for absorption by an AI network, and when that hadn’t worked he had formed the Royal House as a front for an AI-sympathizers network. Parliament had been working behind the scenes for centuries, using every underhanded—and, yes, despicable—tactic they could lay their hands on in order to stop the AI supporters and free our government from its control, even going so far as to ally with another AI faction group in order to orbitally bombard the Summer Palace.
The Empire—far from being the Empire of Man (as in humans)—was instead the brazen supporter of the Multi-Access Network and its leaders, or at least some very powerful few members of it were secret supporters of the fallen AI network. Logically that meant that, just like my own mother’s organization, they were no doubt trying to pursue a similar agenda of bringing back their peculiar, fallen, data god.
The Confederation which should have known all of this, if a mere provincial prince and half-arsed Admiral like me could winkle it out. But it had, instead of opposing them, opened their arms and effectively turned control over humanity to the Empire of a fallen AI. This had ostensibly been done so that they could pursue an enhanced standard of living and put more of their budget into social welfare programs, rather than local defense budgets, for the betterment of their citizens.
Here I was, out on the border of known space with one life-or-death struggle after another, after another, after a-blasted-nother—with nothing to show for it but the dead bodies of those unfortunates who trusted me to keep them safe and alive—and I didn’t have the first clue what was really going on.
How deeply was Capria’s government infiltrated by these AI supporters? I didn’t know. How much of the Imperial Government was controlled by this type of insane fanatics? Again, I didn’t know. Was the Confederation infiltrated as well? And if not, then where was our blasted support when droids—droids!—were rampaging through two Sectors of human space?!
Why were we—why was I—the only one seemingly doing anything out in the Spine and trying to hold back the tide?
I didn’t know. I didn’t bloody well know one blasted thing!. I didn’t even know my own mother was a closet AI-supremacist. I knew nothing, and anyone who relied on a fool like me was an even greater fool themselves.
I even had to ask if the Spine—the seven Spineward Sectors—had been abandoned because of some long-range, incomprehensibly deep, AI-supremacist plot? Because, more and more, the idea that the Rim Fleet had withdrawn to fight the Gorgons on the other side of the galaxy seem farcical.
Two years ago, I’d been patting myself on the back for seeing through the Empire’s bigoted humans only propaganda but it seemed the joke was on me. What a great cover. Of course, we’re not AI supporters; we’re the most bigoted, humanist, anti-alien, anti-genetic uplifted, anti-everything-you-can-imagine. Well, that arm that had been perpetually patting its attached back had just been broken.
I’d officially reached my limit. My mother had picked my sister over me, and my sister wanted me dead. Both were AI supporters, and the official sentence for that particular persuasion was death. Parliament seemingly had every right to persecute not just the Royal Montagne House, but me personally, since I was the genetic reincarnation of an AI infiltrator model.
If I hadn’t been living in these very shoes myself, I wouldn’t have trusted another me as far as I could spit, much less have left me alive. Moreover, both Capria and the Empire of Man were, or had been in the past, directly controlled by AI supremacists—and the verdict was still out on the Confederation and local Sector governments.
It was too much. I couldn’t take it anymore. My willpower was crumbling faster than the speed of light, so I reached over and flipped open the clasps of the metal container sitting on my bed. I leaned forward and took a deep whiff of the faintly woody smell wafting out from the box.
“A pox on it all—and on the rest of known space, too,” I said, setting the auto-lock on my door to Fortress Mode and closing all my com-channels with my personal codes, which were the highest overrides in the fleet. They were going to have to break down my door with explosives to get in here, as I was now officially done with this world.
Reaching into the case, I pulled out the long-stemmed item secreted within. This was just like the last time the world had revealed I was nothing but a fool who couldn’t get anything right. Only this time, people died left and right with a wave of my hand. I was well and truly finished with all of it.
So, after adjusting the tension and grabbing the pick, I took a deep breath. My life had officially reached the point that it was very dubious if it was still worth living, which was why I took another deep breath of that woody, varnished smell and then ran the pick over the strings.
There was only one thing left to do:
It was time to play the guitar.
Strumming the instrument and clearing my throat, my unpracticed fingers fumbling the cords, I lifted up a warbly voice and started to sing.
Even if it took a month of Sundays, I wasn’t coming out of this room until the world felt better and if it never did that meant that if it never did I was just staying inside here.
“A long, long time ago, in a galaxy far away; there lived a young and stupid boy…” I began. I was never going to be a pop- star, but that reality was perfectly acceptable.
The rest of it…wasn’t.
Chapter Thirty-two: Surveying the Clover
A pair of suited figures, wearing heavy construction work-rigs, burned their control jets drifting around the barebones skeleton of the ship nestled inside the enormous zero-gee construction cradle.
“She looks good; definitely has potential,” said the old man on the left.
“Not much to look at just yet,” the less elderly—but still old, by most measures—woman with salt and pepper hair said with markedly lower level of enthusiasm. “I heard the Admiral locked himself in his room and hasn’t come out yet,” she said leadingly.
“I’m sure he’ll be fine in time,” the old man said dismissively.
“And if he isn’t?” pressed the woman. “What if he’s had some kind of mental breakdown?”
“All the more reason for us to be out here, if’n that’s so,” the old man replied stoutly.
“I don’t follow,” the woman said, clearly perplexed.
“As soon as she’s finished—or almost so, at any rate—just one look at the girl will be enough to cure whatever malaise of the mind ails him,” the old man said with conviction.
“That will take years,” the woman exclaimed, sounding a combination of angry, upset and out of patience, “and besides, not everything is all about the Lucky Clover, all the time, Spalding!”
“Baldwin, my love, your words hurt me,” said the old Engineer, sounding wounded.
“You’ll hurt a lot more with my boot up your backside,” she cursed, “I’m not your love, and this could be serious; enough playing around.”
“The Little Admiral’s tougher than you give him credit for,” the old Engineer said, grudgingly doing as she suggested and turning serious.
“Word’s going to start to spreading throughout the Fleet that something’s wrong,” Baldwin complained.
“I’m sure whatever he’s doing in there is important, and if it goes on for too long then…well, that’s what Murphy let us invent plasma torches for. We’ll just cut our way in and drag him out,” Spalding said firmly. “But until then the most important thing we’ve got is this baby right down here,” he finished, staring down at the skeleton of the new ship like a mother taking her first look at a newborn.
“Not for me,” Baldwin said in absolute rejection, “you keep making moon eyes at that big abortion of a ship all you want. Me, I’ve got actual battleships in repair docks that will see the other side of cold space again in months—not years, if I’ve got anything to do with it. Besides, I don’t care what you say or what cockamamie plans you’ve pulled out of the archives; you’ll never be able to power her for proper combat loads. She’ll blow up first—and that’s assuming you even get that far.”
“Blow up, will she?” huffed the old Engineer with genuine outrage, “Just you wait and see; the Clover lives! And she’ll be the Queen of the battlefield once again. Every piece, every fragment, right down to her backbone will be used. She’ll be the same ship, only better—just you wait and see!”
“I hate to break it to you, but not only is that a pipe dream; just dismantling a ship and re-using as many parts as you can in a brand new construction, of an entirely different design, is not an upgrade. It’s building an entirely new ship!” Baldwin retorted.
“Maybe for someone of little faith, and a brain the size of a pea,” Spalding barked, “but no matter how much you malign her, it’ll be the same ship with the same soul inside her. You just mark my words: she’ll fly and be the terror of the space-ways for as long as she lives.”
“Did you just call me a ‘pea-brain’?” Baldwin snapped.
“The soul of a Queen, she has, and don’t you forget it when you’re talking about her,” Spalding repeated angrily.
“You know what? It’s a good thing I’m not actually the love of your life, because it’d sure as Murphy mess up my machines if I dumped the tired old carcass of any man who cared more for his ship than me,” Baldwin said bluntly.
“Now, that’s not fair,” Spalding protested with heat, “my love for each of you is incomparable to the other. They’re two entirely different things, lass.”
“Yeah, right,” huffed the female engineer.
It was a tense and strained silence for the remainder of the survey.
****************************************************
Sitting at the table in the mess area Spalding, poked at the Jiggle-O on his plate trying desperately to remember something. It was just outside of his reach if he could only just recall.
Then, with a flash, it came to him: ballistics jelly that was the solution to the lander problem!
“Glenda, it just came to me!” the old Engineer shouted.
“Are we talking again?” the Yard Manager sniffed, looking away.
“The solution to the acceleration problem with the Lander: it’s ballistics jelly,” he said, triumphantly pointing at the yellowish Jiggl-O still warbling on his plate.
“What do you mean ‘lander problem’?” Glenda stared at him skeptically.
“I mean,” he began impatiently, “that to keep the excessive gravities generated by that kind of acceleration from killing the lander’s crew, the solution is improved grav-plates and ballistics jelly! I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before; I have to head down to the Intelligence half-deck and work on it right away,” he declared, bubbling up with excitement and starting to stand.
Baldwin’s hand snaked out and grabbed the old Engineer on the arm, arresting his movement before he could clear his legs from beneath the table.
“You mean the half-deck on the Phoenix, and the lander you built for the Battle for Elysium?” she asked with what seemed like genuine surprise.
“Yes, exactly,” he agreed with resolve, “I’ve got to get her ready for the battle; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before!”
“The battle?” she asked with what seemed like some sort of unfounded concern. “Why do you need to go over there now? We’re on Gambit, and the utility shuttle isn’t free to leave for another half-hour to finish your food. Besides, didn’t you tell me how you already installed that ballistics jelly in the lander and used it for another one of your hair-raising stunts?”
“What…” Spalding stopped, his head feeling like it had just been hit by a poleaxe. “Yes…of course, I, er…already used the lander and installed it.” For a long moment he looked lost, and then blushed, “Er, what I meant to say was that I needed to make sure her tanks were refilled, and the lander given a proper tune-up—in case we need it again,” he said, trying to cover up his gaff.
“Uh-huh,” she said, concern turning to worry before being quickly covered up, “you know what, maybe it’s time you and me headed on over to medical for a routine checkup? I was looking at your file and it says you haven’t seen a doctor since you left the medical facility when they saved your life and,” she waved a hand at his mechanical appendages, “borged you up—much less performed a routine physical.”
Spalding drew back with alarm. “I’ll put myself under the care of those butchers what took my arms and my legs, and left me with metal parts—squeaky parts, at that!—the next time the primary in this system goes supernova,” he refused forcefully. “I’ve just been working a few too many hours is all. A good night’s rest and I’ll be fit as a fiddle.”
“Are you sure? Because I really think…’ she said, clearly trying to convince him but Spalding was adamant.
No matter how much she poked and prodded, he planned to die before willingly going back into the care of that quack Presbyter and his team of second-rate butchers. Why, if some part of his new parts malfunctioned, he was better equipped than the lot of those medical morons in fixing it himself!
Eventually, they separated and went their own ways.
Chapter Thirty-three: Tiberius Revoked
Stepping out of the interrogation chamber Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding felt as if his bones were wobbling loose from their joints, and his head was stuffed with cotton.
He’d been pumped for 72 hours straight. First he had turned in his written report. Then he’d been verbally questioned. After that, the interrogation had begun and when they hadn’t liked his answers they’d pumped him full of chemical agents and questioned him to within an inch of his life.
However, other than being a Parliamentary Officer who believed in democracy first and always, in a newly Royal-ized SDF he hadn’t actually done anything wrong. Not that that would save him if they were really looking for a scape-goat, of course.
He only realized that a pair of marine guards was on either side of him after the corporal cleared his throat.
“Another interrogation?” Tiberius asked with despair. “Who is it that wants a piece of me this time, the inspector general of stores and consumables?”
“This way, Lieutenant,” the Marine Corporal said, pointedly failing to answer the question.
“I serve at the pleasure of the SDF,” Tiberius said faintly. He only hoped that this day that never ended would be over soon. Blast it, all he’d done was try to defend his ship and keep her out of the hands of Jason Montagne and that pirate-princess of his. He’d done nothing wrong!
He was ushered into the office of Admiral Pierre T. Anjou, Commander of the System Defense Fleet.
Because his head still felt stuffed full of interrogation drugs—even though they’d been officially cleared from his system—it took Tiberius a belated moment to remember to salute.
“Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding, Caprian SDF, reporting for duty, Admiral,” Tiberius said, dragging himself up into an attention posture through sheer force of will, “and can I say it’s good to be back.”
“Lieutenant,” acknowledged the Admiral, indicating a chair with a short wave of his hand.
Tiberius gratefully collapsed into it with an involuntary groan.
The Admiral frowned. “While I’m grateful for the intel you’ve provided our intelligence services, I am confused about one thing, Lieutenant,” Admiral Anjou said, “maybe you could help me clear that up.”
Giving himself a shake, the engineer did his best to straighten up.
“What is it, Sir?” he asked as cautiously as a man who felt like he belonged in a bed—or the grave, and he wasn’t feeling particularly choosy—could manage right at that moment.
“I’m curious as to just exactly why you took it upon yourself to return to Capria?” said the Admiral.
“Sir?” Tiberius asked with disbelief.
“Your current post is within the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, is it not?” the Admiral asked, his eyes hard.
“I was sent back to Capria by order of Jason Montagne,” Tiberius said, “for mutiny!” he added to clarify.
“Were your orders, hand written by the King himself, not clear enough for you, Officer?” the Admiral barked.
Tiberius’s eyes widened and he choked back his first instinctive response, which was that he took orders from the elected government of the people—not some king who had risen to power through an accident of birth, and use of the bloody knife to secure his succession.
“Sir…the King was under duress when he wrote those orders,” Tiberius choked out.
“Let me inform you of one thing that could be particularly important for your career—assuming you still have one after exiting this office,” Admiral Anjou said coldly, “and that is that, even more so than Prime Ministers, Kings rarely like to be reminded of their mistakes. And that’s exactly what you are right now: a reminder of a mistake, and not just any mistake, but a mistake made in a moment of powerlessness—within his own star system, no less. Is that what you want, Tiberius; to remind our Commander in Chief of a time when our Star System was attacked, our King taken hostage and one of the prides of this fleet, a Dreadnaught Class Battleship was taken by force?”
“N-no,” Tiberius stuttered, when every bone inside him wanted to say ‘yes, blast the King and long live Parliament.’
“So, I’ll ask again: what are you doing here, Lieutenant?” Anjou repeated harshly.
“Reporting for duty?” Tiberius hazarded when it became clear the Admiral wanted an answer.
“Not good enough, Lieutenant!” barked the Admiral. “Maybe if you’d come home with the battleship—the one you lost to the rebel, Admiral Jason Montagne—you’d have been welcomed back with open arms. But without a PR win of that size, no one here wants you—especially when you have hand-written orders instructing you to join the Confederation Fleet as part of our Caprian SDF contribution!”
“Th-they’re pirates—and rebels!” Tiberius cried impassionedly. “How can you ask me to serve under a Montagne? And how is it my fault we lost the Parliamentary Power; I’m just an engineer!”
“Are you the commander of the SDF?” Anjou barked.
“No,” Tiberius replied, since of course he was no such thing.
“You have humiliated this office, not just once but twice: first, when you were the senior officer onboard the Power and allowed her to be taken; second, when you returned in disgrace,” Anjou said coldly. “As I see it, you have one of two choices: the SDF will provide you with a hyper-capable transport and you can return to duty in the Confederation Fleet—until your term of service is up or you are sent home with an honorable discharge—or…” the Admiral trailed off, allowing the tense silence to linger far longer than Tiberius would have preferred.
“Or?” Tiberius asked hopefully.
“Or you can stand trial here and, afterwards, face the firing squad for your crimes against the people of Capria—and against its Royal House,” Anjou replied casually.
Tiberius staggered out of his chair. “I’m a loyal son of Capria; everything I’ve done has been for her! You can’t send me back, Admiral, have you forgotten I was sent back for mutiny?”
“If you ask my opinion, this world cannot afford a trial of your scope at this time. An officer of the Caprian SDF, involved in a failed mutiny attempt in the middle of a major battle to defend two Sectors from a Droid Invasion? Do you have any idea how that would play on the local and Cosmic News Networks?” Anjou snapped. “If you love your country, son, you’ll head back to Tracto and plead for forgiveness. If said forgiveness is less than forthcoming, beg on bended knee to be shoved out an airlock in Tracto—like you deserve—instead of Capria so your death won’t cause your fellow citizens undue duress. Our planet is like a powder keg right now, and you could very well be the spark that causes rioting in every city across the world.”
Tiberius stared at him in disbelief. He was too shocked—and horrified—by the picture painted before him to be able to say anything.
“I need your answer before you leave this office, and you’re leaving here in thirty seconds—even if I have to call in the marines,” the Admiral said evenly, “what will it be?”
His mouth tasting like ashes Tiberius stood up and glared. “I never thought I’d see the day we destroyed one of our own on the word of a Montagne,” he sneered.
“Live as long as I have and you’ll see many things you wish you hadn’t. But this? Sending a mutineer off to get his just due? It’s not even on the radar, son,” Admiral Anjou said flatly.
“Since I’m dead either way, you might as well send me back,” Tiberius glared, “I wouldn’t want to be the reason thousands died.”
“You made the right choice,” the Admiral grumped, and then he waved to dismiss him from the room, “the rest of your men will be going with you since they’re in a similar situation. This world cannot afford the humiliation you’ve brought upon it.”
Stepping outside the Admiral’s office, Tiberius swayed unable to believe what had just happened. His men weren’t mutineers—they were patriots!—and yet, after everything they’d done for Capria, they were still thrown to the wolves in an instant because of, unthinkably, the negative publicity.
It was a hard and telling blow.
An officer with the black gloves of intelligence bumped into him on his way past the Admiral’s Officer.
“Watch where you’re going, slive,” cursed the Intelligence Officer.
“What?” Tiberius asked with shock. Then felt a bulge in his pocket that hadn’t been there before.
“A problem, Sir?” the Marine escort asked giving the back of the retreating Intelligence Officer a hard look.
“No,” Tiberius said, realizing he needed to check out the bulge somewhere other than in front of the marine escort outside of the Admiral’s Office. “I think I need to use the facilities.” He said instead.
“This way, Sir,” the Marines said, escorting him to the restroom.
Once inside the room, he fumbled the old-style, paper hard copy out into the open and unfolded it.
Flabbergasted, he stared at official Parliamentary Orders—orders which clearly instructed him to return to the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. He was to insinuate himself into its chain of command and send back any pertinent intelligence update he could lay his hands on, and safely send them back home. There was more, but that was essentially it. Also, after reading the note, he was to destroy it.
Laughing bitterly, he tore up the orders and flushed them down the toilet one piece at a time. There went his one hope of avoiding a return to Tracto. It seemed that both the Royalists and Parliament wanted him out of and away from Capria as soon as possible. This day just kept getting better and better.
He was so dead.
Chapter Thirty-four: Pulling the Wool
Spalding was sleeping the sleep of them that had worked all their lives and deserved a decent rest in return, when the com-panel in his room alarmed.
“What is it?” he said groggily, for a moment thinking he was back on the Clover before seeing that he was in his room on Gambit Station. More and more, he tended to wake up confused and lost as to where he was, until he had sufficient time to assess the surroundings. It had caused his heart to race a time or three, like it was about to tear itself out of his chest—more proof, as he saw it, that those quacks had given him the cloned heart of a coward instead of his own, naturally-regrown tissue like they were supposed to. And it was just another reason to avoid those medical mal-practicers like the very plague they were, at least as far as he was concerned.
Fortunately, it hadn’t gotten so bad that he’d needed to get on the com and ask for help as to where he was and when his duty shift began.
“Commander Spalding, there’s been a problem,” said the green-behind-his-ears-sounding rating behind the wall.
“Well what is it, lad? Spit it out and be done with it,” he barked, images of core meltdowns and environmental emergencies running through his head as he rolled out of bed with a groan and unconsciously strapped on his tool belt.
“It’s the Yard Manager, Sir. There’s been an accident and she’s being taken to the Medical Center as we speak,” the lad’s voice wavered.
“Glenda…she’s hurt?!” he blurted, charging out the door only to realize that he was still in his under pants. Hurrying back inside, he took off his belt, threw on some clothes, and then quickly strapped the belt back on.
“Yes sir,” said the greenie on the coms.
“What happened?” he demanded, once again headed for the door.
“I don’t know all the details, but they said something about a problem with a load-lifter,” the rating replied, sounding less than certain.
“Blast it, lad,” the old engineer shouted as he ran through the hall towards the medical complex, “you’ve got to learn to give better reports than that!”
But whatever the boy might have said was lost to him as he continued down the hall at full speed. Hurrying through the station, the old engineer arrived in the infirmary out of breath—and looking more than a little disheveled.
Seeing Glenda sitting on a gurney inside—in a room with clear glass door and walls, no less—his level of anxiety increased.
“Are you alright, lass?” he demanded pushing his way forward.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” protested an orderly who was attempting to impede his progress.
“Out of my way, boy, before I do to you something that’ll see you stuck in this here wretched hellhole for the next two weeks!” Spalding growled, pushing the lad aside.
“Commander, the Yard Manager is in a reverse isolation room! You can’t go in unless you’ve been through the decontamination process,” the Orderly explained pointing to a modified airlock set up.
“Decontamination? What kind of chemicals are we talking about?” Spalding demanded, not quite able to believe that Glenda had run into some kind of biological agent.
“It’s okay, Ventry; you can go,” said a Doctor arriving on the scene taking charge and shooing away the orderly he turned to Spalding. “If you could just step in here, we’ll get you in to see the Yard Manager as soon as possible”
“If it has to be,” the old Engineer said reluctantly but, too familiar with the need for strict safety protocols, he wasn’t able to kick up as much of a fuss as he would like. However, halfway into the airlock he stopped and wagged a finger at the doctor, “If anything happens to Glenda…I mean, to Yard Manager Baldwin, it will go very seriously for you, Doctor.”
“Everything will be fine with the Yard Manager,” soothed the Doctor in an overtly patronizing tone—the type he’d heard quacks of all stripes use when dealing with the muddleheaded.
“What am I, a dog or small child?” Spalding barked. “Talk to me like a man, blast you; I’ll have none of your nonsense right now.”
“Of course, Commander,” the Doctor agreed, ushering him into the isolation airlock. As soon as Spalding stepped inside, the medical officer picked up a hand scanner and started running it up and down Spalding’s body.
From his feet up to his head, the other officer scanned before finally stopping at the old Engineer’s head and pausing.
“What kind of hocus pocus operation are you running ‘round here?” the old Engineer said sourly. “Just finish your scans so I can go through the decontamination wash and have done with it,” he irritably pushed away the scanner—a scanner that was circling his head like a moon in orbit or, more appropriately, like a blighted vulture looking for a tasty morsel to snack on.
“Hold still,” the Doctor said acerbically, “this will just take a couple more minutes.”
“Minutes?!” Spalding bellowed with outrage. “Why, a proper decontamination spray doesn’t take more than a few minutes all by itself. Get out of here and let me…” he trailed off, his wizened eyes finally noticing what he—because of his natural panic and concern for Glenda—hadn’t observed right off. There were no nozzles for a chemical spray; neither was he seeing the sort of emitters needed for biological irradiation lights. In fact…
“High-grade medical scanners?” he growled, taking in the large number of sensor strips and the dedicated medical computer in this particular corner of the room.
Seeing that the jig was up, the Doctor frowned up at him and nodded affirmatively. “Just hold still, please, and your yearly physical will be completed in just a few more minutes, Commander,” said the Doctor.
“Physical? I never agreed to no blinkin’ medical examination,” the old engineer roughly pushed the doctor and his hand scanner to the side. “I don’t have time for this monkey business right now, but rest assured that I’ll settle you in due time. Now where’s Glenda? I need to see her.”
“I assure you, Manager Baldwin is fine,” the Doctor said, once again using that infuriating tone of voice.
“What? She’s injured, man; get out of my way,” Spalding growled, trying to open the door and finding it locked from the outside.
“A necessary deception,” the Doctor tried to calm him—once again employing that insufferable style of speech, “as she didn’t think you’d come down here for any other reason. However, now that you are here, the door to the examination room won’t open until after the examination is complete. So please—”
Spalding’s fist lashed out, taking the doctor in the mouth and sending him reeling. “I warned you once about taking that kind of tone with me, Quack,” Spalding roared with outrage and betrayal. He’d been tricked into here, which pricked his pride and roused his genuine ire, but treating him like a child or small animal was the last and final straw! No one treated him this way or he wasn’t Terrance P. Spald—
An outrageously attractive figure appeared outside the clear wall of the medical examination room and waved her hands at him, clearly trying to tell him to calm down. Calm down? he thought furiously. Hah!
“You tricked me, you witch!” he yelled at the Yard Manager on the other side of the glass. Half engineer, half witch, and half succubus, it seemed the old saying relayed by his father—who had told it to him when he was still a young sprout in the first blush of youth—was true: you had to keep your guard up around the female side of the species at all times, lest they suddenly decide to turn on you like a seemingly cute, but utterly voracious, Hyborean Stone-rat.
Pounding his fists on the wall to express his outrage, he heard a hissing sound and felt a slight prick on his neck. Turning in alarm, he saw the Doctor pull the spray injector away from his neck.
“Didn’t get enough the last time you tried to pawn your medicine off on me against my will, didja?” he said dangerously, taking an ominous step forward.
Looking alarmed, the Doctor started backing up rapidly but there was only so much room inside this examination room. He had nowhere to go, and Spalding reached out for him.
On his second step, however, his leg buckled under him and, before he could stabilize himself, he collapsed to the deck in an ungainly heap—a veritable pretzel composed of both man and machine.
Stepping over him the doctor opened the door and called for a team to help him get Spalding up onto a bed.
“I re-refuse treatment!” Spalding gasped, catching the doctor’s sleeve with his fortunately non-biological fingers. All he had to do was get a grip, set them to lock, and he had him! “Send me back to my quarters!” he demanded, as only those who have a healthy dose of fear and knew just what those medical professionals, so-called, could do to a man when he was out of power.
After the orderlies rolled him onto one side, and then back to the other in order to get him on the gurney, Spalding felt like a piece of bread dough.
“Sir,” the Doctor said, leaning over him with the kind of pompous expression that just begged a man to give him another smack in the mouth, “I’m afraid that the preliminary scans aren’t good. If they were—despite the Yard Manager’s concerns—I would have allowed you to leave and we’d have canceled the medical exam already.”
“I don’t care what it is,” Spalding rasped his peripheral vision going dark, “DNR—do not resuscitate! I waive all medical treatment,” he spluttered, “if it’s a choice ‘tween treatment and letting’ me die then just toss me out the airlock.”
“I’m genuinely sorry,” the doctor said, wiping the blood from his mouth on the back of his sleeve and not looking in the least bit sorry or repentant, “however, you seem to have a degenerative disease of the brain. It’s probably due to the extensive radiation damage you suffered in the past, combined with the general age of your original brain tissue and massive amounts of cloned tissue grafted into your body. Factor the lack of follow-up care, and right now there are thousands and thousands of microscopic holes in the tissue of your brain. You’ve likely been suffering mental degeneration for quite some time now due to an auto-immune reaction, where your body has been literally fighting itself and attempting to reject the cloned tissue.” “I have holes in my brain?” he asked, his surprise temporarily overpowering his resolve before he once again steeled himself somewhat. “I don’t care—go away,” Spalding whispered, feeling more and more like a fish out of water. Whatever drug he’d been injected with swept over him, leaving only a powerful sense of lethargy.
“Unfortunately, your condition has advanced to the point that it is very similar to what was called Alzheimer’s disease in ages past; fortunately, we caught it before your condition became irreversible. However, because it’s a degenerative condition affecting your brain, we have to perform more tests to see if you’re mentally competent enough to be making decision about your health at this stage of your condition.” The Doctor shook his head, “Really, even just a routine check-up with a medical scanner a few months ago and all of this could have been avoided.”
Holes in his brain—ha! Why, when he woke up, someone certainly was going to have holes in his brain—but it wasn’t going to be this Engineer, and neither were the holes going to be microscopic! This was medical malpractice, was what this was…
Spalding’s enraged thoughts continued until his consciousness gradually faded into darkness. The last thing he heard was the Quack say, ““Can someone come over here and help me cut my sleeve loose? I can’t get him to let go, even now that he’s unconscious!”
Chapter Thirty-five: A little exercise is good for the soul
Standing in the middle of the practice mat, I stared across at my opponent with a deathly gaze. I was determined that this time I wouldn’t just not lose, and neither would I simply pull out a surprise win—I was going to completely crush and dominate this foe.
With a sudden move, I brought my sword swinging up from low to high and attacked.
“That’s it; don’t hold back,” coached the familiar voice of my very first sword instructor.
A slash was followed by a parry, then a lunge. I followed through each move with power and intent.
“Watch your form; you’re leaving unnecessary openings,” said the dry, familiar voice of my very first instructor in the sword.
I gritted my teeth and picked up the tempo. My form might not have been perfect, but when it came down to it my speed had always been superior.
“Hitting faster won’t help if you can’t control your weapon,” Duncan Tuttle said with a sudden twist of his sword that sent my blade flying up in the air. One smooth movement after that saw him close the distance between us and press his sword against my neck.
“Your match,” I said coldly and, stepping back, I brought my sword back into position. I hated to lose, but so long as I wasn’t dead there was always room for improvement and that was something I was determined to do: improve.
Off to the side, I saw a pair of Tracto-ans looking in our direction with an assessing look in their eyes.
“Eyes on your opponent,” Duncan said in his usual, stern, no-nonsense tone, but I locked eyes with the Tracto warriors.
“Just what are you two looking at?” I demanded frostily of the warriors.
“Nothing, Warlord,” said the first man, turning away, but the other just quirked a corner of his mouth, his eyes never leaving mine as he backed out of the room.
Worse than dogs, those Tracto-ans, I silently cursed. Ever since I’d come back out to the ship following several days of seclusion, I’d taken note of the way a number of not just the new Tracto-ans, but even a few of the older members of the Lancer division, had been looking at me. My mouth tightened and I suddenly felt a sharp sting on my arm.
“What?” I asked, turning back to Duncan who had just taken the opportunity to whap me in the arm.
“Lose your focus on the battlefield and you’re dead,” he said balefully.
“We’re not all Royal Armsmen. Besides, if I find myself on a battlefield relying on my sword strength to keep me alive, I’ve probably failed somewhere,” I countered, but despite my words I brought my sword back up into guard position.
“Get yourself killed on your own time if that’s what you want,” Duncan Tuttle said bluntly. “But I’ll not be relaying the news to your mother that you died on my watch thank you very much. While you’re under my training you’ll pay attention to your foe, whether it’s an enemy ship or a sword pointed at your gullet. A man can die as easily from a blade up close as a blaster at what feels like a safe distance.”
At the reference to my mother I felt myself stiffen, my eyes turning flinty.
“I enjoy using a sword, but it’s not what I’ll be using to win any up-close-and-personal battles,” I said flatly, and then glanced over at the door the pair of Tracto-ans had exited out of before putting them forcefully out of my mind.
“Tricks are all well and good, but they come and go as your enemies learn of them. Real skill stays with you wherever you are. Now, come at me again,” Duncan Tuttle said sharply.
If everything rests on the skill of my blade then you’re in for a world of hurt, I thought mutinously but redoubled my efforts anyway.
As if sensing my thoughts, Duncan broke my guard and whapped me mercilessly with the flat of his blade.
A half hour later, I collapsed exhausted onto the side of the matt but despite being tired and bruised I felt better than I had in a longtime. Exercise was good for the soul—or, at least, getting the chance to hit someone with a sword for a while was. Not that I was the one who’d managed to getting all that many touches in, that went to the former armsmen who was in love with my mother.
“Feel better?” Duncan asked, sitting himself down beside me but leaving several feet between us for comfort.
“I’m not planning to execute anyone for crimes against humanity, if that’s what you’re asking,” I scowled, tensing up.
Duncan gave me a long look. “It wasn’t, but I appreciate the heads-up,” he said evenly.
“Bah!” I say turning away. Levering up to my feet, I walked over to the nearest wall and stare at the screen built into the wall. The image it showed was of the area outside Gambit Station.
“See anything interesting?” Duncan ambled over after a few minutes to stand beside me.
“Nothing worth my time and attention,” I replied, my eyes locked onto the freighter just now pulling away from the station with the help of a handful of shuttles and tenders swarming around it.
The lumbering civilian craft was destined for Capria, by way of Tracto, and I didn’t much care that its destinations were in different directions. I was just glad that a pair of headaches would soon be out of this system…after having its navigation computer scrubbed, that was. A Dreadnaught class battleship started moving on a near-intercept course to escort it to a nearby star system. After the jump, the second shift navigation team from the battleship would be retrieved and, just like that, not only would the freighter’s computer have no record of where it had been but its onboard navigators would be allowed to take back over.
“Seems a bit like overkill, escorting a single freighter with a battleship,” Duncan observed.
“The Armor Prince has thousands of new crewmembers, and can use the chance to stretch her legs,” I said dismissively. “Besides, she’ll be back after a quick twelve hour jump out, jump back turnaround.”
“Simple, is it?” he asked skeptically.
“No worries,” I said firmly, even though on the inside I was always a little worried about sending a major warship with movement orders outside of whatever system I currently resided in. But I needed to get rid of Crystal, who couldn’t start her life in a penal colony across the sea from the rest of what passed for civilization on that planet fast enough as far as I was concerned. And with the Chief Engineer still undergoing medical treatment—specifically neural regeneration—now wasn’t exactly the best time to space Tiberius out the airlock.
But, forgetting family concerns for the moment, I knew that I could thank Captain Middleton for my current jitters. I knew it was silly, but the last time I had sent a captain out on a simple out-and-back mission, the ‘man on the spot’ managed to turn it into a multi-month long odyssey.
My eyes shot over to look at the oversized freighter—the one with the strange, Elder Tech drive that the Pride of Prometheus survivors had brought back home with them. My gaze then swiveled over to look at a pair of ships in our repair yard, where workers were currently swarming over.
Surrounded by dozens of floating gunboats, a battered Harmony Destroyer and a single liberated human-style Heavy Cruiser rested side by side. A more unlikely pairing you would be hard pressed to find. Conformity gunboats, a Harmony warship, and a human Cruiser all docked side-by-side. I shook my head, still not quite able to believe I’d let Lieutenant Commander McKnight talk me into keeping the Pride’s crew together and sending them back out to the border of Sector 24.
“Don’t let me down, Captain Archibald,” I muttered. I knew I needed someone to keep an eye on Middleton’s protégé and make sure she didn’t run amuck. Archibald, and that Heavy Cruiser out there, was my answer. The mission to create a special forces border recon organization meant I needed someone loyal to me, but who wasn’t hidebound. The new-minted cruiser captain fit that bill as closely as I could manage. He was a man who would take independent action when needed, even in defiance of direct orders, but was loyal to a fault. And a man who would place his own ship between the flagship and a broadside was exactly the kind of man I needed right now.
“The burden of command,” Duncan commented, “I never wanted it; it’s part of the reason I was only ever an armsman.”
“Right…you were just one of the most highly-skilled special forces operatives in the Queendom,” I said fishing for confirmation.
“Was I?” Duncan asked with an enigmatic smile.
I huffed out a sigh. After my people dealt with Jean Luc and, more importantly Connor Tuttle, I had him dead to rights and still I was surrounded with shadows and secrets.
“Maybe I’m wrong, and they only recruit over-the-hill, former, top operatives for inclusion in the Royal Guard as an armsmen,” I laughed.
“Hey,” Duncan said in mock protest, and a moment later I was blocking a half-jesting blow to the belly.
“Have to be faster than that,” I mocked, quickly stepping back out of range.
“You’re getting faster,” Duncan said approvingly.
“I’m trying,” I agreed modestly.
“Well, keep your chin up; at least that battleship will be back by the end of the day,” Duncan said.
“Yes,” I agreed, “although, as soon as the Parliamentary Power is out of the space-yard next month, I’ll be sending one of them—either the Power or the Prince—out on patrol. We need to wave the flag and let everyone know we’re still alive and kicking out here.”
“Really?” Duncan asked, making no attempt to hide his surprise. “Hasn’t your Fleet done enough these last few months to deserve a breather?”
“It’s already been several months of ‘breather’,” I said, shaking my head, “and besides, absence doesn’t necessarily make the heart grow fonder—it also gives the local parasites ideas. A perceived power vacuum draws in bottom-feeders. So what we need to do is let them know that there is no vacuum out here, only armed to the teeth battleships!”
Duncan nodded in understanding.
Also, of course, I needed to make sure that the new recruiting pipelines I’d been painstakingly building up didn’t dry up and disappear. Both our direct recruiting effort and the new Border Alliance recruits wouldn’t keep coming if the worlds they were from started to get hit without so much as a lonely patrol running through their area by my Fleet. That, as much as anything, necessitated a patrol in force as soon as possible.
But, fortunately, there was no real rush. We had some real breathing room with no enemies out there gunning for us right then, and we could take that breathing room to rest, repair and refit. Otherwise, I would have sent the Armor Prince out last week after she finished working up.
With that cheerful thought, no immediate enemies in sight, and no reason to rush to the next possible crisis, I headed for the showers.
Chapter Thirty-six: There’s trouble, Mr. President
2 Months Later
“Strange ships have been sighted all along the border, Sir,” said the Military Attaché sounding intensely worried.
President of the Security Council of the Assembly, and Governor-pro-tem of Sector 25, Sir Isaak—the former Ambassador from Capria—sat behind the desk in his office at Central and frowned.
“The Border with Sector 26, you mean?” Sir Isaak corrected.
The young attaché blinked. “That’s right,” he replied with a nod.
“Clarity, Mr. Beaumont,” the former Ambassador replied with forced mildness, “it’s not simply a requirement in this job, it’s a functional necessity.”
“I’ll work harder, Sir,” the young twenty something aid provided by the military said quickly, “but about those sightings…”
For a long moment, the President of the Security Council stared down at the surface of his desk with pursed lips. Then he shook his head. “Probably just pirates or scouts; we have an agreement with the warlords up Sectors from us, do we not, Mr. Butters?” he asked rhetorically, turning to his Foreign Office assistant and brushing off the worrying reports.
“That we do, Sir,” Butters said with certainty. “And they’ve given us strong assurances that—”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President, but this isn’t just sightings of warships that come in for a quick sneak and peek and then leave,” the Military Attaché sounded distressed. “They’ve taken control of New Tau Ceti and established a tight defensive perimeter. This might not be a short-term problem, Sir. They could be here to stay.”
“A minor world, I’ll note,” the former Ambassador and current Sector Governor said with a frown. Then his eyes briefly narrowed, “Wasn’t she originally a part of Sector 26?”
“Tau Ceti was originally a Sector 26 world, but petitioned to join our assembly after the Withdrawal, Governor,” the Foreign Office bureaucrat said helpfully.
“And, whoever they are, according to Commodore Solomon of an area SDF, they’ve started to build an Imperial-grade—and style—forward operating Fleet Base for resupply operations,” Beaumont cut back in. “They may only be sending a few ships into our Sector, but we have reports of tanker ships full of trillium being taken and stockpiled there. They seem to be readying themselves for an extended campaign, Governor.”
Sir Isaak’s blood ran cold. “Blast it!” he hit the table with punishing force
“Sir?” asks the functionary Mr. Butters looking rattled.
“Why wasn’t this minor detail in the beginning of the report?! It’s nowhere in my abstract; I wouldn’t have missed something like a forward operating base being built on a member world of this Sector,” he snapped.
“Prospective member world,” Butters said quickly, “the Pacifica Block has been obstructing their inclusion in the assembly as a full rights voting member. Right now they only have observer status.”
“Observer status! As if that makes it any better,” looking as if he was having a bout of indigestion, the former Ambassador bit back any number of things he would like to say and pasted on a smile.
There was a pause while the Aides tried to look anywhere except at the Council President.
“Exactly how many ships are currently based out of Tau Ceti, Mr. Beaumont? Best estimate,” he asked calmly.
“Unknown; the squadron under Commodore Solomon couldn’t get close enough to make an educated estimate,” said the military aid.
“Ballpark; give me an estimate,” Isaak’s voice turned frozen.
“Best guess…at least a pair of squadrons. That’s as of right now, if they really are making a base who knows,” said Beaumont.
Isaak’s eyes narrowed.
“They could just be building a listening post,” Butters said quickly, but the Governor of Sector 25 lifted up a hand and the aides in the room instantly fell silent.
Isaak blinked once as his mind finished churning through the information. “I guess we’ll be rejoining the Confederation after all,” he said, coming to a grim realization.
“Hasn’t the Old Grand Assembly refused to recognize our sovereign status, Sir?” Butter’s brow furrowed.
“They’ve also refused to assist us with ships now that the Imperial Fleet has left,” Isaak said coolly, “it seems raising the first genuine Confederation Fleet in fifty years—as they seem to have already sent their last one to the breakers as too costly to maintain—was too much for them.”
“Too costly…the Spine?” the Military Attaché said with disbelief.
“It is if they want to continue to provide full-service healthcare and social wellness programs—such as the basic human right to life without work stipend and not raise taxes,” Isaak explained absently. “The individual worlds of the Core have been skittish when it comes to raising taxes for a military force not under their direct control, and the whole subject of a Confederation-wide levy to support a battle fleet is currently tied up in committee.”
The Foreign Affairs man nodded agreement.
“They really just wrote us off, then, and the rumors are true,” Beaumont clenched his teeth. “They actually have the gall to just tell us so.”
“Hardly,” Isaak quirked a grim smile.
The military aide looked at him questioningly and the foreign affairs man looked smug.
“We have an excellent intelligence service,” Isaak said and decided to leave it at that.
“The Old Confederation at large is certain that something has to be, is being, will be, or must be done about the Spine, but no one wants to pay for it,” he continued expressionlessly.
“Then…if they don’t even have a fleet, or the funds in the pipeline for one, I don’t really see how abandoning the Single Sector Sovereignty Pledge your political campaign was based on, and attempting to re-join the Confederation, will help us,” said Beaumont, who then added hastily, “not that I’m questioning you! I just don’t understand your thinking here…not that I necessarily need to.”’
“No, you’ve mistaken me,” Isaak said grimly, “I do not intend to send yet another fruitless petition to the Grand Assembly like my predecessors have done. That’s a fool’s errand.”
“Then…” the aides looked stumped.
“Forget the Grand Assembly; what I’m talking about is the Confederation of that rebel, Admiral Jason Montagne,” Sir Isaak said stonily.
“That Royal brat—the Tyrant of Cold Space!” said the functionary with surprise.
“An unfortunate PR campaign that continues to backfire on us, even at this later date,” the Governor of Sector 25—pro-tem ,of course—chided, looking genuinely upset.
The assistants assigned to the Governor’s Office on the other hand looked like they couldn’t believe their ears.
“I wonder if we’ll all end up calling him ‘Your Majesty’ before this is all over,” Isaak mused.
The functionary aide looked appalled.
“Oh well, your Highness for certain and at least temporarily,” Isaak mouth worked like he’d tasted something sour. “I’m afraid there’s no way around it at this point,” the Governor finished with a sigh.
“I know I work in the Foreign Office, but I’m afraid the people won’t stand for aligning ourselves with the Tyrant of Cold Space, Mr. President,” Butters shook his head.
“All that work for nothing, it seems, and now it comes around to bite us at the most inopportune time. Still, that is the price of opportunistic attacks: if they don’t pay off immediately, they tend to have a way of blowing up in your face,” Isaak scowled and then waved a hand in the air as if to disperse a bad smell. “At least Prometheus won’t have any trouble accepting a Royal—especially one still styled a Prince—as a new Warleader they need to follow, what with their storied history of War Princes. And there are others who have hereditary or constitutional royalty to balance out those like the Representative from Pacifica and her Block in the Sector Assembly. As for the people…I assure you: with the proper rehabilitation, they’ll swallow whatever line we need to feed them.”
“But…why do we need him, Mr. President?” Mr. Beaumont, the military aide asked, thoroughly appalled, “he’s on the Sector’s most wanted list—shoot on sight!”
“I have to agree with my colleague, Sir,” Butters said tremulously, “what possible reason could this Administration have for aligning itself with a man and organization that cut off the head of an Admiral of the Sector Guard?”
“Reports from the hidden ComStat network—a network which the Imperials were kind enough to leave us with, Mr. Butters. Unwillingly, yes, but they did just leave it lying there for those who knew where to look,” the President of the Security Council said with a vindictive smile, “if Arnold Janeski, or anyone else, wants to try playing both ends against the middle then he had best think twice before doing it in my Sector—or his secret little ComStat network is the least of his assets that I’ll compromise!”
The silence in the room hung like a curtain of fog as Sir Isaak sat with his finger steepled before his lips, his eyes darting this way and that in silent contemplation while the aides merely looked on.
“You were saying how these reports factor in with our need for help from the Tyrant, Governor,” the military attaché said when it became clear Sir Isaak was becoming lost in thought. “All he has is one outdated battleship.”
The former ambassador gave himself a shake and nodded. “Battleships in the plural, Mr. Beaumont,” Isaak explained. “It seems a certain Confederal Admiral was seen trailing a host of broken and battered battleships behind him on his way back to Tracto…although he didn’t actually stop at Tracto, according to my sources.”
“Battleships…” the military aid said, leaning back, “just how many are we talking about—and I assume they’re repairable or else we wouldn’t be talking about them, Sir?”
“This also goes right to…” he scowled, as though he tasted something bitter, “the public rehabilitation of the Montagne. According to my sources, Jason Montagne led his fleet on a rescue mission to liberate Sectors 23 and 24 from Droid rule and while no one there seems to appreciate his services. His effort seems to have turned out surprisingly profitable for our young idealist Prince; to the tune of three or four captured ships of the wall.”
Now it was Butters’ turn to look appalled. “Surely you can’t mean….?”
“I would kiss the foot of an evil space god herself if we were about to be invaded, and she had a squadron of battleships at her beck and call,” Isaak said flatly.
“With a Montagne, that’s just about exactly what you’ll be doing,” Butters said disapprovingly.
“Remember your place, Mr. Butters, even you are replaceable,” Isaak said, striking the table loudly.
“I’m sorry, Sir, I forgot myself,” Butters’ breath hissed out.
“How did you come upon all this information, Sir? If I might ask,” Mr. Beaumont pressed. “I don’t see how a tramp freighter—no matter how loyal, or with whatever intelligence assets were present—could come up with this information, and this doesn’t sound like the kind of information you can just find floating on the com-waves.”
“Don’t trouble yourself with such minor little details, Mr. Beaumont,” the President said ,briefly placing the pointer-through-ring fingers of his right hand on the table before brushing off some dust, “there are threads running under many doors, if only one knows where to look.”
“If you’re sure this is the only way…” Beaumont said disapprovingly.
“This is the President of the Security Council we’re talking about here,” Butters rebuked, sounding offended at the military aide’s lack of support.
“There’s only one thing that’s important in this kind of situation, you two, and I assure you it is not Jason Montagne,” Isaak laughed bitterly. “The Little Admiral, as he is known amongst his men, is only a temporary stumbling block—an ally of convenience. After we have weathered the storm that this former Imperial Rear Admiral brings, we can most assuredly deal with an uppity little would-be Confederation admiral no matter what his pedigree.”
“Your confidence gives me confidence, Sir,” Butters said, backing away and soon followed by his fellow from the military side of things.
“I’m sure it does,” Isaak muttered.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Imperial Recon and the Raiding Force
In the dark of space, well beyond the border of the Star System of Prometheus, five destroyers and a lone cruiser patiently lay in wait. Their cohort, an armed freighter—the Imperial spy ship, Brilliant Cargo Gem—slowly trundled its way over the edge of the hyper limit. When it crossed the threshold, the spy ship charged its engines and jumped to the predetermined coordinates for its rendezvous with the Imperial raiding force.
Until they received the anticipated download, all they had to go off of was the stealthy recon drone platforms—which they had scattered around the Star System.
****************************************************
2 days later
“What have we got, team?” the Commodore asked, sitting down at the cramped briefing room.
“We just finished collating the last of the Brilliant Cargo Gem’s data dump with the information we’ve been pulling continuously off the recon drones,” reported Sensors.
Serge’s eyes cut toward his ship and thus de facto squadron Tactical Officer.
“The activity of local freighters and of SDF patrols are well within expected parameters. Just the usual, fat, dumb and happy provincial star system, waiting to be plucked,” said Tactical. “The patrols don’t go too far out from the border, and a large minority of the shipping heads out beyond easy sensor range of the System Sensor Platforms in order to disguise its exact jump route from the competition.”
The Commodore nodded. “Recommendations?” he asked.
Sensors sat back and looked at Tactical, and the ship’s Executive Officer motioned to Tactical to go first.
“We work in pairs; modified Panther attacks,” Tactical said decisively.
“Normally, Panther attacks are singleton missions. But pairs require a commander and a subordinate; Destroyer skippers are notoriously independent minded. They aren’t going to like having another layer of command extended over half the force,” Serge pointed out.
“That’s why I say ‘modified’,” said Tactical. “We pre-designate a member of each pair as a long claw and a short claw. The short claw micro-jumps on top of the freighter and disables the engines, boards it, and either scuttles it or sends it along with a prize crew back to Tau Ceti. The long claw only goes into action if the freighter escapes, jumping out along its most likely path and giving us a second chance to catch them. The two skippers in each pair won’t have to coordinate much, if at all; they’ll just need to keep to their own assignments and react according to their directives.”
“In-system and out-system pursuit, with clearly defined responsibilities and a reduced chance to step on any toes,” the Commodore nodded approvingly, “I like it. Afterward, once the SDF starts to get its head out of its rear, we can consolidate and wolf-pack up. We’ll use the five Destroyers as the main strike force, to herd them in, and we’ll eliminate with the Cruiser held in reserve for if the pack bites off more than it can chew.”
“Yes, sir,” agreed Tactical.
“I like it,” said the Commodore looking at the young Tactical Officer, “let’s do it. Draw up an operational plan, and have it vetted and on my desk by 0800 tomorrow.”
“Me, sir?” the Tactical Officer looked surprised.
“You’re the one who came up with the plan,” the Commodore said, one corner of his mouth turning up.
The Tactical Officer’s brow furrowed. “Only because I was the first one to speak; I’m sure you or the XO were thinking the same thing or even something better,” protested the Officer.
“But then we’d have to write up the report,” said the XO with a knowing grin.
“Never underestimate the amount of paperwork that goes along with authoring an operational plan—especially when after all that work there is no guarantee your commanding officer will use it and not just toss it into the trash bin,” the Commodore agreed. “No more discussion: write up that report, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir,” said the Tactical Officer before standing up, saluting, and hurrying out of the room.
“He can handle it,” said the XO.
“Good,” Serge said reaching over and patting the wall of the conference room, “because I sense Warlock’s starting to get a little impatient with all this waiting. It’ll be good to get the old girl out there doing what she does best: killing things.”
“You humanize the ship too much,” his XO said disapprovingly.
“A Ship Commander’s prerogative, Commander Curtis,” Serge said, smiling tightly. “When you’ve been in Man’s navy as long as I have, if that’s the worst peccadillo your commander has, you can consider yourself blessed.”
Chapter Thirty-eight: Return of Tiberius; partings are such sweet sorrow
The transport deposited Tiberius and the survivors of the Parliamentary Power’s crew—those crew who had been aboard the battleship when it had been illegally seized by Adonia Akantha Zosime—onto the main Space Station in the Tracto Star System and then moved to depart the System as fast as its drives could move it.
For the men and women with him—each of whom was facing mutiny charges within the MSP Fleet—it was understandably harrowing.
It really emphasized that they had been not just sacrificed, but actually forgotten by their home world. Tiberius had always prepared himself to die for his planet, if that’s what was needed, but to realize just how little his sacrifice was worth to the people in charge hurt.
“Chin up, Lieutenant,” said Penelope, the small power-room tech beside him in an upbeat voice, “we’ve been through tougher times than this.”
“I hope you’re right,” Tiberius replied, not wanting to tell her that they were all just as good as dead for coming back within reach of Jason Montagne’s Fleet.
“Hope?” she said with patent disapproval. “Don’t you mean, ‘Penelope—you goddess among women, you—of course you’re as right as usual? Or should that be ‘as always’?” she mused putting her hand under her chin and rubbing it as she thought.
Tiberius laughed, unable to help himself. “Penelope, what am I going to do with you?” he chuckled.
“Aw, you like it,” she grinned.
He opened his mouth to speak, but there was a disturbance on the concourse ahead. “If you would just allow me to explain what I need, I promise I’ll be out of your hair in a few minutes, Major,” protested a woman in a Confederation uniform as she hurried alongside a man in an old, Caprian Ground Forces uniform—who was, in turn, being followed by two quads of power-armored Lancers.
“No, you cannot, Lieutenant Commander,” the Major said cutting her off.
“But, sir!” she said.
“Let me guess: you, like every other ship in this star system, wants crew,” he said, causing the female officer to open her mouth in protest—and him to chop his hand through the air, cutting her off again. “No, let me rephrase that: desperately needs crew—trained crew, to be specific, not the uneducated grounders my office referred to you previously. I know this because, while we have several hundred new recruits, there is a decided dearth of trained spacers going around at the moment.”
“All I need are fifty trained personnel: techs, engineers, and watch standers,” the Lieutenant Commander with the perfectly-poised blonde ponytail said quickly. “I’m more than willing to round out the rest of the crew with unskilled personnel.”
“Sorry, McKnight, but I really must be going,” the Major said sharply his eyes latching onto Tiberius and his fellow Caprians. “I’m in the middle of serving an arrest warrant. So, if you don’t mind,” he gestured for her to step off, which she reluctantly did, and then stalked toward Tiberius.
“Ship’s Company, attention,” Tiberius snapped, dropping his bag and drawing himself up into the very pose he had commanded his fellows to assume.
“How about the brig?” the Lieutenant Commander said desperately. “If they’re trained I’ll take him, her, or it. Even just twenty experienced hands and I can cadre the last ship in the squadron.”
“For the last time: no! Not only would you need special permissions—” began the Major, turning to face her with a thunderous expression.
“I have the blanket authority to take any and all volunteers. That includes, but isn’t limited to, those serving time in the brig, a ground-based prison, or even a penal colony. This is a special task force,” the Lieutenant Commander urged, “we made it here but only on back-to-back shifts; we don’t have enough hands to run a ship on patrol long-term.”
Shaking his head and ignoring the increasingly agitated Lieutenant Commander, he stepped up in front of Tiberius.
“Senior Lieutenant Terrance Tiberius Spalding,” the Major said, drawing himself up while the Lancers behind him came to attention.
“That’s me,” Tiberius acknowledged, holding himself at attention.
“I am Major Geoffry Lafiet. You and your men are hereby placed under arrest for the crime of mutiny in cold space,” the Major informed him.
““I don’t ask leniency for myself, but I would request that it be taken into account that my crew was only following my orders,” Tiberius said stiffly.
“I’ve reviewed your file and I have to say that, if it were up to me, the whole lot of you would be spaced out an airlock in the time it took me to march you from here to the nearest one,” Major Lafiet said dispassionately. “But unfortunately I’m just a Major, and I don’t get to make these calls.”
“I understand,” Tiberius said levelly. He wasn’t going to collapse into a puddle of goo at the prospect of execution; he had already made his peace with his fate.
“Rest assured that you’ll get your day in court and, so I’m told, you won’t even be spaced if convicted,” the Major said, leaning in closer. “I don’t know what kind of juice you have, but it’s well-connected pukes like you who caused me to emigrate from Capria. Back in my day, we only had one punishment for mutiny.”
“I-I don’t,” Tiberius was taken aback by the man’s vehemence. It, combined with the idea that he was a well-connected noble of some kind, had him stammering.
“A penal colony, you say?” the pushy Lieutenant Commander said, shouldering her way forward past the marine quad. “Are these people trained spacers?”
“This is not your concern, McKnight!” the Major shouted, finally losing his cool as he rounded on the Fleet Officer.
“I asked if they were trained spacers, and I’ll do so again; I’m authorized to take former pirates and sweep the penal colonies for trained hands to further my mission,” the Commander shot back, not giving so much as an inch to the power-armored marine.
“They haven’t even been tried yet; they’re not eligible,” the Major snapped, giving a twirl of his hand with one finger extended, sending the marines—make that, Lancers—swarming around Tiberius and his people with restraining cuffs ready to be placed about their wrists.
“That still doesn’t answer my question,” McKnight growled, glaring at the Major before looking at Tiberius and cocking her eyebrow as if to ask him the question. Tiberius felt his heart-rate start to rise at the possibility of avoiding a life sentence on an inhospitable dirtball.
“Yes,” Tiberius said neutrally, ruthlessly suppressing his surging hope. Because that’s all it was: hope. Maybe if he was lucky, that hope would turn into a chance of some kind, “Most of us are trained engineers, to be exact, but there are a few former shore patrol mixed in.”
“I’ll take them,” McKnight declared as soon as he had finished.
“As I said before: they haven’t received their fair trial yet,” the Major growled. “Until that time, they belong to me—and as long as I have them they’ll do nothing but rot in prison.”
At the Major’s order, the Lancers started to move Tiberius and his men along.
“What if they stipulate to the charges and file a ‘no contest’ motion?” the Lieutenant Commander called out after them as the Major began to lead the mess of them down the gangway. “Then I could take them and you could get back to your business.”
“Why in the blazes would you want a bunch of…” he looked down at the data slate, “seventy eight mutineers, to be precise?” Lafiet stopped and turned to stare at the other officer incredulously. “I mean, honestly, McKnight; what’s your angle here?”
“You let me worry about that. We’ve taken in malcontents, political dissidents, and former pirates along with regular crewmembers. Like I said,” she said pointedly, clearly mimicking the Major’s previous tone as she slapped a computer chip into his hand, “this is a critical mission and my squadron is part of a special recon group. That’s my authorization chip from the Little Admiral himself; you can verify its contents if you’d like.”
“Oh, be sure I will,” he shook his head angrily before stomping away.
The Lieutenant Commander looked at him levelly as the Major started barking orders to the Lancers. Apparently the group of mutineers was still going to be escorted up to the brig for processing, no matter what decisions were made later on.
“Thank you, Commander,” Tiberius said reluctantly, the words needing to be forced out of him. He didn’t want to say it, but if it saved the lives of his people then there was very little he wasn’t willing to stoop to.
“You had better be worth it,” the young, blonde-haired officer said coldly, her previously frantic demeanor suddenly transforming before his face into a hard-eyed woman who looked like she could—and would—kill him in a moment if she thought it was necessary, “you don’t want to make me regret this.”
Tiberius believed her.
Chapter Thirty-nine: Medically-Induced Outrage
“I’ll take you all together; I’ll tear you both apart!” howled the irate patient tied to the hover-gurney, right before it—and him—were pushed into the opening of the doughnut-shaped medical scanner.
“I would have thought he’d be past this sort of behavior by now. It’s odd; we’ve repaired virtually all of the gross physical damage to his neural tissue, and between therapy and the regeneration treatments we’ve managed to restore about 80% of the lost function,” the younger doctor boggled.
“This is what we, in the medical industry, call a ‘preexisting condition,’ Doctor White,” explained Chief Medical Officer Willis Presbyter, running a hand through his grey hair.
Doctor White’s eyes widened. “You mean…he was always like this?! I thought it was just a temporary condition; a personality change brought on by the degenerative damage to his brain from the radiation damage, with the forced-growth brain tissue rejection being compounded by the failure of follow-up care and regeneration treatments,” he said genuinely shocked. “You mean…he’s always been like this?”
“Sadly, he seems to have been restored to the same mental state he was in when I originally met him,” the grey-haired Doctor said wryly, as the scanner beeped and the diagnostic unit slowly ejected the hover gurney carrying the restrained engineering officer.
The younger Doctor looked ill at ease.
“Don’t pretend to ignore me like I wasn’t here and then talk about me behind my back!” shouted the aging officer.
Doctor Presbyter turned to face the engineer with a sigh, “I was simply discussing the state of your care with my colleague here, Doctor White,” he said.
“Turn me loose!” the old Engineer bellowed.
“I’m afraid that’s not possible right at the moment,” the grey haired Doctor shook his head in negation.
“Free me from this prison, you probe-wielding tyrant,” the man strapped to the gurney howled.
“Listen, the tests will all be over shortly and you can return to your room,” the younger Doctor said soothingly.
“Am I a child to be poked and prodded against my will, then given a lollipop and a pat on the head as you send me on my way?” the aging Engineer demanded.
“That’s not what I meant to imply—” the Doctor said quickly.
“Name’s ‘White,’ is it? I’ll be sure and remember your part in this medical house of horrors, Doctor,” the engineer warned with an evil glint in his eye.
“I was only following orders,” Doctor White said, taking a step back and raising his hands, “you were sick and you needed treatment, sir. I was only doing my job.”
“’I was only following orders,’ he says! ‘I was just doing my job! I had to take him in for his state-prescribed mental hygiene treatment, sir; I had no choice’,” mocked Spalding furiously. “That’s exactly what the Order of Anti-Viral Cleansers on Copernicus VIII said in their defense at the end of the AI Wars—and we all know what happened to them, don’t we Doctor!”
“There’s no need for those sorts of threats, or the melodrama, Mr. Spalding,” the grey-haired Doctor warned strictly.
“This is medical malpractice, forced imprisonment, extortion, and the kidnapping of a Confederation commissioned officer! I’ll have your rockets for this, Presbyter,” raged the old Engineer referring to the Doctor’s rank insignia, “just you wait and see!”
“Calm down, you old fool,” shouted Doctor Presbyter, finally losing his own cool. “Because you didn’t go to a single, solitary follow-up treatment session, you were going senile, old man. Thankfully, we managed to reverse most of the damage while you were in a medically-induced coma. Saint Murphy knows how much damage you would have caused if we’d brought you out sooner than we did. You ought to be thanking me on bended knee for saving your life, not plotting some kind of high-strung revenge fantasy.”
“Set me loose, Presbyter, and you’ll see just how thankful I can be,” Spalding said in an overly-reasonable voice.
“Gah!” the grey-haired doctor said throwing his hands downward in disgust. “Did we administer the mem-block already?” he asked, turning to White.
“Before we even brought him into the room,” the other doctor reassured him, “he should forget everything from the time he entered the room up to a half hour later.”
“Good,” the old Doctor said in disgust, “he’ll still be suspicious—and likely blame me for everything—but your name will be out since he’ll forget everything about you ever even being here. I can deal with the old goat.”
“Dag blast it; I’ll get you for this, Presbyter, if it’s the last thing I do! I swear it,” screamed the old Engineer thrashing, from side to side, “set me free or suffer the consequences of an engineer enraged!”
“We had a tech turn off your arms and legs, so you’re not going anywhere, you old goat. And with the medication you’ve been given for this diagnostic, you won’t remember anything about it anyways. So just suck it up for a bit and this will all be over before you know it. The next thing you know, you’ll be waking up and the diagnostic will be over and done with, so your threats don’t work,” Presbyter sighed. “Now, if only the rest of us could be so lucky…” he muttered.
“You only think you’ve found a way to escape my wrath, you dumb son-of-a-quack,” Spalding said, and the younger doctor realized that both of the engineer’s eyes—his biological and his mechanical one—were burning an ominous, if not quite matching, shade of red.
“Oh?” Presbyter cocked his head. “Enlighten me,” he instructed right before hitting the button to send him right back into the machine for another few minutes for a follow-up test.
“You may have turned off my arms and my legs, but you forgot about my eye and my cranial implants; I’ve recorded this entire conversation, you pluming idiot,” Spalding howled as he re-entered the scanner. “The world, the galaxy, and the entire Fleet will soon know exactly what you butchers do in here. You may have turned me into a paraplegic in order to work your foul ways upon my helpless body, but the worm has turned and—” his words were muffled and cut off as he fully entered the machine.
“Of all the confounded…” Presbyter swore before activating the intercom, “can we get a tech in here to turn off Commander Spalding’s eye?”
Doctor White turned to him with something in his hand. “Gauze?” he offered, miming placing it over Spalding’s eye like some kind of white, piratical eye patch.
The older Doctor looked at him a moment and then snorted. “Oh, whatever. You know what? Let him keep the copy.”
“You aren’t worried about his threats?” asked the other doctor.
Presbyter grunted, “Not in the slightest. I already spoke with legal. He signed a medical waiver—just like the rest of us—when he entered the military. In fact, the actual waiver he signed is ten times more restrictive on his individual rights than the one you did, because his was from over fifty years ago,” the older man said wryly. “And, as far as any kind of personal revenge over saving his life, I say ‘bring it on.’ I’ve wanted to pop that old coot in the mouth for a few years now, but never had the chance. A butcher and a quack, am I? It’s time someone shows him that Medical isn’t made up of pushovers he can shout at and insult till his heart’s content—and then spit on them afterwards for saving his life,” said the grey haired Doctor, his professional veneer wearing dangerously thin as a vein in his forehead began to bulge.
Doctor White looked shocked at the idea of Presbyter hitting a patient, and turned away. However, Presbyter could hear him mutter, “Better you than me,” under his breath as he walked over to see the next set of test results.
“Aaargh!” shouted Spalding as he came back out. “You may take my life, but you’ll never take…my freedom!”
“Oh, brother,” sighed Presbyter. This was going to be a long day.
Chapter Forty: Unwanted News
There was a chime and a stir at the entry which Akantha ignored. Thanks to the curse they called the ‘miracle of interstellar communication,’ personified most annoyingly by that ComStat network which everyone was so infatuated with, she was now able to receive messages from the homeland. That meant that even out here among the River of Stars there was no rest from her duties.
True, she wasn’t the woman on the spot, so the great majority of day to day details never reached her. But the more important—or irritatingly difficult to unravel—still managed to land on her desk.
For instance, the woman petitioned for an exception to the holy rules of pair-bonding. While custom might encourage such, MEN’s holy laws did not, in point of fact, require a woman to refrain from sharing her affections as widely as she herself might desire—at least within her holding and, with permission, outside of it. Serial monogamy, or abstinence, on the other hand was expected of women who had taken upon themselves Defenders, Guardians or Protectors for their land holdings.
Even then, however, the only actual restriction upon the Land Holder was the expectation that any heirs of her body come from the male who had devoted his life to her service.
Of course, normally even this wouldn’t be an issue—unless the sire-Defender, sire-Guardian, or sire-Protector became suspicious and requested a blood reading. Then, and only if the child was not found to be of his blood, would the Holy Punishments of MEN be exacted upon the law-breaking Land Holder. With infanticide, loss of goods, lands, people, war or, even in some cases, the death of the Holder being the result. For common women, the law was much less restrictive unless they voluntarily took upon themselves an exclusive pair-bond vow—which brought her back to the case before her.
Ten years ago, a woman of Argos—who, at that time, was nothing more than a common woman—posted a pair-bond bans in the temple of Argos. Which in and of itself wasn’t a problem. However, five years ago the other member of the bond—a warrior of no real means—was lost on expedition when half his war-band was forced against the ocean by an enemy warlord and swept out to sea.
Assuming he was lost, she mourned for two years and then resumed her life. Then, three years ago, at the end of her mourning period and having little to hold her in Argos, this same woman decided to follow Akantha’s migration to Messene and eventually, because of her good judgment, became a Small Holder by appointment. At the time of her elevation, she took upon herself a Defender, a warrior she had met in Messene.
All of which would have been fine—except that, after being swept out to sea, her warrior pair-bonder did not actually die. After surviving the last five years on a deserted island, he finally managed to build a raft, avoid the sea monsters, and make his way back—first to Argos, and then Messene, to reunite with the love of his life.
While Akantha could only imagine the grief-stricken, tearful reunion—and pre-destined heartbreak for one or more members of this unlucky love-triangle—the law was clear: the woman could only have one man. The easiest seemed to be to release her current Defender and take up with the old common pair-bond holder. Let them duel to the death or, if she couldn’t bear to see them kill each other, leave the Hold to one of her children and return to commoner status.
Alas, the woman, claiming she couldn’t exist without the two loves of her life—and apparently with the two men’s consent, each of whom the father of one or more of her children—was asking for a writ of exception from her Hold Mistress for both her holy pair-bond vow and her obligations under MEN’s law toward her Defender.
But even if Akantha were inclined to grant such a request, because of the multi-jurisdictional aspect of the Small Holding in Messene and the bans posted in Argos, such a writ would need to be endorsed not just by the Hold Mistress of Messene and the Messene Council of Priestesses, but co-jointly endorsed by the Hold Mistress of Argos and its Council of Priestesses. This had all the markings of a tragedy in the making.
The love-stricken women, one Heterodona, simply didn’t realize what she was asking. Two local ecclesiastical councils in two, separate Polis’ both needed to endorse the questionable request; the amount of back and forth paperwork, wrangling, and favor-trading to make it happen was mind boggling. And all of this just for a man…or two men, even, neither of whom was overly remarkable, she found very difficult to understand.
The sound of another chime was soon followed by the sound of footsteps approaching, and she broke out of her contemplative trance as she looked up inquiringly. Seeing Isis approaching the desk with a strange expression on her face, Akantha felt a premonition of danger.
“What is it, Isis?” she asked coolly.
“There is a warrior outside your door who requests the honor of a private audience, Hold Mistress Akantha,” Isis replied stiffly.
“You know my position on the subject,” Akantha said coldly, “I refuse to entertain the requests of common, one-name warriors—or those of generally low standing.” She’d had the suspicion for quite some time now that things were moving under the surface. Quietly, true, but slowly and surely all the same. Now was a time of great peril for not just her Hold, but for her personally. All of Tracto’s and, by extension, Messene’s external enemies had either been defeated or were on the run and laying low like the cowards they were. She was in as vulnerable of a position as she could be in, as she was heavy with her first children, who could only claim hereditary title to her Hold if they survived long enough to do so.
It didn’t take a genius to see the opportunity in that situation.
“Understood, Mistress,” Isis said but the attitude she was projecting didn’t promise a quick and happy resolution to this ‘request’, “however, the one-named warrior making the request claims he has been a in your personal service for nearly two years.”
Akantha felt a chill. “You may inform the warrior outside that, due to my current condition, I am unable to entertain those less than Warlord status. I will, however, be more than happy to greet him after the traditional post-birthing period or, if that will not do, then I can meet him informally now,” she said firmly and then continued with irritation. “You already know this, yet still you bother me with this tiresome business, Isis!”
Isis took a breath, like a woman taking arrow fire who could do more than crouch behind her shield and hope for the best. “In hopes of sparing your time, I did previously inform this warrior that such was likely to be your response. He said that if this happened, I was to relay that he is not just a common warrior dedicated to your service, but is the self-styled Warlord Nikomedes with a fighting war band of more than 300 souls who requests a moment of your time and attention, Hold Mistress,” Isis said clearly.
She’d been temporarily out maneuvered, it seemed. “I see,” Akantha said emotionlessly, a second, ominous chill running down her spine, “bring him in. I want to make this quick.” Woe betide the man who risked her wrath—no matter what good service he’d performed in the past.
Isis turned on her heel to go and returned moments later with the warrior-turned-Warlord, who wore a simple tunic bearing the colors of Messene, though it lacked the official heraldry since he had not been inducted into her personal forces.
“Hold Mistress Akantha,” Nikomedes said, his eyes burning with a quiet, inner fire which had, at one time, very nearly been enough to make her relent in her refusal to take a Protector—nearly, but not quite, “you look as radiant as ever; the years only serve to enhance your power and presence, my Lady.”
“Nikomedes Minos…you speak with a courtiers tongue,” Akantha said with disapproval, having remembered him to be a less-than-sly warrior during their last encounter.
“Nikomedes only, please,” the burgeoning Warlord said with a wince. “And well I know how you dislike the courtiers’ speak. To give offense was not my intent.”
“It seems somehow inappropriate to address a former suitor by his familiar first name,” Akantha replied, her voice slicing like a scalpel as she added extra emphasis on the word ‘former.’
“Then simply address me as a Warrior, or the Warlord of Red Hunt Banner, if you must,” Nikomedes said, stiffening slightly. But despite his body posture, his eyes never quite lost their quiet, inner fire as he leveled a determined gaze at her, “I lost the right to the Minos name when I lost the Dark Sword, and I have no wish to be pretentious.”
“And yet, despite your many losses, here you are: at my doorstep and seeking my audience,” Akantha said, letting the pause linger just a moment before perfunctorily adding, “Warlord. Although, why you would have me call you ‘Warrior’ when you have laid claim to a superior title leaves me wondering.”
Nikomedes nodded. Then wonder no more,” Nikomedes said gravely, “for while I am a new Warlord of men, machines, and other creatures of the stars, I have ever—since the first real choice I made as a man—desired to be called your Warrior.”
“Ha,” Akantha mocked harshly, “and here I thought you came to speak over matters of note. Why else would you have requested my audience? If it was not some service as Warlord, and only that of a common warrior in my service you thought to offer, then despite knowing my preferences you still insist on wasting my time, Warrior Nikomedes?”
Nikomedes looked at her for a long moment with a slightly whimsical—and more than slightly disconcerting—expression on his face.
“Slaughter-cat got your tongue?” Akantha inquired with false politeness.
“I can see now that speaking matters from the heart was an error; I apologize,” the Warrior-Warlord said. “I should have cut right to the center of the gourd from the beginning; I know your preference and still I blundered.”
Akantha snorted.
Nikomedes voice hardened, “What was not an error was coming here today.”
“Then speak, ‘Warrior’,” Akantha said, leaning forward tensely, “tell me what is on your mind and let us have this little reunion over and done with so that we can speak again later—under more pleasant circumstances.”
“Akantha, I know I am not worthy—” he started.
“You are right—you’re not,” she said icily, “save us both the trouble and withdraw. Now!”
Nikomedes took a deep breath and, for a moment, his face twisted as if in great pain. But the moment was gone in a flash and when again his eyes cleared and met hers all that was left was an unwavering certainty and a raging fire in his eyes that were those of a man sure of his cause.
“Let me be plain: I do not desire to deprive you of either your Heirs or your Protector,” Nikomedes declared fervently.
“Spoken by another man, I would find that hard to believe,” Akantha said, skeptical despite her words to the contrary, “but, if true, you have my gratitude.”
“I do not desire to leave you without a Protector, because I would be that Protector, my Lady,” the new-minted Warlord said fiercely.
“And so we get to the meat of it,” Akantha said, her worst fears—the very reason she had insisted on Jason increasing his training regimen with the blade—made manifest before her very eyes. Because for every Nikomedes out there who desired her hand, there were ten, a hundred—a thousand!—more waiting in the wings. “And yet, what if I said that I am already with Protector and very well-pleased with his actions?” she asked firmly.
“I would not leave you without a Protector because I would be your Protector, Lady Akantha,” Nikomedes repeated levelly. “You know that is why I am here, just as you know that in your heart you are not as ‘well pleased’ with your current Protector as you would let on.”
“You doubt my word?!” she flared.
“I have seen the records of your journey from Tracto to Elysium, as well as participating personally in the culminating Battle,” Nikomedes said evenly. “How many times did he risk not just his life, not just the lives of his war band and Fleet, not just ships and equipment, but your life as well? How many times, Akantha?!” he asked in a tone that was dangerously close to a demand. But more concerning than the tone was his use of her familiar name—a name she had, long ago, asked him to call her by, though he had seemingly refused to do so…until now.
“You are a warrior; of all people, you should understand that great gains are presaged by the potential for great losses,” Akantha said passionately. “Thanks to him we are stronger than we have ever been!”
“Not yet, we aren’t—and not until more of those battleships are out of dry-dock,” Nikomedes said pointedly, proving that there was indeed more going on behind his eyes than he had ever previously revealed, “at this exact moment, we are still weakened.”
“You would quibble over such details, like a merchant haggling over a bag of weevil-ridden flour?” Akantha asked with disbelief. “And you would say this despite the thousands—nay, tens of thousands—of new recruits who have flocked to his banner? The fact that we have battleships to repair—a process which will be concluded within the month—is entirely due to his leadership, as well as the very reason you are here today. The fact that we have no pressing enemies hounding our gates is the only reason you, and those like you, feel free to attack us now.”
“I would never attack you,” Nikomedes said with a sad expression, “and it pains me that you would paint me with such a brush. It is your Protector I believe is failing you, and it is only he who I would replace. If I was your Protector, you can rest assured that I would never allow my enemies to threaten our children.”
“By our children, don’t you mean your children by me and not my heirs by another?” she said hotly.
“I would make his children as my own, if you but asked it,” he said solemnly, causing her stomach to clench unexpectedly. “As I said: you have nothing to fear from me, Hold Mistress,” Nikomedes said with certainty, “do not mistake my desire to do what is best for you for some unsavory aim. I swear that I would never invoke Protector’s right against the children inside your womb,” he said, pointing at her belly with his long, muscular arm.
“How, exactly, do you think that you—or anyone else—would be better for me, and for the Hold, than Jason?” Akantha demanded.
“For centuries, millennia even, we have been isolated from the outside world. And yet, Jason has brought us out into the rest of the universe, kicking and screaming—whether we desire it or not,” Nikomedes said hotly.
“He saved us from the Bugs—he saved me, Nikomedes,” Akantha snapped, “doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
“Believe it or not, it does, and because of that I would leave him alive at the end of what is to come if I am able,” Nikomedes said harshly.
“So passionate,” Akantha sneered, “name one thing he has done that you can say, without equivocation, in which he has failed as my Protector. Not this wishy-washy ‘he didn’t do as well as he should have,’ nonsense, but a genuine failure or I refuse to entertain you any longer.”
“Look at the scars on your face,” Nikomedes said with deadly intent, his voice lowering dangerously as his eyes flared, “can you honestly tell me you were ‘well pleased’ with his actions at First Omicron where, due to his arrogance, he was captured and left us—left you—surrounded by enemies on all sides?” he demanded in turn, his words cutting to the heart of the matter far more expertly than she could have imagined they would.
Akantha opened her mouth to retort and then fell silent.
“You were left in mourning, you were the one who captured the Omicron—along with several of the battleships now in this fleet—and his own men had to come rescue him,” Nikomedes said fiercely. “I ask you: how can a Protector perform his duties to protect the woman to whom he is pledged if he is in the hands of his enemies?!”
“I cannot say that was his greatest moment,” Akantha said quietly, determined to ward Nikomedes off, “however, he has made up for that in many ways. I am very satisfied, at this exact moment, with how things are.”
“With those battleships that you captured, a Tracto-an Protector would have been able to fight off those Bugs. Our people would not necessarily have faced genocide and annihilation if someone had replaced him at any earlier stage,” Nikomedes said.
“You mean if you replaced him,” Akantha said sadly, “I did not expect you to be driven by personal advancement, Nikomedes. Of all my original suitors, you alone I thought to have honor. But turns out you are just like all the rest…just another scheming Warlord.”
“I do have honor!” he said tightly. “If I thought it was the best thing for our people—or even just for you—I would stand aside. Nay, I would slaughter a path through his potential challengers to keep them at bay. Yet, time and time again, your current Protector has recklessly risked everything,” he said urgently, “you must see that! He didn’t just save you from the Bugs. Through his weakness, he opened us to attack—which is the same as if he had deliberately turned those ruinous forces against us. Our world was invaded because of his weakness,” he insisted, “his own family even rose up against us! Because he couldn’t Protect you, or Messene, or the very world which gave birth to us—and to which you and I have a holy duty! Can you even say the same about him? Does he share our holy duty? Would he guard his own children half as well as I would guard them, if you would but let me?”
“It seems there is nothing I can say to dissuade you,” Akantha said, holding very still.
“I am not your enemy, my Lady,” Nikomedes said passionately, “I am, and have ever striven to be, here to help you. All I desire is your blessing on my future actions, to ensure a smooth transition—one that does not leave you at risk.”
“Help me?” Akantha said, choking up with disbelief. “You would slay the future father of my children, and you have the gall to ask for my blessing before you do it?”
“If not me, then a dozen others,” Nikomedes said, his voice hardening, “if not me then perhaps someone who will not care for the heirs in your body—heirs sired by another man. If I stay my hand now, who can guarantee your safety after one of those dozen finally kills him? With me you have the certain knowledge that your children will be safe from retribution, and you have my solemn vow that I will spare their father if at all possible. Politically speaking,” he continued, and Akantha began to feel numb all over as he drove ever forward, wielding words with the same skill he had so often displayed with a sword, “with Jason Montagne gone, you will no longer have a Protector who allowed holy Tracto to be invaded. All the enmity against him—enmity which exists because it was his family, his uncle who did the invading—will no longer loom over your House. I swear that with me at your side, I will only take from him what is necessary to secure the safety of our people, and our world. The rest, and those that choose to follow him—if he lives through the challenge—will be allowed to leave.”
Akantha bowed her head, as emotions raged within her. Nikomedes was right, curse him; the invasion by Jean Luc’s forces had stirred up negative sentiment. And Jason had stumbled along the way, with the Omicron being the most striking example. Moreover, if Nikomedes won then the risk of future challenges would go down, as by now all of Tracto knew he was a truly superior swordsman—and now, Akantha alone knew that he was equally gifted in the art of politics.
“He beat you once before; just how likely do you think you are to win a challenge?” she finally asked, feeling like a traitor for doing so but she felt she had no choice. Of all the potential challengers who could arise, Nikomedes was right: few-to-none would allow the former Protector to live and potentially return for a follow-up challenge, and fewer still would care for the babes. Most would only see them as an impediment to their own line sitting upon the throne of Messene—much as Nykator had done regarding her after siring daughters of his own with Akantha’s mother.
“Last time we met, he wore a suit of power armor while I had but my natural strength and a Dark Sword of Power,” Nikomedes said confidently. “In his later matches, he used trickery and deception to win—not skill with a sword. Now that we know to be on guard against such tricks, he cannot triumph. In armor, or without it, he is not my equal in battle. All know of his skill with a blade which, while adequate, is not much more than that. You know as well as I that no Protector maintains the position without a superior level of skill in this particular arena—skill which I possess in excess.”
“I understand what you are saying,” Akantha said, silently acknowledging that while Jason might be superior to his countrymen when it came to the sword, when compared to hers he could never be considered more than slightly above average, “however, the Fleet’s Starborn will likely follow him even if he loses. In the face of that, how certain are you that our own people will rally behind you? Even with the new blood which has infused the Fleet, I am positive that many of those who have followed him since he first showed his banner still hold him in high esteem. We can’t afford infighting.”
Nikomedes nodded knowingly. “If, after I win, your own endorsement isn’t enough then I will share with them the truth. That truth is that, during my quest for the Dark Sword of Power, I was graced to receive directives…which were given by the Voice of Men.” Akantha was thunderstruck by this particular revelation, but Nikomedes continued as a burning light seemed to fill his visage, “After my defeat at Jason Montagne’s hand, I returned to the Voice to receive my punishment. I had failed,” he said, his expression turning dark, “and was prepared to receive Men’s judgment. But, inexplicably, our god bestowed upon me a holy mission. After I succeed against Jason Montagne, no one will dare stand against an anointed Prophet of Men!”
Akantha straightened in her chair as if struck by lightning. “This is true?” she whispered, unable to keep the disbelief from her voice. “Swear it! Swear that you speak the truth—that you have spoken to the remnant of our god!”
Gravely, he reached into his sash and slowly produced a crystalline hilt. With a flick of his thumb, and a squeeze of his powerful hands, he activated it—and the blade of a Light Sword of Power sprang forth from the previously bladeless hilt.
“Believe it,” he said flatly, though she could still scarcely believe what she was seeing. “In Men’s name, I constrain you to silence on what you have been told of my holy directives, for my mission does not truly begin until I have proven myself to the god of our people, avenged my former loss, and defeated Jason Montagne—a directive granted me by the Voice of Men itself!”
Her eyes stinging, and feeling as if the weight of the world was pressing down on her, Akantha bowed her head and rested her forehead in her hands as her mind was consumed with trains of thought. In the end, she could no longer object: this was a matter between warriors and men, as had been ordained by the god of her people.
“I once told you that I would offer myself thrice to you, Akantha,” Nikomedes said as she slowly, painfully, but inexorably worked through the reality of her situation, “and you have denied me twice already. Should you deny me a third time, I will cease pursuing you as I vowed to do over two years ago—but I cannot recuse myself from these holy directives.” He drew himself up to his full, herculean stature and waited for her gaze to meet his before saying, “I will take Jason Montagne’s head as an offering to our god…but if you do not wish to grant me the honor of serving as your Protector then you only need deny me this third, final time.”
There was something strained in his voice when he spoke of ceasing his pursuit of her, but Akantha could not discern the source of that strain—nor was it the foremost matter on her mind in that moment.
She looked down into her hands, forcibly fighting the tide of emotion which threatened to overcome her. She was a Hold Mistress and a Priestess of Men; she had a duty to her people—a duty which was in no way less important than the one Nikomedes had been given by Men itself. Her personal feelings in this matter, however strong they might be for Jason Montagne, must—by holy law and the sacred traditions of those who preceded her—come second to her Men-given duty to the people of her Tract.
After several silent minutes, she looked up again and met his fiercely-determined eyes as she whispered, “I cannot deny you.” She knew in her mind—if not in her heart—that she had no choice.
Nikomedes smiled triumphantly, and after a perfectly-practiced bow—one befitting the station he now sought to attain at her side—he turned to exit her quarters, leaving Akantha alone with her unbridled despair.
Chapter Forty-one: Spalding on a Rampage
“What the blazes do you mean ‘I can’t sue Medical’?” bellowed the old Engineer at the man on the other side of the holo-screen. “I have the proof—documented evidence of their medical malpractice and forced imprisonment against the will of a serving Confederation Officer—with 3D surround sound, to boot!”
“The medical waiver you signed when you joined the Caprian SDF allows Fleet Medical to perform life-saving procedures, up to and including surgical intervention, whether you’re willing or not. The only requirement is that at least two doctors concur that such treatment is necessary—a requirement they’ve clearly satisfied. I’m afraid your hands are tied, Commander,” said Lieutenant Harpsinger.
“Unacceptable,” Spalding spat, that part of his face that was still natural skin turning red as he took deep breaths, “this is completely beyond the pale, Harpsinger. Do you understand what I’m saying? A man’s body is his temple, and those butchers just went up and had a pagan sacrifice on the bloody alter! I demand that you do something. I’m sending you the file right now.”
“There’s really nothing I can do,” Harpsinger said helplessly, “technically speaking, they had every medical and legal right to save your life—even against your verbally-stated will. A lawsuit simply won’t hold up in a court of law, either military or civilian. At worst we could maybe get the two of them a reprimand for not taking your dignity as a patient into account when speaking with you…of course, then we’d have to show the court evidence of your threats of bodily harm—threats and actions which extended as far as attempted murder—at the same time.”
“You’re as useless as tits on a boar, Harpsinger; you do realize that, don’t you?” Spalding spat. “I don’t want to take them to court for hurting my feelings—I want their ranks; I want their medical licenses; and then I want to see them locked in a cold, dark jail. ‘Let me die,’ I said. Don’t you understand what that means when a man says that?! How much clearer can a man be?”
“I wish I could help you,” Harpsinger said, his face stiffening, “but allowing officers to die of a treatable medical condition is against regulations.”
The old engineer threw his hands in the air and then slammed his data slate against the wall, breaking the case and cracking the screen, “I don’t know why I’m even surprised that the bloodsucker is taking the side of the quacks. Thick as thieves, those professions are—and have been since you slithered out of your eggs,” he said with disgust.
The chime at his door activated indicating someone was on the outside seeking entry.
“Go away!” Spalding shouted, but the door swished open despite his protests. “Oh, aye, just come on in like as if you own the place,” snarled the old engineer, “it’s not like I put a privacy lock on the door—and then shouted for you not to enter!”
“No need to get so touchy over a simple mechanical override of your door,” said the Yard Manager as she stepped into the room. Then, seeing the look on the old Engineer’s face, she ground to a halt. “Is this a bad time?” she asked cautiously.
Spalding purpled, his already red face turning a dangerous shade of puce as he rounded on her. “Go away, witch!” he snapped.
“What did you call me?” Glenda Baldwin stiffened.
“Come back to the scene of your crime to gloat, have ye?” he ground out.
“I beg your pardon,” she demanded, her hand dropping to her tool belt.
“You know what you did,” Spalding spat, “don’t try to hide it behind a mask of ignorance; it doesn’t suit you.”
“I’ve heard of waking up on the wrong side of the bed, but this is extreme—even for you—and especially after the way I saved your life,” Glenda shouted back.
“You led me into an ambush,” Spalding glared right back. “All I did was drop a stitch for half a moment, and you’re leading me on and turnin’ me over to the butchers like a lamb ready for the slaughter. Well, let me tell you something, woman:, this old man isn’t some helpless lamb you can run over at will.”
“Lost a stitch? You couldn’t even remember an anti-gravity system you—yourself, with literally no outside help—already installed on a high-performance lander. What if you had taken out the inertial dampeners instead and then forgotten about that? Everyone would have been killed the moment you took the shuttle to full power,” Glenda said, turning red.
“I tried to do the mission on my own, but those blasted Lancers wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer. But don’t worry: next time I’ll install anti-personnel defenses and that way I’ll only get myself killed, as you seem so certain I’d do,” the old engineer barked.
“See?! Even in your own mind. you know that being around you while you were losing your mind was dangerous,” sneered Baldwin. “You just can’t admit it to yourself. So my methods may have been underhanded but, while you’re cursing me for saving your life, you can in the same breath thank me for not letting you get anyone killed.”
“I am not some hazard! Everything I’ve built has worked to specifications! Being around me was perfectly safe and fine,” Spalding growled.
“You were losing your memory, and your mind was the next thing on the list to go. I knew you wouldn’t go over to Medical so, yes, I tricked you. I did it to save your life, you ornery old windbag. Can’t you see that?” Baldwin asked, more than a touch emotionally.
“I would have rather died than go back under the knife,” Spalding said angrily, “but you took that decision from me. If you were so concerned then you should have just locked me in a maintenance closet and left me to starve. It would have been more humane,” his face took on an ugly look, “they did everything I feared they would after you delivered me into their clutches—every blasted thing. I’m the victim here, but no one seems to see that even when it’s shoved in their faces!”
“Oh, boohoo, cry me a river. ‘They saved me life against me will, they did’,” Baldwin sneered. “You didn’t want to live because you were afraid of treatment? What are you, a man, an engineer, or something less deserving of respect? Where is the man I first met—the fearless one who made very little sense when you talked to him, but for whom no challenge was too difficult for him to handle?”
“Just how many fusion generators have you walked into? How many rides on untested equipment have your taken into battle? Come back and talk to me after you’ve done even a tithe as many,” Spalding spat. “I’m not afraid to die…I’m not afraid to do my duty. Who are you to judge me?”
“Yes, it’s clear you don’t value your life. I don’t have to walk into a fusion generator to see that. But a little trip to Medical and you act worse than a little kid after a trip the dentist. Throwing tantrums left and right,” Baldwin mocked. “’No job too small, no fee to high,’ I believe you once joked at me. Well, I may not have risked my life lately but I wonder where that man went, because I sure miss him. It’s clear to see that he’s not here; he’s been replaced with this quivering pile of outrage, indignation, and fear.”
“Fear? So you think I’m a coward, is it? Old Spalding’s lost his nerve? ‘He’s not half the man he was since he lost his heart and started to lose his mind’,” the Chief Engineer said furiously. “Well, I’ll show you a thing, missy.”
“That’s not what I said—” Baldwin started icily.
“But that’s what you implied: that I’m a little child who can’t get the job done anymore, too afraid and too shaking-in-his-boots after a simple trip to Medical to get the job done. Well, let me tell you, I’ve forgotten more than most men, most engineers—and certainly most trained women,” he gave her a scathing look, “ever knew in the first place. You think I’ve lost my nerve, that I can’t hack it anymore? That I’m nothing more than a whining, mewling, slacker living on his past laurels.”
“I never said that; I said ‘get over yourself, get ready to go back to work, and stop acting out’,” Baldwin growled.
“You’ve made yourself clear,” Spalding gritted his teeth. “Well even if I’m only half the man you thought I was, I’m still twice the man the rest of you’ll ever be. A coward shaking in his boots, am I? A tantrum-throwing child? Well, blast all of you! Any liberties you think I take, I’ve earned with my own two hands in the blood I’ve shed, the blood I’ve saved in this fleet, and the enemies I’ve destroyed,” he stood up to his full height and snatched up his tool belt from the personal effects bin—where they’d been languishing in since he’d been sucker-punched in Medical.
“Yeah, you’re the real poster boy for recruitment,” Baldwin snapped, “yes, you’ve done a lot and I’m not trying to detract from that one bit. But you’re half off your rocker—as usual—and you’re as certain as anything that the world is out to get you when it’s not. Can’t you see that the only thing I’ve ever tried to do was help? There’s no need to insult me for making what might have been the wrong call by trying to save your life you old fool,” she finished, the hint of wetness in her eyes.
“I am not senile. I am not a coward. And I will not be doubted!” Spalding retorted, strapping on his tool belt determinedly. “I’ll show all of you doubters that I still have what it takes. My name is Commander Terrence P. Spalding, and I’ve got more grit in my little pinky toe than the whole blooming lot of you put together—and that’s a fact. What kind of man am I, you ask? Well, let me show you,” he snorted fearsomely and then pushed past her towards the door.
****************************************************
“Out of my way, you lot,” Spalding barked, pushing men to the side as he stormed through the Engineering compartment.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Glenda demanded, having started from at least a hundred paces behind him as she hurried to try and catch up.
“Gather ‘round, men,” Spalding called to the work crew he’d assembled on the way over to the battered battleship. His numbers were a little light at the moment, but he had twice as many techs and engineers on the way as had already showed up.
The engineers—all of them men or women who’d served with him on the Clover, stout lads and a few lasses who would follow him into the pit if he asked them to—came over and surrounded him
A simple but telling look at them, and then at the Yard Manager, caused them to close ranks, keeping her on the outside—and far enough away to keep her from bothering him more than he could stand for right now.
“What do you need, Chief?” asked Parkiney.
“Now, I know there’s been a lot of rumors floatin’ around about why I was in Medical,” Spalding cleared his throat and swept the crew with his gaze one by one. “Well I’m here to put those rumors to bed.”
“We’re with you, Chief!” shouted someone in the back.
“Just so as you know I’m fine—I was always fine!” there was a loud snort from the direction of Baldwin, who was still forcibly kept at the back of the circle, but with a scowl Spalding kept focused on what was important: inspiring the work crew. “As I was sayin’, those idiots in Medical decided they didn’t do a good enough job the first time around and shanghaied me for a follow-up so they could cover their backsides if anything happened.”
This time the snort was even louder, but he gritted his teeth and continued.
“Any which way, I’m here now and as good as—or better than ever…although, as we’ve learned from the Clover, it’s hard to improve perfection!” This time there was laughter as he continued, “But while they might be good at cutting up a man’s body and rearranging the pieces inside, those quacks don’t know a round-bottom credit when it comes to running a ship and a Fleet. Which is why, during my forced confinement—while they saved themselves from prosecution over installing a bum pancreas and faulty spleen—I took a look at some of the engineering jobs that have been piling up and decided the surveyors made a mistake!”
Several of the crew started to look knowingly at the ship around them.
Spalding raised his hands. “Now, it’s not their fault entirely for making a bad call—after all, even I signed off. my own self—so we can’t blame them too much. We can blame it on a lot of post-battle work in Elysium…and that bad spleen of mine,” the old engineer said pompously, “but while you all have been working fast and furiously, I had nothing but time on my hands. So as I did the paperwork and, since it became clear to me that no one had the time to do a proper follow-up, I decided to look into it myself. Which brings us to why we’re here today.”
“Just tell us what to do, Commander, and we’ll make it happen,” Parkiney nodded.
Spalding started pacing back and forth and then turned abruptly and leveled a finger at the crew, “Any fool can see this ship has taken too much damage to get back into service for anything less than the cost of building a brand new ship entirely. However,” he shook his finger at them, “if we can get at least two of these fusion generators in here back in business then, while she’ll never fly as a battleship again, I think—”
“The fusion generators were down-checked for a reason, Commander. They were assessed as too dangerous to—” the Yard Manager tried to interrupt, but Spalding talked over her.
“But!” he repeated loudly. “If any crew can do it then it’s this one. Afterward, it’ll be a relatively simple job to tear out most of her innards, swap the good pieces over to her sister ships—or even the Clover—and put her back in service as a dedicated Gunboat Carrier. And all we have to do is bring two of these fusion generators up from a cold start which, with a little repair, I believe is doable,” he finished thunderously.
“Gunboats?” the crew around him seemed surprised, but slowly started nodding.
“As Murphy is my witness, it’ll be time to bring out the Gorgon Iced Ale after we’re done here…I might even look the other way if it was cut with a little something extra,” the Chief Engineer said, trying to finish on a triumphant note.
The cheers that erupted at the tacit admission—which suggested he’d allow his people to imbibe something other than meads and ales—made him wince at the potential hypocrisy of his statement, but right then the most important thing was letting everyone in the Fleet see that he was still large and in charge after his trip to Medical—and that he was just as competent as he ever was, despite whatever rumors the Yard Manager might have been perpetrating against him.
“Blast it, Spalding; these fusion generators can’t survive a cold start-up,” that very thrice-accursed witch shouted above the joyous din of the celebratory engineers. “I looked at them myself. Two of them are missing their cores and the other two need full rebuild before I would trust them.”
“Out of my way, woman,” the old Engineer shouted, even though she wasn’t anywhere close to him; it was more the instinctive, reactive, principle of the thing. She wasn’t going to stop him from proving to everyone—even, and especially, the Yard Manager herself. “Bostwell, you’re on the Coms; keep the yard monkeys and sensor operators from havin’ a heart attack when we fire up the generators.”
“No problem, Chief,” said Bostwell.
“Parkiney, I want you and Hatterson to take a look at the two fusion generators I’ve marked in the file I sent you. Then cannibalize anything and everything you think you might need from the ones without cores. It’s not like we’re planning on repairing them, anyway, and they should be compatible so take what you need and get back to me with a time estimate on the breakdowns,” ordered Spalding.
“Yes sir!” said the two team leaders in unison.
More engineering techs and crew started pouring in, and the group began to break up now that they had specific tasks, with the ones who’d been here for the speechifying updating their late coming fellows as to why they were here.
“Blast it, Engineer, you know better than this,” the Yard Manager said, finally slipping up next to him. “If this doesn’t work then you’re going to get a lot of good people killed. And for what, pride?”
“Ms. Naga, you’re with me,” he said coldly, ignoring the Yard Manager at his elbow, “we’re going to go over every inch of the interior of those generators with a fine-toothed comb.”
“On it,” said the specialist.
“Planning to throw your life away to prove something with another crazy stunt, is that it? I knew it,” the Yard Manager flared.
“Not at all,” Spalding said, nodding towards where Ms. Naga was setting up the equipment, “maybe it’s not true of other engineers, but if you show me something that works then this old dog can learn a new trick. We’ll be using Tiberius’ remote-controlled heavy work suits to scan the interiors of those generators. And if they prove too damaged, the repair job will be modified or aborted.”
“Even if you believe this isn’t ego-driven, you’re pulling people off of assignments all over the Yard. How are we supposed to keep on schedule when you just pull top specialists and crew leaders off priority assignments willy-nilly?” the Yard Manager protested.
“If you have a problem with my personnel requisitions, take it up with the Admiral,” Spalding rounded on her. “But barring a surprise attack on this system—or a war breaking out—I aim to prove to you, and to everyone in this star system, that Terrance P. Spalding can fix anything made by man or beast.”
Throwing her hands in the air, Baldwin stood to the side and watched as the repair team Spalding had assembled started working fast and furiously. After fifteen minutes or so of observing his lads and lassies hard at work, just as he had trained them to do, she stormed out of Main Engineering.
“Alright, lads, don’t waste time—but we don’t need to rush, neither. This job will be done when it’s done and not a second sooner; I don’t want anyone injured,” he ordered, and then headed over to take a good hard look at the monkey suit Tiberius had fixed up. It needed a good going over before he’d trust it inside any fusion generator of his—Murphy knows he was uniquely qualified to conduct such an inspection.
Chapter Forty-two: Jason and Gants
There was a chime on the door to the ready room, and with irritation I looked up with a frown at the door.
“Come in,” I said, unhappy at being interrupted in the middle of writing a report.
“I hope this isn’t a bad time, Admiral?” said Gants hurrying into the room and plopping down in a seat before being invited to do so.
“You look to be in something of a hurry, Mr. Gants,” I replied, giving the other man an assessing look and toying with a stylus between my fingers.
“Don’t worry on my account, Sir,” Gants said hastily, “I’m fit as a fiddle and fine as can be.”
I tossed down the stylus. “That begs the question of why are you here, then, Mr. Gants,” I explained. Gants looked around the room as if for eavesdroppers and then lowered his voice. I leaned down in imitation and whispered, “What is it?”
Then, rolling my eyes, I leaned back in my chair mockingly and stretched my arms and legs as if I didn’t have a care in the world.
Ignoring my antics, Gants gave me a serious look. “I think we should change the guard on your door, Sir,” he said, sounding deathly certain.
I froze and then sat back up straight. Even though it was Gants—and it had been melodramatically carried out—I was too familiar with Palace politics to dismiss his worries out of hand.
“I think we should replace them with an Armory team,” he explained, his head nodding up and down knowingly.
“Is that all?” I asked, giving him a searching look.
“No! We probably ought to do something about your personal protective detail—make them Armory also,” he continued.
“Which begs the question: why?” I said, still appraising him with slightly narrowed eyes, “is this just an attempt to return things to how they were before you were assigned to Gambit Station, or is there a specific concern I should be aware of?”
“Me? No, Sir!” Gants said, looking alarmed at the notion that he was trying to seize power.
I relaxed fractionally. Whatever was up, Gants at least seemed to be unaffected by it. Or, rather, he was the same as usual—which was comforting in a fashion, and disquieting in another. I motioned with my hand for him to go on.
“Well, since I’ve been back…well, before that even—anyway, the boys I’m talking about joined since I took back over control of the Armory team on your ship, if you follow what I mean…” Gants said leadingly.
“Not really, but hopefully as you keep speaking I’ll follow the gist of it. You have some new team members who are causing you some alarm,” I said, doing my best to reiterate what he had just said.
“Exactly,” Gants said, slamming a fist into his other hand, “like I said, I hired some new boys to replace our losses from the boarding action on the Phoenix and what they’ve been saying to me now, these past couple days, has got me worried, Sir, and I don’t mind telling you as much.”
I looked at him expectantly, figuring that we’d get to whatever it was more quickly if I kept my mouth shut and listened than we would if I tried to play twenty questions.
“Right, right,” Gants said, his face turning red, “anyway, a few of the new guys are Tracto-ans—some of them fresh up from the planet but most of them transferred from other departments. Not the Lancers, as they seem to like it over there better, but a few of the ones who went over other departments along the way here.”
“So it’s a Tracto-an problem?” I asked mildly, but on the inside I was starting to worry. The Lancers were how I kept control of the Fleet; if someone decided to mutiny, conversely, and I had a Tracto-an problem then…how secure were my ships?
“Yeah, these new boys didn’t think too terribly much of you when they first came on board—but we straightened them right out first thing,” Gants said fiercely. “Which is why, when they heard the rumors going around about how a bunch of nameless ‘someone’s were thinking about Challenging the Little Admiral and cutting his head off so they could be the new Warlord, they came right back to me and reported it on the double quick.”
“Son of a blighter,” I swore, slamming my hand down on the table so hard it stung.
Gants jumped and then clenched his own fist and thumped it on the table much as I had just done.
“This is mutiny in cold space—I want names, Mr. Gants,” I said harshly, giving him a good glare for emphasis.
Suddenly, he looked worried. “Well, that’s just it,” Gants said with concern, “I don’t know who they are, and my guys wouldn’t tell me—not even after I sweated them a bit. I’m not sure they even know who it is. But what I do know is that they don’t think it’s mutiny.”
“How can killing me not be mutiny?” I asked with a sinking feeling.
“I say ‘lock ’em up and throw away the key on a penal planet’,” Gants said seriously, “but guys seem to think that, because we’re not at war and we’ve just been sitting here in dock for the past four months, it’s the same as garrison duty. Apparently, on Tracto, men in the garrison can challenge their leaders if they want to move up in rank. I’m afraid you’ve got a big, red, Tracto-an target on your back, Admiral—which is why I think we need to swap out your current team with my guys from the Armory. If they can’t get behind you, they can’t stab you in the back!”
“Demon Murphy and all his angry imps! Can’t a man get a little peace and quiet without everything coming apart all around him, every, single, time he turns around?” I demanded in a rising voice.
Gants was shaking his head disapprovingly, presumably at the people I was angry at from his expression. “We’ll root them out—all those back-stabbing traitors,” he said with certainty.
“A Tracto-an is more likely to come over a table at you than stab you from behind. They’re more of an in-your-face, gut-you-from-the-front bunch—the whole lot of them,” I said angrily. Those blasted ingrates. I had avoided going down to the planet when we came home to avoid this very issue. So I could only assume that a bunch of them had joined up with the Fleet so they could come on up and challenge me up here on my own ships.
“Front or behind, it’s still mutiny, Sir,” Gants agreed.
“Yes, but they won’t see it that way,” I said fiercely, “and, what’s more, if I start locking up every one of them who thinks they’ve got a legitimate beef or right to challenge me then we really will have a mutiny on our hands!”
Gants started to speak but I held up a hand to stop him.
For a long couple of minutes, I sat there thinking about the matter—hard. In the end, I decided that just yanking my Lancer protective detail would do more harm than good. It could possibly feed whatever grievances my uppity, would-be killers had against me, and if not that then giving my own closest defenders—loyal men and women who’d followed me through battle after battle—a legitimate reason to be upset with me.
“What are we going to do, Admiral?” Gants finally asked.
I stood up abruptly. “Follow me, Mr. Gants,” I said, arriving at a conclusion.
Chapter Forty-three: Demanding Answers
“Akantha!” I called, pounding on the door to her quarters—a door her guards wouldn’t open for me.
“I’m sorry, Warlord but the Mistress is not in,” a Tracto-an guard informed me for the third or fourth time.
“Then where is she?” I demanded impatiently.
“I can’t say,” said the Life Guard.
I had started to turn away in disgust but at the guard’s words I paused and turned back a dark expression crossing my face at those words. “Oh, you can’t, can’t you?” I said eyeing the man up and down. “As a Life Guard of Akantha, is it not just your job, but your sworn duty, to know where she is at all times?”
“The Mistress—” he said, but I talked over him.
“Just to be clear: you are admitting to me that you have failed in your duty as a guard of the Hold Mistress and have no idea where she is?” I asked mercilessly. “If you continue to not tell me where she is…”
“My duty is to guard the Hold Mistress—” he started, but I cut him off by way of pulling out my sword.
“It is my duty to protect the mother of my future children!” I snarled, leveling my blade at him. “Your duty is to assist me in that task.”
The Tracto-an’s eyes followed my sword, but the rest of his body did not move and he stayed motionless in his position.
My eyes hardened and my hand tightened on the hilt of my sword. “It seems I’ve been too lenient with the warriors under my banner if they feel free to ignore a direct order from their sworn Warlord. I assure you that I won’t be making that mistake again,” I said, drawing back my sword.
“Wait,” said the other guard, “no examples are necessary. The Mistress has transferred to Gambit Station for her period of confinement!”
I looked between the two of them, taking note of the stylized crests on their armor. “So…the man supposedly sworn to me directly defies my will, and the woman who isn’t gives me the information I ask for?” I said, looking at the male guard in disgust.
The male warrior turned red-faced.
“Interesting,” I sneered and then barked, “Gants!”
“Yes, Admiral,” the Head of the Armory Department appeared at my side.
“I have no use for a man who can’t follow orders,” I said my eyes never leaving the warrior, “send this one back to Tracto.”
“Sir?” Gants said with surprise and then his face hardened as he nodded in acknowledgment. “Your sidearm and your armor, Lancer,” he ordered.
The warrior looked surprised and shook his head.
“If he gives you any trouble, Gants, you have my permission to kill him,” I said flatly. I had no use for a man who swore an oath and then failed to obey. Maybe he was a good man, maybe his extended service with Akantha had caused him to give more of his loyalty to her than to me, or maybe he was one of those secret upstarts who was aiming for my head to improve their rank. I didn’t know and I didn’t have the patience to find out; he’d failed me and that was enough.
“You heard the Admiral,” Gants snapped.
Turning on my heel, pausing only long enough to sheath my sword along the way, I stalked out of the room.
****************************************************
With an entourage of thirty Armory boys—and girls—following along behind me, I secured the location of Akantha’s new quarters via the com-link on the trip over to Gambit Station via shuttle craft.
I knew the moment I entered the section she was staying in, because of the Tracto-ans in power armor posted at all the major choke-points leading to her room.
“Protector, what do you here?” asked a female warrior in power armor named Isis. She was a regular member of Akantha’s close in protective detail and sometime emergency bridge crew, if I recalled correctly.
“I’m here to see my wife,” I said flatly.
“The Mistress has entered confinement; for her safety, and that of the babies, only guards, midwives and healers are allowed in to see her,” Isis said, walking quickly to match my ground-swallowing strides.
“I’m sure she’ll see me,” I said, ignoring her attempts to slow me.
“Men are not allowed to see the mother during the last month of her pregnancy. Even you,” Isis exclaimed as I came to a stop outside the door, “it is our tradition!”
I could see the pair of women standing outside the door to Akantha’s new quarters were concerned, and that they wanted to forbid me entry—but they didn’t quite dare to lay hands on and try to stop me.
“Even if that’s so, fear not; we have the technology,” I said, ignoring her waving hands and concerned expressions. “Hatch intercoms allow for two way voice communication.”
“It may be difficult for a woman in her condition to stand and speak to a door for long periods of time!” Isis struggled to try and dissuade me.
“While a chair might be the intelligent thing to suggest, instead of forcing her into a sustained standing posture, we are also blessed with the possession of data slates—devices which are superior to the intercom in many ways, and allow for both voice and video communication from comfort of chair, bed, or with waterproof models, even the bath or shower stall,” I continued, easily rolling over any and all protests.
“Protector Montagne!” Isis protested.
“I will trouble you to provide Akantha with my very own slate, in case she may have forgotten her own back in our quarters,” I said, proffering the slate to forestall further protests of such a low-brow and obvious nature.
“How would you then speak with her?” Isis said obtusely.
“Fortunately, I carry a spare,” I said, pulling a smaller, more compact model out of my vest pocket.
The intransigent warrior opened her mouth, no doubt to muster up yet another protest when the door dinged.
“What do you need, Protector?” Akantha’s voice came over the intercom.
“Perhaps we could continue this conversation in person, my Lady?” I said smoothly.
“This method is fine,” she said flatly, a cutting edge in her voice that hadn’t been there the last time we spoke.
“I would really prefer—” I said firmly, but she cut me off.
“I will ask you to honor the traditions of my people,” Akantha said with a hint of heat in her voice.
I paused. Even as early as this morning when we’d spoken there had been no mention of any need to withdraw herself from the rest of the world. You would think she would have mentioned this at some point during the eight plus months of her pregnancy. So even if it really was a part of her world’s ‘native traditions,’ this sudden ‘confinement’ of hers reeked suspiciously—the timing of which, very nearly in perfect unison to mutinous rumblings among her people—was more damning than the so-called ‘tradition’ itself.
“Are you sure you’re feeling completely safe in there?” I asked, glancing at either of the guards outside her door.
“And why wouldn’t I be?” Akantha snapped. “My guards have secured this entire section of the station, and anyone but you wouldn’t be able to get even this far without permission.”
“I would really prefer that, if you must stay under lock and key, we at least communicate face-to-face over a video link,” I said stiffly.
“The intercom will do,” she replied shortly.
“I think I’ll be adding to your security,” I said thinking that in the face of this sudden erratic behavior it might be wise to post a few all Caprian/Promethean Lancer squads to bolster her protective detail. “And I’ll ask my mother to come and help keep you company in there during your ‘confinement’.” Whatever our relationship was, I just couldn’t believe Mom would do anything to hurt Akantha or the babies.
“Do what you will,” Akantha said uncaringly and then, “why are you here, Jason?”
“I’ve heard some disturbing rumors today as it regards the mood of your countrymen and then, when I came to consult my wife about the matter, I found her locked inside a veritable fortress on the station, instead of on our highly mobile and quite heavily defended battleship. Call me concerned,” I retorted.
“I am on the station because it is the nearest thing to a Tracto-an city, and not a ship of war, as could be found in this star system,” Akantha said sharply.
“And the other—“ I stopped, giving the door an annoyed look, “Why don’t you just open this door? I’m tired of talking to you through a metal door!” I exclaimed, reaching forward to try and activate the override and open it.
A gauntleted hand grabbed my unarmored skin, stopping me from doing so. “Release me at once,” I said coldly.
The door guard complied but, by her expression and posture, made it clear that I was only going to be entering over her unresponsive body.
“Don’t try to force the issue, Jason,” Akantha requested, “this is the way it must be. I have the health of our future children to think of.”
“Modern medicine is superior in many ways—” I pointed out.
“Please do not force this issue you will not like the result,” she said flatly.
For a long moment I was stuck there, wondering where my companion and partner of the past year had disappeared to, in a relative blink of the eye. I could literally feel something inside of me hardening.
“You never responded to my other question,” I said after a long minute of silence.
I could hear her breathing heavily on the other side of the doorway. “Look to your defenses, Warlord,” she said finally, “and do not worry on my account. I have taken measures to ensure the birthing goes as smoothly as possible.”
“So I should be concerned, but not for you?” I said neutrally.
“A storm comes. I have done all I might these past months to prepare you for it, but now it is up to you. I cannot interfere,” she said finally her voice cracking with emotion.
“Can not or will not,” I muttered disgustedly.
“I have done everything I can for you,” her voice turned frosty and, in that moment, I could once again recognize the girl I married, “keep your sword sharp and your guard up. Expect challengers; it’s up to you to deal with them. Even if I wanted to do more, I can barely get my arms around this belly.”
“I see,” I said getting my game face on, realizing what she meant to suggest I should expect: more of those infernal Tracto-an honor challenges.
“My time comes quickly; I can feel it. I will be waiting here for your successful return and, hopefully, I will have something to show you when you do,” she said.
It took me a moment to realize that the ‘something’ she was referring to were the babies. “I still wish you had consulted me first,” I said a touch harshly.
“As did I before you locked yourself in your room for the better part of a week!” Akantha snapped. “Sadly, we do not always get what we want—and still I stood by you, no matter what. Maybe things would be different if you had spoken to me first, but then again maybe not! Just believe that I will be listening for word of your success”
I still thought her actions were a tad suspicious, pulling out without giving me a heads-up first. But if she really was working to protect the soon-to-be-born infants, first and foremost, I could almost understand it.
However, she had confirmed my fears: a challenge was in the offing. I silently cursed my sister, my mother, and finally myself most of all. The idea that I might have actually brought these challenges about with my actions—which might have otherwise been avoided, if I had only reacted differently to their betrayal—was more than a little upsetting.
But now wasn’t the time for ‘maybe’s and ‘might have been’s. I’d had it up to my ears with all these blasted honor challenges which, as far as I could see, were just legally-sanctioned murder attempts.
Wars sometimes snuck up on you when you least expected them. But when it came to these backwards, Tracto-an challenge circles, I hadn’t even begun to fight.
It was time to show these undisciplined warriors what a real war looked like. If they wanted a war with an Admiral, I was in the perfect mood to settle this issue once and for all—even if I had to unleash a river of blood to do it.
Chapter Forty-four: Jason Challenged
While Mom and Duncan settled in with Akantha and took up guard duty outside her door, respectively, I had taken preparations of my own.
Gants and his Armory team were stationed inside and outside the gym room, which I had had prepared in the Tracto-an style—complete with a textbook challenge circle.
I had my sword, my old suit of power armor—even though I wasn’t currently wearing it—and a suit of Storm Drake armor which I had ordered to be brought in, but I had ultimately decided against wearing it. My main reason for this was because I hadn’t really trained in it, unlike the battle-armor or simple training gi I had actually been practicing in. Finally, beside the aging battle-suit was a larger, bulkier shape discretely covered with an opaque sheet.
Now all that remained was to wait…while having Gants’ men relay the news that the Admiral was present at the challenge circle.
A couple hours later, there was a stir from the guards stationed within the training room. Several men were holding their ears or talking animatedly from within their battle-suits.
Gants hurried over not long after the commotion began. “There are a large number of Lancers approaching our position,” he leaned down and quietly informed me, “do you want me to let them in or send them away?”
“Sending them away kind of defeats the purpose of letting them know I’m ready to accept challengers,” I said coolly.
“You’re the boss, Admiral,” he said, saluting and then backing away.
“Let them in,” I instructed, as the first of them reached the door.
With a nod from Gants twenty or thirty men entered the room, the majority in power armor but a few not.
“What seems to be the problem, gentlemen?” I asked mildly, as if I were out for a stroll and just happened upon them.
A single man stepped out from the mass of men and, while I watched him come toward me, I could see even more men in power armor stepping inside the room.
The ones who seemed less practiced moving in their battle-suits aligned themselves behind the approaching figure, while their more skillful comrades moved to the other side of the room and spread out.
All this I took in at a glance before my presumed challenger arrived. Then the other man was before me, and he lifted his suit’s helmet.
“Nikomedes,” my lip curled with recognition.
“Admiral Montagne,” he replied with a respectful nod, looking down at me from his power-armor-enhanced height—which was nearly seven feet even without the high-tech gear.
“Why am I not surprised?” I asked rhetorically, shaking my head.
“It was decided that, of all the men who gathered here, I am of the highest status. That is why you see me here now,” he replied, his voice conveying an unusual degree of deference—given the circumstances.
“It seems that no good deed goes unpunished, and if this isn’t proof of that maxim then I don’t know what is,” I said, shaking my head in disgust. “Unless you’re here to reaffirm your undying loyalty and gratitude then state your purpose and let’s get on with it.”
“I am grateful, Admiral, and I believe that my loyalty on the field has never given cause to be questioned. But we are not currently at war, and it is the right of every warrior to challenge for place and position under the War Banner during times of peace,” he replied, utterly unshaken by my rebuke.
“So…your people plan to unseat me, and you’re the man they’ve sent to do it? Or are all of you lot planning on lining up, one by one, to fight me until I drop from exhaustion?” I asked evenly.
“This is not an uprising situation, but an honorable, time-tested tradition of our people. We will follow the rules of the circle. I am the first, but there will be no more than one challenge per day, and as Protector you can set an interval up to three days hence,” he explained. “With the miraculous healing properties of the tanks, you should be recovered from all but the worst wounds in that amount of time.”
“Last time, I spared your life; this time, I won’t make that same mistake, Nikomedes,” I said flatly, stating it as an immutable certainty—one which I fully intended to make real.
“Yet, if given the chance, I will definitely spare yours, Admiral,” the other man replied simply.
“You seem fairly certain you’ll win,” I said, my lips parting in a sneer as I started to channel all the negative emotions of the recent months, “but I wouldn’t be too sure of victory if I were you. As I remember it, the last time we fought you were the one left bleeding and broken on the floor of the Great Hall,” I sneered.
“Last time we met, you alone had powered armor,” Nikomedes said, slapping the battle suit’s pauldron to show that this was not the case any longer, “and again, when you met my two former rivals, you used trickery and deception. I wonder how well you will do now that the field is leveled and we are on guard for your…tricks.”
“You scoff, but I have yet to lose to your people; I like my chances,” I said sharply.
“At best, you are only a middling swordsman. As for losses…if you truly were undefeated, I expect we would not be here,” Nikomedes declared.
“Oh?” I mocked.
“Indeed,” he scowled, “you have been lucky in the challenge circle until now, but that is all it has been: luck. A Warlord is not measured only in personal combat ability; it is mainly your other failures which have turned so many against you.”
“Faithless men such as you, you mean?” I continued to mock him. “It seems to me that my only failure was to not properly screen the men I allowed into my Lancer division. If there is a failure, it was to give you a chance to prove yourself worthy of elevation!”
I didn’t believe for a moment that he was really intending to leave me alive at the end of the battle if he won. I knew that he’d been after Akantha from the start, and leaving me alive would only allow me to do what he was doing: build up my strength and comeback. But, fortunately for me, I didn’t have to worry about that too much because, barring extremely bad luck, I wasn’t going to be losing this match—or any of those which followed.
“Hubris!” he bellowed, his deep voice echoing throughout the chamber. “Time and time again, you have lost in battle. First at the Omicron—where you were captured, leaving Lady Akantha at the mercy of ‘your’ enemies. You even had to be rescued from prison by your own crew while you gladly wore shackles about your wrists!” he snapped.
I snorted. If that’s the best he has then he really is just another power-hungry underling, I thought dismissively. Yes, that had been one of my lowest moments. But even after I was captured, we had still run the table on our enemies. While I wasn’t proud of it, that battle had still been a qualified victory.
“Only by her own hand was she saved. What’s more, how many times has your warship been brought to ruin beneath your feet? The Heavy Cruiser, Little Gift; the Lucky Clover. Even in the battle for Elysium, your own flagship was boarded and almost captured by the enemy,” Nikomedes declared, “you risk everything with each maneuver, and for what?”
“Wins—every last one of them. If you keep on listing my victories like this, I might actually start to blush,” I said with a theatrical laugh.
“You take the safety of your Mistress too lightly!” Nikomedes growled, turning red in the face. “Now you laugh and jest, but when it comes to Akantha it was your duty—nay it was your obligation—to ensure her safety by any means necessary. You ask why I am doing this? It is for that very reason. You brought a Hold Mistress—and your own unborn children, an unparalleled boon granted by the grace of the Hold Mistress herself!—into a warzone and almost lost them. But for the breath of Men, you would have lost.”
“’Maybes’ and second guesses, in situations where no harm actually came. Really, Nikomedes? If you think that Akantha would let anyone—least of all you or me—wrap her in a blanket and keep her safely away from the action, you don’t know her near as well as you think you do,” I shook my head piteously.
“Our world was invaded because of you! Perhaps you care about this, or perhaps you do not; I cannot say. But even if you do care, our world—and even the life of your Sword-Bearer and Hold Mistress—are not your highest priorities! Yes, you have other obligations but that is exactly why Akantha needs a new Protector; she needs someone who will place her—and her traditions—first. She needs one who will guard our planet with his life, not open Tracto up to the universe and bring a tide of death and destruction in his glory-seeking wake,” growled Nikomedes.
“Are you done yet?” I asked coldly.
“Speak,” replied Nikomedes, folding his arms.
“I saved your worlds from the Bugs. Without me, you wouldn’t even be around to complain,” I pointed out.
“I do not deny your service there, but you incited your own Uncle to invade. Tell me, Admiral: how many more like him will follow you here. The defense of Tracto must be handled by a Tracto-an,” Nikomedes declared.
“I did not interrupt you; please do me the courtesy of doing the same,” I growled.
Niko lifted his eyebrows and settled back.
“As for your naïve, foolish—and mistaken—belief that I brought the wrath of Jean Luc down on you,” I shrugged, “maybe I did and maybe I didn’t. But,” I lifted a finger, “let’s be clear. It wasn’t me who turned Jean Luc on you—it was the Imperials. Just like they seeded the Bugs outside your star system and waited for them to do their unholy work, our captured intelligence clearly shows that they urged Jean Luc to come to Tracto. So, whether or not I came trailing a ‘path of carnage and destruction’ behind me is moot—because it came after saving your entire people from the Bugs. Your world was slated for destruction before I even knew the word ‘Tracto,’ let alone the world.”
Nikomedes was breathing harshly through his nose, “A conveniently timed explanation. Even if true, at this point there are too many invested in your defeat to simply back away from mere words,” Nikomedes said with a resolute shake of his head.
“Do your worst then, and don’t hold back on my account,” I said, “I have never expected that the facts—or an inconvenient truth—would sway you from killing me.”
“I don’t know what she sees in you, but clearly she does see something,” Nikomedes hissed. “So, for her sake—and though you mock me at every turn—I will do what I can to preserve your life,” he said, and something in his voice was less-than-certain as he said this.
It wasn’t that I thought he was consciously lying about sparing me; it was more like he was fighting against some deep-seated preference to do the exact opposite.
“Even if she did not, it is true that you have been of some service to my world,” Nikomedes continued, his tone hardening once again as the uncertainty vanished. “Sadly—for you—we have reached the point where it cannot be questioned that the defense of our people, holds, and world would be better-served by being removed from your hands.”
“Yeah, yeah; you’re a lot of talk and no action,” I said in a loud voice.
“You cannot rattle me with insults designed to raise my temper. Your reign will soon be over, Jason Montagne,” Nikomedes said just as loudly.
“Then let’s get this thing over and done with,” I snapped. “Nikomedes will be first, but every warrior who intends to challenge me will step forward—now—so that I can know your face. That is,” I added with a sneer, “unless you’re too cowardly to let me know you?”
There was an angry grumbling that swept through the men behind Nikomedes, after which more than twenty men stepped forward.
“Every man here is of leading warrior rank or higher,” Nikomedes said loudly. “However, as a fellow Warlord in your service, I have the honor of being the first to issue my challenge,” stepping forward, he spat beside my boots, causing the rumbling to cease all around us. “Jason Montagne, if you are possessed of honor, face me in the ring.”
Stepping to the side, I turned so that I could see nearly everyone in the room.
“I have a Fleet to run. So I don’t have time to deal with your challenges day after day,” I said, shaking my head in disgust and looking down on the warriors around me, deliberately showing them my disdain.
“Then you refuse the challenge and show yourself to be without honor?” Nikomedes demanded, his eyes narrowing.
“Far from it,” I said assured him flatly, “however, my time is too precious to waste on the lot of you.”
The rumbling returned, and quickly rose to angry shouts—even some of them from behind me—and I lifted my arms in response calling for silence.
“Either accept my challenge or lose status in the eyes of the warriors here. I am a proven Warrior—a Warlord with my own fighting tail—and the owner of a Light Sword of Power—a weapon which I stake on the outcome of this battle, as I have every right to do! So,” he barked, “face me or be declared a coward before all these warriors—who are officers and leaders of other men within your own Fleet.”
“Oh, I’ll accept your challenge—as well as the challenges of any other disloyal warrior who has the guts to issue one here today. But,” I shouted, lifting my voice above the rising din, “after today, I won’t be entertaining any new challenges. This is a Fleet—an Army in the field; we have regulations to follow, and I don’t have the time to waste on pampering the ego of every man and his brother by giving him the chance to see who is the best warrior. You have your traditions and I have mine so, after today, while onboard any ship, station or outpost of this Fleet you can either follow, you can stand aside, or you can tender your resignation and head back home to Tracto. But anyone who attempts to make a challenge after today will be in violation of our rules—and summarily spaced out the airlock!”
“You say you’ll accept every man who challenges you, but you will only do so for today?” Nikomedes asked, as if to clarify. “So you mean you will be fighting one challenge every day at your convenience, until either you fall or all of your challengers are turned away?”
“No,” I said flatly, “I said that I’ll accept every single one of you that thinks he’d make a better Warlord and Admiral than me—and I’ll take you one by one until every, single, one of you traitorous blighters is dead—or pulls out in fear of that very end,” I explained, pausing before adding in a clear, carrying voice, “and I’ll do it today—one right after the other.”
Nikomedes looked taken aback, but I needed to put this whole ridiculous challenge business to bed. I didn’t know a better way to get them to agree to my proposal than to make them feel certain that there was no way they could lose—or, rather, that I could win. Taking them all on with such short notice would almost certainly seem like a completely suicidal move on my part—which was exactly what I was counting on.
“Even our greatest warriors would not face more than ten of his top warriors all on the same day in quick succession,” said Nikomedes dubiously, and I saw that while his resolve was clear, the rest of the warriors looked taken aback by my clarification.
“That’s because I am superior to all of your greatest warriors,” I said as arrogantly as possible, “and, unlike them, I can—and will—do it.”
“Impossible. Do you have a death wish?” Nikomedes asked, looking briefly shaken.
“Is that your way of withdrawing?” I demanded, and his face hardened.
“Absolutely not,” he said.
“Then let’s do this,” I snapped irritably.
“As the challenged party, it is your right to pick the weapons. While traditionally the challenger can set the time, I agree with your preference: let us settle this once and for all—right now,” Nikomedes said fiercely.
I nodded. “Because you complained that, last time, I fought you in power-armor while you had none, how about you and I go without armor for this first challenge? For the rest of you blighters,” I said dismissively, “I’ll use the suit.”
“No armor is fine,” Nikomedes said with an arrogant smile, “but for the actual weapons? Or did you mean to fight me bare handed,” he smirked.
“How about warrior rules?” I said with a shark-like grin. “Everyone here looks armed—presumably with whatever they’re most familiar with. So, whatever you’ve got on you right now will do. As for me,” I gestured to myself in my training gi, and then toward my Dark Sword of Power—which had previously belong to him, “I’ll go with this. After I defeat you—for what I can assure you will be the last time—I’ll switch over to that,” I said, pointing toward the battle-suit
Stepping out of his armor and reclaiming his sword, Nikomedes stepped into the challenge circle.
“Your preference is unconventional, but I accept,” he said with a hungry smile. I could all but see the desire to tear my head off emanating from him.
Frankly, the feeling was mutual.
Chapter Forty-five: A Legendary Duel
We met in the middle of the circle with a clash, and that first exchange was almost my last.
Because, while I was blocking the vibro-sword in his right hand, his left produced what at first looked like a bladeless hilt—one which quickly extended into a Light Sword of Power the size of a shorter-than-average sword.
Twisting and falling back, only by releasing my own Dark Sword was I barely able to avoid being gutted when that Light Sword came at me. As it was, I could feel the sting across my abdomen run up across my chest.
Holding his vibro-blade at my throat, the Tracto-an shook his head.
“Too easy,” he said, shaking his head at me as his lip curled, “but, if I end it like this, there will only be more challengers until I prove myself.” After saying this, he stepped back, “I won’t have it said that a lucky blow ended this fight.”
“I don’t need any help,” I said, meeting his gaze with a fierce look and a finger pointed at his face, “so don’t hold back on my account.”
“Pick up your sword; let’s go again. I won’t give you a third chance, but I also won’t have it said that I won by luck. When I beat you, it will be clear for all to see,” Nikomedes said, clearly more concerned with how he looked than with actually winning. As if to emphasize his disdain, he sheathed his vibro-blade and came at me.
His concerns were not something I shared. I was in this to win, plain and simple—dirty, ugly, clean, or mess; I‘d take it however I could get.
Watching him the entire time—including his two blades, one sheathed and one not—I crouched down and scuttled over to retrieve the oversized Dark Sword of Power. I’d originally taken it from him way back during my first visit to Tracto, and it was a sword which had later been taken from me in turn by Jean Luc, before eventually being reclaimed after the Bugs had consumed my late and unlamented ‘Uncle’.
Snatching hold of the Dark Sword, I came back into a ready position.
Leaning forward with a fierce expression—that didn’t match the sound of his voice—he said, “If you love your Sword Bearer in even the smallest amount, then at least do your best to make this contest a fight.”
“I have everything under control,” I growled, “it’s you who’ve already lost you just don’t know it yet. Your petty arrogance and jealousy really know no bounds!”
“Ha!” Nikomedes scoffed, and this time when he came at me it was with a renewed storm of sword blows.
Forewarned after having my sword knocked out of my hand once, I was ready this time. Although he pushed me around the ring with that Light Sword in his left hand, I held my own in the exchange. After almost a minute, I started to feel like I was getting a feel for his style.
Parrying and backing away, I angled my sword to disperse the power of his attacks away and to the side and then attempted to counter attack like I’d been training to do for the past year. But this was a man who’d been one of the three most promising young swordsmen in a city-state where one’s ability with a blade was everything.
He had more than an edge when it came to strength—standing about a foot taller than me didn’t hurt his leverage, either—but I was starting to feel like I had a slight edge in speed and skill. If he was bound and determined to fight handicapped, and not to take me seriously—even after the way I pounded him into the ground the last time we had fought—then I wasn’t going to let this opportunity slip through my fingers.
“You’ve improved your skills significantly since the last time we crossed blades,” Nikomedes grinned, driving me around the ring and then punctuating his words with a front kick that sent me flying—but what he didn’t know was that he was exactly where I wanted him.
“Really…I hadn’t noticed,” I gasped, rolling to the side rapidly to avoid a downward sword strike aimed right where my head had been.
“Well…” Nikomedes said contemplatively, “I can understand why you would feel that; last time you suppressed me with your superior strength—or, rather, with the strength of your armor. We both know now you do not have your precious armor,” he bared his teeth like a hungry mountain lion contemplating his next meal. “Without it, the gap between your strength and mine is now reversed—and your sword skills are in no position to compensate.”
“You talk too much,” I snapped, and with a sudden explosive movement struck at the hilt of his Light Sword with all my power. Returning the favor of earlier, when he knocked my Dark Sword out of my hands, his Light Sword went flying. But, unfortunately, this wasn’t some contest or honor duel to me. This man intended to take Akantha, and everything I’d built up since becoming an Admiral, simply because he didn’t think I was strong enough to hold it. Well, I was going to show him—actually, I wasn’t; I was just going to kill him.
My follow-up was wicked, cutting through his outer clothes. I would have gutted the blighter, too, if he hadn’t been wearing a Stone Rhino vest underneath his outer clothes. As it was, my sword gouged deep enough to leave a thin line of blood along the edge of the impact point, but that was all it did.
Jumping back, Nikomedes glared at me as I followed with a lethal swing of my sword. But, for a big man, he was simply too nimble on his feet and he evaded me easily.
“Young Stone Rhino hide from the underside, around the armpits,” Niko explained, tapping his belly and speaking coldly. But his words were a diversion, “I admit it that you are better than I am; fighting like this, I cannot win.”
“Then give up,” I growled bringing my sword overhead for a power stroke, “I promise I’ll make it quick!”
“However, I know something you don’t know,” he said with a matching grunt as he blocked every attack of my blade with his remaining one. While our swords were in the clinch, he shuffled sideways and used his foot to launch the Light Sword up into the air. With a shove that I couldn’t entirely resist, he showcased his superior strength and pushed me back, snatching the Light Sword out of mid-air, “I am not right-handed!”
Then, stepping back, he switched swords mid-air by tossing the vibro-blade and catching it in an underhanded grip in his left hand, with the hilt up and tip down. The shorter, Light Sword, landed firmly in the palm of his left hand—the exact opposite of how the battle had started originally.
I snorted angrily; it’s not like I’d forgotten that he’d been right-handed for our entire last duel, so it wasn’t really a surprise to me. But, clearly, he wasn’t just fighting me; he was playing to the crowd.
I grimaced tightly, since it looked like I’d missed my best chance for an easy win. I’d done everything right and still hadn’t been able to close the deal. I was almost certainly going to have to reach down into my bag of dirty tricks. How deep, and would doing so even be enough, was always the question.
The next few moments, facing two blades and with his strongest weapon, if the one with the shortest range in his dominant hand showed just exactly how much he had been holding back until that moment.
I did my best to defend, but when it came to straight-up sword skill I was simply outmatched. Speed-wise, I might still have the barest edge but when it came to strength I wasn’t just out-matched—I was over-matched.
Still, it’s not like I was about to give up. My chance would come; I just had to stay focused.
Then he came at me again and, with an explosive moment, knocked my sword up and out of position. He followed through with an elbow to the face and a downward chop of the Light Sword, a one-two executed in unthinkably rapid succession.
Twisting to the side, I launched a kick of my own—aimed for straight between the legs. No need to hold back now; it was time to go all out. I really didn’t care what the ‘honorable’ enemies and frenemies around us thought; I was content to let them howl in outrage. But, unfortunately, he blocked the sneak attack with a lifted leg. While the kick didn’t land as I’d hoped, it did provide me with some much-needed breathing room—which I then used to scramble back and rebuild my guard.
Dancing towards me, light on his feet as if he didn’t outweigh me by nearly double, he struck again and again in rapid succession, setting both the pace and rhythm of the combat. Any fool could see that he was clearly in command of the contest at this point, and again I was forced to conclude that he was playing to the crowd.
“I best you in both strength and skill at arms; all you have is a slight speed edge which I can easily counter with my lighter Light Sword,” he growled as he lashed out with a low kick—which I easily vaulted, using the Dark Sword of Power for leverage against the deck as I continued backpedaling away from him. “Would it not be better to concede? I’ve given you face, and the chance to look good for the warriors going down with a fight,” the Tracto-an said in a low, serious voice as he came at me, “if you surrender now and concede, you would forgo an honorable death, true; however, you would also spare your Mistress—and children—the unseemly sight of your corpse,” said the Tracto-an. “I swear to raise them as my own in any event.”
“Never,” I declared in a raspy voice, working to keep any hint of the breathlessness I was feeling out of my voice.
Even if I would have been willing to let my wife go to some other man—which, for the record, there was no way in Hades that would happen—there was absolutely no way I was about to give up my children and give them to some other man to raise.
A traitor who took my coin, took my training, and turned it against me deserved only one reply: “Screw you and the horse you rode in on,” I shouted for emphasis.
All around us, the men—at least, I assumed it was an all-male gathering, as I hadn’t spotted any female warriors with the urge to cut off my head and take my position—roared with approval. They were presumably cheering my will to keep fighting and give them a good show.
“Your luck is phenomenal, and the cunning of your battle tricks are murderous when not expected and accounted for—as I have done,” he said in an arrogant, presumptive tone. “But I wonder how well you really think you’re doing against a man who is wise to your tricks and outmatches you in every single way?”
“I haven’t even begun to fight,” I said grimly, once again backing away from his attack. I wasn’t fighting for honor; I wasn’t fighting for power, like my foe. No, I was fighting for my family. My sister had tried to kill me; I’d found out my mother had betrayed me by lying to me for my entire life; and now this man—who I’d previously bested and subsequently allowed to join me—wanted to take everything that was important to me: my wife and kids. He would leave me with absolutely nothing—it was a road too far.
This wasn’t just personal—it was to the knife.
In an instant, I planted my feet and counterattacked. If I could get rid of that vibro-sword then he would once again be down to one blade: the Light Sword. It was a lot shorter than my Dark Sword, so good footwork would give me the range advantage—which I could use to cut him down where he stood, just like he deserved.
Nikomedes repeatedly blocked my attacks, but while my own movements were controlled I was incensed by the thought that this blighter’s attempt to take everything I was. This anger—no, this rage—allowed me to pour every ounce of strength and power into my attacks. Like a lumberjack, I grimly set to the appointed chopping down of the appointed tree that was his vibro-sword. Of course, if his guard slipped in the meantime, that didn’t mean I wasn’t going to exploit it and kill him.
“Your reputation is well-earned,” Nikomedes said, apparently seeing what I was attempting. With a grunt and a powerful surge, he locked my Dark Sword with his Light one, freeing his vibro-blade for a counterattack and returned the favor of trying to take my head off in turn.
“Says the man who thinks every move I’ve made has been a near-disaster and suitable grounds for this challenge,” I mocked. “Who do you think you are, you little squeak ant? I eat men like you for breakfast—and your betters for lunch!”
“I wonder how well it will serve you now, Jason Montagne!” he howled, ignoring my last words and launching a combination sword-sword-kick attack that nearly sent my weapon spinning out of my hand—and did knock the wind out of me when his boot hit my stomach. “Go back to being an Admiral and leave Tracto to the Tracto-ans! Long live the people of MEN.”
“Can’t you just shut up and fight?” I gasped furiously. Really, the mouth on this guy! He wanted my wife, my kids, and my position, but I should just leave and give up? I’d sterilize his planet from high orbit—everything but Messene and Argos, of course—before I even thought about giving up!
It was obvious that up until this point my Tracto-an opponent had been, if not exactly holding back, then at least showcasing a full comparison of my skills versus his. And now, apparently done with the showcasing, the battle had turned deathly serious. It seemed we were finally on the same page which, while nothing I hadn’t expected—and even planned for—wasn’t a particularly good development for me.
But that was alright. Because, as he’d said multiple times, I had a few more tricks of my own that I’d been holding back. The first was something Duncan and I had been working on for several months—strictly in the privacy of our own quarters—and the instant after Nikomedes had turned up the pace, I smoothly switched sword styles from my usual Caprian, Royal Guard style to an almost entirely different—but just as effective—Asian Bloc technique.
With a twist and a completely different method—including all-new footwork and body movement—I threw Nikomedes off his game for a split second, which was all I needed to break through his guard and launch a decapitation move I’d been working on exhaustively for the past three weeks. Wary of spies, I’d made sure that even Akantha hadn’t been aware of everything I could do.
My sword flew forward with that last bit of speed I’d been holding back and, his eyes widening, Nikomedes’ head swayed back with droplets of blood flying into the air as my attack struck home with a vengeance.
For a split second—that felt like one of the longest moments in my life—my eyes locked with his and we stared at one another. Then, instead of his head falling off his neck—as had been the plan—he reached up and touched the thin layer of skin under his chin that had been sliced open.
“Greetings from the Asian Block,” I said with as much bravado as I could muster, despite the fact I felt a sinking sensation in my stomach, “you may think you know what I can do, but I assure you: I still haven’t even got started.”
Only a slight tightening of the skin around his eyes gave warning that the battle was back on. But instead of a lunge, he literally threw the damaged vibro-blade point first at my midsection.
My inevitable dodge forced my body out of position and, with the power of a stone-land bull, his Light Sword struck my Dark Sword. I tried to hold on, but grip strength alone wasn’t enough and sparks flew from the impact as my blade turned out of position. Despite my best efforts, the Dark Sword was sent flying out of my hand for the second time in the duel.
“Nice move…but it was not good enough,” roared Nikomedes, surging forward with his Light Sword still in his left hand. “It’s time to end this!”
He must have finally given up on my surrendering. However, if he thought me surprised or overwhelmed by the ferocity of his attack, he was destined for disappointment. While the well-practiced decapitation strike had been my best hope to end the fight suddenly, without warning, and on a firmly honorable note, I was not the sort of person to put all his eggs in one basket.
So even as the Dark Sword was sent flying, my right hand smoothly swept around my back to my waist and I was pulling out the oversized plasma gun that was so heavily favored by those Deep Fleet Space Army pirates.
But he was still too close for comfort; I needed a bit more distance if I was going to pull this off. Dropping into a shoulder roll, to give myself time to bring the oversized weapon to bear, I lined up a bead on Nikomedes.
Unfortunately, as fast as I was, Nikomedes was just as fast—or, at least, nearly as fast—as me. I’d barely had enough time to point the oversized plasma gun in his general direction when he hip checked my shoulder, throwing my aim off at the last instant. A moment before I pulled the trigger, that Light Sword came back around with punishing force. The flat of the blade slammed into the body of the big pistol, but I pulled the trigger anyway.
I’d thought about a similar scenario to this for quite some time and picking the oversized plasma pistol wasn’t the random, foolish idea it might have appeared to be at first blush. Unlike blasters, a plasma weapon had a bit of a spread rate—and this oversized pistol was even less inefficient, and had a bigger scatter pattern than most.
The weapon thundered loudly enough to perforate eardrums right before it, too, was knocked from my grip. The combined kick of the plasma gun, followed by the blow that knocked it out of my hand, caused a stinging sensation in a pair of my fingers and the rest of my hand went numb.
Knocked down—and not even knowing if I’d lost fingers to that last attack—my smooth shoulder roll turned into a graceless plummet to the ground. Shaking my head, it took me several moments as I instinctively continued to follow my evasion pattern before I could see the results of the attack.
Part of the blast had caught my Tracto-an opponent, which was obvious from the scorched and blackened patches of skin running from his right shoulder, up his neck, and down the side of his face from his hairline down to his right eye and jaw. But, just as obviously, though he’d been singed badly by the attack, more damage had been done to the lower ceiling and upper wall behind him than to his flesh.
My opponent—who was still very much alive—still held his sword and stared at me with unbridled fury. “Is that the best you’ve got?” he howled, launching himself into the air.
“Smoke you!” I screamed back, continuing my roll until the undamaged fingers of my right hand felt the hilt of the Dark Sword
Acting on instinct, I came up at my opponent with nothing more than a single hand on the Dark Sword and the will to win—my other hand was too numb to feel anything, or I would have used it. He came down with a crunch, bringing the Light Sword and its deadly edge along with him.
The Dark Sword fell to the ground with my right hand still attached to it. Blood spurted from the stump of my right hand—my hand. It was gone. Again. I genuinely couldn’t believe it.
“Pray to whatever gods you believe in, Admiral,” Nikomedes said, bringing his Light Sword around in one continuous motion.
“Alright, I admit it: you are better than I am,” I said, glaring up at him with fury as my lifeblood pumped vigorously onto the floor mat. To all appearances, I was done. I had no sword, no more weapons up my sleeve—or in my belt. In short, it was over. “However, there is something you should know as well.”
“Surrender or die,” Nikomedes said, drawing back his arm. I could see that he wasn’t going to hesitate for one instant. If I didn’t surrender—which meant surrendering my family and my command—to him right now, it was lights out and the big, hard, goodbye as far as he was concerned.
I nodded, opened my mouth, and pointed a finger at his face.
“I’m not right-handed either,” I explained, cocking the finger back and bringing it down with a snap. A blaster bolt, which tore out of the last knuckle of my finger, hit his eye—which exploded—and the energy burst punched clean through the side of his head.
Nikomedes fell with a thump and his body started twitching as his vital fluids began to ooze out onto the mat beneath my feet.
The man was dead—or soon would be—and his threat to me and my family was finally over and done with. I’d taken a page from Jean Luc’s book, and I was unrepentant about it. All was fair in love and war and, unlike the last time I’d lost my hand, this time I was ready for it—both mentally and physically.
Figuring that if I was going to lose anything, it was going to be my dominant right hand, I’d gone to Medical—about the same time as Akantha began to really get aggressive on the self-defense training—and had quietly had them install a one-shot blaster in the pointer finger of my left hand. As much as anything else, I’d acted under the presumption that it was never wise to ignore your wife and partner’s signals, so I’d taken precautionary measures of my own.
Besides, the way Jean Luc had taken me out—without my having the first clue what had been coming—was just too cool of a move, and I felt the need to turn what was easily the worst moment of my entire life against those who would be my enemies.
Turns out I was more right than I knew and, unfortunately for Nikomedes, he just wasn’t as ready for my dirty little tricks as he’d thought.
“Tourniquet!” I ordered harshly, the first finger of my left hand burning with a terrible pain as I clamped down on the stump of my right to stop the flow of blood. The shot had just blown off the tip of my finger, after all, and a blaster bolt produced a little more recoil than a human finger-bone is designed to endure.
Several members of the Armory team jumped, prompting a pair of guards and a medic to come over and perform emergency first aid on my mutilated body.
Holding my right arm out to the side while they worked, I glared at the rest of the warriors present. “I have won every battle—every challenge that Tracto has thrown my way,” I snapped, taking a moment to address the men, “I want you to think about that for the rest of your miserable lives—right up until I finish killing the rest of you!”
“You use dishonorable tactics, Warlord,” one of the men behind me said disapprovingly, “it was not right.”
“I offered battlefield conditions for this challenge; my opponent couldn’t stop telling me how he was ready for my so-called ‘dirty tricks,’ and you have the unmitigated gall to claim I was the one who did something wrong?” I roared, ready to run over and tear his head off for good measure. “Maybe you’ve never been on a battlefield, boy, but I can assure you that the rest of us know the enemy will stop at nothing. He will use any stratagem or tactic to kill you. And when I’m fighting for my wife and my children, you can blasted-well expect I will stop at nothing to destroy any man that makes himself my enemy!”
The man—ostensibly on my side, judging from his position on ‘my side’ of the room—flushed and stepped back. A number of men grumbled, but more of them nodded their heads.
“I won—I’ll always win,” I turned to the rest of the men and screamed, “not because I’m better than my opponent—as, clearly, this man was a finer swordsman and better hand-to-hand warrior than me. I won’t win because I’m more courageous—that’s impossible! No one is braver, or more honorable, than the warriors of Tracto,” I said, throwing in sop for the pride of those few men—even though it was roughly half—that had come in support of me. “I’ll win because I want it more; because I’m smarter; and because no matter what you see me pull out of my hat, I will always have something else ready! And I’ll win because I—WILL—NEVER—STOP!!!”
I paused to sweep the assembled warriors with a withering look, as all the while the medic and his team continued to work on my new stump while others placed my severed hand on ice.
“That’s why Messene exists, the Bugs are destroyed, and your world is not a barren lifeless husk—and it’s why the Empire isn’t strip-mining your star system, which I can assure you is a fate worse than anything you can fathom,” I finished, on what I thought was a resounding note.
As if stung by my blatant disregard for them, a number of angry Tracto-ans—with the sort of stiffness in their power-armored movements that I’d come to recognize in men who were not yet fully trained in its use—stepped forward and glared at me.
“You disdain our ways, step on our honor and traditions, and tell us you’re better than us?” challenged a big beefy brute of a man. He was so big I could even see his physique even through his bulky battle armor, since it had clearly been modified to hold his enormous body. “Then prove it! I, for one, will not stop for honor’s sake when a man who spits on it gives up its protection. Are you ready to make good your words to never stop, and fulfill your promise to challenge the rest of us this day—all of us?”
I leveled the burnt end of my left pointer finger and, no matter how it hurt to move it, I kept it aimed straight at him.
He crossed his arms as if in contempt. And it’s not like the little discharge of the blaster could have cut through his armor even at a full charge, much less now—when it had only a tiny fraction of its original energy remaining.
I felt a prick, followed by a sudden sense of clarity, as the Medic injected me with a cocktail of drugs. My pupils dilated and strength seemed to rush through me, invigorating my muscles.
“So long as you’re the first,” I said with grim certainty, “that works for me.”
“You’re a fool, and I’ll gladly finish what he started,” the big beefy warrior said a laugh. “Unlike the weakling you just faced, I could have finished you quick and easy—even before you lost your hand! Now? Even a child of my home polis could defeat you. Your days are numbered, Warlord. It really is a good thing you’ll be dead soon. Such a Protector…” he shook his head in disgust.
“The words of a soon-to-be dead man have as little effect on me as the buzzing of an irritating fly,” I said, waving him and his words away.
The warrior set aside his sword and started to pop the seals on his armor.
“Are you deaf and stupid?” I asked witheringly. “I agreed to a ‘no armor’ challenge with Nikomedes because I’d already fought him once while wearing it; I thought he deserved the chance to die the way he desired. For the rest of you, I made it clear that all following challenges would be in power-armor.”
Big and beefy flushed, and then angrily relocked his armor. “It matters not. Even if you have the skills of a master in these battle-suits, you’ll still die just as easily on my blade! I, Nastor of Thebes, declare it,” said this ‘Nastor’ fellow, as he snatched back up his sword and angrily stomped to his side of the challenge circle.
“I’ll deal with you as soon as the medic is done with me,” I said dismissively.
“I was a Warlord before your family came to invade my world, and so I came after Thebes was rebuilt to see if you were the leader that the Argosians claim—or the incompetent fool who brought death and destruction to our world, as most of we in Thebes believed,” Nastor said, stomping back and forth and playing the crowd as he glared at me.
“There’s no need to slavishly worship at my feet for saving your world, and everything on it, from being eaten down to bedrock by the Bugs—your ‘Sky Demons’,” I said as if I didn’t care—and, knowing how his culture felt about the washing of feet, I decided to play on it.
“I’ll tear you to pieces, leave your infants exposed at the crossroads for our god’s will, and take all that is yours—right after I urinate down what’s left of your throat,” bellowed Nastor.
“Really, there is no need; my feet are in perfectly fine condition,” I said easily. “Of course, if you insist that the lives of everyone you’ve ever known aren’t worth less than such minimal behavior…I won’t stop you.”
An inarticulate bellow emanated from Nastor, and it was all the men behind him could do to stop him from charging over and slaughtering me before I had even got my armor on. Of course, I had counted on Gants and the rest of his men to deal with it to prevent such an occurrence.
I cocked a smug smile that didn’t reach my eyes and listened to him continue to spin out and lose his head. Really, these Tracto-ans were too easy. I didn’t even have to lie, just tell it the way it was, and they lost their cool.
The more of them I could slaughter before they wised up, the better things would go for me—and those who depended on me—in the long run.
Two men in power armor approached me as men tried, and failed, to calm down Nastor.
“Admiral, the mutineer was right,” Gants said urgently, “the blighter should be in the brig instead of fighting you—and if you have to fight them you can’t do it while missing a hand, even if you’re in armor. The suits just aren’t designed to deal with this kind of damage, Sir; you won’t be able to use it fully with a hand missing and reattaching…it can’t be done in the field like this, not for proper nerve reconnection.”
“Fear not, Mr. Gants; Nikomedes may have taken my hand away, temporarily, but he failed to take my ability to deal with these disloyal minions of mine,” I said with complete and utter certainty in my voice.
“I hate to disagree with you, Admiral,” said a deep, Tracto-an voice, and I looked over to see Hierophant was the other man beside Gants looming over me. “Even a warrior with a death-wish would think twice before abandoning the protections of the challenge circle, and press forward with the challenges like this. They may laugh at you for it, but there is no dishonor in falling back on the traditions of the circle and fighting again another day.”
“No dishonor? When I’ve sworn I’ll finish them today?” I shook my head, “I don’t believe you. And besides, the point is moot; I’m going to put this incipient little rebellion to bed right now. And I swear before all the gods of cold space that if I hear one more peep, or receive one more challenge after this, all the would-be mutineers in this fleet will be rounded up and shoved into, and out of, an airlock—even if I have to kill half my Lancer force to do it.”
Hierophant looked concerned and backed away a step, “If you win against all of them today, I think few will dare to challenge you. A new epic will be formed,” he said, his mouth still cast in disapproving lines but his eyes showing a level of respect for my actions. “Although, I would make sure to sleep with a dagger under my pillow after you win.”
“I have blasters, but I take your point,” I nodded.
“This is crazy. It’s crazy talk, Sir,” Gants protested fiercely, “this Fleet needs you. You can’t just throw away your life like this. You’re the Little Admiral, for Saint Murphy’s blessed sake! This Fleet won’t make it without you—it can’t. Give the word, and my department will round up these men, throw them in the brig, or even space them for mutineers. But just look at it,” he said, pointing to the old set of power armor I’d propped up against the wall beside the Storm Drake armor. “You can’t win against twenty or more Lancers in battle-suits if you only have one hand—not even if they’re all as green as sin, which not all of them are to my eye.”
Hierophant nodded. “A few of them have been in service for a while,” he agreed.
“I’m not worried about the skills of a few ingrates,” I said coldly, and then turned away. “I understand your concerns, but you really should have more confidence in me. This lack of belief in my abilities is insulting.”
Gants looked at me in despair. “Just give the word, Sir,” he pleaded.
“No, though your loyalty is commendable, Mr. Gants,” I said flatly. “Besides…” I slanted a sly look in their direction, and then my gaze turned into a smirk at their equally dumbfounded expressions.
When they exchanged looks that said they were worried I’d been affected by the blood loss and mutilation, my smirk turned into a scowl.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” I snapped. “Hierophant, go get that sheet and bring it to me,” I ordered, pointing at the blanket covering the larger-than-my-battle-armor, bulky, angular hunk of metal beside it.
After pulling off the sheet, the reason for my confidence in defeating any number of green men—those men wearing our original, aging, Caprian battle-suits—was revealed, and Gants breath was suddenly sucked in.
“That’s…” he said, clearly flabbergasted.
“The new and upgraded Spalding version battle-suit, tailored specifically for me using the new Duralloy II mixture,” I said with great satisfaction. “More than twice the protection, and with a built-in ion cannon on its left arm. I’d like to see these blighters just try and take me in this new, improved, Devastator model—it was designed specifically to defeat the Predator class Imperial battle-suits.”
“Wow…” Gants said staring at the new larger, vastly more powerful suit of power armor with shock and awe.
“That’s a…big suit, Sir,” Hierophant said with surprise.
“Hierophant, I thought you were still down in the gunnery department; what are you doing here?” I asked, while the real question was: what was he doing here ‘right now.’
“I just came to lend my support. I have served you for some time now; I am your man,” Hierophant said seriously before baring his teeth. “Besides, following you I enter the kinds of battles one could only dream about before you came to my world.”
I grunted, too savvy to say anything negative. But right then, even my most trusted Tracto-ans were having their previously spotless image tarnished by the mutinous, AI-worshiping segment of their society.
“Let’s get this over with,” I said, marching over to my new suit.
“What is that?” came the belligerent demand of a man standing behind Nastor of Thebes as soon as I reached the new suit.
I whirled around—or, rather, I tried to whirl. Between the damage I’d taken, and the drugs pumping through my system, all I managed was a fairly fast turn.
“That’s my battle-suit,” I said with a shark-like smile at the expressions of surprise and dismay on the faces of the men before me. “What…you thought I was just going to lay down and die because you want me to? I only enter fights I know I can win,” I sneered, “so if you want to kill me, you’re going to have to work for it.”
That said, I stomped up and climbed into my new Devastator armor. Because of my missing hand, I needed help being pushed up into the big monster of a suit, but Gants and Hierophant were there to provide such help. Which, fortunately for my slightly compromised dignity, they were even willing to offer without a word said.
Compared to the old Caprian style battle-suits that these Lancers were used to, this new suit stood just a hair under a foot and a half taller. But whereas they were thin, and tended to comparatively hug the bodies of their users, the new Devastator power armor bulked out to twice the width of the other suits.
According to Spalding, it was twice as strong but because of all the extra weight, it was only half as fast as the older models. He swore he could cut down on a lot of the extra weight, as well as some of the bulk, and increase the speed as soon as he finished designing the Devastator 2.0 model he was currently planning to build. But there had been some kind of a production hold-up in that particular process. Most of the hold-up, I was given to understand, was because the Duralloy II was living up to its namesake as an incredibly strong substance.
Regular duralloy could be rolled out into large sheets, relatively easy to use in building warship. If the builder so desired, it was relatively easy to take a sheet and bend into whatever form was desired. Even setting up a small factory to build nothing but power armor was a relatively simple task.
The new armor, however, presented engineering issues. While it could be rolled out into large sheets, it took more than ten times the effort to bend into the sort of smaller angles needed to fit over the frame of the power armor. Naturally, this meant it took ten times as long to produce twice the suit—or possibly even more—which sounded like a good trade-off for me.
It would be some time before the models could be mass-produced, but this prototype was ready to rock according to Spalding—which was good enough for me.
Oh, and did I fail to mention that since this suit was designed as a counter to the Imperial Predator Battle-suits we’d encountered at the 1st Battle for Easy Haven, it had been designed with a built-in ion cannon on the left arm—replacing the hand coupling entirely? The right arm and hand had been retained, but increased in size, so as to easily handle a plasma cannon one-handed.
Unfortunately for me, being without a right hand at the moment, I couldn’t hold said plasma cannon. But fortunately there was a way around this problem. After factoring in, and compensating for, the blasters built into the arms of the Predator suits, Spalding had also decided we needed a solution to those boarding axes of theirs. So in addition to keeping the right gauntlet—meaning you could switch out the plasma cannon for a vibroblade—he had decided that taking the time to draw a sword would be problematic in the life-and-death split seconds of combat.
So he had added a retractable, four foot-long vibro blade to the right arm.
Extendable from a certain movement of the hand, it could also be unsheathed—albeit slower—via voice command given in the helmet.
“As long as I can extend it, I’m set…” I muttered while running through the suit checks on the heads up display on the visor of my helmet. Which was another improvement in the old design; much like the Imperial suits, the head section of this armor was built into the shoulders of the battle-suit, making it much harder to launch a decapitating strike.
“Did you say something, Admiral?” asked Gants.
“It’s fine,” I replied after the moment it took me to realize what he was talking about.
Turning my head inside the helmet, I was still able to look at anything I wanted from the 240 degree, wraparound visor built into the helmet.
Closing up the suit, I stood up to my impressive new height. Switching a toggle with my tongue, which manipulated a cheek-mounted interface module, I activated the external speakers.
“Let’s do this,” I declared, stomping over to the challenge circle.
Each move caused the servos of the suit to make an almost angry whine, and every time my foot was brought down to the deck there was an impressive—intimidating, if I do say so myself—series of sounds:
Whine-clang/crash.
Whine-clang/crash.
Whine clang/crash!
I stomped my way over until I was standing in front of my enemy. Here stood yet another man who thought his culture allowed him to take what was mine whenever he blasted well felt like it.
“Are you ready?” I asked harshly.
“I agreed to a fight in our battle-suits. That’s your battle-suit,” Nastor of Thebes shouted, pointing to my old suit.
“That was my suit, until Spalding gifted me this one,” I replied bluntly, “but now that one’s being held in trust for my youngest son. You know—the ones I am expecting to be born any time now?”
His anger temporarily seemed to be overcome, and he stared at me. “Why the youngest son?” he asked, apparently perplexed. “Normally a sire’s personal weapons go to his eldest.”
I rolled my eyes, but fortunately he couldn’t see me do it through the visor. “I figure the older ones will get all the good stuff anyway, so setting aside a regular old battle-suit from before they become old enough to squabble about it will at least make sure he has something…you know, in case I don’t make it?” I replied then my voice turned snide. “Of course, with men like you—who’ve sworn an oath to protect me—I shouldn’t have much to worry about, should I?”
Nastor of Thebes flushed. “I am an honorable warrior, following the way of my ancestors—my every action is filled with honor!” he growled.
“Keep telling yourself that,” I yelled, losing my cool, “but I think it’s time the ways of your people had a little chat with mine. Prepare to defend yourself.”
“You’ll die at my hand!” roared Nastor, a sword already in his right hand.
I could have attacked right then, but I suppose that I was following in the footsteps of Nikomedes. I waited until he reached around and grasped hold of his blaster rifle—I wanted to make a statement with this first battle, and that statement was this:
Even if I give you time to fully prepare yourself, you’re still going to die if you face me.
“If you want to bring a new suit of battle armor to our challenge then I’ll use every weapon available to me, too. You did say battlefield rules,” he yelled with a savage grin.
Bringing up my left arm so that the built-in ion cannon was pointed at him, I yawned into the mike of my external speakers. “Are you ready yet?” I asked, feigning boredom—the truth was I was genuinely interested in putting this suit through its paces.
“Die!” he howled, leveling the blaster rifle and opening fire.
I let the armor take the full power of his two shots before I returned fire, and a series of ion bolts shot out from my cannon. My shots hit him first in the head and then, as I carefully aimed, at the joints of his arms and legs. A lucky trick shot hit the hand holding his blaster rifle about the time his fifth shot had pinged against my D-II armor, and suddenly he could no longer depress the trigger.
“Gaah!” he howled as his suit started to malfunction, casting away his plasma rifle in one violent movement before rushing me with his sword held high.
Or, he tried to rush me, but this suit—and its plasma cannon had been built to deal with Imperial Battle-armor—was far and away superior to even the old battle-suits that Spalding had refurbished himself ,and all my new foe managed was a stiff legged hobble.
With his superior speed neutralized by the ion attacks, I stepped forward to meet him—I also deliberately decided to allow him the first attack.
Without hesitation, he decided to take me up on my offer, launching a wicked strike with his vibro-sword, which clanged off my pauldron.
Stepping forward, I reached out. He tried to dodge back and out of harm’s way, but it’s hard when your knee joints won’t move freely—a complication which came courtesy of my well-placed ion bolts—and with a punch of my useless, right hand I easily knocked him over.
“Face me like a man!” screamed Nastor of Thebes, his face so red with rage that I clinically wondered if he was about to have a stroke. But, fortunately for him, I could now say with total certainty that he was in fact not going to have a stroke—because with a whine I lifted my foot and placed it on the heavily-armored breastplate of his armor.
“Come out and face me!” he raged, repeatedly swinging his vibro-sword and striking me in the leg and knee joints as fast as his arm would move. “Face me like a man, you coward—or hide like you did when your Uncle invaded my home-polis of Thebes. Come on! You complete and utter cow—”
Extending my built-in arm blade with a verbal command, I leaned down and placed the tip of my arm-blade on the glass of his visor—and cut off his hate-filled diatribe mid-sentence when I placed the full weight and power of my battle-suit into the thrust.
The visor shattered, sending shards of crystal flying into, and out, of the helmet as my blade struck home with a final resounding force, silencing his rage once and forever.
With an effort, I pushed myself off my foe and resumed an upright position before my men—if I could even call these rebels who wanted to kill me mine any longer—could act.
“A man takes my suit, my sword, and my training—and then dares try to use them against me so he can take everything I hold dear? He then thinks I’m going to listen to him when he complains that I didn’t give him the best that I had to use against me,” I said, flipping open my visor so that I could lean forward and spit on him in disgust.
There was silence, during which a series of newly reassessing looks could be seen on the face of every single man in the gym. It was now obvious, beyond denial, I wasn’t going to be the easy win they had been expecting.
“Such a man with very little loyalty to his Warlord is nothing but easy meat for my blade,” I said with an audible ‘snick’ as I retracted my extendable vibro-blade. “Gants, this battle-suit belongs to me now—which is why it only needs a new visor and some circuits replaced. See that the Armory repairs it back to spec; I’ll make sure its next user is worthy to wear it. Take the cost of its repair out of this man’s final wages, before those funds are sent to his surviving family,” I finished, toeing the fallen warrior with my heavy, D-II clad boot.
Looking furious, one of the men who had been standing beside Nastor of the Thebes locked eyes and glared hatefully at me.
Glancing down, I waited a few more seconds until my internal built-in cannon had fully recharged its power cell from the suit’s mini-generator. Then, nodding with satisfaction, I looked up from my display.
“Next!” I said, and pointed my ion cannon at that man.
With a howl, my next foe decided he didn’t want to wait to pull out his unfamiliar plasma rifle—like his fallen leader had—instead choosing speed and two-handed grip on his sword to make me meet my end.
Unfortunately for him, now that my point had been made, I was done playing around. He failed to take his second step before I opened up with my Ion Cannon full throttle.
Using the reinforced armor of my right arm, I blocked a strike aimed at my head as I placed my forearm on his shoulder and leaned forward. For a long moment, he grunted and strained against the power of my suit before finally crashing to the ground.
A few dozen more shots while he scrambled around on the ground, and his mobility was reduced to the point that all he could do was curse and try to thwart my intent by thrashing his head side to side to avoid my blade and batter at my legs ineffectually.
Giving up on a clean kill, I stabbed downward again and again until I finally buried my right arm blade in his neck and half tore off his head—which, thankfully, caused him to stop moving. I mean, if I wasn’t going to get a quick kill then there was no point in trying to save on repair costs. Better to be sure the job was done right and proper. I could always buy, build, or extort more power armor out of someone to replace it if anyone complained
“Next,” I said coldly.
After seeing two of their most eager members die in quick succession—and remembering the way I’d also defeated Nikomedes—no one jumped forward to face me. Certainty, and the desire to take what was mine, had turned into resignation by the time I was ready to face my fourth challenge.
“I can keep doing this all day,” I said with ringing finality.
The next warrior in a suit didn’t even make it close enough to land a blow before a lucky strike to the helmet paralyzed him, leaving him trapped and helpless before me. Or, rather, because he was a Tracto-an he was strong enough to hold himself upright and move forward a half step at a time. But without the ability to effectively defend himself, or jump around and cause me trouble, I finished him quickly.
“Next,” I said, flicking my arm to get rid of the blood before retracting my blade. After all, I still had a few dozen left and this could take a while. I didn’t want to have a perfectly good blade permanently stained if I could help it.
The next one was a jumper. He lasted longer than all the rest put together, but in the end he, too, fell before my arm blade. I thought for a long moment about kicking him to death, to discourage the others, but decided it might be counterproductive and let the idea go.
It was going to be a long day, I could feel it already…but at least we’d get a good set of field tests for the new armor.
Chapter Forty-six: Let her rip!
“Build the pyre and light the fire!” shouted Commander Terrance Spalding, stabbing a button on the fold out console built into the side of the fusion generator.
“I hope you’re right,” Glenda said, standing beside him.
“Easy as getting a Puckanese Dancer out of her clothes,” he said dismissively.
“Don’t be so glib over something that could kill everyone on this ship. And besides, what business did you have that required getting a dancer of any sort out of her clothes?” she growled.
“Don’t bother me with trifles,” the old Engineer said, waving her concerns—both of them—away as if they were inconsequential matter, “I need to focus here.”
“I’ll bet!” she harrumphed.
Slowly, the old engineer smiled; the startup sequence on the first fusion generator was going as smoothly as he could have hoped. So far, so good, he thought to himself.
“She’s not running hot, although you sure seem to be,” he bragged, his eyes never leaving the screen. Much as he refused to admit it, his thoughts were much clearer than they had been in quite some time. And he could think faster too. Knowing that, he might have admitted the quacks had done something right for a change if it weren’t for the fact that, by their own admission, none of this…cognitive degeneration of theirs would have happened if they hadn’t failed to do their job properly the first time!
Baldwin snorted.
“Besides, I’m an experienced old man; it’s part of me charm. I mean, how exactly did you expect me to get that experience…by living like a Saint, mayhap?” he chortled as the core spun up approaching self-sustaining levels. “I’m an engineer, lass, not a monk. Why, in my wild days, you know, I wasn’t always as staid and laid-back as I am now.
Baldwin looked at him in disbelief.
“Why, there was even this one time—back during a quick port call on New Pacifica—I had a shuttle nozzle out of alignment, and the head of the local repair team…boy did she ever know her way around a space wrench. Taught me a thing or three about nozzle alignment in the hold of that shuttle, she did, and I’m not ashamed to admit it!”
“How the subject of your nozzle became a topic of this conversation, I neither know nor do I care. But I warn you: one more word and I’m leaving,” she threatened.
“And who wants the presence of a non-believer and a backstabber, who turns helpless men only concerned for her well-being over to the merciless cutting knives of the Doctors, so-called, in this fleet involved in this project in the first place?” Spalding huffed.
“You listen to me,” Glenda snapped, “until the day—no, the hour and minute—that I’m relieved, I am the Construction Manager in charge of this yard, and I’ll go observe any project I deem, wherever and whenever I feel it’s necessary. And so long as you persist in this questionable plan to resurrect this battleship and convert her into a boat carrier, I’m going to be standing over your shoulder, pointing out your errors and making sure you don’t get anyone killed—other than your infuriating self!”
“You’re the high-and-mighty, all-powerful Construction Manager, aren’t you?” Spalding chortled. “Why don’t you get the project shut down then, if you don’t believe in it? Admit it: you believe in the back of yer mind, where you don’t want to admit it, that this project is going to be a success. We’re going to turn two hulks, good for nothin’ but the breakers, back into functioning fleet vessels!”
“You idiot,” she glared, “I did try to get you shut down, but when I took it to the Admiral and handed in my report he wouldn’t listen. So now I’m stuck out here trying to mitigate your insanity.”
“Poor lass,” Spalding said consolingly, “but maybe, if you’d come out with us next time and manage to put a battleship or two in the bag—like I did—the Admiral would listen to you, too, when you get a wild hair up your backside and propose a reasonably ambitious idea like this one.”
“Reasonably ambitious?” Glenda shouted, and then the console Spalding had been paying attention to beeped.
He looked down at the rising temperature and evidence of a leak of some kind down in the core chamber with concern.
“Is that what you call ‘reasonably ambitious,’ you old moron! You’ve got imminent collapse and fusion core meltdown on your hands,” she pointed.
“Hatterson,” he bellowed, “where is that monkey suit!”
“Right here, Chief!” a husky-looking engineering woman said, huffing and puffing her way over to his generator with an oversized, heavy load—heavily modified—suit on an overloaded hover-pallet, which trundled along behind her as she pulled.
“Blast it, Spalding,” Glenda said her face turning white with a clear mixture of emotions, “you don’t intend to get in that suit and go into another fusion generator, do you?”
“Oh, o’ course not,” he said, shaking his head and giving her a look like she was a bug under his microscope. “I already got an automated version of the load suit my boy came up with for quick-starting the Power, back at Capria right before we took her.”
Glenda’s breath went out in a quick release of tension.
“No,” he said reassuringly, “that suit there is just the last resort. You know, in case the monkey in the fusion chamber shuts down from the radiation and we have to go manual. I mean, what kind of fool do you take me for, woman? Why ever would a man go into a death trap like a core unless he had no other option?!”
She cursed loudly. “So you really are planning to go back into a generator if you ‘have to.’ You utter, sublime, moron; why do you do this to me—don’t you realize you almost died the last time! Call off this nonsense and eject that core right now. There’s no need to risk it.”
“Eh? Of course I realize what happened last time,” he said scornfully, “why else do you think the suit out here was heavily-reinforced? Only a fool would take that kind of rad-load twice in his lifetime. Hatterson here has been working off my plans the entire time we’ve been rebuilding these generators here. Well…when she hasn’t been working on the auto-monkey stationed right outside the door to the core, that is.” Then something seemed to occur to him, and he gave her a penetrating look, “What do you mean ‘why am I doing this to you’? I haven’t done a thing; it’s only you that’s been doin’ the doing in this relationship—if ye take my meaning,” he demanded, thinking back to the time she had hit him upside the head with an auto-wrench, and again just a couple weeks ago when she had played the damsel-in-distressed and handed him over to those dark sorcerers, who were all-too-eager to practice their bloody arts on him in station Medical.
Glenda grabbed her hair and pulled on it, a look of pure frustration on her face. Knowing when it was wiser to turn back to minding his own affairs, he turned back to his console and fired up the auto-monkey.
“Why call it a monkey? It’s just a modified heavy load suit,” the Construction Manager finally asked with ill grace, while looking over his shoulder as he manipulated the controls.
“Eh?” he muttered, his focus fully on guiding the monkey over to the damaged heat exchange line in the core chamber, before sudden realization struck, “oh, that. I took one look at that suit Tiberius modified and decided it looked like nothing more than an oversized, hairy ape,” he explained, pulling up the picture. “And even after I improved on it a mite, still the ugly thing didn’t look like anything more than a big, ugly, ape.”
“Ah,” Glenda said shortly.
“And, o’ course, you don’t think I was goin’ to let an ape of any stripe into my engineering space—much less the heart of a fusion generator,” he said scornfully, “so that’s why I decided to call it a monkey. Monkeys, after all, are the closest relative to the ape, don’t you know? Their arms are kind of long and spindly…sort of like this one,” he said, pointing to the long, slender manipulator he was using to try and manually unfreeze the blocked-up heat exchanger line inside the core.
“You mean…you’re using an arm you only added onto that mechanical beast of yours so that you could call it a monkey instead of an ape?” the Manager sounded dumbstruck.
The old Engineer flushed at having been found out so easily, but he quickly masked the reaction with a scowl. “Well…and it’s a good thing I did, too, isn’t it?” he said defensively. “Otherwise, I might have had to send it back out and go inside there myself. My process isn’t always like other men’s—or women’s,” he allowed, “sometimes my mind knows what I need before even I know that I’m going to need it!”
“Says the biggest packrat, and proponent of the outdated technology it runs on, in three Sectors!” Baldwin said.
“I’m workin’ here; don’t distract me,” Spalding grumbled, leaning forward and jiggling the area of pipe with the auto-release valve. There was no manual valve in there, as no one envisioned an actual person ever going into the core once it was fired up for any reason whatsoever. Out of frustration, he finally gave the sticky valve an angry thump with the monkey’s main manipulator, and suddenly the particular temperature exchange it was linked in on started working at half capacity.
“Ha!” he said triumphantly, using the fusion panel on his console giving it orders to cycle the valve back and forth until the amount of heat exchange rose to 60%, then 70%, and finally 85% before slowly increasing a tenth of a percentage every few seconds as the frozen valve line returned itself to full function. “Nothing but pure, unmitigated skill at the controls and engineering knowhow,” he bragged. “I told you I could get her working,” he added, as the temperature slowly lowered until the reactor was no longer in danger of a meltdown, “just a little bit of somethin’ solidified in the line—most like it just needed a tap in order to break it up enough to re-liquefy,” he finished knowingly, feeling quite pleased with the way things had turned out—and all thanks to a bit of daring and a large portion of engineering knowhow.
“You hit it with the monkey’s main arm, out of frustration,” Baldwin said with disbelief. “There was no ‘engineering knowhow’ involved. You got mad and lucked out when the pipe didn’t explode, and the clog got busted instead.”
“Details,” Spalding said blithely and then stood up and looked down on her pityingly, “why, one of the first things I learned on this job is that giving your pipes and valves a little love tap betimes is all it takes to get her working again. I can’t believe you’ve never run across the practice in all your years running a work crew.”
Baldwin’s face turned red. “Of course I know about tapping pipes—everyone knows about it,” she swore, “but that’s not why you were doing it!”
The old Engineer looked at her piteously. “That’s why you’ll always be runnin’ a yard instead of a warship,” he said, feeling genuinely sad for her. “Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts—and mine told me to hit that pipe and see if she’d loosen up; low and behold, there she did! Sometimes you’ve just got to go with your gut.”
“You old blowhard; I’ve worked ships before!” she glared at him. “I’m not in this yard because I can’t run a ship’s Engineering department, but because I’m the best woman for this job. Why, I could put out my resume and be out of this yard in nothing flat!”
“Sure, of course, it’s just as you say,” Spalding soothed. After all, there was no point in getting the girl all riled up about her perceived inadequacies. Clearly he’d touched a nerve; though he would allow that, with her technical knowledge, she could probably handle the average merchant ship—maybe even a midsized warship, if she had all the trimmings in hand to begin with.
However, she was just going to have to learn the feel of a ship before she could make it to the big leagues in the warship Chief Engineering business. But none of that really mattered, as it was clear she made a more than simply adequate Yard Construction Manager. So he wisely kept his mouth shut on how she could work to improve herself.
Some people, he knew, just found their niche and didn’t want to leave. For him, it was keeping battleships up and running. If her heart was more into building those same battleships, well…who was he to complain? A completely complementary relationship, it was. Now, if only his last relationship with a woman had been half as compatible, maybe a lot of things would have turned out better…
“Galaxy would sure be a pretty boring place if we were all the same, now, wouldn’t it?” he decided aloud and firmly nodded.
“Are you still on that?” the yard manager asked dangerously.
“No-no-no, not at all, lass,” he said hastily. Clearly, not being a warship engineer born and breed was rubbing the girl the wrong way. He didn’t want to get on her bad side over something neither of them could change a thing about. No, he would just let her build them—with an appropriate level of oversight—and then after he got his hands on them…well…he supposed he could put up with a little elbow-jogging, himself. Even though, as usual, he was right in the final tally. Still, it seemed a fair price to pay to make sure his Clover…er, all the new battleships were built and joining the fleet as fast as possible. Sure it did.
“Why do I have the feeling I shouldn’t believe you?” Baldwin asked.
“Probably it’s the same feeling that told you I couldn’t get this generator up and running,” Spalding said dismissively. “You should probably just ignore it,” he advised.
“Infuriating man,” the Construction Manager said stalking away.
“Women sure are hard to understand sometimes, aren’t they, Hatterson,” he said, looking over at the other engineer.
But the flat look she gave him soon had him turning back to monitoring the generator one last time. Shaking his head he stood up.
“Alright, you slackers, enough standing around on the job site,” he barked, turning to the rest of the crew. “We’ve officially got Fusion One back in business, and—”
He was interrupted by a cheer that started on one side of the room and swept all the way to the other, and then came back again.
“Quiet down…quiet down!” he bellowed several times before finally regaining control of the deck.
After it was relatively silent once again, he snorted and shook his head balefully, giving them the hairy eyeball. But while he knew the glaring needed to be done, on the inside he was half of the way with them. They had done a decent enough job—so far.
“Alright, enough horsin’ around; now that Fusion One is up, it’s time to light the fire and reignite Fusion Five!”
“We’ll get it done for you, Chief,” Parkiney said firmly.
“You’d better,” Spalding warned, and was then surprised when Parkiney’s work crew laughed.
Scowling, but unwilling to break the good mood entirely, he stomped over to Fusion Five. There was still more work to be done this day, and he aimed to get it done.
****************************************************
Finally, everything was ready for Fusion Five, and the old engineer was just putting the finishing touches on and making sure that everything was ready to rumble as soon as he gave the go signal when he was approached by Petty Officer Parkiney.
“What is it, PO?” he grumped at the interruption.
“I was talking with Bostwell, Chief, and…” he paused.
“Just spit it out, man; can’t you see I’m in the middle of a fusion startup?” Spalding glared.
“There was some kind of trouble over in Lancer country…and it involved the Admiral,” Parkiney said in a low tone.
“Then I’m sure he’ll settle it fast enough,” Spalding grunted, gesturing for the first part of the startup cycle to begin.
Crew and their chiefs jumped and threw manual switches while turning off computer lockouts.
“That’s just it. I’m not sure, but it sounds like some of them are trying to kill him, Commander,” Parkiney declared.
Spalding looked at him sharply. “They’re trying to kill the Little Admiral over there?” he said, standing up and grabbing his tool belt.
“Some kind of challenge thing; they said it’s a cultural tradition,” Parkiney explained. “They said he’s killed a few of them so far. They’re in battle-suits, but the word is the Admiral’s got a big bugger of a suit no one’s seen before.”
“Blast them—blast those men and everyone in their department,” Spalding snarled, “did you talk with Gants?”
“Yes, Chief, that’s where we got the download,” Parkiney nodded.
“And Gants isn’t crying for help, ‘cause if he is then we’ll flush this core out into space and go settle their hash ourselves. You don’t make trouble for the Engineering department in a Yard System unless you’re fools—or idiots what don’t know better,” he said grimly.
“No, sir, he said they’re a bunch of mutineers…but the Admiral says he’s got it under control, and his Armory team is on-site and ready for trouble,” Parkiney said after a moment’s hesitation.
Spalding growled. “Why, I’ve half a mind to go over there anyways and hang the consequences. They wait until I’m out on a job—and in the middle of a fusion generator rebuild-and-startup—before they dare to make trouble,” he said furiously. “Why, if my hands weren’t tied up here at this exact moment—and I wasn’t certain the Admiral could handle it himself—I’d go help toss them out of the airlock myself. The gall!”
“Just give the word, Commander,” Parkiney said, “we’ve got close to ten thousand engineers and trainees in Gambit System.”
“It’s not just a simple matter of numbers boy; you just don’t go head-to-head with a Lancer division if you can help it. That’s fool game,” he stood there, stewing for a long moment before finally exploding like a tea pot finally boiling over, “’traditions,’ they say? ‘Ha,’ says I! Why, I think it’s about time we introduced those oversized sides of beef to a few traditions of our own,” Spalding growled. Then, remembering what he’d been talking about, added, “No, Parkiney; you don’t bring a plasma torch to a blaster fight. You weld their doors shut, turn off the grav-plates, and punch a hole straight from the outer hull right into their quarters and let ’em suck vacuum until their canned air runs out!”
The old engineer paused reflectively for a moment but, every second he waited, the fusion generator started to spin up more and more.
“Hang it all,” he bellowed, throwing his hands in the air, “we’ll find out the whole story later and then settle them right and proper-like—but only after we’ve got this generator under control, and another battleship-sized warship in the lineup. In the meantime,” he gave Parkiney a hot glare, “you have Bostwell get Lesner, Merk, and Bourgon on the com and have him tell them I want a face-to-face as soon as I’ve got this fusion generator under control. I don’t know why we haven’t done it, but there hasn’t been a full meeting of the Ship Recycling Sub-Committee in far too long a time—too long! And you make sure they understand that when I say I want the committee, I want all the committee members. Every single department head on the lower decks—except the Lancers—are to be there, or I’ll find out why they shirked.”
“On it, Chief,” he nodded and turned away.
Spalding turned back to dealing with his fusion generator. The sooner he was done with this, the sooner he could start the process of ‘reminding’ those mutineers in the Lancer department exactly why no one in this Fleet made a move unless it had the blessing of a majority of the recycling sub-committee.
Heads were going to roll, that was for sure, and he cracked his knuckles in eager anticipation.
“All right; let’s let her rip!” the Chief Engineer shouted, reaching up to the touch-screen and tabbing the virtual levers into full startup sequence.
“And make sure you’re standing by with that monkey, Hatterson,” Spalding bellowed.
“On it, Chief,” she replied crisply, “the remote repair-bot is positioned in the chute, and I’ve got the suit right out here with me.”
A glance to the side confirmed that at least the emergency repair suit was in position, so with a grunt he turned back to the screen.
However, right off he could see that not only was the heat now above what it should be, the radiation was well above expected levels and climbing.
The readings gave him pause, but only for a moment. They needed that generator. A ship this size could run basic operations on only two power plants, but not with just one.
He fumbled around on the console for a moment. “Hatterson!” he shouted, “where’s the interface for the monkey?” he demanded.
“In C-03 sub-folder, just like the last time,” she replied irritably.
“Don’t you give me any lip, young lady—it’s not here,” he growled, opening the C-03 sub-folder but there was nothing. Then he saw the inactive icon in the folder and punched it before Hatterson could get over to look at his screen.
Seconds later, the robot suit booted up.
“See? It’s right where I said,” Hatterson said arriving at his side.
“Next time, when I say ‘have her ready,’ you make sure the robot is booted up!” Spalding barked.
Her face closed. “Sorry, Chief,” she replied.
He irritably waved her away. “I’ve got it now. Go back and tend to the emergency suit,” he instructed.
As soon as the rating left, Glenda stormed over.
“What can I do you for, Yard Manager?” he grunted as he continued working the remote controls.
“What’s this I hear about you using the repair bot again already,” she growled.
“Got a wee bit of a problem here;’ just hold onto your knickers for a bit,” he instructed, his tongue sticking sideways between his teeth as he deftly maneuvering the monkey-bot through the last door inside the power plant and into the core.
He had to swing the auto-bot around twice before he spotted the problem, and when he did spot it he sucked in a breath.
“Is that what I think it is?” Glenda demanded. “I’d say this job is ready to be scrubbed,” she lifted her voice, “prepare to eject the core!”
“I can still fix it,” Spalding said with grim certainty, “there’s no call to scrub the mission.”
“No, you CAN’T,” she snapped, “no one could. We can build a new fusion reactor if your heart is set on bringing this hulk back into service, but it’s time to pull out.”
“No man tells Terrance P. Spalding what he can and cannot do in his own engine room,” Spalding growled, standing up.
“Well then it’s a good thing I’m not a man,” the Construction Manager said, stepping in front of him and getting in his way, “because you can’t do this. Going in there is suicide. Shut it down and see if you can repair it later after the core’s cooled down.”
“If we scram it, the metal will continue to expand for a while and then it’ll contract, shattering the inner bulkhead and spilling radiation into Main Engineering which will contaminate the entire ship! No, it has to be done now or not at all,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders and gently but forcibly moving her out of his way, “and as for me, I say we do this now.”
“I took you to Medical to save your life,” Baldwin shouted grabbing his arm, “not so you could go and throw it away again as soon as you were released.”
“Hatterson, where is that can of Stack-22 barrier sealant?” he barked, stomping over to the emergency repair suit he’d had rebuilt just for this exact scenario. “And bring the monkey back out of the core while you’re at it; no need to burn out its control interface just sitting there doing nothing,” he ordered.
“The new Imperial sealant you cooked up is right next to the repair suit, just like it was the half dozen other times you asked,” replied Hatterson.
“I’m giving you a direct order: you are to stay out of that core; do you hear me, Spalding!” Glenda said, fiercely tugging on his arm.
“I heard you the first time,” he pulled himself free and continued for the suit, “don’t know why you keep repeatin’ yourself, as if by saying it more and louder it will somehow change what needs to happen,” he said bluntly.
“You may have heard but you didn’t listen,” Glenda ground out, “you have to understand—”
“Oh, I understand all right, and that is when a man says he understands then he blasted-well understands what you’re saying,” he grumped and then, stopping in front of the suit, he drew himself up and turned to glare at her, “but I want to make one thing clear: there’s only one Chief Engineer aboard a star ship, and,” he thumped his thumb into his chest, “that Engineer is me!”
“You’re on a decommissioned hulk, sitting outside a space dock; this is a Yard Ship and, as such, you’ll listen to me,” Baldwin snarled, getting up in his face.
“Bah,” he said and turned to the rest of the crew, “and this is an order for the lot of you: if anyone tries to eject that core while I head in here, he’ll be takin’ an extended class in ‘swimming out the airlock’ in his skivvies!”
Ignoring the Yard Manager’s disapproving glare, he turned to look at Hatterson.
“This is a two person job: one on the inside, and the other on the outside. It’s the only way to seal that crack before it breaks the inner barrier around the core, so get on the controls of that monkey and wait for my orders,” he instructed and then hopped into the suit—before any more complainers, worrywarts, or never-nellys could delay him past the point that going in there would do any good at all.
“Yes sir,” replied Hatterson.
“No!” Glenda shouted as he opened the outer door. Then he stepped in and right before the door closed she yelled, “I’ll have you up on charges for reckless endangerment!”
Snorting at the very notion of the idea he hurried through the outer series of blast doors until finally he stood outside the entrance to the core itself, that radiation death trap that wanted nothing more than to attract hard working engineers into its depths like moths to a flame.
“Ready for some more hard work, monkey?” he asked jostling the ape looking bot with his elbow.
“Did you do something, Commander?” Hatterson’s static-filled voice asked over the com-channel. “The bot’s visual pickup jostled momentarily and I register you in the chamber with it.”
“I’m hot and ready to trot,” Spalding replied, pulling out the can of emergency barrier sealant. The Imperial version really was, in so many ways, superior to the stuff you could get your hands on in Confederation space. He grudgingly accepted this fact as he poured a large helping of the sealant into the internal reservoir of the monkey—which had been designed for just this very purpose. He would have filled the robot creature up earlier, except that the sealant used a special chemical to keep it liquid, and that particular substance rapidly degraded once taken out of its hermetically-sealed container—and the last thing he needed was a droid whose barrier sealant had turned to solid metal while still inside it. Even transferring it from the special container it was in, over to the auto-monkey’s reservoir, risked exposing the radiation resistant sealant enough to begin chain reaction that would start the solidification process.
Fortunately for both him and the monkey, if everything went according to plan—with him working on one side of the crack and the robot on the other—they would have this mini-breach fixed up in a jiff.
“For the record, I’d just like to add my voice to the others requesting you abort going into the fusion reactor, Commander Spalding,” Hatterson said passionately.
“I need you focused, Hatterson, not lending your attention to the naysayers,” Spalding grumped belligerently. “Can I count on you for that, or do I need to send for your replacement? And hurry, lass, ‘cause the inner barrier here doesn’t have much time. It’s already leaking rads like a fire-hydrant.”
“You can count on me, Chief Engineer,” Hatterson said her voice turning firm.
“Then let’s do this!” Spalding said excitedly. Very little could get him fired up like a life-or-death repair job, and this was most certainly that.
“Just give the word, sir,” Hatterson said quietly.
“Alright then, Hatterson, this is what we engineers get paid the big credits for…” Spalding growled, leveling the nozzle of his sealant applicator at the blast door, “send in the monkey.”
There was a momentary pause of stunned silence on the other side of the com.
“Y-you want me to send the repair auto-bot back into the core,” Hatterson’s voice was filled with disbelief.
“I can’t very well be on both sides at once now, can I?” Spalding grumped walking over to the hairline breach on the outside of the core’s innermost radiation barrier—and, most importantly, taking himself away from the soon-to-be temporary opening into the deadly bath of radiation on the other side.
“You mean…you’re not planning to go in there yourself?!” Hatterson asked jubilantly.
“Of course not! This isn’t a complicated job; just create a seal around the breach and pump in the liquid sealant, then wait for it to harden. Even a monkey like our oversized robot can do that kind of standing around while its bathed in radiation—it can even do it nearly as well as a trained engineer like myself,” Spalding said witheringly. “Really…what kind of simple-minded fool do you take me for that I’d go jump into a fusion core on a dare for a second go-round?”
“Got it, Commander,” Hatterson said happily, the sudden rise in his suit’s outer radiation levels indicated when the inner door had just opened.
Applying the convoluted nozzle of his sealant applicator, he stretched the flexible opening all the way from the top of the hairline crack—which he could only see via the suit’s sensors—to the bottom of the blasted, bellyaching thing. Once it was in position, he double-checked the connection between the tool and the canister before starting the preload cycle on the applicator.
“What’s the hold up over there, Hatterson?” Spalding asked irritably, even though he knew the conditions were less than ideal for such a procedure. The radiation was not only eating up the monkey’s hardened electronics with each passing second; it also made the use of its fine manipulators via sensor feed a chore and a half. Still, the girl really should have been faster on the jump, and for that alone she deserved a little elbow jogging. What’s more, any engineer worth her salt needed the ability to maintain her cool in the face of impatient superiors.
Why, he could well-remember the many impatient blighters the self-defense force of Capria—acting in its infinite wisdom—had chosen to set over him during his glacial climb up through the ranks. No, he did not relish the thought of climbing down from the lofty perch of Chief Engineer over the entire Engineering department. Far too many impatient buggers, who weren’t on the spot yet, wanted the job done not just soon—but right bleepin’ now. He knew that, at his age it just wasn’t worth the grief. Of course, if it was the only way to get back inside the Clover then he was still game—such should go without saying.
“Sorry, Sir, you’re cutting out,” Hatterson’s voice came over the link, “but the auto-bot is in position now. We can go whenever you’re ready.”
“Well, then, what are you still waiting around for girl, an engraved invitation?! Let’s do this,” he said hiding a grin at the ‘convenient’ loss of his last com-transmission. The younger generation might be a bit quick to trust those blasted multi-tools and try out every newfangled invention fresh off the designer’s draft board, but when it came to practical engineering, they learned fairly quickly.
“Activating the sealant applicator now,” Hatterson said, and Spalding flipped the toggle on the nozzle of his own piece of equipment. Moments later Imperial class barrier sealant was flowing into the hairline crack from both sides.
Within seconds, the sealant was in and a few minutes later it had hardened enough that, according to the manual, it was time to remove the applicator.
“Alright, Hatterson, time to get that monkey out of there,” Spalding said.
Her voice cutting in and out, the engineering rating running the remote-controlled repair suit had to repeat herself twice before she could be understood.
“Having some trouble with the…control interface, sir,” she said, patches of static overriding her words, “…only one leg working. Not sure…”
“Well, if you can, just get it out of the core,” he urged, “and leave it in this level. We’ll need to send in a haz-mat team to safely get it out of the generator and ejected from the ship so it won’t contaminate Main Engineering.”
“I’ll…try,” she said.
The monkey got as far as opening the door leading into the core before it ground to a halt.
Cursing under his breath, the old engineer grabbed the infernal thing with his suit’s manipulator and dragged it the rest of the way through, and then pounded on the button to close the door.
Moving away from the irradiated repair auto-bot, he looked at his suit’s radiation levels with growing concern. Even that little exposure could have been deadly to him and, even if it wasn’t, he had no interest in seeing those butchers down in Medical any sooner than he had to.
He didn’t even care that they’d rebuilt his hips and finished repairing his lower intestinal tract. No gains were worth the price of going back under their care, not if it could be avoided.
He sighed with relief after seeing that the radiation levels inside his suit, while on the high side, were still in the survivable level without extraordinary treatments.
“A simple radiation bath and I’ll be good as new,” Spalding said with satisfaction. “See? It went just like I told them. An easy job—and now we’ve got a fully functional gunboat carrier!” All that remained was to finish tearing out her internals and welding boat racks on the outside of the hull. It would take another month at least but when he was done there wouldn’t be an uglier, or tougher, gunboat carrier in the entirety of known space! He’d stake his reputation on that, too.
Why, it was almost time to go to work on that other hulk. All she needed was her generators restored, as well. Then all that would be left was to look into the hyper drive situation.
Muttering happily to himself, he pulled out a large piece of lead-lined duralloy II and started welding it around the surface of the hairline crack they’d just patched.
“Spalding do you read me!” Came a much stronger com signal that he’d had before. It was also accompanied by the sort of irritating voice he could have lived without right about then.
“Don’t have a good signal; you’re breaking up,” he grumped, turning back to the welding job. He needed to get this right, or else those boys in their radiation haz-suits wouldn’t be able to get in here safely.
“Don’t you give me that! Just what were you thinking? I almost had a heart attack,” Glenda Baldwin exclaimed angrily, “you could have just told me you weren’t going to head into that core, you know.”
“This from the woman who threw me to the jackals without word one!” he snapped in a rising voice. “I don’t remember any warning given to me.”
“So this is revenge?” Baldwin sounded like she wanted to strangle him.
“Revenge is such a harsh word,” he said sweetly, but with his gravelly voice he sounded more mixed and mangled than anything, “what I will say is that you told me not to go into that core—and I always aim to please a lady.”
“I also told you to eject that core!” Glenda said sounding at her wits end.
“And then we’d be out a perfectly good fusion generator,” Spalding placed his tongue between his teeth and continued to use the molecular bonder to finish the first weld line of the duralloy cover plate. “I ain’t aimin’ to please so much that I’ll just go and throw away a perfectly good piece of equipment. There’s pleasing and then there’s foolishness, and that right there was just utter foolishness, plain and simple”.
Baldwin made an inarticulate sound of feminine rage and cut the channel.
Spalding eyed the weld lines he still had to do. Considering the situation outside the generator, he figured this job was going to take another good fifteen minutes…at least.
He’d just have to keep a weather eye on his rad-counter that’s what he’d have to do. Give things time to cool off out there…as well as make sure the job in here was done good and proper of course.
Humming happily to himself he turned back to his job. He was never happier than when a plan came together like it had here.
Chapter Forty-seven: Finishing the Job
Metal shrieked as I tore a rivet through my enemy’s visor. I instinctively came around with a wild, right-handed uppercut and barely managed to clip the latest Lancer to challenge me. The loss of my right hand didn’t mean that the battle-suit’s gauntlet was any less present—it just meant I couldn’t open and close the hand, or use it to manipulate anything.
Fortunately, I did manage to connect, however slightly, and the power in this suit meant that the Lancer went spinning to the deck. That was too close! These warriors might have been from a primitive culture, and my suit might have been head and shoulders above theirs performance-wise, but that didn’t make them stupid. The previous challengers had worked out that speed was my main disadvantage, and they had worked hard to damage my reinforced metal joints and slow me down even further. They’d also saved their best for last when it came to my challengers.
Unlike the majority of the nearly twenty men I’d killed already, this guy was trained. He knew his suit in and out, and exploited its every advantage to the maximum. This was clearly a warrior who had been with me at least since near the beginning.
Maybe another man would have hesitated, wondering about this and that—why he’d turned against me; why was he doing what he was doing; when, exactly, his loyalties had changed; and what I could do in the future to stop this from happening again—but instead of doing any of those things right at that moment, all I cared about was charging forward and keeping him on the defensive. This was the last challenge of the day, and I really couldn’t have cared less about the political alignment of a dead man.
It was either me or him, and I was determined it would be him. So while he was down, I wanted to put the boots to him good and hard. Unfortunately, as I’d mentioned previously, this was one of the fully-trained Lancers from our contingent. The moment my foot started to descend, he rolled to the side and I stomped bare deck instead of his head.
He rolled, and kept rolling, working to gain sufficient distance to regain his feet and thus mount another offensive. I pushed my suit for all it was worth, but the repeated strikes to my leg joints had taken a toll and I just couldn’t seem to catch him.
I glanced down at the power readout on my built-in ion cannon, but it was still reading too low to fire another shot. Originally it had possessed two capacitors, but along the way one of the batteries had been destroyed and the other was severely damaged. So now, not only did I have half the potential capacity I had before, but the one battery bank I did have was slow-charging.
Seeing his chance the Lancer jumped to his feet in a single movement, his sword coming up and around to face me as he did so. But that was just a distraction for the plasma rifle he pointed at my head and opened fire with. As I said: he was a skilled suit operator, unlike the majority of the easy meat I’d crushed under the boots of my battle suit. Maybe if they could have come at me in a group they would have made short work of me, but one on one the Devastator was just too formidable.
Ignoring the flares of light and powerful crashes hitting my reinforced helmet area, I continued to run forward. Running through the area he’d been in before he opened fire, I click-activated my extendable vibro-blade and swung wide.
The screech of metal on metal told me where my foe was, and I blindly turned to confront him.
“Sorry, Warlord Montagne,” the warrior said and I heard the high-pitched whine of a short-fuse plasma grenade about to go off.
I instinctively raised my left arm—the one with the still-present hand—to protect the most fragile part of this suit: the visor that allowed me to see.
An explosion rocked my head, giving me whiplash and sent me seeing stars. A powerful impact followed before I’d had the chance to see what was happening and, combined with my lack of balance, it was enough to send me stumbling over backwards.
With a resounding crash, I hit the floor flat on my back, a pair of duralloy-shod feet on either side of my head.
Still blinking away stars, I regained my sight just in time to see, out of the still working left half of my field of vision—the right side of the hud seemed to be down looking like nothing more than a spiderweb of cracked and broken crystal—the Lancer place another plasma grenade on my right knee joint using the sticky substance. The left knee, I realized, also had a plasma grenade affixed to it—a fact I took in after just an instant.
I immediately tensed. Lying on my back, I was a sitting duck—I needed to get out of there!
I started to roll to the side, and one powerful explosion after another rocked the suit.
I screamed, feeling a sharp pain in my right thigh. Surprisingly, my left leg felt just fine, which I could only attest to the incredible durability of the Devastator class battle-suit.
“It ends here,” the Lancer declared, jumping on top of me with his sword held in a reversed grip with blade pointed straight down at my left eye.
I was surprised—shocked, actually. One highly-trained Lancer had just shown exactly how vulnerable this sort of oversized, heavily armored battle-suit was when faced with a nimble opponent who knew its weak points and was willing to ruthlessly exploit them.
“I’d really hoped it wouldn’t come to this,” I sighed, staring up at the point of the sword.
The warrior raised the vibro-sword up high in one quick savage motion—
—and I activated the suit’s last weapons system. I’d hoped to keep this one hidden, just on the off chance I had to deal with an armed insurrection later on.
Twin holes one on each shoulder of the suit popped open, and a mix of plasma and sonic grenades shot into the air. In addition to the built-in ion cannon for disabling enemy suits, this suit also had an area-suppression weapons system.
In an internal compartment on either side of the suit’s back was a cache of grenades. One was for plasma, and in this case, the other was filled with sonic, with each compartment capable of holding ten grenades each.
It wasn’t enough ordnance to fight and win a sustained battle with—at least, probably not. But it was more than enough for any soldier to punch a hole in the enemy line with a blitz attack. That was the proposed hope anyway.
In practice this was the first time I’d used the system, and with multiple CRASH—BANG—BOOMS, I was rocked by the dangerously close explosions.
Red lights, ear shrieking warnings, and critical system failure alerts cascaded across my left field of vision. My leg motivators were catastrophically compromised, as was the suit’s left shoulder. My right arm was down to half effectiveness and, lacking a hand, meant using it as my sole source of controlled movement made things more than a little clumsy.
Lifting my head, I looked over to see the Lancer—who had been thrown more than a dozen feet by the force of the blasts stagger to his feet. His armor scorched and blackened, he raised a glove missing three fingers and took a single step towards me. He then stopped, raised his sword defiantly, and then collapsed to the floor motionless.
“Triumphant Napoleon,” I rasped from my suddenly dry throat. It had taken every trick up my sleeve—both of them, as it were—as well as every advantage Spalding had managed to build into my previously new, but now effectively destroyed power armor…but I’d done it.
Gants and Hierophant came over to look at me while one of my detractors without the courage—or maybe it had been desire—to challenge me stopped over by my last opponent, looked down, and then shook his head.
Seeing me looking back at him, Gants hurried over the last few feet between us. “Are you okay, Sir?” he asked worriedly.
“Get me out of here,” I growled. The suit was entered through the back and with my current inability to flip myself over that meant that even if the emergency release mechanism was working that I was still going nowhere until someone flipped me over—or propped me onto my side at least.
Gants jumped, as if stung.
“Right away, Sir,” he said quickly. He reached down and grabbed me, “Help me, Hierophant.”
Between the two of them, they levered me over and pried me out of my suit.
Coming out of the suit, I staggered and would have fallen if they hadn’t grabbed me by the elbows on either side. My left thigh still hurt like you wouldn’t believe, which I somehow irrationally thought would no longer be the case once I was free of the restrictive confines of the Devastator.
Looking down at the source of the pain, I was irritated to see that the leg was still there; if it was gone I could have explained away the pain, but there it was—with a three inch shard of duralloy sticking out of it.
Three inches and this much pain? I thought with bitter disappointment. Now that was just insulting. I’d thought I was tougher than that.
Angry with such a small piece of metal being such an irritant, I promptly reached down and pulled it out.
A belated, “Wait!” from the Armory medic came too late. But with the shard now fully out of my body, I could see that it was at least six inches in total size.
“Well…six inches is better,” I grumbled.
“If that had been in an artery you could have bled out,” scolded the medic.
“I’m fine,” I said examining the injury critically. It didn’t look like it would kill me anytime soon. We could deal with it after I left.
“Hold still, Sir,” Gants said as I shifted away from the medic.
I shook my head. “No time, Mr. Gants; a fleet doesn’t run itself,” I started hobbling toward the door, “and we’ve spent far too much time on this particular matter as it is.” Dumbfounded, Gants and Heirophant followed me as I limped across the room.
“I’m going to need a new, gym,” I decided after a cursory look at the war zone that just an hour earlier had been a relatively pristine exercise facility, “make sure you get a repair crew in here right away.”
At a loss, and with growing looks of respect, the Tracto-an Lancers who moments before had been passionately hoping for my death stood aside as I continued to discuss Fleet business while calmly exiting the floor.
“Is Druid’s ship ready to depart?” I asked as soon as we were out the door and on the way to the nearest lift.
“I believe so, Sir,” Gants said and I could almost hear him exchanging glances with Hierophant behind my back.
I was still surprised at the unholy amount of maneuvering that had gone on behind the scenes to be the first Captain—or, in this case, Commodore—to take a battleship out on an independent patrol. It had almost made me reconsider the notion. However, the patrol was needed too much to back out now. Not only the nascent little Border Alliance, but the worlds we were directly recruiting from, needed to see a powerful Confederation presence before they started slipping away.
“How’s Spalding doing?” I asked starting to feel light headed but the lift was only twenty feet away, I could make it twenty feet. You could never let them see you sweat. I had to make it.
“Still busy working on getting one of those hulks with power so he can convert it to a carrier of some sort,” Hierophant repeated—it was information I already knew, but I was running out of amazingly clearheaded questions to ask to show how very unaffected I was by all the battle damage and blood loss.
“Good,” I gasped, “he’s back to his old self and working mechanical magic as usual. I never dou—doub-doubted him.” I stuttered, finally crossing the threshold of the turbo-lift. “We’ll beat our detractors together,” I said or maybe I only thought it as I listed to the side and collapsed against Gants.
I was ready for that medical treatment now…I think.
Chapter Forty-eight: Medical Mistakes and Malpractice
Flashes of light…a near constant pain…and the sensation of movement as he was drug out of the room by his arms and tossed onto a hover pallet.
God of my people…I have failed you, thought the fallen warrior before the final darkness fell over him, for the last time…
Those were the last relief-tinged thoughts before all that he was and all that he had been was swept away.
“Blast. We couldn’t get to him in time,” a cold, uncaring medical voice spoke from beside the hover pallet. “I’m calling it,” he said, not even bothering to attempt resuscitation.
“Both heartbeat and brainwave activity have flat-lined,” the second medic agreed his voice said with patent disgust. “Honestly I don’t understand why we’re even pretending to treat these traitors. Attacking a superior officer is a spacing offense.”
“Medical Tradition; we treat all sides in any conflict,” said the first medic, “they may hang later, but they’ll do it in as close to perfect a health as we can get them to before then.”
“Heck of a way to run a fleet,” the second medic sighed.
The first was silent as they continued to push the hover-pallet down the corridor and into the lift.
When the last natural chemical reaction inside the patient’s brain finally came to a halt, something odd started to happen. The medic’s didn’t see it, because they didn’t have their scanners out—and even if they had, they would have needed to be looking very carefully for it—but millions of microscopic organisms, composed of more than mere organic tissues, started to migrate from the rest of the body and into the dead man’s ruined head.
****************************************************
*Beep... beep…. beeeeeeeep!* chimed the portable scanner unit as yet another patient finally flat-lined.
“Lady of Mercy take his soul, but we’ve just lost another one,” sighed Doctor White. Pulling off his non-permeable medical gloves, he wadded them up and tossed them into a nearby recycling unit set there for just such instances. “Take him to the cooling room; we’ve got another one for the morgue,” he instructed wearily.
“Right on it, Doctor,” said the orderly rolling the deceased man onto a stretcher and pushing him out of the room.
“I hate it when I lose a patient,” White said dishearteningly.
“Did you do the best you could?” asked Presbyter, coming out of the operating theater opposite White’s.
“Of course,” the other Doctor said, stung by the question.
“Then shake it off; you’ve got nothing to feel ashamed of,” the grey-haired doctor advised calmly. “Besides, if it helps, the future prospects of our current patients aren’t going to be all that bright even if by some miracle we manage to save them.”
White nodded unhappily. “I just object to them dying on my table, is all,” he said shortly.
While the doctors were conversing, the orderly whistled under his breath as he rolled the next corpse into the cooling room for storage, where they would remain until they could be fully processed into the morgue.
He pushed the stretcher carrying the latest deceased person into the room and turned away, filling out the virtual paperwork on his slate when one of the dead men in the front row suddenly arched his back and drew in a long, terrifying gasp.
With a crash, the orderly dropped his slate onto the floor and stared at the supposedly dead man as he took another gut clenching breath of air.
“Doctor White!” he shouted through the still open door before scooping the slate off the floor and tearing up toward the front of the line furthest away from the entrance into the cooler. “I’ve got a live one in the cooler!” he cried out.
There was a momentary pause from outside the cooling room, and then the running of feet and the orderly frantically started pulling the stretchers between him and the patient out of the way.
“What the blazes is going on in here?” White demanded, storming into the room.
Trying to hold the injured man with one hand—keeping him down enough so that he didn’t flop onto the floor with the violence of his seizures—he pulled up the man’s file.
“What is this man doing in the cooling room?” Doctor White asked hotly.
“He was marked down as DOA by the medics, Doc!” the orderly cried, “a routine scan when they entered sick bay confirmed it. All records show he had no life signs when this man hovered into our facility!”
“Well, for a dead man, he seems far too active to me,” snapped White pushing the orderly out of the way. “I need a scanner and two vials of emergency heal! And someone sterilize my operating room before I get back in there; we’ve got a live one!”
“Let me get that, sir,” the Orderly exclaimed, taking the other end of the stretcher and helping to rapidly wheel the patient out of the cooling room.
“Putting a live person in the morgue,” shouted Doctor White, “heads are going to roll for this! We’ll all be lucky if we get out of this one without a medical malpractice lawsuit.”
Seeing a live person thrashing around on the stretcher, Doctor Presbyter came running out of his operating room, changing his gloves as he came.
“What have we got here?” he asked.
White pulled out his slate and waved the medical scanner slipped into his other hand by a nurse over the patient at the same time.
“I’ve got one…Nikomedes—list of former names and aliases include Nikomedes Minos—shot in the head with a blaster at close range,” White reported in a rapid-fire, clinically-trained voice. “Trauma to the right eye, right parietal lobe, negative heartbeat and absent brain activity registered, and supposedly confirmed, upon entrance into our facility more than two hours ago!”
“This man shouldn’t be alive,” barked Presbyter, “your information must be wrong. I don’t see how he could have survived these injuries—let alone survived for two hours in the cooler before we noticed him. Are you sure he didn’t just come in?”
“He’s listed as the first patient to hover into our facility. Records show you performed the admission process yourself,” White accused.
“Impossible,” Presbyter appeared shaken.
“What the Murphy!” choked White.
“What’ve you got?” Presbyter asked, clearly falling right back into forty years of professionalism. Everyone in that room knew that blame could be assigned later—for right now, they had a man’s life to save.
“I’m showing a partial reconstruction of the damaged areas of the brain. It’s almost like he’s spontaneously…regenerating,” Doctor White said with patent disbelief.
“Are you sure the medics didn’t hit him with a dose of combat or emergency heal before calling the code?” Presbyter demanded.
“These crazy Tracto-ans, gene-engineered to within an inch of their lives, the whole lot of them,” cursed White.
However, while both men were mystified by the spontaneous neural tissue regeneration, they failed to notice the odd-looking energy pattern that showed up on the initial brain scan.
More interested in saving their patient than researching anomalous readings that ceased to show up after the first scan, they can perhaps be excused for failing to investigate that, as well as the slightly elevated concentration of rare earths and metal alloys diffused throughout the patient’s brain—in particular, in the damaged orbital cavity and parietal lobe.
But they would likely never get another chance to confirm the concentrated presence of those minerals.
Chapter Forty-nine: Spalding’s Departmental Plan
“Where are those blasted lightweights? They should have been here by now,” raged a certain, increasingly irate, old Engineer.
“Reports are the last shuttle is just clearing the docking bay now,” Parkiney reported.
“You tell Bostwell that I don’t just want reports of where they are at. I want him to get them over here—now!” bellowed Spalding.
“They’re moving as fast as—” Parkiney ceased speaking in the face of the ugly expression on Spalding’s face. “On it, Chief,” he stopped and said instead.
“Well alright then,” Spalding said walking over to the wall and turning away from the other man. He would just stare at the wall for a bit and remind himself that the others were not the problem. No the ones coming here were going to be part of the solution.
A minute later, Lesner, Merk and Bourgon stepped into the room. They were followed by several other department heads and their respective seconds.
“This meeting is for department heads only,” Spalding glared.
“Alright,” Lesner nodded, and the other followed his lead sending their hangers on out.
“What about him?” one of the men—Head of Supply, if Spalding recalled—asked, pointing to Parkiney.
“He’s with me,” the old Engineer said flatly, “he stays.”
Looking like he wanted to protest, but deciding better, the other man backed down.
“Have a seat, everyone,” Spalding said indicating the table.
“Why did you call us over to this wreck of a battleship to have a meeting—like some kind of conspirator cabal in some kind of bad holo-vid?” the Supply Chief demanded irritably.
“You’re all here because something has to be done about those mutinous blighters in the Contingent,” Spalding said flatly.
“You mean the Lancers?” asked Bourgon—an, irritating Brigga-worshiper from over in Environmental.
“And who else would you think I’d be talking about?” Spalding said shortly.
“We can’t deal with the Lancers!” said Supply.
“Is this the recycling committee?” Spalding asked as if by saying this, the answer was self-obvious. That’s because it was—to him.
The other men exchanged looks, and Spalding looked at the Supply Chief blankly.
“Come on, you all know what the recycling committee is for,” Spalding said with irritation.
“Uh…repurposing useless byproducts,” Supply said, and Spalding could see other heads nodding in agreement.
“We’ve got the head of every major ship Department in the Fleet here on this committee; surely you fools didn’t think all the recycling committee did was re-purpose used metals and plastics,” he said belligerently.
Embarrassed looks—even from those who he figured should have known better—appeared on the faces of the assembly.
“What? You thought you blighters were just humoring crazy old Spalding when he up and decided to have a meeting about marginal byproducts?” He threw his hands in the air and scowled. “Look here, you lot,” he leveled a finger, “the head of every major ship department is always a part of the recycling committee, because only committee members have the override for the biological lockout protocols on the waste recycling units. As department heads, it’s our job to manage our departments how we see fit. But when a problem comes up that goes outside of your departmental mandate—one that might need recycling,” he said exaggerating the R word, “then you come here to the committee and present your case. No one is allowed to operate the override without the consent of the full committee but, by the same token, no one wants to have to take lower deck business to the upper deck unless it genuinely needs doing.”
“So when you say ‘recycle’…” Supply looked horrified.
“How the blazes do you think we kept crew purges down back during the reconstruction without the ability to recycle the problems that occasionally cropped up,” Spalding stared at them, dumbfounded. Any fool knew that military discipline was predicated on the naked use of force, but this gaggle seemed oblivious to the simple facts of human nature! “I won’t tolerate a few bad apples ruining the whole barrel for lack of a little recycling,” Spalding pressed on, hoping the slower-than-average group would start to catch up. “That way leads to mutiny and chaos.”
“I refuse to be part of any extralegal activities!” Supply stood up indignantly. “I’m leaving.”
“Sit yerself back down in that chair before I put my foot through you,” Spalding snapped. “You can vote ‘no’ and no one will care too much one way or the other, so long as you’re not rude about it, but you’re in this till the end. So fear not: you’ll swing with the rest if you squeal.”
“How does this help us deal with the Lancers?” Lesner asked, obviously trying to help steer the meeting along in the right direction.
Spalding gave him a relieved look and nodded in thanks. “I’ve got a couple kilotons worth of problems the committee needs to seriously consider addressing,” he said gravely, and by that he meant they’d better well support his plan or heads would roll—unless of course they came up with a better idea, in which case he’d be all ears.
Blank looks were all that met him, however.
“Really?!” Spalding demanded jolted out of his reverie and starting to become frustrated because of it. “You don’t know we go by the kilogram weight measurements in a man’s jacket to single out problems without using names!? Although…” he stopped to consider, “in this case it’s the whole blasted Lancer division, so I s’pose really there’s no point in getting cute about it.”
“I knew about the committee, and some of what went, on but I’ve never been in an actual meeting before,” Lesner said guardedly.
“What I want to know,” Supply burst out, “is just how we know that this ‘recycling’ business isn’t just another made-up tradition foisted on us in the attempt to push us in a direction we should never even be contemplating moving toward!” Then, seeing Spalding was about to burst a blood vessel, he lifted a hand and continued, “But even if it’s a real, genuinely historical thing, I believe my point still stands on its own merits. What in the galaxy are we doing here? Shut it down, men, before we open a spoiled can we can’t close back up!” “Coward!” Spading raged, shaking his fist at the nervous nelly from Supply and then pounding the desk for emphasis. “The Little Admiral settled this business for the moment—temporarily. Now, he says it’s not, mutiny…and that’s fine since he’s the Admiral. But this is the lower deck council! I ask you: when have cultural differences ever been a cover for more than twenty marine officers and top enlisted men strapping on power armor and trying to kill a Fleet Commander?!”
That seemed to put a few of the officers who had been wavering, or leaning toward Supply’s ‘hands off’ attitude to pull back.
“They even waited to pull their happy little homicidal antics until I was knee-deep in the innards of an unstable fusion generator, else this meeting would be going a lot differently, let me tell you!” he declared.
“Or maybe never even have happened in the first place,” Supply muttered to his seatmate, “wouldn’t that have been a happy day?”
“Listen up,” the old Engineer said sharply, “I say no one in this room would have been let off scot-free if it had been our department that suddenly up and decided it had the right to kill off unwanted fleet officers.”
A sudden chill swept through the officers, as the connotations of lower deck men being free and able to attack—and kill—anyone whose orders they found disagreeable were processed by the room’s occupants.
“That’s why it’s time to teach this bunch of happy-handed killers that upper deck business and lower deck business are separate—and never the two should meet,” a vein started throbbing on his head, “if we stand back and wash our hands of it, I ask you…how long until we’re all dead from the exact same cause and the Fleet is swept with chaos and anarchy? We’ve got to step on this and do it hard—before others start getting ideas and think maybe it’s time they changed leaders.”
“You think this could actually happen in my department?” Supply looked shocked and dismayed, as if the thought of the people under him trying to kill him never occurred before.
“I see,” Lesner said grimly, “you’re thinking it could adversely affect the Fleet if an example isn’t made—and you think we’re the ones to make it?”
“We’ve got to draw a line in the sand,” Spalding said flatly, “we need to remind that rogue department there’s a reason you come to speak with the rest of the lower deck departments before taking the matter to the XO—or, as Murphy is my bleepin’ witness, making a blasted move to remove a ship’s commander!”
Spalding was flat-out offended by the gall of it. You just didn’t remove a ship Captain from his command; it was an inviolate rule of cold space. How much more did that go for a Fleet Commander?
Several of the other Department heads started nodding—in particular those who Spalding had specifically requested attend.
“We can dismount a couple lasers…if Engineering will run the cable from the power generators and cut a hole into the Lancer department,” Lesner finally growled.
“You’re actually thinking about attacking another department—the Lancer Contingent, specifically? They’re the group that’s trained to defend a ship from an internal attack! I thought this sort of madness was the very thing you’re trying to put a stop to, Spalding,” shouted the Supply Officer.
“Bah! The supply officer is right,” sneered Merk, and Supply started nodding, “why, you’ll only get maybe 20-40% of them that way, Gunnery!”
Supply looked betrayed by Merk’s turnabout.
“We can just put something in their food, and no on in the first meal we serve will know a thing. The Galley can tell our people which foods to stay away from, and it won’t be until the second or even third meal before they start to figure it out,” Merk nodded with satisfaction. “There’s no need and no call to shoot up the ship when we can disable 60-80% of them before they even know what hit them.” The head of the galley—being the person in charge feeding of the entire ship—sat back with satisfaction on his face.
Supply choked audibly, but his protests were headed off before he could even make them.
“Only a 20-80% success rate between the pair of you,” scoffed Bourgon, leaning forward in his chair. “As Brigga is my witness, we can just send them a mix of bad air and they’ll die on the vine. Environmental can get maybe 85-95% of those tall, walking, suit-thugs in one fell swoop.”
“Hey, now, we’re here to teach the Lancers a lesson, not kill the whole lot of them,” Supply objected, changing his tune but still singing the same song as before. “I mean…how can we possibly cover up the deaths of thousands of ship defenders?”
“Look down on my department, will they?” Bourgon said coldly. “They’ll be dead within the first few minutes—with the rest to follow shortly so long as engineering welds their doors shut for us. It’s hard to blast your way out of a compartment if you can’t breathe.”
Spalding looked with irritation at Bourgon. |If I wanted to kill the lot of them, I’d just have my engineers close a few bulkheads and then drill holes in all the walls and bulkheads between their compartment and the outer hull and see how much they like sucking vacuum,” he snapped. “The Admiral said they’re not mutineers and, Sweet Murphy, I’m not the man to tell him he’s wrong.”
“Could have fooled me,” Supply scoffed.
Spalding gave the Supply officer a cold eye. “So we don’t kill them…at least, not too many of them—so long as most of them see reason. But letting this stand diminishes all of our authority. Each and every one of us,” he said flatly, “if a man, even if he’s a marine, can challenge an Admiral then each and every head of a department in this fleet will have to worry about a knife in the back. We have to nip this in the bud, double-quick. I say we go in as a group and make an object lesson in the very reasons why you gotta respect the other ship departments in this fleet—a united front is what’s called for, and that’s what we’ll give ‘em.”
“I can see it…” Lesner agreed slowly.
“Count me in,” Bourgon nodded.
Merk nodded his assent, but Supply placed his head in his hands.
“Then it’s decided,” Spalding said with satisfaction, “preparations are made in the galley and on the gun deck, while my engineers are sent to ‘tune up’ their battle-suits before Zero Hour. The rest of your departments…” his gaze swept the table from one end to the other, including in his view all the other Department heads who hadn’t spoken yet, “all right, we have our proposal. Let’s put it to a vote.”
Reaching into his tool belt, Spalding pulled out an rumpled hat and an old piece of paper. Counting the men, he then tore up the paper into the appropriate number of pieces.
“Secret ballots,” he said sourly, bitterly accepting the necessary evil of a democratic approach at this particular juncture as he tossed a number of old-style ink pens on the table. “Vote ‘yea’ or ‘nay’ and cast your paper into the hat. Then we’ll tally the votes; majority rules. All those in favor of teaching those Lancers a painful lesson in respect…let yerselves be heard.”
When the vote was tallied, the committee had voted and Spalding smiled grimly. The easy part was over.
Chapter Fifty: Critical Skills
Spalding walked into the cramped cubicle and, seeing his target, placed a heavy hand on the other man’s shoulder.
“Commander?” Mike looked up at the old Engineer in surprise.
“I’ve heard good things about you, lad,” he said jovially, and gave a light tug that nearly pulled Mike out of his seat.
“Sir?” Mike asked, looking with concern over Spalding’s shoulder at the
Tracto-an standing behind him. “Hierophant?” he asked with surprise and then yelped as the old engineer continued pulling him the rest of the way out of his chair.
“I hear you’re a man who can keep his mouth shut when it’s called for,” Spalding said keeping a hand on Mike’s shoulder as he lead him out the door while the rest of the techs in the compartment looked on in surprise, “I have need of such a man.”
“I’m just a system’s analyst, Commander,” Mike protested and then leaned over to Hierophant to hiss, “what are you getting me into?”
Hierophant just smiled.
“Now, don’t blame your friends for turnin’ pickle on you; it’s not their fault I need a man with your skill. Besides, you’re starting to get a reputation all on your own,” the old Engineer consoled, “keep this up and you’ll be known as the go-to man for ticklish computer problems all over the Fleet!”
Mike attempted to slow the pace and was almost pulled off his feet. “I need the extra workload like I need a hole in the head,” Mike muttered discontentedly, as the realization of a heavily-increased workload began to float through his mind.
“You aren’t thinking about slacking off on me, now are you, Mike?” Spalding suddenly stopped, a wild look in his eye as he rounded on the confused analyst.
“N-no, Sir!” Mike said quickly. He held his breath until the Commander grunted and they continued at the previously hurried pace over to the lift.
“Good, because there won’t be time for much rest the next two days,” Spalding confided.
Mike heaved a sigh.
“What’s the job, Commander Spalding?” he asked.
“Don’t worry; it’ll be right in your bailiwick,” Spalding assured him, “something of an ‘inter-departmental prank,’ you might say. Don’t worry, I’ll cover for it. You’ll be acting under my direct orders and all that.
Despite the other man’s words, Mike felt anything but reassured.
“I need permission from my supervisor before I can do this, Commander,” Mike made one last attempt to escape or at least delay the inevitable.
“Oh, don’t worry; it’s already cleared,” Spalding declared.
Mike winced. There was nothing for it now. He was stuck.
****************************************************
“Brence, I’ve got just the man to help you with those suit upgrades,” Commander Spalding said, breezing into the conference room off Main Engineering where the majority of the strategizing and critical parts assembly was being completed.
The other officer glanced up quickly and, seeing who was beside the Chief Engineer, looked puzzled.
Spalding’s hand landed on Mike’s shoulder, and he pushed the newcomer forward.
“This here is Mike. He’s going to help you with those ‘upgrades’ we were talking about, Brence me lad,” Spalding said with a slightly crazy glint in his eye. “Now remember: I want those suits to sing by the time you two are done with them.”
“Good to meet you, Mike; I’m Brence,” the Engineering Officer said, thrusting out his hand. “I see you got roped into this, too,” he said in a lowered voice as Spalding turned away to speak with Parkiney, though the elderly Chief could hear it all.
“You can say that again,” Mike agreed, looking worried, “the Chief Engineer said something about a prank and now suits? Which department are we…” He trailed off looking at Brence hopefully.
“The Lancer contingent,” the young Engineering Officer said promptly.
“Oh, bother,” Mike sighed.
Brence clouted him on the shoulder and smiled. “Don’t worry—it’ll be fun!” he laughed.
“Remember, Brence: if you do a good job with this one then I’ll have another top assignment for you later,” Spalding called out from the other side of the room as he laid a finger alongside his nose.
Brence and Mike sat down and Brence started to tell the young analyst exactly what was needed from him.
Seeing how the pair was getting on, Spalding nodded with deep satisfaction and turned back to Parkiney. “Now then, Parkiney,” the Commander said, turning serious, “I can’t stress enough that we’re going to need the bulkheads down in these sections, and the work crews set up with the vacuum suits and tools they’ll need for the job—but we can’t tip our hand either. If we do, things could get messy,” his look turned dire for a long second, “very messy.”
“No worries, Chief,” Parkiney said with quiet confidence, “I’ve already got men stashing the equipment in nearby maintenance lockers. The men know they’re needed for an important assignment, but even the work crews assigned to each bulkhead won’t know exactly what they’re going to be doing until one hour before it goes down. When the time comes, they’ll get their work orders and go pick up their equipment but not a minute before. It’s all scheduled for time-release in the computer.”
“You almost make a man feel redundant, you know that?” Spalding chortled. “If you keep this up, there won’t be much need for me much longer!”
“I think it’d be a very big man indeed that could fill your shoes, Commander,” Parkiney said seriously, “and I’ve yet to meet the man that would want to try. I pray to Murphy you stay around for a long time, sir—if you don’t mind my saying.”
“Bah,” Spalding snorted, “no man is irreplaceable. But so long as I know that my ship will be in good hands when I go, why, that’s all a man can ask for.”
****************************************************
Over the next day, while engineers headed into Lancer territory on every ship and station in the Star System under the auspices of a routine Lancer suit ‘upgrade,’ work parties moved into position isolating section bulkheads and rerouting traffic through adjacent corridors on the flagship and every other major warship.
Meanwhile, galley personnel began adding something ‘extra’ to the Lancers’ food—and only their food—while a few boys down in Environmental pulled up the Brigga net and got to work on making a few specific, less-than-legal modifications where they were needed.
Like headstrong bovines, you have to get their heads stuck in the stanchion before they know what’s going on. It’s only after you have their attention, and they know who’s doing what to them, that you can pull out your sledge-hammer and hit those rebellious Tracto-an bulls between the eyes, Spalding thought with resolution.
After this display of Fleet solidarity, any of the idiots too stupid to realize their own best interests lay in shaping up would be put down—hard.
****************************************************
“Commander, a moment of your time?” came a gruff, growly voice from behind him.
“No time,” Spalding grumped, continuing on to his next task unimpeded. If he wanted to keep everything on the down low, it was becoming increasingly necessary to show up at each checkpoint personally.
Since when did a proper Engineering Officer turn into a handholding, jitters-soothing, accursed replacement for a Morale Officer, he wondered angrily. Why, if it weren’t for the requirement of operational security, I’d have walloped a few petty officers upside the head by now.
The sound of metal footsteps thumping on the deck behind him grew faster and louder, until the irritating pustule determined to slow him down caught up with the old engineer.
“Commander Spalding, a handful of minutes, if you will,” the man, Spalding glanced back and saw Caprian Marine armor. The other man placed a hand on the elderly engineer’s shoulder—an irksome gesture if ever there was one.
“No time, Marine,” Spalding said, shrugging off the hand with a glare.
“I’ve been hearing a few things,” the Marine Officer said flatly, “make time, Commander.”
Spalding gave the other man the hairy eyeball, but the Marine was resolute, so the old engineer grunted.
“Follow me,” the old Engineer gestured.
They walked a pair of corridors over before arriving outside a maintenance closet.
“In here,” suggested the Marine.
“So long as a little honest grease doesn’t offend you,” Spalding said, rolling his eyes.
“No, this’ll do fine,” said the Marine.
“Well…” Spalding demanded, “I haven’t got all day.”
“Commander Spalding, I’m just here to help,” the Marine Officer—who bore a Colonel’s insignia—said seriously.
“All you’re doing right now is holdin’ me up and wasting my time,” Spalding growled, “so if there’s a point in there somewhere I’d appreciate getting to it!” As he spoke, his hand crept down to the plasma torch on his tool belt. The finger torches were fine for precision work, but when it came to bigger jobs there just wasn’t anything that could quite compare to a full-sized torch.
“Look, since we share departmental space on the ships we’re posted on, they’re starting to make even my marines look bad,” said the Marine Officer.
“I don’t know who you are or what you’re talking about,” Spalding said gesturing towards the battle-suit’s face plate.
“Colonel Wainwright, Caprian Marines, on temporary assignment to the Confederation Fleet,” the other man said, flipping up his visor to reveal salt-and-pepper hair above a well-aged face—a face which bore a respectable number of scars.
Spalding’s thumb flicked the switch to prime the torch. Now that the face-plate was open, he had options.
“Oh? Doesn’t appear to be a temporary assignment to me,” the Commander pointed out, “how many years have you been ‘temporarily assigned’ out here?”
Wainwright frowned. “Look, I’ll say it for the record: their actions cannot stand. I know what happened and I know what’s going on, at least the rough outline of it,” the grizzled Marine Colonel said meeting and holding the Engineer’s eyes. “I’m here to help.”
Spalding gave the other man a long look. “Well…alright then,” Spalding said suspiciously and then handed out an assignment, “if you insist then I’ve got a job for you.”
“I do,” cut in the Marine nodding evenly.
“Might be we could use a backstop,” Spalding ruminated and then pulled out a slate. “Have a pair of squads at each of these coordinates,” he said after a few minutes.
Wainwright looked at that slate and, flipping through several screens, looked again. “I think we can do this,” he said after a third review.
“Glad to hear it,” Spalding said impatiently, “now if you wouldn’t mind…” he gestured toward the door.
“Of course. I’ll let you be about your business,” Wainwright said.
The old engineer waited until the other man had left the closet and was away down the hall before releasing his grip on the torch.
He shook his head. All this creeping around in maintenance closets was for the birds. An honest engineer—like himself—simply wasn’t cut out for all this cloak and dagger business.
Still when there was no one alternative, even a square peg could be pounded into a round hole.
Then he smiled. He didn’t know if that marine was on the up-and-up or not, but fortunately he didn’t have to know. That was why he’d only send the man the right coordinates after the party was already well under way. In the meantime, those marines could head to the decoy locations and cool their heels.
Chapter Fifty-one: Putting Out the Fires
“Captain, we have a mission for you,” Admiral Skvikent, the head of the Promethean SDF said officiously. “There have been reports of a number of attacks on shipping just outside the hyper-limit. As long as freighters continue to head out into the black, to avoid our sensor net picking up their jump route, nothing really can be done but, to help assuage their civilian fears, you’ve been assigned to the grav-border. Patrol, monitor the hyper-limit for bogies, and do your dead level best to put an end to these depredations on the sovereignty of Promethean space,” ordered the Admiral who, in his spare time, was a regional War Prince with administrative powers over roughly 5% of the planetary surface.
“But, Sire,” Costel Iorghu protested, “my ship, the Prometheus Fire, is a Hammerhead class Medium Cruiser. She’s the slowest of the slow, not only in normal space drive but, compared to other ships of its class, its hyper drive as well. Are you sure we’re the right ship for this mission?”
“You have your orders, Captain. Unless you feel defending the homeland against the scum of the space-ways is beyond your capabilities,” added Skvikent coldly.
“No, Sire; you can count on the Prometheus Fire,” Costel Iorghu said, stiffening before being dismissed.
Three frustrating days had passed since that meeting.
Since then, as predicted, his ship had been the object of scorn—and the butt of every joker in the system—as it continued to arrive an hour late and a hundred credits short of every distress call. Meanwhile, the reinforced, traditional border defense units made of smaller ships continued to improve their response times and show up his ship in every way.
Frustrated beyond measure, Captain Iorghu called down to Engineering for the second time that day.
“How goes the modification of the energy banks, Chief Engineer?” the Captain demanded when the other officer had finally been brought to the com-link.
“A lot faster, if I wasn’t being interrupted,” growled the Engineer. “That said…we should have the modifications done within the hour, which should show as a marked improvement in our micro-jump response time.”
“Good work, Chief Engineer,” Costel Iorghu said, gritting his teeth because he knew that, even after the new work, they were still going to be far too slow. Still, shaving even a half hour off of their response time had to count for something.
“I have things to do,” the Chief Engineer said rudely and then cut the connection.
Costel Iorghu pounded a fist into the arm of his chair. Everything that had happened before now—the humiliations, constantly receiving the worst assignments in the System Defense Force, the scorn and sometimes outright shunning by his fellow officers—was all because of one single event: the time he, Costel Iorghu, had allowed a warship of Sovereign Prometheus to be captured in Easy Haven by a group of pretend Confederals.
He had only been following the orders of his lawful superior, and fellow Captain, Jeremiah Stood—but try telling that to the review board.
Every problem, every insult, every slight could all be laid directly at the feet of one individual: Jason Montagne Vekna, now known as the Tyrant of Cold Space. The ill fortunes of Prometheus Fire, and her crew, were all because of him.
The Captain of the Fire burned with the desire to redeem himself and clear his good name, but until such a time came he was reduced to scraping along the border of Prometheus, showing up late and looking like the most useless captain in the defense fleet.
“We’re receiving a distress call, Captain. It’s the Height of Flying, a freighter registered out of New Pacifica and she’s screaming her head off, Sir,” reported the Comm. Officer, looking like a beaten dog as he reported yet another attack to which the Fire would be responding to as fast as its slugging hyper engines could manage.
“Get me Engineering,” Costel ordered.
“Captain, I really don’t have time to play around; we need to bleed off the energy now that the modified banks have been tested,” the Chief Engineer said with a haggard look after arriving at the com-link.
“No!” Iorghu exclaimed, shaking his head firmly. “Continue to build up a charge; we’ve got another distress call. I don’t care what it takes, Chief, I don’t want to be stuck with another body retrieval duty because this ship is the largest class and last on the scene. It’s destroying morale, being unable to do anything but pick up the corpses.”
“I’ll do my best, Sir,” the Engineer sighed.
“You’ll do better than that,” the Captain snapped, feeling something inside himself break, “I don’t care if you have to rupture the strange particle generator and crack the main dish. I want to be there in time and I want it now—or I’ll find this ship a new engineer!” “One who’ll kill everyone on board,” the Chief Engineer warned.
“I don’t care,” the Captain snapped, “we all have to die sometime. So if you don’t want to see that happen then do something about it.” He furiously slammed his fist down, cutting the connection.
He refused to go on even one more clean-up ‘patrol.’
****************************************************
“Point Emergence!” exclaimed the Navigator.
“Extending engines,” reported the Helm.
“I’m reading high level energy signatures,” said the Sensor Officer who then shot bolt upright in his chair, “we have active weapons fire!”
Going from half-expecting another in a long string of failures, to the sudden realization that this time they hadn’t arrived too late, Costel Iorghu’s eyes lit with an intensity that hadn’t been present in more than two years—if ever.
“Full power to the engines,” he snapped.
“Full power to engines, aye,” the Helmsman said his excitement growing and shoving the power throttles to wide open as ordered.
“Tactical, you tell Gunnery to lock on target and fire at the first possible opportunity,” the Captain snapped, “I don’t care if we’re out of range and taking pot shots into the dark. I want to fire on the enemy and I want to do it as soon as humanly possible!”
“Fire as she bears with liberal ranging shots, aye, Captain,” Tactical said, looking like an old herding dog too long in the house because of his aching joints, who suddenly spotted cattle on the front lawn.
The Medium Cruiser ponderously built up speed—some would say she did so almost majestically, were it any other ship. In her sights as she closed distance was a pair of freighters.
One of them, the Height of Flying, was under attack by the rakish figure of a pirate destroyer. The other, the Brilliant Cargo Gem, was running away from the battle at top speed.
“Tactical, bag me that pirate!” Captain Iorghu yelled with glee and then, realizing how he must have sounded, he recovered his composure and turned to the Sensor section, “get me the profile of that Destroyer. I want to know her class, her modifications, who built her, and the name whoever they sold her to,” he ordered fiercely.
“Pirate vessel is breaking off,” reported Tactical.
“Class assessment confirmed; she’s in our database, Captain. Data banks list her as the Rat Pack, a Marauder class Imperial Destroyer out of the Imperial Yards in Ceti Alpha Four—record shows she was lost with all hands during a routine border patrol,” Sensors said with dismay.
“First salvo away, Captain!” said Tactical clenching his fist.
On the screen, a storm of laser fire lashed out from the front of the Hammerhead class Cruiser, lighting up the Destroyer’s shields like a spring-tide celebration.
“Enemy shields damaged, but holding,” reported Tactical, “cycling our medium and heavy lasers as quickly as possible, Captain.”
“Not the last one to the party this time, are we?” Costel Iorghu chuckled harshly, as a pair of corvettes flashed into existence just outside of laser range off the port bow of the pirate Destroyer. Then he gave himself a shake, “It’s not your fault Tactical; the Hammerhead is a centuries old design, for all she’s been updated continuously down the years, while that Destroyer is cutting-edge Imperial tech.”
“Thank you, Sir,” the other Officer said, as the Destroyer fired a broadside that slammed into the Cruiser’s shields while lighting up her drives and blasting off at full speed.
“Up the kilt,” Costel said excitedly, “fire! Knock out those engines and she’s as good as ours.”
“On it, Captain,” Tactical said, and a renewed rate of fire lashed out from the medium cruiser’s main batteries.
“Keep our nose pointed straight at that scum of the space-ways,” the Captain shouted, pounding his fist repeatedly on the arm of his command chair.
“A hit!” exulted the Tactical Officer. “She’s trailing debris.”
“After her, man,” Costel yelled at the Helm, even though he knew it was probably a futile gesture,” don’t let her get away!”
“Another hit—a glancing shot to her secondary weaponry,” cheered Sensors.
“SDF Corvettes are accelerating to get around on either side of the enemy Destroyer; they say they’ll be there in two minutes and are requesting to link fire-control with us,” reported Comm.
“The Fire’s still got fight in her,” cheered Captain Iorghu, “of course. Tell them we’ll allow them to link up fire control with us,” he said.
“Maneuvering to avoid debris,” reported the Helm, and Costel cursed. The one advantage of the old Hammerhead class was that her heaviest assets were forward facing—both her weapons and her shields. Turn her to the side or the rear, and she was all but a sitting duck compared to her head-on approach. This allowed them to directly follow the enemy with the nose pointed at her stern and fire their full broadside. But it also meant that they were following directly in the path the pirate had taken.
He was about to order the helm to stay on course and push through the debris, their forward shields could take it, when a huge white flash snowed out their forward screen.
“Ion wave!” shouted Sensors.
“Enemy launched an ion bomb in the debris,” Tactical belatedly reported as the bridge lighting was knocked out, leaving them in momentary darkness, before the bridge emergency lighting immediately activated.
“Blast,” Costel cursed, “flip the breakers and get us going again.” “We’ll have minimal functionality in two minutes, and systems fully restored within ten, Captain,” reported Damage Control sourly, “our systems weren’t as hardened as we thought.”
“Minimal helm control restored,” the Helmsman said seconds later, “but even if we have full power, there’s no way we’ll catch a Destroyer with her main engines at full. She’s getting away, Captain,” he finished with trepidation in his voice.
Costel Iorghu wanted to curse, and swear, and throw a tantrum on the bridge but he did none of those things. He could sense that a critical moment in his ship’s storied service had just arrived, and he could either ride the wave back to fully-fledged mediocrity or sink back to the level of pond scum for a second time.
“You’re doing the best you can,” he choked out instead of venting his spleen and then straightened.
“Sorry, Sir,” shoulders around the bridge started to slump.
“She can run from us in fear, but she can’t hide forever,” Costel said, thrusting a finger in the air, “one day soon, either her or a sister ship will try for our shipping again and when they do…we—the crew of the fighting warship, Prometheus Fire—will be waiting for them!”
The bridge didn’t cheer, and they didn’t declare how they were the baddest, roughest bunch of spacers this side of the Gorgon Front, but their shoulders did straighten at their mediocre captain’s words.
No one wanted to believe they were trash, and the patent fact was that the Destroyer had run from them. Maybe next time they really would get the chance to prove themselves by bagging a pirate.
So, while they still couldn’t be considered anything like a crack crew, they no longer acted like the trash of the SDF. They now had something to look forward to: a rematch.
That’s why, even after the Corvette Captains called over to compliment him with words that were little more than thinly veiled insults, Costel Iorghu just smiled grimly and let their words roll off him like water off a ducks back.
Because next time he would be ready.
****************************************************
“I regret to report that, this time, the freighter got away,” the captain of the Rat Pack said stiffly.
“Nothing you could do about it. What are the odds of a Medium Cruiser of that make and model almost having her hyper drive fully charged, and appearing within minutes of your attack?” Commodore Serge shrugged. “You did the best you could.”
“Thank you, Commodore,” said the Captain.
“At least you disabled the Cruiser,” Serge said with a smile.
“A ship like that? What a joke,” laughed the Rat Pack Captain, “fell for the oldest trick in the book: eject the sewage tanks to simulate a hit, and hide a mine in the debris. We knocked her out easy and, if we’d had time, we would have finished her off. I dare say that if this had been an invasion instead of a raid, my crew would be sharing out prize money instead of sour grapes at having to turn away and let her go.”
“There is no point in throwing away your ship when the entire system border patrol is about to jump on top of you. Even if their whole SDF is as incompetent as that Cruiser they’d still wear you down by sheer weight of numbers,” Serge said dismissively, “offer your people my sympathy and assure them that they’re a testament to the service. You can also tell them we might be getting a little help from the forward operating base in this theater—perhaps even enough firepower to start making some serious inroads.”
“I’ll do that, sir,” the Captain said with a hungry look.
Chapter Fifty-two: Spalding Vents his Rage
Zero hour was only eleven minutes and twenty second away when gastric distress rocked the Lancer Contingents onboard the Flagship—and throughout the rest of the Fleet.
His slate chimed, indicating that ‘Operation Stir-Fry’ had been an unqualified success and that Phases Two and Three of Environmental’s operation were ready to go on his command. For Engineering’s part, ‘Operation Upgrade’ had reached as many Lancer suits as was practical, given the time constraints, while the Volunteers from the Marine Brigade had been successfully diverted away to more harmless areas of the ship. They would be on call in case of an emergency.
“We’ll give them a few more minutes to baste in their own juices before we head in,” Spalding said, watching the blast doors leading into Lancer territory with narrowed eyes. Silently, he hit several keys on his slate’s touch screen and a prepared message was sent out. “That should give them just enough time to get their leaders all gathered together nice and proper,” he muttered balefully. He wanted to make this point once—and once only.
When Zero Hour was only one minute and thirty five seconds away, Spalding snatched another data slate out from his belt. He pulled up a pair of special programs and, snapping his head up, he marched into the Lancers’ compartment.
It was show-time.
****************************************************
The stench hit them as soon as they entered the room. It was the smell of sickness and backed up sewage lines.
“Well, if this isn’t one of the saddest sorriest excuses for a marine contingent I’ve ever seen in my long and storied career,” Spalding said with deep, vindictive satisfaction.
“What are you doing here, Engineer Commander Spalding?” demanded a Lancer Captain, striding over and looking ill-pleased with the visitation, “as you can see, we are hardly fit for visitors.”
If the old Engineer recalled correctly, this particular lug-head was ‘Captain Darius.’
“Having a little trouble right now, are you?” the Commander smirked.
Darius opened his mouth but another Captain stormed over. “That is none of your concern Star-Lander!” the new man shouted.
“Oh, it’s none of my concern, is it?” Spalding remarked mildly.
“You are neither Tracto-an or Lancer; you have no business in this barracks,” yelled the Captain. “Others may think you can walk on water, but there are those of us who are immune to your tricks—and we aim to stay that way!”
“I see,” drawled the old borged-out Engineer.
A moment later, Persus came into the room but Spalding had more important things to deal with right at the moment. He’d sort out his hash soon enough.
“And another thing; we do not need any half-men around here. I know not how they do things in Argos, Messene, and among the stars, but in my home polis of Thebes we hold no truck with failed warriors, cripples, and half-men who have been mangled due to their failures,” sneered the Captain.
“Oh, it’s terrible—it is,” Spalding said, baring his teeth in a grin but his eyes promised retribution, “why, when I lost my lower half they hooked my waste system up to a hose and detachable bag—let me tell you that a man just doesn’t feel like a man when he’s in such a condition. Might be the only thing those medical morons over in the sickbay did right, was hook back up the original plumbing the way it was meant to be.”
“You Starborn are a sickening lot,” the Captain said, his lip curling in disgust. Beside him, Darius looked as if he wanted to say something but he was clearly torn.
“Speaking of feeling sick,” Spalding said with a ‘butter couldn’t melt in my mouth’ expression, “I hear you boys have been having a bad case of the trots?”
“Come to gloat have you?” the Captain snarled, getting right in the old engineer’s face. “I heard how it was you who gave that weakling a brand new suit. You got a lot of good men killed.”
The urge to use a crowbar to stove in the middle of this Captain’s forehead came upon Spalding strong and hard, but the old engineer was too wily to give up the game over a small fit of pike—no matter how big the provocation.
“I think you and I might differ over the meaning of the word ‘loyalty,’ and what the interpretation of ‘good men’ means,” Spalding said, his jaw setting resolutely, “’cause where I’m from, a man that turns against his own shipmates and captain…well, lad, there just isn’t a worse sort of malcontent out there.”
“And I suppose you are who they sent to complain, old man?” the Captain mocked. “Oh, lad, you’ve got me all wrong,” he said with a crazy look in his eye, “I’m not here to complain; I’m here to lay down the law. You boys crossed the line when you took and went after the Little Admiral. But I promise you that won’t happen again—not on my watch.”
“You and what army, cripple?” glared the Captain his hand falling on the hilt of his blade. “A lot of people think you to be some kind of wizard, but I know you for what you are: a crazy old man whose best days are past him, and who no longer has the guts or the strength to do anything about it—if he ever had them to begin with.”
“You Lancers seem to have forgotten your place, boy,” Spalding growled, “and it won’t take me no stinkin’ army to deal with the likes of you, Major! Why, I’ve got the entire lower deck at my back! Who have you got, lad?! And seein’ as how you brought up guts again, have you boys been enjoying the sweet release of your own into backed-up toilets?!” he bellowed.
“World of Men!” roared the Captain pulling out his blade. On either side of the room Lancers stood up and started pulling out weapons, “You coward—you have poisoned us!”
“Poison, my Auntie Freeze!! Looks to me like it was just a bad potato—or perhaps it was a moldy bit of cheese—that found its way into your bowl of soup, if you know what I mean!” Spalding chortled, completely unconcerned with the pig-sticker being waved around under his face. “Nothin’ a few trips to the head won’t fix. But you know what they say, boy: never offend the Chef—and that goes double when you’re dealing with an Engineer!!”
“You are a dead man, Starborn,” cried the Captain, “stand and face me like a man in the circle, or I swear I’ll gut you from stem to sternum.”
“Oh, aye?” the old Engineer cocked his head to the side and then, in one mighty motion, lashed out with his power-assisted droid legs aimed squarely at the other man’s unprotected torso.
“Oof,” the Captain—beefy Tracto-an that he was—folded over like a bent metal post after a tractor had ran into it.
Ignoring the men standing from their racks—and ignoring their blades being pulled out—Spalding stood tall and bestowed a withering look upon the men in the oversized compartment.
“You listen to me, now, and you listen good,” Spalding leveled his finger and snarled. “When some of you boys decided it was high-time to take a swing at the Little Admiral—while this old engineer’s back was turned—and the rest of you sorry lot stood by with yer thumbs up yer keesters, instead of doing the honest job the Crown pays you for, the Chef and I got mighty offended. Sent me down here to reason with you, he did,” He finished, his voice now imbued with Murphy’s own thunder.
“You dug your grave,” the Captain swore in a higher octave than that which his voice had previously occupied. Straightening, with a grimace of incredible pain, he threw himself at Spalding.
Spalding leveled a second kick, but the Lancer Captain twisted to the side and pushed through the merely glancing blow, bringing his sword high.
“I don’t care who you are!!” raged the Captain from Thebes. “You have met your end at the hands of Heptomiter of Thebes!”
The vibro-sword came down like the Sword of Justice and, with a howl, Spalding lunged forward to meet it with his hand held proud and high.
With a clang, the sword cut through Spalding’s hand down to his wrist.
There was a short burst of pain before the feedback sensors built into his artificial hand shorted out. A moment after the sword came down, Spalding came forward with an overhand right that had all the momentum his power-assisted body could generate.
“I have hands of solid steel!” the Engineer roared after connecting with the lug-head’s face. The Captain staggered back, his right cheek wobbling strangely. Reaching down to his tool-belt, Spalding pulled out the auto-wrench, “And here’s some advice before you go off to meet your maker: never mess with a man with a multi-tool built into his offhand, for he’ll surely sacrifice that infernal tool in an instant if it will give him the edge.”
“Curse—” the Captain didn’t get any further before an upward swing with the wrench landed on his jaw, literally launching the captain into the air before he came crashing to the metal deck in a heap.
Wiping his good hand on his trousers, Spalding turned back to address the rest of the men in this compartment. “Now maybe because some of you serve on the upper deck, and you can fight like there’s no tomorrow, you think that the ‘rules’ don’t apply to you and that you can do whatever the blazes you feel like. Ignore other departments on the lower deck, will you?! I’m here to teach you boys a thing or two about who really runs this fleet, and as Murphy is my witness it sure as blazes isn’t the Admiral who keeps these ships running—it’s me!”
He took a moment to give Persus the stink eye. Persus shook his head, then nodded as if in agreement with the old Engineer’s actions.
“Back on Capria, we have a code of conduct that keeps us all alive out in black of cold space. I’m here to teach it to you,” he lectured sternly, “and I’m sad to say you’re all going to learn it, or die from my tryin’!”
A Lancer with Sergeant hashes stepped forward.
“Don’t threaten us, engineer; you’re old, you’re sick, and you’re past your best years,” he said coldly.
“Oh…like to join your Captain, do you? I’m sure he can tell you just how old and sick I am,” Spalding laughed maniacally.
“Do not take our silence for respect, and do not insult us and our ways, old man,” called out the Sergeant, and a number of Lancers nodded and fell in behind him. “This isn’t Capria, half-man, and it sure isn’t the Caprian Fleet. Our ways say a man can only keep what he can hold, and if you don’t like it then you can die—along with the rest of your weak race who get in our way.”
“Weak, is it? Oh, aye, insult me,” the old Engineer swelled up like an over inflated balloon making a savage gesture behind him, and moments later the other departmental heads stepped into the Lancer department behind him, “talk down to the man who can cut the gravity that keeps you on the floor, shut off the air you breath, and how about them tender stomachs? Have a care, or the next time you eat all that fine food given to us—courtesy of the boys and girls in the galley—you might just not live through it!”
“Poison is a coward’s weapon, and only belongs to the weak,” the Tracto-an Sergeant said, crossing his arms and lowering his head.
His good temper snapped and, stabbing furiously on one of his data slates, Spalding cut the gravity.
“You stupid blighters! You test me, yet I will have you in the end,” he thundered as Tracto-ans flailed and cried out, their arms pin wheeling in the air as they tried to right themselves in a suddenly weightless environment. “Right now, all you’ve got is a bad case of the trots and are floating in the air like Ulevian Cloud Fish.”
“Put us down and fight like a man,” bellowed the Lancer Sergeant.
“Act like a man and I’ll treat you like one—act a child wavin’ a kitchen knife and Papa Spalding will paddle you just like one,” Spalding swore.
“The Captain was right: you are a coward,” the Lancer Sergeant was trying to swim over to him and not getting anywhere.
“I’m not going anywhere, lad, so if you’re in such a space gods-awful hurry then why don’t you come on down here and do something about it?” the old Engineer jeered.
“You have dug your own grave, Evil Wizard,” cursed the Sergeant, “don’t think your magic will triumph over cold steel! You took the Captain by surprise, but when you dishonor one man in this army you dishonor them all—warriors, into your armor!” A good quarter of the men started push-swimming toward their battle-suits.
“Got anything to say about all this?” Spalding turned to Persus.
“I am not crazed enough to get between a Wizard and his target, but neither am I fool enough to challenge every Lancer on the ship,” Persus remarked casually.
Spalding hawked up a gob and spat. “A fool, am I?” he fumed. “I’ll show you who the fools are in here.”
“I prefer to enjoy the show; just try to not get yourself killed. The Lady would be very upset,” Persus said as the first knife was thrown in the old Engineer’s direction.
“Oh, ye of little faith,” Spalding quoted, and then gave Persus a hard look, “you know, it’s a brave thing that you’re here.”
Persus looked at him with no small amount of suspicion and growing alarm.
“Standing by your comrades in their time of need, even when you know the sort of punishment that is about to be unleashed upon their heads,” Spalding said, and just that moment a flying blade buried itself in his shoulder.
Persus dived behind a rack and Spalding looked down at the knife sticking into him, watching his blood trickle down his chest with growing rage.
“Alright, I’ve had it with the whole blasted lot of you,” he thundered, pulling out the blade and throwing it onto the floor. “Call me a coward and throw your pig-stickers at me, will you? I’ll level the entire blasted Lancer department!”
The Lancers let loose with a thunderous roar, and several men managed to climb into their battle-suits—only to cry with dismay when they failed to activate.
Spalding opened his mouth to continue the lecture when a he saw fire an instant before his head rocked backwards, and he smelt burning flesh. Reaching up in shock, he realized he’d just been shot in the head.
“There’s more metal than bone in this cranium, numbskulls!” he raged, incensed beyond reason.
In response, another shot hit him in the arm and three more hit him in the legs near the joints.
“Beg for mercy, big men,” Spalding gestured for the rest of the department heads to back up out of the room, before slashing a finger on his second tablet, activating the gravity fluctuation program he’d had built into, “it’s time for a little lesson in respect—courtesy of my son, Tiberius!”
All of a sudden, the gravity plates came back into action full force. Men fell down to the floor with a thump and, no sooner had they groaned and started to pull themselves up to their feet—with murder in their eyes—than the plates switched polarity and they went hurtling toward the ceiling.
Everything in the room was soon mixed together due to the rapid grav-shift. Everything from blankets and knifes, to Lancers and battle-suits, were now pinned to the ceiling. When the door to the head was opened by the flailing hand of an out-of-control warrior, the overflowing sewage spewing from the toilets soon joined the mix.
It was a terrible sight, and the stench alone was becoming unbearable as brown matter surged up and down, coating the floor, the ceiling, and the people in the room in equal measure.
Seeing their current plight allowed the hard-breathing and furious engineer to calm down enough to continue delivering the message—now that they were no longer capable of organized resistance.
“Listen up: every single department on the ship runs itself until its issues become a threat to the ship at large, and then they take their little problems up before the rest of the departments before they even think about airing lower deck issues with XO. But they never—blasted EVER—take their issues up with the Captain without consulting the other department heads!” Spalding shouted, believing his point was quickly being made for him with every thump and bump against floor, or ceiling, as he manually shifted the gravity from up to down with a less-than-predictable rhythm. “And boys, if you don’t go to the captain with yer puny, insignificant problems, then you twice-as-blasted don’t go to a blazing Admiral with them!!!” he screamed, spitting fury and saliva out of his mouth in equal measure. “You disrespectful, mutinous dogs need to think twice and three times before you disrespect me, the Engineering Department, and all the other departments in this Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet,” he roared. “Because either you forgot that particular lesson, or you were just too dumb and stupid to learn it in the first place. The real reason no one jumps in this fleet unless I say ‘frog’ is because I’ve got more control over your lives in my little finger, while aboard my ships, than you lot have in your entire department!”
He wiggled his little finger at them, not really caring if they were in any condition to appreciate the gesture or not since he was on a roll. Sometimes with recalcitrant men it was more the tone you spoke with alongside remedial punishment that made the difference in his experience.
“I hope you all can now see that there’s a reason for the unwritten, unspoken code of conduct in this fleet. Learn it or die, rebel dogs!”
By now, a few wild blaster shots started pinging in his direction, with a few scorching nearby bulkheads.
“You’ve got starch, I’ll give you that,” he said, seeing the uppity sergeant with murder in his eye doggedly pulling himself hand-over-hand in his direction. Bestowing a kick to the man’s enraged face soon dislodged the blighter, though.
The Lancer Sergeant screamed in wordless rage as he went flying back into the room.
On the other side of the room, one particularly dogged Lancer was still trying to boot up his suit. After a minute, he finally activated it only to have the special program—which Spalding had Mike created, which his engineers had installed into as many suits as they could manage—kick in and the power-armor suddenly lost its power; automatically shutting down for a full maintenance cycle.
“You boys disgust me. You can’t even deal with one…what did you call me? ‘Old cripple,’ wasn’t it? There’s a small scuffle with a crippled-up old man, and suddenly you’re tryin’ to get into your battle-suits? Engineering maintains those suits, you bomping idiots—of course they don’t work! Just like Engineering controls the gravity that lets you stand upright, unlike your grandpappies who were still wont to tree-swingin’,” he declared, as men floated in the air before he suddenly reversed the gravity again. “And let’s not forget the Galley provides the food you eat, and the bleeping Brigga-worshipers keep the air you need to live flowin’ through the ducts,” he declared, stabbing a button on his slate and suddenly killed the grav-program. Then, reaching into a bag, he tossed a storm of head bags into the once again zero-g environment.
They might yet prove too dumb to live, yet too stubborn stupid to die, but only time would tell. He’d just given them their best chance to keep on living;, his conscience was clear.
By now, the Lancers were starting to get organized. And with the gravity back to stable for more than a handful of seconds, an enraged mass of men—many of them holding blades or grabbing blasters out of lockers at the foot of their racks—started moving to the door.
The scrape of metal on metal behind the ornery old engineer was like music to his ears, and the insipient charge stopped dead in its tracks after the first few steps.
Looking back, Spalding observed the dismounted medium laser that Gunnery Department had dragged through the ship until it was now outside the Lancer compartment—where it was pointed inward.
He turned back to the Lancers with a smirk.
“Now, I’ve got a few Gunners out here behind me who would like to stop in and have a word with you about the duty your protective details owe our Captains and bloody Admiral. But I can see you still need a little time to mull things over first. So knock on the door when the leaders of this department are ready to come to my terms, or else you can all sing your hard goodbyes to the void gods of cold space and start dyin’ off by the job lots—because you’ll all be sucking hard vacuum in five minutes if I don’t get the answer I want!” he cried.
“Death first!” bellowed the plucky Sergeant, standing up with an obviously broken arm fumbling for his blaster.
“That can be arranged,” Spalding shouted, throwing his auto-wrench and hitting the Sergeant right between the eyes. Sometimes you just had to clear out the deadwood before new growth could spring up in its pace. “You blighters may think you belong to the Confederation, or Tracto, or maybe even the Little Admiral's personal Fleet, but you've got it all wrong!” he sneered, pulling on a head bag of his own and securing it in on his head with one savage, practiced motion.
Moments later, there was the hiss of sudden air loss.
“Enjoy the decompression event, lads!” he chortled, stepping back and tapping the massive laser cannon with his one remaining good hand, “because this fleet belongs to one Terrance P. Spalding, and it’s high time you learned it. The next one of you blighters thinks he can just waltz in with his buddies, kill our Admiral, and take my ships out from under me, had better have his mates put him out of his misery and toss him out the airlock before crazy old Spalding takes it into his loony, blaster-shot head to finish off the whole ruddy lot, you! You fools,” he said contemptuously. “Of all the places you would disrespect Engineers, you would do it inside a System with a massive Shipyard?”
“We swore no oath to you,” scowled one of the men.
“You live and die on my say-so. You only think it’s the Admiral who holds all of your lives in his hands! My name is Commander Terrence P Spalding, and with one snap of my finger-,” he reached down and goosed the grav-plates—just enough to give them the notion that he could restart the Tiberius gravity switch whenever he got the wild hair to do it.
“In the name of MEN, shut it off—shut it off!!!” cried desperate and irate Lancer Officers, as more and more sewage spewed into the compartment until a man could hardly move without stepping in it and the hiss of escaping air grew louder.
“Bein’ the laid-back old man that I am, I’m content to let the Admiral keep thinking as he likes regarding the knotted rope of respect in this outfit, so you’d be wise to keep your gobs shut. But as far as all you lesser creatures are concerned, every bolt, every weld, the very decks and bulkheads of every ship in this Fleet—everything—is mine, and the next time you think you need something you’d better come on down to Main Engineering to kneel down and pray before the altar of the all-forgiving patron of Engineering, Saint Murphy Himself. Beg for his divine forgiveness, because I can tell you now that in the mood I’m in you’d do better trying to squeeze blood from a turnip.” Taking one final step back, he gave the massive medium laser a final, emphatic pat, “Because if you don’t, it’s going to take a bloody miracle from the Saint himself, reaching down with his own hands, to soften this tired old heart of mine before I’ll be answer a single one of your calls for mechanical assistance.”
Turning, he stormed out of the compartment and locked the door behind him.
“Put a weld on that door that they can’t break easily, Crew Chief,” he barked.
“That was rough, Commander,” says Parkiney with a grin, “covered in sewage and exposed to vacuum? Not the way I’d want to go out.”
“So long as they want to act like animals, they will be treated as such,” Spalding said fiercely.
Half an hour later, when the air was about to run out in their head bags, and portable emergency bubbles and O2 canisters were set to run dry. the men inside finally realized that they weren’t going to be able to blast their way out. The oversized blast doors were usually intended to keep enemies out, not Lancers inside, but that was the real beauty of a door: it worked both ways.
“You win, Chief Engineer Spalding,” Darius said, appearing on his screen looking grim faced and covered with unmentionable substances. “You have us penned in, our suits disabled, and we have no way to get out of here before we run out of air or freeze to death. What are your terms?”
“You Tracto-ans are slow learners, Captain. You shouldn’t have gotten my dander up; we almost had a genuine Greek tragedy on our hands,” Spalding said sourly, before laying out his terms in a flat, unbending voice.
Chapter Fifty-three: The Investigation
I stood staring out the window at the half-armored bones of the Lucky Clover v2.0, and couldn’t help but remark on just how far along it had come since we’d come into this system more than six months ago.
It would have been nice if the patrols I’d sent out to monitor the borders of 24 and 25 could keep down the Bugs, raiders, and random other threats until the monster ship taking form in the giant construction slip—one I didn’t remember authorizing—could be finished. Druid was a good man and I had every confidence in him, but I was starting to feel a little antsy for some reason.
Maybe it was McKnight and her band of happy hooligans; I’d assigned them a medium transport freighter, that cutter they’d laid claim to in the name of one of their crewmates, and one slightly modified and mostly repaired Harmony Destroyer…
But, no, I’d sent the newly promoted Lieutenant Commander Archibald along with them—ensconced inside the Heavy Cruiser we’d captured in Battle for Elysium—to keep an eye on them and provide a good example.
Their previous Commander, Captain Middleton, had possessed the tendency to run off at the slightest provocation—even abandoning us to our own fates in the face of a massive enemy fleet. Archibald, on the other hand—while also the owner of a dangerously independent streak—possessed almost opposite tendencies, preferring to ignore orders to withdraw while under fire and instead opt to throw himself between the rest of the fleet and danger.
He was also as loyal as the day was long, which I had decided was an incalculably valuable quality to have in subordinate officers. While not in command of the joint Sector 24 mission—technically being on an independent patrol of his own, where he just-so-happened to be alongside McKnight—he was in perfect position to observe and provide assistance while learning the ins and outs of the Sector. I could only hope his good example would rub off of Middleton’s protégé, but even if that outcome failed to materialize, Archibald would soon be capable of providing the very support which McKnight had suggested her group would provide.
No…it wasn’t even Middleton’s survivors that were making me feel a kind of phantom itch I just couldn’t seem to scratch.
Frankly, things were going almost too good to be true—minus a small Tracto-an uprising, of course. We were going on six months now without any major catastrophes. This was longer than I’d ever had without serious trouble in a stretch of time since taking over command of the MSP.
I absently rubbed my fingers over the faint line on my wrist where Medical had reattached the hand, and I grinned wryly as I recalled the battle royal with the Tracto-ans. No one had moved to challenge me—or, rather, this Patrol Fleet—in far too long for my comfort. It made me wonder what was lurking out there in the depths of cold space, waiting for a chance to pounce while we were docked and unprepared.
While I was thinking these deep thought, there was a chime at the door.
I turned as the door swooped open and a balding, half-skin, half-metal forehead pushed its way around the corner of the door entry way and into the room.
“You needed me, Sir?” Spalding asked, looking quickly around the room from one side to the other before quickly settling back on me. He had a strange, off-white color patch of skin over his right cheek.
“Trouble?” I frowned pointing to his face.
Spalding looked surprised and reached up to rub his face. Then he quickly shook his head. “A little mishap down in Engineering while I was on a small welding job; don’t pay it any mind, Sir,” he reported.
I shook my head and then abruptly made my face turn stern and solemn. “I’m not here to talk about Engineering. What is it I’ve been hearing about trouble in the Lancer compartments?” I demanded, abruptly changing the subject and going on the verbal attack. Keeping your opponent off-balance was one of the best ways at getting to the truth.
Realization appeared on his face, and then quickly disappeared until the old Engineer looked at me innocently. “It really is a crying shame, Admiral. A gas leak laid low the entire Lancer crew,” the old Engineer said piously, “but don’t worry, Sir; I’m already on it and I swear that we in Engineering will make sure it never happens again!”
“A gas leak aboard every warship in the Fleet—including my own Flagship?” I retorted in a rising voice. “One or two instances I might have believed, but I lost an entire Lancer contingent on one of the smaller warships!”
“It was the gas leak that took out that crew, but I’m sure I previously filed a report about the series of cracked bulkheads on the Flagship,” Spalding said, still playing dumb. “Stress fractures brought on by prolonged combat and metal fatigue caused a freak accident in the Lancer quarters, Sir. No one could have predicted it would happen, and we’ll make good and sure it never happens again you have my word on that,” Spalding continued to ramble on.
“Listen here, Chief Engineer,” I said stabbing my finger down on the desk to emphasize my point, “nobody plays me for a fool. I know it wasn’t a series of mysterious ‘freak accidents’ that swept through this fleet three days ago. Mass food poisonings, gas leaks, and a freak cascade of fatigued bulkheads giving way at exactly the same time—and it all just so happened to lay low nearly the entire Fleet Lancer Department all at the same time? That’s not an accident—that’s sabotage.”
Spalding stood there blinking as I glared at him.
“Well?” I demanded.
“I’m sorry, Sir,” Spalding said shaking his head, “was there a question in there somewhere…or, what I mean is, could you please repeat it? I’m afraid I didn’t catch it. Had a bad stay at Medical, you know; haven’t felt the same since.”
“You get a lot of trust from me, Spalding ,” I snapped, “mostly because I’ve felt I could count on you and you’ve done a blazing good job ever since I made you Chief Engineer. You’ve saved this Fleet on more than one occasion, and don’t think for a minute I fail to appreciate that. But I’m giving you fair warning that your rope has officially run out. You got me?”
“I take full responsibility for these equipment failures,” Spalding said, coming to attention stiffly with his eyes focused somewhere above my head. “I promise they’re under control and it won’t happen again. You have my word.”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it!” I shouted, enraged that I couldn’t even get a straight answer from one of the few men I relied upon without hesitation, “I’ve half a mind right now to—”
There was a loud beep from my desk console and a red light started flashing—it was the emergency signal.
My blood ran cold and after one last glare, I slapped open the com-link.
“Admiral Montagne here—this had better be good,” I said angrily.
There was a short pause. “You asked to be notified the moment Mrs. Montagne went into labor, Admiral,” said Lieutenant Steiner from the other end of the link, “well, she has—I mean, she is—I mean, I’m reporting in that the doctor was just paged and is on his way to her Station Quarters as we speak. The delivery is about to happen, Sir.”
I froze for a long moment, my mouth half-open.
“Sir…? Are you there,” asked Steiner, sounding concerned.
“I’ll be right down,” I said, snapping back to reality with a blink. Snatching up my jacket and pistol belt, I started for the door before stopping mid-strike. I was going nowhere unarmed. First my family, and now those very people I relied on to have my back, had tried to kill me in quick succession. I couldn’t risk it. I had to go everywhere armed now. In fact, I wasn’t that far from suiting back up in power armor. Only the consideration of the message that would send to all the new recruits in the fleet stayed my hand. But one more incident…
I was halfway out the door when Spalding cleared his throat. “Congratulations, Admiral,” he said with a nod.
I came to an abrupt halt and spun around to look at him. “This conversation isn’t finished,” I warned.
“’Course not, Sir,” he nodded agreeably.
With a disgusted nod of my own, I put Spalding and the continuing Lancer antics behind me. Men had died in whatever had gone down in the ships’ lower decks while I had been in Medical getting myself patched back together.
I wasn’t blind to the fact that it was the very department that had just tried to kill me that had been on the receiving end of this unexpected, entirely-too-deadly, backlash.
Alas, I couldn’t just let it stand or soon I’d have anarchy on my hands. Maybe the next time someone did something that the crewmembers beneath me disapproved of, blood would cover the decks. So despite this act of dubious loyalty—an act which had clearly been in my favor, at least to some extent—I very much needed to make a firm statement against such extralegal actions.
Blast it.
Any which way I turned, I was hemmed in by hidden enemies on one hand and murderous outraged supporters on the other. A pox on all it of it; things were just going to have to wait.
After all, it’s not every day a man became a father—especially eight times over in one sitting. That meant I was just going to have to trust Spalding, and much as I knew I needed to rein things in, the man had never led me wrong…at least, not yet.
****************************************************
“Are you feeling okay?” I asked with concern.
“Aargh!” she shouted breath puffing in and out as she ignored me.
“Do you want me to go get you something?” I asked quickly.
“I’ve been in battle and taken wounds that were less painful than this,” she growled and then clutched her belly and groaned.
“Do feel like you need something for the pain?” I asked with concern, “I can go bring in the doctor.”
“Go sit down, Jason,” she snapped angrily, “and be quiet. I can’t deal with both you and this at the same time,” she said—and then grimaced as another contraction hit.
“That’s it; I’m calling the doctor,” I said standing up.
“This is woman’s work. I don’t need a man in here at a time like this!” Akantha shouted, red-faced as she glared at me, “which brings me back to: why exactly did I let you talk your way into here in the first place?”
I hesitated, feeling torn and somewhere between utterly useless and merely superfluous to the situation’s requirements.
“I said sit down!” she yelled.
“Yes, dear,” I muttered wondering just how long this was supposed to take. She’d been in labor for hours now and we’d still had no sign of progress as far as I could tell. Of course, I wasn’t a baby birthing expert so if what she needed to was for me to sit down and literally do nothing….
I crossed my fingers in my lap and stared down at them, doing my best to let things happen at their own natural pace instead of giving into the urge to do something—anything.
It took me a few seconds to realize I was being stared at.
“Yes?” I asked, looking up to see my wife staring at me.
“I’m still waiting for my answer,” she said irritably after seeing I was once again paying attention to her.
“An answer?” I asked with surprise.
“You’re supposed be reminding me why I let you into the birthing chamber against my better judgment,” she grumbled.
“Because I threatened to tear down the door with my power armor if you didn’t?” I answered reflexively, and then winced as I immediately thought better of plainly stating the truth. I must have been more affected by the fact that I was about to be a father for the first…well, the first several times over in rapid succession, than I’d originally thought, “and because you knew I’d be very concerned and that in my culture it’s not uncommon for husbands to be in the same room during natural birthing.”
Her face started to harden as another contraction seemed to hit, and as soon as that one left another one almost immediately followed. A pair of Tracto-an women came quickly to her side to attend her.
After that, things started happening rapidly. One of the women eventually tried to shoo me out of the room, but I wasn’t going anywhere and made that as clear as I could without exacerbating Akantha’s situation.
When the first head crowned, all I could do was stare in horror at the unnatural contortion the female body was forced through in order to give birth.
But when the cord was cut and that first bundle of joy had been cleaned, wrapped, and finally placed in my disbelieving hands, an indescribable feeling came over me. Amid the disbelief was the immediate and all-consuming terror that I held a fragile human life in my hands, and I profoundly realized in that moment that I had absolutely no training to keep me from dropping it—her, I realized with a quick check—and I was faced with the realization that I was now a father.
Freezing completely, I clutched at her as carefully as I could since I was afraid that any movement could presage disaster. At least, I did so until she was whisked out of my grasp and right before my disbelieving eyes and another tightly-wrapped bundle was placed in my hands.
I was a father, and I couldn’t believe it. It didn’t seem real. Oh, I was married and I knew that these were my babies but being a father was even more terrifying than being an Admiral. As the Vice Admiral of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet I could, at least in theory, resign or run away, abandoning my fleet and all the responsibility that had been thrust upon me.
However, while the rank of Admiral—much like electoral popularity—could come and go, the title ‘Dad’ was one you were stuck with for the rest of your life. You could run from it, but you couldn’t hide.
It was more fear-inspiring than a whole fleet of enemy ships. I wasn’t a child any more—I was a father. It was mind blowing, it was awe inspiring, it was…
I was filled with a new sort of determination. Before, I’d fought for the betterment of the ‘people’ for the lives of my friends and crew…but as of this very moment, I realized I had a new calling that was, in many ways, even more important.
Those other people—my crew, for example—all had someone else out there who could pick up the slack. People like presidents, dictators, or other military commanders. But, other than Akantha, I really couldn’t trust anyone else to look after the best interests of another ‘foul misbegotten spawn of House Montagne,’ as the tabloid headlines had used to put it back when I was on Capria.
After the third little baby came out and I was starting to wonder if they were all going to be girls, the medical scanner placed on the table next to Akantha started to beep.
“Something feels wrong,” Akantha panted.
The attendants felt her stomach.
“The next baby feels like it’s in breech, my Mistress,” said Isis, “we’ll have to try and turn it.”
“Do what you have to,” Akantha said as the scanner started to beep more and more stridently.
“Medical Alert! Fetal heart rate has begun to slow to dangerous levels. Emergency medical intervention required,” the tablet stated before beginning to repeat the message again.
“My Lady…I can’t turn it,” said the other attendant after several manipulations of her abdomen—manipulations which appeared to take place both within and without my wife’s body.
“Medical Alert!” the scanner started to wail.
Someone started pounding on the door outside the room—probably the medical crash team I’d stationed outside in the hall for emergencies.
“No,” Akantha cried, “I am woman enough to bear my own babes without the knife!”
“My Lady, you are carrying too many babes; you need to bring in the Starborn Healer or you will lose the one in breech,” said Isis with cold certainty, “and that may lead to the loss of the others as well.”
“Ahhh!” Akantha groaned but then nodded to Isis before looking over at me fear and the need for reassurance in her eyes.
“They’ll take good care of you and the babies,” I hastily assured her, “I’ve got the best doctors in the Fleet standing by outside.”
“I managed three by myself,” she said, the corner of her mouth lifting weakly and reaching for me, “some women don’t even manage that.”
“Hush,” I said hurrying to the bed and grabbing hold of her hand while Isis ran over to the door and removed the emergency lock, “you have nothing to prove to anyone.”
“I’m sorry…” Akantha said thickly, “I’m sorry that I didn’t stand by your side during the challenges.”
I stiffened and instinctively tried to pull back. Squeezing my hand in a death grip, she refused to let go.
As the crash team rushed into the room and started maneuvering her onto the hover stretcher, I started down at her.
“Why didn’t you?” I asked the words pulled from me, “why did you help…him instead?”
“It will never happen again,” she declared still refusing to release me as she transferred to the stretcher and we started toward the door, “till death do us part.”
Even with all the hubbub and confusion, I still noted how she didn’t quite answer my question. But at that time, and in that place, I wasn’t able to find it in me to argue.
“Go,” I said, giving her a nod and touching her hand.
Reluctantly, she let go and then the hover-stretcher continued down the corridor as fast as the ship’s medical attendants could move it.
I wanted to believe her words. But even more, I wanted the little babies inside her body to survive, to grow, and to thrive.
“Stay safe,” I quietly prayed to whoever might have been listening as she disappeared beyond the blast doors at the end of the corridor.
Chapter Fifty-four: Hot on the Promethean Border
The Prometheus Fire rocked as a pair of medium laser bolts slammed through the shields, striking the boat bay doors and causing a massive out-gassing before the blast doors kicked in and automatically sealed off the affected area.
“Second Destroyer off the starboard bow!” shouted the Sensor Officer.
“Helm, spin us around to keep us pointed at the new contact. Don’t let him off our bow; I don’t care how much you have to hotdog our engines—keep them off our tail!” shouted Captain Iorghu. If they couldn’t keep the new raider off their stern, they would soon lose their engines and be left adrift.
“Sir, Captain Steelbender is protesting the change in our facing. He says you’re leaving him and the other corvette to handle an Imperial Destroyer all by themselves,” reported Coms.
“Bender can do his blasted job—which is to protect his side of the convoy and leave me to do mine,” Costel snapped and then thrust a finger at the second Destroyer. “Focus fire on the new Destroyer; we can’t let her get in close or she’ll rip the convoy apart.”
“On it, Captain,” Tactical said professionally.
“Captain, the first enemy contact is moving to cross the T of the convoy. Our corvettes are falling back, Sir!” yelled Sensors.
“Cowards! And they dared to call us—” Costel started, just before an explosion rocked the stern of one of the freighters.
“The Brilliant Cargo Gem just lost her primary engine. She says they just got their secondary engine back working again but she’s going to have to slow down even further,” the Comm. Officer reported tensely.
“What rotten luck,” Captain Iorghu cursed. First, the Brilliant Cargo Gem had reported an engine misfire and shut down their secondary engine, thus slowing the entire convoy. Now, no sooner had they regained use of their secondary than the main engine was knocked out of commission by pirates. That ship really had no luck, and it was dragging the rest of them down with her.
“What are your orders, Captain?” his XO asked urgently.
Iorghu slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “We can’t slow down. If we can’t get this convoy out, Prometheus will be cut off from the rest of the galaxy. We have to get through and let the rest of the Sector know that this situation is rapidly spiraling out of control!” he made the decision and said flatly. Who would have thought just a few months ago that a pirate operation could become so powerful that it literally threatened to embargo the entire Promethean Star System?!
Every time merchant ships went out, they were attacked. It had gotten to the point that independent shippers—and even some local Promethean merchant outfits—had abandoned trade with the home world all together. If this convoy didn’t make it, he didn’t know what would happen to Prometheus.
Anything smaller than a battleship was being cut off and chopped down and, unfortunately for this convoy, the Mighty Prometheus wasn’t out here. The Admiralty had said that they couldn’t risk the flagship of the Promethean SDF on a wild goose chase, escorting every convoy that left the home world, and now the results were plain to see.
“Sir, Captain Steelbender is protesting your orders,” reported Comm., “he’s citing our operational orders, which are to escort every ship beyond the gravity limit.”
“We can’t protect the Gem and the rest of the convoy at the same time. We’re barely holding them off right now,” Costel snapped, “you tell him that he can stay back and shepherd the Gem with his corvette if he’s so very concerned, but I’m taking the rest of the freighters with me. This convoy can’t be lost, do you understand me?” he demanded.
“Relaying your reply now,” stammered the Comm. Officer.
“We will fight and die if we have to, but the majority of this convoy is getting through,” Captain Costel Iorghu shouted.
“Enemy Destroyer is closing on the Golden Goose, Sir,” reported Tactical after a momentary silence, “she’s taking fire.”
“Punch it, Helm!” the Captain ordered fiercely.
“Destroyer Number Two is coming around; she’s giving us her broadside!” declared Tactical.
“Fire as he bears!” Costel shouted, ignoring the fact they were already pointed straight at the Destroyer, within laser range, and firing as fast as the ship’s weapons could manage.
“Now, Chief Gunner,” Tactical Officer barked into his microphone, “don’t hold anything back!”
A barrage of fire from several light and medium lasers punched out, hitting the Destroyer hard enough to cause some shield spotting. Then one, single, heavy laser mount lashed out, punching through the Destroyer’s shields.
“A hit! Major engine damage to the destroyer’s main engine, Captain!” the Tactical Officer said and his entire section cheered. “The Chief Gunner was personally manning that heavy laser himself, Sir.”
“Inform the Chief that a bottle of the best cognac from the Captain’s liquor cabinet will be sent over to his quarters the moment this battle is concluded, Lieutenant. Meanwhile, close us in for the kill, Helm,” the Captain ordered urgently. If they could finally pin down and eliminate at least one of these phantom ghost ships, they’d put some wind back in the sails of the rest of the SDF.
The Prometheus Fire bored in on her prey, and several more shots hammered home on the relatively thin armor of the Destroyer’s outer hull. With other ship’s advantage in speed and maneuverability eliminated, the power gap between it and a Medium Cruiser—of whatever age, including the outdated Hammerhead class—became self-evident.
“Don’t let her get away, Helm,” barked the Captain. The worm had finally turned and it was the Prometheus Fire that had done it.
“Hyper footprint!” cried the Sensor Officer. “I’m reading multiple point transfers in the relative vicinity of our position.”
“Blast it; I thought we launched three of these in order to spread them out to the point they couldn’t concentrate on any one of us. Have they abandoned the other convoys?” Costel Iorghu demanded.
“Alpha convoy has turned back, and Beta Convoy reports two warships disabled, two more caught in a running battle with an enemy Destroyer, and the second Destroyer is now in the middle of the convoy and tearing up the merchant ships. The convoy leader has just ordered a scatter and return to base,” reported the Comm. Officer.
“No,” Iorghu cursed as simultaneously with this news another two Destroyers, and a Light cruiser, jumped to just outside of heavy laser range.
“Sir, we can’t take these kinds of numbers,” Tactical reported.
“No! Not every single convoy,” he cried, running a hand through his hair and tugging on said hair desperately.
“We can try again, Captain, but only if we’re alive to do so,” his XO said urgently.
“Captain, we must turn around or everyone out here including us and the merchant ships will die for nothing,” said Tactical.
Looking at the screen he saw that, other than the Brilliant Cargo Gem—which was already on its way back inside the hyper-limit—the rest of the merchant ships were nearly surrounded and about to be cut off from escape.
“Sound the retreat,” Costel said ashes in his mouth as he uttered the fateful words, “inform Captain Steelbender and the merchant skippers they are to run back for the system; we’ll try to hold them off for as long as we can.”
Unfortunately for the rest of the convoy, the raiders had little interest in tackling his heavily-armed Medium Cruiser, and promptly fell upon the relatively unarmed merchant freighters with a vengeance.
Tears in his eyes, Costel stared as his sluggish warship burned for the running battle as fast as it could. But because of the Fire’s ancient engines, he was doomed to watch as the convoy fell apart and was cut to pieces. It appeared everything they’d said about him was right: he was a failure, not only as a Captain, but as an Officer in the Promethean SDF.
****************************************************
“Two corvettes and a half a dozen merchant freighters, Commodore; it doesn’t get much better than this,” said the Destroyer Captain, lifting a cup of Gorgon Iced Ale in toast back aboard the flagship, which was now once again sitting out in the middle of nowhere, repairing its injuries and toasting its victories.
“The acumen of our adversaries continues to be sub-par,” Serge said deprecatingly, “against such enemies, victories such as this are to be expected.”
“So long as they keep sending out that Medium Cruiser on escort duty, I’ll keep burning offerings at the altar,” joked the Captain. “With enemies like these, who needs friends—it’s not like we’d ever have to call for backup. I mean, really: a Hammerhead? Don’t they realize those are fleet formation warships, meant to hunt in packs and swarm larger ships or fend off smaller ones with their blunt-force power? That’s got to be one of the slowest warships for its size left in the galaxy—it’s hardly faster than a freighter! If this is the best fight that a Core World,” he sneered as he used the term, “of these provincials can offer, the Sector is as good as ours.”
Commodore Serge smiled and stood. “A toast!” he declared.
The rest of the officers in the room hastily stood.
“To the Grand Reclamation!” he toasted.
“The Reclamation!” cheered the assembled Officers.
“And, as always, the first Galactic Empire!” shouted one of the Captains in the back.
“The Empire!” thundered the every man in the room.
“Long may she reign,” called out the shrill voice of the Ensign serving as Commodore Serge’s Flag Lieutenant.
Chapter Fifty-five: Transferring the Locker
“What are we doing in here again, Chief?” Brence puffed as he helped Spalding transfer another load onto the waiting grav-cart.
As soon as the little cart was loaded, it zipped off toward the nearby shuttle all by itself.
“We’ve got to transfer the Locker over to the new ship, my boy,” Spalding said, turning back to get another load of outdated point defense missiles.
Behind the two men, another grav-cart smoothly pulled into the space just vacated by its compatriot.
“But why us?” Brence asked, hurrying over and grabbing the other end of another rack of missile warheads. “Even though the Dreadnaught Class doesn’t support point defense missiles—and hasn’t, as far as I’m aware, for more than fifty years—I can still see why you’d want people moving them around. But for the rest of it…” Brence swung his arms to indicate a section they’d painstakingly cleared more than a half hour earlier, “We’ve got those new robots loading the shuttle; why couldn’t we use the robots to clear out those boxes of burnt-out data cores and sub-nodes? Surely we didn’t need to move them ourselves, sir.” Spalding stopped abruptly and turned to face Brence. “Bring in robots?” he scowled thunderously. “What do you mean bring in robots? Did I pick the wrong man to reveal the mysteries of the Locker to, Brence?”
“N-no-no,” Brence said hastily, “I just don’t understand why we can’t even use a heavy load suit to move this stuff around. I know you don’t want to hear it, but most of this stuff is junk. I’m sure there are treasures in here, but nothing that’s too fragile to move without a suit…except maybe expired ordnance like those point defense missiles. Why are you keeping those, by the way? I mean, I assume you’re planning to keep them…”
“Toss out perfectly good ordnance?” Spalding cried, sounding as if he’d been stabbed, “why, that series of missile is rated to be good for a hundred years before it becomes unstable; they’re barely sixty five! Chief Engineers and their initiated assistants, like yourself, have been stockpiling materials against a day of need for longer than this ship’s been in service. I’ll have you know that the Locker of the previous Clover—she of the same name, from before this ship was constructed—was transferred over here lock, stock, and two smokin’ barrels. This is history you’re looking at, Brence. Do you have any idea—any clue at all—just how many times this supply of ‘outdated parts’ and ‘expired ordnance’ has saved this ship—just since you’ve been aboard?!”
“I know you had the ship’s old heavy and turbo lasers hidden in here after the Imperials had the Clover’s teeth pulled,” Brence said cautiously, “so I can see both the practical and historical significance.”
“And bring in robots? Why, I’ve never heard of such thing,” Spalding scoffed.
“It is standard operating procedure—it’s right in the manual,” Brence pointed out.
“’The bleepin’ manual,’ he says! Why, I wrote portions of the ruddy manual—me and Chief Engineer Ansible, back before he was promoted into command of the Caprian Blue Repair Yard,” Spalding said scornfully.
“We could at least use a few more hands, then,” Brence said desperately, “it won’t just take weeks—it’ll take months to clear out this pitch black cavern down here.”
Spalding thrust a finger under his nose and waggled it from side to side. “The circle of trust on this one is very tight—and very fickly—Brence. There’ll be no outsiders in our business so long as I’m the Custodian of this here Locker,” he said firmly. “Besides, lad: trust in old Spalding. We’ll bring in the robots eventually, but only after we’ve cleared a path into the…” he looked around cautiously and deliberately lowered his voice, “into the heart of the ship.” He leaned back looking, both worried about being overheard and feeling very pleased with himself.
“The Heart?” Brence asked, his eye brows climbing as he looked anxious and concerned.
“Oh, aye, lad; even old Ansible never dared try what we’re about to do,” Spalding said with an unholy gleam in his eye, “and with good reason, for the Clover isn’t just the greatest ship in the galaxy because of ‘what’ she is—although she is, in my opinion, the greatest ship that was ever built—but also because of what is ‘inside’ her.”
“That sounds…dangerous,” Brence turned white, “in this Heart?”
“The secrets inside this ship, lad,” Spalding shook his head, “the mysteries. If only the walls could speak. If they could, worlds would burn; Systems could collapse, me boy-o! We are the entrusted guardians against that dreadful day. It’s our sacred trust to protect these secrets from the rest of the world—and to protect the rest of the galaxy from what is hidden inside!”
“Uh…I’m not sure I’m the best person to be inside this circle,” Brence swallowed, “you do remember how I started out on this ship selling off my tools to purchase liquor?”
“Ha!” Spalding clouted the other man hard enough to stagger him. “Since that no good, thievin’ Castwell’s been gone, you’ve straightened out into a mighty fine engineer—and even a not-half-bad officer. But Brence, me lad,” he leaned in, dragging the other engineer in closer, “there’s no backing out now. This is a two man job; can’t do it by myself. Besides, I’m sure you won’t disappoint me,” he threatened, giving a squeeze for emphasis.
“How can you be sure?” Brence wheezed.
“If we fail in our appointed task, to move this Locker, it could be fatal,” Spalding said seriously, “and that’s not a threat against you Brence, but a stone-cold fact for the both of us. There’s no backing out now, lad. You’ve seen too much; you’re in this for the duration, same as me.”
“So…just the two of us,” Brence mumbled.
“Exactly,” Spalding said happily.
Apparently resigned to his fate, the other engineer reached down and picked up another box.
“Bring in robots, ha!” Spalding chuckled. “What a joke. Why, we won’t be able to dare bring in those contraptions until after we finish clearing a path to the Heart of this ship. After we transfer the Heart, o ’course, then we can bring in a whole army of the things and get this Locker cleared out proper—right down to the diamond-plated flooring.”
“What exactly is inside this Heart area that makes it so special,” Brence grunted, lifting up a large power converter and placing it on the next cart.
“Let’s just say we have to move a couple of ‘oversized crystals’ and leave it at that,” Spalding said seriously. “As good as ye are, and as repentant as I take you to be now that you’ve reformed your slackin’ ways, I don’t think you’re ready for more than that yet. But I have faith that you will be…in time.”
Brence smiled weakly.
****************************************************
Two weeks later:
“You’re not even going to use hover pallets?” Brence asked again in disbelief.
“The hover function won’t survive the ion barrier we need for the transfer,” Spalding grunted, wiggling around underneath the old style pallet he was working on.
“I didn’t know we even still had this sort of old rolling stock,” Brence muttered, poking one of the pallet’s wheels as he examined it before pausing. “Are you sure you don’t want to move these old regeneration tanks out of the way first?”
“Like many things, people throw perfectly good tools away and then wonder where such things are when they need them. This old rolling pallet has been sittin’ in a corner of the Locker, gathering dust—and no, I don’t want to move the tanks. We don’t need them and we’ll fit past them plenty,” Spalding pontificated as he finished hooking in the last of the four fields on the second cart and then returned to his favorite topic. “Fortunately, we won’t have to build a brand new non-hover pallet out of metal stock ourselves, thanks to the foresight that’s gone into stocking this place with everything a man could need.” Why people—even those who should have known better—continued to throw away perfectly good material for lack of a little storage space never ceased to upset him.
“Saves us the time, sir,” Brence shrugged. “Want me to test the fields? Not that I even know why we’re having a movable ion barrier covering every part of these rolling pallets. Neither do I care,” he added hastily.
“Today’s the day,” Spalding declared, “a new floor for the Locker has been set aside and the isolation room is just now completed. We can transfer the rest of these supplies later by robot. Right now, we have our last job before us.”
Brence clenched his fist. “Finally!”
“But first, put these on,” Spalding said, handing over a contraption that looked like nothing more than dark eye glasses and a pair of earmuffs. “And make sure,” he wagged a finger, “that no matter what you hear—or think you hear, or even see, for that matter—don’t take these off. It’s the only way to protect you from what’s inside.”
Brence nodded seriously. “Okay,” he said.
“Good! Now put them on,” Spalding ordered.
Minutes later, they entered the Heart of the Ship.
****************************************************
It was difficult to move around in the Heart, and Brence could hardly see a thing. They didn’t look like much to Brence, but he knew enough about the pair of audiovisual mufflers when he put them on his head. They were normally used by those in therapy, men in desperate need of sleep, or technicians that needed to focus on a single task inside a highly active work environment, the mufflers automatically sorted out extraneous noises—and even certain shapes and colors—so a person could focus on the task at hand.
But the reason he was wearing such a thing or rather things on his head was because, clearly, the ‘circle of trust’ only went so far. Not that he was complaining, of course. In these sorts of situations, the less you knew the better off you’d usually be.
The Commander might talk a good game about saving lives, worlds, and galaxies, but there was clearly more going on down here than would easily survive official scrutiny. Not that Brence particularly cared; the old engineer had seen something in him that no one else had, and Brence would follow him into a core overload if that’s what it took to get his back.
He smirked as he stumbled around and started to help lift something because, now that he thought of it, that’s exactly what he’d done for the Chief Engineer at one point in time. Thank Murphy he hadn’t had to do it a second; he doubted he’d survive the experience.
Still and again, not that he particularly cared what was going on one way or the other but, if there was one thing he as a former grifter of no particular skill had learned, it was the value of not knowing too much. And for all that Spalding ‘Hero of the MSP Fleet’ said otherwise, his nose was telling him this was one of those occasions when ignorance was probably bliss.
So, whistling a tune under his breath, the reformed engineer set about with a will. Whatever else it might signify, he knew that once they were done with this load they could finally call in the Imperial repair robot and the days of heavy lifting in both their on-duty and off-duty hours would come to an end.
****************************************************
Spalding peered at Brence with the beady eye until it became obvious that, not only did the younger man not have any clue what sort of business they were actually about in here, but more importantly it didn’t appear he wanted to know either. All told, that suited the old engineer right down to the deck.
The other Engineer wasn’t the weak reed he’d appeared to be at first blush, way back when Spalding had taken control of the Lucky Clover’s Engineering Department for the first time—officially, at any rate—by not being as bad as a man first ‘appeared’ wasn’t quite the ringing endorsement it could be. Yes, Brence had proven himself again and again several times over and yet still he wondered. Maybe he was letting the past unduly influence him but still…no. It was best this way. Safer, at any rate.
He would have preferred Gants. The man wasn’t quite the tightened-down sprocket that Brence was, but he was steady as the day was long. Unfortunately, the lad had been enticed away by the tune of murder and mayhem and now walked the Armory path. The Armory was a fine department—necessary, even. But Spalding couldn’t have a man with mixed loyalties; the Locker was a mystery that belonged to engineers and engineers only!
Which left Brence: a man who had walked into a fusion reactor to pull him, Spalding, back out, at no little danger to himself—not to mention the pain and suffering he had endured afterward.
Well he was probably just being an old worry-wart. Not that he was going to change his mind at this late point; there was no need to take unnecessary chances. But after this was over, maybe it was time to see about Brence becoming ‘Senior Lieutenant Brence’ and have him put in charge of something small—a corvette, or a cruiser maybe. The boy wasn’t ready to run a battleship, but a smaller ship should be just the challenge—and no one knew better than Spalding how the title Chief Engineer had a certain ring to it.
Pulling the boy over to right where he needed him—next to the new four foot tall, crystalline pillar next to the original Core Fragment near the middle of the room—the two engineers carefully maneuvered the wheeled cart into the appropriate spot.
-Greetings, Commander- the words appeared on the physical screen hanging down from the middle of the ceiling.
Spalding gave a nod and grunted. “How do you do?” he asked perfunctorily.
-The We that is Us have been aware of your efforts for quite some time now- replied the Core Fragment(s?) leaving a blinking dot on the screen after its latest words.
“My efforts? Oh,” Spalding said, realization suddenly dawning, “you mean you sensed the vibrations through the floor.”
-It is clear you intend to move the crystal repositories- flashed across the screen.
“Now, just hold on a mike,” Spalding frowned, “who says I have to be moving the pillars? Could be I was just here for any number of reasons.”
-In descending order of probability are: removing the Pillars to a secondary site; a fragment destruction attempt; or an improvement of the current containment facility onboard this ship. However. due to previously stated goals, current behavioral model. and the equipment present at this time, the last two are of increasingly lower…
While the overgrown crystal continued to blather, the old engineer helped Brence start to unbolt the large metal plate beneath the new second crystal.
The moment he took a break to look up again a series of letters and words flashed across the screen.
-What are your intentions- asked the Crystals.
“You can rest easy; I’m not here to destroy anyone,” he said irritably.
A line went across the screen several times, but he didn’t have all day to stand around the job site chit-chatting, so he turned back to the job at hand.
What was he, some kind of itinerant slacker who showed up to work only to then spend the next several hours chatting up the client—or his neighbors—before so much as lifting a hand to the job? It was those kinds of slackers who gave hard-working engineers like himself a bad name.
With resolution, he turned back to the job pulling out the auto-wrench and a plasma torch and starting to work on the original crystal.
“Alright, you,” the Chief Engineer said standing up and straightening his back. Pausing for a moment, he twisted from side to side before placing his hands behind his back and pressing until he heard a pop, “that’s better. Anyway, you won’t be going to the great waste recycler in the sky anytime soon. Just stand by while old Spalding puts you onto this wheeled-cart and we’ll get you transferred over to your new home in just a jiff.”
To the old Engineer’s surprise, there was surprisingly little resistance to the move from the Core Fragment. He eyed the crystal pillar suspiciously but, being a mainly inanimate object, there was of course no physical sign as to any hidden intentions. Just to be safe, he whipped out a scanner and pointed it at the Fragment, watching for any sign of abnormal electronic activity.
But when nothing was found, he frowned at the Core Fragment and turned back to his work bound and determined to keep a weather eye on the situation.
Swept up in the work, it only took several hours to carefully and painstakingly disassemble the area and transfer the vital crystal pillars onto the wheeled-cart.
“Well then,” he said wiping his hands together, “I think that just about does it for the easy part!”
Beside him, Brence stirred.
****************************************************
He’d been standing around for the better part of a minute when he heard a muffled sound. Looking over through the distorted goggles he was wearing caused his vision to zoom in until he was looking at individual fibers on Spalding’s uniform.
“Did you say something, Chief?” Brence asked. Between the auditory mufflers and the vision-focusing goggles, he could hardly hear or see a thing. Plus, after more than a few hours, they were starting to itch. He placed a hand on the mufflers and started to pull.
“That’s okay, lad,” Spalding said over the com-link built into the mufflers placing his hand over Brence’s, causing the younger man to stop removing his head gear, “we’re almost done in here. I was just talking with myself, as a man tends to do when he gets older—you’ll find out for yourself someday, if you’re as unlucky as me.”
“Of course, sir,” Brence replied after a moment, his natural inclination to delay and avoid at odds with the desire to take off the gear and rub his face.
Heaving and pulling, the two men managed to load the two pillars onto the wheeled-cart.
“Just help me throw this tarpaulin over the load to keep the dust off and we can get this show on the road, Brence, me boy,” Spalding gasped from the effort and, when you factored in the strength of his reinforced body, that said something about just how heavy the load was.
After covering the load with the reflective sheet, and dragging the cart out of the room, Spalding activated the four-sided ion field he’d built into the contraption and gestured for Brence to pull off his head gear.
“That’s a relief,” the younger man sighed, tearing off his gear and rubbing his scalp. He stopped and gave the cart’s covered load a jaundiced eye. It didn’t look like much, but whatever was under that tarp had been heavy. He knew that and with that ion field…well that was as much as he cared to know also.
Finally, and after much effort, they pushed cart to the lift—after a minor hang-up on a jutting piece of pipe which wedged between the cart’s wheels. As they neared the lift, Spalding pulled out his diagnostic scanner and went around the cart performing a series of last-minute tests and adjustments before pronouncing the cart ready for transport.
Paranoid to the last, the suspicious old Engineer pulled out an advanced portable scanner on a hover floater and walked back and forth between the Heart compartment and the lift doors. He did so twice, peering intently at everything in the darkened compartment as he did so before taking the cart into the lift and over to the heavily shielded shuttle craft waiting for them in the shuttle bay.
Unbeknownst to either man, the pipe they’d run into previously hadn’t just been lodged between the wheels, forcing them to tug it backward until it was freed—it had also temporarily knocked loose a critical wire feeding power into the right side of the ion field.
If that had been the extent of it—a loose wire that was reconnected before the pair of Core Fragments had even left the Locker—it wouldn’t have been any problem whatsoever. However, on the other side of that pile of pipes was a pair of old, outdated regeneration tanks—one of which received a very important update, as well as one very large file via electrically-transmitted download before the cart once again began to move.
Thirty minutes after the engineers had vacated the floor with their precious cargo, the decrepit old regen tank began to slowly bubble.
Chapter Fifty-six: On Patrol
“What’s the status on our in-system sweeps, Executive Officer?” Commodore Druid asked, peering around the bridge of his battleship, the Parliamentary Power, with satisfaction. It had taken more weeks than he was comfortable with but, despite robbing his ship for core startup crews to assign to the newly captured battleships sitting in space dock, his ship and his crew were finally back in what he could once again consider fighting trim.
There was a short pause. “Last sweep was negative, Commodore,” reported Lieutenant Commander Mark Reordan Slim. The man was his new replacement first officer, after Druid had made the mistake of suggesting his previous XO for the top slot on one of the new captured battleships. Slim was a decent enough Officer, and Druid had worked with the man back in the Sector Guard, and even before that in the Aegis Defense Force. But the man was still feeling his way around as the XO of not just a Captain, but of a Commodore.
“Did Intelligence pull anything new out of the data dump from that freighter, the,” he looked at his pad to clarify, “Brilliant Cargo Gem out of Old-Old York?”
Lieutenant Commander Slim shook his head. “Nothing actionable, Commodore. Although we did pick up a surprising amount of chatter from their trader logs about a potential blockade of Prometheus Star System,” the other man reported.
Druid sighed. “Another trade embargo?” he asked
“Most likely, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Slim nodded. “Reading between the lines of the blockade’s vague descriptions, it looks like someone is sending a message to Prometheus.”
“Another Core World dispute,” the Commodore growled, “you see it all the time now. I thought that with Isaak taking the Sector Governor spot, and the local Assembly finally looking like it was getting its act together, we wouldn’t see these kinds of inter-world disputes anymore. It’s another good reminder why we signed up with Montagne’s Patrol Fleet; at least out here we’re actually trying to stop these sorts of things from happening in the first place! When will these fools finally realize that they’re doing more harm to themselves than Pirates and the collapse of Imperial Authority combined? You know one of these days….”
“I hear you, sir,” the Lieutenant Commander replied after the Commodore trailed off.
“Well, package it up; anything that looks serious—including the Prometheus situation—should be forwarded to the Admiral via the ComStat network,” Druid ordered.
“We’re ready to jump anytime now, Sir,” Slim reminded him, “you want to package it up and send it after we have a chance to scan the next System?”
Druid shook his head.
“We’re at the edge of network range,” pressed the Xo.
“And we’re only going to get further out,” Druid stiffened, “send it now, XO.”
“Will do, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Slim said formally and then cocked his head. “When are you planning to point transfer out of this system?” he asked, no doubt wondering how long he had to crack the whip on Intelligence so they could keep sifting for vital data.
“I think we’ll wait until next shift. Third shift hasn’t had as many chances at being on duty during a point transfer,” Druid replied judiciously.
“Aye-aye, Sir,” said Slim.
Druid nodded grateful that his ship the recently revamped Parliamentary Power had been selected for extended patrol duty. Someone needed to do it. It was what he and his squadron of men and ships had signed up for when they’d resigned from the Sector Guard and signed up with the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. And, honestly, he didn’t feel a bit ashamed about pulling rank by pointing to the Power’s effectiveness in the Battle for Elysium—and otherwise calling in every favor he could—in order to get this assignment.
His was a fighting battleship and, although he hadn’t been in command for that long, it was a blasted sight longer than any other ship or commander, save Captain Laurent or Admiral Montagne himself. With Laurent’s Imperial Strike Cruiser down for extended repair work on its drives after the battle and boarding action, to his mind, the choice of which ship should patrol had been clear.
In six hours they had performed another jump along their designated patrol route and once again show the Confederation Flag. They’d already run off a pair of suspicious merchant ships with unusual power fluctuations in their fusion plants. Most likely they had been pirates of opportunity, who continued to run cargo when things were good and indulge in a little selective piracy out on the border of known space when things weren’t.
They were doing good work but, after Elysium, they were ready for anything.
Chapter Fifty-seven: On the Move
“All hands, prepare for combat jump. I say again: all hands prepare for combat jump, by order of the Commodore,” the com-tech’s voice echoed throughout the ship.
“Boats, verify the Captain’s Cutter is fully spun up and crewed,” Druid ordered calmly. “I want everything except the hyper drive charged up and ready to go.” Having a second hyper drive active during a jump would have been suicidal, potentially destroying both the cutter and his battleship, so that was out. But he wanted everything else ready to go.
“The Cutter is spinning up its power plant and charging energy banks as we speak, Commodore,” said the bosun, after a beat adding, “can also confirm Captain’s Cutter is now-fully crewed with volunteers from First Shift Bridge and Engineering staff, Sir.”
“Alright, people,” Druid instructed, “let’s do this by the numbers. I want sensors scanning the instant we emerge from hyper-space; I want gun ports opened and ready to fire on my mark; and I want this battleship free from the inertial sump as soon as physically possible. This is a combat emergence drill, and I intend for this ship and crew to set the standard for the rest of the Fleet. Let’s do this.”
Heads nodded and people turned to their stations with renewed intensity. This wasn’t just a routing point transfer; this was now about something more, and it had been turned into a case of ship’s pride.
Yes, thought Druid, this ship is finally coming back together again after crew transfers that cut us to the bone, only to be replaced with greenhorns who didn’t know their knees from their elbows.
Looking professional and unconcerned, Executive Officer Slim turned up at Druid’s elbow not half a minute later.
“Is there something I should be aware of, Commodore?” he asked in a low voice, one intended to reach just the commodore he was standing next too.
“No. Like I said: this is just a drill. If anyone asks, you can just tell them the Old Man had a wild hair and decided to take shipboard drills up to the next level,” Druid said with a smile.
The corner of the Lieutenant Commander’s mouth ticked up. “I’ll do that,” he said easily.
Shaking his head, Druid turned back to look at the countdown timer. As a ship commander, all the orders had been given and there was nothing else to do until something broke or they arrived in the next Star System along their route.
Chapter Fifty-eight: Imperial Sweep
“There’s no sign of the Prometheus Fire or any other Promethean survivors inside this star system, Sir,” reported the Captain of the Triumphant Nebula, a Dagger Class Imperial Destroyer.
“I don’t want your excuses, Captain. I want that Cruiser—find it!” ordered Acting Rear Admiral—and former Imperial Captain, Junior Grade—Nicolas Wessex.
“Aye-aye, Admiral,” the Captain of the Triumphant Nebula said neutrally.
“It’s out here somewhere, Lieutenant Commander,” the Rear Admiral said, calming only fractionally, “if not in this system, then in another. They can’t have gone far.”
“We’ll find them, sir,” said the Captain of the Triumphant.
“I want their ship’s builder plate on the wall beside my graduation diploma from the Triad Imperial Naval Academy, Lieutenant Commander. I know they’re around here somewhere,” barked the Rear Admiral.
The Captain of the Triumphant Nebula opened his mouth, but was distracted by a sudden stir behind him on the bridge of the Destroyer. Cocking his head for a long moment, the Lieutenant Commander nodded and turned back to the Acting Admiral.
“Sir,” he turned back to the Admiral, “another ship has just jumped into this star system. It could be the Prometheus Fire,” he said with a hunter’s smile.
“Whoever it is, they’re about to have a very bad day,” the Rear Admiral smiled crookedly. “Fight your ship, Captain,” he said, cutting the channel and then opening a line to his communications officer, “get me Captain Goddard on the line.”
“Yes, Rear Admiral,” said the First Lieutenant manning the post this shift.
Chapter Fifty-nine: Blown to Hades
“Point Emergence,” reported the Parliamentary Power’s Navigator with controlled excitement.
Druid nodded at yet another successful point-transfer and leaned forward intently as each department reported in and the ship opened back up.
He listened with satisfaction as the sounds of a calm, professional crew—one in control of both themselves and their warship—ticked steadily through their checklists. As they did so, nothing jumped out at point blank range to cause them disaster and emergency.
He was just starting to lean back in his command chair when his pleasant thoughts were rudely interrupted.
“Contact!” cried one of the Sensor Operators.
Druid had to suppress his reflexive frown. It had taken months to retrain the sensor operators sent to him by the Admiral from the Admiral’s personal flagship, and they’d had weeks without an exclamation incident backslide and now this.
“I’m reading multiple warships…Capital Class!” the Operator reported with unprofessional excitement. “They’re on heading nine-zero-five by zero-zero-six, at speed two-four-zero,” the Operator reported with excitement.
Druid’s blood ran cold.
“This is an empty system; no one’s supposed to be here,” said Lieutenant Commander Slim, mirroring his Commodore’s thoughts and speaking with a sense of suppressed urgency in his voice.
On the screen, the icons of a squadron of warships—with sizes still to be determined—appeared far too close to the Parliamentary Power for Druid’s comfort.
“Activate our friend or foe IFF signal and initiate a standard hail and challenge protocol, Coms,” Druid ordered, his mouth running on instinct as his mind raced. Then he turned to Tactical, “Open gun ports and go to active combat targeting, Tactical. I want gunnery ready to return fire five minutes ago.”
“First Squadron confirmed: four Cruiser class warships, unknown make and model,” reported the Sensor Operator who had originally spotted the group.
“Commodore,” cut in the Sensor Officer, “we’ve just identified a squadron of three Destroyers at new coordinates on a separate course…they’re near the system gas giant. It took a few minutes to spot them because of the moons, but they’re at military power on the drives and they’ve gone to active scans. They’re looking for something, sir.”
“Holy moly,” yelped a Sensor Technician, “I’m reading a pair of battleships outside the hyper limit in close proximity to each other. Power signatures indicate they’ve been charging their jump drives for several hours.”
Druid clenched his fist. “What’s their friend or foe identification?” he barked rounding on his Comm. Officer.
“They’re squawking Reunification Navy, 3rd Fleet, Task Force 5 on the IFF channel, Commodore. No response to our hails or challenge as of yet,” the Officer said tensely.
“And I walked in it…fat, dumb, and happy,” Druid mentally castigated himself for thinking he was alone out here with the biggest, baddest ship in this part of the Sector. There were two other battleships in this system alone!
“Sir?” asked Slim.
“Start charging the hyper drive, point us away from this System, and go to full military power on the engines—now!” he snapped, ignoring his XO for the moment. “Notify me at once, if there is a reply to our challenge!”
“Aye-aye’s!” echoed throughout the bridge.
“They could belong to a Core World’s SDF,” Lieutenant Commander Slim pointed out, playing devil’s advocate as was his job.
“Squawking that Reunification Navy, 3rd Fleet business? Not bloody likely,” Druid said angrily.
“It could be cover; we’ve had reports of a blockade on Prometheus,” said the XO.
“Activate the ship’s long range array and get me the ComStat network. I want an emergency update to Admiral Montagne ASAP. Start with ‘encountered Reunification Navy x2 Battleships, unresponsive to hails’ and work your way down the warship listings as we identify them,” Druid said ignoring the last comment from his XO. “And Comm., get me the commander of those battleships on the horn.”
“Long range array deployed, signal strength is low,” the com-tech reported. “We’re at extreme range relative to the nearest com-bug, Commodore. Attempting to boost our strength and link up.”
Druid opened his mouth.
“Point Transfer!” screamed a trio of Sensor Operators all getting the information at the same time.
The screen rippled and shook as an enemy warship appeared—doing so well within medium range of their heavy laser weaponry.
“Gunnery is locking on target. Do we have a ‘go, no-go’ on weapons free for our broadside weaponry, Commodore?” Tactical called out over the growing din.
“Slewing the ship around to bring port broadside to bear,” the helmsman said, maneuvering the ship on his own initiative.
“It’s big, sir…larger than a battleship,” shouted the Sensor Officer, “computer has tentatively identified it an Imperial Command Carrier!”
“Weapons hot—fire at will as soon as you have a target,” Druid snapped, hoping to get in a few shots before the enemy’s shields came up. “Keep us on target so our weapons can be brought to bear, but work an angle so we can continue to open the distance, Helm.”
“Hit!” exclaimed Tactical as the Parliamentary Power’s turbo- and heavy lasers slammed into the Command Carrier’s unshielded port side, “multiple hits to the Imperial Carrier’s outer hull…no out-gassing registered at this time.”
“Keep it up!” snapped Druid.
“We can’t fight the Empire, Commodore,” Lieutenant Commander Slim reminded him.
“I don’t know of any Reclamation Fleet in the Empire,” Druid growled, “and unless and until they identify themselves for who and what they really are, they’re nothing more than pirates as far as I’m concerned.”
“Pirates with two battleships and a Command Carrier?” urged the XO. “Let me clarify: we can’t fight an Imperial Command Carrier, sir!”
“You think I want this?” Druid looked at him strangely and Slim flushed. “I’m charging the hyper drive and trying to leave—they’re the ones that aren’t giving us much of a choice—”
The Power shook beneath their feet, cutting the debate short.
“Imperial Carrier launching fighters and firing secondary weaponry,” reported Tactical.
“Shields down to 78%,” reported the Shields operator.
“Open a channel to that Carrier,” Druid commanded.
“Enemy Carrier is charging its main weaponry,” reported Tactical with a hint of dread in his voice, “unknown time until their main cannon is charged.”
“Channel open; you are broadcasting in the clear, sir,” said Coms.
On the view screen, the Command Carrier’s shields fluctuated and came on at full power.
“Commander of hostile Command Carrier, this is Commodore Druid of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet. You are in Confederation space. I say again: this is a Confederation Fleet Battleship, operating within Confederation space on a routine patrol. I demand you cease combat operations and withdraw from this star system,” he said.
The screen flickered, and all around him departments reported as the battle raged. Weapons fire erupted from each ship, cascading from one to the other—and so far, the Parliamentary Power getting the worst of it now that the Carrier’s shields were back up.
“This is Captain Goddard of the Reclamation Main Battle Fleet,” said a stern-faced Imperial looking officer in a standard Imperial Uniform with strange insignia in the place of the usual Imperial regalia. “This Sector of Space has been abandoned by both the Empire and the Confederacy; we are the new power in this region of space.”
Druid blinked and then glared at the other man. “Break off your attack and withdraw,” the Commodore ordered.
“You are instructed to strike your shields, step down your fusion generators, and prepare to be boarded. If you act in full and total compliance with my orders, you and your crew will be escorted off your ship and placed in an internment camp until hostilities have ceased. You and your men will be held as enemy combatants, but no charges will be brought against you in relation to your actions so far. You will not be held responsible for the misguided belief that you were doing your duty as you wrongly understood it,” Captain Goddard said, his eyes seeming to drill into the main screen. “But be warned: if you continue to resist, this offer will be rescinded the moment so much as even one of my men are seriously wounded in this action.”
Druid’s nostrils flared. His ship was hopelessly outgunned and totally outnumbered—even forgetting the Command Carrier.
“Sir, what are your orders,” Lieutenant Commander Slim demanded in his ear.
“I’ve got this, Commander,” Druid replied, his eyes burning into the XO’s.
Slim nodded and took a step back, and Druid turned back to face the Captain of the Command Carrier.
“All I want is to withdraw my ship from this star system, Captain,” the Confederation Commodore said evenly, “if you do so, you can continue along with your business until after I return home to report and receive direction. I swear it on my honor as an officer.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Commodore,” Captain Goddard said flatly, “this region will be reunified under a single authority, and I cannot allow potential agitators who claim affiliation with the old order to interfere with the Reclamation effort.”
“Piracy, by any other name, then,” Druid ground out.
“You have been given two warnings; there will not be a third,” Goddard warned.
Druid sucked in a deep breath while his mind raced. He could give up his ship and his men while meekly walking off toward a prison. His ship, undamaged, would then fall into the hands of the very sorts of people he was sworn to defend this sector against. Or he could fight a hopeless fight and, in all likelihood, die.
The choice was clear.
“Then I’ll see you in, Hades,” Druid snapped before ordering the channel closed. “Helm, roll the ship and push the engines to full speed if they aren’t already. Tactical, fire as the starboard side is brought to bear.”
“Firing, aye,” the Tactical Officer swallowed and turned back to his console.
“Are you sure this is wise?” Slim asked.
Druid’s eyes flared. “It is our duty to defend this Sector against all enemies, foreign and domestic, and these ‘Reclamationists’ sure as anything qualify as enemies in my book,” he said direly.
Slim lowered his voice. “This is a hopeless battle; you know that. We won’t be able to jump before we are destroyed,” said the XO.
“Where there’s life, there’s hope…and even,” he said lifting a hand to stall the protest he knew was forming, “when all hope is lost, it is our duty to deny any aid to the enemy. I won’t allow this battleship to fall into the hands of our enemies. Besides,” he bared his teeth, “this battle isn’t over yet!”
“Yes sir!” Slim said seeming to rally taking comfort from Druid’s words.
“Enemy Carrier is charging main cannon!” yelled Tactical.
“Full power to the starboard shields!” roared Druid.
“Redirecting now,” called back the Shield Officer.
“Carrier is launching fighters,” reported Sensors.
“I’m not sure how powerful their main spinal cannon is; it’s rated a level above the turbo-laser, officially, but I’ve got no records of its actual effect on a ship of this class,” warned Tactical.
“Helm, put a spin on her and roll this ship,” barked the Commodore.
“Carrier is launching fighters, si—” started the Sensor Officer.
“Rolling now—” said the Helmsman.
Space seemed to warp, and a giant white beam of energy lanced out from the nose of the massive Imperial Warship.
With a flash and a puff of smoke, half of the bridge’s starboard consoles went dark—including the four-man section that controlled the ship’s shields. The power loss was followed instantly by a lurch to port, and the sudden screech of metal pressed well beyond its endurance.
“Hold!” bellowed Druid, as if he could hold his ship together by ordering it to do so.
The ship’s gravity twisted like a snake in the gut, and a red alert siren indicating heavy damage starting howling as the grav-plates flickered, and finally died changing everything to zero-gee.
“Damage control! Tactical! Report,” ordered Druid as men and women who had failed to strap themselves in started floating out of their seats. The main lighting died only to instantly be replaced with the red of emergency lighting.
“Tactical Computers booting back up,” reported Tactical.
Druid’s eye cut toward Damage Control.
“Starboard trunk line has been severed, causing major power fluctuations. Attempting to transfer to the port side, but damage to the secondary power distribution network is causing difficulties,” reported the Lieutenant at Damage Control. “Inner hull penetration on Decks Seven through Ten; major out-gassing reported, internal blast doors automatically activated.”
“What about shields?” Druid demanded.
“Starboard shield generator unresponsive. Attempting to reroute to this console and initiate a system reboot,” reported Damage Control.
“Get my shields back up,” Druid growled, while slowly the dark, unresponsive bridge consoles booted back into life.
“Port shields coming back up,” the Shield Officer reported as soon as his console finished booting up.
“Helm, continue on course and put the port side toward that Imperial Carrier,” Druid barked, “and someone get my starboard shields back up!”
“Bow thrusters are unresponsive,” reported the Helm as he labored with a red and sweating face over the controls, “going to backups on the secondaries…I have a response on the starboard side.”
Druid could tell the moment the thrusters started to work again as the ship seemed to groan and twist before finally settling. That wasn’t natural, and internally the Commodore started to wonder just how bad the damage had really been.
The main screen flickered and wavered before turning back on. However, everything was unmoving and still set at its last known position, before the readout hiccoughed one more time, causing icons to jump before beginning to move once again.
What he saw on the screen made him set his jaw defiantly.
“Engineering reports major buckling on the starboard side internal supports. They hit us hard, sir; they say we can’t take another shot like that one,” reported Damage Control.
“One shot,” Druid whispered with disbelief as the realization began to catch up with him. If even a fully-armed, armored, and shielded Dreadnaught class Battleship couldn’t take more than one shot from an Imperial Command Carrier, then...
It was a worry for another day. As of right now, his first—no, his only—priority was getting as far away from the Command Carrier as he could so he could save his crew and his ship, in that order.
“Chief Engineer Johanson strongly recommends we step down to the engines to 75% of maximum,” reported the Helmsman.
“Cut the engines by 25%; has he lost his mind?!” Druid snapped, pulling up the screen on the arm of his captain’s chair and comparing the speed of the Parliamentary Power against that of the Command Carrier. What he saw caused his jaw to tighten even more. Even at their best speed, they weren’t likely to get away. For a ship twice the size of their battleship, the Command Carrier was far too fast for comfort.
In that moment, he came face to face with a harsh reality: Imperial tech really was superior to the aging Confederation tech base.
“He says the internal hull’s been compromised; if we don’t slow down the ship’ll tear herself apart,” reported the Helmsman.
“What?” Druid demanded, the words a death knell for their hope of escape.
“Sir, we have to slow down!” the Helmsman said, placing his hands on the controls and looking at the commodore urgently.
“Get me an external view of the ship,” Druid ordered.
“Just a moment; we’re still trying…I have it. There’s a Damage Control team out on the hull; relaying from suit cam now, Commodore,” replied the Damage Control Officer.
Slowly, and from too close of a vantage point, the damage to the ship was rendered. As the suit-cam panned from stem to stern of the mighty battleship’s exterior, the devastation became apparent.
“Sweet Murphy,” Druid fell back in his chair. Because of the rotation, a full half of the ship had been scarred by the Command Carriers hell-cannon. The giant scar started out as a massive rivet in the outer hull armor but, as it continued—presumably when the fully-powered starboard shields had finally surrendered—the beam had struck deep into the ship’s vitals. Looking at the damage from his remove in the bridge, Commodore Druid was amazed the ship was still in one piece and continuing to function at all.
His respect for the Caprian Dreadnaught Class—that pet peeve love project of Commander Spalding—rose several notches. He didn’t think a battleship made on his home planet would be able to survive such a wound and continue functioning. Moreover, the Caprian battleships had thicker armor than his home world’s native ships. Would they have even survived such a strike?
His fingers flying, he calculated a new course even as the ship shuddered around him taking fire from the enemy’s secondary weaponry.
“How soon before the Command Carrier can fire again?” he demanded of his Tactical Officer. He meant to inquire of the enemy’s main gun, and not its secondary weaponry which was as strong as anything boasted by the Parliamentary Power.
“Best estimate from the power readings we’re getting is another ten to fifteen minutes,” that Officer replied uncertainly, but correctly guessing his commander’s intent.
Druid slammed his fist down on the arm of his command chair. He couldn’t even ram the enemy before they recharged their main cannon—no matter how much, or little, he may have wanted to.
“Commodore, the Command Carrier is signaling…” reported the Lieutenant at Comm. before he stopped and looked up with worried eyes and finished, “they demand our surrender.”
On the main screen, the roll was now completed and the Power wasn’t just taking laser strikes without responding—she was dishing back out her own rain of pain. But the taste of ashes were in his mouth he saw that his battleship’s full broadside wasn’t enough to penetrate the enemy’s shields.
“Enemy fighters forming up into attack formation!” cried Tactical. “It looks like they’re targeting our engines, judging from their flight profile.”
Eyes burning with genuine hatred, Druid glared at the image of the Carrier on his screen. This Reclamation Fleet had, in one stroke, just announced the impotence of his ship and the irrelevance of the entire battleship class. Maybe if he’d had enough battleships at his back, Druid could have made a fight of it. But as things stood, the most powerful ship type in the MSP Fleet had just been over powered by one shot.
One, single, blasted, shot, he seethed silently.
Maybe the Admiral had enough Battleships to throw at this monster to make it back off, but the Commodore certainly didn’t.
Now with the fighters on one side, and the Command Carrier and its pair of Battleships on the other, the Parliamentary Power was caught between a hammer and an anvil, and was soon to be ground up into dust.
Maybe the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet’s much vaunted Little Admiral could have snatched victory—or at least escape—from the jaws of defeat, but if so he was a better man than Druid…because the Commodore didn’t see any way out of this mess of an ambush that didn’t end in death or defeat.
“Enemy fighters beginning their attack run,” reported Tactical in a flat voice.
Druid could almost feel the weight of the inevitable, certain defeat settle upon the bridge.
“Lieutenant Commander Slim,” Druid said, standing up from his chair and rising to his full height.
“Your orders, Commodore?” his Executive Officer said stepping over and drawing himself to attention.
“Sound the Evacuation alarm throughout the ship; the order is for every crewmember to board the escape pods,” Druid said, drawing himself up. “After which you are to retire to the Captain’s Cutter, where you are to prepare to do your best to escape from this wretched star system. The fusion cores, indicating this ship’s surrender to the enemy, will be ejected shortly after you clear the hull. Hopefully they will mask your departure signal long enough for you to pull away from the enemy fighter screen,” he met the Lieutenant Commander’s eyes with his own pressed extra emphasis into his voice, “don’t leave the cutter bay until after the current fighter attack run is complete. We’ll weather this storm to buy you the escape window and time you need to get clear. But you must, at any and all costs, get word back to high command and Admiral Montagne himself. Understood?”
The bridge was filled with the shocked silence of those who knew what had to happen, logically, in their brains but who were still kicked in the proverbial gut when it was said out loud.
Lieutenant Commander Slim swallowed convulsively and then turned to the bridge. “You heard the Commodore: sound all hands to the escape pods and prepare to strike our fusion cores,” he ordered firmly.
Druid nodded.
The first officer turned back to the commodore.
“Sir, may I ask what you will be doing while I attempt to break through and point transfer out of here?” Slim asked.
“I’ll be up here on the bridge, coordinating the evacuation and preparing to cover your escape, XO,” Druid said sardonically and then his voice cracked like a whip, “you heard your orders, Lieutenant Commander. Were any of them unclear?” he finished harshly.
The Lieutenant Commander’s mouth quivered and visibly hesitated more than once before giving a decisive nod. “Your orders were crystal clear, sir,” Lieutenant Commander Slim said drawing himself up to full attention. “It’s been an honor serving with you, Commodore.”
“I’ll be thinking about you often from inside my prison cell—assuming these pirate-warlords don’t just space me, Lieutenant Commander. Now get the blazes off my command deck and do your duty,” Druid snapped.
The Lieutenant commander snapped off a salute which Druid returned and then turned to look behind the Commodore.
“Marines, please escort the Commodore back down to the Cutter and personally see that he gets back to the Admiral with news of this new threat to the Fleet,” the Lieutenant Commander ordered, and then turned to the rest of the bridge. “I’ll be taking command of this ship in the Commodore’s absence.”
It took Druid a moment to process what was happening and when it did he roared inarticulately. “This is mutiny in cold space!” he shouted the instant he regained control of his voice. “Lancers, arrest this coward and throw him in the brig! Mr. Flender, you will carry out the XO’s mission in his place.”
“You heard your orders, Sergeant Cartwright,” the XO’s voice cracked like a whip, “secure the Commodore and see him safely down to the cutter.”
Hands extended, grasping and reaching for Slim’s neck, Druid was stopped abruptly by a pair of duralloy gauntlets on his shoulders pulling him up short.
“You need to come with us, Commodore,” said the flat voice of Sergeant Cartwright.
“Unhand me, Cartwright; it’s a Captain’s prerogative to go down with his ship,” Druid growled coldly.
“Can’t do that, Sir,” Cartwright said unflinchingly.
“How could you abandon your duty like this, Slim?” Druid glared at him.
“You ordered me to get word back home at any and all costs. You’ll have a much better chance of getting word home, so even if it costs me my life—or, more agreeably, my career—at least I’ll be following orders,” Slim replied, turning away pointedly.
Druid struggled but was unable to resist as he was dragged away to the turbo-lift. For his part the Commodore’s former XO didn’t look back as Druid was hauled away.
“I won’t have a man on my ship I can’t trust,” Druid turned his burning eyes on Cartwright, “do you understand me, Sergeant?” he said, offering one final way out for the misguided marine.
An impassive gaze returned his own. “We’ve got a lot of ships in this fleet, sir, but what we don’t have are very many Commodores. I’m sure I’ll land on my feet just fine,” Cartwright replied.
Not another word was said while Druid was taken down to the Captain’s Cutter, and finally escorted onto her bridge.
Minutes later, the cutter bay doors opened and the Cutter shot out into the vastness of cold space, on a dead run while its hyper engines finished charging the rest of the way up.
Thanks to the marines, the Commodore was still aboard when they did so.
Chapter Sixty: These Rustics are so Inept
On the main screen, the image of fusion cores being ejected from the battered and heavy damaged local battleship was accompanied by the sight of hundreds of escape pods flying free of the hulk.
“Captain Goddard, I have a call from Rear Admiral Nicolas Wessex,” reported Lieutenant Hobbs.
“Put the Admiral on the screen for the whole bridge, Hobbs,” ordered the Captain, grinning broadly—and allowing his crew to see him doing so.
The Admiral appeared on the screen and, with a flicker of his eyes, took in the situation in an instant—primarily, that he was live before the entire bridge of the Carrier.
“Captain Goddard, excellent work with that provincial battleship,” the acting Rear Admiral praised unstintingly.
“Thank you, sir,” Goddard said with satisfaction, “it was a team effort and I couldn’t have done it without the efforts of my staff—as well as the coordinates you provided for the short jump.”
“You and your entire team are to be commended, Captain,” the Admiral praised, “it would appear that even without Admiral Janeski at the helm, the captain and crew of the Flagship of our little Reclamation Fleet doesn’t miss a step.”
Sensing potentially troubled waters, Goddard allowed his smile to slowly fade. “I take nothing away from this crew, sir,” the Imperial Captain said firmly, “but I’m afraid my own efforts were successful, not because of any innate skills that I possess, but instead because these rustics are so very inept. Why, I tender that any ensign in my ship’s Tactical department could do so well. It’s not that we were so very good over here, but that they were so very bad,” he said, making sure that no disloyalty to Janeski, the Admiral’s skills, or any hint of Goddard having his own ambitions were spread over an open fleet com-channel. Politics could kill a man’s career just as easily as any battlefield could kill his body. “Frankly, it was the usual sort of unimaginative blundering on the battlefield we have grown used to in Sector 26, 27 and now it seems in 25 as well, sir.” “Yes,” agreed the acting Rear Admiral, “I too, in a way, had hoped for a bit more of a challenge. But be grateful for the easy victories while they’re here, Captain. On the front, things were not always so…” the acting Admiral trailed off, no doubt remembering his time on the Gorgon Front.
For his part, Captain Goddard remained respectfully silent. An Admiral, even an acting one, was not the sort of figure to be trifled with—not even if the Command Carrier was not technically under his authority but only on an extended scouting review of the area around the Fleet Base, although they continued to get further and further from said Base.
“I hate to interrupt, sir,” Goddard said drawing himself back to attention, “but now that the excitement is over I believe it is time to return to the forward operating base for us. According to his schedule, Admiral Janeski should soon arrive at the fleet base along with additional warships, the fleet train, as well as the invasion and occupation forces for the upcoming campaign.”
“No doubt he’ll want his flagship back,” Admiral Wessex said, his mood turning sour. “I had hoped to keep you in train until after we’d hunted down the Promethean stragglers, but you’re probably right. If this is the best example of what the locals can do, I’m sure my two battleships will be able to deal with any eventualities.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Goddard said grateful that Wessex wasn’t trying to make this any harder than it needed to be.
“Then be about it, Captain,” Wessex said officially, “inform Fleet Comm. and Tactical through routine updates when you are ready to leave; there’s no need to ask my permission. You are free to leave as soon as you feel ready. My ships can finish sweeping up the escape pods and seizing or scuttling the local ship.”
“Aye, sir,” Goddard said saluting. Wessex returned the salute and then cut the channel.
Sometimes it really is good to be the Captain of the top Admiral’s flagship, Goddard thought with a smirk before setting his jaw tightly. Sometimes…
Chapter Sixty-one: Peaceful times and taking tally of the Fleet
“Well, Spalding, what do you think our chances of getting all of the battleships up and running….sometime soon, I mean?” I said my hands clasped behind my back as I stood facing away. I wasn’t liking this business of only having two space-worthy battleships. The yard had been working around the clock for six months and, not only had the fleet and new recruits shown up in that time, so had another load of primarily engineers and technicians. I knew things like repairing capital ships took time, but the fact that I couldn’t see any trouble on the horizon made my head itch.
Spalding started rubbing his chin, “Let me think on it a bit before giving you an estimate, Sir.”
“Take all the time you need, Commander,” I said, glancing over my shoulder mildly, making it clear that I would have that answer before he left this office. I then turned to face the meter-thick window showing the region of space outside Gambit Station.
“Could happen, Admiral,” he said after a pregnant pause.
“When—exactly?” I asked still with my back to him as I pretended to watch a tender run around outside the window.
The old engineer coughed, cleared his throat, and stopped to pour himself a glass of water and take a drink. Pivoting on my heel, I cocked my head and gave him a lifted eyebrow at such obvious delaying tactics.
He flushed. “Soon,” the older engineer said testily.
I started to feel a frown forming and smoothed my face refusing to let it form. “I need a little better than that, Chief Engineer,” I rebuked deftly, seeing where the conversation was going and having no problem with helping it along, “give me a ball park.”
“Well…” Spalding hemmed and hawed before finally breaking down, “this month, maybe?”
“All three of them?” I said with surprise, but still pleased with the answer.
“Now, don’t quote me on it,” the Chief Engineer grumbled, his gruff tone and words at odds with the twinkle in his organic eye.
“Perish the thought,” I sighed, shaking my head.
“See, we could have had a few more of the girls out of the yard before now except for the big push you wanted to get the Parliamentary Power back into action and out the door,” the Old Engineer said, with disapproval evident in his voice.
“The ‘big push’ I wanted?” I deadpanned.
The top of Spalding’s forehead started to turn red. “You did pick him to command the first Patrol,” he retorted hastily.
“Yes,” I nodded, “I wanted him out on the first patrol, but I never designated which ship that would be onboard.” Taking in the way he was shifting around, my eyes sharpened.
“Well, a Captain ought to be able to pick his ship, don’t you know…” Spalding grumbled defensively.
I took a deep breath. He was talking about politics on the level below mine, which would normally be of little consequence. But when they impeded my own schedule…
“Besides, it doesn’t matter the ‘whys’ and the ‘ways of how’ we got here,” Spalding declared quickly seeing my mood darkening at the news. “Sure, we could maybe have had another two battleships out by now but the last one would have still been months away! Better, with all these new recruits, to give ‘em time to settle in. And there’s no better way to settle in than to get their hands dirty helping put their ships back together!” he finished righteously.
“Spalding!?” I warned.
“Now, now; just hear me out,” the old Engineer urged firmly.
I didn’t care who was seated across from me; these kinds of decisions were mine to make. The thought of having three ships still stuck in the yard this month when, as of last month, it could only have been one gave me instant heartburn.
“Part of it is you wanted the Stone Rhino fixed up first, which took up one of our two capital ship slips,” he declared, as if this was all somehow my fault. “So when I was saying it could have only been one battleship in the yard this month, that’s only if you are to count not fixing up the Rhino.”
“Rhino?” I demanded, forgetting for a moment which ship he was talking about exactly and then it came to me. He meant the rechristened, captured warship under the command of Acting Captain Archibald, which was now on its way to Sector 24 along with McKnight. “Okay, the Heavy Cruiser; I can see that but I’m still down one battleship. I don’t care if the last one would be down for months. As you well know, these things don’t grow on trees; we need firepower, Commander!”
“Far as I know, we’re not in any rush right now,” Spalding grumped under his breath.
“What?” I asked direly.
“Let me lay it out,” Spalding growled, whipping out his tablet and forwarding a presentation onto my briefing room screen.
Despite myself, I unwillingly looked over at the screen, not in any way willing to let this matter go. Whether or not this was the right call—which it wasn’t!—I should have been informed of it right from the beginning. I’d been asking for updates often enough, Murphy tear it all!
“Look at it from an engineering standpoint,” Spalding started sounding professional, and far too full of himself, “the Rage started out with most of her internal systems down or missing with her outer armor compromised after the Fleet captured her at Omicron Station. The Armor Prince was in a bad way after Second Tracto.”
“It’s been two years since the Omicron, and more than a year since…Second Tracto,” I said not liking the taste of the second Battle for control of Tracto the planet, and Tracto the Star System. The name brought up too many bad memories.
“Exactly!” Spalding said, as if I’d just made his point for him. “With us not havin’ the crew to man more battleships, and nothing but time on their hands, I figured while the Fleet was away from Gambit those were the times to fix those ships up right!”
I rubbed my suddenly aching temples. It was sounding more and more like I could have had an additional battleship much sooner than even last month if our resources had been more appropriately managed.
“And I was right!” he continued. “Despite the best recruiting efforts of yourself and the Warrant Officer—now Lieutenant—Steiner, we only just have enough crew to man our battleships now. And that’s only with skeleton crews on the lot,” he stopped and gave me a look filled with the certainty of his ‘right’ decisions.
“Go on,” I said, thinking mercenarily that if I’d had the ship repaired and sitting around without the people to run her, I would have found a way to crew it.
Although, as I pondered on it, I started to wonder just when I would have had the time or ability to get those men and women. I suppose I could have always made the Border Alliance a higher priority and received those thousands of green recruits earlier. But, in fairness, I would have been missing the recently liberated cadre of former Droid prisoners from the Confederation days and a few of the more border-wise SDFs in 24, thanks to the Sentient Assembly ‘prisoner exchange.’
“Regardless of the particulars of it,” Spalding said, waving his hands as if to shoo away such merely practical considerations as having functioning warships as quickly as possible. “Thanks to the prolonged time in shipyard, and the slowly growing work force we’ve built up here—”
I looked at him with disbelief as he rambled on; as far as I was concerned, we’d been growing by leaps and bounds ever since coming back from the Droid Conflict War in our neighboring Sectors!
“Using the growing factory complex and the hulk of the Queen Anabella, aka Vineyard,” he continued, his voice turning dark at the reminder of Jean Luc’s—his old Captain—flagship during his long-lived Pirate days pillaging at the behest of Capria’s own Parliament, “as a pair of training platforms for the new Fleet Engineers, we’ve been able to help train them in both battleship repair and warship construction techniques!”
“By ‘construction techniques,’ I assume you mean that ever-growing monstrosity next to the bone yard—one that I still, to this day, don’t recall authorizing,” I cut in. “And I say ‘bone yard’ instead of ‘ship’s graveyard where you’ve parked the Lucky Clover, the Queen and those few hulks we brought back from Elysium,’ out of respect.”
“Graveyard, bone yard,” Spalding shrugged the terminology away, deliberately ignoring the dig at his unauthorized ‘Super Battleship’ project. I supposed I’d tacitly, and ever-so-retroactively, approved it after we came back from Elysium—not that I was going to point that out while I had a good head of steam.
“The bottleneck has, of course, been Duralloy II production,” Spalding pontificated, and I shook my head. There he went again with his ‘of courses’ again. I knew Duralloy II was harder to produce and there had been a few problems here and there, but as of last I heard the hull metal fabrication plant had been up and running full-bore for the better part of six months now.
“The figures I’ve seen indicate we’re running at full production,” I pointed out.
“Fortunately, the lack of Duralloy II didn’t slow down the stripping of internal systems from the Vineyard and bringing them over to the Rage,” Spalding continued eagerly, “and with production finally hitting its stride, we’ve not only sheathed the entire hull in the new metal but a majority of the internal supports as well.”
I knew about the new hull metal, which was in part why I wanted the Royal Rage for my new flagship, if and until the 1800 meter monstrosity growing in my shipyard was someday completed, so I nodded. “The structural supports as well, you say?” I pressed.
“Well, all the secondary supports and a few of the ribs at least,” Spalding allowed. “So as soon as they finish up with installing and troubleshooting of the secondary systems, we should have your new—temporary—flagship up, running, and ready for space trials by the end of the month,” he said with a look of glee crossing his face as he rubbed his hands together. “I guarantee you, Sir, that she’ll be twice the lady she used to be. I dare say that with this new armor—and a few of the other modifications we’ve put in her—there won’t be another battleship in the entire Spine that can hold a candle to her.”
“Even the Clover before she was damaged, of course?” I couldn’t help needle him a bit.
“The Clover’s bein’ upgraded to an entirely new classification,” Spalding snapped, his eyes flashing, “it would be like comparing a grape with a plum. No, Admiral, I’ll bet my chin whiskers the Royal Rage can take any ship in the Spine as soon as she’s done with her builder’s trial. But the Clover…2.0,” the flashes of emotion in his eyes when he’d spoken of fruit comparisons turned into limpid pools of raging insanity. Like a fanatic at a church revival meeting, or a drug addict getting a fix, his level-headed sanity had clearly left the building, “When I’m done with her, she’ll eat battleships for breakfast—including the Rage and her new armor—and I’d put her up against anything the Empire’s ever built now or in the future! ‘Old, outdated tech’ they called it! I call it the innovative applications of sound engineering principles, the likes of which this galaxy has never seen! Anti-matter generators; a hyper-plasma rail gun that could cut through a small moon if given enough time; a weight of metal that—” by now his voice had risen to a shout, and spit was literally flying out of his mouth as he waxed poetic and overly loud on the subject nearest and dearest to his heart.
“Ahem,” I cleared my throat as loudly as I could manage, cutting him off mid-rant, “I’m sure it will be a fine ship—”
“Only the finest ship humanity has ever seen!” Spalding cut in passionately.
“Right,” I raised a hand. “But she’s still a few years down the road,” I said deciding it was the better part of valor to avoid pointing out that with antimatter onboard she might as easily just blow up the first time the Super Battleship came out of space dock as saying that would probably incite another tirade, “Let’s keep our focus where it always should have been, on those ships that can be kicked out of the space yard as quickly as possible. We can worry about maintenance and upgrades later. I need ships now.” “’A couple of years,’ he says,” Spalding glared thunderously, “quick ships—ha! You get back out what you put into it in the first place, young Admiral,” he said, wagging a finger at me, “you just let old Spalding worry about how they’re repaired and everything will work out just fine.”
I slapped my hand down on the table angrily and gave him a stern look.
“Have I ever let you down yet?” the old engineer stared back unrepentantly. “The answer to that is ‘no!’ You have more ships because of old Spalding than you would have otherwise, and I’m not just talking about the ones I helped disable!”
I wanted to reach over the desk and throttle the man, but instead I clenched my hands so hard my fingers hurt. I couldn’t understand why I was so irritated. Yes, Spalding should have consulted me and told me the plan outright. But in fairness, he’d saved this fleet more times than I could easily count. And he was right: he’d never steered me wrong yet, at least when it came to warships and their hardware. I could only chalk it up to an uneasiness brought on by the sudden dearth of enemies and outside resistance. Something about it just felt wrong, in some indescribable way.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I couldn’t help looking this gift horse—otherwise known as ‘9 months without an external threat’—in the mouth and commenting on the color of said horse’s teeth. And, what’s more, I was starting to take it out on those around me. Not that the old engineer hadn’t been up to enough shenanigans in his non-engineering activities to warrant a sharp word or three, I finally decided, lowering my brow.
He gave me one last challenging look before continuing with the fleet update. “As for the rest of the ships, the Armor Prince, like the Rage but to a lesser extent, has been repaired and upgraded. Glenda only managed to replace those parts of the internal hull and structural supports that were damaged in Second Tracto while we were gone, but over 40% of her hull is now Duralloy II. If I had the time, I would have replaced it all,” he gave me a sharp look, “but realizing the need for combat power soonest it was possible, I ordered the yard to limit it to mainly replacements of already damaged sections and those areas over critical systems—like the ship’s engines and such.”
“That’s good,” I muttered, not adverse to covering critical systems with a superior armor upgrade.
“The Power, of course, was a quick turnaround job so we just used whatever was on hand, whether it was old duralloy or the new substance. Thankfully, D-II welds to D-I as easily as the original metal, just so long as you follow proper procedure and use the laser edges on both of them for a perfect fit,” Spalding continued.
“And my new ships?” I asked, particularly interested in the ships we’d brought back from Elysium.
Spalding nodded. “The Stix Class: shield-heavy, armor-thin, battleship which we’ve renamed Metal Titan in honor of who turned her over to us, was in pretty good condition, excepting life support, by the time those Assembly Droids turned her over to us. So it’s been mostly a case of major exterior work they couldn’t get to while in transit and, like I said, the life support systems for the internals, we also tore out the entire computer system and reinstalled everything onto purpose built hardware. No way we could take the risk they’d put a monkey armed with Murphy’s Wrench in the ship’s DI,” he said, shaking his head.
“And you say she’ll be out this month?” I pressed just for the sake of clarity. I wasn’t particularly enthusiastic about the ship’s new name, but so long as she was out this month I wasn’t going to complain too loudly, “I notice she’s not in one of our two fixed repair slips right now.”
“No need; at most a week or two and she’ll be good,” Spalding assured me, “the Pastor Class that you renamed Messene’s Shield was a bigger job, so Glenda and I decided to put the Shield in dock first. We’ll just run Metal Titan in and work on anything we can’t do outside a slip as soon as the Stix Class is done. The Shield needed a lot more internal work than the Titan; those Lancers tore her up on the inside real good and the rest of the fleet wasn’t very kind to the exterior port armor either. It’s a lot more convenient with that kind of damage to have everything right near where you can get to it right away.”
I took note of the dig on the ship’s new name but, other than that, I had no complaints here. As far as the work-pace, I noted that as soon as the Power had moved out of her slip the rechristened Shield had moved in. As a nod to Tracto-an pride, having a battleship of that name taking top priority had been a good move politically, on several different levels.
“We were more concerned with surviving the battle than leaving nice and pretty battleships in our wake,” I said dryly.
“As it should be,” Spalding agreed then switched to a new series of pop ups on the screen. “That’s mostly it for the battleships. Armor Prince is out and done with her builders trials. The Rage should be out this week. The Shield will probably take until the end of the month, what with all the systems that need to be tested now that they’re overhauled. And as soon as the Rage slides out, we’ll push the Metal Titan in and get her fixed up right. Barring catastrophe—and allowing a little leeway—we should have all five of your battleships out and working up by the end of the month, Admiral.”
“Sounds good,” I said finally, “even almost too good to be true. Are you sure you’re not just telling me what I want to hear?” I demanded.
Spalding looked wounded. “When have I ever tried to blow sunshine up your…ear?” he protested, catching himself at the end of his indignant protest.
I gave him a withering look.
Spalding flushed angrily, “It’s the straight download and nothing but, or so help me you can bust me back down to deck sweeper. There might be something comes up, these things always do, but I tell it like it is—Murphy help me if I lie,” he said resolutely.
“Well…all right then,” I said, feeling awkward in the face of his impassioned defense. Still, this was the man notorious for his communication ‘difficulties,’ and the keeping of secrets until I or whoever else it was ‘needed to know’—at least in Spalding’s opinion. So I didn’t feel too bad about raking him over the coals a bit. “So what do we have next, Cruisers?” I asked deciding to hurry the conversation along.
“Boat-Carriers,” he corrected me, shaking his head as if I should have known this.
“Okay,” I said slowly, “you mean those two battleships you down-checked as non-repairable?” I gave him the eye.
“Right! The two Rugged Raptor class battleships out of Harcourt which I’ve renamed Jumble class,” Spalding said, waving his arms at the images of the two former battleships that appeared on the screen and then brought up the before and after schematics. “They lacked the hull integrity to continue on as battleships without a rebuild so expensive we might as well have built new ones. If we’d just tried to patch them up, they’d have been little better than floating deathtraps for their crews.”
I stared intently at the internal schematics. A lot—and I mean a great deal—seemed to be removed from the after portion of the before and after pictures.
“Which begs the question: if they’re so deadly, why are we using them?” I couldn’t help but point out.
“That’s the beauty of it: we’ll only need a fraction of the crew! And they can stay in the safer sections; we’ll just use the rest of it for storage or leave it open to cold space,” Spalding started to get excited as internal diagrams exploded on the screen to reveal in-depth details of the overhaul. “We tore the guts out of them and stripped off the armor over the areas with compromised hull integrity to lighten the load. After the new hyper drive systems are tested, I’m confident they’ll survive jumps there was no way they could have safely completed before we stripped them down. The first one we started working on can take as many as 200 gunboats in the massive bays we cleared out. The second will maybe cap out around 150, we’ll have to see—they’re still a work in progress. They can fly and maneuver around in the yard if we need them to, but I’ve got a lot more work lined up for them after the battleships are out.”
“I notice that’s close to the number of gunboats we took back with us from Elysium,” I said dryly.
“Oh, you did, did you?” Spalding smiled cutely. Although, on a metal, borged-out face, it probably wasn’t as cute as the older man assumed
Then I did a double check as the tentative new names of the two ships flashed across the screen and disappeared.
“What in the world,” I said with surprise, “back it up.”
“Admiral?” Spalding looked at me in surprise and then backed up the frames too fast so that the names once again flashed across the screen. But this time I was sure of what I’d seen and I snorted loudly.
“The Heavy Duty and Glenda’s Disbelief are what you’re calling them now?” I couldn’t help laughing in disbelief.
“The Duty and Disbelief will be fine additions to the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet once they’re done,” Spalding tried to say with dignity, but his grave-sounding words were ruined by the redness covering his face and neck.
“Go on then,” I said, waving my hand and laughing. There was a story in there somewhere, I just knew it, but now was not the time. I’d speak to my spies and find out exactly what had caused a name like Glenda’s Disbelief to be put up there by the old engineer. And, barring some kind of real reason not to, I would probably allow the names to stick. If the Commander really had rescued a pair of ships destined for the bone yard by stripping them and turning them into gunboat carriers, he’d earned naming privileges.
“Right, well, anyway we’re still working on beefing up the gunboats to something more along the lines of the performance we’ve been seeing out of the boats of those uplifts. But with all the projects we have, it’s a low priority project at the moment. Can’t devote the time and resources it deserves. Some of the engineers have been taking it up as something of a hobby project, I hear. I don’t really understand it myself, but you know engineers,” he rolled his eyes, “they come up with some of the darnedest hobby horses. But for the younger ones, I can’t see the harm; gives them some practical experience, ramrodding a project with limited manpower on a shoestring budget. Begging the Admiral’s indulgence but I think it’s good for morale,” he said formally.
I nodded. The Admiral understood a lot more about engineers, their pet peeves, and the lengths they’d go for their personal hobby horses than a certain old engineer might understand, I thought. Still, it was no worse than all the would-be mechanics back home who bought a fixer upper hover-car and tried to trick her out into the next air-space racer. It wasn’t my scene, but I could understand the allure and I certainly wasn’t going to tell a bunch of motivated techs to stop putting in all those free work hours while they worked to make a small part of my potential future fleet more effective than it might otherwise be.
“Approved,” I said simply. They now had my official approval to work on those boats—I just hoped no one killed themselves working on untested Droid equipment. “Just make sure they observe proper safety protocols; who knows what those droids left in there?”
“On it,” Spalding agreed, “as for the rest of the Fleet…we have two Cruisers. The Stone Rhino is off to Sector 24 to support things over there. The Furious Phoenix is doing better, but she’s still a mess. She’s been in and out of our flexible ship slip, but I wouldn’t trust her as far as I could throw her. We thought we had her all patched up last week but one of the life support tanks exploded; apparently, someone cut a man sized hole through it, of all things, during the boarding operation in Elysium and did a shoddy job of patching her back together afterward. But that’s Environmental techs for you; can’t run a proper wield to save their lives,” Spalding sighed, while I looked to the side and felt the urge to whistle. “There was sewage and algae cultures backed up everywhere. Three entire decks needed to be cleaned after her latest space trials. Beyond that, there have been reports of a strange vibration when she gets up to speed. I’m taking a look at the new engine housings we had to reinstall, and I’ve had them shore up the outer hull. But we lost even more mono-locsium in that last battle and while we’ve replaced it with Duralloy II, I worry that at some point we might start getting stress fractures on the internal supports. While she could fight in an emergency, I’d like to see how well this latest repair job and engine alignment takes before giving it my blessing.”
“We’ll designate her for Yard and System defense duties for the moment then,” I said with resignation. The Phoenix had proven itself time and again, and it looked like it would be out of the rotation for the foreseeable future.
“Finally, for the Cruisers we’ve got that Harmony job; I don’t think we’ll be able to make use of her myself,” Spalding said seriously. “I figure we’re better off patchin’ her up, putting her through her paces and then gutting her. If we do a full disassembly, we’ll pick up some new tech and get a full readout on Harmony gear. We’ve also got the remaining Conformity Motherships. They’re built on a Cruiser platform, but I wouldn’t want to get rid of them just yet. They might only be good for short-range operations due to the lack of life support systems, but I need some of the power plants and spinal weapons for the Clover 2.0 if we ever decide to get rid of them. The parts and pieces we stripped from the hulks we couldn’t bring back with us help, but…”
“Unless we need to trade the rest of them to those Assembly Droids for some reason, they’re yours,” I said, waving my hand.
“Right,” Spalding said with a satisfied nod, “Destroyer-wise, fleet strength is at five, but” he held up a hand haltingly, “two of those are droid captures and the other two are those new Border Alliance ships out of Tracto. Older ships, oddball Heavy Destroyers, that last pair and because they’re not here it’s been mostly those Belters who have been working to bring them up to spec. They requested materials for the job, but we’ve been kind of strapped. The Destroyers we took out to Elysium were all beyond repair, so I sent them what we’d stripped off of them but I’m not sure how much good it’ll do.”
I cocked a brow.
“Incompatible tech’s my fear; forget the same class, those ships weren’t even made in the same system as the stuff we’ve got. It’ll be a miracle if everything’s working with just a bunch of civilians and minor world militia personnel trying to upgrade or replace it.”
“I see…well that’s an engineering call. So long as the Alliance Council doesn’t make any waves, I’ll just leave it to you to keep an eye on. Destroyers of questionable providence aren’t at the top of my priority list at the moment,” I said firmly.
“Finally, at last tally we had a total of twenty two corvettes and,” the Chief Engineer checked his slate, “twenty two cutters,” he finished, looking pleased with himself.
I blinked. “Twenty two…of each?” I reiterated, floored by the numbers if not the actual combat strength represented by the two tallies.
“Right,” Spalding said, “two of the corvettes are here on picket/escort duty, bringing ships in and out of Gambit for operational security, and one of the cutters is assigned out of theater with the McKnight group, and another is attached to the Power. But the rest of the small fry have all converged on Tracto.”
“I’ll want to pair up cutters with the rest of our battleships, to increase our patrols potential speed if they need to capture a speedy merchant or something,” I said, when what I was really concerned about was Akantha climbing on another shuttle during a boarding action. A cutter was faster, better armed, and could jump out of danger if it came knocking—a shuttle couldn’t. There were plenty of other perfectly good reasons for wanting cutters attached to the battleships
“Well tactics and fleet assignments are your business, Sir. I just patch ‘em back up when you break ‘em,” Spalding complained happily—a unique affect I’d only considered possible for him to display.
Pulling up the numbers on the cutters and corvettes, I saw that while the corvettes were a mix of Sundered, Tracto Guard, former Sector Guard, and new Alliance-MSP ships, fifteen of the twenty two cutters were straight out Alliance warships. It appeared that when the Alliance had been formed, most of the worlds immediately sent at least one of their smallest warships out to join our suddenly growing fleet.
I rapidly sifted through the information; most of it was already known to me, but getting reports in daily piecemeal was different than when it was all shown in one big lump.
“Cutters…” my breath hissed out between my teeth and I pulled up the latest Omicron update, “while I’m happy for the influx of ships, I don’t like that we only have three cutters assigned to the Omicron. I know we pulled off a bunch of ships for our last campaign and we’ve been building up, but we can’t just rely on station defenses. I think we need to assign more ships there.” After all the blood, sweat and tears we’d shed there, it was simply unacceptable to leave it so lightly defended.
“That station’s got more guns than a squadron of battleships,” Spalding pointed out.
“Most of them aren’t what I would call ‘fully operational’,” I disagreed, making a note on my pad to beef up the station guard squadron and at least send over some more Lancers. I suddenly bared my teeth as two problems intersected in my mind: the former pirate station and a certain group of disloyal officers and warriors who thought they could take what was mine.
Exile in everything but name on a rough-and-tumble station, where the Lancers’ barbarian ways weren’t likely to cause the civilian population to rise up in outrage…and even if they did ruffle feathers, it would be among a population of murderers, smugglers, extortionists and former pirates. I really wasn’t going to be shedding too many tears when I was ‘forced’ to come down on those dastardly Tracto-an primitives like a ton of bricks.
An evil smile crept onto my face while I wasn’t looking. Yes, I think it was time to let two of my problems solve one another.
Spalding cleared his throat giving me a strange look, causing me to snap back to reality. “Yes?” I asked innocently.
“I think that’s everything I’ve got for the Fleet status update, so if there’s nothing else then I’ve got ships that still need straightening out,” Spalding said.
“Keep after it,” I said formally and then when he kept looking at me added, “dismissed.”
“Aye aye, Admiral,” Spalding said gathering up his pad and data chips and heading for the door.
As far as I could see, the MSP had never been bigger or better armed. We still had a few repairs to get through, but after we hit our stride I would defy any force in the Spine to cause us trouble.
I gave a shark-like smile and, for the first time in what felt like months, I allowed myself to relax as one thought ran through my mind: we had five battleships and a real fleet of lighter warships. Sure, we were light on Cruisers and Destroyers, but I’d get around to addressing that eventually.
With these lighter ships, we’d soon be patrolling the border of 25 in force and once again laying down the law. Pirates, would-be warlords, and alien space bugs had better beware—the MSP was about to be back in business! Stronger, better armed, and more experienced than ever before, even fully-fledged Core Worlds would be wise to walk lightly around us with our firepower.
Even the Sector Assembly, looking at these kinds of numbers, would be hesitant to cross the MSP. Only a fool would mess with this kind of fleet strength. Maybe the old Confederation or the Empire had the kind of size to put us back on our heels. But in today’s Spine?
At this point, I had to ask: barring a surprise attack while we were in space dock, what could possibly go wrong?
Chapter Sixty-two: Prometheus Burns
“No…no!” cried Costel Iorghu from his command chair as his ship orbited the gas giant mines of Cyclopes Doom. He watched helplessly as an actual, honest-to-the-gods, Imperial Command Carrier—surrounded by a host of lesser fleet elements—continued to pursue the fleeing battleship, Mighty Prometheus.
The Imperial’s nearly thousand-strong swarm of fighters constantly pecked away at the pride of the Promethean SDF, while the slightly slower Command Carrier slugged and slaughtered its way through the Core World’s defenses protecting the home world.
After the last fateful stint on convoy duty, the Prometheus Fire hadn’t even been considered worthy of being cannon fodder and, since returning from that patrol, they had been posted in overwatch position orbiting Cyclopes Doom. It was a posting that normally boasted a squadron of corvettes for guard duty, but now had a mere four corvettes and his Medium Cruiser.
The implications were clear: no matter where it was posted, or how oversized it was for the stated mission, High Command didn’t dare remove even one of the normal overwatch corvettes from duty. The Prometheus Fire wasn’t even considered competent enough to take the spot of one corvette.
As Costel Iorghu watched, the mightiest battle-station in the system, Stygian’s Rock, came under the unimaginably powerful main cannon of the Command Carrier. While the Imperial Command Carrier shrugged off the storm of heavy and turbo-laser fire from the battle-station, Stygian’s Rock was not so fortunate and the first evil white beam rocked the station, breaking its shields and tearing through the outer hull.
The second beam landed on the same spot with almost surgical precision, cutting clean through the station and erupting out the other side. While the station was not destroyed outright, it lost all power instantly. With barely a flicker of the external lights, Stygian’s Rock turned dark and all communications relayed through it went silent.
The handful of shots it had hammered through the Carrier’s shields were seemingly shrugged off by the mighty Imperial ship. It now seemed to be only a matter of time before the pirates, or Imperials, or whoever this so-called Reclamation Fleet organization they now claimed to belong to, brought Mighty Prometheus to bay and completed their conquest of the Prometheus Star System.
“Dear gods…deliver us in our hour of need,” wept one of the Sensor operators as troop transports started to detach from the Reclamation Fleet and descended toward the planet. A number of bays on the Command Carrier opened, and a hundred atmospheric capable aero-space fighters launching out to join the transports.
The ground invasion of the Promethean home world was about to commence, and it was a sight which brought tears to the eyes of every person present on the Prometheus Fire’s bridge.
“Captain, what should we do,” asked the Damage Control Officer numbly. “We have orders to hold until relieved, Ensign,” hissed the XO.
“Only because they didn’t even trust us to join the defense of Prometheus while the rest of the Fleet assembled to fight off the invaders,” shouted the Sensor Officer.
“We’ll do our duty is what we’ll do!” cried the XO, turning his anger toward the other officer when it rightly should have been directed to the Imperial war fleet burning their home world.
“Futilely defending prisoners so they can serve every hour possible of their mandated sentence? What kind of insanity is that? We’re better than this, XO,” retorted the Sensor Officer.
“Captain, the Corvette skippers are calling…they want to speak with you, Sir,” said the Comm. Officer.
“What could they possibly want to hear from me?” Captain Iorghu asked, despair settling in his heart as his bridge fell into chaos around him.
“They say…they say, Sir,” the Com-Tech said holding a hand to his ear, “that with High Command on Stygian’s Rock dead or out of contact, and Mighty Prometheus about to follow and already in com-blackout, that you’re the senior surviving space-based officer in the SDF…they’re waiting for your orders.”
“My orders?” Costel started laughing hysterically and couldn’t stop himself. “They want to hear my orders…why in the world would they care a farthing for what I have to say,” he snickered.
The Fire’s Tactical Officer stood up and turned to look at him. “I think I know, Sir,” he said, taking control of the main screen and zooming in on two squadrons of ships breaking off from the main formation.
Costel Iorghu blinked at the surprise—the inanity—of Tactical simply taking control of the bridge screen without asking, and this effrontery temporarily knocked him out of his hysterical laughter.
“I have taken the liberty of pulling up this formation of ships, Sir,” Tactical said formally.
“What am I seeing?” Costel finally asked the leading question.
“As I’m sure the Corvette commanders are now aware, five minutes ago this group of ships broke off from the enemy’s main body,” the other officer said, drawing a deep breath.
“Okay,” Costel said, quickly losing interest.
“Their trajectory will lead them directly here, Sir,” Tactical said forcefully. “Now that the Fleet has been defeated, they’ll need to clean up the rest of the system and, as far as I can tell, we’re the largest major unit left outside of their control.”
“You mean…us,” Captain Iorghu said shocked back into reality as his ship, and their fellow prison guard ships, were abruptly no longer passive observers in a star system gone insane with war but suddenly active participants.
“Yes, Sir, Captain,” Tactical Officer nodded, “as of a few minutes from now, maybe as much as an hour, we are the Flagship of the Promethean Fleet.”
“Right…” Costel said in a daze. He never thought that he and the Fire—the dregs of the SDF—would ever possibly one day become the fleet flagship.
“You’re orders, Sir?” asked the XO, giving Tactical an enigmatic look—a look which Tactical returned.
“As the senior surviving actual in this star system, you’ll have operational control of all remaining forces, Captain,” said Tactical.
“Get the other captains on the line,” Costel Iorghu finally ordered, once again feeling the weight of command settling on him like a heavy oppressive cloak.
“What are your orders, Captain Iorghu?” demanded a Captain of one of the Corvettes on his four way split screen. Costel Iorghu had never bothered to learn the other man’s name, preferring instead to wallow in his despair at the latest assignment. That would have to change—both the wallowing and the lack of knowing his subordinates’ names.
“If the Mighty can’t hold them off then there’s nothing more we can do here,” Costel said simply, “we have to leave.”
“And go where? This is our home, Captain,” said another one of the Corvette commanders, and Iorghu could see them wavering. Although they were following proper protocol, his status as the dunce of the fleet’s captains—and his ship’s reputation as an unlucky one—weighed heavily against him. If he didn’t pull this off, right now, he would lose them.
Costel opened his mouth and then hesitated. He had nothing to tell them. Saying they needed to leave was easy…but where could they go?
His mouth opened and closed and he’d never felt more helpless in his life. Seeing the other captains start to turn away in disgust, he felt a lump in his throat and suddenly a fire lit in his stomach. Why was he, the object of pity and scorn throughout the entire star system? It wasn’t his fault. Everything could be laid at the feet of one man: the Tyrant of Cold Space, Jason Montagne Vekna….
Then suddenly he had it, and Captain Costel Iorghu cleared his throat. “There’s only one place we can go,” he said abruptly.
The Corvette captains looked at him in surprise and no little measure of skepticism.
“What do you mean; there are any number of places we could go,” the first Captain to speak to him said bullishly, “the Sector Capital, for one, or any number of Core Worlds for another—any of which have the power to send a relief fleet to Prometheus, if only we can let them know what’s going on.”
“If they don’t know already, it’s because they don’t care to know,” Costel Iorghu said flatly. “Besides, no single member world of this Sector—or even the vaunted Sector Guard—has the numbers to deal with a fleet that has an Imperial Command Carrier. Name me one, if you can—I dare you.”
Mouths opened and closed before the first captain finally shook his head. “So we’ll need more than one major world’s navy is what you’re saying?” the other commander asked.
“Getting the major powers in this sector to pull together is harder than herding cats. What Prometheus needs—or will need, by the time we could get back here—is not a relief fleet, but a fleet of liberation…and the Sector Assembly is a weak reed to rely on. As for the other worlds, individually, no Core World in the Sector would risk its entire mobile panoply to save us,” said Costel.
“So what you’re saying is that it’s hopeless, yes?” the First Captain said with disgust.
“No,” Costel shook his head, “there is one force in the Spine with both the power to help us and the mandate to do so.”
“I don’t follow…” the first captain shook his head.
“Have you so easily forgotten this ship’s disgrace, that the Confederation’s Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet has slipped your mind?” Captain Iorghu asked scornfully.
“The MSP? Isn’t that a joke fleet run by some punk pirate, and not a real organization?” said the third Captain with surprise.
“Sometimes it takes a pirate to catch a pirate,” Costel grimaced, “and, last I heard, the MSP and its Tyrant of Cold Space destroyed a major Droid invasion fleet in Sector 24. CNN reports also mention them bringing home a great number of large ships—much to the chagrin of the local authorities. With its flagship, the Lucky Clover, already a battleship, I can only imagine that when they speak of large ships, they mean Heavy Cruiser and up.”
“But…going to a pirate for help!” exclaimed more than one captain.
“Either he’s deluded enough to think himself a real Confederation officer—with his printed-on-gift-card-stationary honorary commission—or he really does believe he’s the biggest, baddest pirate in the Sector.” Costel shrugged, as if he didn’t care which it was.
But, in reality, all he could hope to do at this point was drag back as much trouble for Admiral Montagne—and his fleet of Confederation wannabes—as he could, and hope that the two enemies eventually destroyed one another, leaving him and his men and now ships to pick up the pieces back here in the home world.
“Like I said: Confederation Admiral or megalomaniacal Pirate Lord, neither would easily allow a major pirate fleet to sack a Core World.”
Several captains were shaking their heads with dismay, until the first corvette captain finally nodded his head. “It’s not worse than anything I could come up with…and you’re probably right: getting the other Core Worlds to come to save us doesn’t have more than a comet’s chance in a corona,” he grudged.
Costel nodded. “Then those are your orders,” he said with a slow nod. Over the next few minutes his Cruiser and accompanying Corvette Squadron began to make for the hyper-limit at best speed while charging their star drives.
In their wakes, more and more Reclamation Fleet warships broke off in pursuit of the last major unit left in the Prometheus SDF.
Captain Costel Iorghu had a queasy feeling about his choice, but there was no turning back now. It was his duty to do what he could for the people who counted on him for protection.
The fate of his world now rested squarely on his shoulders, and he would die before shirking his duty.
Chapter Sixty-three: Disaster
My com-link chimed and then started to buzz continuously.
Sitting up in my chair, I slapped the button on my desk, blinking sleep out of my eyes. My heart was in my throat and I was ready to strangle someone for being startled like this while catching an unscheduled nap in my office.
“Admiral!” said the com-tech on duty in the station’s Comm. section, his rank and position obvious from the full field pick up of his chair and the area behind him.
“Who is this, and why isn’t Lieutenant Steiner—or your duty officer—managing my calls?” I grunted, hoping this was just an overexcited tech and the worst thing I’d have to do was land on him with both feet over following proper protocol.
“Sorry, Sir; I was just following protocol. I’ve got a Code Omega attached to an urgent priority message from the Commodore; it says here I’m supposed to contact you at once,” the Tech said, sounding alarmed and not just because he was talking to me. Code Omega meant we’d lost a warship.
“Is the message from Commodore Druid or Commodore LeGodat?” I asked, urgently hoping it was LeGodat and not Druid. But that if the message was from Druid then it meant he’d only lost the cutter assigned to his battleship. The alternative was too terrible to contemplate.
“It’s Commodore Druid’s, Sir,” the tech said looking at me with terrified eyes, “he reports the Parliamentary Power destroyed by the enemy.”
Suppressing the urge to shout ‘What enemy?!’ at the top of my lungs, I shook my head like a punch-drunk fighter and snapped, “Send me the communiqué and then report to my ready room on the double. You are not to repeat a word of this to your co-workers until after I’ve had time to debrief you personally—not one word, you hear!” I demanded, not really planning to debrief him. I’d soon learn everything possible from the message but not wanting his mouth to run and spread rumors all over the station.
“Yes, Sir,” the tech swallowed, but I had bigger fish to fry than him. Even if he followed my order to the letter, it was only going to buy time. I hoped it would be important time—possibly enough to grasp what was happening and put the right slant on the story. Although, how it was possible to slant such a loss in a positive way was currently unfathomable to me. Losing that battleship hurt.
Still in a state of reaction and disbelief, I pulled up the file transfer and opened Druid’s reported. I held onto a sliver of hope that my information so far was somehow wrong.
The opening video file of his report showed the sensor feed on their arrival, clearly indicating a small fleet accompanied by two battleships—and then fast forwarded to the short jump and arrival of the Imperial Command Carrier. Heart in my throat, I observed a fast-forwarded version of exactly what had taken place.
When I finished viewing the recording for the second time, I fell back to my chair in a state of shock. The main cannon on the Command Carrier was simply unbelievable…but, believable or not, the Parliamentary Power was lost along with all hands aboard either killed, captured by this Reclamation Fleet, or fled via the cutter. The cutter had also needed to come all the way to Tracto to relay the news of this disaster for lack of a long-range array—which meant that this enemy fleet could be anywhere by now.
The worst of it wasn’t even that we’d lost a battleship, as unbelievable as that might have sounded before this exact moment. No…the worst, most morale-crushing thing was seeing exactly what had destroyed or captured my newly repaired Dreadnaught class battleship: an Imperial Command Carrier. And the only Imperial Command Carrier that I knew of in the Spine was the one that belonged to a certain Imperial Officer of my former acquaintance.
“Admiral Janeski,” I hissed, anger clouding my vision. Rear Admiral Arnold Janeski, the very man who’d humiliated me at every turn back when I’d still been a pretend public relations admiral. Looking back on things, his contempt for me must have run deep.
This was an Imperial Naval Officer who had declared the Spineward Sectors an ‘Empire-free zone’ and then dumped the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet on my shoulders without so much as a warning. More than that, he was a man I had received information—in the form of data files and captured intercepts retrieved from the personal data logs of one Jean Luc Montagne and the Lucky Clover’s original Security Officer—that said clear as day that he had ordered my assassination shortly after his disembarkation of the Lucky Clover years ago.
Everything pointed to the fact that Janeski had never expected me to take actual command of the Lucky Clover or the MSP Fleet but rather to spectacularly fail or be caused to fail by his paid operative the security officer who tried to arrest me within minutes of my taking command of the Clover, thus giving him—Janeski—a convenient scrape goat to blame everything on.
Right at that moment—with a lost or captured battleship and its crew fresh in my mind—I surged to my feet, knocking over my chair and then slammed my hands on the desk.
I’d been willing to forget about that man, his Empire, and their despicable withdrawal from the Spine they had sworn to defend—breaking more than a dozen treaties in the process. But he’d finally gone a road too far; this was beyond personal insult, stung pride, or historical atrocities against my house and people—he had killed my men and destroyed one of my ships!
“He tests me…” I said, hunching my shoulders and once again pulling up the data files and captured communication intercepts from the enemy so-called Reclamation Fleet. Who was this Captain Goddard who tried to get Druid to surrender, anyway? Janeski’s Flag Captain aboard the Clover had been named Taggart or something like that.
I had no confirmation it was Janeski behind all of this, but I could feel in my bones it was the Imperial Admiral. Just how many Command Carriers did the Empire have, anyway?
No, it was him. It had to be him; the very man who had orbitally bombarded my home world at the command of then-Admiral, now-Senator Cornwallis—the Butcher of Capria and destroyer of the old Summer Palace.
“You’ve gone too far this time, Admiral Janeski…or whoever you are,” I said coldly, righting my chair and then sitting back down in it. I was no longer the pitiful political puppet left to die on the edge of known space, a victim of my own incompetence. Now I had a mission, a new home world to look after, and a fleet that would soon be looking to me to make this right. For that fleet, and the Caprian home world, I was going to have my pound of flesh, “If you want a war…then I’ll give you a war, Admiral!”
I didn’t care that they had a Command Carrier, a pair of battleships, and who knew what else hidden up their sleeve. No one slaughtered my men in job lots and got away with it, or my name wasn’t Jason Montagne, the Tyrant of Cold Space and Vice-Admiral of the Confederation Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet!
Just then another priority alert came jumping onto my computer screen this time again from Tracto. When it rained, it truly poured.
Chapter Sixty-four: Urgent Arrivals
“Transmission received, Sir,” said the Ensign and former com-tech manning the Cutter’s Comm. console, and Druid sighed with relief, “the long-range array is being activated and our report to Gambit will be relayed at top speed.”
“Well, at least that’s done with,” Druid said, his shoulders slumping. If there was a good way to report that you’d just lost one of the most powerful warships—not just in the fleet, but in all of humanity—then he didn’t know it.
That the Parliamentary Power had been literally up against the most powerful ship class in the known galaxy did nothing to sooth the wound. He hadn’t just lost his ship, but he’d also lost the vast overwhelming majority of his crew. He doubted he would ever get over that particular fact.
“We’ve also received a greeting, and a personal invitation from the Station Master to dock at one of the prime slips in his facility and come over for dinner, Commodore,” said the Ensign.
Druid barked out a laugh. If the Station Master wasn’t quietly panicking and desperate for any news he could get, he’d be surprised. It wasn’t every day that the commander of a battleship returned to a home system riding a Cutter and bearing an urgent, top priority, encrypted message for High Command.
However, he wouldn’t have to put up with this condition for much longer. He presumed he’d be relieved of command and sent back to Gambit in disgrace, in order to pump him for any and all information about the fleet that had killed his ship. Not that he was likely to resist; the cries of the crew he had abandoned had haunted his sleep the entire slow trip back to Tracto. No, he thought with cold fury, I’ve earned nothing less than to be beached—and probably a lot worse still.
“Relay to the Station Master that I’m grateful for his offer, but I’ll have to decline until such a time as I have received new orders from the Admiral after which we’ll see,” the Commodore said wearily. “Oh, and take us back to full communications lock down; nothing gets out of this ship until we’ve heard back from Admiral Montagne.”
It was bad enough that he had lost a battleship; the last thing he needed to add to his rapidly plummeting resume was starting a panic as soon as he returned to base.
“Aye, Commodore,” agreed the Ensign turning back to work his console.
“And Helm, lay in a course for Tracto Station but hold off for now. We’ll wait out here a day or two until we receive word back with new orders. If we haven’t heard anything by that time, we’ll head in,” he instructed.
“On it, Commodore,” the Helmsman nodded.
“If anyone needs me, I’ll be in the captain’s cabin,” he said turning to leave.
“Aye, aye, Sir,” said the ship’s XO, and former First Shift Tactical Officer for the Parliamentary Power, “we’ll guard the fort.”
Lifting his hand and giving a two finger salute, it was a tired and defeated Commodore Druid who left the bridge to go and lay down in his quarters.
****************************************************
Druid was halfway to his room when the hall lighting turned red, in order to conserve power, and the red alert klaxon started sounding throughout the cramped and over-crowded ship.
“All hands to battle stations. I say again: all hands to battle stations this is not a drill. Commodore Druid to the bridge immediately,” the voice of the young Ensign managing ship coms sounded throughout the ship.
Eyes widening with alarm, Druid turned on his heel and ran flat-out back to the bridge. Being a much smaller ship than his last command, it took him mere moments to return to the bridge.
“Report!” he called out, rushing back to the cramped little seat that masqueraded as a command chair on the miniscule little cutter.
“We’ve got multiple point transfers on the edge of this star system and five degrees around the elliptic from our position, Commodore!” replied Tactical in a staccato voice.
“Number and classification of contacts,” Druid barked, his eyes scanning the cramped viewer that passed for a main screen on the small warship.
“I’m reading three…no, it’s now five bogeys on the edge of this system,” reported Sensors, “it looks like they came in squadron strength, Sir.”
“Hold the speculation until we have more information, Mister,” Druid growled and turned to Comm. “Relay an order to that quick-reaction squadron of corvettes that was on the way out to meet us; tell them to get themselves turned around on the double.”
“Relaying now,” said the Ensign.
“Sensors are tentatively identifying one of the contacts as Cruiser size,” Sensors reported urgently. “She’s a noisy one, sir; and relaying the information to Tactical now for identification. I’m still working on the other four for now.”
“Ship recognition database has a hit,” exclaimed Tactical.
“That was fast,” muttered Druid. A smaller ship meant a smaller bridge team, as well as a more limited database. They could have gotten lucky with the idents, but still…
“Tentative classification is a modified Hammerhead—or Hydra—class Medium Cruiser, Commodore,” continued Tactical.
“Blast,” Druid cursed.
“Two more contacts are tentatively confirmed as Corvettes,” reported Sensors tightly, “still gathering data, sir.”
“Send out a hail and the routine challenge package, Ensign,” Druid ordered the Comm. Officer. “I want to know who we’re dealing with.”
“Aye, aye, sir!” said the Ensign.
“Helm, remember that course I had you lay in for Tracto Station?” Druid asked.
“I do,” the Helmsman said laconically.
Druid gave him a sharp look. “Well, engage it and start taking us into the system at half speed,” he said sharply. “A Cutter has no business mixing it up with a Corvette and a Medium Cruiser, regardless of whatever else those other two ships turn out to be. I’m not going to lose another ship and crew under my command if I can help it,” he said, that last sentence coming out in a quieter voice than he had expected.
“I’m receiving multiple IFF beacons; it’s the old MSP protocol from back before the Imperials pulled out and Admiral Montagne expanded the Fleet,” yelped the Ensign.
“What! What have you got, Comm.?” Commodore Druid demanded.
“I’m getting beacon signals for one Medium Cruiser, the Prometheus Fire—a former Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet warship, listed as one of the inactive originals—and four corvettes with temporary codes that aren’t listed in the data base,” the Ensign lifted a hand to his ear and pressed his ear bud. “I’m also receiving a transmission.”
“Hold that transmission for just a second,” Druid ordered, punching buttons on his data-slate.
“The Prometheus Fire…I’ve never heard of it,” said Druid’s current XO and former Tactical Officer.
“Here it is,” Druid said abruptly his eyes scanning rapidly through the file on the Prometheus Fire, “looks as if the last known contact was back at 1st Easy Haven. Where the Fire was part of a two cruiser compliment that withdrew from the MSP and turned on the Admiral during battle! One of the ships was kept, the Pride of Prometheus…that’s Middleton’s former ship!” he exclaimed with no small amount of surprise. “The other was sent back to Prometheus Star System with the survivors of both ship’s companies.”
“Hardly the most trustworthy report,” the XO said.
Druid looked up from the pad. “Put the transmission through, Ensign,” he instructed.
“-say again: this is Captain Iorghu of the Promethean Fire, a Medium Cruiser belonging to the System Defense Force of the Prometheus Star System. Prometheus burns,” he said, the words striking Druid harder than he would have thought possible. “We are the only known survivors of a vicious series of raids by a force calling itself the Spineward Sectors Reclamation Fleet. That force has invaded and, by now, is presumed to have subjugated our home world with ground pacification forces,” said the Captain on the screen.
A quick check of the data base confirmed that this Captain Iorghu was the same Costel Iorghu who had formerly captained a ship in the MSP Fleet—the very same ship he still captained, apparently.
“They arrived in overwhelming numbers, and they had a Command Carrier. They destroyed our most powerful battlestation, Stygian’s Rock, along with the Flagship of our home fleet, Mighty Prometheus. Our Fleet was helpless,” Captain Iorghu continued, a grim look in his eye as he retold the sacking of his home system. “This squadron left the Prometheus System for Tracto as soon as the defeat and occupation of our home world became a foregone conclusion,” said Captain Iorghu. He lifted his eyes, and a fire burned within them that Druid wondered if he, himself, would ever feel again, “If they can destroy a Core World like Prometheus, they can destroy any of us!”
Druid leaned back in his chair, his brows rising. Despite the shocking news, he couldn’t help a healthy dose of skepticism from coloring his thoughts as he mulled over the report.
“We, the survivors of Prometheus, may be few in numbers, but our hearts burn for revenge,” Iorghu continued. “I know that we don’t have the best relationship but I’m desperate. Prometheus Fire, and the squadron of corvettes that accompany us, formally throw ourselves on the mercy of the mighty War Prince, Jason Montagne, Vice Admiral of the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet, also known as the Tyrant of Cold Space.” His face twisted into a bitter expression as he added, “We want to rejoin the MSP.”
Druid blinked at the more than slightly disrespectful address of the Admiral by a group which claimed it wanted to join his fleet. Meanwhile, bridge standers all around him broke out in a chorus of curses against the very same Reclamation Fleet that had attacked and destroyed their ship, the Parliamentary Power.
“Jason Montagne, I know my words mean less than nothing to a man like you,” Captain Iorghu’s mouth twisted, “but all I can do is beg you, Sir: please do your sworn duty as a Confederation Admiral and save our world. If you can then I swear you will find none more grateful—or more loyal—than the survivors of Prometheus! We will not enter this star system without an invitation; we anxiously await your reply, Admiral.”
“Well, that was something else,” Druid said dryly after the transmission ceased.
“You don’t believe him, sir?” the XO asked with surprise.
Druid looked at him strangely. “Actually, I do…or, at least, I believe the important points: his home world being destroyed, and this being a group of survivors representing the last of Prometheus’ military,” he said.
“I see,” said the XO.
Dismissing him from his mind, Druid turned to the Communications Station. “Comm., I think we’re going to need to send a top priority message to Tracto Station and ask them to fire up the long-range array for another message,” instructed the Commodore.
“On it, sir,” said the Ensign, “I’ll encode a copy of this transmission to send along with your message.”
“Do that, and then open a channel between me and this Captain Iorghu. I think it’s about time we talked,” said Druid.
It looked like this was going to be yet another in a series of long days.
Chapter Sixty-five: Panic in the Sector Government House
Sir Isaak dropped the data chips he had been holding in shock. “Come again?” he demanded numbly.
“Governor, we’ve just received word from Areas Prime that a massive Fleet has just conquered Prometheus,” said the shadowy figure on the other end of his screen that managed Sir Isaak’s secret high priority FTL com-stat network. “They call themselves the Reclamation Fleet, and they apparently have an Imperial Command Carrier.”
“Dear space-gods,” Isaak muttered, firing off a quick prayer to the Lady of Beauty to save them all from the greedy grasp of the Great Destroyer. “Arnold Janeski…I was a fool to think he’d leave us alone.” The former Ambassador didn’t know the extent of whatever Fleet or Empire the Imperial Rear Admiral had managed to amass in the years since the other man had supposedly departed the Sector, but he knew it had to be considerable for him to return now.
“That flow is yours to decide,” the shadowy figure said uncaringly, “do you have any instructions?”
“Not at this time,” Isaak, said cutting the transmission and then activating the com-link connecting him to his staff. “Get in here—now!” he transmitted.
“Sir,” Butters said rushing into the room, “you called?”
Not far behind him was the Governor’s military attaché.
“Butters and Beaumont, stay,” Sir Isaak said sharply, “the rest of you should return to your duties.”
“Yes, Governor,” said the rest of the staff those who had actually made it into the room hurrying back out.
“Was there something we could do for you, Sir?” asked Beaumont as soon as the door was closed and locked.
“Of course there is! Why else would I call you?” Isaak demanded impatiently.
“Sorry, Governor,” said Beaumont.
“Sir?” asked Butters starting to look alarmed.
“What’s the status of the new Sector Guard?” Isaak demanded.
“Two Cruisers from Areas; one from New Pacifica just out of the space-dock; three Squadrons of Destroyers—one more squadron from New Pacifica, also just out of the space-dock, with the other two from Capria,” he gave a nod toward the Governor. “And two more squadrons of Corvettes of mixed providence. There’s also,” he checked his pad, “three transport ships carrying a division of Marines between them, also from Capria and a squadron worth of freighters currently being used as a fleet train. That’s in addition to the permanent force defending the Central System itself.”
“A notable accomplishment, especially considering the previous attempt at establishing a unified Sector Defense Force,” Butters said servilely.
“Put your tongue back in your mouth where it belongs; raising this size of a force was nothing,” Isaak said dismissively. “The previous attempt to build an independent Sector Guard force was laughable at best. The Security Council were fools.”
Beaumont looked at him oddly.
“Weren’t you on the Security Council as its President?” he asked with surprise.
“Don’t be more a fool than you must be, and stick with military matters—they suit you much better,” Isaak said coldly. “You can’t run a military by committee even if you are elected president of it. That’s why I pushed so hard for Governor; with full access to the Administration’s purse and lack of competent oversight, you just need to know where the bodies are buried, which palms to grease, and have the will to get things done.”
“I see,” Beaumont, said pulling back.
“Pacifica doesn’t want to pay for their navy but, by the same token, they aren’t quite foolish enough to give up their battleships. However, getting the Sector to pay for the refit and upgrade of ships—ships they weren’t going to use anyway—as well as the wages of a significant fraction of their remaining SDF personnel was an easy sell. They can always tell the voters that they had no say in whatever goes wrong,” Isaak sighed, “while Capria is almost permanently divided, and whoever is in control wants to send the other half of their military as far away from their home world as they can. With us paying the cost of such a relocation, it was again an easy sell. The rest are the patriotic leavings that anyone could sweep up.”
“And Areas?” asked Butters curiously.
Isaak just smiled enigmatically. “Back to the business at hand,” he said, coming back to reality with a jerk, “Have the Ponce de-Louise and my body double readied at once. We can put out that it’s a goodwill tour to show the people how much their government cares for them. It’ll also make me unavailable for comment in the immediate future—officially speaking.”
“Okay,” said Butters slowly, “I can set that up, although your Chief of Staff would be a better channel for this to go through.”
“Then talk with him,” Isaak said shortly, “I also want the New Sector Guard readied and on their way within two days’ time. No excuses, Mr. Beaumont,” he snapped when the younger man started to open his mouth.
“Where are they supposed to be going, Sir?” Beaumont asked, exchanging an alarmed look with Butters.
Isaak snapped his fingers. “Eyes here, the both of you,” he said flatly. “They’re to go to Easy Haven at their best speed,” Isaak informed them, “we’ll say it’s a series of joint maneuvers, to heal the wounds inflicted on both sides by the previous head of the Guard. Yagar is, conveniently, dead and no longer present to defend himself so he’ll make a convenient scapegoat when the media comes knocking and I assure they will. Next, I’ll need you to come up with a good reason to pull off a few of the larger units from the Defense of Central, so they can be redeployed.”
Looking increasingly ill at ease Beaumont stared at Governor Isaak. “Sir…is there something going on that we’re not aware of?” he asked. “Sending out a body double on a goodwill tour, and then sending the Guard out on maneuvers…it all seems a little bit…”
“We’re being invaded,” Isaak said flatly. “Prometheus has already fallen and we don’t know much more, except the invaders blockaded the planet so no one knew what was going on—or could even get out to tell the rest of the Sector what was happening until it was all over and done with. And these invaders have a Command Carrier,” he added in a casual tone, but his eyes spoke to the true severity of the situation.
“Sweet Murphy,” Beaumont breathed.
“Prometheus has been suspiciously silent lately,” Butters said, and then the import of what he was talking about must have hit him because he paled. “Dear me, what about the rest of the Sector—are we safe?”
“If either of you breathe a word of this before a ship comes in with the official news, I’ll have you up on treason charges so fast your head will spin and you’ll ride out the rest of your increasingly short lifespan in a prison ship,” Isaak said in a hard voice.
Two heads nodded simultaneously a hint of real fear on their faces.
“As for ‘safe?’ Who knows in these benighted times,” he shrugged, “all we can do is load our side of the balance as heavily as possible and hope it’s enough; which is why we need to consolidate as much force in one place as possible and repulse these invaders.”
“The Tyrant,” Beaumont said with sudden comprehension and sudden heat, “that’s why you wanted to rehabilitate his image months ago. You knew this was coming!”
“I suspected something was moving outside this Sector with ill intent, but that was all vague suspicions and a feeling of alarm. I knew nothing!” Isaak snapped. “If I had known this was coming, I certainly wouldn’t be sitting here in Central—the biggest target in the entire Sector—with nothing but the currently inadequate defense force and a prayer for more time. And as for the Tyrant? Yes, I intend to use him to the fullest extent possible—and then punish him for his crimes against humanity, if it is at all possible or practical to do so. Does that answer your question?” “You’re planning to use him as a shield?” Butters said with surprise and admiration.
“Needs must when the Demon drives,” Isaak shrugged. “It’s a ‘dog eat dog’ galaxy out there; we have to protect our own. In the meantime, I’ve already lined up commitments for a joint defense if Sector 25 was ever to be invaded, however much such commitments are actually worth. I’ll line up even more of them before the Ponce de-Leon actually leaves—including from the Ambassador from Prometheus, so that no one suspects my prior knowledge of the situation. Hopefully once the Core Worlds become aware of the threat posed by this…Reclamation Fleet, and its oversized flagship, they’ll be primed to pull together instead of falling back to the failed strategy of ‘every world for itself’.”
“Is this invasion, this Reclamation Fleet, really such a threat?” asked Beaumont seriously.
“They conquered a Core World,” Isaak said flatly, “if they can do that once, they can do it again. Nowhere in this Sector is safe until they are defeated. And for that, we’re going to need the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet—if only to give the rest of us the time we need to put together a Sector Fleet strong enough to fight them off before they destroy us. I will not stand by and watch while everything I’ve tried to build burns to pieces around me, just because some egomaniacal Imperial thinks he can take what is mine! You have your marching orders—get to it.”
“Yes, Governor,” said the Aide and Attaché before filing out of the room.
Watching them leave, Isaak just hoped the Sector had enough time to rally to its own defense. Manipulating Jason Montagne, a man with a fleet that was—hopefully – if his reports on the numbers of the MSP’s newly captured battleships were correct—stronger than many Core Worlds, into doing what he seemed to naturally do so well anyway, namely by throwing himself into dangerous situations, shouldn’t be too difficult.
Would it be enough? That was the question…it was always the question.
By reinforcing the Multi-Sector Patrol Fleet with the Sector Guard, and whatever other forces he could pry out of the soon-to-be-hysterical hands of the major worlds of this Sector, he hoped to be able to at least slow down Admiral Arnold Janeski’s forces.
If he could only hold the Imperial off long enough to bring verified reports to the Old Confederation’s Grand Assembly…no, he knew that was wishful thinking. He’d already focused too much of his time and attention on the Old Confederation; there was no need to throw good money after bad.
The Sector would rally to its own defense or it would not; either it would stand or it would fall. Whichever way things went, hopefully Jason Montagne and his band of misfits would be ground up and destroyed in the process.
But, however things fell out, Sir Isaak, the Governor of Sector 25, planned to survive the affair. While his body double was out on tour—to show the people how much he cared—the real Governor was going to soon move out to an undisclosed location where he could monitor and control the situation from a vantage of relative safety.
Someone was going to have to fix this whole mess if they won, and if they lost….well, going down with the ship was very romantic and all but he was a politician, not a starship captain.
Heading the Sector 25 Government in exile was a markedly better option than dying.
Chapter Sixty-six: Panic on the Home Front
After watching the latest video file from Tracto, I wanted to punch someone in the nose. But I no longer had the luxury of indulging myself, so instead I called an emergency meeting.
“This is a disaster, plain and simple…there’s no two ways about this,” Glenda Baldwin, the Yard Manager for Gambit Station shook her head with dismay after everyone had had time to get caught up on the situation.
“They blew up the Power and now they’ve taken Prometheus by storm,” Spalding growled, “we’re going to have to step up the pace of our repairs right bloody now! We’ll go back to back shifts, with only four or six hours of sleep in between.”
“They only captured the Parliamentary Power, not blew it up; didn’t you watch the video file?” Baldwin snapped. “And what’s this four hours of sleep in a day business? If you run the crews that hard you’re going to have accidents that will set our repair efforts back further than we’d be if you left things as they are!”
“The crew can do it!” Spalding barked back.
“Do you even listen to yourself sometimes?” Glenda shouted. “This is my Yard, not a warship; we’ve got multiple repair projects running simultaneously. We can’t afford any mistakes, not now. And besides, are we even going to be heading out right away?”
“What are you on about, lass?!” Spalding cried. “Of course we’re goin’ out. We can’t let a thing like this stand; worlds are burning and you want us to just what…hide?”
“It churns my gut, too, but this is a Command Carrier we’re talking about. Forget for the moment however many smaller ships it might have with it; did you look at how badly it tore up the Parliamentary Power? It took a Dreadnaught class battleship—one of the most overbuilt ships-of-the-wall in the entire Sector—and cut it open like its armor was made of canned cheese! We don’t have an answer for that—or are you blind as well as forgetful?” she snapped back.
“When the Clover’s finished—” Spalding started.
“You and that infernal ship, which won’t be finished for another year—if then,” Glenda exclaimed throwing her hands in the air.
“Glenda’s right; the Clover won’t be done in time,” I said shortly, causing the Yard Manager to look smug.
“Then we won’t be going out to stop them?” Lieutenant-Commander Hammer asked carefully.
Beside her, Laurent nodded in support of the question.
“Oh we’ll be going out,” I said grimly.
Glenda Baldwin shook her head. “It looks like suicide to me,” she said flatly.
“Well then it’s a good thing you won’t be going out with us, isn’t it?” I snapped and then took a deep breath to calm myself. Another moment passed, and I had my carefully trained non-expression firmly back in place.
“We’re with you, Admiral,” Spalding growled, “just give us the word.”
Laurent nodded more slowly. “We have to at least try,” he agreed.
“Green crews, recently repaired ships, most of them different classes—and not even out of their shakedown cruises,” Leonora Hammer shook her head. “Not to mention the accumulated battle stress from what trained, veteran officers and crew we do have. It’s a recipe for disaster.”
“That’s what I’ve been saying!” Glenda cried.
“Are you duckin’ out now, lass?” Spalding demanded angrily turning to eye the Confederation Officer while ignoring the Yard Manager he was sweet on.
Hammer glared right back at him unrepentantly.
“Am I to assume you don’t support this operation?” I asked to break the growing tension.
“Oh, blazes no—I’m not backing out. I’m all in on this one, Sir,” Lieutenant-Commander Hammer said, breaking eye contact with Spalding and giving me a level look.
Spalding snorted and Baldwin sighed while the rest of the officers looked on inscrutably.
“I want the Rage put back together as quickly as possible,” I said, declaring my intentions unequivocally. “I’ll be transferring my flag over to her as soon as possible. From what we’ve seen in Druid’s reports, there’s no way anything with less hull armor than a Dreadnaught class can stand up to the main beam of that Imperial Command Carrier—and I’d be a short lived fool to try and command the Fleet from anywhere else. Hopefully with the new sheath of Duralloy II on her, the Royal Rage can do better than the Power when it comes to standing toe to toe with her.”
“Admiral, I don’t know if you’ve noticed but, this is an Imperial ship—a Command Carrier,” Yard Manager Baldwin pointed out. “You’ll be outmanned and outgunned, not to mention outclassed tech-wise.”
“Oh, I’m very much aware that we’ll be going up against imperial grade tech here,” I said with flat finality, “and it doesn’t change my position in the slightest. We can’t go out with anything less than our full power or we risk being ground up and spat back out as nothing but wreckage. But, by the same token, once we’ve got all our ships firing on all cylinders I believe we have a chance. And if there’s one thing we’ve shown, it’s that as long as we’ve got a fighting chance, the MSP runs from no one.”
“You’d need a squadron of battleships just to get close enough to her—” the Yard Manager protested.
“Which we are very fortunate to have,” I cut in.
“And another one to do any damage and have a chance to take her out,” the Manager continued doggedly, “which completely ignores whatever battleships, cruisers, and lesser ships she has accompanying her. We know the Carrier’s got two battleships at least.”
I sighed and shook my head. This was getting us nowhere fast.
“She does have a point,” Laurent said heavily, “just dealing with that Command Carrier by itself will be difficult, at best. If we’re trying to fight off the rest of a fleet—including other battleships—at the same time, it could become next to impossible. We’re going to have to come up with a way to draw it off.”
“What’s a top Imperial ship doing out here on the border of Confederation space, anyway?” Hammer asked.
“That’s a good question, and we need to ask it,” said one of Druid’s former officers, a man I’d tapped to run one of the new capture battleships. “Imperial Command Carriers don’t grow on trees; these invaders must have Imperial backing if they’ve got one of their Command Carriers. And we can’t fight the Empire of Man; they’re too strong.”
“Could have been pirated,” Spalding pointed out, “a mutiny, perhaps, when they was pullin’ out of the Spine?”
“Don’t tell me it belongs to pirates,” Druid’s officer snorted, “if it was really pirates, the Imperial Fleet would have torn up every Sector of the Spine until they retrieved her. Gorgon Front or no Gorgon Front, a blow to Imperial pride of that magnitude couldn’t have been swept under the rug and ignored.”
“Ignored just like the Spine and their commitments to it,” growled Gunnery Chief Lesner.
I slammed my hands down on the table to get back the attention of the room. “Don’t try telling me that anything is too much for the men and women in this room,” I said with determination. “So what if it’s a Command Carrier? The Empire probably is backing them in one way or another but, again, so what? This group just conquered one of our worlds and shows no signs of stopping there. People they shot up and destroyed—including one of our warships, an MSP battleship no less. Far from making me scared of their power, they just made a powerful enemy instead.”
“This will be an uphill battle,” Hammer said into the growing silence.
“That’s the only kind I like,” I said with a savage smile as I turned to Spalding. “I’m not just calling up MSP assets; I’ve also sent a message to LeGodat at Easy Haven. We’re pulling out all the stops on this one. However we can get all of our major combatants crewed up and ready to run in two weeks’ time, it’s going to take the Commodore to run out here with whatever he can scrape up. Looking at the timetable, that means the Phoenix won’t be ready to depart with the rest of the fleet.”
“I’ll put my best men on the job, Sir,” Spalding said with a nod.
I shook my head. “I’m going to need every ship I can get my hands on, and this isn’t going to be a simple one-off campaign. We’re going to have to strip off the escorts from the Command Carrier, and that’s going to take time, which means I’m going to need you pulling major ships—ships like the Furious Phoenix—out of Gambit as fast as you can. We’ll need everything we’ve got ready in time for the final battle against the Carrier,” I explained.
“But, Sir!” Spalding cried.
“I need the problems with Phoenix’s drive and inner hull resolved, Spalding,” I said seriously. “She’s a fast ship; I’m sure that as soon as you’ve got her tuned up you’ll catch up to us in no time. But I can’t leave anything on the table for this one. We’ve got to go all-in if we’re going to face off against that monster of an Imperial ship and her fleet of escorts.”
“Ah,” Spalding said, slapping a hand on his forehead.
“I thought you said we wouldn’t leave until every ship was ready?” Hammer asked neutrally.
“Yes,” chimed in Laurent, “I know I speak for everyone on my ship when I say that we want to be in on the action. Even if we’re fighting a bit hurt, the Furious Phoenix can handle it. If you’re worried, I’ll only ask for volunteers.”
I held up a hand. “I need every battleship we can muster, and we won’t be leaving without that much. But the Phoenix has some serious problems and I’ll not risk her—or the lives of her crew—when we know something’s wrong with her,” I said firmly.
“Then I respectfully request that I, and the majority of the crew, be transferred over to one of the battleships. I believe we can do a lot more good there than we will sitting around in dry dock,” Laurent said mulishly.
“Very well,” I said after pausing a tick. Laurent; Druid’s former XO; Hammer; and…I, I suppose, had four functional battleships. I finally gave a reluctant sigh, knowing I’d need Druid again. Even though the man had just lost one of my most important assets, watching the battle showed that he hadn’t had a chance. Caught out beyond the grav-limit with hours to go until his jump engines recharged was a death trap; that he’d managed to escape was no small accomplishment. “Laurent can take one ship and we’ll put Druid back in command of another. Along with you two, that should let us captain all of our battleships.”
“We’ll need to shuffle things around,” Hammer warned.
“Of course, I—” I started.
“You need me out there, Sir!” said Spalding, who had been turning increasingly red-faced. “Without a good engineer on the Royal Rage, how can you possibly expect to squeeze every ounce out of her engines!”
“You make a good point, Commander,” I said, shaking my head, “and I’m going to need you to tap for me a good replacement officer to run the ship in your absence. I’m also thinking that all of our battleships should be set up to run the ‘Montagne Maneuver’. But, that said, your request is going to have to be denied. I want you tearing into the Phoenix the moment the rest of the ships are ready to go. With some luck, you’ll be joining us out there before you know it.”
“But Admiral!” Spalding protested.
“My decisions made,” I said flatly, “you’ll fix the Phoenix and come along board her as her Chief Engineer. We can talk about a transfer later, after that Cruiser rejoins the fleet.”
“Aye-aye, Sir,” the half-cyborg Engineer said finally, the words sounding strangled. Then, almost too quietly to catch, he muttered, “If its firepower he wants…I’ll show him firepower!”
“Listen up, people: with a Command Carrier, a pair of Battleships, and Saint Murphy knows what else, this will be our biggest challenge yet. The threat is real, and even with a squadron of battleships this is going to be an uphill climb,” I paused and took a deep breath. “We sally for Tracto as soon as our four fully functional battleships are ready, where the plan is to meet up with whatever forces Commodore LeGodat of Easy Haven can muster. After that, we’ll see what the situation is and make our plans from there.”
Heads nodded in slow agreement, some with determination like Leonora Hammer, others with satisfaction like Captain Laurent, while dissatisfaction practically radiated from the two engineers. But everyone knew his or her duty, and appeared ready to carry it out.
“Alright then, now that’s settled. As far as anyone knows, did I miss anything?” I asked, honestly concerned.
“We can load up a freighter or two with spare parts and goodies. You’re going to need them if you take any serious battle damage,” Spalding said gruffly, “I can look into it.”
“Good,” I nodded, giving him permission to continue.
“You might want to think about calling back in the New Dream. Having a Constructor ship wandering about is a recipe for disaster,” Glenda added.
“We’ll send out a message, and an escort, if we need to,” I agreed.
“What about the droids and uplifts at Tracto?” Laurent asked gruffly. “Are they going to join us? If so, what kind of command protocols are we going to have? I’m not sure I want them with us but, if they do come, almost as many disasters result from coalition or allied forces getting their signals mixed up as from enemy action.”
“I have a few ideas on that matter, but we’ll just have to see how things play out when we hit Tracto with the main fleet,” I said firmly.
“We’re going to be stretched, crew-wise, especially with the loss of the Parliamentary Power,” advised Leonora Hammer. “Normally, if a captain loses his ship and crew, there’s a review board that takes a look at everything before making a recommendation. I’m not saying you need to do this,” Leonora said in a way that made it clear she disagreed with my decision, “but, regardless of your decision about the Commodore, the loss of his crew is going to hurt.”
“We’ll make do,” I said after a moment, “and I know more recruits have shown up at Tracto. We can add them, green as they are. Every little bit helps.”
“There’s also the public opinion factor to consider,” Hammer said, taking a deep breath.
“What?” I asked looking at her with surprise.
“I don’t know what you think about the rest of the Sector—not just here, but also at Tracto. News of the Power’s loss is going to circulate and, when it does, it’s going to hit hard. You’ll want to be prepared to answer questions,” she said.
For a moment I wanted to rebuke her for bringing up the PR angle when lives were on the line but just a few seconds thought told me she was right. The public at large was a massive, ravening beast when attention was stirred up—and no one knew this better than a Montagne. I could ill afford to offend that beast, or allow the fears to run rampant in even so small an off-world population of expatriates as existed in Tracto.
“I’ll take that under advisement, and deal with it if it becomes a problem,” I said, my mind already running through a few potential speeches.
“Just don’t wait too long,” Hammer advised.
“Noted,” I said shortly. “Anything else?” I asked, sweeping the table. I’d never run a fleet this green—or with this much firepower—before. I wanted to get this part as right as possible before we sailed off into the darkness of cold space and all our plans went out the window—as they inevitably did.
Chapter Sixty-seven: Wolf-9
“Are you sure you’re making the right call here, Commodore?” asked Captain Stravinksy.
“I think it is,” LeGodat said in a quelling tone.
“We just got the Heavy Cruiser, Little Gift, out of the repair dock after the last time we sent her out to assist Admiral Montagne—and now we’re stripping our defenses to the bone? Sir, I respectfully think—” started Stravinsky.
“The Gift has been out of space dock for more than six months, which is plenty of time to complete a shakedown cruise and work her up,” LeGodat cut in, and the Captain opened her mouth in response but he overrode her before she could speak, “and in the future, when I want your opinion on this mission, I’ll ask for it, Captain.”
“But sir,” Sarkozi protested.
“I don’t have a problem with this mission; Synthia McCruise doesn’t have a problem with this mission; right now, the only one who has a problem is you, Captain,” he said severely. “Lock it down and stay on task. We have a credible threat against the safety of this Sector, and if this Sector falls so does this Confederation Fleet Base. A Confederation Admiral has asked for reinforcements, and I aim to give him them. That will be all, Captain.”
“Commodore,” she cried, “he’s not even a real Confederation officer. His commission is honorary!”
“Full stop right there, Captain,” LeGodat barked. “I wouldn’t even be a Commodore if not for Admiral Montagne, so if you don’t accept his rank then you sure as all the blue blazes can’t call me by mine—and another thing: whatever the status of his commission, he was legally placed in command of a Confederation Fleet. I don’t know about you, but Confederation Fleets seem to be amazingly light on throw weight out here presently. So forgive me, Captain,” he said witheringly, “if I choose to ignore a few legal irregularities in favor of supporting a man who has not only defended this Sector, but has gone so far as repulsing a fully-fledged Droid invasion of two of our neighbors! The Grand Assembly has done nothing about our current situation, except issue hold-in-place orders as a relief fleet is being assembled. Well, it’s been being assembled for the past two years. As Saint Murphy is my witness, if we don’t hang together then we’re doomed to hang separately out here, and now the other side has a Command Carrier. You’re blasted right I agree that concentrating our firepower is the right call. Get over yourself, Captain!”
The Captain looked shocked as LeGodat looked at her with disappointment. “I understand and will comply, Commodore,” she said finally.
“Good,” LeGodat snorted, turning away.
“Point Emergence! I’m reading multiple hyper-footprints on the edge of the system’s hyper-limit,” barked Officer Johanson.
“What?” Commodore LeGodat growled. “Turn the task force and reorient on the position of the new contacts. I want to know who’s come to Easy Haven and why.”
A few minutes later, as the tally of ships, their sizes, and classifications was finally fully listed, the Commodore’s ship received a transmission.
“What do they want, Comm.?” demanded LeGodat.
The Communication Officer looked up with surprise. “It’s the New Sector Guard, Commodore. They say they have orders to join our forces for the duration of the current emergency,” reported the Lieutenant.
“Really?” LeGodat asked with surprise.
“Yes,” the Officer nodded, “although, they are requesting a clarification. It seems that while they have their orders, they are currently unaware of just what the emergency is. They also say they have a file from the Sector Governor that’s your eyes only.”
LeGodat barked out a surprised laugh.
“Interesting,” he mused.
Chapter Sixty-eight: Reinforcements
“So that’s the last of it, Admiral,” Major Lafiet finished his report, “and other than the mix-up over whether we could release a recently-arrested group of officers and crew who plead out to that new group you’ve got headed out for Sector 24, I think everything is on track. But I do apologize over that, sir. No excuse. I should have just held them, regardless of what the local magistrate said about sentencing them to a penal colony.”
“You’ve done wonders out here, Major,” I said, clenching my teeth to cut back an angry remark. “You had no way of knowing a fellow officer would abuse her authority like that, or that I would have preferred that this specific group be sent down planet to rot.”
“Again, I’m sorry, Admiral. All the paperwork was in order but before I knew it…” Lafiet trailed off ruefully.
“Water under the bridge,” I said, taking a deep breath to clear my head. “I realize how much of a mad house it’s been out here. A stumble here and there is only to be expected. But don’t worry; you continue to have my full faith and confidence. Just don’t let it happen again.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Major nodded sharply and then hesitated before continuing. “What should I do if those particular individuals happen to come through here again?”
“If they’re wise—” I started right before the emergency klaxon started screaming.
Dropping my data slate on the table, I snatched up my Dark Sword of Power and rushed out of the room. I didn’t know if the emergency was external or internal, and I wasn’t about to take the risk of guessing wrong. From now on, I would be prepared for all eventualities.
“What have we got?” I barked, lunging onto the bridge of the Royal Rage.
“I’ve got three Cruisers—one Heavy and two Light—along with 14 Destroyers, a pair of mine-layers, and three full squadrons of Corvettes,” the Sensor Officer said urgently. “I’m also reading at least four medium-sized freighters in the middle of their formation. It looks like a fleet and its fleet train, Sir.”
“Does the profile of the Heavy Cruiser match our last recorded specifications of the Gift?” I asked, relaxing back into my chair as my heart rate began to slow.
The Sensor Officer paused for a beat and then; “Checking,” he said. After a moment he turned around and nodded in the affirmative as his face flushed a deep shade of red. I gestured for him to go on. “It’s a match, Admiral,” he said, relief evident in his voice.
“Good enough,” I said with an inaudible sigh.
“Are you saying that you know about these ships, Sir?” he asked with surprise.
“I’ve been expecting reinforcements from our brothers and sisters in Easy Haven for a few days now,” I replied.
“Almost gave me a heart attack,” one of the Sensor operators said loud enough to be heard.
“Silence in the Sensor pit,” the Sensor Officer turned and said angrily.
“Well, that’s a relief,” Major Lafiet said.
“All’s well that ends well,” I said happily.
“Contact!” exclaimed one of the Sensor techs. “Multiple new contacts have just appeared in close proximity to the newly-arrived fleet.”
“What?” I said with surprise.
“You weren’t expecting these ones, I take it?” Lafiet asked.
I shook my head as the tally came in: three more Cruisers, three squadrons of Destroyers, and a host of smaller ships.
“It’s starting to get a little crowded in here, isn’t it?” the Major said lightly, apparently trying to break the suddenly tense again atmosphere.
But as the minutes rolled by—and instead of breaking out into a free for all combat, the two formations of ships joined forces—my tension level lowered.
“I’m going to strangle that man,” I said darkly, thinking about the Commodore from the Wolf-9 Starbase.
“I have a transmission from the new arrivals. It’s addressed to you personally, Admiral,” the Comm. Officer eventually reported.
“I’ll take it at my Throne,” I said after considering for a few seconds.
Moments later, the image of Commodore LeGodat appeared on the small screen built into the Admiral’s Throne.
“Well, we finally got here, safe and sound and without too many delays. But you’re not going to believe who followed me home,” the Commodore said with a crooked smile, “we need to talk in person. LeGodat out.”
“That was cryptic and uninformative,” I swore unhappily.
“I guess we’re just going to have to wait for more information,” Lafiet offered most unhelpfully.
I gave him an unimpressed look.
“We’re going to be busy here for a while; you might be more comfortable in my office. That is, if you don’t have urgent matters awaiting you at your office,” I hinted.
The Major opened his mouth and then braced to attention. “Of course, Admiral,” he said a twinkle in his eye, “with your permission…”
“Granted,” I said, waving toward the blast doors.
It was a tense several hours until the newly-arrived warships crossed the system to the Tracto’s main station. But by the time they had come into easy communications range I was no longer certain I wanted to speak with any of them. While I’d been expecting LeGodat, what I hadn’t been expecting was a second fleet squawking the IFF code of the New Sector Guard. Whatever the ‘New’ in their name meant, as far as I could see it all came down to the same thing: Sector Central and Assembly-level entanglements. And that was the last thing I needed right now.
****************************************************
The door swished open and Commodore LeGodat swept into the room, looking just as professional as ever.
“It’s good to see you again, Admiral,” he said smiling broadly as he walked over with an outstretched hand.
I stood up to exchange the handshake. “You as well, Commodore,” I paused a beat, “your hangers-on, I have to say…not so much.”
He smiled ruefully. “I can’t say I didn’t expect that. They showed up with orders placing them under my command before we even left Easy Haven. I decided it would be easier to explain things in person than by communiqué than get bogged down with back and forth replies,” he said.
“You decided correctly, because if you had asked beforehand there is no way in Hades that I would have agreed to let the Guard into Tracto,” I said angrily. Ignoring the likelihood of the Sector Guard trying to arrest me or one of my officers—which I placed as ‘high’—I had far too many secrets orbiting this world, or squirreled away elsewhere in this star system. Droids, uplifts, and their ships and manufacturing complexes—which seemed to have sprouted up like weeds when I wasn’t looking
“I understand you’re probably feeling a little hot right now, but just hear me out,” the Commodore asked.
“I’m listening,” I replied. After all, he was already here and the Guard was already in Tracto. At this point, short of declaring war on the Sector Government and ordering an attack on their ships, we were already exposed. Which was assuming they hadn’t known about the shady deals I’d had to make—first to capture the Omicron and then to save two Sectors of human space—in the first place.
“You’ve done an amazing job here, and I’m not just talking about this Star System. Saving two Sectors from droids, and reclaiming four functional battleships? Not many men—not many Admirals—can say as much,” said Colin LeGodat.
“Stop blowing sunshine into my ears and tell me what you have to say,” I grunted, refusing to be jollied into something I knew was going to turn around and bite me in the back at the first opportunity.
“From the reports you’ve sent, you have an impressive amount of heavy units and a decent number of light units. If anything, you’ve underreported your corvette numbers,” the Confederation Officer said seriously, “but what you’re lacking is depth in the medium range units. My group from Easy Haven can help alleviate that a bit, but the Sector Guard almost matches the Wolf-9 reserve squadrons I’ve brought with me. If this threat is as serious as it seems—an outside force capable of conquering a Core World—then we’ll need all the help we can get. Two battleships and a Command Carrier, with who knows just how many lighter units?” he shook his head. “We can’t afford to send them away—not lightly, in any case.”
“We can’t trust them,” I said flatly, “they’ll turn on us the instant they think they see an opening—and that’s if they don’t have orders to manufacture such an opening. Bringing them into our fleet, where they can do real damage, is a fool’s gambit.”
“Either this Reclamation Fleet plans to raid and run, or they’re in this for the long haul. If it’s the latter, at a minimum they must think they can weather whatever this Sector can throw at them—if not increase their gains as they go,” LeGodat said seriously. “If it’s the former, they’ll run at the first sign of stiff resistance and the Guard won’t cause any problems we can’t handle. But if it’s the latter…” he trailed off slowly, “then we’ll need every ship willing.”
“Space-rot,” I swore.
“You’ve been out here long enough that you know I’m right,” the reservist Commodore paused, “unless you’ve unexpected reinforcements preparing to show up…say, from Sector 24?” he asked.
“Quite the opposite, in fact,” I reluctantly admitted, “I’ve already sent ships to that Sector to hopefully stabilize things, at least on the border. A Heavy Cruiser and a Special Actions Reconnaissance team, with a few lighter units, and a freighter in train. As far as forces, except for a couple ships still undergoing major repairs, what you see inside this Star System is what you get.”
“You’ve assembled an impressive force, and don’t think that I don’t appreciate your recruitment convoy stopping at Wolf to offload almost three thousand fresh recruits. But we have more than enough forces here to safeguard against betrayal,” said the Commodore.
My face scrunched up bitterly. He was forcing my hand and I didn’t like it. “There’s also the fact that there are uplifts in this system,” I said.
“I was aware of that…but I assume that since you’re bringing it up you mean they have enough combat power to be a consideration,” LeGodat nodded slowly.
“They have warships, to be precise, and the promise to use them in the common defense. And their soldiery is not to be dismissed when they choose to bring it out,” I admitted, “though, as a group, they’re more technically Tracto-an SDF than MSP.”
“Semantics but, given your dual hats, I take your point,” LeGodat said. “The Confederation charter refuses to allow genetic variants into the Fleet without a signed waiver, but we are encouraged to utilize local system forces to the fullest extent possible. More practically, if they have warships then I don’t think we can afford to turn them away—no matter what the Guard’s position on the subject.”
“And, of course, there are the Droids,” I tried to add, as if it was of minor consequence.
LeGodat froze, and then started rubbing his lower lip with a pointer finger as he eyed me assessingly.
I raised a forestalling hand. “I made the mistake of sending a pair of recruiters on ahead of the Fleet, who made it clear I would accept the help of anyone or anything that would help me fight the Invasion Forces,” I said helplessly, working as I could to slant things into the best possible light—even to the point of fudging or glossing over a few inconvenient truths along the way. “How was I to know a fleet of droids would actually show up and want to avail of my offer? Besides, getting droids to fight droids seemed like a no brainer. Of course, then Lady Akantha went and made a binding treaty between the Droids and Tracto…” I finished doing my best to project helpless victim of tragic circumstances forced into something far above and beyond his initial expectations.
“That could be a problem,” Commodore LeGodat said finally, “even if what you say is true, an alliance with Droids…”
“Are you calling me a liar?” I demanded hotly. Truly, there was no greater outrage than that felt by being caught spinning a lie. Well not, a lie, exactly. But for these purposes, I figured the feeling was pretty much the same as if I had been. I mean, blue blazes; they were droids after all!
“No,” he said slowly, “I’m not.”
“Now can you see my problem with the Guard?” I said going on the attack. “When this leaks out they’re going to go ballistic.”
“Just how powerful are we talking about—these droids, I mean?” he said, eyeing me sharply.
“Oh, a couple squadrons of Cruisers and a few more of lighter ships,” I hedged, “I don’t know about gunboats.”
“Demon Murphy! You’ve let in all his imps this time,” LeGodat swore.
“I can’t just leave them here!” I shot back.
“They could turn on the planet and seize this system to get at the Trillium while you’re away,” he agreed, scowling furiously.
Well, that wasn’t exactly my concern when I first spoke up. I’d been more concerned with losing their combat power, but now that he mentioned it, his concern was quickly becoming one I shared.
“This is a fine fix you’ve put us into,” LeGodat glared.
“Hey now, I’m not the one who trailed the New Sector Guard along behind him when he came to this Star System,” I snapped.
“Who, in their right mind, settles droids in his home system?” Commodore Colin LeGodat snapped. “It’s not only insane, it’s against Confederation Law!”
“I’m an Admiral, not a dictator; I don’t control this Star System—especially not when Tracto-an honor comes into play,” I declared with righteous indignation, recent memories of all the honor challenges I’d had to fight coming to the fore of my brain. “And I’ll also note,” I said, taking a calming breath, “that, technically speaking, Tracto is a protected world and not a Confederation Member System. I’m not sure if the law applies to non-members within their own sovereign space.”
“It will if you’re planning to take them out into the rest of the Sector,” LeGodat growled.
“Just who’s going to enforce that law? Practically speaking, we control the last Confederation forces in this Sector—and maybe the entire Spine, for all I know. The Sector Assembly can go take a flying leap for all I care,” I said, my gaze hardening with each word I spoke.
“We’re going to have to figure out how to put a patch on this until after the battle is over,” the Commodore swore.
“I’m all ears,” I replied dryly.
“Did I mention I brought a Representative of the Sector’s Central Government along with me?” LeGodat said.
“No, but that would have been good to know before you arrived,” I retorted.
“I would have thought twice before walking into this mess, had I known about it before hand,” said the other officer.
I cocked my head at him. Really? I thought exasperatedly.
“Doesn’t help us now, does it?” I said.
“I might as well get the rest of it out of the way, since we’re already knee-deep in it,” LeGodat sighed, “in addition to sending the Guard, the new Sector Governor is calling for a joint fleet and, thanks to your actions in Sector 24, has preemptively appointed you its Leader.”
“Lies,” I said with disbelief.
“Believe it,” he said pulling out a data-slate and sliding it across the table toward me, “according to the Representative of the Central government, they take the threat of invasion very seriously; a Sector-Wide Grand Fleet is being called for, and they’re supposed to assemble in Easy Haven.”
“It’s got to be a trap of some kind,” I mused, wondering what the Sector Government’s angle was in all this. “Who ordered this Grand Fleet to be formed?”
“Sir Isaak, the former ambassador from Capria,” replied the Commodore.
“Well, there you go; Isaak hates my guts and tried to kill me more than once. There’s no way this is on the up and up,” I said flatly.
“Whatever it is, you need to show up and lead or it’s going to fall apart at the first stiff wind,” Colin said stiffly. “And even if you’re somehow being set up to fail, this is the best chance you’ll have to turn around the opinion of those that matter—the Admirals and officers of the Sector’s SDF’s. I don’t’ think you could pass it up on those grounds alone.”
“Oh, I certainly could and in fact I intend to do just that,” I retorted coldly. “I’m a pariah in this Sector; the so-called Tyrant of Cold Space. There’s no way they’ll follow me.”
“CNN has been working hard to rehabilitate your image for almost two months now. With features and documentaries about your humanitarian work and relief efforts during the Droid Invasion,” he said.
“What humanitarian work!? More lies,” I said with bitter resentment, realizing only then that I had missed out on a genuine opportunity to score brownie points with the locals by doing precisely what CNN was falsely claiming I had done.
“There’s also the fact that if the enemy fleet is even bigger than we think, we’re going to need every ship we can get. Command of the joint forces is being offered to you on a golden platter; can we really afford to have a dispute over who’s in command later on if this thing blows up in our face?” he asked.
I clenched my fist. When I’d been stuffed inside a dungeon ship and slated to be executed, I would have jumped at the chance to have this kind of recognition and to take command of the Sectors forces. Now, having seen the local politicians for what they were—and after watching Grand Admiral Manning crash his ship against the shores of a coalition fleet—my enthusiasm had evaporated.
Still, I couldn’t just throw this away, not if the risk was real—which, unfortunately for everyone involved, it was.
“We’re going to take a crack at dealing with these invaders by ourselves; I don’t trust any so-called Grand Fleet to assemble in time to do anything quickly. Just the transit time between here and Easy Haven alone will leave this Reclamation Fleet time to invade another world,” I said finally, realizing I probably couldn’t pass this up without a lot more thought than I could give it right now.
“I can work with that,” said LeGodat.
I picked up the data-slate and started looking through the writ of authority from Governor Isaak, my lip curled.
“Regarding the Guard,” LeGodat said carefully.
“We can’t very well let them go and spread the word of just what exactly that insane Tyrant of Cold Space is doing in Tracto now, can we? We’ll have to try and pass the droid ships off as captured ships, manned with volunteer crews,” I said helplessly. “We could say they’re run primarily by cyborgs and their robots…because they’re better able to run a droid built ship than normal people?”
“Cyborgs?” Commodore Colin LeGodat asked skeptically.
“Have you got a better idea?” I asked irritably. “If so, say it now.”
“It won’t hold for long,” he warned after a moment’s consideration.
“It doesn’t have to,” I said darkly.
We were both silent, thinking about the potential problems those droids could cause us when the console built into my desk buzzed.
I slapped the button to open a channel. “What is it?” I asked harshly. “I’m in the middle of a meeting.”
“Sorry, Sir, but a courier from Aegis just flashed into our system, transmitted a message, and then jumped out before we even received their download—let alone had a chance to reply,” said Lieutenant Steiner. “I think you’re going to want to see this.”
“Paraphrase, if you would, Lieutenant,” I instructed.
“Aegis Space Command reports…” she paused to take a breath, “that New Pacifica has just been invaded by the same forces that took Prometheus.”
I felt a chill run down my spine. “Thank you, Lieutenant, that will be all,” I said and cut the channel. There was nothing I could do other than start a panic if I went running out of the room right this instant. So, instead, I turned away from the console.
LeGodat and I shared a long look, and I could see he wasn’t liking this new development any more than I was.
“I think we’re going to need to expedite our departure,” I said.
“Agreed,” he nodded.
****************************************************
Two hard-looking men stared at each other across a work bench. Neither wanted to give an inch or to be the first to speak, but eventually one had to be the first to go.
“Just what the blue blazes was all that about?” Spalding growled.
“I’ll keep from pretending not to know what you’re speaking of, but why don’t you just go ahead and tell me which part upsets you the most,” Persus said finally.
“Upset? Upset?!” the old Engineer barked. “You’ve got a lot of nerve speaking to me like that, Lancer.”
Persus’ eyes narrowed.
“You and your lot were all set to overthrow the Admiral and you want to know why I’m the one who’s upset?” Spalding roared slapping the table. “Why, I’ve half a mind to—”
“I think you’ve already made your point,” Persus said.
“Made my point? MY POINT!? Oh, I don’t think so,” Spalding declared, “not by a long chalk I haven’t, Persus. Mutiny aboard a Caprian Warship—aboard a warship under my care? I haven’t even begun to make my point! It’s going to feel like I was handing out raindrops and lollipops the last time I went down to Lancer country unless I get some answers I like on the double quick!”
“You think I owe you answers, or that I somehow answer to you?” Persus bristled. “I may respect what you do but there’s only one person I answer to and she is not you, old man!”
“So it’s like that, is it?” Spalding’s eyes narrowed. “Another whippersnapper too big for his britches who thinks old man Spalding is too weak and feeble to be paid any never no mind to. Well, you’ve another think coming lad! You don’t answer to me? There’s not a man alive who doesn’t answer to me when he’s on my battleship!”
“Your battleship?” Persus said neutrally.
“Or maybe the reason you’re beating around the bush is because you have been answering to someone and she’s the one who told you to stab old Spalding in the back when you tried to murder the Admiral,” the old Engineer grunted.
“Say what you want about me, but you’ll keep a civil tongue in your mouth when it comes to the Lady,” Persus said, standing up with grim determination.
“What I’ll do is use these metal hands of mine to reach into that non-answering, silent tongue of yers and rip it out at the root. After that, I guarantee you’ll be answering to no man—be he man or woman,” Spalding snapped matching his motion.
“I’d like to see you try,” Persus said, his hand falling to the hilt of his sword.
“I got no use for mutineers masquerading as men you can rely on,” the Engineer sneered in reply.
“My understanding is that mutineers are traitors, but this was an honorable challenge,” Persus said flatly.
“You find honor in more than twenty challenges… consecutively…in a row!? Saint Murphy and his blessed gaze save me from ever seeing the honor in that sort of ‘honorable’ challenge,” the old Engineer sneered.
Persus reddened. “It followed the Code of Men,” Persus said defensively, “your own Admiral even agreed to the challenges.”
“That’s our Admiral—unless you’ve forgotten that too. Of course he agreed when faced with his loyal Lancer officers split down the middle on the issue of turning on him!” Spalding snapped.
“If a man can’t keep what he holds—” Persus said defensively.
Spalding leveled a finger at him, “You boys went around me once, but forewarned is forearmed; the second time around I vent the lot of you into cold space and sleep the sleep of the just and righteous! No one goes around old Spalding while he’s knee-deep in a potential core overload,” he growled.
“So you’ve said,” Persus bridled.
“And I’ll say it again—and again if necessary,” Spalding said with finality, “and do more than talk if need be.”
Persus began to bristle, and then sighed. “Listen,” he said heavily, “challenge or mutiny, maybe we have different ways of looking at things. Men knows the challenges may have followed the Code, but there was little enough honor in it,” he lifted a hand. “Having said that, your Lord proved something that day.”
“What? That he hasn’t got enough Tracto-ans willing to stand by his side to shake a stick at?” Spalding said skeptically.
“No,” Persus frowned, “defeating that many challengers in a single day—and warriors among warriors, not common rank and file hoplites—was a feat so rare it is only found in legends of ages past.”
The old engineer rolled his eyes.
“Hear my words,” Persus told Spalding sternly, meeting and holding his eyes, “a man—rather, a warrior—who can defeat that many top warriors and warlords is not just a man but a legend. And legends are only fought, challenged, and killed by other legends. There is a saying amongst my people: challenge rank high and die. It means that your Admiral will not be brought down by a rabble of power-hungry young warriors. My people will not stand for it now.”
“I wish I could believe that; it would make things a lot easier,” Spalding allowed sourly.
“I swear on my name and my honor as a warrior that, after his string of impossible victories, it would take an order from God Herself to turn Tracto against him now. A warrior cannot see the battles of ships the way they can see prowess on the battlefield or in the circle. So no: there will be no more challenges from within the war band, or those newly joined to it. Men would not stand for it and neither will Her warriors. It’s as simple as that,” said Persus. “You may not like it, but in that challenge circle your Admiral proved himself to be not just a man, a warrior, or even a Protector…he proved himself to be something legendary. My people will respect that.”
Spalding grunted. Only time will tell, he supposed. But in the meantime he wasn’t lowering his guard. Not for a second.
It was actions, not words that would do the true telling.
Chapter Sixty-nine: The Grand Departure
It had taken longer than I’d expected to prepare the fleet for departure, but we were finally ready. Our ships had crossed the hyper-limit, their engines flaring into the blackness of the void as the fleet slowed as one.
“Ship is coming to a full stop relative to Tracto’s Primary,” reported DuPont.
“Hyper drive is already past the point-of-no-return,” reported our latest Navigator, “one hour until estimated jump.”
“Just enough time for you to work your magic and plot us a course, Navigator,” said Captain Hammer.
“Aye, Captain,” said Nav., while I sat back and continued to observe for a while before pulling out a data slate and once again looking at the latest information from an emergency flash courier sent from Aegis.
Despite the fact that Laurent and his team were used to the Dreadnaught class, and Hammer and her people—including a few transplants I’d personally maneuvered over here, like DuPont, who were the exceptions—weren’t, it was time for Captain Laurent to spread his wings somewhere other than on the flagship.
Besides, I was becoming more comfortable with Captain Hammer and her way of doing things. Or maybe that was just due to the better part of a year spent dealing with problems, first in Gambit and then in Tracto. Either way, I wasn’t changing horses midstream and I needed to be on the Rage. Thanks to Spalding, it was the most powerful battleship this Sector of the galaxy had seen—or, at least, the one with the thickest armor.
“Twenty seven minutes until the course is plotted and prepared for dissemination throughout the Fleet, Captain,” reported the Navigator.
Leanora Hammer turned to me. “We are ready to jump, Admiral,” she reported, as if I couldn’t hear very well what the Navigator had just said.
I hid a sigh; maybe I wasn’t quite as used to Hammer’s way of running things as I remembered. Oh well, it was too late to change things now. Besides, I was sure we’d figure things out on the way.
“Has the series of rendezvous jumps we’ll be using on our way to New Pacifica been transmitted to the smaller ships in the fleet?” I asked perfunctorily, because it certainly better have been. The smaller ships had shorter ranges per jump, but could more rapidly cycle their hyper drives. That meant that unless we wanted to move at a snail’s pace—with the worst combination of a corvette’s shorter range and a battleship’s longer jump interval—we were going to have to split up.
“It has, Admiral Montagne,” replied Hammer, “and the schedule of System link ups has been updated and disseminated to the rest of the fleet as well.”
“Then link us up with the rest of the MSP and Easy Haven forces, and prepare to take us out of this star system,” I ordered.
“Not the New Sector Guard?” Hammer asked perfunctorily.
“They have refused to link with our systems and are planning to jump their ships separately. Please make sure they are aware of our intended destination and arrival point so we don’t have any mishaps,” I said neutrally.
“Will do, Admiral,” she said and started to relay the information.
I once again looked at the report from the Aegis Courier and shook my head at the estimated enemy force levels. If the Aegis report wasn’t in error, this could get messy in a hurry.
“Five minutes until point-transfer,” reported Nav., and the rest of the bridge went into a flurry of last minute checks.
Five…four…three…two…one…” reported Navigation counting down the time until jump.
In a flash, we were suddenly in another Star System.
I could only hope that things went as planned but, even if they didn’t, no one destroyed one of my battleships and got off lightly. They’d feel it before I was done with them.
“I’m coming for you, Arnold Janeski,” I said savagely, knowing it was possible that someone else led this enemy force—but also knowing the universe had a nasty habit of making my worst fears come to life. The man had tried to have me murdered—assassinated, actually—on several occasions and had it not been for some exceptionally good luck, he would have succeeded.
But now, for the first time in my short career as Admiral, I was in a position to make an enemy tremble at my passing—and trembling would only be the beginning of what I had planned for these would-be conquerors.
It was time to bring the pain.
The End